An Indiana Girl/Chapter 17

"Whew!" "Doc" Murray ejaculated, as Kent rushed forward in surprise and drew him into the room. "I don't believe I ever see sech a 'tarnation ol' rouser ez this un is. I like t' got drifted under," he said breathlessly, as he unwound his yarn muffler from around his neck and shoulders and shook the snow out of it in a spray that filled the small entry hall.

"Sure you're not in the wrong house?" Kent asked. "Nobody sick here."

"I 'low I can make a call where they be nobody ailin' can't I?" "Doc" responded, seemingly aggrieved.

"Well, I should say you can," the parson replied, heartily. "Take off your duds and come in where it's warm. Who ever heard of 'Doc' Murray making a sociable call—and such a night? Here," he said, as they went into his study, "Doc" rubbing his hands together delightedly and Kent awakened to the full pleasure of hospitality; "here, take my chair and pull up to the logs. What a night it is! Looks like winter meant business, doesn't it?" Then, stirring the burning sticks into a ruddy bed of coals, he tossed a few chips onto the fire, where they burst into a cheerful blaze.

In the interim he had continued, various rounds of approving exclamation, his guest looking on in a delicious sense of warming comfort, making no effort to respond other than with an increasing smile. Kent laid a log across the andirons and then resumed the one-sided conversation. "I suppose that I am to ask no questions, but I am glad—mightily glad that you have come, even if I do not know to what I am indebted for the call. I was more than lonesome before you came—lonesome is no name for it. I felt like a station agent up somewhere in a little Dakota two-store town once said he felt. It was just this kind of a night, snowing in chunks, and Boreas seeming to have nine heads blowing from all directions at once. No. 38 had gone by two hours or more, and there was nothing due for another two hours, and that only a freight that would probably be late. He said that he wished something would happen."

"And did it?" "Doc" asked, expecting a story.

"Yes. He heard his instrument tick. Rushing to the table he responded eagerly. 'No. 39 lost—in—the—storm,' came the message. 'If she—reaches you—report here.' That was all that happened."

"But didn't No. 39 reach him?" asked "Doc."

"No; and he sat all night listening to the storm," Kent laughed.

"What kind o' story do you call that?" "Doc" said, disappointedly. But, with renewed animation, he continued: "They've been some good stories come from up in that country. I wuz up there in my young days fer a right long spell, but I couldn't stay. It wan't my kind o' country. Th' on'y trees I ever see all th' time I wuz there wuz the double-trees on 'prairie schooners.' That's right!" he chuckled, as Kent laughed. "They've not enough trees in th' whole country to cover a small-sized Fourth of July pic-nic. Speakin' o' pic-nics, did I ever tell y' o' th' Centre Pole pic-nic we had about five year ago?"

"I don't believe you ever did. This is good pic-nic weather, though," Kent laughed. "Have a cigar and tell me about it?"

"Well, Centre Pole, you know," "Doc" began, but paused to puff up his freshly-lighted weed, as he rolled it in his mouth like a sweet morsel that it was; "Centre Pole is about thirty mile due east from here. Called Centre Pole 'cause it wuz the middle o' th' population o' th' United States then, though I think the stake's gone further west now. 'Milt' Craig wuz down t' read the 'Declaration,' an', as everybody hereabouts had heerd him, nobody'd go, so I felt 'at I had to. We driv' over on th' third an' come back on th' fifth, an' set me ef I ever want a-nother sech trip!"

"What happened?" Royal asked, deeply interested.

"It wan't what happened; it wuz what didn't happen. Didn't you ever hear about it?" he asked, seeming reluctant to believe his auditor entirely ignorant.

"I assure you I have not," Kent responded quickly, eagerly.

"Well, they wan't no pic-nic 't tall; but 'Milt' done th' oration fer my benefit alone, an' when we got back I thought I never would hear th' last o' it."

"Then you—" Kent began, but broke into a laugh that was greatly aggravated by "Doc's" woeful look.

"Yes, I driv' thirty mile t' hear 'Milt' Craig. That's one time I wished 'at somethin' had happened," "Doc" said, joining his host with a thunderous "Ha, ha!" that shook his mighty frame.

They both settled finally to thinking attitudes. Kent still wore a smile at the realizationn of "Doc's" clever return story, and he moved his seat toward the fire with a quick hitch. Leaning forward, his chair tilted to its front legs, he sat balancing himself, with the poker clasped in both hands, bouncing it up and down in an accompaniment to his thoughts.

"Doc" slipped down in the big easy chair, a little back of Kent, and, with his legs crossed on a level with his chin, he completed his comfort by placing his elbows on the chair-arms, lightly touching his fingertips before his face in an inverted V, while he contemplated the parson, with secret, pleasurable anticipation playing over his features.

"Have you heard what they're talkin' about over t' th' store lately?" "Doc" finally asked, with careful slowness.

"This isn't another 'nothing happened' story?" Kent inquired.

"It may be," "Doc" replied, "but I don't hardly 'low it is. They've decided t' build a new church fer y' in the spring."

"What?" the parson said quickly. Turning he scrutinized "Doc's" face joyously. "You don't mean it!"

