Chapter 7 No.7

One afternoon in June Mary went into her husband's office.

"Has The Record come?" she asked.

"Yes, it's on the table in the next room."

She went into the adjoining room and seated herself by the table. Taking up The Record, she turned to the editorial page, but before she could begin reading she heard a voice in the office say, "How do you do, Doctor?"

"How do you do, Mr. Jenkins. Take a seat."

"No, I guess I'll not sit down. I just wanted to get-a prescription."

"The baby's better, isn't it?"

"Oh, the baby's all right, but I want a prescription for myself."

"What sort of prescription?"

"I have to take a long ride in the morning, driving cattle, and I want a prescription for a pint of whiskey."

Mary listened for her husband's reply. It came.

"Jenkins, I have taken many a long ride through dust and heat, through rain and snow and storm, and I never yet have had to take any whiskey along."

"Well, I have a little trouble with my heart and-"

"The trouble's in your head. If you'd throw away that infernal pipe-"

"Oh, it's no use to lecture me on that any more."

"Very well, your tobacco may be worth more to you than your heart."

"Well, will you give me that prescription?"

"Certainly I won't. You don't need whiskey and you'll not get it from me."

"Go to h-ll!"

"All right, I'll meet you there." At which warm farewell between these two good friends, Mary leaned back in her chair and laughed silently. Then she mused: "People will not be saved from themselves. If only they would be, how much less of sin and sickness and sorrow there would be in the world."

Presently the doctor came in.

"I have a trip to make tonight, Mary. How would you like a star-light drive?" Mary said she would like it very much indeed.

Accordingly, at sunset the doctor drove up and soon they were out in the open country. Chatting of many things they drove along and by and by Mary's eyes were attracted to a beautiful castle up in the clouds in the west, on a great golden rock jutting out into the blue. Far below was a grand woman's form in yellow floating robes. She stood with face upturned and arms extended in an attitude of sorrow as if she had been banished from her father's house.

There comes the father now. Slowly, majestically, an old man with flowing beard of gold moves toward the edge of the great rock. Now he has reached it. He bends his head and looks below. The attitude of the majestic woman has changed to that of supplication. And now the father stretches down forgiving arms and the queenly daughter bows her head against the mighty wall and weeps in gladness. Now castle and rock, father and daughter slowly interchange places and vanish from her sight. The gold turns to crimson, then fades to gray. Just before her up there in the clouds is a huge lion, couchant. See! he is going to spring across the pale blue chasm to the opposite bank. If he fails he will come right down into the road-"Oh!"

"What is it?" asked the doctor, looking around, and Mary told him with a rather foolish smile.

The twilight deepened into dusk and the notes of a whippoorwill came to them from a distance. "You and I must have nothing but sweet thoughts right now, John, because then we'll get to keep them for a year." She quoted:

"'Tis said that whatever sweet feeling

May be throbbing within the fond heart,

When listening to a whippoorwill s-pieling,

For a twelvemonth will never depart."

"Spieling doesn't seem specially in the whippoorwill's line."

"It's exactly in his line. Years ago when I was a little girl he proved it. One evening at dusk I was sitting in an arbor when he, not suspecting my presence, alighted within a few feet of me and began his song. It was wonderfully interesting to watch his little throat puff and puff with the notes as they poured forth, but the thing that astounded me was the length of time he sang without ever pausing for breath. And so he is a genuine spieler. I will add, however, that the line is 'When listening to a whippoorwill singing.' But my literary conscience will never let me rhyme singing with feeling, hence the sudden change."

"Now I'll speak my piece," announced the doctor:

"De frogs in de pon' am a singin' all de night;

Wid de hallelujah campmeetin' tune;

An' dey all seem to try wid deir heart, soul and might

To tell us ob de comin' of de June."

"Aren't they having a hallelujah chorus over in that meadow, though!"

