Nurse in White (12 page)

“Well?”

“Dr. Dent will be confined to bed for some time, Miss Terrill,” Ellen said evenly, “He is still unconscious.”

Violet covered her eyes again and moaned softly, “Oh, this beastly place—I hate it!”

Mrs. Langham shrugged eloquently. “Buck up, Vi,” she urged briskly. “After all, you know, they’ve been very decent to you here. I doubt if you’d have received better treatment anywhere—even in dear old London,” she finished demurely. Then, changing the subject, she said tactfully, “So Kent broke her hip just before you sailed. I’m wondering how you managed without her—you’re such a helpless creature.”

“Oh, Viv shared her Marie with me coming across and while I was in New York—” Her eyes clouded and she frowned in perplexity. “That’s odd. I don’t recall boarding a plane—”

“Never mind.” Mrs. Langham hastened to divert her thoughts. “So Dr. Dent is coming to Boston?” She asked the question of Ellen, who was busy about the room.

“I understand he has a most attractive offer from one of your specialists.”

“Splendid! Then we shall no doubt see something of him. Isn’t that fine, Vi?” her cousin enthused.

But Lady Violet Terrill said nothing. She had no doubt reached a blank wall in her memory and was trying to find a way through.

It was two days later that a clear and authentic account of the abduction of Violet Terrill appeared in the
Brentwood Daily Herald.
The paper took all the credit for discovering Lady Violet’s relatives and for the rounding up of the notorious Giotti gang. Out of that incident two men who worked on the
Herald
received flattering offers from city papers. One of them went, the other stayed. He was the editor and couldn’t be pried loose from his beloved desk.

The Terrill snatch was just a case of mistaken identity. The Giotti gang was out to get Vivian Townsend and it wasn’t until they reached a point west of Albany that they discovered that their victim was not the wealthy Adrien Townsend’s beautiful daughter, but a girl of whom they had never even heard, and they lost no time in disposing of her belongings and of her body. They had supposed the tap on the head they had given her when she showed signs of coming out of the chloroform had proven fatal. So they tossed her from their car and sped away, confident of complete safety.

Well, they will have a long time for reflection,
Ellen thought, as she finished reading the lurid account.
It’s a blessing it turned out so well and it’s to be hoped Lady
X never remembers that one dark spot in an otherwise happy visit to America.
Ellen felt sure her visit would be happy in spite of her hospitalization. For had not that stay at Anthony Ware brought her love and Cyrus Dent?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Anthony Ware
slipped quickly back to normal after the arrest of Violet Terrill’s abductors. It wasn’t even a nine days’ topic of conversation among the nurses, for an epidemic of influenza struck Brentwood and the surrounding vicinity, and life became far too hectic and backs and feet too weary for their owners to take an interest in what was now a closed book.

Dr. Dent continued to be a popular and interesting convalescent and his room became a bower of expensive floral offerings and the rendezvous of Brentwood’s elite. Members of the staff took to dropping in as they passed his door—only Ellen avoided the vicinity of his room.

Marcella Harris brought her a message from him. Marcella gave it reluctantly. Cy Dent had had far too much fuss made over him as it was. He hadn’t done anything especially heroic that she could see. Simply refused to allow an injured man to be removed from the hospital while the policeman on guard had been inveigled into leaving his post for a few minutes. He happened to get in the path of a stray bullet, that was all, and to see and hear the way those silly girls fussed over him was positively sickening. Miss Forsyth, too. The superintendent intimated that Dr. Dent had prevented them from going to Miss Terrill’s room and silencing her forever, but Cy pooh-poohed that story.

Marcella knew that letters and a package of books had arrived from Boston for him and that there had been daily telephone inquiries from the same source. Marcella was inclined to believe it all merely the reaction of a grateful patient. But Ellen knew it for what it was—the interchange of affectionate regard. That Cy had answered these messages she had not the slightest doubt. Of course he had.

“He said to tell you he had received further details about a subject in which you were
both interested, Ellen,” Marcell
a told her. “He said to tell you to drop in around six tonight when the mob would have departed.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Well,” said Ellen, viciously thrusting the needle with which she had been mending her best pair of stockings into the pin cushion, “you may tell him for me that I’m not interested now, never was and never will be. Boston!” she muttered. Then after a moment in which she scrutinized her darning, “Marcella, could you feature our glamorous Cyrus Dent in the role of country doctor, say, or even a small-town general practitioner, with unpolished shoes, baggy pants and driving a dusty, disreputable heap over impossible roads in all kinds of weather—day and night—maybe just to ease an old man’s lumbago or bring Mrs. Mooney’s unwanted eleventh brat into an uncaring world?” She laughed without mirth. “Well, you never will, for he’s going with Doctor Blakley, the swanky psychiatrist—one hundred bucks per office call—more if he goes to the home.”

“Say, what’s the matter with you, Gaylord?” Marcella asked curiously. “You sound decidedly acid and it’s strange for I never knew you to be peevish. I bet it’s all that night work. Better get out as soon as you can or they’ll commandeer you for private duty. Every bed in the place is filled and not a nurse available. For heaven’s sake, Ellen, don’t you get sick.”

