In the Arena by Booth Tarkington

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"Mel was engaged to Jane Grandis when Governor Bickner died. He had to
go and tell her to take somebody else--it was the only thing to do. He
couldn't give Jane anything but his poverty, and she wasn't used to
it. They say she offered to come to him anyway, but he wouldn't hear
of it, and no more would he let her wait for him; told her she mustn't
grow into an old maid, lonely, and still waitin' for the lightning to
strike him--that is, his luck to come; and actually advised her to
take 'Gene Callender, who'd be'n pressin' pretty close to Mel for her
before the engagement. The boy didn't talk to her this way with tears
in his eyes and mourning and groaning. No, sir! It was done
_cheerful_; and so much so that Jane never _was_ quite sure
afterwerds whether Mel wasn't kind of glad to git rid of her or
not. Fact is, they say she quit speakin' to him. Mel _knowed_; a
state of puzzlement or even a good _mad's_ a mighty sight better
than bein' all harrowed up and grief-stricken. And he never give
her--nor any one else--a chanst to be sorry for him. His maw was the
only one heard him walk the floor nights, and after he found, out she
could hear him he walked in his socks.

"Yes, sir! Meet that boy on the street, or go up in his office, you'd
think that he was the gayest feller in town. I tell you there wasn't
anything pathetic about Mel Bickner! He didn't believe in it. And at
home he had a funny story every evening of the world, about something
'd happened during the day; and 'd whistle to the guitar, or git his
maw into a game of cards with his aunt and the girls. Law! that boy
didn't believe in no house of mourning. He'd be up at four in the
morning, hoein' up their old garden; raised garden-truck for their
table, sparrow-grass and sweet corn--yes, and roses, too; always had
the house full of roses in June-time; never _was_ a house
sweeter-smellin' to go into.

"Mel was what I call a useful citizen. As I said, I knowed him well. I
don't recollect I ever heard him speak of himself, nor yet of his
father but once--for _that_, I reckon, he jest couldn't; and for
himself; I don't believe it ever occurred to him.

"And he was a _smart_ boy. Now, you take it, all in all, a boy
can't be as smart as Mel was, and work as hard as he did, and not
_git_ somewhere--in this State, anyway! And so, about the fifth
year, things took a sudden change for him; his father's enemies and
his own friends, both, had to jest about own they was beat. The crowd
that had been running the conventions and keepin' their own men in all
the offices, had got to be pretty unpopular, and they had the sense to
see that they'd have to branch out and connect up with some mighty
good men, jest to keep the party in power. Well, sir, Mel had got to
be about the most popular and respected man in the county. Then one
day I met him on the street; he was on his way to buy an overcoat, and
he was lookin' skimpier and more froze-up and genialer than ever. It
was March, and up to jest that time things had be'n hardest of all for
Mel. I walked around to the store with him, and he was mighty happy;
goin' to send his mother north in the summer, and the girls were goin'
to have a party, and Bob, his little brother, could go to the best
school in the country in the fall. Things had come his way at last,
and that very morning the crowd had called him in and told him they
were goin' to run him for county clerk.

"Well, sir, the next evening I heard Mel was sick. Seein' him only the
day before on the street, out and well, I didn't think anything of
it--thought prob'ly a cold or something like that; but in the morning
I heard the doctor said he was likely to die. Of course I couldn't
hardly believe it; thing like that never _does_ seem possible,
but they all said it was true, and there wasn't anybody on the street
that day that didn't look blue or talked about anything else. Nobody
seemed to know what was the matter with him exactly, and I reckon the
doctor did jest the wrong thing for it. Near as I can make out, it was
what they call appendicitis nowadays, and had come on him in the
night.

"Along in the afternoon I went out there to see if there was anything
I could do. You know what a house in that condition is like. Old Fes
Bainbridge, who was some sort of a relation, and me sat on the stairs
together outside Mel's room. We could hear his voice, clear and
strong and hearty as ever. He was out of pain; and he had to die with
the full flush of health and strength on him, and he knowed it. Not
_wantin'_ to go, through the waste and wear of a long sickness,
but with all the ties of life clinchin' him here, and success jest
comin.' We heard him speak of us, amongst others, old Fes and me;
wanted 'em to be sure not forget to tell me to remember to vote for
Fillmore if the ground-hog saw his shadow election year, which was an
old joke I always had with him. He was awful worried about his mother,
though he tried not to show it, and when the minister wanted to pray
fer him, we heard him say, 'No, sir, you pray fer my mamma!' That was
the only thing that was different from his usual way of speakin'; he
called his mother 'mamma, and he wouldn't let 'em pray for him
neither; not once; all the time he could spare for their prayin' was
put in for her.

"He called in old Fes to tell him all about his life insurance. He'd
carried a heavy load of it, and it was all paid up; and the sweat it
must have took to do it you'd hardly like to think about. He give
directions about everything as careful and painstaking as any day of
his life. He asked to speak to Fes alone a minute, and later I helped
Fes do what he told him. 'Cousin Fes,' he says, 'it's bad weather, but
I expect mother'll want all the flowers taken out to the cemetery and
you better let her have her way. But there wouldn't be any good of
their stayin' there; snowed on, like as not. I wish you'd wait till
after she's come away, and git a wagon and take 'em in to the
hospital. You can fix up the anchors and so forth so they won't look
like funeral flowers.'

"About an hour later his mother broke out with a scream, sobbin' and
cryin', and he tried to quiet her by tellin' over one of their
old-time family funny stories; it made her worse, so he quit. 'Oh,
Mel,' she says, 'you'll be with your father--'

"I don't know as Mel had much of a belief in a hereafter; certainly he
wasn't a great churchgoer. 'Well,' he says, mighty slow, but hearty
and smiling, too, 'if I see father, I--guess--I'll--be--pretty--
well--fixed!' Then he jest lay still, tryin' to quiet her and pettin'
her head. And so--that's the way he went."

Fiderson made one of his impatient little gestures, but Mr. Martin
drowned his first words with a loud fit of coughing.

"Well, sir," he observed, "I read that 'Leg-long' book down home; and
I heard two or three countries, and especially ourn, had gone middling
crazy over it; it seemed kind of funny that _we_ should, too, so I
thought I better come up and see it for myself, how it _was_, on the
stage, where you could _look_ at it; and--I expect they done it as
well as they could. But when that little boy, that'd always had his
board and clothes and education free, saw that he'd jest about talked
himself to death, and called for the press notices about his
christening to be read to him to soothe his last spasms--why, I wasn't
overly put in mind of Melville Bickner."

Mr. Martin's train left for Plattsville at two in the morning. Little
Fiderson and I escorted him to the station. As the old fellow waved us
good-bye from within the gates, Fiderson turned and said:

"Just the type of sodden-headed old pioneer that you couldn't hope to
make understand a beautiful thing like 'L'Aiglon' in a thousand
years. I thought it better not to try, didn't you?"

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