UNDERSTANDING HEART

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 4, 6 January 1938, Page 21

UNDERSTANDING HEART

By. . . MARGARET WILLIAMS.

" Y° U from 'Varsity -with 1 honours. You've had special

courses in London and Xew York, et you bury yourself in this northern Ontario dump," charged Marjorie Hartman indignantly. ?iv S f m Weston regarded her calmly. ioril M ls f \ here 1 born, Mary fa t her practised here for P° >' ou think so strange nat J. love the town and the people!" ah?d«U,er rking 7 °'"' S ' ilf 40 death! "

"Not now. I have an assistant, so I can grab a. night's sleep anl slip over to Jour hotel to a dance . .

But you could be in Toronto cr some other city."

Marjorie could not understand. She thought there must be something wrong with the mentality of a young man who chose such a life.

,' Your record at 'Varsity was so—so brilliant! she clioked. "Xo "wonder l-nclef Doc says he'll take you in his office. If he goes on a long cruise for his health, you'll ha.ve his practice—" "But the cold, impersonal life of a city surgeon doesn't appeal to me, Marjorie. I can give closer and more personal service by staying right here than I could in a swell office on Bloor Street, or anywhere else. Here I'm a big shot. In a city I'd be lost in the shuffle."

"Not with your brains, Sam. You'd have a. wonderful future—"

"Marjorie, my dearest," he said tenderly, '"have you ever heard of other rewards than prestige or money ? There are rewards of the spirit, fuller and richer—" She jerked herself impatiently away.

"You're so far from civilisation up here," she went on. Marjorie, living in a. lovely home on the Hill in Toronto, where she had a comfortable, carefree life, taking her ease in the afternoons or going to parties in the evenings, and summerings in a gay hotel near Winton, could not imagine anyone living in such a place. "You'll get rusty and stale." Sam's laugh increased her irritation.

"You know I'll never do that. I visit Toronto every year and brush up, and next year I'm going to Xew York. You can't railroad me into accepting your uncle's offer, though I know how splendid it is."

"I won't marry a country doctor," thought Marjorie desperately. She must make him see reason some way. "You'd consider my happiness if you loved me," she began, but he stopped her. "Do Yon Doubt My Love?" "You know I do love you, Marjorie, and perhaps that's 51 pitv for me. You're lovelier and dearer than any girl I ever dreamed of meeting, but I'm afraid you haven't much sympathy with people. You think nearly everyone up here is rough and uncouth. I know they're miners, but I'm fond of them and I love caring for them. But that means nothing to you. You'd understand that if you really loved me." "Do you doubt my love ?" she cried angrily. "I'm advising you for your own good because I do love you. I'm ambitious for you." "But your ambitions are against my judgment, my dear." Then, as she faced him defiantly, her dark eyes Btormy with anger, Sam caught her suddenly in his arms. He knocked off her smart little russet hat and set his big foot on the quill, but she didn't notice. There was nothing in the world except his blue eyes and the touch of his lips on hers. | "Life up here's impossible," she thought again, as she climbed into her roadster parked outside Sam's door. "Imagine it in winter!" she shuddered. Sam's uncertain hours appalled her, and the long, bleak days and nights without shows or parties. For him there'd be a dreary routine of bandaging fingers, delivering babies and discussing milk supplies with Mary Jeffries, the minister's daughter, who was also district nurse. Her heart shook at the thought of Mary Jeffries. Marjorie felt sure she was in love with Sam.' And if he wanted to stay in Winton Mary would uphold him. Anything he did was all right with her.

"Mary's not going to have him," she resolved firmly. "He's coming to Toronto with me—and like it." And because she was sure she couldn't lire in Toronto without him and that life with him in Winton was unthinkable, she persuaded her father to talk to him.

They called at his dispensary, and again Mr. Hartman reminded Sam of rhe advantages of a city practice to an ambitious young doctor. "What you say is true in most cases," agreed Sam readily. "For most men prefer the city. But I don't. I studied medicine with the definite object of practising right here." Marjorie's eyes blazed. "I might as well argue that you'd r-ome here if you loved me," persisted Sam. "It would be a wrench for either of us, and if neither of us can adjust ourselves to that we'd both be miserable. I'm needed here, but no one really needs me in the city."

"Xo one but me," whispered Marjorie

brokenly. "See here, Sam," said Mr. Hartman suddenly. "I believe you and Marjorie do love each other, and I'd hate to see you part. . Suppose you come to my brother's office for a while and try it. If you don't like it you can leave." Sam stared at him thoughtfully, while Marjorie's hands clenched. Once she got hitn there, no matter how, she'd keep him!

"It's hard to leave my patients to my assistant," he said uncertainly. "I'll have to get another man to help him—" "But you'll make money with Uncle Dec," ptit in Marjorie. Then again something in Sam's face made her flush. What was it he had said about richer rewards than money?

