“I have changed my mind.”
“Anyhow I can’t waste any more time.”
“Waste? Waste?” he exclaimed.
But she had gone.
CHAPTER XIII
A SURPRISE
Promptly at seven the candles were lighted upon the dinner-table where they burned in sacrificial splendor in the midst of an offering fit for Ceres. At seven one, Aunt Philomela swept in gowned in purple silk, resplendent in the family jewels; at seven five Miss Van Patten appeared and put the family jewels to shame. She was in something as light as mist. It fell from her neck and hung like spray about her ankles. At seven ten the doctor’s gig drove up and a hearty “Whoa” announced the doctor himself like a bugle blast. At seven fifteen, the preliminary embarrassment of the introduction was over and Barnes’ back smarting under the gruff greeting. At seven twenty the doctor returned from a brief visit upstairs and John produced himself in the majesty of full regalia.
It was not until the soup was served that Barnes found himself in a position to size up the genial enemy. Among other reasons he was too elated over the necessity that had forced Aunt Philomela to seat him opposite her niece. Barnes saw a heavy man of sixty with a round tanned face, and hands of remarkable beauty. They were tender hands backed by arms that might have been those of a Flemish warrior. In a dozen ways the bluff doctor made him think of those who fought in Flanders and secured immortality, not so much by their deeds, strangely enough, as by the canvases of those who depicted them. The burly physician might have been the result of some subtle blending of the poet artist and his warrior model; of the brush and the sword. Give him a rolling hat with a feather in it, and he could take his place beside Porthos; put a brush in his hand and he would have passed for Rembrandt. At the sick bed of children the women gave over, unquestioning, the joy of their travail to those hands—recognizing them as even more tender than their own.
It took but a glance to see what he must mean to the country-side. No ice-laden wind which ever blew would be strong enough to stand between him and a cry of pain or the moan of a fevered soul. It was enough if he himself came; it did not so much matter whether he brought his vials or no.
Barnes found the situation more disconcerting than he had anticipated. His self-confidence deserted him. He had no heart to play upon this big man’s credulity. Rather would he take him into his confidence; rather would he speak fairly to those blue eyes resting in their nest of wrinkles. Here was a man used to seeing the unshrouded souls of his fellows. He was doctor, priest, and lawyer, and when these three get together in one man there is a great dropping off of cloaking rags. Such a man must see terrible things; at times beautiful things.
“Boy,” exclaimed the doctor, “you’ve done more for your father in three days than I’ve been able to do in three months. You ought to have come a year ago.”