Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 May 1894 — AS A CONSEQUENCE. [ARTICLE]

AS A CONSEQUENCE.

MARY A. SAWYER. Deacon Albany sat at the tea-table. It was a warm night, the east wind that had tempered the day’s heat having died away, and his coat, worn because of the presence of a guest, made him uncomfortable. His eye was stern, and his voice almost irritable, as he addressed his niece who sat at the head of the table. • Then you and Sarah won’t neither of you go?” he asked. ‘‘No, uncle we are going toa party. I told you this morning.” “We positively cannot go to prayer meeting with you to-night, Deacon Albany,” said Sarah Cooke. ‘‘l might be spared, but who could or would have a party without Meg?” The deacon groaned aloud. He pushed aside his cup of tea, and leaning an elbow on the table, looked with a hard, strong glance at his niece, who, young, pretty, and becomingly attired in a freshly-ironed pink calico, sat quietly pouring the tea. ‘‘You young things will be sorry some day,” he said. “Wait till the alarming hand of death gits its clutch on you, an’ you’ll repent an’ cry out an’ smite yourselves in fear an’ trembling, but it’ll be too late then to git in. You ’ll find the door shut, an’ shut tight. It ain’t held open forever an’ forever, whilst folks is dancin’, an’ dispisin’ the way o’ salvation. It’ll be shut you’ll find.” He waxed warm, as he spoke, and his voice had a high, shrill note in it, which brought additional color into his niece’s cheeks. She wished he would not go on like that, she said to herself, impatiently. Why couldn’t he let them alone? What harm was there in a little party, a little gathering of friends, that he should go on so? Sarah Cooke stirred her tea and looked at him calmly. “Is there much difference in death-beds, Deacon Albany?” she asked presently. Meg stared at her, and the deacon glaredather. “Do I hearye aright?” he said sharply, “do you, the daughter of professin’ Christians, sit there and ask me if there is any difference ,twixt the death-bed of a Christian an’ the death-bed of an unconverted sinner!”

“I don’t believe there is much difference,” said Sarah. ‘‘People who are sick enough to die are too sick to have any fear of anything.” “You don’t know what you are talkin’ about,” replied the deacon. “You haven’t never seen folks die, an’ you don’t know. But I have seen folks die, a plenty of ’em, an’ I tell you there ain’t no more heartrendin’ sight than to see an unconverted sinner writhing an’ tossing about, all in an agony of fear, groanin’ an’ cryin’ aloud, an’ knowin’ in his heart that he has put it off too long, that a life-time of remorse is his sure portion in the next world. Oh, it is terrible, terrible 1 And here you be, you two young things, putting it off, an’ dancing and feasting, 'stead o’ going to prayer-meetin’ an’ findin’ out the way o’ salvation.” Sarah listened quietly. She had often attended the weekly prayermeeting, where she had heard words of similar import fall from the deacon’s lips. Meg, also, was familiar with them. Ordinarily they seemed to her simply a part of the tableconversation, to which she need make no reply. To-night, they roused in her a spirit of defiance. “I don’t believe there’s much difference,” she said. “What’s that, hey?” Meg’s voice faltered little but she went on boldly. “I’d guess if it was you and me, Uncle Simon, I’d die just as quiet as you would. I ain’t a mite afraid of making a great fuss when I die. Deacon Albany rose and pushed his chair against the wall. The flush of anger faded from his face, his voice was less hard. ”1 have been a righteous man, ”he said,” and I expect to die the death of the righteous. Death has no terror for the righteous man. It is but the last sleep, there is no fear, no clinging to life, no remorse. Such will be my death-bed, but for you, my child, I am sore afraid.” He went away out of the room. His boots creaked, and he walked on tip-toe, as if the grim, shadowing presence were waiting upon the threshold. The two young women were silent for a few moments after his departure. There had been a quiver in his voice which touched them. Meg was the first to speak. ‘‘l suppose I ought to go to prayer-meeting more,” she said. “ I suppose I ought to go to-night.” Sarah made no reply. She crumbled a bit of bread into fine fragments, whilst Meg, in whose ears still lingered the words “my child,” watched her absently. Suddenly Sarah spoke. “Don’t you want me to make you a few day’s visit?” she asked. Meg’s eyes shone, as she answered eagerly: “Don’t I? Will you really? Sarah mimicked her earnest voice. “Will I? Wl,” with a laugh, “after inviting myself, I think I will. A week later, the deacon, Sarah and Meg were again seated at the table. Meg had removed the first

