A CATASTROPHE.
At last I was pronounced fit to be discharged from the hospital, and
on the morrow I was to depart. I was still far from strong enough to
think of undertaking any employment involving hard work and exertion;
and how to keep from starving when once more turned adrift to earn my
own livelihood was a problem which I should have been puzzled to
solve if left to myself. Sister Helena, however, had come to my aid,
and procured me a light place as assistant to the owner of a small
newspaper-shop, who, on account of advancing years, wanted extra help
and was willing to engage me on her recommendation. Thus was added
another to the many benefits for which I was already indebted to that
excellent woman, whose life was one long series of acts of kindness
done, without thought of return, for whoever was in need. No wonder
that I had learnt to admire, love, trust, and look up to her as
though she had belonged to some higher order of beings! For she was
certainly immeasurably superior to any other of the human race with
whom I had ever been acquainted.
My last day, then, in hospital had arrived. The desire to have a
farewell talk with the Sister in peace and comfort had made me ask
her if she could not manage that we should have a quiet half-hour
together for once, without any of the tiresome interruptions by which
our conversations were usually cut short. She had said it was
impossible for her to promise such a thing certainly, as it must
depend on what work had to be done; but that she would do her best to
arrange matters as I wished, and if successful would come and fetch
me to her room when she was at leisure. All day, therefore, did I
hope for the expected summons, and was greatly disappointed as hour
after hour passed on without my seeing or hearing anything of her.
At last, quite late in the evening, she entered the ward looking
unusually fagged, and came and sat down by me.
"I've been so sorry not to be able to come for you as I'd hoped,"
she said kindly, "but you know business _must_ have precedence of
everything else, and I was kept so unexpectedly long with one case
that all my arrangements were upset. It was a man who was brought in
yesterday with a couple of slight scalp wounds that had to be sewn
up, and who didn't seem to have much the matter with him. But twice
to-day he got so odd that there was a doubt whether he was not going
out of his mind; and I stayed with him to see whether he was or not.
If he had been, and if he had become violent, it would have been an
awkward job to manage him, for he's immensely powerful. I never saw
any one so extraordinarily sensitive to loud sounds and commotion of
any kind as he seems to be. There was an unusually loud noise going
on both times when his oddness came on, and as the noise diminished
so did he calm down again. I'm sure he has a highly irritable nervous
system, which is excited to an almost ungovernable pitch by any fuss,
and can then only be pacified by perfect tranquillity."
"Is he all right now?" I asked.
"Yes, I hope so. The unfavourable symptoms didn't return, and the
doctor thought him going on quite satisfactorily. But I stayed with
the man a long time, because it was so important for him to be
watched attentively whilst we were uncertain about his sanity, that I
did not like to leave the responsibility to any one else. Then, when
I could trust him to a nurse alone, I had such an accumulation of
work to get through that I've been hard at it ever since, and not had
a moment to myself till now; so you see I had no choice about giving
up the quiet talk with you that we had proposed having. I'm on my way
back to him now, as I want to hear the nurse's account of him during
my absence."
"Humph!" grunted I, feeling that I need not fear saying what I
thought, now that I was on the verge of quitting the hospital; "you
won't be much the wiser for that, if it's Nurse Mary that's looking
after him. If you knew her as well as I do, and knew how sleepy she
is, how constantly she neglects her business, and what a wonderful
facility she has for inventing false excuses when she's blamed, you'd
never believe a word she tells you."
"It wasn't her I left him with, but one of the others," replied the
Sister. "To tell you the truth, I should not have trusted such a case
as that in her hands alone. For though I don't think quite so badly
of her as you do, yet still I am by no means satisfied with her. You
are not the only patient who has, either directly or indirectly,
intimated she is not what she should be; and I have myself noticed
things tending to confirm these complaints."
"Why don't you get rid of her, then, when you yourself allow that
you've no confidence in her?" asked I.
The Sister hesitated a moment, and then answered: "Had the matter
rested solely with me, I believe I should very likely have done so.
