CHAPTER XXII.
THE DOCTOR’S STORY.
The doctor was surprised, and a cloud came to his face as his eyes fell on Leon Bentley.
“Hello!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in here, Don?”
“Why—why,” stammered the boy questioned, “Leon happened over, and we were just talking about the game, you know.”
“Yes,” hastily put in the uneasy visitor, “I was just telling him about it.”
“Telling him about it?” repeated the doctor, while Don’s heart seemed to jump into his throat and throb there. “Why, wasn’t he—I don’t understand.”
“Leon means we were talking over the plays and trying to figure out just why we lost the game to-day, father,” put in Don, with a warning glance at Bentley.
“Oh, then you lost the game, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s too bad; but you might have discussed it elsewhere than in my private office. Was it necessary to bring your caller in here, my son?”
“No, but he—he just dropped in for a minute. I was writing a letter here, and——”
“Very well,” said the doctor; “but you know I do not wish you to take visitors into my private office. I have told you so before.”
The manner in which his father spoke these words brought a hot flush to Don’s cheeks, but he bit his lip and kept silent. Bentley sidled toward the door, saying:
“I guess I’ll be going.”
Don followed him to the front door and let him out. Outside, Leon paused and snickered, observing:
“You’ll catch it! The old duffer’s hot under the collar, and he’ll give you a raking down.”
“I’ll thank you not to call my father an old duffer!” flashed Don, in a fierce whisper. “I had no business to take you in there, anyway.”
“I don’t see that it did any harm, but I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a quarter.” Then Bentley scudded away and Don closed the door.
The boy was about to go upstairs when his father called for him to come into the office, and he did so with reluctance; for, although he knew the doctor would speak with calmness and deliberation, he dreaded none the less what might be said to him.
“Sit down, my son,” said the doctor, who had taken off his overcoat and was seated before his desk. “Are you on very friendly terms with that Bentley boy?”
“Well—not very,” hesitated Don, feeling his face burning, while he failed to meet the calm, steady eyes that were regarding him intently.
“Not very friendly, still you invited him into the house. My son, I do not like that boy. I believe he is a bad boy. He dresses extravagantly, though in poor taste, for all that his parents are poor. Yet he never does any work to earn money with which to get his clothes, rings, pins and trinkets. He wears his hat tipped far over one ear, loafs around the corners, smokes cigarettes and talks slang. Not only that, but he uses low and profane language. He has a treacherous face and shifty eyes. Now, Don, I think such a boy is a very good person for you to avoid, don’t you?”
Don did not know what to say, and so he remained silent, whereupon his father spoke again:
“I want to speak to you of this matter at this time, my son, because I believe it may in a great measure concern your future welfare. I wish to impress upon you the importance of shunning evil companions, and, at the same time, I will warn you again to guard your temper. I am not going to preach a sermon, but I have decided to tell you a story. I shall make it brief as possible, for it is a painful matter, of which I do not like to think or talk.”
For a single moment the doctor lifted his hand to his bosom, where, within an inner pocket, close to his heart, rested the gold-bound miniature of Don’s mother. The boy knew his father had chosen this time to unbosom himself in regard to an affair that doubtless had cast a shadow over his life.
Despite his curiosity to know the truth of that affair, Don was ill at ease and would have given much to escape for the time the revelation. However, it was necessary for him to sit still and listen, and, with as good grace as possible, he composed himself to do so.
“You, Don,” pursued Dr. Scott, lightly stroking his well-trimmed iron-gray whiskers, “have the same thoughtless, impetuous, passionate disposition that was mine in my youthful days. It did not seem possible for me to control my temper, which led me into doing many things that I afterward regretted; but little did I dream that, in a sudden outburst of anger, I was destined to commit an act that would cause me long years of unspeakable regret and sorrow.
“Your mother was a gentle woman, with a mild and loving disposition, and I have often wondered if she would have married me had she understood how thoroughly unreasonable I could be when I gave way to my uncontrollable temper. But I loved her, Don, and I tried to make her happy. I believe I did during the first years of our married life. It was only by one rash act of mine that I brought sorrow to us both.
