An Up-to-Date Patient

A STORY BY A HOSPITAL NURSE.

BY L. T. MEADE

am a nineteenth century nurse, quite up-to-date, with full credentials and diplomas of all sorts. I am strong and wiry, not given to sentiment; I hope also, on the other hand, not destitute of the milk of human kindness. In my somewhat unique position it has been my lot to read motives, to study characters from an even closer stand point than that of the family physician and the great medical specialist.

It was towards the end of a particularly gay London season that the following strange experience came to me. I had been down to help Nurse Anna with some bad cases in her district, and got back to my own rooms shortly after ten p.m. My landlady had already gone to bed, but I found a piece of paper on my table on which was written: “Lady Shuttleworth, 17 Vincent place, W. Please go to-night, if possible.—.”

I turned the paper over impatiently. It was unlike Dr. Rigby not to tell me something about the case which I was urged to attend in so summary a manner. I was tired—overdone by a long and anxious day's work. For one moment I felt inclined to go to bed and leave the wretched bit of paper unheeded, but habits of loyalty are not easily broken, and with a sigh I went off to my room, changed my dress, packed a small handbag, and then went in search of a hansom.

The night was a lovely one early in August, and I was longing for my holiday, which I had confidently expected to begin on the following week. Parliament, how ever, was still sitting, and Dr. Rigby's patients were, of course, still in town. After about a quarter of an hour's quick driving the cab rolled on to thick straw, and then drew up before a big, melancholy looking house. I got out of the hansom and ran up the steps. A footman opened the door to me.

“I am the nurse,” I said. “Sister Dora—Dr. Rigby sent me.”

“Come in, please,” said the man, “and I will send word to Lady Shuttleworth.”

I was shown into a small room at one side of the hall. The footman softly closed the door behind me. After a very short delay a small, tired-looking woman came hurriedly in.

“I am Lady Shuttleworth—how do you do, nurse?” she said, coming up to me and speaking with much excitement. “I am very glad to see you. I hope you can do something to ease my daughter's sufferings. She is in terrible, almost intolerable agony. It is a fearful sight to see her.”

“I'll do what I can,” I replied.

“I'm sure you look strong and capable. Follow me at once, please. I cannot leave her long—she cannot bear me out of her sight.”

“I should like to put on a cap and apron before I go to your daughter's room,” I replied. “Will you kindly let one of the maids show me to room where I can do so?”

Lady Shuttleworth looked at me almost reproachfully; she opened her lips as if to speak, but changed her mind, rang the bell and then hurried away.

When I had fully donned my uniform I followed the maid down a thickly carpeted passage. A door was noiselessly opened into a little dim dressing-room. Here I saw a table covered with bottles, plates, Brand's Essence tins, and numbers of glasses of different sorts and sizes. Through a heavily draped doorway came the sound of moans and cries. Leaning against the doorway I saw two women who were evidently listening; one had her handkerchief pressed to her mouth. I quickly crossed the room, and in spite of the frantic signs from both the women, stalked into the bed room beyond. The atmosphere was very close and heavy. The mingled odors of eau-de-cologne and chloroform filled the room. Thick curtains and carpets and an excess of furniture added to the general sense of heaviness. A small fire burned in the grate, double windows shut out any sound from the street below: shaded candles threw faint light over a portion of the room, but most of it was  in deep shadow. Sitting up in the center of the bed, moaning and tossing restlessly was a girl, whom one glance showed me to be young and pretty. She had thick black hair falling over her lace-bedecked nightdress. Her eyes were shut; she kept waving her hands up and down before her—bitter and constant moans escaped her lips.

“Oh, my head,” she cried. “Mother, I believe I am losing my sight; give me your hand. Oh, my head, my head!"

Lady Shuttleworth with a face like death stood at the head of the bed. she cast a piteous face in my direction, then drew the poor girl's head down to rest on her shoulder.

“I am with you, Lucy, my love,” she said; “you may be quite sure I won't leave you even for a moment, my poor darling.”

The girl moaned feebly.

“The agony in my head,” she repeated again. “I shall certainly go blind; I can not endure this pain much longer.”

Lady Shuttleworth began passing her fingers over the eyelids and brow. For a brief moment the patient looked as if yielding to the soothing ministrations, then she started upright with a sudden and sharp cry.

