Hospital Corridors

by Mary Burchell.

  She and Eileen were curled up on either end of her divan, while Ruth sat in the chair by the window, her rather beautiful hands in her lap and an air of repose about her which was in marked contrast to Eileen’s vivacity.

  “You go!” Eileen advised. “Never mind about Mrs. Sanders. She’s out of mischief in the P.P.P. It will be lovely up there just now, and any relations of Morton Sanders are bound to have a marvellous place. Probably on the lakeside, with swimming and sunbathing and all the things that a hard-worked nurse longs for. What it is to have wealthy friends!” And she gave Madeline a good-humoured shove, so as to make more room for herself on the divan.

  “Well, I haven’t actually been invited yet,” Madeline pointed out.

  “And won’t be if Mrs. Sanders has her way,” Ruth remarked.

  “True enough. But”—Madeline smiled thoughtfully—“Morton also has a habit of getting his own way.”

  “You’ll be asked! Of course you will be asked!” Eileen exclaimed impatiently. “If that man wants a thing, it’s as good as done. I saw him coming away from the Pavilion this afternoon, and I never saw anything more handsomely sure of itself. All you have to do is to decide what clothes you’ll take.”

  “And if you’ll accept the invitation,” Ruth put in.

  “Of course she’ll accept! What are you talking about?” Eileen laughed scornfully. “Just lead me to a similar invitation and watch me refuse.”

  But Madeline’s glance went to Ruth again.

  “Why did you say that, Ruth? Would you hesitate about accepting?”

  “I’d think twice,” Ruth admitted. “Unless, of course, I liked him very much indeed. Mrs. Sanders’ jealous resentment is not something I’d be asking for.”

  “Oh—” Madeline bit her lip. “Dr. Lanyon said much the same thing this afternoon.”

  “Dr. Lanyon?” Eileen reared herself up with fresh interest “Don’t tell me you went and consulted him on the subject. Do you take him all your problems, for heaven’s sake? You’ll have him running an ‘Ask Uncle Nat’ column next!”

  “No, of course not” Madeline laughed a little vexedly. “He came past in his car while I was waiting for the streetcar, and he gave me a lift downtown. I thanked him, of course, for his intervention the other afternoon, and that brought us round to the subject of Mrs. Sanders. I gathered he thought her about as dangerous as Ruth does.”

  Impressed for a moment, Eileen was silent Then she said with a shrug,

  “But if one always thought about jealous mammas, think how much fun one would miss! I suppose Mrs. S. could make some catty remarks to Flossie and find fault with your work in minor ways. But you’re a good nurse and it would be difficult to pick any real holes. Personally I’d risk her wrath for the sake of a couple of days in the mountains among the fleshpots.”

  “If you put it that way, it has a certain attraction about it,” Ruth admitted with a laugh. “Do you very much want to go, Madeline?”

  “Very much. It’s the kind of experience I couldn’t have anywhere else. A villa by a lake among the mountains!”

  “I see,” Ruth said drily, and Madeline blushed slightly, knowing that Ruth at least had guessed that the lake was not the primary attraction.

  “Oh, well,” she exclaimed, with as careless a laugh as she could manage, “it may come to nothing. I may not hear another thing about it.”

  But, as though to prove her immediately wrong, one of the other girls knocked on the door just then to call her to the telephone.

  It was, as she had known it would be, Morton at the other end of the wire, and he immediately broached the debatable question of the invitation.

  “About this visit, Madeline—we must fix the time now. I’ve spoken to my cousins—to Judy and Donald—on the phone, and they’ll be delighted to see you. You only have to say when you will have your free days.”

  “But”—a lingering caution checked the delighted acceptance which trembled on her lips—“there’s still the difficulty with your mother, Morton. She dislikes the idea intensely, and that being so, I can’t help thinking—”

  “That’s all right,” Morton interrupted. “I talked to her and she’s completely won over.”

  “Are you sure?” Madeline’s tone changed. “Because if so, of course there’s nothing I should like better. I only didn’t want to do something that would anger and upset her.”