"Of that's importmt." ha agreed practically. "But I'm afraid the experiment would fail Because I'd go unwillingly in spite of my love for Marjorie." "You're a frank, square shooter, Sam, and I admire you for it," declared Mr. Hartman. And Sam smiled -nis slow, understanding smile that always stirred Marjorie's heart. "Well, I have to be in a case like this. Neither Marjorie nor I would be happy |f we didn't see eye to eye. 1 couldn't marry her knowing she'd be miserable here and I'd be miserable'without her." He shrugged expressively. "I suppose I'll have to go to the city awhile and try it." ''Good for you, my boy! I'm sure you won't regret it," cried Mr. Hartman, as he rose "to go. Marjorie lingered a moment. . . <-\,e we engaged now, Marjorie?' he *ked. tone was tem ' €V an< * >' et ft j oo f She nodded, suddenly afraid. There seemed to be some barrier betwesr

them, as though his yielding to her wish had disturbed the harmony between them.

"And you'll inarrv me if I decide to stay? What if I don't? Must 1 come back here alone?"

"Oil, but you won't," she insisted, clinging to him. "You'll never want to leave the city."

'"I've been there before, you know," he reminded her drily. "And I've never wanted to stay. Well, I guess I'm headed for heartbreak, but I love you so much I'm ready to snatch at ar<v straw. Oh, darling, try to understand."

He caught her to his heart and kissed her. She was going to have her own way with him. Sam would give in—give

But later, in Toronto, Marjorie felt less sure about that. Sam did splendid work in her uncle's office because he loved his profession, but she knew he was unhappy.

Every few weeks he went back to inton, and each time he returned unwillingly. Sam looked like a man who had set himself a disagreeable task and means to go through with it, but evidently he didn't like being a city surgeon. He missed the close, personal contacts he had known in Winton. "And there's no real reason why he should stay there now," thought Marjorie resentfully. "Xow that his sister's engaged to a mining ei;gineer."

"I can't give him up," she wailed in her own room. She defended on him so. Everything in the city would be haunted by his memory, and she knew she could never be happy except with him. But how could she give up all she'd known and go off to live in the wilds!

And then one night a mining tragedy near Winton settled the question. For Sam received word that twenty men had been trapped in the earth by a collapsed shaft, and among them was Kate's fiance.

"I've got to go," he told Marjorie. "I've been in such things before. There'll be heavy work to do for the rescuers in this cold weather, and the families of the men will want me with them." "But, Sam." she cried hysterically. "Uncle Doc says, you've an important case to-morrow—"

"There are others to take my place down here, dear," said Sam tenderly, "but 7io one can take my place up there." "He'll come back when it's over." soothed her father. But Marjorie shook her head.

"He was glad of an excuse to go. dad. Oh, of course, he's heart-sick over the tragedy, but I know he'd have gone anyway. Oh, I love him so much it hurts!"

"Then, my dear, there's just one thing to do. Forget your own wishes and go with the man you love where his duty calls him. Real love means sacrifice and renunciation."

"Then why can't he sacrifice for me?" she cried. Her father looked at her sadly.

"Because you're asking him to sacrifice his ideals, his very soul, for your comfort. And it's the immutable law of nature that the husband leads and the wife follows when he makes the living. Any other situation is unnatural. Sam must make his career in his own wav."

Marjorie's face paled. "It's a horrible world." she gasped. "Men alwsvs stand together, and expect women to give in to them."

• Uncertainty tore at her' heart and haunted her dreams. Sometimes she believed Sam's longing for her would bring him back. Then she was shaken by fear lest she would give in to him. Dislike of not getting her own way was almost as strong as her distaste for Winton.

The papers and radio were full of the mining tragedy. Several times Sam's voice broadcast his opinion of the trapped men's condition. Marjorie was almost hysterical with relief when the men were rescued, though she read that his widowed sister's fiance was among the dead.

Later, Sam telephoned her, and the weariness in his voice wrung her heart. "Kate died of pneumonia an hour ago." he said dully. "She collapsed when she heard Phillips was dead. I—l'm pretty tired. Marjorie. There's so much lor me to do."

Short Story

She knew she ought to be with him; that he needed her. But how cotild he think of taking her to the part of the country where such horrible things happened!

"How about Danny?" she asked. And he said Mary Jeffries was taking care of him. Then Marjorie knew just as definitely as if she'd heard it that everyone in Winton was saying he ought to marry Mary.

It was Mary to whom he was turning in his trouble, not to her!

