IT WAS late that evening before mother and daughter were alone at last.
Mrs. Dunlap had responded to a telegram and left on the seven o'clock
train for Boston to meet in conference with an important committee on
some international work for young women.
Nelson Whitney had attended to all her wants as the son of the family
might have waited on a powerful ally who had pulled them all out of
distress.
He took Mrs. Sheldon and her daughter to a wonderful symphony orchestra
concert with a soloist of world reputation, and then brought them back
to the hotel refusing to remain for even a few minutes because they
needed to rest. He attended them up to the door of their room, kissed
Marguerite reverently, and then half shyly kissed her mother and said:
"Good night, Mother!" with an accent in his tone that spoke volumes.
He left both mother and daughter tingling with joy and pride in him,
and then at last the door was closed on the outer world, shutting them
in alone together.
The girl hurried into the closet to hang up her coat and hat, feeling a
sudden shyness before her mother, realizing all at once that there were
some things that must be made clear between them before she could feel
that all was right.
The mother removed her street things slowly, a light of almost
other-worldly joy in her face. She was thinking of what her new friend
had said to her that afternoon, and of the Bible verse she had quoted
to her. And how wonderfully, and swiftly the promise had been made good
to her. Why, she had scarcely waked from that refreshing sleep into
which she had fallen pillowed on that promise, when the fulfillment had
knocked at her door in the person of Nelson and Marguerite come to show
her the ring.
Marguerite had been shy and lovely, but almost silent and they had not
pressed her to talk much. She had been most humble and loving toward
her mother and Mrs. Dunlap, thanking that great-hearted woman in no
uncertain words, although they were few, and clasping her in a close
penitent embrace when she left.
But to her mother Marguerite had as yet said not one word about the
happenings of the last few days. She had let her lover do all the
talking, and had sat with downcast lashes, and a childlike contentment
in her face that yet spoke volumes of reassurance to the two who had
waited through the long hours to know how it fared with her.
But now the time had come, and Marguerite knew it, to have it out with
her mother.
She stayed in the closet several minutes arranging her things, being
most careful about how her hat was placed on the shelf, and searching
in her coat pocket for a handkerchief she was not sure was there. But
at last she came out.
Mrs. Sheldon was taking down her hair for the night, and it fell in
lovely silver waves to her waist, with soft little tendrils, and a curl
or two at the ends. It seemed to glorify her delicate face and set her
off as if it had been a halo.
The girl watched her lovely mother for a moment, wistfully, wishing she
would begin, and then suddenly she burst forth with tears:
"I don't see how I could have done it to you!" she said in a cry of
sorrow. "You are so dear and lovely, and here I've led you through all
this horrible mess! I don't see how you can ever love me again!"
With one swift movement, as if she had been young again, the mother
turned and folded her child in her arms.
"My darling!" she said. "Oh, my darling!" And held her so close she
could hardly breathe.
It was a long time they stood so, Marguerite's face hidden in her
mother's neck, the mother's lips against her child's hot forehead,
touching her hair with caresses that could not be measured nor counted
nor described because it would be a desecration.
No words passed between them, nor was there any need. It was as if
their thoughts were as open to one another as if they had been one, so
close their hearts seemed to come.
At last the girl lifted her hot, shamed, forgiven face to her mother.
There was one more thing that had to be spoken:
"Mother, you must think I'm an awful fool. You must think awful things
of me that I let Nelson—that he—that I—so soon after—" She hid her
shamed face once more on her mother's shoulder, and the mother arms
clasped her close again.
"No, dear, I don't think awful things. I think my girl has been through
a bewildering experience and didn't know her own mind, was not capable
of judging, but I think you have come back to your senses again, and
I thank God that you have such a wonderful friend as Nelson who has
been willing after all the suffering you have given him through these
months, to put the protection of his love about you. He could not be a
greater comfort to me, and to you if he were my own son."
The girl was still a long time, and then she said timidly:
"Yes, Mother, he is wonderful! More wonderful even than I have told you
yet or you have seen. But Mother, you think I let him get that ring
just to protect me from gossips, just to let others see that I had not
been a fool! But I didn't, Mother. I truly didn't! I couldn't have done
that not even to protect you from all the shame and disgrace of having
people find out just what really did happen. I couldn't have unless I
had loved him. You think perhaps it couldn't be true love so soon after
I thought I was dying for that other man, but it is, it is. It seems as
if I had never really known love before.
