COLONEL KENT, in a distant structure which, by courtesy, was called "the hotel," had pushed away his breakfast untasted, save for a small portion of the nondescript fluid the frowsy waitress called "coffee." He had been delayed, missed his train at the junction point, and, fretting with impatience, had been obliged to pass the night there.
He had wired to Madame Francesca the night before, but, as yet, had received no answer. He had personally consulted every surgeon of prominence in the surrounding country, and all who would not say flatly, without further information than he could give them, that there was no chance, had been asked to go and see for themselves.
One by one, their reports came back to him, unanimously hopeless. Heartsick and discouraged, he rallied from each disappointment, only to face defeat again. He had spent weeks in fruitless journeying, following up every clue that presented itself, waited days at hospitals for chiefs of staff, and made the dreary round of newspaper offices, where knowledge of every conceivable subject is supposedly upon file for the asking.
One enterprising editor, too modern to be swayed by ordinary human instincts, had turned the Colonel over to the star reporter—a young man with eyes like Allison's. By well-timed questions and sympathetic offers of assistance, he dragged the whole story of his wanderings from the unsuspecting old soldier.
It made a double page in the Sunday edition, including the illustrations—a "human interest" story of unquestionable value, introduced by a screaming headline in red: "Old Soldier on the March to Save Son. Violinist about to Lose Hand."
When the Colonel saw it, his eyes filled so that he could not see the words that danced through the mist, and the paper trembled from his hands to the floor. He was too nearly heartbroken to be angry, and too deeply hurt to take heed of the last stab.
No word reached him until late at night, when he arrived at the metropolitan hotel that he had made his headquarters. When he registered, two telegrams were handed to him, and he tore them open eagerly. The first was from Madame Francesca:
"Slight change for the better. New man gives hope. Better return at once."
The second one was wholly characteristic:
"Willing to take chance. Am camping on job. Come home." It was signed:
"J. E. Middlekauffer."
When he got to his room, the Colonel sat down to think. He knew no one of that name—had never even heard it before. Perhaps Francesca—it would have been like her, to work with him and say nothing until she had something hopeful to say.
His heart warmed toward her, then he forgot her entirely in a sudden realisation of the vast meaning of the two bits of yellow paper. Why, it was hope; it was a fighting chance presenting itself where hitherto had been only despair! He could scarcely believe it. He took the two telegrams closer to the light, and read the blessed words over and over again, then, trembling with weakness and something more, tottered back to his chair.
Until then, he had not known how weary he was, nor how the long weeks of anxiety and fruitless effort had racked him to the soul. As one may bear a burden bravely, yet faint the moment it is lifted, his strength failed him in the very hour that he had no need of it. He sat there for a long time before he was able to shut off the light and creep into bed, with his tear-wet cheek pillowed upon one telegram, and a wrinkled hand closely clasping the other, as though holding fast to the message meant the keeping of the hope it brought.
Utterly exhausted, he slept until noon. When he woke, it was with the feeling that something vitally important had happened. He could not remember what it was until he heard the rustling of paper and saw the two telegrams. He read them once more, in the clear light of day, fearing to find the message but a fantasy of the night. To his unbounded relief, it was still there—no dream of water to the man dying of thirst, but a living reality that sunlight did not change.
"Thank God," he cried aloud, sobbing for very joy, "Thank God!"
Meanwhile, the Resourceful One had shown the nurse how to cut a sleeve out of one of Allison's old coats, and open the under-arm seam. Having done this, she was requested to treat a negligee shirt in the same way. Then the village barber was sent for, and instructed to do his utmost.
"Funny," remarked Doctor Jack, pensively, "that nobody has thought of doing that before. If I hadn't come just as I did, you'd soon have looked like a chimpanzee, and, eventually, you'd have been beyond the reach of anything but a lawn-mower. They didn't even think to braid your hair and tie it with a blue ribbon."
The nurse laughed; so did Allison, but the pensive expression of the young man's face did not change.
"I've had occasion lately," he continued, "to observe the powerful tonic effect of clothes. A woman patient told me once that the moral support, afforded by a well-fitting corset was inconceivable to the mind of a mere man. She said that a corset is to a woman what a hat is to a man— it prepares for any emergency, enables one to meet life on equal terms, and even to face a rebellious cook or janitor with 'that repose which marks the caste of Vere de Vere.'"
"I've often wondered," returned Allison, "why I felt so much—well, so much more adequate with my hat on."
"Clear case of inherited instincts. The wild dog used to make himself a smooth bed in the rushes of long grass by turning around several times upon the selected spot. Consequently, the modern dog has to do the same stunt before he can go to sleep. The hat is a modification of the helmet, which always had to be worn outside the house, in the days when hold-ups and murders were even more frequent than now, and the desire for a walking-stick comes from the old fashion of carrying a spear or a sword. If a man took off his helmet, it was equivalent to saying: 'In the presence of my friend, I am safe.' When he takes off his hat to a lady now, he merely means: 'You're not a voter.' You'll notice that in any gathering of men, helmets are still worn."
