Nurse Hilary

by Peggy Gaddis

  “That’s—that’s very flattering, Doctor,” she stammered.

  “You are evading the point, Hilary my girl,” he told her quietly. “You must know how I feel about you ...”

  “Oh, I do, and of course I appreciate it very much and I’m—flattered.”

  “Will you stop that nonsense?” he seemed suddenly very angry. “I’m not flattering you; I’m trying to tell you that I love you—I think.”

  Hilary’s eyes flew wide.

  “You think?” she repeated, slightly dazed.

  He nodded. “I think I’m in love with you,” he repeated, and went on, without giving her a chance to answer, “Of course, I haven’t had too much experience in that sort of emotion. I guess I was busy with other things. But now that I’ve met you, worked with you, come to know a little about you, I seem to see you constantly by my side in all the plans I am making for my future. I wouldn’t be always seeing you there by my side if I were not in love with you. That stands to reason, don’t you think?”

  Hilary’s eyes were dancing, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “Well, I have to admit that I’ve seldom heard the word ‘reason’ applied to ‘love’. I thought when you were in love, your reason sort of deserted you,” she told him. “But then, I have to admit that I haven’t had much experience with love either, so I guess I really wouldn’t know much about it.”

  “Good!” said Dr. Marsden briskly, his eyes warm upon her. “Then we’ll say no more about it for now. But of course you do see that I can’t permit you to leave now.”

  “I’m afraid you really haven’t much to say about it,” Hilary objected. “I’ve already handed in my resignation and it’s been accepted. I’m to leave at the end of the week.”

  “I’ll talk to Ramsey immediately after lunch, before my clinic hours begin,” said Dr. Marsden and brushed aside any further argument and asked, “And now just what was it you did to the Duchess that upset her so?”

  Without minimizing her own part in the scene, Hilary told him and Dr. Marsden listened, intent, interested.

  “I see,” he observed thoughtfully when she had finished. “Shock treatment, eh? That’s not a bad idea at all. Maybe it will give her something to think about, instead of just sitting and brooding over the fact that each day she’s a day older and death is a day closer. Which, in her state of mind, must be a pretty gruesome thought.”

  “I’m afraid she’s going to have something else to think about, by the way,” Hilary told him. “I telephoned her nephew’s office, because she demanded to see him immediately. And they told me at his office that he was no longer employed there and they had no idea where he could be found.”

  Dr. Marsden frowned thoughtfully.

  “So the boy’s wriggled out from under her thumb at last? Well, more power to him, he seemed a rather likely lad,” he mused.

  “Angela Ramsey thinks so,” Hilary agreed and caught herself up and blushed miserably. “Please forget I said that.”

  Dr. Marsden smiled warmly at her.

  “You mean that Angela and Reid are in love?” he asked.

  Hilary’s eyes were wide.

  “You knew that?” she stammered.

  “I think everybody does, except Drew and the Duchess,” he assured her. “I dread the explosion when they find out, as of course they must.”

  “But I can’t see why!” protested Hilary warmly. “Angela’s a darling, and Reid seems a nice enough boy.”

  “The Duchess has other plans for Reid, and Drew wouldn’t want Angela to do anything that would upset the Duchess. Simple?”

  “Very,” answered Hilary grimly. “And disgustingly outrageous, a couple of fine youngsters like that ...”

  One of the waitresses came to the table and spoke to Dr. Marsden.

  “Mr. Ramsey would like to see you, Dr. Marsden, when you’ve finished lunch,” she announced.

  Dr. Marsden thanked her and rose.

  “See you later, Hilary,” he said softly.

  She watched him as he crossed the room, tall, well-built, with thick dark hair that was never quite smooth because of his habit of running his fingers through it in moments of stress; not handsome, she was glad to remind herself, for she distrusted men who were spectacularly good-looking, though she grinned inwardly at that emotion. Anyway, Dr. Marsden was a very attractive person, and she liked him enormously. And—she was going to miss him when she left here.

  It had been nice of him to insist that if she left, he would go too. But that was not to be permitted. Because he was doing a good job here, his research into gerontology could not have had a better spot in which to progress. No, he was definitely not to be allowed to leave!

