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WHAT GORMAN DID

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Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jan 29, 1901

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 78, No. 5.

Read the full edition

WHAT GORMAN DID

By Lephia M. Bryant

LEPHIA M. BRYANT (Aberdeen, Wash.)
Mrs. Gorman turned from her dainty, lace-draped, parlor window, and fell upon her knees beside little Roy’s crib. “O baby dear,” she moaned, “it is there, gilded and shining, fresh from the paint shop.”
Little Roy was only three years old, and could not understand why his mother wept, but he put up his hands sympathetically, and brushed the tears from her cheeks.
The old sign representing her husband’s business had been worn and weather-beaten, and many persons often passed it, not knowing that behind the doors over which it swung were sold the best wines and liquors to be had in Chippewa Falls. Those who passed, however, were few compared with those who stopped and left their dimes and dollars with Roy Gorman in exchange for — The old sign had been replaced by a larger, more gorgeous affair. A board, twelve feet long, with a wreath of forget-me-nots surrounding the proprietor’s name and portrait, now swung across the sidewalk, plainly visible for several blocks.
“May God help many to pass it,” sobbed Mrs. Gorman, hiding her face in her boy’s curls.
Two women were walking slowly by the modest cottage, admiring the fountain and the flowering shrubs that adorned the yard. Each led a child. One of the women tossed her head defiantly; the other paused at the gate. “No, Jane, I ain’t goin’ to stop,” said the first, with a sneer. “We shouldn’t be havin’ such hard times if it wasn’t for folks like them. I’ve got a little pride left; if Dan does give Gorman every cent he earns. I’d like to see him living on dry bread er nothin’, the same’s we do. I’ve hearn tell, though, that Mrs. Gorman was a lady, an’ a Christian lady at that!”
“She is, she is, an’ allus helps anybody in trouble,” answered Jane Rodgers. “The last time I washed for her, she told me how she wept and prayed ’cause her husband kept saloon.”
“I wonder if she thinks she’s the only woman who weeps and prays ’cause her husband keeps saloon!” answered Mary Flinn, sarcastically. “You needn’t tell me — She’s glad enough that he gits his money easy. I see he’s got his new sign up: ‘Roy Gorman, Best Wines and Liquors.’ Huh! I’d like to paint it black, with a skull and crossbones on it! Come along, Patsy, we ain’t goin’ to stop here — not much! — if you have to go without shoes till yer gray headed! I won’t ask charity of them that’s takin’ the bread out of yer mouth, and the clothes from yer back! Come along, we’ll go and see Mrs. Dr. Haymer!”
Jane Rodgers’ little boy opened the gate. “It ain’t Mrs. Gorman’s fault that her man sells liquor, no more’n it’s yours an’ mine that our men drink it,” said Jane, stepping inside. “Her man’s got an appetite for makin’ money easy, and our men’s got an appetite fer letting their money go easy — though they suffer enough after a spree; poor souls!”
“Her youngun’s jus’ had scarlet fever,” said Mary Flinn. “I wouldn’t no more think of takin’ my Patsy in there than I’d cut off my right hand. You ain’t got a bit of dignity left, Jane, not a bit, to come beggin’ fer old clothes here!”
“I didn’t come beggin’. Mrs. Gorman told me to come to-day and she’d have a few things for Nelly,” answered Jane.
“Well, I wouldn’t let ’em tread on me! It’s hard enough to be down without bein’ trod on;” and Mary Flinn stepped proudly down the street toward Dr. Haymer’s, while her sister, Jane Rodgers, walked up to the vine-shaded door.
The fragrant odor of lilacs filled the little parlor; and, wafted in through the open window, came also every word of the dialogue at the gate. Mrs. Gorman’s eyes rested an instant on the gilded sign across the street. “My good man! my noble husband!” she sobbed; “if he could only realize how good God has been to spare the life of our only child!” She clasped little Roy to her: “Papa is so good to us, baby, so good and true — and — yet how can he deal out so much misery to so many homes, to so many blameless little children? Mama loves papa, Roy dear, but never, never does she want her little boy to go over to papa’s store again.”
The baby laughed. “Roy likes to go store; mens give Roy lots of nickels and five-cents.”
Mrs. Rodgers rang the bell. Mrs. Gorman smiled, and greeted her warmly. “Yes, do come in!” she said, “I’ve been very lonely. I do not have much company ever; but since Roy has been sick, scarcely any one has called. Is this fat little fellow Mickey, whom Roy likes so much?”
Mrs. Gorman prepared a generous lunch, and then said, “I finished the dress and apron for Nelly yesterday, and will get them for you after we have a visit.” They talked awhile, and then, neither of them knew how it came about, they went upstairs to Mrs. Gorman’s room, and knelt and prayed for the saloon keeper and the drunkard, who were dearer to them than all the world.
Four years passed, during which Roy Gorman’s worldly goods increased. He built a new three-story building for his enormous stock, and sold to all the small dealers for miles around. He built a handsome dwelling in the most beautiful part of the city. His wife could no longer see the gilded enticement, yet she knew it was there, daily, hourly, telling poor weak humanity where it could purchase destruction for soul and body.
Mrs. Gorman rejoiced when Jane Rodgers told her that Alexander “had quit fer good,” and was prospering. “Now Mickey can have good clothes, and look as well as the best of ’em,” said the happy mother.
Mrs. Gorman’s kind heart grew kinder, and her liberal hand more liberal. She attended church with her little boy; and Roy Gorman was proud of his model wife and child. One thing, however, the father did not like, and that was Roy’s propensity to play with children like Rakey Coals and Patsy Flinn, and other ragged boys who lived on Trounce Alley.
One day Roy came home from school with a black eye. “How did it happen, my son?” asked Mr. Gorman.
“I don’t like to tell,” answered Roy, hanging his head.
“Was it your fault?” said Mr. Gorman.
“Guess so,” replied Roy. “I told Patsy Flinn he lied, and he lit into me.”
“Come, tell father just how it happened. I don’t want my little boy wearing a black eye, and I not know all about it.”
Roy looked his big papa over from head to foot, then, drawing confidence from the hand caressing his head, the little fellow answered: “Well, then, it was about you! Patsy said you made drunkards. I told him you didn’t; that you only made money. Every night when you come home, you know, you tell mama how much money you’ve made. Patsy says you make the money out of drunkards; that his father’s one, and his uncle, and his grandfather Winch, and almost every man on Trounce Alley. ’Tisn’t so! is it, papa? You don’t make drunkards! You don’t know what they are, do you? I’ll tell Patsy so again to-morrow — I don’t care if he blacks my other eye!” The little boy squared his shoulders as if to bid defiance to all the Patsys in the world who dared say one word against his beloved father. “He says he can prove what he says if I’ll let him. Mama, pass the cake, please.”
Mr. Gorman felt very small beside his little boy, who wore scars of battle for him, and he ate his dinner in silence.
Mrs. Gorman passed the dessert without a word. What would be the outcome of this she dared not think. Ah, if her prayers could but be answered!
Mr. Gorman finished his dinner, and took his hat. “Don’t let Roy play with those boys any more, Clara,” he said, in a constrained voice. He could scarcely breathe, something terrible seemed crushing out his life.
“I can not very well help it, husband,” replied Mrs. Gorman; “they all go to the public school. Dear husband, did you expect our boy to remain in ignorance of your business much longer? I’ve done just as you wished me to, and have kept unpleasant things from him. It has been very hard sometimes to give him a reason why he must not go to his father’s store.”
(Concluded next week.)