CHAPTER XXVIII
ANOTHER STORY
THE first Sunday in September was a day that Johnnie was never toforget. Big Tom, Grandpa, Cis, and he--all were gathered about thekitchen table for the noon meal when Father Pat and One-Eye came in, theFather without his usual cheery greeting, though there was nothingdowncast in his look or manner. On the contrary, something of pride wasin his step, slow as that step was, and also in his glance, whichinstantly sought out Johnnie. The face of the cowboy, however, wasstern, and that single eye, greener than either--or both--of theFather's, was iron-hard and coldly averted.
As the hall door shut at their backs, the priest raised his right handin a gesture which was partly a salutation, partly a blessing. "Barber,"he began solemnly (the longshoreman, having given the visitors a swiftand surly look, had gone on busily with his eating), "we've come thismornin' about the Blake matter."
Startled, Big Tom threw down his knife and rose, instantly on thedefensive; and Johnnie and Cis, watching, understood at once that "theBlake matter" was one known to the longshoreman, not welcomed by him,though most important. "Oh, y' seen that guy, Davis, eh?" he demanded.
"Not one hour ago," answered the priest, quietly.
"Tuh!"--it was an angry sneer. "And I s'pose he whined 'bout me takin'the kid?--though he could do nothin' for Johnnie. Sophie was dead, andthe kid was too little t' be left alone."
"Ye took the lad the day Albert Davis was half crazed over his wife,"charged the Father; "--hurried him off without a word or a line! A badtrick altogether! Oh, Davis guessed ye had the boy--the wee Johnnie heloved like a father. But he had small time t' hunt, what with his work.And at last he had t' give up."
All that told Johnnie a great deal. He shot a look at Cis. Barber hadtaunted him often with his Uncle Albert's indifference--with the factthat not even a post card had ever come from the rich man's garage tothe lonely little boy in the area building. But how _could_ Uncle Albertsend a post card to some one if he did not know that some one's address?
Barber kicked the morris chair out of his way. "That's the thanks I gitfor supportin' a youngster who ain't no kin t' me!" he stormed.
Father Pat drew himself up. The red stubble on his bare head seemedstiff with righteous wrath. "Then I'll ask ye why ye kidnapped the lad?"he cried. "No kin t' ye, eh? And ye knew it, didn't ye? Then! So whydidn't ye leave the boy with Davis?--Because ye wanted his work!"
"Work!" repeated Barber, and broke into a shrill laugh. "Why, he wasn'tworth his feed! I took him jus' t' be decent!"
"Barber," returned the Father, firmly, "the tellin' o' a lie againstannybody is always a bad thing. But there's another kind o' lie that'seven worse, and that's lying t' _yerself_--that ye was thinkin' o' _his_good when ye rushed him away, and not o' yer own pocket!" Then, noddingwisely as he took the chair Big Tom booted aside, "_If_ ye wanted t' beso decent, why didn't ye take the lad when his father and mother died?Ha-a-a! He was too tiny t' be useful then, wasn't he? So ye let SophieDavis bring him up; ye let his uncle support him."
"Oh, all right," rejoined the longshoreman, resentfully. "I guess wheny've made up your mind about a man, there ain't no use talkin' t' y', isthere?"
"No use, Mr. Barber," answered the other. "And this very mornin', whileI've still got the breath and the strength t' do it, I mean t' tell thelad the truth!"
"I been intendin' t' tell him myself," asserted Barber. "But up t' now,it wasn't no story t' be tellin' a little kid--leastways, not a kidthat's got a loony way o' seein' things, and worryin' over 'em. And Iwarn y'! Y're likely as not t' make him sick!"
The priest chuckled. "Y' ought t' know about that," he agreed. "Seein'that ye've made him sick yerself, often enough."
At that, with a backward tip of his head, so that the wide hat fell off,and with the strangest, rasping, strangling sound in his skinny throat(his great, hairy Adam's-apple leaping, now high, now low), One-Eyebegan to laugh, at the same time beginning a series of arm-wavings,slapping first one thigh and then the other. "Har! har! har!" heejaculated hoarsely.
