CHAPTER XXXVIII
ANOTHER GOOD-BY
JOHNNIE could hear a fumbling outside in the hall, as if some one wasgoing slowly to and fro, brushing a wall with gentle, uncertain hands.Cautiously he tiptoed to his own door and listened, his heart beating alittle faster than the occasion warranted, this because he had just beenscooting about the deck of the _Hispaniola_ again with Jim Hawkins,eluding that terrible Mr. Hands; and he was still more or less close into the shore of Treasure Island, rather than in New York City, andhardly able to realize that in the gloomy, old kitchen he was reasonablysafe from a pirate's knife.
The noise in the hall traveled away from the Barber door to another onthe same floor. Johnnie concluded that the Italian janitress was givingthe dark passage its annual scrub. As he had no wish to exchange wordswith her, much preferring the society of the rash, but plucky, Jim, hestole back to the table, and once more projected himself half the worldaway.
Three days had passed since One-Eye's departure. They had been quietdays. Mrs. Kukor was still gone. Big Tom ventured forth from hisself-imposed imprisonment only late at night. Cis and Mr. Perkins, savefor a cheery greeting scribbled on a post card that pictured the Capitolat Washington, seemed utterly to have cut themselves off from the flat.As for Father Pat, of course he had not forgotten Johnnie, not forsakena friend; nevertheless, there had been no sign of him.
But having again his seven beloved books (the two extra ones had arrivedby parcel post), Johnnie had not fretted once. What time had he forfretting? He was either working--cooking, washing, ironing, cleaning,waiting on the longshoreman or the aged soldier, going out grandly inhis scout uniform to fetch things from the grocer's, smarteningGrandpa's appearance or his own--or else he was reading. And when he wasreading, his world and all of its cares dropped magically away from him,and the clock hands fairly spun.
One-Eye bidden a brave good-by, one of Johnnie's first jobs had been therearranging of Cis's closet room. Though he still felt that he could nottake over for his own use the little place which was sacred to her,nevertheless he had considered it a fit and proper spot in which toenshrine his seven volumes. So he had set the dressing-table box backagainst the wall, straightened its flounces, and placed the books in arow upon this attractive bit of furniture, flanking them at one end withthe lamp, at the other with the alarm clock. Then he named the tiny roomthe library.
The lamp was for use at night, so that he could prolong his hours ofstudy and enjoyment, seated on his mattress which, folded twice, made aluxurious seat of just the right height to command a good view of Mr.Roosevelt. The clock, on the other hand, was for daylight use only. Whenhe was seated at the kitchen table, an elbow at either side of a book,his head propped, and his spirit far away, the clock (having been setwith forethought, but wound only one turn) sounded a soft, short tinklefor him, calling him from Crusoe's realm, or from those northern foreststhrough which he followed after Heywood, or from China, from TreasureIsland, from Caerleon; and warning him it was time to prepare Big Tom ameal.
The fumbling about the hall door began again. Next, the knob wasturned, slowly and uncertainly, as if by a child. Once more cuttingshort that enthralling hunt for gold, Johnnie hurried back to the doorand opened it--and looked into the beady, bright black eyes of anexceedingly old lady.
She had on a black dress which was evidently as old as herself, for inspots it was the same rusty color as the few faded hairs, streaked withgray, which showed from under her ancient headshawl. In one shaking handshe held a stout cane; in the other, a slip of paper. This latter sheoffered him. And he found written on it his own name and Barber's, alsobrief directions for locating the building in the area.
"What's this for?" asked Johnnie. "What d' y' want me t' do? I can'tgive y' anything 'cept a cup o' tea. I'm sorry, but I'm broke."
"Mm-mm-mm-mm," mumbled the old lady; then showing a double line of gumsin a smile, she plucked at his sleeve. "Father Mmmmm!" she said again."Ah-ha? ah-ha? ah-ha?" With each ah-a, she backed a step invitingly, andnodded him to come with her.
Father Mungovan! A shiver ran all down him. For instantly he knew whyshe had come. Running to the stove, he wet down the fire with some hotwater out of the teakettle, put away his book, brought out his own quiltto cover Grandpa's knees, swiftly laid Big Tom's place at the table, cutsome bread, made the tea, then knocked on the bedroom door to explainthat supper was ready on the oilcloth, but that he had to go out.
