Nurse in White (7 page)

Back in Ward L, high up in the rear of the hospital, the sound came but faintly and Ellen sang the first carol with them.

“Holy night—peaceful night

All is calm—all is bright

Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child,

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly pe-eace—

Sleep in heavenly peace.”

“Mrs. Slavonski, from her bed at the far end of the ward, called to Ann.

“My man—he giff me more oranges. Beeg bag off them.” She reached beneath the bedclothes and motioned for Ann to pull them out.

“But—but—you know, Mrs.—” began Ann. Selfish old thing! No soul at all. Eat-eat-eat, while Ellen sang like an angel.

“You giff them—all off them. You nice gurls. Take.” She shut her eyes as if the sight was more than she could bear. “Hurry! Take! Giff—giff!”

The bag was heavy but Ann carried it to Ellen. “Well,” she cried as she dumped them on the table before her, “the Christmas spirit has caught Slavonski squarely in her stomach! Two dozen, Ellen!”

“Enough for the whole ward and some for the youngsters in Pediatrics! Good for Slavonski!” applauded Ellen. She went down to the swarthy old woman who was in all probability never to walk again, and told her how happy she had made them.

“Sail right, miss nurse. My man, he breeng ’em—for Crissmas gif to ’ospital ’ere.”

“He did? That was grand of him. You tell him how grateful we are, won’t you?”

The wrinkled brown face on the pillow puckered in a frown of sorrow and disappointment.

“He breeng me notting—notting a-tall. He peeg!” She spit out the last venomously, then sobbed once, retchingly, tears streaming down her leathery cheeks.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Slavonski. Tomorrow is Christmas. He’ll be here bright and early in the morning to see you and to bring you something. You’ll see.” She bent and whispered softly. “Anyway, Santa Claus left something on the tree for you.”

“Non—non—not for me?” The old face twisted painfully.

“You just wait and see. You’re going to have a grand Christmas!”

“I’ll get hold of Tony and see that old Slavonski brings her something tomorrow if he has to bind and gag him and if I have to pay for it myself,” Ellen vowed as she went on down the ward.

“I remember a tree like that, nurse,” Lady X whispered when Ellen stopped at her bed. “Only there were candles on it and I have heard that carol you sang just now. Will you sing it again, please? Just for me?” And Ellen sang softly, there close to the bed of the mystery girl. The pale lips moved and Ellen knew she was singing with her, though no sound came. The deep violet eyes were flooded with tears.

“Oh, why cannot I remember?” she whispered.

“You will, all in good time. Just relax and don’t try to think. I’m sure you are going to have a lovely Christmas. Santa Claus left something on the tree for everyone. So, close your eyes and go right to sleep,” she urged smilingly. “Morning will come that much quicker if you do.”

“You are so kind,” the girl whispered. “Everyone is so kind.” A shadow flitted across her face and was gone.

Everyone wasn’t always kind, Ellen knew. She wondered how much longer it would be before recollection came. She wondered, too, if perhaps Dr. Dent had joined the carol singers. They were over now. The last visitors gone. The hospital had settled down for the night. Ann had wandered over to Maternity to see the twins born that morning to the wife of the town’s chief of police. The elevator whirred and Ellen’s heart missed a beat. But it was only Joe Chilson, the night watchman, come to fix a shutter that was loose.

Ellen called herself an idiot. Cy Dent was no doubt spending Christmas Eve with some of Brentwood’s gay young people. He was one of the most popular men ever to intern in Anthony Ware. A feeling of desolation swept over her and for a moment she longed for home. Eleven o’clock—the tree was probably all trimmed now and dad and mother and the grandchildren were in bed; but she visioned her sisters and brothers and in-laws sitting down to a snack of sandwiches and coffee or maybe griddle cakes and maple syrup with little homemade sausages. Her eyes filled. What wouldn’t she give for just one little peek into the big, warm old kitchen! The hospital corridor was lonely tonight; the wind howled dismally as it swept around the corner of the ancient building. Even the mystery girl was asleep—all the world was asleep she felt—asleep or having a good time somewhere. Mentally, she shook herself. What ailed her? This was no way to feel on Christmas Eve.

“Holy night—peaceful night—

All is calm—all is bright—”

She hummed softly and felt comforted.

Down in MacGowan’s office, Cyrus Dent and the chief of staff were discussing Lady X’s condition. At last the older man got wearily to his feet. It had been a hard day—a long day.

