The Worthwhile Waiting

I.

I always believed that after I had found the Knight of my heart that I would have to wait for him a destined length of time. It did not, in a way seem imperative, this waiting, still it was generally my lot in life to have to wait for anything that my heart desired. When a child, I usually had to wait for toys or anything to satisfy the whims of my childish mind. For my father was a poor man when speaking of worldly goods, but I do not believe there was ever a father more willing to help and provide for his family than was mine, but he just never seemed to get ahead. Thus, I grew up accustomed to poverty’s often used word, wait.

And now my fears are realized, I have to wait, I am waiting for Jim Lawson. Jim came of a good family; his home is about a two hours drive from the little village of Sage Valley, which is my home. The first time I saw Jim was at the Sage Valley Methodist church. I was young then, too young, in fact to know what love is; but I knew at once that I was going to like this tall, dark-eyed young man whom everyone was admiring, and for whom all the girls seemed to exercise such care in their dress and speech just to find favor in his eyes. But it seemed useless for me to think or even dare to dream of his noticing me, for Madame Rumor had already announced that he was keeping company with Jeanette Taylor, daughter of Judge Taylor, owner of most of the property in Sage Valley and wealthiest man in the country. The mothers all sighed and looked discouraged and declared that sooner or later it would be a match.

I had been visiting my cousin, who lives in the country, and consequently had missed the exciting episode of the arrival of the Lawsons from New York. Most any small town is excited over the arrival of newcomers and Sage Valley is no exception.

The town itself is situated at the foot of a high hill overlooking the Tennessee River. It is composed of a flour mill, blacksmith shop, and a general store, one corner of the latter is occupied by the Post Office. A half-score of houses, built years ago, complete the town. The church and schoolhouse are generally considered a part of the town, contrary to the fact that they are situated half-mile down the road.

“Jeanette will be getting jealous of you if you send anymore admiring glances at her companion,” sarcastically remarked Mary Edmunds, daughter of the postmaster and the general mischief-maker of the town.

“I hardly think so or at least, not until she has cause to,” I replied.

Grace Ramsey, my chum and dearest friend smiled, then asked in that slow, cool way she has of speaking, “Have you met him, Edna?”

“No,” I replied, “I was at Cousin Helen’s when he came.”

“Oh, you’ll have to be introduced,” broke in Mary in her most cutting tone. It was plain that Mary was trying to start a quarrel this morning, and I wondered why.

After services, when Grace and I were standing neath the grand old cedar tree that droops its branches over the gate that leads to the graveyard, I asked her what made Mary so quarrelsome this morning.

“I think,” said Grace, “that she is the jealous party present. You see she is like the rest of us, charmed with Mr. Lawson, and she selfishly wishes he would pay attention to her only.”

I had not time to answer for just then Mary’s clear voice reached us. “Oh, Mr. Lawson,” she called. “Edna Mercer wants to meet you.”

I flushed crimson at these impertinent words. Had Mary suddenly gone made, lost her mind and manners? Surely she was trying, yes, succeeding to reduce me to the lowest degree of mortification.

Grace soothed understandingly, “Never mind, Edna, she will bear the result of such impertinence, not you.”

“Mary, how could you?” I could hardly refrain from saying, but Mr. Lawson and Jeanette were nearing us.

“We were planning a walk to the River this afternoon,” said Jeanette when the introductions were over, then, with never a glance at me, she asked, “Would you dare to go, Grace? There will only be Mary, Bob Brewer, Oscar and Will Stratton, Mr. Lawson and myself.”

“I should like very much to go,” Grace replied, “but -”

“Very well, be at my house at one-thirty. We start then,” overlooking the unfinished sentence on Grace’s lips.

“Perhaps your afternoon is unoccupied and you will join us,” drawled Jim Lawson.

“Yes, do!” exclaimed Grace so earnestly that I promised.

I never enjoyed a more wonderful afternoon; it seemed the sunshine was brighter, the birds sang more sweetly than ever before. Although Mr. Lawson was Jeanette’s escort, he did not seem to care to devote his time and conversation to one, but preferred to make friends with all. We had a most wonderful talk, during the course of which I learned that there was a disappointment in his life that seemed to affect his happiness greatly; the details I did not inquire and he did not seem inclined to tell. Before we parted he asked if he might have the pleasure of seeing me again son, and with a fluttering heart, I assented.

