THE END OF A LONG DAY
A LONG moment of breathless silence--while four pairs of eyes fixed
themselves upon the hall door, and as many pairs of ears strained to
follow the creak and clump of Big Tom's departure. The sound of his
steps died away. Another, and a longer, wait, and the door moved and
rattled, that signal which marked the opening and shutting of the area
door three flights below. The longshoreman was really gone. Cis laid her
forehead against an arm of the wheel chair, and burst into tears,
clinging to old Grandpa, and trembling, and frightening him into
weeping; whereupon Johnnie hurried to them, and alternately patted them
comfortingly, and Father Pat came to stand over the three.
"Dear! dear! dear!" exclaimed the priest. "But ain't I glad that I came,
though! Shure, the big baboon was ugly! Ha-ha-a-a! And when he's like
that, faith, and how he throws the coconuts!"
That fetched the smiles, even from Cis. And, "Oh-ho! Here comes the
sun!" cried the Father, beaming joyously at them all. "Shure, we've had
the thunderstorm, and the air's clear, and so all the kittens dear can
come out o' their corners, and frisk a bit! Faith, I wasn't half as mad
as I sounded. No, I wasn't, old gentleman! (And what's that he's holdin'
on to? Bless me soul, is it a doll?)" Then having taken up Letitia, and
turned her about, and chuckled over her, and given her into Grandpa's
outstretched hands again, "It's only that our rampin' Mr. Barber," he
explained, "wouldn't understand me if I didn't give him a bit o' the
rough edge o' me tongue--no, nor respect me, neither! So I laid it on a
mite thick!--Oh, that man! Say, he'd sell the tears right out o' yer
eye! Yes, he would! He'd sell yer eyelashes t' make a broom for a fly!"
"Big Tom, he makes me awful 'fraid sometimes," confessed Johnnie. "But
he makes Cis lots 'fraider, 'cause she's only a girl."
"A girl!" cried the Father. "And ye think bein' a girl is anny good
reason for bein' afraid? Faith, little friend, have ye not got hold o' a
wrong notion entirely about girls?" Then seeing that here was an
opportunity to take the thoughts of these two harried ones away from
themselves, "Children dear," he went on, "all this about girls who are
afraid reminds me o' a certain story. 'Twas in Belgium it happened, a
few years back, and in the city o' Brussels, which is the capital. Oh,
'tis a grand and a sorrowful story! So! Come now!" He wheeled Grandpa to
a place beside the morris chair, signed Cis to take the kitchen chair,
helped Johnnie to a perch on the table, and sat again, the others drawn
about his red head like so many moths around a cheerful lamp.
It was just as the tale of Edith Cavell ended that, most opportunely,
who should come stealing in but Mrs. Kukor, pushing the door open with a
slippered foot, for each hand held a dish. The exciting events which had
transpired in the Barber flat being common property up and down the area
building, naturally she knew them; also, leaned out of her own window,
she had heard more than enough. The paleness of her round face told how
anxious she was.
The priest stood up. "I'm Father Patrick Mungovan, at yer service,
ma'am," he said, bowing gravely.
Mrs. Kukor first wiped both plump hands upon a black sateen apron. Then
she extended one of them to the priest. "Glat to meet!" she declared
heartily. "Und glat you wass come!"
The Father shook hands warmly. "Shure, ma'am," he declared, "our two
young folks is likely not t' suffer for lookin' after from now on, I'm
thinkin', what with our little League o' Nations."
Tears welled into Mrs. Kukor's black eyes. "Over Chonnie und Cis," she
declared, "all times I wass full of love. _Only_"--she lifted a short,
fat finger--"nefer I haf talk my Hebrew religions mit!"
Father Pat gave her another bow, and a gallant one. "Faith, Mrs. Kukor,"
said he, "the good Lord I worship was a Hebrew lad from the hills o'
Judea."
Next, Mrs. Kukor had a look at the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled
with many excited exclamations of delight. After that, there was ice
cream and raisin cake, enough for all. Every one served, the priest and
Mrs. Kukor were soon chatting away in the friendliest fashion.
