It had taken only a short time after all. The crowd drowned its cheer in
one deep gasp of silence and broke up tearfully into little groups
beginning to melt away at the sound of Michael ringing up the gates, and
telling the cars and wagons to hurry that it was almost time for the
up-train.
Ruth Macdonald started her car and tried to bring her senses back to
their normal calm wondering what had happened to her and why there was
such an inexpressible mingling of loss and pleasure in her heart.
The way at first was intricate with congestion of traffic and Ruth was
obliged to go slowly. As the road cleared before her she was about to
glide forward and make up for lost time. Suddenly a bewildered little
woman with white hair darted in front of the car, hesitated, drew back,
came on again. Ruth stopped the car shortly, much shaken with the swift
vision of catastrophe, and the sudden recognition of the woman. It was
the same one who had been with John Cameron.
"Oh, I'm so sorry I startled you!" she called pleasantly, leaning out of
the car. "Won't you get in, please, and let me take you home?"
The woman looked up and there were great tears in her eyes. It was plain
why she had not seen where she was going.
"Thank you, no, I couldn't!" she said with a choke in her voice and
another blur of tears, "I--you see--I want to get away--I've been seeing
off my boy!"
"I know!" said Ruth with quick sympathy, "I saw. And you want to get home
quickly and cry. I feel that way myself. But you see I didn't have
anybody there and I'd like to do a little something just to be in it.
Won't you please get in? You'll get home sooner if I take you; and see!
We're blocking the way!"
The woman cast a frightened glance about and assented:
"Of course. I didn't realize!" she said climbing awkwardly in and sitting
bolt upright as uncomfortable as could be in the luxurious car beside the
girl. It was all too plain she did not wish to be there.
Ruth manoeuvred her car quickly out of the crowd and into a side street,
gliding from there to the avenue. She did not speak until they had left
the melting crowd well behind them. Then she turned timidly to the woman:
"You--are--his--_mother_?"
She spoke the words hesitatingly as if she feared to touch a wound. The
woman's eyes suddenly filled again and a curious little quiver came on
the strong chin.
"Yes," she tried to say and smothered the word in her handkerchief
pressed quickly to her lips in an effort to control them.
Ruth laid a cool little touch on the woman's other hand that lay in her
lap:
"Please forgive me!" she said, "I wasn't sure. I know it must be
awful,--cruel--for you!"
"He--is all I have left!" the woman breathed with a quick controlled
gasp, "but, of course--it was--right that he should go!"
She set her lips more firmly and blinked off at the blur of pretty homes
on her right without seeing any of them.
"He would have gone sooner, only he thought he ought not to leave me till
he had to," she said with another proud little quiver in her voice, as if
having once spoken she must go on and say more, "I kept telling him I
would get on all right--but he always was so careful of me--ever since
his father died!"
"Of course!" said Ruth tenderly turning her face away to struggle with a
strange smarting sensation in her own eyes and throat. Then in a low
voice she added:
"I knew him, you know. I used to go to the same school with him when I
was a little bit of a girl."
The woman looked up with a quick searching glance and brushed the tears
away firmly.
"Why, aren't you Ruth Macdonald? _Miss_ Macdonald, I mean--excuse me! You
live in the big house on the hill, don't you?"
"Yes, I'm Ruth Macdonald. Please don't call me Miss. I'm only nineteen
and I still answer to my little girl name," Ruth answered with a charming
smile.
The woman's gaze softened.
"I didn't know John knew you," she said speculatively. "He never
mentioned----"
"Of course not!" said the girl anticipating, "he wouldn't. It was a long
time ago when I was seven and I doubt if he remembers me any more. They
took me out of the public school the next year and sent me to St. Mary's
for which I've never quite forgiven them, for I'm sure I should have got
on much faster at the public school and I loved it. But I've not
forgotten the good times I had there, and John was always good to the
little girls. We all liked him. I haven't seen him much lately, but I
should think he would have grown to be just what you say he is. He looks
that way."
Again the woman's eyes searched her face, as if she questioned the
sincerity of her words; then apparently satisfied she turned away with a
sigh:
"I'd have liked him to know a girl like you," she said wistfully.
"Thank you!" said Ruth brightly, "that sounds like a real compliment.
Perhaps we shall know each other yet some day if fortune favors us. I'm
quite sure he's worth knowing."
