CHAPTER VII
HER GREAT RENUNCIATION
Mary went back to her work next day, but not to the same old treadmill.It could never be that again. The thought that Phil was waiting for her,working to provide a home for her, glorified the most commonplace day,and came between her and her most disagreeable tasks. It was uppermostin her mind when she made her visits to the tenements, and often causedher to pause and ask herself why the gods had picked her out to make herthe most blessed among mortals. What had _she_ done that life shouldbestow so much more on her than it had on poor Dena and Elsie Whayne?
Somehow the sharp contrast between her lot and theirs hurt her more eachtime that it was forced upon her notice. It began to make her feelpersonally responsible, if not for the difference between them, at leastfor making that difference less. Why she owed it to them to do anythingto make their lives more livable, she could not tell, but theobligation to do so weighed upon her more heavily every day.
Maybe if her endeavors had not been so effectual she might not have feltthe obligation so keenly, but she could not fail to see the differencethat her visits made to the families in the Row. Sometimes she countedover the things she accomplished, as one might count the beads of arosary, not from any sense of pride in what she had done, but as a sortof self-justification; asking herself, since she had done that much,could more be reasonably expected.
It was through her efforts that Dena was sent to a hospital and some oneprovided to take care of the invalid father and demented mother. It wasbecause she had interested charitable people in their behalf that ElsieWhayne found a home in the country once more, and old Mrs. Donegan'seyes had such skilful treatment from a specialist that she was able touse them again. There were a dozen instances like that, but best of all,she realized that she was responsible in a direct way for the miraculouschange that took place in Diamond Row itself.
The morning that Phil went away she was too much occupied to care forsuch trivial matters as the daily papers. She did not even glance atthe Riverville _Herald_ to see if it mentioned the fact that she hadtaken Mrs. Blythe's place on the programme. It was not until late thatafternoon that she found there was quite a glowing tribute to herability as a speaker. Sandford Berry had written it. He had also donemore. In a way they have in newspaper offices he had taken the paperthat Mary loaned him, traced the article denouncing Burke Stoner to itssource, and found that the man who had written it was now a prominentlawyer in Riverville. He had been employed on the editorial staff of the_Herald_ for a short time ten years before. Armed with permission to usehis name if necessary, in verifying the article, Sandford Berry hadelectrified the town the morning after Mary's talk, by printing herdescription of Diamond Row, and her burning appeal to the people ofRiverville to rise up and wipe out the disgrace in their midst. She hadnot mentioned Burke Stoner's name, nor was her name mentioned inconnection with this article. It was for political reasons solely thatthe _Herald_ made capital of it, stringing sensational headlines acrossthe front page in startling black letters: "One of to-morrow'scandidates responsible for death of one tenant and maybe two. Shamefulcondition of Tenth and Myrtle Street tenements, from which millionaireowner collects many thousands a year rental."
There was a picture of Burke Stoner, surrounded by a circle ofcondemning snapshots of the basement room which had filled Mary withsuch horror on her first visit, the stairway labelled "Death-trap of tenyears' standing," and a portrait of little Terence Reilly, reproducedfrom the first paper.
Next morning Sandford Berry called her over the telephone to saygleefully, "Well, it did the work! Coming as it did the last minutebefore election it simply wiped Stoner off the map. He was defeatedoverwhelmingly, and, between you and me and the gate-post, it was yourspeech that did it. I took the liberty of appropriating it withoutgiving you any credit, for I knew that you wouldn't want to be mixed upin a mess like that. Didn't I tell you that you'd be the biggest beaconfire in the lot when you once got a-going? Well, you've started a blazenow that'll rage a bit. Tell Mrs. Blythe that she'll have no trouble nowin getting the city ordinance she wanted, providing building inspectors.This Board of Aldermen is hot for it, now that Stoner is out of the way,and losing this election is going to cripple his influence through allthis part of the state. It'll help the bill you want to put through thenext session more than you realize. You didn't have any idea how faryour little candle was throwing its beams when you made that speech, didyou, Miss Mary? Well, it's indeed a good deed you did for this naughtyworld."
"That's just Orphant Annie's extravagant way of putting things," thoughtMary, as she hung up the receiver. "My part in it wouldn't have amountedto a row of pins if he hadn't written it up so vividly with all thosescare headlines. But, still, I _did_ start it all," she acknowledged toherself, "and it's something to have done that."