"Why, Mother, when Nelson began to tell me how he felt toward me, and
what I was to him, it opened a whole new world to me. I hadn't known
what love was before. I hadn't dreamed what it could be. It seemed as
if the other had just been a cheap imitation of it. It showed up the
other experience. I began to see in contrast how selfish Rufus—I mean
Mr. Oliver—had been, how all he talked about was a good time, something
to amuse—how he did not seem to care about whether I was pleased or
not, only to bend me to his will. It hadn't seemed that way at all
before. But Mother, I've been thinking about it all the evening, trying
to see how I could make you understand, and I believe I was just proud
to think a man as wise and experienced as I thought he was, had stooped
to notice me, and I was frantic when I thought I had lost him.
"But Mother, I didn't know the deep sweet joy I feel now in Nelson. I
didn't know there was such joy. Truly, Mother and you know it isn't
as if I had just met Nelson—he's been dear always—always—since I was
just a little girl, only he never opened this door to his soul before
and let me see how he had put me in his heart on a throne. And it has
just carried me into heaven, Mother, but I know you think I haven't any
right—not a bit of right to it—since—since—"
"Yes, you have, my dear. I do think you have. I have watched your
face. You are a different girl. You have met the real thing at last
and recognized it. I couldn't have hoped it would come to you so soon.
I was fearful what might happen to you in the interval, till our new
friend showed me that I might trust you with my heavenly Father. And
somehow, my precious child, I believe He let this come to you so soon
just to show us both how He can heal, and how He will lead and save and
bless those who trust Him entirely with their lives."
Said the girl, laying her hot cheek against her mother's soft one:
"Oh, Mother! You are the most wonderful woman in the world! And Mrs.
Dunlap is next. What should we have done without her? Suppose I had
gone on and had my own way! Suppose—suppose—I had lost Nelson! Just
think! Even if the other man hadn't been what he was—suppose I had
missed knowing Nelson's love! Oh, Mother! You don't know how wonderful
Nelson is! I can never make you understand. He is—different! He
is—wonderful!"
"I believe it!" said the mother fervently. "And now let us kneel down
and thank God for the wonderful way in which he has led us."
A little later, while her mother was preparing for the night,
Marguerite took out her little Bible that always traveled with her when
she went anywhere because it was a part of the fittings of the bag
which her mother had given her the Christmas before. Opening it, she
paused with startled eyes. At last she said:
"Mother, listen to this. I opened right to it, Isaiah 42.16, 'I will
bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths
that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them,
and crooked things straight. These things will I do to them, and not
forsake them.' Mother, that was what He did for me. I was blind!"
THE END
The Inimitable "Pansy"
[Illustration]
Eighty-seven years old, a pain-wracked invalid—yet the author of "Ester
Reid," "Four Girls At Chautauqua," "Mrs. Solomon Smith," has lost none
of her earlier power and spontaneity. The problems of yesterday are the
problems of to-day, though they may be furnished with electric lights,
airplanes and automobiles to make them up-to-date. And Pansy knows
life—her stories are real—they strike to the very heart of the girl and
boy, the man and woman—they show us ourselves as God sees us—the real
person beneath the sham and mockery of society. She weaves her stories
around the common everyday lives of the people she knows—till her
characters become alive and real to those who read.
A marvelous housekeeper; an ideal pastor's wife who took the whole
parish into her life, who knew them and loved them, who cared for the
sick and gathered the young people around her for a good time; a woman
much in demand in public life as director of religious conferences and
as a lecturer and, above all, an author beloved by thousands.
Many years ago she edited a small paper, "The Pansy," a Herculean
task, for it brought her thousands of letters from the children who
had joined the Pansy Society and wrote her about their faults and how
to correct them. And other letters poured in, too, from all over the
globe, asking for her autograph and photograph, for advice on how to
become a great author, on how to get the right kind of a husband, and
on every other question under the sun. And Pansy answered every letter,
usually by her own hand.
Hers has been a busy life and a happy one—and an inspiration to
thousands who have known her or her books. And to-day, bereft of
husband and children, a cripple, she fights bravely on, writing the
story of her life: "Yesterdays"—the beautiful record of a happy and
consecrated life.
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J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY