The Primrose Ring Part 16

"You are both wanted down in the board-room. They have called a special meeting of the trustees for nine o'clock; everybody's here and acting decidedly peculiar, I think. Why, as I pa.s.sed the door I am sure I saw the President slapping the Senior Surgeon on the back. I never heard of anything like this happening before."

"Come," said Margaret MacLean to the House Surgeon. "If we walk down very slowly we will have time enough to read the letter on the way."

As the nurse had intimated, it was an altogether unprecedented meeting.

Formality had been gently tossed out of the window; after which the President sat, not behind his desk, but upon it--an open letter in his hand. His whole att.i.tude suggested a wish to banish, as far as it lay within his power, the atmosphere of the previous afternoon.

"Here is a letter to be considered first," he said, a bit gravely. "It makes rather a good prologue to our reconsideration of the incurable ward," and the ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

"This is from the widow of the Richest Trustee." He read, slowly:

"MESDAMES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE BOARD,--I thank you for your courtesy in asking me to fill my husband's place as one of the trustees of Saint Margaret's. Until this afternoon I had every intention of so doing; but I cannot think now that my husband would wish me to continue his support of an inst.i.tution whose directors have so far forgotten the name under which they dispense their charity as to put science and pride first. As for myself--I find I am strongly interested in incurables--your incurables.

Yours very truly"

The President laid the letter behind him on the desk, while the entire board gasped in amazement.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" muttered the Disagreeable Trustee.

"But just think of _her_--writing it!" burst forth the Oldest Trustee.

The Meanest Trustee barked out an exclamation, but nothing followed it; undoubtedly that was due to the President's interrupting:

"I think if we had received this yesterday we should have been very--exceedingly--indignant; we should have censured the writer severely. As it is--hmm--" The President stopped short; it was as if his mind had refused to tabulate his feelings.

"As it is"--the Executive Trustee took up the dropped thread and went on--"we have decided to reconsider the removal of the incurable ward without any--preaching--or priming of conscience."

"I am so glad we really had changed our minds first. I should so hate to have that insignificant little woman think that we were influenced by anything she might write. Wouldn't you?" And the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee dimpled ravis.h.i.+ngly at the Senior Surgeon.

"Wouldn't you two like to go into the consulting-room and talk it over?

We could settle the business in hand, this time, without your a.s.sistance, I think." The voice of the Disagreeable Trustee dripped sarcasm.

"I should suggest," said the President, returning to the business of the meeting, "that the ward might be continued for the present, until we investigate the home condition of the patients and understand perhaps a little more thoroughly just what they need, and where they can be made most--comfortable."

"And retain Margaret MacLean in charge?" The Meanest Trustee gave it the form of a question, but his manner implied the statement of a disagreeable fact.

"Why not? Is there any one more competent to take charge?" The Executive Trustee interrogated each individual member of the board with a quizzical eye.

"But the new surgical ward--and science?" The Youngest and Prettiest threw it, Jason-fas.h.i.+on, and waited expectantly for a clash of steel.

Instead the Senior Surgeon stepped forward, rather pink and embarra.s.sed. "I should like to withdraw my request for a new surgical ward. It can wait--for the present, at least."

And then it was that Margaret MacLean and the House Surgeon entered the board-room.

The President nodded to them pleasantly, and motioned to the chairs near him. "We are having what you professional people call a reaction.

I hardly know what started it; but--hmmm--" For the second time that morning he came to a dead stop.

Everybody took great pains to avoid looking at everybody else; while each face wore a painful expression of sham innocence. It was as if so many naughty children had been suddenly caught on the wrong side of the fence, the stolen fruit in their pockets. It was gone in less time than it takes for the telling; but it would have left the careful observer, had he been there, with the firm conviction that, for the first time in their conservative lives, the trustees of Saint Margaret's had come perilously near to giving themselves away.

In a twinkling the board sat at ease once more, and the President's habitual composure returned. "Will some one motion that we adopt the two measures we have suggested? This is not parliamentary, but we are all in a hurry."

"I motion that we keep the incurables for the present, and that Miss MacLean be requested to continue in charge." There was a note of relieved repression in the voice of the Executive Trustee as he made the motion; and he stretched his shoulders unconsciously.

"But you mustn't make any such motion." Margaret MacLean rose, reaching forth protesting hands. "You would spoil the very best thing that has happened for years and years. Just wait--wait until you have heard."

