"And that," said Desire later in the day as she related her experiences to the professor, "that was the idea with which I left them! I shan't have to teach again, shall I, Benis?"
Her husband smiled. "No. I should think more would be a superfluity."
"They'll say I'm a heathen. I know they will. You don't realize how serious it is. Think how your prestige will suffer."
"It has suffered already. Only yesterday Mrs. Walkem, the laundress, told Aunt that your—er—peculiarities were a judgment on me for 'tryin' to find out them things in folkses minds which God has hid away a-purpose.'"
"But I'm in earnest, Benis—more or less."
"Let it be less, then. My dear girl, you don't really think that Bainbridge disturbs me?"
"N-no. But it disturbs me. A little. I am so different from all these people, your friends. And being different is rather—lonely."
"It is," he agreed. "But it is also stimulating."
"I used to think," she went on, following her own thought, "that I was different because my life was different. I thought that if I could ever live with people, just as we live here, with everything normal and everyday, the strangeness would drop away. But it hasn't. I am still outside."
"Everyone is, though you are young to realize it. Our social life is very deceiving. Most of us wake up some day to find ourselves alone in a desert."
Desire swung the hammock gently with the tip of her shoe. "Is not one ever a part of a whole?"
"Socially, yes. Spiritually—I doubt it. It is some-thing which you will have to decide for yourself."
"I don't want to be alone," said Desire rebelliously. "It frightens me. I want to have a place. I want to fit in. But here, it seems as if I had come too late. Every-one is fitted in already. There isn't a tiny corner left."
Spence's grey eyes looked at her with a curious light in their depths.
"Wait," he said. "You haven't found your corner yet. When you do, the rest won't matter."
"But people do not want me. I had a horrid dream last night. I was wandering all through Bainbridge and all the doors were open so that I might go in anywhere. I was glad—at first. But I soon saw that my freedom did not mean anything. No one saw me when I entered or cared when I went away. I spoke to them and they did not answer. Then I knew that I was just a ghost."
"I'm another," said a cheerful voice behind them. "All my 'too, too solid flesh' is melting rapidly. Only ice-cream can save me now!" Using his straw hat vigorously as a fan Dr. Rogers dropped limply into an empty chair. "Tell you a secret," he went on confidentially. "I had two invitations to Sunday supper but neither included ice-cream. So I came on here."
"Very kind, I'm sure," murmured Benis.
"How did you guess?" began Desire, and then she dimpled. "Oh, of course,—Benis wasn't in church."
"How did he know that?" asked Benis sharply. "He wasn't there, was he?"
The doctor looked conscious. Desire laughed. "His presence did seem to create a mild sensation," she admitted.
"Well, you see," he explained, "in the summer I am often very busy—"
"In the cellar," murmured Benis.
"But no one happened to need me today and, besides, my freezer is broken. This, combined with—"
"An added attraction," sotto voce from the professor.
"Oh, well—I went, anyway."
"I saw you there," said Desire, ignoring their banter. "I thought you might have gone for the sermon. The subject was one of your specialties, wasn't it?"
The doctor twirled his hat.
"Better tell him what the subject was," suggested Benis unkindly.
"Didn't you listen?" Desire's inquiring eyebrows lifted. "That's one of the things I don't understand about people here. Church and church affairs seem to play such an important part in Bainbridge. Nearly everyone goes to some church. But no one seems at all disturbed about what they hear there. Is it because they believe all that the minister says, or because they don't believe any of it?"
Her hearers exchanged an alarmed glance.
"What do you want them to do?" said John uneasily. "Argue about it? Besides, this morning was very exceptionally hot."
"I don't want to be any more heathen than I have to be," went on Desire, "but I must be terribly heathen if what Mr. McClintock said this morning is right. He was speaking of pain, physical pain, and, he said God sent it. I always thought," she concluded naively, "that it came straight from the devil."
"Healthy chap, McClintock!" said Benis lazily. "Never had anything worse than measles and doesn't remember them."
"What I'd like to know," said the doctor, "would be his opinion after several weeks of—something unpleasant. He might feel more like blaming the devil. What does he think doctors are fighting? God? By Jove, I must have this out with McClintock! I know that, for one, I never fight down pain without a glorious sense of giving Satan his licks."
"But you did not even listen."
"I'm listening now."
"And no one else seemed to object to anything he said. I heard some of them call it a 'beautiful discourse' and 'so helpful.'"
Under her perplexed gaze the two Bainbridgers were clearly uncomfortable.
"It's because you don't really care what you hear from the pulpit," said the girl accusingly. "You have your own beliefs and go your own ways. Another man's views, good or bad, make no difference."
"S-shish! 'ware Aunt Caroline!" warned the professor, but Desire was too absorbed to heed.
"Why, if one actually believed half of what was said this morning," she went on, "the world would be a beautiful garden with half its lovely things forbidden. 'Don't touch the flowers' and 'Keep off the grass' would be everywhere. It seems such a waste, if God made so many happy things and then doesn't like it if people are too happy."
"Not many of us suffer from too much happiness," muttered Benis.