With a muttered curse, Big Tom walked to the door. "Go ahead!" he cried."But _I_ don't set 'round and listen t' the stuff!" Black, fuming, heslammed his way out.
One-Eye pointed out the kitchen chair to Cis; and when she was seated,got the wood box and set it on its side. "Come and roost along with me,"he bade Johnnie, the single eye under the wet-combed, tawny bang smilingalmost tenderly at the boy.
When they were all comfortably settled, "Our good friend here got mosto' the information," informed Father Pat. "So, One-Eye, wouldn't ye liket'----"
"Oh, not me! Not me!" the Westerner answered quickly. "I ain't no handfor tellin' nothin'! No, Father! Please! I pass!"
"Johnnie," began the priest, "it's likely ye've guessed, after hearin'all I said t' Mr. Barber, that ye was (what I'll be bold enough t' call)stolen from yer Uncle, who wasn't ever able t' locate ye again."
"Yes, sir,"--with a pleased smile. His Uncle Albert was not more than anhour away. That was the best of news!
"And ye noted me use the name o' Blake," continued the other. "Well, ithappens t' be yer own name."
"Blake!" Cis was amazed.
"Y' mean--y' mean my name ain't Smith," faltered Johnnie, who had, for amoment, been too stunned by the news to speak.
"Smith was the first name Mr. Barber could think up," explained FatherPat, "when he made up his mind t' take ye, Mr. Davis bein' gone t' thehospital."
One-Eye burst out. "Never liked the name!" he declared. "Knowed a felleroncet--Jim Smith--a snake! a bald-haided buzzard! a pole-cat!"
Johnnie was staring at the floor. "John Blake!" he said under hisbreath. "O' course! Me! 'Cause it sounds all right, some way, and Smith_never_ did!--Not John Smith, but John Blake!"
"Johnnie," went on the Father, "I told the dear two o' ye the story o'Edith Cavell. And ye thought that story grand, which it is. But t'dayI'm tellin' ye another--one which, in its way, is equally grand. Butthis time the story's about a man--a wonderful man, gallant and brave,that ye'll love from this hour on."
"Please, what does he look like?" asked Johnnie, wanting a definitepicture in his mind.
"A proper question!--And, see! The old gentleman's asleep again! Good!Wheel him a mite away, would ye mind, Miss Narcissa? He'll dream a bitbetter if he isn't under me voice. Thanks!--Well, then, first o' all,I'll have ye take note o' this man's general appearance, like. He wasyoung, as men go, bein' only thirty-one; though"--with a laugh and ashake of the head--"ye think him fairly old, don't ye? Ha! But theday'll come when thirty-one'll seem t' ye like a baby right out o' thecradle! Yes, indeed!--But t' go back t' the man: thirty-one he was----"
"Was?" inquired Johnnie. "Is he dead? Or--or maybe now he's thirty-two?"
"He'll be thirty-one," said Father Pat, "to the very end o' time. For heis dead, lad dear, though God knows I wish I could tell ye otherwise,but we'll not be questionin' His mercy nor His judgment. And when all issaid and done, his brave death is somethin' t' give thanks for, as ye'lladmit fast enough when ye've heard.--Well, thirty-one, he was, and aboutme own height. But not me weight. No, he was a lighter-weighing man. Hehad sandyish hair, this gentleman, and a smooth face. His eyes weregray-and-blue. And from what I hear about him, he smiled a good deal,and was friendly t' ev'rybody, with a nice word and cheery how-dy-do.His skin was high-colored like, and his chin was solid and square, andhe had a fine straight nose, and--but have ye got it all?"
"Yes, sir!" Johnnie scarcely remembered that any one else was with them."Slim, and light-haired (like me), and no whiskers, and kind of grayeyes, and all his face nice. But I can't see it _'xac'ly_ as I'd liket', 'cause maybe what I see and what he looked like ain't just thesame."
"In that case," replied the Father, "it's a good thing, I'm thinkin',that I brought along a photograph!"
