Nurse in White (15 page)

“I intend to. But if she really cares for this man, what then?”

“She can’t. Don’t give her up, Tip.”

“I won’t, and I want you to help me. Make her see my side of it. Stick to her and to me.”

Ellen didn’t have the heart to tell him that day after next she was leaving for Deacon’s Landing to be gone four whole days.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

But Ellen was destined
not to go to Deacon’s Landing just yet. Ann kept calling
for
Tip—calling incessantly. Tip was sent for and sat close by, her hand tight in his, as he crooned softly to her. At last she seemed to arouse and he took her in his arms and held her close. Agatha Forsyth, tired and worn from the strain of the past hectic weeks, had taken almost complete charge of her. Every nurse in Anthony Ware was doing double duty.

MacGowan was troubled. It was a bad mess, especially as Bill Munson was making a fuss about it all upstairs. The old man couldn’t kick his nephew out because the business was in trust, but he could refuse to see either him or the little gold digger who had ensnared him. He blamed the hospital for harboring such creatures and raved at his unoffending nurse until the girl was close to tears and mentally threatened to quit.

And it was, strangely enough, MacGowan himself who put the old man in his place and talked to him as no doubt he had never been talked to before. And all this time, Jim Ellis was in a blue funk. He hadn’t wanted to fall in love with the girl in the first place—girls didn’t interest him, never had; but she was such a cute, impertinent little number that she got right under his skin and the first thing he knew she had him eating out of her hand. He wasn’t in the least sorry—if she would go through with it. He intended seeing she wouldn’t regret the bargain, but what about this Tip Waring? Where did he come in?

It was on the day before Ellen’s four-day rest period began that a call came for her to report to room forty-three at once. That was the room Dr. Dent had occupied and that Ann now had. She was shocked at Ann’s appearance. How was it possible for Ann to become so emaciated and so haggard in just a few days? Ellen took Ann’s hot hand in her own.

“Ann, darling, I’m so sorry.”

“Stay with me, Ellen,” Ann pleaded. “The nights are so—so horrible!”

“If I’m allowed to, Ann,” Ellen told her and Miss Forsyth nodded her head in relief. She knew Ellen rated time off but she was young and strong—she could manage all right and would no doubt be good for Ann. Miss Forsyth was feeling the weight of her years. “I’ll just run along and change into a uniform and be right back,” Ellen promised.

For the first time since she entered the room, Ann smiled. Ellen hurried away. What did it matter if she was tired out or if she had planned that visit to Aunt Bess? Everyone in the hospital was tired, too, and Ann needed her.

And Ann was to need her more than ever before the night was over, for late that afternoon Tip Waring was instantly killed when his car skidded into the concrete abutment of Brentwood River bridge. Jim Ellis, thinking no doubt to break the news to her
gently, told Ann of the accident. And Ann didn’t faint when he told her, she merely said with deadly calm, “It was all a mistake, Jim. I’ll see that you get your ring back. I can’t go on—I thought I could, but now, I know I can’t. Please go.” Then as he attempted to soothe her, “Go—go—go!” Each repetition was a little louder, a little more shrill and Ellen urged him to leave quickly.

“Ellen, Ellen, what have I done? What have I done?” Ann sobbed, burying her head in Ellen’s lap. “Oh, Tip—don’t leave me! Please come back to me! I love you so!”

Over and over she moaned that last until from sheer exhaustion she slept.

But Jim Ellis wouldn’t accept dismissal. And again it was Dr. MacGowan who accomplished what Ann and Ellen couldn’t.

“Be a gude sport, man,” he urged. “The lass is in no condition for shilly-shallying. Better a clean break—it’s soonest healed. Each one of us has his Gethsemane and his Calvary—the lass is o’er young to have met hers, but the kindest thing we can do is to let a-be. Only time can heal a sair heart.”

Jim Ellis said a regretful farewell to his beautiful dream. Later, he returned to New York, leaving a new Ann—a quieter Ann. All the hardness, all the smart sophistication had gone.

In those first trying days, Dr. MacGowan and she became more friendly. The dour Scot took to teasing her about the loss of her temper, declaring no redhead was true to type without it. Ann would smile sadly and shake her lovely head.

“I guess I’m pretty much of a problem, doctor. But it’s just as Ellen always told me. It’s mostly on the outside that I’m hard. Inside I’ve always been a cowardly little ‘fraidy-cat, shivering in terror for fear someone would snub me or hurt my pride.”

