FINDING THE PATH
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 can _think_ my 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 old sermons 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 taking hold," 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. The vacation 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 car quite 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 affected your 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 and snuggled 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 go to 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 if _my_ car 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. So if 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 is fine 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 for her, 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 thing as-- 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.