For the Sake of a Child
Night had shut down over the land as Midnight, with her long, swinging
strides, clipped through the lighted streets of the prosperous little
railway town of Bradin, and drew up at old Doctor Leeds' snug house. A
fast express had just thundered shrieking by. A strong, cutting wind
racing in from the Northeast was tearing through the sinuous telegraph
wires with a buzzing sound, the weird prelude of a coming storm.
The worthy doctor was at home, having only lately returned from a long
drive into the country. He and his wife, a kindly-faced little woman, were
just sitting down to their quiet meal. Seldom could they have an evening
together, for the doctor's field was a large one and his patients
numerous.
"You have no engagement for to-night, I hope, Joseph," remarked his wife,
as she poured the tea.
"No, dear," was the reply. "I expect to have one evening at home, and I'm
very glad of it, too. I'm weary to-night, and am longing for my arm-chair,
with my papers and pipe."
A sharp knock upon the door aroused them, and great was their surprise to
see the venerable Rector of Glendow enter.
"Parson John!" cried the doctor, rushing forward and grasping his old
friend's hand. "It's been months since I've seen you. What lucky event
brought you here to-night? Did you miss the train? If so, I'm glad. My
chessmen are moulding for want of use."
But the parson shook his head and briefly told of the accident in the
barn.
"And so the little lass is in trouble, hey? More worry for Mrs. Stickles."
"And you will be able to go to-night, Doctor?"
"Certainly. Sweepstakes hasn't been on the road for two days, and is keen
for a good run."
"But, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Leeds, "are you able to go? You have
been driving all day, and must be very tired. Why not rest a little
first?"
"And let the poor child suffer that much longer! Not a bit of it."
"I have heard doctors say," remarked the parson, as he and Dan sat down to
their supper, "that they get so hardened to suffering that at last it does
not affect them at all. I am glad it is not true with you."
"The older I get," replied the doctor thoughtfully, stirring his tea, "the
more my heart aches at the pains and sufferings of others, especially in
little children. As soon as I hear of someone in distress I can never rest
until I reach his or her side. There always comes to me a voice urging me
to make haste. Even now I seem to hear that child calling to me. She is a
sweet, pretty lass, and how often have I patted her fair little head, and
to think of those blue eyes filled with tears, that tiny face drawn with
pain, and her whole body writhing in agony. However, you know all about
this, Parson, so what's the use of my talking."
"But I am glad to hear you speak as you do, Doctor. Over thirty years have
I been in Glendow, and I become more affected by suffering the older I
get."
The doctor looked keenly into Mr. Westmore's face, as if trying to read
his inmost thoughts.
"Do you ever become weary of your work?" he at length asked. "Do you not
long for a more congenial field?"
"I have often been asked that question, Doctor," the parson slowly
replied, "but not so much of late. I am getting old now, and young men are
needed, so I am somewhat forgotten. However, I am glad that this is so.
Years ago when a tempting offer came to me from some influential parish,
though I always refused, it disturbed me for days, until the matter was
finally settled. Now I do not have such distractions, and am quite happy.
In the quiet parish of Glendow I find all that the heart can desire. The
labour to me becomes no more monotonous than the work of parents with
their children. They often are weary in their toil for their little ones,
but not weary of it. The body gives out at times, but not the love in the
heart. And so I always find something new and fresh in my work which gives
such a relish to life. I have baptized most of the young people in this
parish, I have prepared them for Confirmation, given them their first
Communion, and in numerous cases have joined their hands in holy wedlock.
Some may long for a greater field and a wealthy congregation. But,
remember, as the sun in the heavens may be seen as clearly in the tiny
dewdrop as in the great ocean, so I can see the glory of the Father
shining in these humble parishioners of mine, especially so in the
children of tender years, as in the great intellects. As for travelling
abroad to see the world and its wonders, I find I can do it more
conveniently in my quiet study among my books. At a very small cost I can
wander to all parts of the world, without the dangers and inconveniences
of steamers and railroads. As to studying human nature, it is to be found
in any parish. Carlyle well said that 'any road, this simple Entepfuhl
road, will lead you to the end of the world,' and was it not the quaint
and humble-minded Thoreau who expressed himself in somewhat the same way:
"'If with Fancy unfurled,
You leave your abode,
You may go round the world,
By the Marlboro road.'"
