The White Flag

by Gene Stratton-Porter

“The only thing of which I’m sure,” said Jemima heartily, “is that you’ve worked to the breaking point, or you may have picked up this fever yourself. Doctor Grayson says people do get it from one another. Now you come and get some food, and go to bed and have a good sleep, and to-morrow you work just half as hard as you have to-day.”

There were three anxious days at the time the fever ran its course, but Doctor Grayson was a skilled and a conscientious physician and he was dealing with a condition that he had handled many times in his life when he did not have the vitality of youth to aid him. The thing that he would have to combat in Mahala’s case would be her lethargy, the indifference that he felt sure she would feel, when consciousness returned, as to whether she lived or died, and this proved to be the hardest battle that he had to fight. But she was young; she was physically strong. Jemima, the nurse, and Doctor Grayson never faltered in their unwavering work and faith. The result was, that a week after the crisis, they were beginning to whisper of mysterious things to Mahala. There was a journey that she was to make; there was a wonderful surprise in store for her; something delightful was going to happen.

Because she was very weak, because she was desperately tired, because her heart had been as nearly broken as human hearts ever come to that condition without ultimate completion, Mahala found the easiest way was to listen, to accept what was being said. Several times she had sat in her chair by the window for an hour; her feet had touched the floor; she had stood upon them and performed a few wavering journeys around the room.

Jemima had been dismantling and sending away everything in the house belonging to Mahala that she could spare. Her clothing was packed, and she was counting the days until the removal could be made, when there came to the faithful creature a telegram from her daughter-in-law, and this time the hand of fate had fallen heavily upon Jemima. In the prime of her son’s life, in the full tide of his strength, with his wife and a house full of small children depending upon him, a piston had burst in a piece of machinery upon which he had been working in the factory that employed him, and the remainder of Jemima’s life was taken out of her hands. She was asked to come and help to rear and to support seven children, all of them youngsters needing everything. She was asked to come immediately, so there was nothing to do but to tell Mahala that there was trouble in Jemima’s family; that she had been called, and to leave Mahala to the care of the nurse.

So many things had happened to Mahala that one more did not matter. She wept a few weak tears of compassion for Jemima and pity for herself and went soundly to sleep at the hour of Jemima’s departure. The nurse was a kindly woman, a judicious woman, and for the remainder of her stay she found herself adhering very rigidly to the rules that Jemima had explained to her. Backed by Jemima’s reasons, they seemed very good rules. People who had failed Mahala in her hour of tribulation might stay away and attend to their own affairs; they might learn the lesson very thoroughly that the friend in need is the one who is the friend in deed; and that if people were not friends in need, there was every likelihood that they never would be friends again in any conditions that might obtain.

On the day that Jason announced that the house was ready, that he was very certain that he and the daughter of one of the neighbouring farmers who had been helping him to arrange the house, would be able to care for Mahala in the future, the nurse helped him to lay springs and a mattress in Peter Potter’s delivery wagon and make up a comfortable bed. With a smile on her pale lips and that brand of hopelessness in her heart which amounts to passivity, Mahala walked between the nurse and Jason and was lifted to the bed. With closed eyes she lay quietly while she was driven through the streets of Ashwater, out country highways, and slowly down the River Road until they reached the house she once had visited.

As they had driven along in the warming sunshine she had felt that it made small difference to her whether she lived or died. When she saw the transformation that had taken place in her house and land, there came to her with a distinct shock the feeling that it would be ungracious of her to die. There was an expectant look about the face of the waiting house. It proclaimed itself with dignity and pride; it was alluring to look at—all fresh paint and lace-curtained windows. It was standing up straight upon its foundations. A veranda had been added across the front, and everything was a vision of peace and quiet beauty. It gave Mahala the feeling that she would not be doing the square thing not to live in it, not to love it, not to search for happiness there.

Sitting on the veranda was an attractive young girl. When she saw the covered wagon coming, she arose and came down to the gate, swinging it open. She was a slip of a thing with light hair, wide-open questioning young eyes, and a provoking red mouth. She was quite tall for a girl, slender, and neatly dressed. There was the vivid pink of fresh air, an outdoor flush on her cheeks.

Mahala looked at Jason; her lips formed the one word: “Who?”

Jason answered: “Her name is Ellen Ford. She’s the daughter of your nearest neighbour. She’s taken a lot of interest while I was fixing up the place. She’s agreed to stay with you and take care of you until you feel well enough to manage by yourself. She’s a real nice girl with sufficient sense to keep her mouth shut. She thinks you wonderful and she’s crazy about having the chance to stay with you.”