It was a great source of question with Courtland afterward, just why it
should have been he that happened to carry that telegram over to the
West Dormitory to Wittemore, instead of any one of a dozen other fellows
who were in the office when it arrived and might just as well have gone.
Did anything in this world _happen_, he wondered?
He could not tell why he had held out his hand and offered to take the
message.
It was not because he was not trying hard, and studying for all he was
worth, that "Witless Abner," as Wittemore had come to be called, had won
his nickname. He worked night and day, plunged in a maze of things he
did not quite understand until long after the rest of the class had
passed them. He was majoring in sociology through the advice of a
faddist uncle who had never seen him. He had told Abner's mother that
sociology was the coming science, and Abner was faithfully carrying out
the course of study he suggested. He was floundering through hours of
lectures on the theory of the subject, and conscientiously working in
the college settlement to get the practical side of things. He had the
distressed look of a person with very short legs who is trying to keep
up with a procession of six-footers, although there was nothing short
about Abner. His legs were long, and his body was long, his arms were
long, too long for most of his sleeves. His face was long, his nose and
chin were painfully long, and were accompanied by a sensitive mouth
that was always on the quiver with apprehension, like a rabbit's, and
little light eyes with whitish eyelashes. His hair was like licked hay.
There was absolutely nothing attractive about Wittemore except his
smile, and he so seldom smiled that few of the boys had ever seen it. He
had almost no friends.
He had apparently just entered his room when Courtland reached his door,
and was stumbling about in a hurry to turn on the light. He stopped with
his lips aquiver and a dart of fear in his eyes when he saw the
telegram. Nobody but his mother would send him a telegram, and she would
never waste the money for it unless there was something dreadful the
matter. He looked at it fearfully, holding it in his hand and glancing
up again at Courtland half helplessly, as if he feared to open it.
Then, with that set, stolid look of prodding ahead that characterized
all Abner's movements he clumsily tore open the envelope.
"Your mother is dying. Come at once," were the terse, cruel words that
he read, signed with a neighbor's initials.
The young man gave the gasp of a hurt thing and stood gaping up at
Courtland.
"Nothing the matter, I hope," said Courtland, kindly, moved by the gray,
stricken look that had come over the poor fellow's face.
"It's mother!" he gasped. "Read!" He thrust the telegram into
Courtland's hand and sank down on the side of his bed with his head in
his hands.
"Tough luck, old man!" said Courtland, with a kindly hand on the bowed
shoulder. "But maybe it's only a scare. Sometimes people get better when
they're pretty sick, you know."
Wittemore shook his head. "No. We've been expecting this, she and I.
She's been sick a long time. I didn't want to come back this year! I
thought she was failing! But she would have it! She'd got her heart so
set on my graduating!"
"Well, cheer up!" said Courtland, breezily. "Very likely your coming
will help her to rally again! What train do you want to get? Can I help
you any?"
Wittemore lifted his head and looked about his room helplessly. It was
plain he was dazed.
Courtland looked up the train, 'phoned for a taxi, went around the room
gathering up what he thought would be necessities for the journey, while
Wittemore was inadequately trying to get himself dressed. Suddenly
Wittemore stopped short in the midst of his ineffective efforts and drew
something out of his pocket with an exclamation of dismay.
"I forgot about this medicine!" he gasped. "I'll have to wait for the
next train! Never mind that suit-case. I haven't time to wait for it!
I'll go right up to the station as soon as I land this."
He seized his hat and would have gone out the door, but Courtland
grabbed him by the arm.
"Hold on, old fellow! What's up? Surely you won't let anything keep you
from your mother now."
"I must!" The words came with a moan of agony from the sensitive lips.
"It's medicine for a poor old woman down in the settlement district.
She's suffering horribly, and the doctor said she ought to have it
to-night, but there was no one else to get it for her, so I promised.
She's lying there waiting for it now, listening to every sound till I
come. Mother wouldn't want me to come to her, leaving a woman suffering
like that when I'd promised. I only came up here to get car fare so I
could get there sooner than walking. It took all the change I had to
get the prescription filled."
