XVI. CALLED TO GO UP HIGHER
As for Theodore--when the bishop's carriage had driven away he wenthome in a state of joyous expectation. He thought how he would go, onthe morrow, to the bishop's house, and of the long talk they two wouldhave together, when he would tell his friend all that he had so oftenlonged to tell him. He knew well how interested the bishop would be inall that he--Theodore--was trying to do for the Great Captain, and helonged to talk over his work and his plans with one so wise and soexperienced.
On his way home he stopped and bought some linen collars and cuffs anda neat necktie.
"'Cause I want to look as well's I can when he sees me," he said tohimself.
All that evening he thought of that visit which he would make the nextday. He realty _could_ not wait any longer, but he found it hardto decide what would be the best hour for him to go. He knew that thebishop was very often away in the evening, or if at home he was almostsure to have guests with him. In the afternoon, too, he seldom had aleisure moment. Indeed he never had any leisure moments, but Theodoredecided at last that the best time to see him would be between twelveand one o'clock.
All night, in his dreams, he saw himself making his way to the houseand once he awoke in great distress, imagining that Brown had sternlyrefused him admittance.
He could not work that next morning, but he wanted somebody else toshare his happiness, and so to all the sick and shut-in ones in thetwo houses, he carried some little gift. It was his thank-offering,though he did not know it. Small gifts they were, all--a flower toone, a newspaper to another, some oranges to a sick woman, an extraloaf to a hard-working mother--little things all, but given in thename of the Great Captain though His Name was not once mentioned.
So, many kindly thoughts followed the boy when, at noon, he went oncemore through the streets toward the bishop's house.
Theodore's face had little of beauty, but the glance of his grey eyeswas honest and true. He was able now to possess two suits and he worehis best one with the clean linen and the new tie. Many a mother mighthave been proud that day to call this boy of the streets, her son.
The remembrance of his dreams sent a shiver over Theodore as he rangthe bell at the bishop's door, but Brown did not refuse himadmittance. On the contrary he smiled faintly and held open the dooras he said, in a low tone, "Come to Mrs. Martin's room," and onceagain Theodore followed him across the wide hall.
Mrs. Martin gave him a cordial welcome, but a great dread fell uponthe boy as he noted her red eyes and subdued manner, and when shesaid,
"He talked about you last evening, Theodore, and told us what you didfor him. You've come to ask how he is, haven't you?" the boy's heartsank and he dropped into the nearest chair with his eyes fixedentreatingly on the housekeeper's face. His throat felt dry and stiff,and he dared not trust himself to speak. Mrs. Martin too, sat down andwiped her eyes as she went on,
"He ought not to have gone out to speak to those strikersyesterday. He wasn't well enough, and I told the gentlemen so whenthey came for him, but as soon as he heard what they wanted he said hewould go. He came home all tired out, and he was taken sick in thenight."
Theodore tried in vain to frame a question with his tremblinglips. The housekeeper guessed what he would have asked and answered asif he had spoken.
"It's some heart trouble and the doctors say he cannot live."
At these words, Theodore's head went down on the table and he sat asif stunned. His trouble seemed to him too great even for belief. Eightmonths before it had seemed terrible to him to know that the width ofthe continent separated him from his friend. Now, what a joy it wouldhave been to him to know that the bishop was alive and well inCalifornia.
At last he lifted his head and asked in a low voice,
"How long?"
Mrs. Martin understood. She answered, sadly, "A few days--possiblyonly a few hours. He lies as if he were asleep, but it is not sleep. Ithink," she added, with a glance at the boy's heart-broken face, "Ithink you can see him for a moment if you would like to."
Theodore nodded and the housekeeper added, "Come then," and led theway to an upper room.
The boy followed with such an aching heart as he had never imaginedthat a boy could have.
The sick room was darkened and a nurse sat by the bedside. Theodorestood for a moment looking down on the face so dear to him, and sochanged even in the few hours since last he saw it. He longed to presshis lips to the hand that lay outstretched on the white coverlet, buthe did not dare, and after a moment he turned and left the room insilence.
Mrs. Martin followed him down the stairs. At the door he stopped andlooked at her, tried to speak but could not, and so went away withouta word. He knew that never again should he see his friend alive, andhe did not. Before the next night, the bishop had been called to go uphigher.
When the announcement of his death appeared in the papers there was arequest that no flowers be sent. Theodore did not notice this item,and so on the day of the funeral he carried to the house some of theroses that he knew the bishop had loved most, and Mrs. Martin herselfplaced them in the cold hand that a few days before, had been laidupon Theodore's head. All the gold of the earth, had it been offeredto the boy, could not have purchased from him the sweet memory of thatlast look and touch.
On the day of the funeral, the church where the service was held wascrowded, and the streets without were filled with a throng as vast asthat to which so short a time before, the bishop had spoken, but whata difference was there in look and manner between the two greatgatherings! Here, every face was softened, every heart tender withgrief. They called him "our bishop," and they felt that they had lostone who loved them--one who was indeed their friend.
But not one, whether within or without the church, not one grievedmore deeply for the grand, beautiful life so suddenly cut off than didthe lad who stood without and listened to the solemn tones of thegreat organ, and watched with eyes dim with tears as the black-drapedcoffin was borne out to its burial. The boy stood there until the lastof the long line of carriages had passed him; then he stepped forwardand, alone and on foot, he followed to the cemetery.
When all was over, he went sorrowfully homeward, feeling as if therewas a great blank in his life--a blank that could never be filled;that the world could never again seem bright to him; but that eveningMr. Scott came, and his affectionate sympathy comforted the boy's soreheart. His teacher made him feel that now, more than ever, he must be"the bishop's shadow." To Theodore, his small ministries to theforlorn and suffering ones about him, seemed, indeed, as nothing whenhe recalled the wide-reaching labours of the bishop, but as the dayswent on these small ministries grew to be the joy of his life.
Mr. Scott, watching him closely, saw how week by week he became moreunselfish and thoughtful for others; more eager to help any who neededhis help. It was a grief to the boy that one whom he most longed tohelp seemed for a time beyond his reach, and this was Carrots.
Four of the ringleaders in the riotous proceedings of the strike hadbeen arrested, tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary.Of this number were Tom Steel, and Carrots, whose red banner had morethan once caught the eye of the police.
Jimmy Hunt openly rejoiced, feeling that Carrots had got his desertsat last, but Theodore was troubled and disheartened over thematter. He went to see the boy in prison, and found him as gruff andsurly as ever, yet he was sure that, when he came away, the eyes ofCarrots followed him wistfully. He did not go again to the prison but,though he was no more fond of letter-writing than are most boys offourteen, yet, during those two years of Carrots' imprisonment, nevera month passed in which he did not receive a long, cheery letter fromTheodore. He never replied to any of these letters, but as Theodoreexpected no replies, that made no difference.