There it was in his hand. He held it (small and round, it was) cupped bya big palm; and Johnnie, leaning forward, studied the picturedcountenance carefully. "That's right," went on the priest;
"look at itclose--close!"
"I--I like him," Johnnie said, after a little. "And I'm awful sorry he'sdead.--But please go on, Father Pat. I want t' hear 'bout him. Though ifthe story's very sad, why, I'm 'fraid that Cis'll cry."
"I won't," promised Cis. "But--but if the story tells how he died, Idon't think I'll look at the picture--not just yet, anyhow."
The priest laid the photograph, face down, upon the table. "It isn'tthat Miss Narcissa'll cry," he argued; "but, oh, what'll we say t' thisyoung lady when she sees _us_ weep?--for, little lad dear, this is atale--" He broke off, then and there, as if about to break down on thespot. But coughed, and changed feet, thus getting control of himselfonce more, so that he was able to go on.
"This young man I'm tellin' about lived in Buffalo," continued theFather. "Now that city is close t' the noble Falls that ye're so fond o'visitin' with Grandpa. Well, one day in the Spring----"
"Scuse me! Last spring?" Johnnie interrupted.
"Eight long springs ago," answered the Father. "Which would make yeabout two years o' age at the time, if me arithmetic is workin' fairlywell t'day."
"Two is right," declared Johnnie, with the certainty of one who hascommitted to memory, page by page, the whole of a book on numbers.
"But as ye were all o' four years old at the time," corrected thepriest, "eight springs ago would make ye twelve years old at thisdate----"
"_Twelve?_"
"Ha-ha-a-a-! Boy scout age!" reminded the Father.
At that, Johnnie, quite overcome by the news, tumbled sidewise uponOne-Eye's hairy knees, and the cowboy mauled the yellow headaffectionately. When the Westerner set Johnnie up again, "So ye see Mr.Barber shoved yer age back a bit when ye first came here," explained thepriest. "And as ye was shut in so much, and that made ye small for yeryears, why, he planned t' keep ye workin' for him just that much longer.Also, it helped him in holdin' ye out o' school."
One-Eye's mustache was standing high under the brown triangle of hisnose. The single eye was burning. "Oh, jes' fer a good _ex_-cuse!" hecried. "Fer a chanst! Fer a' openin'! And--it'll come! It'll come! Iain't goin' t' leave Noo York, neither, till I've had it!"
If Cis caught the main drift of all this, Johnnie did not. "I'd like t'be able t' send word t' Mister Perkins!" he declared. "Oh, wouldn't hebe tickled, though!--Cis, I can be a scout--this minute!" Thenapologetically, "But I won't int'rrupt y' again, Father Pat. I knowbetter, only t' hear what you said was so awful fine!"
"Ye're excused, scout dear," declared the priest. "Shure, it's me that'sglad I can bring a bit o' good news along with the sad--which is the waylife goes, bein' more or less like bacon, the lean betwixt the fat. Andnow I'll go on with the story o' the young man and his wife, and----"
"There's a lady in the story?" asked Cis.
"A dear lady," answered the Father. "Young and slim, she was--scarcemore than a girl. With brown hair, I'm told, though I'm afraid I can'tfurnish ye much more o' a description, and I'm sad t' say I've got nophotograph."
"Guess I won't be able t' see her face the way I do his," said Johnnie.
"She must've been very sweet-lookin' in the face," declared Father Pat."And bein' as good as she was good-lookin', 'tis not hard t' understandwhy he loved her the way he did. And that he did love her, far aboveannything else in the world, ye'll understand when ye've heard it all.So think o' her as beautiful, lad dear, and as leanin' on him always,and believin' in what he said, and trustin'. Also, she loved him in thesame way that he loved her, and we'll let that comfort us hereafterwhenever we talk about them--the strong, clean, fine, young husband, andthe bit o' a wife.
"Well, it was Spring, and they, havin' been kept in all winter, had amind one day t' visit the Falls. That same day was lovely, they tell me,sunny and crisp. And she wore a long, brown coat over her neat dress,and a scarf of silk veilin' about her throat. And he wore his overcoat,there bein' some snap in the air.
