An Angel of Mercy
EARLY the next morning Will started for the parsonage. On the way he
wondered if misunderstanding and contention would stand between him and
his father now, as it had in the past, even though a woman's name was in
the balance.
On arriving at the house and attempting to open the door, Will
discovered that he did not have his keys with him. He rang the bell, but
no one answered. A second and a third ring in rapid succession proved
equally unsuccessful. Then he went to the back door and knocked
heavily--still no response. On the way back to the front door he looked
in at a window, but could see no one. Will was surprised and
disappointed. He knew of his mother's absence, but could not understand
why his father was not there at that time in the morning. He gave the
front door-bell a final ring, waited several minutes, and then started
off toward the home of school committeeman George.
As he was passing Stout's Grocery, Sam Billings, who was standing in the
doorway, waved his hand and called:
"Hello, Billy."
"Hello, Sam," Will replied without stopping.
"I thought you'd be 'round here 'fore long. Lively times," Sam shouted,
but Will made no reply. He met many friends and acquaintances that day
who looked curiously at him as he greeted them and hastened by. He had
no inclination for idle talk, nor time; there being so much serious work
to be done, and only a day for its accomplishment, as it was necessary
for him to return to the city that night.
When Will walked into Mr. George's office that morning, that gentleman
had not fully recovered from the effects of Mrs. Stout's visit of the
night before. And when Will had concluded his remarks he felt about as
mean and frightened as a narrow-minded man can feel.
Will called next on the other members of the school committee, the
editor of the local paper, in which much had been insinuated concerning
Barbara, and the deacons of his father's church. At noon he returned to
Mrs. Stout's, and when Barbara asked him where he had been, smilingly
replied, "Calling on our friends."
In the afternoon Will gave his time and attention to the prominent
ladies of the town,--Mrs. Tweedie, Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Jones, Mrs.
Darling, and several others. He was extremely courteous to the ladies,
but when he had finished, many of them knew what he would have said, and
how he would have said it, if they had happened to be men.
Toward night, when on his way back to Mrs. Stout's, Will stopped again
at the parsonage, and found it, as in the morning, apparently deserted,
and concluded that his father had gone away for the day, perhaps to join
his mother.
"Well," said Mrs. Stout as she opened the door for him, "feel any
better?"
"Yes; but I doubt if I've done Barbara any good," he replied.
"It's satisfyin', though, to tell folks what you think of 'em," chuckled
Mrs. Stout.
Will laughed, and went to meet Barbara.
"Been scolding all the afternoon?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Whom?"
Will named the ladies on whom he had called. Mrs. Stout was greatly
pleased, especially when he spoke of Mrs. Tweedie, but Barbara looked
grave.
"What did you say to them, Will?" she asked when he had finished.
"Something that they will never forget," he replied.
"And what did they say to you?" asked Mrs. Stout, curiously.
"Everything except the right thing."
"Made all kinds of excuses, I s'pose, but just wait till the next
meetin' of the club; if I don't make a speech that'll make 'em feel like
a piece of worn-out carpet, it'll be because I'm struck dumb before I
get a chance," said Mrs. Stout, vigorously, and then started for the
kitchen to get supper.
"Have you seen your father, Will?" Barbara asked a moment later.
"No; but I have been to the house twice. Perhaps it is best. I hope to
be in a better mood when I come down next week."
"When you do see him, please try to forget me, just think of him, and
speak to him as your father."
"If you wish--"
"No, Will, because it is right--for your own sake," she pleaded, and he
promised.
Between supper and train-time there was an opportunity for Barbara and
Will to make again the vows of lovers. They forgot the time, the
train--everything except each other; but, fortunately, Mrs. Stout did
not, and when the time came, warned them that further delay was out of
the question by coughing just outside the door, with an effort that was
ridiculous, and asking them if they knew what time it was. Barbara, who
was to accompany Will to the railroad station, ran to put on her things,
and Will called to Mrs. Stout to come in, which she did.
"I can't thank you enough for your kindness," said Will, grasping her
hand. "If it hadn't been for you, I don't know what Barbara would have
done."
"Oh, nonsense, I guess somebody'd come along if I hadn't," replied Mrs.
Stout.
"But she had been to several somebodies."
"Well, I don't see how I could have done any different," said Mrs.
Stout, modestly.
"Bless you for it, Mrs. Stout, I can never forget."
"Bless you again, and again," added Barbara, who came into the room at
that moment, and emphasized her blessing with a kiss on Mrs. Stout's
red, fat cheek. As they were going down the steps, Will turned and
called, "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," came a yell from three lusty young throats.
"Good-bye, boys," laughed Will, with a wave of his hand to the three
youngsters, who had stolen unawares into the hall behind their mother.
"You scamps!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she shut the door, and "shooed"
them back up-stairs.
