Stepping Heavenward [32]
believe I was dead. They were to gather about me, and I was suddenly to come to life and jump up and try to catch them as they all ran scampering and screaming about. We had played in this interesting way for some time, and my hair, which I keep in nice order nowadays, was pulled down and flying every way; when in marched the doctor. I started up and came to life quickly enough when I heard his step, looking red and angry, no doubt.
I should think you might have knocked, Dr. Elliott," I said, with much displeasure.
"I ask your pardon; I knocked several times," he returned. "I need hardly ask how my little patients are."
"No," I replied, still ruffled, arid making desperate efforts to get my hair into some sort of order. "They are as well as possible."
"I came a little earlier than usual to-day," he went on, "because I am called to visit my uncle, Dr. Cabot, who is in a very critical state of health."
"Dr. Cabot!" I repeated, bursting into tears.
"Compose yourself, I entreat," he said; "I hope that I may be able to relieve him. At all events--"
"At all events, if you let him die it will break my heart," I cried passionately. "Don't wait another moment; go this instant."
"I cannot go this instant," he replied. "The boat does not leave until four o'clock. And if I may be allowed, as a physician, to say one word, that my brief acquaintance hardly justifies, I do wish to warn you that unless you acquire more self-control-"
"Oh, I know that I have a quick temper, and that I spoke very rudely to you just now," I interrupted, not a little startled by the seriousness of his manner.
"I did not refer to your temper," he said. "I meant your whole passionate nature. Your vehement loves and hates, your ecstasies and your despondencies; your disposition to throw yourself headlong into whatever interests you."
"I would rather have too little self-control," I retorted, resentfully, "than to be as cold as a stone, and as hard as a rock, and as silent as the grave, like some people I know."
His countenance fell; he looked disappointed, even pained.
"I shall probably see your mother," he said, turning to go; "your aunt wishes me to call on her; have you any message?"
"No," I said.
Another pained, disappointed look made me begin to recollect myself. I was sorry, oh! so sorry, for my anger and rudeness. I ran after him, into the hall, my eyes full of tears, holding out both hands, which he took in both his.
"Don't go until you have forgiven me for being so angry!" I cried. "Indeed, Dr. Elliott, though you not be able to believe it, I am trying to do right all the time!"
"1 do believe it," he said earnestly.
"Then tell me that you forgive me!"
"If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell something else," he said, looking me through and through with those great dusky eyes. "And I will tell it," he went on, his grasp on my hands growing firmer-"'It is easy to forgive when one loves." I pulled my hands away, and burst out crying again.
"Oh, Dr. Elliott this is dreadful!" I said. "You do not, you cannot love me! You are so much older than I am! So grave and silent! You are not in earnest?"
"I am only too much so," he said, and went quietly out.
I went back to the nursery. The children rushed upon me, and insisted that I should "play die." I let them pull me about as they pleased. I only wished I could play it in earnest.
Chapter 8
VIII
JUNE 28.
MOTHER writes me that Dr. Cabot is out of danger, Dr. Elliott having thrown new light on his case, and performed some sort of an operation that relieved him at once. I am going home. Nothing would tempt me to encounter those black eyes again. Besides, the weather is growing warm, and Aunty is getting ready to go out of town with the children.
JUNE 29.-Aunty insisted on knowing why I was hurrying home so suddenly, and at last got it out of me inch by inch. On the whole it was a relief to have some one to speak to.
"Well!" she said, and leaned back in her chair in a fit of musing.
"Is that all you are going to say, Aunty?"
I should think you might have knocked, Dr. Elliott," I said, with much displeasure.
"I ask your pardon; I knocked several times," he returned. "I need hardly ask how my little patients are."
"No," I replied, still ruffled, arid making desperate efforts to get my hair into some sort of order. "They are as well as possible."
"I came a little earlier than usual to-day," he went on, "because I am called to visit my uncle, Dr. Cabot, who is in a very critical state of health."
"Dr. Cabot!" I repeated, bursting into tears.
"Compose yourself, I entreat," he said; "I hope that I may be able to relieve him. At all events--"
"At all events, if you let him die it will break my heart," I cried passionately. "Don't wait another moment; go this instant."
"I cannot go this instant," he replied. "The boat does not leave until four o'clock. And if I may be allowed, as a physician, to say one word, that my brief acquaintance hardly justifies, I do wish to warn you that unless you acquire more self-control-"
"Oh, I know that I have a quick temper, and that I spoke very rudely to you just now," I interrupted, not a little startled by the seriousness of his manner.
"I did not refer to your temper," he said. "I meant your whole passionate nature. Your vehement loves and hates, your ecstasies and your despondencies; your disposition to throw yourself headlong into whatever interests you."
"I would rather have too little self-control," I retorted, resentfully, "than to be as cold as a stone, and as hard as a rock, and as silent as the grave, like some people I know."
His countenance fell; he looked disappointed, even pained.
"I shall probably see your mother," he said, turning to go; "your aunt wishes me to call on her; have you any message?"
"No," I said.
Another pained, disappointed look made me begin to recollect myself. I was sorry, oh! so sorry, for my anger and rudeness. I ran after him, into the hall, my eyes full of tears, holding out both hands, which he took in both his.
"Don't go until you have forgiven me for being so angry!" I cried. "Indeed, Dr. Elliott, though you not be able to believe it, I am trying to do right all the time!"
"1 do believe it," he said earnestly.
"Then tell me that you forgive me!"
"If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell something else," he said, looking me through and through with those great dusky eyes. "And I will tell it," he went on, his grasp on my hands growing firmer-"'It is easy to forgive when one loves." I pulled my hands away, and burst out crying again.
"Oh, Dr. Elliott this is dreadful!" I said. "You do not, you cannot love me! You are so much older than I am! So grave and silent! You are not in earnest?"
"I am only too much so," he said, and went quietly out.
I went back to the nursery. The children rushed upon me, and insisted that I should "play die." I let them pull me about as they pleased. I only wished I could play it in earnest.
Chapter 8
VIII
JUNE 28.
MOTHER writes me that Dr. Cabot is out of danger, Dr. Elliott having thrown new light on his case, and performed some sort of an operation that relieved him at once. I am going home. Nothing would tempt me to encounter those black eyes again. Besides, the weather is growing warm, and Aunty is getting ready to go out of town with the children.
JUNE 29.-Aunty insisted on knowing why I was hurrying home so suddenly, and at last got it out of me inch by inch. On the whole it was a relief to have some one to speak to.
"Well!" she said, and leaned back in her chair in a fit of musing.
"Is that all you are going to say, Aunty?"