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The Test
"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 the 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 the 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 woman was
coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in
curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were as blue as a clear sky. 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 woman 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 was split in
two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing
for the woman 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 to identify
me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious,
something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been
and just ever be grateful.
I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the
woman, 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
woman's face curved into a suprisingly beautiful 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 its
response to the unattractive.
 
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