The Primrose Ring by Ruth Sawyer

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"Perhaps--perhaps," she stammered, pitifully, "after what I have said
you would rather I did not stay on--in charge of Ward C?"

The Dominating Trustee rose abruptly. "Mr. President, I suggest that
we act upon Miss MacLean's resignation at once."

"I second the motion," came in a quick bark from the Meanest Trustee,
while the Oldest Trustee could be heard quoting, "Sharper than a
serpent's tooth--"

The Executive Trustee rose, looking past Margaret MacLean as he spoke.
"In view of the fact that we shall possibly discontinue the incurable
ward, and that Miss MacLean seems wholly unsatisfied with our methods
and supervision here, I motion that her resignation be accepted now,
and that she shall be free to leave Saint Margaret's when her month
shall have expired,"

"I second the motion," came from the Social Trustee, while she added to
the Calculating, who happened to be sitting next: "So ill-bred. It
just shows that a person can never be educated above her station in
life."

The President rose. "The motion has been made and seconded. Will you
please signify by raising your hands if it is your wish that Miss
MacLean's resignation be accepted at once?"

Hand after hand went up. Only the little gray wisp of a woman in the
chair by the door sat with her hands still folded on her lap.

"It is, so to speak, a unanimous vote." There was a strong hint of
approval in the President's voice. He was a good man; but he belonged
to that sect which holds as one of the main articles of its faith, "I
believe in the infallibility of the rich."

"Can any one tell me when Miss MacLean's time expires?"

The person under discussion answered for herself. "On the last day of
the month, Mr. President."

"Oh, very well." He was extremely polite in his manner. "We thank you
for your very full and--hmm--comprehensive report. After to-night you
are excused from your duties at Saint Margaret's."

The President bowed her courteously out of the board-room, while the
primroses in the green Devonshire bowl on his desk still nodded
guilelessly.

V

ODDS AND ENDS

Margaret MacLean walked the length of the first corridor; once out of
sight and hearing, she tore up the stairs, her cheeks crimson and her
eyes suspiciously moist. Before she had reached the second flight the
House Surgeon overtook her.

"I wish," he panted behind her, trying his best to look the big-brother
way of old--"I wish you'd wait a moment. This habit of yours of always
walking up is a beastly one."

"Don't worry about it." There was a sharp, metallic ring in her voice
that made it unnatural. "That's one habit that will soon be broken."

The House Surgeon smiled rather helplessly; inside he was making one of
the few prayers of his life--a prayer to keep Margaret MacLean free of
bitterness. "There is something I want to say to you," he began.

She broke in feverishly: "No, there isn't! And I don't want to hear
it. I don't want to hear you're sorry. I don't want to hear they'll
be taken care of--somewhere--somehow. I think I should scream if you
told me it was bound to happen--or will all turn out for the best."

"I had no intention of saying any of those things--in fact, they hadn't
even entered my mind. What I was going to--"

"Oh, I know. You were going to remind me of what you said this
morning. Almost prophetic, wasn't it?" And there was a strong touch
of irony in her laugh. She turned on him crushingly. "Perhaps you
knew it all along. Perhaps it was your way of letting me down gently."

"See here," said the House Surgeon, bluntly, "that's the second
disagreeable thing you've said to-day. I don't think it's quite
square. Do you?"

"No!" Her lips quivered; her hands reached out toward his impulsively.
"I don't know why I keep saying things I know are not true. I'm
perfectly--unforgivably horrid."

As impulsively he took both hands, turned them palm uppermost, and
kissed them.

[Illustration: Impulsively he took both hands, turned them palm
uppermost, and kissed them.]

She snatched them away; the crimson in her cheeks deepened. "Don't,
please. Your pity only makes it harder. Oh, I don't know what has
happened--here--" And she struck her breast fiercely. "If--if they
send the children away I shall never believe in anything again; the
part of me that has believed and trusted and been glad will stop--it
will break all to pieces." With a hard, dry sob she left him, running
up the remaining stairs to Ward C. She did not see his arms reach
hungrily after her or the great longing in his face.

The House Surgeon turned and went downstairs again.

In the lower corridor he ran across the President, who was looking for
him. With much courtesy and circumlocution he was told the thing he
had been waiting to hear: the board, likewise, had discovered that
Saint Margaret's had suddenly grown too small to hold both the Senior
Surgeon and himself. Strangely enough, this troubled him little; there
are times in a man's life when even the most momentous of happenings
shrink into nothing beside the simple process of telling the girl he
loves that he loves her.

