Let's talk it over, father
"Let's talk it over, father"
"Oh, Doris," he cried brokenly, dropping his head on her arm and holding her very close, "do you know? I have tried so hard to tell you—but I hadn't the heart. Yes, let's talk it over." And then, in quick broken sentences, without a trace of bitterness, he told her how his eyes had been growing constantly weaker and weaker, and how the doctor had tried in every way to strengthen them and to arrest the trouble, but now the operation was unavoidable and could not be put off long, and it would mean so many months of idleness—and how could he preach without his eyes? And he was too young to be "supered"—how could he step aside for the rest of his life? And how could he rest, with four young girls to keep going?
Talking it over was a comfort. His voice grew gradually firmer and his face brighter. Now that he had the bright eyes of Doris beside him, blindness seemed more remote, and more impossible. New strength came to him from her vivid warmvitality. And in trying to buoy her with hope, hope came to him also. Two hours they sat there, just talking, saying again and again that there was a way, only they did not see it—not just yet.
"I am going to tell the girls, father. They are old enough—and it will hurt them to be shut out of what touches you so closely. And Rosalie—father, Rosalie is coming out just fine."
Quickly she told him of Rosalie's way of finding out, and of her quiet confident facing of facts—so unlike the problematic butterfly they had worried over so many, many times.
"Send her up to me, will you? I think she will do me good." And while Rosalie was with her father Doris told Treasure and Zee.
"Just be quiet about it to-night. After a while it will come natural. But we must not talk much, for father feels very badly. Just let him see that we are sorry—and we must all be very positive there is a grand way out for us, and we must find it."
There had never been such sweet and tender harmony in the manse as on that night—thesorrow falling on each one alike drew them very close together. And when they went to bed at last, each one in characteristic way thanked God that there were five to bear the hurt, for grief divided by five, after all, is only one-fifth a grief.
That Mr. MacCammon had suspected the trouble long before he was told of it did not surprise them at all. Somehow they always expected the most unexpected things of him. And he entered into their plans naturally and helpfully, as became one who boasted fairy powers.
"I have a grand idea," announced Doris. "I thought of it just as Mr. MacCammon came in. Not that he has anything to do with it—but the sight of him inspired me."
"Yes, and what is the grand idea?" urged her father, who knew from of old that her ideas were always well worth considering.
"There is only one month of school before vacation, and then we will be a united family to handle you—and fathers take a lot of handling,you know. Now, I think you should ask for your vacation right away—on full pay, you understand—and go to Chicago and have the operation at once. Then by the time school is out the worst will be over. It will be quite easy to fill the pulpit now, because the town will be full of ministers here for commencement, and the trustees' meeting, and such things, and they will be glad to preach when they find how father is taking his vacation."
"A good idea, as you say. And it will be a relief to have it over. Maybe I can arrange—"
"You needn't arrange anything. Leave it to me. I shall go to the president of the college, and put up a scheme with him—when ministers come visiting he will tip me off, and I shall personally invite them to preach. Leave it to me."
"But suppose you should miss a meeting?"
"If she does, I shall give them a lecture on the psychology of religion. I can tell them a few things that are not mentioned in the Bible, but can help to make them better Christians none the less," offered Mr. MacCammon.
"You should not suppose such things anyhow, father, it isn't ministerial. But since you hesitate to trust me alone, maybe you can let Providence and me together assume the responsibility with Mr. MacCammon to back us up."
"That puts it on a firm foundation, at least. In the meantime I shall use my eyes as little as possible—"
"Not at all! Rest them absolutely," said Mr. MacCammon quickly. "Get them in good shape for the operation. Wear the biggest, blackest glasses you can get, and do not look at a paper or book. Do not even touch your Bible."
"I know my Bible pretty well, and I canthinkmy Scripture. But I shall miss the head-lines."
"Oh, father, let me read the paper to you every morning. I am a good reader," cried Rosalie. "I come out strong on the right words, everybody says so."
"The problem will be afterward. How can I preach those weeks when I can not study?"
"Oh, father, we've been scheming," cried Doris. "Rosalie and I got out the barrel of oldsermons you had at Delta before we came here, and we sorted over the outlines and picked out a lot of good ones, and—you can preach from those this summer. You tell the rest, Rosalie—it is your contribution."
"Well, father," she said shyly, "when I knew about your eyes I began to get ready to help. For I knew Doris would have the family to manage, and that I was the proper one to stand with you. And so I took a lot of special courses in Bible study and practical Christianity and social service stuff, and I can look up references as quick as a wink, and really I know a lot. So I shall be your pastor's assistant, and furnish the eyes while your own are resting."
"Why, Rosalie, you little—Problem," he said brokenly.
"I wanted to surprise you, father. And all the time I was talking of my career—I knew that my career would be—right here with you and Doris, backing up the manse."
He held her hands very closely in his, and did not speak for a while. "Every one is takinghold," he said at last. "I have worked all my life—every day crowded full to overflowing— Now everything is going, and— How shall I fill the days?"
"There is where I come in," said Mr. MacCammon quickly. "I have to begin some very important proof-reading on my newest philosophy, my very best work and the most pretentious. And I was wondering if you wouldn't come out and loaf with me most of the time—and let me proof-read aloud to you—I really need some expert opinion as I go along. Maybe it would help you with the time—I know it would help me with the book."
Mr. Artman sat silent again for a while. "Girls," he began finally, "I am ashamed to say I was puzzled. I could not see the way. Now it is opening up, step after step—and the rest will come in its proper time. I shall never worry again. And to-morrow night I will ask for my vacation at once."
"Have you got the money, father?" asked Zee.
"We may have to squeeze a little," he said,smiling. "The board will advance my June salary, I know, and the household bills can run for a while. There is a little in the bank—I do not know just how much—"
"Forty-two dollars and eighty-six cents," said Doris practically. "But the bills for this month are paid—I can see the hand of a tender Providence in that. For it is mighty seldom we have the bills paid and forty-two dollars and eighty-six cents besides."
"The forty-two dollars will run you here at home, and the June salary will see me through at Chicago."
"Just as I am always trying to show you," said Zee. "We preachers have our troubles, but there is always a plain path made for us."
