It was over at last. When the lights of the hospital shone ahead out of the darkness Madeline could have cried with relief. Though she could also have cried over the chill remoteness of their good-night to each other.
Dr. Lanyon, who had in some curious way been her friend and protector in no small way during her first weeks at the Dominion, had suddenly become a remote, almost ill-wishing stranger.
Rather slowly Madeline went into the silent, empty hall of the Nurses’ Home. Then she signed in at the desk and went up in the lift to her own room. The others would be in bed now. There would be no one with whom she could talk or who could help her to warm the chill from her spirit. If only Eileen—
And then she saw that there was a light under Eileen’s door, and, even as she opened her own door, Eileen herself, tousled and rather sleepy, came in through the bathroom.
“Honey, I’ve been trying to keep awake until you came in,” she said, rubbing the sleep from eyes which looked strangely anxious. “I thought maybe there’d be no chance in the morning and Ruth might not be able to warn you. There’s been an awful to-do in the Pavilion, and you’ll need to be on your toes in the smartest way possible. Mrs. Sanders has been making the most unholy trouble.”
“Mrs. Sanders? About me, do you mean?” Madeline set down her case and looked at Eileen in surprise and dismay. “But what can she have against me? I haven’t even been there.”
“It’s something about a bracelet—a diamond bracelet. I know it sounds ridiculous—like something in a thriller, but—”
“Bracelet? She needn’t make a fuss about that What is she talking about?” Madeline exclaimed almost impatiently. “I’ve got it here in my bag.” And she began to rummage for it.
“You’ve got it?” The surprise and horror in Eileen’s voice arrested her.
“Yes—why not?” Madeline drew the bracelet out and held it up, so that it glittered and twinkled with strange menace in the light.
“Oh, saints and angels! did you have to carry it around with you?” cried Eileen distractedly. “She says you’ve stolen it!”
CHAPTER VIII
“Stolen it?” Madeline felt the blood rush into her face in a tide of angry colour—and then away again. And, as she looked across at herself in the mirror, she saw that she had gone a dismayed and sickly white. “What are you talking about? What is she talking about? She gave it to me to—”
“A bracelet of that value!”
“—to give to her niece. Stop being stupid, Eileen!”
“I’m sorry.” Eileen nibbed her eyes again. “I’ve been so worried, I don’t know just how to follow this. If you were to give it to her niece, why have you got it with you now?”
“Because her niece wasn’t there, after all.”
“I see,” said Eileen, who obviously didn’t. And, in her eager determination to believe whatever Madeline said, however improbable, Madeline saw the measure of the difficulties which lay ahead. It should be easy enough to remind Mrs. Sanders of their conversation. But what sort of game was she playing now? Was she going to deny outright that she had given her the bracelet for Anne? And if so, who would believe her own odd story?
“I don’t understand all this.” Madeline tossed off her hat and ran her hands through her hair. “I must go and see Miss Ardingley, or even Miss Onslow, now, and get this straightened out.”
“You can’t dear. Everyone is in bed now. I don’t think it’s gone further than Flossie. And, to do her justice, Ruth says she told Mrs. Sanders she couldn’t listen to any charges against a nurse in her absence.”
“That’s more generous than she usually is,” Madeline said.
“I suppose she’s never had such a serious charge made before,” replied Eileen rather sombrely. “Madeline, are you saying that Mrs. Sanders made the whole thing up?”
“Of course I am!”
“I mean—there’s no possibility of a mistake?”
“None whatever. She gave me the bracelet, quite deliberately, and asked me to give it privately—”
“Why privately?”
“I don’t know. Except that—yes, I suppose if she had worked this wicked story out to herself, she wanted me to have no supporting witness to my story. She told me that if her niece were not there, by any chance, I was not to hand the bracelet over to her mother but bring it back again.”
“And her niece was not there, of course?”
“No. So”—Madeline gestured helplessly towards the bracelet, which now lay on the bed—“I brought it back again.”
