Surgeon of Distinction

by Mary Burchell

  “You don’t have to make any decision this evening.”

  “N-no. Of course not.”

  “Though the sooner you decide to accept my suggestion, the sooner your real position will be defined among your colleagues at the nursing home.”

  That sounded oddly as though he were confident she would eventually accept. That it was merely a question of her taking time to decide the actual moment of acceptance.

  “If I decided—not to accept, it would make it more impossible than ever for me to stay on here,” she said slowly.

  “I realize that.”

  “You took something of a risk in putting the issue to the test.”

  “Even a good surgeon has to take a risk occasionally,” he told her, with that faint, rather enigmatic smile.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Even a theatre sister does,” he added, half teasingly. And, at that unusual note in his voice, she glanced up again and laughed a little.

  “I’m sorry. I must seem to be taking this in an extraordinarily ungracious way ”

  “Not at all.”

  “But it was truly such a complete surprise that I still hardly know what I’m weighing up in my mind.”

  “Materially, do you mean?”

  “Oh, no, sir!” She was shocked.

  “Don’t be so unworldly,” he told her, a little mockingly. “That side of it is quite important too. I’m a reasonably wealthy man, Alma, and you’ve already seen the home which would be yours.” She thought of the long, low house among the trees and flowers, and suddenly it seemed to her the most incredible, beckoning haven.

  “One doesn’t marry a house,” she said with a smile. “But you’ve certainly mentioned an added in inducement.”

  “People have married for less,” he declared carelessly.

  “But not people like us.”

  “No. That’s true.” He crossed his arms on the table and looked full at her. “And there you’ve said something which could be the real basis of a successful marriage between us. You said ‘people like us’. In some way, we’re the same kind, Alma.”

  “Are we?” She smiled doubtfully.

  “Yes. Oh, not necessarily in temperament or disposition. Hardly at all in that, I suppose. But we have the same scale of values. We’re prepared to put something into life as well as take out of it. And neither, I think, would let the other down—”

  “Why no—of course not.” Impulsively, she put out her hand to him across the table, and he took it in those strong, beautiful fingers she had so often watched at work.

  “Perhaps we’ve been too impersonal about this,” he said, looking down at the hand he was holding. “I knew you felt too raw and wretched after your recent experience to want any love-making from me. But—this isn’t just a business proposition, my dear. I’m not offering you only a house and my name.”

  “No. I know—Max.” For the first time she called him by his Christian name, and quite naturally. I’m not considering it merely from that point of view either. I think you’re a wonderful person, you know. I always have thought so. It’s only that—I hardly know you.”

  “Hardly know me? You’ve known me for years.”

  “Only as a surgeon.”

  “A surgeon’s a man, like anyone else,” he said. And somewhere deep down in her again that chord was struck which both frightened and fascinated her.

  “I know—I know.” She laughed apologetically. “But to the nurses who work with him he’s always a slightly god-like, remote sort of person.

  “How uncomfortable!”

  “Not really.” Her fingers tightened absently on his before she withdrew her hand. “There’s nothing at all uncomfortable about you, Mr. Perring—”

  “You called me Max just now,” he reminded her. “Well—Max, then. There’s nothing in the least uncomfortable about being with you or working with you. On the contrary, you’re the most extraordinarily reassuring and comforting person.”

  “Why don’t you let me undertake to reassure you and comfort you for the rest of your life, then?” he countered, half seriously.

  She was silent, strangely tempted to take him at his word, and give him his answer then and there. She was insufferably sick of storms and stresses. All her life, it seemed to her, she had had to fight her own battles, stand on her own feet. Kind though her father and stepmother might be, the Atlantic Ocean divided them from her and made any support from them impracticable.

  If she married Maxwell Perring—it half startled her to find that she was seriously considering the idea—-she would never again have to worry about the day to day anxieties. She knew—none better—that he was more than capable of looking after anyone whose fate he took in his hands. She had seen him do it with his patients, time and again.

  “You did say—that I need not decide—this evening,” she reminded him uncertainly.

  “And that still holds good,” he assured her. “But, for your own sake, Alma, if you could come to a decision, it would be easier to go back to the nursing home as my fiancée.”

  She knew it. Possibly even better than he did. She could imagine how the news of an engagement between one of the nurses and the leading surgeon would supersede every other topic of conversation. The vague, unhappy entanglement with Jeremy would be dismissed as so much gossip and misunderstanding. She would be regarded simply as the incredibly fortunate girl whom Maxwell Perring had chosen for his wife.

  Unworthy considerations perhaps, if taken on their own, and only to be considered in conjunction with more important issues. But oh, how welcome and healing to anyone who had suffered the pain and humiliation which Alma had known during the last few days.

  He did not hurry her. He hardly even glanced at her as she sat there, stirring her coffee. The implication was that she had all the time in the world. But she knew that, whether she admitted it or not, she was really making her full decision as she sat opposite him in this quiet corner of a Soho restaurant.

