Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 September 1894 — A HAPPY MAN. [ARTICLE]

A HAPPY MAN.

The doctor did not have an easy time of it in the East End parish, where he had bought a cheap practice and settled down with his youth, his aspirations, his skill, to fight the battle of life. His youth seemed to «iip from him in his first year of work, his aspirations changed their nature, his skill developed. He acquired vast experience in those poor homes, where he fought valiantly against disease, the result of intemperance and vice and poverty and ignorance —diseases of which the victim was often an innocent sufferer. The sins of the fathers were visited upon infants —the sins of by-gone generations upon brave girls and well-meaning young fellows —sins of children on patient women and hardworking men. Dr. Murray was a thinker as well as a worker. He might have easily become morbid in that dreary place, where there was nothing beautiful to charm the mind, and little enough to charm the eye or the ear. But he did not become morbid. He had the remembrance of a happy country home where his boyhood had been passed, he had the thoughts of his dear old mother who lived there still, and the lessons she bad taught the boy had not left him in his manhood; above all, he had thoughts of another woman—her letters, sometimes—:the promise of herself before long. When he walked through the muddy street to his solitary home he did not let his mind dwell on the room he had just visited, where three children lay sick iu one bed, shivering with cold, and «ith no one but a drunken mother » attend to them, and give them icli food as was provided for the family by a lazy father, whose earnings, scanty enough, were chiefly spent at the “Royal George.” He ■did not let himself meditate on the details of his cases when he had left them; that would have unfitted him for his work. No; lie tried to imagine what home would be like when Norah was really there, when the •opening door would disclose her to Jum and draw him into the warm room, where there would be firelight and lamplight and—herself. She brought warmth and light and sweetness to him, to his life, to Millwall. She brought that now. What would it be by-and-by—by-and-by—when— He reached home. He let himself into the unlighted hall. The house lelt cold. He set his lips together and thought, “By and by.” He laid aside bis umbrella, took off his coat, ■strode into the barely furnished, rather uncomfortable dining-room, and rang for dinner. A middle-aged woman presented herself. “Oh!” she said, “I’m sorry the fire’s out, sir.” “Never mind,” said Murray, “I ■shall bare to go out again after dinner, J. expect. ’ ’ “Oh! that reminds me, sir. An old gentleman come to see you. He wanted you to call upon his wife. But be said you wasn’t to trouble tojught if so be you was tired.” "“Who was it, Mrs. Hawker?” '“He was unknown to me, sir; but he was a respectable looking gentleman, quite clean, and a nice face to him—a bit of gray whiskers, too.” “Did he leave his name?” “Yes; I laid it on your consultin’*®om table. He penciled it on the back of a envelope I had in my pocket. I’ll bring it in with your •chop.” The doctor looked at it. In informed, but fairly legible letters, he saw the words: Please call at your convenance. John Temple, V 14 Plevna Street, (.top). It was not a cheerful night. But | within —what was there within? .And every day must bring its duties. Besides that, “at your convenance” was so delightfully agreeable after ■the usual messages that reached him. He went into the hall again, pulled ■on his coat, took liis umbrella, put on his hat badly as doctors usually do, and banged the front door behind Jum. tßy-and-by the doctor came to a narrow street which seemed to be ■ less well lit, noisier, dirtier than •those through which he had already '.passed. He had several patients in tiiis road, but he did not know exactly where 14 was. He went right up to the nearest door and peered; that was 11. He crossed over, presuming the numbers were odds and evens. He found 14. His knock brought a fat, untidy -woman to the door, and several largeeyed children into the hall. As the children and herself were at the time in the enjoyment of what they coneidered health, Mrs. Bickle did not feel it incumbent to be extra polite. Mrs. Bickle held the candle, and «he and the children watched the gentleman’s ascent of the narrow, winding stair. The house being only two-storied, he had not far to go. Mr. Temple, who had apparently just started to meet him, stood waiting till he reached the top. “Sir,” he said, “ I take this kind ■of you.” Dr. Murray conld not at first discern his face, but the tone of the voice struck him pleasantly. It seemed to accord with the “ At your convenance.” , “In here, please, sir.” The man led the way into the Dr. Murray had seen many such ■moms —rather, he had seen many anodh worse rooms. Tftis was small ; it gave evidence ot poverty; it was bncely furnished. But it was a bright room. Exactly why it gave the imjKMMion of brightness it was difficult

to say; perhaps because Mr. Temple was in it. That was the conclusion the doctor came to aftenvards. There was a small fire in the grate. A lamp was on the round table. There was a chair-only one chair —which was put by the bedside. In the bed lay a woman. Mr. Temple introduced her briefly, “My wife.” The woman turned her eyes in the direction of the doctor. That was her recognition of his presence. ' “I thought I’d like you to step round and have a look at her,” said Mr. Temple. “I’ve feared she isn’t quite so well to-day. There ain’t much the matter, is there, Lucy? But I fancied it’d be a comfort to me if you’d see her.” When Mr. Temple said there wasn’t much the matter, it has to be borne in mind that he had been wont to see her for five-aod-twenty years like this.

