Book: Flower of the Dusk

M >> Myrtle Reed >> Flower of the Dusk




"Well, little girl," said Doctor Allan, sitting down on the bed beside
her, "how goes it?"

"Tell me about father," begged Barbara, ignoring the question.

[Sidenote: The Main Trouble]

"Father is doing very well," Allan assured her. "He has recovered nicely
from the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye if
not for both. I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of
course, it is impossible to tell definitely until later. His heart is
very weak--that seems to be the main trouble now."

Barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed.

"Aren't you glad?" asked Doctor Allan, in surprise.

"Yes," answered Barbara, with difficulty. "Indeed, yes. I was just
thinking."

"A penny for your thoughts," he smiled.

"Are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital?"

"Why, yes--of course."

"They mustn't!" cried Barbara, sitting up in bed. "Or, if they have to,
I must go there. Doctor Conrad, I must see my father before he regains
his sight."

"Why?" asked Allan. "Don't cry, little girl--tell me."

His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her
fluttering hands. The strong clasp was friendly and reassuring.

"Because I've lied to him," sobbed Barbara.

"I've made him think we were rich instead of poor. He doesn't know that
I've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had to
sell everything that anybody would buy--the pearls and laces and
everything. He hates a lie and he'll despise me. It will break his
heart. I'd rather tell him myself than to have him find it out."

"Little girl," said Allan, in his deep, tender voice; "dear little girl.
Nobody on earth could blame you for doing that, least of all your
father. If he's half the man I think he is, he'll only love you the more
for doing it."

Barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "Do
you think," she asked, chokingly, "that he ever can forgive me?"

[Sidenote: A Promise]

Allan laughed. "In a minute," he assured her. "Of course he'll forgive
you. But I'll promise you that you shall see him first. As far as that
is concerned, I can take the bandages off myself, after he comes home."

"Can you really? And will you?"

"Surely. Now don't fret about it any more. Let's see how you're getting
on."

In an instant the man was pushed into the background and the great
surgeon took his place. He went at his work with the precision and power
of a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was his
inestimable gift. He tested muscles and bones and turned the joint in
its socket. Barbara watched his face anxiously. His forehead was set in
a frown and his eyes were keen, but the rest of his face was impassive.

"Sit up," he said. "Now, turn this way. That's right--now stand up."

Barbara obeyed him, trembling. In a minute more he would know.

"Stand on this side only. Now, can you walk?"

"No," answered Barbara, in a sad little whisper, "I can't." She reached
for her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed, but
Doctor Allan snatched them away from her.

"No," he said, with his face illumined. "Never again."

[Sidenote: New Hopes]

Barbara gasped. "What do you mean?" she asked, terror and joy strangely
mingling in her voice.

"Never again," Doctor Allan repeated. "You're never to have your
crutches again."

Barbara gazed at him in astonishment. She stood there in her little
white night-gown, which was not long enough to cover her bare pink feet,
with a great golden braid hanging over either shoulder and far below her
waist. Her blue eyes were very wide and dark.

"Am I going to walk?" she asked, in a queer little whisper.

"Certainly, except when you're riding, or sitting down, or asleep."

"I can't believe it," she answered, with quivering lips. Then she threw
her arms around Doctor Allan's neck and kissed him with the sweet
impulsiveness of a child.

"Thank you," he said, softly. "Now we'll walk."

[Sidenote: Walking Again]

He put his arm around her and Barbara took a few stumbling steps. Aunt
Miriam opened the door and came in.

"Look," cried Barbara. "I'm walking."

"So I see," replied Miriam. "I heard the noise and came up to see what
was the matter. I thought perhaps you wanted something." She retreated
as swiftly as she had come. Allan stared after her and seemed to be on
the verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunately
held his peace.

"You'll have to learn," he said, to Barbara, with a new gentleness in
his tone. "Your balance is entirely different and these muscles and
joints will have to learn to work. Keep up the exercise and the massage.
You can have a cane, if you like, but no crutches. Is there someone who
would help you for an hour or so every day?"

"Roger would," she said, "or Aunt Miriam."

"Better get Roger--he'll be stronger. And also more willing," he
thought, but he did not say so. "Don't tire yourself, but walk a little
every day, as you feel like it."