  Jeremy was lost to her. That, she told herself, was established beyond all doubt. In some fashion or another, she had to build a new life for herself. And what was the use of pretending that life as Maxwell Perring’s wife would not be ten—twenty times more attractive than life as Sister Miles, devotedly nursing a series of private patients, or acting as theatre sister in another operating theatre for another—and probably less interesting—surgeon than Max?

  She thought of him as Max again. Tentatively—experimentally. If she agreed to marry him—

  “If this had happened a year later, and with time to think about it in a leisurely way, I’d almost certainly have agreed,” she thought. “It would have been the natural—the most desirable—way of building a new life for myself again, after losing Jeremy. It’s just that it’s all happened in a matter of days—hours, almost.”

  And yet, she knew, the sheer speed with which this situation had followed on the disaster with Jeremy constituted, in a way, its principal value.

  “Max—”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that I—I can’t offer you my heart’s devotion? It would be cheating to pretend that I’ve ever thought of myself as in love with you.”

  “I realize that.”

  “And yet it seems paltry to offer anyone like you only my—my warm liking and respect.”

  “I don’t consider it paltry,” he told her. “That is exactly what I am asking. For good or ill, I’ve known too much about you in the last few weeks, Alma, not to know that Jeremy was the man you wanted. But many a girl has made herself very happy with the second-best.”

  “My heavens! I won’t have you described as second-best to anyone or anything,” cried Alma, with such passion that he looked almost startled as well as amused. “You have what someone I knew once called ‘star quality’, in every possible way. If I marry you, I shall know that I’m marrying someone any girl would be proud to have as her husband. Please, please don’t ever use that term of yourself again.”
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  “I won’t, if it vexes you.” His bright, smiling eyes met hers. “And don’t worry—surgeons are not a specially humble race. They have to believe in themselves pretty thoroughly if they are going to be of much use. I promise not to speak disrespectfully of your husband in future. If you decide to take me as your husband, that is.”

  If. She knew, all at once, that the decision had really been taken some minutes ago. That was why her outburst had been so vehement. To accept his offer might seem rash. To refuse it was inconceivable, in view of the dreary future which would then present itself.

  Once more she put out her hand to him across the table.

  “You can have your answer now,” she said slowly. “I’ve made up my mind, and why should I go through the motions of taking time to consider what I’ve already decided? I will marry you, Max. And I hope—oh, I do hope—I can make you happy.”

  “Ah—” he said, on a note of deep satisfaction, and for a moment she could not recollect just when it was she had heard him utter that same sound before. And then she remembered. It was when he knew that he had successfully concluded the operation on Jeremy.

  She wondered angrily why she had to think of that now. Why Jeremy’s pale, unconscious face should suddenly be as clear before her mental vision as Maxwell Perring’s vivid face before her actual gaze.

  But she thrust the memory from her and forced a smile to her lips as he said,

  “We ought to have a bottle of champagne on this, I suppose. But I’m operating tomorrow, so I won’t drink. How about you, however?”

  “No, thank you.” She shook her head, feeling that she was sufficiently intoxicated by the strangeness of the situation, without adding champagne. “I’ve a busy day in the theatre too. Mr. Colbridge has a long list.”

  “Then it’s time I took you home.” He glanced at his watch. “Good lord, I didn’t know it was so late!” He called over the waiter and paid the bill. “Shall I see you tomorrow evening, Alma?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose—yes—if you like.”

  “I do like,” he told her firmly, although he was smiling. “Would you like me to bring you your ring then?”

  “My—my ring?” There was only one ring she could think of. The one with the pearl and diamond which Jeremy had put upon her finger, but which now belonged to Geraldine.

  “Yes,” he said calmly. “It’s customary to give a ring when one becomes engaged, you know. And I think you should have yours to wear as soon as possible.”

  “Oh—oh, yes. Thank you. I suppose—I mean I should like that,” she stammered.

  “Will you leave it to me to choose it? or have you any special preference?”

  She wanted, in that moment, to say that she could not care less what the ring was like if it could not be Jeremy’s. But she choked back the words in her throat and said instead that she was sure she would like whatever he chose.

  No doubt he knew it was best not to press her further. At any rate, he seemed to accept the responsibility of the choice quite calmly, and together they walked to his car, which was parked halfway between the restaurant and the theatre where they had been earlier that evening.

  From where she stood beside the car, while he was unlocking the doors, Alma could see the entrance to the Corinthian Theatre, dark and deserted now. And it seemed quite impossible to her that it should be only a matter of hours since she had stood outside among the crowds, wondering if she should go in, with no deeper purpose in mind than the idea that she might half forget Jeremy for a little while.

