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Witness

<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> It was a great source of question with Courtland afterward, just why it should have been he that happened to carry that telegram over to the West Dormitory to Wittemore, instead of any one of a dozen other fellows who were in the office when it arrived and might just as well have gone. Did anything in this world happen, he wondered? He could not tell why he had held out his hand and offered to take the message. It was not because he was not trying hard, and studying for all he was worth, that "Witless Abner," as Wittemore had come to be called, had won his nickname. He worked night and day, plunged in a maze of things he did not quite understand until long after the rest of the class had passed them. He was majoring in sociology through the advice of a faddist uncle who had never seen him. He had told Abner's mother that sociology was the coming science, and Abner was faithfully carrying out the course of study he suggested. He was floundering through hours of lectures on the theory of the subject, and conscientiously working in the college settlement to get the practical side of things. He had the distressed look of a person with very short legs who is trying to keep up with a procession of six-footers, although there was nothing short about Abner. His legs were long, and his body was long, his arms were long, too long for most of his sleeves. His face was long, his nose and chin were painfully long, and were accompanied by a sensitive mouth that was always on the quiver with apprehension, like a rabbit's, and little light eyes with whitish eyelashes. His hair was like licked hay. There was absolutely nothing attractive about Wittemore except his smile, and he so seldom smiled that few of the boys had ever seen it. He had almost no friends. He had apparently just entered his room when Courtland reached his door, and was stumbling about in a hurry to turn on the light. He stopped with his lips aquiver and a dart of fear in his eyes when he saw the telegram. Nobody but his mother would send him a telegram, and she would never waste the money for it unless there was something dreadful the matter. He looked at it fearfully, holding it in his hand and glancing up again at Courtland half helplessly, as if he feared to open it. Then, with that set, stolid look of prodding ahead that characterized all Abner's movements he clumsily tore open the envelope. "Your mother is dying. Come at once," were the terse, cruel words that he read, signed with a neighbor's initials. The young man gave the gasp of a hurt thing and stood gaping up at Courtland. "Nothing the matter, I hope," said Courtland, kindly, moved by the gray, stricken look that had come over the poor fellow's face. "It's mother!" he gasped. "Read!" He thrust the telegram into Courtland's hand and sank down on the side of his bed with his head in his hands. "Tough luck, old man!" said Courtland, with a kindly hand on the bowed shoulder. "But maybe it's only a scare. Sometimes people get better when they're pretty sick, you know." Wittemore shook his head. "No. We've been expecting this, she and I. She's been sick a long time. I didn't want to come back this year! I thought she was failing! But she would have it! She'd got her heart so set on my graduating!" "Well, cheer up!" said Courtland, breezily. "Very likely your coming will help her to rally again! What train do you want to get? Can I help you any?" Wittemore lifted his head and looked about his room helplessly. It was plain he was dazed. Courtland looked up the train, 'phoned for a taxi, went around the room gathering up what he thought would be necessities for the journey, while Wittemore was inadequately trying to get himself dressed. Suddenly Wittemore stopped short in the midst of his ineffective efforts and drew something out of his pocket with an exclamation of dismay. "I forgot about this medicine!" he gasped. "I'll have to wait for the next train! Never mind that suit-case. I haven't time to wait for it! I'll go right up to the station as soon as I land this." He seized his hat and would have gone out the door, but Courtland grabbed him by the arm. "Hold on, old fellow! What's up? Surely you won't let anything keep you from your mother now." "I must!" The words came with a moan of agony from the sensitive lips. "It's medicine for a poor old woman down in the settlement district. She's suffering horribly, and the doctor said she ought to have it to-night, but there was no one else to get it for her, so I promised. She's lying there waiting for it now, listening to every sound till I come. Mother wouldn't want me to come to her, leaving a woman suffering like that when I'd promised. I only came up here to get car fare so I could get there sooner than walking. It took all the change I had to get the prescription filled." "Darn you, Wittemore! What do you think I am? I'll take the medicine to the old lady—ten old ladies if necessary! You get your train! There's your suit-case. Have you got plenty of money?" A blank look came over the poor fellow's face. "If I could find Dick Folsom I would have about enough. He owes me something. I did some copying for him." Courtland's hand was in his pocket. He always had plenty of money about him. That had never been one of his troubles. He had been to the bank that day, fortunately. Now he thrust a handful of bills into Wittemore's astonished hands. "There's fifty! Will that see you through? And I can send you more if you need it. Just wire me how much you want." Wittemore stood looking down at the bills, and tears began to run down his cheeks and splash upon them. Courtland felt his own eyes filling. What a pitiful, lonely life this had been! And the fellows had let him live that way! To think that a few paltry greenbacks should bring tears! A few minutes later he stood looking after the whirling taxi as it bore away Wittemore into the darkness of the evening street, his heart pounding with several new emotions. Witless Abner for one! What a surprise he had been! Would everybody you didn't fancy turn out that way if you once got hold of the key of their souls and opened the door? Then the little wrapped bottle he held in his hand reminded him that he must