“She had a brother who was much younger than herself; in fact, a mere boy when we were married. His name was Charlie, and he was a bright, happy, jovial youngster, full of life and good nature. Shortly after I married your mother, her father died, leaving Charlie an orphan and almost homeless, his mother, your grandmother, having been dead some years. He might have found a home with relatives in California, but I offered him a home with me, for I had taken a strong fancy to the lad. Of course this greatly pleased your mother, who set about the task of bringing Charlie up in the proper manner.
“At that time I was a young physician, practicing my profession in a small town in another State. I sent Charlie to school, and, as he seemed unusually bright in his studies, I resolved to give him the very best education possible. This matter I talked over with your mother, and we decided that he should be advanced as rapidly as possible without injury to himself and should finally be sent to one of the leading colleges of the country.
“Your mother became deeply absorbed in this project, for she loved her brother with all the depth of her tender nature, and she was ambitious for his success in the world as a man of brains and education. Unfortunately, there was in that town, small though it was, a fast set of boys a little older than Charlie. They smoked and drank and gambled, and they were proud to be known as the ‘sporty set.’ Charlie began to associate with them, and I found it out. I was angry, and I talked to him harshly. I know now that I did not in the right manner go about showing him the error of his ways. I angered him, and, as a result, instead of trusting me, he began to deceive me, associating without my knowledge with the same set of bad boys. It did not seem to him that it was very bad to smoke a little, to swear occasionally, to take a drink now and then, or to play a game of penny poker, with a ten-cent limit. He was only sixteen years old when he began to do these things.
“I said nothing to your mother about it, for I knew it would worry and distress her, and, for some time, I fancied my talk to him had been productive of good results. But I was wrong, for I finally learned that he still associated with his bad companions, which made me more angry than before. I did not tell his sister, but I threatened to turn him out of doors. To my astonishment, he was defiant and told me to go ahead and turn him out. It was with difficulty that I kept my hands off him then, but I did so.
“After that he did not take so much pains to hide from me the fact that he still preferred for companions the fast set of the little village. He neglected his studies and would not attend school regularly. One day I missed some money, and, in a towering rage, I accused Charlie of taking it. Then, becoming angry, he called me a bad name, whereupon I drove him from the house.
“This scene was witnessed by your mother, Don, who could not believe me when I told her the truth regarding her brother. She was certain that I must be mistaken, and she set about searching for the lost money. She found it where I had dropped it at the bath-room door, and then, of course, she was doubly certain that I was mistaken in regard to the other charges I had made against Charlie.
“By that time I was ashamed and sorry, and I was willing to try to rectify my mistake. I was also willing for her to continue to think her brother too good to choose evil associates who smoked, swore, drank and gambled. So I went to Charlie, told him I had found the money, and asked him to forget. It was a difficult thing for me to do, but I did it for love of your mother, my son.
“From that time on, however, Charlie disliked me more than ever. He did not reform, and his gambling assumed a more serious nature. The time came when he was in desperate straits for money. At this time he was seventeen, being large for his years. Coming home unexpectedly one day, I found him in my private office, with the safe door open. He was stooping before the safe when I entered, but he sprang up and wheeled about, and in his hand was some money he had taken from the safe.”
As the doctor paused, the listening boy noticed a quiver of the hand he again lifted to stroke his beard. The expression on his fine face was one of mingled pain and sorrow.
“I scarcely know what followed,” he resumed. “Of course I had caught him in the act, and I called him a thief. He said I had called him that before, and he was bound not to have the name without the game. Then I sprang upon him in a perfect tempest of fury. As I said, he was large and strong for his years, and he gave me a severe tussle for a few moments, but I succeeded in getting him by the throat and throwing him. As he fell his head struck against a sharp corner of the safe. When he struck the floor, he lay there still and limp, the color going out of his face. There was a shriek behind me, and I turned to see your mother in the door, brought to the spot by the sounds of our struggle. She sprang over and lifted the head of her brother, staining her hands and her dress with his blood, for the corner of the safe had cut a gash in the back of his head. I can never forget the terrible look she gave me. ‘You have murdered Charlie!’ she hoarsely cried, and then she swooned.”
