A POSTAL SUBSTITUTE
So long a time had passed that Dorothy C. had grown to be what father
John called "a baker's dozen of years old"; and upon another spring
morning, as fair as that when she first came to them, the girl was out
upon the marble steps, scrubbing away most vigorously. The task was
known locally as "doing her front," and if one wishes to be considerable
respectable, in Baltimore, one's "front" must be done every day. On
Saturdays the entire marble facing of the basement must also be
polished; but "pernickity" Mrs. Chester was known to her neighbors as
such a forehanded housekeeper that she had her Saturday's work done on
Friday, if this were possible.
Now this was Friday and chanced to be a school holiday; so Dorothy had
been set to the week-end task, which she hated; and therefore she put
all the more energy into it, the sooner to have done with it, meanwhile
singing at the top of her voice. Then, when the postman came round the
corner of the block, she paused in her singing to stare at him for one
brief instant. The next she had pitched her voice a few notes higher
still, and it was her song that greeted her father's ears and set him
smiling in his old familiar fashion. Unfortunately, he had not been
smiling when she first perceived him and there had been a little catch
in her tones as she resumed her song. Each was trying to deceive the
other and each pretending that nothing of the sort was happening.
"Heigho, my child! At it again, giving the steps a more tombstone
effect? Well, since it's the fashion--go ahead!"
"I wish the man, or men, who first thought of putting scrubby-steps
before people's houses had them all to clean himself! Hateful old
thing!"
With a comical gesture of despair she tossed the bit of sponge-stone,
with which she had been polishing, into the gutter and calmly seated
herself on the bottom step, "to get her breath." "To get yours, too,
father dear," she added, reaching to the postman's hand and gently
drawing him down beside her. Then, because her stock of patience was
always small and she could not wait for his news, she demanded: "Well!
Did you go? What did he say?"
"Yes, darling, I went," he answered, in a low tone and casting an
anxious glance backward over his shoulder toward the house where Martha
might be near enough to hear. But having replied to one question he
ignored the rest.
However, the girl was not to be put off by silence and her whole heart
was in her eyes as she leaned forward and peered into his. He still
tried to evade her, but she was so closely bound up with his life, she
understood him so quickly and naturally, that this was difficult; so
when she commanded in her tender, peremptory way: "Out with it, father
mine, body and bones!" he half-cried, half-groaned:
"Worse than all the others! _I--am--doomed!_"
Then he dropped his head on his hands and, regardless of the fact that
they were on the street, conspicuous to every passer-by, he gave way to
a mute despair. Now when a naturally light-hearted person breaks down
the collapse is complete, but Dorothy did not know this nor that
recovery is commonly very prompt. She was still staring in grieved
amazement at her father's bowed head when he again lifted it and flashed
a smile into her freshly astonished eyes. Then she laughed aloud, so
great was her relief, and cried:
"There, father John! You've been fooling me again! I should have known
you were teasing and not believed you!"
But he answered, though still smiling:
"It's pretty hard to believe the fact, myself. Yet it's true, all the
same. Five different doctors have agreed upon it--which is wonderful, in
itself; and though I'd much rather not face this kind of a truth I
reckon I'll have to; as well as the next question: What is to become of
us?"
Dorothy still retained her baby habit of wrinkling her nose when she was
perplexed, and she did so now in an absurd earnestness that amused her
father, even in the midst of his heartache. During her twelve years of
life in the little brick house in Brown Street, she had made a deal of
trouble for the generous couple which had given her a home there, but
she had brought them so much more of happiness that they now believed
they actually could not live without her. As the postman expressed it:
"Her first act in this house was to spill her milk on its tidy floor.
She's been spilling milk all along the route from then till now, and
long may she spill! Martha'd be 'lost' if she didn't have all that care
of the troublesome child."
This sunshiny morning, for the first time since that far-back day when
she arrived upon his doorstep, the good postman began to contemplate the
possibility of their parting; and many schemes for her future welfare
chased themselves through his troubled brain. If he could only spare
Martha and Dorothy the unhappiness that had fallen upon himself he would
ask no more of fortune. For a long time they sat there, pondering, till
Martha's voice recalled them to the present:
"For goodness sake, Dorothy C.! What are you idling like that for?
Don't you know I've to go to market and you have the lunch to get? Then
there's that class picnic of yours, and what on earth will Miss Georgia
say if you don't go this time? Come, come! Get to work. I'm ashamed to
have the neighbors see my marble the way it is, so late in the day. You
there, too, John? Finished your beat already? Well, you come, too. I've
a mind to take up that dining-room carpet and put down the matting this
very day. I never was so late in my spring cleaning before, but every
time I say 'carpet' to you, you have an excuse to put me off. I confess
I don't understand you, who've always been so handy and kind with my
heavy jobs. But come, Dorothy, you needn't laze any longer. It beats
all, the lots of talk you and your father always must have whenever you
happen to get alongside. Come."
