by Myrtle Reed
IX
Taking the Chance
[Sidenote: Dr. Conrad Comes]
"Well, I'm here," remarked Doctor Conrad, as he sat on the beach withEloise. "I have left all my patients in the care of an inferior, thoughreputable physician, who has such winning ways that he may have annexedmy entire practice by the time I get back.
"If you'll tell me just where these protegees of yours are, I'll go upthere right away. I'll ring the bell, and when they open the door I'llsay: 'I've come from Miss Wynne, and I'm to amputate this morning andremove a couple of cataracts this afternoon. Kindly have the patientsget ready at once.'"
"Don't joke, Allan," pleaded Eloise. Her brown eyes were misty and hermood of exalted tenderness made her in love with all the world. "If youcould see that brave little thing, with her beautiful face and herdivine unselfishness, hobbling around on crutches and sewing for aliving, meanwhile keeping her blind old father from knowing they arepoor, you'd feel just as I do."
[Sidenote: Discussing the Case]
"It is very improbable," returned Allan, seriously, "that anything canbe done. If they were well-to-do, they undoubtedly made every effort andsaw everybody worth seeing."
"But in twenty years," suggested Eloise, hopefully. "Think of all theprogress that has been made in twenty years."
"I know," said Allan, doubtfully. "All we can do is to see. And ifanything can be done for them, why, of course we'll do it."
"Then we'll go for a little drive," she said, "and on our way back, wecan stop there and get the things I bought the other day. They have noone to send with them, and it's too much for one person to carry,anyway."
"I suppose she has sold everything she had," mused Allan impersonally.
"Not quite," answered Eloise, flushing. "I left her some samples for theWoman's Exchange."
"Very kind," he observed, with the same air of detachment. "I can see myfinish. My wife will have so much charity work for me to do that therewill be no time for anything else, and, in a little while, she will havegiven away all the money we both have. Then when we're sitting togetherin the sun on the front steps of the poorhouse, we can fittingly lamentthe end of our usefulness."
[Sidenote: Policy of Segregation]
"They won't let us sit together," she retorted. "Don't you know thateven in the old people's homes they keep the men and womenapart--husbands and wives included?"
"For the love of Mike, what for?" he asked, in surprise.
"Because it makes the place too gay and frivolous. Old ladies of eightywere courted by awkward swains of ninety and more, and there was so muchchecker-playing in the evening and so many lights burning, and so manyrequests for new clothes, that the management couldn't stand it. Therewere heart-burnings and jealousies, too, so they had to adopt a policyof segregation."
"'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,'" quoted Allan.
"And love," she said. "I've thought sometimes I'd like to play fairygodmother to some of those poor, desolate old people who love eachother, and give them a pretty wedding. Wouldn't it be dear to see twoold people married and settled in a little home of their own?"
"Or, more likely, with us," he returned. "I've been thinking about anice little house with a guest room or two, but I've changed my mind. Myvote is for a very small apartment. You're not the sort to be trustedwith a guest room."
[Sidenote: Starting Off]
Eloise laughed and sprang to her feet. "On to the errand of mercy," shesaid. "We're wasting valuable time. Get a horse and buggy and I'll seeif I can borrow an extra suit-case or two for my purchases."
When she came down, Allan was waiting for her in the buggy. A bell-boy,in her wake, brought three suit-cases and piled them under the seat.Half a dozen rocking-chairs, on the veranda, held highly interestedobservers. The paraphernalia suggested an elopement.
"Tell those women on the veranda," said Eloise, to the boy, "that I'mnot taking any trunks and will soon be back."
"What for?" queried Allan, as they drove away.
"Reasons of my own," she answered, crisply. "Men are as blind as bats."
"I'm wearing glasses," he returned, with due humility. "If you think I'mfit to hear why you left that cryptic message, I'd be pleased to."
"You're far from fit. Here, turn into this road."
