"THE SERVICE OF SHINING"
AWAY down the crooked street sounds a faint clang of the Towncrier's
bell. Uncle Darcy is out again with it, after his long, shut-in winter.
But he is coming very, very slowly. Even the warm sunshine of this
wonderful May afternoon cannot quicken his rheumatic old feet so that
they do more than crawl along. It will be at least half an hour before
he reaches the Green Stairs. He will sit down to rest a bit on the
bottom step, as he always does now, and I'll run down and meet him
there.
He helps me more than anyone else, because, more than anyone else, he
understands what I am enduring. He remembers what he endured all those
anxious years when Danny was missing. It's a comfort to have him tell me
over and over how his "line to live by" kept him afloat and brought him
into port with all flags flying, and that it will do the same for me if
I only hold to it fast and hard enough. So I set my teeth together and
repeat grimly as he used to do:
"I will not bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward."
But my imagination won't let me say it in a way to do much good. It
keeps showing me dreadful pictures of Richard; of what might have
happened to him. I keep seeing his body in some God-forsaken field,
lying shattered and marred past recognition by the enemy's guns, his
dead face turned up to the sky. Or I see him falling headlong to earth
in a blazing plane, or, worst of all, in the filth of a German prison
camp, weak, wounded, famishing for food and water and tortured in a
thousand ways that only the minds of those demons can invent. All the
things I've read as happening to other men I imagine happening to him. I
see those things over and over and over till I nearly go mad.
When I fold the gauze into bandages and sew the long seams in the
hospital garments, with every movement and every stitch I wonder if he
needs such comforts, and if needing them, they are given or denied him.
I know it doesn't do any good to say that I am hoping as long as I
persist in such imaginings, but I don't want to think about anything
but Richard. My hands go on working in a normal way, but when I'm not
torturing myself as to his whereabouts, I am re-living the past, or
picturing the empty years ahead if he should never come back to me. I
can't help it.
Because in one of his letters he mentioned that old figurehead on the
roof of the Tupman's portico, I have taken to walking past the house
every day. Everything even remotely connected with him seems sacred now,
even the things he used to laugh at. Because the memory of the
figurehead helped him to hang on to the wrecked plane till rescue came,
I feel as grateful to it as if it were a human being. Every time I pass
it I tell myself I won't stop hoping for a single minute. I won't let
myself believe anything else but that he'll come back to me some day.
Then with the next breath comes that awful vision of him lying dead in
some lonely spot where he can never be found, and it seems to me I
simply can't go on living.
"Cousin James" still writes encouragingly, but as the weeks go by and no
trace of him can be found in any of the hospitals and no news of him
comes through any of the foreign offices, the suspense is getting to be
unbearable. I can't admit to anyone how horribly afraid I am, but it is
a relief to confess it here. Now that I've done so, I'll run down and
talk to Uncle Darcy awhile. He is the living embodiment of hope and
faith. The confident, happy way with which he looks forward to joining
Aunt Elspeth soon makes me feel better every time I am with him. It
brings back what Richard said the day she was buried: "All that they
were to each other we will be to one another, and _more_." If I could
only be sure that after this terrible waiting will come such long,
placid years as they had! Years of growing nearer and dearer, in a union
that old age only strengthens, and death cannot sever.
* * * * *
_Mid-June, and still no word!_ Now that no new letters ever come, I read
the old ones over and over. The one I take out oftenest is the one which
says, "No matter what happens, you'll go around in the circle of your
days, true to your ideals and your sense of duty. You won't go into a
cloud of mourning.... You will live out your life as it was intended,
just like that star."
Always, until to-night, that letter has been a comfort, because it tells
of his wonderful rescue, and gives me the feeling that if he could
escape so marvelously one time he can another. But re-reading that
paragraph a while ago, I suddenly saw something in it that I'd never
discovered before. It shows he must have had a presentiment that he'd
never get back to me. He knew what was going to happen, else why should
he have said "you won't go into a cloud of mourning ... you'll live out
your life as it was intended!" The discovery of that premonition takes
away the last little straw that I've been clinging to. He felt what was
going to happen. It has happened. It must be so, for it is over two
months now since he was first reported missing.
* * * * *
One goes on because one must. We're made that way on purpose, I suppose.
When sight fails we still have touch. We can feel our way through the
dark with groping fingers.
All the glad incentive for living is gone, but when I look at the star
in the little service flag which stands for Richard, every atom of me
lifts itself like a drawn sword to pledge itself to greater effort. _His
sacrifice shall not be in vain!_
And when I look at the star that stands for Father, I make the same vow.
He is sacrificing himself just as surely as Richard did, though he's
giving his life by inches. His health is going, and his strength.
