It is a far cry from a primrose ring to a disbanded board meeting; but
Fancy bridged it in a twinkling and without an effort. She blew the
trustees off the door-step of Saint Margaret's, homeward, with an
insistent buzzing of "ifs" and "buts" in their ears, and the faint
woodsy odor of primroses under their noses.
To each member of the board entering his own home, unsupported by the
presence of his fellow-members and the scientific zeal of the Senior
Surgeon, the business of the afternoon began to change its aspect. For
some unaccountable reason--unless we take Fancy into the
reckoning--this sudden abandoning of Ward C did not seem the simple
matter of an hour previous; while in perspective even Margaret
MacLean's outspokenness became less heinous and more human.
As they settled themselves for the evening, each quietly and alone
after his or her particular fashion of comfort, the "ifs" and "buts"
were still buzzing riotously; while the primroses, although forgotten,
clung persistently to the frills or coat lapels where the Youngest and
Prettiest Trustee had put them. There it was that Fancy slipped
unnoticed over the threshold of library, den, and boudoir in turn; and
with a glint of mischief in her eyes she set the stage in each place to
her own liking, while she summoned whatever players she chose to do her
bidding.
Now the trustees were very different from the children in the matter of
telling what they remembered of that May Eve. Of course they were
hampered with all the self-consciousness and skepticism of grown-ups,
which would make them quite unwilling to own up to anything strange or
out of the conventional path, not in a hundred years. Therefore I am
forced to leave their part of the telling to Fancy, and you may believe
or discredit as much or as little as you choose; only I am hoping that
by this time you have acquired at least a sprinkling of fern-seed in
your eyes. You may have forgotten that fern-seed is the most subtle of
eye-openers known to Fancy; and that it enables you to see the things
that have existed only in your imagination. It is very scarce
nowadays, and hard to find, for the bird-fanciers no longer keep
it--and the nursery-gardeners have forgotten how to grow it. In the
light of what happened afterward, I think you will agree that Fancy has
not been far wrong concerning the trustees; she has a way of putting
things a little differently, that is all.
To be sure, you may argue that it was all chance, conscience, or even
indigestion; because the trustees dined late they must have dined
heavily. But if you do, you know very well that Fancy will answer:
"Poof! Nothing of the kind. It was a simple matter of primrose magic
and--faeries; nothing else." And she ought to know, for she was there.
The President began it.
He sat in his den, yawning over the annual report of the United
Charities; he had already yawned a score of times, and the type had
commenced running together in a zigzagging line that baffled
deciphering. The President inserted a finger in the report to mark his
place, making a mental note to consult his oculist the following day;
after which he leaned back and closed his eyes for the space of a
moment--to clear his vision.
When he opened his eyes again his vision had cleared to such an extent
that he was quite positive he was seeing things that were not in the
room. Little shadowy figures haunted the dark places: corners, and
curtained recesses, and the unlighted hall beyond. They peered at him
shyly, with such witching, happy faces and eyes that laughed coaxingly.
The President found himself peering back at them and scrutinizing the
faces closely. Oddly enough he could recognize many, not by name, of
course, but he could place them in the many institutions over which he
presided. It was very evident that they were expecting something of
him; they were looking at him that way. For once in his life he was at
loss for the correct thing to say. He tried closing his eyes two or
three times to see if he could not blink them into vanishing; but when
he looked again there they were, more eager-eyed than before.
"Well," he found himself saying at last--"well, what is it?"
That was all; but it brought the children like a Hamlin troop to the
piper's cry--flocking about him unafraid. Never in all his charitable
life had he ever had children gather about him and look up at him this
way. Little groping hands pulled at his cuffs or steadied themselves
on his knee; more venturesome ones slipped into his or hunted their way
into his coat pockets. They were such warm, friendly, trusting little
hands--and the faces; the President of Saint Margaret's Free Hospital
for Children caught himself wondering why in all his charitable
experience he had never had a child overstep a respectful distance
before, or look at him save with a strange, alien expression.
He sat very still for fear of frightening them off; he liked the warmth
and friendliness of their little bodies pressed close to him; there was
something pleasantly hypnotic in the feeling of small hands tugging at
him. Suddenly he became conscious of a change in the children's faces;
the gladness was fading out and in its place was creeping a perplexed,
questioning sorrow.
"Don't." And the President patted assuringly as many little backs as
he could reach. "What--what was it you expected?"
He was answered by a quivering of lips and more insistent tugs at his
pockets. It flashed upon him--out of some dim memory--that children
liked surprises discovered unexpectedly in some one's pockets. Was
this why they had searched him out? He found himself frantically
wishing that he had something stowed away somewhere for them. His
hands followed theirs into all the numerous pockets he possessed;
trousers, coat, and vest were searched twice over; they were even
turned inside out in the last hope of disclosing just one surprise.
"I should think," said the President, addressing himself, "that a man
might keep something pleasant in empty pockets. What are pockets for,
anyway?"
The children shook their heads sorrowfully.
"Wouldn't to-morrow do?" he suggested, hopefully; but there was no
response from the children, and the weight that had been settling down
upon him, in the region of his chest, noticeably increased. He tried
to shake it off, it was so depressing--like the accruing misfortune of
some pending event.
"Don't shake," said a voice behind him; "that isn't your misfortune.
