MARION’S FIRST WEEK AT CHARITY.
In less than a week Marion began to feel quite at home in the big
hospital, whose windows overlooked a scene of magnificence as well as
much that was less inspiring.
Strips of clear blue water stretched on both sides of the island, and
as Marion listened to the thrilling tales and traditions which have
long made Hell Gate a place of blood-curdling interest, she could
hardly turn her eyes from the far-famed danger spot. It seemed to
enthral her in some spell of enchantment.
The great cities of Brooklyn and New York made a magnificent background
to the scene. Spires towered from expensive churches, and at sunset the
plate-glass windows of the many noble structures gave back a glow which
was almost glorious.
Thus the city’s grandeur and luxury was before her eyes, while its
misery was in even closer proximity, for was she not caring for its
victims, its slaves and its outcasts in the very wards of this isolated
building?
“Oh, to think that such wretchedness should exist!” she sighed over and
over. “To think that with all the wealth and luxury of New York, these
poor, poor creatures should drag out such an existence!”
As Marion passed through the wards, her heart was heavy within her. It
was a condition which the simple country girl had never dreamed could
exist—a condition which she could by any possibility have imagined,
but, nevertheless, one of the saddest, sternest, most reliable facts in
the history of the city.
Inside were the sick, the deformed, the crippled. Women whom shame had
driven from the sight of the world, others whom care, abuse, over-work
and under-pay had reduced to that condition known as invalid vagrancy.
Outside, in the numerous buildings, were other classes—criminals,
“crooks,” “scapegraces” and prodigals and careworn men and decrepit
women—paupers, homeless and penniless at the close of life and
dependent upon what some have called a city’s “charity.”
It took Marion some time to grasp the full horror of the Island. The
spot was so beautiful that it made the realization more difficult.
True to her resolve, she had written at once to Silas, and as the hours
went by, she consoled herself by thinking that Sallie must be safely at
home, unless—and here a thrill of horror would cross her—unless she had
died in the hospital before Silas could get the letter.
The thought of poor Sallie made her keenly alive to the sufferings of
the unfortunates around her. That one glimpse of Sallie’s white face
seemed to haunt her continually.
Over and over she marveled at the apparent indifference of the other
nurses, and wondered if it were possible that she, too, would become
hardened to her surroundings.
“I am afraid I shall become morbid,” she said to the head nurse in her
ward one day. “I cannot drive the horrors of this Island out of my mind
for a minute. It is fortunate for me that you keep me so busy.”
Miss Williams smiled sadly. She was a sweet-faced woman.
“You will be obliged to grow indifferent. It is your only safeguard,”
she said, kindly. “An over-sympathetic nurse is never very successful.”
“I shall try not to show my feelings,” said Marion, quickly. “I know
that would be fatal to success, Miss Williams, but I am almost certain
that I can never help feeling.”
“Oh, but that is different,” was the cordial answer. “A nurse that
cannot feel is a mere machine. She will do her work well, and to
some patients this will be quite satisfactory, but to others, to the
majority, sympathy is more than medicine. An encouraging word, or a
kindly interest will heal the soul, which is often more stricken than
the body. There is Katie B——,” she went on more softly. “Just see how
that child hungers for a mother’s voice, yet she is a mother herself,
the poor unfortunate. A nurse who would be cold to her would lose the
child’s confidence altogether.”
“I understand you perfectly,” said Marion, slowly. “A nurse in Charity
Hospital has something to do besides make beds and give medicines. She
has human hearts to cheer and strengthen. Oh, I hope I may be wise
enough not to throw away my opportunity.”
“You are doing nobly,” said Miss Williams, smiling. “I have seldom seen
a ‘probationer’ take so kindly to her lot. Making beds and cleaning
wards is not very pleasant work, but we all had to do it before we
could wear strings to our aprons.”
Both girls laughed pleasantly at this allusion to future honors, for
even Marion had learned that a nurse’s highest ambition was to wear an
honorable graduate’s cap and apron.
“I shall be glad when my probation is ended,” said Marion, eagerly. “I
do so want to wear the regulation uniform. Of course, I am willing to
admit that I don’t like to do drudgery, but I remember that all have
to start at the beginning, and it won’t be long before I can wield the
temperature thermometer.”
Miss Williams sighed, and her face saddened for a minute.
“You will find that the responsibility has increased wonderfully by
that time,” she said, slowly. “Sometimes I wish that I could always
have been a ‘probationer.’”
The girls were busy in the medicine-room of the ward as they talked.
Miss Williams was getting out lint and bandages for a coming operation,
while Marion was busy cleaning a number of surgical instruments.
“I feel more like a scullery maid than I do like a nurse,” she said,
laughing, as she carefully polished some knives and arranged them in
the case.
“There’s your bell,” said Miss Williams, quickly, as she heard a soft
tinkle. Marion dropped her cloth and started toward her patient.
“Miss Marlowe!”
Miss Williams raised her voice, but spoke gently and pleasantly.
“Please pick up your cloth and lay it on the table, then move swiftly,
but more silently as you go to your patient!”
She smiled as she spoke, and Marion nodded gratefully.
“I see I am much too impulsive,” she said, regretfully. “Oh, will I
ever learn to discipline my emotions?”
“Of course you will,” said Miss Williams, as she passed out of the
door. “You’ll learn anything that you wish to, Miss Marion Marlowe.”
It was Kittie B—— who had rung the bell. She was lying in bed, her face
as white as her pillow, with a tiny red-faced infant nestling beside
her.
“May I have a drink of water?” she whispered, with a faint smile. “I
guess I am feverish—I’m awful thirsty.”
“Certainly you shall have it, dear,” was Marion’s prompt answer. Then
it suddenly occurred to her that she had no right to promise anything.
“I’ll have to ask Miss Williams first, though, Kittie,” she said,
quietly; “but I guess there is no doubt but what you can have the
water.”
It was only a minute before Marion returned with the water, but the
request had brought Miss Williams promptly to the bedside.
In a moment the trained nurse was feeling Kittie’s pulse. In another
minute the temperature thermometer was out, and it was discovered that
Kittie had a fever.
“The maternity ward is not the place for fevers,” said Miss Williams to
Marion when they were out of hearing of the patient. “Put the screen
around Kittie’s bed and keep her as quiet as possible. If the baby
annoys her or she annoys the baby, take it out and put it in the crib
beside the bed. I will look at her again in fifteen minutes.”
Marion went back to the bed and found Kittie fidgeting. There was a
look in her face that frightened Marion somewhat.
She took the baby up and laid it in the crib, then turned to soothe
Kittie with a smile and a few encouraging words.
The flush of fever was rising to the sick girl’s pale face now, so that
even Marion’s untrained eye could observe and study the symptoms.
She bathed her brow and moistened her lips, but the fire in the girl’s
veins seemed to burn hotter and hotter.
An hour later and Miss Williams had called the house physician to the
bedside.
Kittie was moaning softly and turning her head from side to side.
“It’s a pity we did not know more about her when she came,” said Dr.
Hall as he turned away. “The girl is in a very dangerous condition.”