"That's what I called fer," was the laconic reply. "I 'lowed nobody else 'd tell y', so I thought I would. Yep, thet's th' talk, an' set me, I b'lieve they're in earnest, too!"

"Well, that is good news," Kent replied radiantly. "Only—only—"

"On'y what?" "Doc" asked.

"Only I don't think they ought to do it," he went on seriously. "I believe that we can get along without it another year. The old one has done this long, why not a little longer?"

"But I thought you wuz th' one 't wanted it," "Doc" said, in surprise.

"So I was; but that was some time ago. Things have changed since then—changed with me anyway. I have learned to love the old one best—far better than I could a new and finer one. There is room enough in the old one yet. Don't you think so?" he asked anxiously.

"They do say you're changed," "Doc" replied, ignoring the question. "I hadn't noticed it none; but, now you speak, I b'lieve y' air someways different. What's up—you've changed yer mind?"

"I didn't know then all I do now," kent replied readily. "I wanted to be big and do big things, but I am beginning to understand my surroundings better. To be honest, I would hate to see the old church go, for one thing; and then, I don't believe my congregation can afford another now. You see I know better what to expect now. I know what the people have not, and I didn't know that before."

"But, ef they want to be generous, let 'em. I'm older'n you be, an' ef you're wise you'll get all y' can when they're willin' t' do it. Take my advice on that."

"You know better than that, 'Doc,'" Kent replied, calling his visitor to account. "How much have you ever taken from them? Tell me now, how much?"

"I didn't know any better; but that's no reason fer you t' be foolish," the old man replied apologetically.

"Just as I thought," said Kent, triumphantly. "You know yourself, that it would be more than they should undertake, if you will only admit it. See the hundreds of places where you have forgotten or ignored your chances for personal gain to save someone else. This little world is well adapted to the cultivation of generosity—all the rest of the world is too, I presume; but here we get nearer to our chances. Nowhere can we go without seeing some one between us and the horizon who is needy and—and, well, they build no new church if I can help it," he ended emphatically.

"Set me!" "Doc" replied meditatively, surprised into a heretofore unknown admiration. "I've thought many's th' time o' th' fool I be, but I'm gettin' too well along t' change my ways now. An' so you're a-goin' t' fergit your ownself jest fer them as won't appreciate?"

Kent made no response, only looking straight before him into the fire, and after a short pause "Doc" took up the voicing of his thoughts in this retrospective turn:

"I wuz sayin' thet they don't appreciate, but mebbe I'm wrong. What I've done has been what I wanted t' do, an' I 'low 'a man ought t' be satisfied with that. Ef he ain't he certainly don't know what he's livin' fer. After all, th' thing about it is t' know when you've really done what y' wanted t' do. Sometimes I git t' thinkin' how I might 'a been rich sommers else, er famous an' great—then 's when I don't know what my blessin's is. Fer ef I wan't happy an' content it would'nt be no use. An' I don't b'lieve I ever could be thet way less'n I knowed ever'body an' ever'body knowed me. You take people now, special' children," he said, turning toward Kent a benevolent smile; "they ain't one hereabouts but'll say: 'Howdy, "Doc!"' er 'H'ar y', "Doc!"' ever' time they see me jest 's if I wan't a day older'n they be. That alone's worth workin' a lifetime fer, an' I 'low," he concluded, with a contented sigh, as he lay back in the cushions, "thet thet's more worth than anythin' else I could a-set out t' do."

"I only hope that I can do as well," Kent replied dubiously, deeply impressed by the older man's philosophy and the sweet contentment he seemed to find in so small a thing as the faith and confidence of the children about him.

"You're startin' right, anyway," "Doc" said, approvingly. He had been feeling the pulse of his people figuratively as well as professionally. Kent's growing favor pleased his benign heart, and at once attracted him to the younger man. He had found the object of his interest worthy the changing temperament. Under the false sympathy which he had at first expressed for selfish, personal gain, Kent stood without wavering. He had had the strength for resistance of "Doc's" test, as well as the insight to reveal his better understanding of the inquisition. This at first surprised the older man, but at once produced a respect that invited his confidence. It was the beginning of a friendship—a friendship that would benefit Kent with a stimulus for his self-uplifting.

"I didn't 'low you sensed th' idee of our folks around here," he resumed. "They're not like folks mostly is other places. They's some things they don't take in right quick—but set me! They're quick 'nough t' see when a man's on their side; an' when they do see it they's your friend quicker'n a cat kin climb a fence."

"I am beginning to realize it," Kent replied. "The news you have brought of their intentions makes the fact more evident. I have only commenced to see my mistakes," he went on more seriously; "but, if the small change I have made in myself finds a reflection in them, and so soon, I believe that I can agree with you most heartily about their quickness to recognize and reward effort. Though I must say that their manner of showing appreciation is entirely unmerited. It certainly is a good place to be in when one does right."

"Well, I guess I've had my visit out," "Doc" finally said, grunting as he was arising from his chair reluctantly. "I'm gettin' t' be a regular ole woman, carryin' news about th' way I hev been lately."