So he chattered, with apparent unconcern, but, none the less, he was keenly watching his patient. With tact that would have done credit to a diplomat, he kept the conversation in agreeable channels. By noon, Allison had his clothes on, the coat being pinned under the left arm with two safety pins that did not show, and was out upon an upper veranda.
Doctor Jack encouraged him to walk whenever he felt that he could, even though it was only to the other end of the veranda and back to his chair. Somewhat to his astonishment, Allison began to feel better.
"I believe you're a miracle-worker," he said. "Two days ago, I was in bed, with neither strength, ambition, nor hope. Now I've got all three."
"No miracle," replied the other modestly. "Merely sense."
That afternoon the Crosby twins telephoned to know whether they might call, and the nurse brought the query upstairs. "If they're amusing," said the doctor, "let 'em come."
Allison replied that the twins had been highly amusing—until they ran "The Yellow Peril" over his left hand. "Poor little devils," he mused; "they've got something on their minds."
"Mighty lucky for you that it wasn't a macadamised boulevard instead of a sandy country road," observed the doctor. "The softness underneath has given us a doubt to work on."
"How so?"
"It's easier, to crush anything on a hard surface than it is on a pillow, isn't it?"
"Of course—I hadn't thought of that. If there had been more sand—"
"I look to you to furnish that," returned the other with a quick twist of meaning. "You've got plenty of sand, if you have half a chance to show it."
"How long—when do you think you'll know?" Allison asked, half afraid of the answer.
"If I knew, I'd be glad to tell you, but I don't. I've found out that it's easier to say 'I don't know' straight out in plain English than it is to side-track. It used to be bad form, professionally, to admit ignorance, but it isn't now. People soon find it out and you might as well tell 'em at the start. You just go on and keep the fuel bins well supplied and the red corpuscles busy and pretty soon we'll see what's doing."
The twins were late in coming, because they had had a long discussion as to the propriety of wearing their sable garments. Romeo, disliking the trouble of changing, argued that Allison ought to see that their grief was sincere. Juliet insisted that the sight would prove depressing.
At the end of a lively hour, they compromised upon white, which was worn by people in mourning and was not depressing. Juliet donned a muslin gown and Romeo put on his tennis flannels, which happened to be clean. As they took pains to walk upon the grass and avoid the dusty places, they were comparatively fresh when they arrived, though very warm from the long walk.
Both had inexpressibly dreaded seeing Allison, yet the reality lacked the anticipated terror, as often happens. They liked Doctor Jack immensely from the start and were greatly relieved to see Allison up and outdoors, instead of lying in a darkened room.
Almost before they knew it, they were describing their sacrificial rites and their repentance, with a wealth of detail that left nothing to be desired. Doctor Jack was suddenly afflicted with a very bad cough, but he kept his back to them and used his handkerchief a great deal. Even Allison was amused by their austere young faces and the earnest devotion with which they had performed their penance.
"We've had your car fixed," said Romeo. "It's all right now."
"We've paid the bill," added Juliet.
"We want to pay everything," Romeo continued.
"I don't know that I want the car," Allison answered, kindly. "If I had been a good driver, I could have backed into the turn before you got there and let you whiz by. I'm sorry yours is burned. Won't you take mine?"
"No," answered Romeo, with finality.
"We don't deserve even to ride in one," Juliet remarked. "We ought to have to walk all the rest of our lives."
"You people make me tired," interrupted Doctor Jack. "Just because you've been mixed up in an accident, you're about to get yourselves locoed, as they say out West, on the subject of automobiles. By careful cultivation, you could learn to shy at a baby carriage and throw a fit at the sight of a wheelbarrow. The time to nip that is right at the start."
"How would you do it?" queried Allison. His heart was heavy with dread of all automobiles, past, present, and to come."
"Same way they break a colt. Get him used to the harness, then to shafts, and so on. Now, I can run any car that ever was built—make it stand on its hind wheels if I want to and roll through a crowd without making anybody even wink faster. I think I'll go out and get that one and take the whole bunch of you out for a cure."
Juliet was listening attentively, with her blue eyes wide open and her scarlet lips parted. Doctor Jack was subtly conscious of a new sensation.
"I see," she said. "Romie made me hold snakes by their tails until I wasn't afraid of 'em, and made me kill mice and even rats. Only sissy girls are afraid of snakes and rats. And just because we were both afraid to go by the graveyard at night, we made ourselves do it. We can walk through it now, even if there isn't any moon, and never dodge a single tombstone."