"Darn you, Wittemore! What do you think I am? I'll take the medicine to
the old lady--ten old ladies if necessary! You get your train! There's
your suit-case. Have you got plenty of money?"
A blank look came over the poor fellow's face. "If I could find Dick
Folsom I would have about enough. He owes me something. I did some
copying for him."
Courtland's hand was in his pocket. He always had plenty of money about
him. That had never been one of his troubles. He had been to the bank
that day, fortunately. Now he thrust a handful of bills into Wittemore's
astonished hands.
"There's fifty! Will that see you through? And I can send you more if
you need it. Just wire me how much you want."
Wittemore stood looking down at the bills, and tears began to run down
his cheeks and splash upon them. Courtland felt his own eyes filling.
What a pitiful, lonely life this had been! And the fellows had let him
live that way! To think that a few paltry greenbacks should bring
_tears_!
A few minutes later he stood looking after the whirling taxi as it bore
away Wittemore into the darkness of the evening street, his heart
pounding with several new emotions. Witless Abner for one! What a
surprise he had been! Would everybody you didn't fancy turn out that way
if you once got hold of the key of their souls and opened the door?
Then the little wrapped bottle he held in his hand reminded him that he
must hasten if he would perform the mission left for him and return in
time for supper. There was something in his soul that would not let him
wait until after supper. So he plunged forward into the dusk and swung
himself on board a down-town car.
He had no small trouble in finding the street, or rather court, in which
the old woman lived.
He stumbled up the narrow staircase, lighting matches as he went, for
the place was dark as midnight. By the time he had climbed four flights
he was wondering what in thunder Wittemore came to places like this for?
Just to major in sociology? Didn't the nut know that he would never make
a success in a thing like that? What was he doing it for, anyway? Did he
expect to teach it? Poor fellow, he would never get a job! His looks
were against him.
He knocked, with no result, at several doors for his old woman, but at
last a feeble voice answered: "Come in," and he entered a room entirely
dark. There didn't even appear to be a window, though he afterward
discovered one opening into an air-shaft. He stood hesitating within the
room, blinking and trying to see what was about him.
"Be that you, Mr. Widymer?" asked a feeble voice from the opposite
corner.
"Wittemore couldn't come. He had a telegram that his mother is dying and
he had to get the train. He sent me with the medicine."
"Oh, now ain't that too bad!" said the voice. "His mother dyin'! An' to
think he should remember me an' my medicine! Well, now, what d' ye think
o' that?"
"If you'll tell me where your gas is located I'll make a light for you,"
said Courtland, politely.
"Gas!" The old lady laughed aloud. "You won't find no such thing as gas
around this part o' town. There's about an inch of candle up on that
shelf. The distric' nurse left it there. I was thinkin' mebbe I'd get
Mr. Widymer to light it fer me when he come, an' then the night
wouldn't seem so long. It's awful, when you're sufferin' to have the
nights long."
He groped till he found the shelf and lit the candle. By degrees the
flickering light revealed to him a small bare room with no furniture
except a bed, a chair, a small stove, and a table. A box in the corner
apparently contained a few worn garments. Some dishes and provisions
were huddled on the table. The walls and floor were bare. The district
nurse had done her level best to clear up, perhaps, but there had been
no attempt at good cheer. A desolate place indeed to spend a weary night
of suffering, even with an inch of candle sending weird flickerings
across the dusky ceiling.
His impulse was to flee, but somehow he couldn't. "Here's this
medicine," he said. "Where do you want me to put it?"
The woman motioned with a bony hand toward the table. "There's a cup and
spoon over there somewhere," she said, weakly. "If you could go get me a
pitcher of water and set it here on a chair I could manage to take it
durin' the night."
He could see her better now, for the candle was flaring bravely. She was
little and old. Her thin, white hair straggled pitifully about her
small, wrinkled face, her eyes looked as if they had been burned almost
out by suffering. He saw she was drawn and quivering with pain, even now
as she tried to speak cheerfully. A something rebellious in him yielded
to the nerve of the little old woman, and he put down his impatience.
