“I don’t understand very well,” said Mattie humbly. “What I wanted to know was …” her voice faltered, “do you think you can cure him?”
“Isn’t she the dumbbell!” thought the doctor.
He went on aloud, hoping she would repeat his words to Mrs. Knapp, “Don’t you say anything about it, Mrs. Farnham, especially to Mrs. Knapp. I don’t want to crow till we are out of the woods. I wouldn’t say anything to you if you were not a relative and a sensible woman. I don’t want them to have a breath of it, for fear of disappointment. …” (How strangely she was looking at him, her face so white and anxious!) He brought it out roundly, “Yes, Mrs. Farnham, just between us, I really believe I can cure him.”
She gave a low cry that was like a wail. “Oh, Doctor!” she cried, appalled, staring at him.
What was the matter with the woman, now? He stared back at her, blankly, startled, entirely at a loss.
Another look came into her eyes, an imploring, imploring look. She clasped her hands beseechingly. “Oh, Doctor!” she begged him, in a quavering voice.
From her eyes, from her voice, from her beseeching attitude, from her trembling hands, he took in her meaning—took it in with a tingling shock of surprise at first. And then with a deep recognition of it as something he had known all along.
She saw the expression change in his face, saw the blank look go out of his eyes, saw the understanding look come in.
It was a long rich interchange of meanings that took place as they sat staring hard at each other, the gaunt, middle-aged man no longer merely a doctor, the dull middle-aged woman, transfigured to essential wisdom by the divination of her loving heart. Profound and human things passed from one to the other.
Mattie heard someone stirring in the house. “I must go! I must go!” she said groaningly. She limped down the path. Her feet were aching like the toothache with the haste of her expeditions that afternoon.
Half an hour later they had to come out and call the doctor to supper, fairly to shout in his ear he was so sunk in his thoughts, the evening paper lying unread across his knees.
“Mercy me! Didn’t you hear the supper bell?” cried his wife. “It’s been ringing like anything!”
XX
On the evening of the day when Mrs. Knapp was informed that she would be put in Miss Flynn’s place Helen and her father celebrated by making an omelette with asparagus tips (Mother’s favorite supper dish) and Henry was sent scurrying out to bring back a brick of mixed vanilla and chocolate from Angelotti’s Ice-Cream Parlor. They did not play whist that evening. They just sat around and talked it over and admired Mother and heard again and again about the thrice-blessed events in the family of Miss Flynn’s niece, which led to her retirement. “Of course it’s terribly, terribly sad!” Mother reminded them. “Those poor little children left without their mother! Nothing—nothing can ever make up to them for such a loss.”
But this decent observation cast no shade over the rejoicings. Miss Flynn was but a remote and disagreeable legend to the children; and she had been a particular bête-noire for Lester in the old days. As for her utterly unknown niece—no, Mother could not make that shadowy death cast anything but sunshine into their lives. They went on planning all the more energetically about the things they could do if they could have a Ford and go off to the country together for picnics on Sundays—even Father! They talked about which college Helen would like to attend. They talked about which kind of bicycle Henry liked the best.
The children joined in the talk till nine o’clock, and long after they were in bed with their lights out they could hear the distant murmur of Father’s and Mother’s voices going on planning, such a friendly, cheerful, easy sort of murmur. Helen could not remember when she had ever heard Father and Mother talk together like that. It was like music in her ears. The last thought she had before she fell asleep was, “I am so happy! I never was so happy!”
Her mother fell asleep on the same thought. Apparently the excitement of it was too much for her, for she woke up suddenly, to hear the clock strike three, and found she could not get to sleep again because at once, in a joyful confusion, her mind was filled with a rush of happy thoughts, “I am to have Miss Flynn’s place. Three thousand a year. And a bonus! In a year or so I ought to be making four thousand.”
Four thousand dollars! They had never had more than eighteen hundred. Her thoughts vibrated happily between plans of what they could do here at the house and plans of what she would do in the reorganization of the department at the store. For some time, as she lay awake, her mind was as active and concrete and concentrated on her work as ever in the store; she was planning a system of postcard notices to customers when something especially suited to one or another came in:—“Dear Mrs. Russell: Among the new things in the department which have just come in from New York are some smocked, handmade children’s dresses that look exactly like your little Margery. …” “Dear Miss Pelman: Do you remember the suit you did not buy because of the horizontal trimming on the skirt? Mr. Willing found in New York last week the same suit without that line. I am laying it aside till you can drop in to look at it.”
She wondered if she could let her salesgirls send out such cards too. No, it must be
