THE OLD SOFA.
Early the next morning, the Professor hastened from the dining-room to
answer a rap at his door. And there stood Milford with a roll of bank
notes in his hand.
"Ha, you've got it; I see you have. Let me shut the door. They must not
hear. Was there ever such luck? Yes, let me take it, the money. Is it
all here? Yes, down to the forty cents." He stuffed the notes into his
pocket. He held up his hand to enjoin caution. "They would rather have a
new settee than an assurance of protection against want in the future.
They live from sun to sun. I live for them, but my mind is fixed on the
time to come. I don't know how to thank you. You are a man of nerve. And
that woman! She is glorious. What did she say?"
"Oh, nothing much."
"Didn't she agree that it was the very thing for the Doctor? Didn't she
acknowledge that it would spread the news of his high standing as a
physician and a thinker?"
"Yes, she said it would do him a great deal of good abroad."
"A woman in a million. Did the abstruse parts seem to impress her?"
"Yes, she caught all the kinks."
"The Socrates of her sex. Did she say that she would send it off at
once?"
"By the first train. She was particular to ask if you had let any one
else into the secret. She's sensitive--and as I was about to go, she
asked me not to refer to the matter again, and she hoped that you
wouldn't. I don't think she can bear to be thanked. So I promised that
neither of us would speak of the transaction, even to her."
"Delicate soul! And you did well to promise. My boy, if sincere thanks
are winged things that fly to heaven, there is now a flight of gratitude
to the sky. Won't you come in?"
"No, I've just had breakfast and must go to work."
"Well, I hope to see you again before long. And, by the way, I wish to
tell you that my wife and daughter were charmed with your visit. They
are dear to me, but they do not understand. Pardon me, I am detaining
you."
For more than a week the Professor had drooped under anxiety, but now he
walked high of head. When he entered the dining-room his wife asked who
had called. He answered that it was some one who wanted directions to
Mrs. Stuvic's. Lying might at one time have been a luxury with him, but
now it was a necessity. She rarely expected the truth from him. It took
him longer to tell a lie, and he was fond of talking. And besides, a
failure is under no obligations to tell the truth.
"It took you quite a while to give him directions."
"Yes, it is a roundabout way."
"But you seem to have quite a knack for finding it yourself--to be
presented to remarkable women."
"My knack for finding remarkable women began in my earlier years."
"Indeed! And you have been keeping yourself well in practice ever
since."
"Constant rehearsal with a former discovery keeps me from growing
rusty."
"Well, I don't care, but there's one thing certain! When you come home
to-night you'll find that I have thrown that old sofa out into the back
yard."
"It's a dreadful thing, pa," said Miss Katherine. "It's a disgrace."
"I know it, but we shall have a new one pretty soon."
"I've heard that for years," said his wife. "Why don't you let that old
life insurance go? Gracious alive, it's nonsense to deny yourself
everything."
"It's worse than that," the girl spoke up; "it's almost a crime. We
don't want you to fret your life out for us. If we are to have anything
we want you to share it. You haven't seen anything but worry since you
took out the policy. Let it drop. The money you'd have to give for the
next payment would make us happy. We could get so many nice things with
it, and wouldn't feel ashamed every time a visitor comes into the house.
Do, pa." She put her hand on his arm and looked at him appealingly.
He shook his head. "A crime, you say. Then let us acknowledge it a
crime. But let us also acknowledge that it is not so dark a crime as it
is for a man to die and leave his family in distress. Look at Norwood;
look at Bracken. The neighbors had to contribute."
"But you aren't going to die yet a while," said his wife. "You are in
good health. Well, there's no two ways about it. I'm going to throw that
old sofa out into the yard. I've stood it as long as I can. It's the
first thing a stranger sees when he comes into the house."
"And I imagine that people stop just to look in at it," Katherine spoke
up.
"We might label it as having been the property of some great man," said
the Professor.
"Oh, I know it's a joke with you, but it's not with us," his wife
retorted. "I don't see any fun in a disgrace."
"Have you no respect for the aged?" he asked, trying to wink at his
daughter, but she would not accept it. "Let us trail a vine about it and
call it a ruined mill."
"That's a stab at me, mother," said the girl. "I am not permitted to
have a sentiment."
"Well, I don't want any; I've had enough," the mother replied. "It's
sentiment, sentiment ever since I can remember, and I'm sick of it."
"You want poetry, my dear," said the Professor. "Or at least you set
store by it, for didn't you give Tennyson to the preacher?"
"I don't care if I did, I'm going to throw that old thing out. Wesley,
when is your insurance due?"
"It is paid, madam, thanks be to the Lord. I sent the money off
yesterday."
"Why didn't you tell me you were going to send it?"
"Oh, it was a mere trifle, and I forgot it."
"For pity sake! And where did you get the money?"
"I combed it out of the grass."
"Well, you'd better comb out some for us while you are combing. I've
lived this way till I'm tired of it. Where did you get that money?"
"The grass was thick, and the grass was long, and the comb pulled heavy
and slow."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself. That's all I've got to say."
"I'm afraid not."
"I'll talk just as much as I please."
"I'm afraid so. But let us all be cheerful now. Yesterday it was dark
and misty, and now the sun is bright. Here, mamma, kiss me to my labor.
I haven't drawn at the weak sinews of my feeble salary, and you shall
have enough to buy a new sofa."
"That's a good dear," she said, kissing him. "Don't let what I said
worry you. I didn't mean it."
He whistled at the dog as he went out; he sang merrily as he walked
along the road, with the sunrise on his face and the noontime in his
heart.