There was a hasty exchange of glances between father and child; then she
sprang up, laughing, and as if it were part of her fun held out her hand
to the postman and pulled him to his feet. But it was not fun; it was
most painful, serious earnest. He could hardly have risen without her
aid, and she had noticed, what his wife had not, that, for a long time
now, he had never taken a seat without it was near a table, or some
other firm object by which he could support himself in rising. Now, as
he loosed her hand and climbed the steps, he kept his gaze fixed upon
those same troublesome feet and caught hold of the brass hand-rail,
which it was the housewife's pride and Dorothy's despair to keep
polished to brilliancy.
Once within the house, Martha returned to the subject of the carpet
lifting and again he put her off; but this time her suspicion that all
was not right had been aroused and, laying her hand upon his shoulder,
she demanded in a tone sharpened by sudden anxiety:
"John Chester, what is the matter with you?"
He started, staggered by her touch, light as it was, and sank into a
chair; then knowing that the truth must out sometime, almost hurled it
at her--though smiling to think how little she would, at first,
comprehend:
"Oh! nothing but '_ataxy locomotor_.'"
"But--_what_? Don't tease. I'm in earnest, and a hurry."
"So am I. In deadly earnest. I'm afflicted with '_ataxy locomotor_,' or
_locomotor ataxia_. It's come to stay. To change our whole lives."
She hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, as he had surmised would be
the case, but something in his tone frightened her, though she answered
with a mirthful affectation:
"Humph! I'm glad it's something so respectable!"
Then she turned away, made ready to go to market, and soon left with her
basket on her arm. But she carried a now heavy heart within her. She had
seen that underneath her husband's jesting manner lay some tragic truth;
and in her preoccupied state, she bought recklessly of things she should
not and went home without those which were needful. So that once back
there, she had to dispatch Dorothy marketward again, while she herself
prepared the simple lunch that served till their evening dinner which
all enjoyed the more in the leisure of the day's work done. And now, in
the absence of the child they both so loved, husband and wife at length
discussed the trouble that had befallen.
"Do you mean, John, that you are losing the use of your feet? What in
the world will a postman do without his sound feet and as sound a pair
of legs above them?" demanded the anxious housemistress, still unable to
accept the dreadful fact.
"Nothing. I can't be a postman any longer. I must resign my position at
once. I've kept it longer than I should. I haven't done justice to
myself or the office in hanging on as I have. But----"
"How long have you known about it?"
"For several months I've noticed that my feet felt queer, but it's only
been a few weeks since they became so uncontrollable. I've not been able
to walk without keeping my eyes fixed on my toes. My legs have a wild
desire to fly out at right angles to my body and--Face it, little woman,
face it! You have a cripple on your hands for as long as he may live."
"I haven't! You shan't be a--a cripple!" protested the impulsive
housewife, whose greatest griefs, heretofore, had been simple domestic
ones which shrank to nothingness before this real calamity. Then she
bowed her head on her arms and let the tears fall fast. This served to
relieve the tension of her nerves, and when she again lifted her head
her face was calm as sad, while she made him tell her all the details of
his trouble. He had been to the best specialists in the city. That very
day he had consulted the last, whom he had hoped might possibly help him
and whose fee had staggered him by its size.
"How long has Dorothy known this?" asked Martha, with a tinge of
jealousy.
"Almost from the beginning. It was quite natural that she should, for
she has so often run alongside me on my routes--going to and from
school. Besides, you know, she has the very sharpest eyes in the world.
Little escapes them. _Nothing_ escapes which concerns us whom she loves
so dearly. It was her notion that you shouldn't be told till it was
necessary, but it fell in with my own ideas. I--I think, though I never
heard of anybody else doing such a thing, that I'll have her go along
with me this afternoon, when I make my--my last rounds. I confess that
since that doctor's word, to-day, I've lost all my courage and my power
to walk half-decently. Decently? It hasn't been that for a long time, so
if you can spare her I'll have her go."
"Of course I can spare her. She was to go to a class picnic, anyway, but
she'd rather go with you. Now, I'll to work; and, maybe, I can think a
way out of our trouble. I--I can't bear it, John! You, a cripple for
life! It can't be true--it shall not be true. But--if it has to
be,--well, you've worked for me all these years and it's a pretty
how-de-do if I can't work for you in turn. Now, lie down on the lounge
till it's time to go to the office again, and I'll tackle my kitchen
floor."
For the first time he allowed her to help him across the room and to
place him comfortably on the lounge, and she suddenly remembered how
often, during the past few weeks, she had seen Dorothy do this very same
thing. She had laughed at it as a foolish fondness in the girl, but now
she offered the assistance with a bitter heartache.
Dorothy came back and was overjoyed at the changed program for her
holiday afternoon. All along she had longed to go with the postman, to
help him, but had not been permitted. Now it was not only a relief that
her mother knew their secret and that they could talk it over together,
but she had formed a scheme by which she believed everything could go on
very much as before.
So with a cane in one hand and his other resting on her shoulder, John
Chester made his last "delivery." Fortunately, the late mail of the day
was always small and the stops, therefore, infrequent. Most of these,
too, were at houses fronting directly on the street, so that the postman
could support himself against the end of the steps while Dorothy ran up
them and handed in the letters.
