"You are not going out tonight, John, no matter how often the 'phone
rings. I positively will not let you." Mary spoke with strong emphasis.
All the night before he had been up and today had been a hard day for
him. She had seldom seen him so utterly weary as he was tonight. He had
come home earlier than usual and now sat before the fire, his head sunk
on his breast, half asleep.
"Go right to bed, dear, then you can really rest."
The doctor, too tired to offer any resistance, rose and went to the
bedroom. In a few minutes his wife heard regular sonorous sounds from
the bed. (When she spoke of these sounds to John, Mary pronounced it
without the first _o_.)
Glad that he had so soon fallen into deep sleep she settled back in her
chair. "I'll protect him tonight," she thought, "though fiery darts be
hurled."
She thought of many things. The fire-light gleamed red upon the hearth.
All was still. The sounds from the adjoining room had ceased. Something
stirred within her and she rose and went softly to the bedside of her
sleeping husband. In the half-light she could see the strong, good face.
Dear John so profane yet so patient, so severe yet so tender, what would
it be to face life without him. She laid her hand very lightly on the
hand which lay on the counterpane, then took it away lest it disturb the
sleeper. She went back to her chair and opening a little volume took
from it a folded sheet. Twice before today had she read the words
written within it. A dear friend whose husband had recently died had
written her, inclosing them. She read them again now:
IN MEMORIAM,--A PRAYER.
"O God! The Father of the spirits of all flesh, in whatsoever world
or condition they be,--I beseech Thee for him whose name, and
dwelling place, and every need Thou knowest. Lord, vouchsafe him
peace and light, rest and refreshment, joy and consolation in
Paradise, in the ample folds of Thy great love. Grant that his life,
so troubled here, may unfold itself in Thy sight, and find
employment in the spacious fields of Eternity.--If he hath ever been
hurt or maimed by any unhappy word or deed of mine, I pray Thee, of
Thy great pity, to heal and restore him, that he may serve Thee
without hindrance.
"Tell him, O gracious Father, if it may be,--how much I love him and
miss him, and long to see him again; and if there may be ways in
which he may come, vouchsafe him to me as guide and guard, and grant
me such sense of his nearness as Thy laws permit. If in aught I can
minister to his peace, be pleased of Thy love to let this be; and
mercifully keep me from every act which may deprive me of the sight
of him, as soon as our trial time is over, or mar the fullness of
our joy when the end of the days hath come."
Mary brushed away a tear from her cheek. "This letter has awakened
unusual thoughts. I will--"
A sharp peal from the telephone.
"What is it?"
"Is the doctor at home?"
"Yes. He has gone to bed and is fast asleep."
"Oh! We wanted him to come down to see my sister."
"He was up all last night and is not able to come--"
"Can I just talk to him about her?"
Mary sighed. To rouse him from his sorely needed sleep was too cruel.
Then she spoke. "I must not disturb him unless it is absolutely
necessary. I shall be sitting here awake--call me again in a little
while if you think it necessary."
"A--l--l r--i--g--h--t--" and a sob came distinctly to the listener's
ear.
This was too much for Mary. "I'll call him," she said hurriedly and went
to the bedroom.
With much difficulty she roused him. He threw back the covers, got up
and stumbled to the 'phone.
"Hello..... Yes..... They didn't? Is she suffering much?.... All right,
I'll be down in a little bit."
Mary groaned aloud. She had vowed to protect him though fiery darts be
hurled. But the sob in the voice of a frightened young girl was more
potent than any fiery dart could have been and had melted her at once.
Slowly but surely the doctor got himself into his clothes.
"I don't think there's any use of my going down there again, but I
suppose I'll have it to do." When he returned an hour later, he said,
"Just as I thought--they were badly scared over nothing. I shouldn't
wonder if they'd rout me out again before morning."
"No, they won't," said Mary to herself, and when her husband was safe in
bed again, she walked quietly to the telephone, took down the receiver
and _left_ it down. "Extreme cases require extreme measures," she
thought as she, too, prepared for her night's rest. But there was a
haunting feeling in her mind about the receiver hanging there. Suppose
some one who really did need the doctor should call and call in vain.
She would not think of it. She turned over and fell asleep and they both
slept till morning and rose refreshed for another day.
* * * * *
A few weeks later circumstances much like those narrated above arose,
and the doctor's wife for the second and last time left the receiver
down. About two o'clock there came a tragic pounding at the door and
when the doctor went to open it a voice asked, "What's the matter down
here?"
"Why?"
"Central's been ringing you to beat the band and couldn't get you
awake."
"Strange we didn't hear. What's wanted?" He had recognized the messenger
as the night clerk at the hotel not far from his home.
"A man hurt at the railroad--they're afraid he'll bleed to death.
Central called me and asked me to run over here and rouse you."
When the doctor was gone Mary rose tremblingly and hung up the receiver.
She would not tell John what she had done. He would be angry. She had
felt that the end justified the means--that he was tired out and half
sick and sorely needed a night's unbroken rest--but if the end should be
the bleeding to death of this poor man--
She dared not think of it. She went back to bed but not to sleep. She
lay wide awake keenly anxious for her husband's return. And when at last
he came her lips could hardly frame the question, "How is he, John?"
"Pretty badly hurt, but not fatally."
"Thank heaven!" Mary whispered, and formed a quick resolve which she
never broke. This belonged to her husband's life--it must remain a part
of it to the end.