WILL POWER
The old man sat in the same shabby chair, in the same little Eighth
Avenue apartment where he had lived ten months before. He was dreaming
again, although his eyes were open, and his dreams were not the old
dreams of happy confidence.
He looked to be a broken man as he sat there, his mind and body both
inert, in a half trance, half doze. On the table beside him still
stood his electric apparatus, and on the mantel the little Dutch clock
still ticked away soberly.
Men are born and die. Hearts are made glad and hearts are broken, fame
comes and disgrace, but time goes on, unfaltering. Ten thousand years
ago men fought for their brief moment of life, just as they fight
to-day, just as they must ten thousand years from now; the joys that
mean so much to us, the griefs that seem to fill the universe with
sorrow blend in that endless procession of to-morrows into one little
grain of the world's experience.
Through the open window the harsh music of a street piano penetrated
discordantly, and Maria, who was quietly working about the
dining-room, looked up.
"Bother the old thing! They always make him nervous!" She crossed the
room and closed the window, moving so as not to disturb the old man.
The music came fainter now, and the time changed abruptly to a waltz;
the swing of it got into her head, and because she was young, and full
of life and joy, she forgot for a moment the silent, grief-stricken
figure so near to her, and she waltzed back to the dining-room,
humming to herself. It was a fine thing to be alive, she thought, and
to be of real use to this lonely man; he had done much for her, but
now she felt that she was paying some of her debt to him of gratitude.
Without her what would become of him? He was as helpless as a child
and without a child's real desire to live. She busily arranged some
slices of bread and butter on a plate, and placing it on a tray with a
pot of freshly made tea, she put it down on the dining-room table, and
stepping into the front room, stood by the Doctor's chair.
"Your tea is ready, Doctor."
"Oh!" He looked up at her, then made an effort, and aroused himself to
answer. "Thank you, Maria, but I do not care for any lunch to-day."
"You didn't eat nothin' for your breakfast."
"Oh, yes, I did, Maria." He smiled at her very gently. "I am much
stronger and in better health than you will believe. I am not living
an active life just now. I do not require the same amount of food as a
young thing like you."
"You are sick, Doctor," she spoke anxiously. "You can't live like you
have been living for the last six months, doing nothing and eating
less. You'll be on your back the first thing I know; then how will I
take care of you?"
"You are a good girl, Maria, but I am quite equal to my work. I only
wish that I had more to do."
"You can't get patients sittin' here, dreamin' over that darned
thing!" She pointed angrily at the electrical machine on the table.
"You could have all the patients you could take care of if you'd only
try to get 'em. There ain't a better doctor in the world."
"You are a very loyal little thing, Maria."
"No, I ain't. I've done somethin' I hadn't no right to do. I'm going
to tell yer because I'm ashamed, but I'm mighty glad I did it just the
same."
"What have you done?" He spoke quickly, seeing by her manner that she
had something of more than usual importance on her mind.
"I wrote a letter," she answered defiantly, "most three weeks ago, the
very first letter I ever wrote in my life."
"To your sweetheart?"
"No, I ain't countin' him. I've been writin' to him a long time; he
says one kind of spelling is just as good to him as another, but this
letter I wrote to--to--Paris--to Dr. Paul Crossett."
It was out now, and she was afraid to look at him. In spite of the
dependence he had grown to have upon her, she was still very much in
awe of him, and she dreaded to hear the reproach that she knew would
be in his voice.
"Maria!" It was there, he was angry. She knew that he would be, but
she also knew that it had been her duty to do what she had done.
"You--Maria--you would not tell him----?"
"I told him everything!" She burst out, "I told him you was just
killin' yourself, sittin' here, an' thinkin', an' breakin' your heart.
All day an' all night. I told him that the best man I ever knew was
just letting himself fade out and die. And I told him that if he was
the friend I thought he was he'd come here and do something."
"Maria!" He spoke sternly now. "You had no right."
"I know it."
"I am very angry with you. I--I wish that you had told me of it."
"You would have stopped me, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"That's why I didn't. I wouldn't have told you now, only I knew you'd
find it out. I'm expecting him every minute."
"He is coming here." The Doctor rose to his feet in his excitement.
"Yes. I got a cable from him. It came over a week ago. It most scared
me to death when I got it. It's the first one I ever saw."
