41 The face of virtue

That much I did accomplish. I came to love and honour my aunt, to see her in reasonable light, and to appreciate the work she carried on with such admirable common sense. It would require several books to tell the tales of the women who passed in and out of the little hospital that winter. Suffice it to mention a few characteristic types.

There was a spoiled young wife, who despite an easy delivery, kept every one hopping with her tantrums. In the morning, when I came to bath her and dress her hair, she reminded me of Topsy. Her whole head was a mass of intricate curls, knots, snarls that stood up like angry snakes, impossible to describe.

Oh yes, said she, ever since childhood, emotion, anger, or pain made her do this to her hair, and no one but herself could possibly undo it. Then she demanded a mirror to keep under the pillow.

‘I must watch the ravages of my suffering.’ she said.

There was a girl who, on quitting the hospital, stole a sum of money away from another patient, which my aunt promptly paid, although the girl had left an unsettled bill. Two days later the culprit returned. Uncle caught sight of her, and called out in astonishment:

‘Ja, here comes the thief, Haldora! She’s sitting down on the step!’

‘Well, why don’t you let her in?’ said my aunt, looking up from the medical tome she was reading. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘You mean to say you’d let her in again? A thief?’

‘Tut! tut! man dear! What can you expect from a girl like that? Let the child in!’

There was a young stenographer from St. Paul, who looked like a scared kitten, all eyes and quivering nerves. She was so terrified of what lay before her that it was misery to come near her. The morning after her baby was born I was wondering what sort of collapse to expect, when I brought up her breakfast. What I saw was a pair of glowing eyes and a broad grin:

‘Gee!’ she piped. ‘The kid’s dead—ain’t that great!’

Endless women, endless babies, all trailing threads of private history, joyous, tragic, commonplace, and sometimes frankly amusing. Like that of the jolly Irish Lady who had put off her marriage for ten years to save on a family, only to start off with twins.

‘And would you be seein’ the darlin’s,’ says she, beaming with pride. ‘As like as two eggs, so they are, and not a nose between them!’

But only one out of the long procession remains to haunt me. She came on the wings of the storm, blown to the door like some wreckage cast to the elements. Because of the gale, her feeble scratching for the bell she could not see failed to rouse us.

I was writing at a little desk, immersed in the vexatious correspondence regarding little Ruby, whose tale has been told. My aunt was in her bedroom, snatching an hour’s sleep, tired out from a difficult case. It was the sound of something heavy striking the door with the muffled impact, heard in a lull of the wind, that brought me out of the letter.

What a sight, the unhappy soul presented! More dead than alive, her face had a greyish pallor terrible to see, and her limbs would scarcely support her.

My aunt took one look at her, ordered a bed made ready, and half carried the girl up the stairs. To the casual glance, her condition would have passed unnoticed. She was laced within an inch of her life—a terrible lacing that had turned her limbs an enpurpled blue. As a result of this extreme congestion, although her labour was swift and comparatively easy, she suffered haemorrhage after haemorrhage.

Aunt worked over her with the energy of exasperation. She was angry and pitying in the same breath; angry with a world that elected such insanity, and pitying the life she fought to save. Something exceptional about this girl touched a deeper vein than professional duty.

In the midst of the battle, while my aunt still hesitated to leave her patient for any length of time, a most indignant lady descended upon the hospital. Was it true that Lena was here? Was it possible that the shameless girl had had a baby?

Quite true, my aunt told her bluntly, appraising with a hard eye the silly female, standing there in her sleek furs, lashing herself into righteous fury. That such a scandal should have come to her Christian household! Why, she had never failed to impress upon Lena the beauty of church attendance. The ladies of the congregation had arranged a club for working girls! Oh, it was too awful! To think that she had had such a snake in her house!

Said my aunt, in the tone of voice that always finished any argument: ‘Seems to me you had two snakes in the house. Your very fine brother, madam, will have to deal with me!’

Meanwhile, Lena lay upstairs, caring nothing whether she lived or died. She had, in her tragic exhaustion, that white, ethereal beauty that grips the heart with fingers of pain. I used to look at her, lying so unearthly still, her long lashes casting quivering shadows on her alabaster cheeks, and the two heavy plaits of her lovely hair falling like ropes of spun gold on either side of her breast; and seeing her so reawakened all the bitter queries I had sought to side-track with idealistic theories.

What was the good of brave parchment and fine rhetoric, if it were perpetually reserved for parlour diversion; for snobbish pastime, to be laid aside like a Sabbath garment, in the active world? What was the point in shouting the excellence of virtue, of charity, of equality, and the universal brotherhood of man, in a society that defeated all these things by the very nature of its economic structure? What was the point in ranting against sin and degradation and decadence, in a world so lacking in social consciousness that it made no sane provision for such girls as this?

Fine words cannot feed a starving body. Prayers do not equip illiteracy with logic, or the means of a decent livelihood. A condescending smile and a dish of beans in church do not feed the hunger of human loneliness!

I thought even more heretical things the day the church women sent the minister to shrive the sinner. For, true to her type, Lena’s mistress, to make everything right with her own conscience, had not hesitated to broadcast the deceitful girl’s shame. God knew, she had set her a good example, with family prayers, and patient counsel about the evils of night life. But now the poor wretch was thought to be dying. Naturally, one forgot and forgave under such circumstances. A dying sinner is so much more interesting than a living slave.

The minister chosen for this mission of grace was hardly more than a stripling; a well-meaning youth, I have no doubt, but with all the earmarks of an individual whose severest hardship was a hole in the sock, and whose idea of poverty was the limitations imposed by the cheque from home during his seminary imprisonment.

The poor thing arrived, visibly braced for the effort, Bible in hand, and a definitely scared look in his eye. When he saw the pale beauty in the bed he cleared his throat, muttered something meant for greeting, dropped into the waiting chair, and hastily thumbed the book. That was all I witnessed, until, some while later, on the point of re-entering, the door flew open in my face, and out shot the young man, with the Bible in full pursuit!

All very funny, and rather typical of what passes for charity and righteousness in this complex world; an amusing burlesque, except for the consequences. For the comforter left Lena in a state of violent hysterics, that brought on an almost fatal haemorrhage, costing her weeks of invalidism and dark despair.

I like to think that I helped her sometimes in those black moments, and once, in an interval of near madness, saved her from tragedy. It was after she was up and trying to care for her infant, although the task was far beyond her indifferent strength. I happened to be pottering about upstairs, this particular morning, just as she was struggling with the baby’s bath out in the back hall used for that purpose.

I could hear the infant mewling with the aggravating insistency of the new-born, and suddenly a sharp cry from Lena sent me scurrying to see what was wrong. There she was, white as a sheet, a crazy light in her eye, her hands on the baby’s neck, shutting off the maddening yowls.

‘Oh, my God!’ cried the poor thing, when I had snatched away the baby, ‘what have I done? My God! Now you’ll tell—’

‘Shut up,’ said I. ‘Shut up, and say nothing yourself.’