consequences that might devolve on her sister.
“Lucy,” she said earnestly, “give up the Rolgrave and come to the Trafalgar. I’ve suggested you for a vacancy there. You remember all the grand things we planned to do together. Now’s our chance, Lucy. We’ve had our ups and downs, both of us, but now we’re in London, in the very heart of things. Last week I went to the offices of the Nurses’ Union, saw the secretary, Miss Gladstone, got heaps of information. We can do things, Lucy, if we work together.”
Lucy fidgeted with her teaspoon. Gradually her mouth set in a sulky, stubborn line. “I daresay it’s kind of you, Anne,” she said at length. “But I don’t see things as you do. I know you’re out to improve conditions for the nurses. But that’ll happen about two thousand years after we’re both dead. A lot of good it’ll do us. I want to get something out of life. If you go the ordinary way in nursing, you’re on the treadmill all your days. I’ve tried it. On the other hand, if you’re clever, being a nurse helps you to a pretty good time. And, the world being what it is, that seems to me about all that matters.”
There was a pause. Anne made a last effort. “I don’t want to appear absurd, but I beg of you to give up the Rolgrave.”
Lucy made an emphatic gesture of negation. “I’m sorry,” she answered stiffly. “But it simply can’t be done.”
The finality in Lucy’s tone was unmistakable. Anne knew from experience that to press her further would only promote a scene.
CHAPTER 37
It was the following day, and Matron Melville had just finished her weekly inspection of the Bolingbroke Ward, which lay, shining and spotless, before her piercing eye. She was pleased. And her glance, traveling sideways toward Anne walking beside her, noted the perfect white uniform, the unblemished cuffs, neat hair, and fine hands of her new sister with genuine approval.
“You have made an excellent beginning here, Sister,” she said. “I ought to be grateful to Dr. Prescott for sending you to me. By the way, I daresay you haven’t heard of his appointment to St. Martin’s Nerve Hospital.”
Anne’s heart gave an unexpected leap. But she answered quietly, “I had no idea he was in London.”
“I fancied you wouldn’t hear.” The matron smiled tolerantly. “But his arrival has created quite a stir, I assure you. He has taken a house in Wimpole Street and is to read a paper on surgery of the cerebellum before the Lister Association next month. Dr. Verney tells me it will be a big thing. I am very glad. I have known Bob Prescott since he was a little boy.”
Anne was silent. She felt oddly uplifted that Prescott should be in London renewing his assault on the fortress of his ideal, undaunted by Bowley’s defection. She found herself wishing that Miss Melville might continue to speak of him. But the matron, resuming her professional air, returned at once to the business of the ward.
“I am sorry your sister could not come here, as you suggested,” she said. “However, I have filled the vacancy. Your new nurse will report for duty tomorrow.”
“Very well, Matron.” Anne could do no more than acquiesce. A faint hope had lingered that she might still persuade Lucy to join her. Failing that, Nora or Glennie might have come to her from the Hepperton. But now, of course, there was nothing to be done.
All that day as she went about her work her heart was lighter than it had been for days. Despite the coldness of Prescott’s final interview with her, there was some hidden bond, a unity of purpose, of endeavor, that made her wish for his success. It could be nothing else, no stupid sentiment, no sickly manifestation of affection. Of this she was convinced.
The thought of Prescott gave impetus to her own ideals. That evening, when she went off duty, she hurried to the nurses’ home and slipped a coat over her uniform. Leaving the hospital,
“Lucy,” she said earnestly, “give up the Rolgrave and come to the Trafalgar. I’ve suggested you for a vacancy there. You remember all the grand things we planned to do together. Now’s our chance, Lucy. We’ve had our ups and downs, both of us, but now we’re in London, in the very heart of things. Last week I went to the offices of the Nurses’ Union, saw the secretary, Miss Gladstone, got heaps of information. We can do things, Lucy, if we work together.”
Lucy fidgeted with her teaspoon. Gradually her mouth set in a sulky, stubborn line. “I daresay it’s kind of you, Anne,” she said at length. “But I don’t see things as you do. I know you’re out to improve conditions for the nurses. But that’ll happen about two thousand years after we’re both dead. A lot of good it’ll do us. I want to get something out of life. If you go the ordinary way in nursing, you’re on the treadmill all your days. I’ve tried it. On the other hand, if you’re clever, being a nurse helps you to a pretty good time. And, the world being what it is, that seems to me about all that matters.”
There was a pause. Anne made a last effort. “I don’t want to appear absurd, but I beg of you to give up the Rolgrave.”
Lucy made an emphatic gesture of negation. “I’m sorry,” she answered stiffly. “But it simply can’t be done.”
The finality in Lucy’s tone was unmistakable. Anne knew from experience that to press her further would only promote a scene.
CHAPTER 37
It was the following day, and Matron Melville had just finished her weekly inspection of the Bolingbroke Ward, which lay, shining and spotless, before her piercing eye. She was pleased. And her glance, traveling sideways toward Anne walking beside her, noted the perfect white uniform, the unblemished cuffs, neat hair, and fine hands of her new sister with genuine approval.
“You have made an excellent beginning here, Sister,” she said. “I ought to be grateful to Dr. Prescott for sending you to me. By the way, I daresay you haven’t heard of his appointment to St. Martin’s Nerve Hospital.”
Anne’s heart gave an unexpected leap. But she answered quietly, “I had no idea he was in London.”
“I fancied you wouldn’t hear.” The matron smiled tolerantly. “But his arrival has created quite a stir, I assure you. He has taken a house in Wimpole Street and is to read a paper on surgery of the cerebellum before the Lister Association next month. Dr. Verney tells me it will be a big thing. I am very glad. I have known Bob Prescott since he was a little boy.”
Anne was silent. She felt oddly uplifted that Prescott should be in London renewing his assault on the fortress of his ideal, undaunted by Bowley’s defection. She found herself wishing that Miss Melville might continue to speak of him. But the matron, resuming her professional air, returned at once to the business of the ward.
“I am sorry your sister could not come here, as you suggested,” she said. “However, I have filled the vacancy. Your new nurse will report for duty tomorrow.”
“Very well, Matron.” Anne could do no more than acquiesce. A faint hope had lingered that she might still persuade Lucy to join her. Failing that, Nora or Glennie might have come to her from the Hepperton. But now, of course, there was nothing to be done.
All that day as she went about her work her heart was lighter than it had been for days. Despite the coldness of Prescott’s final interview with her, there was some hidden bond, a unity of purpose, of endeavor, that made her wish for his success. It could be nothing else, no stupid sentiment, no sickly manifestation of affection. Of this she was convinced.
The thought of Prescott gave impetus to her own ideals. That evening, when she went off duty, she hurried to the nurses’ home and slipped a coat over her uniform. Leaving the hospital,
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