The Silence of Johnny BY Harriette M. Collins.

“Is the letter from Johnny, Mary agra?” The pathetic appeal in Mrs. Ryan’s quavering voice, and the heart-hunger expressed in her wrinkled, parchment-like face brought a lump to the throat of her daughter as she replied:

“No, mother darlin’, it’s from Andy this time.”

“Why doesn’t Johnny write, an’ why doesn’t he come an’ see his poor ould mother afore she dies?” the old woman wailed. “Och, but me heart is sore wid the longin’ for me darlin’ boy, an’ me ould arrums is achin’ to hould him agin! Niver a word from him this three years, come Chrisymas! It’s not like Johnny! It’s not like Johnny at all, at all!”

“But, mother achree, Johnny doesn’t forget you,” Mary answered soothingly. “An’ he never forgets to send you two pounds every three months by Liza, or Andy, or Katie.”

“I know it, Mary. Johnny was always a ginerous boy: but it’s not his money I want, but himself back agin! Shure I’d rather beg wid Johnny than own the wurruld an’ all wid-dout him!” Mrs. Ryan answered. “Read Andy’s letter for me, Mary acushla.”

While Mary Ryan read aloud the letter which she had just brought from the village post-office, her mother gazed yearningly over the restless expanse of dark blue ocean, which stretched away to the crimsoning west. With dreamy eyes, which saw but heeded not, she watched the hovering, screaming sea-gulls, the white-sailed fishing-smacks and the long, black streak of smoke that, far away on the horizon, marked the course of an outward-bound steamer.

For many years Mrs. Ryan had been in the habit of sitting on the rude bench by the door of the cabin, that was perched high up on the rugged hill-side, and watching the steamers as they came and went.

Four times during those weary years the mother’s heart within her had grown numb with pain as she saw the black streak fade in the distance and knew that one of her darlings was being borne away from her.

Andy was the first to leave the overcrowded cabin and seek work in the grand land of plenty across the water. In a year, Andy sent the passage money for Liza, and, in another year, Liza sent the passage money for Katie. Then Johnny, the idol of her declining years, kissed his mother good-bye and, with cheery, hopeful voice, promised to return to her in two, or at most, three years. With that dumb resignation, sometimes born of a sense of hopeless inability to cope with circumstances, Mrs. Ryan had watched him wend his way, with many a backward glance and wave of the hand, down the narrow zig-zag path to the village and the train for Queenstown, where the merciless steamer waited to bear him away forever from her loving arms. She remembered still how the sunbeams had glinted upon his auburn hair that morning, and how handsome he had looked in his new tweed suit and green tie. She thought of the tears that had welled up in his blue eyes when she gave him her parting blessing, and she recalled the silent anguish with which she had sat by the cabin door and watched the black steamer, silhouetted against the golden sunset and slowly disappearing in the distance. It had been hard to see the others go, but Johnny—what would life be without Johnny?

That was five years ago. For two years Johnny had written regularly, telling of steady work and good wages, and promising to come home for a vacation as soon as possible. Then there came a short, badly-written note enclosed with a letter from Andy, and after that—silence.

Andy and Liza and Katie wrote regularly and sent money for the support of their mother and Mary. It was Mary’s mission to remain in the Old Country and take care of the feeble, aged mother.

Every three months, Andy or one of the girls sent an order for two pounds and wrote that Johnny sent it with his love. That was all. They never answered the questions concerning Johnny, his doings and his whereabouts which Mary repeatedly wrote at her mother’s behest.

“Is that all, Mary? Is there nothing at all, at all about Johnny?” Mrs. Ryan queried in disappointed tones, when her daughter had finished reading Andy’s letter.

“There’s not a word in it about Johnny, mother darlin’,” Mary answered reluctantly.

“Andy said Nancy Quin is comin’ home on the boat that gets in Saturday, didn’t he?”

“Yes, mother,” Mary replied, “Nancy is comin’ to spend a month with her people.”

“An’ Nancy Quin lives out in the same family as Liza?”

“Yes, mother; she’s parlor-maid where Liza’s cook.”

“Then, plaze God, Mary, when Nancy comes to see me I’ll larn the truth about the onnatural silence of Johnny! Och, but he was the darlin’ boy—always so gay and pleasant!”

