The White Linen Nurse

CHAPTER V

When the White Linen Nurse found any­thing again she found her­self ly­ing per­fect­ly flat on her back in a rea­son­ably com­fort­able nest of grass and leaves. Star­ing in­quis­itive­ly up in­to the sky she thought she no­ticed a slight black and blue dis­col­oration to­wards the west, but more than that, much to her re­lief, the fir­ma­ment did not seem to be se­ri­ous­ly in­jured. The earth, she feared had not es­caped so eas­ily. Even way off some­where near the tip of her fin­gers the ground was as sore--as sore--as could be--un­der her touch. Im­pul­sive­ly to her dizzy eyes the hot tears start­ed, to think that now, tired as she was, she should have to jump right up in an­oth­er minute or two and at­tend to the poor earth. For­tu­nate­ly for any re­al­ly stren­uous emer­gen­cy that might arise there seemed to be noth­ing about her own body that hurt at all ex­cept a queer, per­sis­tent lit­tle pain in her cheek. Not un­til the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl's dirt-​smouched face in­ter­vened be­tween her own star­ing eyes and the sky did she re­al­ize that the pain in her cheek was a pinch.

“Wake up! Wake up!” scold­ed the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl shril­ly. “Naughty--Pink and White Nur­sie! I want­ed to hear the bump! You screamed so loud I couldn't hear the bump!”

With ex­ces­sive cau­tion the White Linen Nurse strug­gled up at last to a sit­ting pos­ture, and gazed per­plexed­ly around her.

It seemed to be a per­fect­ly pleas­ant field,--acres and acres of mild old grass tot­ter­ing palsied­ly down to watch some skit­tish young vi­olets and bluets frol­ic in and out of a gig­gling brook. Up the field? Up the field? Hazi­ly the White Linen Nurse ground her knuck­les in­to her in­cred­ulous eyes. Up the field, just be­yond them, the great emp­ty au­to­mo­bile stood ami­ably at rest. From the gen­er­al ap­pear­ance of the stone-​wall at the top of the lit­tle grassy slope it was pal­pa­bly ev­ident that the car had at­tempt­ed cer­tain vain ac­ro­bat­ic feats be­fore its fail­ing mo­men­tum had forced it in­to the hu­mil­iat­ing ranks of the back-​slid­ers.

Still grind­ing her knuck­les in­to her eyes the White Linen Nurse turned back to the Lit­tle Girl. Un­der the torn, twist­ed sable cap one lit­tle eye was hid­den com­plete­ly, but the oth­er eye loomed up rak­ish and bruised as a prize­fight­er's. One sable sleeve was wrenched dis­as­trous­ly from its arm-​hole, and along the edge of the vivid lit­tle pur­ple skirt the ill-​fa­vored white ruf­fles seemed to have rav­eled out in­to hope­less yards and yards and yards of Ham­burg em­broi­dery.

A tri­fle self-​con­scious­ly the Lit­tle Girl be­gan to gath­er her­self to­geth­er.

“We--we seem to have fall­en out of some­thing!” she con­fid­ed with the air of one who halves a most pre­cious se­cret.

“Yes, I know,” said the White Linen Nurse. “But what has be­come of--your Fa­ther?”

Wor­ried­ly for an in­stant the Lit­tle Girl sat scan­ning the re­motest cor­ners of the field. Then abrupt­ly with a gasp of re­al re­lief she be­gan to ex­plore with cau­tious fin­gers the ge­ograph­ical out­line of her black eye.

“Oh, nev­er mind about Fa­ther,” she as­sert­ed cheer­ful­ly. “I guess--I guess he got mad and went home.”

“Yes--I know,” mused the White Linen Nurse. “But it doesn't seem--prob­able.”

“Prob­able?” mocked the Lit­tle Girl most dis­agree­ably. Then sud­den­ly her lit­tle hand went shoot­ing out to­wards the strand­ed au­to­mo­bile.

“Why, there he is!” she screamed. “Un­der the car! Oh, Look--Look--Lookey!”

La­bo­ri­ous­ly the White Linen Nurse scram­bled to her knees. Des­per­ate­ly she tried to ram her fin­gers like a clog in­to the whirling dizzi­ness round her tem­ples.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! What's the dose for any­body un­der a car?” she bab­bled id­iot­ical­ly.

Then with a re­al­ly her­culean ef­fort,--both men­tal and phys­ical, she stag­gered to her feet, and start­ed for the au­to­mo­bile.