Darkness settled over the earth. The willow trees, skirting the road for a little distance, lifted themselves in ghostly tracery against the starlit sky. A soft breeze stirred their branches like the breath of a gentle spirit abiding there. They passed a cozy farmhouse nestled down among tall trees. Through the open door they could see a little white-robed figure being carried to bed in its father's arms, while the mother crooned a lullaby over the cradle near.

For a long time they drove in silence. Mary knew that her husband was in deep thought. Of what was he thinking? The pretty home scene in the farm house had sent him into a reverie. He went back five or six years to a bright spring day. He was sitting alone in his office when an old man, a much respected farmer, came in slowly, closed the door behind him and sat down. The doctor who knew him quite well saw that he was troubled and asked if there was anything he could do for him. The old man leaned his head on his hand but did not reply. It seemed that no words would come in which to tell his errand.

Puzzled and sympathetic the doctor sat silent and waited. In a little while the farmer drew his chair very near to that of the doctor's and said in a low voice, "Doctor, I'm in deep trouble. I come to you because you are one of my best friends. You have a chance to prove it now such as you never had before in all the years you've been our doctor."

"Tell me your trouble and if I can help you, I will certainly do so."

"It's Mary. She's gone wrong, and the disgrace will kill her mother if she finds it out."

For an instant the doctor did not speak; then he asked, "Are you sure that this is true?"

"Yes. She came to me last night and nestled down in my arms, just as she's done every night since she was a baby. She cried like her heart would break and then she said, 'Father, I must tell you, but don't tell mother'; and then she told me."

The old man, white and trembling, looked beseechingly at the doctor.

"Doctor, this must not be. You must stop it before there is any breath of scandal. Oh, for a minute last night I wanted to kill her."

The doctor's face was stern. "If you had killed her your crime would have been far less hellish than the one you ask me to commit."

The old man bowed his head upon his hands. "You will not help me," he groaned.

The doctor rose and walked the floor. "No, sir," he said, "I will not stain my soul with murder for you or any other man." He went to the window and stood looking out upon the street below. Presently he said, "Mr. Stirling, will you come here a minute?" The old man rose and went. "Do you see that little boy skipping along down there?"

"Yes, I see him."

"If I should go down these stairs, seize him and dash his brains out against that building, what would you think of me?"

"I'd think you were a devil."

"Yet he would have a chance for his life. He could cry out, or the passersby might see me and interpose, while that you ask me to destroy is-"

"There's one thing I'll do," said the old man fiercely. "I'll kill Ben Morely before this day is over!" He seized his hat and started toward the door.

"Wait a minute!" said the doctor quickly. "It's Ben Morely is it? I know him. I would not have thought him capable of this."

"He's been coming to see Mary steady for more than a year and they were to have been married three months ago but they quarreled and Mary told me last night that he was going away the last of this week. She is as good and sweet a girl as ever lived. She never kept company with anybody else and she thought the world of him. The damned villain has got around her with his honey words and now he proposes to leave her to face it alone. But I'll kill him as sure as the sun shines."

"Sit down," said the doctor, laying a hand on the excited man's arm and forcing him into a chair.

"Let me tell you what to do. Young Morely's father is a good and sensible man and will take the right view of it. Go straight to him and tell him all about it and my word for it, he will see that they are married right away. He is able to help them along and will make it to his son's advantage to stay here rather than go away. He will advise him right. Have no fear." The old man wrung the doctor's hand in silence and went out.

Several days later the doctor was looking over the papers published in the town and read in the list of marriage licenses the names, "Benjamin Morely, aged twenty-four, Mary Stirling, aged eighteen."

And that is why the scene in the farmhouse this summer night had sent him back into the past, for it was the home of Benjamin and Mary Morely, and it was a happy home. These two lives had come together and flowed on in such harmony and helpfulness and rectitude before the world that the stain had been wiped out. For a merciless world can be merciful sometimes if it will only stop to remember that long ago a compassionate Voice said, Go and sin no more.

The doctor's reverie came to an end for he had reached his destination-a large white house standing very close to the road.

"Don't talk to me while you are hitching the horse," Mary whispered, "then they won't know there is anyone with you. I don't want to go in-I want to see the moon come up."

