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Page 17
III.
As Lloyd Searight turned into Calumet Square on her way from the
bookseller's, with her purchases under her arm, she was surprised to
notice a drop of rain upon the back of one of her white gloves. She
looked up quickly; the sun was gone. On the east side of the square,
under the trees, the houses that at this hour of the afternoon should
have been overlaid with golden light were in shadow. The heat that had
been palpitating through all the City's streets since early morning was
swiftly giving place to a certain cool and odorous dampness. There was
even a breeze beginning to stir in the tops of the higher elms. As the
drops began to thicken upon the warm, sun-baked asphalt under foot Lloyd
sharply quickened her pace. But the summer storm was coming up rapidly.
By the time she reached the great granite-built agency on the opposite
side of the square she was all but running, and as she put her key in
the door the rain swept down with a prolonged and muffled roar.
She let herself into the spacious, airy hallway of the agency, shutting
the door by leaning against it, and stood there for an instant to get
her breath. Rownie, the young mulatto girl, one of the servants of the
house, who was going upstairs with an armful of clean towels, turned
about at the closing of the door and called:
"Jus' in time, Miss Lloyd; jus' in time. I reckon Miss Wakeley and Miss
Esther Thielman going to get for sure wet. They ain't neither one of 'em
took ary umberel."
"Did Miss Wakeley and Miss Thielman both go out?" demanded Lloyd
quickly. "Did they both go on a call?"
"Yes, Miss Lloyd," answered Rownie. "I don't know because why Miss
Wakeley went, but Miss Esther Thielman got a typhoid call--another one.
That's three f'om this house come next Sunday week. I reckon Miss
Wakeley going out meks you next on call, Miss Lloyd."
While Rownie had been speaking Lloyd had crossed the hall to where the
roster of the nurses' names, in little movable slides, hung against the
wall. As often as a nurse was called out she removed her name from the
top of this list and slid it into place at the bottom, so that whoever
found her name at the top of the roster knew that she was "next on call"
and prepared herself accordingly.
Lloyd's name was now at the top of the list. She had not been gone five
minutes from the agency, and it was rare for two nurses to be called out
in so short a time.
"Is it your tu'n?" asked Rownie as Lloyd faced quickly about.
"Yes, yes," answered Lloyd, running up the stairs, adding, as she passed
the mulatto: "There's been no call sent in since Miss Thielman left, has
there, Rownie?" Rownie shook her head.
Lloyd went directly to her room, tossed her books aside without removing
the wrappers, and set about packing her satchel. When this was done she
changed her tailor-made street dress and crisp skirt for clothes that
would not rustle when she moved, and put herself neatly to rights,
stripping off her rings and removing the dog-violets from her waist.
Then she went to the round, old-fashioned mirror that hung between the
windows of her room, and combed back her hair in a great roll from her
forehead and temples, and stood there a moment or so when she had done,
looking at her reflection.
She was tall and of a very vigorous build, full-throated, deep-chested,
with large, strong hands and solid, round wrists. Her face was rather
serious; one did not expect her to smile easily; the eyes dull blue,
with no trace of sparkle and set deep under heavy, level eyebrows. Her
mouth was the mouth of the obstinate, of the strong-willed, and her chin
was not small. But her hair was a veritable glory, a dull-red flame,
that bore back from her face in one great solid roll, dull red, like
copper or old bronze, thick, heavy, almost gorgeous in its sombre
radiance. Dull-red hair, dull-blue eyes, and a faint, dull glow forever
on her cheeks, Lloyd was a beautiful woman; much about her that was
regal, for she was very straight as well as very tall, and could look
down upon most women and upon not a few men.
Lloyd turned from the mirror, laying down the comb. She had yet to pack
her nurse's bag, or, since this was always ready, to make sure that none
of its equipment was lacking. She was very proud of this bag, as she had
caused it to be made after her own ideas and design. It was of black
russia leather and in the form of an ordinary valise, but set off with a
fine silver clasp bearing her name and the agency's address. She brought
it from the closet and ran over its contents, murmuring the while to
herself:
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