THE PHILOSOPHER
"Now, Doris," began Rosalie briskly, "you must help decide my life
career. They gave us a fine talk at chapel this morning, urging us to
spot our high ambitions for guiding stars to work toward. Of course, we
can change our minds later on if we like, we are not to be irrevocably
bound to what we say, but no student 'can plan most wisely and most
surely for the future, without a pole star ever shining in his mind's
eye,'" she quoted patly. "Now, what are my ambitions?"
"Mercy, Rosalie, you know your ambitions better than I do," said
Doris, as earnestly as though the same subject had not been discussed
regularly ever since Rosalie was a freshman.
"I think I was born for the stage, barring the one accident of the
ministry. But since that avenue of fame is closed, what shall I
do? Shall I be a teacher--and if so, a teacher of what? I am not
particularly clever, you know."
"You are very clever, indeed, and I think you would be a wonderful
teacher."
"Thanks, but I have neither patience nor dignity, and all authorities
agree that they are prime requisites."
"You can be as patient and dignified as anybody if you want to. And
you are tactful and pleasant, both good teaching qualities. I suppose
you do not feel particularly drawn to any religious work, missionary,
or--or pastor's assistant, or anything like that?"
"I am interested in gymnasium work," said Rosalie. "It seems my
only forte. I am very good at all outdoor sports, and I have a fine
physique, and adore exercise."
"That would be nice."
"Some places I might have to teach dancing. I could handle it as one
form of physical development, and if the naughty things took it into
the ballroom it wouldn't be my fault, would it?"
"Not--exactly--I suppose."
"But I ought to have an extra year for special study somewhere after I
finish college. Do you suppose we could manage it, father?"
Mr. Artman looked up from his mail absently. "Yes, dear, what? I am
afraid I was not paying attention." His eyes wandered back to the
letter in his hand.
Rosalie promptly deposited herself on his knee, pulling his arms around
her.
"Doris has just decided that I would be a lovely athletic director
for girls if I could have a year of special training after college.
Prospects, please?"
"Maybe we could arrange it--I hope so. It would be fine. But--things
might interfere."
"Always granted, of course, dearest, but am I justified in saying it is
my present plan if things do not interfere?"
"Yes, to be sure, but--remember--plans have a way of going astray,
dear."
"Why, father, that does not sound like you."
"I know, forgive me, but I do not feel like myself to-day. Look ahead
to it, Rosalie, by all means, and count on it, and if it is right for
you, it will come."
"That is the way for a preacher to talk," said Rosalie. "Then it is all
settled, isn't it?"
She ran back to her chair, and her father turned anxious eyes on the
letter again. He did not notice that his girls looked at him often,
and very wonderingly. Presently he went to the telephone and put in a
long-distance call to Chicago. Two years previous he had taken a course
of study at the seminary in Chicago, and ever since had made frequent
appointments with Doctor Hancock necessitating hurried trips to the
city.
"Some old 'prof' at the seminary, I suppose," Doris said lightly.
"They won't let us preachers settle down and preach and be comfortable
nowadays. They keep us up and coming every minute, studying this and
studying that, and then practising what we study on the public. It is
no easy matter being a preacher any more."
And so, although the Chicago trips had grown more and more frequent,
Doris gave them small heed.
But after her father had left the house the next morning, she walked
soberly up-stairs to where Rosalie was dressing for school and said,
"Rosalie, I hate to push my worries on to you, but--does--father act
funny some way? Or do I imagine it? He seems so serious and anxious."
"He has been rather quiet lately," said Rosalie slowly.
"I am sure he is not well. I wish he did not take these Chicago trips
so often. I think they expect entirely too much of us preachers. He is
always tired and worried when he gets home. If we had a bishop, I think
I should report it."
Rosalie said nothing.
Both girls watched their father closely when he returned home late that
night. He was tired indeed, and his eyes were darkly circled. He did
not laugh so freely as usual at their merry chatter, and though he was
tender with them as always, he seemed distrait and absent-minded, which
was not like him. And Doris pondered over it anxiously.
The next morning he came down-stairs wearing wide amber glasses,
"which," he explained apologetically, "I am not wearing for style, I
assure you, but the light seems rather too much for me. I think it
causes the headaches."
The girls had great fun with the amber glasses, shaking their heads
sadly over his worldliness, for every one knew that amber glasses were
fashionable. But after that, he always wore them except when he went
into the pulpit.
Two days later, when he came in to lunch, his face was as bright and
smiling as it had been in the olden days when his laughter had been as
spontaneous as Rosalie's or Zee's. He began talking, boyishly, before
he reached his chair at the table, and the girls smiled happily at his
cheerfulness.