There was a brief silence, after which the old woman drew a worn and yellow sheet of paper from beneath the plaid woolen kerchief that was folded across her bosom.

“Read it for me, Mary agra,” she said sadly, “read it for me agin—the last letter from Johnny. God bless him, wherever he is, this day an’ night!”

Mary held the frayed and faded sheet before her eyes. The writing was almost illegible and the paper was worn into holes where it had been folded, but she knew the words by heart and, as if conning a familiar lesson, repeated them slowly:

“Dear Mother. Don’t fret if I don’t write. I will sind money to you now an’ agin by Andy an’ the girls. Mebbe if it’s God’s will we’ll meet before long. God bless you, mother darlin’. Goodbye from Johnny.”

“Three years an’ niver a word from him!” sighed the old woman, as she again laid the long-treasured note in its accustomed place over her heart. “Och, but me ould eyes is achin’ for a sight of him—me darlin’ boy!”

The sunbeams were glittering upon the wide, heaving expanse of ocean which lay between Mrs. Ryan’s cabin and the great Western world whither her children had gone.

Sitting upon the beach by the open door, the aged woman watched Nancy Quin laboriously climbing the steep, zig-zag path which led to the cottage. When the visitor reached the door and the usual salutations had been exchanged, Mrs. Ryan steadfastly fixed her eyes upon the girl’s face and asked:

“In the name of God, Nancy Quin, why doesn’t Johnny write an’ why doesn’t he come home?”

“Arragh, thin, Mrs. Ryan, darlin’, how should I know that? I haven’t laid me eyes on Johnny these three years.” Nancy answered evasively, but her embarrassment and the compassion in her voice were not lost upon her questioner.

“Don’t lie to a poor, ould woman, Nancy acushla,” Mrs. Ryan entreated, “but tell me, God’s truth, where me boy is an’ why he doesn’t come to me?”

For a moment Nancy Quin looked with infinite pity into the anxious, wrinkled, pleading face, then, dropping her eyes before the old woman’s wistful gaze, answered brokenly:

“Don’t fret yourself about Johnny, Mrs. Ryan agra. You’ll soon see poor Johnny; you’ll be wid your boy before long,” and turning away with a stifled sob, she entered the cabin in search of Mary, while Mrs. Ryan sat very still upon the bench and gazed with tearless, unnaturally bright eyes out upon the bounding, white-crested waves of the Atlantic.

“Oh, Mary acushla, she’s read it in my face!” Nancy cried in remorseful tones, “an’ I promised I’d keep it from her.”

“Keep what from her?” Mary asked, anxiously. “Is it anything about Johnny, Nancy agra?”

“Yis, Mary,” Nancy answered sorrowfully, “Sure an’ it wrings me heart to tell you. Poor Johnny was killed—run over at a crossin’ three years ago.”

“An’ why didn’t they let us know?” Mary sobbed, “Where was the use of deceivin’ us?”

“It was the poor boy’s wish,” Nancy replied tearfully. “They took him to the hospital and kept him alive for a day, an’ before he died, he made Andy an’ the girls promise they’d never let his mother know of his end. He had a hundred and fifty dollars saved to take him home an’ he bade them sind it to her a little at a time wid his love. His last words were ‘Don’t let poor mother know! It would kill her! Don’t let poor mother know!’”

There was a long silence, broken only by the subdued sobbing of the girls. At last Mary said, wiping her eyes with her apron:

“By the help of God, Nancy, we must still keep it from mother. She’s not long for this world, an’ Johnny, poor boy, was the light of her eyes!”

Going out of the cabin, they found Mrs. Ryan still seated upon the bench.

“Mother darlin’,” Mary said softly, “it’s growin’ cold, an’ you’d better come in for your cup of tay.”

There was no answer. A smile of ineffable peace lingered upon the aged, care-worn face. In the faded blue eyes, whose unseeing gaze was fixed upon the merciless ocean which had taken her darlings, one by one, from her arms, shone the wondrous light “that never was on sea or land.”

To his mother, the silence of Johnny was no longer a mystery. He had not come to her, but she had gone to him.