Everybody woke with a start on the morning following the 30th of April;
things began to happen even before the postman had made his first
rounds. The operators at the telephone switchboards were rushed at an
unconscionably early hour, considering that their station compassed the
Avenue. The President was trying to get the trustees, Saint
Margaret's, and the Senior Surgeon; the trustees were trying to get one
another; while the Senior Surgeon was rapidly covering the distance
between his home and the hospital--his mind busy with a multitude of
things, none of which he had ever written with capitals.
Saint Margaret's was astir before its usual hour; there was a tang of
joyousness in the air, and everybody's heart and mind, strangely
enough, seemed to be in festal attire, although nobody was outwardly
conscious of it. It was all the more inexplicable because Saint
Margaret's had gone to bed miserable, and events naturally pointed
toward depression: Margaret MacLean's coming departure, the abandoning
of Ward C, the House Surgeon's resignation, and Michael's empty crib.
Ward C had wakened with a laugh. Margaret MacLean, who had been moving
noiselessly about the room for some time, picking up the withered
remains of the primrose ring, looked up with apprehension. The tears
she had shed over Michael's crib were quite dry, and she had a brave
little speech on the end of her tongue ready for the children's
awakening. Eight pairs of sleepy eyes were rubbed open, and then
unhesitatingly turned in the direction of the empty crib in the corner.
"Michael has gone away." she said, softly, steadying her voice with
great care. "He has gone where he will be well--and his heart sound
and strong."
She was wholly unprepared for the children's response. It was so
unexpected, in fact, that for the moment she tottered perilously near
the verge of hysterics. The children actually grinned; while Bridget
remarked, with a chuckle:
"Ye are afther meanin' that he didn't come back--that's what!" And
then she added, as an afterthought, "He said to tell ye 'God bless ye,'
Miss Peggie."
Margaret MacLean did not know whether to be shocked or glad that the
passing of a comrade had brought no sign of grief. Instead of being
either, she went on picking up the primroses and wondering. As for the
children, they lay back peacefully in their beds, their eyes laughing
riotously. And every once in a while they would look over at one
another, giving the funniest little expressive nods, which seemed to
say: "I know what you're thinking about, and you know what I'm thinking
about, so what's the need of talking. But when is it going to happen?"
The House Surgeon brought up her mail; it was an excuse to see her
again before his official visit. "Are the children very much broken up
over it?" he asked, anxiously, outside the door.
For answer Margaret MacLean beckoned him and pointed to the eight
occupied cots--unquestionably serene and happy.
"Well, I'll be--" began the House Surgeon, retiring precipitously back
to the door again; but the nurse put a silencing finger over his lips.
"Hush, dear! The children are probably clearer visioned than we are.
I have the distinct feeling this morning of being very blind and
stupid, while they seem--oh, so wise."
The House Surgeon grunted expressively. "Well, perhaps they won't take
your going away so dreadfully to heart--now; or theirs, for that
matter."
"I hope not," and then she smiled wistfully. "But I thought you told
me last night we were all going together? At any rate, I am not going
to tell them anything. If it must be it must be, and I shall slip off
quietly, when the children are napping, and leave the trustees to tell."
She looked her mail over casually; there were the usual number of
advertisements, a letter from one of the nurses who had gone South, and
another in an unfamiliar hand-writing. She tore off the corner of the
last, and, running her finger down the flap, she commented:
"Looks like quality. A letter outside the profession is a very rare
thing for me."
She read the letter through without a sound, and then she read it
again, the House Surgeon watching, the old big-brother look gone for
ever from his face, and in its place a worshipful proprietorship. The
effect of the letter was undeniably Aprilish; she looked up at the
House Surgeon with the most radiant of smiles, while her eyes spilled
recklessly over.
"How did you know it? How did you know it?" she repeated.
He was trying his best to find out what it was all about when one of
the nurses came hurrying down the corridor.
"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 passed 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 attitude 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 institution 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 ravishingly 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
assistance, 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-fashion, and waited expectantly for a clash of steel.
Instead the Senior Surgeon stepped forward, rather pink and
embarrassed. "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?"