The Strange Proposal (22 page)

Yet they had wanted him to go into a profession, had urged and begged him to go! And everything had seemed so well planned. To make good with the great specialist would mean that in another year or so he would be earning enough to give Father and Mother luxuries!

Ah! But he had not reckoned with sickness and threatened death.

All night long he had sat by his mother’s bedside, giving her medicine faithfully, watching her pulse, her temperature, seeing the frail, delicate features drawn with terrible pain at increasingly frequent intervals. Frantically, he had telephoned to doctors he knew in the north, not even counting the expense of long distance, searching here and there to locate someone to advise him, and failure had been written on every attempt but one, and that one a fading hope, a last resort. All the others he had tried had been away where he could not trace them. This one he had little faith in, yet he dared not go another night through without advice. And this doctor had given him little hope, corroborating his own fears, suggesting a remedy that might ease the pain but giving an impression of indifference toward the case, as if he had said, “Oh, well, she’s old. It’s time she died. Why bother?”

Yet John had telephoned for the medicine, and when it came had given it faithfully, hanging on to the last shred of hope, yet knowing that the frail sweet mother was growing momently weaker. He suspected that the medicine was merely doping the patient, dulling her pain somewhat. He was fearful that she might slip away from them in a stupor at any moment.

His father was still asleep, worn out with anxiety and pain. John had come away from his vigil by his mother’s bed to get a breath of air lest he fall asleep at his post, and now here he was sinking down in his chair, too tired for even the tears to heal the smarting of his eyes. Too tired and sore-hearted to even think.

Into the open doorway stole the sweet spicy odor of the orange blossoms from the trees about the house, just a faint little breeze stirring the hotness of their waxen petals, lifting a burnished leaf or two here and there, rustling the great banana leaves at the back of the house like the sound of silken skirts on ladies near at hand.

Silken skirts and orange blossoms! How that brought back the sweet, sharp memory of the wedding, and the girl coming with graceful tread up the aisle, looking at him with that glad, clean look in her eyes, the girl of his dreams! And how like a fool he had rushed out to secure her at once, without even lifting a questioning eye to his Guide. He had dared to tell her of his love, without guidance, so sure he knew she was a Christian girl! And now—to find her a woman of the world, the world from which he stood pledged to live a separated life!

Ah! God! Was all this trouble, this fight with death for the saving of his precious mother, to show him that he must not try to walk alone and guide himself?

The heavy delicacy of the perfume stole upon his weary senses and brought a dream, flung it about him as if it were her arms, the perfume of her hair, the beauty of her features, her face against his. The thrill of her lips on his came over him with crushing sweetness. In fancy, he let his face lie there against her shoulder an instant, resting from his fearful weariness, drifting unconsciously into momentary sleep.

Outside, the perfume drifted back, stirred by honey seekers, and the drone of bees mingled with the distant caw of vultures hurrying in search of prey. The gray moss waved majestically, now and then a mockingbird struck a raucous note, the little chameleons skittered under and over the narrow resonant boardwalk, and John Saxon slept.

Slept and dreamed of walking down a church aisle with a wonderful girl beside him, breathed words of love hot from his heart into her listening ear, felt her small hand tremble on his arm, saw again the starry look she gave him, the breath of the orange blossoms. Oh, how sweet it was, the drone of the bees like a lullaby! Her arms were about him, and he murmured in his sleep, “Mary Elizabeth! My darling!” and that woke him up!

Startled, he lifted his bloodshot eyes and looked about the familiar, plain little room, so eloquent of home and mother and father. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to get his feet down to earth. Then all his burdens descended upon him again. His mother! How long had he been asleep?

He sprang to his feet and stepped softly into the bedroom. There was no change! He turned from the precious fragile face, so like a fading flower, and felt again the stab of pain. A glance at his watch showed it to have been but a very few minutes since he had come out to get a breath of air, and yet in that time she seemed to have drifted further away. It was no use! He had tried everything, and nothing helped!

