Madeline laughed, doubtful.
“I certainly hope it won’t come to ‘trouble’,” she said. “I’ve had difficult superiors before, of course. But jealousy”—she sighed and recalled Mrs. Sanders with disagreeable clarity—“is about the worst thing to deal with. Though why Miss Ardingley should feel jealous of me, goodness knows. She isn’t—I mean she doesn’t specially want Dr. Lanyon to take notice of her, does she?”
Everyone spoke at once then, and opinions seemed divided, but after a moment Ruth, who seemed to have a shrewd judgment respected by the others, said,
“She isn’t exactly sweet on him, if that’s what you mean. But, like a lot of rather attractive women who’ve achieved some authority, she can’t bear to be anything but the most important pebble on the beach, in every way. She regards anyone else’s success or distinction as a sort of challenge to her own position.”
“But there was no special success or distinction about this incident,” Madeline protested.
The others laughed, but Ruth went on,
“Dr. Lanyon is about the most—what shall I say?—the most striking personality in this place. There are other men who are younger or more romantic or what you will. But he’s famous in a way that’s most unusual for anyone under fifty, he’s attractive in his own rather remote fashion, if you like them curt and unemotional, and, above all, he’s so devoted to his work that he’s never been known to look at a woman as anything but a patient or a nurse, as the case may be.” Madeline thought of Clarissa and said nothing.
“Naturally Flossie would adore to be noticed by him—a distinction that none of us would exactly turn down,” Ruth confessed amid confirmatory laughter. “That’s really why to have a newcomer succeed where she has failed must have made her hopping mad. But don’t take it too much to heart. If you’re good at your work she can’t do much. And I’ll be there to look after you,” she finished with a consoling grin.
“You will?”
“Yes. I work in the Pavilion. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No! Oh, Ruth—I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your other name—I am so glad. That makes all the difference.”
“Does it?” The other girl laughed, though obviously she was somewhat gratified by Madeline’s reaction. “Well, I’m glad too, if it makes you feel that way. My other name is Fearon, but it doesn’t matter.”
After that, they all gradually dispersed to their own rooms, and Madeline, alone at last, felt her anxieties about her new life dwindle to at least manageable proportions in the light of the last piece of information.
Eileen was a darling and would be an ideal day-to-day companion, she knew. But Ruth was a girl of strong personality and character who would be a wonderful support in any crisis. She had, Madeline realized suddenly, what few people ever achieve—a quiet, inner certainty that she could deal with whatever tomorrow might bring.
For some minutes Madeline stood at her window, looking out over the myriad lights strung out in the city below. Some time soon she would start exploring Montreal. Tonight it lay almost at her feet—unknown, intriguing, brilliant and incredibly romantic, half French, half English.
And somewhere in that lighted region below her window was Morton Sanders. For some hours she had hardly thought of him, in the excitement and anxiety of her new life. But now, released from any further new impressions, her mind went eagerly back to him. Particularly to him at the moment when they had said good-bye.
There had been a degree of friendly intimacy in his manner then which he had not displayed—which, perhaps, he had not had any opportunity to display—at any time during the voyage. Except, of course, during the few minutes they had talked together during the last evening on board. That was when he had first given unmistakable proof of wishing to see more of her.
He had always been very pleasant to her on the journey, of course, but only someone asking for trouble—and Morton, she thought, very seldom asked for trouble—would have gone further than that in circumstances which might have led to a scene with Mrs. Sanders. It was natural that he had acted with conventional reserve then. It was curiously exciting that he wished to alter that attitude now.
“Not that I’m going to over-estimate the importance of a casual invitation,” Madeline assured herself, as she prepared to go to bed early, in readiness for duty the next day. “But I’m glad I’m going to see him again.”
In spite of the strange surroundings, Madeline slept soundly and woke to the familiar sound of her own alarm clock. With the training of several years behind every movement, she dressed rapidly and silently, and joined the stream of girls making for the breakfast-room, almost as though she had been at the Dominion for months. No one was very chatty at this hour, and breakfast was dispatched quickly. Then Eileen wished her luck, and Madeline departed for her first day in P.P.P.
Ruth was already there. She was in charge of one floor of the Pavilion during this first duty period of the day and, to Madeline’s relief and pleasure, it seemed that, for the time being at any rate, she was to work on Ruth’s floor.
She had done private patients’ duty at All Souls, and knew that this differed in many ways from duty on one of the public wards. The whole day began later, for one thing, and the atmosphere was more that of a high-class nursing home. The type of case tended to vary, in age, sex and ailment, in a way not found in the more standardized public wards, and there was a deceptive air of relaxation about the place, calculated to temper the hospital atmosphere for those who had paid highly and usually expected first-class hotel conditions along with their treatment In many ways, private patients’ duty could be regarded as less strenuous than duty in one of the big public wards. But, as Madeline well knew, it could involve crises and problems never encountered among humbler, less demanding patients. On the other hand, those who paid most highly would often turn out to be the simplest and most grateful of patients. There was no rule of thumb to be applied to work among private patients. It was all unpredictable; which was what made it interesting, or agitating, as you cared to look at it In a very little while Madeline found herself slipping into the familiar rhythm of work, and breakfast duty helped to make her acquainted with at any rate some of the patients who would be under her direct care. It was extraordinary how quickly one could sum up their dispositions and guess to a nicety what individual approach would be wisest.
