The Girl Who Changed Her Mind

The Girl who Changed her Mind By Henry Nicol Adamson It was at six o'clock each morning that old Penelope ap- peared in the great, dreary waiting-room of an English railway depot. And what can look more dreary than a depot waiting- room in the early hours, before even the fire has been lighted to give it a semblance of cheerfulness? But Penelope did not think it dreary in the least. For one thing, she had no time. The grate had to be cleaned out and the fire laid. Then the floor was large, and took some time to go over. And by the time it was all done, and the firelight glittering on the wet linoleum, to the old woman's eyes it seemed quite a cheerful spot. And it was her sitting-room for all day, too. For nine long years she had washed that floor in the early hours, till she knew the exact spots where the pattern had worn off the linoleum, but it was just a year since Nellie Calder, who used to look after the waiting-room during the day, died; and Penelope had been asked to fill her place for a day or two. She was filling it yet, and probably would fill it till death claimed her, too. It was hard work, for she had to hurry home after her clean- ing to her English attic room, to get into her rusty black that she might not disgrace her proud position. Then for the rest of the day the world was bounded for her by the smoke-black- ened wall of the great depot. But then, what a world it was! Penelope's old head was full of stories she had seen or heard, or imagined, about the people who passed through. And since the war began the great depot had become quite thrilling. What partings Penelope had seen, and what meetings, too! "What a frightfully dull life you must have here, you poor old creature!" a lady remarked one day, looking at the wrinkled old woman out of a soft nest of black fur. She wore a black fur hat, and a black fur stole, and a black fur jacket; and on her knee was a huge granny muff; and Penelope admired her immensely. "Would you mind poking the fire for me and putting on more coal? I should die if I had to remain in this dreadful place." Penelope gazed at her in genuine amazement. She always was amazed when people pitied her. "It may seem dreadful to you, ma'am, but not to me," she

THE GIRL WHO CHANGED HER MIND 717 said mildly. "It's nice to have a fire to sit by, and people are getting to know me, and it's 'Good morning, Penelope!' and 'How are you today?' So it's never lonesome. And there's wed- dings, and there's funerals to be seen going through here. And the brave lads in khaki going away so proud! Yes, it's like one big story book. Not that I've read much out of books, ma'am. There wasn't much learning in my young days in England. But there's many a story outside of books." The lady stared at this queer old creature who actually seemed quite contented with her lot. A little, elderly gentleman appeared just then with the in- telligence that time was up. "I do hope your poor feet are warmer now, my love?" he said solicitously. "I have spoken very severely to the guard about the poor heating of the train." "Thanks!" the lady said languidly, rising. And without another look or thought for the old woman, followed the gentle- man to the platform. "Might be her grandfather for age, but much too fussy," old Penelope decided shrewdly. "Rich old husband," and she went to the door of her waiting-room to watch the couple to their carriage. She saw the girl establish herself, while her husband wrapped a rug about her knees. Then she saw the old gentle- man run to the bookstall at the last minute for some special paper for which his wife had asked — at the imminent risk of losing his life or the train — for the latter was moving when the angry guard pushed him in and closed the door. And Penelope went back to her place by the fire and the khaki stockings she was knitting, shaking her head over the ways of the rich. "There's them that never thinks they have enough, and she's one of them," she decided. "And the more he gives her, the more she'll want." And Penelope had, without knowing it, struck at the root of a lot of the unhappiness of the world. It was about half an hour later that same afternoon that Penelope sat in the gathering twilight, her stocking in her lap, a rather thin and ugly cat purring contentedly on top of it. Penelope was nodding. She nodded at this special time every afternoon, because there was a slackening of trains just then, and in the covered-in depot it grew very dark before the lights were put on — too dark to knit. So this was the cat's half hour, and puss knew it as well as she did. She was nodding, and dreaming that she was gathering flowers on the hillside by the cottage where she had been a child, and that she heard the rush of the hill water-fall — it was just a train letting off steam in reality— when the door opened and a girl entered, and drawing a chair toward the fire roused Penelope to real life again. "Oh, my dear! I'm afraid I was asleep!" she said apolo-

