When Courtland got back to the university the afternoon examination had
been in progress almost half an hour. With a brief explanation to the
professor, he settled to his belated work regardless of Bill Ward's
anxious glances from the back of the room and Pat's lifted eyebrows from
the other side. He knew he had yet to meet those three beloved
antagonists. He seemed to have progressed through eons of experience
since he talked with them last night. The intricate questions of the
examination on political science over which he was trying faithfully to
work seemed paltry beside the great facts of life and death.
He had remained at the hospital until the girl came out of her long
swoon and the doctor said she was better, but the thought of her white
face was continually before him. When he closed his eyes for a moment to
think how to phrase some answer in his paper he would see that still,
beautiful face as it lay on his shoulder in the carriage. It had filled
him with awe to think that he, a stranger, was her only friend in that
great city, and she might be dying! Somehow he could not cast her off as
a common stranger.
He had arranged that she should be placed in a small private room at a
moderate cost, and paid for a week in advance. The cost was a mere
trifle to Courtland. The new overcoat he had meant to buy this week
would more than cover the cost. Besides, if he needed more than his
ample allowance his father was always quite ready to advance what he
wanted. But the strange thing about all this was that, having paid to
put the girl where she would be perfectly comfortable and be well taken
care of, he could not cast her off and forget her. His responsibility
seemed to be doubled with everything he did for her. Between the
problems of deep state perplexities and intrigues was ever the
perplexity about that girl and how she was going to live all alone with
her tragedy--or tragedies--for it was apparent from the little hints she
had dropped that the death of the small brother was only the climax of
quite a series of sorrows that had come to her young life. And yet she,
with all that sorrow compassing her about, could still believe in the
Christ and call upon Him in her trouble! There was a kind of triumphant
feeling in his heart when he reached that conclusion.
He lay on the couch in Tennelly's room that night after supper and tried
to think it out, while the other three clattered away about their marks
and held an indignation meeting over the way Pat was getting
black-listed by all the professors just when he was trying so hard. He
didn't know the fellows were keeping it up to get his mind away from the
funeral. He was thinking about that girl.
The doctor had told him that she was very much run down. It looked as if
the process had been going on for some time. Her heart action was not
all it should be, and there were symptoms of lack of nutrition. What she
needed was rest, utter rest. Sleep if possible most of the time for at
least a week, with, careful feeding every two or three hours, and after
that a quiet, cheerful place with plenty of fresh air and sunshine and
more sleep; no anxiety, and nothing to call on the exhausted energies
for action or hurry.
Now how was a state of things like that to be brought about for a person
who had no home, no friends, no money, and no time to lie idle?
Moreover, how could there be any cheerful spot in the wide world for a
little girl who had passed through the fire as she had done?
Presently he went out to the drug-store and telephoned to the hospital.
They said she had had only one more slight turn of unconsciousness, but
had rallied from it quickly and was resting quietly now. They hoped she
would have a good night.
Then he went back to his room and thought about her some more. He had an
important English examination the next day, one in which he especially
wanted to do well; yet try as he would to concentrate on Wells and Shaw,
that girl and what was going to become of her would get in between him
and his book.
It was after ten o'clock when he sauntered down the hall and stood in
Stephen Marshall's room for a few minutes, as he was getting the habit
of doing every night. The peace of it and the uplift that that room
always gave him were soothing to his soul. If he had known a little more
about the Christ to whose allegiance he had declared himself he might
have knelt and asked for guidance; but as yet he had not so much as
heard of a promise to the man who "abides," and "asks what he will."
Nevertheless, when he entered that room his mind took on the attitude of
prayer and he felt that somehow the Presence got close to him, so that
questions that had perplexed him were made clear.
As he stood that night looking about the plain walls, his eyes fell upon
that picture of Stephen Marshall's mother. A mother! Ah! if there were a
mother somewhere to whom that girl could go! Some one who would
understand her; be gentle and tender with her; love her, as he should
think a real mother would do--what a difference that would make!
He began to think over all the women he knew--all the mothers. There
were not so many of them. Some of the professors' wives who had sons and
daughters of their own? Well, they might be all well enough for their
own sons and daughters, but there wasn't one who seemed likely to want
to behave in a very motherly way to a stranger like his waif of a girl.
They were nice to the students, polite and kind to the extent of one tea
or reception apiece a year, but that was about the limit.
Well, there was Tennelly's mother! Dignified, white-haired, beautiful,
dominant in her home and clubs, charming to her guests; but--he could
just fancy how she would raise her lorgnette and look "Bonnie" Brentwood
over. There would be no room in that grand house for a girl like Bonnie.