But her knees gave out, and wilt­ing down to the grass she tried to crawl along on all-​fours, till strain­ing wrists sent her back to her feet again.

When­ev­er she tried to walk the Lit­tle Girl walked,--when­ev­er she tried to crawl the Lit­tle Girl crawled.

“Isn't it fun!” the shrill child­ish voice piped per­sis­tent­ly. “Isn't it just like play­ing ship-​wreck!”

When they reached the car both wom­an and child were too ut­ter­ly ex­haust­ed with breath­less­ness to do any­thing ex­cept just sit down on the ground and--stare.

Sure enough un­der that mon­strous, im­mov­able look­ing ma­chine the Se­nior Sur­geon's body lay rammed face-​down deep, deep in­to the grass.

It was the Lit­tle Girl who re­cov­ered her breath first.

“I think he's dead!” she vol­un­teered sage­ly. “His legs look--aw­ful­ly dead--to me!” On­ly ex­cite­ment was in the state­ment. It took a sec­ond or two for her lit­tle mind to make any par­tic­ular­ly per­son­al ap­pli­ca­tion of such ex­cite­ment. “I hadn't--ex­act­ly--planned--on hav­ing him dead!” she be­gan with im­pe­ri­ous re­sent­ment. A threat of com­plete emo­tion­al col­lapse zig-​zagged sud­den­ly across her face. “I won't have him dead! I won't! I _won't_!” she screamed out stormi­ly.

In the amaz­ing si­lence that en­sued the White Linen Nurse gath­ered her trem­bling knees up in­to the cir­cle of her arms and sat there star­ing at the Se­nior Sur­geon's pros­trate body, and rock­ing her­self fee­bly to and fro in a fu­tile ef­fort to col­lect her scat­tered sens­es.

“Oh, if some one would on­ly tell me what to do,--I know I could do it! Oh, I know I could do it! If some one would on­ly tell me what to do!” she kept re­peat­ing help­less­ly.

Cau­tious­ly the Lit­tle Girl crept for­ward on her hands and knees to the edge of the car and peered spec­ula­tive­ly through the great yel­low wheel-​spokes. “Fa­ther!” she fal­tered in al­most in­audi­ble gen­tle­ness. “Fa­ther!” she plead­ed in per­fect­ly im­po­tent whis­per.

Im­petu­ous­ly the White Linen Nurse scram­bled to her own hands and knees and jos­tled the Lit­tle Girl aside.

“Fat Fa­ther!” screamed the White Linen Nurse. “Fat Fa­ther! Fat Fa­ther! _Fat Fa­ther!”_ she gibed and taunt­ed with the one call she knew that had nev­er yet failed to rouse him.

Per­cep­ti­bly across the Se­nior Sur­geon's hor­rid­ly qui­et shoul­ders a lit­tle twitch wrin­kled and was gone again.

“Oh, his heart!” gasped the White Linen Nurse. “I must find his heart!”

Throw­ing her­self prone up­on the cool mead­owy ground and fran­ti­cal­ly reach­ing out un­der the run­ning board of the car to her full arm's length she be­gan to rum­mage awk­ward­ly hith­er and yon be­neath the heavy weight of the man in the des­per­ate hope of feel­ing a heart-​beat.

“Ouch! You tick­le me!” splut­tered the Se­nior Sur­geon weak­ly.

Rolling back quick­ly with fright and re­lief the White Linen Nurse burst forth in­to one mad­den­ing cack­le of hys­ter­ical laugh­ter. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” she gig­gled. “Hi! Hi! Tit­ter! Tit­ter! Tit­ter!”

Per­plexed­ly at first but with in­creas­ing aban­don the Lit­tle Girl's voice took up the same id­iot­ic re­frain. “Ha-​Ha-​Ha,” she choked. And “Hi-​Hi-​Hi!” And “Tit­ter! Tit­ter! Tit­ter!”

With an ag­oniz­ing jerk of his neck the Se­nior Sur­geon root­ed his mud-​gagged mouth a half inch fur­ther to­wards free and spon­ta­neous speech. Very la­bo­ri­ous­ly, very painstak­ing­ly, he spat out one by one two stones and a wisp of ground pine and a brack­ish, prick­ly tick­le of stale gold­en-​rod.

