“If he cares.”
III
For some weeks nothing of interest happened at Wilverley Court. Cicely, perhaps, was slightly disconcerted because, as a V.A.D., Miss Tiddle, a new-comer, soared above her. Cicely remained a drudge; Tiddy was accorded privileges. One of the patients required a special nurse. No sister could be spared. Tiddy, by virtue of an alert physiognomy, was selected by “Matron” out of a dozen eager aspirants for the post. And poor Cicely gnashed her teeth when she found herself “clearing up,” as it is technically called, after Miss Tiddle’s more congenial labours. To remove, humbly and swiftly, the impedimenta of a sick-room, leaving behind the immaculate Tiddy enthroned beside an interesting case, tried Cicely to breaking point. Indeed, a too long apprenticeship to drudgery failed to accustom a daughter of the ancient House of Chandos to carrying away soiled dressings, washing bandages, and cleaning dressing-buckets with Monkey soap, which roughens hands, takes the polish from nails, and brightens everything except the temper. And, after two hours’ sweeping and garnishing, it was mortifying to proud flesh to hear judgment pronounced by a sister, who was the daughter of a greengrocer: “This ward looks like nothing on earth.” After such experiences and exercises Cicely was quite unable to tackle with appetite the good food provided by Mrs. Roden at lunch.
She went to Wilverley Court aflame with patriotic ardour and brimming over with excellent resolutions, assuring and reassuring herself that, much as she might shrink from the sight of ugly wounds and cruel sufferings, never, never would she exhibit irritability or impatience with heroes who had bled for England. She had imagined that such heroes would remain heroes. She had not realised the inconsideration, the disobedience, the fractious unreasonableness that even a Victoria Cross may fail to hide when its wearer is reduced by long weeks of pain to a mere attenuated shadow of his true self.
But—there were illuminating compensations. One afternoon, she was returning late from the village, through a dark lane. To her dismay, a man in khaki joined her and passed her without a word. He walked just ahead of her. Every minute Cicely feared that he would turn and confront her with—with abominable effrontery. At the end of the dark lane, when the lights of Wilverley Court were in sight, he did turn, and saluted her, saying respectfully: “Good night, Sister.” Then he retraced his steps—a preux chevalier!
Other experiences were equally illuminating. One of the patients, an unusually handsome man, died after much suffering patiently endured. At the last his wife was summoned, a respectable, plain-faced woman, who was with him when he passed away. The man’s kit was duly given to her. Late that same night, the Matron found her crying over some letters she had discovered, written by another woman. Next day, early in the morning, a good-looking, slightly brazen-faced young person presented herself and asked to see the patient, not knowing that he was dead. The Matron told her the truth. Whereupon she said calmly: “I’m his wife. I want to see him.” The Matron, aghast, blurted out the truth: “His wife? His lawful wife is here. We know that; we sent for her.” Whereupon, the other replied quite coolly: “If you want to know, I ain’t his lawful wife, but I mean to see him all the same.” The Matron went to the genuine widow, and told her that the woman who had written the letters wished to see the dead man. She asked the crucial question: “Are you big enough to let this poor creature see him? She loved him.” To cut short a poignant story, the two women went together into the mortuary-chamber. This incident made a profound impression upon Tiddy. She analysed it from every point of view. “If we grant,” said she, “that a man can love two women”—because, according to Matron, the real wife had spoken of her husband’s devotion—“is it equally certain that a woman can love two men?” Cicely shrank from answering such a question. Tiddy had astonished her by saying: “I believe it is possible. Why not? One man might appeal physically; the other intellectually.”
“Horrible!” said Cicely.
“You can’t compromise with life by calling it bad names.”
Cicely remained obstinately silent much to Miss Tiddle’s exasperation.
Often Cicely went to bed with a headache and rose with it. To go on duty feeling unfit, to contemplate ten hours of physical malaise, to count the lagging minutes, to confront the pettiness and injustice of some sister, perhaps, who held amateurs in contempt, to be conscious that she was not rising adequately to these moral exigencies, to retire at length discomfited and defeated, has been the experience of all V.A.D.S. Cicely was no exception.