Billie has been desperately ill. For three weeks he has lain at the
point of death, his little life hanging by a thread. Two trained nurses
have been in attendance, and a third unofficial one, in the person of
old Miss Harding! Winifred and Marion are living in my flat; Bridget
looks after them, and does our own housekeeping, and also supplements
Miss Brown's efforts, which are, to put it mildly, inadequate for the
occasion. She does not seem to realise that when people are torn with
anxiety they don't appreciate boiled mutton; and that when they sit up
half the night, waiting in sickening suspense to hear the next
temperature, a hot cup of chocolate can be more precious than rubies.
Therefore Bridget and I manufacture dainties, and carry them upstairs to
supplement the supplies.
For the first few days the illness took a normal course, and anxiety,
though real, was not acute; but on the fourth day strength failed
noticeably, and oxygen was ordered to help the clogged lungs to work.
At first it was given every two hours, then hourly, then every
half-hour, and every woman who knows anything about nursing understands
what _that_ means, plus doses of brandy, struggles to pour as much milk
as possible down an unwilling throat, and a constant taking of pulse and
temperature, to say nothing of hypodermic injections at those awful
moments when there seems no pulse to feel. It means that no one woman,
be she ever so competent, can keep up the fight single-handed for twelve
hours at a stretch, and that an understudy to work under her may mean
the very turning of the scale. I have been understudy by night, and
proud I am to record that Nurse proclaims me unusually "handy" for a
member of the "laity". Hour after hour we have fought together for the
little darling's life, while he lay unconscious against the piled
cushions, a waxen image, unrecognisable as the bonnie curly-headed
Billie we had loved. We racked our brains to think of new means and new
contrivances to fight the ever-increasing danger. With the aid of
screens and a sheet we contrived a tent over his cot, through a hole in
which the elongated cardboard funnel of the steam-kettle could enter and
give increased relief to the breathing. We made mustard poultices with
white of egg instead of water, to save needless irritation of the skin;
we used the French expedient of putting quinine pads under the armpits
to reduce the terrible temperature. Nurse was indefatigable--a miracle
of energy and resource--but through all her anxiety and tenderness for
the little patient, it was impossible not to recognise the keen
professional zest in a "good case."
"Give me a bad pneumonia, and I'm happy!" said she, frankly, and she
meant what she said.
At those rare intervals when Billie fell into a fitful sleep, I used to
steal out of the room and pay a visit to the dining-room, where, on two
arm-chairs on opposite sides of the fire, the poor father and his friend
sat drearily smoking, and waiting until the small hours of the morning.
It was useless to tell Mr Thorold to go to bed. His wife had breathed
her last at two o'clock in the morning, and he was possessed by a dread
that Billie would do the same. At three or thereabouts he might be
persuaded to move, but until then it was but a waste of breath to ask
it. Poor fellow! To have his old friend by his side was the best
comfort that was left, but how he must have missed his wife, and how
endlessly, breathlessly long the hours must have seemed, sitting with
folded hands, with nothing to do but to wait! Even I--an outsider--was
oppressed by the difference in the atmosphere of the two rooms. In the
sick-room there was suffering indeed, but there was also a constant,
earnest fight; here, the heavy, smoke-filled air seemed to breathe of
despair!
On those midnight visits, the first thing I did after giving my report,
was to open the window, and the second to make a jug of chocolate,
beating the powder in the milk till it foamed, in tempting continental
fashion. The men shivered and protested. They were in a draught; they
were not hungry; they wanted neither chocolate nor sandwiches; but I
went on with my preparations in an elderly, persistent fashion, and said
if they didn't--well, I did, and I hoped they would not grudge me a
little refreshment in the midst of my labours. By the time that the
little meal was prepared, the smoke had cleared away and left a little
air to breathe, so then I made a favour of shutting the window and
poking the fire, and we would sit down together, and--it was wonderful
how much we could eat! If Aunt Eliza could have seen me then, what--oh,
what would she have said! How I blessed the grey wig and the
spectacles, and the few deft, disfiguring touches which made my presence
so easy and comfortable, not only for myself but for those two poor,
sad, helpless young men. However much one may rail against convention,
it remains an unalterable fact that youth and good looks are _not_ the
best qualification for indiscriminate work among one's fellow-creatures.
I must remember this fact when I grow really old, and apply it as balm
to my wounded vanity.
