Entering into his own

Chapter 1. Alone In The World

A.Y there! Say, Doctor Mills! Wake up I O say!^’

The words were accompanied by a vigorous knocking on the door of the doctor's office. The knocking and the call were repeated. Soon there was a noise within, and a voice cried :

^‘What's wanted?"

‘‘It’s me, Joe Holmes. Ye’re wanted over to the Widder Graham’s. She is took worse.’’

The door opened.

“Ah, you’ve a lantern,’’ the voice from the darkness within said. “Wait a minute, Joe, and I’ll be ready to go with you.’’

Doctor Mills slept in a room back of his office. He lighted a lamp and hurriedly made ready for his walk.

“Rainin’," Joe said laconically. “If ye’re ’fraid of a little water ye better take an umbrelly."

‘‘You did not bring one,” and the doctor, buttoning himself into a greatcoat, stepped out into the darkness which the dim light from Joe’s lantern only faintly illumined.

“Me ! Hu ! Me ’fraid of a little water ! Do ye ’spose I’ve fished all over Lake Michigan fur fifty year — man and boy — and am ’fraid of water? Hu! After the big waves have gone over your boat fur two straight hours — well, a shower loses its scariness.”

The doctor chuckled. For a few minutes the two men picked their way silently along the sodden street. The air was cold, although it was April. The ice in Lake Michigan was breaking up, but the wind that swept the water and the wooded shore was sharp and keen. The men followed the water’s edge, gradually leaving the village behind them. At last Doctor Mills asked :

“How did you learn of Mrs. Graham’s illness? It must be after midnight.”

“One o’clock. Little Phil come over to our house ’fore dark, and my Mary Ann, she’s ben there ever sense. ’Bout an hour ’go she come home and routed me out of bed, said the widder was mighty bad.”

Just then there came a gust of wind that almost took the breath of the two men. They paused a moment, and Doctor Mills spoke:

“I had hoped she would last through this trying spring. Poor woman !”

“Might better say poor Phil. She’s all right,” a little huskily, “but I’d like to know what’s goin’ to become of that poor baby.”

“There must be relatives somewhere.”

“If there is they air poor sticks, or they’d never let that little woman work as she has. I say. Doc, how long have ye ben in Harbor Springs ?”

“Three years.”

The tone was cold. Joe Holmes knew that the doctor was strangely reticent regarding his past, but the fisherman was too deeply interested in the subject under discussion to think of that. He hurried on.

“It’s four year sense Graham died. Phil was two then, and the Grahams had lived here two year ’fore he was born. It was easy to see they wasn’t any poor trash. When they come here they had everything rich folks have ’cept money. Of that air there was jest ’nugh to buy that twenty acres of land out there and put up a better house than most of us have. Graham’s name was Julian, and we never give him a nickname, as we always do the boys. He was a right good feller, but he was a poet, and I don’t ’spose he could help it.”

While Joe talked the two men had plodded on in the rain. Again they halted. Only a few paces ahead stood the cottage, a bright light shining from the windows. Doctor Mills waited for Joe to finish the tragical tale, all the time conscious of the restless seething of the dark water so near.

“Ye see, Graham’s folks had shipped him, ’cause he married her. No one could blame him, fur she was prettier’n a picture in them days. But they couldn’t live on prettiness nor on love, so Julian took to fishin’. Hu ! Think of a poet tryin’ to catch fish ! But he was such a good feller that we helped him out. He raised a garden, and they lived somehow or ruther and was happy. Then the baby come, and it was like a story. All of a sudden Julian took sick and died. Sense that his widder has managed to earn bread fur herself and the little ’un. And now — ”

He stopped abruptly. Doctor Mills made no response but strode forward, ascending the steps which led up to a wide porch. Before he could knock the door was thrown open.

‘T heard you cornin’.” The kindly-faced woman was Joe’s wife. ‘‘She is bad, too bad I guess fur you to help.”

