The Girl Who Never Grew Old

by John Fleming Wilson

 

CHIEF ENGINEER MICKEY O'ROURKE was dying on a stormy winter's afternoon, while Light Vessel No. 188 rolled deep in the roaring seas that swept before the gale toward the Columbia River bar. One twisted and bruised hand lay over his crushed side; with the other he covered his mouth, so that only his eyes, bright with pain, told of his suffering.

 

The Girl Who Never Grew Old

JOHN FLEMING WILSON

“No, no, misther!” he was telling the captain. “Ye'll take no boat in this weather to fetch a priest for me soul's passing.” He took his hand from over his lips that his words might come more plainly: “Sailors must eat what is helped, and the Good Mother above will be kind.”

Captain Nillson wedged his huge form in the doorway of the little room and pondered. Overhead was the thump of falling water, the screech of the wind. Throughout the ship's steel frame sounded the incessant thin clamor of the submarine bell. The dying man breathed harshly.

“A doctor might——” the skipper began again.

Mickey's mustaches bristled. “And have me last pay check spint by anybody else than me own sisther's childher in Oakland? Ye'll spind no money on that.”

Now Nillson knew and Mickey knew that the chance of getting a boat across the bar into Astoria in such weather was so slim as to be no chance at all. But Mickey also knew that Nillson would take that chance at a word. He smiled at the big figure in the doorway.

“I raymimber——” he commenced.

“Don't try to talk,” Nillson urged gently.

“'Tis little time I have to speak,” was the reply. “I was thinking of—of Tim, Tim Reardon. Tim had a love story. I have niver told it. To pass the time till eternity I will explain to ye why Tim, though he lived long and hard, and died alone, wid no woman's hand in his hair, was happy and in love till the end.”

“Mickey!” the skipper said, in protest. “I wouldn't try to tell us.”

“'Tis not for Tim's sake,” the engineer answered, turning his bright eyes to the beams above him. “'Tis for the sake of the gir-rl who niver grew old.”

Mickey wiped his lips with the edge of the blanket, and twisted himself painfully in the bunk. While the vessel he had tended so well through many years tossed wildly, and as if in agony itself, he told his last story.

 

Tim came from me own place, and his father's house stood on the slope of the same green hill as me own. A black-haired, quick-eyed felley he was, wid no woman's ways, and only the rough hands of him to make his rough path smooth. Maybe he dreamed. I dunno. At least he could niver explain what foolishness there was in his pate; and so he wint to sea, looking back across his shouldher as he stepped down the hill. But she—the gir-rl—didn't I speak of the gir-rl? No matther; there was a gir-rl, and she merely looked at him as he wint by to be gone foriver.

The sea is no place to act without thinking or to speak without listening. So me bould Tim wor-rked with his strength many years before he found himself suddenly made engineer of a small tug. From that he rose by slow degrees to the lofty position of fourth assistant on a mail boat out of San Francisco to the Orient. Whin he got his ticket, he sat down and thought.

And the sum of his thoughts was this: “I am still sthrong, being but thir-rty years old. I am unwed, and I have three pay checks still under the band of me cap.”

Having thought this, he raymimbered the gir-rl who lived at the foot of his father's hill, the little gir-rl with bare feet, and childher's eyes out of which a woman looked. He repeated her name to himself, and wint below to his watch in the engine room with his chest out; and, by the power of raymimbering, he kept away from the dhrink and rose to be second assistant. He was transferred to another boat undher a chief engineer by the name of Dan Mahoney, a terrible felley, and proud of his ability to say little and look much,

When me bould Tim came aboard and repor-rted, Mahoney glared at him, and between their eyes wint the fire of distaste.

“Am I niver to get anything in me depar-rtmint but poor scuts, who can do little to ear-rn their pay?” says the chief

“Such is the for-rtune of thim that deserve no betther,” says Tim boldly.

And they glowered at each other till the old man ordhered Tim to his duty.

Hatred is the life of the wor-rld. Thim that love each other may say nothing and be contint. But enemies must always be talking for fear their hatred'll die, and so disappoint thim. Because Tim Reardon and Dan Mahoney did not like each other, they spoke often and kept the fires war-rm between thim.

“The chief will niver let me go,” boasted me bould Tim. “If I leave the ship, he must sit alone in his room with no one to cur-rse.”

