Hospital Corridors (8 page)

“No more kisses, you mean?” His eyes flashed with amusement.

“Most certainly not!”

“That’s a promise—while you’re on duty.”

“At any time—” Madeline began. But he had already put his arm lightly round her and drawn her against him.

“There are no blonde dragons to watch us now, Madeline,” he said, and he kissed her with such unexpected tenderness and charm that, to her own surprise, she found it the most natural thing in the world to kiss him in return.

“I must go,” she said rather breathlessly, and he released her immediately.

She ran from him, up the few steps to the Nurses’ Entrance, while he watched her, smiling. Then she turned at the door, and waved to him and disappeared within.

Later, in her own room, she reviewed the events of the evening and tried to assess her own reactions. But somehow the whole experience defied analysis.

How could she tell how much he meant by his carelessly spoken words and his not so careless glances? For even now she shivered a little with a sort of half-enjoyable, half-apprehensive excitement when she thought of the way he looked at her, touched her hand—kissed her.

She was not going to take any of it very seriously, of course. But she thought suddenly that Dr. Lanyon had been less than just when he referred to him as a philanderer.

But then what could Dr. Lanyon know of the Morton who showed seriousness, even unhappiness, just for a moment, and who made one feel that inexplicable sense of compassion for him, in spite of all his worldly advantages?

Madeline found next day that it required something of an effort to go in and see Mrs. Sanders in the course of her duties. But whether this was because she resented the charge that lady had made against her, or because she felt guilty that she was now on a footing with Morton which his mother would deplore, she could not quite decide.

However, Mrs. Sanders merely said sweetly,

“I hear my boy was
very
naughty yesterday and got you into some trouble with Miss Ardingley. I’m afraid he’s much too much inclined to joke and tease, but it doesn’t mean a
thing.
You must never,” she insisted firmly, almost anxiously, “take anything of that sort
at all
seriously, where Morton is concerned.”

“I shouldn’t think of doing so, Mrs. Sanders,” Madeline replied composedly. But she thought of the way Morton had kissed her that other time—in the car last night.

“I’m so glad to hear you say that I knew you were really a sensible girl at heart,” Mrs. Sanders said approvingly. “Now we’ll all forget about it,” she decreed magnanimously.

She would have been much annoyed had she known that Madame Loncini, on the other side of the white corridor, took the opposite view, however. She was, as she loved to say, a romantic creature at heart; in proof of which there were her three much-publicized marriages, and sundry other activities not so openly publicized. When Madeline came into
her
room, she exclaimed immediately,

“And how does the romance go?”

“The romance, Madame?”

“To be sure! The romance which started in the kitchen when the Unknown kissed you.”

“He was not unknown, Madame Loncini. I already knew him quite well, but—”

“So-o? It was already well established, then, this romance?”

“No, no, there’s no romance at all,” Madeline insisted.

“Then you have wasted your opportunities, my dear,” the singer declared with authority. “A man of such a romantic temperament that he can make love among the white enamel fittings of a hospital kitchen is not to be lightly dismissed. I am afraid you are of a cold temperament.”

“Maybe. But please don’t send for your first husband,” Madeline countered with a laugh. “Life is quite complicated enough without that!”

But, as a matter of fact, life flowed very smoothly during the next few days. It seemed as though Miss Ardingley had accepted Dr. Lanyon’s championship of Madeline at its face value, and this undoubtedly made her life easier. She wished even more that she could have found a chance to thank him, but she only caught an occasional glimpse of him in the corridor and no real opportunity offered.

Even Mrs. Sanders, perhaps reassured by her conversation with Madeline, was unusually friendly. One afternoon she asked Madeline to bring her her jewel-case from the wardrobe. Then, taking the key from her handbag, she opened the case and very graciously showed Madeline some of the things.

It was a beautiful and tastefully chosen collection and Madeline sincerely admired it.

