The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK TM(131)
On deck next day she was very communicative. They were going to make the regular tour first, she said, but were to go on to the Tibetan frontier at the end, where Sir Ivor had a contract to construct a railway, in a very wild region. Tigers? Natives? Oh, she didn’t mind either of them; but she was told that that district—what did they call it? the Terai, or something—was terribly unwholesome. Fever was what-you-may-call-it there—yes, “endemic”—that was the word; “oh, thank you, Dr. Cumberledge.” She hated the very name of fever. “Now you, Miss Wade, I suppose,” with an awestruck smile, “are not in the least afraid of it?”
Hilda looked up at her calmly. “Not in the least,” she answered. “I have nursed hundreds of cases.”
“Oh, my, how dreadful! And never caught it?”
“Never. I am not afraid, you see.”
“I wish I wasn’t! Hundreds of cases! It makes one ill to think of it!… And all successfully?”
“Almost all of them.”
“You don’t tell your patients stories when they’re ill about your other cases who died, do you?” Lady Meadowcroft went on, with a quick little shudder.
Hilda’s face by this time was genuinely sympathetic. “Oh, never!” she answered, with truth. “That would be very bad nursing! One’s object in treating a case is to make one’s patient well; so one naturally avoids any sort of subject that might be distressing or alarming.”
“You really mean it?” Her face was pleading.
“Why, of course. I try to make my patients my friends; I talk to them cheerfully; I amuse them and distract them; I get them away, as far as I can, from themselves and their symptoms.”
“Oh, what a lovely person to have about one when one’s ill!” the languid lady exclaimed, ecstatically. “I should like to send for you if I wanted nursing! But there—it’s always so, of course, with a real lady; common nurses frighten one so. I wish I could always have a lady to nurse me!”
“A person who sympathises—that is the really important thing,” Hilda answered, in her quiet voice. “One must find out first one’s patient’s temperament. You are nervous, I can see.” She laid one hand on her new friend’s arm. “You need to be kept amused and engaged when you are ill; what you require most is—insight—and sympathy.”
The little fist doubled up again; the vacant face grew positively sweet. “That’s just it! You have hit it! How clever you are! I want all that. I suppose, Miss Wade, you never go out for private nursing?”
“Never,” Hilda answered. “You see, Lady Meadowcroft, I don’t nurse for a livelihood. I have means of my own; I took up this work as an occupation and a sphere in life. I haven’t done anything yet but hospital nursing.”
Lady Meadowcroft drew a slight sigh. “What a pity!” she murmured, slowly. “It does seem hard that your sympathies should all be thrown away, so to speak, on a horrid lot of wretched poor people, instead of being spent on your own equals—who would so greatly appreciate them.”
“I think I can venture to say the poor appreciate them, too,” Hilda answered, bridling up a little—for there was nothing she hated so much as class-prejudices. “Besides, they need sympathy more; they have fewer comforts. I should not care to give up attending my poor people for the sake of the idle rich.”