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People Like That

<h2 id="id00446" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XIII</h2> I have not seen Selwyn since the night of Kitty's dinner-party. He has been back three days. If he wished to see me before he went away, why does he not come to see me now? Daily I determine I will let no thought of him come into my mind. The purposes for which I came to Scarborough Square will be defeated if I continue to think of this unimaginable happening that is with me day and night, this peculiar behavior of which he makes no explanation. I determine not to think, and thought is ever with me. I was silly, foolish, quixotic to hope that here, in this little world of workaday people, he might be brought to see that personal acquisition and advance is not enough to give life meaning, to justify what it exacts. I was foolish. We are more apart than when I came. Mrs. Mundy, in her blue cotton dress, a band of embroidery in the neck of its close-fitting basque, and around her waist a long, white apron which reached beyond her ample hips to the middle of her back, lingered this morning, dust-cloth in hand, at the door of my sitting-room. There was something else she wanted to say. "I'm mighty 'fraid little Gertie Archer is going to have what we used to call a galloping case." She went over to the window, where she felt the earth in its flower-box to see if it were moist. "She's a pretty child, and she was terrible anxious to go to one of them open-air schools on the roof, but there wasn't any room. It's too late now." The upper ends of the dust-cloth were fitted together carefully, and, leaving the window, Mrs. Mundy went over to the door. "Do you reckon the women know, the women where you come from? And the other women, the rich, and the comfortable, and the plain ones who could help, too, if they were shown how—do you reckon they know?" I looked up from the table where I had been straightening some magazines. "Know what?" "About there not being schools enough for the children, and about boys and girls going wrong because of not being shown how to go right, and about—" Mrs. Mundy sat down in a chair near the door. "Another thing I want to ask you is this: How did it come about that some men and women have found out they've got to know, and they've got to care, and they've got to help with things they didn't use to help with; and some 'ain't heard a sound, 'ain't seen a thing of what's going on around them? "Some people like being deaf and blind. But most people are willing to do their part if they only understand it. The trouble is in knowing how to go about things in the right way—the wise way. Women have had to stumble so long— "They're natural stumblers—women are. That is, some of 'em. They're afraid to look where they're going. I don't like to lose heart in anything human, but I get low down in spirit when I see how don't-care so many women are. They're blind as bats when they don't want to see, and they've got a mighty satisfying way of soothing of themselves by saying some things ain't their business. That's devil's dope. Generally women who talk that way are the ones who call the most attention to the faults and failings of men. Considering men are men, I think they do wonderful. Mr. Guard says if women keep silent much longer the very stones will cry out." "Mr. Guard? Is he the one you call the people's preacher?" Mrs. Mundy nodded. "He preaches to them what won't go in a church. I reckon you've seen something about him in the papers. He used to have a church in a big city, but he gave it up. I don't think he thinks like the churches think, exactly, but he don't have any call to mention creeds and doctrines down here, and he just asks people plain out what kind of life they're living, not what they believe. I've been wanting for a long time for you-all to know each other." "I'd like very much to know him. Ask him to come to see me." "He don't go to see people unless they need him. I've been wanting him for weeks to come to supper with Bettina and me, but he's that busy he hasn't had a night free to do it. When he does have one, would you mind coming down and taking supper with us instead of my sending yours up as usual? I'd be awful proud to have you." "Of course I'll come. I'd love to. Can't you get him for Friday evening? I have no engagement for Friday—" "It's this minute I'll try." Mrs. Mundy got up with activity. "You two were meant to know each other. Both of you have your own way of doing things, and you'll have a lot to talk about. You'll like him and he'll like you. I'll let you know if he can come as soon as I find out." Closing the door behind her, she left me alone. Taking the morning paper to the window, I drew my chair close to it, pushing back the curtains that I might have all possible light as I read. It was again snowing, and the grayness of the sky and atmosphere was reflected in the room, notwithstanding the leaping flames of the open fire, and after a while I put the paper aside and looked out of the window. Each twig and branch of the trees and shrubs of the snow-covered Square was bent and twisted in fantastic shape by its coating of sleet, and the usual shabbiness of the little park was glorified with shining wonder; and under its spell, for the moment, I forgot all else. Here and there a squirrel hopped cautiously from tree to tree, now standing on its branches and nibbling a nut dug from its hiding-place, now scurrying off to hide it again, and as I watched the cautious cocking of their heads I laughed aloud, and the sound recalled me to the waste I was making of time. "This isn't writing my letters, and they must go off on the afternoon mail." Getting up, I was about to turn from the window when a man and a young woman coming across the Square caught my attention and, hardly knowing why, I looked at them intently. Something about the man was familiar. He was barely medium height, and singularly slender, and though his head was bent that he might better hear the girl who was talking, I was sure I had seen him before. The girl I had never seen. She was dragging slowly, as if each step was forced, and, putting her handkerchief close to her mouth, she began to cough. For a moment they stood still and I saw the girl had on low shoes and a shabby coat which had once been showy. On one side of her hat was a red bird, battered and bruised, and at this comic effort at dressiness, which poor people cling to with such pathetic persistence, I