I have not seen Selwyn since the night of Kitty's dinner-party. He
has been back three days. If he wished to see me before he went
away, why does he not come to see me now? Daily I determine I will
let no thought of him come into my mind. The purposes for which I
came to Scarborough Square will be defeated if I continue to think of
this unimaginable happening that is with me day and night, this
peculiar behavior of which he makes no explanation. I determine not
to think, and thought is ever with me.
I was silly, foolish, quixotic to hope that here, in this little
world of workaday people, he might be brought to see that personal
acquisition and advance is not enough to give life meaning, to
justify what it exacts. I was foolish. We are more apart than when
I came.
Mrs. Mundy, in her blue cotton dress, a band of embroidery in the
neck of its close-fitting basque, and around her waist a long, white
apron which reached beyond her ample hips to the middle of her back,
lingered this morning, dust-cloth in hand, at the door of my
sitting-room. There was something else she wanted to say.
"I'm mighty 'fraid little Gertie Archer is going to have what we used
to call a galloping case." She went over to the window, where she
felt the earth in its flower-box to see if it were moist. "She's a
pretty child, and she was terrible anxious to go to one of them
open-air schools on the roof, but there wasn't any room. It's too
late now."
The upper ends of the dust-cloth were fitted together carefully, and,
leaving the window, Mrs. Mundy went over to the door. "Do you reckon
the women know, the women where you come from? And the other women,
the rich, and the comfortable, and the plain ones who could help,
too, if they were shown how--do you reckon they know?"
I looked up from the table where I had been straightening some
magazines. "Know what?"
"About there not being schools enough for the children, and about
boys and girls going wrong because of not being shown how to go
right, and about--"
Mrs. Mundy sat down in a chair near the door. "Another thing I want
to ask you is this: How did it come about that some men and women
have found out they've got to know, and they've got to care, and
they've _got_ to help with things they didn't use to help with; and
some 'ain't heard a sound, 'ain't seen a thing of what's going on
around them?
"Some people like being deaf and blind. But most people are willing
to do their part if they only understand it. The trouble is in
knowing how to go about things in the right way--the wise way. Women
have had to stumble so long--
"They're natural stumblers--women are. That is, some of 'em.
They're afraid to look where they're going. I don't like to lose
heart in anything human, but I get low down in spirit when I see how
don't-care so many women are. They're blind as bats when they don't
want to see, and they've got a mighty satisfying way of soothing of
themselves by saying some things ain't their business. That's
devil's dope. Generally women who talk that way are the ones who
call the most attention to the faults and failings of men.
Considering men are men, I think they do wonderful. Mr. Guard says
if women keep silent much longer the very stones will cry out."
"Mr. Guard? Is he the one you call the people's preacher?"
Mrs. Mundy nodded. "He preaches to them what won't go in a church.
I reckon you've seen something about him in the papers. He used to
have a church in a big city, but he gave it up. I don't think he
thinks like the churches think, exactly, but he don't have any call
to mention creeds and doctrines down here, and he just asks people
plain out what kind of life they're living, not what they believe.
I've been wanting for a long time for you-all to know each other."
"I'd like very much to know him. Ask him to come to see me."
"He don't go to see people unless they need him. I've been wanting
him for weeks to come to supper with Bettina and me, but he's that
busy he hasn't had a night free to do it. When he does have one,
would you mind coming down and taking supper with us instead of my
sending yours up as usual? I'd be awful proud to have you."
"Of course I'll come. I'd love to. Can't you get him for Friday
evening? I have no engagement for Friday--"
"It's this minute I'll try." Mrs. Mundy got up with activity. "You
two were meant to know each other. Both of you have your own way of
doing things, and you'll have a lot to talk about. You'll like him
and he'll like you. I'll let you know if he can come as soon as I
find out." Closing the door behind her, she left me alone.
Taking the morning paper to the window, I drew my chair close to it,
pushing back the curtains that I might have all possible light as I
read. It was again snowing, and the grayness of the sky and
atmosphere was reflected in the room, notwithstanding the leaping
flames of the open fire, and after a while I put the paper aside and
looked out of the window.
Each twig and branch of the trees and shrubs of the snow-covered
Square was bent and twisted in fantastic shape by its coating of
sleet, and the usual shabbiness of the little park was glorified with
shining wonder; and under its spell, for the moment, I forgot all
else. Here and there a squirrel hopped cautiously from tree to tree,
now standing on its branches and nibbling a nut dug from its
hiding-place, now scurrying off to hide it again, and as I watched
the cautious cocking of their heads I laughed aloud, and the sound
recalled me to the waste I was making of time.
"This isn't writing my letters, and they must go off on the afternoon
mail." Getting up, I was about to turn from the window when a man
and a young woman coming across the Square caught my attention and,
hardly knowing why, I looked at them intently. Something about the
man was familiar. He was barely medium height, and singularly
slender, and though his head was bent that he might better hear the
girl who was talking, I was sure I had seen him before. The girl I
had never seen. She was dragging slowly, as if each step was forced,
and, putting her handkerchief close to her mouth, she began to cough.
For a moment they stood still and I saw the girl had on low shoes and
a shabby coat which had once been showy. On one side of her hat was
a red bird, battered and bruised, and at this comic effort at
dressiness, which poor people cling to with such pathetic
persistence, I smiled, and then in alarm leaned closer to the window.