“If the rascal were wor-rth it, I would instantly dischar-rge him,” Mahoney would state with severity. “But nobody else would have such an ignoramus, and, as I have pity on him, I will give him bread and butter which should go to a betther man,”

Now, Mahoney lived in Alameda, across the bay from San Francisco, and each thrip he'd go solitary home without a wor-rd to the boys. But we knew why, for the pictures of his wife and daughter were on the bulkhead in his room, and the gir-rl was evidently too pretty for to be addressed by such as us.

Many is the time I have seen old Mahoney sit and stare at the gir-rl's portrait, his pipe cold between his lips, his hands gray on his knees. Did I say she was pretty?

Whin the good Lor-rd chose a mother for his Blessed Son, 'twas of such. She had the hair that should niver be touched but by delicate fingers, and her eyes looked at ye with trust and affection, and the call to be kind. Soft of flesh and silken of skin she was, and the cheek of her was dimpled into a hollow for the war-rmth of a baby's head—child, and woman, and angel! By the magic of photography, 'twas all down in the picture.

'Twas the portrait on the bulkhead that made us all wishful the chief would invite us to his house. Could we but see her sitting in a low chair undher the lamp, we'd ha' died happy. But niver a man of us was allowed to cross the bay and call, though many of us thried for the invitation.

So we were surprised at the gall of me bould Tim whin, one day, he looked at the chief engineer, who was most unreasonable that mor-rning, and said: “If it weren't for the sake of your sweet gir-rl, I'd lick ye for the wor-rds ye have spoken to me.”

“Ye say?” said the engineer, with a white face.

“I say I would pound ye to a jelly, if it weren't that your daughter saves ye,” repeated Tim.

And, be hivins, the old man wint away without a wor-rd.

Said a felley to Tim: “Ye're a wonderful lad. Ye've seen her. Are yez in love with her? How did ye meet her?”

“Be at no expinse to mind another's business,” replied Tim, scowling at us all.

“She is, indeed, a sweet creature,” says the felley, with all rayspect, but Tim answers him not at all.

At other times Tim would take chance, whin the old man was topside, to stare in at the picture of her on the bulkhead. One night I found him at the door, his eyes full of dreams. “I have done the chief a wrong,” says he.

“Ye mean?” I demanded,

“After all, she is too good for the likes of us,” says he.

“How did ye make her acquaintance?” I inquires, but Tim only tur-rned his eyes on me coldly.

Before long we saw that Reardon was making up to Mahoney. He no longer curr-rsed him aloud. He did many extra jobs. Each time we were nearing por-rt on this side he would dress up and make opportunity to speak. But Mahoney niver let up on him, nor paid any attintion to his efforts to be agreeable.

Me breath is shor-rt and me story long. I will pass over two years, during which Mahoney grew silent again, and me brave Tim wor-rked har-rd and said little. But we all knew he was striving for the gir-rl, and we stood aside, because in his eyes was the love of her.

One black night, as we were docking in San Francisco, with a sthrong ebb tide, and the engines wor-rking their best to get the ship into her slip, an accident happened. The chief engineer stood by an open side por-rt waiting for the machines to be rung down. His foot twisted on a coil of rope, and before he could get handhold or foothold, he shot out of the opening into the dar-rkness.

Tim was just coming along the main deck and, without a wor-rd, he wint overside after Mahoney.

'Twas bitter cold, and the tide was roaring through the piles and boiling out into the channel and to sea. In ten seconds we had heaving lines and lanter-rns ready swung down between the ship and the dock, and a boat lowering away on the other side to pick them up whin they wint past the ster-rn. But they were vanished, and neither look nor cry did we get from thim for two hours,

“No use,” says the mate, after a while. “They have been sucked out into deep wather, and are now drifting with the dar-rk tide.” And he hove in the boat again.

So we were astonished whin, about midnight, me bould Tim tur-rns up, with the ould chief, gray and weak, in his ar-rm. They said nothing whilst we helped the ould man to his room, and Tim went to his room for dhry clothes.

I wint in to see him. “How did ye manage it?” I asked him. “We tried for ye two hours.”

“The old man sthruck his head when he fell,” says Tim. “I found him rolling about in the tideway, and 'twas not till we were an hour in the wather that he came to, and we swam ashore.”

“Ye're a brave man,” says I,

“W'u'd ye leave the gir-rl without definder or father?” he demands.

Thin I knew that love in his hear-rt was the strength of him. “Now ye'll win the gir-rl,” I remar-rks to mesilf.

Next mor-rn, whilst Tim was at wor-rk in the engine room, the chief came down. He spoke to no one, but walked straight to me bould Tim, his hands behind his back.