It was then that a regrettable accident occurred. In spite of the fact
that the ice cream was in a melting condition, and the cake deliciously
soft and crumbling, one of those several dental bridges of the Father's
suddenly became detached, as it were, from its moorings, and had to be
rolled up in one corner of a handkerchief and consigned to a pocket.
Amid general condolences then, the priest explained that the happening
was not wholly unexpected, since, in choosing a dentist, he had let his
heart, rather than his head, guide his selection, and had given the work
to an old and struggling man whose methods were undoubtedly obsolete.
"But ye see," he concluded, "I knew at the time that the work would far
outlast the necessity for it, since I'll not be needin' anny teeth very
long"--a statement the full meaning of which fortunately escaped the
comprehension of his two young hearers. "But ye might say," he went on,
"that neither the cake nor the cream have put a strain on that bridge,
so I'll not be blamin' the dentist. For ye see, it's like this: when
I've somethin' betwixt me teeth that's substantial, the danger to the
bridges is far less. It's when I've nothin' that I do them the most
damage, havin' so much grip t' me jaws, and not annything t' work it out
on."
Mrs. Kukor now rose to take her leave, explaining how it happened that
she did not want to have Mr. Barber discover her there, since, if the
longshoreman were to decide that she was interfering in any way--too
much--he might, she feared, remove his household to some other, and
distant, flat, where she could not be near the children--oy! oy! oy!
Father Pat gave her his address. "Some day," he declared, "ye might be
wantin' t' send me a picture post card, in which case ye'd need t' know
where I live"--a remark which made Johnnie believe that the Father must
be particularly fond of picture post cards! "But now and again, I'll
drop in t' see ye," promised the priest, "and t' have a cup o' kosher
tea! Shure, ma'am, in anny troublesome matter, two heads is better than
one, even if one has been gassed!"
Mrs. Kukor gone, Father Pat began to take thought of his own leaving.
But first he set about cheering up his new, young friends, who were
subdued, to say the least, this in spite of the refreshments. "Now,
shure, and there's things about this place which could be far, far
worse," he asserted. "In this shady bit o' flat, ye're shut up, I grant
it. But consider what ye're shut away from--ugly things, like fightin'
and callin' names"--his argument being intended chiefly for Johnnie.
"And I don't mind about my old clothes," declared the latter stoutly.
"Anyhow, I don't mind 'cause they're raggy. All I'm sorry for is that my
rags don't _fit_."
Afterward he concluded that there must have been something rather
sensible about this remark of his--something calculated to win approval.
For the Father suddenly reached out and took Johnnie into his arms, and
gave him a bearish hug, and laughed, and wiped the green eyes (which
were brimming), and laughed again, finally falling into a coughing fit
that sent Johnnie pell-mell for a cup of water and made Cis wait in
concern beside the morris chair.
The cough quieted soon, and again Father Pat was able to talk. "Did ye
ever hear another lad like him?" he inquired of no one in particular.
"Ah, God love him! He doesn't mind his rags, only he wishes that they
fit! Dear, dear, rich, little, poor boy!"
After he was gone, Johnnie and Cis sat in silence for a good while,
their young hearts being too full, and their brains too busy, for
speech. But at last, "Oh, why didn't we ever know him before!" mourned
Cis. "He lives close by, and he's not afraid of _anything_!"
"He's my friend for life!" vowed Johnnie. "And, oh, Cis, this is who's
like Galahad!--not Mister Perkins at _all_! Mister Perkins is like--like
Sir Percival, that's who _he's_ like. But Father Pat (don't y' _love_
the name!) he could sit on the Per'lous Seat, y' betcher life!--Oh, if
_only_ his hair wasn't red!"
When she had assured him that red was a most desirable color for hair,
since it meant a splendid fighting spirit, he had to know all she could
tell him about priests, which was a good deal. "They can marry you, and
they can bury you," she began. "And they preach, and pray about a
hundred times as much as anybody else, and that's one reason why he's so
good. If you've done anything wicked, though, you've got to tell a
priest about it, and----"
"I'll tell him about the toothbrush," promised Johnnie. "I won't mind
tellin' him, some way or other, anyhow, and it's bothered me, Cis, quite
a lot--oh, yes, it has!"
