1
It was ... jolly; to have something one was obliged to do every evening—but it could not go on. Next week-end, the Brooms, that would be an excuse for making a break. She must have other friends she could turn to ... she must know one could not go on. But bustling off every evening regularly to the same place with things to get for somebody was evidently good in some way ... health-giving and strength-giving....
She found Miss Dear in bed; sitting up, more pink and gold than ever. There was a deep lace frill on the pink jacket. She smiled deeply, a curious deep smile that looked like “a smile of perfect love and confidence” ... it was partly that. She was grateful, and admiring. That was all right. But it could not go on; and now illness. Miriam was aghast. Miss Dear seemed more herself than ever, sitting up in bed, just as she had been at the hospital.
“Are you ill?”
“Not really ill, de-er. I’ve had a touch of my epileptiform neuralgia.” Miriam sat staring angrily at the floor.
“It’s enough to make anyone ill.”
“What is?”
“To be sitoowated as I am.”
“You haven’t been able to hear of a case?”
“How can I take a case dear when I haven’t got my uniforms?”
“Did you sell them?”
“No de-er. They’re with all the rest of my things at the hostel. Just because there’s a small balance owing they refuse to give up my box. I’ve told them I’ll settle it as soon as my pecuniary affairs are in order.”
“I see. That was why you didn’t send your box on to me? You know I could pay that off if you like, if it isn’t too much.”
“No dear I couldn’t hear of such a thing.”
“But you must get work, or something. Do your friends know how things are?”
“There is no one I should care to turn to at the moment.”
“But the people at the Nursing Association?”
Miss Dear flushed and frowned. “Don’t think of them dear. I’ve told you my opinion of the superintendent and the nurses are in pretty much the same box as I am. More than one of them owes me money.”
“But surely if they knew——”
“I tell you I don’t wish to apply to Baker Street at the present time.”
“But you must apply to someone. Something must be done. You see I can’t, I shan’t be able to go on indefinitely.”
Miss Dear’s face broke into weeping. Miriam sat smarting under her own brutality ... poverty is brutalising, she reflected miserably, excusing herself. It makes you helpless and makes sick people fearful and hateful. It ought not to be like that. One can’t even give way to one’s natural feelings. What ought she to have done? To have spoken gently ... you see dear ... she could hear women’s voices saying it ... my resources are not unlimited, we must try and think what is the best thing to be done ... humbug ... they would be feeling just as frightened just as self-protecting, inside. There were people in books who shouldered things and got into debt, just for any casual, helpless, person. But it would have to come on somebody, in the end. What then? Bustling people with plans ... ‘it’s no good sitting still waiting for Providence’ ... but that was just what one wanted to avoid ... it had been wonderful, sometimes in the little room. It was that that had been outraged. It was as if she had struck a blow.
“I have done something dear.”
“What?”
“I’ve sent for Dr. Ashley-Densley.”