"When we get to it, yes. The trouble is that some of us have a habit of wanting to see the path before we get there. I like to use a telescope on it, miles ahead, I am afraid," her father admitted.
How simply and naturally things worked out, after all the months of anxious fear. Thevacation was arranged without the slightest trouble. The June salary was paid in advance with no dissenting voice. And one elder, the dearest of them all, said gently:
"And there are a few of us who wish to make up a little purse—oh, not much—just a little word of appreciation, you know—we'll get it together and put it into the bank for you—it may help a little."
Mr. Artman's conscience kept him awake hours that night, for he had been worrying about money, too—worrying in spite of the fact that every step had been cleared when the time for stepping came—and he had worried about the bills there would be when the operation was over and he was at home again. For his expenses in Chicago would be heavy, even though he went to the Presbyterian hospital where "they do ministers for nothing." And Doctor Hancock had arranged with the surgeon that the expense of the operation could wait till a convenient time. The girls' expenses would be much lighter when school was out, and they would not use the carquite so often, only now and then when they could not resist the luring call of it.
"I want you to come for a drive with me in my car to-night, Doris," Mr. MacCammon said one evening. "You have taken me in yours several times and you are always so concerned with speedometers and gears that you pay no attention to my conversation. To-night you go joy-riding on my gas."
"Thank you, I shall be glad to," said Doris in her very politest manner, for to go joy-riding on some other person's gas was a great treat, and to go joy-riding on Mr. MacCammon's gas was the greatest treat of all. So she put on the charming blue motor hat—home-made out of old veils and scraps of velvet, but which, as Rosalie said, was just as flirtatious as though it had cost forty-two dollars and eighty-six cents at Marshall Field's. Mr. MacCammon helped her into the car very formally, and Rosalie from the front porch waved them away.
"Father," she said to him when the car had disappeared, "I hope your eyes have not affectedyour mental vision. I suppose you realize that your perfectly wonderfully philosophical psychologist or whatever he is, is quite humanly and commonplacely and every-dayly in love with your darling Doris."
"Oh, Rosalie, don't give me anything more to worry about. I do not care how perfectly wonderfully philosophical and psychological he is, he shall not come upsetting my household, that is certain."
But Mr. Artman smiled. After all, Doris was a dear girl, and Mr. MacCammon was—even more than Rosalie had said. And it was one opportunity in ten thousand, in his private opinion. And wasn't it just like Providence to give that opportunity to one of the sweet simple girls of the manse, rather than to some of the more pretentious, more expectant girls of the little town?
"What I particularly wished to say to you is this," Mr. MacCammon was saying to Doris—"if you can get your eyes off the mileage long enough to listen."
Doris turned around sidewise in the seat andsnuggled back among the cushions and looked at him so directly that his mind went wandering on the instant, and they were silent a while.
"A penny for them," he offered suddenly.
"I was just wondering how old you really are. It has bothered me so long. And you need not give me the penny, I much prefer the information."
"I am thirty-six. And I was going to say this—are you planning to go to Chicago with your father?"
"Now I know you are truly a wizard. I have thought of that every minute of the whole day. I am afraid we can't. We wanted to, Rosalie and I both, but we just have to save the pennies. So I think we shall hand him over to Providence when he gets on the train."
"It does not cost a great deal—"
"Six dollars per round trip—and it costs a fortune to stay in Chicago even a few days. We can not afford it." She sighed a little. Once in a while it really hurts to be poor.
"I think I told you, didn't I, that I have to goto Chicago myself this week to arrange for the publishing of the new book? What, didn't I tell you? Stupid of me to forget it."
"You did not tell me, and I know you are just going to watch over father, and I think you are wonderful."
She caught his hand and kissed it with girlish gratitude, while he smiled on her with tender eyes.
"Of course, you do not care ifmycar is smashed," he said whimsically. "I notice you keep both hands on the wheel every minute when you have that precious little red thing of yours out. But my car is different."
"Oh, excuse me," she smiled brightly, winking back the tears.
"Well, let me finish. I have a small apartment in Chicago—not much of a place, but a cozy corner out by the lake where I can sneak off and work when I wish and nobody else can find me. It has a little kitchen and some stuff where Bangs can fix me up a meal, or I can do it myself if he is not with me. I keep the apartment all the time,to be ready for a hurry order, but I have a friend in the city, too, and when I just run in for a couple of nights or so, with no special work to do, I bunk with him, to be sociable. So why couldn't you and Rosalie go up and take my apartment for a week, and I can stay with Johnson? It would be easier for you to stand it there than here—and I think your father would like it."
"Oh, that is just— But the fare— Still, it wouldn't be— Oh, dear me, now I don't know what," cried Doris desperately.
"Of course, I will excuse you for interrupting me, since you ask it," he said evenly. "But I was far from through. I am going to drive up to Chicago in my car. I have a lot of running around to do, out to Evanston and to the University, and all over town. I haven't the time to bother with street-cars, nor the patience to bother with taxis. So I shall take my own locomotion with me. It is a good road all the way, and I can make the run in a few hours. Of course, your father could not drive up in the wind, but you and Rosalie seem fairly healthy, and I have a back seat. Soif you feel any desire to go with me, why, I think—"
Doris put her head in her arm on the back of the seat and sobbed. Then she sat up quickly and patted his arm as warmly as she dared with any degree of safety to the steering, and said:
"Mr. Wizard, please wake me up. You have me under the spell of your charm, and I am dreaming things."
"I hope you are under the spell of my charm, and I wouldn't wake you up for a thousand dollars," he said explosively, and although of course it was only a joke, Doris blushed and began making plans for the trip very hurriedly.
"What shall we do with the little girls?" she asked, confident of his ability to do something.
"I had not reached that portion of the family yet. Let me see—they can have Bangs to take care of them."
"Wouldn't they love that? No, we'll get Miss Carlton. She has been hinting to come for a visit for quite a while, and now is just the time. It will shock her to find father gone—but she isfine in an emergency, and this is one. Now let's hurry home and tell father."
When Rosalie heard of this new and wonderful dispensation of Providence in the person of the enormous philosopher, she looked at him very steadily and said in her softest voice:
"Mr. MacCammon, you haven't a brother, have you, a younger brother who looks like you—or a son?"
