OUR MATRON.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VII, Issue 9, 28 February 1891, Page 2

OUR MATRON.

A SILHOI ETTE BY

F. ZARNOW.

OME years ago I was nurse in one of the largest hospitals in San Francisco, and while there could gratify to the full niy taste for wWSijHs, studying the different phases in human nature, not on, y al,,on S l ' ,e patients, of whom there were all sorts and conditions—tiotsam and jet's'WlpS' sani—drifted there on the lower streams of life, ; to uncut diamonds and respectable broadcloth ** —the last often a little, and sometimes more than a little, the worse for wear. ’Tis curious, but true, that trying to climb the steep and rocky road leading to tame and fortune often leaves on the coat, at least, a mark not unlike that caused by the downward path, ending, ah, where does it eml ? Yes, a face is to me the most interesting of all books, though some faces, to be sure, are not easy to read. Among my fellow-workers at the hospital there was one who interested me from the moment that first I saw her ; it was Mrs M., our matron. She was rather tall, and a very graceful woman. Her age 1 judged to be about 36 years. The ugly uniform cap strove in vain to hide the masses of soft, fair hair—beautiful hair, such as one seldom sees in these days. It crowned a face that was just redeemed from plainness by a bright, decided look of intelligence. About the mouth and eyes were deep lines, telling of a troubled and stormy past ; of sorrows repressed and difficulties overcome. Now and again a sweet and winning smile played around her lips, and at such times she looked almost beautiful—merely pretty she could never be—altogether an intense, earnest face, and it needed but a very short time to convince me that such a woman’s love or - hate would last a lifetime. The matron, like myself, was a new arrival at the institution, and a friendship, such as strangers in a strange land sometimes feel for one another, grew between us, so I spent most of my spare time in her pleasant little sitting-room, where we chatted on any and every subject except her past life. On that she was absolutely silent, and I, of course, refrained from even hinting at a question concerning it. One evening in the early summer - I knocked at her door as usual, and after answering her inquiry as to who was there, she bade me enter. The matron was sitting on a low chair with a small wooden desk on her knees. She looked up when I entered, and after telling me to draw near the fire, which was glowing cheerily, the evening being somewhat damp and chill for the time of the year, she went on with her task of tying up and putting into the desk the various letters and papers that lay about her on the floor. Coming to a photograph, she looked at it long and intently, as one gazes on some loved thing that is about to leave us for ever ; after a while she rose and went towards the fire, saying, with a slight laugh, ‘ You know, I advocate cremation, and just before you came in I was about to carry out my principle in a small way.’ With that, she put the picture between the bars of the grate and watched it slowly burning to a cinder. * Why keep the dead among us ?’ she mused. ‘ Would that the fire which purifies the material could also cleanse our memory, so that nothing but what is pure and pleasant to dw ell upon might remain. The ancients had a very comfortable belief in their river Lethe, and who shall say that it was only a fable ? Oh, that one knew where to find it, and could by one dip forget all past misery and suffering. ’ Then, seeing the surprised look on my face, she smiled faintly, and said, ‘ You are astonished at my random talk, child, and well you may ; but it is all the sweetbriars’ fault,’ pointing to a large vase of briars that stood on the table beside her, an ex-patient’s offering, she told me. ‘ They remind me of a summer, nearly nineteen years ago, when these, always my favourite Howers, seemed sweeter than ever. I daresay every young girl has her peep into fairyland, and my vision was very vivid. I can recall it even now, after many years and many bitter tears that have paitly dimmed my eyes, but surely an awakening like mine is not given to many.’ The matron seemed strangely moved, and spasms as of acute pain shot across her face. I begged her not to speak of things that perhaps were best left unsaid. Some time passed, and neither of us spoke a word ; my heart ached for the woman whose agony was so evident. Presently she made a great effort to check her emotion, and partly succeeded. Taking the glass of water which I offered her, and turning to the Howers again, she said : • You are a good girl, and I pray that you may be able to realise what I have passed through. May you never know what it means to love your husband better than your own salvation, onlv to find that the idol you fondly worshipped as gold to be but clay—clay of a quality so inferior that you could not even respect it. For some months,’ continued the matron, after a pause, * all went well, and I was the happiest of wives ; then my husband began staying from home much later than even the plea, business, could warrant. Ah, the nights of waiting and watching, how slowly the hours went '. what an eternity between the striking of the clock ! Still, wretched as this time was, it seemed paradise compared with that which followed, when I found my husband’s love waning, and he did not even try to hide*his unfaithfulness. Was I to blame? None are peifect. Possibly I did not make enough allowance for his faults. He was older than I by ten years, and a man of the world, as the saying goes, while I had been brought up in strict seclusion, with firm, decided notions of right and wrong. I may have blamed too openly, protestedjtoo freely, for is not woman to “submit?” But I was young then, and had not learned to bow the head. There was more of the oak than the teed in my nature, so I resented the wrongs done me with bitter tears and sharp words. Yet, in spite of all, how I loved him —loved him even to fierceness, and I knew in my heart that I would rather be unhappy and lemain with him than enjoy happiness, if that were possible, and part. Ah, child, the hours I spent on my knees praying for guidance and help, beseeching tied to give me back my husband’s love : but God never heard, or if He did, never answered my prayers. We drifted further and further apart, and at last the climax came—my husband suddenly disappeared. A few weeks after this I heard that he took with him a gill of light name

