Part 16 (2/2)
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?”
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