Over the chocolate and sandwiches we would talk--not about Billie, if
possible; and I learnt that the two men had first met at Harrow, had
then been separated for many years, and had renewed the old friendship
during the last two years.
There is evidently a strong sympathy between them--a sympathy of
suffering, I think, for with all his charm, it is evident that Mr
Hallett is not a happy man. He says little about himself, but I gather
that he travels a great deal, that he writes for various reviews, and
that--to say the least of it--he is not overburdened with wealth. He
never mentions any "belongings," and is evidently unmarried. I wonder
why, for he is certainly unusually attractive. Sometimes when we have
been sitting talking together, I have been so conscious of this
attraction that I have had quite a violent longing to be Evelyn Wastneys
once more, and to meet him, so to speak, on his own ground!
He is most nice to me--oh, most nice! He thinks me a kind, sensible,
generous old dear; says I deserve a Victoria Cross, and that no block of
mansions is complete without me. One night he asked me smilingly if I
would come and nurse him if he were ill; another time he said he could
almost find it in his heart to wish that my money would disappear, so
that he could engage me as a permanent housekeeper. Then Mr Thorold
interrupted, and said that the first claim was his, and that if my
services were to be bought, no other man should have them unless over
his own dead body. They argued jestingly, while I blushed--a hot,
overwhelming blush, and seeing it, they paused, looking mystified and
distressed, and abruptly changed the conversation. Did they think me
ridiculous and a prude, or did that blush for the moment obliterate the
sham signs of age, and show them for the moment the face of a girl? I
should like to know, but probably I never shall.
For four long weeks Billie's life hung in the balance, for after the
pneumonia crisis was passed, unconsciousness continued, and the terrible
word "meningitis" was whispered from lip to lip. There were
heart-breaking days to be lived through, when the terror was no longer
that he might die, but that he might live--deprived of speech, of
hearing, possibly of reason itself. Never while I live shall I forget
those days; but looking back, I can realise that they have taught me one
great lesson, branded it on heart and brain so that I can never, never
forget. The lesson is that death is not the last and worst enemy which
we are so apt to think it when our dear ones are in its grasp. Oh,
there were hours of darkness in which death seemed to us a lovely and
beautiful thing, when we blamed ourselves for shrinking from the wrench
of giving back a little child into God's tender care. Who could compare
a darkened life on earth with the perfected powers, the unimaginable
glories of eternity? There were times when our prayers were reversed,
and we asked God to take Billie home!
But he lived; he spoke; he opened his dark eyes and smiled upon us; he
demanded a battered "boy stout" doll, and hugged it to his pneumonia
jacket; he drank his milk, and said "More!" he grew cross and
fractious--oh, welcome, gladdening sign!--and said, "Doe away! No more
daddies! No more nursies! Don't want nobodies! Boo-hoo-hoo!" and we
went and wept for gladness.
Illness, the really critical touch-and-go illness which nurses call "a
good case," turns a home into an isolation camp. The outer world
retreats to an immeasurable distance, and the watchers stare out of the
windows, and behold with stupefaction hard-hearted men and women walking
abroad on two legs, with hats on their heads, and umbrellas in their
hands, talking and laughing and pursuing their petty avocations, not in
the least affected by the fact that the temperature had again soared up
to 104, and the doctor spoke gravely about heart strain. It seems
inconceivable that human creatures, living a few yards away, are
actually going to parties, and attending theatres, trying on new
clothes, and worrying about cracked cups.
It was with much the same shock of incredulity that, on descending to my
flat one afternoon, I was met with the news that a gentleman was in the
drawing-room waiting to see me. Bridget was out walking with the little
girls, and the orphan, as usual, had opened the door. I demanded to be
told "all about it," upon which she inhaled a deep breath, and set forth
her tale after the manner of a witness in the police court.
"He says to me, `Is Miss Harding at home?' I says, `Yes, sir, she's at
home, but she's out at the moment nursing a little boy upstairs'. He
says to me, `Is Miss Evelyn Wastneys at home?' I says, `She don't live
here, sir. There has some letters come--' He says, `When will Miss
Harding be in?' I says, `She generally gives us a look, as it might be,
about six, before the young ladies settles to bed'. `Then I'll wait!'
he says, takes off his hat, and walked in. I said, `What name shall I
say, please?' He said, `It doesn't matter about my name. She doesn't
know it.'"