and character. I, his wife, was left—left childless, my only baby having died about a year before—left not only penniless and with debts of his contracting, but broken in health and spirit. All efforts to trace them were in vain ; it seemed as if the earth had swallowed them. Then al) grew dark for me. I lost faith in God, in myself, in everything and everybody. I think I must partly have lost my leason, and but for my sweet angel mother would have gone straight to perdition. I was conscious only of a wild ciaving for excitement, a ceaseless striving after forgetfulness, ami for months none were brighter, gayer, or more teckless than I. Mother, who knew me, saw with growing anxiety that my already pale face was getting paler every day, but others thought, and said, too, that my real nature was coming out now that therestraintofmy husband’s presence was removed. I found kind friends who pitied him and blamed me, but what cared I ? Praise or blame were all the same to me. At last the hot blood in my veins cooled down, ami my pride came uppermost—in a word, the volcano had spent its force, and by degrees I grew more like my old self. It was then that I took up nursing, entered the hospital in A , and, after passing my examinations, rose to the position of matron. When, some years after this, my own dear mother died, there was nothing to keep me in A , and, after travelling about for a time, I came here. It is nearly thirteen years since he left me, and in all these years no tidings of him—neither do I know if he is alive or dead. Yet something tells me that we shall meet soon—how, when, or where I cannot say, but we shall meet and that soon !’

Stopping abruptly, the matron heaved a deep sigh, and assuming her usual calm demeanour, rang for tea, asking me to stay and partake of some, an invitation that I gladly accepted, as my head began to ache in a most annoying manner, one passionate utterance that I had heard having strung my nerves to their highest pitch. After drinking our tea, which we did in almost complete silence, I rose to take my departure, for, judging the matron’s character from what I had observed, I knew, or rather felt, that words of sympathy or condolence would just then be both unwelcome and useless. When leaving she came as far as the door, and putting her lips for a moment on my brow, said, ‘ You have had a glimps eat my skeleton, child; don’t forget that such sights are sacred.’ A few days after my visit to the matron’s room I happened to be on duty in one of the accident wards, when some dispute between one of the nurses and an unruly patient made the matron’s presence necessary there. When at last things were satisfactorily settled, she turned to leave, and, in passing, gave me one of her calm, bright smiles ; but it struck me that she looked pale, and the lines on her face were deeper than before. She had reached the end of the ward when two members of the hospital staff brought in a stretcher containing what I at once lecognised as a bad case. After a moment’s thought the matron came back to where I was standing waiting to take charge of the new patient. He was a man of forty-five or fifty, evidently belonging to the class known as ‘ sporting. ’ He had been good looking, too, in his time, but the ‘ pace that kills ’ had only left the ruins of what was once a fine man. Who can tell ? Perhaps he had even been what Burns calls the noblest work of God —an honest man. The doctor, who had come with the little party from the surgery, briefly informed us that the man had been shot in a gambling dispute, the bullet having entered the chest and passed out at the back, doing some damage to the spinal column. After the first glance at the sufferer the matron flushed rosy red. She then bent down to get a nearer view of his face, and when she rose her own was ashen grey. The patient was only partly conscious, but something in the matron’s look seemed to rouse him —at least he opened his eyes, and on their meeting her’s, he gave a violent start, which had the effect of bringing on a fit of coughing, and sent a fresh stream of blood flowing from his mouth. As soon as possible he was put to bed, and made comfortable under the superintendence of the matron, who was giving me some further instructions, when new voices were heard at the entrance of the ward, and presently a woman accompanied by two young boys entered. It was long past the time allowed for visiting, so she must have come to see a person whose recovery was more than doubtful. As she drew near I saw that she was well if rather showily dressed, and held a special permission from Dr. B. in her hand. Glancing from bed to bed, she at last came to where the matron and I w - ere standing. Recognising its occupant, she threw herself down beside him with a loud lamentation. At a whispered exhortation to be calm, she confronted me, saying, ‘He is my husband ; how dare you interfere?’ At these words, I involuntarily looked at the matron. Her lips opened as if about to speak, then her eyes fell on the children, and she was mute. After again warning the woman not to make a scene, I turned to ask a question of the matron. She was gone. All that evening the woman and her children sat by the wounded man’s bed, the little ones sometimes sleeping and then waking to look at their father with big frightened eyes. Tossing restlessly to and fro, now and then glancing at his wet dress in a troubled, dazed way, he seemed to be without a moment's ease or peace. The matron came several times, but seeing the visitors still there, did not go near the bed. Late in the evening the doctor looked at him, and then we heard that there was no hope; that the patient would probably go into his Maker’s presence in a few hours, most likely without quite regaining consciousness, or being able to say even a parting word to those near him. The woman, now pale and subdued, wept silently ; the boys shivered as they clung to her dress. The matron also heard the verdict, but her eyes were dry, and not a muscle of her face moved. She looked calm as one for whom the bitterness of death is past, and only resignation, perhaps also hope, remains. At my advice the children were sent to some friends, the woman remaining by the bedside. Towards midnight the sick man brightened a little, but still was unable to speak, although he made more than one attempt. Ah, who but the Eternal can measur e or understand tne mental agony of that last hour? When the end drew near his eyes rested on the matron as if seeking, pleading for something. The other, the mother of his children, seemed not to exist for him at that solemn time ; he certainly never even glanced at her. The final struggle was not long. When it ended the two women stood looking at each other without speaking ; then the matron quiefly said, ‘ You must go to your children, now ; I will stay with him.’ The other obeyed her without a word.

