CHAPTER XXVI
"THE SERVICE OF SHINING"
AWAY down the crooked street sounds a faint clang of the Towncrier'sbell. 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 thiswonderful May afternoon cannot quicken his rheumatic old feet so thatthey do more than crawl along. It will be at least half an hour beforehe reaches the Green Stairs. He will sit down to rest a bit on thebottom step, as he always does now, and I'll run down and meet himthere.
He helps me more than anyone else, because, more than anyone else, heunderstands what I am enduring. He remembers what he endured all thoseanxious years when Danny was missing. It's a comfort to have him tell meover and over how his "line to live by" kept him afloat and brought himinto port with all flags flying, and that it will do the same for me ifI only hold to it fast and hard enough. So I set my teeth together andrepeat 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. Itkeeps showing me dreadful pictures of Richard; of what might havehappened to him. I keep seeing his body in some God-forsaken field,lying shattered and marred past recognition by the enemy's guns, hisdead face turned up to the sky. Or I see him falling headlong to earthin a blazing plane, or, worst of all, in the filth of a German prisoncamp, weak, wounded, famishing for food and water and tortured in athousand ways that only the minds of those demons can invent. All thethings I've read as happening to other men I imagine happening to him. Isee 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 thehospital garments, with every movement and every stitch I wonder if heneeds 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 Ipersist in such imaginings, but I don't want to think about anythingbut Richard. My hands go on working in a normal way, but when I'm nottorturing myself as to his whereabouts, I am re-living the past, orpicturing the empty years ahead if he should never come back to me. Ican't help it.
Because in one of his letters he mentioned that old figurehead on theroof of the Tupman's portico, I have taken to walking past the houseevery day. Everything even remotely connected with him seems sacred now,even the things he used to laugh at. Because the memory of thefigurehead 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 passit I tell myself I won't stop hoping for a single minute. I won't letmyself 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 insome lonely spot where he can never be found, and it seems to me Isimply can't go on living.
"Cousin James" still writes encouragingly, but as the weeks go by and notrace of him can be found in any of the hospitals and no news of himcomes through any of the foreign offices, the suspense is getting to beunbearable. I can't admit to anyone how horribly afraid I am, but it isa relief to confess it here. Now that I've done so, I'll run down andtalk to Uncle Darcy awhile. He is the living embodiment of hope andfaith. The confident, happy way with which he looks forward to joiningAunt Elspeth soon makes me feel better every time I am with him. Itbrings back what Richard said the day she was buried: "All that theywere to each other we will be to one another, and _more_." If I couldonly be sure that after this terrible waiting will come such long,placid years as they had! Years of growing nearer and dearer, in a unionthat old age only strengthens, and death cannot sever.
* * * * *
_Mid-June, and still no word!_ Now that no new letters ever come, I readthe old ones over and over. The one I take out oftenest is the one whichsays, "No matter what happens, you'll go around in the circle of yourdays, true to your ideals and your sense of duty. You won't go into acloud 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 tellsof his wonderful rescue, and gives me the feeling that if he couldescape so marvelously one time he can another. But re-reading thatparagraph a while ago, I suddenly saw something in it that I'd neverdiscovered before. It shows he must have had a presentiment that he'dnever get back to me. He knew what was going to happen, else why shouldhe have said "you won't go into a cloud of mourning ... you'll live outyour life as it was intended!" The discovery of that premonition takesaway the last little straw that I've been clinging to. He felt what wasgoing to happen. It has happened. It must be so, for it is over twomonths 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 thedark with groping fingers.
All the glad incentive for living is gone, but when I look at the starin the little service flag which stands for Richard, every atom of melifts itself like a drawn sword to pledge itself to greater effort. _Hissacrifice 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'sgiving his life by inches. His health is going, and his strength.Twenty-four hours at a stretch at the operating table is too much forany man, and that's what he's had to endure a number of times recentlyafter 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 agedterribly. He looks fifteen years older than when we saw him. Tippy saysI'm burning the candle at both ends, but I don't care if I can only keepburning till we've put an end to this mad carnage.
The other day when I passed the Figurehead House, Mrs. Tupman called mein and asked me if I'd be willing to tell the story of Richard's rescueand 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 toshow the children the tiny aluminum bracelet and cartridge which heldthe S. O. S. call. She was sure that if they could hear how one littlepigeon saved the lives of two officers, they would be impressed with theimportance of small things. They would be more interested in savingtheir 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 mightask, but I couldn't get up before a crowd and speak of anything sointimately connected with Richard. I could have done it gladly when hewas alive, but now that little link of aluminum has associations toosacred 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 waspaddling around near shore, watching the wonderful afterglow reflectedin the water, pink and mother-of-pearl and faintest lavender. It was allunspeakably beautiful, as it has been countless times when Richard wasout with me. Because of the conviction that we'd never again see ittogether, the very beauty of it gave me a lonely, hopeless sort ofheart-ache. It is one of the most desolate sensations in the world, andit is a poignant pain to remember that "tender grace of a day that isdead," which "can never come back to me."
