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Lo, Michael!

<h1>Lo, Michael!</h1> <h2>by Grace Livingston Hill</h2> <hr /> “But, lo, Michael, one of the chief princes, came to help me.” —DANIEL, 10:13. <h3>Chapter I</h3> “Hi, there! Mikky! Look out!” It was an alert voice that called from a huddled group of urchins in the forefront of the crowd, but the child flashed past without heeding, straight up the stone steps where stood a beautiful baby smiling on the crowd. With his bundle of papers held high, and the late morning sunlight catching his tangle of golden hair, Mikky flung himself toward the little one. The sharp crack of a revolver from the opposite curbstone was simultaneous with their fall. Then all was confusion. It was a great stone house on Madison Avenue where the crowd had gathered. An automobile stood before the door, having but just come quietly up, and the baby girl three years old, in white velvet, and ermines, with her dark curls framed by an ermine-trimmed hood, and a bunch of silk rosebuds poised coquettishly over the brow vying with the soft roses of her cheeks came out the door with her nurse for her afternoon ride. Just an instant the nurse stepped back to the hall for the wrap she had dropped, leaving the baby alone, her dark eyes shining like stars under the straight dark brows, as she looked gleefully out in the world. It was just at that instant, as if by magic, that the crowd assembled. Perhaps it would be better to say that it was just at that minute that the crowd focused itself upon the particular house where the baby daughter of the president of a great defaulting bank lived. More or less all the morning, men had been gathering, passing the house, looking up with troubled or threatening faces toward the richly laced windows, shaking menacing heads, muttering imprecations, but there had been no disturbance, and no concerted crowd until the instant the baby appeared. The police had been more or less vigilant all the morning but had seen nothing to disturb them. The inevitable small boy had also been in evidence, with his natural instinct for excitement. Mikky with his papers often found himself in that quarter of a bright morning, and the starry eyes and dark curls of the little child were a vision for which he often searched the great windows as he passed this particular house: but the man with the evil face on the other side of the street, resting a shaking hand against the lamp post, and sighting the baby with a vindictive eye, had never been seen there before. It was Mikky who noticed him first: Mikky, who circling around him innocently had heard his imprecations against the rich, who caught the low-breathed oath as the baby appeared, and saw the ugly look on the man’s face. With instant alarm he had gone to the other side of the street, his eye upon the offender, and had been the first to see the covert motion, the flash of the hidden weapon and to fear the worst. But a second behind him his street companions saw his danger and cried out, too late. Mikky had flung himself in front of the beautiful baby, covering her with his great bundle of papers, and his own ragged, neglected little body; and receiving the bullet intended for her, went down with her as she fell. Instantly all was confusion. A child’s cry—a woman’s scream—the whistle of the police—the angry roar of the crowd who were like a pack of wild animals that had tasted blood. Stones flew, flung by men whose wrongs had smothered in their breasts and bred a fury of hate and murder. Women were trampled upon. Two of the great plate glass windows crashed as the flying missiles entered the magnificent home, regardless of costly lace and velvet hangings. The chauffeur attempted to run his car around the corner but was held up at once, and discreetly took himself out of the way, leaving the car in the hands of the mob who swarmed into it and over it, ruthlessly disfiguring it in their wrath. There was the loud report of exploding tires, the ripping of costly leather cushions, the groaning of fine machinery put to torture as the fury of the mob took vengeance on the car to show what they would like to do to its owner. Gone into bankruptcy! He! With a great electric car like that, and servants to serve him! With his baby attired in the trappings of a queen and his house swathed in lace that had taken the eyesight from many a poor lace-maker! He! Gone into bankruptcy, and slipping away scot free, while the men he had robbed stood helpless on his sidewalk, hungry and shabby and hopeless because the pittances they had put away in his bank, the result of slavery and sacrifice, were gone,—hopelessly gone! and they were too old, or too tired, or too filled with hate, to earn it again. The crowd surged and seethed madly, now snarling like beasts, now rumbling portentously like a storm, now babbling like an infant; a great emotional frenzy, throbbing with passion, goaded beyond fear, desperate with need; leaderless, and therefore the more dangerous. The very sight of that luxurious baby