He glanced over at his father, still asleep, and thought pityingly of how it was going to be for him if Mother went. He, too, was frail. Yet always so gallant! Such a pair of saints for parents! How blessed he had been! What was poverty and sickness beside the loss of these dear souls? And he could do no more! If only there had been time for him to order medicines! His stock was so small and did not contain many drugs that might have at least helped! Oh, why had he run this risk for his precious mother? Why hadn’t he been sure to have everything on hand that might be needed here in this wilderness home, when everything within hailing distance was closed for the summer?

Ah, that was the trouble with his mother. She had spent too many long, hot summers in this forsaken place. She had been happy, yes, and had never complained, but she ought to have gone north and had a change of climate, at least every other year. This tropical climate invariably got every northerner who did not have a change now and then.

He had seen it coming. He had noticed her growing frailer, saw how easily she tired, and he had said more than once that she ought to go north for a change, but she had always smiled and shook her head and declared she was all right. She had always said she would wait till he was done with his studies, and then they would save money and go north for a summer together. Lately, just since he had come back from the wedding and had been telling them all about it, she had said, “We’ll go north for your wedding perhaps!”

And now—and now!

His thoughts trailed off into sorrow, and tears filled his eyes again. He was all in! He must get another wink of sleep somehow or he wouldn’t be fit to go on nursing. A glance at his watch showed there was still fifteen minutes before he must give the medicine again. Now, while they were both sleeping, he would just stretch out for a minute.

The couch had been put in the bedroom for his father, so that he and his dear companion need not be separated. John’s own room was on the second floor. He would not go so far away. He flung the cushion from a chair on the floor and lay down there. The perfume of the orange blossoms drifted in and wove their spell again, and the droning of the bees in the blossoms hummed with the music of his dreams. He slept instantly and profoundly, tired brain and weary body refusing even the golden walk down the aisle with Mary Elizabeth. Some severe subconscious conscience told him this was not time to dream dreams, while his mother lay dying! He had need for every faculty, and he must rest, if only for a minute.

Yet perhaps the perfume and the memories were still at work within the sleeping mind, for sharply he came to himself a little later, aware that the bees’ humming was extraordinarily loud, they seemed to be coming toward the house in a body, they were almost at the door.

He sprang into action. It was time to give that medicine! Alert, he paused to listen. Those bees! He had never heard such humming! Was he still dreaming? He must not go to the sickroom until he was wide awake. He might make some mistake.

He stepped to the door, and the humming increased and drew nearer. Lifting his heavy eyes, he stared in amazement. Was he seeing things? Was he losing his mind? Surely just loss of sleep wouldn’t do that!

He pressed his hands on his eyes and looked again. It seemed a great bird was flying low and coming straight toward him, and the sound was like the droning of millions of great bees.

And then all at once he was thoroughly awake and saw what it was, a great plane, flying low and evidently going to land on that big open space across the road that he had just finished clearing of stumps for his new grove before he went north to the wedding.

What in the world were they trying to land there for? Were they in trouble; had something gone wrong with the motor? He frowned. He couldn’t go out and help them now. He couldn’t leave the house. And they would make a noise and disturb his mother! Even just coming to the door to telephone for help, they would make noise. What should he do? He couldn’t refuse help, yet he couldn’t have his patient disturbed. There was scarcely a shred of hope left, yet he couldn’t give up that shred!

Mutely, anxiously, he watched the plane, hoping against hope that it would go on. There really wasn’t any place nearby where they could get a mechanic, if they didn’t have one of their own. There were no supply shops. There wasn’t even a gas station if they were out of gas.