"I met a very clever man down-town to-day, and had quite a talk with
him. He is an author--a psychologist and philosopher--he wrote all
those books I have been so interested in lately. Very entertaining
fellow, and so I invited him to dinner to-night."
"Good night, nurse," gasped Doris. "You invited an author and a
psychologist and a philosopher to dinner to-night?"
"Only one, Doris," he explained patiently.
"Father, there is something the matter with you. First you
flash a bishop on us in the middle of the night, and now a
psychologist-philosopher combination. Whatever in the world do you
suppose he eats?"
"Cheer up," said Rosalie. "He is a philosopher, remember, so he will be
satisfied with what he gets. Food, nowadays, is the greatest test of
human philosophy."
"Oh, he is all right. I am sure he eats regular things. He has bought a
place out here to do his work--close to his publishers in Chicago, and
far enough out to be isolated when he is on a book. It will be a great
treat for me to have him here." He looked at Doris reflectively. "Let's
have a good dinner, regardless of the cost, and, Doris, I hope you--I
mean, I hope all of you--will look your very sweetest and act your very
dearest."
"Is he married?" demanded Zee. "I believe on my soul you have a scheme
to marry one of us off to him. Doris, I suppose, for I am too young,
and Treasure is too good, and Rosalie is too frivolous."
"Does he write fairy stories, or--"
"He does not write fairy stories, but I believe he tells them
sometimes," laughed their father. "And I have no matrimonial designs on
him, I assure you, but I want him to be our friend. It will be a great
pleasure to me, and a great help--and I need both."
Doris and Rosalie looked swiftly at each other at that, but neither
made any comment. When Mr. Artman had gone up-stairs, still laughing
with satisfaction, the four of them put their heads together.
"Let's think up a dinner fit for a--fit for a--"
"A pope," suggested Zee.
"Zee, I am surprised at you. Fit for a president."
"Since father said spare no expense, I say fried chicken, and I want
the wishbone."
"A good idea. We'll have fried chicken. Now what else?"
"Let's do it up in style, and have courses. Treasure can wait on the
table without spilling things, and then come quietly to her place
without banging chairs. Soup--"
"Yes."
"Then chicken, mashed potatoes, and--"
"Corn fritters--I've been asking for corn fritters for six weeks."
"Well, corn fritters. Salad--"
"Olives are easy, and--"
"No, let's have a salad like regular folks. Mrs. Andrieson makes lovely
thousand island dressing, and I have only one recitation this afternoon
so I'll just run down after class and get her to show me how. Then
we'll have head lettuce with the dressing, and--"
"And coffee with whipped cream, and--"
"For dessert--"
"Ice-cream. If I do any baking I'll be too hot to look nice. Treasure,
you run over to Wilcot's and get a quart of milk and a pint of cream
and a half pint of whipping cream, and Rosalie you call up the ice
company and have them leave a dime's worth of ice on the first
delivery without fail, and I'll freeze it first thing. And, Rosalie, I
leave the salad entirely to you."
"I will go to Benson's after school and get some flowers," said
Treasure. "Mrs. Benson is always glad to give me the carnations that
are not fresh enough to sell, but too good to throw away. And we can
pick out the best ones."
"Isn't that grand? Won't father be pleased?"
"And what shall we wear?"
This brought forth a prolonged and heated discussion of ribbons and
gowns, for father had said to look their sweetest and act their
dearest--and being girls, they knew the latter was impossible except
when the former had been accomplished. Finally all was arranged, and
the dresses were laid out nicely on their various beds, and Treasure
was given a quarter to buy a new blue ribbon because she got oil on
the old one sticking her head under the car to see what father was
doing. And the girls rushed excitedly to school, to tell their friends
carelessly that they had to hurry home to-night and could not stop to
study Latin en masse, for "Father has invited a perfectly enormous
author and psychologist and all that to dinner." And although none of
them had a very clear idea what kind of a psychologist he was, or what
he did, or why he was so perfectly enormous, the very meagerness of
their information added luster to his halo.
The table that night was a dream of loveliness, and the girls had
everything ready and were up-stairs taking a last final reconnoiter
of their physical charms when they heard their father greeting the
perfectly enormous guest.
They filed down breathlessly, eyes bright with anticipation, their
hearts palpitating with the unwonted glory of it. And then--
"Why, it is only the Curious Cat," ejaculated Zee.
"Mr. Wizard," gasped Doris. "Father, you knew it all the time."