"Quite a lot o' folks was goin' out upon the ice below the Falls, forthe thawin' and the breakin' up was not goin' forward too much--theythought--and a grand view was t' be had o' the monster frozen floor, andthe icicles high as a house. So this gentleman and his wife----"
"My father and mother!" cried Johnnie. "Oh, Father Pat, y're goin' t'tell me how they both got drownded!"
"Now! now! now!" comforted One-Eye, with a pat or two on a shoulder. "Y'want t' know, don't y'? Aw, sonny, it'll make y' proud!"
Johnnie could only nod. The Father went on: "They went out upon the icewith all the others, and stood gazin' up at the beautiful sight, andtalkin', I'll venture t' say, about how wonderful it was, and sayin'that some day they'd bring the boy t' see it."
"Me,"--and Johnnie drew closer to One-Eye.
"Only a bit o' a baby, ye was, lad dear, safe at home with yer AuntSophie, but big enough t' be put into ev'ry one o' their dreams andplans. --So when they'd looked long, and with pleasure, at the fairywork o' the frozen water, they turned and watched downstream. There wasa vast floor o' ice in that direction, all covered still with snow. Atthe far edge o' the floor showed open water, flowin' in terriblewildness, so that no boat ever rides safely in it, nor can anny man swimthrough it and live.
"The rapids lay below there, but these were a long way off from thesightseers at the Falls. They could see the tumblin', perhaps, and maybehear the roar. But what was under their feet was firm as the ground, andthey felt no fear."
"But--but was it safe?" Johnnie faltered. "Oh, Father Pat, I'm 'fraid itwasn't!"
"Where they stood, it was," declared the Father. "But all at once, asmart puff o' wind caught that pretty wisp o' veilin' from the youngwife, and wafted it away. And as quick as the wind itself after it shedarted; but when she was close to it, up and off it whirled again, andshe followed it, and he after her, and--shouts o' warnin' from all!"
Johnnie took his underlip in his teeth. By that power of his to callbefore him vividly the people and places and things he heard, or read,about, and to see everything as if it were before him, now he was seeingthe snow-covered flooring of the river, the hastening figure headedtoward danger, and the frightened one who pursued, while the sun shone,and voices called, and the river roared below.
"There was good reason t' shout," continued the priest. "For by a bitterchance the ice had cracked clear across 'twixt where the two werehastenin' and where they had stood before."
Now Johnnie suddenly grew white, and his lip quivered out from its hold."But they must go back, Father Pat!" he cried, his breast heaving. "Oh,they must go back!"
"They can't," answered the Father, speaking very low. "Oh, dear lad,they're cut off from the shore. There's a big rift in the ice now, andit's growin' each moment bigger, and they're on the wrong side o' it,and--floatin' down river."
One-Eye slipped an arm about Johnnie, drawing the bright head to ashoulder. "Are y' all right, sonny?" he asked huskily. "Can y' hear therest? Or----"
"Yes,"--but it was scarcely a whisper, and the flaxen lashes wereshuttering the gray eyes tight. "I--I ought t' be able t' stand justhearin' it, if--if _they_ could stand the really thing."
"I don't want t' break the wee heart o' ye," protested the Father,tenderly. "And so maybe we'll wait?"
"No, sir." Johnnie opened his eyes. "I'm goin' t' feel b-bad. But pleasedon't mind me. I'm thinkin' of Edith Cavell, and that'll help."
"God love the lad!" returned the Father, choking a little. "And I'll goon. For I'm thinkin' it's better t' hear the truth, even when that truthis bitter, than t' be anxiously in doubt." Then, Johnnie having assentedby a nod, "That rift grew wider and wider. As they stopped runnin' afterthe veil, and turned, they saw it, the two o' them. 'Tis said that theyoung wife gave a great cry, and ran back towards the Falls, and stoodclose t' the rim o' the ice, and held out her two hands most pitiful.But all who were on the ice had scattered, the most t' hurry t' dosomethin' which would help."
"Oh, they _must_ hurry!"--it was Cis this time, the pointed chintrembling.
