Lois came in smiling. “She is in now,” she said, “and we will go down.”
Margaret exerted herself and tried to chat bravely as they went along the corridor, and entered the cool silence of the room where Lois’s friend waited to meet her. There was a restfulness in Mrs. Goodno’s neat attire, and a dignity about her clear profile, full, womanly throat and strong, capable wrists, that seemed to be an inseparable part of her atmosphere. Her firm and unringed hands held Margaret’s with a suggestion of tried strength and assured poise that bore comfort. Her eyes were deep gray, smiling less with humor, one felt, than with a constant inward reflection of welcome thoughts. Her hair was a dull, toneless black, carried back under her lace cap in a single straight sweep that left the hollows of her neck in deep shadow.
“And you are Miss Langdon?” she said. “Lois has told me so much about you. Do sit down. Tea will be here directly, and I want to give you some, for I know you have had a long, dreary ride.”
She busied herself renewing the grate fire, while Margaret watched her with straying eyes.
“You know,” she said, returning, “we people who spend our lives taking care of broken human bodies have to be strong ourselves. You are strong; I see that, though your face has tired lines in it now. But we must be more than that—our minds must be healthy. We can’t afford to be morbid. We have to have cheerful hearts. We must see the beauty of the great pattern that depends on these soiled and tangled threads we keep straightening out here.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, “do you think we have to be happy to do any good in the world? How can we be happy unless we work? And if we start miserable——” she stopped, with an acute sense of wretchedness.
“No, not happy necessarily. There are things in some of our lives which make that impossible; but we can be cheerful. Cheerfulness depends not on our past acts, but on our wholesome view of life, and we get this by learning to understand it and to understand ourselves.”
“But, do you think,” questioned Margaret, “do you think we always do in the end?”
“Yes; I believe we do. It’s unfailing. I proved it to myself, for I began life by being a very unnatural girl, and a very unhappy one. I misunderstood my own emotions, as all young girls do. I didn’t know how to treat myself. I didn’t even know I was sick. I had been brought up in New England, and I tortured myself with religion. It wasn’t the wickedness of the world that troubled me; I expected too much of myself—we all do at a certain age. And, because I found weakness where I hadn’t suspected it, I thought I was all wrong. You know we New Englanders have a peculiar aptitude for self-torture, and I wore my hair-cloth shirt and pressed it down on the sores. It was the University Settlement idea that first drew me out of myself. I went into that and worked at first only for my own sake; but, after a while, for the work’s sake. It was only work I wanted, my dear, and contact with real things. Out of the turmoil and mixture and pain I got my first real satisfaction. In its misery and want and degradation I learned that an isolated grief is always selfish. I learned the part that our human bodies play in life. I began to see a meaning in the plan and to understand the part in it of what I had thought the lower things in us. Then I got into the hospital work, and you will soon see what that is. It has shown me humanity. It has taught me the nobility of the human side of us. It makes me broader to understand and quicker to feel; and it isn’t depressing. There is a great deal in it that is sunny. I hope you will like it. But we are not all made in the same mould, and we regard your coming, of course, merely as an experiment. So, if you feel at any time that it is not for you, come to me and tell me. Come to me any time and talk with me.