“That is specially beautiful”—she indicated a slender, exquisitely designed diamond bracelet.

“Yes.” Mrs. Sanders picked it up and let it slide through her delicate fingers. “My husband gave me that when Morton was born. It’s lovely, isn’t it? For a young girl, really. It’s too young for me now.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Sanders!”

“Yes, yes. I was only nineteen then. I couldn’t wear it now. I shall keep it for Morton’s wife.” She said this with a charming air of resignation.

“Over her dead body!” thought Madeline, a good deal amused, but she smiled and said, “She’ll be lucky.”

“In more ways than one,” agreed Mrs. Sanders. And, as her son came into the room just then, she actually picked up the bracelet once more and said, “I was telling Miss Gill, darling, that I’m keeping this for your wife.”

“Perhaps I don’t mean to have one!” He stooped to kiss his mother, but as he raised his head he smiled full at Madeline, in a way that made her flush and then pale.

“Oh, yes, you will,” his mother said contentedly. And then, as she caught the glance, “Some nice, well-chosen girl of your own circle in England.”

“Perhaps. Though that sounds dreary.” He looked at Madeline again and laughed.

Terrified at his venturing even so far as this in his teasing, Madeline turned to go. But he detained her.

“Miss Gill, you’re going to have to look after my mamma specially well in the next ten days. I shall be out of town and not able to visit her.”

“I will, of course, Mr. Sanders,” Madeline said in her most professional manner. While Mrs. Sanders exclaimed,

“Oh, darling, where are you going?”

“To Donald’s place, up in the Laurentians.”

Madeline knew that he looked at her again, but she refused to meet his glance.

“Well, I suppose you have to go and settle things with your cousin some time,” Mrs. Sanders agreed. “And it will be nice up there just now.”

“It will be marvellous. You know, I think we ought to have Miss Gill up there for the weekend. Judy will invite her.”

“Miss Gill?” Mrs. Sanders’ whole manner froze, while Madeline thought Morton must have gone mad.

“Yes. It will give her a good opportunity of seeing the Laurentians. We owe her something for having spoilt most of her fun on board. And she’ll be able to come back and report to you the very latest news of your beloved son,” Morton said mischievously. “What do you say, Miss Gill?” He turned to Madeline.

“I—it’s very kind of you. But I’m not sure when I have a weekend free and—”

“It need not be a weekend.”

“Morton dear,” his mother put in firmly, “we’ll have to talk this over. And you really must not keep poor Miss Gill. She’s always
very
busy at this time in the afternoon.”

“Yes, I—I really must go,” Madeline explained, and fled. “He must be crazy?” she thought angrily when she got outside. “What does he mean by involving me in that? I should adore to go up to the Laurentians for a weekend of course, but why tell her? Why tell her?”

And then, of course, she realized that, if Morton wished their friendship to develop, there would be a time when he would have to let Mrs. Sanders know. To carry on the whole relationship in a cloud of secrecy would be ridiculous and undignified, not to say dangerous. In one sense, it was exciting and significant that he had made this sudden move, for it could only mean that he intended to go on seeing her, and to do so openly.

“But it’s going to be pretty grim until she accepts the situation,” Madeline thought as she went off duty. “I wish Morton had spoken to me first. Or that I could talk it over with him now. How soon does he expect to go off on this trip? And—and what does he expect me to do about it?”

All the time she was changing, to go downtown and do some shopping, she was turning over the new development in her mind and trying to decide what she would do if the final decision were left to her.

She had not expected to have to face this issue so soon. To continue the friendship with Morton openly was to make a firm enemy of Mrs. Sanders, however skilfully he might handle her. And an enemy among the patients was not at all what Madeline wanted at this moment.

On the other hand, if she refused the invitation, it might not come again.

