composition of a hopeful telegram to Colonel Kent occupied the
resourceful visitor for ten or fifteen minutes. Then he went back to his
patient, who had already begun to miss him.
"You forgot to tell me your name," Allison suggested.
"Sure enough. Call me Jack, or Doctor Jack, when I'm not here and have
to be called."
"But, as you said yourself a few minutes ago, I can't begin that way.
What's the rest of it?"
"If you'll listen," responded the young man, solemnly, "I will unfold
before your eyes the one blot upon the 'scutcheon of my promising
career. My full name is Jonathan Ebenezer Middlekauffer."
"What--how--I mean--excuse me," stammered Allison.
The young man laughed joyously. "You can search me," he answered, with a
shrug. "The gods must have been in a sardonic mood about the time I
arrived to gladden this sorrowful sphere. I've never used more of it
than I could help, and everybody called me 'Jem' until I went to
college, the initials making a shorter and more agreeable name. But
before I'd been there a week, I was 'Jemima' or 'Aunt Jemima' to the
whole class. So I changed it myself, though it took a thrashing to make
two or three of 'em remember that my name was Jack."
"How did you happen to come here?" queried Allison, without much
interest.
"The man who was down here on the fifth sent me. He told me about you
and suggested that my existence might be less wearing if I had something
to do. He just passed along his instructions and faded gracefully out of
sight, saying: 'You'd better go, Middlekauffer, as your business seems
to be the impossible,' so I packed up and took the first train."
"What did he mean by saying that your business was impossible?"
"Not impossible, but THE impossible. Good Heavens, man, don't things get
mixed like that! All he meant was that such small reputation as I have
been able to acquire was earned by doing jobs that the other fellows
shirked. I'm ambidextrous," he added, modestly, "and I guess that helps
some. Let's play piquet."
When Rose came up, an hour or so later, they were absorbed in their
game, and did not see her until she spoke. She was overjoyed to see
Allison sitting up, but, observing that she was not especially needed,
invented a plausible errand and said good-bye, promising to come the
next day.
"Nice girl," remarked Doctor Jack, shuffling the cards for Allison.
"Mighty nice girl."
"My future wife," answered Allison, proudly, forgetting his promise.
"More good business. You'd be a brute if you didn't save that hand for
her. She's entitled to the best that you can give her."
"And she shall have it," returned Allison.
Doctor Jack's quick ears noted a new determination in the voice, that
only a few hours before had been weak and wavering, and he nodded his
satisfaction across the card table.
That night, while Allison slept soundly, and the nurse also, having been
told that she was off duty until called, the young man recklessly burned
gas in the next room, with pencil and paper before him. First, he
carefully considered the man with whom he had to deal, then mapped out a
line of treatment, complete to the last detail.
"There," he said to himself, "by that we stand or fall."
The clocks struck three, but the young man still sat there, oblivious to
his surroundings, or to the fact that even strong and healthy people
occasionally need a little sleep. At last a smile lighted up his face.
"What fun it would be," he thought, "for him to give a special concert,
and invite every blessed moss-back who said 'impossible!' It wouldn't
please me or anything, would it, to stand at the door and see 'em come
in? Oh, no!"
There was a stir in the next room, and Allison called him, softly.
"Yes?" It was only a word, but the tone, as always, was vibrant with
good cheer.
"I just wanted to tell you," Allison said, "that my heart is over the
bar."
In the dark, the two men's hands met. "More good business," commented
Doctor Jack. "Just remember what somebody said of Columbus: 'One day,
with life and hope and heart, is time enough to find a world.' Go to
sleep now. I'll see you in the morning."
"All right," Allison returned, but he did not sleep, even after certain
low sounds usually associated with comfortable slumber came from the
doctor's room. He lay there, waiting happily, while from far, mysterious
sources, life streamed into him, as the sap rises into the trees at the
call of Spring. Across the despairing darkness, a signal had been
flashed to him, and he was answering it, in every fibre of body and
soul.
XX
RISEN FROM THE DEAD
COLONEL KENT, in a distant structure which, by courtesy, was called "the
hotel," had pushed away his breakfast untasted, save for a small portion
of the nondescript fluid the frowsy waitress called "coffee." He had
been delayed, missed his train at the junction point, and, fretting with
impatience, had been obliged to pass the night there.
