Time, quickly passing, brought Mary to another wonderful morning in the
Story of her life. Even as her father's death had broadened her outlook,
so now Paul's heroism gave her a deeper glance at the future, a more
tolerant view of the past.
On the morning in question, Helen brought Wally to the office. He was now
entirely recovered, but Helen still mothered him, every touch a caress,
every glance a look of love. Mary grew very thoughtful as she watched
them. The next morning they were leaving for a tour of the Maine woods.
When they left, an architect called.
Under his arm he had a portfolio of plans for a Welfare Building which he
had drawn exactly according to Mary's suggestions. As long as the idea
had been a nebulous one--drawn only in fancy and coloured with nothing
stronger than conversation, she had liked it immensely; but seeing now
precisely how the building would look--how the space would be divided,
she found herself shaking her head.
"It's my own fault," she said. "You have followed out every one of my
ideas--but somehow--well, I don't like it: that's all. If you'll leave
these drawings, I'll think them over and call you up again in a few
days."
At Judge Cutler's suggestion, Archey had been elected treasurer to take
Burdon's place. Mary took the plans into his office and showed them to
him. They were still discussing them, sitting at opposite sides of his
flat-top desk, when the twelve o'clock whistle blew. A few minutes later,
the four-hour workers passed through the gate, the men walking with their
wives, the children playing between.
"I wonder how it's going to turn out," said Archey.
"I wonder ..." said Mary. "Of course it's too early to tell yet. I don't
know.... Time will tell."
"It was the only solution," he told her.
"I wonder ..." she mused again. "Anyhow it was something definite. If
women are really going to take up men's trades, it's only right that they
should know what it means. As long as we just keep talking on general
lines about a thing, we can make it sound as nice as we like. But when we
try to put theory into practice ... it doesn't always seem the same.
"Take these plans, for instance," she ruefully remarked. "I thought I
knew exactly what I wanted. But now that I see it drawn out to scale, I
don't like it. And that, perhaps, is what we've been doing here in the
factory. We have taken a view of woman's possible future and we have
drawn it out to scale. Everybody can see what it looks like now--they can
think about it--and talk about it--and then they can decide whether they
want it or not...."
He caught a note in her voice that had a touch of emptiness in it.
"Do you know what I would do if I were you?" he gently asked.
She looked at him, his eyes eager with sympathy, his smile tender and
touched with an admiration so deep that it might be called devotion.
Never before had Archey seemed so restful to her--never before with him
had she felt so much at home.
"If I smile at him, he'll blush," she caught herself thinking--and
experienced a rising sense of elation at the thought.
"What would you do!" she asked.
"I'd go away for a few weeks.... I believe the change would do you good."
She smiled at him and watched his responding colour with satisfaction.
"If Vera was right," she thought, "that's Chapter One the way he just
spoke. Now next--he'll try to touch me."
Her eyes ever so dreamy, she reached her hand over the desk and began
playing with, the blotter.
"Why, he's trembling a little," she thought. "And he's looking at it....
But, oh, isn't he shy!"
She tried to hum then and lightly beat time with her hand. "No, it isn't
the only thing in life," she repeated to herself, "but--just as I said
before--sooner or later--it becomes awfully important--" She caught
Archey's glance and smilingly led it back to her waiting fingers.
"How dark your hand is by the side of mine," she said.
He rose to his feet.
"Mary!"
"Yes ... Archey?"
"If I were a rich man--or you were a poor girl...."
Mary, too, arose.
"Well," she laughed unsteadily, "we may be ... some day...."
Ten minutes later Sir Joseph of the Plumed Crest opened the door with a
handful of mail. He suddenly stopped ... stared ... smiled ... and
silently withdrew.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Mary Minds Her Business, by George Weston