"Or too much health," echoed the doctor. "I'd like to tell McClintock that if people would expect more health, they'd get more. The ordinary person expects ill-ness. They have a 'disease complex'—that's in your line, Benis. But just supposing they could change the idea—Eh? Supposing everybody began to look for health—just take it, you know, as a God-intended right? I'd lose half my living in a fortnight."
"John Rogers!" Aunt Caroline's voice fell with the effect of sizzling hailstones upon the fire of John's enthusiasm. "If you must talk heresy, there are other places beside my garden to do it in."
"I was merely saying—"
"I heard what you were saying. And although it takes a great deal to surprise me, I am surprised. Such doctrines I consider most dangerous, highly so. If you are thinking of setting up as a faith healer, the sooner we know it the better. Desire, my dear, you might see Olive about tea. Tell her not to forget the lemon. I do not know what I have done to deserve a maid called Olive," she sighed, "but the only alternative was Gladys. And Gladys I could not endure. As for illness, I am surprised at you, John Rogers. I was not in church owing to a severe headache, but I know the sermon. It is one of Mr. McClintock's very best. If you had not gone to sleep in the middle of the first point you would have heard the mystery of pain beautifully explained. A wonderful preacher. If he wouldn't click his teeth."
The professor shuddered.
"Benis acts so foolishly about it," went on Aunt Caroline. "He insists that the clicking makes him ill. But why should it? At the same time, if one of the Elders were to suggest, tactfully, to Mr. McClintock that he have the upper set tightened it might be well. It would at least" (with grimness) "do away with the trivial excuses of some people for not attending Divine service."
Her graceless nephew was understood to murmur something about "too hot to fight."
"As for Mr. McClintock's ideas," pursued Aunt Caroline, "they are quite beautiful. The first time he gave the deathbed description which comprises part of this morning's discourse he had us all in tears. I mean all of us who were sufficiently awake to realize the fact that it was a deathbed. His description of the last agony has clearly lost nothing in poignancy, for Desire came home quite pale. I wonder if you have noticed, Benis, that Desire is looking somewhat less robust? Doctor, now that she is not here—"
"Now that she is not here, we will not discuss her," said Spence firmly.
"Indeed! And may I ask why you wish to stop me, Benis? I am speaking to a qualified medical man, am I not? But there," with resignation, "I never can expect to understand the present generation. So lax on one hand, so squeamish on the other. Surely it is perfectly proper that I, her Aunt—oh, very well, Benis, if you are determined to be silly."
"Now with regard to the Rev. McClintock," put in the doctor hastily. "Do you really think that he is sufficiently in touch with modern views to—to—oh, dash it! what was I saying?"
"You were interrupting me when I was telling Benis—"
"Oh yes. I remember. We were talking about new ideas. And you suggested heresy. But you must remember that, in my profession, new ideas are not called heresy—except when they are very new. What would you think of me if I doctored exactly as my father did before me?"
"When you are half as capable as your father, young man, I may discuss that with you."
"One for you!'' said Benis gleefully.
"Well, leaving me out then, and speaking generally, why should a physician search continually for fresh wisdom, while a minister—"
"Beware, young man!" Aunt Caroline raised an affrighted hand. "Beware how you compare your case with that of a minister of the Gospel. That further wisdom is needed in the practice of medicine, anyone who has ever employed a doctor is well aware. But where is he who dare add one jot to Divine revelation?"
"No one is speaking of adding anything. But surely, in the matter of interpretation, an open mind is a first essential?"
"In the matter of interpretation," said Aunt Caroline grandly, "we have our ordained ministers. How do you feel," she added shrewdly, "toward quacks and healers who, without study or training, call themselves doctors? Do you say, 'Let us display an open mind'?"
"Time!" said Benis, who enjoyed his relative hugely—when she was disciplining someone else. "Here comes Desire with the tea."
"What I really came out to say, Benis," resumed Aunt Caroline, "is that I have just had a long distance call—Desire, my dear, cream or lemon?—a long distance call from Toronto where, I fear, such things are allowed on Sunday—Doctor, you like lemon, I think?—a call in fact from Mary Davis. You remember her, Benis? Such a sweet girl. She is feeling a little tired and would like to run down here for a rest. Desire, my dear, have you any plans with which this would interfere? I said that I would consult you and let her know. You are very careless with your plate, Benis. That Spode can never be replaced."
Fortunately her anxiety for the family heirloom absorbed Aunt Caroline's whole attention. If she noticed her nephew's look of anguished guilt and his friend's politely raised brows she ascribed it to his carelessness in balancing china. Desire's downcast eyes and stiffened manner she did not notice at all.
"Well, my dear, what do you say? Shall we invite Mary?"
"It depends on Benis, of course," said Desire quietly.
"Benis? What has Benis to do with it? Not but that he enjoyed having her here last time well enough. It is the privilege of the mistress of the house to choose her guests. I hope you will not be slack in claiming your privileges. They are much harder to obtain than one's rights. My dear sister was careless. She allowed Benis's father to do just as he pleased. Be warned in time."
"Do you wish Miss Davis to visit us, Benis?" Desire's hands were busy with her teacup. Her eyes were still lowered.
"I have no wishes whatever in the matter," said the professor with what might be considered admirable detachment.
"Tell Miss Davis we shall be delighted, Aunt," said Desire.
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