Free Vigil in the Night by A. J. Cronin Page A

round the Hepperton slums, was surely one of them. Then she had changed into her uniform and hastened in to see her patient.
      Mrs. Bowley was a dark, sallow woman of about fifty, with a well-nourished body, a high bust, and a worried, rather vulgar face. She lay in a large bed in the middle of the large room, the blinds of which were half-drawn, surrounded by every appurtenance—from her bedside table to her gorgeous array of medicine bottles—of the confirmed valetudinarian. Mrs. Bowley was, in fact, a chronic neurotic. Married to poor young Matt Bowley thirty years ago, she had been an active, energetic girl. But Bowley’s rise had reacted curiously upon her nervous system. Wealth had enabled her to develop those strange idiosyncrasies of temperament, those imaginary ailments, which poverty had denied her. Though still devoted to her husband, she spent most of her time in bed, suffering from repeated “breakdowns,” pathetically traced back to the struggles of her early married life.
      Now, having made long and anxious observation of Anne, she nodded and remarked: “I think I shall like you, my dear. Dr. Prescott spoke so highly of you. ’Ave they made you comfortable? Fetch me over my Florida water, then come and sit by me. We’ll have a long chat. You can rub my forehead as we’re talkin’.”
      Anne did as she was bid. It did not take her long to discover the exact nature of this kind, exacting, and self-tortured woman. As she laid her cool fingers upon the other’s dry brow, she experienced the beginnings of a real sympathy for her.
      At three in the afternoon Dr. Prescott came in to pay his visit. Though he was a specialist in surgery, he went out of his way to attend Mrs. Bowley because of his friendship with her husband and because, indeed, she herself insisted that she would see no other man. Observing him closely, Anne felt a rising respect for Prescott’s handling of the case. Quiet, restrained, sitting informally on the edge of the bed, he listened to his patient’s string of symptoms with an impassive face. When she made some outrageous claim, he had a way of raising one eyebrow which was more effective than words. At the end of his visit Mrs. Bowley was soothed and comforted, almost persuaded that one day she would get well.
     
    CHAPTER 26
      Anne accompanied the doctor down the wide staircase to the front door of the house. As they walked together, he gave her his instructions. When he concluded, he shot a quick side glance at her.
      “Do you remember what I once told you—about the value of good nursing? This is a case where a good nurse can do more than any doctor. I see the poor creature for only ten minutes in the day. You’re with her all the time. You can influence her enormously.”
      Anne flushed slightly. “I should like to try. She’s such a nice person. I should love to get her well.”
      He nodded. “That’s why I’m glad to see you on this case. When Bowley suggested it, I knew it was a good idea.” He paused. “He would be very grateful to you—and perhaps to me—if we could get her back to normal.”
      She sensed instinctively the implication hidden beneath his words. Before she could restrain herself she said, “You are still thinking of your clinic.”
      He gave her a sharp stare, and her color deepened. Then a trifle sardonically he answered:
      “Yes, Nurse. In spite of our excellent publicity, my good friend Bowley has not quite come up to scratch yet. Nearly—perhaps. But not quite.” Another pause. “He’s a hard-headed chap, you see. And he’s running for mayor next month. He doesn’t want to do anything to upset the conservative forces in the city, doesn’t want to be dubbed a radical, to be accused of doing something for a rebel like me.
      “But I believe, yes, I believe, with a lucky turn of the scale he might do the whole thing handsomely. If he doesn’t—” Prescott’s face hardened—“then no one else in Manchester