718 IMPROVEMENT ERA getically. I was having a fine dream — that I was a child again in the country. Not that I'd like to have life all to go over again; for I've buried my father and my mother, my husband and my children. But I've little to complain of — for there were no quar- rels among us to speak of, and I've been provided for most won- derful. There's ups and downs in life, but take it all in all, it's good." "Do you mean to tell me," the girl said in a sharp, fretful voice, "that you think life worth living? I don't see how you can!" and she cast a disparaging glance round the waiting-room. "Aren't we allowed any lights in here?" she added impa- tiently. "I can't even read!" Penelope stirred the fire slightly, so that a flickering flame showed her the girl's face — pretty, but for the frown on the brow, and the discontent of eyes and lips. "We're not lit up for half an hour yet, and not much even then for fear of the Zeppelins!" she said apologetically. And then she went on talking, partly to pass the time, and partly because she liked to talk. "You see, it's this way, miss," she said, stroking the cat. "Looking back, I sometimes wonder how I got through. But at the time it wasn't so bad, for there was always something to do for those who were ill, and when they were gone — there were things to do for those that were left alive. And if you do the thing you've got to do at the time, it usually comes out right. However, that's what I've found, miss. Same as the war. We'd just got to go in, and ain't it turning out all right? "I remember once, when I was a young thing, being sorely tempted to leave my old mother, who was bedridden, and go to the large cities. Other girls done so, and saw a bit of the world. Why shouldn't I? And I got cross and restless, and made up my mind to go. I was to go on the Tuesday. But on the Sunday previous the old minister preached about doing the duty that lay to your hand — about people who turned their backs upon the duties they had, and went out to look for others; and so lost their blessing — the blessing of peace. He said these people just got more and more discontented. They never found what they wanted, because they started wrong. "I didn't go away. It seemed to me, miss, that God had sent me a message, as he used to do to people in the Bible. So I stayed at home and looked after my old mother to the end. And then I married, and attended to the wants of my husband and children. And I never forgot that sermon, and never will — for it's helped me all through life. I've always just done the duty that came, and you'd wonder how simple it's made things. "And now I'm all by myself. But I've got my work to do; and when I dose by the fire I'm young again at times. And

THE GIRL WHO CHANGED HER MIND 719 sometimes my children are with me. I'm not crying, miss, don't think it!" Penelope added, passing the back of her hand over her eyes. "But you've set me talking. I've nothing to cry about, for I've plenty of work, and people are very kind to me. Then there are the cats that all know and like Penelope. And the soldiers have all a kind word in the passing, bless them." The cat purred loudly, and the old woman smiled with pride. "Hark to it!" she said. "I do believe it knows what I'm saying. Yes, I've a lot to be thankful for — a peaceful and contented mind." The girl had sat listening — and as she listened, a change came over her face — the frown and discontent which had utterly married it melted away — it was as if a cloud had passed from the sky, leaving the beautiful blue. "If that's your train, miss, you've hardly time to get it, for it just stops for a minute!" Penelope remarked as a train came up with a rush and a roar. The girl rose to her feet, and stood hesitating for a moment. "Thanks," she said, then in a low voice, "I don't think I shall go by it after all. Good night!" Penelope looked after her with a puzzled expression. She had noticed the changed countenance, but she could not account for it. It was a year later, and a very frosty morning, and Penelope was at her place the same as ever. It was still the same hat and the same dress, but they never seemed to grow any older, any more than Penelope herself did. Perhaps they had reached a stage when it was impossible to grow older. Cold as it was, Penelope, looked wonderfully cheerful. There is something exhilarating about very frosty weathy, she found. It seemed to sting people to fresh life — people, who, as a rule would have stood listlessly about, stamped and blew, and flapped their arms. And the school children always brought a positive rush of life and cold into the waiting-room with them, and she had hard work to prevent them from ruining their shoes for ever by plac- ing them on the bars of the grate, not to speak of poking the fire with their toes. "The which is sure ruination, my dears!" as she remarked to them. They laughed at her gaily. What was the ruination of shoes to them? They were rather fond of getting new ones. Penelope herself found the intense cold rather trying, for she had no extra wraps; but she liked to see other people enjoying the best, and if her back was kept cold by the draughts from the opening and shutting doors, she could always keep her feet warm which was more than a lot of poor creatures could do.