The President was somewhat startled by the House Surgeon's commonplace
acceptance of the board's decision; and he returned to the board-room
distinctly puzzled.

Meanwhile Margaret MacLean, having waited outside of Ward C for her
cheeks to cool and her eyes to dry, opened the door and went in.

Ward C had been fed by the assistant nurse and put to bed; that is, all
who could limp or wheel themselves about the room were back in their
cribs, and the others were no longer braced or bolstered up. As she
had expected, gloom canopied every crib and cot; beneath, eight small
figures, covered to their noses, shook with held-back sobs or wailed
softly. According to the custom that had unwittingly established
itself, Ward C was crying itself to sleep. Not that it knew what it
was crying about, it being merely a matter of atmosphere and unstrung
nerves; but that is cause enough to turn the mind of a sick child all
awry, twisting out happiness and twisting in peevish, fretful feelings.

She stood by the door, unnoticed, looking down the ward. Pancho lay
wound up in his blanket like a giant chrysalis, rolling in silent
misery. Sandy was stretched as straight and stiff as if he had been
"laid out"; his eyes were closed, and there was a stolid,
expressionless set to his features. Margaret MacLean knew that it
betokened much internal disturbance. Susan, ex-philosopher, was
sobbing aloud, pulling with rebellious fingers at the pieces of iron
that kept her head where nature had planned it. The Apostles gripped
hands and moaned in unison, while Peter hugged his blanket, seeking
thereby some consolation for the dispelled Toby. Toby persistently
refused to be conjured up on Trustee Days.

Only Bridget was alert and watchful. One hand was slipped through the
bars of Rosita's crib, administering comforting pats to the rhythmic
croon of an Irish reel. Every once in a while her eyes would wander to
the neighboring cots with the disquiet of an over-troubled mother; the
only moments of real unhappiness or worry Bridget ever knew were those
which brought sorrow to the ward past her power of mending.

To Margaret MacLean, standing there, it seemed unbearable--as if life
had suddenly become too sinister and cruel to strike at souls so little
and helpless as these. There were things one could never explain in
terms of God. She found herself wondering if that was why the Senior
Surgeon worshiped science; and she shivered.

The room had become repellent; it was a sepulchral place entombing all
she had lost. In the midst of the dusk and gloom her mind groped
about--after its habit--for something cheerful, something that would
break the colorless monotone of the room and change the atmosphere. In
a flash she remembered the primroses; and the remembrance brought a
smile.

"They're nothing but charlatans," she thought, "but the children will
never find that out, and they'll be something bright for them to wake
up to in the morning."

This was what sent her down the stairs again, just as the board meeting
adjourned.

Now the board adjourned with thumbs down--signifying that the incurable
ward was no more, as far as the future of Saint Margaret's was
concerned. The trustees stirred in their chairs with a comfortable
relaxing of joint and muscle, as if to say, "There, that is a piece of
business well despatched; nothing like methods of conservation and
efficiency, you know." Only the little gray wisp of a woman by the
door sat rigid, her hands still folded on her lap.

The Oldest Trustee had just remarked to the Social Trustee that all the
things gossip had said of the widow of the Richest Trustee were
undoubtedly true--she was a nonentity--when the Senior Surgeon dropped
in. This was according to the President's previous request. That
gentleman of charitable parts had implied that there would undoubtedly
be good news and congratulations awaiting him. This did not mean that
the board intended to slight its duty and fail to consider the matter
of the incurables with due conscientiousness--the board was as strong
for conscience as for conservation. It merely went to show that the
fate of Ward C had been preordained from the beginning; and that the
President felt wholly justified in requesting the presence of the
Senior Surgeon at the end of the meeting.

His appearance called forth such a laudatory buzzing of tongues and
such a cordial shaking of hands that one might have easily mistaken the
meeting for a successful political rally or a religious revival. The
Youngest and Prettiest Trustee fluttered about him, chirping ecstatic
expletives, while the Disagreeable Trustee watched her and growled to
himself.

"So splendid," she chirped, "the unanimous indorsement of the board--at
least, practically unanimous." And she eyed the widow of the Richest
Trustee accusingly.

"The incurable ward and Margaret MacLean have really been a terrible
responsibility, haven't they? I can't help feeling it will mean quite
a load off our minds." It was the Social Trustee who spoke, and she
followed it with a little sigh of relief.