As those words floated dreamily through my memory, with them came therecollection of the time I had repeated them in this very boat, andRichard's unexpected answer which set Captain Kidd to barking. I couldhear again his hearty laugh and the teasing way he said, "That's no wayfor a good sport to do." It brought him back so plainly that I couldalmost see him sitting there opposite me in the boat, so big andcheerful and _alive_. The sense of nearness to him was almost ascomforting as if he had really spoken.
And then, knowing him as well as I do, knowing exactly how he alwaysresponded, in such a common-sense, matter-of-fact way, I could imaginethe answer he would make were I to tell him of Mrs. Tupman's request.
"Why, sure!" he'd say. "_Tell_ the stor
y of the little pigeon, and makeit such a ripping good one there won't be a dry eye in the house. It'llgive the little fellow the chance for another flight. Every stamp theysell will be in answer to an S.O.S. call of some kind, and if it's thebird that makes them buy, it'll be just the same as if his own littlewings had carried the message."
The thought cheered me up so much that I went straight home andtelephoned to Mrs. Tupman that I'd reconsidered, and I'd gladly do whatshe asked me to.
Since then I've taken to going out in the boat whenever my courage is atlow ebb. Out there on the water, in the peace of the vast twilightdropping down on the sea, I can conjure up that sense of his nearness asnowhere else. It has the same effect on my feverish spirit as if his bigfirm hand closed gently over mine. It quiets my forebodings. It steadiesme. 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 mustfind vent for his joy, when there are no words made great enough toexpress it? _We've had news of Richard!_ He's safe! He escaped from aGerman prison camp. That's all we know now, but it is all of heaven toknow 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 ofRichard's. We had an expensive little jubilee for a while there. Youdon't think of how much it's costing a minute when you're talking aboutthe dead coming to life. It was as wonderful as that.
"Cousin James" said undoubtedly we would have letters soon. The factthat Richard had not cabled for himself, made him afraid that he waslaid up for repairs. He was probably half-starved and weak to the pointof exhaustion from all he'd gone through in making his escape. So wemust have patience if we didn't hear right away. We could wait fordetails now that we had the greatest news of all, and so forth and soon.
The moment he rang off I started down to Uncle Darcy's, telling Tippyall there was to tell, as I clapped on my hat and hurried through thehall. I started down the back street half running. The baker's cart gaveme a lift down Bradford Street. I was almost breathless when I reachedthe gate.
Uncle Darcy was dozing in his arm-chair set out in the dooryard. Thereflashed into my mind that day long ago, when _his_ hopes found happyfulfillment and Dan came home. That day Father came back from China andwe all went out to meet the ship and came ashore in the motor boat. Andnow I called out to him what I had called to him then, through thedashing 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 welcomeand answered as he did when I was a child, the same affectionate lightin 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 cometo 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 oldmariners might, who had each known shipwreck and storm and who had eachknown 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 gladthat 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 skinand 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. Iknow _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 grantedthat he'd done all that could be expected of a man. That three months ina German prison was equal to several dyings. After I got home I toldCaptain Kidd. He was lying on the rug inside the hall door with his nosebetween his paws, seemingly asleep. "Richard's coming," was all I saidto him, but up he scrambled with that little yap of joy and ran to thescreen door scratching and whining to be let out. It was so human of himthat 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 awhile, old fellow, maybe a long, long while. But we won't mind thatnow, after all we've been through. Just now it's enough to know thathe's alive and safe."
* * * * *
MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY. It's wonderful that Richard's letter shouldhappen to get here on this particular day. The sight of his familiarhandwriting gave me such a thrill that it brought the tears. It wasalmost 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 aretoo fierce for him to attempt to put on paper till he is stronger. Babewas right. He's almost the shadow of his former self. But he says he isbeginning to pick up famously. He is in Switzerland, staying with afamily who were old friends of his father's. They are taking royal careof him, and he's coming around all right. The wound in his arm (hedoesn't say how he got it) is healing rapidly.
Oh, it's a dear letter--all the parts in between about wanting to seeme, and my being doubly dear to him now--but he doesn't say a word aboutcoming home. Not one word!
* * * * *
A WEEK LATER. He has written again, and he is not coming home until thewar is over. He'll be able to go back into the service in a couple ofmonths, maybe sooner, if he stays on quietly there. It isn't that hedoes not want to come. He has been behind the lines and seen theawfulness. It must be stopped. Those prison camps must be wiped out! Wemust win as soon as possible! He feels, as never before, the necessityfor quick action, and he makes me feel it too.
"Dad's sacrifice must not be in vain," he writes. "Nor Belgium's, northe hordes of brave men who have fallen since. And we must not go onsacrificing other lives. _This thing has got to be stopped!_
"I know you feel the same way about it, Georgina. I'm sure that you wantme to stay on here without asking for a furlough, since by staying I canbe up and at it again sooner. Say that you do, dearest, so that I mayfeel your courage back of me to the last ditch."
I have said it. The answer is already on its way. How could I be selfishenough 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 asanxious as mine, and of men at the front just as dear to those who lovethem as mine. I can wait!
And waiting--
_I see Richard ... climbing the Green Stairs ... coming into the littleHome of our Dreams! I see the smile in his dear eyes as he holds outhis arms to me ... having earned the right to make all those dreams cometrue ... having fought the good fight ... and kept the faith ... thatall 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!