Dorothy's Career

Dorothy's Career

By Annie D. Palmer

"I can't do it, Dan, not now. I've thought about it night and day since you were here two weeks ago. I've sized up every phase of the situation as it appears to me, and I have reached the conclusion at last that I would better stay with my school. One year more will put me through college, and then the institu- tion will help me by advancing money for a year in a good east- ern school where I can specialize — "And how long do you bind yourself to the institution in order to get this help in specializing?" "Only for five years after my return, Dan. And think of the salary they will pay me! Why, I can build a home in five years Dorothy laughed lightly as she spoke of building a home, but the man did not laugh. Ever since Dorothy Ames came into his circle of acquaintance nearly three years before, he had known that some day he would ask her to be his wife. Two weeks ago he had been suddenly called home by the serious ill- ness of his mother. On the evening of his departure, while he waited for his train he had gone to Dorothy with his sorrow. It had not been his intention to propose to her that night; but her sympathy had been so tender, her expressions of regard so un- mistakable, that it came as a perfectly natural impulse from the great warm heart that had been preparing for it from the first. Dorothy had deferred the answer until his return. She had known, too, that some day she must say yes or no to this man in answer to the most important question man ever asks of woman but she had not expected it just yet, and the answer was not ready. The strong, handsome Dan Lundy could have put the same question to any one of a score of other girls whom he met daily in hall or class-room, and have received on the instant the answer he hoped to get from Dorothy. But Dorothy was different. Yes, he knew she was different, and it was because he knew it that Dan wanted to marry Dorothy and not one of the score of others. "One year to finish college," the young man began in a tone of disappointment, "one year to specialize in sewing, five years of teaching to build a home. That's seven years. Well, Jacob

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waited seven years for Rachel and worked for Laban all the while besides. Dorothy, I can wait for you seven years, and in the meantime I can build a home. I had hoped that we could be — married soon this year when I had finished college; but when a man asks a woman to become his wife he usually leaves it to her to set the time, so — "But I am not setting a time, Dan. In fact when the time is as far off as seven years, I think there should exists no promise between us." — — — "Do you mean, Dorothy great heavens, woman you can't mean that you will never that you do not love me, after all?" "Love you?" Her round blue eyes opened wide in astonish- — ment at the question she and Dan had told their love so many times in the past months before she became infatuated with the thought of a career. "You know, Dan, that I love you better than any one else in the world!" He clasped her in his arms and tenderly kissed her fore- head. "My Dorothy," he said, "now you are my own little girl again. I thought you must be fooling me about the seven years. Say that you will marry me next fall and see me hustle through these two months of school in one, so that I can get out into the — world of work say that it will be next week and see me quit school here and now and go wild in the joy of beginning to take care of you." For a moment the girl closed her eyes upon the career, and — reveled in the blissful joy of her lover's embrace for a moment only. "Dan!" she exclaimed, struggling to free herself, "you mis- understand me! I do love you better than anyone else in the world, but I cannot marry you." Suddenly the man released her, earnestly, almost sternly he answered her: "The fact that you refuse to be my wife is proof that you do not love me. True, I am not rich but you are not mercenary. ;

True, my position in life is humble; but you are not proud. As to my morals, my honor, my manhood, they are above reproach. I say it not boastfully, Dorothy, but to show you that only your lack of love could be a hindrance to our union you do not love me." "Dan, you don't understand. I — "Yes, I do understand. School is more to you than love; booklore is more than happiness; a career is more than life, goodbye, then. I must seek elsewhere for the joy I hoped to find in your love. Since first I knew you, you have been the one — woman in the world to me I told my mother about you, about

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my hope in you, before she died, and she blessed you with al- most her dying breath." The strong man broke down in sobs and tears. The girl looked on pityingly but made no answer. The powerful plea of love had well nigh overcome her but she resisted it stubbornly and felt now that she had conquered. Presently the man arose and she handed him his hat. "Goodbye," he whispered hoarsely, and was gone. "That settles it," she said aloud when she heard the gate click after the sound of his departing footsteps. "Settles what?" asked her friend Mona Willis coming in through a rear door just in time to hear the emphatic remark. "Settles everything between me and Dan," answered Dorothy. He has just said goodbye." "Dorothy! You sent him away?" "Well, not exactly. He made me choose between him and. school, and — "You chose school? Dorothy how could you?" "Really, Mona, I don't know. I suppose, though, that I was — meant for an old maid it seems to be in me. Just half close your eyes now and take a look at my future. Five years from now, a prim, sober teacher wholly absorbed in showing young women how to make their own dresses, laces, and boudoir caps; five years more, a little primer, considerably more sober, and inclined to be cross; another five years, crankiness added to crossness,still teaching and begining to extend courtesy to the big, yellow cat still another five — — that's twenty isn't it shoved out of school to make room for some little miss more up-to-date, at outs with everybody except the cat. I see the picture, a little gray-haired woman, her thin, sad face rested on her shriveled hands, her lips slowly, sorrowfully saying, 'It has come to this!' Oh, well, the world needs a few old maids, else where would the poor cats find comfort? Be good to Dan, will you, Mona? I am so sorry to have hurt him." "Well, I'd certainly like an opportunity to be good to Dan. Maybe there will be a show for some one else, now that you have declared yourself a candidate for spinsterhood." The children came into the room now, and Dorothy's mother, so the subject was dropped. Dorothy was very sure her mother would not approve of her course. It were best, there- fore to talk it over with that dear confidante when they were alone. The next year was a very busy one for Dorothy Ames. She carried a heavy course in school, and did her own and the fam- ily's sewing besides, in order to save as much money as possible for the following year, which she was to spend in New York.

