CHAPTER IV
"PINK" OR DIAMOND ROW
The long hot summer was followed by a September so dry and dusty thatthe town lay parched in the sweltering heat.
"Doesn't it make you feel like a wilted lettuce leaf?" Mary said toSandford Berry one noon when they met at the boarding-house gate ontheir way in to dinner. "I've been down to Myrtle Street all morning,and some of those crowded rooms are so stifling that I don't see how theinmates breathe."
"You ought to keep away from them," advised Sandford with a criticalglance at her. "They're making you pale and thin. They're getting onyour nerves."
"I know it," admitted Mary, "but the more they get on my nerves, themore I feel obliged to go."
She took her place at the table languidly, and merely tasted the icedbouillon which the waitress put before her. She felt faint and neededfood, but it was hard to force herself to swallow while the smell ofthe unwholesome places she had visited seemed still in her nostrils. Theremembrance of some of them rose sickeningly before her and she pushedher plate aside.
"You take my advice and stay away from those places," said Sandfordagain, noticing the movement. "What's the use of wearing your sympathiesto a frazzle over what can't be helped? They're sapping the life out ofyou, and you're doing them no good--that is, no lasting good. It onlyaffords temporary relief."
"You know nothing about what I am doing," retorted Mary, irritated byhis comments and provoked at herself for feeling irritation over whatshe knew was prompted by friendly interest. Yet when she went to herroom after having barely tasted her dinner, she stood a moment in frontof the mirror, recalling his remarks. She had to admit that the firstwas true. There were blue shadows under her eyes. All the fresh colorand the sparkle was gone from her face. She looked as she felt, worn andexhausted.
"But I _am_ doing them some good," she protested to herself, and inproof of it took from a drawer the little memorandum book in which sheset down her daily expenses. She went back over the accounts of themonth just past. Nothing for herself except board and carfare, but theother entries filled several pages: "Ice, fresh eggs, cream, beef juice,ice, alcohol, towels, ice--"
Each time the word ice met her eye she recalled the parched lips thathad moaned for it, the feverish hands that had clutched it so greedilywhen she brought it, and she thought if Sandford Berry could only seewhat she had done for some of the poor souls who "got on her nerves"he'd change his opinion about her efforts to help them being of noavail. But the next moment a mood of depression seized her, weighingdown on her so heavily that hot tears started to her eyes.
"He's right! It isn't of any lasting good," she thought. "It's like theice that brings relief for a moment, but is melted and gone the next!And my salary is all gone, and so is nearly everything that I saved themonth before. There isn't a dollar left to my credit in the savingsbank. What _is_ the use of going on this way, when all one can doamounts to no more than a drop in the bucket?"
Mary had sat up late the night before, finishing a lot of letters thatMrs. Blythe was anxious to have mailed as soon as possible. It wasmidnight when she covered her typewriter, and the heat and a straymosquito which had eluded both Mrs. Crum and the screens, made herwakeful and restless. That accounted for her physical exhaustion, whilethe experiences of the morning were enough to send her spirits to thelowest ebb.
She told herself over and over, as she lay across the bed and tried toreason herself into a more cheerful frame of mind, that it was onlynatural that she should feel as she did, and that when she was restedthe world would look as bright as usual. On account of her late work thenight before, Mrs. Blythe had given her nothing to do to-day. It was tosee proteges of her own that Mary had gone to the tenements. She mighthave passed the morning with a book, down on the bank of the river underthe willows, where there was a cooling breath now and then from thewater. But, haunted by Elsie Whayne's hollow-eyed little face, she couldnot go off and enjoy her holiday alone in comfort.
For weeks Elsie had seemed burning up with a slow fever, and it was forher Mary had spent the last of her salary on alcohol for cooling rubs,and for ice and for some thin, soft ready-made gowns. Poor littlecountry-bred Elsie, who had cried over her line of gray clothes becauseshe could not wash them clean in the scanty amount of water allotted toeach room in the crowded house, cried again over the snowy whiteness ofthe new gowns. They were such a joy to her that it was pitiful to hearher exclamations over them.
And Mary, seeing the wreck that fever had made of the pretty child, whohad come to the tenement abloom with health, wrote down one more blackcrime against the man who was responsible for the fever, because hewould not clean up the plague-infested spots on which it fed and grew.
