DAN SEES THE OTHER SIDE
"'What right have you, Mr. Matthews, to say that you do not
understand--that you do not know? It is your business to understand--to
know.'"
Miss Farwell was alone with her patient. Dr. Harry, who had returned
soon after the girl regained consciousness, had gone out into the
country, promising to look in again during the evening on his way home,
and the old Doctor finding that there was no need for him to remain had
left a few moments later.
Except to answer their direct questions the sick girl had spoken no
word, but lay motionless--her face turned toward the wall. Several
times the nurse tried gently to arouse her, but save for a puzzled,
half-frightened, half-defiant look in the wide-open eyes, there was no
response, though she took her medicine obediently. But when Miss Farwell
after bathing the girl's face, and brushing and braiding her hair,
dressed her in a clean, white gown, the frightened defiant look gave
place to one of wondering gratitude, and a little later she seemed to
sleep.
She was still sleeping when Miss Farwell, who was standing by the window
watching a group of negro children playing ball in the square, saw a man
approaching the group from the direction of the village. The young
woman's face flushed as she recognized the unmistakable figure of the
minister.
Then an angry light shone in the gray eyes, and she drew back with a low
exclamation. As in evident answer to his question, a half dozen hands
were pointed toward the window where she stood. Watching, she saw him
coming toward the building.
His purpose was clear. What should she do? Her first angry impulse was
to refuse to admit him. What right had he to attempt to see her after her
so positive dismissal? Then she thought--perhaps he was coming to see the
sick girl. What right had she to refuse to admit him, when it could in no
way harm her patient? The room, after all, was the home of the young
woman on the bed--the nurse was only there in her professional capacity.
Miss Farwell began to feel that she was playing a part in a mighty drama;
that the cue had been given for the entrance of another actor. She had
nothing to do with the play save to act well her part. It was not for her
to arrange the lines or manage the parts of the other players. The
feeling possessed her that, indeed, she had somewhere rehearsed the scene
many times before. Stepping quickly to the bed she saw that her patient
was still apparently sleeping. Then she stood trembling, listening to the
step in the hall as Dan approached.
He knocked the second time before she could summon strength to cross the
room and open the door.
"May I come in?" he asked hat in hand.
At his words--the same that he had spoken a few hours before in the
garden--the nurse's face grew crimson. She made no answer, but in the
eyes that looked straight into his, Dan read a question and his own face
grew red as he said, "I called to see your patient. Dr. Oldham asked me
to come."
"Certainly; come in." She stepped aside and the minister entered the
sick-room. Mechanically, without a word she placed a chair for him
near the bed, then crossed the room to stand by the window. But he did
not sit down.
Presently Dan turned to the nurse. "She is asleep?" he asked in a low
tone.
Miss Farwell's answer was calmly--unmistakably professional. Looking at
her watch she answered, "She has been sleeping nearly two hours."
"Is there--will she recover?"
"Dr. Abbott says there is no reason why she should not if we can turn
her from her determination to die."
Always Dan had been intensely in love with life. He had a strong,
full-blooded young man's horror of death. He could think of it only as a
fitting close to a long, useful life, or as a possible release from
months of sickness and pain. That anyone young, and in good health, with
the world of beauty and years of usefulness before them, with the
opportunities and duties of life calling, should willfully seek to die,
was a monstrous thought. After all the boy knew so little. He was only
beginning to sense vaguely the great forces that make and mar humankind.
At the calm words of the nurse he turned quickly toward the bed with a
shudder. "Her determination to die!" he repeated in an awed whisper.
Miss Farwell was watching him curiously.
He whispered half to himself, wonderingly, "Why should she wish to die?"
"Why should she wish to live?" The nurse's cold tones startled him.
He turned to her perplexed, wondering, speechless.
"I--I--do not understand," he said at last.
"I don't suppose you do," she answered grimly. "How could you? Your
ministry is a matter of schools and theories, of doctrines and beliefs.
This is a matter of life."
"My church--" he began, remembering his sermon.
But she interrupted him, "Your church does not understand, either; it is
so busy earning money to pay its ministers that it has no time for such
things as this."
"But they do not know," he faltered. "I did not dream that such a thing
as this could be." He looked about the room and then at the still form on
the bed, with a shudder.