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On frequent occasions young men of the school sought to gain her favor, for Dorothy was very popular; but none of them got fur- ther than a warm friendship. Having refused to marry Dan Lundy no other suitor could even receive consideration. She was graduated with the highest honors, and teachers and class- mates felt a thrill of pride when her report was given. She had never been unprepared in a recitation, she had not gone below ninety in an examination, she had not missed a day, nor been late at a single class. No wonder the faculty would pick her out and send her to take advanced work as a preparation for years of future service. For years of service ? Yes, she "signed up" for five before she went to New York in the following August. — In New York it was mostly grind so little time, so much to learn, so short of money. At Christmas time she read in the home paper that Mona Willis and Dan Lundy were married. If she felt a pang of regret she could have it out with herself. There was no one to whom she could tell her troubles. A few days later there was a letter from Mona. "I am so perfectly happy," Mona wrote, "in the love of my noble husband. There never was a man more honorable, more trusted. You know how handsome he is, but you never can imagine his kindness and consideration. Of course, I know he never would have even looked at me had you not refused to marry him. Dorothy, dear, you don't know how perfectly de- lighted I am that you didn't want him. Maybe that is selfish in me but trust me I shall do all I can to make Dan satisfied. I hope you are enjoying your studies and I know you will suc- ceed; but I wouldn't give up Dan to be the head lady of the big- gest department of Domestic Art in America. Let girls have a career who delight in it, but home and love and family ties for me. "Maybe she is right," Dorothy said with a weary sigh. "At any rate her letter has made me homesick, and I am more lonely tonight than I ever dreamed I could be. It may be Mona is right! Home and love and family ties! Shall I ever know the real meaning of those words? I might have known but — "Dorothy!" It was the voice of another weary woman that called from across the hallway. "Let's spend a dime and treat ourselves to a picture show tonight." "All right, Madge. I'm so tired and lonesome that I'll go to two picture shows if you say so!" "Oh, no, dearie, one at a time and they'll last longer. Re- member we agreed on only two this month." We shall not follow Dorothy through the changeful years of her successful career. Her professional work was all that had been hoped for it. The department grew in popularity and

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efficiency. Girls came and studied and loved their work and went out into the world to scatter the fruits of her refining influence. And she was sought and honored among the councils of women. And Dorothy used to compare her life with the life of her nearest neighbor, Mrs. Snow. "I simply wouldn't stand such a life of drudgery, mother," she said one day when she and Mrs. Ames sat sewing on the cool porch. "I couldn't, that's all!" "Mrs. Snow seems very happy," answered her mother. "A woman who can be happy under those conditions cer- tainly deserves her happiness. Six little boys, and poverty show- ing his ugly visage in every nook and corner. Why, mother, she actually puts little Jim and Scott to bed while she washes and mends their overalls! And Belva could have married Harvey Maynes with money that he doesn't know what to do with." "Misfortune might have come to Harvey Maynes as it did come to Arthur Snow. Anyway Belva's family are much better off as it is." "Better off in abject poverty, mother? How better off?" "Has it never occurred to you, my dear, the worth of a noble fatherhood? Why, I'd rather have my children inherit keen intellect, worthy character, and sound physique, than to have them inherit a crown. Look at little Jim and Scott and all the rest of Belva's boys. Did you ever see children more perfectly formed? Did you ever see children with better shaped heads, with more honesty in their eyes, with more intelligence in their faces? To me those little fellows look clean and beautiful through and through." "They really do look clean, even when they are dirty," Dorothy admitted. She thought it all over again that night after she had gone to bed, and once again came up from her heart the weary sigh and into her mind the more than half accepted truth of long ago. "Perhaps Belva Snow is right," she murmured. "She has — — given to her boys the best heritage a noble fatherhood Mona's — boys also have I'd rather have my children inherit a keen in- tellect — no dirt on your face, is there, Jim? —you have — andtrueDorothy It's

been the one woman in the world to me " fell

asleep and dreamed of some of the happy school days when she and Dan Lundy were sweethearts. Ah, lonely maiden fast merg- ing into spinsterhood Is there so little in the present, so little !

in the future that your needs must go back into the years that are gone to find your pleasures? Happy, indeed, is it for you, if you do not also find pain and sorrow there!