It is bad enough to be ill when one has every luxury in a quiet room tooneself, where deft-fingered nurses keep noiseless watch to minister tothe slightest need; but to suffer as the children of the tenements must,with not even a whole bed to oneself sometimes, oh, the pity of it! Andto have to lie as some of them do, all through the stifling days,panting and gasping in the fumes of an ill-smelling lamp, because thefour dark walls have not a single window--oh, the shame of it!
Mary never encountered the first sight without wishing impulsively thather eyes had never been opened to such things. She was so much happierbefore she knew that such conditions existed in the world. But she nevercame across the second that a sort of fierce joy did not take possessionof her at the thought that she _did_ know, and that she was helping ina fight to wipe out such dreadful holes, which are all that somefamilies have to call home.
She fell asleep presently, and lay motionless until a banana man went byin the street below, with loud cries of his wares underneath her window.Then she roused up with a start, to find herself cramped from long lyingin one position with her clothes on.
"I might as well make myself comfortable and spend the whole afternoonresting," she concluded; so slipping off her dress, she opened thecloset door to take down a long white kimono which hung on one of theback hooks. In reaching around to get it she upset a pile of boxes onthe corner shelf, and one of them tumbled open at her feet. It was fullof odds and ends which she did not use often, and as she replaced themher attention was called to the box itself. It was the big one thatLieutenant Boglin had brought to the train filled with candy, themorning that they left San Antonio.
How far away that time seemed, and how far Bogey had dropped out of herlife: Bogey and Gay and Roberta and all those other good friends who hadfilled such a big place in her thoughts. She hadn't heard from any ofthem for months, and lately she had scarcely thought of them. For thatmatter Jack and Norman and Joyce and Phil had dropped far into thebackground. They were no longer her first thought on waking, and themost constant thought throughout the day. It was a different world shewas living in now. She wondered what old Captain Doane would think ofit; and Pink Upham-- Then she smiled, remembering that it had been weekssince she had given a thought to either of them. And yet, only threemonths before they had been a part of her daily living and thinking atLone-Rock.
All at once a longing for the clean, quiet little haven up in the hillscame over her like an ache. She was homesick for the restful mountains,where there were no slums, no fever-infested spots such as she had beenin all morning, no loathsome mouldy walls, no dank, foul odors. Shepictured the little home not as it stood when last she saw it,brightened with all Betty's bridal gifts, with Betty as mistress, but asit was at that last Christmas reunion, in all its dear shabbyhomeliness. The sun shone in across the clean faded carpet, and everyold chair held out its arms in friendly welcome.
She could see herself stepping around the kitchen getting supper. Howshiningly clean everything was! What peace brooded over the place, andwhat a deep sense of calm and well-being and contentment pervaded it.And her mother sat by the window, looking up from her sewing now andthen to smile or speak. Sometimes she hummed softly to herself some oldtune like Hebron:
"Thus far the Lord hath led me on-- Thus f
ar His power prolongs my days!"
Burying her face in the pillow, Mary cried softly for what could neverbe again. It seemed to her, for that heart-breaking little while, thatall the heaven she could ever ask would be just to go back to the littlehome and find it as it used to be, with her mother there, and Jack andNorman, nothing changed. She longed to spend the rest of her life rightthere in that cottage which she had once been so anxious to get awayfrom, doing the same tasks, day after day, that had once seemed sotrivial and monotonous. She lay there picturing the whole scene, makingherself more miserable every instant, yet finding a sorrowful sort ofpleasure in thus torturing herself.
She could recall the very pattern of the oil-cloth on the kitchen floor,the brown crocks, the yellow mixing-bowl, the little black-handled knifeshe always pared the vegetables with. One by one she took them up. Shewent the whole narrow round of things, from kindling the fire in thestove with the fresh-smelling pine chips in the box, to putting the teato brew in the fat little earthenware pot that had been one ofGrandmother Ware's treasures. She drew the biscuits from the oven, andbrought up the cream and butter from the spotless white cellar. How goodand fresh they looked! How good and fresh they tasted!
Faint from having eaten no dinner, it made her sob to think how hungryshe was, with a hunger that nothing could appease, since what she wantedmost existed only in memory now. She went on with her pictures,summoning the family to the table, hearing Norman's answering whoop fromthe woodshed, and Jack's hearty "All right! I'll be there in a jiffy,Sis!" Then she sobbed harder than ever, remembering that her summonscould never again be answered by an unbroken circle.