Twenty-four hours at a stretch at the operating table is too much for
any man, and that's what he's had to endure a number of times recently
after the big enemy offensives. Always he's on a strain. One of Mr.
Carver's friends who saw him not long ago, wrote home that he has aged
terribly. He looks fifteen years older than when we saw him. Tippy says
I'm burning the candle at both ends, but I don't care if I can only keep
burning till we've put an end to this mad carnage.
The other day when I passed the Figurehead House, Mrs. Tupman called me
in and asked me if I'd be willing to tell the story of Richard's rescue
and the little Carrier Pigeon's part in it, at the Town Hall this week.
There's to be a big rally for selling Thrift Stamps. She wanted me to
show the children the tiny aluminum bracelet and cartridge which held
the S. O. S. call. She was sure that if they could hear how one little
pigeon saved the lives of two officers, they would be impressed with the
importance of small things. They would be more interested in saving
their pennies if they could think of their stamps as little wings,
speeding across the seas to save the lives of our armies.
But I told her I couldn't. I'd do anything impersonal that she might
ask, but I couldn't get up before a crowd and speak of anything so
intimately connected with Richard. I could have done it gladly when he
was alive, but now that little link of aluminum has associations too
sacred for me to hold up for the curious public to gape at.
But after supper, out in the row-boat, I saw things differently. I was
paddling around near shore, watching the wonderful afterglow reflected
in the water, pink and mother-of-pearl and faintest lavender. It was all
unspeakably beautiful, as it has been countless times when Richard was
out with me. Because of the conviction that we'd never again see it
together, the very beauty of it gave me a lonely, hopeless sort of
heart-ache. It is one of the most desolate sensations in the world, and
it is a poignant pain to remember that "tender grace of a day that is
dead," which "can never come back to me."
As those words floated dreamily through my memory, with them came the
recollection of the time I had repeated them in this very boat, and
Richard's unexpected answer which set Captain Kidd to barking. I could
hear again his hearty laugh and the teasing way he said, "That's no way
for a good sport to do." It brought him back so plainly that I could
almost see him sitting there opposite me in the boat, so big and
cheerful and _alive_. The sense of nearness to him was almost as
comforting as if he had really spoken.
And then, knowing him as well as I do, knowing exactly how he always
responded, in such a common-sense, matter-of-fact way, I could imagine
the answer he would make were I to tell him of Mrs. Tupman's request.
"Why, sure!" he'd say. "_Tell_ the story of the little pigeon, and make
it such a ripping good one there won't be a dry eye in the house. It'll
give the little fellow the chance for another flight. Every stamp they
sell will be in answer to an S.O.S. call of some kind, and if it's the
bird that makes them buy, it'll be just the same as if his own little
wings had carried the message."
The thought cheered me up so much that I went straight home and
telephoned to Mrs. Tupman that I'd reconsidered, and I'd gladly do what
she asked me to.
Since then I've taken to going out in the boat whenever my courage is at
low ebb. Out there on the water, in the peace of the vast twilight
dropping down on the sea, I can conjure up that sense of his nearness as
nowhere else. It has the same effect on my feverish spirit as if his big
firm hand closed gently over mine. It quiets my forebodings. It steadies
me. It makes me know past all doubting that no matter what has happened,
he is still mine. His love abides. Death cannot take _that_.
* * * * *
Oh, what does a person do who is so glad--so _crazy_ glad that he must
find vent for his joy, when there are no words made great enough to
express it? _We've had news of Richard!_ He's safe! He escaped from a
German prison camp. That's all we know now, but it is all of heaven to
know that much.
The news of his safety came as suddenly as the word that he was missing.
Tippy called me to come down to the telephone. Long distance wanted me.
It was "Cousin James." He had a cablegram from that Canadian friend of
Richard's. We had an expensive little jubilee for a while there. You
don't think of how much it's costing a minute when you're talking about
the dead coming to life. It was as wonderful as that.
"Cousin James" said undoubtedly we would have letters soon. The fact
that Richard had not cabled for himself, made him afraid that he was
laid up for repairs. He was probably half-starved and weak to the point
of exhaustion from all he'd gone through in making his escape. So we
must have patience if we didn't hear right away. We could wait for
details now that we had the greatest news of all, and so forth and so
on.
The moment he rang off I started down to Uncle Darcy's, telling Tippy
all there was to tell, as I clapped on my hat and hurried through the
hall. I started down the back street half running. The baker's cart gave
me a lift down Bradford Street. I was almost breathless when I reached
the gate.
