SOME NATURAL RESULTS.
George Doughty lay propped up in bed; standing beside him, and
clasping his hand tightly, was his wife; near him were his two oldest
children, seemingly as ignorant of what was transpiring as they were
uncomfortable on account of the peculiar influence which pervaded the
room. On the other side of the bed, and holding one of the dying man’s
hands, knelt Parson Wedgewell; beside him stood the doctor; while
behind them both, near the door, and as nearly invisible as a man of
his size could be, was Squire Tomple. The Squire’s face and figure
seemed embodiments of a trembling, abject apology; he occasionally
looked toward the door, as if to question that inanimate object whether
behind its broad front he, the Squire, might not be safe from his own
fears. It was very evident that the Squire’s conscience was making a
coward of him; but it was also evident, and not for the first time
in the world’s history, that cowardice is mightily influential in
holding a coward to the ground that he hates. Had any one spoken to
him, or paid him the slightest attention, the Squire would have felt
better; nothing turns cowards into soldiers so quickly as the receipt
of a volley; but no such relief seemed at all likely to reach him. The
doctor, like a true man, having done all things, could only stand,
and stand he did; Parson Wedgewell, feeling that upon his own efforts
with the Great Physician depended the sick man’s future well-being,
prayed silently and earnestly, raising his head only to search, through
his tears, the face of the patient for signs of the desired answer to
prayer. Mrs. Doughty was interested only in looking into the eyes too
soon to close forever, and the faces of the two children were more than
a man could intentionally look upon a second time. So when Doughty’s
baby, who had been creeping about the floor, suddenly beholding the
glories of the great seal which depended from the Squire’s fob-chain,
tried to climb the leg of the storekeeper’s trousers, the Squire
smiled, as a saint in extremity might smile at the sudden appearance
of an angel, and he stooped--no easy operation for a man of Squire
Tomple’s bulk--and, lifting the little fellow in his arms, put kisses
all over the tiny face, which, in view of the relations of cleanliness
to attractiveness, was not especially bewitching. A moment later,
however, a muffled but approaching step brought back to the Squire his
own sense of propriety, and he dropped the baby just in time to be able
to give a hand to Fred Macdonald, as that young man softly pushed open
the door. The Squire’s face again became apologetic.
“How did it happen?” whispered Fred.
“Why,” replied the Squire, “the doctor says it’s a galloping
consumption; _I_ never knew a thing about it. Doctor says it’s the
quickest case he ever knew; he never imagined anything was the matter
with George. If _I’d_ known anything about it, I’d have had the doctor
attending him long ago; but George isn’t of the complaining kind. The
idea of a fellow being at work for me, and dying right straight along.
Why, it’s awful! He says he never knew anything about it himself, so I
don’t see how _I_ could. He was at the store up to four or five days
ago, then his wife came around one morning and told me that he didn’t
feel fit to work that day, but she didn’t say what the matter was.
I’ve been thinking, for two or three weeks, about giving him some help
in the store; but you know how business drives everything out of a
man’s head. First I thought I’d stay around the store myself evenings,
and let George rest; but I’ve had to go to lodge meetings and prayer
meetings, and my wife’s wanted me to go out with her, and so my time’s
been taken up. Then I thought I’d get a boy, and--well, I didn’t know
exactly which to do; but if I’d known----”
“But can’t something be done to brace him up for a day or two?”
interrupted Fred; “then I’ll take him out driving every day, and
perhaps he’ll pick up.”
The Squire looked twenty years older for a moment or two as he replied,
“The doctor says he hasn’t any physique to rally upon; he’s all gone,
muscle, blood, and everything. It’s the queerest thing I ever knew; he
hasn’t had anything to do, these past few years, but just what _I_ did
when I was a young man.”
The dying man turned his eyes inquiringly, and asked in a very thin
voice,
“Isn’t Fred here?”
Fred started from the Squire’s side, but the storekeeper arrested
his progress with both hands, and fixing his eyes on Fred’s necktie,
whispered,
“You don’t think _I’m_ to blame, do you?”
“Why--no--I don’t see how, exactly,” said Fred, endeavoring to escape.
“Fred,” whispered the Squire, tightening his hold on the lapels of
Fred’s coat, “tell _him_ so, won’t you? I’ll be your best friend
forever if you will; it’s dreadful to think of a man going up to God
with such an idea on his mind, even if it _is_ a mistake. Of course,
when he gets there he’ll find out he’s wrong, _if_ he is, as----”
Fred broke away from the storekeeper, and wedged himself between
the doctor and pastor. Doughty withdrew his wrist from the doctor’s
fingers, extended a thin hand, and smiled.