720 IMPROVEMENT ERA More than the soldiers could do, poor fellows, in their wet trenches. She had just sent the riotous children off to the train that was to bear them to school, and had retired gladly to her fire again, when the door opened and someone came quickly across the floor. It was a girl dressed in black — a girl with fair hair framing a fair face — a face at once peaceful and happy. Penelope re- garded her with pleasure and admiration. There were all dif- ferent kinds of faces, and different kinds of prettiness she had discovered since she became the guardian of the waiting-room. There was beauty of complexion and feature, that after all turned out not to be beauty at all, because there was no happi- ness nor sweetness to light it. But this girl had what old Pene- lope felt to be real beauty. "Good morning, ma'am. Fine seasonable weather!" she said cheerfully. Sudden tears dimmed the blue eyes of the girl, who had been regarding her steadily. "Oh, you're just perished with cold, I can see that!" she said impulsively. "You should have warm mitts and a warm shawl, and you shall, too. But you'd never dream of complain- ing, I know that. I ought to know — for it taught me a lesson — the lesson I have come back this morning to thank you for. Don't you recognize me?" She stood before the fireplace and looked down at the old woman. Penelope peered up at her — then shook her head. "I seem somehow to know your face," she said apologetic- ally. "And yet I don't; and I'm not one, remember, that forgets — though I do see a lot." "Do you remember," the other said — "a year ago now — one afternoon telling a girl your story — the story of how you grew discontented, and were going to leave your old mother, but for a sermon that stopped you, and gave you something to cling to through life — a rule to go by? Do you remember now?" "Yes, I do remember," Penelope said after a moment's thought. "I remember the girl seemed discontented and un- happy, and I'd have liked to help her if I could, but there's nothing the like of me can do." "Well, you just did everything," the girl said in a low voice. "Listen, and I will tell you what you did. I am that gjrl — what you made of her." And she smiled, though tears still glistened in her eyes. "That afternoon," she went on, seating herself before the fire, and looking into it as if seeing in its red heart the picture she drew. "I had turned my back upon my home — upon duties that I found irksome — and that I thought quite

THE GIRL WHO CHANGED HER MIND 721 unworthy of the talents I imagined myself to have. I had a fragile old mother who needed a good deal of attention; an old father, often fretful, trying, and exacting. It was ridiculous that I should stay at home there wasting my talent for nursing upon them, when I might go and be a real nurse. I told myself it was my duty to go and nurse the soldiers. There was a cry for nurses, and it would be so interesting — not dull, like the nursing I had to do! I wanted to help my country, to do some- thing for our brave boys! "That was what I said to myself. What I really wanted was work with a little more excitement, a little more show about it. I didn't want the duties to my hand. I wanted to go out and look for duties for myself. My father and mother had a small income. They had a roof over their heads, and a little maid to do the work for them. What more could they want? What right had they to expect me to remain at home attending to them — putting up with all their little ways? It was ridicu- lous! I was not needed, and I was not appreciated there. I would go where I would be! The soldiers seemed always so cheerful! It would be a pleasure to work for them!" "Yes, yes!" old Penelope put in, "I know the feeling." "I had a friend in a hospital, and she told me of a vacancy as probationer. I was on my way to see about it that afternoon a year ago," the girl went on. "If I'd gone I would have been accepted, for the matron was a friend of my friend, and was keeping the position open for me. Besides, of course, they re- quire a lot of nurses just now. But — but I didn't go. You spoke of that old minister's sermon seeming like God's message to you. Your words were God's message to me. I had the sense — foolish as I was — to recognize that — to listen, and to go back to the duty that had been given to me. And — Penelope, I went back to it in a different spirit. I looked on everything with different eyes. For the first time I saw how really helpless and dependent my old mother was — for the first time the sight smote my heart, and I remembered her — strong and vigorous — always attending to our wants — and never thinking of herself. And then my old father. I began to understand that he was fretful because he could no longer help. "That night, with my arms about my mother, I confessed all the selfish wickedness that had been in my heart; and then I started afresh. I started with love and understanding to help me. You had removed the scales from my eyes, and I saw aright now. I found that I was needed every minute of the day. Both my mother and father grew feebler, and they looked to me for everything; and it was a joy to me to serve them — to feel that I was indeed needed. Others less tied could nurse the soldiers — no one could have taken my place. My Red Cross was here.