Sure he would get her the water!
She explained that the hydrant was down on the street. He took the
doubtful-looking pitcher and stumbled out upon those narrow, rickety
stairs again.
Way down to the street and back in that inky blackness! "Gosh! Thunder!
The deuce!" (He didn't allow himself any stronger words these days.)
Was this the kind of thing one was up against when one majored in
sociology?
"I be'n thinkin'," said the old lady, quaveringly, when he stumbled,
blinking, back into the room again with the water, "ef you wouldn't mind
jest stirrin' up the fire an' makin' me a sup o' tea it would be real
heartenin'. I 'ain't et nothin' all day 'cause the pain was so bad, but
I think it'll ease up when I git a dose of the medicine, and p'r'aps I
might eat a bite."
Courtland was appalled, but he went vigorously to work at that fire,
although he had never laid eyes on anything so primitive as that stove
in all his life. Presently, by using common sense, he had the thing
going and a forlorn little kettle steaming away cheerfully.
The old woman cautioned him against using too much tea. There must be at
least three drawings left, and it would be a long time, perhaps, before
she got any more. Yes, there was a little mite of sugar in a paper on
the table.
"There's some bread there, too--half a loaf 'most--but I guess it's
pretty dry. You don't know how to make toast I 'spose," she added,
wistfully.
Courtland had never made toast in his life. He abominated it. She told
him how to hold it up on a fork in front of the coals and he managed to
do two very creditable slices. He had forgotten his own supper now.
There was something quite fresh and original in the whole experience. It
would have been interesting to have told the boys, if there weren't some
features about it that were almost sacred. He wondered what the gang
would say when he told them about Wittemore! Poor Wittemore! He wasn't
as nutty as they had thought! He had good in his heart! Courtland poured
the tea, but the sugar-paper had proved quite empty when he found it;
likewise a plate that had once contained butter.
The toast and tea, however, seemed to be quite acceptable without its
usual accessories. "Now," he said, with a long breath, "is there
anything else you'd like done before I go?--for I must be getting back
to college."
"If you just wouldn't mind makin' a prayer before you go," responded the
little old woman, wistfully, her feeble chin trembling with her
boldness. "I be'n wantin' a prayer this long while, but I don't seem to
have good luck. The distric' nurse, she ain't the prayin' kind; an' Mr.
Widymer he says he don't pray no more since he's come to college. He
said it so kind of ashamed-like I didn't like to bother him again; and
there ain't anybody else come my way for three months back. You seem so
kind-spoken and pleasant-like as if you might be related to a preacher,
and I thought mebbe you wouldn't mind just makin' a little short prayer
'fore you go. I dunno how long it'll be 'fore I'll get a chancet of one
again."
Courtland stood rooted to the floor in dismay. "Why,--I--" he began,
growing red enough to be apparent even by the flickering inch of candle.
Suddenly the room which had been so empty seemed to grow hushed and full
of breathless spectators, and One, waiting to hear what he would
say--whether he would respond to the call. Before his alarmed vision
there came the memory of that wall of smoke which had shut him in, and
that Voice calling him by name and saying, "You shall be shown." Was
this what the Presence asked of him? Was this that mysterious "doing His
will" that the Book spoke about, which should presently give the
assurance?
He saw the old woman's face glow with eagerness. It was as if the
Presence waited through her eyes to see what he would do. Something
leaped up in his heart in response and he took a step forward and
dropped upon his knees beside the old wooden chair.
"I'm afraid I shall make a worse bungle of it than I did of the toast,"
he said, as he saw her folding her hands with delight. She smiled with
serene assurance, and he closed his eyes and wondered where were words
to use in such a time as this.
"Now I lay me" would not do for the poor creature who had been lying
down many days and might never rise again; "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and
John" was more appropriate, but there was that uncertainty about it
being a prayer at all. "Our Father"--Ah! He caught at the words and
spoke them.