"He is coming?"
"To-day, the cable said."
"You brought one of the busiest men in Europe away from his work for
me. You had no right to do it."
"Perhaps not." She stood there, afraid of him, but obstinately glad of
the thing she had done. "All I know is mindin' my own business, and
it's my business to take care of you the best I can. There--there
ain't nobody else to do it now. It's only what she'd have done herself
if she'd been here."
It was the first time since Lola had left them that she had spoken her
name or made any allusion to her, and he shrank away from it now
pitifully.
"Please!" He turned away from her, seating himself heavily in his
chair.
"It's only what Miss Lola would have done," she continued firmly.
"I told you not to speak her name."
"I know that you did, the very day after she left home. You told me to
think of her as if she was dead, but she ain't dead. She's out there
in the world somewhere, and some day she's coming back!"
"No! No!"
"Yes, she is, and when she comes she'll find everything ready for her.
She'll find her room just like it always was, and she'll find me just
like I always was, lovin' her. I can't forget what she used to be to
me. I don't care what she's done!"
She had tried a hundred times in the last months to say this or
something like this, but she had never been able to gather enough
courage, and now, no matter what came of it, she was going to speak.
He tried to stop her, but the great love she had in her heart was
stronger than her fear of him, and she went on.
"Sometimes, Doctor, I think, because all day long, every day, I've
been thinkin', and sometimes it seems to me that just those last few
weeks, before she went away, that she wasn't well some way, that
somehow she couldn't help doin' what she did. Maybe there was
something that you and me don't understand, that was too strong for
her to fight. Can't you look at it like that? Can't you get to think
of her like you would of a child that didn't know no better?"
For a moment the doctor looked up into her flushed, earnest face, then
slowly dropped his head on his arms, and leaning forward on the table
he began to sob like a child.
"Oh, Doctor! Don't! Don't, Doctor!"
She tried to soothe him, as gently as a mother might have done, and
with much the same feeling in her heart. She was not afraid of him
now, but she longed to comfort him.
"Please, Doctor! Don't! I won't say any more. Only don't do that.
Won't you try not to be so unhappy?"
As she spoke the bell rang, and she straightened up.
"Hush! There's someone here. Are you all right, Doctor? Shall I let
'em in?"
"Yes, Maria." He recovered himself quickly, for he was a proud man,
and as Maria went slowly to the door he wiped his eyes and
straightened himself in his chair.
"Can we be coming in?"
He looked up to see Mrs. Mooney and Nellie in the doorway, smiling at
him. Nellie was a different girl now. If Dr. Crossett had done nothing
else in his busy life, what he had done for this child would have been
a monument to his skill. Her arm was well, there was a soft color on
her cheeks, and her face was bright with health and happiness.
"Come in!" He answered heartily, and as he looked at her he exclaimed
gladly, "Why, Nellie, how well you are looking. Better every day!"
"She is that, Doctor. Better and happier," said Mrs. Mooney proudly.
"She's just as good as any of 'em now."
"Please, Doctor," said Nellie timidly, as she held out to him a bunch
of simple flowers, "will you please take these? I bought them with my
first week's pay, part of it. I'm working now. Will you take them?"
"Thank you, Nellie." He took them from her with a smile. "They are a
very satisfactory payment for anything I ever did for you."
"She thought you'd know what she was feeling, Doctor," interrupted
Mrs. Mooney. "We can't ever pay, but we can't either of us ever
forget."
"You owe far more to Dr. Crossett than you do to me. It was his
treatment that gave us our start."
A shrill whistle from the old-fashioned speaking tube broke in upon
her before she could express anymore of her gratitude of which she was
so full, and as Maria went to the tube to answer they all turned to
watch her.
"Hello! Oh! Oh! Come up!"
Maria turned to them, greatly excited. "It's him. It's Dr. Crossett."
"Dr. Crossett!" Mrs. Mooney's face beamed with surprise and pleasure.
"We can thank him, too, Nellie."
"You can run along out in the kitchen, both of you; that's what you
can do," replied Maria firmly. "You can see him afterwards for a
minute, but we don't want you here now."
"You must not go, Mrs. Mooney," said Dr. Barnhelm kindly; "the doctor
will be glad to see Nellie."
