Sowing Seeds in Danny Part 27

"It does," Pearl replied, "and that's what you'll get as soon as Dr.

Clay gets here, I'm thinking."

Arthur turned his face into his pillow. An operation for appendicitis, here, in this place, and by that young man, no older than himself perhaps? He knew that at home, it was only undertaken by the oldest and best surgeons in the hospitals.

Pearl saw something of his fears in his face. So she hastened to rea.s.sure him. She said cheerfully:

"Don't ye be worried, Arthur, about it at all at all. Man alive! Dr.

Clay thinks no more of an operation like that than I would o' cuttin'

your nails."

A strange feeling began at Arthur's heart, and spread up to his brain.

It had come! It was here!

From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence and famine; from battle and murder and sudden death;--Good Lord, deliver us!

He had prayed it many times, meaninglessly. But he clung to it now, clung to it desperately. As a drowning man. He put his hand over his eyes, his pain was forgotten:

Other lights are paling--which for long years we have rejoiced to see...we would not mourn them for we go to Thee!

Yes it was all right; he was ready now. He had come of a race of men who feared not death in whatever form it came.

Bring us to our resting beds at night--weary and content and undishonoured--and grant us in the end the gift of sleep.

He repeated the prayer to himself slowly. That was it, weary and content, and undishonoured.

"Pearl," he said, reaching out his burning hand until it rested on hers, "all my letters are there in that black portmanteau, and the key is in my pocket-book. I have a fancy that I would like no eye but yours to see them--until I am quite well again."

She nodded.

"And if you...should have need...to write to Thursa, tell her I had loving hands around me...at the last."

Pearl gently stroked his hand.

"And to my father write that I knew no fear"--his voice grew steadier--"and pa.s.sed out of life glad to have been a brave man's son, and borne even for a few years a G.o.dly father's name."

"I will write it, Arthur," she said.

"And to my mother, Pearl" his voice wavered and broke--"my mother...for I was her youngest child...tell her she was my last...and tenderest thought."

Pearl pressed his hand tenderly against her weather-beaten little cheek, for it was Danny now, grown a man but Danny still, who lay before her, fighting for his life; and at the thought her tears fell fast.

"Pearl," he spoke again, after a pause, pressing his hand to his forehead, "while my mind holds clear, perhaps you would be good enough, you have been so good to me, to say that prayer you learned. My father will be in his study now, and soon it will be time for morning prayers.

I often feel his blessing on me, Pearl. I want to feel it now, bringing peace and rest...weary and content and undishonoured, and...undishonoured...and grant us..." His voice grew fainter and trailed away into incoherency.

And now, oh thou dignified rector of St. Agnes, in thy home beyond the sea, lay aside the "Appendix to the Apology of St. Perpetua," over which thou porest, for under all thy dignity and formalism there beats a loving father's heart. The shadows are gathering, dear sir, around thy fifth son in a far country, and in the gathering shadows there stalks, noiselessly, relentlessly, that grim, gray spectre, Death. On thy knees, then, oh Rector of St. Agnes, and blend thy prayers with the feeble pet.i.tions of her who even now, for thy house, entreats the Throne of Grace. Pray, oh thou on whom the bishop's hands have been laid, that the golden bowl be not broken nor the silver cord loosed, for the breath of thy fifth son draws heavily, and the things of time and sense are fading, fading, fading from his closing eyes.

Pearl repeated the prayer.

--And grant, oh most merciful Father for His sake; That we may hereafter lead a G.o.dly, righteous and a sober life--

She stopped abruptly. The old dog lifted his head and listened.

s.n.a.t.c.hing up the lantern, she was out of the door before the dog was on his feet; there were wheels coming, coming down the road in mad haste.

Pearl swung the lantern and shouted.

The doctor reined in his horse.

She flashed the lantern into his face.

"Oh Doc!" she cried, "dear Doc, I have been waitin' and waitin' for ye.

Git in there to the granary. Arthur's the sickest thing ye ever saw.

Git in there on the double jump." She put the lantern into his hand as she spoke.

Hastily unhitching the doctor's horse she felt her way with him into the driving shed. The night was at its blackest.

"Now, Thursa," she laughed to herself, "we got him, and he'll do it, dear Doc, he'll do it." The wind blew dust and gravel in her face as she ran across the yard.

When she went into the granary the doctor was sitting on the box by Arthur's bed, with his face in his hands.

"Oh, Doc, what is it?" she cried, seizing his arm.

The doctor looked at her, dazed, and even Pearl uttered a cry of dismay when she saw his face, for it was like the face of a dead man.

"Pearl," he said slowly, "I have made a terrible mistake, I have killed young Cowan."

"Bet he deserved it, then," Pearl said stoutly.

"Killed him," the doctor went on, not heeding her, "he died in my hands, poor fellow! Oh, the poor young fellow! I lanced his throat, thinking it was quinsy he had, but it must have been diphtheria, for he died, Pearl, he died, I tell you!"

"Well!" Pearl cried, excitedly waving her arms, "he ain't the first man that's been killed by a mistake, I'll bet lots o' doctors kill people by mistake, but they don't tell--and the corpse don't either, and there ye are. I'll bet you feel worse about it than he does, Doc."

The doctor groaned.

"Come, Doc," she said, plucking his sleeve, "take a look at Arthur."

The doctor rose uncertainly and paced up and down the floor with his face in his hands, swaying like a drunken man.

"O G.o.d!" he moaned, "if I could but bring back his life with mine; but I can't! I can't! I can't!"

Pearl watched him, but said not a word. At last she said:

"Doc, I think Arthur has appendicitis. Come and have a look at him, and see if he hasn't."

With a supreme effort the doctor gained control of himself and made a hasty but thorough examination.

"He has," he said, "a well developed case of it."

Pearl handed him his satchel. "Here, then," she said, "go at him."

"I can't do it, Pearl," he cried. "I can't. He'll die, I tell you, like that other poor fellow. I can't send another man to meet his Maker."