"So long as it was such good news you need not find fault with yourself," Kent replied, laughing. "But what's the need of your going? The night is young yet."

"Yes, I know; but my time's never my own. I feel like I've been stealin' now," "Doc" said, resignedly. "Some time I'll be too old t' get about—then I kin set around all th' time, an' nobody t' bother."

"That time will never come. You never will be too old to be active!"

"Mebbe YOU think not, an' mebbe y're right. Anyway, it ain't come yit," he said, laughing and moving toward the door.

"Wait. Let me get your things," Kent said quickly, as he pressed "Doc" back and went for the coat, cap and muffler himself. When he returned he helped his guest don the outer garments before the fire, meantime talking light-heartedly.

"Oh! I'll be all right," "Doc" replied to Kent's solicitous precautioning. "Set me! I've seen a hundred worse storms 'n this, an' I'm still ploddin' aroun' yit." "'Night!" he said, as he set his head into the storm and floundered away over the unbroken path.

"Good night!" Kent called, looking after him a moment. He closed the door then, and, after re-adjusting the strip of carpet along the bottom crack to keep the snow from driving in, he returned to the study and threw himself into the chair where his guest had sat.

From the first position he had taken he did not move. The sunlight of love played over his thoughts and warmed them to fanciful conceptions. His people were become appreciative and he was radiant with joy. Not that he cared for the reward. No; not that. For he had decided that their intended gift must not be made. But the consciousness of their appreciation was the thing that caused his head to reel with joy. He became giddy under the growing spell. In his mind he thanked them extravagantly, and hugged the pleasure of humble gratitude close to him. It had been a hard struggle—the mastery of false pride and false notions of his own importance; but he was succeeding. The people testified to that by their changed attitude toward him, so he loved the people. His mind became diseased with foolish fancies, that were as the pepper and salt of hot condiments, and he stumbled on, amazed that he had not sooner found the way.

Looking back through the few months that were gone he came to thoughts of her who had first helped him to the right way, and he was at once rational. He opened his eyes slowly and, gazing before him, a greater sense of joy—a more tender gratitude came over him, while he was now keenly alive to its deepest influence. "She must soon know," he thought. "Will it change her contempt for me? Surely her sympathy must come back to the work, if it never does to me. Ah! if she would only care again as she used to," he ended, his face illuminated with the hope. He leaned forward with his chin in his hands, becoming again absorbed in fancies that the fire made real. For an hour he sat thus, never moving save to blink his sleepless eyes. Martin stepped into the hall and pulled his curtains aside. With a start he turned toward her, scarcely comprehending her presence.

"There is somebody knocking," she said, with suppressed excitement. "Didn't you hear 'em? They've been there this five minutes gone!"

"Somebody—knocking?" Kent repeated, adding quickly, "Let them in, Martin; let them in."

She first slipped the bolt and drew the door only wide enough to permit her to see without. Then, satisfying her fears, she held it wide ajar, and "Doc" Murray stepped in.

"Parson here?" he asked excitedly.

Martin nodded toward the study. Kent, recognizing his voice, crossed the room, and they met in the doorway.

"I've come t' get Martin," "Doc" said. "She must get ready t' go with me at once. Now bundle up good, Martin," he said authoritatively to the surprised Mrs. George, who went to prepare herself for the trip in the cold without further questioning.

"Doc" stepped over to the fire, rubbing his hands briskly. Kent ventured no remark at his sudden return.

"They'd been lookin' fer me ever'where," "Doc" said finally, "never thinkin' I wuz here."

"What has happened?" Kent asked.

"George Brandt's dead," he replied quietly.

Kent stood stunned and staring at the speaker.

"Happened about two this arternoon. Henderson's boy Ray come aroun' thet way from Elder Blossom's 'bout five an' stopped in t' get warm. Then he rushes here an' gives out th' news. Ever'body's wild!

They wuz all a-lookin' fer me. But I can't do no good," he ended in a heart-broken tone.

"I'll go with you," Kent burst forth excitedly.

"Now, they be no use o' thet," "Doc" said soothingly. "Martin an' me'll go do what we can an' stay with th' girl to-night, an' ef y' want t' come out with th' others to-morra—why, that'll do. But they be no use, ez I say, o' your goin' to-night."

"But—" Kent began.

"I know. You can come out to-morra. Here's Martin now, all ready, so we'd better be a-goin'."

Landy went as far as the sleigh to tuck his wife in, and Kent stood in the door watching, the wind flickering the flame of the lamp he was holding, which gave him no chance to see them clearly. They were gone, and Landy had returned almost to the door before he knew.

"Terrible!" said Landy, when they were inside. He had gotten the news at the last moment, before the sleigh left.

Kent made no reply, but returned to his study stricken with grief that had no outlet because he was stunned with its newness. The fire had burned low, but he gave it no heed. He leaned with one elbow on the high mantel shelf, and Landy, standing in the doorway, awaited some observation. But, soon realizing that the parson was beyond talking, or being talked to, he dropped the curtains silently into place, closed the door back of them gently and tiptoed down the hall.