CHERRY COULD THINK OF NOTHING BUT MARY GREGORY and what was to become of her. The critical hour was at hand, and she must take on the heavy responsibility of Mary Gregory’s encounter with the past—and the future. Even with Wade Cooper in town—even with excited preparation for Christmas and the settlement house party—even though her feet practically tap-danced over her snowbound district, with the season’s approaching gaiety—still, an undercurrent of anxiety gripped Cherry.
A visit to Laurel House on her lunch hour helped dispel that. Evelyn Stanley greeted her with “It’s all coming true! Come here and see for yourself!” That lively young woman seized Cherry’s hand and drew her to the open doors of the craft shops.
Seated around a huge table, which was laden with the Spencer Club and other donors’ dolls, and with piles of colorful remnants, ribbons, laces, doll shoes, little girls were busily sewing doll clothes. The tiny dresses and bonnets were so tastefully designed, so darling, that Cherry regretted she was not several years younger.
The sewing instructor glanced up with a smile. “You visiting nurses may have some of these dolls to distribute to your sick patients. The Girl Scouts will wrap them. The rest of the dolls will go under the Laurel House Christmas tree. How do you like Susie Belle?”
Susie Belle was a southern belle doll, in ruffled crinolines and poke bonnet. There was a bride doll, a farmer-boy doll, a Spanish doll with lace mantilla, and so many others that Evelyn Stanley had to pry Cherry away from that studio.
“Don’t overlook the boys! Doesn’t this look like old Kris Kringle’s workshop?”
Cherry peered into the carpentry workshop. Nearly thirty young boys were hard at work, turning lathes, hammering, gluing, measuring. Under their capable hands, toys were taking shape: kites, precision construction sets, model planes, scooters, wagons, hobby horses and blocks for the very small fry.
“Like this, Philip,” said a man’s singsong voice. “Use your T square, measure so, allow for the joining—”
“Uncle Gustave!” Cherry exclaimed.
Gustave Persson got up stiffly from the workbench, dusted off his hands on his denim apron, and shook hands with Cherry. The little man’s eyes were bluer, and his expression more contented, than Cherry had ever seen them.
“Uncle Gustave consented to become one of our carpentry instructors,” Miss Stanley explained. “He volunteers his services, and he is so good we are only afraid someone will steal him away from Laurel House.”
“I would not go,” Uncle Gustave said stoutly. “I build you the Music School next. In the spring. Soon I make the blueprints.”
“Congratulations to both of you!” said Cherry.
In the next studio, older boys and girls on ladders were building and painting stage scenery. The immense, cardboard slides depicted a beach and ocean, a farm kitchen, and a carnival. There was a great bustle in here, with everyone in overalls or smocks, and smudged with paint—including Cherry’s quiet Miss Culver. Cherry was astonished.
“Why, Miss Culver! I didn’t dare hope you’d be strong again this soon! I’m so glad to see you here.”
Miss Culver sat down demurely on her ladder. “How nice to see you, Miss Ames. Miss Stanley called on me and invited me to the painting class. Then I saw this studio, and they did need extra hands. Isn’t it nice?”
A distinguished, older man appeared at the doorway, unbuttoning his overcoat. He bowed slightly to Miss Culver and greeted Evelyn Stanley.
“Miss Ames,” the social worker said, “this is Mr. Kenneth Long, the painter. Mr. Long gives painting instruction at Laurel House once a week. He is an Academy member and we are very proud to have him.”
The painter acknowledged the introduction and looked at Cherry with special interest. “So you are the nurse who indirectly brought Miss Culver into my class. Come in here, please. You must see her work. I’m quite interested.”
He went off ahead. Evelyn Stanley whispered to Cherry as they followed him:
“I don’t know whether Mr. Long is more interested in Emily Culver’s paintings or in Miss Emily herself.”
“A romance?” Cherry gasped delightedly.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised. They are excellent friends. Ssh.”