The doctor drew off his wet overcoat. The large and low sitting-room was neatly furnished. It held two huge cases which were filled with books. Back of the apartment in what was apparently a small dining-room a wood fire blazed in the stone fireplace.

Doctor Mills advanced to the door of a sleeping-room which opened at his right. As he crossed the threshold a childish voice cried:

“Oh, it is the good doctor! You will help my mother, won’t you. Doctor Mills?”

Upon the bed lay a woman still young but emaciated and faded. There were still traces of beauty on her wan face, and her large black eyes were brilliant. Close at her side, one hand resting on her arm, was a boy of six.

“Philip, you ought to be in bed,” the doctor said with an attempt at severity.

“Why, I can’t leave my mother. She would — ”

The sick woman’s voice interrupted him.

“Go out in the other room for a little time, my son. I want to talk to Doctor Mills.”

Gently the physician lifted the child from the bed. Philip was sturdy with a fair, freckled face, questioning blue eyes, and closely-clipped flaxen hair. His features were finely cut, and he carried his head well back.

“I’ll come back soon, little mother,” he said in a clear treble.

Left alone with the physician, Mrs. Graham began feebly, “Doctor Mills, I am dying. You have been very kind to me. Others have been kind, but, because something about you reminds me of my own past life, I am going to tell you of that past and bespeak your continued kindness for my son — my darling boy — whom I must leave alone in the world.”

Doctor Mills held a glass to her lips. “I shall be glad to do anything I can for the lad, but talking tires you.”

“I must say these few words, though. Our home was in the East, near Buffalo. I was a poor girl, a country school-teacher, and without near relatives. My husband was motherless, but his father was living, and he had an elder brother. They were wealthy and very proud. Julian was unlike the Grahams, being dreamy and imaginative. After leaving college his father wished him to study law, but he shrank from it. About that time we met. Julian loved me, notwithstanding my lowly birth and poverty. His father was angry, and, when we were married, forbade Julian the house. We came west, drifted about for a time, and finally settled here. Julian knew little of the world. He loved to write, but sold few articles. We were happy if we were poor. My husband died when Philip was two years old. Of my life since you know.^’

The doctor bowed his head in assent, and she went on :

‘^Can you imagine what the thought of leaving Philip has been to me? I wrote to his grandfather, begging for the child as I never could have begged for myself. All the reply I received was my letter returned to me. I was rebellious then, crying out that I could not die and leave my baby. But the God in whom I had long trusted did not fail me. Gradually I yielded my will to him. Love and trust returned to me. I do not know how it will be done, but God will care for my son. He will come to be what his father and I planned to make of him.”

She paused for breath. After a few minutes Doctor Mills asked :

‘‘Are there no friends to whom he can be sent?”

“No. There is no property save this little place. I have money enough to settle up everything but your bill. Doctor Mills, will you not sell Julian’s library and pay yourself out of the proceeds ? Many of the books are valuable ones. I had hoped to keep them for Philip, but it cannot be.’’

Doctor Mills bent over the bed. “Mrs. Graham, I wish I was a better man, wish it for Philip’s sake as Pve never wished it for my own. If you desire it I will become your son’s guardian. I cannot give him a home, for I have none, but I will see that he does not suffer. As for the library, I will take it in payment for my bill, and when Philip is a man it shall be his.”

“Oh, you are too good! I must not accept so much from you,” she murmured, tears flowing down her cheeks.

For a moment the silence in the room was broken only by the dashing of the rain against the windows. Then Doctor Mills spoke, laying one hand upon that of the dying woman.

“Mrs. Graham, do not feel that way. My life stretches behind me — a desert. Before me I see naught but a barren waste. If I can do any good — well, it may atone for my wasted years.”

They talked a few minutes longer. Then Mrs. Graham, who was very tired, fell asleep. The doctor’s promise had soothed her. While she knew little of the man she trusted him.

