A STRANGE REQUEST.
The next morning, before it was well light, and at a time when brisk
youth and slow age were seeking the place of confession, Henry
Witherspoon went to the priest, not to acknowledge a sin, but to avow
a deep gratitude. The journey was begun early; it was in July. The
morning was braced with a cool breeze, the day was cloudless, and
night's lingering gleam of silver melted in the gold of morn. Young
Witherspoon's impressive nature was up with joy or down with sadness.
The prospect of his new life was a happiness, and the necessity to
leave his old uncle in a foreign country was a sore regret; so
happiness and regret strove against each other, but happiness,
advantaged with a buoyant heart as a contest-ground, soon ended the
struggle.
On a brown hill-top they met the sunrise, and from a drowsy
roosting-place they flushed a flock of greenish birds. Witherspoon
stood in his stirrups and waved his hat. "Good-by," he cried, "but you
needn't have got up so soon. We didn't want you. Hank," he said,
turning sideways in his saddle, "I think we can get there in about
five days, at the pace we'll be compelled to go; and we can sell these
mules or give them away, just as we like. Going home! I can't get the
strangeness of it out of my head. And a sister, too, mind you. I'm
beginning to feel like a man now. You see, uncle wanted me to be a boy
as long as I could, and it was only of late that he began to tell me
that I must put aside foolishness; but I am beginning to feel like a
man now."
"You will need to feel like one when you take up your new
responsibilities. You are playing now, but it may be serious enough
after a while."
"What! Don't preach, Hank. Responsibilities! Why, I'll throw them over
my shoulder like a twine string. But let me tell you something.
There's one thing I'm not going to allow--they shan't say a word
against that old man. Oh, I know the trouble and grief he brought
about, but by gracious, he had a cause. If--if--mother didn't love
him, why did she say that if he didn't love her she would go away
somewhere and grieve herself to death? That was no way to treat a
fellow, especially a fellow that loves you like the mischief. And
besides, why did father cut him out? Pretty mean thing for a man to
slip around and steal his brother's sweetheart. In this country it
would mean blood."
"You are a jewel, my boy."
"No, I'm simply just. Of course, two wrongs don't make a right, as the
saying has it, but a wrong with a cause is half-way right, and I'll
tell them at the very start that they better not talk about the
matter. In fact, I told them so in the letter. You've had a pretty
hard time of it, haven't you, Hank?"
"I shouldn't want an enemy's dog to have a harder one," DeGolyer
answered.
"But you've got a good education."
"So has the hog that picks up cards and tells the time of day," said
DeGolyer, "but what good does that do him? He has to work harder than
other hogs, and is kept hungry so that he may perform with more
sprightliness. But if I have a good education, my boy, I stole it, and
I shouldn't be surprised at any time to meet an officer with a warrant
of arrest sworn out against me by society."
"Good; but you didn't steal trash at any rate. But, Hank, you look for
the dark when the light would serve you better. Don't do it. Throw off
your trouble."
"Oh, I'm not disposed to look so much for the dark as you may imagine.
Throw it off! That's good advice. It is true that we may sometimes
throw off a trouble, but we can't very well throw off a cause. Some
natures are like a piece of fly-paper--a sorrow alights and sticks
there. But that isn't my nature. It doesn't take much to make me
contented."
The weather remained pleasant, and the travelers were within a day's
ride of Dura, when Witherspoon complained one morning of feeling ill,
and by noon be could scarcely sit in his saddle.
"Let us stop somewhere," DeGolyer urged.
"No," Witherspoon answered, "let us get to Dura as soon as we can.
I've got a fever, haven't I?"
DeGolyer leaned over and placed his hand on Witherspoon's forehead.
"Yes, you have."
"The truth is, I haven't felt altogether right since the first day
after we started, but I thought it would wear off."
When they reached Dura, Witherspoon was delirious. Not a ship was in
port, and DeGolyer took him to an inn and summoned such medical aid as
the hamlet afforded. The physician naturally gave the case a
threatening color, and it followed that he was right, for at the
close of the fourth day the patient gave no promise of improvement.
The innkeeper said that sometimes a month passed between the landing
of ships at that point. The fifth day came. DeGolyer sat by the
bedside of his friend, fanning him. The doctor had called and had just
taken his leave.
"Give me some water, Hank."
"Ah, you are coming around all right, my boy," DeGolyer cried. He
brought the water; and when the patient drank and shook his head as a
signal to take away the cup, DeGolyer asked; "Don't you feel a good
deal better?"
"No."
"But your mind is clear?"
"Yes."
"Shall I put another cold cloth on your head?"
"If you please."
And when DeGolyer had gently done this, Witherspoon said: "Sit down
here, Hank."
"All right, my boy, here I am."
"Hank, I'm not going to get well."
"Oh, yes, you are, and don't you let any such nonsense enter your
head."