If Barber made any reply or objection to that, Johnnie did not hear it."Father Mungovan's sick?" he asked the old lady as he followed her, astep at a time, down the three flights.
"Sick," she assented, nodding the shawled head. "Ah-ha! ah-ha! ah-ha!"
She hobbled, and even on the level sidewalk her pace was slow. He triedto help her, but she would not have his hand under her elbow, pullingaway from him, muttering, and pointing ahead with her stick.
"Where d' we go t'?" he asked, for it was in his mind to set off byhimself at a run. However, he could not understand what she replied; andsoon gave up trying, feeling that, after all, a boy who intended to be ascout should not leave such a weak, aged soul behind, all alone, butshould stay to help her over the crossings. "I'm 'xac'ly like thatpicture in the Handbook!" he reminded himself.
But it was little assistance the old lady needed. At every crossing shewent stumping boldly forward, her cane high in the air and shakenthreateningly, while she looked neither to the right nor the left,paying no attention to on-coming vehicles, whether these werestreet-cars, motors or teams, only warning each and all with a piping"Ah-ha! ah-ha! ah-ha!"
People smiled at her. They smiled also, and admiringly, at the freshlyuniformed, blond-haired boy scout striding beside her, whose face, bythe fading marks upon it, indicated that lately he had accidentallybumped into something.
But Johnnie saw no one, so completely were his thoughts taken up. Ofcourse Father Pat was sick. That was why he had not been back to theflat. Was there, the boy wondered, anything a scout could do for thebeloved priest? Johnnie thought of all those instructions in theHandbook which concerned the aiding and saving of others. "Oh, I want t'help him!" he cried, and in his eagerness forged ahead of the old lady,whereupon she poked him sharply with the stick.
"Slow! Slow!" she ordered, breathing open-mouthed.
The distance seemed endless. Johnnie began to fear that he might notreach the Father before he died. "Oh, all that fightin' was bad forhim!" he concluded regretfully. "That's what's the matter! It wore himout! I wish Mrs. Kukor didn't go for him! But, oh, he mustn't die! Hemustn't! He _mustn't_!"
And yet that was precisely what Father Pat was about to do. When Johnniehad climbed the steps of a brownstone house and been admitted by astrange priest; and between long portieres had entered a high, dim roomwhere there was a wide, white bed, he realized the worst at once. Foreven to young eyes that had never before looked upon death, it was plainthat a great, a solemn, and a strangely terrible change had come intothat revered, homely, kindly face. Its smile was not gone--notaltogether; but still showed faintly around the big, tender Irish mouth.But, ah, the dear, red hair was wet with mortal sweat, and lay in thin,trailing wisps upon a brow uncommonly white.
Yes, Father Pat had been right; the bridges made for him by the elderlydentist "who needed the work" were to outlast the necessity for them.And the big, young, broad-shouldered soldier-priest was going out evenbefore little, feeble, old Grandpa!
"Father Pat!" whispered the boy.
The green eyes, moving more slowly than was their wont, traveledinquiringly from place to place till they found their object, then fixedthemselves lovingly upon Johnnie's face. Next, out stole a hand, feeblysearching for another.
"Little--golden--thing!"
Ah, how hard he was breathing! "If I could jus' give him _my_ breath!"thought Johnnie; "'r my lungs!" He took the searching hand, but turnedhis face away. There was a small, round table beside the bed. Upon itwere some flowers in a glass, a prayer book, a rosary, a goblet ofwater, a fan. Mec
hanically he counted the things--over and over. He wasdry-eyed. He felt not the least desire to weep. The grief he wasenduring was too poignant for tears. It was as if he had been slashedfrom forehead to knees with a sword.
"I'm not actin' like a scout," he thought suddenly. And forced himselfto turn again to that friend so heart-rendingly changed. Then aloud, andstriving to speak evenly, "Father Pat, y're not goin' t' die, are y'?No, y're not goin' t' die!"
He felt his hand pressed. "Die?" repeated the Father, and Johnnie sawthat there was almost a playful glint in the green eyes. "Shure, scoutboy,"--halting with each word--"dyin's a thing we all come t', one timeor another. Ye know, ev'ry year manny a man dies that's never diedbefore."