I saw nothing more of him the following week, but the next Sunday he called and asked if he might walk with me to church.

“Isn’t Miss Taylor going to church?” I asked quietly.

He frowned. “She is angry with me for asking you to go with us to the river,” he said. “I do not care to argue with her for I see no reason why she should care to slight you.”

Jeanette did not seem to notice us. She was too engrossed with the attractive talk of Bob Brewer, a young lawyer who was spending his vacation with his aunt, Mrs. Edmunds.

After that, Mr. Lawson came to see me every week. At first, I did not especially care if he came or not; but before the summer was over, I began to look forward to the hours we spent together with a great anticipation. One afternoon, late in October, he asked me to drive with him to the country and take supper with his parents. This I was glad to do for I had seen Mrs. Lawson but a few times, she being an invalid and did not attend church very often. But the few times I had seen her I was very much impressed with her charming and motherly ways, and I was anxious to become more acquainted with her.

I shall never forget that wonderful evening. Mrs. Lawson welcomed me warmly and with the same motherly interest that she displayed to her family. We had a nice little chat together in her room after supper while the men smoked and Aunt Jane – an old colored lady and a long resident with the family, washed the dishes. Presently, Jim asked if I wished to start home and as my father was not home and the younger children were alone we started at once.

“Edna,” he said to me when we had started, “I have something to say to you and I hope you will listen favorably to me. Do you remember that Sunday we went to the river?”

I nodded.

“Perhaps you noticed that I was inclined to talk of the one great disappointment of my life, the deceitfulness of a friend. When I was a boy in New York, my chum and comrade was Calmann Duprez, a French boy. His parents came to America from France when he was a baby. He seemed to have a prejudice against the American people and unlike the true native of his country, he was inclined to be rather ‘two-faced’ or deceitful. We used to work together and save our money. We always put our savings in a small iron box which had a padlock on it. We decided to put our savings in the box, lock it and not count the money until we were both twenty-one, then the box was to be opened, the money counted, and equally divided. I kept the key and he kept the box.

“When I was sixteen, my grandfather died and left me his entire fortune, which wasn’t so small, as he had been the owner of silver mines in the west. Calmann, likewise, received large sums of money from his relatives in France, every cent of which went into the box. It was agreed that if we should be separated before the box was opened, we were to keep in touch with each other by letter.

“Two weeks before I was twenty-one, he suddenly disappeared, leaving no trace of where he went nor of the iron box, but everyone supposed he took it with him. To this day, no trace of either has been found. I have saved enough money to go to hunt for him and I think I will start at once,” He stopped suddenly and his whole attitude changed.

“Edna,” he said, and his voice frightened, yet thrilled me. “Edna, we have been friends so long that I do not hesitate to tell you that I value you as my best friend, not only that but I love you. I love you with all of my heart and I want to work for you and make you happy.”

He said this so earnestly that I was startled at first, then all at once my whole heart and soul answered his love. I knew it all then, it was not friendship that I felt for him; it was love. Love that is the greatest and richest gift God ever bestowed upon woman; the love that will endure anything, just to serve and make happy the beloved. I knew it all then; I loved Jim Lawson with just such love.

During the moments these thoughts were passing through my mind, Jim was still pleading his cause. He stopped and looked at my face in the moonlight, something he saw there must have given him assurance. “Edna,” he repeated. “I love you. I am willing to give you my love, my life, my all. What will you give me in return? Do you love me?”

I nodded. I was so filled with holy joy, I could not trust myself to words.

“Will you be my wife?” he asked. This was the greatest question I would ever be asked. I was sure I loved him so I answered, “Yes.”

“Then, say you will,” he cried. “Say you love me and will be my wife.”

“I love you and I will be your wife,” I repeated, too overjoyed to say more.

We rode on for some distance, each satisfied with the other’s silence. As for me, all the stars seemed to be singing out to me in my happiness. I was content to live for the present in his arms with his lips pressed against my brow.