“I cannot live through this pain,” she gasped again. “Cannot you put something on my head to stop it? Has not the nurse come? Dr. Rigby said he would send a nurse—has she come? Perhaps she will know what to do.”

The last sentence was uttered in a tone of strong irritation. I went forward, and taking one of the patient's hands in both mine, put my fingers on her pulse.

“I am the nurse,” I said; “I am Sister Dora. Will you please tell me just where the pain is, and what it feels like?”

“It is all up my forehead and in both my eyes,” was the reply. “It feels like sharp knives; it is driving me mad. I shall either go mad or die.”

She threw herself back against the great luxurious pillows.

“Did Dr. Rigby leave any chart—any record for me to see?” I asked, turning to Lady Shuttleworth

“Yes, he left that,” was the answer.

Lady Shuttleworth handed me a paper as she spoke. I glanced over it in some surprise. It told but little, being left blank in most of its spaces. Patient's name, Lucy Shuttleworth; age, nineteen; temperature, normal; pulse, normal; disease,”

My heart grew heavy within me. Dr. Rigby had not been fair with me—he had allowed me to take charge of one of the saddest and most complicated cases possible—a class of disease to which he knew I had a particular horror. I made no remark, but putting down the piece of paper, still continued to feel the even beat of the pulse between my fingers. I looked around the carefully darkened, carefully silenced room, absolutely reeking with wealth, and then I listened again to the cries and groans of the patient. I knew well that she was suffering agony, but all her pain was due to a diseased and vitiated imagination. The steady pulse told me that there was no physical ill—this was, in short, one of those terrible cases of hysteria which come as the curse of riches and idleness.

“How miserable, how horrible,” I said to myself. “It is surely better to have to make bricks without straw, than to have to eat bread you have not earned. The first state of things can only bring on you the scourge of whips, the latter the scourge of scorpions.”

Making an effort I pulled myself together to face what was before me. I was to fight, not the grim, strong enemy, Death, but this intangible foe, so much more subtle, so much more dangerous.

I took Lady Shuttleworth into the next room and told her that I proposed to give her daughter a sleeping-draught, and then to watch her myself all night. I said further that I wished everyone to go to bed.

These words had scarcely passed my lips before there was an outcry.

Sleeping draughts had been tried over and over, but they only made Lucy worse, At least three people sat up with her every night. Hot water might be wanted; the doctor might have to be called at a moment's notice. Lady Shuttleworth and the two women who stood in the dressing room argued the point backwards and forwards. I listened quietly, scarcely replying at all. After long patience I partly got my own way. Lady Shuttleworth consented to retire to her own room and one maid was left in the dressing-room to come to my assistance if necessary. I now collected all that I needed, and entering the bed-room shut the door. I then put out the fire and opened the ventilating tube, which I found had been stuffed up with clothes. Having done this, and so perceptibly cooled the over-heated air, I proceeded to make the bed, talking gently in a cheerful voice to my patient all the time. Having done so, I gave her a perfectly harmless lose of sal volatile and water calling it a sleeping-draught

She was now quite comfortable and lying down flat in bed. I bent over her, telling her in a gentle voice that she must on no account talk. I said that I intended to sit near her, and that I was ready to listen to all that she had to say after she had had a good sleep. I repeated firmly that it was imperative above all things that she should first sleep.

She gazed at me with incredulous eyes, and shook her head several times.

“I never sleep,” she said. “I have not slept for weeks. It is the want of sleep it is killing me.”

“I have an intuition that you will sleep to-night,” I answered. “Give me your hand, shut your eyes; I am going to sit by your side.”

She gave me another glance, bordering almost on indignation. I took no notice of it. I expected her to sleep, and I soon found that sleep she did. All during the long night I sat by the sick girl's side, strong rage in my heart at Dr. Rigby. He knew well how I hated cases like the one he had given me. I have very little romance in me, and therefore had scant sympathy with imaginary troubles. Here was a girl whose health was really perfect, and yet because of some sad oversight in her bringing up she was suffering terribly. For want of something definite to do she was making a hell for herself and her friends. How far had the case gone, and what was the family history?

