"Run for your life. The dam's burst!" he said.
As much as was possible, the hospital rested on that Christmas Day. The
internes went about in fresh white ducks with sprays of mistletoe in their
buttonholes, doing few dressings. Over the upper floors, where the
kitchens were located, spread toward noon the insidious odor of roasting
turkeys. Every ward had its vase of holly. In the afternoon, services
were held in the chapel downstairs.
Wheel-chairs made their slow progress along corridors and down elevators.
Convalescents who were able to walk flapped along in carpet slippers.
Gradually the chapel filled up. Outside the wide doors of the corridor the
wheel-chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Behind them, dressed for the
occasion, were the elevator-men, the orderlies, and Big John, who drove the
ambulance.
On one side of the aisle, near the front, sat the nurses in rows, in crisp
caps and fresh uniforms. On the other side had been reserved a place for
the staff. The internes stood back against the wall, ready to run out
between rejoicings, as it were--for a cigarette or an ambulance call, as
the case might be.
Over everything brooded the after-dinner peace of Christmas afternoon.
The nurses sang, and Sidney sang with them, her fresh young voice rising
above the rest. Yellow winter sunlight came through the stained-glass
windows and shone on her lovely flushed face, her smooth kerchief, her cap,
always just a little awry.
Dr. Max, lounging against the wall, across the chapel, found his eyes
straying toward her constantly. How she stood out from the others! What a
zest for living and for happiness she had!
The Episcopal clergyman read the Epistle: "Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity; therefore God, even thy
God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows."
That was Sidney. She was good, and she had been anointed with the oil of
gladness. And he-His brother was singing. His deep bass voice, not always true, boomed out
above the sound of the small organ. Ed had been a good brother to him; he
had been a good son.
Max's vagrant mind wandered away from the service to the picture of his
mother over his brother's littered desk, to the Street, to K., to the girl
who had refused to marry him because she did not trust him, to Carlotta
last of all. He turned a little and ran his eyes along the line of nurses.
Ah, there she was. As if she were conscious of his scrutiny, she lifted
her head and glanced toward him. Swift color flooded her face.