“When are you going to leave, Jim?” I asked later.

“Well,” he said, “I had hoped to recover my loss and buy a home, before I met the girl who was to be my wife, but it must have been Fate that sent you to me before I made good my vows, for I vowed long ago I would find the lost box. And,” he continued, with a grim look of determination on his face, “I will find it. But Darling, I must ask you to wait; my earnings are not sufficient to support us.”

“Jim,” I said earnestly, “I will wait for you. No matter what happens, I am yours till death.”

“Bless you for those words,” he said, embracing me once more before entering my home.

II.

The little Red Cross nurse looked wearily down the rows of narrow cots that held their share of the horrors of the war. Only two were vacant. One at the extreme end of the row, the other, the third cot to the left.

“There is only room for two,” she said to the men who were carrying in the wounded from the ambulance. “Perhaps room can be found for the rest in one of the other rooms.”

She spoke with tenderness to the poor, unfortunate man placed on the cot at the end of the row.

“He has not long to live,” she thought. “Little can be done for him, but perhaps I can cheer his soul for him as he passes over the Dark Divide that separates us from the heroes already gone.” The man she was thinking of was a tall, slender youth of not more than twenty. The stamp of Death was already on his brow and his blue eyes were already dim. She rested her cool hand on his hot cheek and brushed the flaxen hair back from his temple. He opened his eyes once more. There was something in his eyes that startled her. She was accustomed every day to watching scores of souls depart for the Great Beyond. Those were eyes that any girl would thrill to look into; perhaps, even now, some girl’s heart was aching for his return, but he was dying. Suddenly, he spoke, what was it he was trying to say?

“Tell Marguerite, I am going home to mother,” he said. Then his pale lips parted in a wistful smile, his eyes closed – he was dead.

“Poor, brave lad,” the nurse was saying. “If Marguerite knew he was dead….” But she did not know who Marguerite was. But she must go to her work. This was nothing new to her, she viewed scores of deaths every day, she could not mourn over the dead, she must administer to the living.

A half-hour later, she was trying to quiet the man that was placed on the third cot to the left. He was a rather short, heavily built man of twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age. His faced showed signs of care, his jet-black hair was brushed back from his forehead and his eyes were very dark. A glance told that he was French. He, too, seemed to have something on his mind, for he constantly called for someone, perhaps a comrade the nurse didn’t know; but what little she could gather from his incoherent words and broken sentences, he had wronged a comrade and wished to have his pardon before he died. He laid his hand to his breast, the nurse perceiving a letter addressed to someone in America. He started to say something, to explain, when his eyes closed and he seemed to forget the letter and called again and again for “Jim, Jim.”

“There seems to be some story the man wishes to tell,” the little nurse was saying to the doctor in the hall a few minutes later. “Suppose you pose as ‘Jim’ and perhaps we can help him straighten out his troubles. He is too delirious to know you are not the man he wants.”

“Very well,” said the big, kindhearted doctor. “I can spare a few minutes to ease the poor chap’s mind.”

A moment later the nurse was standing over the cot again. The man opened his eyes. “Is Jim coming?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered the nurse. “Here he is now,” as the doctor appeared. “What did you want to tell him?”

The man closed his eyes as though afraid of dying before he had finished talking and he would add to his fast fleeting strength.

“Jim,” he said, “Say you forgive me, say it before I die and leave my story untold.”

“My dear boy, I forgive you,” answered the doctor, a strange choking in his throat.

“Jim,” the man continued, “I have been a mean and wicked man. All my life has been filled with deceit; but I have never done so cowardly a deed as when I took your money. I don’t know what I meant to do with the box, I had no key to open it, but I have suffered untold agony.” He stopped. He was getting too weak to go much further. The nurse was ready with a restorative. He went on. “There are directions left in this letter that will enable you to find the box. The box is unopened. The money is all for you, but, O God, Jim, take care of my mother.” Then he was seized with a violent fit of coughing and lay back on his pillow – dead.

The nurse laid the dead man’s hands on his breast, then she turned to the doctor.

