THE GONE-AWAY LADY
Proud business for David! Sitting on the edge of the seat of the
buggy, he was holding the reins very tight. One must always do
that if he does not want the horse to kick and run away. Not
knowing that the horse was tied to the hitching-post, David was
fulfilling his mission with ceremony, and when Dr. Redfield
appeared from the door of a drug shop across the way, the little
boy called to him gayly:--
"He didn't run away, did he? I held him all right, didn't I?"
Dr. Redfield had been absent long enough to use the telephone in
notifying Miss Eastman, whom David knew only by the sweeter name
of Mother, that her little boy had been waylaid and would
probably not be home to luncheon. She was not permitted to know
that the pretty rogue had run away, but the man himself strongly
suspected the truth. For some time, though, he charitably
refrained from speaking of the matter. In fact, three important
events in David's life took place before the painful subject was
broached.
To eat at the Doctor's table, and wholly without the assistance
of a high chair--that was one of the events; another was a
hair-cut, and the third--Everybody, salute! David is in trouvers!
He and his big friend both admired them immensely, and it was in
the little shabby, out-at-the-elbow doctor's office that David
had been helped to put them on. After he had strutted for a
while his Fav-ver said to him:--
"What fun, David; what fun you must have had in running away!"
"Oh," the little boy replied, "I didn't go far. I got scart and
hurried back to Mother."
The Doctor looked wryly at his guest. He knew David had not gone
home after running away.
"Did you see Mother after you went back?" he asked.
"No, I didn't see her."
"But you are sure you went back?"
"It didn't _feel_ back," said David.
"You couldn't have been mistaken about going back?"
"No."
"In what part of town were you when I found you on the
fence-post?"
"Home," said David.
"Why were you crying?"
"I was feeling bad."
"And why was that?"
"I was scart."
"Of what?"
"Everything was so mixed up."
"You ran away, though, didn't you? And you did not see Mother
after you went back?"
David nodded, and the Doctor got to his feet with a suddenness
that knocked over his chair.
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed, consulting his watch. "It's been
four hours since you saw Mother, and she may think something has
happened to you. She may think you have been run over by
horses--that you have been hurt and can never come home to her
any more."
What was to be done about it? Dr. Redfield wanted to know that;
David wanted to know that. The man crinkled up his forehead: he
rose and began to walk the floor, and David's eyes did not leave
his face.
"What are we to do?" the Doctor asked, and by and by he added,
"If you see a policeman I hope you will tell him you are not lost
and that you did not think of making so much trouble when you ran
away. But what about Mother? Maybe she, too, has been looking
everywhere for you."
The Doctor sat down and wiped his face, and then got up and began
to walk about once more. You could see that he was very much
distressed, but not more distressed than David. In sad perplexity
they stared at each other. After everything had grown very still
in the room, the little boy suddenly exclaimed in an awed
voice:--
"Let's go home!"
"Well said!" the Doctor called out, and David flew for his hat;
they started for the stairs, the little boy clinging desperately
to the man's hand.
"Wait!" the Doctor exclaimed. They had stopped abruptly before
reaching the steps. "Why don't we telephone? If we do that, it
won't keep Mother waiting so long."
It was now that David's eyes began to gleam. He clapped his
hands; he laughed and he danced. He was going to put Mother's
heart at rest about him. She would not be troubled any more. She
would know he was safe.
After the message had gone, it was easy to see in David's face
that he was glad he had not run away very far. Fav-ver Doctor had
not blamed him, but Fav-ver Doctor had made him understand how
much trouble it makes when little boys run away.
"That's what it was all about," said David.
"You mean, I suppose--"
"Fairies don't like it if I run off. That's why they changed
things around so. I hardly knew the house; it was fixed so
queer."
"Yes," the Doctor assented, "it looked shocking queer. How did
you ever know the place?"
"They didn't change the fence much," said David, and the man now
recognized the one point of similitude between that desolate home
down in Duck Town and the House of Joy where David lived.
So grim was the contrast that the Doctor winked uneasily, for it
brought him back to a problem he had thought settled. He had
really meant to take a vacation. He was so tired; no one knew
quite, how very tired he was, and he had thought that for a brief
while he was justified in leaving the fight to some one else. He
only wanted a week or so--a little chance to live, to play with
this little boy, and perhaps be happy! Yet, after all, dared he
leave those people to other hands when they were counting so on
him, and had so little else to count upon? What, he asked, would
she, the Gone-Away Lady, have counseled him to do?
Rather nervously he sought the eyes of a miniature on top of his
desk, and as he looked into the eyes of that sweet-faced woman,
the old comfort he always used to see in them when he had stood
most in need of strength, was no longer there. "In the face of so
much misery," they seemed to say, "how can you think of
forsaking the field?"
It was not a picture of David's mother; no, it was a likeness
that had ever kept the Doctor's heart alive to gracious thoughts
and gentle ways; it was the portrait of her who had not lived to
be his wife, and a habit had come to him of fancying in the eyes
of his patients something of the same beautiful look that was in
the miniature. Particularly he had done so when David's mother
was struggling hard not to go away from her little boy, and
often, since then, the Doctor had compared the face of the
picture with that of the child; and to-day, as he was wont to do,
he took the dainty bit of porcelain in his hand to see if he
could not trace, feature by feature, the likeness he so loved to
imagine.
The way of this was very interesting to David. He stood by the
Doctor's chair and leaned his elbows on the knees of his friend,
with his plump chin in the wee, white hands.
"Is it your mother?" he questioned.
The Doctor smiled.
"No, David, but she would have been a good mother."
"Who is it?"
"It is some one," the Doctor slowly replied, "who would have
loved you very, very much."
"Where is she now?"
"She went away, little boy; years ago, David, she went away from
me."
"_I_ never saw her," said the child.
"No, David, we cannot see her, but if we keep our hearts open and
our lives all sweet and clean, we can be sure she is not far
away."
The little boy had listened attentively, but he could not
understand, and after careful examination of the picture, he
presently asked:
"When is she coming back again?"
Dr. Redfield had nothing further to tell. He crossed the room,
and hastily replaced the miniature upon the top of the high
desk.