by Peggy Gaddis
“Have you asked—” Hilary began.
“Asked? I’ve practically gone down on my knees, begging him. But he just smiles and says, ‘Oh, I don’t think that would be wise, Dr. Marsden. I’m afraid our paying guests would resent it.’”
“I think that’s outrageous,” protested Hilary warmly.
“So do I.” His tone was grim and hard.
“But surely there must be some way he can be persuaded to change his mind. Surely if he realized that a man’s life depended on his being here, whether he can pay or not—”
“He realizes it. Don’t think I haven’t made it quite clear, brutally clear,” Dr. Marsden told her, “But he just goes on saying that there are places like Grady Memorial and the county hospital for the care of ‘indigent patients’ and walks away.”
Outside, in the out-patients’ reception room, there was a small pearl-topped button beneath a sign that said, “Please ring and be seated.” The bell buzzed now, and Hilary stood up, whisking the tray out of sight, casting a swift glance about the office and the examination room, before she went out to receive the first patient. But throughout the busy afternoon, Dr. Marsden’s words kept echoing and re-echoing in her ears, and when the final patient had been ushered out into the cold, gray dusk, she came back to Dr. Marsden.
“Where are these two wards you were talking about?” she asked.
Dr. Marsden grinned ruefully at her.
“It won’t do any good—” he began.
“Who can say?” Hilary interrupted briskly. “At least show them to me.”
Dr. Marsden shrugged and walked with her out into the lobby and down the corridor along the men’s section of the club to a door at the very end which he opened, standing back for Hilary to precede him.
The ward was big, airy, everything Hilary had been taught that a hospital ward should be.
“This was meant to be the men’s ward,” Dr. Marsden explained; “for men not financially able to pay fees charged for a private room and bath and who needed bed rest and medical care. But Mr. Ramsey and the board decided that the expense of such care would offset any reduced rates that the patient might be able to pay, so the wards have never been used. The one for women is at the other end of the corridor.”
Hilary looked about her. Everything was so neat, so clean, so empty!
“And there are people like Thad Carter who desperately need hospital care, and all this going to waste!” she said hotly.
“It’s maddening, I admit,” said Dr. Marsden grimly. “But Ramsey is the boss. And of course the Board backs him to the limit. After all, the whole idea of the T. & C. was his, and he worked for fifteen years to raise the money; so I suppose it’s natural he would be opposed to anything he feels might make it less exclusive.”
“But it’s inhuman!” she protested warmly.
Dr. Marsden smiled down at her.
“You feel that, too?” he asked.
“How else would I, a nurse, feel?”
He nodded, his eyes on her warm and interested, almost as though he were seeing her for the first time.
“When I first came here to work, because of my interest in gerontology and my feeling that this would be a perfect place to study geriatrics, I was determined that the wards would be put to use, for old men and old women who were dependent on charity—of their relatives, of the Old Age Assistance program—not the well-heeled and very plush ‘guests’ Ramsey and the Board were interested in,” he told her quietly. “But it has been an uphill battle. Of course, Ramsey is the Administrator and the Board is composed of a group of men who financed the place and who are concerned only with how much it can earn for them. So you can see they would not be warmly disposed toward accepting charity patients.”
“No, I suppose not,” Hilary agreed reluctantly, “but there’s just got to be some way that these wards can be put to use. It’s—why, it’s almost criminal to have them standing here empty when every bed is so badly needed in every hospital in the state! We’ve just got to change Mr. Ramsey’s mind for him!”
Dr. Marsden smiled faintly, his eyes bitter.
“Well, don’t think I haven’t tried, so often that he now avoids me when he can. And when we have to have a meeting, he gets through the necessary business as rapidly as he can and then hurries off to an engagement he’s just remembered.”
He scowled into the darkness beyond the windows.