"When—when are you coming back?" she quavered. And his answer "was what she had expected yet dreaded to hear. "I'm not returning to the city, Marjorie. There"% too much to do here. I ought never to have left Winton. Kate wouldn't have stood out all night in the snow watching the rescuers if I hadn't been away." His voice grew husky, and a storm of conflicting emotions surged through Marjorie. He was blaming her! All her pity for him seemed to melt awav.

"Is our engagement broken!" she asked icilv.

"That's entirely up to you. dear. 1 love you, but I must stay in Winton. I'm needed—my God, how I'm needed here!"

He was jilting her! Marjorie's anger boiled over. She clapped up the receiver and broke into a storm of tears.

"He'll marry Mary Jeffries," she wept to her father. "She's always been crazy about him . . . ." "That will be the most sensible thing for him to do," he replied to her amazement. "Sam would be foolish not to forget you."

"But, daddy, I love him and he loves me!" she reminded him.

"Yes, but you're not proving your love. Mary is. I think it's just as well, Marjorie, if everything is over between you and Sam. Kemember. there's the little boy to be considered now. Sam's wife will have to be a. sort of stepmother to him, and nothing in your nineteen years has prepared you for that experience." "I'd not thought of that! Oh, why did this have to happen to me?" she wailed. "Any other man but Sam would have been glad to stay here." "And that's the whole thing in a nutshell, Marjorie. Sam is not any other man. Can't you see what you're trying to do to him? You're attempting to destroy in him the very qualities you admire. The ones that set him apart from other men, his great gifts of humantiy and sympathy. His understanding heart—" "An understanding heart and an impractical nature! Why can't he try to understand me!"

"Perhaps he does understand you, better than you imagine. Selfishness needs no understanding. It speaks for itsqlf."

Criticism from her father! Stunned Marjorie stared at him through her tearful dark eves.

"Would you want me to go way up in there in that hard country ?" she asked, wonderingly, remembering the luxury with which he had always surrounded her.

"I'd want you to do what your heart dictates, my dear. Oh, Marjorie, I'm afraid I've made a very bad job of bringing yon up. If only your mother had lived! She could have advised you much more wisely than I can."

"She never had to make a choice like this." muttered the girl. "That's where you're wrong, Marjorie. She came, as you know, from a gentle, easy-going southern family, and had never even felt cold weather. Yet she married me and went up to the mining districts up north, for she knew it didn't matter where we lived but how much we loved. Winton is paradise compared to what we endured. But we saw it through together, l>ecause we loved each other. If you truly loved Sam you would be with him now, instead of leaving him to Mary Jeffries. He'll never need you again as he does at this moment."

Sift had known that, of course. And the thought of Mary standing by like a strong tower of help for Sam maddened her. She fought a desperate struggle with herself. Maybe it was already too late, and he had put her out of his heart because she had failed him. Then she turned to her father determinedly.

"Will you drive me tip "to Winton to-day?" she asked. "I can't endure life without him!" And the sudden light of pride and gladness in her father's face told her that he approved of her decision. Marjorie knew that she was setting herself a big task, for no matter how much she disliked Winton she must resign herself to staying there cheerfully. She must never complain or allow Sam to feel that she regretted her choice.

Perhaps he would be afraid to risk marriage with her now. Maybe she had convinced him that she was too selfish to adapt herself to the life he had chosen for himself.

"He has an understanding heart," she reminded herself during tha long drive north. And to that knowledge she pinned all her hopes of convincing him of her love. There was no doubt in her mind now what she wanted to do. Toronto and ease and luxury were part of the past. Winton was bleak and unprepossessing under its blanket of snow. But somehow Marjorie did not mind that. She felt only a fierce pride in the knowledge that Winton needed Sam and that Sam needed her.

Her heart shook when she found Mary and Sam together in the dispensary. They had Danny between them, and both were trying to divert the heart-broken little boy. Was she already too late? Then the smile of joy that transfigured Sam's face 'told her all she wonted to know.

Mary looked stricken as she led Danny from the room after the first greetings, and Marjorie, with her newly found sympathy and tenderness, felt a pang of distress for the girl. Then she remembered the missionary—and smiled.

'■Marjorie. darling, you've come to me." cried Sam eagerly, as he approached and took her hands. "Is it just—pity— or do vou reallv care?"

"Oh, Sam," she cried eagerly, "I've come to stay if you still want me. If— if you can trust me." Marjorie was no longer a spoiled, selfish girl, but an anxious woman, eager to recapture the love she feared she had lost. "I know you're right ■ to stay where you're needed." she went on eagerly, " and I can't live without you. Oh, darling, I don't care where you are or what you do if I can share —" She stopped, and Sum gathered her into his arms.

"My love, my dearest," he choked, kissing her. Every slur she had ever rast 011 his work and ambitions were forgotten as their lips met. And Marjorie knew she had found all the forgiveness she had craved in Sam's understanding heart.