"Ropes--they got ropes, for there was a monste
r bridge below, which thetwo will pass under before long, as the ice-cake floats that far. Andthe ropes must be ready, and let down t' save 'em.--Yes, rods o' ropewere lowered, as fast as this could be managed, and as close as possiblet' where the men on the bridge judged the pair on the ice would go by.There was a big loop in the end that trailed t' the river. But long asthat rope was, shure, it wasn't long enough, though the man was able t'catch it--and what a shout o' joy went up!--and he could've slipped itover his own head as easy as easy, but he would not do it--no, notwithout _her_. But, oh, as he leaned to drop the big loop around her(another rope was comin' down at the same time for him), she weakened,and fainted in his arms, and lay there in the snow.
"He lifted her--quick! But before he could pass the loop over her head,the current swept her on. Now there was still time for him t' springback and save himself--save her, he could not. But he would not leaveher lyin' there and save himself, and so--and so----"
"Oh, has he _got_ t' die?" pleaded Johnnie, brokenly.
"Johnnie," went on the Father, gently, "we're not on this earth just t'have a good time, or an easy time,--no, or a safe time. We're here t' doour duty, and this is how yer father thought. Lad, dear, some day ye'llcome t' a tight place yerself. And ye'll have t' decide what ye're t'do: go this way, which is the easiest, or that, which is the hard patho' duty, a path which'll take all the pluck ye've got, but the rightone, nevertheless--the fine, true way. And when such a time comes,shure, ye'll remember what _he_ did that day----"
Johnnie's eyes were closed again. From under his shining lashes thetears were beginning to creep, finding their way in long letter S's downhis pale cheeks. "I'll think o' what my father did!" he answered. "Oh, Iwill, Father Pat! My fine, wonderful father!"
"Could he have chosen t' be saved, and leave the young wife there? O'course, he could not--if ever he wanted t' have a peaceful thoughtagain, or the respect o' men and women. But maybe he didn't even thinko' all this, but just did the brave act naturally--instinctively. No, hewould not be saved without her. And--the ropes were both out o' reach,now, and the ice cake was floatin' swifter, and swifter, and, dear!dear! breakin' at one side.
"His wife in his arms, he faced about, holdin' the slim, brown figureagainst his heart. He was talkin' to her then, I'll be bound, sayin' allthe tender, lovin' things that could ease her agony, though as,mercifully enough now, she was limp in his hold, likely she could noteven hear."
"Oh, I hope so!" said Cis. "Then she wouldn't be suffering!"
"From the shore the people watched them, and from the bridge. But mannycould not watch, for, ah, 'twas a tragic sight. Some o' these prayed;some hid their faces. But others shouted--in encouragement, maybe, orjust terror. Annyhow, the young husband, hearin' the calls, lifted hisface t' that high bridge. And 'twas then _he_ called--just once, butthey heard. And what he called was a single name, and that namewas--_Johnnie_."
Down went Cis's head then, and she wept without restraint. But Johnniewas somehow uplifted now, as by pride. "I can see him!" he cried. "Myfather! Just as _plain_!" He sat up straight again, though his eyes werestill shut. "I can see his face, smilin', and his light hair! Why, it'sas if he was lookin' straight at _me_!" Then trembling again intoOne-Eye's hold, "But I can't see my mother's face, 'cause it's turnedaway, hidin' on my father's shoulder. I can see just her back. Oh,my--poor--m-mother!"
"He was thinkin' o' the baby he was leavin' behind," went on the priest,"in that last moment o' his life. And if she was, too, then it's nowonder the gentle thing couldn't lift her head."
"Oh! Oh, Father Pat!"--while One-Eye stroked the yellow hair he hadruffled, and whispered fondly under that dun mustache.
"The ice was near the rapids now, so there isn't a great deal more t'tell," continued the Father. "He put up one hand, did yer father, wavin'it in a last salute--thankin', maybe, the men who had worked so hardwith the ropes.--O God o' Mercy, wast Thou not lookin' down upon Thyservant as he gave his life cheerfully just t' comfort hers one minutelonger?