“I should have resigned, I suppose, but my work here has been interesting and in many ways rewarding. I’ve learned a great deal about the problems, the philosophy, diseases of the aged. And of course there is the Clinic,” he mused aloud. “Ramsey was very hard to convince about that; but doctors who specialize in gerontology and who were willing to work in a place like this where only the very well-padded existence of wealthy old people offered scope for their studies were, apparently, hard to find. So we compromised; I agreed to come; he agreed to give me an out-patient clinic.”
Hilary said thoughtfully, “Somehow, I don’t seem to be growing very fond of Mr. Ramsey.”
Dr. Marsden laughed, genuinely amused.
“Oh, but you are speaking heresy, my dear girl!” he protested. “All women are supposed to be charmed and captivated by our Administrator.”
Hilary cocked her head, peering up at him from the corner of her eyes.
“You are, I take it, quoting our beloved Administrator?” she mocked.
“Of course—who else?” He laughed, then sobered. “I have to admit that he is tremendously successful with the guests here; they flutter and twitter like a covey of birds when he appears.”
“I’d noticed that,” Hilary agreed, as they left the ward and walked down the corridor, where the ward maids were moving about, switching on lights, running small carts laden with oddments from the various rooms, getting the place ready for the dinner hour.
As they reached the lobby, Dr. Marsden paused and looked down at Hilary.
“Thank you for helping me out today.” There was such sincerity in his voice that Hilary felt her face warm a bit. “You’re quite a girl, Hilary, and a very fine nurse.”
“I enjoyed feeling useful for a change,” Hilary admitted impulsively.
“But you are being useful on your job here, Miss Westbrook—you mustn’t ever forget that,” Dr. Marsden protested quickly. “Have you ever thought how eagerly medical science is working to prolong life, and how little attention has been paid to the problems of those whose life span is no longer ‘three score years and ten’? You and I, and others like us, are doing a useful work. We must believe that or the whole science of geriatrics would fall apart.”
Hilary nodded and smiled up at him.
“You’re right, of course,” she agreed, and had no chance to say more, for Mrs. Barton, rustling happily in a very smart black frock, her hair newly done in the T. & C.’s beauty shop, came toward them, bright-cheeked, her eyes shining.
“Oh, Miss Westbrook, I’ve had the most wonderful afternoon,” she reported like an eager child. “Mr. Hodding introduced me to so many nice people, and two of the ladies are interested in iris, and we had such a lovely chat. And tonight, Mr. Hodding says, we’re going to see a lovely ballet. A dance school in town is presenting its pupils in a recital in the solarium. Isn’t that lovely?”
She became aware of Dr. Marsden for the first time, and looked momentarily shy. But her happiness overcame her shyness, and she greeted him with almost as much warmth as she had shown Hilary.
“I must hurry,” she reported happily. “I’m meeting Mr. Hodding in the lounge for cocktails.”
“Cocktails?” Hilary repeated, astonished.
Mrs. Barton laughed a small, fluting laugh.
“Oh, Mr. Hodding said it was really a health drink, made of tomato juice and clam juice and that it was just an appetizer before dinner, but that it made it sound gayer and more fun to speak of ‘the cocktail hour in the lounge.’ He is amusing, isn’t he?”
She rustled happily away, taffeta petticoats be
neath the black satin making a gay, young sound.
Hilary watched her, and Dr. Marsden watched Hilary, a warm twinkle in his eyes.
“And last night she was too shy, too terrified of strangers, even to go in to dinner,” he reminded her. “Do you still feel that you aren’t doing something useful, Miss Westbrook?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Hilary slowly. “I suppose it’s just as important to minister to tired old minds as to tired old bodies, when you come right down to it. Only I never thought of it as a nursing job; it seemed to me more in the line of a minister, or a church group.”
“That’s not ministering to minds, Miss Westbrook; that’s ministering to souls, which never grow old! And you’re quite right that that is a religious matter, for churches and church groups. Our job, yours and mine, is to keep the mind as well as the body flexible and alert. I’d say that was a very important job, wouldn’t you?” asked Dr. Marsden.