with her dancing eyes and happy smiles “rolling in luxury,” called to mind their own little puny darling, grimy with neglect, lean with want, and hollow-eyed with knowledge aforetime. Why should one baby be pampered and another starved? Why did the bank-president’s daughter have any better right to those wonderful furs and that exultant smile than their own babies? A glimpse into the depths of the rooms beyond the sheltering plate glass and drapery showed greater contrast even than they had dreamed between this home and the bare tenements they had left that morning, where the children were crying for bread and the wife shivering with cold. Because they loved their own their anger burned the fiercer; and for love of their pitiful scrawny babies that flower-like child in the doorway was hated with all the vehemence of their untamed natures. Their every breath cried out for vengeance, and with the brute instinct they sought to hurt the man through his child, because they had been hurt by the wrong done to their children. The policeman’s whistle had done its work, however. The startled inmates of the house had drawn the beautiful baby and her small preserver within the heavy carven doors, and borne them back to safety before the unorganized mob had time to force their way in. Amid the outcry and the disorder no one had noticed that Mikky had disappeared until his small band of companions set up an outcry, but even then no one heard. The mounted police had arrived, and orders were being given. The man who had fired the shot was arrested, handcuffed and marched away. The people were ordered right and left, and the officer’s horses rode ruthlessly through the masses. Law and order had arrived and there was nothing for the downtrodden but to flee. In a very short time the square was cleared and guarded by a large force. Only the newspaper men came and went without challenge. The threatening groups of men who still hovered about withdrew further and further. The wrecked automobile was patched up and taken away to the garage. The street became quiet, and by and by some workmen came hurriedly, importantly, and put in temporary protections where the window glass had been broken. Yet through it all a little knot of ragged newsboys stood their ground in front of the house. Until quiet was restored they had evaded each renewed command of officer or passer-by, and stayed there; whispering now and again in excited groups and pointing up to the house. Finally a tall policeman approached them: “Clear out of this, kids!” he said not unkindly. “Here’s no place for you. Clear out. Do you hear me? You can’t stay here no longer:” Then one of them wheeled upon him. He was the tallest of them all, with fierce little freckled face and flashing black eyes in which all the evil passions of four generations back looked out upon a world that had always been harsh. He was commonly known as fighting Buck. “Mikky’s in dare. He’s hurted. We kids can’t leave Mick alone. He might be dead.” Just at that moment a physician’s runabout drew up to the door, and the policeman fell back to let him pass into the house. Hard upon him followed the bank president in a closed carriage attended by several men in uniform who escorted him to the door and touched their hats politely as he vanished within. Around the corners scowling faces haunted the shadows, and murmured imprecations were scarcely withheld in spite of the mounted officers. A shot was fired down the street, and several policemen hurried away. But through it all the boys stood their ground. “Mikky’s in dare. He’s hurted. I seen him fall. Maybe he’s deaded. We kids want to take him away. Mikky didn’t do nothin’, Mikky jes’ tried to save der little kid. Mikky’s a good’un. You get the folks to put Mikky out here. We kids’ll take him away.” The policeman finally attended to the fierce pleading of the ragamuffins. Two or three newspaper men joined the knot around them and the story was presently written up with all the racy touches that the writers of the hour know how to use. Before night Buck, with his fierce black brows drawn in helpless defiance was adorning the evening papers in various attitudes as the different snapshots portrayed him, and the little group of newsboys and boot-blacks and good-for-nothings that stood around him figured for once in the eyes of the whole city. The small band held their place until forcibly removed. Some of them were barefoot, and stood shivering on the cold stones, their little sickly, grimy faces blue with anxiety and chill. The doctor came out of the house just as the last one, Buck, was being marched off with loud-voiced protest. He eyed the boy, and quickly understood the situation. “Look here!” he called to the officer. “Let me speak to the youngster. He’s a friend, I suppose, of the boy that was shot?” The officer nodded. “Well, boy, what’s all this fuss about?” He looked kindly, keenly into the defiant black eyes of Buck. “Mikky’s hurted—mebbe deaded. I wants to take him away from dare,” he burst forth sullenly. “We