Doctor Mills had come to Harbor Springs three years before. He was a man of thirty-five. Of his past he never spoke. Opening an office, he had secured a fair practice, for he was an excellent physician. His life was a lonely one; he received few social invitations, and those few were declined.

The hours of the night wore away. Mrs. Graham alternately slept and waked. Philip had re-entered the room and lay by his mother’s side, sleeping when she did. Joe, his wife, another woman and the doctor remained at the house.

Slowly the gray dawn crept over the earth. Mrs. Graham opened her eyes and called feebly :

“Philip ! Dear boy, where are you ?”

“Right here, mother. Did you think I would leave you ?”

Her arms closed convulsively round him. “Darling, it is mother who is going away. I must leave you and go to your father. Doctor Mills will be your friend. You must be a good boy and grow up to be a good man. Promise me you will.’’

Philip’s lips quivered. “I’ll be good, mother, but I don’t want you to go away. It is so much easier to be good when you are here. No one will love me when you are gone.”

“My love will always be yours. Remember, Philip, when you are sad and lonely that mother loves you. God’s love is yours, too. Trust and obey him, dear. He will lead you into your rightful place in the world if you will let him. A useful, honorable, and upright manhood is yours, Philip — God’s own gift to you, and he — ”

A paroxysm of coughing interrupted her and shook her slender form. Doctor Mills saw that the end was near. He lifted the child from the bed.

“Run away, Philip.”

Mrs. Graham held out her arms for one last embrace. Brokenly she murmured:

'‘God watch over and keep my treasure! Into thy hands, O God, do I commit my son and his future!”

An hour later Doctor Mills emerged from the cottage. All was over. Philip, unable to understand the mysterious change that had come to his mother, had cried himself to sleep. The doctor left Mrs. Holmes in charge, promising to return in a short time.

Outside the rain had ceased. The sky was overcast, and the sun showed, yellow and dull, through light clouds. A strong breeze from the bay had lifted the mist and sent it far inland.

Doctor Mills walked slowly, his head bent as if lost in thought. He must make a call before returning to the village, so he had made his way up the steep wooded bluff which lay a little way back from the shore. When he had reached the summit of this height the doctor halted and stood looking down on the scene below him.

Harbor Springs is situated on the shore of Little Travers Bay, and this bay is at the northern end of Lake Michigan. At that time the principal part of the village lay close along the shore, although many houses were built upon the bluff. West of the town the shore curved far out into the bay in a narrow line. This projection is known as Harbor Point, and from where Doctor Mills stood he could look across it to the waters of Lake Michigan.

lo Entering Into His Own

The face of the physician grew sad. It was a florid face partly covered by a stubby red beard. In figure the doctor was short and heavy. He had frank gray eyes and red hair.

'Tt’s a different life from the one I planned for,” he muttered. “A dull village inhabited by fishermen, lumbermen, and Indians. Here I am, buried for life. Buried but still alive, for surely the dead forget.”

The death scene he had just witnessed rose up before him. Margaret Graham had not looked for forgetfulness. Her love would live beyond the grave.

‘T will not think of that,” with an impatient shrug of his shoulders. “Such a belief is not for me. Not for me any more than was such a love as that she bore her husband. The question is — what am I to do with this boy? I am not good enough to take him into my care — how far from being good enough no one but myself knows. Then my practice brings me only enough for my own few wants. Well, I’ve promised, and I must find some way to give the lad a roof and bread. That’s enough.”

He had resumed his walk. Suddenly he stopped, a frown furrowing his brow.

“Enough for some. Unless I’m mistaken, though, the child is not of that class. What will his future be?”

CHAPTER 11.

A LONELY CHILD.

M rs. graham was buried by the side of her husband. Philip’s grief was touching. He mourned with a steadfast, silent sorrow that was strangely at variance with his childish years. Until some arrangements could be made, the Holmes family opened their door to him. Doctor Mills, knowing the kind hearts of the fisherman and his wife, asked them if they would not care for the lad, provided some slight recompense was made them. They were obliged to refuse, for their little home was already crowded.