hasten if he would perform the mission left for him and return in time for supper. There was something in his soul that would not let him wait until after supper. So he plunged forward into the dusk and swung himself on board a down-town car. He had no small trouble in finding the street, or rather court, in which the old woman lived. He stumbled up the narrow staircase, lighting matches as he went, for the place was dark as midnight. By the time he had climbed four flights he was wondering what in thunder Wittemore came to places like this for? Just to major in sociology? Didn't the nut know that he would never make a success in a thing like that? What was he doing it for, anyway? Did he expect to teach it? Poor fellow, he would never get a job! His looks were against him. He knocked, with no result, at several doors for his old woman, but at last a feeble voice answered: "Come in," and he entered a room entirely dark. There didn't even appear to be a window, though he afterward discovered one opening into an air-shaft. He stood hesitating within the room, blinking and trying to see what was about him. "Be that you, Mr. Widymer?" asked a feeble voice from the opposite corner. "Wittemore couldn't come. He had a telegram that his mother is dying and he had to get the train. He sent me with the medicine." "Oh, now ain't that too bad!" said the voice. "His mother dyin'! An' to think he should remember me an' my medicine! Well, now, what d' ye think o' that?" "If you'll tell me where your gas is located I'll make a light for you," said Courtland, politely. "Gas!" The old lady laughed aloud. "You won't find no such thing as gas around this part o' town. There's about an inch of candle up on that shelf. The distric' nurse left it there. I was thinkin' mebbe I'd get Mr. Widymer to light it fer me when he come, an' then the night wouldn't seem so long. It's awful, when you're sufferin' to have the nights long." He groped till he found the shelf and lit the candle. By degrees the flickering light revealed to him a small bare room with no furniture except a bed, a chair, a small stove, and a table. A box in the corner apparently contained a few worn garments. Some dishes and provisions were huddled on the table. The walls and floor were bare. The district nurse had done her level best to clear up, perhaps, but there had been no attempt at good cheer. A desolate place indeed to spend a weary night of suffering, even with an inch of candle sending weird flickerings across the dusky ceiling. His impulse was to flee, but somehow he couldn't. "Here's this medicine," he said. "Where do you want me to put it?" The woman motioned with a bony hand toward the table. "There's a cup and spoon over there somewhere," she said, weakly. "If you could go get me a pitcher of water and set it here on a chair I could manage to take it durin' the night." He could see her better now, for the candle was flaring bravely. She was little and old. Her thin, white hair straggled pitifully about her small, wrinkled face, her eyes looked as if they had been burned almost out by suffering. He saw she was drawn and quivering with pain, even now as she tried to speak cheerfully. A something rebellious in him yielded to the nerve of the little old woman, and he put down his impatience. Sure he would get her the water! She explained that the hydrant was down on the street. He took the doubtful-looking pitcher and stumbled out upon those narrow, rickety stairs again. Way down to the street and back in that inky blackness! "Gosh! Thunder! The deuce!" (He didn't allow himself any stronger words these days.) Was this the kind of thing one was up against when one majored in sociology? "I be'n thinkin'," said the old lady, quaveringly, when he stumbled, blinking, back into the room again with the water, "ef you wouldn't mind jest stirrin' up the fire an' makin' me a sup o' tea it would be real heartenin'. I 'ain't et nothin' all day 'cause the pain was so bad, but I think it'll ease up when I git a dose of the medicine, and p'r'aps I might eat a bite." Courtland was appalled, but he went vigorously to work at that fire, although he had never laid eyes on anything so primitive as that stove in all his life. Presently, by using common sense, he had the thing going and a forlorn little kettle steaming away cheerfully. The old woman cautioned him against using too much tea. There must be at least three drawings left, and it would be a long time, perhaps, before she got any more. Yes, there was a little mite of sugar in a paper on the table. "There's some bread there, too—half a loaf 'most—but I guess it's pretty dry. You don't know how to make toast I 'spose," she added, wistfully. Courtland had never made toast in his life. He abominated it. She told him how to hold it up on a fork in front of the coals and he managed to do two very creditable slices. He had forgotten his own supper now. There was something quite fresh and original in the whole experience. It would have been interesting to have told the boys, if there weren't some features about it that were almost sacred. He wondered what the gang would say when he told them about Wittemore! Poor Wittemore! He wasn't as nutty as they had thought! He had good in his heart! Courtland poured the tea, but the sugar-paper had proved quite empty when he found it; likewise a plate that had once contained butter. The toast and tea, however, seemed to be quite acceptable without its usual accessories. "Now," he said, with a long breath, "is there anything else you'd like done before I go?