CHAPTER XIII
JANUARY was a very busy month in the hospital at Grote; the accommodation had been increased, and now it comprised a hundred and twenty beds. Early in the month a convoy had come with many very serious cases among its numbers, and during the next fortnight there were three deaths, the first that had yet occurred. Helen had waves of abject misery over these; she could not help wondering if something more might have been done to save the men, and Miss Hawker spoke to her, so she thought, rather brutally on the subject, in connection with certain supplies, which she had undertaken and forgotten to order, running short.
“If the work is too heavy for you,” she had said, “you had better ask for someone to help you. We can’t afford to have mistakes of that sort happen. Supposing it had been some ether you had forgotten about, and we had run short of anæsthetics?”
This was all quite well deserved, and Helen did not resent it.
“I know; I am very sorry,” she said. “But I have been worrying very much and that made me forget. It shan’t happen again.”
“Yes; I saw that,” said Miss Hawker. “You were worrying over those men who have slipped through our fingers. There’s nothing so useless as that. You’ve got to do your best, and when you’ve done that, you mustn’t let yourself get soft. You’ve got to think; it’s not your business to feel, if your feeling does no good.”
Helen made a great effort with herself; it cost her the jettisoning of all her pride to make the suggestion that she now offered.
“You must let me know if you think I’m not up to the work,” she said, “and get someone else.”
Miss Hawker, who was already half-way to the door, paused a moment.
“And a pretty rebellion we should have in the wards,” she remarked. “And have you heard from your son lately?”