Bonnie! How the name suited her! He had a strange protective feeling
about that girl, not as if she were like the other girls he knew;
perhaps it was a sort of a "Christ-brother" feeling, as the minister had
suggested. But to go on with the list of mothers--wasn't there one
anywhere to whom he could appeal? Gila's mother? Pah! That painted,
purple image of a mother! Her own daughter needed to find a real mother
somewhere. She couldn't mother a stranger! Mothers! Why weren't there
enough real ones to go around? If he had only had a mother, a real one,
himself, who had lived, she would have been one to whom he could have
told Bonnie's story, and she would have understood!
He looked into the pictured eyes on the wall and an idea came to him. It
was like an answer to prayer. Stephen Marshall's mother! Why hadn't he
thought of her before? She was that kind of a mother of course, or
Stephen Marshall would not have been the man he was! If the Bonnie girl
could only get to her for a little while! But would she take her? Would
she understand? Or might she be too overcome with her own loss to have
been able to rally to life again? He looked into the strong motherly
face and was sure _not_.
He would write to her. He would put it to the test whether there was a
mother in the world or not. He went back to his room, and wrote her a
long letter, red-hot from the depths of his heart; a letter such as he
might have written to his own mother if he had ever known her, but such
as certainly he had never written to any woman before. He wrote:
DEAR MOTHER OF STEPHEN MARSHALL:
I know you are a real mother because Stephen was what he
was. And now I am going to let you prove it by coming to you
with something that needs a mother's help.
There is a little girl--I should think she must be about
nineteen or twenty years old--lying in the hospital, worn
out with hard work and sorrow. She has recently lost her
father and mother, and had brought her little five-year-old
brother to the city a couple of weeks ago. They were living
in a very small room, boarding themselves, she working all
day somewhere down-town. Two days ago, as she was coming
home in the trolley, her little brother, crossing the street
to meet her, was knocked down and killed by a passing
automobile. We buried him to-day, and the girl fainted dead
away on the way back from the cemetery and only recovered
consciousness when we got her to the hospital. The doctor
says she has exhausted her vitality and needs to sleep for a
week and be fed up; and then she ought to go to some
cheerful place where she can just rest for a while and have
fresh air and sunshine and good, plain, nourishing food.
Now she hasn't a friend in the city. I know from the few
little things she has told me that there isn't any one in
the world she will feel free to turn to. She isn't the kind
of girl who will accept charity. She's refined, reserved,
independent, and all that, you know. There's another thing,
too--she prays to your Stephen's Christ--that's why I dared
write to you about it.
You see, I'm an entire stranger to her. I just happened
along when the kid was killed and had to stick around and
help; that's how I came to know. Of course she hasn't any
idea of all this, and I haven't any real business with it,
but I can't see leaving her in a hole this way; and there's
no one else to do anything.
You wonder why I didn't find a mother nearer by, but I
haven't any living of my own, except a stepmother, who
wouldn't understand, and all the other mothers I know
wouldn't qualify for the job any better. I've been looking
at your picture and I think you would.
What I thought of is this (if it doesn't strike you that way
maybe you can think of some other way): I'm pretty well
fixed for money, and I've got a lump that I've been
intending to use for a new automobile; but my old car is
plenty good enough for another year, and I'd like to pay
that girl's board awhile till she gets rested and strong and
sort of cheered up. I thought perhaps you'd see your way
clear to write a letter and say you'd like her to visit
you--you're lonesome or Something. I don't know how a real
mother would fix that up, but I guess you do.
Of course the girl mustn't know I have a thing to do with it
except that I told you about her. She'd be up in the air in
a minute. She wouldn't stand for me doing anything for her.
She's that kind.
I'm sending a check of two hundred dollars right now because
I thought, in case you see a way to take up with my
suggestion, you might send her money enough for the journey.
I don't believe she's got any. We can fix it up about the
board any way you say. Don't hesitate to tell me just how
much it is worth. I don't need the money for anything. But
whatever's done has got to be done mighty quick or she'll go
back to work again, and she won't last three days if she
does. She looks as if a breath would blow her away. I'm
sending this special delivery to hurry things. Her address
is Miss R.B. Brentwood, Good Samaritan Hospital. The kid
called her "Bonnie." I don't know what her whole name is.
So now you have the whole story, and it's up to you to
decide. Maybe you think I've got a lot of crust to propose
this, and maybe you won't see it this way, but I've had the
nerve because Stephen Marshall's life and Stephen Marshall's
death have made me believe in Stephen Marshall's Christ and
Stephen Marshall's mother.
I am, very respectfully,
PAUL COURTLAND.
He mailed the letter that night and then studied hard till three o'clock
in the morning.
The next morning's mail brought him a dainty little note from Gila's
mother, inviting him to a quiet family dinner with them on Friday
evening. He frowned when he read it. He didn't care for the large,
painted person, but perhaps there was more good in her than he knew. He
would have to go and find out. It might even be that she would be a help
in case Stephen Marshall's mother did not pan out.