Dear old Mr. Ferguson, for instance, would never make any trouble, and would have to be treated to some rather special attention because he would never ask for anything himself. The charming, lively girl in Room 7 would need firm but sympathetic handling, for she was used to having, her own way, and only natural sweetness of disposition kept her from being a rebellious patient.
Then there was the little girl with the broken leg in the next room, who needed some real petting because she was miserable without her mother, and young Mr. Rawlings, who would obviously have to be kept in his place in the nicest way possible. There was even literally a prima donna temperament to deal with, for it seemed that prima Loncini, the famous soprano, had been rushed to the Dominion for an emergency appendectomy at the conclusion of her successful concert tour.
By the time Miss Ardingley made her morning inspection, Madeline was feeling quite at home.
She had been afraid that, in view of the unfortunate incident the previous evening, every opportunity would be seized, or even manufactured, to find fault with her work. But this was not at all the case. Miss Ardingley’s general air to her was cool and impersonal, and when she deviated from this it was, unexpectedly, to praise her for something she had done particularly well.
No Dr. Lanyon appeared to exacerbate wounded feelings, though several of the other doctors visited their particular patients during the course of the day. Madeline caught a glimpse of Dr. Edney who, with his thick white hair and his genial manner, looked all that his niece had claimed for him. He was, she was glad to notice, old Mr. Ferguson’s doctor and stayed to chat with him much longer than was usually the case betw
een doctor and patient.
The busy hours flew by, and Madeline could hardly believe it when, just as the flow of afternoon visitors was becoming a flood, it was time for her to go off duty for the day.
“It doesn’t seem, somehow, as though I’ve done a whole day’s work,” she declared to Ruth, as they walked over to the Nurses’ Home together. “I’m used to very different hours.”
“Well, this is the easiest shift of the day,” Ruth conceded. “Even in the Pavilion you don’t get many visitors in the morning. And visitors can be more trouble than the patients, except in the big public wards where there are definite hours and definite rules.”
It was a beautiful afternoon in May and, finding that Madeline was anxious to do some sight-seeing, Eileen and Ruth offered to take her up to what they called the Lookout “It’s right away at the very top of Mount Royal,” Eileen explained. “We can go up here by one of the open horse-carriages if you don’t want to walk.”
Madeline said she had no objection to walking. But, in the end, they did the last part of the journey by carriage, just for the novelty (for Madeline at least) of driving in a hooded carriage, reminiscent of Edwardian days, which made her feel that she should be bowing to the populace as she passed.
When they finally reached the famous vantage point of the Lookout, she could not gaze enough at the tremendous panoramic view before her. The other two girls, fired by her interest and enthusiasm, vied with each other in pointing out features of interest Like the backdrop of a stage scene stretched the mighty St. Lawrence, and against it rose the skyscrapers of the financial district “down-town”. To the west and east lay superb residential quarters, green with the foliage of tree-lined avenues. And, since the day was clear, far away on the horizon one could trace the shadowy outlines of the mountains of Vermont.
“But—Vermont? That’s the United States, isn’t it?” Madeline exclaimed, when this last was pointed out to her.
“Yes, of course,” Eileen agreed.
“Then—you mean—we’re looking across into the United States?”
“Yes. Why not?” Eileen laughed.
“I hadn’t thought of our being so near, somehow!”
“Why, you can fly to New York from here in something like two hours,” Ruth assured her. “I do it sometimes, because I go to see an aunt who lives there. You’ll have to make the trip some time. If s something not to be missed.”
Indeed it was! Madeline thought, excited by the mere idea that she was within such easy reach of fabulous New York.
Perhaps when Enid came—Well, there was already enough to excite her interest here without making too many future plans.
“Let’s not eat at the hospital tonight, but be extravagant and go out to Ruby Foo’s,” Eileen said suddenly.
“And who or what is Ruby Foo’s?” Madeline wanted to know.
“It’s the best Chinese restaurant in the world,” Eileen stated positively.
“Well, it’s the best this side of China, let’s say,” laughed Ruth. “It’s way out on Decarie Boulevard, but not too difficult to reach, if you would like to go.”
Madeline said she would most certainly like to go. And so her first real sightseeing ended in the exotic atmosphere of what Eileen had described, perhaps justly, as the best Chinese restaurant in the world.
During the next few days life went on smoothly and Madeline settled down completely in her new surroundings. There was a great deal to do when she was on duty—the familiar feeling of not having a moment to spare—but, as Miss Onslow had predicted, little of it was really new to Madeline. She had always loved her work and knew, quite objectively, that at All Souls she had been considered one of the best of the nurses. Now she found, to her pride and pleasure, that she was equal to any of the demands made upon her.
Her day-to-day relations with Miss Ardingley were without friendliness or intimacy, but they were also free from any definite unpleasantness. If the head of P.P.P. disliked her or bore her any real grudge for the incident with Dr. Lanyon, at least it was apparently not her way to show the fact by nagging. She assessed Madeline’s work coolly at its real worth, and either bided her time or allowed bygones to be bygones.