"Oh, he is!" said the little mother, her tears brimming over again and
flowing down her dismayed cheeks, "he's quite worth the best society
there is, but I haven't been able to manage a lot of things for him. It
hasn't been always easy to get along since his father died. Something
happened to our money. But anyway, he got through college!" with a flash
of triumph in her eyes.
"Wasn't that fine!" said Ruth with sparkling eyes, "I'm sure he's worth a
lot more than some of the fellows who have always had every whim
gratified. Now, which street? You'll have to tell me. I'm ashamed to say
I don't know this part of town very well. Isn't it pretty down here? This
house? What a wonderful clematis! I never saw such a wealth of bloom."
"Yes, John planted that and fussed over it," said his mother with pride
as she slipped unaccustomedly out of the car to the sidewalk. "I'm very
glad to have met you and it was most kind of you to bring me home. To
tell the truth"--with a roguish smile that reminded Ruth of her son's
grin--"I was so weak and trembling with saying good-bye and trying to
keep up so John wouldn't know it, that I didn't know how I was to get
home. Though I'm afraid I was a bit discourteous. I couldn't bear the
thought of talking to a stranger just then. But you haven't been like a
stranger--knowing him, and all----"
"Oh, thank you!" said Ruth, "it's been so pleasant. Do you know, I don't
believe I ever realized what an awful thing the war is till I saw those
people down at the station this morning saying good-bye. I never realized
either what a useless thing I am. I haven't even anybody very dear to
send. I can only knit."
"Well, that's a good deal. Some of us haven't time to do that. I never
have a minute."
"You don't need to, you've given your son," said Ruth flashing a glance
of glorified understanding at the woman.
A beautiful smile came out on the tired sorrowful face.
"Yes, I've given him," she said, "but I'm hoping God will give him back
again some day. Do you think that's too much to hope. He is such a good
boy!"
"Of course not," said Ruth sharply with a sudden sting of apprehension in
her soul. And then she remembered that she had no very intimate
acquaintance with God. She wished she might be on speaking terms, at
least, and she would go and present a plea for this lonely woman. If it
were only Captain La Rue, her favorite cousin, or even the President, she
might consider it. But God! She shuddered. Didn't God let this awful war
be? Why did He do it? She had never thought much about God before.
"I wish you would let me come to see you sometime and take you for
another ride," she said sweetly.
"It would be beautiful!" said the older woman, "if you would care to take
the time from your own friends."
"I would love to have you for one of my friends," said the girl
gracefully.
The woman smiled wistfully.
"I'm only here holidays and evenings," she conceded, "I'm doing some
government work now."
"I shall come," said Ruth brightly. "I've enjoyed you ever so much." Then
she started her car and whirled away into the sunshine.
"She won't come, of course," said the woman to herself as she stood
looking mournfully after the car, reluctant to go into the empty house.
"I wish she would! Isn't she just like a flower! How wonderful it would
be if things had been different, and there hadn't been any war, and my
boy could have had her for a friend! Oh!"
* * * * *
Down at the Club House the women waited for the fair young member who had
charge of the wool. They rallied her joyously as she hurried in, suddenly
aware that she had kept them all waiting.
"I saw her in the crowd at the station this morning," called out Mrs.
Pryor, a large placid tease with a twinkle in her eye. "She was picking
out the handsomest man for the next sweater she knits. Which one did you
choose, Miss Ruth? Tell us. Are you going to write him a letter and stick
it in the toe of his sock?"
The annoyed color swept into Ruth's face, but she paid no other heed as
she went about her morning duties, preparing the wool to give out. A
thought had stolen into her heart that made a tumult there and would not
bear turning over even in her mind in the presence of all these curious
people. She put it resolutely by as she taught newcomers how to turn the
heel of a sock, but now and then it crept back again and was the cause of
her dropping an occasional stitch.
Dottie Wetherill came to find out what was the matter with her sock, and
to giggle and gurgle about her brother Bob and his friends. Bob, it
appeared, was going to bring five officers home with him next week end
and they were to have a dance Saturday night. Of course Ruth must come.
Bob was soon to get his _first_ lieutenant's commission. There had been a
mistake, of course, or he would have had it before this, some favoritism
shown; but now Bob had what they called a "pull," and things were going
to be all right for him. Bob said you couldn't get anywhere without a
"pull." And didn't Ruth think Bob looked perfectly fine in his uniform?