When he went, he took the crutches with him. "You might be tempted," he
explained, "if they were here, and your father's cane is all you really
need. Be a good girl and I'll come up again soon."

* * * * *

[Sidenote: A Great Success]

Eloise was watching from the piazza of the hotel, and, when he came in
sight, she went up the road to meet him.

"Oh, Allan," she cried, breathlessly, as she saw the crutches. "Is
she----?"

"She's all right. It's one of the most successful operations ever done
in that line, even if I do say it as shouldn't."

"Of course," smiled Eloise, looking up at him fondly. "I know _that_."

They walked together down to the shore, followed by the deep and open
interest of the rocking-chair brigade, marshalled twenty strong, on the
hotel veranda. It was October and the children had all been taken back
to school. The exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream about
and be spoken of only in reverent whispers.

The tide was going out. Allan hurled one of the crutches far out to sea.
"They've worked faithfully and long," he said, "and they deserve a
little jaunt to Europe. Here goes."

He was about to throw the other, but Eloise took it from him. "Let me,"
she suggested. "I'd love to throw a crutch over to Europe."

She tried it, with the customary feminine awkwardness. It did not go
beyond the shallow water, and speared itself, sharp end downward, in the
soft sand.

Allan laughed uproariously and Eloise coloured with shame. "Never mind,"
she said, with affected carelessness, "you couldn't have made it stick
up in the sand like that, and I think it'll get to Europe just as soon
as yours does, so there."

They sat down on the beach, sheltered from prying eyes by a sand dune,
and directly opposite the crutch, which wobbled with every wave that
struck it. "Think what it means," said Eloise, "and think what it might
mean. It might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it very
much might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one who
had it might have died, after long suffering."

"Or," continued Allan, "someone might have outgrown the need of it and
thrown it away, as the tiny dwellers in the sea cast off their shells."

[Sidenote: Thanks]

Eloise turned to him, with her deep eyes soft with luminous mist. "I
haven't thanked you," she said, "for all you have done for my little
girl." She lifted her sweet face to his.

"If you're going to thank me like that," said Allan, huskily, "I'll cut
up the whole township and not even bother to save the pieces."

"You needn't," laughed Eloise, "but it was dear of you. You've never
done anything half so lovely in all your life."

"It was you who did it, dear. I was but the humble instrument in your
hands."

"Was Barbara glad?"

"I think so. She kissed me, too, but not like that."

"Did she, really? The sweet, shy little thing. Bless her heart."

"I infer, Miss Wynne," remarked Allan, in a judicial tone, "that you're
not jealous."

"Jealous? I should say not. Anybody who can get you away from me," she
added, as an afterthought, "can have you with my blessing and a few
hints as to your management."

[Sidenote: Really Glad]

"Safe offer," he commented. "Are you really glad I've done what I have
for Barbara?"

"Oh, my dear! So glad!"

"Then," suggested Allan, hopefully, "don't you think I should be thanked
again?"

* * * * *

"I forgot to ask you about that dear old man," said Eloise, after a
little. "Is he going to be all right, too?"

"Pretty much so, I think. We're very sure that he can see a little--he
will not be totally blind. He will probably need glasses, but there
will be plenty of time for that. His heart is the main trouble now. Any
sudden excitement or shock might easily prove fatal."

"Of course he won't have that."

[Sidenote: Will It Last?]

"We'll hope not, but life itself is more or less exciting and you can
never tell what's going to break loose next. I have long since ceased to
be surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. I can't get
used to that."

"You will, though," said Eloise, a little sadly. "You'll get so used to
it that you won't even look up when I come into the room--you'll keep
right on reading your paper."

"Impossible."

"That's what they all say, but it's so."

"Have all your previous husbands changed so quickly that you're afraid
to try me?"

"I've seen it so much," sighed Eloise.

A great light broke in upon Allan. "Is that why?" he demanded, putting
his arm around her. "No, you needn't try to get away, for you can't. Is
that why I'm sentenced to all this infernal waiting?"

Eloise bit her lips and did not answer.

"Is it?" he asked, authoritatively.

"A little," she whispered. "This is so sweet, and sometimes I'm
afraid----"

"Darling! Darling!" he said, drawing her closer. "You make me ashamed of
my fellowmen when you say that. But do you want the year to stand still
always at June?"