The situation was somewhat alarmingly put to the test one morning when Dr. Lanyon came in to see a patient of his who had recently been admitted to the Pavilion. Miss Ardingley conducted him in person and they passed Madeline in the corridor, at a point where the corridor narrowed and she almost had to flatten herself against the wall in order to let them pass.
Madeline felt her heart give an uncomfortable leap when she realized the inevitability of the meeting. But Dr. Lanyon, who was speaking to Miss Ardingley, either did not notice her or chose to ignore her. The two passed on, and Madeline was left to the humbling conclusion that she was simply one of the nurses at the Dominion now and, as such, merely part of the background of the life which absorbed all Dr. Lanyon’s interests.
Whether she was relieved or chagrined by this discovery she was not quite sure. But undoubtedly Miss Ardingley’s manner towards her became a couple of degrees warmer.
During all this time she had heard nothing from Morton Sanders, and she told herself that she had not expected to do so. He must have many friends and associates in Montreal and as for his mother coming to the Dominion, this might well, Madeline knew, be no more than a passing notion never put into effect.
In this she was mistaken, however. For when she came on duty in the morning following Dr. Lanyon’s visit, Ruth said to her,
“We’re having a patient of Dr. Pascoe’s in the end room. Coming in some time this morning.”
“Dr. Pascoe?” Madeline was still not quite sure of the province of some of the doctors. “He’s—?”
“Neurological department. They’re usually difficult.”
“Oh! What’s the name?” Madeline was interested immediately.
“I don’t know. But someone said she was English.”
“You bet she is!” retorted Madeline, and hurried off to see what sort of a night old Mr. Ferguson had had, without waiting to explain further to Ruth.
She was not quite sure what her own reaction was. No one knew better than she how trying Mrs. Sanders could be, in her sweet, soft-voiced way. But, on the other hand, in some inexplicable manner, she suddenly seemed to be something of a link with home. And then, if Mrs. Sanders were to be in the end room, Morton Sanders could not fail to be a frequent visitor, not only to the Pavilion, but even to this very floor.
Madeline really meant to keep a lookout for the new patient’s arrival. But then old Mr. Ferguson, who had been giving them a good deal of anxiety during the last few days, collapsed suddenly. And Madeline was kept so busy with injections and restoratives, with everything that might stimulate a tired old heart to go on a little longer, that she forgot about anything else, and thought only for the uncomplaining old gentleman who was already one of her favourite patients.
It was an anxious hour, and Madeline knew with sad finality that they could not hope to bring him through many more of such crises. She thought he knew it too, and when he used his first returning strength to smile faintly and whisper that he was all right, she felt the familiar catch at her heart which she had learned long ago to conceal under a calm and reassuring exterior.
As she came out of his room she glanced at her watch and saw it was already later than she had thought. High time to get busy with the very special mid-morning drink which Madame Loncini had decided only Madeline could prepare.
“Not since my mother used to make it for me, twenty years ago when I was little more than a child,” declared Madame Loncini, who was forty-eight if she was a day, “has anyone made it so smoothly, so delicately, and with just the right balance of favours. You must promise me that you will always make it for me yourself.”
And so, expecting Madame Loncini’s bell to ring at any moment, Madeline hurried to the kitchen.
All the actual meals were, of course, sent up from the great hospital kitchen
s in the main block. But here, in the white-tiled room, equipped with every domestic device one could wish for, it was possible to prepare anything special like Madame Loncini’s mid-morning drink.
With her mind still on old Mr. Ferguson, Madeline automatically measured and mixed, glad of the moment or two of solitude, away from the atmosphere of crisis. Just for a minute to be alone—
And then she realized that she was not alone. Morton Sanders was standing in the doorway, regarding her with that mixture of amusement and appraisal which gave to his handsome face that curious, indefinable attraction.
“Hello,” he said quite softly, as she looked up. “You’re very busy, I see.”
“Oh—Mr. Sanders, have you brought your mother in?”
“Yes. She’s very comfortably installed in a room at the end of the corridor. Do you work all the time on this floor?”
“At present, yes.”
“Then I shall see a lot of you.” He had come forward into the room now, until they stood with only the narrow, enamel-topped table between them.
“Not while I’m on duty.” She glanced down quickly at what she was doing. “I haven’t time—and I’m not supposed—to be talking to visitors then. In fact, you certainly ought not to be in here at this minute.”
“You didn’t really expect me to pass, when I caught a glimpse of you from the doorway, did you?”
“Well—But you must go now,” she exclaimed, frightened by the thought that if he had seen into the kitchen from the doorway other passers-by might do the same.
“Not until I’ve apologized for not having called you up, and explained the silence. Didn’t you wonder what had happened to me?”
“No, of course not I knew you were a very busy and popular man. You must have lots of more important and interesting—”
“Darling,” he said softly, “don’t be silly.”
There was a note of such amused tenderness in his voice that Madeline glanced up again, startled. And, as she did so, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her parted lips.
Hospital Corridors Page 5