Presently, exhausted by the heat, her long fast and her crying spell,she fell into a deep sleep. The banana man passed back again under herwindow, calling his wares as loudly as before, but she did not hear him.An Italian with a hand-organ stopped in front of the house and groundout several popular noisy airs, but no note of it reached her. Therewas a dog fight on the corner, a terrific pow-wow of yelps and snarls;still she did not stir. Two, three hours went by. Then she was arousedby a rustling sound at her door, and opening her eyes, saw that some onewas slipping a letter under it.
She lay blinking at it lazily for a moment, then, hanging over the sideof the bed as far as she could without falling out, tried to pick it up.It was just beyond her reach, but with the aid of a slipper she managedto touch it and drag it near enough to get her fingers on to it.Doubling up the pillow under her head, she lay back, leisurely scanningthe envelope. It was post-marked Lone-Rock, and she knew by a glance atthe heavily shaded flourishes of the address that it was from PinkUpham.
Earlier in the week, when Riverville was the boundary of her interests,a letter from him would have had scant attention. But coming at thistime, when a homesick mood brought the old life so vividly before herthat it had suddenly become very dear and desirable, she opened iteagerly. It was the first one she had received from him, for she hadtold him on leaving Lone-Rock that she could not correspond with him;that she would be too busy with Mrs. Blythe's letters to write many ofher own.
As she glanced down the first page she saw why he had disregarded herwishes. He had news of such great importance to himself that henaturally expected her to take a friendly interest in it. She smiledwith pleasure as she read. Good old Pink! He deserved to have thingscome his way. If she hadn't spent so much for the relief of Diamond Row,she would have been tempted to send him a telegram of congratulation. Itwould please him immensely, she knew. A mine in which he had a smallamount of stock that was regarded as almost worthless, had suddenlyproved to be valuable, and he had been offered so much for his sharesthat he could buy out the Company's store at Lone-Rock and build a housebigger and better in every way than Mr. Moredock's. He had closed thedeal and bought the store, and he would build the house if--here Maryturned another page--_if she would consent to become Mrs. PinckneyUpham_.
Mary sat straight up in bed, the better to reread this startlingparagraph. Her face colored slowly as she rapidly scanned what followed.It was a manly letter, although here and there it sounded as if phrasesand whole sentences had been copied from some Guide to Etiquette andSocial Correspondence. She had filled his life entirely from the firstday of their acquaintance, he told her. She had been an inspiration, aguiding star to all that was high and noble. He loved her devotedly,humbly and more greatly than any woman had ever been loved before, andhis whole life should be given to making her happy.
When she had finished, Mary lay back on the pillow and stared out of thewindow into the branches of a sycamore tree that leaned across it. Avery tender feeling crept up into her heart for this man who wasoffering her so much. She had not realized before what a beautiful, whata solemn thing it was to be counted first in somebody's life; to knowthat she really was its guiding star, its inspiration. At this distancePink's little mannerisms, which had always annoyed her, shrank out ofsight, and she remembered only how considerate he was, how carefully heremembered every wish, how important he regarded her slightest word. Itwould be lovely to be taken care of always by one who would do it insuch fashion; to be shielded and considered, and surrounded with everycomfort that a boundless affection could suggest.
Again it came over Mary with overwhelming force how good it would be togo back to the clean, sweet life of the hills; the simple, wholesomecountry life that she loved, and never again have to help lift theburden of other people's poverty, or puzzle over the problem of theirwrongs. For a little space she lay and imagined what it would be like tobe back in Lone-Rock, in the new house Pink would build for her. Shecould picture that, for she knew that every detail would be planned toaccord with her wishes, and she could see just the way it would befurnished, and how she would make it the centre of hospitality and goodcheer for all of Lone-Rock; and how she and Betty would visit back andforth, and the family celebrations they'd have on anniversaries andholidays. All this she could see quite clearly and pleasantly. She couldeven see Pink on the other side of a little table spread for two,praising her muffins, and carefully cutting out the choicest parts ofthe tenderloin for her. She was positive he would do both.
