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By the time the court commenced its afternoon session, he was sitting behind Argyll, in precisely the same position as before, but feeling a spark of excitement, something which might even be mistaken for hope. But still he did not look at the gallery, and only once, for a moment, at Hester.
“Call Florence Nightingale,” the usher’s voice boomed out, and there were gasps of indrawn breath around the room. A woman in the gallery screamed and stifled the sound with her hand clasped over her face.
The judge banged his gavel. “I will have order in the court! Another outburst like that and I shall have the place cleared. Is that understood? This is a court of law, not a place of entertainment. Mr. Argyll, I hope this witness is relevant to the case, and not merely a piece of exhibitionism and an attempt to win some kind of public sympathy. If it is, I assure you it will fail. Miss Latterly is on trial here, and Miss Nightingale’s reputation is irrelevant!”
Argyll bowed gravely and said nothing.
Every eye was turned towards the doorway, necks were craned and bodies twisted to see as a slender, upright figure came in, crossed the floor without looking to right or left, and climbed the steps to the witness-box. She was not imposing. She was really quite ordinary looking, with brownish hair, straight and severely swept from her face, very level brows and regular features. The whole cast of her countenance was too determined to be pretty, and without the inner light and serenity which fires beauty. It was not an easy face; it was even a little frightening.
She swore as to her name and place of residence in a firm and clear voice, and stood waiting for Argyll to begin.
“Thank you for trav
eling this considerable distance and leaving your own most important work to testify in this case, Miss Nightingale,” he said gravely.
“Justice is also important, sir,” she replied, staring very directly at him. “And in this instance, also a matter of life”—she hesitated—“and death.”
“Quite so.”
Rathbone had warned him passionately about the danger of patronizing her, or seeming in the slightest way to condescend to her, or state the obvious. Please heaven he remembered!
“We are all aware that you have no knowledge of the facts of this case, ma’am,” Argyll proceeded. “But the prisoner, Hester Latterly, has been well known to you in the past, has she not? And you feel able to speak of her character?”
“I have known Hester Latterly since the summer of 1854,” Florence replied. “And I am willing to answer any questions as to her character that you care to put to me.”
“Thank you.” Argyll adopted a relaxed posture, his head a little to one side. “Miss Nightingale, there has been some speculation as to why a young lady of gentle birth and good education should choose an occupation such as nursing, which previously has been carried out largely by women of low degree and, frankly, of pretty rough habits.”
Behind Argyll, Rathbone sat forward on the edge of his seat, his body aching with tension. The courtroom was silent. Every juror was watching Florence as if she had been the only living person there.
“Indeed, prior to your noble and pioneering work,” Argyll continued, “it was the sort of task to occupy those women who were not able to find a respectable domestic position. For example, if I may ask you, why did you yourself undertake such an arduous and dangerous task? Were your family agreeable to your doing such a work?”
“Mr. Argyll!” the judge said angrily, jerking forward in sudden movement.
“No sir, they were not,” Florence replied, ignoring the judge. “They put up considerable argument against it, and it took me many years, and a great deal of pleading, before they succumbed. As to the reason why I persisted against their will, there is a higher duty even than that to family, and a higher obedience.” Her face was lit with a simple, blinding conviction, and even the judge’s protest died unspoken. Every man and woman in the room, juror or spectator, was; listening to her. Had the judge spoken he would have been ignored, and that he would not invite. It would have been intolerable.
Argyll waited expectantly, black eyes wide.
“I believe that is what God has called me to do, sir,” she answered him. “And I shall devote my life to that end.” She gave a little shiver of impatience. “Indeed, I wrong myself and am cowardly to express it so. I know He has called me. I believe that others have the same desire to serve their fellow men, and the conviction that nursing the sick is the finest way in which they can do it. There can be no higher calling, and none more urgently needed at such times than the relief of suffering, and where possible the preservation of life and restoration to health of men who have fought for their country. Can you doubt it, sir?”
“No, madam, I cannot, and I do not,” Argyll said candidly.
Gilfeather stirred in his seat as if to make some interruption, but knew his time was not yet, and restrained himself with some difficulty.
With a supreme effort of self-control, Rathbone also remained motionless.
“And Hester Latterly served in the hospital at Scutari?” Argyll asked, his face expressionless except for a mild interest. Whatever emotions of triumph or expectancy boiled inside him, there was nothing in his features to betray them.
“Yes, she was one of the best nurses there.”
“In what way, ma’am?”
“Dedication—and skill. There were too few surgeons and too many patients.” Her voice was calm and controlled, but there was an intensity and feeling in it which commanded the attention of everyone in the room. “Often a nurse had to act as she thought he would have done, or a man’s life would be lost which she could have saved.”
There was a gasp somewhere in the gallery, a hissing of anger at such suggested arrogance.
The judge’s face registered his acknowledgment of it.
Florence took no more notice than if it had been a fly on the windowpane.