“Shall we open the letter,” she asked, “Or just send it the way it is?”

The doctor took the letter; it was streaked with mud; it had evidently been written in the trenches, days before; or, perhaps the man had written it and placed it in his pocket, thinking that if he were killed, someone would be kind enough to forward it to the address.

“Perhaps we had better not dig any deeper into the dead man’s story,” he said. “Let’s send it the way it is. It is addressed to New York, isn’t it?” The next day, the letter was sent by Lieut. F-----, who was going to Paris for supplies.

It was addressed to New York and it was, accordingly sent there, but the postman was informed that the person to whom it was addressed had left the city and was now residing in Sage Valley, Tennessee, accordingly the letter was forwarded.

III.

“Oh, Jim,” I sobbed. “You can’t really mean it, you don’t mean it, do you? There are lots of others who can go, but they don’t need you.”

Jim stared at me in ghastly silence; perhaps he was not prepared for such an outburst on my part.

“Well, Edna,” he said, “You ought to know that I would never have said that I was going if I hadn’t meant it. Surely when my country needs me, you should be willing to let me go.”

He spoke so decisively that I was ashamed of my weakness.

“When are you going to enlist,” I asked.

“Tomorrow” was the answer.

Although Jim had shown me where I was wrong, I could hardly bear the idea of him going overseas to fight; perhaps never to return. But it was useless for me to try to argue the point with him for Jim is one of the kind of men who believe in duty first.

Several weeks had passed since Jim enlisted. One afternoon when I went to the post office, as usual I received a letter from Jim, but when I would have hurried out of the room with the precious missive, Mr. Edmunds called to me to wait a minute.

“A letter has just come from Paris for Jim Lawson,” he said. “I thought perhaps you might give me his address, that I may forward it to him.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he said this. I gave him the desired information and went out.

It was one of those beautiful days in May when the sunshine was bright and the birds sang gaily from boughs that were only a short time since brown and bare. A letter from Paris for Jim. Who could it be? I knew of no one who could have written him from that far-off city. In spite of myself, I was inquisitive. A day or two later I received another letter from Jim. I opened it with trembling fingers, for I feared he was to sail immediately, but there was no such news in this hurriedly written missive:

“Coming home on a furlough. Will arrive Friday. Love and lots of kisses. Jim”

That was all. Although he did not say, I was sure he was to set sail soon.

I was at the station to meet him. Almost my first words were, “When are you going to sail?”

“Oh, in about ten days,” he answered carelessly. Why was he so happy and only ten days?

“Edna, I have good news,” he said presently. He handed me a letter. It was postmarked all over the face. “Read that,” he said simply. I read:

Mr. James Lawson,

1463 Lincoln, New York, N.Y.

Dear Jim: I am writing this just a few minutes before I get the command to go over the top. I may not live to send this myself but perhaps if my body is found, someone will send it for me. I will bless the hand that does me that favor.

First of all, Jim, I want to ask your pardon for the way I have treated you. You have always treated me like a brother, but I have treated you like a dog. I took the money box you trusted me with, then I came to France and tried to forget, but I could not. Then I joined the army. But listen. The box is under the front steps at my home, R-------, no. 7, Paris, France. My poor mother is on the verge of starvation. Jim, please see that she has plenty to last her the rest of her life, and when she dies, see that she is buried; the rest of the money is yours. Once again, I ask your pardon, and may God grant you will never know what I have suffered for that cowardly act.

M. Calmann Duprez.

“Oh, Jim,” I exclaimed, “Think what that will mean to you; but how will you get the box?”

“Perhaps I can get time to get it while I am in France,” he said. “But let’s not talk of parting now, Sweetheart. Let’s have a real chat.”

I have just received a letter from Jim, today. He is in France. He has the long-lost box, and over Calmann Duprez’ grave, in a French cemetery is a stone with this inscription:

M. Calmann Duprez

Died in France

April 30, 1917

The boy that Jim has forgiven is dead; but his aged mother is being taken care of by Calmann Duprez’ share of the contents of the box.

Jim is doing his duty by serving his country, in France, and I am waiting for him, but the waiting is worth-while.

Written by Ida May Schaffer