He had wired to Madame Francesca the night before, but, as yet, had
received no answer. He had personally consulted every surgeon of
prominence in the surrounding country, and all who would not say flatly,
without further information than he could give them, that there was no
chance, had been asked to go and see for themselves.
One by one, their reports came back to him, unanimously hopeless.
Heartsick and discouraged, he rallied from each disappointment, only to
face defeat again. He had spent weeks in fruitless journeying, following
up every clue that presented itself, waited days at hospitals for chiefs
of staff, and made the dreary round of newspaper offices, where
knowledge of every conceivable subject is supposedly upon file for the
asking.
One enterprising editor, too modern to be swayed by ordinary human
instincts, had turned the Colonel over to the star reporter--a young man
with eyes like Allison's. By well-timed questions and sympathetic offers
of assistance, he dragged the whole story of his wanderings from the
unsuspecting old soldier.
It made a double page in the Sunday edition, including the
illustrations--a "human interest" story of unquestionable value,
introduced by a screaming headline in red: "Old Soldier on the March to
Save Son. Violinist about to Lose Hand."
When the Colonel saw it, his eyes filled so that he could not see the
words that danced through the mist, and the paper trembled from his
hands to the floor. He was too nearly heartbroken to be angry, and too
deeply hurt to take heed of the last stab.
No word reached him until late at night, when he arrived at the
metropolitan hotel that he had made his headquarters. When he
registered, two telegrams were handed to him, and he tore them open
eagerly. The first was from Madame Francesca:
"Slight change for the better. New man gives hope. Better return at
once."
The second one was wholly characteristic:
"Willing to take chance. Am camping on job. Come home." It was signed:
"J. E. Middlekauffer."
When he got to his room, the Colonel sat down to think. He knew no one
of that name--had never even heard it before. Perhaps Francesca--it
would have been like her, to work with him and say nothing until she had
something hopeful to say.
His heart warmed toward her, then he forgot her entirely in a sudden
realisation of the vast meaning of the two bits of yellow paper. Why, it
was hope; it was a fighting chance presenting itself where hitherto had
been only despair! He could scarcely believe it. He took the two
telegrams closer to the light, and read the blessed words over and over
again, then, trembling with weakness and something more, tottered back
to his chair.
Until then, he had not known how weary he was, nor how the long weeks of
anxiety and fruitless effort had racked him to the soul. As one may bear
a burden bravely, yet faint the moment it is lifted, his strength failed
him in the very hour that he had no need of it. He sat there for a long
time before he was able to shut off the light and creep into bed, with
his tear-wet cheek pillowed upon one telegram, and a wrinkled hand
closely clasping the other, as though holding fast to the message meant
the keeping of the hope it brought.
Utterly exhausted, he slept until noon. When he woke, it was with the
feeling that something vitally important had happened. He could not
remember what it was until he heard the rustling of paper and saw the
two telegrams. He read them once more, in the clear light of day,
fearing to find the message but a fantasy of the night. To his unbounded
relief, it was still there--no dream of water to the man dying of
thirst, but a living reality that sunlight did not change.
"Thank God," he cried aloud, sobbing for very joy, "Thank God!"
Meanwhile, the Resourceful One had shown the nurse how to cut a sleeve
out of one of Allison's old coats, and open the under-arm seam. Having
done this, she was requested to treat a negligee shirt in the same way.
Then the village barber was sent for, and instructed to do his utmost.
"Funny," remarked Doctor Jack, pensively, "that nobody has thought of
doing that before. If I hadn't come just as I did, you'd soon have
looked like a chimpanzee, and, eventually, you'd have been beyond the
reach of anything but a lawn-mower. They didn't even think to braid your
hair and tie it with a blue ribbon."
The nurse laughed; so did Allison, but the pensive expression of the
young man's face did not change.
"I've had occasion lately," he continued, "to observe the powerful tonic
effect of clothes. A woman patient told me once that the moral support,
afforded by a well-fitting corset was inconceivable to the mind of a
mere man. She said that a corset is to a woman what a hat is to a man--
it prepares for any emergency, enables one to meet life on equal terms,
and even to face a rebellious cook or janitor with 'that repose which
marks the caste of Vere de Vere.'"