“In other words, it could be found in your possession?” Madeline shook her head.
“If you like to put it that way—yes.”
“Good heavens, Madeline, I don’t like to put it that way,” Eileen exclaimed. “I’m just thinking how an unfriendly person might put it. Is there no one to substantiate your story?”
Madeline shook her head.
“Didn’t you mention it to Morton Sanders on the journey out there? I should have felt inclined to myself.”
“No. She specially didn’t want him to know. Or so she implied.”
“Oh, Madeline! And of course, on the way back you didn’t say anything to him either?”
“On the way back? He didn’t drive me back. Dr. Lanyon—” Suddenly she stopped, the colour coming back into her face again in a momentary rush of relief. “I showed it to Dr. Lanyon,” she said in a choked voice.
“Dr. Lanyon? For heaven’s sake, where does he come into this? He seems to have a permanent job as your guardian angel!” Eileen exclaimed.
“N-no,” Madeline assured her, worried recollection beginning to take the place of her first relief, “No, I don’t think I can expect him to play guardian angel, as you put it, this time.”
“But you showed it to him?”
“Yes.”
“And told him the story, as you’ve told me?”
“More or less.”
“Then he can speak for you, surely. He must be almost used to doing this by now.”
“No,” Madeline said agitatedly, “no—I couldn’t ask him to.”
Eileen looked disturbed as well at puzzled.
“But, Madeline,” she said almost persuasively, “you’re going to need someone badly. If you say he can back up your story, why shouldn’t he?”
“I’ll manage without him,” Madeline retorted almost fiercely.
Eileen dropped her eyes. Nothing on earth would induce her really to suspect Madeline, but it was obvious that she could see no reason whatever why Madeline should refuse to appeal to the man who had very willingly helped her before. That was, of course, if he really could substantiate her story.
“We had a—a sort of quarrel,” Madeline muttered. “I can’t bring him into this.”
“Whatever you say.” Eileen shook her head dejectedly.
“It’s all nonsense and spite, anyway,” Madeline insisted. “The whole thing will fall to the ground when I simply tell the truth.”
But in her heart she was not at all sure of this. And when Eileen had gone at last and she herself went to bed, she lay there, wide-eyed and anxious, wondering how much dreadful mischief the crazily jealous Mrs. Sanders could make for her.
She slept at last, but fitfully and without refreshment, and when the sound of her alarm clock dragged her to the surface of another day, she felt more like drawing the clothes over her head and refusing to recognize realities than getting up and facing an inquisition on the diamond bracelet.
Deciding that the best course would be to have it actually with her when she went on duty, Madeline slipped the unlucky thing into the pocket of her apron and went over to the Private Patients’ Pavilion with her heart like lead.
There is nothing more inescapable than hospital routine and, however much her own affairs might occupy her mind, Madeline found there were several things which required urgent attention before she could tackle her own trouble. All the same, she tried to keep a keen look out for when Miss Ardingley appeared, for it
would be much better if she herself broached the subject, rather than if she waited until she were summoned.
But luck was against her. Old Mr. Ferguson required her unremitting attention from the moment she came on duty, and every moment she could spare from routine duties had to be spent with him. She was still with him when one of the other nurses slipped into the room and whispered,
“I’m to take over. Would you go and see Miss Ardingley?”
“This is it!” thought Madeline, and her heart gave a frightened little skip. But she was outwardly calm as she went along to Miss Ardingley’s office and tapped on the door.
“Come in.” Miss Ardingley, who had a passion for adapting her voice to an occasion, sounded unnaturally grave, and Madeline went in, feeling that she was entering the dock.
She did, however, forestall anything Miss Ardingley could say by placing the bracelet on the desk and stating firmly, “Here is Mrs. Sanders’ bracelet, which I understand she says I stole from her. I did nothing of the sort She gave me bracelet to convey to her niece, but as—”
“Wait a minute, Miss Gill.” Miss Ardingley regarded the bracelet with the utmost doubt and disapproval, as though its sheer presence did something to establish Madeline’s guilt in some degree or other. “This seems to be a very odd story. I think, in the circumstances, you must come and repeat it in front of Mrs. Sanders. But I should warn you that she is in a very distressed and almost hysterical condition. Please remember that, and avoid upsetting her.”