You will only shake it off on the children, and it's time enough for
them to bear it when they wake up in the morning and find out--"
"Find out what?" The President asked it fearfully.
"Find out--find out--" droned the voice, monotonously.
The President sat up very straight in his chair. "The children--the
children." He remembered now--they were the children from the
incurable ward at Saint Margaret's.
He sank back with a feeling of great helplessness, and closed his eyes
again. And there he sat, immovable, his finger still marking his place
in the report of the United Charities.
The Oldest Trustee sat alone, knitting comforters for the Preventorium
patients. Like many another elderly person, her usual retiring hour
was later than that of the younger members of her household,
undoubtedly due to the frequent cat-naps snatched from the evening.
The Oldest Trustee had a habit of knitting the day's events in with her
yarn. What she had done and said and heard were all thought over again
to the rhythmic click of her needles. And the results at the end of
the evening were usually a finished comforter and a comfortable
feeling. This night, however, the knitting lagged and the thoughts
were unaccountably dissatisfying; she could not even settle down to a
cat-nap with the habitual serenity.
"I don't know why I should feel disturbed," and the Oldest Trustee
prodded her yarn ball with a disquieting needle, "but I certainly miss
the usual gratification of a day well spent."
She closed her eyes, hoping thereby to lose herself for the space of a
moment, but instead-- She was startled to hear voices at her very
elbow; a number of persons must have entered the room, but how they
could have done so without her knowing it she could not understand. Of
course they thought her asleep; it was just as well to let them think
so. She really felt too tired to talk.
"Mother's undoubtedly growing old. Have you noticed how much she naps
in the evening, now?" It was the voice of her youngest daughter.
"I heard her telling some one the other day she was five years younger
than she is. That's a sure sign," and her son laughed an amused little
chuckle.
"I can tell you a surer one." This time it was her oldest
daughter--her first-born. "Haven't you noticed how all mother's little
peculiarities are growing on her? She is getting so much more
dictatorial and preachy. Of course, we know that mother means to be
kind and helpful, but she has always been so--tactless--and blunt; and
it's growing worse and worse."
"I have often wondered how all her charity people take her; it must
come tough on them, sometimes. Gee! Can't you see her raising those
lorgnettes of hers and saying, 'My good boy, do you read your Bible?'
or, 'My little girl, I hope you remember to be grateful for all you
receive.' Say, wouldn't you hate to have charity stuffed down your
throat that way?" and the oldest and favorite grandson groaned out his
feelings.
"That isn't what I should mind the most." It was the youngest daughter
speaking again. "I've been with mother when she has made remarks about
the patients in the hospital, loud enough for them to hear, and I was
so mortified I wanted to sink through the floor, And you simply can't
shut mother up. Of course she doesn't realize how it sounds; she
doesn't believe they hear her, but I know they do. I wonder how mother
would like to have us stand around her--and we know her and love
her--and have us say she was getting deaf, or her hair was coming out,
or her memory was beginning to fail, or--"
The Oldest Trustee smiled grimly. "Oh, don't stop, my dear. If there
is any other failing you can think of--" She opened her eyes with a
start. "Goodness gracious!" she exclaimed. "My grandson is in college
five hundred miles away, and my daughter is abroad. Have I been
dreaming?"
The Meanest Trustee unlocked the drawer of his desk and took out a
cigar. He did not intend that his sons or his servants should smoke at
his expense; furthermore, it was well not to spread temptation before
others. He took up the evening paper and examined the creases
carefully. He wished to make sure it had not been unfolded before;
being the one to pay for the news in his house, he preferred to be the
first one to read it. The creases proved perfectly satisfactory; so he
lighted his cigar, crossed his feet, and settled himself--content in
his own comfort. The smoke spun into spirals about his head; and after
he had skimmed the cream of the day's events he read more leisurely,
stopping to watch the spirals with a certain lazy enjoyment. They
seemed to grow increasingly larger. They spun themselves about into
all kinds of shapes, wavering and illusive, that defied the somewhat
atrophied imagination of the Meanest Trustee.
"Hallucinations," he barked to himself. "I believe I understand now
what is implied when people are said to have them."
Suddenly the spirals commenced to lengthen downward instead of upward.
To the amazement of the Meanest Trustee he discovered them shifting
into human shapes: here was the form of a child, here a youth, here a
lover and his lass, here a little old dame, and scores more; while into
the corners of the room drifted others that turned into the drollest of
droll pipers--with kilt and brata and cap. It made him feel as if he
had been dropped into the center of a giant kaleidoscope, with
thousands of pieces of gray smoke turning, at the twist of a hand, into
form and color, motion and music. The pipers piped; the figures
danced, whirling and whirling about him, and their laughter could be
heard above the pipers' music.
"Stop!" barked the Meanest Trustee at last; but they only danced the
faster. "Stop!" And he shook his fist at the pipers, who played
louder and merrier. "Stop!" And he pounded the arms of his chair with
both hands. "I hate music! I hate children! I hate noise and
confusion! Stop! I say."
Still the pipers played and the figures danced on; and the Meanest
Trustee was compelled to hear and see. To him it seemed an
interminable time. He would have stopped his ears with his fingers and
shut his eyes, only, strangely enough, he could not. But at last it
all came to an end--the figures floated laughing away, and the pipers
came and stood about him, their caps in their hands out-stretched
before him.