Love for the Matron by Elizabeth Houghton Page A

She must remember to see that the nurses on the wards concerned saw the letters as well ... they were the ones to whom thanks were due.
    Margaret Smith came in with some letters for her signature and stood waiting patiently while Elizabeth signed them.
    “Is there anything else, Miss Graham?” she asked as she took the sheets from Elizabeth.
    “ Nothing that can ’ t wait until the morning. Thank you very much, Miss Smith, and good night.”
    “Good night, Miss Graham,” the girl said quietly, and departed.
    Elizabeth leafed through the rest of the letters and then put them into the basket for Miss Smith ’ s attention tomorrow. She felt restless and idle and useless. She longed for the busy work of the wards, to be able to lift her hands and put them to some good use, and now she was barred from that by the very height of her position. Had Miriam Brown known this craving for service? Had it been pain alone that had driven her to the Children ’ s Ward to sit with the children clustered around her while she wove the magic of make-believe for them? Perhaps in a week, a month, or a year, when she was less of a stranger she could attempt to follow the older woman ’ s example. Tonight was too soon. There would be questioning eyes lifted at her approach if she appeared on the wards out of turn. They might guess why she was doing it and resent her response to the inspiration behind her action. They weren ’ t even ready to accept her as a successor to Miriam Brown, and how much less would they welcome any departure from the set routine of a Matron? Miriam Brown had achieved it, but perhaps it had taken her years of service; or had her illness given her a special entry?
    Elizabeth reached into her top drawer for her folder of notes and began to draw up the changes she would have to put forth at the staff meeting on Friday. Most of the notes she worked from were in another woman ’ s handwriting. Miriam Brown had gone forth from these four walls, but she had left clear directions for the path her s uccessor might follow. She wrote undisturbed until the strokes of the town clock warned her that it was supper-time and the end of her day ’ s duty was almost in sight.
    Elizabeth said good night to Night Sister and left the doors of St. Genevieve ’ s rather reluctantly. If Stuart hadn ’ t been to see her she would have looked forward only with pleasure to the thought of an evening at Castleford. Now she wondered whether the whole business was a figment of his imagination or the beginning of an awkward situation.
    It was ten past eight by the time she had changed and she was glad of her coat as she started walking along the path at the foot of the castle wall. A chill wind was blowing up from the river, setting the branches rustling to make a minor symphony of sound running beneath the roar of the water rushing towards the far-distant sea. As she rounded the corner of the wall she could see the light from a torch bobbing towards her. Before she had time to wonder who it was a voice called out:
    “Is that you, Miss Graham ? ”
    She realized it was Susan and hurried towards her. “Surely you shouldn ’ t be out if you ’ ve got ‘ flu, Susan,” she protested gently.
    Susan laughed and slipped her arm through Elizabeth ’ s. “I haven ’ t got ‘ flu! That was just for Daddy. He gets so worried if I can ’ t give him a definite reason for not feeling up to scratch so I mentioned ‘ flu and he was quite happy to go off to London provided I wasn ’ t left alone. Since I wanted to see you again it all worked out!” She slowed her footsteps. “Have we got time to go down to see the river, or are you all cold and tired?”
    Elizabeth wondered at the urgency behind the request. “We can go if you want to see it specially.”
    Susan squeezed Elizabeth ’ s arm happily. “Goody! I always like to know what Old Man River is doing before I go to bed. Careful! We go down some steps here ... you can see them if I hold