IN WHICH MARY CARY IS PUZZLED
She was glad to be alone. The day had been happy, but happiness
can only hold weariness in abeyance, not prevent it, and she was
very tired. Miss Gibbie had protested against the giving of this
party two days before they were to start for their summer holiday.
But to go away without letting the children have the long, joyful
day in the open would have worried her, and she had insisted on
their coming.
Their joy had given her pleasure, and she was glad to have them,
but of late she had been conscious of a restlessness too vague to
be analyzed, too uncertain to be defined. And yet this restlessness
was definite enough to depress, and it was with relief she had stood
at the gate and waved good-bye to the last little hand waving in turn
to her. Then she had gone back to the house and to the companionship
of her understanding friends, the stars.
Watching them, she nodded. "What does anything matter, Mary Cary,
if you just can look the stars in the face and tell them you've
tried? They are going to keep on shining a good many million years
after your little day is done, and the thing you are to remember
is that they're under the clouds when you can't see them, and you
also are to remember--"
The sound of footsteps behind made her turn from the railing of the
porch against which she had been leaning and look toward the
doorway. Hedwig was coming through it.
"Mr. Ash, he at the telephone is, and he would like much to know
if you will him see this evening."
"Indeed I won't!" She looked perplexedly at the woman before her.
"I'm so tired, Hedwig. Tell him I'm sleepy and can't see anybody.
I mean, tell him I am very busy and have a good deal to do. Tell
him anything you want, only don't let him come. I'm going to sit
here for a while. Lock up the house and close the windows. If any
one else telephones say I'm asleep, or dead, or anything. I'm so
cross, Hedwig! Don't mind me, but I want to be alone."
Hedwig hesitated, drew the long, low chair closer to the railing
and smoothed the cushions on it, then turned and left the porch.
After a moment she came back and seeing the girl still leaning
against the railing, stood by her side and looked at her in
silence.
"Is there anything you wish, Hedwig?"
"No, mein Fraulein. Only"--the fingers of the strong white hands
were interlaced--"only you a busy day have had, and busy weeks
you have had also. And you have forgot that you of flesh and blood
are too made. You think you of spirit are and do not wear out.
But everything, it wears out, mein Fraulein, and you are tired
more than you know. You have nothing eat all day."
"Oh yes, I have. I ate my lunch with the children. Didn't they
have a beautiful time? How many were here, do you think?"
"Will you not in the chair sit?" Hedwig pushed the chair a little
closer. "There were of the little orphans sixty-one, and of their
minders, five. Can I not your feet rub a little bit, mein Fraulein?
You on them have been all the long day."
"You certainly may, and you're a dear to think of it. My feet get
so tired, and you know how to rest them so nicely. Thank you,
Hedwig."
With an indrawing breath of which she was not conscience, Mary
Cary leaned back in the chair and her hands dropped in her lap.
On her knees Hedwig knelt and drew off the slippers, and with soft,
firm movements, learned in her hospital days, began to rub first
one foot and then the other.
"Your feet, they tired get, mein Fraulein, because they are not
for the body big enough. Look! I can cover it with my hand! Your
body is not large, but your feet"--she laughed as if the thought
were funny--"your feet is like your heart. They are a child's!"
Mary Cary shook her head. "No, nothing about me is like a child
any more, Hedwig. Sometimes I wonder if I ever was one, like other
children, I mean. When I lived here in the asylum I thought I was a
child, but I was only half one them. I played with the children, ate
with them, studied and worked with them, but it was only part of me
that did it, the outside part. The inside lived in another world,
a world I used to make up and put people and things in which were
very different from what I saw about me. And then as I grew older
I saw so much that seemed hard and unjust and unfair, saw so much
that was beautiful and nice to have and yet did not make people
happy that I began to wonder and think again, just as I did when
I was little, only in a different way. And now sometimes I wonder
if I ever was really a child or just somebody always puzzling over
something, always wanting to help and not knowing how--just making
mistakes."
Hedwig looked up. In her Fraulein's voice was a tone she did not
know, and on the lashes of her closed eyes she thought she saw tears.