My patient awoke between three and four in the morning; she was evidently stronger and inclined for vagaries, but I gave her some beef-tea, and then sat beside her, passing my finger-tips several times across her forehead. I saw that she would not sleep any more, and therefore allowed her to relieve her mind by talk. She spoke at first with groans and cries between the phrases, but presently, as I did not take the least notice, she forgot her many ejaculations and began to rattle straight on in a rather excited manner telling me her whole story, and letting me know far more than she intended.

“I have been six weeks in this state, nurse,” she said. “I suffered agonies for ages before I told anyone. You don't know what I endured, and how I struggled against my feelings, and endeavored to keep them to myself. Mother is so fond of me, I could not bear to trouble her; but at last things came to such a pass that I lost my self-control. It was really brought on by over-study. You know, perhaps, that I am nineteen, but I have never been very strong or able to stand continuous effort of my brain. I was induced to go in for a literature course; several other grown-up girls took it up, and there was an examination, a rather stiff one, at the end—I passed it, yes, I passed it well—it was immediately afterwards that I broke down. My breakdown caused quite a sensation. Professor Trevelyan, who principally examined me, comes every day to enquire how I am. You understand it was rather good my passing so easily, for I had never been to any regular school. What is it you are saying, nurse?”

“Have you brothers?” I asked.

“Brothers? No. I am an only child. It is very dull sometimes at home, for father does not care for society, and mother gets tired easily. But you see I like intellectual pursuits. Professor Trevelyan evidently thinks well of my powers or he would not call so often. Nurse”—she started up in bed and peered at me with two intensely bright eyes. “Nurse, I am not likely to go mad, am I?—that is what I dread so—you don't think I will, do you?”

“Certainly not, Miss Shuttleworth—what should put such an idea into your head?”

“You don't know how the fear terrifies me,” she continued, sinking back on her pillows and clasping her hands tightly together. “I am so afraid of it, and the moment the thought comes then the pain in my head returns. You are quite sure that I shall not lose my senses? Mother thought at one time that it was brain fever—but Dr. Rigby says I am not feverish—he says my condition is more neuralgic. I don't believe he knows himself what is the matter with me. You see he does not put the name of the disease down on that paper. What do you think is wrong with me, nurse?”

So she babbled on, more like a child than a woman. I saw at a glance that the wretchedly restricted life she had led accounted for her condition. By remaining intensely quiet and not showing the least surprise at anything my patient might happen to say, I managed to keep her fairly quiet. The moment her mother appeared, however, the cries and groans commenced again. I was obliged to ask Lady Shuttleworth to leave the room, which she did in astonished unwillingness, and with a glance of positive dislike at me.

At eleven o'clock Dr. Rigby called—he examined the patient carefully and pronounced himself satisfied with her condition. I noticed that his eyes avoided meeting mine, but I was determined he should not escape without getting a piece of my real opinion.

“Do you object, doctor,” I said suddenly, “to driving me back to my rooms? I know you pass the corner of the street where I live. I have unfortunately left some important directions there for my assistant, Nurse Anna, which she ought to receive immediately.”

“I will take you, Sister, with pleasure,” he answered.

I gave Lady Shuttleworth directions what to do for the sick girl during my absence, and a moment or two later was driving in the doctor's brougham to my lodgings.

“Now why have you done this?” I asked, facing around on him at once.

“You must forgive me,” he replied. “The fact is I knew you would not take the case unless I caught you by guile.”

“I have a great mind to give it up now,” I said; “it does not suit me a bit—it is the sort of case which will try my patience beyond description. Then, too, I am in want of a holiday.”

“Look here,” he said—he suddenly bent forward and gave me an emphatic warning look—“if someone does not take that girl up she will either be in a madhouse or her grave in a fortnight.”

“Is it so bad as that?” I asked.

“It is,” he replied; “the nervous system is completely unbalanced. At the same time there is no absolute disease. You are not the woman, Sister Dora, to put your hand to the plough and then turn back.”

“God help me, I am not,” I answered, sinking back against the soft padded cushions of the brougham with a sigh.

“You will not desert Miss Shuttleworth?” said the doctor.

“I will not,” I answered. “Now tell me exactly what you think of her.”

“Her nerves are so shaken that they are almost diseased,” he said; “otherwise she is in perfect, almost robust health.”

“What do you expect me to do for her?”