"Well, I am glad my girls have been encroaching on your hospitality,
Mr. MacCammon, for otherwise we might not have the privilege of
extending ours to you now."
Mr. MacCammon held Doris' hand warmly in his. "I hope the charm has
not all gone with the mystery," he said. "I was ashamed to conceal my
identity any longer, and besides I wished to see more of you, and I
wanted to know your father. But if you have lost all interest in me
now, I know I shall wish I had not come at all."
"I haven't--it isn't--not by any means," stammered Doris nervously, and
hurried away to the kitchen to look after the dinner.
Oh, but wasn't she glad father had stipulated they should spare no
expense? It was a wonderful, delicious dinner, and when he turned from
gay banter with Rosalie and Zee, to real intense discussion with her
father, and always bending warm and friendly eyes on her--really, it
was too good to be true.
"But I always said I liked him," she told herself, comfortably.
After that he came often to the manse, and many times he took them all
out to the Haunted House, where Mr. Artman was immediately lost in the
depths of huge volumes, and where Treasure and Zee wandered off to
look for baby rabbits with the Corduroy Crab, who wasn't a bit crabbish
any more, and where Rosalie flung herself into a big hammock with a
plate of fruit and a chatty story--and what could he do, as host, but
entertain Doris, who was left without other form of amusement?
"Oh, but you wait till the bishop comes," Rosalie whispered to Doris,
when they were safe in the manse again. "What will he say to these
carryings on? Your very own bishop--"
"He is not my very own bishop. And if he is, I will not have him. And
it certainly is nothing to the bishop if father has a friend."
"I do not imagine the dear bishop cares two cents how many friends
father has. But what your bishop will say to you is more than I can
imagine. And who but a serious sensible girl would ever dream of
bandying with a bishop? Frivolous and all as I am, General, I should
never be guilty of trifling with a bishop's affections."
"He hasn't any."
"Oh, yes, he has. He has oceans of them. But what difference does it
make to you how many affections he has?"
"No difference at all," admitted Doris, laughing. And she added,
flushing a little, but still laughing, "But I should really like to
know whether--father's friend--has any."
And then she ran away, before Rosalie could catch and shake her.
The Chicago trips were very frequent now, and in spite of his evident
pleasure in the new and brilliant friend, Mr. Artman grew more
preoccupied. Sometimes Doris could hear him pacing up and down his room
at night, when he should have been asleep. And very often he pushed his
plate away from him at the table, and could not eat, although Doris
had patiently and painstakingly prepared the dishes he loved best. And
every day he spoke of little headaches, and kept the blinds lowered in
his room, working with the amber glasses. And many times, when they
thought he was working, he was sitting at his desk with his head in his
arms.
"Oh, Rosalie, I can't stand it," Doris cried at last. "I know there is
something wrong with father. But some way--I can't ask him. I am afraid
to. I know he is sick."
"No, he is not sick, Doris. I know what it is."
"Rosalie!"
"One day I got a Chicago city directory--oh, long ago, when he first
began making these trips to see Doctor Hancock--I got a directory, and
looked the doctor up. He is not a minister, as you thought. He is an
oculist."
"Father's eyes!"
"Yes. And last week I wrote to the doctor myself, and told him we
were worried about father, and asked him to tell me. He says father's
eyes are very bad, and he must have an operation as soon as possible.
It should have been done some time ago, but father has been putting
it off. And the doctor says by all means he should rest his eyes for
several months, a year if possible, without using them one little bit."
For a moment all the bright room went swimming before Doris. Then she
cried out, in pain and self-reproach.
"Oh Rosalie, I was happy myself, and I forgot to look after father. It
was you who thought of him."
"That is nothing. Do you remember, Doris, away last fall, when you said
I must begin to solve my problems for myself? I have been trying to,
that is all. And father is one of them. Somehow, as long as I could
throw my worries off on you and father, I was glad to do it, and did
not care what came of it. But when you put things squarely up to me,
I found to my surprise that I had a sort of personal pride that kept
pulling me up to the mark. You were pretty slick, General. And so I
have been sort of looking ahead, and trying to help plan for father."
"I am going to have it out with him right now. He shan't bear it alone
any longer."
She went softly up-stairs, and into her father's room, which was always
in shadow now, although Doris in her happiness had thought nothing of
it, and crept very quietly into her father's arms.
"Let's talk it over, father. How soon do you plan to have the operation
on your eyes? Is Doctor Hancock the very best you can get? Tell me
what arrangements you have made."
[Illustration: "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 warm vitality. 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--the sorrow 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.