A REIGN OF TERROR
When a man is in politics--when the party is intrusting its sacred
interests to his leadership--it is expected that he will stay at
head-quarters. It is as good as understood that he will be where the
touching committees can touch him. His clarion voice must be heard
denouncing the evil plans of the political enemy.
The absence of David Lockwin from his head-quarters is therefore
declared to be a "bomb-shell." In the afternoon papers it is said that
he has undoubtedly withdrawn in favor of Harpwood.
The morning papers announce serious illness in Lockwin's family.
What they announce matters nothing to Lockwin. He cannot be seen.
If it be diphtheria Lockwin will use whisky plentifully. It is his
hobby that whisky is the only antidote.
Dr. Floddin has taken charge. He believes that whisky would increase
Davy's fever. "It is not diphtheria," he says. "Be assured on that
point. It is probably asthma."
Whatever it may be, it is terrible to David Lockwin, and to Esther, and
to all.
The child draws his breath with a force that sometimes makes itself
heard all over the house. He must be treated with emetics. He is in
the chamber this Wednesday night, on a couch beside the great bed. The
room has been hot, but by what chance does the furnace fail at such a
moment? It is David Lockwin up and down, all night--now going to bed
in hope the child will sleep--now rising in terror to hear that shrill
breathing--now rousing all hands to heat the house and start a fire at
the mantel. Where is Dr. Cannoncart's book? Read that. Ah, here it
is. "For asthma, I have found that stramonium leaves give relief.
Make a decoction and spray the patient."
Off the man goes to the drug store for the packet of stramonium. It
must be had quickly. It must be boiled, and that means an hour. It is
incredible that the fire should go out! The man sweats a cold liquor.
He feels like a murderer. He feels bereft. He is exhausted with a
week of political orgy.
And yet along toward morning, as the gray morn grows red in response to
the stained glasses and rich carpetings, the room is warm once more.
The whistling in the child's throat is less shrill. The man and the
woman sit by the little couch and the man presses the rubber bulb and
sprays the air about the sick boy.
He will take no medicine. Never before did he refuse to obey. But now
he is in deeper matters. It requires all his strength and all his
thoughts to get his breath. As for medicine, he will not take it. For
the spray he is grateful. His beautiful eyes open gloriously when a
breath has come without that hard tugging for it.
At eight in the morning the man and the woman eat--a cup of coffee and
a nubbin of bread. The mother of Esther arrives. She too is terrified
by the ordeal through which the child is passing.
"Go to the head-quarters, David," she says. "You are needed. Pa says
so. I will stay all day,"
"Oh, Mother Wandrell, what do you think?"
"Here is your Dr. Floddin, ask him."
The doctor speaks sadly. "He is much worse. What has happened?"
"The fires went out," answers Lockwin.
"Get some flaxseed at once. Get a stove in here. These fine houses
kill many people. Keep the body enswathed in the double poultice, but
don't let the emulsion touch his skin directly. What is the effect of
the medicine? I see he has taken a little. The bottleful is not going
fast enough."
"He has taken no medicine at all," says Esther. "It was spilled."
David Lockwin, starting for head-quarters, must now attend the fixing
of a stove where there is little accommodation for a stove.
"Give me the child," says the cook, "and the fire will not go out."
"It would be murder for me to go to head-quarters, and I believe it
would be double murder," he whispers to himself. He is in a lamentable
state. At two o'clock, with the stove up, the flaxseed cooking, the
boy warmly bandaged, the asthmatic sounds diminished, and the women
certain they have administered some of the medicine to the stubborn
patient, Lockwin finds that he can lie down. He sleeps till dark,
while Corkey organizes for the most tumultuous primaries that were ever
held in Chicago.
With the twilight settling in upon his bed Lockwin starts into
wakefulness. He has dreamed of two-old-cat. "Bully for the codger!"
the tribe of red-faces yell. In the other room he now hears the dismal
gasps of his curly-head.
He rinses his mouth with water, not daring to ask if the worst is
coming. He knows it is not coming, else he had been called. Yet he is
not quick to enter the sick chamber.
"David, it is your duty to make him take it," the mother says, as she
goes. "Esther, you look worse than David."
Thus the night begins. The child has learned to dislike the
imprisonment of poultices. The air is heavy with flaxseed. The basin
of stramonium water adds its melancholy odor to the room.
It is the first trouble Lockwin has ever seen. He is as unready and
unwilling as poor little Davy. It is murder--that furnace going out.
This thought comes to Lockwin over and over; perhaps the feeling of
murder is because Davy is not an own son.
It is all wretched and hideous! The slime of politics and the smell of
flaxseed unite to demoralize the man. O if Dr. Tarpion were only here!
But Davy will take no medicine; how could Tarpion help Davy?
Yes, that medicine--ipecac! The name has been hateful to Lockwin from
childhood.
Let Corkey win the primaries! What odds? Will not that release
Lockwin from the touching committees? Does he wish to owe his election
to a street car-company in another quarter of the city?
