XXVII. THE IMAGE OF DREAD
In the comfortable little sitting-room of the Scott cottage Doris stood,looking eagerly from the window which gave upon the road. Behind her onthe other side of the room, could be seen through a partly opened door,a neatly spread bed, with a hand lying quietly on the patched coverlet.It was a strong looking hand which, even when quiescent, conveyed theidea of purpose and vitality. As Doris said, the fingers never curledup languidly, but always with the hint of a clench. Several weekshad passed since the departure of Sweetwater and the invalid was fastgaining strength. To-morrow, he would be up.
Was Doris thinking of him? Undoubtedly, for her eyes often flashed hisway; but her main attention was fixed upon the road, though no one wasin sight at the moment. Some one had passed for whose return she looked;some one whom, if she had been asked to describe, she would have calleda tall, fine-looking man of middle age, of a cultivated appearanceseldom seen in this small manufacturing town; seldom seen, possibly, inany town. He had glanced up at the window as he went by, in a manner toomarked not to excite her curiosity. Would he look up again when he cameback? She was waiting there to see. Why, she did not know. She was notused to indulging in petty suppositions of this kind; her life wastoo busy, her anxieties too keen. The great dread looming ever beforeher,--the dread of that hour when she must speak,--left her very littleheart for anything dissociated with this coming event. For a girl ofseventeen she was unusually thoughtful. Life had been hard in thislittle cottage since her mother died, or rather she had felt itsresponsibilities keenly.
Life itself could not be hard where Oswald Brotherson lived; neither toman, nor woman. The cheer of some natures possesses a divine faculty. Ifit can help no other way, it does so by the aid of its own light. Suchwas the character of this man's temperament. The cottage was a happyplace; only--she never fathomed the depths of that only. If in thesedays she essayed at times to do so, she gave full credit to the Dreadwhich rose ever before her--rose like a ghost! She, Doris, led byinscrutable Fate, was waiting to hurt him who hurt nobody; whose merepresence was a blessing.
But her interest had been caught to-day, caught by this stranger, andwhen during her eager watch the small messenger from the Works cameto the door with the usual daily supply of books and magazines for thepatient, she stepped out on the porch to speak to him and to point outthe gentleman who was now rapidly returning from his stroll up the road.
"Who is that, Johnny?" she asked. "You know everybody who comes to town.What is the name of the gentleman you see coming?"
The boy looked, searched his memory, not without some show of misgiving.
"A queer name," he admitted at last. "I never heard the likes of it herebefore. Shally something. Shally--Shally--"
"Challoner?"
"Yes, that's it. How could you guess? He's from New York. Nobody knowswhy he's here. Don't seem to have no business."
"Well, never mind. Run on, Johnny. And don't forget to come earlierto-morrow; Mr. Brotherson gets tired waiting."
"Does he? I'll come quick then; quick as I can run." And he sped off ata pace which promised well for the morrow.
Challoner! There was but one Challoner in the world for DorisScott,--Edith's father. Was this he? It must be, or why this hauntingsense of something half remembered as she caught a glimpse of his face.Edith's father! and he was approaching, approaching rapidly, on his wayback to town. Would he stop this time? As the possibility struck her,she trembled and drew back, entering the house, but pausing in the hallwith her ear turned to the road. She had not closed the door; somethingwithin--a hope or a dread--had prevented that. Would he take it as aninvitation to come in? No, no; she was not ready for such an encounteryet. He might speak Edith's name; Oswald might hear and--with a gaspshe recognised the closeness of his step; heard it lag, almost halt justwhere the path to the house ran into the roadside. But it passed on. Hewas not going to force an interview yet. She could hear him retreatingfurther and further away. The event was not for this day, thank God! Shewould have one night at least in which to prepare herself.
With a sense of relief so great that she realised, for one shockedmoment, the full extent of her fears, she hastened back into thesitting-room, with her collection of books and pamphlets. A low voicegreeted her. It came from the adjoining room.
"Doris, come here, sweet child. I want you."
How she would have bounded joyously at the summons, had not that Dreadraised its bony finger in every call from that dearly loved voice. As itwas, her feet moved slowly, lingering at the sound. But they carried herto his side at last, and once there, she smiled.
"See what an armful," she cried in joyous greeting, as she held out thebundle she had brought. "You will be amused all day. Only, do not tireyourself."
"I do not want the papers, Doris; not yet. There's something else whichmust come first. Doris, I have decided to let you write to her. I'm somuch better now, she will not feel alarmed. I must--must get a word fromher. I'm starving for it. I lie here and can think of nothing else. Amessage--one little message of six short words would set me on my feetagain. So get your paper and pen, dear child, and write her one of yourprettiest letters."
Had he loved her, he would have perceived the chill which shook herwhole body, as he spoke. But his first thought, his penetrating thought,was not for her and he saw only the answering glance, the patient smile.She had not expected him to see more. She knew that she was quite safefrom the divining look; otherwise, he would have known her secret longago.
"I'm ready," said she. But she did not lay down her bundle. She was notready for her task, poor child. She quailed before it. She quailed somuch that she feared to stir lest he should see that she had no commandover her movements.
The man who watched without seeing wondered that she stood so still andspoke so briefly. But only for a moment. He thought he understood herhesitation, and a look of great earnestness replaced his former one ofgrave decision.
"I know that in doing this I am going beyond my sacred compact with MissChalloner," he said. "I never thought of illness,--at least, of illnesson my part. I never dreamt that I, always so well, always so full oflife, could know such feebleness as this, feebleness which is all ofthe body, Doris, leaving the mind free to dream and long. Talk of her,child. Tell me all over again just how she looked and spoke that day yousaw her in New York."