It was something very new and strange, and sudden fear filled her.
She could as soon think of the sun shedding darkness as the spirit
before her failing, and this apparent surrender to something that
hurt and depressed she could not understand.
"He who does not make mistakes does not do anything. He is an
onlooker and a sneerer. Mein Fraulein does much, and the mistakes
not yet are many. The good God is helping her, and He in her heart
puts wonder as to why things be as they be, and love that she may
try them to better make. But He will not like it if she forget
herself too much altogether, and remember but the others. Mein
Fraulein is very tired to-night."
"But I've no business being tired, Hedwig." Her hands went up
to her hair and she fastened the stray strands more securely.
"It's been so lovely to have Uncle Parke and Aunt Katherine and
the children; and everything is going all right, and my little
orphans have had a happy day, and I'm going away on a beautiful
trip and--It's just foolishness being tired." She threw back her head.
"I'm not tired! Just cross as two sticks, and what about I couldn't even
guess. Weren't the children funny and didn't they look nice? You're sure
everybody had plenty to eat, didn't you, Hedwig?"
"If they did not a plenty have, mein Fraulein, it was because their
little stomachs were not big enough for more. They swallowed all they
could hold, but taste is good to the tongue even though there is no
more room. They one good day have had, and they will sleep happy and
tired to-night. They love you, mein Fraulein. They love you because
you have not them forgot, and because you do not forget when you, too,
were little and unloved and nobody cared. Love it a great thing is."
Mary Cary sat upright and her clear laughter broke the stillness of the
soft night air. "Did you talk to that little Minna Haskins, Hedwig, or
hear her talk? Her imagination is worse than mine ever was, but memory
is her specialty. There's nothing she doesn't remember. She's only eight,
but she goes back to the prehistoric without a blink. She certainly had
a good time to-day."
"She have. A most very good time. I saw her and I heard her, and she
say the queer things for a child. I was giving some of the children
sandwiches and lemonade before lunch, and I heard three or four talking
so loud and arguing like that I went to see what the matter it was, and
guess, mein Fraulein, what that little Minna Haskins she did say?"
"I can't guess. Nobody could guess what Minna would say."
"The children, they were disputing as to what they remembered before
they little orphans were, and one, she said she knew when she but four
years old was and lived in the country with chickens and eggs and
apple-trees like you here have. And another little girl said she could
recollect when her father died and they had crepe on the door, and she
was not but three, and then that little Minna Haskins her head did toss,
and she said that was nothing, that she remembered perfectly the day
she was born. That there wasn't a soul in the house but her grandmother,
as her mother she had gone out to buy a new hat. And when she came
back and saw her there with her hair all curled--her grandmother had
curled it--she was so surprised she died from joy, and that's why she's
an orphan."
Again Mary Cary's laughter broke the stillness. "What a dreadful thing
to remember! Poor little thing! A too-active brain isn't much of a
blessing with nothing to direct or control it. That will do, Hedwig.
Thank you so much. My feet feel ever so much better; it was just the
standing that tired them. But you are dead tired yourself, and there'll
be so much to do to-morrow that you ought to be in bed this minute.
You'll be such a help to everybody and the change will do you good."
"I would content be to stay or go, whichever it were the best. But I
am glad to be with you." In the doorway she stood a moment, smoothing
the folds of her apron, but this time she did not look around.
"Did you get the letter on the desk, mein Fraulein? I thought maybe
you did not know it there was."
"Yes, thank you. I saw it. Good-night, Hedwig. And, Hedwig, wake
me to-morrow at seven, will you? I have so much I want to do."
As Hedwig went inside the hall the clock near the door struck nine,
and, at sound of the clear strokes, Mary Cary stirred and changed
her position. The night was very still. Through the vines which
draped the porch the moon shone calm and cool and serene in a sky as
cloudless as a lake of silver, and out of the multitude of stars here
and there some glowed so clearly that their points gleamed sharp and
bright.