Doctor Mills lost no time in keeping the promise he had made. The legal proceedings necessary to make him Philip’s guardian were begun at once. There was no trouble about this, for no other person seemed willing to take the responsibility.

One evening two weeks after the death of Mrs. Graham, Doctor Mills was seated in his office. He was glancing over the day’s paper before going for his supper.

The day had been unusually warm, and the outside door stood ajar. From the doctor’s seat he could see directly across the little wharf out to the bay.

A step at the door caused the reader to glance up.

“Ah, Deacon Ashley! Good evening,’' and the doctor rose with the courtesy he always gave others. “Will you sit down?”

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” the deacon said in a slow, drawling voice. “Fact is. Doc, I’ve come to talk with you.”

Deacon Ashley was a tall, gaunt man of sixty. He sat down, depositing his rusty hat upon the floor and glanced round the little office.

“Doctoring must be paying business. I said to my wife the other day, said I, ‘Doc Mills must be making a pile of money.’ ”

The doctor pulled savagely at his short beard. “I make enough to keep me out of the poorhouse, if I could get it. Now there’s that bill of — ”

“Fact is I come to talk to you ’bout something else,” the deacon interrupted his host to say. “I mean that Graham boy. It surprised me to hear that you are trying to be his guardian. I’d about concluded that it was my duty to take him. It would be pure charity, for the land is poor, and the things in the house are no good.”

“Do you think so? There are six hundred books, and some of them are very valuable.”

The deacon shook his head. “One couldn’t get much money out of ’em. It will be years before the boy can earn his keep. If I have him bound to me until he is eighteen it will be just because of my sense of duty. The widow and fatherless, you know.”

Doctor Mills looked searchingly into the speaker’s face. “I promised Mrs. Graham that I would be her son’s guardian. However, there is a chance for you to do what you are pleased to call your duty. You are a rich man. Receive this orphan into your home for a few years.”

‘'A rich man! How can you think that? An invalid wife and three small children are enough to beggar any man. However, I am willing to sacrifice my own interests. I’ll take the boy for the use of the place and two dollars a week.”

Doctor Mills did not turn his eyes from the bay. The sun was setting, and the water was flushed with vivid red.

“Who is to pay the two dollars a week?”

“Who? Why, you. You are to be his guardian.”

“Allow me to say that your duty comes high. Now let us talk plainly. I want this boy boarded out in the country. Whoever takes him must treat him well. I’ll pay you one and one-half dollars a week for Philip’s board. What do you say?”

“I’ll do it, but it’s dirt cheap.” The deacon picked up his hat. “You give me the key, and I’ll stop and see if there is anything worth moving.”

John Mills’ eyes blazed. “Not so fast. You are not to have the use of the house nor of a single thing in it.”

“What? In fact, I—”

“There’s my proposition. You can accept it or not, as you please.”

Deacon Ashley blustered, but in the end he accepted the offer. The doctor agreed to bring Philip out to the farm in a few days.

He did so. The child bade the Holmes family good-by with an apathetic indifference, but he turned to look wistfully at the cottage where all his life had been spent.

“Please, Doctor Mills, Pd rather live here, even without mother,” and his face worked convulsively. “Somehow when Pm at home I can make believe she’s not far away.”

“But you can’t stay here alone, my lad,” the doctor said kindly. “You will like it at the farm.”

“Can you see that from the farm ?” Philip asked, pointing to the bay. “Next to mother I love that best.”

“What a queer little fellow he is!” the doctor thought. “He is indeed the son of a poet.”

Aloud he said, “I am sorry, Philip, but you cannot see the bay from Ashley Farm. However, you will find horses, calves, lambs and chickens there, besides some children who are only a little younger than you are.”