Cis did not mind the Father's knowing about their bargain; provided,
however, that she herself be allowed to tell Mr. Perkins. She felt
better already in her conscience, she declared, and even sang as she set
about rearranging her roses. Each one of these she named with a girl's
name, Johnnie assisting; and the two were able, by the curl of a petal,
or the number of leaves on a stem, or some other tiny sign, to tell Cora
from Alice, and Elaine from Blanchefleur, and the Princess Mary from
Buddir al Buddoor, as well as to recognize Rebecca, and Julia, and
Anastasia, and Gertie, and June--and so on through a list that made
little godmothers to the rosebuds out of Cis's favorite acquaintances at
the paper-box factory.
Big Tom had little to say when he returned, but that little was pleasant
enough. When he went to bed, he left his door wide. Grandpa had been
allowed to stay beside the kitchen window, and there Cis brought a quilt
and pillow, her own room being unbearably close and hot. As for Johnnie,
quite openly and boldly he shouldered his roll of bedding and took it to
the roof! (For after what Father Pat had told them that day, could he,
being a boy, fail to do the daring thing? Also, were they not now under
the protecting care of a red-headed fighter?)
Arrived on the roof, he did not lie down, but walked to and fro. A
far-off band was playing in the summer night, at some pier or in an open
space, and its music could be faintly heard. Children were shouting as
they returned from the Battery. The grind of street cars came in low
waves, not unlike the rhythmic beat of the seas which he had never seen.
He shut his ears to every sound. Eastward loomed up the iron network of
the bridges, delicate and beautiful against the starlit sky. South, and
near by, clustered the masts of scores of ships. North and West were
the sky-piercing tops of the city's highest buildings. Sights as well as
sounds were softened and glorified by the night, and by distance. But he
saw--as he heard--nothing of what was around him. He felt himself lifted
high above it all--away from it.
That was because his spirit was uplifted. Just as Big Tom, with his
harsh methods, his ignorance, his lack of sympathy and his surly tongue,
could bring out any trait that was bad in him, and at the same time
plant a few that did not exist, just so could Father Pat, kindly, wise,
gentle, gracious and manly, bring out every trait that was good. And for
a while at least, the priest had downed and driven out every vestige of
hatred and bitterness and revenge from the boy's heart.
Johnnie did not even think of Barber, or what the longshoreman had done
that day. In his brain was a picture which thrilled and held him, if at
the same time it tortured him--a picture that he saw too keenly, and
that would not go away. It was of that brave Englishwoman, face to face
with her executioners.
What a story!
He shook his head over it, comparing it with _Treasure Island_ and all
the others, and wishing he had it written down, and marveling again over
the rare courage of its heroine. To be scolded and whipped was one
thing; it was quite another to be stood up against a wall in front of a
line of guns. And he remembered that he--a boy--had not been able, this
very day, to take even a strapping! What if he had been asked to accept
death?
How far away--yes, as if it were days and days ago!--seemed that order
of Big Tom's to go out and sell Cis's flowers! That was because this
wonderful, heart-moving tragedy of Edith Cavell's had happened in
between! As the sky slowly became overcast, and the darkness deepened,
he set himself to think the nurse there on the roof beside him--a
whiteclad, slender figure.
He had done her a wrong in questioning the bravery of girls, and she had
died with her hands tied! "Oh, my!" he breathed apologetically to the
picture which his imagination made of her, "if I was only _half_ as
brave as you!"
He could keep her there before him not longer than a moment. Then she
wavered and went, and he found himself standing beside his blanket roll.
Though he covered his eyes to make his pretend more vivid, she would not
return.
However, she was to come again one day--to come and sustain him in an
hour of dreadful trial that was ahead, though now, mercifully, he did
not know it. And there was to be another story, just as thrilling, if
not more so, which also would help him in that hour; and, later on,
would carry him through darker ones.
With new visions in his brain, and new resolutions in his boy's heart,
he took up the bedding bundle and went back to the flat. There he fell
asleep in a room where seventeen pink rosebuds spread their perfume.