Surgeon of Distinction

by Mary Burchell

  “I don’t want you to miss that train,” he explained. “It’s the last one.”

  Alma murmured some suitable reply and hastily re-entered the car. But after that she relapsed into silence, ostensibly so as to leave her companion free to concentrate on the driving, but actually because she felt she must have a few minutes to herself in which to reflect on Miss Perring’s extraordinary pronouncement.

  Could she possibly have been serious when she made that incredible statement to Geraldine? And, if so, did she really suppose she could influence her brother to any extent in such a personal matter?

  “Or me either, come to that!” thought Alma, a little indignant when she reflected on the arbitrary way her own future had been mapped out. “But then she doesn’t know that I love Jeremy, and only Jeremy—and always will.”

  Not that the girl who married Maxwell Perring would not be a very lucky girl. But that was really not the point.

  She stole a glance at him in the light from the dashboard. And, although she was unaware of it, Miss Perring’s remarks made her view him for the first time more as a man and less as a surgeon.

  He really was very good-looking, in a somewhat stern way, she thought. At least, he looked stem just now, as he concentrated on driving along the narrow lanes in the darkness. But he could, she knew, show flashes of half mocking humor which were oddly attractive—Or she supposed they would be so to many women.

  “Not only many women,” she reflected honestly, after a moment. “I think he’s very attractive too. Only—he isn’t Jeremy.”

  That was all there was to it. He was not Jeremy. And that simple fact made nonsense of any absurd planning Miss Perring might undertake.

  Even so, it was impossible not to feel a rush of gratitude and friendly feeling towards Maxwell Perring for his kindness and interest in her. And, when they reached the station to find there were still ten minutes to wait for the train, she was frankly glad of his company as they strolled up and down the platform together.

  “Would it disturb you if I mentioned the subject of Jeremy Truscott again?” he enquired, after a minute or two.

  “N-not really—no,” Alma said, but with some hesitation.

  “Well, I see it would.” He smiled, she saw in the light of a lamp they were passing. “But, all the same, I am going to ask you something. You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to. Was he the man you referred to some time ago? The one you said you were fond of, but who wanted someone else?” There was a moment’s pause. Then Alma said, with an effort,

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir’ at a moment like this!” He sounded half impatient, half amused. “I’m talking to you as a friend. Not as the surgeon with whom you work.”

  “Very well—Mr. Perring. Jeremy was that man.”

  “And Geraldine was the other girl in the case?”

  “Yes. I didn’t find that out until after I came to the nursing home.”

  “Hard lines,” he commented, but not without sympathy, she thought. “Is it true that she was more or less engaged to Truscott?”

  “I don’t know. She says that was how things were. You’re probably better qualified than I to assess the value of her statements.”

  “Well”—he smiled grimly—“Geraldine is not above embroidering a statement to suit her own ends, but I’m perfectly sure she would not actually invent a situation which had no foundation in fact.”

  “Oh, no,” Alma said sadly. “He was—paying her a great deal of attention. There’s no question about that. I saw them together—twice.” She bit her lip, as she suddenly remembered the anguish of those occasions.

  “And now—he just doesn’t know her?”

  “That’s how it seems.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then he said gently, “it’s a bit hard on her too, you know.”

  “Oh, indeed it is! Please don’t think I don’t realize that. I do try to remember how shocked and dismayed she must feel. But—I love him very much,” she said simply. “And, having gone through all the—the misery of losing him, I find him, in an odd sense, almost given back to me.”

  “Only very temporarily, I’m afraid,” he warned her, as the lights of the approaching train appeared in the distance.

  “Do you really think that?” She turned to him eagerly. “Do you think he’s bound to remember those lost weeks?”

  “I can’t say for certain. One never can. But at least it’s a strong probability. And even if he doesn’t—”

  “Yes?” she said eagerly as he paused and frowned. “I don’t know what sort of security one builds on a situation of that kind.” He shrugged impatiently. “It seems to me pretty chancy.”

  “But you can’t ask for security in love,” she said, looking up at him earnestly in the lamplight. “You have to take risks. That’s part of being in love.”

  “Is it?” He smiled down at her, in that half mocking, half kindly way. “I wouldn’t know. As I told you before, I’ve probably never been really in love. But here’s your train, my dear, and we’ll have to postpone any further discussion until another time.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir—thank you, Mr. Perring, for all your kindness.”

  “Was I specially kind?” He stood smiling up at her as she leaned from the open window of the train to say goodbye.

  “I thought so,” she told him almost naively. “And I had a lovely visit.”

  “Then you must come again,” he said, and waved his hand in farewell as the train moved off again.

  On the return journey she was once more alone in the compartment, and she sat there going over every detail of her visit. It had been horrible, of course, when Geraldine had rounded on her like that and accused her of trying to influence Jeremy. And it had been disconcerting when she overheard Miss Perring making those ridiculous suggestions. But, apart from that, it had been a delightful and stimulating occasion. And, if she had told Maxwell Perring rather more than she had intended, at least he knew enough of the situation now not to give any serious weight to Geraldine’s unjust charges.