  “She’s come round,” Morton assured Madeline, with careless certainty. “This often happens, you know, when she gets a little jealous spot. But she quite agreed, before I left this afternoon, that you had a pretty dull and strenuous time on board ship and that it’s up to us to see you have at least a gay weekend to make up for it.”

  “Oh, Morton, how wonderful! It can be literally a weekend, if the invitation is really an open one. I go off duty on Friday afternoon and am not due back until Monday morning.”

  “This Friday? The day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, well, then in that case I’ll alter my own plans a little. I was going up rather late tomorrow. But I’ll wait now until the next day and drive you up myself. It will save you a longish journey by train. Usually a whole crowd come to Donald’s place on Sunday, so almost certainly someone can drive you down again on Sunday night. If not, I’ll bring you myself.”

  “And cut your holiday? No, you needn’t do that,” Madeline said, though she could not but enjoy the feeling that her pleasure was being very thoroughly looked after.

  “We’ll argue that out when we meet,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll collect you from the Nurses’ Home at three-thirty on Friday. All right?”

  Madeline said that it was, and went back to her room, feeling that everything simply could not be more all right.

  Eileen was jubilant at lie news of Mrs. Sanders’ capitulation. Ruth smiled and said, “I hope it’s permanent.”

  But the next morning Madeline received gratifying proof of the fact that, whether or not Mrs. Sanders had really changed her views, at least she wished to appear friendly over the whole affair. She herself mentioned the visit to Madeline.

  “I hope you enjoy it, my dear,” she said. “I suppose Morton is right and that we do owe you some fun, after rather spoiling your trip over.”

  “Mrs. Sanders, you didn’t spoil my trip!” Madeline insisted, generous in retrospect because she was so much looking forward now to the visit to the Laurentians. “I voluntarily took on a job during the voyage instead of making it a pleasure trip. Of course one doesn’t expect the same amount of leisure time in those circumstances.”

  “Well, I’m sure our cousins will give you a good time now,” Mrs. Sanders said graciously. “They are the wealthy side of the family and have a quite wonderful home within easy reach of Lac Merrier. There’s usually a very interesting crowd there at weekends. I only wish”—she sighed—“that I could be there.”

  “I wish so too,” Madeline said, hoping that Heaven would forgive her this polite and necessary distortion of the truth. “But I’ll tell you all about it when I come back on Monday.” “Is it this weekend you’re going?”

  “Yes; Morton is driving me up there tomorrow afternoon.” It was the first time she had spoken of Morton by his first name in front of his mother, and she was immediately aware of a sort of stiffening and chill in Mrs. Sanders’ manner.

  “That was a mistake,” she told herself. “I must go much more carefully. It’s all very difficult! But worth it if in the end I can have Morton’s friendship without his mother’s enmity.”

  So she was specially tactful with Mrs. Sanders all that day and the following morning, and she felt that she had earned her reward when, just before she went off duty on the Friday, Mrs. Sanders called her into her room and said,

  “Will you hand me my jewel-case, dear? I’m going to ask you to do something specially nice for me.”

  Madeline obediently fetched the very beautiful crocodile case, and stood by while Mrs. Sanders unlocked it. In the upper tray were the a
rticles of lesser value, mostly of semiprecious stones, but all of them were lovely and tasteful.

  From these Mrs. Sanders selected a very lovely spray brooch, fashioned from topaz and cultured pearls.

  “I want you to have this,” she said, “and to wear it this weekend.”

  “But, Mrs. Sanders”—the colour rushed into Madeline’s face—“I couldn’t possibly let you give me anything so beautiful. Why should you, anyway? I—I’ve been more than repaid for any service I have done for you. Really, you—It’s too much.”

  She felt embarrassed, almost agitated, at the idea of receiving any such sign of friendship from Mrs. Sanders, for whom she simply could not feel either affection or even much respect.

  But Mrs. Sanders continued to hold out the brooch, with her sweetest and most appealing smile.

