Stories That End Well Part 22

No, you have done everything. Well, good-by; remember me to the captain; we're all proud of him."

The captain's father thanked him with rather an absent air. "I wish we could do something for that fellow," he was thinking; "I don't suppose a message to him would--when a fellow's dying, messages are nonsense--it's a bit of sentiment--I don't care, I'll do it!" He turned and went back into the office.

"I am afraid there is not a chance," said the doctor; "too bad, he was a good fellow. Well, you can give him all the morphine he needs--and strychnine, though he's past strychnine, I fear; morphine's the one chance, and that's mighty little."

"He talked about wanting to see you," said the nurse. She had a sweet voice, plainly a lady's voice; and her slim figure, in the blue-striped gown and white surplice, had a lady's grace. Her face was not handsome, nor was it very young, but it had a touch of her voice's sweetness. The doctor found himself glad to look at her; and forgetting his patients in his interest in the nurse.

"Oh, yes,"--he roused himself--"I'll look 'round later; I suppose he is delirious?"

"Not so much that he does not recognize us. He talks all the time of his town, poor fellow, and seems to want to have them understand that he hasn't neglected his duty. He only once has spoken of any relations.

It's all the town, and the captain and Danvers making it right there; and the boys going back--I suppose he has lived there all his life and--"

"Not a bit of it; Danvers told me he merely enlisted from there. But they are making a great time over him. Telegraphed to have his body sent there; and here's another telegram. See--"

"I'll let him see," said the nurse, taking it, "may I, Doctor?"

"Yes, but not the first part about sending him back; that's a little too previous."

The nurse's touch roused Spruce. "d.i.c.k," he murmured, "d.i.c.k, you tell the folks. I couldn't go with the regiment--you know why."

"They know why, too; here's a telegram from your captain's father: 'Tell Spruce he's the hero of Company G.'"

"Read it again!"

She read it. His hand tightened on hers. Her trained eyes were on his face.

"Ain't it the--the _bulliest_ town! I wisht I'd enough money to go back; but you see my folks got to have my pay. But I wisht--"

Her eyes, not the nurse's now, but a woman's, sought the doctor's in a glance of question and appeal. He nodded.

Her sweet voice said: "And the town has telegraphed that no expense must be spared to cure you; but if you don't recover you are to go back to them."

Spruce drew a long, ecstatic sigh. "Oh--didn't I tell you? Ain't it the bulliest town!"

A minute later he murmured, "Thank you, d.i.c.k," and, still holding the nurse's hand, Spruce went to see his town.

A MIRACLE PLAY

The widow Darter's house was set on a hill. It was a story-and-a-half cottage, of stucco, to which sun and wind and frost had offered their kind offices, mellowing pleasantly its original glare of white. In summer a trumpet-vine draped the ugly little piazza which Emmy's "art-needle work" had helped build, and which she and her mother admired with simple hearts. The big burr oak and the maples hid the house from the road, but the gra.s.sy knoll in front of the house was bare, and from this vantage-ground one could see the shallow curve of whitish-brown where the village street climbed the hill, the chimneys of the houses below, and, afar off, the trains roaring through the prairies. All the village was interested in the railway, but Emmy had an especial and intimate interest because her sweetheart was the local agent. He had been her sweetheart during five years, in any one of which he would have been proud and glad to marry her; yet this was the fifth year of their betrothal, and Emmy was drearily reflecting that they were no nearer the chance to spend their lives together the fifth than the first.

Emmy was hanging out clothes. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, but she had just brought out the large basket and was pinning the garments to the line, while Virginia, her sister, a little girl in short skirts and a blue checked ap.r.o.n, helped with the less c.u.mbrous stockings and handkerchiefs. The child was pretty. She had a fresh color and curly yellow hair. Emmy's hair was black, and twisted in a braid about a shapely head. It shone like silk. But her eyes were gray, soft, and liquid. She was slender, with a youthful litheness in her motions, and her white arms flashed as they moved backward and forward in her work.