“Blan­kety-​blank-​blank--BLANK!” he an­nounced in due time, “Blan­kety-​blank-​blank-​blank--BLANK! Maybe when you two--blan­kety-​blank--im­be­ciles have got through your blan­kety-​blank cack­ling you'll have the--blan­kety-​blank de­cen­cy to save my--my blan­kety-​blank-​blank--blank--_blank-​blank_ life!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” per­sist­ed the poor help­less White Linen Nurse with the tears stream­ing down her cheeks.

“Hi! Hi! Hi!” snick­ered the poor Lit­tle Girl through her hic­coughs.

Feel­ing hope­less­ly crushed un­der two tons and a half of car, the Se­nior Sur­geon closed his eyes for death. No man of his weight, he felt quite sure, could rea­son­ably ex­pect to sur­vive many min­utes longer the apoplec­tic, blood-​red rage that pound­ed in his ear-​drums. Through his tight-​closed eye­lids very, very slow­ly a red glow seemed to per­me­ate. He thought it was the fires of Hell. Open­ing his eyes to meet his fate like a man he found him­self star­ing im­pu­dent­ly close in­stead in­to the White Linen Nurse's fu­ri­ous­ly flushed face that lay cud­dled on one plump cheek star­ing im­pu­dent­ly close at him.

“Why--why--get out!” gasped the Se­nior Sur­geon.

Very mod­est­ly the White Linen Nurse's face re­treat­ed a lit­tle fur­ther in­to its blush­es.

“Yes, I know,” she protest­ed. “But I'm all through gig­gling now. I'm sor­ry--I'm--”

In sheer ap­pre­hen­sive­ness the Se­nior Sur­geon's fea­tures crin­kled winc­ing­ly from brow to chin as though strug­gling vain­ly to re­treat from the ap­palling prox­im­ity of the girl's face.

“Your--eye­lash­es--are too long,” he com­plained queru­lous­ly.

“Eh?” jerked the White Linen Nurse's face. “Is it your brain that's hurt? Oh, sir, do you think it's your brain that's hurt?”

“It's my stom­ach!” snapped the Se­nior Sur­geon. “I tell you I 'm not hurt,--I'm just--squashed! I'm par­alyzed! If I can't get this car off me--”

“Yes, that's just it,” beamed the White Linen Nurse's face. “That's just what I crawled in here to find out,--how to get the car off you. That's just what I want to find out. I could run for help, of course,--on­ly I couldn't run, 'cause my knees are so wob­bly. It would take hours--and the car might start or burn up or some­thing while I was gone. But you don't seem to be caught any­where on the ma­chin­ery,” she added more bright­ly, “it on­ly seems to be sit­ting on you. So if I could on­ly get the car off you! But it's so heavy. I had no idea it would be so heavy. Could I take it apart, do you think? Is there any one place where I could be­gin at the be­gin­ning and take it all apart?”

“Take it apart--Hell!” groaned the Se­nior Sur­geon.

A lit­tle twitch of de­fi­ance flick­ered across the White Linen Nurse's face. “All the same,” she as­sert­ed stub­born­ly, “if some one would on­ly tell me what to do--I know I could do it!”

Hor­rid­ly from some un­lo­cat­able quar­ter of the en­gine an alarm­ing lit­tle tremor quick­ened sud­den­ly and was hushed again.

“Get out of here--quick!” stormed the Se­nior Sur­geon's ghast­ly face.

“I won't!” said the White Linen Nurse's face. “Un­til you tell me--what to do!”

Bru­tal­ly for an in­stant the in­gen­uous blue eyes and the cyn­ical gray eyes bat­tled each oth­er.

“_Can_ you do what you're told?” fal­tered the Se­nior Sur­geon.

“Oh, yes,” said the White Linen Nurse.

“I mean can you do ex­act­ly--what you're told?” gasped the Se­nior Sur­geon. “Can you fol­low di­rec­tions, I mean? Can you fol­low them--ex­plic­it­ly? Or are you one of those peo­ple who lis­tens on­ly to her own judg­ment?”

“Oh, but I haven't got any--judg­ment,” protest­ed the White Linen Nurse.

Pal­pa­bly in the Se­nior Sur­geon's blood-​shot eyes the leisure­ly seem­ing di­ag­no­sis leaped to pre­cip­itous con­clu­sions.

“Then get out of here--quick--for God's sake--and get to work!” he or­dered.

Cau­tious­ly the White Linen Nurse jerked her­self back in­to free­dom and crawled around and stared at the Se­nior Sur­geon through the wheel-​spokes again. Like one wor­ry­ing out some in­tri­cate math­emat­ical prob­lem his men­tal strain was puls­ing vis­ibly through his closed eye­lids.