He shrugged his shoulders,

“Ah,” he answered, “I cannot advise you. The case is yours, not mine. I shall call at the house daily while I am in town simply for the sake of keeping up appearances, but I shall not pretend to dictate to you. In all London you are the only woman I know who can save that girl.”

I was silent again, thinking deeply.

“If what you have just said is correct,” I remarked after a pause, “does it not contradict some other words of yours? You maintain that Miss Shuttleworth is quite well except that she has highly strung nerves. Why do you speak of the possibility of her being dead in a fortnight?”

“I allude to the possibility of suicide,” he said in a very low voice. I just caught the words.

At that moment I reached my destination. I got quickly out, bade the specialist good-bye, and went up to my rooms, I did what was necessary there, and then hailed a hansom to take me back to the Shuttleworths' gloomy dwelling. On my way there I made up my mind. The case being mine I must manage it in my own way. As soon as I got into the house I asked to see Lady Shuttleworth. The footman took up my message and I was desired to wait in the room which I had entered on my arrival last night. Lady Shuttleworth came down to me in a moment.

“I am glad you have returned so quickly, Sister,” she said, “and now you want to speak to me, what is it?”

“I have several things to say,” I answered. “The fact of the case is this, Lady Shuttleworth, I can do nothing for your daughter unless I am frank with you.”

“I wish you to be frank,” she answered,

“Well, to begin with,” I continued, “I do not at all like undertaking this case.”

“Indeed!” She stared at me haughtily.

“No,” I continued; “this case is not to my taste. I like to battle with a tangible, not an intangible foe. Nevertheless, at Dr. Rigby's express request, I will nurse your daughter provided you allow me to do it in my own way.”

“You are somewhat peremptory, are you not, Sister?” said the great lady, surveying me with a critical and anxious glance from top to toe, “and were it not for—but there, Lucy has taken a fancy to you”—she broke off and gave me another keen glance. “But for that fact—” she continued, “of course you understand that there are plenty of other nurses in London.”

“Dr. Rigby considers that I am the only one quite suitable to undertake your daughter's case,” I answered.

“Then, of course, that being so you will not hesitate?”

“I will nurse Miss Shuttleworth provided you allow me to do so in my own way.”

“Certainly; you little know what agonies I have endured about my poor darling.”

“In the first place, Lady Shuttleworth,” I continued, taking no notice of this latter remark, “I shall require someone to help me.”

“Of course, I shall be only too delighted to render you any assistance in my power; then Lucy's maid, Harrison, is devoted to her, and my maid, Clevedon, can also assist you.”

“Pardon me, I must have a professional.”

“Professional!” cried Lady Shuttleworth. “Surely the girl's own mother—”

“Lady Shuttleworth, you must listen to some plain speaking. You are the last person to be in your daughter's room. If I am to undertake her case you must promise to have little or nothing to do with her. You can come to see her once or twice a day in my presence, but you are never to be with her except when I am there. A nurse whom I know will assist me with the night part of the case—I shall be in the dressing-room near, but must have sleep in order to enable me to undertake the day duties. You must on no account interfere with the treatment which I shall immediately begin, and I repeat that you and any other of Miss Shuttleworth's friends must only see her occasionally, and in my presence.”

“That seems hard,” began the poor mother.

“I am hard to be kind,” I answered, more gently. “I want to pervade your daughter with strong and healthy influences. I want her to believe as quickly as possible that half, if not the whole, of her ailment is imaginary.”

“Oh, that is too much,” said Lady Shuttleworth, flushing crimson.

“It is true, my dear lady. Your daughter's is a case of acute hysteria. Whenever you see her you fan the flame of her disease by your very natural pity and sympathy. But I am wasting your time and mine. Are you willing to put the case into my hands? Are you willing to abide by my conditions? For, if not, I resign it here and now.”

“I will do what you wish,” she answered, but she looked very miserable as she said the words.

Immediately afterwards I went back to Miss Shuttleworth's room.