The doctor rose from the table and grasped Mr. Westmore's hand.
"Thank you for those words," he said. "I have thought of those very things
so often, and you have expressed my ideas exactly. I must now be away. You
will stay all night, for I wish to have a good chat with you upon my
return."
"Thank you very much," the parson replied, "but we must be off as soon as
possible. My daughter is all alone and will be quite uneasy by my long
absence. We shall go home by the way of Flett's Corner, and thus save
three miles. But look, Doctor, don't send your bill to the Stickles. Send
it to me. Now be sure."
"Tut, tut, man. Don't worry about the bills of others. Leave this matter
to me. The Stickles won't have any cause for anxiety about the bill, and
why should you? It's paid already."
What a noble picture these two men presented as they stood there! Both had
grown old in a noble service for their fellow-men, and truly their grey
heads were beautiful crowns of glory. One had charge of the cure of souls,
the other of bodies, and yet there was no clashing. Each respected the
work of the other, and both were inspired with the high motive which lifts
any profession or occupation above the ordinary--the Christ-like motive of
love.
Parson John remained for some time after the doctor had left, chatting
with Mrs. Leeds, and when at length Midnight started on her homeward way
it was quite late. They had not advanced far before the storm which had
been threatening swept upon them. Although the night was dark, the roadbed
was firm and Midnight surefooted. As they scudded forward the wind howled
through the trees and dashed the snow against their faces. They fled by
farm-houses and caught fleeting glimpses of the bright, cosy scenes
within. Twice they met belated teams plodding wearily homeward. Without
one touch of rein, or word of command, each time Midnight slowed down,
swerved to the left and swung by. It was only when the dim, dark forms of
the panting steeds loomed up for an instant on their right, and then
disappeared into the blackness, were they aware of their presence.
Occasionally the road wound for a mile or more through a wooded region,
and in such places they found peace and shelter. Here the wind could not
reach them, although they could hear its wild ravings in the tree-tops
above. The snow came softly, silently down, and, although they could not
see it falling, they could feel it flecking their faces and knew it was
weaving its mystic robe over their bodies. In one place such as this a
faint glimmer of light struggled through the darkness a short distance
from the road.
"It's Stephen's cabin," the parson remarked. "It is a snug place on a
night like this. I wonder what he is doing now. I wish we had time to call
to give him a word of cheer."
About two hundred yards beyond the cabin they left the main highway and
entered upon a lumber road. This latter was used in the winter time in
order to avoid a large hill on the former and the huge drifts which piled
from fence to fence. At first Midnight slowed down to a walk, but at
length, becoming a little impatient to get home, she broke into a gentle
trot. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, the sleigh gave a great lurch, and
before a hand could be raised Dan found himself shooting over the parson
and falling headlong into the soft yielding snow. Recovering himself as
quickly as possible, and brushing the snow from his mouth, ears and eyes,
he groped around to ascertain what had happened. Away in the distance he
could hear a crashing sound as Midnight hurried along with the overturned
sleigh. Then all was still. He called and shouted, but received no reply.
A feeling of dread crept over him, and at once he started to walk back to
the road. He had advanced but a few steps, however, when he stumbled and
half fell over a form which he knew must be that of Parson John. He put
out his hand and felt his coat. Then he called, but all in vain. Hastily
fumbling in his pockets he drew forth several matches and tried to strike
a light. His little hands trembled as he did so, and time and time again a
draught blew out the tiny flame. In desperation he at length kneeled down
upon the snow, sheltered the match with his coat, and ere long had the
satisfaction of seeing the flame grow strong and steady. Carefully he held
it up and the small light illumined the darkness for the space of a few
feet around. Then it fell upon the prostrate form at his side. It touched
for an instant the old man's face, oh, so still and white, lying there in
the snow; and then an awful blackness. The light had gone out!