That might be very pleasant for a few times, but suppose they shouldlive to celebrate their silver wedding? Alack for Pink, that a mentalarithmetic problem suddenly popped into her mind!
If there are three meals in one day, and three hundred and sixty-fivedays in one year, in twenty-five years through how many meals would theyhave to sit opposite each other? She did not try to multiply thenumbers, only whispered in a sort of groan, "there'd be thousands andthousands! I don't believe I could stand it, for no matter how good andkind he is, there's no denying it, his visits always begin to bore mebefore they're half over!"
"GAZING INTO THE SWEET FACE THAT SEEMED TO SMILEHELPFULLY BACK AT HER."]
She got up and began to dress presently, stopping twice in the processto reread the letter, once with her hair hanging, once with her dressslipped half way on. She wanted to make sure of some sentences which shecould not entirely recall.
"I wonder what mamma would say," she thought, wistfully. She walked overto the mantel, where a photograph of Mrs. Ware stood in a silver frame.It was one which Joyce had colored, and was so life-like that Mary'seyes often sought it questioningly. Now she leaned towards it, gazinginto the sweet face that seemed to smile helpfully back at her until shefound the answer to her own question.
"You always liked him," she whispered. "You always saw the best in himand made excuses for him. You would have been so happy to have had mesettle in Lone-Rock if you had been there. But I _couldn't_ care for himas you did for papa, and it wouldn't be right unless I did."
She did not answer the letter then. Just as she was sitting down tosupper a telephone message came from Mrs. Blythe, saying that they wouldcall for her in a little while to take her out on the river for amoonlight ride. Mary was glad that the excursion was on one of the bigsteamboats instead of a little launch, for in the larger party gatheredon it, no one noticed when she wandere
d off by herself and sat apart,leaning against the deck railing, and gazing dreamily over the shiningwater. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to think of some way to answerPink, which would hurt him as little as possible. She knew just how hewould stride into the post-office and unlock the drawer that held herletter, and how his face would brighten when he saw it. He always didshow so plainly everything he felt. And then the grim hurt look wouldcome into his eyes, and she knew just how his mouth would straighteninto a grim line when he read it. Oh, for his sake she wished that shedidn't have to tell him that what he wanted with all his good, big,generous heart could never be.
Was it the band playing _Kathleen Mavourneen_, or was it something elsethat suddenly made her think of Phil and her parting promise to him atBauer. Some one _had_ come asking her to join his trail, just as Philhad prophesied, but she needn't keep her promise in this case, becausethere was only one answer possible. She would stick to her own trail andgo on her way alone. But--there was a queer little thrill of comfort inthe thought--somehow it was nice to know that somebody wanted you, andthat you didn't _have_ to be an old maid. She would keep that letteralways, her first and, probably, her last proposal.
Again the band was repeating that refrain of _Kathleen Mavourneen_, andthe notes rang out tremulously sweet over the water:
"Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?"
She recalled the scrap of music Phil had torn out and sent to her withthat question on it, and that suggested the other song, _Bonnie Eloise_,whose name he had given to the girl with the greyhound. She wondered ifPhil ever wrote to her now. Maybe at this very moment he was sitting inhis bachelor quarters down in Mexico, looking out at the moonlight anddreaming about Eloise. She hoped not, for somehow, without cause orreason, she had conceived a strong dislike for her.
Some friends of Mrs. Blythe's came hunting Mary just then, to carry heroff to the hurricane deck, where something of especial interest wasgoing on. There was no more time for serious meditation, and thecombination of youth and mirth and moonlight worked its magical charm.By the time the boat had made its return trip, Mary was restored to herusual normal self, and to the equanimity that the heat and the slums andPink's letter had upset. When the lights of the town streamed out acrossthe river to meet them, she was rested and refreshed, ready to take upthe next day's work with her usual enthusiasm.
It was late when she reached home, but her long sleep in the afternoonmade her wakeful, and she sat up till after midnight trying to compose asatisfactory answer to Pink's letter. It was a depressing task, and shetore up page after page, in her effort to make her refusal as kind aspossible, and yet to make him understand that it was final.
When it was finished and sealed she drew another envelope towards her,intending to address it to Phil. Then she hesitated and pushed it aside,saying:
"I'd better wait until I'm in a more cheerful frame of mind. If I writenow it'll be so full of slums and disappointments that it'll give himthe doldrums."