The sleeves of her blue gown were rolled up; the gown itself was plainly her work-a-day garb, but there was a white lawn tie at her neck and the gown was both neat and becoming; in short, she was an attractive little creature who did not neglect her looks even of a wash-day.

The widow Darter sat on the piazza in a large rocking-chair. She rocked.

As she rocked, she moaned piteously. At intervals she changed the sibilant moan into a hollow groaning sound. "Oh dear! _Oh_ dear! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" wailed the widow. "Um-m! um-m! um-m-m-m!"

The little girl flung a frown of impatience over her shoulder. "I don't see why mamma makes such an _awful_ racket!" she snapped.

"She suffers," said Emmy.

"Well, she needn't holler so if she does," cried Virginia, rebelliously.

"I know she wouldn't let _me_ holler when I stubbed my toe. It hurt awful, too!"

Emmy said nothing.

"Say, are you going to the picnic with Bert to-morrow afternoon?" said the child.

"No, Jinny, I don't see how I can. Mother's so sick."

"Well, I told Bert I was willing to take care of mamma; and he said he'd buy me a new doll if I would. I guess he wants you to go awful."

"Oh-h dear! Oh-h dear!" droned the sufferer on the piazza.

"Well, I can't," said Emmy. "I wish you'd run and ask mother if she wants anything."

"She don't; she's been going on that way all the afternoon." But Jinny granted the request after the easy-going manner of her age; she turned on her heel and sent a shout at her mother--"Say, mamma! you want anything?"

Mrs. Darter shook her head. The din of woe swelled in volume.

"I s'pose she wants you to read to her; she says I don't read with expression," said the little girl. "But we're all read out; you put off the was.h.i.+ng to read the end of _A Romance of Two Worlds_, and we've got to wait until No. 9 comes in! Albert said he'd sent for a whooping big pile of books from Davenport; you can get 'em at the dry-goods stores for five cents a book. And Mrs. Conner'll bring them up, won't she, when she comes? She's got to go for her boarder." Emmy nodded. Mrs. Darter groaned more softly, a sign that she was distracted by something from her own griefs of mind or body. Jinny chattered on. "Miss Ann Bigelow told me Mrs. Conner's going to have a girl from the University of Chicago for a boarder this time, but she's only coming for a week. Sibyl Edmunds knows her well. And, Emmy, she takes pictures, and she's going to bring her camera."

"Emmy! _Emmy!_ there comes Mrs. Conner!" screamed her mother.

Her words were accompanied by the vision of a white horse and an ancient phaeton (which had been newly washed for the occasion) just beyond the lilac-bushes at the gate. Mrs. Conner's comely presence filled the better part of the seat, but the eyes of all the Darters traveled at once to the slim girl in gray covert-cloth who sat beside her. The girl looked like hundreds of rather pretty American girls, with gray eyes and brown hair and dimples in their cheeks. She was pretty as youth and cheerfulness and dainty clothes are always pretty, but Emmy's gaze dwelt on her with reverence. "That's a camera she's holding--in that box," she said in a low tone to Jinny, "she's the girl that got the scholars.h.i.+p."

Emmy sighed.

Mrs. Conner had stopped the horse. She responded to Emmy's greeting by presenting her to the girl in gray. "Miss Doris Keith; she's going to the Chicago University. She knows Sibyl." Then she fished out a package from the luggage heaped at their feet. "Here's the books. That your ma on the piazza?"

As if in response, a few hollow moans floated from the rocking-chair.

"She seems in great pain," said Miss Keith, sympathetically.

Emmy's fair skin reddened painfully. "No, she--she isn't well," she stammered.

Mrs. Conner coughed a dry, inexpressive cough.

"I do wish you would step in and see mother for a minute," Emmy begged, as much with her eyes as with her voice. "I can hitch the horse if Miss Keith minds--"

But Miss Keith did not mind; she was quite willing to hold the horse.

And the horse sagging his elderly head, appeared of no mind to move, whether "held" or no.

"Well?" said Mrs. Conner, when they were out of earshot.