It was different at Bellevieu, which chanced to be the end of that trip,
and the long path from the gateway to the mansion looked so formidable
to father John that he bade Dorothy go in alone with the pouch, emptied
now of all matter save that addressed to Mrs. Cecil.
She sped away, leaving him leaning against the stone pillar of the
eagle-gate--so called because each column guarding the entrance was
topped by a massive bronze eagle--and waved a smiling farewell to him as
she disappeared beneath the trees bordering the driveway.
As usual, Mrs. Cecil was on her piazza, wrapped in shawls and protected
by her hooded beach-chair from any possible wind that might blow. Old
though she was, her eyes were almost as brown and bright as Dorothy's
own, and they opened in surprise at the appearance of this novel
mail-carrier.
"How-d'ye-do, Mrs. Cecil? Here's such a lot of letters and papers all
for you!" cried Dorothy, bowing, as she swept her hand through the pouch
which she had slung over her shoulder in the most official manner.
"Where shall I put them? I reckon there are too many for your lap."
"What--who--Where's Johnnie?" demanded the lady, leaning forward and
first smiling, then frowning upon the girl.
"Oh! he--he's at the gate," she answered, and was about to explain why
he had not come himself. Then a sudden remembrance of how closely he had
guarded his secret, even from her mother, closed her lips, leaving the
other to infer what she chose; and who promptly exclaimed:
"Well, of all things! Do you know, does he know, that between you the
law is broken? Nobody, except a regularly sworn employee has a right to
touch the United States mail. How dare he send you? Huh! If I do my duty
as a good citizen I shall report him at once. This single breach of
faith may cost him his place, even though he has been in the service so
long."
Mrs. Cecil's manner was harsher than her thought. For some time she had
observed that "Johnnie" looked ill and was far less active than of old
and she had intended that very afternoon to offer him a kindness. She
would send him and his wife away on a long vacation, wherever they chose
to go, till he could recover his health. She would pay all his expenses,
including a substitute's salary. Even more generous than all, she would
invite that girl, Dorothy C., whom they had so foolishly adopted, to
pass the interval of their absence at Bellevieu. She dreaded the
infliction of such a visit. She always had insisted that she hated
children--but--Well, it was to be hoped the postman would have sense
enough to speedily recuperate and take Dorothy off her hands. In any
case, she must be gotten rid of before it was time for Mrs. Cecil
herself to seek recreation at her summer home in the Hudson highlands.
Now her mood suddenly changed. She had desired to befriend the postman
but, if he had taken it into his hands to befriend himself, it was quite
another matter. Let him! Why should she bother with anybody in such a
different state of life? Disappointment, at having her prospective
kindness returned upon her thus, made her sharply say:
"It takes all kinds of fools to fill a world, and I'm sorry to find
Johnnie one of them. Don't stare! It's rude, with such big eyes as
yours. Drop the mail. Carriers shouldn't loiter--that's another crime.
Your father must come himself next time, else----"
She seemed to leave some dire threat unspoken and again Dorothy was just
ready to tell this strange old lady, whom the postman had often called
"wise," the truth of the trouble that had come to him; when around the
corner of the house dashed Peter and Ponce, the two Great Dane dogs
which Mrs. Cecil kept as a menace to intruders. They had just been
loosed for their evening exercise and, wild with delight, were hurrying
to their mistress on her broad porch.
At the sight of their onrush Dorothy caught up the pouch she had dropped
and started to retreat--too late! The animals were upon her, had knocked
her downward and backward, striking her head against the boards and, for
the moment, stunning her. But they had been more playful than vicious
and were promptly restrained by Mrs. Cecil's own hand upon their
collars; while the brief confusion of the girl's startled thoughts as
quickly cleared and she leaped to her feet, furiously angry and
indignant.
"Oh! the horrid beasts! How dare you--anybody--keep such dangerous
creatures? I'll tell my father! He'll--he'll--" tears choked her further
speech and, still suspiciously eyeing the Danes, she was edging
cautiously down the steps when she felt herself stopped.
Mrs. Cecil had loosed her hold of Peter to lay her hand upon the girl's
shoulder and she was saying, kindly but sternly:
"They are not dangerous but playful. They attack nobody upon whom they
are not 'set.' It was an accident; and if any further apology is
necessary it is from a little girl to the old gentlewoman--for an
insolent suspicion. Now go. The dogs will not follow you."
Dorothy did not see how she had done wrong, yet she felt like a culprit
dismissed as she lifted the pouch she had again dropped and started
gateward, still keeping a wary eye upon the beautiful dogs, now lying
beside their mistress in her beach-chair.
As she neared the entrance she cried:
"Here I am at last, father! I didn't mean to stay so long but that
dreadful old woman--Why, father, father! Where are you, dearest father?"
He was nowhere to be seen. Nor anybody, either on the broad avenue or
the narrow street around the corner; and when she came breathlessly to
the dear home in which she hoped to find him it was empty.