CHAPTER XII
A CHEERFUL COMRADE
The more Mary Louise saw of Irene Macfarlane the more she learned tolove her. No one could be miserable or despondent for long in thechair-girl's society, because she was always so bright and cheeryherself. One forgot to pity her or even to deplore her misfortuneswhile listening to her merry chatter and frank laughter, for she seemedto find genuine joy and merriment in the simplest incidents of the lifeabout her.
"God has been so good to me, Mary Louise!" she once exclaimed as theywere sitting together in the garden. "He has given me sight, that I mayrevel in bookland and in the beauties of flowers and trees and shiftingskies and the faces of my friends. He has given me the blessing ofhearing, that I may enjoy the strains of sweet music and the songs ofthe birds and the voices of those I love. And I can scent the fragranceof the morning air, the perfume of the roses and--yes! even thebeefsteak Aunt Hannah is frying for supper. The beefsteak tastes asgood to me as it does to you. I can feel the softness of your cheek; Ican sing melodies, in my own way, whenever my heart swells with joy. Ican move about, by means of this wonderful chair, without the bother ofwalking. You don't envy me, Mary Louise, because you enjoy almost equalblessings; but you must admit I have reason for being happy."
Irene read a good many books and magazines and through the daily paperskept well posted on the world's affairs. Indeed, she was much betterposted than Mary Louise, who, being more active, had less leisure tothink and thus absorb the full meaning of all that came to her notice.Irene would play the piano for hours at a time, though obliged to leanforward in her chair to reach the keys, and her moods ran the gamutfrom severely classical themes to ragtime, seeming to enjoy allequally. She also sewed and mended with such consummate skill that MaryLouise, who was rather awkward with her needle, marveled at her talent.
Nor was this the end of the chair-girl's accomplishments, for Irene hada fancy for sketching and made numerous caricatures of those personswith whom she came in contact. These contained so much humor that MaryLouise was delighted with them--especially one of "Uncle Peter" toyingwith his watch fob and staring straight ahead of him with round,expressionless eyes.
"Really, Irene, I believe you could paint," she once said.
"No," answered her friend, "I would not be so wicked as to do that. Allimitations of Nature seem to me a mock of God's handiwork, which nomortal brush can hope to equal. I shall never be so audacious, I hope.But a photograph is a pure reflex of Nature, and my caricatures, whichare merely bits of harmless fun, furnish us now and then a spark ofhumor to make us laugh, and laughter is good for the soul. I oftenlaugh at my own sketches, as you know. Sometimes I laugh at theirwhimsical conception, before ever I put pencil to paper. Lots ofcaricatures I make secretly, laughing over and then destroying them forfear they might be seen and hurt the feelings of their innocentsubjects. Why, Mary Louise, I drew your doleful face only yesterday,and it was so funny I shrieked with glee. You heard me and looked overat me with a smile that made the caricature lie, so I promptly tore itup. It had served its purpose, you see."
So many of these quaint notions filled the head of the crippled girlthat Mary Louise's wondering interest in her never flagged. It was easyto understand why Mrs. Conant had declared that Irene was the joy andlife of the household, for it was impossible to remain morbid or bluein her presence.
For this reason, as well as through the warm and sincere affectioninspired by Irene, Mary Louise came by degrees to confide to her theentire story of the mystery that surrounded her grandfather andinfluenced the lives of her mother and herself. Of her personalanxieties and fears she told her new friend far more than she had everconfessed to anyone else and her disclosures were met by ready sympathy.
"Phoo!" cried Irene. "This isn't a REAL trouble; it will pass away.Everything passes away in time, Mary Louise, for life is a successionof changes--one thing after another. Remember the quotation: 'Whate'ermay be thy fate to-day, remember--this will pass away.' I love thatlittle saying and it has comforted me and given me courage many a time."
"Life will also pass away," observed Mary Louise pessimistically.
"To be sure. Isn't that a glad prospect? To pass to a new life, to newadventures, planned for us by the wisdom of God, is the most gloriouspromise we mortals possess. In good time that joy will be ours, but nowwe must make the most of our present blessings. I take it, Mary Louise,that there is a purpose in everything--a Divine Purpose, you know--andthat those who most patiently accept their trials will have the betterfuture recompense. What's a twisted ankle or a shriveled leg to do withhappiness? Or even a persecuted grandfather? We're made of betterstuff, you and I, than to cry at such babyish bumps. My! what a lot ofthings we both have to be thankful for."
Somehow these conversations cheered Mary Louise considerably and herface soon lost its drawn, worried look and became almost as placid asin the days when she had Gran'pa Jim beside her and suspected noapproaching calamity. Gran'pa Jim would surely have loved Irene, had heknown her, because their ideas of life and duty were so similar.
As it was now less than a month to the long summer vacation, MaryLouise did not enter the Dorfield High School but studied a little athome, so as not to get "rusty," and passed most of her days in thesociety of Irene Macfarlane. It was a week or so after her arrival thatPeter Conant said to her one evening:
"I have now received ample funds for all your needs, Mary Louise, so Ihave sent to Miss Stearne to have your trunk and books forwarded."
"Oh; then you have heard from Gran'pa Jim?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"I do not know," chopping the words apart with emphasis. "The Colonelhas been very liberal. I am to put twenty dollars in cash in yourpocketbook and you are to come to me for any further sums you mayrequire, which I am ordered to supply without question. I would havefavored making you an allowance, had I been consulted, but the Colonelis--eh--eh--the Colonel is the Colonel."
"Didn't Gran'pa Jim send me any letter, or--any information at all?"she asked wistfully.
"Not a word."
"In my last letter, which you promised me to forward, I begged him towrite me," she said, with disappointment.
Peter Conant made no reply. He merely stared at her. But afterward,when the two girls were alone, Irene said to her:
"I do not think you should beg your grandfather to write you. A lettermight be traced by his enemies, you know, and that would mean hisundoing. He surely loves you and bears you in mind, for he has providedfor your comfort in every possible way. Even your letters to him may bedangerous, although they reach him in such roundabout ways. If I wereyou, Mary Louise, I'd accept the situation as I found it and not demandmore than your grandfather and your mother are able to give you."
This frank advice Mary Louise accepted in good part and through theinfluence of the chair-girl she gradually developed a more contentedframe of mind.
Irene was a persistent reader of books and one of Mary Louise'sself-imposed duties was to go to the public library and select suchvolumes as her friend was likely to be interested in. These covered awide range of subjects, although historical works and tales of the ageof chivalry seemed to appeal to Irene more than any others. Sometimesshe would read aloud, in her sweet, sympathetic voice, to Mary Louiseand Mrs. Conant, and under these conditions they frequently foundthemselves interested in books which, if read by themselves, they wouldbe sure to find intolerably dry and uninteresting. The crippled girlhad a way of giving more than she received and, instead of demandingattention, would often entertain the sound-limbed ones of her immediatecircle.