From that moment I began my treatment, which was simple enough. In the first place, I insisted on keeping all relatives out of the room except when I was present. I further insisted on my patient taking a sufficient quantity of good and nourishing food. I immediately debarred all stimulants with the exception of strong beef-tea and Brand's Essence. When the patient cried and groaned I never took the least notice, but when she bore her headaches—and undoubtedly the headaches were real—with quietness and patience, I invariably praised her. I had a hard task of it for two or three days, for Miss Shuttleworth, seeing that she had a determined character to deal with, began to pit her strength against mine. In the end, however, the poor child was bound to lose in the battle, and before I had been a week with her there was a marked improvement in her case. I induced her even to get up and walk about the room. I took her into the dressing-room, which I made bright and cheerful with flowers. I read aloud to her books on Natural History, which I found she had a certain taste for. I eschewed all novels, and tried as far as possible to get her mind into a healthy working state. At the end of ten days her strength had wonderfully improved, her headaches were much less, the cries and groans had disappeared, and she slept soundly at night.

“You are working miracles in me, Sister Dora,” she said; “you are curing my illness.”

“You are much better,” I answered; “you are nearly ready for the second stage of my treatment.”

“The second stage?” she enquired, raising her pretty brows; “am I not almost well?”

“Your mind is not well yet, but it shall be a thoroughly healthy one before I have done with you.”

“Then you did think my mind was affected when you first came to me?” She became intensely nervous and excited,

“Sit down,” I said gently. I made her lean back against the comfortable sofa and held her hand.

“Your mind was affected, Miss Shuttleworth,” I said, speaking gently, “but not in the manner you yourself imagined. It was affected with self-consciousness.”

“Oh!” she cried—“Oh!” She trembled and flushed crimson.

“It was affected with self-consciousness and the great curse of idleness. You had no motive to work—you had no motive to rouse yourself—your mind began to feed on itself; and in order to elicit sympathy, which, after all, is essential to the human soul, you became ill with a fanciful complaint.”

“Fanciful!” she exclaimed. “Sister Dora, you do not know what you are saying. My pains, my terrible agonies fanciful!”

“Even so, my dear young lady. Had you been a poor child, you would never have had these headaches. But now,” I added hastily, changing my tone, “we have talked long enough about yourself. I want your father and mother to allow me to take you to Scotland next week.”

Her eyes brightened perceptibly.

“I should like that,” she exclaimed.

“I am going to speak to your mother now. In the meantime here is a book for you to read.”

I had gone as far as the door when she called me back.

“Has Professor Trevelyan called lately?” she asked. Her face up to her brow was now suffused with crimson.

“I believe he still calls occasionally,” I answered. “If you want to see him again you must get well quickly.” I smiled at her with a certain meaning in my glance; she looked on the carpet, her blush was succeeded by a pallor. I went downstairs to see Lady Shuttleworth.

This good lady had never forgiven me for taking complete control of her daughter. Even the fact that Miss Shuttleworth was now on a fair road to recovery by no means reconciled the mother to being put, as she expressed it, out of her rightful place.

“Well, Sister Dora,” she said in a somewhat stiff voice as I appeared, “I see by your face that you have good news. How is the patient this morning?”

“You have already seen Dr. Rigby,” I answered; “he has given you a good report, has he not?”

“He has given me a wonderful report; he says he now considers Lucy's recovery an assured thing.”

“There is no doubt on that point,” I answered, “if we continue to follow the treatment.”

“Well, nurse, you were frank with me a fortnight ago, I now intend to be frank with you. I hope your ridiculous embargo on my society will be withdrawn. It is too absurd to suppose that I cannot manage the girl whom I have brought into the world, and whom I have reared from the time of her earliest infancy.”

I made no reply. Lady Shuttleworth did not ask me to seat myself. I stood before her. She gave me an impatient glance.

“I know you are an excellent nurse,” she continued, “but your treatment has been extremely irritating to me. Now what do you wish to say?”

“This,” I replied: “Miss Shuttleworth is much better. In order to completely cure her I want to take her away.”

“To take her away?”

“Yes; she needs fresh air.”

“Well, it certainly is very hot in town just now,” said Lady Shuttleworth. “Do you think she is strong enough to be moved?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you propose that we shall go?”

“I should like to take her to the Highlands.”

“Well, nurse, we are in your hands,” said Lady Shuttleworth, in high good humor. “I doubt if Sir Joshua will give up Homburg, for he goes there every year for his gout; but of course a mother's first duty is with her child—we will go to the Highlands if you wish it.”

