Edith Carson was six years older than McGregor and
lived entirely within herself. Hers was one of
those natures that do not express themselves in words.
Although at his coming into the shop her heart beat
high no colour came to her cheeks and her pale eyes
did not flash back into his a message. Day after
day she sat in her shop at work, quiet, strong in
her own kind of faith, ready to give her money, her
reputation, and if need be her life to the working
out of her own dream of womanhood. She did not
see in McGregor the making of a man of genius as did
Margaret and did not hope to express through him a
secret desire for power. She was a working woman
and to her he represented all men. In her secret
heart she thought of him merely as the man—her
man.
And to McGregor Edith was companion and friend.
He saw her sitting year after year in her shop, putting
money into the savings bank, keeping a cheerful front
before the world, never assertive, kindly, in her
own way sure of herself. “We could go on
forever as we are now and she be none the less pleased,”
he told himself.
One afternoon after a particularly hard week of work
he went out to her place to sit in her little workroom
and think out the matter of marrying Margaret Ormsby.
It was a quiet season in Edith’s trade and she
was alone in the shop serving a customer. McGregor
lay down upon the little couch in the workroom.
For a week he had been speaking to gatherings of workmen
night after night and later had sat in his own room
thinking of Margaret. Now on the couch with the
murmur of voices in his ears he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was late in the night and on the
floor by the side of the couch sat Edith with her
ringers in his hair.
McGregor opened his eyes quietly and looked at her.
He could see a tear running down her cheek. She
was staring straight ahead at the wall of the room
and by the dim light that came through a window he
could see the drawn cords of her little neck and the
knot of mouse coloured hair on her head.
McGregor closed his eyes quickly. He felt like
one who has been aroused out of sleep by a dash of
cold water across his breast. It came over him
with a rush that Edith Carson had been expecting something
from him—something he was not prepared to
give.
She got up after a time and crept quietly away into
the shop and with a great clatter and bustle he arose
also and began calling loudly. He demanded the
time and complained about a missed appointment.
Turning up the gas, Edith walked with him to the door.
On her face sat the old placid smile. McGregor
hurried away into the darkness and spent the rest
of the night walking in the streets.
The next day he went to Margaret Ormsby at the settlement
house. With her he used no art. Driving
straight to the point he told her of the undertaker’s
daughter sitting beside him on the eminence above Coal
Creek, of the barber and his talk of women on the park
bench and how that had led him to that other woman
kneeling on the floor in the little frame house, his
fists in her hair and of Edith Carson whose companionship
had saved him from all of these.