For a moment she was elated by the sense of power that thrilled her. Butthe thought that followed had a queer chilling effect. If she couldstart such forces in motion for the betterment of the human beingsaround her, had she any right to turn her back on this work which sheknew she was called to, just as definitely as Joan of Arc was called to_her_ mission?
Phil's coming had made her forget for a little space what she had beenso very sure of for many months, that she had been set apart for somehigh destiny, too great to allow her own personal considerations tointerfere. Now, at his call, she was about to forsake her first trystand turn to him. In just a little while she would leave it all and giveherself wholly to him. Was it right? Was it right?
That question troubled her oftener as the days went by. Not when hisletters came and his strong personality seemed to fold protectinglyabout her while she read, shutting out the doubts which troubled her.Not when she sat with his picture before her, tracing its outlines overand over with adoring eyes. Not when she gave herself up to dreams ofthe little home he wrote about frequently. The little home she wouldknow so well how to make into a real hearts' haven. She blessed the olddays of hard times and hard work now, for the valuable lessons they hadtaught her.
But "is it right? Is it right to fail in the keeping of my first trystfor this one of purely selfish pleasure?" she asked herself when she sawthe changes that were being wrought in Diamond Row. Before the winterwent by it had been transformed. It was not the sting of defeat whichdrove Burke Stoner to do it, nor the sting of public opinion arousedagainst him, but the pride of his own daughter, a girl of Mary's age,when she learned the facts in the case.
She chanced to be in the audience the day when Mary made her appeal, andunaware that it was her father's property that was being described, wasone of the most thoroughly aroused listeners in the whole audience. Butwhen she saw her father's picture in the paper next day, set in themidst of others, proclaiming him a disgrace to good citizenship, hermortification at being thus publicly shamed was something pitiful tosee. Hitherto it had been her pride to see his name heading popularsubscription lists, and to hear him spoken of as the friend of the poor,on account of liberal donations.
Nobody knew what kind of a scene took place when she read the condemningheadlines, but it was reported that she locked herself in her room andrefused to see her father for several days. She was his only child andhis idol, and she had to be pacified at any cost. So she had her way asusual, this time to the transforming of the whole of Diamond Row, andthe comfort of its inmates.
It began with drains and city water-works to supplant the infectedcistern. It moved on to paint and plaster and new floors, to the puttingin of a skylight in two dark rooms, and the cutting of windows in thethird. And, more than that, it led to the opening of both skylight andwindows into the sympathies of Burke Stoner's petted daughter, and ledher out of her round of self-centred thoughts to unselfish interest inher unfortunate neighbors. It is a question which of the two gained thegreatest inrush of sunshine by those openings.
Mary, watching all this, felt alternately exultant that she had been themeans of starting these blessed changes, and depressed by the thoughtt
hat she would be doing wrong if she turned her back on the opportunityof continuing such work. Thanksgiving went by and the first of December.As the shops began to put on holiday dress Mary began to be moredepressed than ever. The burden of her poor people pressed upon her moresorely each day that she listened to their stories of the hard winterand their struggle to make both ends meet. But more depressing stillwere the times when old Mrs. Donegan begged her to come often, andcalled down the blessing of all the saints in the calendar upon herhead, and told her tearfully that it would be a sorry day for the Rowthat took her away from it.
"It's God's own blessing you've been to the whole tenement!" sheproclaimed volubly on every occasion, and, remembering the changes thathad been brought about directly and indirectly by her efforts, Maryknew that it was so, and felt all the more strongly that she would bedoing wrong to abandon the work.
Mr. Blythe was able to be out again by Christmas time. The two boys camehome for the holidays, and for two weeks Mary helped with theentertaining that went on in the big house. There was no question now ofher going back to the boarding-house at Mrs. Crum's. Mrs. Blythe saidthat having once experienced the comfort of having a daughter in thehouse, she could not dispense with her. She could go off to the capitalnow with a free conscience, leaving Mary in charge of the establishment.So, in January she went, and for several weeks waited for the bill tocome up before the Legislature; busy weeks in which she was occupied allday long in making new friends for her cause.
Then she wrote home cheerfully that the bill had come up. There had beenmuch opposition, and it had been cut down and amended till it would fitonly the larger cities of the state. They had gained only a part of whatthey had asked for, but that was something, and they would go onawakening public sentiment until the next session, and bring it upagain. The fight would have to be made all over again, but they wouldmake it valiantly, hoping for absolute victory next time. She would behome in a few days.