  She was just finishing her coffee when Mrs. Middleton came into the dining room and headed for her table. It was Mrs. Middleton’s afternoon off duty and she was dressed for town, hatted and gloved, looking smart and matronly in her well-cut suit. But there was a harried look in her eyes as she sat down across the table from Hilary and motioned the waitress to remove Dr. Marsden’s dishes.

  “I’ll have a cup of coffee, Marcia,” she told the waitress and when the girl had gone, Mrs. Middleton turned back to Hilary. “Drew told me that you’d handed in your resignation, Hilary. I couldn’t be more sorry. I do hope I can persuade you to change your mind.”

  “Mr. Ramsey fired me, Middy and then I resigned,” Hilary answered.

  “You mean about the Duchess? Oh, that’s not important. Good Heavens, if we resigned every time the Duchess starts throwing her weight around ...” protested Mrs. Middleton.

  “Apparently, the Duchess felt that the few unpleasant home-truths I told her were unforgivable and I must be banished into outer darkness,” answered Hilary. “Or at least into what she feels is outer darkness. For my part, Middy, I’m delighted and relieved to be going.”

  Mrs. Middleton nodded and sighed, accepting the coffee the waitress brought with an absent-minded smile of thanks.

  “I know,” she admitted frankly. “Any nurse who’s really qualified feels wasted here. But honestly, Hilary, these people deserve something, don’t you think? After all, they have problems and occasionally diseases or illnesses, as well as do people in charity wards and homes for the aged.”

  “Look, Middy darling, you had already convinced me, or I wouldn’t have stayed this long,” Hilary reminded her. “But I’m not leaving because I’m bored or feel useless, I’m leaving because the Duchess demanded that I go and, apparently, Mr. Ramsey feels the Duchess’ wishes are law!”

  “Well, then, I suppose there’s no use my saying anything more,” sighed Mrs. Middleton. “I’ll stop in at the Nurse’s Registry and tell them there will be a vacancy here. You won’t be leaving before the end of the week?”

  “No,” Hilary answered. “And you might tell the Registry that I’ll be available after this week. I don’t suppose it would be possible for you to explain I’m not leaving because of any dissatisfaction with my work?”

  “You idiot, of course I’ll tell them that!” snapped Mrs. Middleton. “I’ll tell them you’re the finest nurse I’ve ever known and you feel you are wasted here where we don’t have any critical illness, thank Heaven—wait while I knock wood—or anybody who really needs the skilled nursing you’re capable of offering.”

  “Thanks, Middy, you’re a pal,” said Hilary and rose to walk with Mrs. Middleton out of the dining room and across the lobby.

  She watched Mrs. Middleton go across the staff parking lot, and get into her car, her eyes warm with affection. She was going to miss her too, she told herself as she went back to her afternoon duties.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was almost midnight and a thin drizzle of rain was falling. The T. & C. slept quietly, with only the lighted lobby to indicate that there was a building at all on that long, low hill three hundred yards back from the highway.

  The switchboard operator dozed at her board, and it looked like just another dull night when it was a terrifi
c effort to keep awake when suddenly the front door bust open and a man, white-faced, mud-stained, a bleeding gash across his forehead, came pelting in.

  “This is a hospital, isn’t it?” he demanded. “You’ve got a doctor, nurses?”

  “Of course,” answered the switchboard operator.

  “Well get ‘em alerted, sister,” demanded the man, panting, shaken. “There’s been one heck of an accident on the highway—bus turned over—people scattered out in the field like ninepins. Don’t know how bad anybody is hurt, maybe some killed. They’ll be bringing ‘em in any minute—” and without waiting for her to answer, the man turned and pelted back towards the highway.

  The operator rang Dr. Marsden’s room, reported the man’s news; and obeyed his instructions to alert all the P.N.s and the R.N.s that were not already on duty. In a matter of moments the routine was set in motion and by the time members of the rescue team began arriving with the injured, the ward-beds were ready and Dr. Marsden and Hilary began their first aid.