kids can’t go off’n’ leave Mikky in dare wid de rich guys. Mikky didn’t do no harm. He’s jes tryin’ to save de kid.” “Mikky. Is that the boy that took the shot in place of the little girl?” The boy nodded and looked anxiously into the kindly face of the doctor. “Yep. Hev you ben in dare? Did youse see Mikky? He’s got yaller hair. Is Mikky deaded?” “No, he isn’t dead,” said the physician kindly, “but he’s pretty badly hurt. The ball went through his shoulder and arm, and came mighty near some vital places. I’ve just been fixing him up comfortably, and he’ll be all right after a bit, but he’s got to lie very still right where he is and be taken care of.” “We kids’ll take care o’ Mikky!” said Buck proudly. “He tooked care of Jinney when she was sick, an’ we’ll take care o’ Mikky, all right, all right. You jes’ brang him out an’ we’ll fetch a wheelbarry an’ cart him off’n yer han’s. Mikky wouldn’t want to be in dare wid de rich guys.” “My dear fellow,” said the doctor, quite touched by the earnestness in Buck’s eyes, “that’s very good of you, I’m sure, and Mikky ought to appreciate his friends, but he’s being taken care of perfectly right where he is and he couldn’t be moved. It might kill him to move him, and if he stays where he is he will get well. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he added as he saw the lowering distress in the dumb eyes before him, “I’ll give you a bulletin every day. You be here tonight at five o’clock when I come out of the house and I’ll tell you just how he is. Then you needn’t worry about him. He’s in a beautiful room lying on a great big white bed and he has everything nice around him, and when I came away he was sleeping. I can take him a message for you when I go in tonight, if you like.” Half doubtfully the boy looked at him. “Will you tell Mikky to drop us down word ef he wants annythin’? Will you ast him ef he don’t want us to git him out?” “Sure!” said the doctor in kindly amusement. “You trust me and I’ll make good. Be here at five o’clock sharp and again tomorrow at quarter to eleven.” “He’s only a slum kid!” grumbled the officer. “’Tain’t worth while to take so much trouble. ’Sides, the folks won’t want um botherin’ ’round.” “Oh, he’s all right!” said the doctor. “He’s a friend worth having. You might need one yourself some day, you know. What’s your name, boy? Who shall I tell Mikky sent the message?” “Buck,” said the child gravely, “Fightin’ Buck, they calls me.” “Very appropriate name, I should think,” said the doctor smiling. “Well, run along Buck and be here at five o’clock.” Reluctantly the boy moved off. The officer again took up his stand in front of the house and quiet was restored to the street. Meantime, in the great house consternation reigned for a time. The nurse maid had reached the door in time to hear the shot and see the children fall. She barely escaped the bullet herself. She was an old servant of the family and therefore more frightened for her charge than for herself. She had the presence of mind to drag both children inside the house and shut and lock the door immediately, before the seething mob could break in. The mistress of the house fell in a dead faint as they carried her little laughing daughter up the stairs and a man and a maid followed with the boy who was unconscious. The servants rushed hither and thither; the housekeeper had the coolness to telephone the bank president what had happened, and to send for the family physician. No one knew yet just who was hurt or how much. Mikky had been brought inside because he blocked the doorway, and there was need for instantly shutting the door. If it had been easier to shove him out the nurse maid would probably have done that. But once inside common humanity bade them look after the unconscious boy’s needs, and besides, no one knew as yet just exactly what part Mikky had played in the small tragedy of the morning. “Where shall we take him?” said the man to the maid as they reached the second floor with their unconscious burden. “Not here, Thomas. Here’s no place for him. He’s as dirty as a pig. I can’t think what come over Morton to pull him inside, anyway. His own could have tended to him. Besides, such is better dead!” They hurried on past the luxurious rooms belonging to the lady of the mansion; up the next flight of stairs, and Norah paused by the bath-room door where the full light of the hall windows fell upon the grimy little figure of the child they carried. Norah the maid uttered an exclamation. “He’s not fit fer any place in this house. Look at his cloes. They’ll have to be cut off’n him, and he needs to go in the bath-tub before he can be laid anywheres. Let’s put him in the bath-room, and do you go an’ call Morton. She got him in here and she’ll have to bathe him. And bring me a pair of scissors. I’ll mebbe have to cut the cloes off’n him, they’re so filthy. Ach! The little beast!” Thomas, glad to be rid of his burden, dropped the boy on the bath-room floor and made off to call Morton. Norah, with little knowledge and less care, took