Up till this time Mary had not realized how anxiously she was lookingforward to the passage of the bill. Upon its fate depended her own, foras one draws straws to decide a matter, she had made up her mind to letits outcome settle the question which had troubled her so long. If itwent through successfully, and the State thus proved that it was fullyawake to its duty, then she would feel that her obligation was ended.That was the specific work she had pledged herself to do. But if itfailed--well, it would break her heart, but she'd have to keep thetryst, no matter what it cost her.
Her intense desire for its success gradually led her to feel that it wasassured, and the news of only a partial victory left her as undecided asbefore. To escape the mood of depression which seized her the snowySunday night before Mrs. Blythe's return, she put on her wraps andslipped out to a little church in the next block, hoping to find someword to quiet her unrest, either in song, service or sermon. She satlistening almost feverishly till the minister announced his text: "_Noman, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for thekingdom of God."_
It was a sermon extolling sacrifice. The minister, a young man with athin, earnest face and deep-set eyes that burned like two dark fires,seemed to know no call of the flesh. It was all of the spirit. One afteranother he cited the examples of the Father Damiens, the FlorenceNightingales of the world, till the whole noble army of martyrs, thegoodly company of the Apostles were marshalled before Mary's accusingconscience, and she felt herself condemned as unfit to stand with them,wholly unfit for the kingdom. The closing hymn was as accusing as thesermon:
"The Son of God goes forth to war. Who follows in His train?
. . . . . .
Who best can drink his cup of woe, triumphant over pain, Who patient bears his cross below, he follows in His train."
She went away with those lines repeating themselves in her ears. It wasstill early when she went home, but Mr. Blythe had retired, so tellingthe maid to close the house for the night, she went up to her own room,where the fire burned cheerfully in the grate. She drew up a littletable before it and brought out her writing material. She had made upher mind to make the supreme sacrifice of her life, even if it killedher.
"Keep tryst or die!" she sobbed, as she took up her pen. "Oh, Phil! Howcan I write it, that I must give you up?"
It took a long time to tell him. She wanted to make it perfectly clearto him that it was breaking her heart to do it. She was afraid hewouldn't understand how she felt about not being fit for the kingdom,and it was hard to put down in black and white such a deeply personal,such a spiritual thing as that experience of hearing the voices andanswering the call. But in no other way could she explain. Twice shebroke down utterly, and with her head on her arms on the little table,cried and sobbed with long shuddering gasps that shook her convulsively.Once she threw the half-finished letter into the fire, saying fiercelyin a low tone, "I _can't_! Oh, I _can't_! It would be giving up morethan Father Damien did. It's more than I can bear!"
But she remembered again those awful words, "No man, putting his hand tothe plough"-- _This_ was looking back. She took another sheet of paperand patiently rewrote all that was on the sheets she had just burned. Itwas nearly morning when she finally sealed the envelope and crept intobed exhausted by the ordeal. There was no sense of "rising triumphantover pain" to reward her for her sacrifice, but her stern little Puritanconscience found a dreary sort of comfort in the thought that she hadfollowed duty, and that nothing else mattered.
"One doesn't _have_ to be happy," she told herself, over and over.
When she awoke next morning and remembered what she had done, the bottomseemed to drop out of the whole universe, and she felt a hundred yearsold as she moved languidly about the room at her dressing.
"But I can't go on this way," she exclaimed, catching a glimpse of herwan-eyed reflection in the mirror. "Such a half-hearted sort of givingwon't do any good. I shall have to do as the nuns do when they shuttheir convent gate on the world, shut it entirely and forever. I shallhave to put away everything that reminds me of Phil."
She glanced around the room. How many reminders there were, for she hadalways treasured everything he had ever sent her; books, pictures,little curios picked up on his travels. Even an odd stone he had foundon the desert and brought into the Wigwam one day, she used now as apaperweight. An Indian basket he had bought from an old squaw atHole-in-the-rock held her sewing materials. Just under her hand on thetable lay the little book he had given her to read on the train when shewas starting home after Jack's accident, "The Jester's Sword." As shefingered it caressingly, it seemed to open of its own accord to thefly-leaf, where was printed the line from Stevenson: "To renounce whenthat shall be necessary and not be embittered." And then on the oppositepage--"Because he was born in Mars' month the bloodstone became hissignet, sure token that undaunted courage would be the jewel of hissoul."