The sigh was echoed twice--thrice--about the room. Then the Meanest
Trustee barked out:

"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
institutions 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
buttonhole 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 snatched a cluster of primroses from the green Devonshire 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 pass 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 embarrassed; 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 fashion.

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 pass?" 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 shifted 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."

"As I said before, I am sorry, very sorry you have lost your position
here; but you have no one but yourself to blame for that. I should
have been very glad to have you remain in the new surgical ward; you
are one of the best operative nurses I ever had." He added this in all
justice to her; and to mitigate, if he could, his own feeling of
discomfort.

Margaret MacLean smiled grimly. "Thank you. I was not referring to
the loss of my position, however; that matters very little."

"It should matter." The voice of the Senior Surgeon became instantly
professional. "Every nurse should put her work, satisfactorily and
scientifically executed, before everything else. That is where you are
radically weak. Let me remind you that it is your sole business to
look after the physical betterment of your patients--nothing else; and
the sooner you give up all this sentimental, fanciful nonsense the
sooner you will succeed."

"You are wrong. I should never succeed that way--never. Some cases
may need only the bodily care--maybe; but you are a very poor doctor,
after all, if you think that is all that children need--or half the
grown-ups. There are more people ailing with mind-sickness and
heart-sickness, as well as body-sickness, than the world would guess,
and you've just got to nurse the whole of them. You will succeed,
whether you ever find this out or not; but you will miss a great deal
out of your life."

Anger was rekindling in the eyes of the Senior Surgeon; and Margaret
MacLean, seeing, grew gentle--all in a minute.

"Oh, I wish I could make you understand. You have always been so
strong and well and sufficient unto yourself, it's hard, I suppose, to
be able to think or see life through the iron slats of a hospital crib.
Just make believe you had been a little crippled boy, with nothing
belonging to you, nothing back of you to remember, nothing happy coming
to you but what the nurses or the doctors or the trustees thought to
bring. And then make believe you were cured and grew up. Wouldn't you
remember what life had been in that hospital crib, and wouldn't you
fight to make it happier for the children coming after you? Why, the
incurable ward was my whole life--home, family, friends, work;
everything wrapped up in nine little crippled bodies. It was all I
asked or expected of life. Oh, I can tell you that a foundling, with
questionable ancestry, with no birth-record or blood-inheritance to
boast of, claims very little of the every-day happiness that comes to
other people. And yet I was so glad to be alive--and strong and needed
by those children that I could have been content all my life with just
that."

The Senior Surgeon cleared his throat, preparatory to making some
comment, but the nurse raised a silencing finger.

"Wait! there is one thing more. What you have taken from me is the
smallest part. The children pay double--treble as much. I pay only
with my heart and faith; they pay with their whole lives. Remember
that when you install your new surgical ward--and don't reckon it too
cheap."

She left him still clearing his throat; and when she came out of the
board-room a few seconds later with the green Devonshire bowl in her
arms he had disappeared.

Margaret MacLean found Ward C as she had left it. As she was putting
down the primroses, on the table in the center of the room she caught
Bridget's white face beckoning to her eagerly. Softly she went over to
her cot.

"What is it, dear?"

"Miss Peggie darlin', if ye'd only give me leave to talk quiet I'd have
the childher cheered up in no time."

"Would you promise not to make any noise?"

"Promise on m' heart! I'll have 'em all asleep quicker 'n nothin'. Ye
see, just."

"Very well. I'll be back after supper to see if the promise has been
kept." She stooped, brushed away the curls, and kissed the little
white forehead. "Oh, Bridget! Bridget! no matter what happens, always
remember to keep happy!"

"Sure an' I will," agreed Bridget; and she watched the nurse go out,
much puzzled.

VI

THE PRIMROSE RING

Bridget, oldest of the ward, general caretaker and best beloved,
hunched herself up on her pillows until she was sitting reasonably
straight, and clapped her hands. "Whist!" she called, softly. "Whist
there, all o' ye! What's ailin'?"

Eight woebegone pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

"Ye needn't be afeared o' speakin'. Miss Peggie give us leave to talk
quiet."

"It's them trusters," wailed Peter. "They come a-peekin' round to see
we don't get well."

"They alters calls us 'uncurables,'" moaned Susan.

"Pig of water-drinking Americans!" came from the last cot.

"Ye shut up, Michael! Who did ye ever hear say that?"

"Mine fader." And Michael spat in a perfect imitation thereof.

