Katherine's Sheaves Part 17

At that instant there came a tap on the door, and on going to answer it Katherine found Mrs. Seabrook and Miss Williams, another teacher, without.

Both ladies exclaimed in astonishment upon seeing the supposed invalid up and dressed, while Mrs. Seabrook viewed with grave disapproval the tray before her, with its remnants of a hearty dinner.

"My dear! are you crazy that you dare eat meat, potatoes and vegetables--yes, and pie!--with such a fever?" she cried, aghast.

"I have no fever," said Miss Reynolds, giving her a cool, normal hand. "I am very much better, and I was hungry, so asked Miss Minturn to bring me something nice to eat."

"All the same, you are very injudicious," was the severe rejoinder. But the transgressor only smiled serenely and began to talk of other things, while Katherine removed the offensive tray, taking it below, after which she sought her own room.

CHAPTER X.

MRS. SEABROOK'S PROBLEM.

Katherine spent a while chatting with her roommate, after which she made some change in her dress, then sought Mrs. Seabrook's apartments to make her promised visit to Dorothy.

The child was reclining on a couch and propped up by numerous pillows. She looked pale and worn from recent suffering, although, just then, she was comparatively comfortable.

Prof. Seabrook was sitting beside her, reading from an entertaining book, to pa.s.s the time during his wife's absence on her round of visits to the sick.

Katherine flushed slightly as she entered the room, for, try as she would, she had not yet quite overcome a sense of reserve whenever she met her princ.i.p.al. His manner to her was always marked by the most punctilious politeness; but it was such frigid courtesy and so entirely at variance with his affability during their first interview, that she also seemed to freeze when in his presence.

The moment the door opened Dorothy uttered a cry of joy, extending eager hands to her, and, after saluting Prof. Seabrook, Katherine went to her side, a cheery smile upon her lips as she greeted her.

"I'm so glad, Miss Minturn! Mamma said you were coming, and I've been watching the door ever since dinner. Can you stay a long time?" exclaimed the girl, in glad tones.

"Perhaps I am interrupting something interesting," Katherine observed, as she glanced at the book in the professor's hands.

"Well, papa has been reading to me, and it was interesting,"

Dorothy truthfully admitted. "But he has an engagement pretty soon, and is only staying with me till mamma comes back, for Alice is out. Mamma has gone up to see Miss Reynolds. Do you know she is awful sick?"

"She is much better to-day. I came from her room only a little while ago," said Katherine, "and I can stay an hour, or more, with you if you like. I will go on with the reading, Prof. Seabrook, if it will relieve you," she added, courteously turning to him.

"Oh, I'd rather talk with you," Dorothy interposed. "Mamma can finish the story by and by. Now, papa, you can go and leave me with Miss Minturn."

Prof. Seabrook arose.

"It is very good of you, Miss Minturn," he said, addressing her with studied politeness. "I do feel anxious to get away to an important appointment. Well, Dorrie, what shall I bring you from the city?" he questioned, as he bent over the girl, his tones softening suddenly to yearning tenderness.

"Oh! papa, it's Sat.u.r.day, you know," she said, with a wise look.

"Sure; I almost forgot, and the inevitable cream chocolates for Sunday will have to be forthcoming, I suppose," he laughingly rejoined. "Anything else?"

"No, I guess not; only tell Uncle Phil, if you see him, to be sure to come out to-morrow."

"Very well," then kissing her fondly, he bowed formally to Katherine and quietly left the room.

Ten minutes later Mrs. Seabrook returned, and Katherine persuaded her to go out for a walk, a privilege which the closely confined woman was glad to avail herself of, and Dorothy was soon absorbed in the description of a moonlight fete on the Grand Ca.n.a.l in Venice, and which Katherine had partic.i.p.ated in during her recent tour abroad.

Meantime Mrs. Seabrook was walking briskly towards the highway, but with a very thoughtful expression on her refined face.

It was one of those soft, balmy days of May that almost delude one into the belief that it is June; that thrill the heart with tenderness for every living thing, and quicken responsive pulses with their unfolding beauty. She had been shut up the whole week with Dorrie, while, with Miss Reynolds alarmingly ill and several of the students threatened with as many different ailments, her time had been more than full, and her mind heavily burdened with care and anxiety. So it was with a sense of freedom and grateful appreciation that she pursued her way, breathing in the pure and refreshing air, basking in the genial sunshine and feasting her eyes upon the loveliness all around her; but thinking, thinking with a strange feeling of awe deep down in her heart.

She had just pa.s.sed the entrance to the grounds of the seminary, when she saw her brother, Dr. Stanley, approaching from the opposite direction.

She hurried forward to greet him.

"I am more than glad to see you, Phillip," she said, as she slipped her hand, girl fashion, into his, as it hung by his side.

"Come and walk with me. I want to talk to you."

"I am on my way to Dorrie," he replied. "I met William in a car, as I was returning to town from a visit to a patient, and he told me she had been very poorly to-day. So I took the next car back to see her."