"I couldn't have y' go," urged the boy. "Oh, Father Pat, Cis, she'sgone, but I can stand it, 'cause she's happy. But you--you--_you_--!"Words failed him.
"Lad dear,"--and now the Father's look was grave and tender--"God's willbe done."
"Oh, yes! I--I know. But, oh, Father Pat, promise me that--that y'won't--_go far_!"
"Ah!"--the dimming eyes suddenly swam in pity.
"Jus' t' the nearest star, Father Pat! Jus' t' the nearest star!"
"Little star lover!" Then after a pause for rest, "Johnnie, ye've lovedFather Pat a good bit?"
"Oh, so much! So much!"
"And I've loved the little poet--the dreamer! And I've faith--in him--asI go."
Johnnie knelt--yes, the same Johnnie who had always felt so shy when anyone spoke of God, or prayer, or being religious. How natural the act ofkneeling was, now that he was face to face with this tragedy which noearthly power could avert! It was quite as the Father had oncepredicted: "Ah, when the day comes, lad dear, that ye feel bad enough,when grief fair strikes ye down, and there's nobody can help ye but God,then ye'll understand why men pray." Well, that day had come. Noweverything was in His hands.
Yet Johnnie could not shape a prayer--could only beg dumbly for help ashe clung to Father Pat's hand, and laid his cheek against it.
It was while he was kneeling that he saw, entering between thoseportieres, some one dressed in white--a woman. White she wore, too, uponthe silky white of her hair. The snowy headdress framed a face pale, butbeautiful, with the beauty that comes from service and self-sacrificeand suffering.
The instant Johnnie glimpsed that face, and looked into the sad, braveeyes, he knew her!--knew her though she wore no red cross upon hersleeve. Of course, among all the souls in the great universe, she wouldbe the one to come now, just when he, Johnnie, needed the sight of herto make him more staunch!
He remembered how she had stood before the firing-squad, not shrinkingfrom her fate, not crying out in terror of the cruel bullets. And nowhow poised she was, how fearless, in this room where Death was waiting!Awe-struck, adoring her, and scarcely daring to breathe lest she vanish,he got slowly to his feet.
"Edith Cavell!" he whispered.
"Edith--Cavell!" echoed Father Pat. "'Twas her dyin'--thathelped--manny----"
"It's time to go," she said softly. "Tell the Father good-by."
Dutifully he turned to take that last farewell. But now that he had themartyred nurse at his side, he determined to endure the partingmanfully. He knelt again, and tried to smile at the face smiling back athim from the pillow. He tried to speak, too, but his lips seemed stiff,for some reason, and his tongue would not obey. But he kept his brighthead up.
He heard a whisper--Father Pat was commending this scout he loved to themercy of a higher power. Next, he felt himself lifted gently and guidedbackward from the bed. He did not want to go. He wanted to keep onseeing, seeing that dear face, to hold on longer to that weak hand. "Oh,don't--don't take me!" he pleaded.
The dying eyes followed, oh, how affectionately, the small, khaki-cladfigure. "God's--own--child!" breathed the priest, and there was tenderpride in the faint tones. "God's--blessed--lad!"
"Father!"
Then the folds of the portieres brushed Johnnie's shoulders, and fellbetween his eyes and the wide, white bed.
He had taken his last look.
* * * * *
He was nearly home when he discovered the letter--a thick letter in along envelope. It was in his hand, though he could not remember how itcame to be there. But it was undoubtedly his, for both sides of it borehis name in Father Pat's own handwriting: _John Blake_.
He did not open it. He could not read it just yet. Thrusting it into acoat pocket, he stumbled on. Had he complained and cried just becauseCis was to live in another part of this same city? Had he actuallythought the loss of a suit and some books enough to feel bad and bitterabout? Was it he who had said, after Cis went, that nothing worse couldhappen?
Ah, how small, how trivial, all other troubles seemed as compared tothis new, strange, terrible thing--Death! And how little, before this,he had known of genuine grief!
Now something really grievous had happened. And it seemed to him as ifhis whole world had come suddenly tumbling down in pieces--in utterchaos--about his yellow head.