“Misther Reardon, ye've saved me life,” he says in a loud, hoarse voice. “I am grateful to ye.”

“'Twas nothing,” says Tim, looking him in the eyes.

“I did not think ye'd do such for an ould man,” says Mahoney, staring at him har-rd.

“I did not,” answers Tim.

And they looked each other fair and straight till the chief tur-rned on his heel and wint away.

“Bad cess to such!” says a felley near by.

“'Tis his way,” answers Tim, going about his duties. “It doesn't matther.”

That afternoon I found Tim in his room, sitting on his chair and gazing at something. I saw that he was dreaming. I thrust me head in at the door to speak with him. But I did not. On the bulkhead above his desk was the gir-rl's portrait, the picture of Mary Mahoney. I wint away for an hour.

Whin I came back I spoke to him. “Ye have the picture, Tim.”

“I found it in me bunk whin I came off watch,” says he.

“'Tis a sign,” I remar-rks.

“'Tis a sign,” says Tim, and stretches the big ar-rms of him.

“The chief put it there,” I wint on.

“Her father,” he answers, with bright eyes.

“And now?” I inquires.

“And now——” he began and choked. I left him, knowing that his hear-rt was full.

Later I wint to the chief's room with me log book. The ould man sat with a cold pipe between his lips, staring at the empty wall, with the square of white paint standing out where the portrait had been.

“Here is the log, chief,” I says rayspectfully.

He answered me not at all, and I wint away, for his face was white with pain.

That night I got liberty and dressed mesilf up to go and see me sister, who lived in Alameda at the time. As I waited for the ferryboat, who should I come upon but me bould Tim Reardon, dressed in new clothes, and with a flower to his buttonhole. He was looking like a man who sees nothing. I touched him on the ar-rm. He tur-rned and stared at me a moment, and then he said:

“Where are ye going, Mickey?”

“To Alameda to see me own bor-rn sister,” I answers him. “And what is the flower in your coat? Is it a sign?”

“It is a sign,” says he, the eyes of him war-rm and bright.

“Ye'll see her?” I inquires.

“The chief has said so,” he replies.

“Thin ye've won her?” says I,

He whispered: “I wondher will she have me? I am not fit even to speak to her. Mickey, I'm afraid!”

I looked at him, and saw that he spoke thrue. 'Tis the way of men to be afraid whin 'tis all over. So I stood beside till the boat was in and the gate opened. Then I took him by the ar-rm and we wint aboard.

'Twas the longest thrip ever made by a fast ferryboat to Alameda Mole. Me bould Tim said niver a wor-rd, but sat and stared at the dar-rkness outside. Whin we landed and were in the train, he said: “We will get off at Central Avenue.”

“You will, but I will not,” I remar-rks. “Me station is High Street.”

“Will ye desert a shipmate?” he demands.

“For why should mesilf go with a lover to see his sweethear-rt?” I inquires, mad with him for his slackness.

“Come with me as far as the door,” says he. “I have niver met her mother.”

“Nor have I,” I retor-rts.

“The chief will not be there,” he wint on. “Shall I have no man to give me me face before the two of thim?”

“'Tis the gir-rl and not her mother that counts,” says I.

The boy groaned. “Come with me or I'll niver be able to knock at the door,” he pleads with me.

“Rather than see the gir-rl disappointed afther waiting so long, I will ring the bell for ye,” I assents. “But shame on ye, Tim Reardon, for a polthroon and no lover at all, at all.”

So we got off at Central Avenue, undher the bright gas lamps—'twas many years ago, and no electricity in the streets—and he tould me the address. As we went towar-rd it I could feel the ar-rm of him swelling against mine, and I pictured to mesilf the sweet creature opening the door and looking at him from her gentle hear-rt.

We found the house, a small cottage set back in a small yar-rd. There was a light behind the transom, and we could read the number plainly. “Ye're expicted,” I tould him. “Go on alone. I will go and see me sister.”

“Ye'll come with me,” he says, in a commanding voice. “I leave it to you to inthroduce me to the mother whom I-have niver met.”

So I rang the bell and waited behind me gallant Tim till the door should open. And I resolved that if the gir-rl stood in the light, I would disappear and leave thim to their happiness.

We hear-rd steps coming slowly down the hall. Tim took off his hat. An ould lady opened the door and looked at us gently, with no wor-rd for us. I waited for me companion to speak, but he was dumb.

“Is it Mrs, Mahoney, ma'am?” I says, with me best bow, to help the poor divil out.

