“I’ve kept you up shamefully,’” she said at last, “and you get up so early. I shall write you a note from the hospital, delivering a little lecture on extravagance—because how can I now, with this joy shining on me? And about how to keep Katie in order about your socks, and all sorts of things. And—and now, good-night.”
She had moved to the door, and he followed her, stooping a little to pass under the low chandelier.
“Good-night,” said Sidney.
“Good-bye—and God bless you.”
She went out, and he closed the door softly behind her.
CHAPTER IX
Sidney never forgot her early impressions of the hospital, although they were chaotic enough at first. There were uniformed young women coming and going, efficient, cool-eyed, low of voice. There were medicine-closets with orderly rows of labeled bottles, linen-rooms with great stacks of sheets and towels, long vistas of shining floors and lines of beds. There were brisk internes with duck clothes and brass buttons, who eyed her with friendly, patronizing glances. There were bandages and dressings, and great white screens behind which were played little or big dramas, baths or deaths, as the case might be. And over all brooded the mysterious authority of the superintendent of the training-school, dubbed the Head, for short.
Twelve hours a day, from seven to seven, with the off-duty intermission, Sidney labored at tasks which revolted her soul. She swept and dusted the wards, cleaned closets, folded sheets and towels, rolled bandages—did everything but nurse the sick, which was what she had come to do.
At night she did not go home. She sat on the edge of her narrow white bed and soaked her aching feet in hot water and witch hazel, and practiced taking pulses on her own slender wrist, with K.‘s little watch.
Out of all the long, hot days, two periods stood out clearly, to be waited for and cherished. One was when, early in the afternoon, with the ward in spotless order, the shades drawn against the August sun, the tables covered with their red covers, and the only sound the drone of the bandage-machine as Sidney steadily turned it, Dr. Max passed the door on his way to the surgical ward beyond, and gave her a cheery greeting. At these times Sidney’s heart beat almost in time with the ticking of the little watch.
The other hour was at twilight, when, work over for the day, the night nurse, with her rubber-soled shoes and tired eyes and jangling keys, having reported and received the night orders, the nurses gathered in their small parlor for prayers. It was months before Sidney got over the exaltation of that twilight hour, and never did it cease to bring her healing and peace. In a way, it crystallized for her what the day’s work meant: charity and its sister, service, the promise of rest and peace. Into the little parlor filed the nurses, and knelt, folding their tired hands.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” read the Head out of her worn Bible; “I shall not want.”
And the nurses: “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
And so on through the psalm to the assurance at the end, “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Now and then there was a death behind one of the white screens. It caused little change in the routine of the ward. A nurse stayed behind the screen, and her work was done by the others. When everything was over, the time was recorded exactly on the record, and the body was taken away.
At first it seemed to Sidney that she could not stand this nearness to death. She thought the nurses hard because they took it quietly. Then she found that it was only stoicism, resignation, that they had learned. These things must be, and the work must go on. Their philosophy made them no less tender. Some such patient detachment must be that of the angels who keep the Great Record.
On her first Sunday half-holiday she was free in the morning, and went to church with her mother, going back to the hospital after the service. So it was two weeks before she saw Le Moyne again. Even then, it was only for a short time. Christine and Palmer Howe came in to see her, and to inspect the balcony, now finished.
But Sidney and Le Moyne had a few words together first.
There was a change in Sidney. Le Moyne was quick to see it. She was a trifle subdued, with a puzzled look in her blue eyes. Her mouth was tender, as always, but he thought it drooped. There was a new atmosphere of wistfulness about the girl that made his heart ache.
They were alone in the little parlor with its brown lamp and blue silk shade, and its small nude Eve—which Anna kept because it had been a gift from her husband, but retired behind a photograph of the minister, so that only the head and a bare arm holding the apple appeared above the reverend gentleman.
K. never smoked in the parlor, but by sheer force of habit he held the pipe in his teeth.
“And how have things been going?” asked Sidney practically.
“Your steward has little to report. Aunt Harriet, who left you her love, has had the complete order for the Lorenz trousseau. She and I have picked out a stunning design for the wedding dress. I thought I’d ask you about the veil. We’re rather in a quandary. Do you like this new fashion of draping the veil from behind the coiffure in the back—”
Sidney had been sitting on the edge of her chair, staring.
“There,” she said—“I knew it! This house is fatal! They’re making an old woman of you already.” Her tone was tragic.
“Miss Lorenz likes the new method, but my personal preference is for the old way, with the bride’s face covered.”
He sucked calmly at his dead pipe.
“Katie has a new prescription—recipe—for bread. It has more bread and fewer air-holes. One cake of yeast—”
Sidney sprang to her feet.
“It’s perfectly terrible!” she cried. “Because you rent a room in this house is no reason why you should give up your personality and your—intelligence. Not but that it’s good for you. But Katie has made bread without masculine assistance for a good many years, and if Christine can’t decide about her own veil she’d better not get married. Mother says you water the flowers every evening, and lock up the house before you go to bed. I—I never meant you to adopt the family!”
K. removed his pipe and gazed earnestly into the bowl.
“Bill Taft has had kittens under the porch,” he said. “And the groceryman has been sending short weight. We’ve bought scales now, and weigh everything.”
“You are evading the question.”
“Dear child, I am doing these things because I like to do them. For—for some time I’ve been floating, and now I’ve got a home. Every time I lock up the windows at night, or cut a picture out of a magazine as a suggestion to your Aunt Harriet, it’s an anchor to windward.”
Sidney gazed helplessly at his imperturbable face. He seemed older than she had recalled him: the hair over his ears was almost white. And yet, he was just thirty. That was Palmer Howe’s age, and Palmer seemed like a boy. But he held himself more erect than he had in the first days of his occupancy of the second-floor front.
“And now,” he said cheerfully, “what about yourself? You’ve lost a lot of illusions, of course, but perhaps you’ve gained ideals. That’s a step.”
“Life,” observed Sidney, with the wisdom of two weeks out in the world, “life is a terrible thing, K. We think we’ve got it, and—it’s got us.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“When I think of how simple I used to think it all was! One grew up and got married, and—and perhaps had children. And when one got very old, one died. Lately, I’ve been seeing that life really consists of exceptions—children who don’t grow up, and grown-ups who die before they are old. And”—this took an effort, but she looked at him squarely—“and people who have children, but are not married. It all rather hurts.”
“All knowledge that is worth while hurts in the getting.”