The doctor took his case and went inside. Mary sat in the buggy and listened. The neighing of a horse far down the road and the barking of a dog in the distance were the only sounds she heard. How still and cool it was after the heat of the day. A wandering breeze brought the sweet perfume of dewy clover fields. She looked across the intervening knoll to the east. The tree that crowned its summit stood outlined against the brightening sky. She was sitting very near the open kitchen window and now saw the family taking their places around the supper table. She felt a little uncomfortable and as if she were trespassing on their privacy. But they did not know of her proximity and she could only sit still in the friendly cover of the darkness. How good the ham smelled and the potatoes and the coffee.

A pretty home-scene!

The father at the head of the table, the mother opposite with four sturdy boys between them, two on each side. The father looked around the board. Stillness settled down upon them, and then he bowed his head. The mother, too, bowed her head. The boys looked down.

"Our heavenly Father, we thank Thee for these evening blessings-" the boys looked up and four forks started simultaneously for the meat platter. Every fork impaled its slice. Mary gasped. She crammed her handkerchief into her mouth to shut off the laughter that almost shouted itself before she could stop it.

The oldest boy, a burly fellow of fifteen, looked astonished and then sheepish. The other three looked defiance at him. Each sat erect in perfect silence and held his slice to the platter with a firm hand. Mary, almost suffocating with laughter which must be suppressed, watched anxiously for the denouement. The blessing went on. The boys evidently knew all its stages. As it advanced there was a tightening of the tension and at the welcome "amen" there was a grand rake-off.

At the commotion of the sudden swipe the father and mother looked up in amazement.

"Boys, boys! what do you mean!" exclaimed the mother.

"We got even with Mr. Jake that time." It was the second boy who spoke.

"We got ahead of him," said the third. "He didn't get the biggest piece this time."

"No, I got it myself," said the fourth.

"Well, I'm scandalized," said the mother, looking across the table at her husband.

"Well, Mother, I'll tell you how it was," said the second boy. "Last night I looked up before Father was through with the blessing and I saw Jake with his fork in the biggest piece of ham. You and Father didn't notice and so he was it. I'll bet he's been at it a good while, too."

"I've not, either," said the accused.

"I told Bob and Jim about it and we concluded we'd take a hand in it tonight."

"Well, let this be the last of it," said the father with mild sternness. "We'll try to have ham enough for all of you without sneaking it. If not, Jacob can have his mother's share and mine."

The trio of boys grinned triumphantly at the discomfited Jake, then, the little flurry over, all fell to eating with a will.

The doctor's voice came to Mary from the room of the patient.

"You're worth a dozen dead women yet," it said. Then a high pitched woman's voice, "I'll tell you what Mary Ann says she thinks about it."

"Has she been here today?" If Mary Ann had been there the unfavorable condition of the patient was explained.

"Yes, she just went away. She says she believes you're just keepin' Ellen down so you can get a big bill out of her."

The doctor was fixing up powders and went placidly on till he got through, then he said "Mary Ann has a better opinion of me than I thought she had. It takes a mighty good doctor to do that. That's a very old song but there are a few people in the world that like to sing it yet. They don't know that there isn't a doctor in the world that knows enough to do a thing like that even if he wanted to. Nature would beat him every time if they gave her a chance."

Mary heard the doctor give his instructions and then he came out. As they drove off she asked, "You came pretty near catching a tartar, didn't you?"

"Oh, that one is all right. It's her sister that's always raising the devil."

"Look! isn't she lovely, John?"

"Isn't who lovely?" asked the doctor, looking back at the house in some surprise.

"The gentle Shepherdess of Night," Mary answered, her eyes on the moon just rising over the distant treetops.

"She's getting ready to 'lead her flocks through the fields of blue.'"

"How very poetical we are."

"Only an echo from a little song I used to sing when I was a little girl."

"Get up, my steeds," urged the doctor, "we must be getting back"; and they sped swiftly homeward through the soft summer night.