"The agony was short. The rapids caught the cake, which whirled like awheel--once. Then it tipped, breakin' again, crumblin' t' bits underthem, and they sank. There was just a glimpse, a second's, o' his head,shinin' in the sun. Then they were gone--gone. God rest his soul--hisbrave, brave soul! And God rest her soul, too!" The Father crossedhimself.
After awhile, having wiped his own eyes, he went on once more: "Behindthem swayed the rope as the men on the bridge slowly dragged it up andup. And the people everywhere turned away, and started slowly home. Notalt'gether sadly, though. For they'd seen a beautiful thing done, onewhich was truly sublime. And later in yer life, lad dear, when ye heartell, manny a time, how this boy or that has had somethin' left t' himby his father--land, maybe, or a great house, or money--then don't yefail t' remember what was left t' yerself! For yer father left ye morethan riches. He left ye the right t' be proud o' him, and t' respect andhonor him, and there's no grander inheritance than that! And thesweetness which was yer mother's, along with the bravery o' yer father,all are yer own, comin' t' ye in their blood which courses through yerown veins. Inheritance! What a lot is in the word! Manny's the time I'vewondered about ye--how ye love what's decent and good--good books, andright conduct, and t' be clean, and all the rest o' it. But now Iunderstand why. Come t' me, little son o' a good mother! Little son o' abrave father!" The priest held out his hand.
As Johnnie came, Father Pat took from a pocket a leather case which,when opened, disclosed--was it a piece of money? or an ornament? Johnniecould not decide. But it was round, and beautiful, and of gold. Takenfrom its case, it was heavy. On the obverse side it bore the likeness ofa man as old, nearly, as Grandpa; on the reverse, cut in a splendidcircle, were the words, _Greater love hath no man than this, that a manlay down his life for his friends_. In the center, in lasting letters ofmetal, were other words: _Awarded to William Blake._
"'Tis a medal," explained the Father, "and 'twas awarded to that husbandwho would not save himself if he could not save his wife."
"Is--is that my father's picture?" Johnnie asked, under his breath.
"No, lad dear. 'Tis Andrew Carnegie, that--the founder of the CarnegieHero Fund. He was a poor boy when he came to America from Scotland. And,Johnnie, dear, books was what _he_ loved, and when he was a littletelegraph messenger, he'd read when he could, in betwixt scamperin' hereand there with messages. He lived to make a fortune, and much of thatfortune he spent in buildin' libraries for those who can't afford to buytheir own books. And he did manny other things, and one o' 'em was--t'leave an educational award t' the wee son o' a certain hero I couldname, so that the lad, as soon as he was big enough, could go t' schooland college. Now, who d' ye think I mean?"
Johnnie knew; yet it was all so sudden that he could not wholly realizeit. "Money for school, lad dear," repeated the priest. "It's beenwaitin' for ye this long time. But Mr. Tom Barber didn't happen t' knowabout it, and we'll not be sayin' a word t' him just yet. No; I'mthinkin' the news would be the end o' the dear man--so much money in thefamily, and him not able t' put his hands on a cent!"
When Father Pat was gone, One-Eye with him, he left behind, not asorrowing little boy, who blamed Fate for having robbed him of bothfather and mother in one terribly tragic hour, but a boy who was veryproud. There was this about him, too: he did not feel fatherless andmotherless any longer, but as if the priest had, somehow, given himparents.
"And, oh, wasn't it a beautiful story?" Cis asked, as they put the medalin a pocket of the new scout coat. (The picture Father Pat had carriedaway to have copied.) "Johnnie, I feel as if I'd been to church! It'slike the passing of Arthur--so sad, but so wonderful! Oh, Johnnie Blake,think of it! You're twelve! and you can go to school! and you're the sonof a hero!"
"Yes," said Johnnie. As he had not done the work which he knew Big Tomexpected of him that Sunday, now he got out the materials for hisviolet-making and began busily shaping flowers. "And I'm goin' t' be ascout right off, too," he reminded. "So I mustn't shirk, 'r they won'tgive
me a badge!"