  Most of the injured were suffering more from shock than from serious injury; but after the first flurry of attending to the injured, it was found that eight were critically injured and had been put to bed in the ward.

  The commotion had, of course, aroused the guests and they were assembled in the corridor outside the ward, in a weird assortment of night-wear.

  There was the thin, angry wailing of a small baby and Mrs. Barton, hair frankly done up in curlers beneath an old-fashioned “boudoir cap,” a dark blue dressing-gown belted about her waist, thrust her way into the ward, her old eyes searching for the wailing baby.

  He was on a bed, a squirming, screaming, very soiled six months old infant; unharmed except that he was wet and muddy and cold, and very unhappy about the fact.

  Mrs. Barton bent above him, cooing, soothing, but a hurrying P.N. said briskly, “Let him alone, Mrs. Barton, we’ll get to him presently. Dr. Marsden has examined him and there’s nothing wrong with him. His mother was holding him in her arms when the crash happened and she shielded him with her body, poor soul.”

  Mrs. Barton asked fearfully. “And she—?”

  “About a fifty-fifty chance,” said the P.N. and tried hard to sound casual about it. “I’ll look after the baby just as soon as I can.”

  Mrs. Barton lifted the screaming mite in her arms, and said quietly, “You look after the others, Mrs. Webster. I’ll take care of him.”

  “Oh, but Mrs. Barton—” protested the harried P.N.

  But Mrs. Barton, cradling the child in arms that had long ached with emptiness for the feel of a small, warm, squirming bundle, was marching out of the ward, ignoring any protest.

  Reaching her own room, she found Mr. Hodding standing at the door, smiling down at her and at the baby.

  “Jason,” she ordered him briskly, using his given name for the first time, “run along to the kitchen and get some milk for him, while I get him dry and warm. The poor scrap’s hungry and so cold. Run along now. Be sure the milk is warm—and I don’t suppose there’s a baby bottle on the place ...”

  “You clean him up, and I’ll find supper for him,” said Mr. Hodding, his tone warm, his eyes eager and interested, as he hurried away, tall and spare in his maroon silk dressing gown, his white hair rumpled above his suddenly eager old face.

  “There, there, baby,” Mrs. Barton crooned lovingly to the child as she bathed him, changed him, using one of the T. & C.’s lavish hand-towels for the purpose; and by the time she had tucked him warmly into her bed, wrapped in another towel, his wet clothes hanging over the towel rail, Mr. Hodding was back.

  Mrs. Barton took the bottle he offered, and her eyes widened. It was a soft-drink bottle, and attached to the top was the finger of a rubber glove, with a neat hole punched in it.

  “I scalded and sterilized the bottle,” Mr. Hodding assured her. “The rubber glove was new but just to be on the safe side, I sterilized it, too.”

  Mrs. Barton laughed up at him delightedly.

  “Jason, you’re wonderful!” she enthused as she held up her wrist, let a drop of milk fall from the bottle upon it, and nodded. “It’s just right. Of course, it isn’t his formula and I know pediatricians set great store by babies always having exactly the correct formula; but a baby who’s hungry isn’t going to be too fussy, don’t you think?”

  She bent above the baby, not screaming now because he was dry and comfortable but still fretting because he was hungry. Very gently Mrs. Barton inserted the make-shift nipple into the tiny mouth and as the first drop of milk touched the baby’s tongue, his small, flailing hands grabbed for the bottle and he sucked noisily and happily.

  “Isn’t he a lamb?” Mrs. Barton murmured, with all a woman’s adoration for the very young. “I have five grandchildren; but my daughters were very modern, they raised their babies by a book! They wouldn’t let me cuddle them or feed them or rock them to sleep.”

  “That’s an outrage!” protested Mr. Hodding as hotly as though there was still something he could do about their grandmother being deprived of the joy of cuddling them.

  There was a knock at the door, and Hilary stood there, tired-eyed, her uniform showing the hard service of the past hectic hour or so; but she was alert with that feeling of being useful that carries a nurse through the roughest hours.

  “We’re short a baby,” she announced. “Mrs. Webster says that you came and took him ...”

