“My wife’s niece lived in a place like this before she married. One time she took sick and ’most starved to death before she could get us word—nobody come near her for more’n two days. If you want anything just you call when you hear me passing.”
For the first time I realized fully the blessing of ice. The little towel being too rough I tore up the softer of my two nighties to get a cloth large enough to cover my face and neck. After several applications of this cloth saturated in ice-cold water, I fell asleep, comforted by the belief that the medicine and ice had come in time to prevent the erysipelas from reaching my eyes.
When I waked I could not open my eyes. I distinctly recall that I had no thoughts, no fears—just a stunned feeling. Next I decided that I must not cry—that would not help matters, only lessen the chance of saving my sight, that is, if it could be saved. Then I determined that if I did have to be blind I did not have to be a coward. Groping about I located my little pan and the pitcher. Two pieces of ice still floated in the deliciously cold water, and I proceeded to apply the cloth saturated with the water.
As the time wore on I heard alarm-clocks in the rooms about me go off, their owners get up, move about while dressing, then go out, always banging their doors. One by one I listened as their footfalls became less and less distinct and merged into silence. The chambermaids came on. I heard them talking and the clash and thumping of the dustpans and brooms. Finally one came to my room.
Without knocking she opened the door, and before I could prevent her turned on the light. I shrieked with pain. Then as automatically heaved a sigh of relief—if light hurt my eyes I could not be totally blind. On learning that I was sick and would make my own bed, the maid turned and was leaving the room. I asked her to turn off the light, and then after an effort inquired if she could get me some cracked ice. She took the pitcher and promised to bring back the ice as soon as she got a “chance.”
As time passed and the girl did not return I realized my folly in allowing her to take the pitcher—even tepid water was more soothing to my inflamed face and eyes than the dry cloth. At last, giving up all expectation of getting ice until the return of Miss Stafford, I took my little tin pan and groped my way to the bathroom.
Back in my room I found that I had barely a half-teacup of water—doubtless there was a rule against spilling water along the halls. Fortunately, I reasoned, the heat would soon dry it up. The house was profoundly still. If there was anybody in it they didn’t come to my hall. Several times I made the trip back and forth to the bathroom with my tin pan, each time realizing that the inflammation must be less because I could see a little better.
It was a long day but I did not get hungry. When the women began to return from work I began nervously to wait for my friend. Being employed in the library of a down-town mortgage company, I knew their closing hour was not later than five-thirty. Time passed, but none of the footsteps passing so frequently along the hall stopped at my door.
One woman’s voice called along the hall asking the time. Another answered that it was a few minutes before eight. Eight o’clock! Miss Stafford had not returned from her vacation and I was dependent on the night-watchman. He had told me that he made his first round at eleven o’clock, so I set about preparing for the three hours’ wait—to make my little pan of water last until he came. Now the inflammation had subsided sufficiently to make me keenly conscious of the difference between the duskiness of the halls during daylight and the glare under electric lights.
One of the footfalls along the hall did stop at my door. There was a tap and my friend entered.