Uncle Darcy was dozing in his arm-chair set out in the dooryard. There
flashed into my mind that day long ago, when _his_ hopes found happy
fulfillment and Dan came home. That day Father came back from China and
we all went out to meet the ship and came ashore in the motor boat. And
now I called out to him what I had called to him then, through the
dashing spray and the noise of the wind and waves and motor:
"It _pays_ to keep hope at the prow, Uncle Darcy!"
And he, rousing up with a start at the familiar call, smiled a welcome
and answered as he did when I was a child, the same affectionate light
in his patient old eyes.
"Aye, lass, it does _that_!"
"And we're coming into port with all flags flying!"
Then he knew. The trembling joy in my voice told him.
"You've heard from Richard!" he exclaimed quaveringly, "and you've come
to tell the old man first of all. I knew you would."
And then for a little while we sat and rejoiced together as only two old
mariners might, who had each known shipwreck and storm and who had each
known the joy of finding happy anchorage in his desired haven.
* * * * *
On the way home I stopped to tell Babe. Good old Babe. She was so glad
that the tears streamed down her face.
"Now I can help with _your_ wedding," was her first remark. "Of course,
he'll have to be invalided home, for I don't suppose he's more than skin
and bone if he's been in the hands of the Germans all this time. But,
under the circumstances, you won't mind marrying a living skeleton. I
know _I_ wouldn't if I were in your place. He'll be coming right back,
of course."
Everybody I met seemed to think the same thing. They took it for granted
that he'd done all that could be expected of a man. That three months in
a German prison was equal to several dyings. After I got home I told
Captain Kidd. He was lying on the rug inside the hall door with his nose
between his paws, seemingly asleep. "Richard's coming," was all I said
to him, but up he scrambled with that little yap of joy and ran to the
screen door scratching and whining to be let out. It was so human of him
that I just grabbed his shaggy old head in my arms and hugged him tight.
"He's coming some day," I explained to him, "but we'll have to wait a
while, old fellow, maybe a long, long while. But we won't mind that
now, after all we've been through. Just now it's enough to know that
he's alive and safe."
* * * * *
MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY. It's wonderful that Richard's letter should
happen to get here on this particular day. The sight of his familiar
handwriting gave me such a thrill that it brought the tears. It was
almost as if he had called my name, seeing it written out in his big,
bold hand.
He says he can't tell me the details of his experiences now. They are
too fierce for him to attempt to put on paper till he is stronger. Babe
was right. He's almost the shadow of his former self. But he says he is
beginning to pick up famously. He is in Switzerland, staying with a
family who were old friends of his father's. They are taking royal care
of him, and he's coming around all right. The wound in his arm (he
doesn't say how he got it) is healing rapidly.
Oh, it's a dear letter--all the parts in between about wanting to see
me, and my being doubly dear to him now--but he doesn't say a word about
coming home. Not one word!
* * * * *
A WEEK LATER. He has written again, and he is not coming home until the
war is over. He'll be able to go back into the service in a couple of
months, maybe sooner, if he stays on quietly there. It isn't that he
does not want to come. He has been behind the lines and seen the
awfulness. It must be stopped. Those prison camps must be wiped out! We
must win as soon as possible! He feels, as never before, the necessity
for quick action, and he makes me feel it too.
"Dad's sacrifice must not be in vain," he writes. "Nor Belgium's, nor
the hordes of brave men who have fallen since. And we must not go on
sacrificing other lives. _This thing has got to be stopped!_
"I know you feel the same way about it, Georgina. I'm sure that you want
me to stay on here without asking for a furlough, since by staying I can
be up and at it again sooner. Say that you do, dearest, so that I may
feel your courage back of me to the last ditch."
I have said it. The answer is already on its way. How could I be selfish
enough to think of anything but the great need? I am only one of many.
In millions of windows hang stars that tell of anxious hearts, just as
anxious as mine, and of men at the front just as dear to those who love
them as mine. I can wait!
And waiting--
_I see Richard ... climbing the Green Stairs ... coming into the little
Home of our Dreams! I see the smile in his dear eyes as he holds out
his arms to me ... having earned the right to make all those dreams come
true ... having fought the good fight ... and kept the faith ... that
all homes may be safe and sacred everywhere, the wide world over...._
And seeing thus, I can put up with my "long, long night of waiting,"
thinking only of that heavenly ending!
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* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Author spells shiny both as "shiny" and "shiney." Varied hyphenation
retained.
Page 119, "State" changed to "States" (of the "_United States_")
Page 193, "celler" changed to "cellar" (them down cellar)
Page 247, "worthing" changed to "worth" (worth having)
Page 249, "soltaire" changed to "solitaire" (a beautiful solitaire)
End of Project Gutenberg's Georgina's Service Stars, by Annie Fellows Johnston