“You a coward, lass?” He shook his head. “Not any more. You’re a woman, now. Before, you were but a child, blundering against life with your eyes shut. Ofttimes life has to chasten us sair, ere we submit tae her guidance. Ye’ll be th’ better for th’ lesson, lass.”

Ellen’s brown eyes glowed when Ann repeated the conversation to her. “I always said he was grand, Ann.”

Ann smiled briefly with something of her old mischief. “And I accused you of making up to him.” Her eyes darkened. “Somehow, I feel years older—that I’ve come a long way since—since—oh, Ellen!” The lovely face twisted in an agony of regret. “Tip!” she whispered. “Oh, Tip!”

And Ellen, her heart torn with compassion, could do little but hold her close in her strong young arms until the paroxysm of weeping had subsided and drawing away, Ann attempted a smile that was sadder than tears.

“I’m a mess, Ellen,” she apologized. “I’m ashamed of being such a weak sister, but—but—”

“You weak Ann!” scoffed Ellen hastily. “I don’t think even your worst enemy could ever call you weak. You’re just human and—and—”

“I know,” Ann interrupted, “but I killed Tip Waring, Ellen. If I hadn’t been such a crazy, headstrong fool—”

“No,” Ellen protested. “It just had to be that Tip should die, but his love, Ann,” Ellen said softly, “his love didn’t die. Nothing can kill that. You will always have his love—always—”

Ann’s eyes filled again. “I know, but it’s Tip—Tip himself, I need. His arms around me—his dear presence and now—”

“Now, he’s nearer than ever. He’ll never fail you again, Ann. Never let you down. All through your life you will know that his love surrounds you—a warm, protecting shelter from every sorrow and hardship that may come to you. Darling, you must believe me. Love is stronger than death, Ann. It doesn’t die.” Ann lay quiet for a long moment while Ellen’s gentle words seemed vibrant in the stillness. Her eyes had the faraway look of one trying to pierce the veil that hangs between the two worlds. At last, with a long shuddering sigh, the heavy lids closed and soon she slept.

From that time on, Ann showed steady improvement and was soon able to sit up. The nurses made short duty calls to her room, curious to see the heroine of the tragic though thrilling romance. They talked about it among themselves.

“She’s changed,” Thompson said one late afternoon as they lingered in Ellen’s room. “All the old sparkle and pep are gone.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Marcella Harris asked sharply, unexpectedly allying herself with Ann, whom she had never really liked.

“Don’t worry. Murdock hasn’t changed permanently,” Isabelle Hess offered, a wary eye on Ellen. “Remember, ‘when the devil was sick, the devil a saint would be, but—when the devil got well, devil a saint was he!’ That’s Ann Murdock, or I miss my guess. Can a leopard change his spots or—or,” she added quickly, noting Ellen’s sudden defensive gesture, “Mac his disposition?”

There was a general laugh. Only yesterday Hess had been rudely awakened from a daydream by the rasping burr of the chief of staff, who had been compelled to repeat a request—an unheard-of occurrence, even in the scrub room, where attending nurses vied With each other in service to their chief. The story had spread and gathered color and burrs on its journey.

“Every ‘r-r’ felt like a bullet str’r’r’iking me,” Hess grumbled, “and I—I dead on my feet!”

“And next time I’ll let you ring the bell, my lady,” Mary Burns warned. “Three o’clock!”

“Hess out until three!” chorused the others. “Who—where—”

“Oh, Hess’s big moment is the little dentist over on Chapel Street,” Marcella Harris, who knew everything, told them. “But three o’clock!”

“Well, what’s wrong with three o’clock?” Hess wanted to know. “Anything immoral about three o’clock? Seems to me there’s a song about three o’clock.”

“Oh, yeah! Well, maybe it’s not immoral exactly,” Burns muttered darkly, “but it’s darned inconsiderate. I couldn’t get back to sleep after I hauled you in from the fire escape.”

“
Hauled
is right. I tore my new dress on that darned window. Don’t I have the worst luck?” the culprit mourned.

“Nothing to what you will have if it happens again, my friend,” she was warned.

“Oh, you!” was all the answer Hess made.

Marcella Harris turned to Ellen who sat on the floor with her head against the window seat, her arms around her knees.

“Ann’s better, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Ellen answered. “She’ll be all right now.”

“How long are you on there?” Thompson asked.