Perhaps Harpwood will win! How would that aid Davy? Ah, Davy! Davy!
all comes back to him! It is a strange influence this little boy has
thrown upon David Lockwin, child of fortune and people's idol.
It is a decent and wholesome thing---the only good and noble deed which
David Lockwin can just now credit to himself. He bathes his hot
forehead again.
Yes, Davy! Davy! Davy--the very thought of Davy restores the fallen
spirit. That water, too, seems to purify. Water and Davy! But it is
the well Davy--the little face framed at the window, waiting for papa,
waiting to know about Josephus--it is that Davy which stimulates the
soul.
Is it not a trial, then, to hear this boy--this rock of Lockwin's
better nature--in the grapple with Death himself?
If Davy were the flesh and blood of Lockwin, perhaps Lockwin might
determine that the child should follow its own wishes as to the taking
of ipecac. But this question of murder--this general feeling of
Chicago that its babes are slaughtered willfully--takes hold of the man
powerfully as he gathers his own scattered forces of life.
"Esther, will you not go to the rear chamber and sleep?"
The child appeals to her that her presence aids him.
"May I sit down here, Davy?"
There is a nod.
"Will you take some medicine now, Davy?"
"No, ma'am!" comes the gasping voice.
The man sprays with the stramonium. The doctor returns.
"Your boy is very ill with the asthma, Mr. Lockwin. He ought to be
relieved. But I think he will pull through. Do not allow your nerves
to be over-strained by the asthmatic respiration. It gives you more
pain than it gives to Davy."
"Do you suffer, Davy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, well, he does not know what we mean. Get him to take the
medicine, Mr. Lockwin. It is your duty."
Duty! Alas! Is not David Lockwin responding to both love and duty
already? Is it not a response such as he did not believe he could make?
The doctor goes. The man works the rubber bulb until his fingers grow
paralytic. Esther sleeps from exhaustion. The child gets oversprayed.
The man stirs the flaxseed--how soon the stuff dries out! He adds
water. He rinses his mouth. He arranges the mash on the cloths. It
is cold already, and he puts it on the sheet-iron of the stove.
But Davy is still. How to get the poultices changed? The man feels
about the blessed little body. A tide of tenderness sweeps through his
frame. Alas! the poultices are cold again, and hard.
They are doing no good.
"Esther, I beg pardon, but will you assist me with the flaxseed?"
"Certainly, David. Have I slept? Why did you not call me sooner?
Here, lamby! Here, lamby! Let mamma help you."
The poultices are to be heated again. The woman concludes the affair.
The man sits stretched in a chair, hands deep in pockets, one ankle
over the other, chin deep on his breast.
"Esther," he says at last, "it must be done! It must be done! Give
him to me!"
"Oh, David, don't hurt him!"
The man has turned to brute. He seizes the child as the spoiler of a
city might begin his rapine.
"Pour the medicine--quick!"
It is ready.
"Now, Davy, you must take this, or I don't know but papa will--I don't
know but papa will kill you."
Up and down the little form is hurled. Stubbornly the little will
contends for its own liberty. Rougher and rougher become the motions,
darker and darker becomes the man's face--Satanic now--a murderer, bent
on having his own will.
"Oh, David, David!"
"Keep still, Esther! I'll tolerate nothing from you!"
Has there been a surrender of the gasping child? The man is too
murderous to hear it.
"I'll take it, papa! I'll take it, papa!"
It is a poor, wheezing little cry, barely distinguishable. How long it
has been coming to the understanding of those terrible captors cannot
be known.
How eagerly does the shapely little hand clutch the spoon. "Another,"
he nods. It is swallowed. The golden head is hidden in the couch.
And David Lockwin sits trembling on the bed, gazing in hatred on the
medicine that has entered between him and his foundling.
"Papa had to do it! Papa had to do it! You will forgive him, pet?"
So the woman whispers.
There is no answer.
The man sprays the air. "You won't blame papa, will you, Davy?"
The answer is eager. "No, please! Please, papa!"
It is a reign of terror erected on the government of love. It is chaos
and asthma together.
"It is a horrible deed!" David Lockwin comments inwardly.
"Mother will be so glad," says Esther. She pities the man. She would
not have been so cruel. She would have used gentler means, as she had
been doing for twenty-eight hours! And Davy would have taken no
medicine.
The room is at eighty degrees. The spray goes incessantly. The
medicine is taken every half hour.
At three o'clock the emetic acts, giving immediate relief.
"I have heard my mother say," says Esther, "that a child is eased by a
change of flannels. He is better now. I think I will put on a clean
undershirt."
The woman takes the sick child in her lap and sits near the stove. The
difficulties of the night return.
Why should the man's eyes be riveted on that captive's form! Ah! What
a pitiful look is that on golden-head's face! The respiration is once
more impeded. The little ribs start into sight. The little bellows of
the body sucks with all its force. The breath comes at last. There is
no complaint. There is the mute grandeur of Socrates.
"It is in us all!" the man cries.
"What is it in us all, David?" asks the woman.
"Cover him quickly, Esther, my dear," the man gasps, and buries his
face in the pillow. "God of mercy, wipe that picture out of my
memory!" he prays.