"No," he said, staring at her in surprise. "I haven't anybody. Why?"
"I wanted to put in an application for him, that is all."
"Why, Rosalie." Suddenly he laughed aloud, and drew her away to a remote corner of the room. "Then I take it that my efforts along this line do not meet with your disapproval?"
"Quite the contrary."
"Can you assure me of success?" he asked, still smiling, but Rosalie observed that his eyes were very bright and very earnest.
"No," she said slowly. "One can not quite do that, you know."
He looked suddenly startled. "You don't mean—is there anybody— There can't be any one—"
"Has she told you about the bishop?"
"No, she hasn't mentioned the bishop—or anybody," he said in a voice quite changed.
"Why, Mr. MacCammon, you would not want to win your heart's desire too easily, would you? Think what a satisfaction it will be later on to know that you outclassed a bishop!"
"Yes, but suppose I don't. These—excuse me, these—bishops, you know—something about the cloth—the glamour of the church— But it helps to have your blessing. I thought you hadn't noticed."
"You thought I hadn't noticed? Mercy! What ails the man? Thought I hadn't noticed— Why, how could I help it?"
"I don't know. Hang that bishop! Oh, shucks, what is a bishop? Come on, congratulate me—do it right now, to spur me on and just to prove that we don't care two cents for the bishop."
Rosalie held out her hand. "I congratulate you with all my heart. You are not good enough forher, but if she is satisfied, I should worry. On behalf of the manse, I welcome you."
"Thanks. Now it is all settled. I feel better." And they laughed together gaily.
"What in the world are you two doing, whispering back there in the corner?" asked Doris curiously. "Mercy, are you holding hands?"
"We are sealing a solemn pact," he answered blithely. "Rosalie has a way of making me very happy sometimes."
Doris caught her breath suddenly, and crushed her fingers against her lips. A dark shadow came into her eyes, and she looked searchingly into Rosalie's laughing face. Then she crossed the room and stood by her father, her fingers gripping his sleeve, and very soon she slipped away up the stairs and went to bed. When Rosalie came to find her, she said she was tired and nervous— Wouldn't Rosalie say good night for her, and tell him how kind he had been?
When Rosalie repeated the message to Mr. MacCammon he looked perturbed.
"Isn't she coming down at all?"
"Seems not. But she is nervous, really, and worried about father—and your kindness has upset her."
"I'll bet she is thinking of that bishop," he said grimly. "You run up-stairs and talk about me, will you? Tell her how nice I am, and how handsome, and what a good husband I will make—put it on pretty thick, you know how it is done. A lovely diamond ring for your pains, young lady, if you play it right. There's a nice little girl."
So Rosalie obediently ran up and sat beside Doris on the bed, stroking the hot hand, and saying over and over how charming and clever and thoughtful dear Mr. MacCammon was, and how much more attractive than that stupid bishop, and how wonderfully good she was sure he would be to any girl who became his very own.
And Doris lay on the bed quivering, too loyal to her sister to voice a protest, but lacking the moral courage to speak agreement. And Doris did not sleep that night—although she hated herself for being so sorry over such a little thingas— Well, as what? Anyhow, she was surprised, that was all—but was ashamed even to think of such a trifle, in the face of father's so much greater grief. And when she wept softly into the pillow she had to tell herself over and over again that every tear was for father, and every sob, and every bit of ache that was in her heart.
As the days passed, and the plans for the future matured, Rosalie kept shrewd eyes on her sister's face.
"She is worried about father, of course, but so are the rest of us, and we don't act like that," she thought soberly. "It can't be Mr. MacCammon, surely, for he does not try to hide what he thinks. And anybody can see what she feels toward him—anybody but Mr. MacCammon, for he really is fussed about the bishop." And Rosalie laughed gleefully, for she solemnly believed that no lover had any right to win his heart's desire without a few sharp pangs of jealousy.
Doris was pale and gentle to an unwonted degree, but she shirked no whit of her responsibility. She arranged with the president of the college for filling the pulpit during her father'sabsence, and he acceded to her request with hearty good will.
"If I can't get anybody else, I'll do it myself. So get that off your mind right away. As a matter of fact, I have quite a few things I'd like to tell the people in this town, but I never had the courage to do it with your father's kindly eyes upon me. But with him out of the road, I surely will relieve my feelings."
Miss Carlton promised not only freely, but fulsomely, to come and chaperon the younger girls during the week the others were in Chicago. And Mr. Artman was argued into accepting their friend's kindly offer in a way that was scientific to the highest degree.
On the morning he took train for Chicago Doris and Rosalie, with their shabby bags, were tucked into MacCammon's car among his portfolios and manuscripts. Curiously enough, Doris insisted on sitting in the back seat alone.
"Please," she said, when MacCammon and Rosalie both protested. "I am so tired and fidgety. When I am in front I sit up straight andwatch the road every minute. But in the back I can settle down and rest. Let Rosalie sit in front, she likes to watch the road and get excited, and squeal when you spin on the corners."
Rosalie and MacCammon eyed each other grimly when Doris slipped into her chosen place without waiting for the help of a friendly hand.
"The bishop," whispered MacCammon ominously.
"The bishop your grandmother," thought Rosalie, turning around to squint thoughtfully at her sister.
The first twenty-five miles were traversed in absolute silence, MacCammon driving with grim and rigid energy, Rosalie looking through half-closed lids reflectively into space, Doris crouching in the corner of the back seat alone.
Thirty-five miles—and then MacCammon laughed suddenly.
"Hang the bishop," he said in a low voice.
Rosalie laughed with him. "You can't hang him—it isn't orthodox."
"Burn him at the stake then. She hasn't— Anyhow,I don't—I am not going to get cold feet yet— That— There is no reason—"
"Faint heart," scoffed Rosalie.
"All right, I am game. Suppose you drive a while." Turning to Doris, he said, "Rosalie is going to drive a while, and I am coming back to help hold down the back seat. Don't argue. You know very well the back seat is too bumpy for one little light girl by herself. You need not hurry, Rosalie," he said, surrendering the wheel. "Doris is cross, and I have to reason with her. It takes time. You need not listen unless you particularly wish."