course, and had brought on a steamed blueberry pudding with a sauce. The sight of it moved the deacon to an almost jocose recital of a blueberrying adventure of his boyhood. He kept a sharp eye upon his niece’s movements, however. “Don’t be scared of git tin’ on too much sauce,” he admonished. “Pudding without sauce is like life without religion. Put it on plentiful, put it on plentiful, niece Margaret. You can’t have too much of either in this life,” falling, almost unconsciously, into his wonted serious phraseology, “pudding sauce nor religion neither.” His manner was grave, his voice so earnest that Sarah stifled the laugh which rose to her lips. Here was a good man, she said to herself, a really good man; what mattered it if he made a strange mixture of pudding and religion? It was the deacon’s favorite pudding. He had partaken very freely of roast lamb and green peas and mealy new potatoes. So freely, indeed, that Sarah, watching him, fgjt a sudden fear lest the pudding would go a-begging. But the deacon’s capacity proved equal to his desire. A second and a third helping were given him, and he ate with increasing satisfaction.

An amiable and benevolent smile spread itself over his face, and he pushed back his chair and rested his head against the wall. He was a fast eater, and Meg and Sarah had not yet finished their dessert. He looked affectionately and with an air of pride at his niece. “That is as good a pudding as I ever tasted, Margaret,” he said, presently, “I'll eat a bit for my supper.” “I am glad you like it, uncle.” “It is so good,” said Sarah, “that I could eat another helping, if I had not this dreadful, lurking fear of all canned fruit.” “Canned fruit,” said the deacon, “you won’t get much canned fruit on my table, Miss Sarah. We string our own apples and raise our own fruit for preserving and there’s always green things a plenty in the garden. I don’t hold to buying things you can raise on your own soil.” “But when blueberries will not be ripe for a month, and lamb isn’t good without green peas, and your garden peas are too old to cook, why, then, Deacon Albany, canned goods must, be used.” “Well, yes, I suppose they must, but I didn’t know those were canned peas. ’ “Canned peas and canned blueberries,” said Sarah, “are both so convenient that it is a pity people are always getting poisoned by eating them.” The deacon shifted his position, with an uneasy motion of the head. He remembered how freely he had eaten. He began to question the wisdom of yielding to the natural appetite. He foresaw a wretched as-

ternoon, “Now, I don’t inind, you know,” continued Sarah, placidly toying with a spoon. “I shall never eat very freely of canned fruits, since there is always the risk, but I am not nervous about them, as mamma and papa are. Papa won’t touch them, you know.” The deacon rose up hastily and left the room. A vision of a long illness rose sharply before him. He groaned aloud when he reached the wood yard. “She said her father—and he a doctor—wouldn’t touch them, And I—l ate like a starving beggar.” He came in from the fields an hour earlier than usual that afternoon. He said the sun was very hot and the men could finish without him, yet he drew his large cane-seated rocking-chair beside the stove, and sat down in it.

“Are you cold, uncle?” asked Meg. “I guess I ain’t feeling just right in my stomach, Marg’ret.” Meg was all attention instantly. “Shall I make you a bowl of ginger tea? The water is boiling.” The deacon assented eagerly. He watched its preparation and drank it with avidity, though it was so hot it brought tears to his eyes. “You have taken a chill,” said Meg. “You must go to bed as soon as supper is over.” To this the deacon submitted without a murmur. Perhaps he had taken cold, there had been a stiffish breeze, he remembered. He drew the blankets more closely about him, and felt a certain consolation in a distinct shiver: there he had worked without his vest, despite the east wind, he acknowledged gratefully. It was a chill, he would be well to-morrow. About seven o’clock his niece came to his bedside. “I don’t believe you’ll need anything more before eleven o’clock,” she said, “ we’ll be back by that time. I’ll tell James to sit on the back porch. You can call him if you need anything.” The deacon felt himself dismissed to solitude and slumber. He pulled himself together with an effort. “Where are you two girls gadding to, to-night?” he asked. “It is the night of the Fisher’s little party,” gently. “ You will go to sleep directly and we’ll be at home by eleven, at the latest.” She bent over him and kissed him. “ Why,you are quite feverish,” she said. “I must make you some lemonade before I go. What a chill you must have taken.”

