She turned before ringing the bell to look straight away through the large old iron gates on the opposite side of the square, at a long, delicious stretch of green—grass below, trees above. And far away—she fancied it might be really a quarter of a mile—a great flight of stone steps led down to the outer world again.
To those who live in the heart of the country—in the midst of all its delights and, above all, of its peace—this may not sound much to charm the gaze; but here, in the rush of the unending roar night and day, to find a comparative stillness is refreshing beyond everything.
To some natures the noise of London seems always dreadful. And it is true that the traffic never really ceases night or day, except perhaps for two or three hours on Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning. Even in this quiet square the sounds went on—cart succeeded cab, and omnibus followed on—without intermission. But it was all muffled and distant. The peace of it fell upon Sister Warwick's tired spirits.
Inside the house, too, there was more of this old-world feeling of un-hurry and rest. She was led through panelled passages to the long low drawing-room with its wide window-seats and great chintz-covered couches.
Her friend, whose home it was, rose to greet her, and she was at once taken in hand, thrust into the softest lounge, plied with tea, and told to "laze." She was not even permitted to talk; but her thoughtful hostess, having supplied all her wants, went to a little chamber-organ at the far end of the room and played softly and quietly such things as refresh body and soul in one—bits of Beethoven, Handel, Mendelssohn. She passed from one to the other, and Sister Warwick lay and listened with closed eyes—all her responsibilities and anxieties wiled from her for the time.
Was this unusual hour of rest sent to brace her for what was to come that night and the following day? She thought so herself when, later, she looked back at the events of those forty-eight hours.
At the Sisters' dinner that evening, Miss Jameson, the Sister of the Nurses' Home, gave her a summons to the Matron's house for a discussion on some improvement to be made in the nurses' uniform. She was to go when her ward work was over—medicines superintended, prayers read, the change of nurses made for the night.
She hurried back to it all, and with quiet steps was passing between the long rows of beds sooner than was her wont.
Nurse Hudson was settling the patients for the night. A long, thin, languid-looking girl was sitting up in bed No. 10 while her pillows were being arranged and her sheet straightened.
Sister paused to look. The smile she had for the patient quickly faded to sternness as she turned to the nurse.