—for I must be getting back to college." "If you just wouldn't mind makin' a prayer before you go," responded the little old woman, wistfully, her feeble chin trembling with her boldness. "I be'n wantin' a prayer this long while, but I don't seem to have good luck. The distric' nurse, she ain't the prayin' kind; an' Mr. Widymer he says he don't pray no more since he's come to college. He said it so kind of ashamed-like I didn't like to bother him again; and there ain't anybody else come my way for three months back. You seem so kind-spoken and pleasant-like as if you might be related to a preacher, and I thought mebbe you wouldn't mind just makin' a little short prayer 'fore you go. I dunno how long it'll be 'fore I'll get a chancet of one again." Courtland stood rooted to the floor in dismay. "Why,—I—" he began, growing red enough to be apparent even by the flickering inch of candle. Suddenly the room which had been so empty seemed to grow hushed and full of breathless spectators, and One, waiting to hear what he would say—whether he would respond to the call. Before his alarmed vision there came the memory of that wall of smoke which had shut him in, and that Voice calling him by name and saying, "You shall be shown." Was this what the Presence asked of him? Was this that mysterious "doing His will" that the Book spoke about, which should presently give the assurance? He saw the old woman's face glow with eagerness. It was as if the Presence waited through her eyes to see what he would do. Something leaped up in his heart in response and he took a step forward and dropped upon his knees beside the old wooden chair. "I'm afraid I shall make a worse bungle of it than I did of the toast," he said, as he saw her folding her hands with delight. She smiled with serene assurance, and he closed his eyes and wondered where were words to use in such a time as this. "Now I lay me" would not do for the poor creature who had been lying down many days and might never rise again; "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John" was more appropriate, but there was that uncertainty about it being a prayer at all. "Our Father"—Ah! He caught at the words and spoke them. "Our Father which art"—but what came next? That was where he had always had to be prompted, and now, in his confusion, all the rest had fled from his mind. But now it seemed that with the words the Presence had drawn near, was standing close by the chair. His mind leaped forth with the consciousness that he might talk with this invisible Presence, unfold his own perplexities and restlessness, and perhaps find out what it all meant. With scarcely a hesitation his clear voice went on eagerly now: "Our Father, which art in this room, show us how to find and know You." He could not remember afterward what else he said. Something about his own longing, and the old woman's pain and loneliness. He was not sure if it was really a prayer at all, that halting petition. He got up from his knees greatly embarrassed; but more by the Presence to whom he had dared to speak thus for the first time on his own account, than by the little old woman, whose hands were still clasped in reverence, and down whose withered cheeks the tears were coursing. The smoky walls, the cracked stove, the stack of discouraged dishes, seemed to fade away, and the room was somehow full of glory. He was choking with the oppression of it, and with a kind of sinking at heart lest the prayer had been only an outbreak of his own desire to know what this Force or Presence was that seemed dominating him so fully these days. The old woman was blessing him. She held out her hands like a patriarch: "Oh, that was such a beautiful prayer! I'll not forget the words all the night through and for many a night. The Lord Himself bless ye! Are you a preacher's son, perhaps?" He shook his head; but he had no smile upon his face at the thought, as he might have had five minutes before. "Well, then, yer surely goin' to be a preacher yerself?" "No," he said; then added, thoughtfully, "not that I know of." The suggestion struck him curiously as one who hears for the first time that there is a possibility that he may be selected for some important foreign embassy. "Well, then, yer surely a blessed child o' God Himself, anyhow, and this is a great night fer this poor little room to be honored with a pretty prayer like that!" Scarcely hearing her, he said good night and went thoughtfully down the dark stairs, a strange sense of peace upon him. Curiously enough, while he felt that he had left the Presence up in that little dismal room, it yet seemed to be moving beside him, touching his soul, breathing upon him! He was so engrossed with this thought that it never occurred to him that he had given the old woman every cent he had in his pocket. He had forgotten entirely that he had been hungry. A great world-wonder was moving within his spirit. He could not understand himself. He went back with awe over the last few minutes and the strange new world into which he had been so suddenly plunged. Scarcely noticing how he went, he got himself out of the intricacies of the court into a neighborhood a shade less poverty-stricken, and stood upon the corner of a busy thoroughfare in an utterly unfamiliar district, pausing to look about him and discover his whereabouts. A little child with long, fair hair rushed suddenly out of a door on the side-street, eagerly pulling a ragged sweater about his small shoulders, and stood upon the curbstone, breathlessly watching the coming trolley. The car stopped, and a young girl in shabby clothes got out and came toward him. "Bonnie! Bonnie! I've got supper all ready!" the child called in a clear, bird-like voice, and darted from the curb across the narrow side-street to meet her. Courtland, standing on the corner in front of the trolley, saw, too late, the swift-coming automobile bearing down upon the child, its head-lights flaring on the golden hair. With a cry the young man sprang to the rescue, but the child was already crumpled up like a lily and the relentless car speeding onward, its chauffeur darting frightened, cowardly glances behind him as he plunged his machine forward over the track, almost in the teeth of the up-trolley. When the trolley was passed there was no sign of the car, even if any one had had time to look for it. There in the road lay the little, broken child, the long hair spilling like gold over the pavement, the little, still, white face looking up like a flower that has suddenly been torn from the plant. The girl was beside the child almost instantly, dropping all her parcels; gathering him into her slender arms, calling in frightened, tender tones: "Aleck! Darling! My little darling!" The child was too heavy for her to lift, and she tottered as she tried to rise, lifting a frightened face to Courtland. "Let me take him," said the young man, stooping and gathering him gently from her. "Now show me where!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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