| Author: | Percy Andreae | ISBN: | 1230000139745 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing | Publication: | June 7, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Percy Andreae |
| ISBN: | 1230000139745 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication: | June 7, 2013 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
It was late one hot afternoon towards the middle of June when the matron, calling me into her sanctum at Guy's, placed the following telegram in my hands:—
"To the Matron, Guy's Hospital, London.
"Send immediately bright and capable nurse to Mrs. Francis Cunninghame, Glen Elc, Scadbury. Case of melancholia. Patient a gentleman. Wire time of arrival to Glen Elc, and carriage will be in waiting at Scadbury Junction. Urgent.
"DOCTOR JOSEPH CRACKENTHORPE."
"It is not your turn to go out, Nurse Forsyth," the matron remarked, when I had perused the message, "but you are at present the only one of the available staff who is suited for the case. There is a train to Scadbury at 7.45 p.m. Of course, you are not obliged to go, if you prefer not."
The last words had reference to the fact that I had but barely returned to the hospital from nursing a case of typhoid, and could by the rules of the establishment have claimed exemption from outside duties for a certain period.
But I loved my profession, and feeling no need of rest, I immediately signified my readiness to take charge of the case in question.
A nurse's life is a singular alternation of novelty and monotony. An hour after my interview with the matron I was seated in a cab en route for Liverpool-street station, and within another hour I had alighted at the small country platform dignified by the name of 'Scadbury Junction.' I was just enlisting the services of a porter to convey my trunk outside the station, where I expected to find the conveyance promised in the telegram, when a man in the livery of a footman stepped up to me.
"Leave that to me, miss," he said touching his hat. "The brougham is waiting at the gate. Just step in, and I'll attend to the trunk."
"You are from Glen Elc, I suppose?" I said, handing him my portmanteau and a small satchel which I had on my arm.
"Yes, miss," he answered. "From Mrs. Cunninghame's."
And having aided the porter to raise my trunk to his shoulder, he led the way to the station exit, where a handsome brougham drawn by a pair of well-groomed bays stood in waiting.
"How far is the drive to Glen Elc?" I asked, as it entered the carriage.
"About half-an-hour, miss," the footman said, pulling up the window on one side, and closing the carriage door. "It's likely to be a wet one, too, for there's a storm coming. The trunk is all you've got, I suppose, miss?"
It was late one hot afternoon towards the middle of June when the matron, calling me into her sanctum at Guy's, placed the following telegram in my hands:—
"To the Matron, Guy's Hospital, London.
"Send immediately bright and capable nurse to Mrs. Francis Cunninghame, Glen Elc, Scadbury. Case of melancholia. Patient a gentleman. Wire time of arrival to Glen Elc, and carriage will be in waiting at Scadbury Junction. Urgent.
"DOCTOR JOSEPH CRACKENTHORPE."
"It is not your turn to go out, Nurse Forsyth," the matron remarked, when I had perused the message, "but you are at present the only one of the available staff who is suited for the case. There is a train to Scadbury at 7.45 p.m. Of course, you are not obliged to go, if you prefer not."
The last words had reference to the fact that I had but barely returned to the hospital from nursing a case of typhoid, and could by the rules of the establishment have claimed exemption from outside duties for a certain period.
But I loved my profession, and feeling no need of rest, I immediately signified my readiness to take charge of the case in question.
A nurse's life is a singular alternation of novelty and monotony. An hour after my interview with the matron I was seated in a cab en route for Liverpool-street station, and within another hour I had alighted at the small country platform dignified by the name of 'Scadbury Junction.' I was just enlisting the services of a porter to convey my trunk outside the station, where I expected to find the conveyance promised in the telegram, when a man in the livery of a footman stepped up to me.
"Leave that to me, miss," he said touching his hat. "The brougham is waiting at the gate. Just step in, and I'll attend to the trunk."
"You are from Glen Elc, I suppose?" I said, handing him my portmanteau and a small satchel which I had on my arm.
"Yes, miss," he answered. "From Mrs. Cunninghame's."
And having aided the porter to raise my trunk to his shoulder, he led the way to the station exit, where a handsome brougham drawn by a pair of well-groomed bays stood in waiting.
"How far is the drive to Glen Elc?" I asked, as it entered the carriage.
"About half-an-hour, miss," the footman said, pulling up the window on one side, and closing the carriage door. "It's likely to be a wet one, too, for there's a storm coming. The trunk is all you've got, I suppose, miss?"