They had begun their walk again, and were now at the end of the path
opening on to the pavement. I could see them clearly, and
instinctively my hands went out as if to catch her, for the girl had
fallen forward, and on the snow a tiny stream of red was dripping
from her mouth. Quickly the man caught her and put his handkerchief
to her lips, and with equal swiftness he looked around. He could not
lay her on the snow, but she could no longer stand. The fear in his
face, the whiteness of hers, were plainly visible. I raised the
window.
"Bring her over here," I called. "I'll come down and help you."
In a flash I was out of the room and down the steps. Mrs. Mundy, who
had heard my hurried running, followed me to the door. "What is it?"
she asked. "What's the matter, Miss Dandridge?"
Opening the front door, I started down the steps, but already the
man, with the girl in his arms, was coming up them. "Go back," he
said, quietly, though his breath was quick and uneven. "Go back.
You'll get your feet wet."
With a swift movement Mrs. Mundy pushed me aside. "Mr. Guard?" Her
voice was questioning, uncertain; then she held out her arms. "The
poor child! Give her to me. Who is it? Why, it's--it's Lillie
Pierce!"
"Yes." The man's voice was low, and with a movement of his head his
hat fell on the floor. "It's Lillie Pierce. She has fainted. Where
shall I take her?"
"In here." Opening a door at the end of the hall, Mrs. Mundy
motioned Mr. Guard to enter. From the girl's mouth the blood was
still dripping, and on the collar of her coat was a big round splotch
of red.
"No," I said. "Bring her up-stairs. There's a room all fixed, and
you have so much to do." I put my hand on Mrs. Mundy's arm. "I can
take care of her. Can't we take her up-stairs?"
A swift look passed between Mrs. Mundy and Mr. Guard. "No." The
latter shook his head. "It is better for her to be down here."
Going inside of the little room, he laid the girl on a cot at the
foot of the bed, then turned to me. "Get a doctor. Call Chester
4273 and tell Carson, if he's there, to come at once. If you can
find her, get Miss White also."
I turned to leave the room, but not before I saw Mrs. Mundy and Mr.
Guard at work on the girl, and already her hat and coat were off, and
warm covering was being tucked around her. Mrs. Mundy knew what to
do, and with feet that hardly touched the steps I was at the
telephone and calling the number that had been given me. I was
frightened and impatient at the slowness of Central. "For Heaven's
sake, hurry!" I said. "Some one is ill. Ring loud!"
Dr. Carson was in. He would come at once. Miss White was out.
"Where is she?" I asked. "Where can I get her?"
I was told where she might be found, and, changing my slippers for
shoes, and putting on my coat and hat, I came down ready to go out.
At the door of the room where they had taken the girl I stopped. She
was now quite conscious, and with no pillow under her head she was
staring up at the ceiling. Blood was no longer on her lips, but a
curious smile was on them. It must have been this gasping, faintly
scornful smile that startled me. It seemed mocking what had been
done too late.
"I am going for Miss White." I looked at Mr. Guard. "She is at the
Bostrows'. The doctor--"
As I spoke he came in, a big man, careless in dress and caustic in
speech, but a man to be trusted. I slipped out and in a few minutes
had found Martha White, and quickly we walked back to Scarborough
Square.
"It's well you came when you did." She bent her head to keep the
swirling snowflakes from her face. Martha is fat and short and rapid
walking is difficult. "I was just about to leave for the other end
of town to see a typhoid case of Miss Wyatt's. She's young and gets
frightened easily, and I promised I'd come some time to-day, though
it's out of my district. Who is this girl I'm going to see?"
"I don't know. I heard Mr. Guard and Mrs. Mundy call her Lillie
Pierce. They seemed to know her. I never saw her before."
"Never heard of her." Miss White, who had been district nursing for
fourteen years, made effort to recall the name. "She had a
hemorrhage, you say?"
She did not wait for an answer, but went up the steps ahead of me,
and envy filled me as I followed her into the room where she was to
find her patient. Professionally Miss White was one person, socially
another. Off duty she was slow and shy and consciously awkward. In
the sick-room she was transformed. Quiet, cool, steady, alert, she
knew what to do and how to do it. With a word to the others, her
coat and hat were off and she was standing by the bed, and again I
was humiliated that I knew how to do so little, was of so little
worth.
Between the doctor and herself was some talk. Directions were given
and statements made, and then the doctor came to the door where I was
standing. For a half-moment he looked me over, his near-sighted eyes
almost closing in their squint.
"I knew your father. A very unusual man." He held out his hand.
"You're like him, got his expression, and, I'm told, the same
disregard of what people think. That"--he jerked his thumb over his
shoulder--"is a side of life you've never seen before. It's a side
men make and women permit. Good morning." Before I could answer he
was gone.
Close to the cot Mrs. Mundy and Miss White were still standing. The
latter slipped her hand under the covering and drew out the hot-water
bag. "This has cooled," she said. "Where can I get hot water?"
Mrs. Mundy pointed to the bath-room, then turned, and together they
left the room. The girl on the cot was seemingly asleep.
As they went out the man, who was standing by the mantel, came toward
me. "I am David Guard," he said. "I have not thanked you for
letting me bring her in. Had there been anywhere else to take her, I
would not have brought her here. I met her at the other end of the
Square. We had been standing for some while, talking. There was no
place to which we could go to talk, and, fearing she would get too
cold, we had moved on. Last month she tried to take her life. This
morning she was telling me she could hold out no longer. There was
no way out of it but death."
"Who is she?"
Before he could answer I understood. Shivering, I turned away, then
I came back.
"Will you come to my sitting-room, Mr. Guard? Can we not talk as
human beings who are trying to find the right way to--to help wrong
things?"