“She had a stroke, and she has been paralyzed ever since,” said Mr. Temple simply. He did not speak in a particularly sad voice, or as if he pitied her or himself. The doctor looked at Mrs. Temple. It would have been difficult to say what her ago might have been, she was such a wreck of a woman. She was, as a matter of fact ten years younger than her husband, and he was going on for seventy. She was perfectly helpless. She could not move any part of her body without a’d; she had even lost the use of her hands. Her face was drawn to one sine by the paralyzed muscles, and thus distorted was bereft of any beauty it might have possessed. Speech was difficult to her, and the few words she uttered were scarcely articulate. There was no light or color in her face; only her eyes showed that she was a living woman. They looked straight out, blue and shining, vivid against the parchment skin, the scant white hair. “I fancy,” said Mr. Temple, “she’s had a bit of a chill. Do what I will this room’s draughty, and she naturally feels the cold. She never complains, but I know she feels the cold. Don’t you Lucy ? ” She muttered something. “Yes,” said Mr. Temple, “she does. You may be sure if she owns to it there’s reason. The only thing we ever quarrel about is that she won’t ever say what ails her, unless I worry it out. She's an obstinate woman, is Lucy.” The idea of applying such u word to the poor creature would have seemed ludicrous to the doctor if it hadn’t been for Temple’s tone and the look in the eyes of his wife as sho turned them in the direction of the old man. They were always turned in his direction when ho was in the room. That was one of the things the doctor found out before very long. “Who attends to her?” he inquired, when he had asked Temple a few questions and written a prescription. “Why, I do, sir,” said Temple. “I wouldn’t let any one else touch her.”

“Do you mean you do everything?” “Why, yes, sir. Who should if not me? She is my wife. I used to be a bit clumsy at first, but I’ve had time to learn. I manage pretty fair now, don’t I, Lucy?” Again the grateful, devoted eyes shone upon him. The doctor had seen how a woman could look when she loves. There were times when the remembrance of shining, longlashed, upturned eyes thrilled him almost to pain, but—would Norah ever look at him like that ? He cleared his throat before he spoke again. “But you go to work. What then? Is she alone?” “Why, she is, sir, so to speak. I wouldn’t leave her if I could help it. But I always commend her to the Lord before I go out, and He ain’t never failed us yet.” The doctor had a man’s hatred of cant. But he had sufficient insight by now into the character of those with whom he dealt to know that these 'words were as simple and sincere as those which had preceded them. “I get up early of a morning, you see, sir,” said Temple, “and make our breakfasts and attend to her. Then before I start for work—l’m in an engineer’s employ—l just boards her up in bed so as she can’t fall out. I’m back at dinner hour, and we have it together. Then, when I leave work,my evenin’ soon passes. There’s usually a bit of cooking to be done, and washing up, and the room to be seen to. A invalid must have things clean about her*; it isn’t agreeable to just lie and look at everything dirty. I like Lucy to keep bright—but there! she always is; and if occasionally she gets down I soon cheer her up, don’t I,Lucy? Me and Sunny together. Sunny—that’s our bullfinch. He’s usleep now, covered up, you see, and I won’t disturb him. But by day lie’s that lively! He chirps and talks away to Lucy; he’s company for her, Sunny is, bless his little heart!”