Madeline went out into the hot June sunshine, and while she stood waiting at the street-car stop she could not help thinking,

“It would be lovely and cool up in the Laurentians. What Morton is really doing is asking me to meet his relations. That too is a compliment which might mean—”

She had hardly noticed the long, low car which had slid to a standstill by the kerb, until Dr. Lanyon leaned out of the nearby window and said,

“Can I give you a lift? I’m going downtown.”

“Oh, thank you!” Sheer pleasure at seeing him, as much as the convenience of the lift, lent enthusiasm to her acceptance, and, as he opened the door, she willingly slipped into the seat beside him. Then, as the car started again, she turned to him eagerly.

“Dr. Lanyon, I’m so glad of the chance to thank you for what you did for me the other afternoon. I can’t tell you how grateful I am! I was really in despair when you came in.”

“I gathered you were in rather a spot. How did you manage it?”

“It’s really a long and rather boring story,” Madeline declared, feeling that it was old history now. “But everything has been all right since. Miss Ardingley seems willing to overlook the unfortunate incident which started it all. And for that I have to thank you—and I do, indeed I do.”

He smiled faintly at that, but he asked unexpectedly, “Where did Mrs. Sanders come into all this? I heard her name mentioned.”

“Mrs. Sanders? She—oh, she added a little fuel to Miss Ardingley’s wrath because she thought Morton—she thought her son was paying me too much attention.”

“And was he?” enquired Dr. Lanyon in what one of his students had once called his dissecting tone.

“Not really. No.”

“You don’t seem very sure about that.”

She stared at the strong, beautiful, clever hands on the steering wheel, and at last she said,

“Anything short of complete indifference would be paying me too much attention, in Mrs. Sanders’ estimation.”

“I’m sure it would.” He paused, then he said drily, “I take it Morton Sanders is not displaying complete indifference?”

“N-no.” She glanced at the famous surgeon somewhat uneasily, wondering how it was they had come to discuss her private affairs like this. “There’s no real reason why he should, is there?”

“Not,” Dr. Lanyon said, “if you consider it worth while to run into danger for his
beaux yeux
.”

“Danger!”

He stopped for some traffic lights and, turning his head, he gave Madeline a brief, not unkindly smile.

“My dear, I’m not going to give you advice,” he said, “because few people want advice, and almost none take it. But the Sanderses are not entirely unknown to me. Mrs. Sanders, as you ought to be able to judge for yourself, is suffering from a form of jealous hysteria which amounts almost to nervous unbalance. It would be bad enough if she had a plain and undistinguished son who caused her no anxieties, for she would still be just as possessive about him. But, in point of fact, he is of course a handsome, charming creature, who can look after himself very well.”

“But I don’t quite understand. If he can look after himself, why need one worry?”

“I,” said Dr. Lanyon very drily indeed, “was not worrying about Morton Sanders. Shall I drop you here? I’m going on right down to the General myself.”

“Oh, yes—thank you very much.” She prepared to get out, and then, as though something irresistible stopped her, she hesitated and said, “Dr. Lanyon, you’re really giving me some sort of warning, aren’t you?”

“That would be a little beyond my province,” he admitted with his slight smile. “But I will at least remind you that any girl who attracts Morton Sanders automatically becomes the target for Mrs. Sanders’ insane jealousy. And though I’m sure he can look after himself very well, I have some grave doubts of his looking after the girl.”

“I think that’s unfair!” Madeline said, and this time she did get out of the car.

“Perhaps. But at least it is my definition of danger,” he replied through the window of the car. “Personally, I feel that a major operation would be safe in comparison. Always supposing, of course, that I did the operation myself.”

Then he raised his hand to her in half-smiling salute and drove off.

CHAPTER VI

At
the Dominion, as in most other hospitals, there tended to be an enjoyable sort of inquest on the day’s events when the nurses gathered in each other’s rooms in the evening. But Madeline was inclined to keep her more personal experiences for Ruth and Eileen only. Consequently, it was to them, in her own room, that she told the story of Morton’s suggestion of the visit to his cousin’s place.

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 articles 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.”