Hilary looked up at him, a twinkle in her eyes.
“Are you trying to convince me—or yourself, Doctor?” she asked with a faint but inoffensive trace of impudence.
Dr. Marsden laughed.
“Both of us, I suppose,” he agreed. “Well, I’d better get going.”
“You’re not having dinner here?” asked Hilary.
“I want to run out and have another look at Thad Carter, and then I’m reading a paper on my pet subject—gerontology, what else?—at a medical meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Westbrook—and thanks again.”
He smiled at her, nodded and hurried out across the lobby. Hilary went on to her own room to change for dinner.
She was just stepping into a dark green shantung frock when there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Middleton poked a head in.
“Anybody home?” she asked gaily, and added, “What a sweet frock! I hate you.”
Startled, Hilary turned and studied her.
Mrs. Middleton’s eyes were sweeping over Hilary’s slender yet gracefully rounded figure, and she put her hands on her own ample hips in the crisply starched uniform, and shook her white-capped head.
“What it is to be young and slender,” she mourned. “You make me feel like a sack of wet wash that has just broken its moorings—or shall I be graceful about it and say the back of a busted truck?”
“You!” Hilary scolded her lightly. “You’re beautiful and you know it.”
Mrs. Middleton pretended to preen herself, a hand on her hip, the other hand touching the masses of her really beautiful hair.
“Oh, yes, I know; a frightful bore having all the men falling madly in love with me and threatening to throw themselves off a cliff—” She broke off with a little shrug, ‘and grinned impishly. “I just barged in to tell you that since you’ve failed to put yourself down on the beauty shop records for an appointment, I took the liberty of telling them you’d like to have that fabulous hair of yours washed and set at three each Thursday afternoon. It was about the only available time. Our gals spend a lot of time having themselves made beautiful; us hired help have to scramble for what time we can get.”
“But I could run into town on my day off.”
“Why should you? You are entitled to free laundry and free beauty care, so why not enjoy it?” Mrs. Middleton protested. “After all, this is the T. & C., you know; nothing’s too good for our paying guests and their paid attendants.”
Hilary fastened the string of amber beads about her throat, watching Mrs. Middleton from the mirror.
“There’s something here that Mr. Ramsey considers much too good for the common herd,” she said grimly.
Mrs. Middleton looked at her sharply.
“Now see here, Hilary, if you’re going to start complaining about the empty wards—” She sighed, and added, “I should have known this would happen once you got acquainted with Dr. Marsden. It’s the favorite bee in his bonnet.”
“You’re a nurse, Middy—”
“I’m also an employee of the T. & C., and Mr. Ramsey is the Administrator, and the boss! He will not have the wards occupied by charity patients, and his is the voice of final authority. So don’t start trying to change his mind. You’ll just get yourself all bruised and sore, and the wards will still be empty.”
“It seems almost a crime—” Hilary protested.
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Middleton agreed, and headed toward the door. “But take my word for it; the wards will stay empty as long as Mr. Ramsey has anything to say about it. And I can’t visualize anything that would stop his having plenty to say about it. So that’s that! I’ve got to go on duty—see you later.”
The door closed behind her broad back, and Hilary stood for a long moment, staring with unseeing eyes at the girl in the mirror, who looked back at her gravely, brown eyes troubled, lovely oval face drooping sadly.
“There is a way,” she told that girl at last. “There’s got to be a way. And Dr. Marsden and I are going to find it.”
Chapter Ten
March had come in howling and roaring like the traditional lion.
But at last, almost overnight it seemed, the lion was gone with his roaring and a small, fluffy white lamb gamboled in; gray skies were blue; clouds were white sails towed and tugged by mild sportive winds that were a caress rather than a torture.