“No,” Ellen said morosely, “I won’t get sick. I never get sick.”

There was a knock on the door and at her sharp “Come!” a round-eyed probie entered.

”I can see it’s bad news,” Ellen said gloomily. “Spill it!”

“Miss Forsyth says for you to report for duty at seven tonight in room thirty-four. Irene Ball is down with laryngitis.” Her eyes grew rounder and her voice full of awe tinged with envy. “I passed Murdock on the stairs and she told me that Robert Cooper is in thirty-four staging a comeback. What did she mean? And is it really him? And did you know he has been here before? Miss Ball never told it—the selfish old meanie!”

Ellen frowned. Ann was given to cryptic remarks but this was one she didn’t quite get. Marcella laughed. “Remember just before Christmas a man was brought in with a bad knee and Ann insisted it was Robert Cooper? But that man lived in Boston, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember
much about it,” Ellen said. “So I’m in for private duty for a while, am I? Oh, I don’t care what I do, but I hoped I could have my four days next week. Probably that’s out, now.”

“Sure, it’s out. MacGowan’s working night and day and even Agatha is helping out. The four oxygen tents are in use and we’ve sent to New York for two more. Corinth offered one but Mac wanted two. I went out to dinner last night and inadvertently sneezed—wow! Now I know how an untouchable feels. It wasn’t anything—just dusting off my brain, if any. But the town is scared stiff. Only the country-club crowd seems unawed by the epidemic—they continue to troop into Dent’s room in one unbroken stream. Just what is this thing you are both so vitally interested in, Ellen?” she asked as the door closed after the messenger.

“Who said it was vital, Marcy?” Ellen demanded.

“Well, maybe nobody actually said so, but Dr. Dent seemed pretty excited about it. He sat propped up in bed looking like a slightly inebriated god, his hair tousled, his cheeks flushed and a gleam in his eye that bodes no good to whoever attempts to thwart him. I think I should see what he wants, if I were you, Ellen. Have you been in at all since he’s been laid up?”

“Why should I?” Ellen asked defiantly.

“Well, and why shouldn’t you? Everyone else has.”

“All the more reason why I shouldn’t, then,” Ellen snapped. Marcella stared for a moment in mild surprise. What ailed her? Surely she hadn’t taken the young man seriously. No one in her right mind would do that. Cyrus Dent was just an irrepressible boy—he ragged them all.

“No,” Ellen went on more calmly, “Dent can get along very nicely without this particular caller. He can have nothing important to say to me and I’m sure I shouldn’t be able to be as entertaining and amusing or even as adoring as his visitors. Anyway, I’m busy and can’t spare the time.”

“Okay,” Marcella said and nothing more. Soon afterward she left.

Ellen found the patient in thirty-four white and big eyed. He was cross and apologetic by turns. But Ellen knew he had been desperately ill. He did look like Robert Cooper, only she thought him better looking in spite of his need of a haircut and a shave. His name, she found, was Terrill Morley; his occupation, consulting engineer; his home, Boston. Terrill; she wondered if it were a family name and if he were related to Violet Terrill, but of course that wasn’t at all likely. Mrs. Langham had spoken of her brother, Terry; but there must be hundreds of Terrys in the world. And yet there was a look of Mrs. Langham in his face—his eyes, which, like hers, were deep violet. He dozed restlessly the forepart of the night, rousing to mutter imprecations on his weakness.

It was nearly two o’clock when Ellen heard a faint sound outside the door. The floor nurse, probably. She put down her book and listened. There it was again. The door opened suddenly and someone slipped in. Dr. Dent, a dressing gown partly covering his pajamas, his left arm in a sling. Ellen got quickly to her feet.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her heart almost suffocating her with its hammering.

“How’s the patient?” Dr. Dent asked impersonally. “I had to know—I—I was worried.” He grinned down at her.

“O-oh! Do you know him?” Ellen asked, feeling herself a fool for imagining he had come to see her.

“Know him? Not from Adam,” he answered brazenly. “But I felt like a rendezvous with you and so—here I am. Remember, Nightingale, I’m a sick man—a patient in this hospital of which you are a staff member. Also, that it is never wise to cross or distress a patient, so you’d better submit gracefully. You stubbornly refused to come when I sent for you, so I have risked pneumonia and perhaps worse to come to you. I hope you appreciate it but of course you don’t. Ungrateful wench!”

“Just what did you want to see me about, Dr. Dent?” Ellen managed, though her legs threatened to let her down.

“We really can’t talk properly here, Nightingale,” he said coolly. “If I go now and so relieve you of the fear of discovery, will you come to see me tomorrow—today—this afternoon?”

“Discovery? I don’t know what you mean. Dr. Dent,” Ellen flared.

“Well, you’re entertaining a member of the staff while on duty, aren’t you? I’ll grant you it’s not especially cordial entertainment, but nonetheless it’s entertainment of a sort, and so is a major offense—if found out. Oh, come now, darling. I’m only teasing. Don’t be so stiff. Can’t you appreciate a bit of pleasantry?” For Ellen had stalked to the door and flung it wide. She could not speak.