At my urgent request the matron had allowed me to stay in the ward long after the prescribed hours of duty. Now being tired myseli, and seeing how thoroughly worn out she was, I begged her to go and get some rest; but she shook her head, and glancing at the bed, said, * Not yet, child ; I have a duty to perform here first.’ I knew what she meant, and between us we made the body ready for burial and saw it laid in the deadhouse. Then we went to my room together. At the door the matron paused a second, and then entered with me ; but within the forced calmness left her—she was no longer a stoic, but a woman, and bitter, hard, dry sobs broke from the tortured creature. May I never witness such pain again ! After a while she became calmer, and told me that the man we had seen die was her husband. I had guessed it all along. This, then, was their meeting after so many years ! Verily, this woman had drunk her cup of Mara to the dregs ! On my regretting that he had been unable to speak to her, she merely remarked that werds were not necessary between them. Then she put her hand on my head and bade * God bless and keep me,’ telling me at the same time to go to bed, and she also would go to rest. ******* Two hours later some of the staff had occasion to go to the morgue again, another death having taken place. On going to the matron’s room for the key they found it empty. Knowing of our friendship, they came expecting to find her with me. On reaching the door of the morgue we found it locked from the inside, and a deadly fear crept over me. When at last, after some delay, the door was opened, it was early morning. Outside in the court stood an old elm tree, like a faithful silent watcher of the dead. In its branches a bird was singing clearly and sweetly. Through one narrow window, slantingly across the stone floor, fell a few rays of the morning sun. Just beyond the light, in the deep shadow, lay the dead man. Beside him, her head on his breast, her hands clasped as if sleep had overtaken her during prayer, knelt the matron.

Those that were with me thought she had fainted, and their wonder at her strange position was great. I knew better, for on the floor beside her lay a tiny bottle labelled Poison, in large, staring, red letters. Presently they saw it, too, and their wonder grew. I, who had looked into the dead woman’s heart, did not wonder, and held my peace. When they lifted her and placed her by her husband’s side, the bird in the elm-tree sang louder and more sweetly, the sunbeams grew stronger, and reached the faces of the dead, lighting them with a pure, beautiful halo that made them look peaceful beyond description, even as the ‘ peace that passeth all understanding.’ They whom life had parted were united in death ; for them a brighter day had dawned, a brighter sun arisen for her who had loved so much and suffered so long. A pencilled note in the matron’s writing requested that no mark of anything be put on their common grave, and by now the place is forgotten. But surely their rest is not less sweet —surely after life’s fitful fever they sleep well !