CHAPTER XVI.
"You are not going out tonight, John, no matter how often the 'phonerings. I positively will not let you." Mary spoke with strong emphasis.All the night before he had been up and today had been a hard day forhim. She had seldom seen him so utterly weary as he was tonight. He hadcome home earlier than usual and now sat before the fire, his head sunkon his breast, half asleep.
"Go right to bed, dear, then you can really rest."
The doctor, too tired to offer any resistance, rose and went to thebedroom. In a few minutes his wife heard regular sonorous sounds fromthe bed. (When she spoke of these sounds to John, Mary pronounced itwithout the first _o_.)
Glad that he had so soon fallen into deep sleep she settled back in herchair. "I'll protect him tonight," she thought, "though fiery darts behurled."
She thought of many things. The fire-light gleamed red upon the hearth.All was still. The sounds from the adjoining room had ceased. Somethingstirred within her and she rose and went softly to the bedside of hersleeping husband. In the half-light she could see the strong, good face.Dear John so profane yet so patient, so severe yet so tender, what wouldit be to face life without him. She laid her hand very lightly on thehand which lay on the counterpane, then took it away lest it disturb thesleeper. She went back to her chair and opening a little volume tookfrom it a folded sheet. Twice before today had she read the wordswritten within it. A dear friend whose husband had recently died hadwritten her, inclosing them. She read them again now:
IN MEMORIAM,--A PRAYER.
"O God! The Father of the spirits of all flesh, in whatsoever world or condition they be,--I beseech Thee for him whose name, and dwelling place, and every need Thou knowest. Lord, vouchsafe him peace and light, rest and refreshment, joy and consolation in Paradise, in the ample folds of Thy great love. Grant that his life, so troubled here, may unfold itself in Thy sight, and find employment in the spacious fields of Eternity.--If he hath ever been hurt or maimed by any unhappy word or deed of mine, I pray Thee, of Thy great pity, to heal and restore him, that he may serve Thee without hindrance.
"Tell him, O gracious Father, if it may be,--how much I love him and miss him, and long to see him again; and if there may be ways in which he may come, vouchsafe him to me as guide and guard, and grant me such sense of his nearness as Thy laws permit. If in aught I can minister to his peace, be pleased of Thy love to let this be; and mercifully keep me from every act which may deprive me of the sight of him, as soon as our trial time is over, or mar the fullness of our joy when the end of the days hath come."
Mary brushed away a tear from her cheek. "This letter has awakenedunusual thoughts. I will--"
A sharp peal from the telephone.
"What is it?"
"Is the doctor at home?"
"Yes. He has gone to bed and is fast asleep."
"Oh! We wanted him to come down to see my sister."
"He was up all last night and is not able to come--"
"Can I just talk to him about her?"
Mary sighed. To rouse him from his sorely needed sleep was too cruel.Then she spoke. "I must not disturb him unless it is absolutelynecessary. I shall be sitting here awake--call me again in a littlewhile if you think it necessary."
"A--l--l r--i--g--h--t--" and a sob came distinctly to the listener'sear.
This was too much for Mary. "I'll call him," she said hurriedly and wentto the bedroom.
With much difficulty she roused him. He threw back the covers, got upand stumbled to the 'phone.
"Hello..... Yes..... They didn't? Is she suffering much?.... All right,I'll be down in a little bit."
Mary groaned aloud. She had vowed to protect him though fiery darts behurled. But the sob in the voice of a frightened young girl was morepotent than any fiery dart could have been and had melted her at once.Slowly but surely the doctor got himself into his clothes.
"I don't think there's any use of my going down there again, but Isuppose I'll have it to do." When he returned an hour later, he said,"Just as I thought--they were badly scared over nothing. I shouldn'twonder if they'd rout me out again before morning."
"No, they won't," said Mary to herself, and when her husband was safe inbed again, she walked quietly to the telephone, took down the receiverand _left_ it down. "Extreme cases require extreme measures," shethought as she, too, prepared for her night's rest. But there was ahaunting feeling in her mind about the receiver hanging there. Supposesome one who really did need the doctor should call and call in vain.She would not think of it. She turned over and fell asleep and they bothslept till morning and rose refreshed for another day.
* * * * *
A few weeks later circumstances much like those narrated above arose,and the doctor's wife for the second and last time left the receiverdown. About two o'clock there came a tragic pounding at the door andwhen the doctor went to open it a voice asked, "What's the matter downhere?"
"Why?"
"Central's been ringing you to beat the band and couldn't get youawake."
"Strange we didn't hear. What's wanted?" He had recognized the messengeras the night clerk at the hotel not far from his home.
"A man hurt at the railroad--they're afraid he'll bleed to death.Central called me and asked me to run over here and rouse you."
When the doctor was gone Mary rose tremblingly and hung up the receiver.She would not tell John what she had done. He would be angry. She hadfelt that the end justified the means--that he was tired out and halfsick and sorely needed a night's unbroken rest--but if the end should bethe bleeding to death of this poor man--
She dared not think of it. She went back to bed but not to sleep. Shelay wide awake keenly anxious for her husband's return. And when at lasthe came her lips could hardly frame the question, "How is he, John?"
"Pretty badly hurt, but not fatally."
"Thank heaven!" Mary whispered, and formed a quick resolve which shenever broke. This belonged to her husband's life--it must remain a partof it to the end.