no thought for the life of her patient. She was intent on making him fit to put between her clean sheets. She found the tattered garments none too tenacious in their hold to the little, half-naked body. One or two buttons and a string were their only attachments. Norah pulled them off with gingerly fingers, and holding them at arm’s length took them to the bath-room window whence she pitched them down into the paved court below, that led to the kitchen regions. Thomas could burn them, or put them on the ash pile by and by. She was certain they would never go on again, and wondered how they had been made to hold together this last time. Morton had not come yet, but Norah discovering a pool of blood under the little bare shoulder, lifted him quickly into the great white bath-tub and turned on the warm water. There was no use wasting time, and getting blood on white tiles that she would have to scrub. She was not unkind but she hated dirt, and partly supporting the child with one arm she applied herself to scrubbing him as vigorously as possible with the other hand. The shock of the water, not being very warm at first, brought returning consciousness to the boy for a moment, in one long shuddering sigh. The eyelashes trembled for an instant on the white cheeks, and his eyes opened; gazed dazedly, then wildly, on the strange surroundings, the water, and the vigorous Irish woman who had him in her power. He threw his arms up with a struggling motion, gasped as if with sudden pain and lost consciousness again, relaxing once more into the strong red arm that held him. It was just at this critical moment that Morton entered the bath-room. Morton was a trim, apple-cheeked Scotch woman of about thirty years, with neat yellow-brown hair coiled on the top of her head, a cheerful tilt to her freckled nose, and eyes so blue that in company with her rosy cheeks one thought at once of a flag. Heather and integrity exhaled from her very being, flamed from her cheeks, spoke from her loyal, stubborn chin, and looked from her trustworthy eyes. She had been with the bank president’s baby ever since the little star-eyed creature came into the world. “Och! look ye at the poor wee’un!” she exclaimed. “Ye’re hurtin’ him, Norah! Ye shouldn’t have bathed him the noo! Ye should’ve waited the docther’s comin’. Ye’ll mebbe kin kill him.” “Ach! Get out with yer soft talk!” said Norah, scrubbing the more vigorously. “Did yez suppose I’ll be afther havin’ all this filth in the nice clean sheets? Get ye to work an’ he’p me. Do ye hold ’im while I schrub!” She shifted the boy into the gentler arm’s of the nurse, and went to splashing all the harder. Then suddenly, before the nurse could protest, she had dashed a lot of foamy suds on the golden head and was scrubbing that with all her might. “Och, Norah!” cried the nurse in alarm. “You shouldn’t a done that! Ye’ll surely kill the bairn. Look at his poor wee shoulder a bleedin’, and his little face so white an’ still. Have ye no mercy at all, Norah? Rinse off that suds at once, an’ dry him softly. What’ll the docther be sayin’ to ye fer all this I can’t think. There, my poor bairnie,” she crooned to the child, softly drawing him closer as though he were conscious,— “There, there my bairnie, it’ll soon be over. It’ll be all right in just a minute, poor wee b’y! Poor wee b’y! There! There—” But Norah did her perfect work, and made the little lean body glistening white as polished marble, while the heavy hair hung limp like pale golden silk. The two women carried him to a bed in a large room at the back of the house, not far from the nursery, and laid him on a blanket, with his shoulder stanched with soft linen rags. Morton was softly drying his hair and crooning to the child—although he was still unconscious—begging Norah to put the blanket over him lest he catch cold; and Norah was still vigorously drying his feet unmindful of Morton’s pleading, when the doctor entered with a trained nurse. The boy lay white and still upon the blanket as the two women, startled, drew back from their task. The body, clean now, and beautifully shaped, might have been marble except for the delicate blue veins in wrists and temples. In spite of signs of privation and lack of nutrition there was about the boy a showing of strength in well developed muscles, and it went to the heart to see him lying helpless so, with his drenched gold hair and his closed eyes. The white limbs did not quiver, the lifeless fingers drooped limply, the white chest did not stir with any sign of breath, and yet the tender lips that curved in a cupid’s bow, were not altogether gone white. “What a beautiful child!” exclaimed the nurse involuntarily as she came near the bed. “He looks like a young god!” “He’s far more likely to be a young devil,” said the doctor grimly, leaning over him with practised eyes, and laying a listening ear to the quiet breast. Then, he started back. “He’s cold as ice! What have you been doing to him? It wasn’t a case of drowning, was it? You haven’t been giving him a bath at such