The painter was waiting for them in the studio. He had stood up against the easels several canvases, still lifes and landscapes. They were simple and naïve in technique, but their color was fresh as a sampler and they were patterned with the exquisite orderliness of Miss Culver herself. Cherry recognized two street scenes, painted from those second-floor windows, one at noon, one at dusk.
“Primitives, of course,” Kenneth Long said, trying to deprecate the pleasure in his voice, “but very nice. Very nice indeed. The entire class has talent, in some degree. Look at these others.”
He spread out more canvases. Each one bespoke the individual who had painted it. Cherry was fascinated.
“Haven’t you enough pictures there to”—she hesitated—“have an exhibition? At the Christmas party?”
Miss Stanley and the artist exchanged glances.
“An excellent idea,” said Kenneth Long. “When can we hang them?”
Miss Culver, standing shyly in the doorway, looked as if she had seen her first rainbow.
In the auditorium was a man with the soberest face Cherry ever saw directing rehearsals of one of the funniest plays Cherry had ever heard.
“That’s Mr. Twiddy,” Evelyn Stanley whispered in her ear. “He wandered in here out of the blue with that sidesplitting play he wrote himself. And I’ve yet to see him crack a smile!”
Miss Stanley told Cherry the play would be produced for the party, and the party would be held a little before Christmas Day itself. Cherry was pleased at that, for she wanted to be home for her birthday and Christmas. “But I wouldn’t miss this party for all the corn in Illinois!”
Then the two young women got down to business about an “Around The World” food table, or food bazaar. Cherry had already invited neighborhood people to cook their kondis and chicken broth with dumplings and pasta and lemon tshay—the well-to-do owner of a local cafeteria promised to supply the food provisions—and to play hosts as well. Everyone had eagerly accepted. But from all of them came insistence on having “American dishes too! We are Americans, Miss Ames! These other things belong to the past. Hot dogs, Miss Ames, and apple pie, and corn bread, please—that’s what we want.”
There was still a great deal to do, and still several days to go until the holiday. Meanwhile people were sick, Christmas or no Christmas, and Cherry had to make her calls. A severely burned hand to dress, a newborn baby whose mother needed instruction, a septic sore throat to irrigate, two cases of pneumonia. And Mary Gregory still to deal with … Wade teased on the telephone to accompany her, but Cherry knew better than to mix personal matters into business. Besides, the rules of the Visiting Nurse Service forbade anyone without official business to enter these homes.
Cherry regretted, however, that Wade could not meet Driver Smith. His play-acting at being pleasant had turned into the real thing.
“Glad to see ya!” he greeted Cherry. “Let the lady in! Ladies first! The war’s over.”
Cherry grinned and proffered her fare.
“Sorry I have t’ charge ya,” Smith told her.
As the bus rolled off, Driver Smith sang out, “We are now approachin’ Jefferson Park, to yer right. Temperature is now thirty degrees, more’r less, humidity nine’y-two. Ya wanna get off, mister? Sure. Call again!”
This went on continuously, without a lull. Between welcomes to passengers, Driver Smith sang. The bus-load of people were a little startled, some of them were convulsed, but everybody enjoyed the ride.
“G’bye, nurse! Sorry t’ see ya go. I thank ya for yer patronage!”
Cherry would have enjoyed all this a great deal more had not people begun to stop her on the street and ask questions. “Nurse, my neighbor saw you going into the Gregory house. Did she really let you in?” “Mr. Jonas told us Miss Gregory is sick and we should stay away from there, not bother her. But tell us, nurse, confidentially, what did you find out?” “I hear you’ve actually seen the poor soul. O’Brien won’t tell a thing. What’s she like?” Cherry wished she could say, “Mary Gregory is returning to the world.” But that was still only a wish.
Most concerned of all were the children of the neighborhood. Cherry had told them the real story behind the scary legend they had built up in this past year or two. “Then she’s really nice? After all?” “Poor thing, all alone.” “Is she going to get well?” And the children gave Cherry notes and homemade Christmas presents and a spray of red berries to deliver to Miss Gregory. Despite Officer O’Brien’s vigilance, people were beginning to stand beside the fence of the Victorian mansion and stare into its masked windows.