But when I told the authorities what I thought of her, the doctor
took her part so strongly that nothing came of it. He declared that
he saw no reason whatever to be dissatisfied with her; and that sick
people were always so fanciful, exacting, and peevish, that it was
ridiculous to take any notice of their imaginary grievances. And as
he was quite positive of being right, whilst I spoke more from
suspicion than actual knowledge of the woman's behaviour, he carried
the day. Perhaps it's as well so after all. To dismiss her would very
possibly have ruined her professional prospects; and I should never
forgive myself if I thought I had been the means of inflicting so
severe a penalty on any one without sufficient cause."
"Oh Sister!" exclaimed I, abruptly; "is that the man you were talking
of?"
In order to enable my readers to understand what ensued, I must delay
my narrative for a moment to explain how we were all placed.
Sister Helena and I were sitting at a table about the middle of a
very long room, having a door at each end, and beds ranged down both
sides. In the bed nearest to us was a poor woman who had been badly
burnt in an explosion; and by her side stood the nurse of the ward,
employed in changing the dressings of the burns. I was the only
patient who was still up and dressed; the rest were in bed, and one
or two of them already asleep. They were all women who had been
injured severely in some way or other; and as I, though well enough
to be discharged from the hospital, was still extremely weak after my
long illness, it will be seen that Sister Helena and the nurse were
the only two able-bodied individuals in the ward.
The cause of the exclamation I had uttered was this. I--who
was facing one of the doors towards which the Sister had her
back--suddenly saw that door pushed partially open, and a man's head
poked in as though for the purpose of reconnoitring. After a hasty
survey the owner followed his head quickly into the room, closed the
door cautiously behind him, executed a fantastic pirouette, advanced
a yard or so in a kind of polka-step, came to a stand-still by
a chair near the door, and commenced bowing and smiling with
extravagant gestures. On his shoulder he carried an implement used
for breaking and piercing ice, which was rather like a hammer, with a
sharp, triangular, steel spike at one end of the head. He was big,
broad-shouldered, and muscular; his head was bound up in bandages;
and he was clad in shirt, trousers, and socks. In consequence
of having no shoes on, his movements were noiseless; and this
noiselessness considerably enhanced the uncanny and startling effect
produced by the sudden appearance amongst us of so strange a figure,
demeaning itself in so eccentric a manner.
Sister Helena looked round at my exclamation, and a momentary
expression of horror crossed her face, and showed me that my
conjecture had been right, and that our visitor was the man of whom
she had been speaking. But that one transient look of horror was
the only sign of nervousness she gave, and she did not lose her
self-possession and composure for an instant. "Yes," she answered me
quietly, turning towards the nurse who, as I have said, was employed
not far from us. "Nurse!" she said, softly. The woman looked up from
her occupation and saw the intruder, whom she at once recognised as
the patient whose sanity had been considered doubtful. His present
appearance left very little doubt about the matter, and she was
naturally filled with consternation at the sight of an armed madman
like him in the midst of a lot of helpless women. Dropping the
dressings she had in her hand, she started violently, and was about
to break forth into exclamations, when the Sister checked her by
continuing in the same low, steady voice:
"Hush! make no fuss or he'll get worse. Go for help. As long as
you're in the ward, walk quietly, as if nothing was the matter; and
as soon as you're outside, run as fast as you can. I'll stay here,
and try to prevent his doing any harm till help comes."
"Indeed, 'tisn't safe for you to stay, Sister," whispered the
frightened nurse; "he's raving mad by the looks of him, and goodness
only knows what he mayn't do!"
"All the more reason some one should stay and take care of the sick,"
returned the other. "Off with you! mind not to hurry till you're out
of the ward; and then, the faster you go the better."
Judging by the nurse's appearance, I should say it was fortunate for
her character for obedience that she was not told to remain in the
ward instead of to leave it; for I am inclined to doubt whether any
power on earth would have induced her voluntarily to stay in so
unsafe a neighbourhood. As it was, however, her orders exactly
corresponded to her inclinations, and she promptly set out towards
the door opposite to that near which the man had taken up his
position. He had left off bowing and smiling by this time, and was
seated in the chair, leaning forward meditatively and scratching the
floor with the point of his weapon, and apparently unconscious of the
presence of any one else.
