THE LAW OF NATURE.
Of what was the result of finally owning the Ninth Ward and the
district I have only to say that it, of course, added to the reputation
of one man--and of one woman as well, it may be added, for Jean in her
necessary social functions grew in her way with Grant; but otherwise it
made little difference. There was the family hegira to the capital,
and much enjoyment of the limited attractions of the semi-Ethiopian and
shabby but semi-magnificent city in a miasmatic valley, and it was, no
doubt, some education for the children. To Grant it was a fray, of
course, and to Jean it was enjoyment of his successes, and probably
more sorrow than he felt at his failures. The successes were the more
numerous. Jean herself never failed. She was an envied woman in the
social world. She was a strong man's wife, and possessed of all tact
and gentle wisdom in aiding him, but she was not a rival of the mere
self-advertisers among the queens of a shifting society. She could not
afford it, even had her inclination bent that way. She had absorbing
riches. They were a man and her children.
When I brightened up, because my friends were coming back to me, was
the great season of the year to me, as to them. When the family
returned from the capital and reoccupied the home there was rejoicing.
And what rioters we were! But once more, each time, it was said by
Grant, and by me as well, the battle must be fought, and so came
re-elections and the flittings. And, after all, it was good. It was
not the rusting in the sheath.
And it came that there was another gallant fight on. The city
Congressional district is not like the country one, where a man once
firmly in the saddle may stay there for a quarter of a century. The
city constituencies have the fault in make-up that their Congressmen
are not selected as those who will do best for the districts, but
because they have hands on the lever of some machine. Of course, there
are always exceptions, as in Grant's case, but the rule prevails. And
now there had been flung down the gauntlet of a clever adversary, and
the battle was a warm one.
We both enjoyed this contest, for, though the struggle was likely to be
sharp, we knew the issue was ours, from the beginning, and the whole
thing, as Grant said, was like a hunting trip. But how it ended!
He had been out much at night, for it was a large district and there
were many meetings, and had been as tireless as was usual with him.
His thought was never given much to the care of himself, and in this
campaign he appeared more than ordinarily reckless. Jean, watchful
ever, reproached him and made him change his ways a little. Perhaps it
was not all his fault that one day he felt ill. It was on the eve of
the election.
We carried the day as we had hoped, and easily, and there was a demand
for Harlson that night which could not be refused with grace. He was
compelled to speak, and in the open air of a chill November evening.
He told me he felt ill. When, late at night, we reached his home and
he found Jean awaiting him, he turned to me and said:
"It's all right, Alf. I'll be myself again by morning. I'm where all
that is good for me is, and should be well in no time. She will but
pass her hands above my head, and--there you are!"
And we parted, as carelessly as usual, and as I went home I was
speculating on what the revised returns would show the majority to be,
not as to the outcome of Grant Harlson's indisposition.
Jean sent for me the next morning. I found a look upon her face which
troubled me.
"Grant is not well," she said. "He came home late and spoke of an odd
feeling. We cared for him, but this morning he was listless and did
not want to dress and come to breakfast. He is in bed still. Please
go up and see him, and then come down to the library and tell me what
you think the matter is."
I went upstairs and found Grant lying in his bed and breathing heavily.
I shook him by the shoulder.
"What's the matter, old man?"
He turned over with an effort, though laughing. "I don't know," he
answered. "I only know I haven't been well since last night, and that
there is a queer feeling about my throat and chest. I ought to be up,
of course, but I'm listless and careless, somehow. By the way, what
were the totals?"
I gave him the figures, and he smiled, and then with an "Excuse me, old
man," turned his face to the wall. A moment later, as I sat watching
him, alarmed, he roused himself and turned toward me again. "Won't you
send Jean to me?" he asked.
I saw Jean, and she went upstairs, and when she came down her face was
white. The Ape, rugged young man as he was, had tears in his eyes, and
his brothers and sisters were crying quietly. I left the house, and an
hour later a physician, one of the most famous on the continent, was by
Grant Harlson's bedside. He was a personal friend of both of us. When
he came down his face was grave.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"It's pneumonia, and a bad case."
"What can we do?"
"Nothing, but to care for him and aid him with all hopefulness and
strength. He has vitality beyond one man in a thousand. He may throw
off all the incubus of it. But it has come suddenly and is growing."
Then he got mad in all his friendship, and blurted out: "Why didn't the
great blundering brute send for me when first he felt something he
couldn't meet nor understand?" And there were almost tears in his eyes.
The doctors have much to say about pneumonia. Doubtless they know of
what they talk, but pneumonia comes nevertheless, and defeats the
strong man and the doctors. The strong man it strangles. The doctors
it laughs at.
All that medical science could command was brought to the bedside of
Grant Harlson. The doctor, his friend, called in the wisest of
associates in consultation, and as for care--there was Jean! He was
cared for as the angels might care for a wandering soul. But the big
man in the bed tossed and muttered, and looked at Jean appealingly, and
grew worse. The strength seemed going from him at last--from him, the
bulwark of us all.
All that science could do was done. All that care could do was done,
but our giant weakened. The doctors talk of the croupous form of
pneumonia, and of some other form--I do not know the difference--but I
do know that this man had a great pain in his chest, and that his head
ached, and that he had alternate arctic chills and flames of fever.
His pulse was rapid, and he gasped as he breathed. Sometimes he would
become delirious, then weaker in the sane intervals. He would send us
from the room then, and call for Jean alone, and, when she
emerged--well--God help me!--I never want to see that awful look of
suspense and agony upon a human face again. It will stay with me until
I follow the roadway leading to my friends.
The doctor gave the sick man opiates or stimulants, as the case might
at any moment seem to need, and they had some slight effect; but there
came a shallower breathing, and the quilts tossed under the heaving of
the broad chest, fitfully. It reminded me in some strange way of the
imitation sea scenes at the theater, where a great cloth of some sort
is rocked and lifted to represent the waves. Only one lung was
congested in the beginning, but, later, the thing extended to each, and
the air-cells began filling, and the man suffered more and more. He
fought against it fiercely.
"Grant," said the doctor, after the administration of some strong
stimulant, "help us all you can. Cough! Force the air through those
huge lungs of yours, and see if you can't tear away that tissue which
is forming to throttle you!"
And Grant would summon all his strength, by no means yet exhausted, and
exert his will, and cough, despite the fearful pain of it; but the
human form held not the machinery to dislodge that growing web which
was filling the lung-chambers and cutting off, hour by hour, the oxygen
which makes pure blood and makes the being.
And the man who laughed at things grew weaker and weaker, and, though
he laughed still and was his old self and made us happy for a brief
interval, when he had not the fever and was clear-headed, and said that
it was nothing and that he would throw it off, we knew that there was
deadly peril. And one evening, when Grant was again delirious, the
doctor came to me and said there was very little hope.