“Aye, she’s stronger. I’m sure o’ that. And in time nae doot she’ll recall her name. We maun nabe impatient, lad. Just bide a bit.” He opened the door—touched the young man’s shoulder as he went out. “Gude night, doctor.”

“Not be impatient!” muttered Cy as he left the hospital. “I’ve a hunch my plan’ll hurry things along a bit. Time! Wait! Too much time has been lost already. We’ve waited long enough. Action is indicated.”

He swung down the snowy street, humming softly:

Holy night—peaceful night—

All is calm—all is bright—”

Nightingale would be relieved to discover the identity of Lady X, he was sure of that. If his plan worked—it just had to work!

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Cast
your eyes
on this blurb, Gaylord.” Cyrus Dent laid a folded newspaper on the table in the corridor of Ward L and thrust thumbs through imaginary suspenders.

WHO IS LADY X?

An interesting case of
amnesia
is under observation at Anthony Ware Hospital. Some two weeks ago, the patient, a beautiful and apparently well-bred girl of about twenty, was found in an unconscious condition near the lodge of T. Montgomery Davis, on West Lake Road.

At the hospital it was discovered she was suffering head and spine injuries causing complete though perhaps temporary paralysis.

There is not the slightest clue to her identity aside from the fact that she is probably English, hence the title given her by the hospital staff.

Lady X is five feet two inches tall, has shoulder-length golden blond hair, large eyes of a particularly deep shade of violet, perfect teeth; is small boned with slender hands and feet.

The Daily Herald will appreciate information that might lead to the discovery of any relative or friend of the unfortunate young lady.

Address all communications to:

Editor, The Daily Herald Brentwood, New York.

“Did you do this, doctor?” Ellen asked and at his nod of assent, “Does Dr. MacGowan know, and Miss Forsyth?”

“Sure, they know, and was I
surprised
to find that Mac had sent this same description to London on the strength of our hunch she was English! Something is bound to break soon. A girl like her just can’t drop out without leaving a ripple.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Ellen demurred. “People are always disappearing and never being heard from. And did you stop to think, Dr. Dent, what this publicity might do? That it might endanger her life again?”

“How, for Pete’s sake?”

“Well, those beasts who threw her from that car probably thought she was dead or dying and when they discover she isn’t—didn’t—”

“They wouldn’t dare!” Dent cried, but Ellen saw that he was impressed. “I’ll take that point up with Mac, and we’ll be on our guard.” He shrugged. “Whoever heard of a holdup in Brentwood? This burg is only half-alive.”

“Just the same, I’m glad she’s in a ward. Fifteen or twenty fellow patients and a couple of husky nurses ought to provide ample protection.”

Cyrus Dent grinned at Ann Murdock, who was, presumably, studying nearby; at least, she had a textbook in her hand.

“We’re just a couple of old grannies, Gaylord. We act as if Lady X was our problem child.”

Ann’s lip curled. “It’s fortunate for the girl that she has looks,” she said cynically. “Problem cases aren’t popular as a rule.”

Ellen’s eyes were clouded as she shook her head. “Lady X was never a problem child. I’ll wager she was always sweet and lovely. Oh, I wish she could remember something—anything! It’s all so terribly hopeless—like—like fighting an invisible enemy.”

“Calm yourself, darling!” murmured Ann.

Dr. Dent said, “Give her time, Gaylord. Mac says she’s distinctly on the mend. She’ll snap out of it, perhaps suddenly. Maybe something will happen to pierce that black veil. We’ve just got to keep on waiting.” Actually, he had a hunch it wouldn’t be long now.

Ann made a sound that brought a glare of antagonism from him. He turned sharply and strode down the hall toward the staircase as the soft whir of the ascending elevator announced the probable arrival of the midnight sandwiches and coffee.

But it was not food that arrived and it was well that Dent had disappeared around the corner, for the tall, angular figure of the chief of staff left the elevator and approached the alcove. Ann slipped through the nearest door. Ellen caught her breath. Dent certainly was lucky. Perhaps they were all lucky.

Dr. MacGowan was in hospital white—no doubt for some emergency operation. Ellen stood to receive him, but he motioned her to sit and seated himself on the table where he toyed with the charts upon which Ellen had been working.