“Yes, sir?” prod­ded the White Linen Nurse.

“Keep still!” snapped the Se­nior Sur­geon. “I've got to think,” he said. “I've got to work it out! All in a mo­ment you've got to learn to run the car. All in a mo­ment! It's aw­ful!”

“Oh, I don't mind, sir,” af­firmed the White Linen Nurse serene­ly.

Fren­zied­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon root­ed one cheek in­to the mud again. “You don't--_mind_?” he groaned. “You don't--_mind_? Why, you've got to learn--ev­ery­thing! Ev­ery­thing--from--the very be­gin­ning!”

“Oh, that's all right, sir,” crooned the White Linen Nurse.

Omi­nous­ly from some­where a hor­rid sound creaked again. The Se­nior Sur­geon did not stop to ar­gue any fur­ther.

“Now come here,” or­dered the Se­nior Sur­geon. “I'm go­ing to--I'm go­ing to--” Startling­ly his voice weak­ened,--trailed off in­to noth­ing­ness,--and ral­lied sud­den­ly with ex­ag­ger­at­ed brusk­ness. “Look here now! For Heav­en's sake use your brains! I'm go­ing to dic­tate to you--very slow­ly--one thing at a time--just what to do!”

Quite as­ton­ish­ing­ly the White Linen Nurse sank down on her knees and be­gan to grin at him. “Oh, no, sir,” she said. “I couldn't do it that way,--not 'one thing at a time.' Oh, no in­deed, sir! No!” Ab­so­lute fi­nal­ity was in her voice,--the in­vi­olable stub­born­ness of the per­fect­ly good-​na­tured per­son.

“You'll do it the way I tell you to!” roared the Se­nior Sur­geon strug­gling vain­ly to ease one shoul­der or stretch one knee-​joint.

“Oh, no, sir,” beamed the White Linen Nurse. “Not one thing at a time! Oh, no, I couldn't do it that way! Oh, no, sir, I won't do it that way--one thing at a time,” she per­sist­ed hur­ried­ly. “Why, you might faint away or some­thing might hap­pen--right in the mid­dle of it--right be­tween one di­rec­tion and an­oth­er--and I wouldn't know at all--what to turn on or off next--and it might take off one of your legs, you know, or an arm. Oh, no,--not one thing at a time!”

“Good-​by--then,” croaked the Se­nior Sur­geon. “I'm as good as dead now.” A sin­gle shud­der went through him,--a last fu­tile ef­fort to stretch him­self.

“Good-​by,” said the White Linen Nurse. “Good-​by, sir.--I'd heaps rather have you die--per­fect­ly whole--like that--of your own ac­cord--than have me run the risk of start­ing the car full-​tilt and chop­ping you up so--or drag­ging you off so--that you didn't find it con­ve­nient to tell me--how to stop the car.”

“You're a--a--a--” splut­tered the Se­nior Sur­geon in­dis­tin­guish­ably.

“Crin­kle-​crack­le,” went that mys­te­ri­ous, hor­rid sound from some­where in the ma­chin­ery.

“Oh my God!” sur­ren­dered the Se­nior Sur­geon. “Do it your own--damned way! On­ly--on­ly--” His voice cracked rasp­ing­ly.

“Steady! Steady there!” said the White Linen Nurse. Ex­cept for a sud­den odd puck­er at the end of her nose her ex­pres­sion was still per­fect­ly serene. “Now be­gin at the be­gin­ning,” she begged. “Quick! Tell me ev­ery­thing--just the way I must do it! Quick--quick--quick!”

Twice the Se­nior Sur­geon's lips opened and shut with a vain ef­fort to com­ply with her re­quest.

“But you can't do it,” he be­gan all over again. “It isn't pos­si­ble. You haven't got the mind!”

“Maybe I haven't,” said the White Linen Nurse. “But I've got the mem­ory. Hur­ry!”

“Creak,” said the fun­ny lit­tle some­thing in the ma­chin­ery. “Creak--drip--bub­ble!”

“Oh, get in there quick!” sur­ren­dered the Se­nior Sur­geon. “Sit down be­hind the wheel!” he shout­ed af­ter her fly­ing foot­steps. “Are you there? For God's sake--are you there? Do you see those two lit­tle levers where your right hand comes? For God's sake--don't you know what a lever is? Quick now! Do just what I tell you!”