“Fred,” said he, “we used to be chums when we were boys. I never took
an advantage of you, did I?”
“Never,” said Fred; “and we’ll have lots of good times again, old
fellow. I’ve just bought the best spring wagon in the State, and I’ll
drive you all over the country when you get well enough.”
George’s smile became slightly grim as he replied,
“I guess Barker’s hearse is the only spring wagon I’ll ever ride in
again, my boy.”
“Nonsense, George!” exclaimed Fred heartily. “How many times have I
seen you almost dead, and then put yourself together again? Don’t
you remember the time when you gave out in the middle of the river,
and then picked yourself up, and swam the rest of the way? Don’t you
remember the time we got snowed in on Raccoon Mountain, and we both
gave up and got ready to die, and how you not only came to, but dragged
me home besides? The idea of _you_ ever dying! I wish you’d sent for me
when you first took the silly notion into your head.”
Doughty was silent for a moment; his eyes brightened a little and a
faint flush came to his cheeks; he looked fondly at his wife, and then
at his children; he tried to raise himself in his bed; but in a minute
his smile departed, his pallor returned, and he said, in the thinnest
of voices,
“It’s no use, Fred; in those days there was something in me to call
upon at a pinch; now there isn’t a thing. I haven’t any time to
spare, Fred; what I want to ask is, keep an eye on my boys, for old
acquaintance’ sake. Their mother will be almost everything to them,
but she can’t be expected to know about their ways among men. I want
somebody to care enough for them to see that they don’t make the
mistakes I’ve made.”
A sudden rustle and a heavy step was heard, and Squire Tomple
approached the bedside, exclaiming,
“_I’ll_ do that!”
“Thank you, Squire,” said George feebly; “but you’re not the right man
to do it.”
“George,” said the Squire, raising his voice, and unconsciously raising
his hand, “I’ll give them the best business chances that can be had; I
can do it, for I’m the richest man in this town.”
“You gave _me_ the best chance in town, Squire, and this is what has
come of it,” said Doughty.
The Squire precipitately fell back and against his old place by the
wall. Doughty continued,
“Fred, persuade them--tell them that I said so--that a business that
makes them drink to keep up, isn’t business at all--it’s suicide. Tell
them that their father, who was never drunk in his life, got whisky to
help him use more of himself, until there wasn’t anything left to use.
Tell them that drinking for strength means discounting the future, and
that discounting the future always means getting ready for bankruptcy.”
“I’ll do it, old fellow,” said Fred, who had been growing very solemn
of visage.
“They shan’t ask you for any money, Fred, explained Doughty, when the
Squire’s voice was again heard saying,
“And they shan’t refuse it from me.”
“Thank you, Squire,” said George. “I do think you owe it to them, but I
guess they’ve good enough stuff in them to refuse it.”
“George,” said the Squire, again approaching the bedside, “I’m going to
continue your salary to your wife until your boys grow big enough to
help her. You know I’ve got plenty of money--’twon’t hurt me; for God’s
sake make her promise to take it.”
“She won’t need it,” said Doughty. “My life’s insured.”
“Then what _can_ I do for her--for them--for you?” asked the Squire.
“George, you’re holding your--sickness--against me, and I want to make
it right. I can’t say I believe I’ve done wrong by you, but you think I
have, and that’s enough to make me want to restore good feeling between
us before--in case anything should happen. Anything that money _can_
do, it _shall_ do.”
“Offer it to God Almighty, Squire, and buy my life back again,” said
Doughty. “If you can’t do that, your money isn’t good for anything in
this house.”
The doctor whispered to his patient that he must not exert himself so
much; the Squire whispered to the doctor to know what else a man in his
own position could do?
Fred Macdonald could think of no appropriate expression with which to
break the silence that threatened. Suddenly Parson Wedgewell raised his
head, and said,
“My dear young friend, this is a solemn moment. There are others who
know and esteem you, beside those here present; have you no message to
leave for them? Thousands of people rightly regard you as a young man
of high character, and your influence for good may be powerful among
them. I should esteem it an especial privilege to announce, in my
official capacity, such testimony as you may be moved to make, and as
your pastor, I feel like claiming this mournful pleasure as a right.
What may I say?”
“Say,” replied the sick man, with an earnestness which was almost
terrible in its intensity; “say that whisky was the best business
friend I ever found, and that when it began to abuse me, no one
thought enough of me to step in between us. And tell them that this
story is as true as it is ugly.”
As Doughty spoke, he had raised himself upon one elbow; as he uttered
his last word, he dropped upon his pillow, and passed into a land to
which no one but his wife manifested any willingness to follow him.