a time as this, have you? Did you want to kill the kid outright?” “Oauch, the poor wee b’y!” sobbed Morton under her breath, her blue eyes drenched with tears that made them like blue lakes. “He’s like to my own wee b’y that I lost when he was a baby,” she explained in apology to the trained nurse who was not, however, regarding her in the least. Norah had vanished frightened to consult with Thomas. It was Morton who brought the things the doctor called for, and showed the nurse where to put her belongings; and after everything was done and the boy made comfortable and brought back to consciousness, it was she who stood at the foot of the bed and smiled upon him first in this new world to which he opened his eyes. His eyes were blue, heavenly blue and dark, but they were great with a brave fear as he glanced about on the strange faces. He looked like a wild bird, caught in a kindly hand,—a bird whose instincts held him still because he saw no way of flight, but whose heart was beating frightfully against his captor’s fingers. He looked from side to side of the room, and made a motion to rise from the pillow. It was a wild, furtive motion, as of one who has often been obliged to fly for safety, yet still has unlimited courage. There was also in his glance the gentle harmlessness and appeal of the winged thing that has been caught. “Well, youngster, you had a pretty close shave,” said the doctor jovially, “but you’ll pull through all right! You feel comfortable now?” The nurse was professionally quiet. “Poor wee b’y!” murmured Morton, her eyes drenched again. The boy looked from one to another doubtfully. Suddenly remembrance dawned upon him and comprehension entered his glance. He looked about the room and toward the door. There was question in his eyes that turned on the doctor but his lips formed no words. He looked at Morton, and knew her for the nurse of his baby. Suddenly he smiled, and that smile seemed to light up the whole room, and filled the heart of Morton with joy unspeakable. It seemed to her it was the smile of her own lost baby come back to shine upon her. The tears welled, up and the blue lakes ran over. The boy’s face was most lovely when he smiled. “Where is—de little kid?” It was Morton whose face he searched anxiously as he framed the eager question, and the woman’s intuition taught her how to answer. “She’s safe in her own wee crib takin’ her morning nap. She’s just new over,” answered the woman reassuringly. Still the eyes were not satisfied. “Did she”—he began slowly—“get—hurted?” “No, my bairnie, she’s all safe and sound as ever. It was your own self that saved her life.” The boy’s face lit up and he turned from one to another contentedly. His smile said: “Then I’m glad.” But not a word spoke his shy lips. “You’re a hero, kid!” said the doctor huskily. But the boy knew little about heroes and did not comprehend. The nurse by this time had donned her uniform and rattled up starchily to take her place at the bedside, and Morton and the doctor went away, the doctor to step once more into the lady’s room below to see if she was feeling quite herself again after her faint. The nurse leaned over the boy with a glass and spoon. He looked at it curiously, unknowingly. It was a situation entirely outside his experience. “Why don’t you take your medicine?” asked the nurse. The boy looked at the spoon again as it approached his lips and opened them to speak. “Is—” In went the medicine and the boy nearly choked, but he understood and smiled. “A hospital?” he finished. The nurse laughed. “No, it’s only a house. They brought you in, you know, when you were hurt out on the steps. You saved the little girl’s life. Didn’t you know it?” she said kindly, her heart won by his smile. A beautiful look rewarded her. “Is de little kid—in this house?” he asked slowly, wonderingly. It was as if he had asked if he were in heaven, there was so much awe in his tone. “Oh, yes, she’s here,” answered the nurse lightly. “Perhaps they’ll bring her in to see you sometime. Her father’s very grateful. He thinks it showed wonderful courage in you to risk your life for her sake.” But Mikky comprehended nothing about gratitude. He only took in the fact that the beautiful baby was in the house and might come there to see him. He settled to sleep quite happily with an occasional glad wistful glance toward the door, as the long lashes sank on the white cheeks, for the first sleep the boy had ever taken in a clean, white, soft bed. The prim nurse, softened for once from her precise attention to duties, stood and looked upon the lovely face of the sleeping child, wondered what his life had been, and how the future would be for him. She half pitied him that the ball had not gone nearer to the vital spot and taken him to heaven ere he missed the way, so angel-like his face appeared in the soft light of the sick room, with the shining gold hair fluffed back upon the pillow now, like a halo. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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