The restful stillness after the noisy day was good, and her eyes
closed. For some time she lay back in her chair, and presently the
old habit of her childhood asserted itself and, opening her eyes,
she nodded as if to some one and began to talk softly.
"Eight months and two weeks you've been back here, Mary Cary, and
everybody certainly has been good to you--that is, almost everybody--
and you are just as happy as a person has a right to be. You always
have known, or Martha has, that nobody can have everything just as
they want it, and people will be pecky sometimes, and there will come
down days as well as up ones. But you have so much to be thankful for
that you'd be a selfish, silly creature, a weak and wicked creature, if
you let anything, /anything/, make you the least bit tired or--
lonely, or make you wish for--for what you've got no business wishing
for. Martha certainly is ashamed of you, Mary. You always did have a
horrid habit of asking what's the use of doing this or doing that, and
it's pure selfishness and laziness that asks questions of that sort.
You might have married money and lived in a big city and given parties
to people who didn't want to come, but had to just to let the others
know they were invited; and you might have had automobiles and Paris
clothes, but you watched that and didn't like it." In the darkness she
shook her head. "You certainly didn't. You tried it when visiting you
rich friends, and then your inquiring nature did have some sense,
because it kept on asking inside what it was all for. Nobody seemed to
want to go where they went, or to enjoy what they did, and yet they were
bored to death at home. The men talked money and the women talked
clothes, and everybody seemed to be trying to make a noise so as not to
hear something they're bound to hear, and to turn their backs on
something that's got to be faced; and you kept looking for the pudding
and could only find the meringue, and you don't like meringue much even
if it is pretty to see. And then you had the chance to come here. That
is, you made up your mind you might help a little here, not being needed
specially anywhere else; and then this wonderful offer came. Not one
person in forty thousand ever was situated just as you've been, or had
what you have to do with. I wonder why more rich people wouldn't
rather give their money away while living and get pleasure out of it,
than keep it until they're dead for somebody else to fuss over. I guess
they hate to give it up until the last minute. It hurts some people to
part with what they don't want, much less with what they don't want any
one else to have. And I've been so glad to be here. People think it's
funny my living alone, and Miss Gibbie living in her big house alone.
But if we want out dining-room chairs on top the table instead of around
it, we like to feel we can have them that way, and nobody to say we
can't. As Mrs. McDougal says, 'we're individuals,' and 'it isn't every
kind what can congeal in running a house.' Mrs. McDougal says a lot of
true things. But John"--she put her hand down and drew from under her
belt a letter--"John never said in his life a truer one than that I was
so alone here. I've been so busy and happy I didn't know I was alone,
but since the big Aldens and the little Aldens went home I've felt
sometimes I was just a bit of a boat in a great big sea, and I wasn't
sure where I was going, though pulling as hard as I could pull."
She leaned forward in her chair and, with elbows on knees and chin in
her hands, looked down upon the floor of the porch and tapped it with
her foot.
"But everybody is queer at times. Men are just as queer as women, and
John isn't a bit different from the rest. I wonder if there is anybody
in the world, /anybody/, who doesn't disappoint you if you know
them long enough! There's John." She held the letter between the palms
of her hands and tapped her lips with it. "This is the first letter I've
had from him in three weeks. Says he is so busy he has no chance to
write. Busy! For nearly ten years he's never been too busy. Nobody is
too busy to do what they want to do. If you can't take time you can
always make it. And John is just proving he's only a man. Somehow I
thought he wasn't like the rest. But he is. All of them are alike,
every single one. And you can just write to him to-night, Mary Cary,
and tell him if he's so busy you're sorry he bothered to write at all."
She sat up and took the sheet of paper out of its envelope. "Three
pages! Used to write a book. I think John must be crazy. He'd better
send nothing than a measly little thing with nothing in it, like that!
And going to Norway in August! Mentions it as if it were around the
corner." Her face clouded and her brow ridged perplexedly. "I don't
understand John. He didn't ask me a thing about it--what I thought of
it, or say how long he'd be away, or anything. And Norway is such a
long way off."