"Yes, sir. She'll be showing him how strong she is. Why, it will be
hard for him to believe it, sir. She can lift most as much as I can.
He'll be glad to know that he was right. He said she'd be as good as
any of 'em."
She followed Nellie to the kitchen, quite the happiest woman in the
world; even there in that room she seemed to have left some trace of
her happiness behind her, for as Maria looked at the Doctor's face she
thought she saw a softer, less heart-broken look in his eyes, and she
turned away hopefully to open the door for Dr. Crossett. Surely, she
thought, there must be a chance of his doing something to help his
friend, or would he, too, feel that she had done wrong in sending for
him? That thought made her pause, afraid, but the thought went out of
her mind at the first sight of his smiling, kindly face.
"Well, Maria?" He took her hand warmly, but there was an anxious
question in his tone.
"Here he is, Doctor." She showed him into the room where Dr. Barnhelm
was standing waiting to greet him.
"Martin!"
The two men clasped hands warmly. Dr. Barnhelm was greatly affected,
but knowing how gladly his friend had made any sacrifice that had been
necessary to hurry to him, he tried to say as little as possible.
"It is all wrong, Paul. You should not have left your work."
"La! I needed a change; the sea air has made me young again.
Now--you?"
"I--I am well."
"So? You do not look it." He turned gravely to Maria. "You have done
well. He needed me."
"Yes, sir." She was content. She knew now how great a liberty she had
taken, but he had told her that she had done well, and she was happy.
She smiled at him through her tears as she turned to go, but his voice
stopped her.
"Maria!"
"Yes, Doctor."
"There was a sweetheart, eh?"
"Why--yes, sir."
"Still the faithful sailor?"
"Mr. Barnes, sir."
"This is for a wedding gift."
She took a small package from him, and opening it, stood open-mouthed
before a pretty little necklace of French beads.
"Oh, Doctor! Oh! I never saw nothing so grand!"
"You are a good girl, Maria, and this Mr. Barnes is a lucky man."
"Thank you, sir," and she went quietly out of the room, leaving the
two men together.
"Now, Martin!" He turned to Dr. Barnhelm gravely. "Let us have it
out." He seated himself beside him and looked him squarely in the
face. "You do not try to live? Eh?"
"At least I have not tried to die."
"Where is she?"
"I do not know."
"When I left you, you had not tried to know. Have you seen her?"
"No."
"Have you made any effort to see her?"
"No."
"Have you heard of her?"
"Yes."
"Have you written?"
"Once."
"And that once? What did you say?"
"I wrote her," answered Dr. Barnhelm slowly, "that I was coming back
here to live, and that if she ever needed a roof to shelter her, that
she--she could come."
"And in that letter," Dr. Crossett went on relentlessly, "did you say,
'You are my daughter; I love you'?"
"No."
"Do you want her to come back?"
"No."
"Martin! Think of what that means."
"What else have I done for six months, but think?"
"Very well." Dr. Crossett gave up in despair. "We will say no more
about it. You are a sick man, mind and body; that is all that we must
think of now. Do you practice?"
"Yes, not much, just enough to live."
"And that?" Dr. Crossett pointed to the machine on the table. "What
have you done with that?"
"Nothing!"
"And yet you told me once that it was the thing you prayed for."
"I was a fool!" Dr. Barnhelm spoke with a bitterness that until long
afterwards his friend could not understand. "I thought myself
something of a philosopher, and yet I did not know that there is no
curse so bitter as the curse of a granted prayer. It is always so; a
young man prays for fame, and when it comes he finds that it is an
empty word. Another prays for money, and when his prayer is granted he
finds that his happiness is gone. The woman prays for love; it comes,
and she finds the bitterness of it. The mother prays for the life of
her child, and the child grows up and breaks her heart."
"This will not do, Martin." Paul Crossett rose and put his hands
kindly but firmly on the other's shoulder. "You are worn out; you are
not yourself; tell me, do you sleep?"
"Not when I can help it," answered Dr. Barnhelm, with a shudder.
"You will sleep now, and while you sleep I am going to sit beside you.
Come! I will take you to your room; no, I will listen to no refusal. I
have crossed the ocean just for this, to take care of you; the least
that you can do is to obey my orders. Come!"
"But there is no need for----"
"Come!"