Again the deacon felt a convincing shiver. He lifted his head and looked at his niece. 1 ‘lf you bought that new dress,” he said, his thrifty soul asserting itself, “you can go; but you mustn’t go off walking after it’s over, An’ you an’ Sary’d better go to prayer meetin’ next time an’ learn how to die. His head fell back instantly. He eroaned more loudly than before. His last word had sent a sudden, gruesome apprehension to his heart. “Why, what is it, Uncle? A pain?” The deacon waved his hand impatiently. “Go away,” he said, in a husky voice, “go to your dancing an’ your singing, an’ your mirth-making. Go, Margaret, an’ leave, a helpless old man alone to die.” | ‘‘l will not go if you are sick, of course, uncle; but I think it is only ” “I am a very sick man,” he interrupted, in a hollow whisper, “an’ I’m growing sicker every minute.” “I’ll send James for the doctor, uncle, shall I?” The deacon moved restlessly. He put his hand to his forehead and took

It away again, hastily. It was hot and dry. It startled him. Tears sprang to hia eyes. “I’m a dreadful sick man,” he mowed; “I’m on my dying bed, Marg’ret.” Margaret smoothed back his tumbled hair. “Oh, no,” she said, “the doctor’ll cure you. I’ll go out and send for him now.” “Tell James to hurry; tell him I’m ” His lips refused to utter the dreadful word. He gasped and looked with mute entreaty at his neice. Meg’s calmness reassured him somewhat, but her parting word again set his heart fluttering. “Oh, the doctor won’t let yon die,” she said, leaving the room. She returned presently, bearing a bowl of thorougwort tea. Sarah followed, a spoon and napkin in her hand. She came up and looked at the deacon with a close attention which greatly enhanced his alarm. Sheplaced her fingers on his pulse 'ana counted the hurried throbs. “I’m studying with father,” she explained. “I mean to be a doctor, you know, Deacon Albany.” The deacon made a feeble motion with his lips. Sarah stooped to listen. “Save me, Sairy,” he whispered, “do’nt let me—die.” “I will do what I can, Deacon Albany, but life and death are in the Lord’s hands.” The deacon groaned aloud. Her gravity confirmed his fears, her words sent an icy chill to his heart. How often he had used them, when, standing by a sick-bed, he had striven with the impenitent sinner. “Life and death,” he had said, “and you poor sinful creature, you’ve got death to face now. The Lord has summoned ye in the midst of your sins, and ye can’t get away from death.” His eyes filled with sudden smarting tears. He felt a sudden, fierce pity for the dying sinners. He wished he had been more gentle with them. He turned upon his pillow and lay with his face to the wall. He could not bear the sight of the fresh young faces.

Meg stole quietly from the room. Sarah heard her putting more wood in the stove. But the deacon heard nothing. From his troubled heart rose the troubled cry : “I ain’t ready yet, Lord. Oh, Lord, let me live! let me live I” In a short time Meg returned. “I thought I’d have some hot water ready,” she said. “The doctor may want it. He seems feverish, don't you think?” “They always do in such cases,” returned Sarah, oracularly. “It is inevitable. Low as was her voice the deacon caught the words. Again he uttered a deep groan. Both Sarah and Meg stooped over him. “What is it?” they asked. “Where is the pain?” More loudly still the deacon groaned. He could not speak. His mind was occupied with those fateful words—“in such cases.” She knew it then! She, the daughter of a doctor, almost a doctor herself, she knew the symptoms of poisoning. Groan after groan escaped from between his set lips; he extended his limbs and lay in an almost rigid position. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily in the intervals between the groans. Meg stood beside him and smoothed his hair, passing her cool hand over his damp forehead from time to time. Her nearness, the sense of sympathy it imparted, gave him comfort, but it did not ease the load upon his heart. He moved his head restlessly, fixing his heavy eyes upon Sarah, who stood at the foot of the bed. . “Father, ’ll be here directly,” she said, reassuringly. “He can’t help me, no one can help me!” he cried out, suddenly. “I’m dying—dying—dying!” “Oh, no, Deacon Albany,” replied Sarah, ‘ ‘ you will not face death this time. It is merely—” The deacon stretched out his hand protestingly. “You mean well, Sairey,” he said, in a voice that was high and shrill with excitement, “ but you don’t know. You're young, an’ you don’t know.” ‘ ‘ I know you are not sick enough to die.?’ “Dort’t tempt me, Sairey,” he moaned, “it is death that has come for me. I can feel it. I can feel his clay touch. Oh Lord, oh Lord!” Meg stooped and kissed his forehead. ‘‘l hear wheels,” she said. “The doctor will cure you, dear uncle.” She went out of the room, returning in a moment or two. Her face was grave, and the deacon, tossing restlessly, noticed it immediately. “ Where is he? Why don’t he come in? Tell him to hurry. “Tell him —tell him—” His voice failed suddenly, and he fell back upon the pillow. Meg hastened to soothe him. “He was away,” she said, “but James left word. He’ll be here soon.”