“Excuse me, Lady Shuttleworth,” I answered, “but I do not wish you to go.”

“Oh, that is too much,” cried Lady Shuttleworth, her face flamed all over. “If you intend to cure my daughter in that fashion she may as well never recover. Why am I, her mother, to be parted from her? Nurse, I cannot consent to your scheme.”

“Please hear me out,” I said with great earnestness.

“Well, speak, but clearly understand that Lucy does not go away except with her mother.”

“I thought it likely you would oppose my scheme,” I replied, “but at least have patience with me while I explain matters. Lady Shuttleworth, the more I see of the wealthy classes, the more I believe in the gospel of work for all, and also in equality for all. The plain truth of the case is this—your daughter has been kept in ignorance and idleness until her mind has been perceptibly weakened for sheer lack of healthy occupation.”

Lady Shuttleworth's small, light blue eyes positively blazed with fury.

“I know I am offending you, but nevertheless I must speak the truth,” I continued. “I want to take Miss Shuttleworth to the Highlands; I want her to lose herself amongst the everlasting hills. Give her to me for two months; let me teach her to use her legs—to walk, if necessary, for fifteen miles a day while I walk by her side—she shall take a cycle and learn that also if you wish it. I should like her to live on oatcake and milk while I do likewise. I want her to see poverty—honest poverty. I want her to come closely into contact with Nature. I want to try and show her that there is something spiritual in life. I want to try and kill her insane self-consciousness and to make a woman of her.”

My words were spoken with such earnestness that Lady Shuttleworth was moved in spite of herself.

“I see you are honest,” she said, “and I believe you are good. Nurse, we will go together. You and I will take Lucy into the haunts of Nature. I am sick of London at times. Your treatment will do me good as well as Lucy.”

“No, dear lady,” I replied, “you are too much associated with the past. Miss Shuttleworth must be alone with me. I want her to sever all connection with her old, useless and indifferent life. When she is quite strong she shall return to it, to live the whole thing differently in the future, please God. Give her a chance, won't you? There is a great deal of good in her, a great deal of beauty in her nature—a beautiful face is the indication of a beautiful soul. Give her one chance; don't be selfish; let her go away alone with me.”

Lady Shuttleworth looked really affected.

“I fear you ask too much,” she said; “there is Sir Joshua to consider. He is a man of peculiar opinions—we are both grateful to you for all you have done for our child, but to consent to this is more than either of us can submit to. Nurse, I must think over my answer—I will give it to you to-morrow morning.”

I returned to my patient feeling depressed and anxious. I did not believe that Lady Shuttleworth would consent to my scheme. If she did not there was nothing for it but for me to give up the case. My patient was waiting for me with an anxious expression on her face.

“Well,” she said, “what does mother say?”

“Your mother does not wish to part from you,” I said. “I greatly fear that she will not allow us to go away together.”

“Poor mother,” said Lucy, with a self-satisfied smile; “I know I am absolutely essential to her.”

“That you are not,” I answered. “She has looked particularly well during the last week, and she has really seemed all the better for not being in constant attendance upon you. Now we will discuss this thing no further; it is time for you to have your beef-tea, and then I am going to read you to sleep.”

We passed a quiet afternoon. Lucy slept well that night, and in the morning I was sent for to receive Lady Shuttleworth's verdict.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, nurse,” she said, “and I have really quite pleaded your cause with Sir Joshua, but he will not consent for a moment. He thinks that the air of the Highlands will be too bracing for Lucy, and proposes if she is strong enough to travel, that we shall go to Homburg by easy stages next week. Of course, Sister Dora, you will accompany us?”

“I am also sorry,” I answered,“but I cannot possibly go to Homburg with you and your daughter. It is the worst place in the world for her just now, She needs”—I broke off abruptly—“just what she will not get in that fashionable quarter of the world,” I continued. Then I said with marked emphasis, “I hope you will never regret your decision, Lady Shuttleworth.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” she repeated, evidently much astonished at my determination to give up the case, “and if it were not for Sir Joshua”

“I hope you will both never regret what you are doing,” I continued, for I felt deeply. A moment or two afterwards I left her.

At the end of the week helped to pack Miss Shuttleworth's pretty dresses and hats for her visit to Homburg. She kissed me affectionately as she bade me good-bye, and promised to write to me. She was a most affectionate and beautiful girl.