He got into the back seat serenely enough, and looked astonished when Doris withdrew to the farthest corner of the roomy seat.
"What is the matter? Does the seat slope over to that corner? That is a shame, I must have it fixed." And he sat down very comfortably in the middle of the seat, where Doris could not possibly keep the hem of her gown from touching him, nor even her rigid elbow, though it plainly was her desire.
Rosalie drove with a nicety of concentration that was most commendable, but Doris was stiffly mute to his overtures. And in spite of his persistent and determined tender chaffing, he was really calling down anathemas on the head of the offending bishop by the time they reached Aurora.
"Let's find a place to eat. I am hungry. I have done a hard day's work. Digging ditches has nothing on that," he said to Rosalie.
She nodded sympathetically. "Think well before it is too late," she warned. "Women are always like that—they go by spells. Sometimes they are and then sometimes they are not."
"Chiefly they are not, I perceive," he said doggedly. "She liked me well enough while I remained a mystery."
"Well, of course—"
"If you say bishop to me again I'll stone you," He cried, and Rosalie only laughed.
By this time Doris had finished patting her hair before the small mirror in her bag, and joined them quietly. But she was not hungry, shedrank two cups of very strong coffee—and Mr. MacCammon suddenly was not hungry either. Rosalie munched comfortably through six courses and when she reached her ice-cream and macaroons she told MacCammon he might run along and get the gas if he liked while she was finishing, which he promptly did. As soon as he was gone she looked at her sister slyly.
"General—I—may I confide something—in you?"
Doris stiffened instantly, and turned a frigid face that way. "Yes," she said somberly, "go on, let's get it over with. I have been expecting it for some time."
A mischievous smile darted to Rosalie's eyes, but the shielding lashes hid it. "I—Do you think I am too young to fall in love?"
"No," said Doris desperately, "I do not. I don't think anybody is too young, or too old, or—anything."
"Age has nothing to do with love, has it?"
"No, age hasn't, nor brains, nor sense, nordignity, nor—sometimes I think evenreligionhasn't anything to do with love."
"Of course I may be mistaken—"
"No chance."
"But he is so dear and nice, and though he has not proposed—still I know he is infatuated with me—and when he finishes school—he is a senior now, you know, and then he can marry if he likes."
Doris looked up, a sudden shining through the clouds. "He—what?"
"He graduates this year. He is a senior. But we are not engaged, not by any means. Only sometimes I think maybe I am not too young to fall in love. Bob Alden, you know."
Doris leaned weakly back in her chair.
"Are you joking?" she whispered with dry lips.
"Oh, Doris, I wouldn't do such a thing."
"Am I just imagining things or—"
"Yes, I think you are."
"Oh, Rosalie, you bad little girl, what haveyou done? I really believe Mr. MacCammon likes you."
"Likes me! Ye gods, aren't some folks blind? I can always tell when men are stuck on me long before they can tell it themselves, but some folks are so slow. You are a stupid girl, Doris, I have no patience with you. Poor dear Mr. MacCammon and the bishop, too—both of them—I think it is downright reprehensible, to dangle a bishop and a psychological philosopher at the same time. I wouldn't do such a thing."
Doris glimmered softly, the old Doris struggling weakly but jubilantly back to her own again.
"Oh, Rosalie, don't talk about the bishop," she said.
MacCammon was waiting for them at the car, with several magazines and boxes of candy on hand to help give the car a professionally touring appearance. And after the chill fog of the last week, Doris came to him, gleaming and glowing.
"I am all rested now," she said, smilingtremulously. "Please, Mr. Wizard, may I ride in front?"
He looked at her in astonishment more utterly blank than ever. Then he looked helplessly at Rosalie, humming brightly to herself as she picked out the largest box of candy to take with her into the back seat.
"Can you beat that? They are, and then they aren't. And when you just about get your mind made up that they aren't, and no use to talk about it, all of a sudden they are. And nobody ever knows why, or how it happened."
"What are you talking about?" asked Doris curiously.
"Psychology, dear Doris. Please get in quickly—yes, here in front—oh, this seat slopes toward the middle, does it? Fine! Well, as I was saying, do you think I'd better tie you in before you decide you aren't? And as for psychology, there is no such thing—not in a world that has women."
It did seem rather heartless to be so ecstatically happy when poor dear father was having such trouble, but then, Doris thought philosophically,that is what religion is for—to make us happy even in spite of our grief.
The rest of the ride was wonderful, through such gloriously beautiful country, and as for the dust—it was nothing, and the car ran like velvet, and almost before they knew it they were settled in their little borrowed apartment, laughing at the tininess of it, and getting ready for MacCammon, who had gone to break his presence to his friend.
He came for them at six o'clock and took them out to dinner with him, ordering the dishes so carefully and with such sweet regard for their youthful appetites—but after all, they could not eat, for the shadow of the operation was settling upon them. Yet how much better it was to be here in the big city within reach of father's kindly hand than to be away off in the manse quivering with the anxiety of what they did not know and could not guess, with only telegraph wires to link them each to each?
It seemed MacCammon would never be done with that sickening apple pie, but after an endlesstime they were really tripping softly, breathlessly, along the hall of the hospital in the wake of the "rubber-soled nurse," as Rosalie naughtily christened her. And there was father sitting alone in a white room, his eyes bandaged closely. He knew they were there before they spoke, and held out his hands to them, warmly impulsive. And they sat on the arms of his chair and petted the opposite sides of his head, and talked quietly and sensibly, as if the operation were nothing at all.
But almost immediately the door opened again, and a man— Yes, a minister— That blessed bishop, of course—MacCammon glared at him— How long the fellow was holding Doris' hand!— Right before her father—and Doris was letting him!— Well, couldn't he see that Rosalie was there, too—and a stranger?
"Your father said you would be here, so I stayed to speak to you."
"Yes, and I came, too, Bishop," said Rosalie brightly. "You must not overlook me."
MacCammon blessed her for the words. For the bishop dropped Doris' hand hurriedly andturned to her— What in the world could the church be thinking of, to have bishops as young as that?
"I do not believe he's as old as I am, and I am not old at all," thought MacCammon resentfully. "And they call him a father in the church. What are we coming to, anyhow?"