“Very well,” Madeline said grimly, and she followed Miss Ardingley out of the office and along the white corridor, wondering how you called an hysterical woman a liar to her face without upsetting her.
When she first entered the room, Madeline was almost shocked at Mrs. Sanders’ appearance. There were dark shadows under her eyes and she had obviously cried a good deal recently. Even her lips were pale—but then they were also quite innocent of the lipstick which she habitually used—and her cheeks were without colour of any sort, natural or otherwise. She presented a pathetic and startling appearance. One calculated to excite anxiety and sympathy in any reasonably kind person.
At the sight of Madeline, her eyes lit up angrily, and she exclaimed in a high, excited tone,
“Take that girl away! It makes me ill to see her. She tried to steal my son, and now she has stolen my bracelet. She’s shameless, coming in here like this! Take her away.”
“Now, Mrs. Sanders”—Flossie was good at this, Madeline had to admit—“there’s no need for anyone to get excited. You’re going to be very happy at what I’m going to tell you. Your bracelet has been found.”
“Found?” For a moment the pale, shadowy-eyed woman looked almost taken aback. Then Miss Ardingley went on soothingly,
“Miss Gill has brought it back because—”
“Then she had it, as I said! You see—she stole it! She admits it. She—”
“I do not admit it, Mrs. Sanders,” Madeline said quietly, coming right up to the side of the bed. “Stop being so silly and spiteful.” Miss Ardingley made a quick gesture, but Madeline took no notice of the warning sign. She could, at that moment, cheerfully have choked Mrs. Sanders, and all her gentler nursing instincts were in abeyance. “You know perfectly well that you handed the bracelet to me on Friday afternoon—”
“I did not. I did not!” Mrs. Sanders began to cry wildly. “She accuses me now of being a liar, to cover the fact that she’s a thief.”
“Mrs. Sanders, please. No one is calling you a liar,” Miss Ardingley said patiently. “Miss Gill is just trying to explain how the—the mistake arose.”
“There was no mistake,” Madeline said flatly, and received a look of extreme exasperation from Miss Ardingley.
“You see—she calls you a liar now,” sobbed Mrs. Sanders. “She’s going to make up some wicked tale to cover her own guilt. She ought not to be allowed in a reputable hospital. I shall write to the Chairman of the Governors and complain.”
“The Chairman of the Governors is my brother, Mrs. Sanders,” Miss Ardingley explained drily, “and I’m sure he would suggest that we straighten this thing out quietly ourselves.”
“It’s straightened out. I’ve told you what it is—the girl is a thief. Then she got frightened, and thought she’d better return the bracelet and make up some tale. But that doesn’t alter the fact that she stole it in the beginning.”
“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere,” Miss Ardingley said curtly to Madeline. “You’d better go.”
So, miserably, Madeline went—aware that Mrs. Sanders, now miraculously calm, was about to pour a circumstantial tale into Miss Ardingley’s ear. Not that Miss Ardingley was without judgment where this type of hysteria was concerned, but Madeline was beginning to feel that it would take anyone’s credulity to believe that Mrs. Sanders would go to the trouble of inventing all this. And, that being so, what became of her own poor little unsubstantiated tale?
As she had once before, Madeline leant against the wall and shut her eyes for a minute, for her head was throbbing and she felt very near the infectious tears which had been such a feature of the interview. She could not but remember how, last time she had done this, Dr. Lanyon had come along and asked what was wrong. And when he had heard, he had gone to some pains to put things right.
Alas, it could not happen that way now! He had said she could look after herself—that as Clarissa’s sister she needed no sort of assistance. But it was not true. She desperately needed his assistance. So desperately that, although she had told Eileen it was impossible to appeal to him, the overwhelming desire to do so suddenly flooded over her.