"If he'll stay like that till help comes, we shall do," whispered the
Sister to me. "I'm sure he's a man for whom quiet is _everything_;
what I dread is any fuss or noise to irritate him. It's lucky all the
patients are in bed, so that he doesn't see people moving about."
This was all very well; but then there was no _certainty_ of
his continuing to stay quiet. And supposing he were to become
mischievous, what chance had any of us in the ward of defending
ourselves against a powerful, armed madman? So strongly was this
borne in upon me that I felt an ignominious desire to get up and
follow the retreating nurse, and was only prevented from doing so by
my affection for Sister Helena. For some inexplicable reason or other
I did not like to go away and leave her in danger, even though I was
perfectly aware that I was too feeble to have a chance of being of
any assistance if the man _did_ become violent. Besides that, I saw
how anxious she was to keep everything as quiet as possible; and
perceived also that as the departure of two people would necessarily
create more disturbance than that of one, therefore my going away
must certainly be contrary to her wishes. On no account would I cause
her one atom of additional worry and annoyance; I could sit still, at
least, though there was no other way in which I could help her. So,
notwithstanding my state of inward trepidation, I stayed where I was,
and hoped that the nurse might be fortunate in meeting with succour
speedily.
Unluckily I was not the only person on whom the preservation of
tranquility in the ward depended. The other patients, having heard
nothing of the possibility of the presence of a lunatic in the
building, had at first had no suspicion of the real state of affairs
when they beheld the stranger's entrance. Still, they were uneasy,
because what was taking place was evidently altogether unusual; and
what is out of the common is, for that reason alone, presumed to be
alarming by the majority of mankind. And they found confirmation for
their apprehensions in the ominous haste with which the nurse went
out of the ward; for, in spite of the caution she had received, she
made her exit in a manner that was decidedly suggestive of flight.
From one bed after another issued whimperings, timid cries, or eager
demands to know what was the matter; and the murmurs and outcries
were rising swiftly to an uproar when they were repressed by the
Sister. Speaking loud enough to be heard by all, she said that she
would take care of every one there, but that she insisted on strict
silence. That sufficed to quell the gathering storm; for there was
not a soul in the place but had confidence in Sister Helena.
The noise made, however, had already taken effect on the maniac, and
aroused him from his previous meditative condition. Springing up and
flourishing the ice-hammer in the air wildly, he mounted upon the
seat of the chair in which he had been sitting, and began to speak.
Sister Helena had been hitherto standing quiet in pursuance of her
policy of keeping everything as absolutely still as possible. But on
seeing his increased excitement, she began to advance gently towards
him--moving slowly and apparently carelessly, but getting steadily
nearer to him. Forgetting my uselessness and my fear of the man, I
rose instinctively to accompany her when she set out; but she
motioned me back, saying quickly:
"No; stay quiet. It's _my_ business to protect the patients--not
_yours_."
All this takes time to write down; but in actual fact it occupied
very few seconds, and it was still too soon to look for succour
to arrive, unless the nurse's search for it should have been
unexpectedly fortunate.
The idea which had seized the madman appeared to be, that he was in
the middle of delivering a lecture on anatomy or some subject of that
kind; and he seemed most intent upon the theme which he imagined
himself to be pursuing, as he shouted out:
"And now, ladies and gents, I come to that wonderful horgin--the brain.
Wait one moment whilst I get one to show you; for hillustrations is
hindispersible to the lecterer!"
With these words, he jumped off the chair, brandishing his weapon,
and approached the nearest bed, wherein lay a woman whose leg and
ribs had been broken, and whose injured limb was fixed in a cradle.
She--perceiving that he had sinister designs upon her--began to
scream dismally, and to make unavailing efforts to extricate herself
from the bed and try to escape. Her screams were echoed by many
of the other patients, who, convinced they were all going to be
murdered, and filled with dismay on their own account as well as
hers, either forgot or ignored the command which had been given for
silence. Sister Helena, rushing forward to the rescue, reached the
bedside just in time to interpose herself between the shrieking,
struggling, fear-distraught woman calling piteously for help, and the
man who was on the point of attacking her.