“I’m off now. Ann’s going home to convalesce. She needs a change.” Ellen hoped they were not going to begin on Ann again. “I’m on call for a while, and it’s to be hoped nothing very terrible happens for I can’t answer for my disposition if there are too many demands upon me. I think I’ve never been quite so tired before.”

“Nor I, either,” Thompson said, yawning sleepily, while Hess frankly dozed on the bed, prodded occasionally by the unsympathetic Burns. “We’ve had a tough time here. Thank heaven it’s letting up. I wish I was going to be on the Fisher case. Anyway, I’m going to try to be there when Maltby-Tipton does his stuff. They say he’s a wiz.”

“He may be,” Ellen agreed, “but I doubt if he’s any better than Mac. Somehow—”

Isabelle Hess awoke to jeer. “Mac! I’d like to do a little operating on him.”

No one paid any attention to her and she dozed again.

Ellen went on, “I’d feel surer of the outcome if Mac were to do the job.”

“Oh, you and Mac!” scoffed Thompson. “You act as if he was a tin god, Gaylord. Granted he’s good—I’m not belittling him, but there are others—”

“For Pete’s sake stop arguing!” snapped Hess, burrowing into Ellen’s pillow.

“And for Pete’s sake get off my bed!” Ellen ordered. “It’s been made once today.”

The gong in the lower hall sounded. Dinner! Even Hess roused at the summons and went down with the others.

“Say, just why isn’t Mac operating on young Fisher?” Marcella asked inquisitively. “After all—”

Ellen shook her head. “Don’t ask me. I only know I’m going to be there if it’s the last thing I do.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The great Dr. Maltby-Tipton
arrived in Brentwood on the day Ann departed for home. She expressed regret that she would miss him, for his clinic would be attended by doctors and nurses from many outlying towns. Even Corinth Medical was sending its students over to watch the great man perform one of his miracles. Ellen felt a little stab of jealousy for their own Dr. MacGowan. She doubted that the Denver surgeon was in any way superior to their own chief of staff. It was just a case of the unappreciated prophet. However, she was keen to see the man and to watch his greatly vaunted technique.

Tony Fisher was ready and eager for the event. He was in better spirits than he had been for some time, his nurses reported, and the night before the day of the operation he went to sleep early, even before his weeping mother had left the room.

“It’s like it used to be before the big game,” he told his night nurse. “We had to get to bed early so as to be ready for the battle. This is my big game, isn’t it? Probably the biggest game I’ll ever play. I want to be fit to meet each emergency and to win all along the line—to make a touchdown, to win!”

Mrs. Fisher was sobbing hysterically as she left his room and Dr. Martin hurried her away.

Maltby-Tipton stopped in to see the sleeping boy and Dr. Martin told him what Tony had said. The great man bit his lip.

“I don’t understand why your own MacGowan doesn’t do it,” he said. And Dr. Martin thought the man didn’t look at all well. Tired and a bit worried. He mentioned the fact to the chief of staff, who passed over the information with the remark that the Denver surgeon was probably weary from his long trip, which, disliking planes, he had made by train.

But it was only a little after one in the morning that Dr. MacGowan was called to the Durston Hotel. Dr
.
Maltby-Tipton was gravely ill. In half an hour the famous surgeon was on the operating table at Anthony Ware and Dr. MacGowan was performing an emergency appendectomy. Ellen was one of the nurses in attendance and felt a wave of exultation as she watched. Afterward, as she scrubbed with the others, she was far too excited to talk. Now Dr. MacGowan would have to operate on Tony Fisher! Now, she felt sure, the boy would recover. She hadn’t been any too confident before—why, she couldn’t explain. Surely fate worked by devious methods!

Ellen, however, had reckoned without Tony’s mother. The lady stubbornly refused to have anyone but Maltby-Tipton touch her boy. They left her alone with Tony when they had reached the end of their patience and when, two hours later, he rang for a nurse, Mrs. Fisher was white, exhausted and bitterly angry. Tony seemed years older.

“I’m ready,” was all the boy said and after that things moved swiftly. His mother let him go without a goodbye.

Though Ellen had been on night duty and knew she should have gone to bed directly after chapel that morning, she filed into the operating room with the others. Only a few knew of the change in surgeons, but as far
as Ellen could see, there was little if any disappointment shown by those occupying seats around the small group of masked white figures under that great dome. A hushed expectancy hung over the room. The tragedy of Tony Fisher was well-known in this part of the state and every person there consciously or unconsciously breathed a prayer that MacGowan’s God would not desert him now.