“About the girl in there, Gaylord,” he began without preamble. “She’s quite apt to recover her memory anytime now.” He paused and studied her for a moment. “She seems to cling to you and I wish you would spend as much time with her as is possible. Miss Forsyth is assigning Holmes to your job temporarily and we are moving, er—” his mouth twitched slightly “—Lady X to a private room tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. MacGowan,” Ellen said impulsively, her anxiety overcoming her awe of the great man and making her forget for the moment that a nurse, especially a student nurse, obeys the doctor unquestioningly no matter what the circumstances. “Somehow, I feel she is safer here—in a ward.”

“Safer?” the surgeon echoed, astonished.

“Yes. How do we know what those wretches will attempt when they know she isn’t dead? They must know—realize she will talk—tell what she knows when her memory returns.”

“I see. You think it was the work of gangsters, perhaps?” His eyes twinkled for a moment. “Then you believe the Doogans’ wild tale of a speeding car full of desperados? Remember, this is. Brentwood.”

“I know; but I certainly believe she has been terribly abused—perhaps tortured—by someone. And who but gangsters would be capable of doing such atrocious things? Her poor body was a mass of bruises and her eyes haven’t yet lost their look of terror.”

The surgeon thoughtfully and painstakingly made a pile of the charts on the table beside him, matching the corners carefully, then suddenly spreading them fanwise.

“The London police are working on the case, also the police in New York, It seems almost hopeless unless she remembers her name. If and when she does, we can go after them.” His rather bleak gray eyes searched her face, but the girl was too preoccupied to notice, and even his next remark failed to make her self-conscious. “Dr. Dent is interesting himself in her affairs.”

“Yes, I know,” Ellen smiled up at the ugly, clever face above her. “I’m glad, for it must grow rather monotonous here to young men like Dr. Dent and Dr. Fielding.”

“I suppose so, though I doubt if Dent finds life in Anthony Ware exactly tiresome. At least, he shouldn’t,” he muttered the last.

Ellen hastened to correct her statement. “I meant that Anthony Ware is small and Brentwood is just a
big country town—”

“I know, Gaylord,” the surgeon interrupted, “but life is much the same all over. The panorama of birth and death, disease and accident unrolls here just as it does in larger cities, though, of course on a smaller scale. Our interns and other staff members receive excellent training—fine experience. Some of the world’s greatest scientists, doctors and surgeons hold clinics and give lectures here. Anthony Ware provided for that when he endowed the place. I know that I have spent profitable years in this hospital. I shall take with me to Edinburgh much that will be helpful to my colleagues there when I begin my sabbatical in August.” Then, abruptly, “Are you happy here, child?”

It was a long speech, a friendly, intimate recital, and Ellen listened in a daze. Could this be the forbidding MacGowan of whom they all stood in awe? Why, he was fascinating! His ugly face was actually attractive! How had she ever thought his eyes cold and repellent or his mouth more than a little cynical?

“Perfectly happy, Dr. MacGowan. I love nursing. I am doing just what I planned to do when I was a tiny girl, only—well, in my dreams, I went further—”

“Further? You mean you dreamed of becoming a doctor?”

“Yes, Dr. MacGowan, but I’m afraid that is out, at least for a time.”

“Good! I have long regretted, comparatively, there are so few good women doctors. Nurses, yes, and a fine band of women they are; but I wish some of them would go on.”

Ellen stared. Imagine a dominant male willing to welcome a woman within the sacred precincts of his profession! Before she could express her surprise and gratification, he said, with what Ellen thought was, for him, amazing camaraderie, “I hear good reports of you, Gaylord. You are a credit to your profession and to Anthony Ware. I hope you will completely realize your ambition, but perhaps becoming a doctor’s wife wouldn’t be amiss. A man could go far had he a lass like you at home keeping warm his hearthstone.”

Ellen’s eyes widened in startled surprise. She must be dreaming. This couldn’t be the man before whose black frown, cold gray eyes and icy, caustic speech she and the rest of the staff grew awkward and stiff with dread!

“Why—why, Dr. MacGowan, you’re young—” she began, then blushed scarlet at her gaucherie.

The gray eyes twinkled again. “What did you think?” he asked whimsically. “I’m thirty-six. Not a great age but not exactly juvenile, either. But come, tell me something about yourself. This is not your hometown?”

Would wonders never cease? From just beyond ,the door opposite, Ellen could see Ann Murdock gesticulating. Hand on heart she pretended to faint. She fanned herself. She made frightful grimaces. Ellen turned her shoulder and tried to keep her answer cool and sensible.

