He was wanted
downstairs. There he sat, transacting business answering
correspondence, interviewing callers, and exchanging innumerable
notes with the unseen power above. Sometimes word came down that
Miss Nightingale was just well enough to see one of her visitors.
The fortunate man was led up, was ushered, trembling, into the
shaded chamber, and, of course, could never afterwards forget the
interview. Very rarely, indeed, once or twice a year, perhaps,
but nobody could be quite certain, in deadly secrecy, Miss
Nightingale went out for a drive in the Park. Unrecognised, the
living legend flitted for a moment before the common gaze. And
the precaution was necessary; for there were times when, at some
public function, the rumour of her presence was spread abroad;
and ladies, mistaken by the crowd for Miss Nightingale, were
followed, pressed upon, vehemently supplicated 'Let me touch your
shawl'; 'Let me stroke your arm'; such was the strange adoration
in the hearts of the people. That vast reserve of force lay there
behind her; she could use it, if she could. But she preferred
never to use it. On occasions, she might hint or threaten, she
might balance the sword of Damocles over the head of the Bison;
she might, by a word, by a glance, remind some refractory
Minister, some unpersuadable Viceroy, sitting in audience with
her in the little upper room, that she was something more than a
mere sick woman, that she had only, so to speak, to go to the
window and wave her handkerchief, for .
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