Doris was back at her father's side now, where she belonged, and MacCammon was being introduced to the bishop. They sized each other up very frankly.
"I'll bet he resents me as much as I do him, that's some satisfaction," MacCammon thought with boyish relish. "And I brought her up, too, all that long way—that will cut."
They did not stay very long—a gentle movement of the rubber-soled one's eyebrow hurried their departure.
The bishop could not accept MacCammon's invitation to come with them in the car, because he had his own little runabout. But wouldn't Miss Doris come with him for a run through the park,and along the lake front? MacCammon held his breath. Would she?
Doris put out her hand, quietly but cordially. "I know you will excuse me to-night, Bishop. I do not feel like talking, or—anything—just like going home quietly with Rosalie to think."
Never had MacCammon loved her as he did at that moment. The bishop walked down with her to the car and opened the back door for the girls.
"But it is my turn to sit in front," said Doris, smiling faintly. "We think it would be unfair to let Mr. MacCammon sit alone when he is driving us. And Rosalie and I always have each other, you know."
So the bishop had to help her into the car—MacCammon's car—and into the front seat with MacCammon himself, and the bishop had to stand on the curb while they drove off. No wonder MacCammon was whistling softly to himself. With Doris out of the question, the bishop was a nice enough fellow, clean, clear-cut,straightforward—but with Doris in the question he was an eternal nuisance and a bore. And MacCammon could never get Doris out of his questions any more.
"Will you come up?" she asked as they drew up beside the apartment.
"Not to-night," he said softly. "But thank you for asking." She had not asked the bishop. "To-night you girls must run straight to bed and rest, and I will come for you to go with me in the morning. No, you must not try to cook until the operation is over. I will eat with you after that to even up. I know a grand place for hot cakes and sirup—very close. Good night, Rosalie, you are a good little scout," he called, as she started up the stairs. Then he drew Doris into a shadowy corner and said, "You must not worry, Doris. Rosalie is taking this better than you are. Hasn't your religion taught you that things work out just right for—men—like your father—who are whole-souled and pure-minded?"
"Christians, you mean," said Doris, smiling at his evident desire to avoid the tone of preaching."Yes, I know. I do believe that things will come right eventually, and I do not worry—much. But father is too good to suffer, and be hurt. It should have been some one else."
"Oh, Doris, don't you know that your father will have more tenderness and more gentleness for all sickness and all suffering, after he himself has suffered? Before this, he hasspokenkindness. Now he willliveit. It takes the ultimate caress of pain to give us understanding."
Doris moved her hands softly in his.
"Yes, you must go." He put his arms around her, and her face fell against his shoulder. "Go, dear Doris, and dream of sweet and lovely things—your father strong and well and tenderer than ever—and dream of me, not very good, I know, but—very fond of you. And please forget the bishop."
Doris laughed at that, quickly, breathlessly. "I will, just for to-night," she promised.
"No, for all the nights."
He kissed her hair where it curled beneath the blue motor hat, warmly, tenderly—for somehowhe felt that this night of her anxious sorrow was not the time to press the kiss of love upon her lips, though he knew in his heart it would not have been denied him.
It seemed very terrible to the two girls to stay there quietly waiting in their father's painfully bright room at the hospital until he was brought back to them on the wheeled table from the operating-room. They could not speak. Doris sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, with Rosalie on the arm of the chair, leaning against her. MacCammon stood beside the window, coming to the girls now and then to give them reassuring pats and smiles, and then going back to the window. Presently a nurse came in, carefully darkened the room, and put water bottles and flannels in the bed. She smiled encouragingly at the girls, who tried very hard to twist their lips into a semblance of good cheer in return.
Then the table was wheeled in again, andfather was slipped deftly back into the bed, and the doctor was talking to them brightly, and smiling.
"Just fine. Worked like a charm. Why, when I think of how that man must have suffered for the last months— Why, it is preposterous— It is downright— Anyhow, it is over now."
The girls did not speak.
"Come on down-stairs and let's beg some coffee. It does not seem particularly cold to-day, but you folks give me a chilly sensation."
"And leave father?" gasped Doris.
"Why not? And why do you whisper? Your father, my dear, will have a nice quiet rest for an hour or so, and there is no reason why we should sit here in the dark and hear him breathe. Come on, MacCammon, don't you need a tonic?"
"Are you sure he is all right?" asked Doris, looking closely at her father's face, showing grim and rigid in the darkened room. "He looks very sick."
"He looks sick, my dear, but he is all right. The operation was absolutely successful to theminutest degree. You do not think he is going to die, do you?"
"Doctors are strange," said Rosalie in a hushed voice. "How do you know he will come out from the anesthetic?"
"Because he is out from the danger of it now. Only he does not know it yet. His heart is pumping away, and he is breathing normally, and in a few hours he will be wide awake. Come now, don't argue with me. Your father has spoiled you, I see that. I would never allow any argument, if I had girls of my own. But I haven't any."
"Are you married?" asked Doris with some interest.
"No, I am not married. But I know how I would rear my daughters."
"Sure you do," laughed MacCammon. "So do I. All of us unmarried fellows know all about rearing daughters. Come on, girls, we may as well go quietly and try to live at peace with this quarrelsome creature your father has pushed on to us."
The girls passed slowly from the room, but their faces brightened a little when one of the nurses said:
"Don't worry. The doctor is right. The danger is all over. We do not know yet just how fine the eyes will be—but the danger is gone. Run along and get your coffee. Your father will sleep a long time."
"Then may we wire the girls now—that he is all right? I know they will be anxious."
"Yes, indeed, wire them at once. Tell them there is no danger, and we are sure the eyes will be infinitely better—certainly there will be no more headaches and pain. And cheer up."
After the telegram was safely on its way it seemed quite natural for the four of them to sit at a small table in the nurses' dining-room, sipping the hot coffee, realizing that after all they were alive, and father was nearly all right, and things were going on just the same as before he had kissed them good-by and gone into the grim white room that held so many terrors for them.