"No," she answered. "I'm willing to grow with Love, from all the promise
of Spring into the harvest and even into Winter, as long as the
sweetness is there. Don't you understand, Allan? Who would wish for June
when Indian Summer fills all the silences with shimmering amethystine
haze? And who would give up a keen, crisp Winter day, when the air sets
the blood to tingling, for apple blossoms or even roses? It's not
that--I only want the sweetness to stay."

"Please God, it shall," returned Allan, solemnly. He was profoundly
moved.

[Sidenote: Bank of Life]

"It shouldn't be so hard to keep it," went on Eloise, thoughtfully.
"I've been thinking about it a good deal, lately. Life will give us back
whatever we put into it. In a way, it's just like a bank. Put joy into
the world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but you
can't check out either money or happiness when you have made no
deposits."

"Very true," he responded. "I never thought of it in just that way
before."

"If you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter, and
perfect faith--I think they'll all come back, some day."

A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some
distant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still
September night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and
together they floated out to sea.

[Sidenote: When?]

"Sweetheart," said Allan, "do you see? The leaves are beginning to fall
and in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going to
keep me waiting for wife and home?"

"I--don't--know."

"Dear, can't you trust me?"

"Yes, always," she answered, quickly. "You know that."

"Then when?"

"When all the colour is gone," she said, after a pause. "When the forest
is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches--when Winter chills
our hearts--then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back
the Spring."

"Truly, Sweetheart?"

"Truly."

"You'll never be sorry, dear." He took her into his arms and sealed her
promise upon her lips.




XVIII

The Passing of Fido


[Sidenote: Alone in the Office]

Fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours. The old man,
who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be
impatient with him when he felt playful, had both gone out. The door was
locked and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous
scratch or even a pleading whine. When people knocked, they went away
again, almost immediately.

The window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was
no chair near. He walked restlessly around the office, stopping at
intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were
much too large for the rest of him. He chased a fly that tickled his
ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane, out
of his reach.

It seemed that something serious must have happened, for Fido had never
been left alone so long before. If he had known that the old man was
conversing pleasantly with some fellow-citizens at the grocery store,
and that the young one had his arm around a laughing girl in white,
trying to teach her to walk, he would have been very indignant indeed.

Several times, lately, Fido had noticed, the young man had gone out
shortly after the old one went to the post-office. It would be, usually,
half a day later when his master returned with a letter or two, or often
with none. The young man took pains to get back before the old one did,
which was well, for there should always be someone in a lawyer's office
to receive clients and keep dogs from being lonely.

[Sidenote: Pangs of Hunger]

The pangs of a devastating hunger assailed Fido, which was not strange,
for it was long past the hour when the old man usually took a bulky
parcel out of his desk, spread a newspaper upon the floor, and bade Fido
eat of cold potatoes, meat, and bread. There was, nearly always, a nice,
juicy bone to beguile the tedium of the afternoon. Fido and the old man
seldom went home to supper before half past five, and Fido would have
been famished were it not for the comfort of the bone.

He sniffed around the larger of the two desks. A tempting odour came
from a drawer far above. He stood on his hind legs and reached up as far
as he could, but the drawer was closed. So was every other drawer in the
office, except one, and that was in the young man's desk. Probably
there was nothing in it for a hungry dog--there never had been.

[Sidenote: The Little Red Box]

Still, it might be well to investigate. Fido laboriously climbed up on
the chair and put his paws upon the edge of the open drawer. There was
nothing in it but papers and a small, square, red box with a rubber band
around it.

Fido took the box in his mouth and jumped down. He pushed it with paws
and nose over to his own particular corner, sniffing appreciatively
meanwhile. It took much vigorous chewing to get the rubber band off and
to make a hole in one corner of the box, out of which rolled a great
number of small, cylindrical objects. They were not like anything Fido
had ever eaten before, but hungry little dogs must take what they can
find. So he gulped them all down but one. This one refused to be
swallowed and Fido quickly repented of his rashness, for it was
distinctly not good. He ate the rubber band and all but a little piece
of the red box before the taste was quite gone out of his mouth. Even
then, a drink of fresh, cool water would have been very acceptable, but
there was nobody to care whether a little dog died of thirst or not.

