Giant’s Bread · Book I · IV · Chapter 1 4 4

IV

But as it happened, Nurse Frances went away much sooner than she might have done. It all happened very suddenly, as things in Vernon’s experience always did.

It started very simply⁠—something that Myra offered to do for Vernon and that he said he would rather have done by Nurse Frances.

He was on crutches now for a short and painful time every day, enjoying the novelty of it very much. He soon got tired, however, and was ready to go back to bed. Today his mother had suggested his doing so, saying she would help him. But Vernon had been helped by her before. Those big white hands of hers were strangely clumsy. They hurt where they meant to help. He shrank from her well-meant efforts. He said he would wait for Nurse Frances, who never hurt.

The words came out with the tactless honesty of children, and in a minute Myra Deyre was at white heat.

Nurse Frances came in two or three minutes later to be received with a flood of reproach.

Turning the boy against his own mother⁠—cruel⁠—wicked. They were all alike⁠—everyone was against her. She had nothing in the world but Vernon and now he was being turned against her too.

So it went on⁠—a ceaseless stream. Nurse Frances bore it patiently enough without surprise or rancour. Mrs. Deyre, she knew, was that kind of woman. Scenes were a relief to her. And hard words, Nurse Frances reflected with grim humour, can only harm if the utterer is dear to you. She was sorry for Myra Deyre for she realized how much real unhappiness and misery lay behind these hysterical outbursts.

It was an unfortunate moment for Walter Deyre to choose to enter the nursery. For a moment or two he stood surprised, then he flushed angrily.

“Really, Myra, I’m ashamed of you. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

She turned on him furiously.

“I know what I’m saying well enough. And I know what you’ve been doing. Slinking in here every day⁠—I’ve seen you. Always making love to some woman or other. Nursemaids, hospital nurses⁠—it’s all one to you.”

“Myra⁠—be quiet!”

He was really angry now. Myra Deyre felt a throb of fear. But she hurled her last piece of invective.

“You’re all alike, you hospital nurses. Flirting with other women’s husbands. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Before the innocent child too⁠—putting all sorts of things into his head. But you’ll go out of my house. Yes, you’ll go right out⁠—and I shall tell Dr. Coles what I think of you.”

“Would you mind continuing this edifying scene elsewhere?” Her husband’s voice was as she hated it most⁠—cold and sneering. “Hardly judicious in front of your innocent child, is it? I apologize, Nurse, for what my wife has been saying. Come, Myra.”

She went⁠—beginning to cry⁠—weakly frightened at what she had done. As usual, she had said more than she meant.

“You’re cruel,” she sobbed. “Cruel. You’d like me to be dead. You hate me.”

She followed him out of the room. Nurse Frances put Vernon to bed. He wanted to ask questions but she talked of a dog, a big St. Bernard, that she had had when she was a little girl and he was so much interested that he forgot everything else.

Much later that evening, Vernon’s father came to the nursery. He looked white and ill. Nurse Frances rose and came to where he stood in the doorway.

“I don’t know what to say. How can I apologize⁠—the things my wife said⁠—”

Nurse Frances replied in a quiet matter-of-fact voice:

“Oh! it’s quite all right. I understand. I think, though, that I had better go as soon as it can be arranged. My being here makes Mrs. Deyre unhappy, and then she works herself up.”

“If she knew how wide of the mark her wild accusations are. That she should insult you⁠—”

Nurse Frances laughed⁠—not, perhaps, very convincingly.

“I always think it’s absurd when people complain about being insulted,” she said cheerfully. “Such a pompous word, isn’t it? Please don’t worry or think I mind. You know, Mr. Deyre, your wife is⁠—”

“Yes?”

Her voice changed. It was grave and sad.

“A very unhappy and lonely woman.”

“Do you think that is entirely my fault?”

There was a pause. She lifted her eyes⁠—those steady green eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “I do.”

He drew a long breath.

“No one else but you would have said that to me. You⁠—I suppose it’s courage in you that I admire so much⁠—your absolute fearless honesty. I’m sorry for Vernon that he should lose you before he need.”

She said gravely: “Don’t blame yourself for things you needn’t. This has not been your fault.”

“Nurse Frances.” It was Vernon, eagerly from bed. “I don’t want you to go away. Don’t go away, please⁠—not tonight.”

“Of course not,” said Nurse Frances. “We’ve got to talk to Dr. Coles about it.”

Nurse Frances left three days later. Vernon wept bitterly. He had lost the first real friend he had ever had.