Spread like a tawny ribbon upon the green of the hills, the road woundlazily through open sunny spaces and shaded aisles sweet with that coolfragrance found only in the woods. The horse did not hurry, but wanderedcomfortably from side to side of the road, browsing where he chose. Heseemed to know that lovers were driving him.
[Sidenote: Horses versus Autos]
"He's a one-armed horse, isn't he?" laughed Eloise. "I like him lotsbetter than an automobile, don't you?"
"Out here, I do. But an automobile has certain advantages."
"What are they?" she demanded. "I'd rather feed a horse than to buy atire, any day."
"So would I--unless he tired of his feed. But if you want to getanywhere very quickly and the thing happens not to break, the machine isbetter."
"But it never happens. I believe the average automobile is possessed ofan intuition little short of devilish. A horse seems more friendly. Ifyou were thinking of getting me a little electric runabout for mybirthday, please change it to a horse."
"All right," returned Allan, serenely. "We can keep him in theliving-room of our six-room apartment and have his dinner sent in fromthe nearest _table d'oat_. For breakfast, he can come out into the_salle a manger_ and eat cereals with us."
"You're absolutely incorrigible," she sighed. "This is the river road.Follow it until I tell you where to turn."
Within half an hour, the horse came to a full stop of his own accord infront of the grey, weather-worn house where Barbara lived. He wascropping at a particularly enticing clump of grass when Eloisealighted.
"Going to push?" queried Allan, lazily.
"No, this is the place. Come on. You bring two of the suit-cases andI'll take the other."
[Sidenote: Observations]
The blind man was not there at the moment, but came in while Miriam wasupstairs packing Miss Wynne's recent additions to her wardrobe. DoctorConrad had been observing Barbara keenly as they talked of indifferentthings. Outwardly, he was calm and professional, but within, a warmlyhuman impulse answered her evident need.
He was young and had not yet been at his work long enough to determinehis ultimate nature. Later on, his profession would do to him one of twothings. It would transform him into a mere machine, brutalised andcalloused, with only one or two emotions aside from selfishness left tothrive in his dwarfed soul, or it would humanise him to godlikeunselfishness, attune him to a divine sympathy, and mellow his heart intenderness beyond words. In one instance he would be feared; in theother, only loved, by those who came to him.
As Barbara went across the room to another chair, his eyes followed herwith intense interest. Eloise shrank from him a little--she had neverseen him like this before. Yet she knew, from the expression of hisface, that he had found hope, and was glad.
"Barbara?" It was Miriam, calling from upstairs.
"In just a minute, Aunty. Excuse me, please--I'll come right back."
She was scarcely out of the room before Eloise leaned over to Allan, herface alight with eager questioning. "You think--?"
[Sidenote: Willing to Try]
"I don't know," he returned, in a low tone. "It depends on the hardnessof the muscles and several other local conditions. Of course it'simpossible to tell definitely without a thorough examination, but I'vedone it successfully in two adult cases, and have seen it done more thana dozen times. I'd be very willing to try."
"Oh, Allan," whispered Eloise. "I'm so glad."
Barbara's padded crutches sounded softly on the stairs as she came down.Eloise went to the window and studied the horse attentively, though hewas not of the restless sort that needs to be tied.
While she was watching, Ambrose North came around the base of the hill,crossed
the road, and opened the gate. He had been to his old solitudeat the top of the hill, where, as nowhere else, he found peace. While hewas talking with the visitors, Miriam went out, taking the neatly-packedsuit-cases, one at a time, and put them into the buggy.
"Mr. North," said Doctor Conrad, "while these girls are chattering,will you go for a little drive with me?"
The blind man's fine old face illumined with pleasure. "I should like itvery much," he said. "It is a long time since I had have a drive."
"It's more like a walk," laughed Allan, as they went out, "with thishorse."
"We sold our horses many years ago," the old man explained, as heclimbed in. "Miriam is afraid of horses and Barbara said she did notcare to go. I thought the open air and the slight exercise would be goodfor her, but she insisted upon my selling them."