Yet against his wish the plane came on, nearer and nearer, lower and lower, and now he could see that it was as big as the passenger planes that went overhead in the winter when the town was full of tourists. What could such a plane be doing here? Surely a man who could operate a plane like that would realize this time of year that this locality was as barren of help as a wilderness! He must be in terrible straits to land here! Yes, he was unmistakably trying to land, circling about, reconnoitering, and the roar of the powerful engine was terrible in the hot, bright stillness. It might frighten his mother if she woke from her stupor! If there were only some signal he could give them to go on! If he could only prevent them from landing there! He was frantic and helpless! It was not like the calm strength of John Saxon to be so unnerved, but the truth was he had had only snatches of sleep for the last four days, and he was appalled at the new danger that seemed threatening to his patient.

Suddenly the engine was shut off, and the plane drifted to a standstill exactly opposite the little house in the orange grove, in a direct line with the front door and the neat path of Bermuda grass that went down like a carpet to the white wooden gate. And then, as he watched, a person detached himself from the plane and came on a run toward the house, and he had a dim impression of others disembarking. He must do something about this at once. They must not be allowed to come to the house and make a lot of noise. Several people talking! It must not be! He would tell them there was critical illness here, and they must go on, even if he had to lend them his old jalopy to go in.

He tried to think where to send them. It was five miles to a garage where any sort of mechanic could be found, or even makeshift parts of machinery. There was a new man over at the lake, but he knew nothing of his ability. Still it was only a mile and a half away. Perhaps they could telephone for help. No, he must not let a lot of people come in to telephone. His mother would be startled.

He started down the path to meet the approaching boy, his hand up to hush him to silence should he start explaining in a shout.

But this boy did not shout. He came silently, with shining eyes and a solemn face, as if he were performing angels’ duty. And he came as if he were answering a far, desperate call.

It was when John reached the little white gate and swung it open to stop the progress of his unexpected guests that he recognized the boy and stopped short in wonder and astonishment and a growing relief. Here at last was someone he knew, someone who would understand, even though he was but a boy. Someone who could run errands if he could not do anything else! And John swung out into the road and grasped the hand of the prayer partner who had arrived so suddenly out of the blue.

“Sam! Dear lad!” he managed to say in a husky voice and with a tone that one man might use to another, deeply beloved.

“How is she?” Sam asked breathlessly. “Is she alive yet? ‘Cause I got yer doctor and a nurse! They’re right behind me! Did we get here in time? We started as soon as we could after the letter came.”

“You’ve got a doctor?” John Saxon eyed the boy in a joyful wonder. Almost any doctor would be a help when he had had to go on his own so long, tortured with uncertainty and mortally aware of his own inexperience.

“Yer own doctor! Doctor MacKelvie! Dr. Martin MacKelvie!” said Sam proudly, mindful not to let his voice rise. Both the doctor and the nurse and the two cousins had warned Sam about this. He must be utterly aware that he was in the presence of great danger. He must not startle a sick person.

John put his hands on the shoulders of the boy and looked deeply into the young eyes, and his own eyes were full of tears.

“Kid!” he said. “Oh, kid! I’ll never forget this! It’s a miracle! How you ever did it I can’t understand, but thank God you’ve come!”

W
hen Mary Elizabeth awoke the morning after they set sail in the air, all the world was roseate with an opal sea. Clouds like lovely pastel draperies were floating intimately, and the earth showed below, quite empty of human life.

And then it all came over Mary Elizabeth just what she was doing, and she was appalled at herself. How did she know that her ministrations would be welcome? How did she know that they would not be resented as unwarranted interference? Just because the doctor and nurse had assented to going, even a great doctor like the one she had secured, just because her father and her uncle had made no serious objection and her cousin Richie was piloting his most commodious plane in his best and swiftest style, was no guarantee that John Saxon might not be angry at what she was doing.

After all, John Saxon was a stranger, an utter stranger, and the letter he had written her days and days ago, the contact she had had from him, might be repented of by this time, or forgotten. He might be angry that she had not replied to it sooner.

And now she was sorry that she had written so soon. It would be easier to face him, not having replied so frankly to him yet, than to go down there nosing into his affairs, daring to bring a nurse and doctor without his knowing it, and remember that she had told him baldy that she loved him. Him! An utter stranger! She must have lost her head!