"I've often wondered," returned Allison, "why I felt so much--well, so
much more adequate with my hat on."
"Clear case of inherited instincts. The wild dog used to make himself a
smooth bed in the rushes of long grass by turning around several times
upon the selected spot. Consequently, the modern dog has to do the same
stunt before he can go to sleep. The hat is a modification of the
helmet, which always had to be worn outside the house, in the days when
hold-ups and murders were even more frequent than now, and the desire
for a walking-stick comes from the old fashion of carrying a spear or a
sword. If a man took off his helmet, it was equivalent to saying: 'In
the presence of my friend, I am safe.' When he takes off his hat to a
lady now, he merely means: 'You're not a voter.' You'll notice that in
any gathering of men, helmets are still worn."
So he chattered, with apparent unconcern, but, none the less, he was
keenly watching his patient. With tact that would have done credit to a
diplomat, he kept the conversation in agreeable channels. By noon,
Allison had his clothes on, the coat being pinned under the left arm
with two safety pins that did not show, and was out upon an upper
veranda.
Doctor Jack encouraged him to walk whenever he felt that he could, even
though it was only to the other end of the veranda and back to his
chair. Somewhat to his astonishment, Allison began to feel better.
"I believe you're a miracle-worker," he said. "Two days ago, I was in
bed, with neither strength, ambition, nor hope. Now I've got all three."
"No miracle," replied the other modestly. "Merely sense."
That afternoon the Crosby twins telephoned to know whether they might
call, and the nurse brought the query upstairs. "If they're amusing,"
said the doctor, "let 'em come."
Allison replied that the twins had been highly amusing--until they ran
"The Yellow Peril" over his left hand. "Poor little devils," he mused;
"they've got something on their minds."
"Mighty lucky for you that it wasn't a macadamised boulevard instead of
a sandy country road," observed the doctor. "The softness underneath has
given us a doubt to work on."
"How so?"
"It's easier, to crush anything on a hard surface than it is on a
pillow, isn't it?"
"Of course--I hadn't thought of that. If there had been more sand--"
"I look to you to furnish that," returned the other with a quick twist
of meaning. "You've got plenty of sand, if you have half a chance to
show it."
"How long--when do you think you'll know?" Allison asked, half afraid of
the answer.
"If I knew, I'd be glad to tell you, but I don't. I've found out that
it's easier to say 'I don't know' straight out in plain English than it
is to side-track. It used to be bad form, professionally, to admit
ignorance, but it isn't now. People soon find it out and you might as
well tell 'em at the start. You just go on and keep the fuel bins well
supplied and the red corpuscles busy and pretty soon we'll see what's
doing."
The twins were late in coming, because they had had a long discussion as
to the propriety of wearing their sable garments. Romeo, disliking the
trouble of changing, argued that Allison ought to see that their grief
was sincere. Juliet insisted that the sight would prove depressing.
At the end of a lively hour, they compromised upon white, which was worn
by people in mourning and was not depressing. Juliet donned a muslin
gown and Romeo put on his tennis flannels, which happened to be clean.
As they took pains to walk upon the grass and avoid the dusty places,
they were comparatively fresh when they arrived, though very warm from
the long walk.
Both had inexpressibly dreaded seeing Allison, yet the reality lacked
the anticipated terror, as often happens. They liked Doctor Jack
immensely from the start and were greatly relieved to see Allison up and
outdoors, instead of lying in a darkened room.
Almost before they knew it, they were describing their sacrificial rites
and their repentance, with a wealth of detail that left nothing to be
desired. Doctor Jack was suddenly afflicted with a very bad cough, but
he kept his back to them and used his handkerchief a great deal. Even
Allison was amused by their austere young faces and the earnest devotion
with which they had performed their penance.
"We've had your car fixed," said Romeo. "It's all right now."
"We've paid the bill," added Juliet.
"We want to pay everything," Romeo continued.
"Everything," she echoed.
"I don't know that I want the car," Allison answered, kindly. "If I had
been a good driver, I could have backed into the turn before you got
there and let you whiz by. I'm sorry yours is burned. Won't you take
mine?"
"No," answered Romeo, with finality.
"We don't deserve even to ride in one," Juliet remarked. "We ought to
have to walk all the rest of our lives."
