Mary Minds Her Business Part 19

No; it wasn't the big things which ultimately took the bloom from Mary's cheeks and the smile from her eyes.

It was the small things that worried her--things so trifling in themselves that it would sound foolish to mention them--the daily nagging details, the gathering load of responsibility upon her shoulders, the indifference which she had to dispel, the inertia that had to be overcome, the ruffled feelings to be soothed, the squabbles to be settled, the hidden hostilities which she had to contend against in her own office--and yet pretend she never noticed them.

Indeed, if it hadn't been for the recompensing features, Mary's enthusiasm would probably have become chilled by experience, and dreams have come to nothing. But now and then she seemed to sense in the factory a gathering impetus of efficient organization, the human gears working smoothly for a time, the whole machine functioning with that beauty of precision which is the dream of every executive.

That always helped Mary whenever it happened.

And the second thing which kept her going was to see the evidences of prosperity and contentment which the women on the payroll began to show--their new clothes and shoes--the hopeful confidence of their smiles--the frequency with which the furniture dealers' wagons were seen in the streets around the factory, the sounds of pianos and phonographs in the evening and, better than all, the fact that on pay day at Spencer & Sons, the New Bethel Savings Bank stayed open till half past nine at night--and didn't stay open for nothing!

"If things could only keep going like this when the war ends, too,"

breathed Mary one day. "...I'm sure there must be some way ... some way...."

For the second time in her life (as you will presently see) she was like a blind-folded player with arms outstretched, groping for her destiny and missing it by a hair.

"Still," she thought, "when the men come back, I suppose most of the women will have to go. Of course, the men must have their places back, but you'd think there was some way ... some way...."

In fancy she saw the women going back to the kitchens, back to the old toil from which they had escaped.

"It's silly, of course," she thoughtfully added, "and wicked, too, to say that men and women are natural enemies. But--the way some of the men act--you'd almost think they believed it...."

She thought of Uncle Stanley and has son. At his own request, Burdon had been transferred to the New York office and Mary seldom saw him, but something told her that he would never forgive her for the morning when he had to go home--"with a sort of a headache."

"And Uncle Stanley, too," she thought, her lip quivering as a wave of loneliness swept over her and left her with a feeling of emptiness. "If I were a man, he wouldn't dare to act as he does. But because I'm a girl, I can almost see him hoping that something will happen to me--"

If that, indeed, was Uncle Stanley's hope, he didn't have to wait much longer.

The armistice was signed, you will remember, in the first week of November, 1918. Two months later Mary showed Judge Cutler the financial statement for the preceding year.

"Another year like this," said the judge, "and, barring strikes and accidents, Spencer & Son will be on its feet again, stronger than ever!

My dear girl," he said, rising and holding out his hand, "I must congratulate you!"

Mary arose, too, her hand outstretched, but something in her manner caught the judge's attention.

"What's the matter, Mary?" he asked. "Don't you feel well?"

"Men--women," she said, unsteadily smiling and giving him her hand, "they ought to be--now--natural partners--not--not--"

With a sigh she lurched forward and fell--a tired little creature--into his arms.

CHAPTER XX

Mary had a bad time of it the next few weeks. More than once her face seemed turned toward the Valley of the Shadow. But gradually health and strength returned, although it wasn't until April that she was anything like herself again.

She liked to sit--sometimes for hours at a time--reading, thinking, dreaming--and when she was strong enough to go outside she would walk among the flowers, and look at the birds and the budding trees, and draw deep breaths as she watched the glory of the sunset appearing and disappearing in the western sky.

Helen occasionally walked and sat with her--but not often. Helen's time was being more and more taken up by the younger set at the Country Club.

She came home late, humming s.n.a.t.c.hes of the latest dances and talking of the conquests she had made, telling Mary of the men who would dance with no one else, of the compliments they had paid her, of the things they had told her, of the compet.i.tion to bring her home. One night, it appears, they had an old-fas.h.i.+oned country party at the club, and Helen was in high glee at the number of letters she had received in the game of post office.

"You mean to say they all kissed you?" asked Mary.

"You bet they did! Good and hard! That's what they were there for!"

Mary thought that over.

"It doesn't sound nice to me, somehow," she said at last. "It sounds--oh, I don't know--common."

"That's what the girls thought who didn't get called," laughed Helen.

She arranged her hair in front of the mirror, pulling it down over her forehead till it looked like a golden turban. "Oh, who do you think was there tonight?" she suddenly interrupted herself.

Mary shook her head.

"Burdon Woodward--as handsome as ever. Yes, handsomer, I think, if he could be. He asked after you. I told him you were nearly better."

"Then he must be down at the factory every day," thought Mary. But the thought moved her only a little. Whether or not it was due to her illness, she seemed to have undergone a reaction in regard to the factory. Everything was going on well, Judge Cutler sometimes told her.

As the men returned from service, the women were giving up their places.

"Whatever you do," he always concluded, "don't begin worrying about things down there. If you do, you'll never get well."

"I'm not worrying," she told him, and once she added, "It seems ever so long ago, somehow--that time we had down there."

As the spring advanced, her thoughts took her further than ever from their old paths. Instead of thinking of something else (as she used to do), when Helen was telling of her love affairs, Mary began to listen to them--and even to sit up till Helen returned from the club. One night, as Helen was chatting of a young an from Boston who had teased her by following her around until every one was calling him "Helen's little lamb," Mary gradually became aware of an elusive scent in the room.

"Cigarettes," she thought, "and--and raspberry jam--!" She waited until her cousin paused for breath and then, "Did Burdon Woodward ride home with you tonight?" she asked.

"With Doris and me," nodded Helen, smiling at herself in the mirror. "He told us he went over with some of the boys, but he wanted to go home civilized."

Nothing more was said, but a few mornings later, as Helen sat at breakfast reading her mail, Mary was sure she recognized Burdon's das.h.i.+ng handwriting. A vague sense of uneasiness pa.s.sed over her, but this was soon forgotten when she went to the den to look at her own mail.

On the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her father.

"Rio de Janeiro," breathed Mary, reading the post-mark. "Why, that's where the cable came from!"

She opened the letter.... It was signed "Paul."

"Dear Sir (it began)

"This isn't begging. I am through with that. When you paid no attention to my cable, I said, 'Never again!' You might like to know that I buried my wife and two youngest that time. It hurt then, but I can see now that they were lucky.

"I have one daughter left--twelve years old. She's just at the age when she ought to be looked after. This is her picture. She's a pretty girl, and a good girl, but fond of fun and good times.

"I've done my best, but I'm down and out--tired--through. I guess it's up to you what sort of a granddaughter you want. There's a school near here where she could go and be brought up right. It won't cost much. You can send the money direct--if you want the right sort of a granddaughter.

"If you want the other kind, all you have to do is to forget it. The crowd I go with aren't good for her.