"Would it not be better for me to write my letter first? Papa will becoming soon and Truda can never cook your bird as you like it."
Surprised now by something not quite natural in her manner, he caught ather hand and held her as she was moving away.
"You are tired," said he. "I've wearied you with my commission andcomplaints. Forgive me, dear child, and--"
"You are mistaken," she interrupted softly. "I am not tired; I onlywished to do the important thing first. Shall I get my desk? Do youreally wish me to write?"
"Yes," said he, softly dropping her hand. "I wish you to write. It willensure me good sleep, and sleep will make me strong. A few words, Doris;just a few words."
She nodded; turning quickly away to hide her tears. His smile had goneto her very soul. It was always a beautiful one, his chief personalattraction, but at this moment it seemed to concentrate within it theunspoken fervours and the boundless expectations of a great love, andshe who was the aim and cause of all this sweetness lay in unresponsivesilence in a distant tomb!
But Doris' own smile was not lacking in encouragement and beauty whenshe came back a few minutes later and sat down by his side to write.His melted before it, leaving his eyes very earnest as he watched herbending figure and the hard-worked little hand at its unaccustomed task.
"I must give her daily exercises," he decided within himself. "That lookof pain shows how difficult this work is for her. It must be made easyat any cost to my time. Such beauty calls for accomplishment. I must notneglect so plain a duty."
Meantime, she was struggling to find words in face of that great Dread.She had written Dear Miss Challoner and
was staring in horror at thesoulless words. Only her sense of duty upheld her. Gladly would she havetorn the sheet in two and rushed away. How could she add sentences tothis hollow phrase, the mere employment of which seemed a sacrilege.Dear Miss Challoner. Oh, she was dear, but--
Unconsciously the young head drooped, and the pen slid from her hand.
"I cannot," she murmured, "I cannot think what to say."
"Shall I help you?" came softly from the bed. "I'll try and not forgetthat it is Doris writing."
"If you will be so good," she answered, with renewed courage. "I can putthe words down if you will only find them for me."
"Write then. 'Dear Miss Challoner!"
"I have already written that."
"Why do you shudder?"
"I'm cold. I've been cold all day. But never mind that, Mr. Brotherson.Tell me how to begin my letter."
"This way. 'I've not been able to answer your kind letter, because Ihave had to play nurse for some three or four weeks to a very fretfuland exacting patient.' Have you written that?"
"No," said Doris, bending over her desk till her curls fell in a tangleover her white cheeks. "I do not like to," she protested at last, withan attempt at naivete which seemed real enough to him.
"Well, leave out the fretful if you must, but keep in the exacting. Ihave been exacting, you know."
Silence, broken only by the scratching of the stubborn, illy-directedpen.
"It's down," she whispered. She said, afterward, that it was likewriting with a ghost looking over one's shoulder.
"Then add, 'Mr. Brotherson has had a slight attack of fever, but he isgetting well fast, and will soon--, Do I run on too quickly?"
"No, no, I can follow."
"But not without losing breath; eh, Doris?"
As he laughed, she smiled. There was a heroism in that smile, OswaldBrotherson, of which you knew nothing.
"You might speak a little more slowly," she admitted.
Quietly he repeated the last phrase. "'But he is getting well fast andwill soon be ready to take up the management of the Works which wasgiven him just before he was taken ill.' That will show her that I amworking up," he brightly remarked as Doris carefully penned the lastword. "Of myself you need say nothing more, unless--" he paused and hisface took on a wistful look which Doris dared not meet; "unless--but no,no, she must think it has been only a passing indisposition. If she knewI had been really ill, she would suffer, and perhaps act imprudently orsuffer and not dare to act at all, which might be sadder for her still.Leave it where it is and begin about yourself. Write a good deal aboutyourself, so that she will see that you are not worried and that all iswell with us here. Cannot you do that without assistance? Surely you cantell her about that last piece of embroidery you showed me. She will beglad to hear--why, Doris!"
"Oh, Mr. Brotherson," the poor child burst out, "you must let me cry!I'm so glad to see you better and interested in all sorts of things.These are not tears of grief. I--I--but I'm forgetting what the doctortold me. You are growing excited, and I was to see that you were calm,always calm. I will take my desk away. I will write the rest in theother room, while you look at the magazines."
"But bring your letter back for me to seal. I want to see it in itsenvelope. Oh, Doris, you are a good little girl!"
She shook her head, and hastened to hide herself from him in the otherroom; and it was a long time before she came back with the letter foldedand in its envelope. When she did, her face was composed and her mannernatural. She had quite made up her mind what her duty was and how shewas going to perform it.
"Here is the letter," said she, laying it in his outstretched hand. Thenshe turned her back. She knew, with a woman's unerring instinct why hewished to handle it before it went. She felt that kiss he folded away init, in every fibre of her aroused and sympathetic heart, but the hardestpart of the ordeal was over and her eyes beamed softly when she turnedagain to take it from his hand and affix the stamp.
"You will mail it yourself?" he asked. "I should like to have you put itinto the box with your own hand."
"I will put it in to-night, after supper," she promised him.
His smile of contentment assured her that this trial of her courageand self-control was not without one blessed result. He would rest forseveral days in the pleasure of what he had done or thought he had done.She need not cringe before that image of Dread for two, three days atleast. Meanwhile, he would grow strong in body, and she, perhaps, inspirit. Only one precaution she must take. No hint of Mr. Challoner'spresence in town must reach him. He must be guarded from a knowledge ofthat fact as certainly as from the more serious one which lay behind it.
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