REACTION
"Will you have this woman?"
David's clear, low voice sounded over the little church, and the bride
lifted confident, trusting eyes to his face. The people in the pews
leaned forward. They had glanced approvingly at the slender, dark-eyed
girl in her bridal white, but now every eye was centered on the
minister. The hand in which he held the Book was white, blue veined,
the fingers long and thin. His eyes were nervously bright, with faint
circles beneath them.
David looked sick.
So the glowing, sweet faced bride was neglected and the groom received
scant attention. The minister cleared his throat slightly, and the
service went smoothly on to the end.
But the sigh of relief that went up at its conclusion betokened not so
much satisfaction that another young couple were setting forth on the
troubled, tempting waters of matrimony, as that David had finished
another service and all might yet be well.
Carol, half way back in the church, had heard not one word of the
service.
"David is an angel, but I do wish he were a little less heavenly," she
thought passionately. "He--makes me nervous."
The carriage was at the door to take the minister and his wife to the
Daniels home for the bridal reception, but David said, "Tell him to
take us to the manse first, Carol. I've got to rest a minute. I'm
tired to-night."
In the living-room of the manse he carefully removed the handsome black
coat in which he had been graduated from the Seminary in Chicago, and
in which a little later he had been ordained for the ministry and
installed in his church in the Heights. Still later he had worn it at
his marriage. David hung it over the back of a chair, saying as he did
so:
"Wearing pretty well, isn't it? It may be called upon to officiate in
other crises for me, so it behooves me to husband it well."
Then he dropped heavily on the davenport before the fireplace, with
Carol crouching on a cushion beside him, stroking his hand.
"Let's not go to the reception," she said. "We've congratulated them a
dozen times already."
"Oh, we've got to go," he answered. "They would be disappointed.
We'll only stay a few minutes. Just as soon as I rest--I am played out
to-night--it is only a step."
They slipped among the guests at the reception quietly and
unobtrusively, but were instantly surrounded.
"A good service, David," said Mr. Daniels, eying him keenly. "You make
such a pretty job of it I'd like to try it over myself."
"Now, Dan," expostulated his anxious little wife. "Don't you pay any
attention to him, Mrs. Duke, he's always talking."
"I know it," said Carol appreciatively. "I never pay attention."
"You need a vacation, Mr. Duke," broke in a voice impulsively.
"I know it," assented David. "We'll take one in the spring,--and you
can help pay the expenses."
"You'd better take it now," suggested Mrs. Baldwin. "The church can
get along without you, you know."
But the laugh that went up was not genuine. Many of them, in their
devotion to David, wondered if the church really could get along
without him.
David gaily waved aside the enormous plate of refreshments that was
passed to him. "I had my dinner, you know," he explained. "Carol
isn't neglecting me."
"He had it, but he didn't eat it,--and it was fried chicken," said
Carol sadly.
A few minutes later they were at home again, and before Carol had
finished the solemn task of rubbing cold cream into her pretty skin,
David was sleeping heavily, his face flushed, his hands twitching
nervously at times.
Carol stood above him, gazing adoringly down upon him for a while.
Then shutting her eyes, she said fervently:
"Oh, God, do make David less like an angel, and more like other men."
Early the next morning she was up and had steaming hot coffee ready for
David almost before his eyes were open.
"To crowd out that mean little cough that spoils your breakfast," she
said. "I shall keep you in bed to-day."
All morning David lounged around the house, hugging the fireplace, and
complained of feeling cold though it was a warm bright day late in
April, and although the fire was blazing. In the afternoon he took off
his jacket and loosened his collar.
"It certainly is hot enough now," he declared. "Open the windows,
Carol,--I am roasting."
"That is fever," she announced ominously. "Do you feel very badly?"
"Well, nothing extra," he assented grudgingly.
"David, if you love me, let's call a doctor. You are going to have the
grippe, or pneumonia, or something awful, and--if you love me, David."
The pleading voice arrested his refusal and he gave the desired
consent, still laughing at the silly notion.
So Carol sped next door to the home of Mr. Daniels, the fatherly elder.
"Mr. Daniels," she cried, brightly happy because David had consented to
a doctor, and a doctor meant health and strength and the end of that
hateful little cough. "We are going to have a doctor see David. What
is the name of that man down-town--the one you think is so wonderful?"
Mr. Daniels gladly gave her the name, warmly approving the move, but he
shook his head a little over David. "I am no pessimist," he said, "but
David is not just exactly right."
"The doctor will fix him up," cried Carol joyously. "I am so relieved
and comfortable now. Don't try to worry me."
David looked nervous when Carol gave him the name of the physician she
had called.
"He is a Catholic,--and some of the members think--"
"Of course they do, but I am the head of this house," declared Carol,
standing on tiptoe and assuming her most lordly air. "And Doctor
O'Hara is the best in town, and he is coming."
"Oh, all right, if you feel like that about it. I don't suppose he
would give me strychnine just because I am a Presbyterian minister."
"Oh, mercy!" ejaculated Carol. "I never thought of that. Do you
suppose he would?"
But David only laughed at her, as he so often did.
When Carol met the doctor at the door, she found instant reassurance in
the strong, kind, clever face.
"It's a cold," she explained, "but it hangs on too long, and he keeps
running down-hill."