After their coffee the doctor took them around the hospital with him, introducing them to ministers here and there. They smiled at a few whom the doctor frankly pronounced cases of chronic grouch, and were smiled at by other, very sick ones, who, the doctor declared, were endowed with an abundant and all-pervading Christianity that kept their dispositions riotously pleasant in spite of physical pain. And then he invited them to come with him in his car to call on another patient of his down the road a way—"one of the greatest living testimonies to the efficacy of the Christian religion, because he has the most pronounced absence of it of any one I have ever seen."
The girls hesitated, wanting to get back to their father, but he would brook no opposition.
"He will not know you are there. He will be laughing or crying or making love to the nurse, maybe using a little strong language on the side, and it will be no pleasure to him to have a witness, and no pleasure to you—and you will be apleasure to me, so that settles it. Come along, while you have the chance, for I shall not have time to bother with you after to-day."
And he crowded them into his small car and carried them off to inspect the "awfully un-Christian patient," who looked at them sharply when the doctor presented them.
"If he told you I am an infidel, he is a liar," said the old man, looking suspiciously at the doctor's placid face. "I was the treasurer of a church—"
"Yes, he was," said the doctor, sniffing. "He was treasurer of a church for three years, and now he is a millionaire. Draw your own conclusions."
"I have been a church-member all my life."
"Yes, he has," snorted the doctor. "To the everlasting disgrace of the church, I must admit it."
"I have contributed—"
"You have contributed to the unhappiness of more poor people than anybody else in Chicago, and you know it," said the doctor curtly.
"If you weren't the best doctor in town I would discharge you."
"If I did not intend to bleed you out of half your fortune before you die I would not 'tend to you another day," snapped the doctor.
The girls looked on in silent horror. MacCammon smiled appreciatively. The patient was lying helpless under the doctor's skilful hands, obeying his orders with child-like confidence, and the doctor was ministering to the physical needs of the old man with tender professional touches. But all the while the patient glared venomously up into the doctor's face and the doctor glowered back.
"Turn over," said the doctor sharply.
"Ain't he polite?" sneered the old man. "Ain't he a perfect gentleman?" But he did not hesitate to obey the doctor's word.
"Now turn back. I did not want anything. Just wanted to see if it would hurt you to move. There's nothing the matter with you anyhow but an overdose of devil germs. You've bulldozed and browbeaten so many people for so manyyears that you've got a calloused heart and a calloused soul. It gives you indigestion. That's all that ails you—spiritual indigestion."
Doris came forward with gentle sympathy and laid a slender hand on the man's shoulder.
"He is a bad doctor. This is no time to throw up your weaknesses, is it?"
"Well," admitted the old man, "he is a fiend, but he is a good doctor. All the rest gave me up to die—and he came, and operated—it was a terrible operation on the brain—and I am nearly well. He is a good doctor—but he is a fiend. But then, if it comes to that, I haven't been an angel myself."
Doris could not help laughing.
"An angel. I am surprised you know the word," scoffed the doctor. "You wouldn't recognize an angel if you ran into one. Your eyes are blind to everything but the dollar-mark. If you ever get to Heaven, your crown will be made up of dollar bills instead of diamonds."
"If you ever get to Heaven you won't have any crown at all. Just a hypodermic needle to goaround sticking into poor angels that trust you, and you'll have crutches to play on 'stead of a harp."
"Well, come on, girls. You have had enough. Don't let him soak into your dispositions."
The girls put out soft and timid hands to say good-by, and the old man took them bashfully, blushing beneath their friendly eyes.
"If you are still alive, I shall see you Wednesday, but I have hopes," said the doctor.
"It would be a pleasure to die just to get away from you," shouted the old man after him.
"Doctor, that was terrible," said Doris. "How could you do it? The poor sick old man!"
The doctor only laughed.
"You may as well make up your mind to sitting with me," he said to Rosalie, helping her into the front seat. "You do not seem absolutely essential to their happiness, do you?"
"Not absolutely, no. But I tell you right now if you begin on me as you talked to the old man, I shall fall right out and get run over. Like him, I think death is preferable."
"Sometimes I feel that I missed my calling," said the doctor in a genial tone. "I believe in my heart I should have been a minister."
"Oh, mercy!" gasped Rosalie.
"Why, my dear little girl, do you think I was hard on the old bird? Not a bit of it. He told you the truth—he would have died except for me. I have simply goaded him into strength. He lives to spite me. And I not only brace him up physically, I am helping his soul." The doctor said this complacently, and was greeted by derisive laughter.
"Fact, for all you may laugh. Twice since I have had him he has extended mortgages. First time he ever did such a thing in his life. His lawyers think he is in his dotage. The trouble with him is that he never caught the connection between religion and business—he practised them both, separately, and consistently. But when it came to religion he never used his brains—he gave to everything the minister advised, whether it was sensible or not, just because the minister advised it—and he sat around and prayed to anyold mutt of a preacher, just because he was a reverend. No business sense about it. And then when it came to business, he did not let his religion interfere. I am the connecting link between his religion and his business—and I expect to make a man of him. I think in time I shall work out his soul's salvation. Quite seriously, I believe I would have made a cracking good minister."
Then he took them back to the hospital and up to their father's room. Doris stepped quickly to the bedside.
"Doris? Is it my little girl?"
"Yes, you dear father, Doris and Rosalie are here."
They sat beside the bed, one on either side, and stroked his hands tenderly, glad tears streaming down their faces. After a time, when he thought he could control his voice, he said:
"Girls, I am sorry—but I am quite blind. I can hear you, but I see nothing."
"Oh, dearest," cried Doris brokenly, "of course you can't. Your eyes are bandaged. You are notsupposed to see yet. You must wait. The operation was a perfect success."
"Why, my dear old fellow," said the doctor in an annoyed tone, "do you think I am a miracle man? You are not supposed to step right out of the ether into the broad light. You are a dandy, sure enough. Aren't these preachers the limit? Growling because he can't see when he is plastered up in ten inches of cotton."
The minister laughed, softly, happily. "It was foolish. I see it now, of course. But it gave me a terrible jar. I was sure I was blind."
So while the girls sat beside him the doctor and MacCammon went away to leave them alone for a while.
"The real tug will come when he gets home," said the doctor. "He has no business to use his eyes for at least six months. He ought to play for fully half a year. But he does not know how to play. That is the worst of these preachers—they get so used to the grind, grind, grind, that they can't let up. What we'll do with him for the next six months is more than I can figure out."
