David's room held a steadily growing number of bedroom
slippers, and Mrs. Morgan had been seen buying soles for still others.
David, propped up in his bed, would cheer a little at these votive
offerings, and then relapse again into the heavy troubled silence that
worried Dick and frightened Lucy Crosby. Something had happened, she was
sure. Something connected with Dick. She watched David when Dick was
in the room, and she saw that his eyes followed the younger man with
something very like terror.
And for the first time since he had walked into the house that night so
long ago, followed by the tall young man for whose coming a letter had
prepared her, she felt that David had withdrawn himself from her. She
went about her daily tasks a little hurt, and waited for him to choose
his own time. But, as the days went on, she saw that whatever this new
thing might be, he meant to fight it out alone, and that the fighting it
out alone was bad for him. He improved very slowly.
She wondered, sometimes, if it was after all because of Dick's growing
interest in Elizabeth Wheeler. She knew that he was seeing her daily,
although he was too busy now for more than a hasty call. She felt that
she could even tell when he had seen her; he would come in, glowing and
almost exalted, and, as if to make up for the moments stolen from David,
would leap up the stairs two at a time and burst into the invalid's room
like a cheerful cyclone. Wasn't it possible that David had begun to
feel as she did, that the girl was entitled to a clean slate before
she pledged herself to Dick? And the slate—poor Dick!—could never be
cleaned.
Then, one day, David astonished them both. He was propped up in his bed,
and he had demanded a cigar, and been very gently but firmly refused.
He had been rather sulky about it, and Dick had been attempting to rally
him into better humor when he said suddenly:
"I've had time to think things over, Dick. I haven't been fair to you.
You're thrown away here. Besides—" he hesitated. Then: "We might as
well face it. The day of the general practitioner has gone."
"I don't believe it," Dick said stoutly. "Maybe we are only signposts
to point the way to the other fellows, but the world will always need
signposts."
"What I've been thinking of," David pursued his own train of thought,
"is this: I want you to go to Johns Hopkins and take up the special work
you've been wanting to do. I'll be up soon and—"
"Call the nurse, Aunt Lucy," said Dick. "He's raving."
"Not at all," David retorted testily. "I've told you. This whole town
only comes here now to be told what specialist to go to, and you know
it."
"I don't know anything of the sort."
"If you don't, it's because you won't face the facts." Dick chuckled,
and threw an arm over David's shoulder, "You old hypocrite!" he said.
"You're trying to get rid of me, for some reason. Don't tell me you're
going to get married!"
But David did not smile. Lucy, watching him from her post by the window,
saw his face and felt a spasm of fear. At the most, she had feared
a mental conflict in David. Now she saw that it might be something
infinitely worse, something impending and immediate. She could hardly
reply when Dick appealed to her.
"Are you going to let him get rid of me like this, Aunt Lucy?" he
demanded. "Sentenced to Johns Hopkins, like Napoleon to St. Helena! Are
you with me, or forninst me?"
"I don't know, Dick," she said, with her eyes on David. "If it's for
your good—"
She went out after a time, leaving them at it hammer and tongs. David
was vanquished in the end, but Dick, going down to the office later
on, was puzzled. Somehow it was borne in on him that behind David's
insistence was a reason, unspoken but urgent, and the only reason that
occurred to him as possible was that David did not, after all, want him
to marry Elizabeth Wheeler. He put the matter to the test that night,
wandering in in dressing-gown and slippers, as was his custom before
going to bed, for a brief
slippers, and Mrs. Morgan had been seen buying soles for still others.
David, propped up in his bed, would cheer a little at these votive
offerings, and then relapse again into the heavy troubled silence that
worried Dick and frightened Lucy Crosby. Something had happened, she was
sure. Something connected with Dick. She watched David when Dick was
in the room, and she saw that his eyes followed the younger man with
something very like terror.
And for the first time since he had walked into the house that night so
long ago, followed by the tall young man for whose coming a letter had
prepared her, she felt that David had withdrawn himself from her. She
went about her daily tasks a little hurt, and waited for him to choose
his own time. But, as the days went on, she saw that whatever this new
thing might be, he meant to fight it out alone, and that the fighting it
out alone was bad for him. He improved very slowly.
She wondered, sometimes, if it was after all because of Dick's growing
interest in Elizabeth Wheeler. She knew that he was seeing her daily,
although he was too busy now for more than a hasty call. She felt that
she could even tell when he had seen her; he would come in, glowing and
almost exalted, and, as if to make up for the moments stolen from David,
would leap up the stairs two at a time and burst into the invalid's room
like a cheerful cyclone. Wasn't it possible that David had begun to
feel as she did, that the girl was entitled to a clean slate before
she pledged herself to Dick? And the slate—poor Dick!—could never be
cleaned.
Then, one day, David astonished them both. He was propped up in his bed,
and he had demanded a cigar, and been very gently but firmly refused.
He had been rather sulky about it, and Dick had been attempting to rally
him into better humor when he said suddenly:
"I've had time to think things over, Dick. I haven't been fair to you.
You're thrown away here. Besides—" he hesitated. Then: "We might as
well face it. The day of the general practitioner has gone."
"I don't believe it," Dick said stoutly. "Maybe we are only signposts
to point the way to the other fellows, but the world will always need
signposts."
"What I've been thinking of," David pursued his own train of thought,
"is this: I want you to go to Johns Hopkins and take up the special work
you've been wanting to do. I'll be up soon and—"
"Call the nurse, Aunt Lucy," said Dick. "He's raving."
"Not at all," David retorted testily. "I've told you. This whole town
only comes here now to be told what specialist to go to, and you know
it."
"I don't know anything of the sort."
"If you don't, it's because you won't face the facts." Dick chuckled,
and threw an arm over David's shoulder, "You old hypocrite!" he said.
"You're trying to get rid of me, for some reason. Don't tell me you're
going to get married!"
But David did not smile. Lucy, watching him from her post by the window,
saw his face and felt a spasm of fear. At the most, she had feared
a mental conflict in David. Now she saw that it might be something
infinitely worse, something impending and immediate. She could hardly
reply when Dick appealed to her.
"Are you going to let him get rid of me like this, Aunt Lucy?" he
demanded. "Sentenced to Johns Hopkins, like Napoleon to St. Helena! Are
you with me, or forninst me?"
"I don't know, Dick," she said, with her eyes on David. "If it's for
your good—"
She went out after a time, leaving them at it hammer and tongs. David
was vanquished in the end, but Dick, going down to the office later
on, was puzzled. Somehow it was borne in on him that behind David's
insistence was a reason, unspoken but urgent, and the only reason that
occurred to him as possible was that David did not, after all, want him
to marry Elizabeth Wheeler. He put the matter to the test that night,
wandering in in dressing-gown and slippers, as was his custom before
going to bed, for a brief
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