The Doctor Part 9

'Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as nothin' to do with it.' 'W'at then?' asks father quite polite. 'It's the feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' "Ow can 'e 'ave any feelin' of 'is toes if 'e hain't got no toes?' 'Well,' sez the doctor, "is feelin's hain't in 'is toes at all.' 'Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father.

'W'en I 'urts my toes it's in my toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and, it's my 'and.' 'My dear sir,' sez the doctor calm-like, 'it hain't in yer 'and, nor yet in yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But the feelin' in my mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 'Oh, come, Benny, that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the doctor, puttin' 'im off. But father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, 'Don't 'is mind know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is mind feel 'is toes 'urt w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes to 'urt?' 'It hain't 'is toes, I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind?' sez father. 'But 'e hain't got no toes to give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind or henywheres else.' 'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite losin'

'is temper, fer father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is toes used to give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is toes is gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is eye to make 'im stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If I don't 'urt 'em, I don't git no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start that ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' 'Yeh don't need no toes to start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old feelin' of toes a-keepin' up.' 'Ther' hain't no--' 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I tell yeh it hain't toes, it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the brain. Don't yeh see? W'en the toes are 'urt the nerves sends word up to the brain jest like the telegraph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them nerves, doctor?' sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them toes is gone them nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.' 'But the nerve feelin' is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the feelin's in the nerves, an' if ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's so,' sez the doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is gone. 'Ow could ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' sez the doctor, an'

I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 'jest quit it right now.' 'Well, well. All right, doctor,' sez father quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble inquirin' mind, an' I jest wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem a little ashamed of 'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look a-'ere, Mr. Fallows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph wire. 'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an' 'ere's a station we'll call London. Hevery station 'as 'is own call. Bradford station, we'll say, 'as a call X Y Z, an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know that's Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in London yeh'd know somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't any,' breaks in father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will yeh?' sez the doctor, 'till I git through. Well; all 'long that Bradford line yeh can give that Bradford call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford call houtside of Bradford?' sez father. 'Well,' sez the doctor, an' 'e seemed quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do along the line. Now ther's Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds up to the brain, "Toes! Toes! Toes!" an' all 'long that toe line yeh can git the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long time, then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many of them nerves?' "Undreds of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' 'Hankles? calves?

s.h.i.+ns?' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' sez father, quite triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, s.h.i.+ns, an' heverythin', all them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' 'Yes,' sez the doctor, not seein' w'ere father was at. 'Then,' sez 'e quick-like, 'w'at makes 'em all shout "Toes?" W'y don't the brain 'ear "Hankle" or "'Eel"?' Then the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear at father most orful. But father, 'e knows 'ow to conduct 'isself, an' sez 'e quite dignified, 'I 'ope as 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls the old doctor up an' 'e sez, 'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez 'e. 'Don't mention it,' sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, 'Yeh see, Mr.

Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things very well,' sez 'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it would 'a' saved a lot of trouble if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed 'im thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks up sez, sez 'e, 'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of toes keeps up an' not 'eels or hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen gits a-shoutin' in this little 'ouse, yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or me. Ther's thirteen of 'em.

An' I suppose w'en them toes gits a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of hankle, or 'eel, but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,'

'e sez, as 'e druv' away, 'if it's not too bold, would yeh mind buryin'

them toes?'"

"But," said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, "I do talk. But poor Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is toes till that ther' blessed young lady come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to sing, poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to sleep, the first 'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! An 'e hain't ever done talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the young doctor. An' a lovely pair they'd make, poor souls."

Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time to a.n.a.lyse her feelings Iola reappeared.

"Well, good-bye," said Mrs. Fallows. "Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh git back. Good-bye, Miss," she said to Margaret. "It does seem to give me a fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights."

It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for bed that Margaret had time to a.n.a.lyse that sudden pang.

"It can't be that I am jealous," she said. "Of course, she is far more attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her better?" She shook her fist at her reflection in the gla.s.s. "Do you know, you are as mean as you can be," she said viciously.

At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft singing.

"It's no wonder," said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound, "it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother with a voice like that. Yes, and--and the rest of them, too."

In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an involuntary exclamation of admiration.

"My! you are lovely!" she cried. "No wonder everyone loves you." With a sudden rush of penitent feeling for her "mean thoughts" she put her arms about Iola and kissed her warmly.

"Lovely! Nonsense!" she exclaimed, surprised at this display of affection so unusual for Margaret, "I am not half so lovely as you. When I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself cheap and worthless."

Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart.

"Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, was.h.i.+ng and dusting and mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you go the people just fall down and wors.h.i.+p you." As she spoke she let down her hair preparatory to brus.h.i.+ng it. It fell like a cloud, a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked critically at her.

"You are beautiful," she said slowly. "Your hair is lovely, and your big blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you.

But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it,"

she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, "I can please them in a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen.

But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would forget me. They wouldn't forget you."

"What nonsense!" said Margaret brusquely. "It is not your voice alone; it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft about you."

"But the women don't care for me," said Iola, with the same slow, thoughtful voice. "If I wanted very much I believe I could make them.

But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me."

"Now you're talking nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "You ought to have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening."

"Now," continued Iola, ignoring her remark, "the women all like you, and the men, too, in a way."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "When you're around the boys don't look at me."

"Yes, they do," said Iola, as if pondering the question. "Ben does."

Margaret laughed scornfully. "Ben likes my jelly."

"And d.i.c.k does," continued Iola, "and Barney." Here she shot a keen glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over her fair cheek and down her bare neck.

"Pshaw!" she cried angrily, "those boys! Of course, they like me. I've known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with them in the pond. They think of me just like--well--just like a boy, you know."

"Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a chance to be anything."

"Be anything!" cried Margaret hotly. "Why, d.i.c.k's going to be a minister and--"

"Yes. d.i.c.k will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?"

"Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough,"

replied Margaret indignantly.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir."

To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the "unheard of." "And yet," she went on, "if he had a chance--"

But Margaret could bear this no longer. "What are you talking about?

There are plenty of good men who are never heard of."

"Oh," cried Iola quickly, "I didn't mean--of course your father. Well, your father is a gentle man. But Barney--"

"Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night."

"Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't bear to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you." As she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around her neck. Margaret relented.

"Of course I love you," she said. "There," kissing her, "good-night. Go to sleep or you'll lose your beauty."

But Iola clung to her. "Good-night, dear Margaret," she said, her lips trembling pathetically. "You are the only girl friend I ever had. I couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me."

"I never forget my friends," cried Margaret gravely. "And I never cease to love them."

"Oh, Margaret!" said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, "don't turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me."

"You little goose," cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a child, "of course I will always love you. Good-night now." She kissed Iola tenderly.

"Good-night," said Iola. "You know this is my last night with you for a long time."

"Not the very last," said Margaret. "We go to the Mill to-morrow night, you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is going to have Ben there for nursing and feeding."

Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving machines for churning, was.h.i.+ng, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing machine with the same power, but his mother would have none of it.

Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only "paying his board," as Barney declared, but "earning good wages as well."

The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people.

It was in vain that d.i.c.k set before her, with the completeness amounting to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. "Ben needs you," he argued. "And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I, weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you.

You must come." It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that finally weighed with her.