  “Please do. It would give me great pleasure, and make me feel that you’d forgotten any—any little trouble there may have been between us.”

  Slowly Madeline took the brooch.

  “It’s most awfully kind of you, Mrs. Sanders.” A sort of remorse struggled within her; a guilty feeling that she could not match this most astounding and unexpected generosity on the part of Mrs. Sanders with any corresponding warmth and affection on her own part. “I think it’s perfectly beautiful, and of course I’ll wear it with—with the greatest pleasure, if it will make you feel we’re—friends. It isn’t necessary, you know. I had no—no resentful recollection of any trouble.”

  “No? Well, I’m glad to hear that, and I’m very happy to think you’ll wear my brooch. Now”—a more decided air was discernible in Mrs. Sanders’ manner, as though she had somehow cleared the decks for more important action—“what I want you to do is take a present to my niece, Anne. She’s not really a niece, more a young cousin once or twice removed. She’s the daughter of Judy and Donald Elliott, who will be your hosts.”

  As she spoke, Mrs. Sanders lifted out the top tray of her jewel-case and regarded the more valuable items lying on the black velvet.

  “I think I should like her to have—this.” She picked up the bracelet which Madeline had admired a few days ago. “Yes—I think this shall be for Anne. She has her nineteenth birthday this month, and she shall have the bracelet as a birthday present.”

  Madeline was completely silent for a moment, very much wanting to fling back the brooch on to the bed. She saw now, she told herself, why Mrs. Sanders had staged this little scene. She had made it clear at an earlier stage that she wanted the bracelet to go to the girl Morton married. By giving Madeline a pretty, not particularly valuable present she had discharged any obligation to the outsider. Now she wished Madeline herself to be the bearer of the valuable, significant gift to another girl.

  “Don’t you think it would be more suitable if—Morton took it, Mrs. Sanders?” Madeline said coldly. “I would rather not have the responsibility of anything quite so valuable.”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Sanders smiled and shook her head. “If Morton gave it to her, even in my name, it might be just a little too significant, don’t you see? But I should like Anne to have the bracelet, and this is a splendid opportunity of sending it to her. I do hope you’re going to help me in this?” She looked frail and helpless suddenly, in the infuriating way she could.

  “It seems a rather—odd way of doing it. Wouldn’t she rather receive it, with a letter from you, as a registered parcel?” Madeline suggested.

  “Oh, no! Just tell her it’s from me, with my love. You haven’t any objection to doing this for me, have you?” Mrs. Sanders’ beautiful eyes suddenly opened wide.

  “Certainly not. Except that, as I said, I don’t very much like the responsibility of taking anything so valuable with me.”

  “But you’ll be in Morton’s car,” Mrs. Sanders pointed out.

  That was true, of course, and there was absolutely nothing that could happen to the bracelet.

  “Very well then. Of course I’ll take the bracelet if that’s what you wish,” Madeline said.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Sanders closed the case, with the air of one who could die in peace. “That’s a great weight off my mind.”

  Madeline swallowed and somehow contrived to control her anger over the whole incident. She was certain it was elaborately contrived as a sort of subtle humiliation to herself, and the fact that she should emerge from the scene with a quite handsome present somehow made it all even more exasperating.

  “Would you like to lock the case and have me put it back?” she asked, as civilly as she could.

  But Mrs. Sanders shook her head.

  “No, dear. I want to look at one or two other things. I’ll get one of the other nurses to put it back later.”

  “Very well. I must go now. And—thank you once more for my brooch.” Good manners and her own pride demanded that she should say that, though she felt she would never wear the thing with any pleasure now.

  “You’re very welcome, dear child,” Mrs. Sanders said. “Oh—and one thing more. Don’t tell Morton about this. He might think I was interfering in his affairs.”

  “He might indeed!” thought Madeline grimly. But she promised gravely not to mention the bracelet to Morton.

