13
Miss Mary was at home in her little flat on the East Side of downtown. The cry of a newly born child came through the window. She smiled; her ears distinguished the sex. A girl fretted, wailed in a high-pitched, nagging tone; a boy fought, bellowed. Yes, this was a girl. Mary wondered how many men she would make miserable; that would depend on her face. What children men are! They marry a complexion, teeth, eyes. When they get at the woman, it’s too late. Some kick over the traces; most of them remain in harness from a sense of honor. The patience married people have with each other is wonderful, considering they are like dice thrown together by accident.
She thought of the Garrisons, and drew two lines on a piece of paper—one a parallel—that stood for him; he thought in straight lines. The other, broken with angles—that was she. She wondered if he understood that mysterious side of his wife. She saw his eyes, always trying to look happy, his sensitive mouth trying to say pleasant things. A knock at the door startled her; there he stood surrounded by the bare-footed little devils of the neighborhood. They had piloted him up the dark stairs. A little gold-head slipped her hand in his. He bent down and kissed her dirty face; then he distributed all his small change amongst them and shut them out.
“I’ve had a time finding you, Miss Mary. I’ve never been in this neighborhood before.”
“You should get acquainted with it; it’s more interesting than Park Avenue.”
“Poverty is terrible.”
“No, it’s wonderful; it keeps people human. But here there is no poverty; the people earn their living.”
“Such as it is.” He looked around the room. There was a cot in an alcove, a few chairs, a table, a shelf of books, and she smiling at him.
“You’re not feeling well, Mr. Garrison.”
“Oh! I’m well enough, but the springs are giving way.”
“We must brace them up.”
“Impossible, they are broken.”
“Then we’ll have to get you new springs.”
How young she was, how happy, and the bare room; here was—no ego that wants and wants—always taking, never giving—no expectations, no disappointment; Selflessness—that’s what kept her so buoyant.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, if you will.”
Then he told her of Julie’s relapse and the prescribed sea voyage.
“Dr. McClaren wants her to go without me; he thinks it will be better for her. You know her so well; what is your opinion?”
“Your wife is organically healthy, but there are pathological conditions—a radical change might do her good.”
She avoided his eyes; he was disappointed, but what else could she say?
He bent a little nearer.
“Miss Mary, if you will go with her, my mind would be at rest.”
She sat silent a moment.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot; I’ve pledged myself.”
“You are engaged?”
She laughed, clapping her hands like a child.
“To be married, you mean? Oh! no! I shall never marry.”
He laughed with her, like a boy.
“Not if you fall terribly in love?”
“Not even then!” Her eyes shone defiantly. “I’ve made a promise to myself, and I won’t be a deserter.”
“A promise to yourself?”
“Yes, don’t you, sometimes?”
“No.”
“You should, or life would become too accidental; we would be terribly tossed about.”
“That’s what’s happening to me. I am looking for some occupation, but I don’t want to get into a treadmill. The people toil at business, pleasure—they do the same thing day after day, year after year. Life is a habit, a deadening monotony.”
She drew up her knees, clasped her hands over them, bent forward. She was a quaint little thing; he had never known anyone like her. She spoke slowly, with difficulty; the words she had at her command couldn’t adequately express her thoughts.
“Life is a gift, not a habit. Every day we do the same things, but they must bring us something new in the doing. I’ve often thought, in the quiet of the sick room, what a privilege it is that I could sit there and help, when all the millions and billions of spirits are crowding the universe, and can’t get into life; I’m so glad I am put into a body—so happy, so thankful.”
“I have never thought it a privilege to live, never thought of life as a gift.”
“We depend too much on people and things to make us happy; we shouldn’t! Our happiness depends on no one but ourselves.”
He knew what she meant. Julie had colored his life for a time; now it was grey.
“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
She came nearer with a touch of eagerness.
“You will, won’t you?”
He answered simply:
“Yes, I will—”
Then she went to the table and took up one of a pile of opened letters.
“I have pledged myself to something which will take all my time, all my strength, and that isn’t very much.”
“No,” said Floyd.
“Nursing is gradually becoming a money-making trade. During the War, women seeking adventure with little knowledge were extravagantly paid. Now money is no longer easy, but prices remain high. Only people of means can afford a trained nurse; there is a great need. You don’t know how sick people are neglected for want of care. I am trying to bring together earnest women of all classes; there are so many who want to do something, and don’t know how. I have appeals from all over the country—piteous cries from women whose lives are empty; their school will be the bedside of the poor. You don’t know how quickly they learn, when their heart is in it. They pledge themselves to go wherever they are called, without regard to payment, like the nuns in the early days of Christianity. We are getting together a fund to pay their living. When they are not working they will study, we will have our own home, our own hospital. It has only been whispered, but you have no idea how easy it is to get money.” She showed him a letter signed by a well-known millionaire, who guaranteed a large sum. “There are many rich women eager to join us, who are seeking for something better, something nobler in their lives—you don’t know—you don’t know!”
No, he didn’t know!
“I feel very small, annoying you with my personal affairs when you are doing such great things.” He made his way to the door. Life was hopeless again.
“Wait.”
She was agitated, she couldn’t let him go like that; because—she loved him. She knew it now. A wave of gladness rushed through her. She had loved everybody all her life, but this love was like a wonderful magic touch—transporting her into some distant fairy world. She stood by the window; he saw the light on her face.
“I think I can manage it. I want to go to London to the headquarters of the Salvation Army, to Zurich, to confer with the Red Cross Sisters; if your wife will go with me, it will not be neglecting my duty.”
He grasped her hand. “Thanks, thanks. I’ll never forget this, never.”
He saw the blood surging up to her temples, receding, leaving her white. Her eyes were longing, pleading; they sought his. She was beautiful; his heart gave a great bound. He stood looking, looking, stammered something, then turned and went out.
The next few days he was kept busy about the cabins, rugs, passports, exchange. There was a feeling of warmth. He saw Mary standing there with that look in her face; he saw the woman for the first time. How wonderful she was! What a wife she would make! He hoped she wouldn’t marry. No man was good enough. He found himself thinking too much about her; then he went and bought something costly for Julie. He refused to stay alone in the house with that French woman. He coaxed Bridget back to take care of the boy while his wife was away. He wondered why Julie didn’t write to her friends.
“I don’t want anyone to know I am going.”
“Not even Maud Dillon?”
“They’ve moved away somewhere.”
He hadn’t seen Tom about town as usual. How people disappear when their money is gone and nobody misses them.
The car was waiting at the door. Julie, with a throb of pride, took the boy once more in her arms. The child was beautiful in his velvet suit and lace collar.
“You won’t forget me, Joseph?”
“No, Mother.”
She placed her photograph on the table beside his little bed.
“You will say good night to me? I will hear it. I will say good night to you; you will hear it.”
“Yes, Mother.” She put the worn Hebrew prayer book in his hands.
“You will read the prayer I taught you, every morning, every evening?”
“Yes, Mother.” The boy’s eyes fixed on her face grew deeper; there was a psychic connection between them. She went back to her own childhood. She saw an old man, with that book in his hand, his face lit with religious fervor.
“Julie, you will say the prayer I taught you, every morning, every evening?”
“Yes, Grandfather.” She had kept her promise.
The steamer sailed. Mary remained on deck to get a last glimpse of the solitary man standing on the wharf. Julie gave Floyd’s flowers to the steward to put on the dining table; there was a bouquet of exquisite red roses in her cabin. When they landed she wore one in her corsage.