Flower of the Dusk

by Myrtle Reed

  XVII

  "Never Again"

  Barbara did not mind lying in bed, now that the heavy plaster cast wasgone and she could move about with comparative freedom. Every day, AuntMiriam massaged her with fragrant oils, and she faithfully took theslight exercises she was bidden to take, even though she knew it was ofno use. She was glad, now, that she had kept the crutches in sight, forthey had steadily reminded her not to hope too much.

  [Sidenote: Bitterly Disappointed]

  Still, she was bitterly disappointed, though she thought she had notallowed herself to hope--that she had done it only because Eloise wantedher to. Perhaps the red-haired young man knew, and perhaps not--she wasnot so sure, now, that he had refrained from telling her through motivesof kindness. But Doctor Conrad would know, instantly, and he and Eloisewould be very sorry. Barbara wiped away her tears and compressed herlips tightly together. "I won't cry," she said to herself. "I won't,I won't, I won't."

  Her father had gone to the city with the red-haired young man and thenurse. He had been gone more than a week, and Barbara had received nonews of him save a brief note from Doctor Conrad. He said that herfather had been to a specialist of whom he had spoken to her, and thatan operation had been decided upon. He would tell her all about it, headded, when he saw her.

  Day by day, Barbara lived over the last evening she and her father hadspent together--all the fear and foreboding. She did not for a momentregret that she had taken his precious letter from him and destroyed it.She would face whatever she must, and as bravely as she might, but heshould not be hurt in that manner--she had taken the one sure way tospare him that.

  [Sidenote: A Long Farewell]

  When he came back, and realised to the full how steadily she haddeceived him, he could love her no more. When he said good-bye to herthe morning he went away, it had been good-bye in more ways than one. Itwas a long farewell to the love and confidence that had bound him toher; an eternal separation, in spirit, from the child he had loved.

  The tears came when she remembered how he had said good-bye to her. AuntMiriam and the red-haired young man and the nurse had left them alonetogether for what might be the last time on earth, and was most surelythe last time as regarded the old, sweet relation so soon to besevered--unless he came back blind, as he had gone.

  The old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice. "Flower of theDusk," he had said, with surpassing tenderness, "when I come back, thedusk will change to dawn. If the darkness lifts I shall see you first,and so, for a little while, good-bye."

  He had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go.When she last saw him, he was walking ahead of the young doctor and thenurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the sameboundless hope that had given Barbara strength for her ordeal.

  [Sidenote: Dr. Conrad Comes Again]

  It was almost two weeks before Doctor Conrad came down. He had beenobliged, lately, to miss several Sundays with Eloise. When Aunt Miriamcame and told Barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden, sharppang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him. He had tried sohard and done so much, and to know that he had failed-- Even in the faceof her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him.

  But, when he came in, he did not seem to need anyone's sympathy. He wasso magnificently young and strong, so full of splendid vitality.Barbara's failing courage rose in answer to him and she smiled as sheoffered a frail little hand.

  "Well, little girl," said Doctor Allan, sitting down on the bed besideher, "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 nicelyfrom the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye ifnot for both. I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, ofcourse, it is impossible to tell definitely until later. His heart isvery 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 justthinking."

  "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 regainshis sight."

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

  His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of herfluttering 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 thatI've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had tosell everything that anybody would buy--the pearls and laces andeverything. He hates a lie and he'll despise me. It will break hisheart. 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 yourfather. If he's half the man I think he is, he'll only love you the morefor doing it."

  Barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "Doyou 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 forgiveyou. But I'll promise you that you shall see him first. As far as thatis 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 gettingon."

  In an instant the man was pushed into the background and the greatsurgeon took his place. He went at his work with the precision and powerof a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was hisinestimable gift. He tested muscles and bones and turned the joint inits socket. Barbara watched his face anxiously. His forehead was set ina 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 reachedfor her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed, butDoctor 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 strangelymingling in her voice.

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

  Barbara gazed at him in astonishment. She stood there in her littlewhite 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 herwaist. 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 threwher arms around Doctor Allan's neck and kissed him with the sweetimpulsiveness 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. AuntMiriam 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 whatwas the matter. I thought perhaps you wanted something." She retreatedas swiftly as she had come. Allan stared after her and seemed to be onthe verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunatelyheld his peace.

  "You'll have to learn," he said, to Barbara,
with a new gentleness inhis tone. "Your balance is entirely different and these muscles andjoints 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 whowould 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," hethought, but he did not say so. "Don't tire yourself, but walk a littleevery day, as you feel like it."

  When he went, he took the crutches with him. "You might be tempted," heexplained, "if they were here, and your father's cane is all you reallyneed. 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 insight, she went up the road to meet him.

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

  "She's all right. It's one of the most successful operations ever donein 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 openinterest of the rocking-chair brigade, marshalled twenty strong, on thehotel veranda. It was October and the children had all been taken backto school. The exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream aboutand 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 alittle 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 gobeyond the shallow water, and speared itself, sharp end downward, in thesoft sand.

  Allan laughed uproariously and Eloise coloured with shame. "Never mind,"she said, with affected carelessness, "you couldn't have made it stickup in the sand like that, and I think it'll get to Europe just as soonas 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 thatstruck it. "Think what it means," said Eloise, "and think what it mightmean. It might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it verymuch might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one whohad it might have died, after long suffering."

  "Or," continued Allan, "someone might have outgrown the need of it andthrown 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. "Ihaven't thanked you," she said, "for all you have done for my littlegirl." She lifted her sweet face to his.

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

  "You needn't," laughed Eloise, "but it was dear of you. You've neverdone anything half so lovely in all your life."

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

  "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'renot jealous."

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

  [Sidenote: Really Glad]

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

  "Oh, my dear! So glad!"

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

  * * * * *

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

  "Pretty much so, I think. We're very sure that he can see a little--hewill not be totally blind. He will probably need glasses, but therewill be plenty of time for that. His heart is the main trouble now. Anysudden 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 cannever tell what's going to break loose next. I have long since ceased tobe surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. I can't getused to that."

  "You will, though," said Eloise, a little sadly. "You'll get so used toit that you won't even look up when I come into the room--you'll keepright 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 afraidto try me?"

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

  A great light broke in upon Allan. "Is that why?" he demanded, puttinghis arm around her. "No, you needn't try to get away, for you can't. Isthat 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'mafraid----"

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

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

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

  [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 backwhatever we put into it. In a way, it's just like a bank. Put joy intothe world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but youcan't check out either money or happiness when you have made nodeposits."

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

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

  A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from somedistant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the stillSeptember night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, andtogether they floated out to sea.

  [Sidenote: When?]

  "Sweetheart," said Allan, "do you see? The leaves are beginning to falland in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going tokeep 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 forestis desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches--when Winter chillsour hearts--then I will come to you, and for a little while bring backthe Spring."

  "Truly, Sweetheart?"

  "Truly."

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