"You a minister of Christ's gospel and ignorant of these things? And yet
this is not an uncommon case, sir. I could tell you of many similar cases
that have come under my own observation, though not all of them have
chosen to die. This girl could have made a living; I suppose you
understand. But she is a good girl; so there was nothing for her but
this. All she asked was a chance--only a chance."
The minister was silent. He could not answer.
The nurse continued, "What right have you, Mr. Matthews, to say that you
do not understand--that you do not know? It is your business to
understand--to know. And your church--what right has it to plead
ignorance of the life about its very doors? If such things are not its
business what business has this institution that professes to exist for
the salvation of men; that hires men like you--as you yourself told
me--to minister to the world? What right I say, have you or your church
to be ignorant of these everyday conditions of life? Dr. Abbott must
know his work. I must know mine. Our teachers, our legal and professional
men, our public officers, our mechanics and laborers, must all know and
understand their work. The world demands it of us, and the world is
beginning to demand that you and your church know your business." As the
nurse spoke in low tones her voice was filled with sorrowful, passionate
earnestness.
And Dan, Big Dan, sat like a child before her--his face white, his brown
eyes wide with that questioning look. His own voice trembled as he
answered, "But the people are not beasts. They do not realize. At heart
they--we are kind; we do not mean to be carelessly cruel. Do you believe
this, Miss Farwell?"
She turned from him wearily, as if in despair at trying to make him
understand.
"Of course I believe it," she answered. "But how does that affect the
situation? The same thing could be said, I suppose, of those who
crucified the Christ, and burned the martyrs at the stake. It is this
system, that has enslaved the people, that feeds itself upon the strength
that should be given to their fellow men. They give so much time and
thought and love to their churches and creeds, that they have nothing
left--nothing for girls like these." Her voice broke and she went to the
window.
In the silence Dan gazed at the form on the bed--gazed as if fascinated.
From without came the shouts of the negro boys at their game of ball,
and the sound of the people moving about in other parts of the building.
"Is there--is there no one who cares?" Dan said, at last in a hoarse
whisper.
"No one has made her feel that they care," the nurse answered, turning
back to him, and her manner and tone were cold again.
"But you" he persisted, "surely you care."
At this the gray eyes filled and the full voice trembled as she answered,
"Yes, yes I care. How could I help it? Oh, if we can only make her feel
that we--that someone wants her, that there is a place for her, that
there are those who need her!" She went to the bedside and stood looking
down at the still form. "I can't--I won't--I won't let her go."
"Let us help you, Miss Farwell," said Dan. "Dr. Oldham suggested that I
ask you if the church could not do something. I am sure they would gladly
help if I were to present the case."
The nurse wheeled on him with indignant, scornful eyes.
He faltered, "This is the churches' work, you know."
"Yes," she returned, and her words stung. "You are quite right, this is
the churches' work."
He gazed at her in amazement as she continued hotly, "You have made it
very evident Mr. Matthews, that you know nothing of this matter. I have
no doubt that your church members would respond with a liberal collection
if you were to picture what you have seen here this afternoon in an
eloquent public appeal. Some in the fullness of their emotions would
offer their personal service. Others I am sure would send flowers. But I
suggest that for your sake, before you present this matter to your church
you ask Dr. Oldham to give you a full history of the case. Ask him to
tell you why Grace Conner is trying to die. And now you will pardon me,
but in consideration of my patient, who may waken at any moment, I dare
not take the responsibility of permitting you to prolong this call."
Too bewildered and hurt to attempt any reply, he left the room and she
stood listening to his steps as he went slowly down the hall and out of
the building.
From the window she watched as he crossed the old square, watched as he
passed from sight up the weed-grown street. The cruel words had leaped
from her lips unbidden. Already she regretted them deeply. She knew
instinctively that the minister had come from a genuine desire to be
helpful. She should have been more kind, but his unfortunate words had
brought to her mind in a flash, the whole hideous picture of the poor
girl's broken life. And the suggestion of such help as the church would
give now, came with such biting irony, that she was almost beside
herself.
The situation was not at all new to Miss Farwell. Her profession placed
her constantly in touch with such ministries. She remembered a
saloonkeeper who had contributed liberally to the funeral expenses of a
child who had been killed by its drunken father. The young woman had
never before spoken, in such cruel anger. Was she growing bitter? She
wondered. All at once her cheeks were wet with scalding tears.
Dan found the Doctor sitting on the porch just as he had left him. Was
it only an hour before?