Justine got a moment alone when the surgeons returned to the sick—room. Other nurses were there now, capped, aproned, quickly and silently unpacking their appliances.… She must call a halt, clear her brain again, decide rapidly what was to be done next.… Oh, if only the crawling hours could bring Amherst! It was strange that there was no telegram yet—no, not strange, after all, since it was barely six in the morning, and her message had not been despatched till seven the night before. It was not unlikely that, in that little southern settlement, the telegraph office closed at six.
She stood in Bessy’s sitting-room, her forehead pressed to the window-pane, her eyes straining out into the thin February darkness, through which the morning star swam white. As soon as she had yielded her place to the other nurses her nervous tension relaxed, and she hung again above the deeps of anguish, terrified and weak. In a moment the necessity for action would snatch her back to a firm footing—her thoughts would clear, her will affirm itself, all the wheels of the complex machine resume their functions. But now she felt only the horror.…
She knew so well what was going on in the next room. Dr. Garford, the great surgeon, who had known her at Saint Elizabeth’s, had evidently expected her to take
command of the nurses he had brought from town;
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