"Well, don't ye ever say it ag'in--do ye hear? Miss Peggie's American,
and so's the House Surgeon, an' it's the next best thing to bein'
Irish--which every one can't be, the Lord knows. Now them trusters is
heathen, an' they don't know nothin' more'n heathen, an' we ought to be
easy on 'em for bein' so ignorant."

"They ken us 'll nae mair be gettin' weel," said Sandy, mournfully.

"Aw, ye're talkin' foolish entirely. What do ye think that C on the
door means?"

A silence, significant of much brain-racking, followed.

"C stands for children," announced Susan, triumphantly.

"Aye, it does that, but there be's somethin' more."

"Crutches," suggested Pancho, tentatively.

"Aw, go on wid ye," laughed Bridget. "Ye're 'way off." She paused a
moment impressively. "C means 'cured.' '_Childher Cured_,' that's
what! Now all we've got to do is to forget trusters an' humps an'
pains an' them disagreeable things, an' think o' somethin' pleasant."

"Ain't nothin' pleasant ter think of in er horspital," wailed John, the
present disheartenment clouding over all past happiness.

"Ain't, neither," agreed James.

"Aye, there be," contradicted Sandy. "Dinna ye ken the wee gray woman
'at cam creepity round an' smiled?"

"She was nice," said Susan, with obvious approval. "Do ye think, now,
she might ha' been me aunt?"

A chorus of positive negation settled all further speculation, while
Bridget bluntly inquired. "Honest to goodness, Susan, do ye think the
likes o' ye could belong to the likes o' that?"

Pancho broke the painful silence by reverting to the original topic in
hand. "Mi' Peggie pleasant too," he suggested, smiling adorably.

"But we've not got either of 'em no longer, so they're no good now,"
Peter unfortunately reminded every one.

"Don't ye know there be's always somethin' pleasant to think about if
ye just hunt round a bit, an' things an' feelin's never get that bad ye
can't squeeze out some pleasantment. Don't ye mind the time the
trusters had planned to give us all paint-boxes for Christmas, an' half
of us not able to hold a brush, let alone paint things, an' Miss Peggie
blarneyed them round into givin' us books? Don't ye mind? Now we've
got somethin' pleasant here, right now--" And Bridget smiled.

"What?"

"May Eve."

"What's that?"

"'Tain't nothin'," said Susan, sliding back disappointedly on her
pillow.

"Sure an' it is," said Bridget; "it's somethin' grand."

"'Tain't nothin'," persisted Susan, "but a May party in Cen'ral Park.
Every one takes somethin' ter eat in a box, an' the boys play ball an'
the girls dance round, an' the cops let you run on the grass. I knows
all about it, fer my sister Katie was 'queen' onct."

"We couldn't play ball, ner run on the grass, ner anything," said
Peter, regretfully.

"'Tisn't what Susan says at all," said Bridget, by way of consolation.
"If ye'll harken to me a minute, just, I'll be afther tellin' ye what
it is."

Ward C became instantly silent--hopefully expectant; Bridget had led
them into pleasant places too often for them not to believe in her
implicitly and do what she said.

"May Eve," began Bridget, slowly, "is the night o' the year when the
faeries come throopin' out o' the ground to fly about on twigs o' thorn
an' dance to the music o' the faery pipers. They're all dthressed in
wee green jackets an' caps, an' 'tis grand luck to any that sees them.
And all the wishes good childher make on May Eve are sure to come
thrue." She stopped a moment. "Let's make believe; let's make
believe--" Her eyes fell on the primroses, and for the first time she
recognized them. "Holy Saint Bridget! them's faery primroses!"

Ward C was properly impressed. Eight little figures sat up as straight
as they could; eight pairs of eager eyes followed Bridget's pointing
finger and gazed in speechless wonder at the green Devonshire bowl.

"Do ye think, Sandy, that ye could scrooch out o' bed an' hump yerself
over to them? If Pether tries he's sure to tumble over, an' some one
might hear."

Sandy looked at the flowers without enthusiasm. "Phat are ye wantin'
wi' 'em?"

"I'll tell ye when ye get there. Just thry; ye'll be yondther afore ye
know it."

Cautiously Sandy rolled over on his stomach and pushed two shrunken
little legs out from the covers. Putting them gingerly to the floor,
he stood up, holding fast to the bed; then working his way from bed to
bed, he reached the table at last, spurred on by Bridget's irresistible
blarney:

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