For a moment Barbara and Will were silent.
It was a beautifully still night, the air was clear and cold--just such
a night as the one on which the sleigh-ride accident had occurred, but
so much had happened since then that neither thought of it.
"When are you going home, Barbara?" Will asked, suddenly.
"Very soon, in a day or two, probably."
"And when--when shall we be--" Will hesitated. "Married" is a difficult
word to speak sometimes, but it came after a moment, and manfully.
"I am ready, Will, when you are," Barbara replied. At that moment they
heard the pounding of a horse's hoofs, and the sound of sleigh-bells,
coming furiously toward them. They stopped to listen, and as the sound
came nearer, Will, thinking that it was a runaway, started into the
road, but Barbara clung to his arm and held him back. Love is selfish
sometimes, and has a right to be. As the team rushed by, they saw that
it was Doctor Jones.
"A race--perhaps with death," said Will, as they walked on. Barbara
shuddered.
The train was late, and while waiting, Barbara and Will slowly paced the
dimly lighted platform. When at last the warning shriek of the engine on
the approaching train came through the still night air, they stopped in
their walk, and with clasped hands watched the glaring headlight as it
rapidly neared them. The station-master, lantern in hand, emerged from
his warm office and shivered when he felt the cold air, but he did not
see the man and woman who stood near.
"Have courage," said Will, as the train stopped.
"And faith," Barbara whispered, as he turned to leave her. A moment more
and he was gone. She watched until the red lights on the rear of the
train had disappeared, then slowly walked toward Mrs. Stout's. In
returning she went by a different road, one that would take her by the
parsonage. The way was lonely, but she did not notice, and deserted
until she approached the home of Mr. Flint, with the black church
looming across the way. A horse and sleigh were standing by the side of
the road, and near the gate two men, one with a red lantern, were
talking earnestly. As Barbara drew nearer she saw that the red light had
been improvised by tying a red handkerchief around an ordinary lantern,
and recognized the men by their voices as Doctor Jones and Sam Billings.
"I can't find a man or a woman who will come," she heard the doctor say.
"He's a mighty sick man, and--" said Sam, but Barbara interrupted him.
"Who?" she asked. The two men had not heard her approach, and when she
spoke they were startled and instinctively stepped back. Barbara
misunderstood their action, and a feeling of bitter resentment arose
within her, as she started to hasten by.
"Oh, is it Miss Wallace?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," Barbara replied.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Wallace," said the doctor, quickly, "it is not
you of whom we are afraid, but Mr. Flint is dangerously ill, and has
been lying in his study unattended since yesterday; Sam, here, made the
discovery to-night. Mrs. Flint is away. I sent for her, but received
word that she is sick too, and I can't find any one to take care of
him. Has Will gone?"
"Yes; but what is the--what is Mr. Flint's trouble?" Barbara asked, and
looked wonderingly at the red lantern.
The doctor knew that Barbara's courage was good, he remembered how
fearlessly she had worked during the epidemic of diphtheria, early in
the winter, yet he hesitated now before answering her question.
"Why don't you tell me?" said Barbara, impatiently. "What is it?"
"Smallpox," replied the doctor.
It was Barbara's turn to shrink from them.
"And no one to nurse him?" she asked.
"No; and that is what he needs more than anything else," said the
doctor.
"There must be some one--are they afraid?"
"Naturally."
"But if you cannot get some one--"
"His chance for life is nothing."
"He must not lie there alone and suffer!" Barbara cried, as the horror
of the situation became more deeply impressed on her mind. The three
were silent for a moment. Each was trying to think of some one who was
competent, and willing to do the work.
"I know who will do it," said Barbara, suddenly.
"Who?" the doctor asked, eagerly.
"I will," Barbara calmly replied.
"No!" exclaimed the doctor and Sam together.
"I must," she replied, firmly.
"But you have been worried, you are in no condition to undertake such
work," the doctor pleaded. "Think of the risk, and the work, day and
night for days, perhaps weeks."
"Will it be any harder to bear than what I have already borne?" she
asked. The men were silent. "Please send word to Mrs. Stout, and--I will
go in now." She turned to go, but stopped when the doctor spoke.
"You may save him, but you will sacrifice yourself. Why should you do
that for the man who--"
"Please, doctor, do not remind me of what he has done--I have tried to
forget."
"Pardon me," said the doctor, who saw that she was determined. "Sam will
be here outside to get anything that you may need. I shall call in the
morning."
Barbara walked up the path to the door of the parsonage. The two men
watched, and, accustomed as the doctor was to scenes of suffering,
sacrifice and death, there were tears in his eyes.
"She's an angel," muttered Sam.
"Courage, faith," was Barbara's whispered prayer as she opened the door
of the pest-stricken house and went in.