  It was late when she arrived back at the nursing home. But, impelled by a longing she could not resist, she went along to Sister Evans’ room to ask for the latest news of Jeremy.

  In the small office from which she ruled that particular floor, Sister Evans was relaxing over the ubiquitous cup of tea, and affably invited Alma to join her.

  “You’ve got a nice colour,” she said. “Have you been out in the country today?”

  “For the afternoon and evening, yes. I was invited to Mr. Perring’s home.”

  “By Nurse Grayce?”

  “No. By Mr. Perring.”

  “Well, well,” said Sister Evans, with interest but without censure. “And now I suppose you want to know how Mr. Truscott is?”

  “Yes, please.” Alma smiled over her cup of tea. “He’s turned the corner, I think, and has started on the road to recovery. It may take some time, but he should be all right now.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad! Did he talk much this evening?”

  “Rather more than he should,” was the somewhat disapproving reply. “He asked for you twice.”

  “Did he?” Alma was indescribably pleased and touched, and immediately reproached herself for being absent when Jeremy wanted her.

  “Yes. He spoke of you”—Sister Evans consulted her tea leaves intently—“as his fiancée.”

  As his—? He couldn’t have! Alma went quite pale with something between rapture and a delicious terror. “Are you sure?

  “Yes, of course,” said Sister Evans severely, as though it were ridiculous to suppose she would be inaccurate on such a matter. “He asked for his fiancée, and when I enquired who she was, he looked surprised and said, ‘Why, Alma, of course.’ And then—‘Oh, I suppose she’s Sister Miles to you.’ He could hardly have been more categorical.”

  “But how—strange—wonderful, I mean!”

  “Don’t tell me it’s news to you?” Sister Evans looked amused,
but also as though she were enjoying the scent of a romantic mystery.

  “In a way it is. We’d never got quite so far as an engagement. In fact”—suddenly she remembered Geraldine—“I—I suppose it could be a mistake,” she faltered.

  “It didn’t sound a bit like a mistake,” Sister Evans replied firmly.

  “But—” Agitatedly Alma pressed her hands against her cheeks. And at that moment one of the light signals on Sister Evan’s desk flickered.

  “That’s his room.” The older woman glanced from the signal to the wide-eyed girl opposite her, and although she had the reputation for never relaxing discipline, her expression softened insensibly. “Do you want to answer it and see what he needs?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, please!” Alma sprang to her feet.

  “It’s irregular, of course,” muttered Sister Evans. “You’re not even in uniform.”

  But Alma was already out of the room, before the other woman could change her mind. And, with a soft but hurried step, she made her way to Jeremy’s room at the end of the corridor.

  Everything was very quiet at this hour, and as she entered, she saw, by the dim light of a shaded night-lamp, that Jeremy was lying there with his eyes open, but with a rested, tranquil expression that she had not often seen on his face.

  “Darling!” He smiled immediately when he saw her. “I hoped it might be you. I’m thirsty. Can I have a drink?”

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled at him tenderly, as though he were a little boy, making the age-old bid for attention after having been put to bed. And, fetching him a drink, she gave herself the exquisite pleasure of slipping her arm round him and raising him very slightly while he drank.

  “I missed you this evening.” He leaned back against her arm, his thirst satisfied, “I asked for you.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t on duty.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the country, visiting a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “Mr. Perring. One of the surgeons here.”

  He frowned, and asked with a sort of boyish sulkiness. “Is he a good friend of yours? I don’t seem ever to have heard of him before.”

  “He’s a very good friend of mine, for the simple reason that he operated on you and saved your life,” Alma told him, with a smile.

  “You don’t say!” Jeremy looked interested. Then suddenly he took hold of her left hand in feeble fingers and said, “Why don’t you wear your ring?”

  “M-my ring?”

  “Yes.” He frowned, as though making a mental effort. “I gave you a ring, for heaven’s sake, didn’t I?”

  “N-no, Jeremy dear. You never gave me a ring.”

  “But when we got engaged—?” He moved restlessly, so that she had to stifle her own indescribable agitation and put a hand on him to soothe him.

  “We never were engaged, my dear.”

  “But of course we were!” He looked startled and annoyed.

  “N-not formally,” she stammered, wondering how she was to calm him without becoming further involved.

  “But surely”—he put up his hand to his head—“Oh, lord, it’s all such a muddle ”

  “Don’t worry about it now, Jeremy. Please, dear, don’t worry.”

  “But I have to worry. There’s something I have to get straight,” he insisted. “I know some of it’s nonsense, and that it’s difficult to recall everything in its right order. But you're quite clear to me—”

  His hand closed tightly on her arm, as though contact with her gave him some sort of security. “I recall you in a hundred different scenes.”

  “Yes, of course.” Her voice was gentle and soothing. “We were often and often together.”