As she unfolded her letter the President's alert eye promptly compared it with the one behind him on the desk. "So--you have likewise heard from the widow of the Richest Trustee?"

She looked at him, puzzled. "Oh, you know! She has written you?"

"Not what she has written you, I judge. One could hardly term our communication 'the best thing that has happened in years.'" And again a smile twitched at the corners of the President's mouth.

"Then listen to this." Margaret MacLean read the letter eagerly:

"DEAE MARGARET MACLEAN,--There is a home standing on a hilltop--an hour's ride from the city. It belongs to a lonely old woman who finds that it is too large and too lonely for her to live in, and too full of haunting memories to be left empty. Therefore she wants to fill it with incurable children, and she would like to begin with the discarded ward of Saint Margaret's."

"That's a miserable way to speak of a lot of children," muttered the Disagreeable Trustee; but no one paid any attention, and Margaret MacLean went on:

"There is room now for about twenty beds; and annexes can easily be added as fast as the need grows. This lonely old woman would consider it a great kindness if you will take charge; she would also like to have you persuade the House Surgeon that it is high time for him to become Senior Surgeon, and the new home is the place for him to begin.

Together we should be able to equip it without delay; so that the children could be moved direct from Saint Margaret's. It is the whim of this old woman to call it a 'Home for Curables'--which, of course, is only a whim. Will you come to see me as soon as you can and let us talk it over?"

Margaret MacLean folded the letter slowly and put it back in its envelope. "You see," she said, the little-girl look spreading over her face--"you see, you mustn't take us back again. I could not possibly refuse, even if I wanted to; it is just what the children have longed for--and wished for--and--"

"We are not going to give up the ward; she would have to start her home with other children." The Dominant Trustee announced it flatly.

Strangely enough, the faces of his fellow-directors corroborated his a.s.sertion. Often the value of a collection drops so persistently in the estimate of its possessor that he begins to contemplate exchanging it for something more up to date or interesting. But let a rival collector march forth with igniting enthusiasm and proclaim a desire for the scorned objects, and that very moment does the possessor tighten his grip on them and add a decimal or two to their value. So was it with the trustees of Saint Margaret's. For the first time in their lives they desired the incurable ward and wished to retain it.

"Not only do we intend to keep the children, but there are many improvements I shall suggest to the board when there is more time. I should like to insist on a more careful supervision of--curious visitors." And the Oldest Trustee raised her lorgnette and compa.s.sed the gathering with a look that challenged dispute.

Margaret MacLean's face became unaccountably old and tired. The vision that had seemed so close, so tangible, so ready to be made actual, had suddenly retreated beyond her reach, and she was left as empty of heart and hand as she had been before. For a moment her whole figure seemed to crumple; and then she shook herself together into a resisting, fighting force again.

"You can't keep the children, after this. Think, think what it means to them--a home in the country, on a hilltop, trees and birds and flowers all about. Many of them could wheel themselves out of doors, and the others could have hammocks and cots under the trees. Forget for this once that you are trustees, and think what it means to the children."

"But can't you understand?" urged the President, "we feel a special interest in these children. They are beginning to belong to us--as you do, yourself, for that matter."

The little-girl look came rus.h.i.+ng into Margaret MacLean's face, flooding it with wistfulness. "It's a little hard to believe--this belonging to anybody. Yesterday I seemed to be the only person who wanted me at all, and I wasn't dreadfully keen about it myself." Then she clapped her hands with the suddenness of an idea. "After all, it's the children who are really most concerned. Why shouldn't we ask them?

Of course I know it is very much out of the accustomed order of things, but why not try it? Couldn't we?"

Anxiously she scanned the faces about her. There was surprise, amus.e.m.e.nt, but no dissent. The Disagreeable Trustee smiled secretly behind his hand; it appealed to his latent sense of humor.

"It would be rather a Balaam and his a.s.s affair, but, as Miss MacLean suggests, why not try it?" he asked.

Margaret MacLean did not wait an instant longer. She turned to the House Surgeon. "Bring Bridget down, quickly."

As he disappeared obediently through the door she faced the trustees, as she had faced them once before, on the day previous. "Bridget will know better than any one else what will make the children happiest.

Now wouldn't it be fun"--and she smiled adorably--"if you should all play you were faery G.o.dparents, for once in your lifetime, and give Bridget her choice, whatever it may be?"