THE DOCTOR
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, and father 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 the minutest 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 a pleasure 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 many years 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 go around 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 any old 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 not supposed 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.