[Sidenote: About Barbara]
"It is about Barbara that I wished to speak," said Allan. "With yourconsent, I should like to make a thorough examination and see whether anoperation would not do away with her crutches entirely."
"It is no use," sighed North, wearily. "We went everywhere and dideverything, long ago. There is nothing that can be done."
"But there may be," insisted Allan. "We have learned much, in myprofession, in the last twenty years. May I try?"
"You're asking me if you can hurt my baby?"
"Not to hurt her more than is necessary to heal. Understand me, I do notknow but what you are right, but I hope, and believe, that there may bea chance."
"I have dreamed sometimes," said the old man, very slowly, "that my babycould walk and I could see."
[Sidenote: If Possible]
"The dream shall come true, if it is possible. Let me see your eyes." Hestopped the horse on the brow of the hill, where the sun shone clear andstrong, stood up, and turned the blind face to the light. Then, sittingdown once more, he asked innumerable questions. When he finally wassilent, Ambrose North turned to him, indifferently.
"Well?" The tone was simply polite inquiry. The matter seemed to be onewhich concerned nobody.
"Again I do not know," returned Allan. "This is altogether out of myline, but, if you'll go to the city with me, I'll take you to a friendof mine who is a great specialist. If anything can be done, he is theman who can do it. Will you come?"
There was a long pause. "If Barbara is willing," he answered simply."Ask her."
* * * * *
[Sidenote: The Plunge]
Meanwhile, Eloise was talking to Barbara. First, she told her of theletters she had written in her behalf and to which the answers mightcome any day now. Then she asked if she might order preserves from AuntMiriam, and discussed patterns and material for the lingerie she hadpreviously spoken of. Finding, at length, that the best way to approacha difficult subject was the straightest one, she took the plunge.
"Have you always been lame?" she asked. She did not look at Barbara, buttried to speak carelessly, as she gazed out of the window.
"Yes," came the answer, so low that she could scarcely hear it.
"Wouldn't you like to walk like the rest of us?" continued Eloise.
Barbara writhed under the torturing question. "My mind can walk," shesaid, with difficulty; "my soul isn't lame."
The tone made Eloise turn quickly--and hate herself bitterly for herawkwardness. She saw that an apology would only make a bad matter worse,so she went straight on.
"Doctor Conrad is very skilful," she continued. "In the city, he is oneof the few really great surgeons. He told me that he would like to makean examination and see if an operation would not do away with thecrutches. He thinks there may be a good chance. If there is, will youtake it?"
"Thank you," said Barbara, almost inaudibly. Her voice had sunk to awhisper and she was very pale. "I do not mean to seem ungrateful, but itis impossible."
"Impossible!" repeated Eloise. "Why?"
"Because of father," explained Barbara. Her colour was coming backslowly now. "I am all he has, my work supplies his needs, and I darenot take the risk."
"Is that the only reason?"
Barbara nodded.
"You're not afraid?"
Barbara's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Why should I beafraid?" she asked. "Do you take me for a coward?"
Eloise knelt beside Barbara's low chair and put her strong arms aroundthe slender, white-clad figure. "Listen, dear," she said. Her face wasshining as though with some great inner light.
"My own dear father died when I was a child. My mother died when I wasborn. I have never had anything but money. I have never had anyone totake care of, no one to make sacrifices for, no one to make me strongbecause I was needed. If the worst should happen, would you trust yourfather to me? Could you trust me?"
"Yes," said Barbara slowly; "I could."
[Sidenote: A Compact]
"Then I promise you solemnly that your father shall never want foranything while he lives. And now, if there is a chance, will you takeit--for me?"
Barbara looked long into the sweet face, glorified by the inner light.Then she leaned forward and put her soft arms around the older woman,hiding her face in the masses of copper-coloured hair.
"For you? A thousand times, yes," she sobbed. "Oh, anything for you!"