"You people make me tired," interrupted Doctor Jack. "Just because
you've been mixed up in an accident, you're about to get yourselves
locoed, as they say out West, on the subject of automobiles. By careful
cultivation, you could learn to shy at a baby carriage and throw a fit
at the sight of a wheelbarrow. The time to nip that is right at the
start."
"How would you do it?" queried Allison. His heart was heavy with dread
of all automobiles, past, present, and to come."
"Same way they break a colt. Get him used to the harness, then to
shafts, and so on. Now, I can run any car that ever was built--make it
stand on its hind wheels if I want to and roll through a crowd without
making anybody even wink faster. I think I'll go out and get that one
and take the whole bunch of you out for a cure."
Juliet was listening attentively, with her blue eyes wide open and her
scarlet lips parted. Doctor Jack was subtly conscious of a new
sensation.
"I see," she said. "Romie made me hold snakes by their tails until I
wasn't afraid of 'em, and made me kill mice and even rats. Only sissy
girls are afraid of snakes and rats. And just because we were both
afraid to go by the graveyard at night, we made ourselves do it. We can
walk through it now, even if there isn't any moon, and never dodge a
single tombstone."
"Was it hard to learn to do it?" asked the doctor. If he was amused, he
did not show it now.
"No," Juliet answered, "because just before we did it, we read about
it's being called 'God's Acre.' So I told Romie that God must be there
as much or more than He was anywhere else, so how could we be afraid?"
"After you once get it into your head that God is everywhere," added
Romeo, "you can't be afraid because there's nothing to be afraid of."
The simple, child-like faith appealed to both men strongly. Allison was
much surprised, for he had not imagined that there was a serious side to
the twins.
"Will you forgive us?" asked Juliet, humbly.
"Please," added Romeo.
"With all my heart," Allison responded, readily. "I've never thought
there was anything to forgive."
"Then our sacrifice is over," cried Juliet, joyously.
"Yes," her brother agreed, with a wistful expression on his face, "and
to-night we can have something to eat."
The twins never lingered long after the object of a visit was
accomplished, so they rose almost immediately to take their departure.
"Cards, Romie," Juliet suggested, in an audible whisper.
Romeo took a black bordered envelope from an inner pocket and gravely
extended a card to each. Then they bowed themselves out, resisting with
difficulty the temptation to slide down the banister instead of going
downstairs two steps at a time.
Doctor Jack's mobile face had assumed an entirely new expression. He put
away the card inscribed The Crosby Twins as though it were an article of
great value, then leaned out over the veranda railing to catch a glimpse
of the two flying figures in white.
"Upon my word!" he exclaimed.
Allison laughed aloud. "You're not disappointed in the twins, are you?"
"If I were going to be run over," remarked the Doctor, ignoring the
question, "I believe I'd choose them to do it. Think of the little
pagans burning their car and repenting in sackcloth and ashes, not to
mention shooting the dogs and living upon penitential fare."
"Poor kids," Allison said, with a sigh.
"Tell me about 'em," pleaded Doctor Jack "Tell me everything you know
about 'em, especially Juliet."
"I don't know much," replied the other, "for I came back here only a few
months ago, and when I went abroad, they were merely enfants terribles
imperfectly controlled by a pair of doting parents."
However, he gladly told what he knew of the varied exploits of the
twins, and his eager listener absorbed every word. At length when
Allison could think of no more, and the afternoon shadows grew long,
they went in.
Consigning his patient to the care of the nurse, the Doctor went down
into the garden, to walk back and forth upon the long paths, gaze, open-
mouthed, down the road, and moon, like the veriest schoolboy, over
Juliet's blue eyes.
Her pagan simplicity, her frank boyishness, and her absolute
unconsciousness of self, appealed to him irresistibly. "The dear kid,"
he said to himself, fondly; "the blessed little kid! Wonder how old she
is!"
Then he remembered that Allison had told him the twins were almost
twenty-one, but Juliet seemed absurdly young for her years. "The world
will take her," he sighed to himself, "and change her in a little while
so even her own brother won't know her. She'll lace, and wear high heels
and follow the latest fashion whether it suits her or not, and touch up
her pretty cheeks with rouge, twist her hair into impossible coiffures,
and learn all the wicked ways of the world."