Again the man stopped, deeply affected by the tragic picture painted for him by memory as he told of this fateful encounter which had brought upon him the sorrow of his life. For some moments he turned about in his office chair and stared at the window, as if trying to gaze out into the darkness, lifting to his face one hidden hand, while the other shook as it reached out to rest upon his desk.
Don’s sympathies were stirred most profoundly, for he saw how much pain it was costing his father to relate to him this story of which he had never spoken. Unable to keep still, the boy impulsively cried:
“Don’t tell me any more, father! That is enough.”
Dr. Scott turned back from the window.
“There is not much more to tell,” he said, “so I will complete the story now. I called assistance and sent for medical aid. Your mother was taken to her room, where she lay unconscious so long that I feared she might never recover. When at last she again came to herself, she lay like one dazed until I entered the room, when she shrieked, covered her face and would not look at me. In her condition, it was necessary for me to leave her before she would become quiet. That night, my son, you came into the world.”
“But Charlie,” palpitated Don, “was he—dead?”
“No; but he was seriously injured—how seriously could not be told at the time. He slowly recovered his physical strength, but the blow from the sharp point of the safe had clouded his mind and he was insane—violently so at times. It was necessary that he should be confined, for he was dangerous when violent, so he was placed in a private asylum.
“Oh, my son! you can never know how much I regretted my outbreak of anger that had caused me to attack him and bring this about! That is, you can never know unless some rash act of your own shall bring an equal sorrow upon you. I had everything possible done to make poor Charlie comfortable.”
“But he was to blame—he was to blame for it all!” panted the listening lad.
“I have tried to think so,” confessed the doctor, “but in my sober moments of reason I found it impossible. Bad company led him into bad ways, it is true; but I was not patient with him, and I did not talk to him in the right spirit when I discovered that he was associating with bad boys. I permitted my anger to govern me, and thus, instead of influencing him to do better, I aroused in him anger and resentment against me. When I did that, my power over him was gone, and I never recovered it. It is thus, I believe, that in many cases parents lose influence and power over their children. They give themselves over to anger in attempting to reprimand their sons or daughters for wrong-doing, and their unrestrained temper produces resentment and anger, instead of regret and resolution to do better, in the ones whom they reprimand. My son, guard your temper and keep it in subjection, for to one of your fiery and unreasoning disposition it is your worst enemy.”
“Mother,” murmured Don, “did—did she——”
“She recovered for the time, but the shock had shattered her health, and she was never herself again. Even the sight of her aroused Charlie, so that the manager of the asylum ceased, after a time, to permit her to visit him. At sight of me he had convulsions. My practice was ruined, and it became necessary for me to seek another field. Then, my son, we came here, where we have remained ever since. Your mother grew weaker and weaker day by day. I doctored her as best I could, seeking the advice and assistance of the most skilled physicians obtainable; but it was useless, for her ailment was not of the body, but of the mind. She forgave me everything, but I lost her, Don, and I can never forgive myself.”
Again the doctor turned his sad, handsome face away, and father and son sat in silence, the only sound being the steady, solemn ticking of the old-fashioned clock that stood outside in the hall. After some minutes, the boy ventured to ask:
“Is Charlie still crazy?”
“No,” answered the doctor; “it was less than a year after the death of your mother that a certain great surgeon operated upon him and restored him to reason. Oh, how much would I have given had Mary lived till that day!”
“Where is he now?”
“In California, whither he went immediately on regaining his reason and liberty. I offered him a home as long as he wished to remain with me, but he chose to go to California.
“This is all the story, my son, and, having completed it, I am not going to moralize. Think it over. I hope it may serve to open your eyes to the perils of keeping bad company, and I pray that it may teach you to guard your temper.”
The doctor arose and held out his hand, as one man offers his hand to another, upon which Don sprang forward impulsively, clasping it with both of his own. The boy longed to express his sympathy in words, but something choked him, and he gazed through a misty cloud at the sadly handsome face of his father, while the pressure of their hands alone spoke more directly to their hearts than aught words could have expressed.
“Good-night, Don, my boy!”
“Good-night, father—good-night!”
Don turned from the room and ascended the stairs, while his father, left alone, drew from that pocket near his heart the gold-bound miniature, which, with a smothered sob, he lifted to his lips.