Cherry was afraid that this might cost Mary Gregory whatever small courage she was mustering. Cherry particularly dreaded the possibility of real crowds gathering, of reporters and photographers, if some newspaper got wind of the story.
Cherry discussed her fears with Wade that evening at dinner. The two of them dined together so often that the Spencer Club jokingly warned Cherry that they no longer considered her an active member. And with ponderous tact, the girls avoided the Jumble Shop, Wade’s favorite Village restaurant.
Wade and Cherry were squeezed in side by side on a banquette in the restaurant. Wade was “borrowing” bites of Cherry’s dessert, having finished his own.
“Wade—I mean Cap’n—you’ve flown planes around the world. Do you think you could meet Louise Carewe’s daughter at Grand Central Station and find the way out to the Gregory house, arriving in a nice, inconspicuous taxi?”
“I think so.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Cherry sat brooding. Tomorrow!
“You know what?” Wade remarked. “You’re the prettiest girl in the room.”
“You only think so. You’re prejudiced.”
“I certainly am, in your favor. Come on, let’s go some place and dance.”
They danced all evening, but Cherry’s heart was not in it. For once, Wade, too, was ready to go home early. When he left her at No. 9, he said comfortingly, “Don’t worry. Maybe tomorrow evening at this time we can celebrate about your Miss Gregory.”
“Maybe,” she murmured. “Maybe.”
Next day Cherry took out the door key Miss Gregory had trustfully given her, and let herself in. She left the door unlatched for young Louise. The doorbell had been disconnected, so Cherry called, “Hello!” and started upstairs. She left certain bundles on the stair landing where the portraits were.
“Hello, Miss Gregory!” she called, climbing the rest of the stairs. “It’s the nurse! How are you this fine day?”
Mary Gregory actually answered her. “Very well, thank you! Come in!”
Miss Gregory stood in the doorway of the upstairs sitting room. She was dressed in a modern frock but something about the cloudy lace scarf on her shoulders, and the timeless, madonna coiffure of her dark, silvered hair, gave her a remote look. Cherry glanced anxiously at her wrist watch, then said:
“This is a routine call. I hope you feel well enough to have visitors?”
“Oh, yes, I am fully recovered now. And I—I am glad to have a visitor, Miss Ames,” she said with an effort. With innate courtesy, Mary Gregory was trying to put Cherry at ease—which Cherry intended her to do.
“Then maybe you wouldn’t mind having other visitors soon?” Cherry hinted. Mary Gregory’s lips parted to protest. But Cherry, having planted the idea of visitors, gave her no chance to protest. She immediately went on talking casually of the children who had been asking for Miss Gregory, of their excitement at Christmas coming, of anything. More, Cherry got Mary Gregory to talking. “By the way, Miss Gregory, I want to return your door key. Here you are.”
A low, sharp whistle sounded from downstairs. It was Wade. Miss Gregory turned, startled.
“That’s for me,” Cherry said, reassuring but not explaining. “Will you excuse me for a few moments?”
Now came the test! Cherry raced downstairs and met Wade and Louise Carewe in the kitchen. The young girl, in her hat and coat, carrying flowers, looked anxious and excited. Wade was distinctly uncomfortable. They conversed in whispers.
“Right on time! Wade, you stay down here. Miss Carewe, come with me.” On the stair landing, Cherry piled young Louise Carewe’s arms with bundles, again whispering. She called cheerfully, “Miss Gregory! Here are Christmas gifts for you!”
She urged the girl forward. Louise’s eyes were apprehensive but she was smiling. Cherry followed a few paces behind.
“Gifts for me? From whom?” came Mary Gregory’s astonished voice. Then Cherry heard her gasp: “Louise!”
“Gifts from”—the girl’s voice broke and went on—“the neighborhood children. A few flowers. Oh, Aunt Mary!”
