“A person who sympathises—that is the really important thing,” Hilda answered, in her quiet voice. “One must find out first one's patient's temperament. YOU are nervous, I can see.” She laid one hand on her new friend's arm. “You need to be kept amused and engaged when you are ill; what YOU require most is—insight—and sympathy.”
The little fist doubled up again; the vacant face grew positively sweet. “That's just it! You have hit it! How clever you are! I want all that. I suppose, Miss Wade, YOU never go out for private nursing?”
“Never,” Hilda answered. “You see, Lady Meadowcroft, I don't nurse for a livelihood. I have means of my own; I took up this work as an occupation and a sphere in life. I haven't done anything yet but hospital nursing.”
Lady Meadowcroft drew a slight sigh. “What a pity!” she murmured, slowly. “It does seem hard that your sympathies should all be thrown away, so to speak, on a horrid lot of wretched poor people, instead of being spent on your own equals—who would so greatly appreciate them.”
“I think I can venture to say the poor appreciate them, too,” Hilda answered, bridling up a little—for there was nothing she hated so much as class-prejudices. “Besides, they need sympathy more; they have fewer comforts. I should not care to give up attending my poor people for the sake of the idle rich.”
The set phraseology of the country rectory recurred to Lady Meadowcroft—“our poorer brethren,” and so forth. “Oh, of course,” she answered, with the mechanical acquiescence such women always give to moral platitudes. “One must do one's best for the poor, I know—for conscience' sake and all that; it's our duty, and we all try hard to do it. But they're so terribly ungrateful! Don't you think so? Do you know, Miss Wade, in my father's parish—”
Hilda cut her short with a sunny smile—half contemptuous toleration, half genuine pity. “We are all ungrateful,” she said; “but the poor, I think, the least so. I'm sure the gratitude I've often had from my poor women at St. Nathaniel's has made me sometimes feel really ashamed of myself. I had done so little—and they thanked me so much for it.”
“Which only shows,” Lady Meadowcroft broke in, “that one ought always to have a LADY to nurse one.”
“Ca marche!” Hilda said to me, with a quiet smile, a few minutes after, when her ladyship had disappeared in her fluffy robe down the companion-ladder.
“Yes, ca marche,” I answered. “In an hour or two you will have succeeded in landing your chaperon. And what is most amusing, landed her, too, Hilda, just by being yourself—letting her see frankly the actual truth of what you think and feel about her and about everyone!”