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John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his
Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their
way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl
whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with
the rose. His interest in her had begun thirteen months
before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he
found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but
with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting
reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind.
In front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's
name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located
her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a
letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond.
The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World
War II
During the next year and one-month the two grew to know each
other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a
fertile heart. A Romance was budding. Blanchard requested a
photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really
cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe,
they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 pm at Grand
Central Station in New York.
"You'll recognize me, " she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be
wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station
looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd
never seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened: A young women
was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde
hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were
blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness,
and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come
alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice
that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small,
provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?"
she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer
to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing
almost directly behind the girl. A women well past 40, she
had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than
plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt
as though I split in two, so keen was my desire to follow
her, and yet so deep was my longing for the women whose
spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.
And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and
sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did
not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather
copy of the book that was something precious, something
perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had
been and must ever be grateful.
I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to
the women, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the
bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John
Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you
could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The women's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't
know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young
lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to
wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask
me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is
waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She
said it was some kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's
wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in it's response
to the unattractive. "Tell me whom you love," Houssaye
wrote, "And I will tell you who you are." |
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