Philip sighed. They had ascended the bluff, passed the rows of houses bordering it, and were driving along a road shaded by tall oaks, hemlocks and pines. The child looked up through the interlacing boughs to the blue sky and asked:

“Will I never go back to my home and the water?”

The tone was so sad and hopeless that Doctor Mills started.

'‘Philip, it is your home, your very own. I will keep it for you. When you are a man you can live there.”

“Thank you, sir. You shall live with me, and ril take care of you, just as you are taking care of me.

They rode on in silence. Doctor Mills knew little of children ; notwithstanding his interest in Philip he was often ill at ease in the boy’s presence.

Ashley Farm was four miles from the village. It was large and well tilled, and the buildings were in good condition.

The deacon came down to the gate to meet the new-comers.

“How do. Doc. We’ll put your horse in the barn, and you must stay to dinner. Mrs. Ashley is complaining again, and, as long as you are here, you’d as soon leave her some medicine in a neighborly instead of a professional way. So this is the boy. Not strong. In fact, Doc, it will be a long time before he can earn his board.”

“All the better for you, as you are to be paid for it while he cannot. See here. Deacon Ashley,” the doctor went on in a lower tone as they walked toward the barn, Philip lagging in the rear, “there is to be no underfeeding and overworking in this case. You are to treat Phil well.”

The deacon put on an injured look. “I am surprised. You wrong me, for I am a deacon and a father. In fact, I know all about children/’

'It would take a wiser man than you and I put together to know all about that child. I want him to live out of doors and be happy.”

Mrs. Ashley was the deacon’s second wife. She was only twenty-eight and was the mother of his three children. The deacon’s wife was broken both in health and spirits. She was peevish and fretful, indulging her own children, but most exacting regarding every other person.

Of the children Gloria was five, Gustavus three, and Victoria two. Philip was inclined to be afraid of them all with their loud voices and rough ways. He tried to keep away from them, but Mrs. Ashley bade him "take care of Victoria,” and faultfinding was his only reward for his clumsy but well-meant efforts in that direction.

Philip was very unhappy at Ashley Farm. No one understood the imaginative child. His mother had been his chief companion. She had taught him much regarding animals, birds and plants. He loved those things with a strange intensity. It surprised and grieved him to see the indifference of the deacon’s household to the charms of nature. Because he saw that he was not understood the child grew silent and moody.

The pain of knowing that he was not loved hurt him even more than being misunderstood. Philip saw that it would be useless to look to the deacon for affection. Notwithstanding Mrs. Ashley’s crossness he turned hopefully to her. Was She not the children’s mother? To Philip that word meant all that was lovable and loving. It took but a few days to show him his mistake. Whatever love there might be in Mrs. Ashley’s nature there was none for him.

The children were a little better. At times Gloria slapped him, while the younger ones indulged in kicks and bites, but there were hours when they played together with some degree of pleasure.

“But folks are not as good as things. Rover, not some folks,” Philip confided to the dog one summer afternoon when the two were lying in the shade of a great maple. “If it wasn’t for things and for remembering about mother, well, I guess I’d die too.”

His arms were clasped round the dog’s neck. Boy and dog lay still. Philip’s eyes were fixed upon the leaves dancing so gayly above his head. To him they were living and joyful things.

“It’s the wind from the bay — my own dear bay — that makes you dance,” he crooned, a smile completely changing his face. “You love the wind so well that when you hear his voice you jump for joy. And the sunbeams are your friends and come every day to play with you.”

“Eh ! What’s that ? Who are you talking to ?”

It was the deacon’s voice. He was crossing the yard and had heard Philip speak.

The child’s face reddened. He sat up, one hand still clinging to Rover’s neck.

“Nobody. That is, nobody much. I was talking to the leaves.”

“The leaves! Such silliness! And at first you tried to deny it. Now see here, Phil Graham, there’s a big whip out at the barn for boys who tell lies. You keep on as you are now, and you’ll never go to heaven. You better look out.”

