Part 7 (1/2)
”I hope it will mean a load off our purses. That ward and that nurse have always wanted things, and had them, that they had no business wanting. I hope we can save a substantial sum now for the endowment fund.”
The Oldest Trustee smiled tolerantly. ”Of course it isn't as if the cases were not hopeless. I can see no object, however, in making concessions and sacrifices to keep in the hospital cases that cannot be cured; and, no doubt, we can place them most satisfactorily in state inst.i.tutions for orphans or deficients.”
At that moment the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee spied the primroses on the President's desk--she had been too engrossed in the surgical profession to observe much apart. ”I believe I'm going to decorate you.” And she dimpled up at the Senior Surgeon, coquettishly.
Selecting one of the blossoms with great care, she drew it through the b.u.t.tonhole in his lapel. ”See, I'm decorating you with the Order of the Golden Primrose--for brilliancy.” Whereupon she dropped her eyes becomingly.
”Good Lord!” muttered the Disagreeable Trustee to the President, his eye focused on the two. ”She'll fetch him this time. And she'll have him so hypnotized with all this chirping and dancing business that he'll be perfectly helpless in a month, or I miss--”
The Youngest and Prettiest Trustee looked up just in time to intercept that eye, and she attacked it with a saucy little stare. ”I believe you are both jealous,” she flung over her shoulder. But the very next moment she was dimpling again. ”I believe I am going to decorate everybody--including myself. I'm sure we all deserve it for our loyal support of Science.” She, likewise, always spelled it with a capital, having acquired the habit from the Senior Surgeon.
She s.n.a.t.c.hed a cl.u.s.ter of primroses from the green Devons.h.i.+re bowl; and one was fastened securely in the lapel or frill of every trustee, not even omitting the gray wisp of a woman by the door.
And so it came to pa.s.s that every member of the board of Saint Margaret's Free Hospital for Children went home on May Eve with one of the faeries' own flowers tucked somewhere about his or her person.
Moreover, they went home at precisely three minutes and twenty-two seconds past seven by the clock on the tower--the astronomical time for the sun to go down on the 30th of April. Crack went all the combination locks on all the faery raths, spilling the Little People over all the world; and creak went the gates of Tir-na-n'Og, swinging wide open for wandering mortals to come back.
As the trustees left the hospital the Senior Surgeon turned into the cross-corridor for his case, still gay with his Order of the Golden Primrose; and there, at the foot of the stairs, he ran into Margaret MacLean. They faced each other for the merest fraction of a breath, both conscious and embarra.s.sed; then she glimpsed the flower in his coat and a cry of surprise escaped her.
He smiled, almost foolishly. ”I thought they--it--looked rather pretty and--spring-like,” he began, by way of explanation. His teeth ground together angrily; he sounded absurd, and he knew it. Furthermore, it was inexcusable of her to corner him in this fas.h.i.+on.
Now Margaret MacLean knew well enough that he would never have discovered the prettiness of anything by himself--not in a century of springtimes, and she sensed the truth.
”Did she decorate you?” she inquired, with an irritating little curl of her lips. The Senior Surgeon's self-confessed blush lent speed to her tongue. ”I think I might be privileged to ask what it was for. You see, I presented the flowers to the board meeting. Was it for self-sacrifice?” Her eyes challenged his.
”You are capable of talking more nonsense and being more impertinent than any nurse I have ever known. May I pa.s.s?” His eyes returned her challenge, blazing.
But she never moved; the mind-string once broken, there seemed to be no limit to the thoughts that could come tumbling off the end of her tongue. Her eyes went back to the flower in his coat.
”Perhaps you would like to know that I bought those this morning because they seemed the very breath of spring itself--a bit of promise and gladness. I thought they would keep the day going right.”
”Well, they have--for me.” And the Senior Surgeon could not resist a look of triumph.
”The trustees”--she drew in a quick breath and put out a steadying hand on the banisters--”you mean--they have given up the incurable ward?”
He nodded. His voice took on a more genial tone. He felt he could generously afford to be pleasant and patient toward the one who had not succeeded. ”It was something that was bound to happen sooner or later.
Can't you see that yourself? But I am sorry, very sorry for you.”
Suddenly, and for the first time in their long sojourn together in Saint Margaret's, he became wholly conscious of the girl before him.
He realized that Margaret MacLean had grown into a vital and vitalizing personality--a force with which those who came in contact would have to reckon. She stood before him now, frozen into a gray, accusing figure.
”Are you ill?” he found himself asking.
”No.”
He s.h.i.+fted his weight uneasily to the other foot. ”Is there anything you want?”
Her face softened into the little-girl look. Her eyes brimmed with a sadness past remedy. ”What a funny question from you--you, who have taken from me the only thing I ever let myself want--the love and dependence of those children. Success, and having whatever you want, are such common things with you, that you must count them very cheap; but you can't judge what they mean to others--or what they may cost them.”