The wavy masses of tawny hair, the innocent blue eyes, as wide and
appealing as a child's, the clear, rosy skin, and the parted scarlet
lips--all these would soon be spoiled by the thousand deceits of
fashion.
"And I can't help it," he thought, sadly. Then his face brightened. "By
George," he said aloud, "I'm only twenty-eight--wonder if the kid could
learn to stand me around the house." He laughed, from sheer joy. "I'll
have a try for her," he continued to himself. "Me for Juliet, and, if
the gods are kind, Juliet for me!"
His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of the station hack. He
instantly surmised that the man who hurried toward the house was Colonel
Kent, and, on the veranda, intercepted him.
"Colonel Kent?"
"Yes. Doctor--?
"Middlekauffer, for purposes of introduction. For purposes of
conversation, 'Doctor Jack,' or just plain 'Jack.' Never cared much for
handles to names. You got my wire?"
"Yes. Who sent you here?"
"Forbes. Down here on the fifth. Met him out in the next State, at an
operation. He told me to come, as my business was the impossible. Told
me you'd stand for it, don't you know, and all that sort of thing?"
"I'm very glad. How is he?"
"Doing very nicely, all things considered."
"Is there a chance?" the Colonel cried, eagerly; "a real chance?"
"My dear man, until amputation is the only thing to be done, there's
always a chance. Personally, I'm very hopeful, though I've been called a
dreamer more than once. But we've got him chirked up a lot, and he's
getting his nerve back, and this morning I thought I detected a slight
improvement, though I was afraid to tell him so. We've all got to work
for him and work like the devil at that."
"If work will do it--"
"Nothing worth while is ever done without work. Go up and see him."
At the sound of a familiar step upon the stair, Allison turned deathly
white. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe, until the half-closed door
opened, and his father stood before him, smiling in welcome. Allison
sprang forward, unbelieving, until his hand touched his father's, not
cold, as though he had risen from the grave, but warmly human and alive.
"Lad, dear lad! I've come back at last!" Allison's answering cry of joy
fairly rang through the house. "Dad! Oh, Dad! I thought you were dead!"
XXI
SAVED--AND LOST
Alternately possessed by hope and doubt, the young surgeon worked during
the weeks that followed as he had never worked before. He kept his doubt
to himself, however, and passed on his hope to the others when he could
do so conscientiously. Allison had ceased to ask questions, but eagerly
watched the doctor's face. He knew, without being told, just when the
outlook was dubious and when it was encouraging.
The doctor did not permit either Rose or Colonel Kent to hope too much.
Both were with Allison constantly, and Madame drove over three or four
times a week. Gradually a normal atmosphere was established, and,
without apparent effort, they kept Allison occupied and amused.
It seemed only natural and right that Rose should be there, and both
Allison and his father had come to depend upon her, in a way, as though
she were the head of the household. The servants came to her for orders,
people who came to inquire for Allison asked for her, and she saved the
Colonel from many a lonely evening after Allison had said good-night and
the Doctor had gone out for a long walk as he said, "to clear the
cobwebs from his brain."
Because of Isabel, whom he felt that he could not meet, the Colonel did
not go over to Bernard's. Allison had not alluded to her in any way, but
Madame had told the Colonel at the first opportunity. He had said,
quietly: "A small gain for so great a loss," and made no further
comment, yet it was evident that he was relieved.
Rose and Allison were back upon their old friendly footing, to all
intents and purposes. Never by word or look did Rose betray herself;
never by the faintest hint did Allison suggest that their relation to
each other had in any way been changed. He was frankly glad to have her
with him, urged her to come earlier and to stay later, and gratefully
accepted every kindness she offered.
Perhaps he had forgotten--Rose rather thought he had, but her self-
revelation stood before her always like a vivid, scarlet hour in a
procession of grey days. Yet the sting and shame of it were curiously
absent, for nothing could exceed the gentle courtesy and deference that
Allison instinctively accorded her. He saw her always as a thing apart;
a goddess who, through divine pity, had stooped for an instant to be a
woman--and had swiftly returned to her pedestal.
Sustained by the joy of service, Rose asked no more. Only to plan little
surprises for him, to anticipate every unspoken wish, to keep him cheery
and hopeful, to read or play to him without being asked--these things
were as the life-blood to her heart.