"Get out of the way there!" exclaimed he fiercely to the Sister, "or
I'll take your brain instead. I'm bound to have one for my lecter!"
"Oh no!" she replied calmly; "the lecture is put off till to-morrow,
so you won't want a brain till then."
The tranquility of her looks and manner seemed to produce an
impression on him; for he lowered his weapon, and looked perplexed,
and as if doubting whether to believe her or not. If only the other
inmates of the ward had obeyed her instructions and kept quiet, I
think that even then she would have been able to restrain him. But
the clamour they made served to excite him afresh and add fuel to
his frenzy.
"Nonsense!" he shouted; "I'm wanted to go hon with the lecter at
once. Don't you hear 'em calling me back? If you hinder me, I'll
kill you!"
Pushing her aside so roughly that she staggered and nearly fell, he
returned to his original victim, whom he caught hold of with one
hand, while with the other he raised the hammer to strike. The
blow was about to fall when it was arrested by Sister Helena, who
recovered her equilibrium in time to spring back and seize his
uplifted arm. Shaking her off as if she had been a feather, he turned
upon her with a savage cry, and raised his weapon once more. In
another moment it descended, and was buried with all his force in the
centre of her forehead. She sunk to the ground with one shuddering
groan at the very instant that the nearest door was burst open, and
two or three men rushed in. Flinging themselves upon the maniac
before he had well realised their presence, they succeeded--after a
short furious struggle--in overpowering him and carrying him off. But
they were too late, alas, to save the life of the best and noblest
human being I have ever known; for the sharp spike of the ice-hammer
had penetrated to her brain, and killed her instantaneously. And so
ended the life of one who died as she had lived,--that is to say,
devoting herself voluntarily and unreservedly to the good of others.
Characteristic of her, also, was the manner of disposal of her body,
which was burnt in a crematorium, in accordance with her own
frequently expressed wishes on the subject. For it was horrible to
her to think that her material part might possibly, after death, be
the means of bringing death and sorrow to the fellow-creatures whom
she loved so well, by poisoning the air they breathed or the water
they drank; and, therefore, she had always been a steady upholder of
cremation.
When the history of the catastrophe which had caused her untimely end
was investigated, it came out that the person in charge of the man
when he made his escape had been Nurse Mary after all, and that what
had happened was owing to her negligence. The way of it was this: The
nurse with whom he had been left, being taken ill suddenly, and
thinking that an hour's quiet would put her right again, had had
recourse to one of her fellows to replace her whilst she went to lie
down, and that other individual had happened to be Nurse Mary. Before
going away the nurse who was ill had not neglected to caution her
substitute of the special reason that existed for watching the
patient carefully, and Nurse Mary had assured her she might be
quite easy on that score--which assurance, however, had in no wise
prevented her who gave it from acting in her usual manner, and going
to sleep when so inclined. Thus, when the man's insanity returned,
there was no one to hinder his roaming off wherever the fancy took
him. And this was how he came to arrive at our ward, armed with the
ice-hammer, which he had happened to see and pick up on the way.
Had Nurse Mary had her deserts and been dismissed from the hospital
long before, Sister Helena's life would not have been cut short by
the madman. But she was sacrificed, in my opinion, partly to the
nurse's inefficiency, and partly to the folly of the doctor, who had
refused to believe it possible for patients to have any real cause of
complaint against a nurse, and had not hesitated to condemn their
assertions as unfounded without inquiry, and had therefore opposed
the dismissal of the nurse they had complained of.
Brief as was my acquaintance with Sister Helena, it sufficed to make
an indelible impression on my life; and it is owing to her influence,
and to the seed she sowed, that I am no longer the unprincipled,
heathen, scampish individual that I was before I knew her--a woman
whose life was more in harmony with the Saviour's precept than that
of any one else whom I have ever known, "A new commandment I give
unto you, That ye love one another."