It was an interminable grind. And it seemed almost as long again to creep in, at a thirty-mile snail-pace, from the landing-field to the hospital.
The taxi turned in at the hospital gate and slowed down as it followed a gravelled driveway hedged with masses of shrubbery. It drew up under the porte-cochère. He had not remembered it to be such a gloomy, taciturn forbidding place as it appeared today. He wondered if that was the way Brightwood looked to people who came, heartsick with anxiety, to inquire whether their beloved still breathed.
XX
Yes—Doctor Ardmore was in, admitted the desk in the lobby, but it was to be doubted if he could be seen … Yes—so very busy today … Mrs. Hudson? … She was still living … Would he sit down? … The desk was sympathetic.
Bobby nervously scribbled a message.
“Take that card to Doctor Ardmore,” he commanded, “and make sure he gets it!”
In a few minutes a stocky, greying man of forty-five came quickly down the corridor and reached out his hand.
“Yes—I’m Ardmore. Only today we were speaking of you, Doctor Merrick. This is indeed a great pleasure … Now—you have come about your countrywoman, Mrs. Hudson … My friend, I fear we are not to save her … No—nothing has been done yet … Too soon—you will understand … Cerebral concussion … Donelli must wait a little … He thinks tonight it may be safe to try … but he has no hope … Conscious? Oh—fitfully; partially. We have had her quieted, you know … She is aware that she is totally blind—I am sure of that.”
“Then the contusion covers the occipital lobes!”
“Exactly! Squarely on the back of the head! Very deep lesion! … Then there are the fractured ribs. That’s bad too. Lowers the resistance … Donelli had decided at noon that it was useless to attempt the head operation, but now he’s going into it … He does not see too many of these cases … I could wish—but—my God, man! You’re here! You shall do it! Donelli will be very grateful!”
Bobby’s heart was pounding.
“You really think he might want me to?”
“Want you? He’ll say you’re a godsend! Donelli’s an excellent surgeon, but he does not specialize. You’ll win his everlasting appreciation! … Come—we will go to your patient … I shall be responsible for Donelli’s full approval … Come—please.”
“Just a moment, Doctor Ardmore,” said Bobby, tugging loose from the arm that was propelling him down the corridor. “I have something to say to you before I see Mrs. Hudson. Let us go some place where we may talk privately.”
Ardmore led the way into a small parlour.
“I think you ought to know,” said Bobby, “that this young woman’s life is more to me than of professional concern; more than might be implied by the fact that we are fellow countrymen and acquaintances … I have had hopes of making her my wife.”
“My word!—What a situation!”
“Yes, isn’t it? Now, I’ll tell you the rest of it. We have had a very serious misunderstanding. That is to say—she is misunderstanding me. That being the case—perhaps it would be much better, in the event she has an interval of consciousness, that she be left unaware that I am her surgeon.”
“But,” objected Ardmore, “might not that fact put a little more resistance into her?”
“Not the kind we want.”
“Well—you ought to know … I shall tell the nurse and endeavour to keep your identity secret.”
It was the droop of her mouth that brought the scalding tears to Bobby’s eyes. For a moment he thought he couldn’t bear it.
Ardmore, observing how deeply he was affected, felt some concern. This was not an affair into which an operating surgeon dared to fetch his emotions. He gripped the visitor’s shoulder with five vice-like fingers and muttered, “Steady! You’re her doctor; not her lover!”
He motioned the nurse to follow him out into the hall and left Bobby alone with his patient. She roused slightly, drew a short, painfully interrupted sigh that made her wince; the lips tightened momentarily, and relaxed again into the pensive droop.
Booby took the hand that lay on the white counterpane and held it in both of his. There was the very faintest imaginable pressure in her fingers. Dear little chap! She was at least vaguely aware of a friendly handclasp, no matter where it came from. That was that much—anyhow!
The door opened and Ardmore returned with the nurse whose eyes sparkled. She shared an important secret.
“Perhaps you would like to make an examination, doctor,” said Ardmore.
Bobby nodded. The nurse led him to a wash room and found him a smock and gloves.
The patient was placed in position and the temporary bandages were removed. Bobby stood stunned at the sight. It was, as Ardmore had said, very, very deep. He gave a quick, almost articulate intake of breath as he touched it … Again the English doctor’s strong fingers gathered up a large handful of his young colleague’s shoulder and growled, “Remember! She’s your patient!”
“There’s nothing to be gained by waiting,” said Bobby. “Send for Doctor Donelli, please. We will go into this as soon as he arrives.”
It was six o’clock when Helen was laid upon the operating table, and seven-thirty when she was transferred again to the wheeled bed on which she had come.
During that hour and a half, Bobby Merrick, by a supreme effort of his will, was a brain surgeon, and Helen Hudson was a patient—a case—a precariously difficult occipital contusion.
When they had wheeled her in, he feared for a moment he would be unable to achieve that professional attitude. He hesitated, before making his first incision, as he might have hesitated had the scalpel been aimed at his own heart. Once that deft stroke had been accomplished, he was all surgeon.
Donelli stood by, attentively, gently sponging away the blood; marvelling at the uncanny accuracy with which the veins were clipped with forceps almost before