“No, Dr. MacGowan. My home is in Michigan. My people are farmers—have been for generations, though not always in Michigan. I have two brothers and two sisters, all married and living near home. I’m the youngest.” She smiled up at him and felt Ann’s piercing stare. “There’s nothing extraordinary about me, you see.”

“You came a long way to train, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, but you see, my Aunt Bess persuaded mother and dad to let me come here. Her husband was John Gaylord. He was once on the staff of Anthony Ware and Aunt Bess has always had an interest in the place.”

“Does she live in town?”

“Not now. Since Uncle John died she has spent all her time in what used to be their summer home on Lake Ontario, a couple of miles from Deacon’s Landing. Deacon’s Landing is just a small station—really just a stop—with perhaps ten or a dozen houses scattered about. I spend my rest periods there. It’s lovely, even in winter.”

“And you finish in June? Then what?” he asked.

Ellen felt the blood rush hotly to her cheeks. Had Mac heard anything about Cy Dent’s attentions to her and misunderstood? But surely they were slight and had ceased altogether now. She stole a glance at the surgeon but he was intent on matching the corners of the charts and his expression was entirely free from guile.

“Private duty, I suppose,” she said. “My people hope I shall soon be nearer home.”

And you?”

“I like the east, but I imagine I shall go home for a while. Our family doctor says he can keep me busy if I decide to stay out there.”

His eyes searched her face for a moment, but Ellen was once more entirely serene. “I see,” he murmured. “Thank you. Now about our mysterious guest—perhaps we shall leave her where she is for a few days longer. In the meantime, we may hear from some interested party.” He stood up, tall, ungainly and grim once more. He didn’t use the elevator, but disappeared around the corner of the corridor where the stairs were.

Ann Murdock crept to the door, poked her head out then came stealthily nearer, her eyes and mouth round with surprise and mockery.

“Have a care, me lass!” she warned. “If Agatha gets wise to these rendezvous, it’ll be just too bad for ‘teacher’s pet.’ What did the Maharajah of Indoors want, anyway?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Ellen assured her, still in something of a daze. “It’s Lady X who’s the cause of my sudden popularity, Ann. Mac seems to think her memory is about due to return.”

“So what?”

“So nothing, except we’ll know who she is and shall be able to prosecute the beasts who—”

“Calm yourself, sweetheart,” Ann interrupted callously. “How do you know she’s not a moll? You and Dent are positively gaga over that girl. Be careful, precious, she doesn’t cut you out. Nothing like a bit of mystery together with a touch of wide-eyed innocence to ensnare the wariest of males, especially if she turns out to be really someone—as you both insist she is. They do say our Cy’s out for big game—well-heeled.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ann!” Ellen cried, exasperated. “Haven’t you a thought above—”

“Sure I have,” Ann interrupted, unperturbed. “But I hate seeing you deliberately throwing away your chances—I understand you have, once had, chances. After all, Dent’s probably going places and he’s more or less, er, the best bet this dump has had in a coon’s age. I’ve no doubt you could land him even yet, if you tried. He seems still to sort of haunt your locality, I’ve noticed. I thought, perhaps, that was why Angus ducked up here right after Cy ducked down—to sort of warn you to use discretion in your affair or, on the other hand, to give you his blessing.” A sudden thought seemed to strike her. “Sa-ay—Angus isn’t by any chance—you aren’t two-timing Cy, are you? He’s still—well—sort of—”

“And suppose he is—or was—sort of—? What has that to do with our interest in Lady X? I tell you, Ann, that girl is someone important and I don’t blame Dent for being a bit maudlin over her—as you insist he is. I confess I am myself and so is Mac—”

“It couldn’t be the maharajah himself who has the inside track, could it?” Ann went on as if Ellen hadn’t spoken. “They do say the chief is quite a man in the surgical world. Perhaps you’re wise to hitch your hope chest to a sur—”

Ellen was really angry. Her brown eyes flashed. “Ann Murdock,” she snapped, her voice quiet but distinct, “what ails you? Are you crazy? Listen! You will kindly leave me out of your stupid matchmaking plans from now on. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Understand? I’m not interested. I mean it.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Ann replied, quite unimpressed, “but I wish I had your chances. I don’t know but—” The whirring of the elevator as it started on its last lap upward hastened the ending of her sentence. “Perhaps you’re wise to favor Scotty. After all, Dent’s scarcely dry behind the ears and Angus—what a man! Food!”

She left Ellen fuming impotently, and strode down the corridor to meet Marcella Harris.