"The girls will think of something. They are wonderful girls."
"Yes, very. Rosalie in particular," said the doctor.
"Doris in particular also," supplemented MacCammon quickly. "He can preach, can't he? I imagine he will need the money."
"Yes, he can preach if he's got it in his head. He can't do any reading."
"It will not be easy. But we can leave it to Doris all right."
"That Rosalie is a lovely girl—a beautiful girl," said the doctor warmly.
"They both are," came quickly.
"Oh, get out. Can't you take anything impersonally? Don't come mooning around to me. I have troubles enough of my own. I say that Rosalie is lovelier than your Doris, has a better figure, finer hair, more attractive features, and infinitely better eyes, and if you don't like it, go to thunder," and the doctor went out quickly, laughing, and slammed the door behind him.
In answer to intense and persistent pleading on the part of Treasure and Zee, the girls decided to remain in Chicago until their father also returned home. It did not seem at all expensive living in the big city, thanks partly, of course, to the continued hospitality of MacCammon and the bishop, and the doctor, and other friends of the Presbyterian fold. And since school was practically out anyhow, Rosalie knew she was missing nothing except good times, and there never was a time good enough to tempt her away from her father when he so evidently enjoyed her presence.
It was very surprising, of course, that those unaccountable little mischiefs at home were so happy in the presence of Miss Carlton, whom they had never particularly admired. But sincethey insisted, and since father did say it was sweet to have them with him, and since MacCammon had developed a strange partiality for the young girls at home, strongly seconding every suggestion they made, Doris and Rosalie lingered in Chicago. Their father's strength returned rapidly, and although he was kept in constant heavy shadow, there were many good and rollicking times for all of them. And in spite of the doctor's open declaration that he would never have time to bother with them after the first day, he did find many, many hours to while away in their gentle but merry presence.
"You are sure you have time? You are sure there is nobody clamoring for you to come and cut them to pieces?" Rosalie would say sweetly.
And the doctor was always comfortably and confidently sure.
And when at last the day came for getting ready to return home he hung around the little apartment sitting on things they wished to pack and getting in the way of suit-cases and bags that needed to be moved, seeming quite to forget thathe was a famous surgeon and that people were waiting patiently for him to wield his knife.
"If anybody urged me particularly I think I'd take a day off and go home with you. Your father may need attention when he gets there, and I need a vacation, and I could come back on the night train. But nobody thinks of inviting me, of course."
"Please come," said Doris promptly.
"I won't invite you," said MacCammon pointedly. "The girls think you are responsible for saving their father's eyes—though anybody else could have done it just as well—and when you are around nobody pays any attention to me at all. So I think you'd better stay in Chicago, where you belong."
"There you are—isn't that gratitude for you?"
"Don't mind him," said Doris. "I am the General. Do as I say."
He looked hopefully at Rosalie.
"They sit in the front seat and entertain themselves," she said, "and never bother about me alone in the rear. I invite you to come and sitwith me, and let's not say a word to them all the way home."
He accepted that invitation immediately and rushed off to make arrangements to keep his patients alive until his return.
Zee had insisted most strongly that the whole family should arrive home at the same identical minute, and not come stringing in all day, keeping them upset, and MacCammon, with his usual loyalty to her, said flatly it must be done.
"It can't be done," protested Doris. "The doctor will not let father go in the car, and how can we get there the same minute?"
"We shall start early in the morning, and your father will go on the noon train. Then we shall plan to get to town just exactly at two-twenty-seven, meet the train, pick your father up bodily, and carry him home in triumph."
"It can't be done."
"If Zee says, 'Do it,' it shall be done," said MacCammon decidedly. "Her confidence in me must not be shattered. We leave this town at eight-thirty to-morrow—allowing time forblowouts and quarrels en route. And if we see we are getting in early, we'll stop beneath a big tree outside of town and point out the scenery to the doctor, who does not know anything about any kind of scenery except bones and skin."
"But father—"
"Oh, the bishop can get him on the train and start him home. That's all bishops are good for," said MacCammon imperturbably. And he made the arrangement himself to the intense delight of Rosalie, who giggled at his elbow all the time he was discussing the plan with the bishop.
Then came the long lovely ride home, Doris and MacCammon blissfully content in the front seat, and the doctor taking a most unprofessional interest in Rosalie's softness and girlishness and gurgliness in the tonneau.
"Oh, Rosalie," Doris said to her teasingly when they were in the dressing-room at the hotel "smoothening up" for luncheon. "Oh, Rosalie, dear, do you still—er—wonder if you are too young to fall in love—with a senior?"
Rosalie laughed brightly. "I have decided, Mr.General, that I am not too young to fall in love with—anybody." And then she added, "But I know now that seniors are quite too awfully young to be fallen in love with—Bob Alden, for instance—why, he is a perfect infant!"
Surely enough, they had a long wait under the maples just outside of town, and MacCammon persisted in pointing out the different grains coming up in the fields around them, and the different birds flitting in the branches, and the different flowers nodding by the roadside—to the intense annoyance of the doctor, who said openly he did not care two cents about grains and birds and flowers, and very much preferred to concentrate on other things that interested him more.
Then came the last flying rush to the station, where father was met and welcomed as though he had not been seen only a few hours before, and they sped quickly to the manse.
"Do hurry," Doris begged. "I know they have a surprise for us, and I can't wait."
The surprise was evident as soon as they entered the door. For all the manse was softly,sweetly shaded, with silky green and rose-colored curtains before every window. Every light was covered with dainty shades of the same soft colors. There was no glare, no bright splashes of light, no gleam, from any corner.
The doctor himself removed the heavy goggle glasses from their father's eyes.
"This can't hurt anybody," he declared. "It is charming. Look around, man."
"Why, you dear little girls," said Mr. Artman. "Did you do this for me?"
"For all of us," said Treasure. "We knew it would make us all happy if you could be right in the home with us, and comfortable, not shut up by yourself in a dark room alone up-stairs, and so we did it for the whole family."
"Where is Miss Carlton?" asked Doris.
"She left yesterday," said Zee. "We wanted to have the house to ourselves."
