Thurley had lingered at the Fincherie until the time grew so short
she knew she must rush into her concert work without her customary
rehearsals. She had word from Bliss Hobart that he was on his way West to
speak for patriotic matters and arrange some musical things and he had
left some music for her and advice as to a difficult new rôle.
His letter did not create in Thurley the usual rebellion against Bliss’s
reserved self or her own foolish pledge. She was too busy casting ahead
for coming events, wondering how her opportunity would arrive in which
to prove her gray angel self and best to help Bliss’s vision to become
practically demonstrated.
She said good-by with reluctance to Dan’s son and his foolish,
ineffectual little mother whose head was temporarily in a whirl of
excitement. Lorraine was to face readjustment as much as the man who
would return to civilian life minus an arm. It seemed to Thurley that
perhaps here was where gray angel demonstration must begin—to stop
Lorraine’s neglect of her home and child, and convince her that when Dan
came back expecting to find the same gentle wife whose house was her
kingdom and whose outlook on life would be his tempering element—she must
not fail him.
Yet Lorraine seemed beyond reason. Josie, Hazel, Cora and Owen, with
another handful of equally featherweight mental calibre, had gone on
their way rejoicing, they had had a farewell banquet with speeches made
about their being “patriotic pilgrims” and had fitted bags presented as
tokens of esteem....
* * * * *
Thurley found intriguers and hysterical hikers in full swing in the city,
but it was good to have a hum of life and progress once again. Caleb
dropped in to tell of the success of “The Patriotic Burglar” which had
gone into six editions.
“Have you read it?” he asked, snuggling in an easy chair.
She shook her head. “What do you hear from Ernestine? Collin wrote a
postal which I found when I came in from the Corners.”
Caleb laughed. “I don’t think Beethoven and Bach will make a hit;
Ernestine will pack up her music in her kit bag and blow back ... but you
ought to read my book—it was like rolling off a log to write it—”
Thurley frowned.
“Any other time it would have been too thin to have got by, but every
subway advertises it and there is a stampede outside the bookstores. I
have raked in a harvest.”
The gray angel of Thurley prompted a reproof.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded gaily. “You’re too pretty to scold.”
“It is cheating to write drivel—when Bliss’s and Ernestine’s ideals for
you—”
Caleb rose. “I’m off,” he had a petulant air like Mark’s flippant unrest.
“If people want what I write, they shall have it! We may as well have as
good a time as we can; it seems to be the main thing these days.”
After he left Thurley sat oblivious to telephones or unanswered mail,
forgetting the Corners and Miss Clergy and Ali Baba’s pride as he had
driven her to the station. She was considering as a judicial gray angel
this question of eternally having a good time which was a cancer spot in
national common sense.
Now that the tide was turning rapidly towards peace and victory, a call
was being made so stupendous and half mystical that perhaps women could
best hear and understand since their ears are attuned to children’s
unworded, sobbed wants. It was the call to declare themselves as gray
angels and to work together for the banishment of the good time menace,
to show the world, non-fighting and veterans, that it is good to be
ordinary, to return to “life as usual” instead of staying breathless with
excitement, unjustly halo-clad, scornful of humdrum duties and rebelling
at the inevitable readjustment. By this women should come to see things
as they are, not as they would wish them to be.
Dusk crept on Thurley unawares. She started up as the maid came in to
hand her a telegram. She knew before she opened it. Miss Clergy was dead.