Part 55 (1/2)
”I forgive him, too, you big goose!” cried Horace. ”I promise you that I'll do all I can for him-on your account. Though I must say-but no, I mean it, Promotheus. I forgive him from my heart, and I'll be as good a friend to him as I can.”
”Now, let the little gust o' wind come,” sez The. ”I'm perfectly ripe and ready for it, now.”
The' was silence for several minutes; and then Promotheus said in a faint voice: ”Friar, I wish you'd sing to me. All my life I've longed to hear a cradle-song, a regular baby cradle-song. I know it's a d.a.m.n-fool notion; but I never had it so strong as I've got it now-and I wish you'd sing one to me. My mother was a widow, mostly. She cleaned out offices at night to earn enough to keep us alive. She sacrificed her life for me, but I couldn't understand this then.
”Night after night I used to creep in from the street through dirty, stinkin' halls, and cry myself to sleep. An achin' came into my heart then which hasn't never quite left it; and it was this lonesomeness 'at finally made me run away-leavin' her to face it out-all by herself.
”My blood has turned to water, I reckon, and I feel like a baby to-night. I don't suffer, understand; I feel as though I was a little chap again, and that my mother didn't have to work; but was holdin' me on her lap. She did hold me that way once-the time the ambulance brought my old man home-but she couldn't sing then. It seems to me that if you'd just sing me a regular cradle-song-I could slip away into pleasant dreams.”
The Friar cleared his throat a time or two before he found his voice; and then he said in a low tone: ”I used to sleep in a store-box, Promotheus, when I was a lad-and I know exactly what you feel. I'll sing you a cradle-song, a song for little children of all ages. It is a great privilege to be a little child, Promotheus, and-and I wish you pleasant dreams.”
Then Friar Tuck drew a deep, full breath, and held it down until all the quiver had gone from his lips. When he started to sing, his voice was low an' soothin', and full o' tenderness; and after the first line, Promotheus gave a little sigh o' content, nodded his head, and shut his eyes.
The' was one tune we every last one of us liked. The Friar generally sang it to words which began: ”Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah”; and he usually sang it with a swing which was like a call to battle; and this time he sang the same tune, but soft and close and restful, and the words he used began: ”Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” These words sound purty flat when ya give 'em cold; but they didn't sound empty to us, as we stood lookin' down at Promotheus. All alone, he had taken his chance when he took on with Ty Jones; and now he was cas.h.i.+n' in this chance and it made us mighty sober.
The Friar finished the first four lines alone, and then the angels seemed to join in with him. We had all been purty certain that the'
wasn't nothin' in the shape of earthly melody fit to hold a candle to the Friar; but just at this point a new voice joined onto the Friar's which sent a thrill through us and made us stop breathin'. A queer, half frightened look crossed the Friar's face for a second; but his voice didn't waver for a single note. Instead, the' came a new tone of thanksgivin' and confidence in it which took all the sting out o'
death and made it all right and pleasant, like the cool and restfulness o' night, after the heat of day.
”All this day Thy hand has led me, And I thank Thee for Thy care; Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me; Listen to my evening prayer,”
went on the song and the' came an expression of wonder and of joy into The's tired face.
There are only three little verses to this one, and to fill out the tune they had to sing the first one over again, soft and low. The candles threw a soft glow on The's face which hid the pallor of it and the rough lines, but brought out all the kindly strength we had come to be so fond of; and when the music died away, we all sat still for fear o' disturbin' him.
Horace had been settin' holdin' one of his hands, and after a bit he leaned forward and whispered, ”Was that what you wanted, Promotheus?”
But the' wasn't any reply. The little gust o' wind had come with the song-and fully ripe, and soft to the core of his big, warm heart, Promotheus had loosed his hold on the bough of life, and dropped off onto the soft, deep gra.s.s of eternity.
”Promotheus! Promotheus!” cried Horace, and then covered his face with his hands and dropped forward upon The's quiet breast.
”Badger-face,” called a harsh voice, and we looked at Ty Jones and saw him leanin' towards The. ”Wait, Badger-face, wait-I want to speak to ya. I want to tell you that I lied to ya. Oh Lord, it's too late, it's too late!” And Ty Jones pressed his hand across his eyes and sank back.
Horace whirled to tell Ty what he thought of him; but the Friar placed his big hand on Horace's shoulder, and pointed down to The's placid face. Horace gave a shudderin' sob, and settled back into his former position.
Janet Morris crossed the floor to the Friar just then and said to him in a low tone: ”I have found it again-my voice has come back to me.”
Ty Jones took his hand down from his eyes and straightened up and looked at her. All the eagle had gone from his face, and it looked old and haggard. ”Don't you really know who I am?” he asked.
She looked at him and shook her head.
”I'm your half-brother,” he said. ”I'm Tyrell Jones Morris. Your mother might have been a good woman, but she was not good to me-she wasn't fair; she prejudiced my father again' me. You were sellin'
tickets at an elevated station in New York when I found you. You looked a good deal like your mother, for you were weak and sickly. I didn't know then, whether I brought you back with me because we had the same blood in our veins, or because I hated you-and I don't know yet. I'm not tellin' you this now, because I care any thing for you, or the preacher; but Badger-face was square, and I know now 'at he'd never have turned again' me if the rest of ya hadn't tampered with him. I'm sorry I didn't tell him before he died-and that's why I'm tellin' you now.”
I winked my eyes to the boys, and we filed out and went over to the bunk-shack. We lighted our pipes and sat a long time smokin' in silence. One by one they dropped off to bed until only me and ol' Tank Williams was left. Tank sat with a sour look on his face, and so deeply buried in thought that the burnt matches around his stool looked like a wood pile. ”What are ya thinkin' of, Tank?” I said to him.
”I'm not kickin', understand,” sez he; ”but it does seem to me that when all The asked for was a cradle-song, the Friar could 'a' thought up somethin' besides another one o' those doggone sheep-herder hymns.