He strode on, shaking his head threateningly. Philip lay back on the grass, his tiny form shaking with rage.

“I hate him! It wasn’t a lie, for leaves are nobody. Oh, my mother! I do want her!” and he broke into a fit of sobbing.

There was no one to hear but Rover. The faithful dog licked the face of his little friend, and the leaves sang their sweetest lullabies until the child, worn out by crying, fell asleep.

Philip had never been to school, although he could read well. The deacon talked much of Mrs. Graham’s neglect in keeping her son at home. When school commenced that fall Philip began attendance.

“Mind now you learn,” was the deacon’s parting injunction. “You’ll have to quit school soon and go to work. In fact, you ought to be at work now.”

School was not quite so dreary as the farmhouse. Philip cared little for the boys’ games, and he was teased and bullied by some of his mates. The teachers were kind to the little orphan, often coming nearer to understanding him than had any one since his mother’s death. Then many of the children shared Philip’s love for the outdoor world.

Time went by slowly. It was only at rare intervals that Doctor Mills came to the farmhouse. At Christmas he sent Philip a sled and a book. The physician also bought the boy’s clothes.

Doctor Mills insisted that his bill for medical attendance upon the Ashleys should be allowed upon Philip’s board. This was agreed to by Deacon Ashley only after a long and angry discussion. The deacon did not hesitate to taunt Philip with his dependence.

‘‘You’re no better than a thief,” he would say. “The victuals you eat ought to go to my children. I should think you would be ashamed.”

“I wish I didn’t have to eat,” Philip confided to Rover. “Oh, I wish I didn’t have to live!”

When summer came Doctor Mills sent for Philip and kept him a week at the village, allowing him to visit the cottage and play on the beach. It was a time of perfect happiness for the child.

“You shall come again next summer,” the doctor said when he was taking Philip back to the farm. “When you are older I’ll manage some way to keep you at the village. I suppose Deacon Ashley is good to you. He never beats you, does he?”

“Oh, no ! He — well, I guess he is as good as he knows how to be.”

Doctor Mills laughed. “That’s hard on a deacon. If he ever abuses you let me know.”

The year went by much as had its predecessor.

As Philip grew older the deacon began to tax his strength with tasks too heavy for him. Mrs. Ashley was more querulous and impatient than ever.

Doctor Mills did not mean to be neglectful regarding his self-imposed charge. He did not think the deacon would dare to ill-treat Philip. The doctor was constantly haunted by the memory of his past and sought forgetfulness in a way that caused him to neglect other things.

Philipps second summer at Ashley Farm held a great disappointment for him. All the year he had looked forward to his promised stay at the village.

After the close of school the boy used to say to himself each morning on waking, “Doctor Mills may come this very day.”

Day after day went by. Philip waited at first with a simple, trusting faith. At last he began to fear.

“If he should forget!” he would whisper. “Oh, I don^t believe I could stand that I”

The message never came. The child bore the disappointment not with resignation but, as many older persons bear sorrow, because there was no way of escape.

He cherished no resentment towards the doctor. It was only that his sadness increased, and his loneliness bore a little more heavily upon his spirit.

Another year went by. Philip was nine years old. His eyes contained a strange, dreamy look. With his imaginative temperament Deacon Ashley had no patience.

*‘He’s lazy,” he used to declare. “The fact is it’s my duty to take it out of him, and I think I’m the man to do my duty,” with a closing of his thin lips that made one think the deacon was the man to relish doing a disagreeable duty.

Still he never beat Philip. Occasionally there would be a single sharp blow or a push. Deacon Ashley was more than half afraid of Doctor Mills.

One July morning the deacon was getting ready to drive to Harbor Springs. He was in a bad humor and scolded Philip, who was helping him harness.

“Mind you water the calves and feed the chickens, you lazy brat. You don’t earn your salt. I’m going to see Doctor Mills to-day, and if he don’t pay me what he owes me for your board. I’ll take it out of you.”