He told the story of his great unselfish life without any idea that it was either the one or the other. Indeed, he would have been surprised if the doctor had followed his inclination to wring his hand and tell him he was proud to make his acquaintance. And the doctor did not know the extent of his self-sacrifice. He could nor, even if he had known, realize at once what it meant to the tired workingman to rise early in the cold winter mornings that everything might be ready for the day before he started off; the room was tidied, the fire was lit, the breakfast was made, and Lucy fed, before he touched a morsel Other men have their wives to attend to them, roughly perhaps, but to some extent kindly. Temple, however, received no help. He even did some of the washing that money might be saved from the laundress. He gave Lucy little luxuries. When she had beef-tea he ate the tasteless meat from which all nourishment ihad been extracted, and he enjoyed it the more the more tasteless it was, for then he knew it was likely the beef-tea was good. If she protested it was useless; she had given tip protesting long ago. He did it, and she took it as a matter of cpurse. But she was not ungrateful. His reward? Ah, lie had his reward. He loved her better than he had ever done in the days of he* youth and health and beautv. And

what does true love ask but the op. portunity to serve? And she? What j she felt for him it would take a betI ter pen than mine to describe; rather 1 I defy any pen to describe it. I believe even the angels who looked into ! that garret conld not understand it, j for angels do not suffer nor need the ! tender ministry of man. They do | not know what it is to be a burden where one would be a burden-bearer, and yet to find not gloom nor reproaches, but chivalrous devotion. Only He who gave the heart of women its needs and its powers could have understood how this one regarded her husband He, and here and there another made wise by suffering. When Dr. Murray had gone, the old man got ready for the night. He was obliged to retire early whenever possible. He brought warm water to the bedside and washed the hands and face of his wife, and tied on her white night-cap. In the morning he would perform her toilet again, and do her hair for her. And he took pride in doing it, as he said, tl as stylish as a hairdresser.” Then he arranged on a chair, so as to be within reach, a candle in a tin candlestick, a glass of water and a biscuit. After that he fetched a large prayerbook and the Bible, and read the Psalms and the second lesson for the evening, and afterwards prayed. He thanked God for the many mercies vouchsafed to them that day, for food and power to work, and for a home. He remembered those without these blessings, and begged that they might receive them. He commended himself and his wife to God’s keeping throughout the night. Then his day was over. In the night Mrs. Temple was thirsty. She did not disturb her husband; but he awoke, lit the candle, and held the glass of water to her lips. Dr. Murray kept his promise to call. He got into the habit of looking in on the old Jcouple pretty frequently. He wrote and told Norah about them, and one day she sent Mrs. Temple some flowers, and the simple act gave such happiness that it was repeated, and during the winter the garret was never without a chrysanthemum or two.

spring brought hope to the doctor. He knew .that Mrs. Hawker’s reign was drawing to an end, and that the “by-and-by” would soon be here. It had been a hard winter. Strikes had brought addhd poverty to many a home, and the infant sickness and mortality had been terrible. And then there had been the influenza! But he had battled on, working all day and sometime.! half the night, and kept himself brave with the thought of Norah. And now it was April. And on the Ist of June! He called on the Temples before U® went away. They had known that his marriage was approaching, but not exactly the date of it. “I am going off for a month,” he said to John. Then reddening, “When I come back I hope to bring another friend to see you.” “Sir!” The old man looked at him. Then grasping his meaning held out his rough yet gentle hapd. “God bless you, sir! You couldn’t tell me anything that would make me more rejoiced. The dear young lady! We seem to know her now, already; but we shall really se® her and love her, I am sure.” “Oh, yes,” said Murray, “you’ll love her, Mr. Temple. Everybody does.”

“Lucy, did you hear? The doctor is going to fetch the dear lady.” The woman unclosed her eye*. She looked at the doctor, and the drawn face seemed flooded with sweetness. Her lips moved. “She says, ‘God bless you,’ sir. Lucy says, ‘God bless you.’ And when she says it she means it. Ah, we know what a blessed thing married life can be; don’t we Lucy? It’s a solemn fact,, sir, to take a woman to be your wife. It’s a solemn fact. But when the blessing of God rests upon a union, marriage is a sacrament that brings yon added grace. It is, sir. Your faith grows, and your love grows, and your nature deepens. You learn many things. I’m old and I’ve lived, but the part of my life that has helped me to the best knowledge is—just that. I took Lucy. I said I’d ‘love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health.’ I’ve tried, and we’ve been happy. Sir, love does it all. You’ll want to comfort her, you'll have to honor her, and if sickness comes you’ll love her all the more.” From the bed there came a strange sc-und. It was something between a laugh and a sob. And the doctor turning, looked away again. Her husband’s words had moved the wife to tears, but her face was radiant with joy in her upturned eyes. Temple laid his hand on hers—hers, which could give no answering pressure. “Sir,” he said, “I can’t wish you better happiness than I’ve had. I wish you as much. And I take it I’m about the happiest man in London.”— [Cornhill Magazine.