"It's a good ways from nonsense, I tell you. I know what I'm talking
about; I know just as well as can be that I'm going to die--now you
wait till I get through. It can't be helped, and there's no use in
taking on over it. I did want to see my father and mother and sister,
but it can't be helped."
DeGolyer was on his knees beside the bed. He attempted to speak, but
his utterance was choked; and the tears in his eyes blurred to
spectral dimness the only human being whom he held warm in his heart.
"Hank, while I am able to talk I've got a great favor to ask of you.
And you'll grant it, won't you?"
"Yes," DeGolyer Bobbed.
For a few moments the sick man lay in silence. He fumbled about and
found DeGolyer's hand. "My father and mother are waiting for me," he
said. "They have been raised into a new life. If I never come it will
be worse than if I had never been found, for they'll have a new grief
to bear, and it may be heavier than the first. They must have a son,
Hank."
"My dear boy, what do you mean?"
"I mean that if I die--and I know that I am going to die--you must be
their son. You must go there, not as Henry DeGolyer, but as Henry
Witherspoon, their own son."
"Merciful God! I can't do that."
"But if you care for me you will. Take all my papers--take everything
I've got--and go home. It will be the greatest favor you could do me
and the greatest you could do them."
"But, my dear boy, I should be a liar and a hypocrite."
"No, you would be playing my part because I couldn't play it. Once you
said that you would give me your life if I wanted it, and now I want
it. You can make them happy, and they'll be so proud of you. Won't you
try it? I would do anything on earth for you, and now you deny me
this--and who knows but my spirit might enter into you and form a part
of your own? How can you refuse me when you know that I think more of
you than I do of anybody? This is no boy's prank--I'm a man now. Will
you?"
"Henry," said DeGolyer, "this is merely a feverish notion that has
come out of your derangement. Put it by, and after a while we will
laugh at it. Is the cloth hot again?"
"Yes."
"I'll change it." And DeGolyer, removing the cloth and placing his
hand on his friend's forehead, added: "Your fever isn't so high as it
was yesterday. You are coming out all right."
"No, I tell you that I'm going to die; and you won't do me the only
favor I could ask. Don't you remember saying, not long ago, that a
man's life is a pretense almost from the beginning to the end?"
"I don't remember saying it, but it agrees with what I have often been
compelled to think."
"Well, then, if you think that life is a pretense, why not pretend by
request?"
"Well talk about it some other time, my boy."
"But there may not be any other time."
"Oh, yes, there will be. Don't you think you can sleep now?"
"No, I don't think I can sleep and wake up again."
But he did sleep, and he did awake again. Three more days passed
wearily away, and the patient was delirious most of the time.
DeGolyer's acquaintance with Spanish was but small, and he could
comprehend but little of what a pedantic doctor might say, yet he
learned that there was not much encouragement to be drawn from the
fact that the sick man's mind sometimes returned from its troubled
wandering.
DeGolyer was again alone with his friend. It was a hot though a
blustery afternoon, and the sea, in sight through the open door,
sounded the deeper notes of its endless opera.
"Hank."
"I'm here, my boy."
"Have you thought about what I told you to do?"
"Are you still clinging to that notion?"
"No; it is clinging to me. Have you thought about it?"
"Yes."
"And what did you think?"
"I thought that for you I would take the risk of playing a part that
you are unable to perform. But really, Henry, I'm too old."
"You have promised, and my mind is at ease," the sick man said, with a
smile. "Now I feel that I have given my life over to you and that I
shall not really be dead so long as you are alive. Among my things you
will find some letters written by my mother to my uncle, and a small
gold chain and a locket that I wore when I was sto--when uncle took
me. That's all."
"I will do the best I can, but I'm too old."
"You are only a few years older than I am. They'll never know. They'll
be blind. You'll have the proof. Go at once. You are Henry
Witherspoon. That's all."
The blustery afternoon settled into a calm as the sun went down, and a
change came with the night. The sufferer's mind flitted back for a
moment, and in that speck of time he spoke not, but he gave his friend
a look of gratitude. All was over. During the night DeGolyer sat alone
by the bedside. And a ship came at morning.
A kind-hearted priest offered his services. "The ship has merely
dodged in here," said he, "and won't stay long, and it may be a month
before another one comes." And then he added: "You may leave these
melancholy rites to me."
A man stepped into the doorway and cried in Spanish: "The ship is
ready."
DeGolyer turned to the priest, and placing a purse on the table, said:
"I thank you." Then he stepped lightly to the bedside and gazed with
reverence and affection upon the face of the dead boy. He spoke the
name of Christ, and the priest heard him say: "Take his spirit to Thy
love and Thy mercy, for no soul more forgiving has ever entered Thy
Father's kingdom." He took up his traveling-bag and turned toward the
door. "One moment," said the priest, and pointing to the couch, he
asked: "What name?"
"Henry--Henry DeGolyer."