The doctor looked very searchingly into David's pale bright face. And
Carol and David did not know that the extra joke and the extravagant
cheeriness of his voice indicated that things looked badly. They took
great satisfaction in his easy manner, and when, after a brief
examination, he said:
"Now, into bed you go, Mr. Duke, and there you stay a while. Get a
substitute for Sunday. You've got to make a baby of a bad cold and pet
it a little."
David and Carol laughed, and when the doctor went away, and David was
safely in bed, Carol perched up beside him and they had a stirring game
of parcheesi. But David soon tired, and lay very quietly all evening,
eating no dinner, and talking very little. Telephone messages from
"the members" came thick and fast, with offers of all kinds of tempting
viands, and callers came streaming to the door. But Father Daniels
next door turned them every one away.
"He can't talk any more," he said in his abrupt, yet kindly way. "He's
just worn out talking to this bunch,--that's all that ails him."
Next day the doctor came again, gave another examination, and said
there was some little congestion in the lungs.
"Just do as I have told you,--keep the windows up, drink a lot of fresh
milk, and eat all the raw eggs you can choke down."
"He won't eat anything," said Carol.
"Let him fast then, and he'll soon be begging for raw eggs. I'll see
you again to-morrow."
When he returned next day there was a little shadow in the kind eyes.
David lay on the cot, smiling, and Carol stood beside him.
"How do you feel to-day?"
"Oh, just fine," came the ready answer.
But the shadow in the doctor's eyes deepened.
"The meanest part of a doctor's work is handing out death blows to
hope," he said. "But you two are big enough to take a hard knock
without flinching, and I won't need to beat around the bush. Mr. Duke,
you have tuberculosis."
David winched a little and Carol clutched his hand spasmodically, yet
they smiled quickly, comfortingly into each other's eyes.
"That does not mean that your life is fanning out, by any means,"
continued the doctor in his easy voice. "We've got a grip on the
disease now. You are getting it right at the start and you stand a
splendid chance. Your clean life will help. Your laughing wife will
help. Your confidence in a Divine Doctor will help. Everything is on
your side. If you can, I think I should go out west somewhere,--to New
Mexico, or Arizona. It is low here, and damp,--lots of people chase
the cure here, and find it, but it is easier out there where the air is
light and fine and the temperature is even, and where doctors
specialize on lungs."
"Yes, yes, indeed, we shall go right away," declared Carol feverishly.
"Yes, indeed."
"Keep on with my treatment while you are here. And get out as soon as
you can. Stay in bed all the time, and don't bother with many
visitors. I don't need to tell you the minor precautions. You both
have brains. Be sure you use them. Now, don't get blue. You've still
got plenty to laugh at, Mrs. Duke. And I give you fair warning, when
you quit laughing there's the end of the fight. You haven't any other
weapon strong enough to beat the germs."
It was hard indeed for Carol to see anything to laugh at just that
moment, but she smiled, rather wanly, at the doctor when he went away.
There was silence between them for a moment.
At last, she leaned over him and whispered breathlessly, "Maybe it is
really a good thing, David. You did need a vacation, and now you are
bound to get it."
David smiled at her persistent philosophy of optimism.
Again there was silence. Finally, with an effort he spoke. "Carol,
I--I could have thanked God for letting us know this two years ago.
Then you would have escaped."
"David, don't say that. Just this minute I was thanking Him in my
heart because we didn't know until we belonged to each other."
She lifted her lips to him, as she always did when deeply moved, and
instinctively he lowered his to meet them. But before he touched her
he stopped, stricken by a bitter thought, and pushed her face away
almost roughly.
"Oh, Carol," he cried, "I can't. I can never kiss you again. I have
loved to touch you, always. I have loved your cool, sweet, powdery
skin, and your lips,--I have always thought of your lips as a crimson
bow in a pale pink cloud,--I--I have loved to touch you. I have always
adored your face, the look of it as well as the feel of it. I have
_loved_ to kiss you."
Carol slipped an arm beneath his head and strove to pull his hand away
from his face.
"Go on and do it," she whispered passionately. "I am not afraid. You
kissed me yesterday and it didn't hurt me. Kiss me, David,--I don't
care if I do get it."
He laughed at her then, uncertainly, brokenly, but he laughed. "Oh, no
you don't, my lady," he said. "You've got to keep strong and well to
take care of me. You want to get sick so you'll get half the petting."
Like a flash came the revelation of what her future was to be. "Oh, of
course," she cried, in a changed voice. "Of course we must be
careful,--I forgot. I'll have to keep very strong and rugged, won't I?
Indeed, I will be careful."
Then they sat silent again.
"Out west," he said at last dreamily. "Out west. I've always wanted
to go west. Not just this way, but--maybe it is our chance, Carol."
"Of course it is. We'll just rest and play a couple of months, and
then come back better than ever. No, let's get a church out there and
stay forever. That will be Safety First. Isn't it grand we have that
money in the bank, David? Think how solemn it would be now if we were
clear broke, as we were before we decided to economize and start a
bank-account."
David nodded, smiling, but the smile was grave. The little
bank-account was very fine, but to David, lying there with the wreck of
his life about him, the outlook was solemn in spite of it.