A lit­tle jerk­ily then, but very clear­ly, very con­cise­ly, the Se­nior Sur­geon called out to the White Linen Nurse just how ev­ery lever, ev­ery ped­al should be ma­nip­ulat­ed to start the car!

Ab­so­lute­ly ac­cu­rate­ly, ab­so­lute­ly in­deli­bly the White Linen Nurse vi­su­al­ized each sep­arate de­tail in her ab­nor­mal­ly re­ten­tive mind!

“But you can't--pos­si­bly re­mem­ber it!” groaned the Se­nior Sur­geon. “You can't--pos­si­bly! And prob­ably the damn car's _bust_ and won't start--any­way--and--!” Abrupt­ly the speech end­ed in a gut­tural snarl of de­spair.

“Don't be a--blight!” screamed the White Linen Nurse. “I've nev­er for­got­ten any­thing yet, sir!”

Very tense­ly she straight­ened up sud­den­ly in her seat. Her ex­pres­sion was no longer even re­mote­ly pleas­ant. Along her sen­si­tive, fluc­tu­ant nos­trils the ca­su­al crin­kle of dis­taste and sus­pi­cion had deep­ened sud­den­ly in­to sheer di­lat­ing ter­ror.

“Left foot--press down--hard--left ped­al!” she be­gan to sing-​song to her­self.

“No! _Right_ foot!--_right_ foot!” cor­rect­ed the Lit­tle Girl blun­der­ing­ly from some­where close in the grass.

“In­side lever--pull--way--back!” per­sist­ed the White Linen Nurse res­olute­ly as she switched on the cur­rent.

“No! _Out­side_ lever! _Out­side! Out­side_!” con­tra­dict­ed the Lit­tle Girl.

“Shut your darned mouth!” screeched the White Linen Nurse, her hand on the throt­tle as she tried the self starter.

Bruised as he was, wretched, des­per­ate­ly en­dan­gered there un­der the car the Se­nior Sur­geon could al­most have grinned at the girl's terse, un­con­scious mimicry of his own most ven­omous tones.

Then with all the forty-​eight lusty, ebul­lient years of his life snatched from his lips like an un­tast­ed cup, and one sin­gle nox­ious, death-​fla­vored sec­ond urged,--forced,--crammed down his chok­ing throat, he felt the great car quick­en and start.

“God!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon. Just “God!” The God of mud, he meant! The God of brack­ish grass! The God of a man ly­ing still hope­ful un­der more than two tons' weight of un­ac­count­able mech­anism, with a novice in full com­mand.

Up in her crim­son leather cush­ions, free-​lunged, free-​limbed, the White Linen Nurse heard the smoth­ered cry. Clear above the whirr of wheels, the whizz of clogs, the one word siz­zled like a red-​hot pok­er across her chat­ter­ing con­scious­ness. Tin­gling through the grasp of her fin­gers on the vi­brat­ing wheel, sting­ing through the sole of her foot that hov­ered over the throb­bing clutch, she sensed the ag­onized ap­peal. “Short lever--spark--long lever--gas!” she per­sist­ed res­olute­ly. “It must be right! It must!”

Jerk­ily then, and bla­tant­ly un­skil­ful­ly, with ri­otous puffs and spin­ning of wheels, the great car start­ed,--fal­tered,--balked a bit,--then dragged crush­ing­ly across the Se­nior Sur­geon's flat­tened body, and with a great wan­ton burst of speed tore down the slop­ing mead­ow in­to the brook--rods away. Clamp­ing down the brakes with a wrench and a rack­et like the smash of a ma­chine-​shop the White Linen Nurse jumped out in­to the brook, and with one wild ter­ri­fied glance be­hind her stag­gered back up the long grassy slope to the Se­nior Sur­geon.

Me­chan­ical­ly through her wood­en-​feel­ing lips she forced the greet­ing that sound­ed most cheer­ful to her. “It's not much fun, sir,--run­ning an au­to,” she gasped. “I don't be­lieve I'd like it!”

Half propped up on one el­bow,--still dizzy with men­tal chaos, still par­alyzed with phys­ical in­er­tia,--the Se­nior Sur­geon lay star­ing blankly all around him. In­dif­fer­ent­ly for an in­stant his stare in­clud­ed the White Linen Nurse. Then glow­er­ing sud­den­ly at some­thing way be­yond her, his face went per­fect­ly livid.

“Good God! The--the car's on fire!” he mum­bled.

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse. “Why! Didn't you know it, sir?”