Part 33 (1/2)
The murmurings and dissensions of the other patients seemed to have quite a good effect upon old Matt, who forgot his own pains in the troubles of those around him.
”You don't know how much longer you will be here?” said Septimus.
”Not for certain, sir; but I think only for a few more days. But it's wonderful what a difference they have made in me. I mean to go in for a fortune, sir, as soon as I'm out; and then I shall make my will, and leave half to the hospital. Now I've got the worst of it all over, I amuse myself with taking a bit of notice of what goes on around me, and listening to what's said; and it's wonderful what an amount of misery comes into this place--wonderful. I've known of more trouble since I've been in here, sir, than I should have thought there had been in the whole of London; and that's saying no little, sir. Lots die, you know; but then see how many they send out cured. I don't see all, but one hears so much from the talking of the nurses. I expected when I came here that there would be plenty of accidents, broken bones--legs, arms, and ribs, and so on; but there, bless you, the place is full of it; and they're getting to such a wonderful pitch now, with their doctoring and surgery, that they'll be making a new man next, out of the odd bits they always have on hand here.”
”I suppose so,” said Septimus drily.
”Ah, you may laugh, sir,” said Matt; ”but it's wonderful to what a pitch surgery has got. Now, for instance, just fancy--”
”There,” cried Septimus, ”pray stop, or I must leave you. I fancy quite enough involuntarily, without wis.h.i.+ng to hear fresh horrors. It's bad enough having to come into the place.”
”Lor' bless you, sir,” said Matt, ”you should listen to the nurses, when one of 'em happens to be in a good humour. Do you know when that is, sir?”
”When pleased, I suppose,” said Septimus.
”Just so, sir; the very time. And when do you suppose that last is?”
Septimus shook his head.
”You don't know, of course, sir. Why, when the patients are getting better.”
”I might have supposed that,” said Septimus wearily.
The old man chuckled, and looked brighter than he had looked for weeks.
”Yes,” he said, ”it's when the patients are getting better, and there's plenty of port-wine and gin on the way. That's the time to find the nurse in a good humour; and she'll tell you anything, or do anything for you.”
Septimus Hardon looked weary and anxious, and fidgeted in his chair, as if he longed to change the conversation, but the garrulous old man kept on.
”Tell you what, sir, these nurses seem to get their hearts hardened and crusted over; and then when you give them a little alcohol, as the teetotallers call it, the crust gets softened a bit, and things go better. I used to growl and go on terribly at first; but it's no use to swim against the stream. I used to grumble when I found that they drunk half my wine and watered my gin; but I'm used to that sort of thing now: for which is best--to drink all one's liquor, or keep friends with the nurse? Last's best; and they say I'm a dear patient old creature. I look it too, don't I?” said the old man with a grim smile.
”But,” said Septimus, ”I must soon go; and I should like a word or two about my affairs first.”
”All right, sir; we'll come to that directly. I'm an invalid, and you must humour me. But this is the way of it. My nurse comes to me, like an old foxey vixen as she is, and--`Now, my dear, how are we?' she says.
`Only middling, nurse,' I say. `I've brought you a gla.s.s of wine to cheer you up,' she says. `Don't care about it a bit,' I say; `don't feel wine-hungry.' `O,' she says, `but the doctor ordered it. Now, take it, like a good soul. You must want it.' `Not half so bad as some people do,' I say. `Toss it off, nurse; and just punch my pillow up a bit, it's got hard and hot.' `Bless my heart, no,' she says, `I couldn't think of such a thing!' so she sets the wine down, and puts my head a bit comfortable. `The wine's for you; so, now, take it directly; I couldn't touch it--I don't care for wine.'
”`Of course you don't,' I say to myself; and then I begin to talk to her a bit, and to tell her that she must have a sad wearing life of it, when the old tabby sets up her back and purrs, and likes it all--looking the while as tigerish, and sleek, and clawey, as the old cats can look.
Then I tell her she wants more support, and so on, when all at once she finds out that there's some one else to attend upon, and I must drink my wine directly; so I take the gla.s.s and perhaps drink it; but more often I only just put it to my lips and set it back upon the tray, when she's satisfied. Of course, you know, it would be instant dismissal for a nurse to drink a patient's wine or spirits if it was known; but any thing left is different altogether. You know, sir, it's a dreadfully beggarly way of going to work, only as the saying goes, you must fight some one we know of with his own weapons: and now we are the very best of friends possible. You'd be surprised how we get along, and all through going without a gla.s.s now and then. The best of it is, though, that she never thinks of watering it now, like she would for another patient; so that what I miss in quant.i.ty I get in strength, and, you know, she'll do anything for me in a minute--that is, if she feels disposed.”
”But,” said Septimus, ”it seems strange that you should be so left at the mercy of these women.”
”What can you do?” said the old man.--”There, I 've just done, sir, and we'll go into that directly.--Who can you get to go through what these women do, unless it's these Sisters of Mercy, who many say are to become general? Suppose there was a strike, eh? Look how few people you can get to come and run the risk of fevers and all sorts of diseases.
Sisters of Mercy, eh? G.o.d bless them for it then, if they will; but I hope I may never want their help, all the same. But there, we won't talk about it, only you want iron women a'most to go through it all, and it's not a life to be envied. Why, if it ain't almost leaving-time, sir, and you've kept me chatting about my affairs here, and yours are nowhere. How are you getting on?”
”Badly, Matt, badly. But I've very little to say, Matt, for I was unable to get on without you,” replied Septimus, smiling at the old man's coolness.
”'Spose so,” said Matt laconically; ”let's see, sir, I think you never went any more to Finsbury?”
”Where was the use,” said Septimus drearily; ”who can tell where a day-book fifty years old can be?”
”True,” said the old man thoughtfully; ”b.u.t.ter-shop, most likely; and it wouldn't pay to go all over London buying half-pounds of `best Dorset,'
on the chance of getting the right sheet. I can't see it yet, sir; and still I seem to fancy we shall do it, though everything about it seems to be all in a muddle.”