CHAPTER X.

MARION’S FIRST WEEK AT CHARITY.

In less than a week Marion began to feel quite at home in the big hospital, whose windows overlooked a scene of magnificence as well as much that was less inspiring.

Strips of clear blue water stretched on both sides of the island, and as Marion listened to the thrilling tales and traditions which have long made Hell Gate a place of blood-curdling interest, she could hardly turn her eyes from the far-famed danger spot. It seemed to enthral her in some spell of enchantment.

The great cities of Brooklyn and New York made a magnificent background to the scene. Spires towered from expensive churches, and at sunset the plate-glass windows of the many noble structures gave back a glow which was almost glorious.

Thus the city’s grandeur and luxury was before her eyes, while its misery was in even closer proximity, for was she not caring for its victims, its slaves and its outcasts in the very wards of this isolated building?

“Oh, to think that such wretchedness should exist!” she sighed over and over. “To think that with all the wealth and luxury of New York, these poor, poor creatures should drag out such an existence!”

As Marion passed through the wards, her heart was heavy within her. It was a condition which the simple country girl had never dreamed could exist—a condition which she could by any possibility have imagined, but, nevertheless, one of the saddest, sternest, most reliable facts in the history of the city.

Inside were the sick, the deformed, the crippled. Women whom shame had driven from the sight of the world, others whom care, abuse, over-work and under-pay had reduced to that condition known as invalid vagrancy.

Outside, in the numerous buildings, were other classes—criminals, “crooks,” “scapegraces” and prodigals and careworn men and decrepit women—paupers, homeless and penniless at the close of life and dependent upon what some have called a city’s “charity.”

It took Marion some time to grasp the full horror of the Island. The spot was so beautiful that it made the realization more difficult.

True to her resolve, she had written at once to Silas, and as the hours went by, she consoled herself by thinking that Sallie must be safely at home, unless—and here a thrill of horror would cross her—unless she had died in the hospital before Silas could get the letter.

The thought of poor Sallie made her keenly alive to the sufferings of the unfortunates around her. That one glimpse of Sallie’s white face seemed to haunt her continually.

Over and over she marveled at the apparent indifference of the other nurses, and wondered if it were possible that she, too, would become hardened to her surroundings.

“I am afraid I shall become morbid,” she said to the head nurse in her ward one day. “I cannot drive the horrors of this Island out of my mind for a minute. It is fortunate for me that you keep me so busy.”

Miss Williams smiled sadly. She was a sweet-faced woman.

“You will be obliged to grow indifferent. It is your only safeguard,” she said, kindly. “An over-sympathetic nurse is never very successful.”

“I shall try not to show my feelings,” said Marion, quickly. “I know that would be fatal to success, Miss Williams, but I am almost certain that I can never help feeling.”

“Oh, but that is different,” was the cordial answer. “A nurse that cannot feel is a mere machine. She will do her work well, and to some patients this will be quite satisfactory, but to others, to the majority, sympathy is more than medicine. An encouraging word, or a kindly interest will heal the soul, which is often more stricken than the body. There is Katie B——,” she went on more softly. “Just see how that child hungers for a mother’s voice, yet she is a mother herself, the poor unfortunate. A nurse who would be cold to her would lose the child’s confidence altogether.”

“I understand you perfectly,” said Marion, slowly. “A nurse in Charity Hospital has something to do besides make beds and give medicines. She has human hearts to cheer and strengthen. Oh, I hope I may be wise enough not to throw away my opportunity.”

“You are doing nobly,” said Miss Williams, smiling. “I have seldom seen a ‘probationer’ take so kindly to her lot. Making beds and cleaning wards is not very pleasant work, but we all had to do it before we could wear strings to our aprons.”

Both girls laughed pleasantly at this allusion to future honors, for even Marion had learned that a nurse’s highest ambition was to wear an honorable graduate’s cap and apron.

“I shall be glad when my probation is ended,” said Marion, eagerly. “I do so want to wear the regulation uniform. Of course, I am willing to admit that I don’t like to do drudgery, but I remember that all have to start at the beginning, and it won’t be long before I can wield the temperature thermometer.”

Miss Williams sighed, and her face saddened for a minute.

“You will find that the responsibility has increased wonderfully by that time,” she said, slowly. “Sometimes I wish that I could always have been a ‘probationer.’”

The girls were busy in the medicine-room of the ward as they talked. Miss Williams was getting out lint and bandages for a coming operation, while Marion was busy cleaning a number of surgical instruments.

“I feel more like a scullery maid than I do like a nurse,” she said, laughing, as she carefully polished some knives and arranged them in the case.

“There’s your bell,” said Miss Williams, quickly, as she heard a soft tinkle. Marion dropped her cloth and started toward her patient.

“Miss Marlowe!”

Miss Williams raised her voice, but spoke gently and pleasantly.

“Please pick up your cloth and lay it on the table, then move swiftly, but more silently as you go to your patient!”

She smiled as she spoke, and Marion nodded gratefully.

“I see I am much too impulsive,” she said, regretfully. “Oh, will I ever learn to discipline my emotions?”

“Of course you will,” said Miss Williams, as she passed out of the door. “You’ll learn anything that you wish to, Miss Marion Marlowe.”

It was Kittie B—— who had rung the bell. She was lying in bed, her face as white as her pillow, with a tiny red-faced infant nestling beside her.

“May I have a drink of water?” she whispered, with a faint smile. “I guess I am feverish—I’m awful thirsty.”

“Certainly you shall have it, dear,” was Marion’s prompt answer. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she had no right to promise anything.

“I’ll have to ask Miss Williams first, though, Kittie,” she said, quietly; “but I guess there is no doubt but what you can have the water.”

It was only a minute before Marion returned with the water, but the request had brought Miss Williams promptly to the bedside.

In a moment the trained nurse was feeling Kittie’s pulse. In another minute the temperature thermometer was out, and it was discovered that Kittie had a fever.

“The maternity ward is not the place for fevers,” said Miss Williams to Marion when they were out of hearing of the patient. “Put the screen around Kittie’s bed and keep her as quiet as possible. If the baby annoys her or she annoys the baby, take it out and put it in the crib beside the bed. I will look at her again in fifteen minutes.”

Marion went back to the bed and found Kittie fidgeting. There was a look in her face that frightened Marion somewhat.

She took the baby up and laid it in the crib, then turned to soothe Kittie with a smile and a few encouraging words.

The flush of fever was rising to the sick girl’s pale face now, so that even Marion’s untrained eye could observe and study the symptoms.

She bathed her brow and moistened her lips, but the fire in the girl’s veins seemed to burn hotter and hotter.

An hour later and Miss Williams had called the house physician to the bedside.

Kittie was moaning softly and turning her head from side to side.

“It’s a pity we did not know more about her when she came,” said Dr. Hall as he turned away. “The girl is in a very dangerous condition.”