  “Nor to anyone but Anne herself,” Mrs. Sanders said, rather urgently. “It’s just between the dear girl and myself. Indeed”—a new thought seemed to strike her—“if by any chance Anne were not there, though I’m almost certain she will be, I would rather you said nothing to her mother, Miss Gill. In that case, simply bring back the bracelet to me, and I’ll find another opportunity of sending it to Anne.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Sanders,” Madeline promised. And then she made her escape, determined not to let this scene spoil any part of her pleasure in the coming weekend—if only for the fact that she was sure Mrs. Sanders had staged it with that exact object in view.

  Even so, Madeline felt that her nerves were more taut than she could have wished, until that moment when she came out of the Nurses’ Home and found Morton sitting there in the car, waiting for her.

  Her heart leapt at the sight of him, and a sensation of joy rose in her which seemed to reduce all such irritations as the bracelet incident to infinitesimal proportions. As Morton put her case in the back of the car and settled her in the seat beside him, she thought, “This could be one of the most important weekends of my life. I’m not going to let anything spoil it.”

  For the first twenty-five miles their route was very much the same as on the evening when he had driven her out to the lakeside inn. But presently they began to bear more to the right, choosing side roads, rather than the main highway.

  “How far do we have to go, Morton?” she enquired, settling more comfortably in her seat and enjoying the more wooded scene which began to appear now that they had left the useful but unattractive highway.

  “Rather less than sixty miles now. We go about two-thirds of the way to Mont Laurier, which is something of a frontier town,” Morton explained. “Most of the country between here and Mont Laurier is what you might call holiday country. In winter there’s skiing everywhere, and in summer swimming and sport of all kinds. Some of the villages and settlements are quite sophisticated and much patronized by visitors, and some are almost primitive and retain something of a lumber camp atmosphere.”

  “I’d like to see some of those!”

  “You shall, as we go through,” he promised. “From Mont Laurier and beyond the Barriere stretches real pioneer country, right away to the borders of Ontario. That’s where you find some of the most picturesque of the gold-mining centres.”

  “Morton, it’s fascinating! We’ve left one of the most modern cities behind less than an hour ago, and you talk of gold-mining, which always seems to me to be just something out of adventure stories in the school library!”

  He laughed at that.

  “Well, it’s not all that romantic in fact, I suppose, but the search for gold will always have a peculiar fascination. We don’t go anything like as far as that today, Madeline. No
t even to the edge of civilization at Mont Laurier.”

  “No, I know. But—to think that it’s there. Just over the horizon.” And she gestured ahead to where tree-covered slopes were beginning to build up a lovely picture against the skyline.

  “I guess nearly everything we want is just over the horizon,” Morton said lightly, and again she noticed that slight touch of bitterness which she had sometimes noticed in even his gayest remarks.

  “And why not?” she countered with spirit “I believe in the saying that it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Though of course I like the arrivals too,” she conceded suddenly.

  He laughed.

  “You like it all, my optimistic and trusting Madeline,” he mocked. “But that, I suppose, is why you’re lovely to be with.”

  She was silent then. Not because she minded his teasing her, but because he had admitted, inadvertently perhaps, that he loved to be in her company. That was why he had risked his mother’s violent disapproval, why he had insisted on their friendship being open and therefore capable of—almost any extension. He thought her worth some family difficulties. And Morton did not, she thought, often go halfway to meet difficulties.

  On into the early evening they drove. And, as he had promised, they passed through villages and settlements which, with their scattered log cabins and their massed fir trees, looked like lumber camps out of some adventure story. They also passed through well-planned little towns, with their churches and their small civic centres, their villas and their bungalows. These were crowded with sunburned visitors, some of whom waved in a friendly way as they passed.

  “It’s a wonderful country,” Madeline said lazily and happily.

  “I hope it’s going to be a wonderful weekend,” Morton countered.

  And when at last they arrived at the Elliotts’ place, Madeline felt the immediate conviction that it was going to be wonderful indeed. Not in her most extravagant imaginations had she thought of anything like this, and as Morton drove up the long, rather rough path which led from the gate to the villa at the top of the hill, she looked round her in astonishment and realized that only in the New World could one expect to find estates of this type now.