The bluebottle fly buzzed loudly upon the window-pane, but Fido no
longer aspired to him. A vast weariness took the place of his former
restlessness. He sat and blinked at his ill-assorted feet for some
time, then dragged himself lazily toward his cushion in the corner.
Before he reached it, he was so very sleepy that he lay down upon the
floor. In less than five minutes, he was off to the canine dreamland,
one paw still caressingly laid over the fragments of the little red box.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Judge Returns]

When the Judge came in, an hour later, he was much surprised to find the
office locked and the cards of three valued clients on the floor under
the door. There had been four, but Fido had eaten the first one. Two of
them were marked with the hour of the call. It indicated, plainly, to a
logical mind, that Roger had left the office soon after he did, and had
not returned. It was very strange.

Fido slumbered on, though hitherto the sound of his master's step would
awaken him to noisy and affectionate demonstrations. The Judge turned
Fido over with a friendly foot, but there was no answer save a wide
yawn. He brought the parcel of bread and meat and opened it, leaving it
on the floor close by. Then he took a chicken bone and held it to the
sleeper's nose, but Fido turned away as though from an annoying fly.

As the dog had never before failed to take immediate interest in a
chicken bone, the Judge was alarmed. He picked up the fragments of the
little red box and wondered if anyone could have poisoned his pet. He
brought fresh water, but Fido, hitherto possessed of an unquenchable
thirst, failed to respond.

When Roger came in, belated and breathless, he found his explanations
coldly received. Whether or not Barbara North ever walked was evidently
a matter of no particular concern to the Judge. It was also of no
immediate importance that clients had come and found the office empty,
even though one of them, presumably, had intended to settle an account
of long standing. The vital question was simply this: what was the
matter with Fido?

Roger did not know. Though Fido's disdain of food and drink might be
abnormal, his position on the floor and his deep breathing were quite
natural.

[Sidenote: An Inquiry]

Then the fragments of the little red box were presented to Roger, and
inquiry made as to the contents. Also, had Roger tried to poison the
Judge's pet?

Roger had not. The box had contained a prescription for lumbago which
Doctor Conrad had given his mother. It was in the drawer in his desk. He
might possibly have left the drawer open--probably had, as the box was
gone.

The Judge was deeply desirous of knowing why Mrs. Austin's lumbago cure
should be kept in the office, within reach of unwary pets. After
considerable hesitation, Roger explained.

The owner of Fido was highly incensed. First, he condemned the entire
procedure as "criminal carelessness," setting forth his argument in
unparliamentary language. Then, remembering that Roger had not really
loved Fido, he brought forth an unworthy motive, and accused the hapless
young man of murderous intent.

[Sidenote: The Judge Commands]

Roger would kindly borrow the miniature express waggon which was the
prized possession of the postmaster's small son, place the cushion in
it, with its precious burden, and convey Fido, with all possible
tenderness, to his other and larger cushion in the Judge's own bedroom.
He would take the cold chicken, too, please, for if Fido ever wanted
anything again in this world, it would probably be chicken.

The Judge would follow as soon as he had written to his clients and
expressed his regret that his clerk's numerous social duties did not
permit of his giving much time to his business. And, the Judge added, as
an afterthought, if Fido should die, it would not be necessary for Roger
to return to the office. He wanted someone who could be trusted not to
poison his dog while he was out.

Roger was too much disturbed to be conscious of the ludicrous aspect he
presented to the public eye as he went down the main thoroughfare of
Riverdale, dragging the small cart which contained the slumbering Fido
and his cushion. He did not even hear the pointed comments made by the
young of both sexes whom he encountered on his interminable walk, and
forgot to thank the postmaster for the loan of the cart when he returned
it, empty save for a fragment of cold chicken and a faint, doggy smell.

[Sidenote: On the Beach]

For obvious reasons, he could not go to the office and he did not like
to take his disturbing mood to Barbara. Besides, his mother, who now had
long wakeful periods in the daytime, might see him and ask unpleasant
questions. He went down to the beach, yearning for solitude, and settled
himself in the shelter of a sand dune to meditate upon the unhappy
events of the day.