Hilary was growing more interested in Dr. Marsden’s theories about gerontology. Because Mrs. Barton had arrived at about the same time she had, and because she had been very concerned with Mrs. Barton’s agonizing shyness, her homesickness, Hilary was especially interested in Mrs. Barton. And she saw with delight that Mrs. Barton was obviously having the time of her life. She was always on time for meals; her appetite was surprisingly good; her interest in those about her was cheerful and eager. She arrived in the solarium each morning with her knitting bag, out of which she brought mazes of really exquisite crochet.
“It’s for my daughter, Jill,” she explained eagerly to Hilary one morning, spreading over her knee a small circle of lacy looking stuff that Hilary could scarcely realize was crochet, so fine was the thread, so delicate the pattern. “It’s a luncheon set. There will be a centre cloth, and then place mats for a dozen plates. Do you think she’ll like it?”
“Like it? Why, it’s perfectly beautiful,” said Hilary. “I can’t imagine anyone not liking it. It looks like fine lace. It would cost a fortune if you tried to buy anything like that.”
Mrs. Barton looked up at her, startled.
“You mean I might be able to sell it?” she asked.
Obviously, the thought had never occurred to her before.
“I should think you might, perhaps in a woman’s exchange, or some place like that. You couldn’t compete with the machine-made things the big department stores sell, of course. But that’s really a lovely thing,” Hilary assured her quite sincerely.
They were in a corner of the lounge, for the solarium was being tidied for the day, and for the moment there was no one else in hearing distance.
Mrs. Barton smoothed the delicate bit of handiwork with a caressing hand and looked up at Hilary, her blue eyes touched with a wistful hope.
“If I could just make a bit of money, to help out on my bill here,” she murmured almost as though she spoke her thoughts aloud. “I know Jill and Juddy want me to have the best and they’d beggar themselves to get it for me. But I know they can’t really afford to keep me here. Oh, if only I could help just a little.”
“They want you to be happy, Mrs. Barton, and not to worry, and that’s what you must do,” Hilary assured her firmly.
“But you do think I might be able to sell some of my work? I’ve always loved crocheting and I’ve always given it away. But if I could sell some ...” Her voice was scarcely more than a breath. Before Hilary could answer Mr. Hodding came across the big room, smiling warmly at Mrs. Barton, whose color rose a little as she gave him back his smile.
“Good morning, Miss Lily-Mae,” he greeted her. “I have an article here I think you’d enjoy. I thought perhaps I might read it
aloud to you while you do your crocheting.”
“That would be lovely, Mr. Hodding,” said Mrs. Barton happily. “You read aloud so beautifully.”
Mr. Hodding preened himself a little at her praise, and Hilary took herself off, back to other duties, smiling at the way these two old people, each of them shy and lonely, had found each other.
As she came into the lobby, she saw Mr. Ramsey just entering and on a sudden impulse, she crossed to him, accepting his smiling, friendly greeting and saying, “May I talk to you, Mr. Ramsey? I’ve been wanting to, but this is the first chance—you’re always so busy.”
“Of course, of course, Miss Westbrook.” Drew was being the very genial, charming man as he opened his office door and ushered her inside. “I’m never too busy to talk to members of the staff. I hope nothing is wrong.”
“I’m afraid it is, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Westbrook, this isn’t a prelude to offering your resignation? We’re delighted with you, all the guests are fond of you, you fit perfectly into our little world here.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Ramsey,” Hilary answered. “No, I have no intention of resigning. I’ve become quite interested in gerontology, and Dr. Marsden is a fascinating instructor in the subject.”
“We’re very proud of Dr. Marsden at the T. & C., Miss Westbrook.” Drew beamed at her. “I hardly see how we’d function without him. I sincerely hope we won’t have to.”
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Ramsey.”
“And so—what’s your problem, Miss Westbrook?” Drew glanced at the sheaf of mail which his secretary had placed on his desk, as an indication that a mere nurse must not take up too much of his time.