"Was it hard to learn to do it?" asked the doctor. If he was amused, he did not show it now.
"No," Juliet answered, "because just before we did it, we read about it's being called 'God's Acre.' So I told Romie that God must be there as much or more than He was anywhere else, so how could we be afraid?"
"After you once get it into your head that God is everywhere," added
Romeo, "you can't be afraid because there's nothing to be afraid of."
The simple, child-like faith appealed to both men strongly. Allison was much surprised, for he had not imagined that there was a serious side to the twins.
"Will you forgive us?" asked Juliet, humbly.
"With all my heart," Allison responded, readily. "I've never thought there was anything to forgive."
"Then our sacrifice is over," cried Juliet, joyously.
"Yes," her brother agreed, with a wistful expression on his face, "and to-night we can have something to eat."
The twins never lingered long after the object of a visit was accomplished, so they rose almost immediately to take their departure. "Cards, Romie," Juliet suggested, in an audible whisper.
Romeo took a black bordered envelope from an inner pocket and gravely extended a card to each. Then they bowed themselves out, resisting with difficulty the temptation to slide down the banister instead of going downstairs two steps at a time.
Doctor Jack's mobile face had assumed an entirely new expression. He put away the card inscribed The Crosby Twins as though it were an article of great value, then leaned out over the veranda railing to catch a glimpse of the two flying figures in white.
Allison laughed aloud. "You're not disappointed in the twins, are you?"
"If I were going to be run over," remarked the Doctor, ignoring the question, "I believe I'd choose them to do it. Think of the little pagans burning their car and repenting in sackcloth and ashes, not to mention shooting the dogs and living upon penitential fare."
"Poor kids," Allison said, with a sigh.
"Tell me about 'em," pleaded Doctor Jack "Tell me everything you know about 'em, especially Juliet."
"I don't know much," replied the other, "for I came back here only a few months ago, and when I went abroad, they were merely enfants terribles imperfectly controlled by a pair of doting parents."
However, he gladly told what he knew of the varied exploits of the twins, and his eager listener absorbed every word. At length when Allison could think of no more, and the afternoon shadows grew long, they went in.
Consigning his patient to the care of the nurse, the Doctor went down into the garden, to walk back and forth upon the long paths, gaze, open- mouthed, down the road, and moon, like the veriest schoolboy, over Juliet's blue eyes.
Her pagan simplicity, her frank boyishness, and her absolute unconsciousness of self, appealed to him irresistibly. "The dear kid," he said to himself, fondly; "the blessed little kid! Wonder how old she is!"
Then he remembered that Allison had told him the twins were almost twenty-one, but Juliet seemed absurdly young for her years. "The world will take her," he sighed to himself, "and change her in a little while so even her own brother won't know her. She'll lace, and wear high heels and follow the latest fashion whether it suits her or not, and touch up her pretty cheeks with rouge, twist her hair into impossible coiffures, and learn all the wicked ways of the world."
The wavy masses of tawny hair, the innocent blue eyes, as wide and appealing as a child's, the clear, rosy skin, and the parted scarlet lips—all these would soon be spoiled by the thousand deceits of fashion.
"And I can't help it," he thought, sadly. Then his face brightened. "By George," he said aloud, "I'm only twenty-eight—wonder if the kid could learn to stand me around the house." He laughed, from sheer joy. "I'll have a try for her," he continued to himself. "Me for Juliet, and, if the gods are kind, Juliet for me!"
His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of the station hack. He instantly surmised that the man who hurried toward the house was Colonel Kent, and, on the veranda, intercepted him.
"Middlekauffer, for purposes of introduction. For purposes of conversation, 'Doctor Jack,' or just plain 'Jack.' Never cared much for handles to names. You got my wire?"
"Forbes. Down here on the fifth. Met him out in the next State, at an operation. He told me to come, as my business was the impossible. Told me you'd stand for it, don't you know, and all that sort of thing?"
"Doing very nicely, all things considered."
"Is there a chance?" the Colonel cried, eagerly; "a real chance?"
"My dear man, until amputation is the only thing to be done, there's always a chance. Personally, I'm very hopeful, though I've been called a dreamer more than once. But we've got him chirked up a lot, and he's getting his nerve back, and this morning I thought I detected a slight improvement, though I was afraid to tell him so. We've all got to work for him and work like the devil at that."
"Nothing worth while is ever done without work. Go up and see him."
At the sound of a familiar step upon the stair, Allison turned deathly white. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe, until the half-closed door opened, and his father stood before him, smiling in welcome. Allison sprang forward, unbelieving, until his hand touched his father's, not cold, as though he had risen from the grave, but warmly human and alive.
"Lad, dear lad! I've come back at last!" Allison's answering cry of joy fairly rang through the house. "Dad! Oh, Dad! I thought you were dead!"