“Get out, you!” came unexpectedly from the bed. “Can’t you see the lady doesn’t like your company? Beat it, fellow, or I’ll smack you down!”

The intruder ignored the peremptory order.

“You’ll come?” he urged, his foot preventing the door from closing.

Where was Hess who was supposed to be on floor duty tonight? Cyrus Dent, with uncanny malice, read her questing glance.

“Oh, Hess knows her place, dear Nightingale. She’s down in forty-two, telling a bedtime story to old lady Talbut.”

“At two in the morning?” jeered Ellen, relieved that no one had witnessed this latest bit of effrontery.

“Talbut respects neither time nor place, darling—I will too call you darling if I like, and if you’re not careful I’ll add a possessive pronoun to it—in public.”

“Will you go?” she hissed. “You are disturbing my patient.”

“Are you still there?” came from the bed.

“I’ll go if you promise to see me this afternoon. Promise?”

“All right,” she agreed grudgingly. “Only go—please!”

“I’m practically gone, my darling Nightingale,” he whispered, and slipped silently down the corridor to the stairs.

Ellen went back to her patient. He lay with his knees making a small mountain of the blankets, a knowing smile on his lips, his eyes unnaturally bright.

“A persistent chap, eh, what?” he said, conversationally.

“Persistently annoying,” Ellen agreed. “Most unethical, if you ask me.”

“Did I?” He studied her for a moment through narrowed lids.

“Say, did anyone ever tell you how perfectly corking you are? Beautiful as a drea
m
, especially when you’re mad. I can’t say that I altogether blame Pajamas for his persistence. What’s he doing here, anyway?”

“He’s a member of the staff,” Ellen told him. “Now, please be quiet and don’t talk any more. You need sleep. Are you quite comfortable? Here.” She thrust a thermometer into his mouth and he wrinkled his nose at her. No, his fever hadn’t risen, in fact he seemed better. She shook down the mercury and wiped the instrument.

“Let’s talk,” the young man said, settling himself more comfortably in bed. “What’s your name?”

“No.” Ellen was stern. “You’ve simply got to be quiet. If you talk your temperature will rise again and you’ll be worse. Just relax and try to sleep.”

He lay quiet for a moment, then, “Was that Dent? Dr. Dent who just sneaked in here?”

“Why—why, yes,” Ellen stammered. “Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t, but I intend knowing him. Sis wrote me some nonsense about his saving Vi Terrill’s life.” His eyes brooded and he scowled.

“Then you are Mrs. Langham’s brother, Terry?” Ellen said. “I’ve been wondering. You look a little like her—but I thought she said you went to South America after Vi—”

“Jilted me!” he growled. “Say it. I don’t mind—now. That’s what she did. And know why? Because I refused to live in ‘deah ol’ Devon’ and become a country squire. And me an engineer! I loved the girl, too—crazy about her yet, worse luck! So that’s the wonderful Dent? Where are his eyes that he’s left you in circulation, beautiful? D’you know, I think I sort of like this place. I didn’t at first.”

“Suppose you listen and I’ll ask the questions?” suggested Ellen, noting his determination to talk. “How does it happen that you’re in Brentwood again? You were here just before Christmas, weren’t you? With an injury to your leg or something of the sort?”

Young Morley’s eyes stared. “Uncanny! Say, I’m highly flattered that you remember me. But where were you? I’m sure you weren’t in evidence or I’d certainly have remembered.”

“No.” Ellen laughed. “One of the nurses declared that Robert Cooper was in Receiving—”

“Robert—Heck, woman, what did I ever do to deserve that dirty crack? I’m no matinee idol—”

“Well you do look a little like him,” Ellen insisted. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

“The first time, I came to consult Hinman about that Walton Dam project—I’ve been over at the dam for ten days now—or it was ten days ago I landed in Walton. Where’ve you kept yourself the week I’ve been here?”

“Up in L—the free ward.”

He laughed weakly. “Don’t say that fast, lady, or you might by chance speak the truth. I know what those charity wards are.”

“Not from experience, I’m sure,” Ellen began indignantly.

“No, but by keen observation.”

“You haven’t seen our free ward, then. Anthony Ware is proud of its free ward,” she said stiffly. The condescension of the very rich!

“If you are up there I can well believe it. But tell me about this sudden crush of Vi’s. Sis wrote me she had been in an accident—she didn’t say what, and had been brought here. She wrote that a Dr. Dent had been very kind to her—had indeed saved her life and that in consequence, Vi had fallen hard for him. Is he such a wiz that he could save her life, and how?”

Ellen wondered why Mrs. Langham hadn’t written the whole truth about the affair and why Terry Morley hadn’t read about it all in the papers. But she didn’t profess to know the peculiar methods of the rich and to what extremes they would go to avoid or kill notoriety or undue publicity. Well, it wasn’t up to her to explain, so she merely said, “Oh, Dr. Dent gave her a blood transfusion—”