"Yes, she had a very bad night, but has grown more comfortable within the last few hours. Miss Minturn offered to sit with her and let me out for a breath of air," his sister explained.

"I owe Miss Minturn my personal thanks. But perhaps I ought to go on and take a look at Dorrie," said the physician, thoughtfully.

"No, Phil; come with me. I am heavy-hearted, discouraged, and I need to be comforted," said the much-tried woman, the sound of tears in her voice. "Miss Minturn is very nice with Dorothy," she continued, struggling for self-control; "the child always seems happy and to forget herself when she is with her. Perhaps, though, you haven't time," she added, with sudden thought.

"Yes, I have, Emelie," the man gently replied, "and we will have one of our old tramps together. Come! Let us get as far as possible from that pile of brick and stone and its too familiar surroundings." And still holding her hand, swinging it gently back and forth, he led her along the road towards the open country.

"What a strange world this is, Phil!" Mrs. Seabrook broke out, suddenly, after they had traversed quite a distance and talked of various matters. "Everything in it seems to be at cross-purposes."

"Do you think so, Emelie? Look!"

The man checked her steps and pointed to the view before them.

They had come to the brow of a hill, and there, spread out beneath them, was a valley teeming with luxuriant beauty that was a delight to the eye and full of exhilarating charm. Thrifty farms dotted the broad expanse as far as they could see; springing fields of grain, interspersed with verdant meadows, and rich pastures dotted with their feeding kine were suggestive of prosperous homes and husbandmen; stretches of woodlands, with their st.u.r.dy trunks and vigorous branches, unfurled their banners of living green in varying shades and lent an air of dignity and strength to the attractive landscape. Here and there an apple orchard, with trees in full bloom, gave a dainty touch of color to brighten the whole, and a small river winding its glimmering way, like a rope of silver thrown at random, made a graceful trail over the scene; while above it all fleecy clouds, skimming athwart a sky of vivid blue, cast lights and shadows that could not have failed to thrill and inspire the soul of an old master painter.

"I know--that is lovely! No, there are no cross-purposes in nature; it all seems in perfect harmony," murmured Mrs. Seabrook, her eyes glowing with keen appreciation of the exquisite picture before her. "It is only poor humanity that seems all out of tune,"

she went on, the tense lines coming back to her face. "Oh, Phillip! what is this mystery of suffering that we see all about us? If G.o.d is tender, and loving, and supreme, why--oh! why--is the world so full of it?"

Dr. Stanley lifted the hand that he was still holding and laid it within his arm, drawing her closer to him with a tenderness which told her that he both knew and shared the heavy burden that weighed so heavily upon her heart.

"Emelie," he said, his eyes lingering upon the scene before them, "that is a question that I have often asked myself, especially during the last two years that I spent in those hospitals abroad, and witnessed the wretchedness they contained. And I suppose everybody has been asking it over and over for ages gone by. We have been taught that sin is the root of it all," he went on, musingly; "that sin brought sickness and death. Then, as you say, if G.o.d is supreme, why doesn't He abolish the sin, or at least show humanity how to conquer it in a practical way, to overcome or lessen the results of sin? But no! The same tragedy is repeated with every generation, and seems likely to go on for ages to come."

"Sin! What sin could an innocent child like Dorrie be guilty of, to bring upon her the curse of torture that she has endured for the last eight years?" cried Mrs. Seabrook, a note of intolerant anguish in her tones. "I know you will say theology teaches that it is the heredity sin of our first parents; but, Phillip, that is not fair nor just--it is not logical reasoning. I believe I am beginning to be very skeptical, for that argument hasn't a true ring to it. What human father or mother would torture their offspring simply because an ancestor, many generations ago, had committed a crime, however heinous? Oh, sometimes I am almost on the verge of declaring there is no G.o.d. That would bring chaos, I know," she added, with a deprecatory smile, as she saw her brother's brow contract; "but it really does seem as if the pros and cons are disproportionate, the cons far outnumbering the pros, as far as poor humanity is concerned."

"Emelie, you need change of scene; you are becoming morbid," said Phillip Stanley, looking with fond anxiety into the somber eyes upraised to his.

"Change of scene would not remove the sword that hangs over me, for you know that where I go Dorrie must also go. Oh! Phillip, do you believe that anything will ever permanently relieve that child of pain?" Mrs. Seabrook cried, a sob escaping her quivering lips.

"I don't expect she is ever going to be straight, like other girls. I only ask that she may be freed from suffering. Have you any real faith in that proposed operation, or even that--that she will live through it? You have been trying to 'build her up,' but she appears to be running down instead."

"I know, dear, her case does seem to be very trying, although I see no especial cause for anxiety. I hope when the season is more advanced and you go to the mountains she will improve more rapidly. But how would you like to change the treatment?" And Dr.

Stanley bent a searching look upon the troubled face beside him.

"Have some one else?"