“Louise!” Mary Gregory was standing there, too shocked to move. Cherry, at young Louise Carewe’s elbow, kept gently urging her forward. “Louise! It is the daughter, young Louise, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Oh, Aunt Mary, Aunt Mary. I am so happy finally to see you! Mother couldn’t come because she has fractured her leg—she is so sorry she cannot come, she longs to see you. But if you will accept me in her place temporarily—She and Brother send you all their love.”
“I—I don’t know what to say—I—” Mary Gregory burst into tears and hid her face in her hands. The young girl, too, had tears on her cheeks, but she smiled.
“No need to say anything.” Cherry stepped in. “Here, let’s go into the sitting room.” She engineered the two tense women into the pleasant room.
“Why, Miss Gregory, aren’t you going to open the children’s gifts?” Cherry went on to fill the gap. “Come now, the youngsters are so eager to know if you like them.”
Miss Gregory with shaking fingers began to untie the homemade presents. The young girl helped her. Having something to do together bridged the first embarrassment, and gave them something to talk about. After admiring the little gifts, Mary Gregory was able to look full at young Louise and managed to say:
“You look just as your mother did, when I last saw her. How is she?” Without waiting for an answer, she murmured, “So you are the little girl in the photographs, grown up now.” Miss-Gregory smiled at the girl beside her.
“Aunt Mary, your letters have been wonderful. You’ve been so good to me and Mother and John. There is no way for us to thank you for your years and years of kindness.”
Mary Gregory shrank back. Cherry quickly broke into the dangerous pause. “With Christmas and New Year’s coming, this is really a good time for a family reunion, isn’t it?”
Louise caught the cue. “Come and spend the holidays with us, Aunt Mary. Mother can’t leave the house and she does so want to see you. Please, Aunt Mary?”
Mary Gregory hesitated, her whole figure taut.
“Of course she will,” said Cherry, smiling encouragement at her.
“Of course I will,” Mary Gregory echoed breathlessly. She sat up straighter and asked: “What ever became of Edward and Julia Weeks? Do you know, child?”
“They are living in New York. They write to Mother regularly and often mention you. They would love to see you.”
“And—and do you ever go to the theater, Louise? I have missed the theater.”
“You and Mother and I shall see whatever plays you like.”
Cherry advised softly, “Set a date. Right now.” The girl nodded. The older woman talked on, eagerly, of old times, old friends, while young Louise nodded that she understood. Cherry rose and tiptoed out of the room. She was at the door when Miss Gregory broke off to say:
“Miss Ames. Will you thank the children for me for their gifts?”
“Wouldn’t you rather thank them yourself? They want to see you, they won’t be satisfied with my word.”
“Then”—Mary Gregory lifted her head and swallowed—“ask the children to a tea party, here. Sometime.”
Cherry had to restrain a shout of joy. Mary Gregory was opening her doors at last! “Say this Saturday afternoon at three?” Cherry pinned her down.
“And I’ll come down to help and keep order,” Louise quickly put in.
“A tea party Saturday afternoon at three,” Mary Gregory confirmed wonderingly. All at once she had become radiant. “Louise, bring your brother John—I want to see him. Give your mother my love and we will meet at Christmas, in—in Thornwood. And here is my door key, Louise, for you to—keep.”
Cherry ran joyously downstairs. She found Wade striding stiffly around the hall.
“Wade! It worked! It worked!”
“Praise be! I sure have been sweating it out!”
From the kitchen Officer O’Brien and Mr. Jonas peered in excitedly. “It’s all right? She’s going to be all right?”
“Mary Gregory is going to lead a normal life from now on!” Cherry told them fervently. They mopped their brows in unison.
Cherry glowed. Her work and idealism as a nurse had truly served another human being. Her nurse’s training had led her to this lonely soul, and had equipped her to save her.
She stood for a moment in the hall, gazing in at the three, silent, Victorian rooms. Then she turned to look at the grandfather’s clock with its hands stopped at quarter to three.
“Wade, what time is it?”
“Twenty minutes past five.”
Cherry stepped over to the tall clock and very deliberately opened its glass door. She urged the hands around to five-twenty, then gently started the pendulum swinging. Its cheerful ticking filled the hallway.
“Now my work here is done.”