smiled, and then in alarm leaned closer to the window. They had begun their walk again, and were now at the end of the path opening on to the pavement. I could see them clearly, and instinctively my hands went out as if to catch her, for the girl had fallen forward, and on the snow a tiny stream of red was dripping from her mouth. Quickly the man caught her and put his handkerchief to her lips, and with equal swiftness he looked around. He could not lay her on the snow, but she could no longer stand. The fear in his face, the whiteness of hers, were plainly visible. I raised the window. "Bring her over here," I called. "I'll come down and help you." In a flash I was out of the room and down the steps. Mrs. Mundy, who had heard my hurried running, followed me to the door. "What is it?" she asked. "What's the matter, Miss Dandridge?" Opening the front door, I started down the steps, but already the man, with the girl in his arms, was coming up them. "Go back," he said, quietly, though his breath was quick and uneven. "Go back. You'll get your feet wet." With a swift movement Mrs. Mundy pushed me aside. "Mr. Guard?" Her voice was questioning, uncertain; then she held out her arms. "The poor child! Give her to me. Who is it? Why, it's—it's Lillie Pierce!" "Yes." The man's voice was low, and with a movement of his head his hat fell on the floor. "It's Lillie Pierce. She has fainted. Where shall I take her?" "In here." Opening a door at the end of the hall, Mrs. Mundy motioned Mr. Guard to enter. From the girl's mouth the blood was still dripping, and on the collar of her coat was a big round splotch of red. "No," I said. "Bring her up-stairs. There's a room all fixed, and you have so much to do." I put my hand on Mrs. Mundy's arm. "I can take care of her. Can't we take her up-stairs?" A swift look passed between Mrs. Mundy and Mr. Guard. "No." The latter shook his head. "It is better for her to be down here." Going inside of the little room, he laid the girl on a cot at the foot of the bed, then turned to me. "Get a doctor. Call Chester 4273 and tell Carson, if he's there, to come at once. If you can find her, get Miss White also." I turned to leave the room, but not before I saw Mrs. Mundy and Mr. Guard at work on the girl, and already her hat and coat were off, and warm covering was being tucked around her. Mrs. Mundy knew what to do, and with feet that hardly touched the steps I was at the telephone and calling the number that had been given me. I was frightened and impatient at the slowness of Central. "For Heaven's sake, hurry!" I said. "Some one is ill. Ring loud!" Dr. Carson was in. He would come at once. Miss White was out. "Where is she?" I asked. "Where can I get her?" I was told where she might be found, and, changing my slippers for shoes, and putting on my coat and hat, I came down ready to go out. At the door of the room where they had taken the girl I stopped. She was now quite conscious, and with no pillow under her head she was staring up at the ceiling. Blood was no longer on her lips, but a curious smile was on them. It must have been this gasping, faintly scornful smile that startled me. It seemed mocking what had been done too late. "I am going for Miss White." I looked at Mr. Guard. "She is at the Bostrows'. The doctor—" As I spoke he came in, a big man, careless in dress and caustic in speech, but a man to be trusted. I slipped out and in a few minutes had found Martha White, and quickly we walked back to Scarborough Square. "It's well you came when you did." She bent her head to keep the swirling snowflakes from her face. Martha is fat and short and rapid walking is difficult. "I was just about to leave for the other end of town to see a typhoid case of Miss Wyatt's. She's young and gets frightened easily, and I promised I'd come some time to-day, though it's out of my district. Who is this girl I'm going to see?" "I don't know. I heard Mr. Guard and Mrs. Mundy call her Lillie Pierce. They seemed to know her. I never saw her before." "Never heard of her." Miss White, who had been district nursing for fourteen years, made effort to recall the name. "She had a hemorrhage, you say?" She did not wait for an answer, but went up the steps ahead of me, and envy filled me as I followed her into the room where she was to find her patient. Professionally Miss White was one person, socially another. Off duty she was slow and shy and consciously awkward. In the sick-room she was transformed. Quiet, cool, steady, alert, she knew what to do and how to do it. With a word to the others, her coat and hat were off and she was standing by the bed, and again I was humiliated that I knew how to do so little, was of so little worth. Between the doctor and herself was some talk. Directions were given and statements made, and then the doctor came to the door where I was standing. For a half-moment he looked me over, his near-sighted eyes almost closing in their squint. "I knew your father. A very unusual man." He held out his hand. "You're like him, got his expression, and, I'm told, the same disregard of what people think. That"—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder—"is a side of life you've never seen before. It's a side men make and women permit. Good morning." Before I could answer he was gone. Close to the cot Mrs. Mundy and Miss White were still standing. The latter slipped her hand under the covering and drew out the hot-water bag. "This has cooled," she said. "Where can I get hot water?" Mrs. Mundy pointed to the bath-room, then turned, and together they left the room. The girl on the cot was seemingly asleep. As they went out the man, who was standing by the mantel, came toward me. "I am David Guard," he said. "I have not thanked you for letting me bring her in. Had there been anywhere else to take her, I would not have brought her here. I met her at the other end of the Square. We had been standing for some while, talking. There was no place to which we could go to talk, and, fearing she would get too cold, we had moved on. Last month she tried to take her life. This morning she was telling me she could hold out no longer. There was no way out of it but death." "Who is she?" Before he could answer I understood. Shivering, I turned away, then I came back. "Will you come to my sitting-room, Mr. Guard? Can we not talk as human beings who are trying to find the right way to—to help wrong things?" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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