“It is,” says she. Then she brushed two thin hands down over her skir-rt. “Are yez from the ship?” she inquires.

“This is Second Assistant Reardon, and I am Thir-rd Assistant O'Rourke,” I tould her politely. “We came to call.”

She stepped back and we wint in. “Where is the chief?” she asked in her quiet voice.

“He couldn't come, owing to wor-rk to be done,” I managed to explain, and would have gone at the moment, but that she took me hat.

So we removed our coats and hats, and waited for her to open the parlor door, which she did slowly. We entered a little sitting room, furnished as women do such things, and there we sat down. Mrs. Mahoney sat down herself, very silently, on a stiff chair by a closed piano, and gazed at us politely, with her white hands folded in her lap.

I hear-rd no sound in the house. None of us said anything at all, and I cur-rsed mesilf for coming and being there. What business was it of mine?

Presintly me bould Tim, with a foolish smile on his face, pointed to a photograph on the marble-topped table that was undher the lamp.

“Why, there's a picture of Mary,” says he.

Mrs. Mahoney looked at him with an odd expression, much as to say, “And how do you know?”

I took it up. “And a very good portrait it is,” I remar-rks.

“Yes,” she answers. “A very good likeness.”

Me bould Tim looked suddenly happy. “Beautiful,” says he. “And how long ago was it taken?” He walked to the table and picked up the picture. “'Tis an enlargement like the other,” says he.

“Yes,” she replies.

“I see that it was taken in Boston,” Tim goes on.

Mrs. Mahoney once more smoothed her skir-rts down and said, in a dull voice: “Yes. 'Twas there she died.”

No more was there said for a full five minutes. Then Tim spoke up in a far-away voice: “I think——” He got no fur-rther, but stared at the portrait.

“She died nine years and eight months ago,” says Mrs. Mahoney, raising her tired eyes to us. “The picture was taken when she was eighteen. She died that year. We couldn't live in Boston after that, so we came West.”

Very quietly, Tim got up and held out his hand, saying nothing.

The ould lady spoke up. “Say nothing to me husband about Mary,” says she. “He cannot bear to speak of her. She died of pneumonia while he was at sea.” She smiled dimly at us. “Me own name is Mary, but he can't call me that for choking.”

We wint out, through the little yar-rd, and down the street. We waited for the train, and we wint together back to the ship. There, by the door of his room, I left Tim Reardon, and then wint to me own room.

As I passed the chief's door, I saw him inside, sitting with a cold pipe in his mouth, the gray hands of him on his knees, the eyes of him bur-rnt with pain for the gir-rl he had twice lost.

Next day me bould Tim quit the ship and disappeared for many years. I saw him once in a while, and he kept the portrait of the gir-rl always with him. Maybe he was a bit crazed by his sorra, At any rate, he niver seemed to think her dead. One day I met him on the old City of Puebla, where he was assistant. I stopped in for a yar-rn, and saw the picture on his bulkhead. Afther many little things I pointed to it. “Ye still keep it?” I inquired.

“No one can iver take her away from me,” says he. “Her father gave her to me. I have lived har-rd and wrong in many things. But whin I see her, I can look her in the sweet eyes and hold out clean ar-rms to her. 'Tis long to wait,” says he, “but she niver grows ould, and so—what matther?”

I have tould the story of Mary Mahoney, the gir-rl who niver died, who was immor-rtal because she was loved and protected, and niver hear-rd rough wor-rds, nor saw rough deeds, nor wept because of a wicked wor-rld. And now I have finished.

 

Mickey looked at us all brightly, his hand once more over his twisted lips.

The skipper laid a gentle hand on the bruised arm. “I will get you a priest.”

O'Rourke shook his head. “No! I would die alone.”

We made him as comfortable as possible, and went about the duties of the evening. When the lights were lit and shining into the murk and storm, the watch set, and the jumping cable freshly stoppered, we went back to the cabin.

Under the swinging lamp above his bunk, Michael O'Rourke lay dead, all pain wiped from his face. Nillson started to pull the blanket up over the gray head. Something tumbled out to the deck. I picked it up. It was the photograph of a young girl, evidently taken many years before. Out of its crudity shone youth, and tenderness, and loveliness as we gazed at it by the shaking light. The skipper took it gently in his hand, looked at it, turned it over, read the writing on the back, and then said in his steady voice: “This is the end of Mickey's last story. This is the portrait of Mary Mahoney.”

We left him with the picture over his heart.