  “And—planning for the future,” he pressed her. “I remember that too. You used to make meals in my kitchen—the black and red kitchen—surely that’s right too?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she assured him.

  “Well, that’s all part of it,” he said exhaustedly. “All right, my dear. We’ll work out the rest of it tomorrow,” she promised. “You’ve remembered a wonderful amount already. But you simply must not tire yourself any more.”

  “All right.” He seemed suddenly ready to drop asleep in front of her. But then he roused himself again for a moment and added, “There was the ring, too.”

  “The-the ring?”

  “Yes, of course. With a diamond and a pearl crossed. Didn’t I give it to you?”

  “No.”

  “I meant to.” He smiled at her with almost childlike sweetness, and then he closed his eyes and was asleep.

  “He meant to,” she whispered softly under her breath. “He meant to! Oh, Jeremy darling—the other was all a mistake—a temporary infatuation perhaps. He meant to give me his ring. It must be somewhere—it doesn’t matter where. He meant to give it to me. That’s all that matters.”

  When she returned to Sister Evans’ room she received a very sharp glance.

  “You stayed much too long,” that lady said rather snappily. “If I were not an indulgent fool, I’d have come and fetched you long ago.”

  No one, Alma felt certain, had ever written Sister Evans off as an indulgent fool. But, on this occasion at least, she had stretched sympathetic indulgence to breaking point, and she deserved, Alma thought, to hear that she had been justified.

  “I couldn’t help staying, and I don’t think it hurt him,” she said almost pleadingly. “He was worried about our—our situation, and he simply had to have it cleared up.”

  “And did you succeed in clearing it up?” Sister Evans enquired, with uncontrollable interest.

  “I think so.”

  “So that you know now whether you’re engaged or not?” The older woman looked half curious, half amused.

  “It seems,” Alma said with a smile, “that we are. He distinctly remembers buying me a ring, though where it is he doesn’t seem to know.”

  “Perhaps it was on him when the accident occurred, and he lost it then?”

  “N-no. I don’t think that could be the explanation,” Alma said, suddenly remembering Geraldine’s attitude towards him at that time, and finding it disconcertingly difficult to fit that in with the other known facts. “I think he must have bought it sometime before then.”

  “But never gave it to you?”

  “I never even saw it.”

  “Then he couldn’t have left it at the jeweller’s for alteration in size, or anything like that. You’d have k own about it.” Sister Evans began to examine the various possibilities with interest.

  “Yes, I’d have known about it.” And been saved a world of heartache, she could not help thinking! “Then he just—lost it?”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m sure he didn’t do that!”

  “I know!” Triumphantly Sister Evans produced an explanation which at least satisfied herself. “He did leave it at the jeweller’s, to have something engraved on the inside. Lots of people do that.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Alma, not really greatly concerned about the details, so long as she could hug to herself to all-important fact that Jeremy had bought a ring and had meant to give it to her, as a definite token that they were to be married.

  “Then the ring must still be at the jeweller’s.”

  “I suppose so. It doesn’t matter.” Alma smiled. “That’s something we can clear up later.”

  “Yes, of course.” Suddenly Sister Evans seemed to recollect some mundane matters. “And, meanwhile, you’d better go to bed, or you won’t be fit for anything tomorrow.”

  “I’m going.” Alma was still smiling, as though half her mind were in another, infinitely happy, dimension. “It’s Sunday tomorrow, so there won’t be any theatre work, unless there’s an emergency. But I had better be fresh, anyway.”

  And bidding Sister Evans an almost affectionate goodnight—for had she not played a vital part in the most wonderful crisis of her life?—Alma went away to her own room in what could only be described as a daze o
f happiness.

  It was not so easy to fall asleep when there was so much reason to lie awake and rejoice. But presently she drifted off, to dream that she was being married to Jeremy, but that Mr. Perring stepped in at the last minute and announced that there was a “just cause and impediment” why the marriage should not take place.

  The next morning Alma discovered that, through unidentifiable branches of the nursing home grapevine, the news about the engagement was already percolating. Possibly Sister Evans had let fall a word, though Alma rather doubted this. Possibly Jeremy had said something to the nurse who brought him his breakfast.

  At any rate, though no one actually mentioned the matter to Alma at first, several members of the staff glanced at her curiously and smiled in a friendly and rather meaning way. Then, finally, at lunch time, the youngest and most out-spoken of her theatre staff exclaimed,

  “Oh, Sister, there’s such a nice romantic story going the rounds about you. I do hope it’s true!” Alma could not help laughing and coloring slightly.

  “Stories which ‘go the rounds’ are usually a good deal exaggerated,” she said.

  “Oh, but this one—” The younger girl paused and smiled mischievously. Then she added boldly, “I do hope the ring is soon found.”

  But Alma refused to be drawn further on the subject. In fairness to Geraldine, if nothing else, she thought, rumor must not be allowed to become fact until after she had returned that evening and been given some opportunity to understand the changed situation.