A couple of months had passed away—I had taken my badly needed holiday and was back again in my own rooms, when late on a certain Sunday afternoon there came a knock at my door. I opened it, and to my unbounded astonishment Lady Shuttleworth walked in. Perhaps I ought not to say that she walked, for she really staggered into the room. Her face was the color of death. She flung herself into the first chair she came across and, covering her face, groaned aloud.

“What is it, Lady Shuttleworth? What is the matter?” I cried.

“I will speak to you in a moment, Sister Dora,” she gasped. “The stairs—I am out of breath—I shall recover myself in a moment.”

I stood quietly by her. I saw that she was on the verge of hysterics, and it behooved me to be very cool and calm.

“Lucy has sent me,” she said at last, looking up at me and flinging her hands to her sides—her face was now filled with the most piteous despair—“Lucy wants you to come back to her,” she cried; “will you? Will you let bygones be bygones and return with me now?”

“Before I answer you must tell me what is the matter,” I replied.

“What is the matter?" cried the wretched mother. “Oh, everything, everything. Everything has gone wrong. Homburg was, as you truly prophesied, the worst place in the world for my child. I believe she bore up bravely at first, but now, nurse, now”—Lady Shuttleworth suddenly rose to her feet, she came close up to me and whispered in my ear:

“Lucy has been trying to kill herself for the last three weeks. She has been taking arsenic—secretly of course.”

“But how did she obtain it?” I asked.

“I will tell you presently. But first of all I have other things to say. We brought her back to London—she has been home only thirty-six hours. She was well at first, when we got to Homburg; then the old pains, the old terrible symptoms returned—for a time I thought her mind was really gone. She bore the journey, how, I do not know, but the moment she got into her old room she seemed to feel your influence and to long for you again. She cried out for you. 'Sister Dora! Sister Dora, do come back!' have been the only words on her lips for the entire day. Come back, nurse—come back if you will save her.”

“But how did she get the arsenic?” I repeated.

“Poor child, she managed it with a cunning which I could scarcely believe possible in a nature so candid and sweet as hers. But I see, nurse, I must tell you my story before you will do anything.”

“It is better for me to know exactly what has occurred, Lady Shuttleworth.”

Lady Shuttleworth, her eyes much swollen from crying, her whole face distorted with the most bitter anguish, now clasped her hands tightly in front of her and began to speak.

“We took Lucy to Homburg,” she said. “Almost immediately on her arrival we entered on a series of gaieties for which the poor child was evidently unfit. All went well, however. Lucy conducted herself with quietness and self-restraint until our old friend, Professor Trevelyan, appeared on the scene. I did not know it on his arrival, but soon I began to perceive that Lucy had a great liking—indeed, more than a liking for him. His presence in the room caused her eyes to brighten, and her whole manner to become intensely gay and animated. He is an attractive man, although many years older than our child. His arrival seemed to give the last stimulus to her returning health, and her father and I both thought that she had completely recovered. The Professor had been proud of her as one of his best pupils in the late literature examination, and her sudden illness had aroused a good deal of his sympathy. When he came to Homburg he was good to her, and took her out with him often. Her mind seemed to expand. She had recovered all her old beauty; her father and I were happy, for we both thought she was completely restored to us. All of a sudden the blow came. We had been at Homburg for nearly six weeks—the season was at its height—we had engagements morning, noon and evening; Lucy was in the thick of everything. One day at an At Home in our own etage, Professor Trevelyan made his way to my side. Lucy was standing near me; he held out his hand and took one of hers, then he looked at her earnestly.

“'I am a very happy man this morning,' he said; 'a lady has arrived unexpectedly—an old, a great friend. I have taken the liberty of bringing her here, Lady Shuttleworth, for I should like to introduce her to you.'

“'And who is she?' I asked.

“'She is a Miss Mortimer—an English lady who has lived for several years in Germany. We have been engaged to be married for a long time; we hope that our wedding may take place during this autumn.'