"But wherever did you get the money?" wondered Doris.
"Ladies' Aid," they shouted triumphantly. "We were going to do it with cheaper stuff outof our allowance—but when they heard about it they chipped in—and, oh, how we have worked." Zee danced about on joyous toes. "And the house cleaning is all done—and come up-stairs and see father's room."
There was not even a white coverlet on the bed in his room, only the very palest and softest of colors—and upholstering on the chairs in deep green tones—even the paper on the wall was changed.
"Whoever in the world—" gasped Doris.
"Bangs and the Corduroy Crab," exulted Zee. "They worked and worked, and made the whole room over. Isn't the Curious Cat a darling not to tell you? He knew it all the time."
Doris held out her hand to him impulsively, and he took it, and kept it in his.
"And that isn't all—sit down, everybody," cried Zee nervously. "We haven't half shown you everything. Sit down, and— You tell it, Treasure, your part comes next."
"You tell it, Zee, you talk more—I mean better, than I do."
"Well," began Zee, nothing loath, perching herself on her father's knee and beaming around on them like a fairy godmother, "you see when we first knew about father's eyes, and Doris and Rosalie were doing everything for father, we felt just terribly badly, because we couldn't do anything, and we felt so useless, we just hated to be alive. And so we talked to our nice old Cat—"
"Zee!"
"It is a compliment, Mr. MacCammon," she said, smiling on him warmly. "And between the three of us we figured and schemed—for we were determined to do our share, and—and—come up to the manse, you know. We wanted to rise to the—the occasion with the rest of you, even if we are young and usually in trouble. And so guess what Treasure did."
"Tell us," begged Doris.
"Nobody can ever tell what either of you ever did," said Rosalie.
"Well, she began going to domestic science classes, hours and hours and hours. And when Miss Carlton was here, they worked everyminute, both of them, like—like dogs—cooking and baking, and learning stuff, and Treasure is a perfectly wonderful cook—better than Doris herself. She can cook anything in the world, and bake bread, and—she can cook the whole meal, all by herself, and she loves it, and she is going to do it all the time after this, so Doris will have more time for father, and to help with the church, and to—entertain Mr. MacCammon, and so forth."
"Honestly?"
"Wait till dinner, and you shall see."
"And, father," began Treasure gently, "you know I do not care for school much, and now I have finished high school, I thought maybe you would not make me go to college. I can't teach or anything. I am too afraid to get up before folks, and—won't you please let me stay at home and be your cook, and just study music, and a few little things like that?"
"Why, Treasure!"
"Well, think it over," said Zee. "It is open for consideration anyhow."
"Tell about your part, Zee."
"Oh, mine is not important," said Zee, "the cooking is the big job."
"It is, too, important," cried Treasure indignantly. "Poor little Zee has been darning and mending every minute for the last month—and her fingers are all pricked up, and she got so tired of it—but she can do it just fine, and she is going to all the rest of the time—and she and I have been making beds and sweeping, and we are awfully smart at it—if we do say so ourselves—and so, Miss General, you are out of a job. Zee and I take the whole house."
"But what am I to do?" asked Doris dazedly.
MacCammon squeezed her fingers suggestively, but Doris could not or would not get the message.
"You are to play with father, and call on the sick," said Zee glibly. "We've got it all figured out. You and father and Rosalie are to play all summer, go camping, and fishing and hunting—and go driving around the country to conventions and chautauquas, and—and—everything."
"Oh, that blessed car," said Doris. "Oh, dear Mr. Davison, how good and kind he was."
"Doris will have Mr. Davison haloed before long. He has grown constantly better since the day of his death."
"It taught me a lesson, Rosalie. I never believed there was any good in that man at all—but now I know there must have been a divine spark in him all the time, and maybe if we had not been so sure he was no good, we might have fanned the spark a little before he died. I feel guilty about Mr. Davison—my conscience hurts."
"But, girls, you are so young—" protested Mr. Artman.
"Just try us, father, that is all. We've got the goods—you watch us deliver," cried Zee, and for once Doris did not reprove her for the slang.
"There does not seem much need for a minister here, then," he said, laughing. "With Rosalie taking my Sunday-school class, and Doris selecting my sermons, and both of them looking up references—what is the use of having a preacher?"
"You must still listen to the troubles, and weep with the sad, and rejoice with the gay—and youmust still do the marrying and the burying and the baptizing," said Rosalie quickly.
Treasure and Zee nudged each other, and giggled ecstatically. For they knew what the others did not—that in all the loyal little church there was a covenant of joy passing around from one to another. "Let's go to him in gladness, rather than in complaint," was the new byword. And the people were storing up bits of happiness to take to him from day to day, little triumphs of business, spicy portions of humor and fun—and the daily annoyances and the petty grievances were being pushed aside and forgotten. For in time of stress and calamity, the heart of the church beats true. Of course, when sorrow comes, it is the minister's portion to enter into the innermost recesses of the soul, for that is his inalienable right, as pastor of human hearts, and no physical weakness of his own can weaken his fount of sympathy and tenderness.
But because they loved him, all the church was learning to look up, and laugh. And somehow it made worship sweeter when there was joy andgratitude and faith among them and they were lifted out of the narrow circle of self.
No wonder, then, that Mr. Artman, in the soft light of the room that had been his sanctuary for years, with his baby girls in his arms, and with the two strong radiant daughters standing near him, felt that the manse was a place of benediction and of peace.
"I used to wonder—if I could rear my girls alone," he said, smiling, though his voice was tremulous. "There were so many problems—and it was hard to see if we were coming out just right—I used to wonder if I knew enough to handle it."
Zee patted his shoulder reassuringly. "We never doubted it, father," she said, in a most maternal voice.
"Of course, we had lots of trouble, father, getting grown up," said Treasure. "But you might know that when the time came—we would be—"
"There with the goods," put in Zee impishly.
"We just naturally rose to the standard of the manse," said the General grandly.
MacCammon had not released his hold of Doris' hand, and now he drew her outside the room and closed the door.
"Doris," he said, "I can't wait any longer. I am afraid the bishop might send a telegram, or come flying in by aeroplane. And I want to make sure of belonging to this family right away. You are wonderful—all of you—the whole family."