The deacon opened his eyes and fixed them upon his niece. With an effort he spoke, trying vainly to steady his quivering voice. “He’ll be too late,” he said. “He can’t help me now. I’m going, Marg’ret, I’m going fast. Death—” He broke off abruptly. He shut his eyes and turned his head to the wall. Meg, leaning over him, heard him murmur, “Oh, Lord, I never thought I’d go like this. Oh, Lord, let me live I” Meg stole away from the bed, making an imperative motion to Sarah. Both left the room, and after a hurried conference in the kitchen, Meg returned to her uncle’s bedside. He was still groaning and tossing restlessly from side to side. Meg bent over him. She touched her lips to his forehead. “Do you feel much pain, dear uncle?” she asked. “Oh yes, yes! Oh yes, yes! Oh, I’m going fast, Marg’ret, I’m a —” Again before the dread word he faltered, and Meg, seeing it, stooped and a third time kissed him. “You will be well to-morrow,” she said. “Sarah says so, and she is almost a doctor.” The deacon caught at this faint ray of hope with pitiful eagerness. “Does she say so? What does she say! Why don’t she do something for me! Tell her—” Sarah’s voice interrupted him. There was a cheery ring to it which invigorated him. She came up and

stood beside him, looking at him with a smile. “I thought I’d make a mustard plaster for your chest, Deacon Albany, but I don’t find anything in the pantry but the canned peas and blueberries I brought from home yesterday, so I—why, what is the matter?” / There was a twinkle in her eye and a laugh in her voice, but the deacon noticed them not. He sat up, waving his hand toward the door. “Go!” he cried. “Godownstairs, both of you.” “Why, uncle!” “Go!” he repeated. “I —I ain’t sick no longer. I’m well. I’m a well man, thank God! Leave me.” His voice trembled with his emotion, but a second later it took a softer tone. “Go,” he said; “leave me. Let me thank my Lord for His tender mercy and His loving kindness. Go, my dears.” Sarah and Meg went slowly down the stairs. Neither spoke. Both had heard something in his voice which kept them silent. They sat down upon the porch step and waited, still in silence. The stars came out faintly, and presently a faint rim of gold betokened the rising of the moon. And still they sat in silence. But after a long time as it seemed to them, they heard the deacon’s slow footsteps coming down the stairs. He passed through the hall and into the kitchen, and soon they saw him crossing the wood yard to the barn, whose big doors were still wide open to the warm, fragrant evening air. Sarah found voice then. “I might have put an end to it sooner,” she said, regretfully, her eyes following his slow movements, “but I thought father would surely come, and ” “Sarah Cooke, do you mean ” “Yes,” interrupted Sarah, “I’ve rather a turn for experiments, and I’ve heard a great deal about the power of imagniatjpn.and —and—well, I confess, Meg, I really wanted to note the effect of fright upon your uncle.” “I think it was cruel!” blazed Meg, I call it downright cruel! And if that is the way doctors —” ‘ ‘Doctors must make experiments. And,” coaxingly, “you know, I want to be famous; I want to cure all the silly, nervous women of our day. Even your uncle would subscribe to experiment with his nerves for the sake of making hundreds of homes happier homes.” Meg put her hand on hers. She touched it lovingly. “Forgive me,” she said, “but next time, dear, practice your enthusiasm on me. Spare my poor uncle, I beseech you.” ***** The deacon’s prayer was short that night. His careful avoidance of many of hisJcustomary well-rounded phrases struck both his listeners forcibly. Both heard in his voice a tone they had never before heard. Both knew its meaning, and tears filled their eyes at his closing appeal:- “Help Thou me, O Lord, to smooth the pillow of the dying sinner. Help Thou me to help him.” —[Yankee Blade.