It was in such intimate talks that Margaret, the strong, protecting tree to the slender vine, Helène, proved her friendship. In breeding and education the two girls were poles apart, but the native virtues and sterling character in each drew them together in an abiding love. A daughter of the people and a child of an ancient nobility thus met on the ground of their common humanity. With the passing of the days, Helène found new interest in her work and became more accustomed to the new life. Margaret, seeing Helène’s happiness, was happy herself. Sunshine without and contentment within, with not a cloud on the horizon of their lives!
Petty incidents like these may seem unworthy of record; but life is made up of such small happenings. Most of us come into this world and flit more or less swiftly and pleasantly through the playground of our childhood and youth as though it were but the antechamber to some richly furnished parlor. When we enter the longed-for parlor, we find in it labor and sorrow in plenty. We eat, sleep, dream, enjoy ourselves a little and then one day we awaken to the sad reality that we are no longer young. Some kind friend will remark: “Why, your hair is growing gray!” Another will sympathize and say: “Ah, we are not as young as we used to be.” He uses the polite plural, but we know he has a very definite singular in mind. And then comes the day when the roomy arm-chair is inviting, and the favorite ballad which once whispered gladness, now only recalls times long, long past. Then it is that the chatter of youth is a forgotten language; that the faces of women show only the rouge on cheek and lip and not the glorious eye; when an invitation to the dance compels us to the confession, “I am too old to dance,” and to the thought, “did she really want me for a partner?” when our conversation slips into the question, “do you remember?” when the past is our present and the future a dread. Ah, if youth knew the fulfillment of the promises of life, would he or she be gay? It is in our memory that we live, and memory is but the storehouse of little incidents. They are the little colored stones, which form the mosaic background of life. The figures may vary, the genre may change, but the background is always the same.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE halcyon days of that summer were filled with work and innocent enjoyment for Helène and Margaret. The girls were so happy that the gods themselves must have become envious, for they sent one of their number to destroy their happiness.
On days when the heat was oppressive, the girls left their work at an earlier hour than usual and would then walk along Fifth Avenue. At that hour the streams of people from shops and business places mingled with the current of those on pleasure bent. In crossing the thoroughfare, Helène and Margaret got stalled. Helène, undecided whether to advance or return, became confused and before she realized it a pair of spirited horses in an open landau was almost on top of her. Margaret seeing the danger, rushed up and pushed her into safety. In doing so, however, she herself was caught by the pole of the carriage, and thrown down and trampled on by one of the horses.
A crowd gathered immediately and Margaret, now unconscious, was carried to the sidewalk. Helène, deathly pale and speechless with horror, held the bleeding head of her beloved comrade in her lap. A policeman who had promptly arrived on the scene rushed to ring for an ambulance, when a richly dressed lady of commanding appearance offered to drive the young woman to the nearest hospital. She was the occupant of the carriage which had been the cause of the accident. Willing bystanders, assisted by the officer of the law, lifted the lifeless form into the landau into which Helène was invited by the owner.
At the hospital Helène was not allowed to go into the ward, but was requested to await the doctor’s report in the waiting-room. Almost beside herself with anxiety, she sat in a stupor and could scarcely answer the usual questions put to her by the doctor in charge.
The lady in whose carriage she had come, sat mutely near the window nervously tapping the sill, staring absently into the court without. Some questions were put to her also, but she, too, was too overcome to answer coherently.