* * * * *
Late in the afternoon, when Ambrose North and Barbara were alone again,he came over to her chair and stroked her shining hair with a lovinghand.
"Did they tell you, dear?" he asked.
"Yes," whispered Barbara.
"I have dreamed so often that my baby could walk and I could see. Hesaid that the dream should come true if he could make it so."
"Did he say anything about your eyes?" asked Barbara, in astonishment.
[Sidenote: Hopeful]
"Yes. He thinks there may be a chance there, too. If you are willing,I am to go to the city with him sometime and see a friend of his who isa great specialist."
"Oh, Daddy," cried Barbara. "I'm afraid--for you."
He drew a chair up near hers and sat down. The old hand, in which thepulses moved so slowly, clasped the younger one, warm with life.
"Barbara," he said; "I have never seen my baby."
"I know, Daddy."
"I want to see you, dear."
"And I want you to."
"Then, will you let me go?"
"Perhaps, but it must be--afterward, you know."
"Why?"
"Because, when you see me, I want to be strong and well. I want to beable to walk. You mustn't see the crutches, Daddy--they are uglythings."
"Nothing could be ugly that belongs to you. I made a little song thisafternoon, while you and Miriam were talking and I was out alone."
"Tell me."
[Sidenote: In a Beautiful Garden]
"Once there was a man who had a garden. When he was a child he hadplayed in it, in his youth and early manhood he had worked in it andfound pleasure in seeing things grow, but he did not really know what abeautiful garden it was until another walked in it with him and found itfair.
"Together they watched it from Springtime to harvest, finding new beautyin it every day. One night at twilight she whispered to him that someday a perfect flower of their very own was to bloom in the garden. Theywatched and waited and prayed for it together, but, before it blossomed,the man went blind.
"In the darkness, he could not see the garden, but she was still there,bringing divine consolation with her touch, and whispering to him alwaysof the perfect flower so soon to be their own.
"When it blossomed, the man could not see it, but the one who walkedbeside him told him that it was as pure and fair as they had prayed itmight be. They enjoyed it together for a year, and he saw it through hereyes.
"Then she went to God's Garden, and he was left desolate and alone. Hecared for nothing and for a time even forgot the flower that she hadleft. Weeds grew among the flowers, nettles and thistles took possessionof the walks, and strange vines choked with th
eir tendrils everythingthat dared to bloom.
[Sidenote: A Perfect Flower]
"One day, he went out into the intolerable loneliness and desolation,and, groping blindly, he found among the nettles and thistles and weedsthe one perfect white blossom. It was cool and soft to his hot hand, itwas exquisitely fragrant, and, more than all, it was part of her.Gradually, it eased his pain. He took out the weeds and thistles as besthe could, but there was little he could do, for he had left it too long.
"The years went by, but the flower did not fade. Seeking, he alwaysfound it; weary, it always refreshed him; starving, it fed his soul.Blind, it gave him sight; weak, it gave him courage; hurt, it broughthim balm. At last he lived only because of it, for, in some mysteriousway, it seemed to need him, too, and sometimes it even seemed divinelyto restore the lost.
"Flower of the Dusk," he said, leaning to Barbara; "what should I havebeen without you? How could I have borne it all?"
[Sidenote: Strength for the Burden]
"God suits the burden to the bearer, I think," she answered, softly. "Ifyou have much to bear, it is because you are strong enough to do itnobly and well. Only the weak are allowed to shirk, and shift their loadto the shoulders of the strong."
"I know, but, Barbara--suppose----"
"There is nothing to suppose, Daddy. Whatever happened would be the bestthat could happen. I'm not afraid."
Her voice rang clear and strong. Insensibly, he caught some of her ownfine courage and his soul rallied greatly to meet hers. From her heightshe had summoned him as with a bugle-call, and he had answered.
"The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways," he said, "but I will notbe afraid. No, I will not let myself be afraid."