She had thought those lines were wonderfully helpful when she offeredthem to Jack as an inspiration to renew _his_ courage, but what a hollowmockery they seemed now that the time had come to apply them to her owncase. Still, the thought of the brave Jester persisted, and was with herwhen she went down to breakfast, and later when she went to the stationto meet Mrs. Blythe. She, too, would wear her sword of conquest sohidden, and unbeknown, even to those who walked closest to her side.
Almost feverishly she threw herself into the duties of the next fewdays, glad that an accumulation of letters on Mrs. Blythe's desk kepther busy at the typewriter all morning, and that some investigating forthe Associated Charities kept her tramping about the streets the rest ofthe time, until nightfall. She thought that she was hiding her secret sosuccessfully that no one imagined she had one. She talked more thanusual at the table, she laughed at the slightest excuse, she joinedspiritedly in the repartee at dinner, a time when they nearly always hadguests. But keen-eyed Mrs. Blythe saw several things in the course ofthe week. She noticed her lack of appetite, the long spells ofabstraction that came sometimes after her
merriest outbursts; the deepshadows under her eyes of a morning, as if she had passed many sleeplesshours.
Then going into her room one day it occurred to her that Phil's pictureswere missing. There had been several, so prominently placed on mantel,dressing-table and desk that one saw them the first thing on entering.Then she noticed that the solitaire was gone from Mary's finger, and wastempted to ask the reason, but resisted the impulse, thinking that itwas probably because of some trivial misunderstanding which would rightitself in time.
One afternoon, passing through the lower end of the hall, she saw Marysitting at the typewriter in the alcove that had been curtained off foran office. She was about to call to her to stop and get ready for atramp before dark, when the postman's whistle sounded across the street.He was making his four o'clock rounds. It was a rare occurrence for himto pass the house at this time of day without leaving something. Allwinter it had been the hour at which Phil's daily letter was most likelyto arrive. Mrs. Blythe recalled the big, dashing hand in which they werealways addressed, and Mary's radiant face when they arrived.
Now, at the sounding of the whistle, the clicking of keys stopped andMary leaned forward to look out of the window, and watch the progress ofthe postman down the avenue. He did not cross over. As the cheerfulwhistle sounded again, further down the street, she suddenly leaned herarms on the typewriter in front of her and dropped her head upon them insuch an attitude of utter hopelessness that Mrs. Blythe hesitated nolonger.
"What's the matter, dear?" she asked kindly, putting her arms aroundher, and Mary, surprised into confession, sobbed out the story of herrenunciation on her sympathetic shoulder.
If there was one person in the world whom Mary thought wouldunderstand, who would heartily approve of what she had done, and whowould comfort her with due appreciation and praise, that person would beMrs. Blythe. But, to her astonishment, although the arm that encircledher closed around her with an affectionate embrace, the exclamation thataccompanied it was only, "Oh, you dear little, blessed little _goose_!"
It was a shock, and yet there was some note in it that gave Mary a glad,swift sense of relief and comfort. She straightened up and wiped hereyes. Mrs. Blythe hurried to say:
"Don't think for a moment that I don't appreciate to the very fullestyour motive in making such a sacrifice. I think it is very fine andnoble of you, but--my dear little girl, I don't believe it is whollynecessary. You see, it's this way. The work we are trying to do can't beaccomplished by any one person. If it could you would be gloriouslyjustified in giving your whole life up to it. But it must be the work ofmany. One little torch can't possibly lighten every town in the country.Even that greatest of beacons, the statue of Liberty, lightens only oneharbor. All we can hope to do is to kindle the unlit torches next to us,and keep the circle of light widening in every direction till thefarthest boundary of the farthest state is aglow. And you can do thatwherever you go, Mary. Very few states have their homes safeguarded bythe law we are trying to get for this one. And every town and village inthe United States has the _beginning_ of a city slums in some of itscorners.