  If she had not gone in— If Maxwell Perring had not sat beside her Were these things really chance? she wondered. She so very, very nearly had not gone into the Corinthian that evening. And if she had walked on, instead of entering the theatre, she would not now be engaged to Maxwell Perring.

  “All right.” He leaned forward and opened the offside door, and Alma slipped into the seat beside him.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, following her own thoughts.

  “Can’t believe what, my dear?”

  “Oh—everything. It’s been the most incredible evening. I was looking across at the theatre just now and thinking how very nearly I didn’t go in there tonight.”

  “Life’s full of near misses,” he said philosophically. “For good or ill. Just be glad that you did go in.”

  “I think—I am,” she said shyly. And then they were silent while they drove the comparatively short distance to the nursing home.

  It was not a strained or uncomfortable silence. In fact, it was almost a companionable one. But as they drew near to their destination, Alma suddenly found herself thinking,

  “Will he feel it necessary to kiss me goodnight? I can’t imagine being kissed by Mr. Perring. Max, I mean. Not on the very evening I lost Jeremy. Oh, I don’t want him to kiss me. I don’t want anyone to kiss me tonight.”

  And then, afterwards, she felt faintly guilty about that. As though the intensity of her feeling had communicated itself to him, in some way. For he made no attempt at all to kiss her when he bade her goodnight. He just held her hand lightly for a moment, smiled at her and said,

  “Get a good night’s rest. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  Then he returned to the car and she was free to go into the nursing home—as Maxwell Perring’s fiancée.

  Illogically, she felt an overwhelming desire to tell someone all about it, now that she was alone. Her earlier feeling had been a vague dread of anything which confirmed her decision or committed her more irrevocably. But now, suddenly, she felt she must talk about the incredible thing which had happened to her, or she would start muttering madly about it to herself.

  She had no close friend in the nursing home—she had not been there long enough for that. The only person she could think of was Sister Evans. That uncompromising woman who already knew rather more about her than anyone else.

  Sister Evans would still be on duty. (Incredible that her hours of duty could actually span both one’s rejection of Jeremy and one’s acceptance of Max! But so it was.) And although, in order to approach her small office, it would be necessary to go nearer to Jeremy’s room than Alma wished at that moment, she silently mounted the stairs to the first floor.

  Before her stretched the shining expanse of the main corridor, and at the end was the door to Jeremy’s room.

  “I probably shan’t ever go in there again,” thought Alma. And although the reflection hurt inexpressibly, it hurt with a dull ache, instead of the sharp agony of a few hours ago.

  “Was that how Mr. Perring—Max—knew it would be?” Alma wondered. “That the unbelievable new experience would be a sort of partial anaesthetic for the immediate pain.”

  Sister Evans was sitting at her desk, writing, when Alma knocked on her door.

  “Come in.” She looked up. “Oh, it’s you.” She pushed away her register. “What have you been doing with yourself all the evening?”

  “I went out. To a theatre.”

  “Best thing you could do, probably. Took your mind off your troubles. It must have been a good show. You look less peaky and strained. Did you get anything to eat?”

  “Yes. I went out to supper with Mr. Perring. He sat next to me at the theatre. We went out together afterwards.”

  “Well, well!” Sister Evans looked interested. “That was a fortunate coincidence. He seems to have cheered you up quite a bit. I’ve heard he’s a most interesting talker if he’s in the mood.”

  “Yes. He is.” Alma smiled irrepressibly at that. “What did he talk about that pleased you so much?”

  “He asked me to marry him.”

  “He—what?” Sister Evans slowly took off her spectacles and looked at Alma as though she might understand better that way.

  “He asked me to marry him. And I said ‘yes’.”

  “You said ‘yes’? You said—? Well, my goodness, girl, I didn’t imagine you would say ‘no’!” Sister Evans at least seemed to think there could be no two opinions about that. �
�He asked you to marry him, and you said ‘yes’. Then—you’re engaged?”

  “Yes,” Alma agreed. “We’re engaged.”

  “You’re making quite a habit of this, aren’t you?” the older woman said drily. “What about the other fellow? Mr. Truscott?”

  “Nothing about him,” Alma replied stonily. “He’s not anything in my life any more. Just—an old friend. He’s going to marry Geraldine. I—I told you.”

  “Yes, I know. Then—you’re taking Max Perring on the rebound, as it were?”

  “Oh, no! No, not that.”

  “I don’t know how else you could describe it. But he isn’t the man to play the role of stop-gap particularly well,” Sister Evans observed warningly.

  “He won’t have to!” Alma sounded shocked, and a little angry. “He knows exactly how things are and—”

  “Exactly?”

  “Yes, yes. He’s known all along about Jeremy.”

  “And still he wants to marry you?”

  “So he says. Yes, of course he does. There—there was no doubt about that.”

  “Strange,” said the other woman slowly. “He must love you very much.”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Alma, before she could stop herself. “No, he doesn’t do that.”