He did not realise that the sand dune belonged to Eloise, and that she
was wont to sit there with Doctor Conrad, out of the wind, and safely
screened from the argus-eyed rocking-chairs on the veranda. He was so
preoccupied that he did not even hear the sound of their voices as they
approached. Turning the corner quickly, they almost stumbled over him.

"Upon my word," cried Eloise. "Sir Knight of the Dolorous Countenance,
what has gone wrong?"

"Nothing," answered Roger, miserably.

"Anybody dead?" queried Allan, lazily stretching himself upon the sand.

"Not yet, but somebody is dying."

"Who?" demanded Eloise. "Barbara, or your mother? Who is it?"

"Fido," said Roger hopelessly, staring out to sea.

Allan laughed, but Eloise returned, kindly: "I didn't know you had a
dog. I'm sorry."

"He isn't mine," explained Roger; "I only wish he were. If he had been,"
he added, viciously, "he'd have died a violent death long ago."

[Sidenote: Miss Wynne's Plans]

Little by little, the whole story came out. Allan kept his face straight
with difficulty, but Eloise was genuinely distressed. "Don't worry," she
said, sympathetically. "If Fido dies and the Judge won't take you back,
I can probably find an opening for you in town. Your office work will
pay your expenses, so you can go to law school in the evenings and be
ready for your examinations in the Spring."

"Oh, Miss Wynne," cried Roger. "How good you are! I don't wonder Barbara
calls you her Fairy Godmother."

"Barbara is coming to town to spend the Winter with me," Eloise went on,
happily. "She's never had a good time and I'm going to give her one. As
soon as she's strong enough, and can walk well, I'm going to take her,
bag and baggage. It's all I'm waiting here for."

In a twinkling, Roger's despair was changed to something entirely
different. "Oh," he cried, "I do hope Fido will die. Do you think there
is any chance?" he asked, eagerly, of Allan.

"I should think, from what you tell me," remarked Allan, judicially,
"that Fido was nearly through with his earthly troubles. A dose of that
size might easily keep any of us from worrying any longer about the
price of meat and next month's rent."

"Mother won't like it," said Roger, soberly. "She may not be willing for
me to go."

"She should be," returned Allan, "as you've saved her life at the
expense of Fido's. When I go up to see Barbara this afternoon, I'll stop
in and tell her."

[Sidenote: Unexpected Call]

Miss Mattie was awake, but yawning, when he knocked at her door. "There
wasn't no call for you to come," she said, inhospitably; "the medicine
ain't used up yet."

"Let me see the box, please."

She shuffled off to the kitchen cupboard and brought it to him. There
were half a dozen flour-filled capsules in it. Allan observed that the
druggist, in writing the directions on the cover, had failed to add the
last two words.

"Idiot," he said, under his breath. "I wrote, 'Take two every four hours
until relieved.'"

"I was relieved," explained Miss Mattie, "and I've had fine sleep ever
since. It's wore off considerable in the last three days, though."

Allan then told her, in vivid and powerful language, how the druggist's
error might have had very serious results, had it not been for Roger's
presence of mind in substituting the flour-filled capsules for the
"searching medicine." He was surprised to find that Miss Mattie was
ungrateful, and that she violently resented the imposition.

[Sidenote: Notion of Economy]

"Roger's just like his pa," she said, with the dull red rising in her
cheeks. "He never had no notion of economy. When I'm takin' a dollar and
twenty cents' worth of medicine, to keep it from bein' wasted, Roger
goes and puts flour into the covers of it, and feeds the expensive
medicine to Judge Bascom's Fido. He thinks more of that dog than he does
of his sick mother."

"My dear Mrs. Austin," said Allan, solemnly, "have you not heard the
news?"

"What news?" she demanded, bristling.

"Little Fido is dying. He took all the medicine and has been asleep ever
since. By morning, he will be dead."

Miss Mattie's jaw dropped. "Would you mind tellin' me," she asked,
suspiciously, "why you took it on yourself to give me medicine that
would pizen a dog? I might have took it all at once, to save it. Once
I was minded to."

"Roger saved your life," said Allan, endeavouring to make his tone
serious. "And because of it, he is about to lose his position. The Judge
is so disturbed over Fido's approaching dissolution that he has told
Roger never to come back any more. Unless we can find him a place in
town, he has sacrificed his whole future to save his mother's life."

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