“I congratulated the Professor, whose face was quite beaming with bliss, and then looked around for Lucy. Until this moment I had not guessed that her heart was irretrievably given over to a man who was many years her senior. She had left the room. Something made me anxious, and as soon as I could I followed her, I found her in her own room in a sort of fit. We sent for a doctor, and after a time she came to herself; she did so, however, with loud cries, and a most terrible attack of hysteria ensued. As soon as I could I turned everyone else out of the room; the poor child clung to me then, and poured out her heart to me.

“'I have loved him, I have loved him,' she cried, 'ever since the time of my examination, and, oh, mother! I thought he cared for me; but now I see he never did, except just as a pupil. Oh, mother! I have given him my whole heart!'

“I tried my best to soothe her, to show her that she must suppress her feelings. I assured her that the Professor was a very unsuitable husband for her, but the child's nerves were so shattered that she would not listen to anything. From that unfortunate moment every bit of good which you had done her seemed to vanish. The old cries and moans, the old agony in her head, the old terror of madness, came back with redoubled force. I tried to keep her secret from her father, but the child had no reticence; she used to moan out the Professor's name until we hated the sound.”

“Well, how did she get the arsenic?” I continued.

“In a very cunning manner. Lucy had by her an old prescription which our London physician had given her some time ago. The tonic contained arsenic. She had it made up, and used to take double and treble doses on purpose, as she has confessed to me, to put an end to her miserable life. Her system is now saturated with the poison, and terrible swelling of the lower limbs is the result. Oh, nurse, she is in a pitiable, a fearful condition, fifty times worse than when you first saw her! Can anything be done? Is it possible to induce you to come back to her? I fully believe you are the only person in the world that can save her.”

I hesitated. The story which the wretched mother had revealed to me wrung me to the heart. At the same time my hatred for such cases was as strong as ever. I walked to the window and glanced down at the busy street. The women who toiled and labored, the men who had to earn their daily bread by the sweat of their brow, hurried to and fro; how much they were all to be envied in comparison with this poor, unhappy child of wealth, who, eaten up with self-consciousness, wanted to throw away her wretched life.

“Lady Shuttleworth,” I said at last, “I do not like taking up your daughter's case, nevertheless I will do so on the old conditions.”

“That I am to have nothing to do with her?”

“More than that. I will go to her to-night. I will nurse her and soothe her, and as soon as she is well enough I will take her away with me. Lady Shuttleworth, the case has gone very far and I cannot cure it under a year. Give me your daughter for a year. I will look after her in my own way. I believe it is not yet too late to cure her. Do you consent?”

The proud woman looked at me with despair in her eyes, then covering her face she burst into tears.

“Do as you will with the child,” she gasped. “Yes, I consent.”

“And her father?” I continued, somewhat pitilessly. “Remember, if I go now there must be no drawing back. I will not touch the case unless I have the free consent of both Lucy's parents that I am to have her for a year, and to cure her in my own way.”

“Sir Joshua will do anything; he is as frightened as I am.”

“Have you a carriage at the door?” I asked, after a pause.

“Yes. ”

“Then give me ten minutes and I will be ready to go with you.”

“You are a good woman, nurse, and I bless you.”

I left the room.

In less than an hour I was standing by Lucy's bedside. She was indeed a wreck. Bad as she had been when I had first taken up her case, the arsenic had now brought her nerves into such a condition that for a time I really feared that I could do nothing for her. Lady Shuttleworth, however, was faithful to her promise, and the miserable girl was left to my ministrations. Slowly but surely I resumed my authority over her, and slowly but surely my healing influence began to take effect. I led her step by step up the toilsome hill to health and sanity. In six weeks' time she was well enough to be moved, and I took her with me by easy stages to a bracing part of Scotland. Here she rapidly gained ground. I taught her to walk, I taught her to ride, I gave her bracing books to read, and I fed her with the plainest food. When she was fit for it I talked to her about the Professor, and I think I got her to understand that she had only given away her heart in imagination. In short, I cured her. When the spring came I brought her back with me to London, but not to her parents' enervating abode, but to my own hospital, where she toiled with me for three months.

The year is over, and Lucy is again a healthy woman. I do not believe she will ever lapse back into the miserable condition in which I found her, but at the same time her nerves have been severely strained, and will never be strong. One of the wretched victims of an enervated civilization, she will carry to her dying day the result of her false bringing up, in many an hour of hidden suffering. But I have, at least, taught her self-restraint.