SISTER AGNES REVOLTS
The world’s male chivalry has perished out,
But women are knights-errant to the last;
And if Cervantes had been Shakespeare too,
He had made his Don a Donna.
—_Elizabeth B. Browning._
When it was found that Elsworth had quite disappeared, and nothing more
was heard of him, many of the good sisters and kind-hearted nurses were
really sorry to have lost him. None more so than Sister Agnes. Sister
Agnes was the brightest, cleverest, and most devoted nurse that could
be imagined. She never wearied of her work, never grew snappy and
huffy, as the best of women will when worn and weary with hard work and
watching. She never seemed to need rest; that is to say, she never
exhibited in her perfect temper the strain upon her system which her
heavy duties entailed. She was not only the intimate personal friend of
all the nurses under her, but she made it her business to aid in a
thousand ways all her patients and smooth their pillows by the many
sweet attentions such a loving woman could bestow. She was the widow of
a clergyman who had died two years after his marriage, and having no
family she was free to follow a long cherished desire, and so devoted
herself and her admirable talents to the sacred office of nursing. She
was tall and dark, with charming wavy hair and a healthy, not to say
ruddy, complexion, which bespoke more than the usual health of a London
woman. Deeply religious, of High Church principles, she was yet
entirely free from those prejudices against other forms of belief which
often detract from the usefulness of a hospital sister. It was enough
for her to know that a patient loved her Master, in whatever outward
form that love was expressed, to make Sister Agnes at once a friend. In
many a way she contrived to instil even into the hearts of the most
indifferent some thought of better things, some hope of a life beyond.
Most of her patients left her wards the better for having come into
contact with her. Sister Agnes often said she had observed in Elsworth
traits that promised a great and useful man, and she was always
unwilling to believe that he had gone wrong in any way. For many months
past she had found difficulties in her work at St. Bernard’s in
consequence of the growing dissatisfaction she felt at the conduct of
most of the doctors who attended her patients. It pained her and roused
her indignation that needless and dangerous things were constantly done
to patients who had no idea of their import, and who would have
protested with all their might if the opportunity had been given them.
Valuable lives of patients who had become her friends had been
sacrificed to the growing taste for novelty in methods and instruments,
daily introduced from all parts of the world. What one man had done in
Berlin must be imitated here, and what had proved fatal in New York was
tried at St. Bernard’s in the hope of better success and the increased
reputation of the operator. One man extirpated one organ and one
another; one resected this and another that, till poor Sister Agnes
began to wonder what, and if any, part of the frame would ultimately
claim exemption from the rage for taking it away. And she was expected
to do her part in paving the road for all these mutilations. The wiser
she grew, and the more she learned of her business, the more she saw
that much, if not most, of all this was not for the patient’s good; and
no wonder she began to rebel. She was brought principally in contact
with Dr. Stanforth, who was the chief physician of the women’s wards.
Not alone did she object to his professional methods, but the manner he
used in the wards. It was neither useful nor expedient for Dr.
Stanforth to regale his class, in the presence of herself and nurses,
with his most salacious anecdotes, his coarse allusions and indecent
jokes. Some patients no doubt enjoyed them, but these were a minority
which should have been made better instead of worse by living in the
hospital. To most, however, these things were painful in the extreme.
It required better health and stronger nerves than the women generally
possessed to cope with Dr. Stanforth and his rollicking lads. The
valley of the shadow of death is an ill place for satyric abominations.
The sympathetic nerves of the poor sister’s face were too habituated to
Dr. Stanforth’s little ways to cause her cheeks to flush at all of
their manifestations, but there were times when her indignation would
make her turn away with her note-book and inkstand, and remove out of
earshot. At such times the funny man would apologise in a way which
only made matters worse, and she would often wonder in her own mind how
much longer she could or ought to be a party to these improprieties.