"Perhaps the very greatest thing you can do for the cause is to showother girls that they don't have to be like nuns in order to help. Theydon't have to take any sort of vow or veil that shuts them away from anormal, usual life. It is something in which social influence counts fora very great deal. Because I have a home of my own, and a recognizedsocial position, and am a happy wife and mother, people listen to me farmore readily when I go to them with a plea for less fortunate homes andwives and mothers. Mrs. Philip Tremont will be able to accomplish evenmore than little Mary Ware. I cannot see where loyalty to Phil andloyalty to your conception of what you owe humanity conflict in theslightest. Marriage may take away the leisure that you have now. Fewwomen have the time to give to a public cause what I am giving. It isonly of late years that I have had it myself. But a torch is a torch, nomatter where you put it, and sometimes the lights streaming fromcheerful home windows make better guides for the benighted travellerthan the street lamp, whose sole purpose is to give itself to thepublic."
"I hadn't thought about it that way," said Mary slowly, looking out ofthe window in order to keep her face averted. "Maybe you're right, butit's too late for me to take your point of view, much as I'd like to. Iwrote to Phil a week ago, and sent back his ring, and I made it so clearthat it was a matter of conscience with me, that I'm very sure that Iconvinced him that I was doing the right thing. At any rate, there hasbeen plenty of time for a reply, and I haven't had a word. 'Silencegives consent,' you know."
She spoke drearily and kept on looking out of the window so long thatMrs. Blythe was sure that her eyes were full of tears which she wantedto hide. So she rose briskly, saying, as if the matter were ended:
"Well, at any rate, come on and let's have our walk. We can tramp out tothe Turnpike Inn and come back by trolley before dark if we startimmediately."
All the way out and back Mrs. Blythe could see what an effort Mary wasmaking to appear interested in the conversation, but she knew byintuition that her thoughts were not on the people and places theypassed. Each way she turned she was seeing, not the bare Februarylandscape, but the handsome, laughing face she was trying so hard to putout of her memory. It was doubly hard now that Mrs. Blythe hadpronounced her renunciation of it unnecessary. The more Mary thoughtabout it, the more reasonable Mrs. Blythe's viewpoint seemed. It wastrue that Dudley Blythe's position in the professional world gave hiswife a certain prestige with many people, and her words a weight theywould not have had otherwise, despite her own personal charm andability. And his hearty endorsement and cooeperation was her strongestsupport.
"Maybe Mrs. Blythe was right," thought Mary. Maybe giving herself toPhil wouldn't be looking back from the "plough" to which she hadconsecrated herself. Maybe it would only be giving it a strong, guidinghand. She certainly needed it herself, judging from the mess she hadmade of her life and Phil's.
Oddly enough, it was not until that moment that she thought of him asbeing particularly affected by her decision. Probably it was because shehad always taken such an humble attitude in her mind towards the BestMan that she had not realized it might be as hard for him to be"renounced" as for her to make the sacrifice.
On their return Mrs. Blythe saw her quick glance at the silver tray onthe hall table. Any letters arriving while they were out were alwaysplaced there. It was impossible that there should be any now, for thepostman had made his last rounds before they started out. Nevertheless,she glanced hopefully towards it, and was turning away in disappointmentwhen the maid, who had heard their latchkey in the door, came into thehall.
"There's a caller in the library for Miss Ware," she announced. "Beenwaiting nearly an hour."
"It's probably Electa Dunn," said Mary listlessly, to whom the word"waiting" brought up the figure of an unfortunate little seamstress whohad spent a large part of her life in that attitude.
"I left word that I had some sewing for her to do and would send thematerial to-morrow. She must be more eager than ever for work, else shewouldn't come a day ahead of time and wait till dark to get it."
The library door stood open and the firelight shone out cheerfullyacross the hall, now almost dark with the shadows of the Februarytwilight. Just that way it had shone out to meet her three monthsbefore, when she came down and found Phil there. That room had seemedsacred to her ever since. She wished the maid had not sent Electa inthere to wait for her. It hurt so to have to go into it and recall allthat had happened since that meeting. For an instant her eyes closed andher lips pressed together as if an actual physical pain had gripped her.Then she forced herself to go on. At the doorway she paused again andpassed the back of her hand across her eyes, sure that she was dreaming.
It was all as it had been that never-to-be-forgotten night. Some onestood before the fire gazing down into the dancing flames. It was notthe patient little seamstress, however. The tall, masterful man thatstood there had never waited patiently for a
nything in his life. Now, atthe sound of her entrance, he turned and came impetuously towards her,his face alight, his hands outstretched.
Mrs. Blythe, half-way up the stairs, heard Mary's surprised cry, "Oh,Phil!" and nodded sagely to herself. "He's come instead of writing, justas I thought he would. Wise man!"