"Our Father which art"--but what came next? That was where he had always
had to be prompted, and now, in his confusion, all the rest had fled
from his mind. But now it seemed that with the words the Presence had
drawn near, was standing close by the chair. His mind leaped forth with
the consciousness that he might talk with this invisible Presence,
unfold his own perplexities and restlessness, and perhaps find out what
it all meant. With scarcely a hesitation his clear voice went on eagerly
now:
"Our Father, which art in this room, show us how to find and know You."
He could not remember afterward what else he said. Something about his
own longing, and the old woman's pain and loneliness. He was not sure if
it was really a prayer at all, that halting petition.
He got up from his knees greatly embarrassed; but more by the Presence
to whom he had dared to speak thus for the first time on his own
account, than by the little old woman, whose hands were still clasped in
reverence, and down whose withered cheeks the tears were coursing. The
smoky walls, the cracked stove, the stack of discouraged dishes, seemed
to fade away, and the room was somehow full of glory. He was choking
with the oppression of it, and with a kind of sinking at heart lest the
prayer had been only an outbreak of his own desire to know what this
Force or Presence was that seemed dominating him so fully these days.
The old woman was blessing him. She held out her hands like a patriarch:
"Oh, that was such a beautiful prayer! I'll not forget the words all the
night through and for many a night. The Lord Himself bless ye! Are you a
preacher's son, perhaps?"
He shook his head; but he had no smile upon his face at the thought, as
he might have had five minutes before.
"Well, then, yer surely goin' to be a preacher yerself?"
"No," he said; then added, thoughtfully, "not that I know of." The
suggestion struck him curiously as one who hears for the first time that
there is a possibility that he may be selected for some important
foreign embassy.
"Well, then, yer surely a blessed child o' God Himself, anyhow, and this
is a great night fer this poor little room to be honored with a pretty
prayer like that!"
Scarcely hearing her, he said good night and went thoughtfully down the
dark stairs, a strange sense of peace upon him. Curiously enough, while
he felt that he had left the Presence up in that little dismal room, it
yet seemed to be moving beside him, touching his soul, breathing upon
him! He was so engrossed with this thought that it never occurred to him
that he had given the old woman every cent he had in his pocket. He had
forgotten entirely that he had been hungry. A great world-wonder was
moving within his spirit. He could not understand himself. He went back
with awe over the last few minutes and the strange new world into which
he had been so suddenly plunged.
Scarcely noticing how he went, he got himself out of the intricacies of
the court into a neighborhood a shade less poverty-stricken, and stood
upon the corner of a busy thoroughfare in an utterly unfamiliar
district, pausing to look about him and discover his whereabouts.
A little child with long, fair hair rushed suddenly out of a door on the
side-street, eagerly pulling a ragged sweater about his small shoulders,
and stood upon the curbstone, breathlessly watching the coming trolley.
The car stopped, and a young girl in shabby clothes got out and came
toward him.
"Bonnie! Bonnie! I've got supper all ready!" the child called in a
clear, bird-like voice, and darted from the curb across the narrow
side-street to meet her.
Courtland, standing on the corner in front of the trolley, saw, too
late, the swift-coming automobile bearing down upon the child, its
head-lights flaring on the golden hair. With a cry the young man sprang
to the rescue, but the child was already crumpled up like a lily and the
relentless car speeding onward, its chauffeur darting frightened,
cowardly glances behind him as he plunged his machine forward over the
track, almost in the teeth of the up-trolley. When the trolley was
passed there was no sign of the car, even if any one had had time to
look for it. There in the road lay the little, broken child, the long
hair spilling like gold over the pavement, the little, still, white face
looking up like a flower that has suddenly been torn from the plant.
The girl was beside the child almost instantly, dropping all her
parcels; gathering him into her slender arms, calling in frightened,
tender tones:
"Aleck! Darling! My little darling!"
The child was too heavy for her to lift, and she tottered as she tried
to rise, lifting a frightened face to Courtland.
"Let me take him," said the young man, stooping and gathering him gently
from her. "Now show me where!"