FullReads

So absorbing were these bitter reflections that, although Lawrence had posted himself under the fig tree for the sole purpose of discovering and of heralding the approach of a certain expected visitor, he was not aware of Dr. Parley’s arrival until that important personage had issued from the oak grove, had traversed the brown road, and was dignifiedly stalking his flea-bitten mare through the gateway. Then Lawrence looked up, gave a sickly smile, and bade the doctor an incoherent good-morning. Dr. Parley was sombre and impressive. He seldom smiled. An imperturbable gravity possessed him from the prim black-satin cockade on his three-cornered hat to the silver buckles on his square-toed shoes. In his right hand he carried a gold-headed cane which he wielded as solemnly as a pontiff might wield a sceptre, and as he dismounted from his flea-bitten mare and unswung his ponderous saddlebags he never once suffered the gold head of his impressive cane to lapse from its accustomed position at his nostrils.

“Go right into the house, doctor,” said Lawrence, feebly, “I ‘ll look after the mare. You have n’t come any too soon–Mary ‘s taking on terrible.”

It was mean of Dr. Parley, but at this juncture he did really smile–yes, and it was a smile which combined so much malevolent pity and scorn and derision that poor Lawrence felt himself shrivelling up to the infinitesimal dimension of a pea in a bushel-basket. He led the flea-bitten mare to the cherry tree and tied her there. “If you bark that tree I ‘ll tan you alive,” said Lawrence hoarsely, to the champing, frisky creature, for now he hated all animal life from Dr. Parley down, down, down even to the flea-bitten mare. Then, miserable and nervous, Lawrence returned to the arm-chair under the fig tree–and, how wretched he was!

Pretty soon he heard a merry treble voice piping out: “Is ze gockter tum to oo house?” and Lawrence saw little Martha toddling toward him. Little Martha was Mistress Dandridge’s baby girl. The Dandridges lived a short way beyond the oak grove, and little Martha loved to visit Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Mary, as she called Lawrence and his wife.

“Yes, Martha,” said Lawrence, sadly, “the doctor’s come.”

“Ain’t oo glad ze gockter’s tum?” asked the child, anxiously, for she recognized the weary tone of Lawrence’s voice.

“Oh, yes,” he answered, quickly and with an effort at cheerfulness, “I ‘m glad he ‘s come. Ha, ha!”

“Is oo doing to have oo toof pulled?” she inquired, artlessly.

Lawrence shook his head.

“No, little one,” said he, in a melancholy voice, “I wish I was.”

Then Martha wanted to know whether the doctor had brought his saddlebags, and when Lawrence answered in the affirmative a summer of sunshine seemed to come into the child’s heart and burst out over her pretty face.

“Oh, I know!” she cried, as she clapped her fat little hands. “Ze gockter has bwought oo a itty baby!”

Now Martha’s innocence, naivete, and exuberance rather pleased Lawrence. In fact, Martha was the only human being in all the world who had treated Lawrence with any kind of consideration that February morning, and all at once Lawrence felt his heart warm and go out toward the prattling child.

“Come here, little Martha,” said he, kindly, “and let me hold you on my knee. Who told you about the–about the–the baby, eh?”

“Mamma says ze gockter allers brings itty babies in his sagglebags. Do oo want a itty baby, Uncle Lawrence?”

“Yes, Martha, I do,” said he, kissing her, “and I want a little girl just like you.”

Now Martha had guessed at the event, and her guess was eminently correct. Lawrence had told the truth, too; it was a little girl he wanted–not one that looked like Martha, perhaps–one that looked like his Mary would please him most. So the two talked together, and Lawrence found himself concocting the most preposterous perjuries touching the famous saddlebags and the babies, but it seemed to delight little Martha all the more as these perjuries became more and more preposterous.