Читать книгу Candles' Beams - Francis J. Finn - Страница 9

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On a Monday morning of November I missed Francis Reardon from his accustomed place. Was the boy ill? For the past few weeks I had noticed a pallor upon his face—the pasty complexion seen only too often among the children of St. Xavier School; a complexion hinting at wretched nourishment, and indicating slow, slow starvation. Apparently, since the clearing up of the petty thefts, I had recaptured his heart; but his head was no longer mine. His mind was not on his studies, his attention was lackadaisical, and the written tasks he handed in were far from satisfactory. And yet the boy, it was clear, was making heroic efforts; but the efforts were as those of an oarsman against an overmastering current.

Frank was one of the few unanswered problems of my class. Everything, indeed, was going well. Every lad in the room went to Communion at least once a week; many of them daily. Master John Hogarth, following a little talk of mine on daily Communion, had constituted himself a committee of one to get the boys together on the matter. John, thin, clear-cut, frank, outspoken, earnest, reminded me often of St. Peter; he always wanted to do something. His friend, Edward Stevens, was ever his faithful lieutenant. Together they got up a “pledge” which read as follows: “I solemnly promise to Almighty God, His blessed Mother and Brother John, to go to Holy Communion at least once a week, if not oftener.”

They were rather hurt when I eliminated my name, both insisting that the change might affect the number of signers; but I carried my point, and they secured all the signatures. Hogarth, delighted with the success of this measure, then submitted to me another document, the composition of which, if I could judge by his ink-stained face and hands, must have cost him considerable thought and labor. It was entitled, “A Solemn Vow to go to Communion every day, meaning at least five days in the week.”

This document got no farther than my desk, and Hogarth went away, disappointed but not dispirited, to meditate new devices.

Francis Reardon was committed to go weekly; but it was doubtful whether he carried out his promise.

At recess of this particular Monday morning when Reardon was absent, Hogarth, when the others had left the room, thus addressed me:

“Say, Brother John, I think Roughneck didn’t go to Communion yesterday. Nobody saw him anyhow.”

“How do you know? He wasn’t at the children’s Mass?”

“No; and he wasn’t at six. Fatty served six, and is sure he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t at the 8:30, because I went to it to look for him. Do you think he’s sick?”

“That’s just exactly what I do think, John.”

“Well, then, I’m going to get the kids to club in and buy him some flowers,” and John made for the door.

“Hey there! hold on, John! Suppose you wait till we know something definite.”

At noontime I spoke to Brother Mark, a man who looked like Cassius and thought like St. Francis de Sales.

“Brother Mark, Reardon, who has looked quite bad for the last month or so, is absent to-day for the first time. I know it is not your custom to visit the homes of our students without special reasons; but I think we have them in this case. There are some things about the boy that I can’t make out at all. Perhaps one visit to his home may make everything clear.”

“You are right, Brother John; there seems to be special reasons. Immediately after class, we shall go together.”

However, we did not carry out our program to the letter. Brother Mark had some business with the Father in general charge of the schools, which detained him almost an hour, and when we finally started off it was already growing dark.

As we neared the gate fronting the school, our attention was drawn to a very little girl of seven and a tiny youth of six, who were holding each other’s hands and sobbing with abandon.

“What’s the matter, little girl?” asked Brother Mark, kindly.

At this question, the diminutive youth opened his mouth, threw his head back, and roared.

“There now, little boy, don’t cry,” I exclaimed, in answer to which advice the youth took a fresh breath and broke into a still more swelling theme. Thereupon, the little girl, in sympathy, raised her shrill pipe. Hand in hand, with heads tilted towards the sky and mouths opened to their widest, the two little ones, evidently brother and sister, gave voice to their distress in a duet that would not have done discredit to an opera after the extremest manner of Strauss.

Putting aside the cacophony, the picture was a pretty one—two little figures in all the innocence of youth, with linked hands, with flaxen heads thrown back, eyes closed, mouths open, and braced against the southern gatepost.

The situation would have puzzled me, but Brother Mark was equal to it. I saw his right hand dive into the capacious pocket of his coat and reappear with two pieces of candy. Into each open mouth the stern-faced philanthropist slipped a piece, with startling and instantaneous results. The mouths closed automatically, the heads were lowered, and the eyes opened with a new interest in things sublunary. Then there was heard instead of the late yells, the grinding of teeth.

“I’ve got more of the same stuff in the same pocket,” said Brother Mark, speaking, as I could see by the interest he aroused, very much to the point. “Now, children, tell us what is the matter.”

“I want to go home,” cried the very little boy, relapsing into sobs.

“We’re lotht,” supplemented the girl. “Our big thithter Annie mus’ have forgotten all about us.”

Sister Annie, it would appear, was in the habit of taking them home; they lived on Gilbert Avenue, the street on which resided Francis Reardon.

“Come along, children,” said Brother Mark; “we’re going that way ourselves. Here, give us your hand.”

There ensued a little confusion: both wanted to walk with the head Brother—the little boy coming out quite strong on the subject. Finally, with Brother Mark hand in hand with Master Eddie and myself holding the confiding, innocent hand of Edna, the procession moved forward.

There was an immediate freemasonry established between the head Brother and Eddie; I think a second piece of candy had much to do with it. Little Edna, however, for some time was silent. My questions failed to arouse her enthusiasm.

“Do you know many people on Gilbert Avenue?” I presently asked.

Then the flood-gates of her knowledge were let loose. She seemed to know everybody and everything in the section of that popular thoroughfare within the confines of St. Xavier parish. Much of her artless prattle I did not understand; but on she went from person to place, from babies to provisions, in all the sweet and lovely innocence of childhood. We had turned over on Broadway and then to Gilbert Avenue; and still she chattered. It was now twilight; the electric lights were flaring and spluttering; men and women of all sorts and conditions were rubbing elbows with us. We were in the grimiest part of a grimy city. And yet, as I walked on holding that confiding hand in mine and listening to that innocent voice, there came upon me a solemn sense of the presence of angels—the angels of these little children. The ground we trod upon, the air we breathed—sordid and smoke-stained both—were sacred. The prattle of a little child in the busy marts of men brought the angels of God closer to me than silent meditation in perfect solitude.

We left them presently at their door, smiling and waving their hands to us so long as they could get our eye. As we went on, I mentioned my feelings to Brother Mark.

“Strange,” he commented. “I had precisely the same sensation. And now, the angels are gone.”