The Board of the New York Hospital for the Contagious and Infectious Diseases of Children was to meet one clear, dusty, windy morning in November at the house of one of its original members. Almost all its members were original; ten years had made but little difference in its personnel. Not only work accomplished, but some real dangers run, held it together with a coherence not usual in charities accounted fashionable. One of its greatest triumphs had been the discovery, at the beginning, of the Reverend William Watson Joyce—not then known for the wonderful preacher and organizer that he is now acclaimed. For eight years he had been their chairman.
Mrs. Orvice was a widow between forty and fifty—forty, one said, to judge by her looks; fifty, when one saw her son. She was still so lovely that no one ever thought of remarking that she had once been a beauty. She had kept her eyes and her figure, and the former, looking out from a face beginning to be lined, beneath hair beginning to turn gray, were as clear and brilliant as a little patch of blue sky on a cloudy day.
Doctor Joyce, leaning forward, was saying to the five ladies and one gentleman who had assembled:
“This meeting was called, my dear friends, for two purposes, to fill the place of the dear lady who will be such a loss to all of us, and to consider ways and means for raising money for the new building, of which we stand, as you know, in such dire need”
“Well,” interrupted a little plump lady, sitting by the door, “all I say is—not a garden-party.” She was suggestive of anything but charity. Her nodding plumes, pearl earrings, and spotted veil were plainly of this world. Her skin was smooth but coarse-grained, and her bright little eyes looked out unrelieved by eyebrows. “Shall you ever forget the way we worked for that other one? And such a rain! Every time they read about the deluge in church, I think I know how it began. And how did we come out? Ten dollars to the bad. To the good, was it?”
“I don’t think, Miss Bowles,” said Doctor Joyce gently, “that, after our unfortunate experience, any one is likely to advocate another garden-party.”
“Well, if they do, I certainly sha’n’t agree,” returned Miss Bowles. “I was thinking of a play, something clever and improper, that the authorities would not let you produce if it were not for charity.”
Doctor Joyce had come to feel some pride that he, and not Miss Bowles, should conduct the meeting, and he now said in the low but commanding voice of a man accustomed to filling great spaces:
“I believe our first business is the election of a member to this board. What suggestions have you to make? You remember we were all to give the matter some thought before we met again.”
Miss Bowles tapped the arm of her chair. “I give you my word,” she said, “that it has never crossed my mind from that day to this. However, it does not matter, for I am always pestering my friends to come on this board, but they have their own charities. People are so selfish.”
The other ladies and Mr. Peale, the treasurer, had not been so forgetful. Several names were suggested, but without conviction, and when the possibilities appeared to be exhausted, Doctor Joyce himself spoke. He was a middle-aged man with prominent brown eyes like a spaniel, and a complexion so transparent that it showed a change of color whenever he spoke. It showed a most decided change now.
“If no one else has any further suggestion,” he said, “I have a candidate to propose. I have in mind a young lady, energetic, generous, and excessively rich”
“It sounds almost too good to be true,” said Miss Bowles. “Let us elect her by all means. Who is she?”
“Her name is Carman—Miss Marie Louise Carman.” Doctor Joyce looked almost guiltily about the room, but it was evident that, with the exception of Miss Bowles, no one could connect the name with anything.
It was Miss Bowles who answered: “What, not the girl who used to drive about Newport in a white victoria all last summer?”
“Miss Carman was, I believe, at Newport last summer,” Doctor Joyce answered; and he added with an irrepressible smile: “I think it extremely likely that her equipage was white.”
“Oh,” cried Miss Bowles, “I used to feel so sorry for that girl—driving up and down the Ocean Drive in such beautiful clothes—and such horses! And not a soul knew her Well, Doctor Joyce, no one would dispute your selection, anyhow. Let’s vote.”
But to have his selection disputed was just what Doctor Joyce desired. He explained that he had met Miss Carman only once or twice—she had taken a pew at his church, and seemed very eager to do good.