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Dorothy's mother had been dead seven years. All her brothers and sisters had married and were busy with their own affairs. Even her father had found the old home too lonely after her mother's death and was married again. Dorothy had lived with her sisters, had boarded out with strangers, had kept house with students, and finally had built and furnished a cosy little home of her own where she could rest when school work was over and "do as she pleased." And now she really could do just as she pleased. She real- ized that and realized too that doing exactly as one pleases is not always the pleasantest thing in the world to do. Nobody ever said, "You are working too long this evening," or, "That is too heavy for you to lift," or, "you must lie in bed until you feel better." Nobody minded that the snow was piled deep from her door to the gateway, that the coal bucket was empty, that an old red cow had broken the fence down. She knew that so long as she did her work well her check would be given her at the end of the month; but she also knew that there must come a time whaa she would be too weary to work, when her public activity must cease. She knew that she was respected among the girls; but she also knew that pity was taking the place of love; that many of the girls wondered why so capable a woman should be living her life alone. And when she would come home in the afternoon and spread a snowy napkin on one corner of the kitchen table and place thereon a shining knife and fork, a plate, and a dainty cup and saucer, she used to be positively ner- vous lest some friendly neighbor happening in, should express sympathy because she sat at her meal in solitude. It seemed to be everywhere now, that feeling of being alone — in the biggest crowds the most obviously alone; and with it came the idea of being really nobody after all, because con- nected with nobody. Very, very often now came the weary sigh. Yet to herself the woman admitted it. "Yes, Mona was right, and Belva was right. I have had my career. It is well nigh ended, and I am alone. They have their husbands, their children, and love. Ah, they are rich while I, alas, am poor indeed!" And Dorothy spoke truly, even though she did not know that Mona now looked down from heaven on the sorrowing hus- band and the seven children she had left motherless.

"One of our students is critically ill at the hospital," the president announced one morning in chapel. "She is one of the most faithful students we have in school, Charlotte Lundy. We will remember her this morning in our prayers."

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The president led in prayer and every heart was raised in sincere and fervent supplication for the stricken girl. That evening Dorothy Ames visited the patient at the hos- pital and there renewed her acquaintance with the man she once had loved. He told her of the death of his wife two years be- fore and his sobs and tears reminded her of that other parting when she had chosen a career. Several times after that she met the anxious father when she went to visit Charlotte at the hos- pital. He greeted her respectfully always, but with a cold re- serve that pained her. How could it be otherwise? Was the man to know that she was lonely? In a few weeks Charlotte came back to school and it was then that it occurred to Miss Ames that the young girl was taking no work in the sewing classes. Dorothy wondered if this were the father's arrangement, if he objected to having his daughter come under her influence. She determined to find out. "Why don't you take some of the needle-work courses? she asked Charlotte one day when she had sought her out at the close of a recitation. "Father objects," the girl answered frankly. "He says the best woman he ever knew, next to mama, ruined her life and wrecked her eternal happiness by choosing sewing instead of cooking." "Just tell your father for me, Miss Lundy, that the woman knows and regretsi it most bitterly; but he ought to let you learn to make a shirt waist for all that." That was near the close of the first semester. The second semester opened and still no Charlotte in the sewing classes. Dorothy wondered more and more. If only she could find a chance to talk with him! The chance came at conference time three months later. Going into the tabernacle early for the Saturday morning session she saw him sitting apart. "May I sit by you?" she asked. "Certainly. The seats are not reserved." "There was a time when you would have kept one for me." — "Yes. Before you " he hesitated. "Before I 'ruined my life and wrecked my eternal hap- piness,' " she quoted. There was an awkward silence. "How are the children?" Dorothy asked. "Getting along very well," he answered. "Better than I could have hoped. "You don't need a housekeeper, then?" "I really do but I can't afford to hire one. My expenses have been very heavy of late."

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"You might get a housekeeper for very little money," she ventured timidly. "I suppose so, if we could put up with a cheap kind." "An old maid, for instance, who had followed a career un- til she had found that it held nothing for her but heartache."

Dorothy's heart was beating audibly. What would Dan Lundy think of this boldness. Was it unwomanly? If so the position must justify the offense. She had wounded this man sorely in years gone by. He would never dream of renewing his offer, yet now he needed her and she longed to make "her eternal happiness" secure. He caught the tremor in her voice and wondered. "You jest, Miss Ames," he replied. "Old maids who have followed careers demand the very hightest of wages." — "But if there was one who cared for you one who had — foolishly given you up once in the long ago —one who "Miss Ames, Dorothy, what do you mean? Will you come to my home, to my heart? Will you be my wife at last?" "Well, I'm sick and tired of the career, you are the only man I have ever loved and — "After three times seven years!" * * *

"Come, come ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear, But with joy wend your way." The whole congregation was singing the well known hymn. Dorothy joined in it gladly but Daniel Lundy had much to do to keep his mind upon the service. Some time before the meeting closed Miss Ames remember- ed that she had not talked to Charlotte's father about her sew- ing. But that could wait. They were married the following spring. In the records ot the county Daniel Lundy was recorded as aged forty-five and Dorothy Ames Lundy, as forty-three. No baby lips ever again lisped, "Mama," in the Lundy home; but "Aunt Dorry" became at once the idol of the little family that had from their father the precious heritage of keen intellect, worthy character, and sound physique. Provo, Utah