Forty minutes later, Tony was wheeled to the elevator and taken down to his room. The clinic was over—students, nurses and doctors wandered down corridors and out into the early spring sunshine. Ellen, still too excited for bed, changed into street clothes and went for a long, solitary walk. She returned two hours later and went to the Receiving Room, hoping for news.

Dr. Braddock told her that young Fisher was still under ether but his reactions were perfectly normal and there was every chance in the world that the operation was successful although one could not be sure so early in the game. Dr. Maltby-Tipton was coming along nicely and seemed greatly relieved that Tony’s operation was now over. Dr. Braddock chuckled.

“Maltby-Tipton may be the man of the hour, Gaylord, I’m not belittling him one inch; but you’ve got to show me a greater surgeon than our own Angus MacGowan.”

“So say we all!” Ellen agreed. “And personally, Dr. Braddock, I felt heaps better in my own mind when I knew he was doing the job.”

“And I, too. Why, he knows the lad! He’s been watching his case for months—he and Martin. Mrs. Fisher’s just plain dumb!”

“And again—so say we all!” Ellen said emphatically. She went on into the hall. On the bulletin board was a notice that she was to report at seven in the morning to room sixty-seven. That was the room where the beautiful Mrs. Hartley was convalescing from influenza combined with a slightly congested gall bladder. Good! She suddenly felt relaxed and happy again.

Terry Morley telephoned to invite her to a movie and dinner.

“Grand, Terry! I feel just like a binge,” she told him.

A warm soothing bath and bed! How good to stretch out and feel the exquisite waves of drowsiness envelop one’s tired body and weary mind!

Marcella Harris burst into Ellen’s room soon after two that afternoon to tell her that Tony Fisher’s toes itched! He was in a cast for a few weeks but for the first time in six years his toes itched! Marcella shouted with laughter.

“Isn’t that the craziest thing you ever heard? His mother ran out to tell me as I passed the door just now. The woman was so excited that she didn’t even see me. I’m sure she never would have spoken if she had. I asked Braddock about it and he said it was probably all her imagination or Tony’s, that it was far too soon to tell. Anyway, he is partly conscious and everything is running smooth as silk.”

“Thanks, “Marcy,” Ellen murmured, yawning widely and snuggling deeper into her blankets, “but please get out. I’m not getting up until dinner. I’ve got a heavy date tonight—worse luck!”

“Okay,” Marcella laughed, quite unoffended. “But think of all you’re missing. The place is swarming with visiting bigwigs and littlewigs. Too bad Murdock isn’t here. She’d make short work of some of them. Better change your mind and come down, Ellen. Cy Dent is acting cicerone to the Corinth nurses—one is a dizzy blonde.”

“Who cares?” muttered Ellen, sleepily. “Only get out, and in passing you might hang a sign on my door—Do Not Disturb!”

And that’s just what Marcella Harris did and that’s why Ellen slept through dinner and on until six the next morning, when Marcella stopped on her way to her room for a letter she had forgotten to mail. She took down the sign and went in, not too quietly. The girl was sleeping soundly and Marcella stood for a moment looking down at her. How lovely she was, and such a peach! The older nurse laid a gentle hand on her forehead and Ellen opened wide brown eyes, still cloudy with dreams.

“Well, my girl, you did sleep! Know what time it is?”

Ellen sat up, stretched her arms high about her head. “W-what time is it?” she yawned.

“Six o’clock—in the morning, my dear.”

“What?” Ellen’s eyes were open now, her gaze incredulous. “Really, Marcy? Did I sleep all that time? And I meant to see that movie at the Royal. Terry Morley—”

“Oh, he called and Josephine told him there was a sign on your door that you were not to be disturbed. That probably the doctor put it there and there’s a basket of roses with his card on it in the bathroom. I’ll bring it in while you collect your wits.” Ellen reached for her mules and a robe and was still stretching and yawning when Marcella returned.

“Take it up to L, Marcy,” Ellen said, as she read Terry’s message; regret for her indisposition. “I’m working for the idle rich during the next few days and probably will be smothered in flowers. They’re lovely, though, aren’t they? He’s a peach, Marcy!”

“So?” Marcella took the flowers and left. Ellen grinned to herself. She could almost see the thoughts that streamed in one long colorful parade through Marcella’s romantic brain.