  She stared at the baby, contentedly having his supper, and at the two old people who stood beside the bed, looking like guilty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

  “Mrs. Webster said you’d examined him and that he was all right. I mean that he wasn’t hurt in the accident, and he needed to be dried and warmed and fed, so Jason and I ...” Mrs. Barton’s voice trailed off guiltily as Hilary approached the bed and examined the baby’s underwear and the bottle.

  She turned and beamed at both of them.

  “It is—did we—do all right?” Mrs. Barton was emboldened by Hilary’s soft laugh.

  “Under the circumstances, I’d say you’d done marvelously,” she assured them. “But I’ll take him back to the ward now—”

  “Oh, please, couldn’t he stay here tonight? I’d so love to have him.”

  “His mother won’t rest until she sees him and knows he wasn’t hurt,” said Hilary gently. “She almost lost her life trying to protect him and now she’s afraid that we’re lying to her and that he didn’t escape. We have to show him to her to get her quiet—and we’ve got to get her quiet, or we’ll lose her.”

  “Oh, then take him, Hilary, do take him! Poor mite! Seeing him so fat and sassy will help her, he’s such a darling,” said Mrs. Barton instantly and scooped the baby up with gentle, loving arms and cradled him close.

  “Would you like to bring him to his mother, Mrs. Barton?” suggested Hilary gently.

  Mrs. Barton’s face lit up with joy.

  “Oh, may I, Hilary?” She glowed as she walked towards the ward, holding the baby with an experienced tenderness that was very touching.

  Mr. Hodding and Hilary followed, and paused at the entrance of the ward to watch Mrs. Barton approaching the bed where the injured mother lay. They could not, above the controlled confusion in the ward, hear what was said. But they saw the injured woman, her head rolling restlessly on her pillow, as she looked up and caught sight of Mrs. Barton coming to her holding the baby.

  Mrs. Barton bent gently, saying something to the mother whose shaking hand managed to touch the child’s face. They saw a smile of ineffable peace touch the woman’s face, and then she relaxed against her pillows; saw too, the look of awed wonder on Mrs. Barton’s face as she straightened, looking down at the mother.

  “She’s a wonderful woman, Hilary, a wonderful woman,” said Mr. Hodding softly, and Hilary looked up at him, startled.

  His eyes were on Mrs. Barton as she stood beside the bed, cradling the baby lovingly, murmuring something to the mother, as a nurse administered the opiate the mot
her had until then been refusing.

  The nurse brought a chair, smiling at Mrs. Barton, who sat in it, where the mother’s eyes could cling to her and to the baby, asleep now, warmed and dried and fed.

  “I’ve never known anyone like her,” said Mr. Hodding in that soft, wondering voice.

  Dr. Marsden signalled to Hilary, who gave Mr. Hodding’s arm a gentle pat and flew to assist Dr. Marsden in dressing a severe head-wound. But as she worked, deft, sure-fingered, anticipating Dr. Marsden’s needs as any nurse learns to do, she could not quite get Mr. Hodding out of her mind. The look of almost reverence in his eyes as he had watched Mrs. Barton with the baby had been deeply touching. She knew the two elderly people had become good friends, and she had rejoiced that they could share their two lonelinesses and find peaceful companionship. But that look in Mr. Hodding’s eyes had not been the look of a man at a pleasant companion; there had been genuine ardor, a loving tenderness in his look that had been unmistakable.

  Once, she might have thought there was something ridiculous in the love between two people in their seventies; not funny, not amusing, but faintly absurd. Mrs. Barton was sixty-nine, her chart showed; Mr. Hodding was seventy-three. Yet there had been a look in his eyes, as he had watched her, a tone in his voice when he had spoken of her, that people expected to see and to hear in the voices and eyes of youngsters like Reid and Angela. It was, Hilary thought, deeply touching—and more than a little sad.

  Dawn was breaking when, at last, things quieted down. The seriously injured were in the ward-beds, since they must not be moved for at least twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The less seriously injured had been treated and dismissed, with orders to report to their own physicians in their home towns. The newspaper photographers and reporters had come and gone; the T. & C.’s guests had finally gone away to bed, and quiet had returned to the club.