It annoyed Ruth to hear such talk and she tried to make it plain to
Dottie that she was mistaken about "pull." There was no such thing. It
was all imagination. She knew, for her cousin, Captain La Rue, was very
close to the Government and he had told her so. He said that real worth
was always recognized, and that it didn't make any difference where it
was found or who your friends were. It mattered _what you were_.
She fixed Dottie's sock and moved on to the wool table to get ready an
allotment for some of the ladies to take home.
Mrs. Wainwright bustled in, large and florid and well groomed, with a
bunch of photographer's proofs of her son Harry in his uniform. She
called loudly for Ruth to come and inspect them. There were some twenty
or more poses, each one seemingly fatter, more pompous and conceited
looking than the last. She stated in boisterous good humor that Harry
particularly wanted Ruth's opinion before he gave the order. At that Mrs.
Pryor bent her head to her neighbor and nodded meaningly, as if a certain
matter of discussion were settled now beyond all question. Ruth caught
the look and its meaning and the color flooded her face once more, much
to her annoyance. She wondered angrily if she would never be able to stop
that childish habit of blushing, and why it annoyed her so very much this
morning to have her name coupled with that of Harry Wainwright. He was
her old friend and playmate, having lived next door to her all her life,
and it was but natural when everybody was sweethearting and getting
married, that people should speak of her and wonder whether there might
be anything more to their relationship than mere friendship. Still it
annoyed her. Continually as she turned the pages from one fat smug
Wainwright countenance to another, she saw in a mist the face of another
man, with uplifted head and sorrowful eyes. She wondered if when the time
came for Harry Wainwright to go he would have aught of the vision, and
aught of the holiness of sorrow that had shown in that other face.
She handed the proofs back to the mother, so like her son in her ample
blandness, and wondered if Mrs. Cameron would have a picture of her son
in his uniform, fine and large and lifelike as these were.
She interrupted her thoughts to hear Mrs. Wainwright's clarion voice
lifted in parting from the door of the Club House on her way back to her
car:
"Well, good-bye, Ruth dear. Don't hesitate to let me know if you'd like
to have either of the other two large ones for your own 'specials,' you
know. I shan't mind changing the order a bit. Harry said you were to have
as many as you wanted. I'll hold the proofs for a day or two and let you
think it over."
Ruth lifted her eyes to see the gaze of every woman in the room upon her,
and for a moment she felt as if she almost hated poor fat doting Mamma
Wainwright. Then the humorous side of the moment came to help her and her
face blossomed into a smile as she jauntily replied:
"Oh, no, please don't bother, Mrs. Wainwright. I'm not going to paper the
wall with them. I have other friends, you know. I think your choice was
the best of them all."
Then as gaily as if she were not raging within her soul she turned to
help poor Dottie Wetherill who was hopelessly muddled about turning her
heel.
Dottie chattered on above the turmoil of her soul, and her words were as
tiny April showers sizzling on a red hot cannon. By and by she picked up
Dottie's dropped stitches. After all, what did such things matter when
there was _war_ and men were giving their _lives_!
"And Bob says he doubts if they ever get to France. He says he thinks the
war will be over before half the men get trained. He says, for his part,
he'd like the trip over after the submarines have been put out of
business. It would be something to tell about, don't you know? But Bob
thinks the war will be over soon. Don't you think so, Ruth?"
"I don't know what I think," said Ruth exasperated at the little
prattler. It seemed so awful for a girl with brains--or hadn't she
brains?--to chatter on interminably in that inane fashion about a matter
of such awful portent. And yet perhaps the child was only trying to cover
up her fears, for she all too evidently worshipped her brother.
Ruth was glad when at last the morning was over and one by one the women
gathered their belongings together and went home. She stayed longer than
the rest to put the work in order. When they were all gone she drove
around by the way of the post office and asked the old post master who
had been there for twenty years and knew everybody, if he could tell her
the address of the boys who had gone to camp that morning. He wrote it
down and she tucked it in her blouse saying she thought the Red Cross
would be sending them something soon. Then she drove thoughtfully away to
her beautiful sheltered home, where the thought of war hardly dared to
enter yet in any but a playful form. But somehow everything was changed
within the heart of Ruth Macdonald and she looked about on all the
familiar places with new eyes. What right had she to be living here in
all this luxury while over there men were dying every day that she might
live?