If only she could see him—bring him here. If only he would speak for her. Surely, surely he could not refuse, if she begged him to come.
Hardly daring to let herself examine the enormity of what she was going to do, she looked up at the big, silent clock at the end of the corridor. It said twenty-five minutes to ten. At ten he would be operating. If only he were already in his office—
She hastened in search of Ruth and, having found her, said urgently,
“Ruth, may I go off duty for ten minutes? Please, just ten minutes. I—I’m not feeling well.”
“If you’re not feeling well, you’d better report sick,” Ruth replied, running a professional eye over her.
“No, it’s not as bad as that. Please, Ruth—just ten minutes!”
Again Ruth’s comprehensive glance travelled over her.
“Don’t do anything silly, will you?” she said.
“No, no—of course not,” Madeline promised, wondering how many hospital rules she was breaking by going over to the main block when she should be on duty here, and seeking out one of the surgeons a few minutes before he was due to operate.
Ruth had hardly given a brief nod of permission before Madeline was running along the corridor to the lift. By incredible luck it was at her floor, and in half a minute she was at ground level and able to run across a corner of the grounds to the main block.
If anyone caught her running about in uniform like a mad thing, she was undone. But on the other hand, unless she ran, she simply could not do what she wanted to do in time.
Good fortune at last was with her. Once more a lift stood ready waiting for her, and she was wafted up to the operating floor. Here she walked rapidly along, glancing at the theatre numbers and the names of the surgeons on office doors. She had never been here before, and the unfamiliarity of it all made her feel that she would never, never find the right door. And even if she did—well, she would worry about that when she found it.
But his name was not here—it was not here—and already half her precious time must have gone!
Then she saw it, on the last door of all! Dr. N. Lanyon.
Without hesitation, but with fingers that trembled, she knocked on the door, and his familiar, curt voice said, “Come in!”
Not until then had she really thought what she was going to say to him. The sole, the overwhelming, necessity ha
d been to reach him before he went into the operating theatre and disappeared out of reach for hours. Now he was here and had bade her come in. With her mind almost a complete blank, she entered.
He was sitting at his desk writing, and took no notice at all when she first came in.
“Just a minute, Miss Murphy,” he said at last, without looking up, and she realized despairingly that he thought it was his secretary. His lucky, lucky secretary, who had all the time in the world to spare! thought Madeline feverishly. (An idea which would have greatly offended his busy secretary, if she had known.)
“Dr. Lanyon—” Madeline said timidly at last.
And then he did look up.
But it was not the Dr. Lanyon she knew and whose aid she had counted upon. It was the cold-eyed stranger who had driven miles beside her in silence last night.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded coldly. “I thought you were on duty in the Pavilion.”
“I am, but—”
“Then go back there at once,” he said, and went on with his writing.
“Oh, please, please,” Madeline begged, bold with desperation, “won’t you hear what I have to say? Mrs. Sanders says I stole her diamond bracelet and only returned it when I got frightened. There’s no one—absolutely no one to support my own story except you. I showed you the bracelet, don’t you remember? and told you how—”
“Miss Gill”—Dr. Lanyon got up from behind his desk, and in that moment she found him terrifying—“in ten minutes I have to operate on a man who has only a thirty per cent chance of survival. How dare you come badgering me with your trivial little private affairs? Go back on duty at once, and be thankful I don’t report you. Why, for heaven’s sake, should you suppose that I should get you out of some idiotic pickle of your own stupid contriving?”
She fell back before him, frightened by the way his eyes went very light in his unusually pale face.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered, feeling behind her for the door handle. “But you helped me before,” she muttered wretchedly. “You helped me before—and I thought—I’m sorry—” She had found the door handle now, which was just as well, for the tears which had suddenly blinded her would have prevented her from seeing anything. “I’ll go—I’m sorry,” she said for the third time, and, dragging open the door, would have stumbled out, but his voice suddenly arrested her.
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