XXV
The next Wednesday, at two o’clock, when they came again with the stream of visitors, and, with the eagerness of those who thirst and know where they will find water, hastened to the ward where Markus lay, they saw, as they entered, three green screens around his bed.
They had not yet learned what that means in a hospital ward, and they stepped up to the bed as hastily as ever, expecting that Markus might now be able to speak to them with more privacy. But Sjaak, at number six, saw them coming, and, thrusting out his lower lip compassionately, he shook his red head.
“Gone!” said he.
And Old Bram, on the other side:
“Just missed him! Gone—this mornin’!”
“Gone!” exclaimed Johannes, terrified and not understanding. “Where?”
“Well,” replied Sjaak, “if he’d only come back and tell me where, I’d know more than I do.”
And Bram, whom Sjaak could not see, on account of the screen, said to Marjon:
“He promised me,” striking the woolen covers with his fist, “that I’ll not be lost. He promised it, and I count on it. I just do!”
“What has happened to him?” asked Marjon, gradually comprehending.
“They operated on him,” said Sjaak. “They got the ash-can out of his brains. If he’d lived, then he’d ‘a’ walked again. He’d ‘a’ left the premises now, if he’d only lived.”
“Come with me, Marjon,” said Johannes; and he led her away. Then softly, “Shall we ask to see him—now?”
Marjon, pale as death, but calm, replied: “Not I, Jo. I want to keep the living picture before me as a last remembrance, not the dead one.”
Johannes, as pale as she, silently acquiesced.
Then he went to the head nurse and asked, softly and modestly:
“When is the funeral to be, Sister?”
The Sister, a small, trim, pale and spectacled lady, with a rather sour but yet not heartless face, gave the two a swift glance, and said, somewhat nervously and hurriedly:
“Oh, you mean number seven, do you not? Yes? Well, we know nothing about him. There is indeed no family, is there? There was no statement of birth—no ticket of removal—nothing. There is—ah... there is to be no funeral.”
“No funeral, Sister!” exclaimed Marjon. “But what then? What—what is to be done with... with him?”
Then the nurse, with a scientific severity probably more cruel than she purposed, said:
“The cadaver goes to the dissecting-rooms, Miss.”
For a time the two stood speechless—completely dismayed and horrified. They had not thought of that possibility—they were not prepared for such a thing. They both felt it unbearably gruesome, now that they faced the fact, and were without advice.
“Is there no help for it, Sister?” asked Johannes, stammering in his confusion. “Can it not... can it not... from the poor fund...?”
He comprehended that it would be a question of money, but he could see no relief.
More practical, Marjon immediately asked, “What would it cost, Sister?”
“I am sorry, Miss,” replied the nurse, her feelings now really touched for them, “but I fear you have come too late. You ought to have asked about that in advance. The professor has given express orders.”
“Twenty-five gulden, Sister? Would that be enough?” asked Marjon, perseveringly.
The Sister shrugged her shoulders.
“Possibly, if you ask the professor, and if you can prove that you belong to the family. But I am afraid it is too late.” The two turned away in silence.
“What shall we do, Marjon?” asked Johannes, when they were in the street.
“There is no use in going to that professor,” said Marjon. “He’s a conceited fool—bound to have his own way. But it’s a matter of money.”
“I have nothing, Marjon,” said Johannes.
“Neither have I, Jo—at least, nothing to begin with. But we must go after the people who do have something. You know who.”
“It is miserable work, Marjon.”
“It is that; but we shall maybe get still harder work on his account. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, of course; but neither will I shun it. I am going, now. I know well where you want me to go.”
“Good! They are the richest, are they not? But I, too, am going out to get something. You might not succeed there.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where there is money, Jo,—to the circus, and to Vrede-best.”
“Have you enough to get there with?”
“Yes. I’ve enough for that.”
Great was the indignation in the Roodhuis and Van Tijn households when they heard of the event. Sentimentality, the enjoyment of the sensational, and attachment to tradition—all this so moved the good women that their meagre purses contributed, without delay, three gulden and twenty-four cents.
In the meantime Johannes dragged himself to Dolores’ villa. In the drawing-room, beside a brightly flaming wood fire, sat Van Lieverlee engaged in lively conversation with two young-lady callers, for whom the countess was pouring tea. Into this circle came Johannes, with his sad heart and his lugubrious petition.
He entered hurriedly, awkwardly, abruptly, without heeding the astonished and disdainful looks of the visitors, nor the very evident consternation which his poverty-stricken appearance, his untoward entrance, and his melancholy tidings made upon host and hostess.
“But, Johannes,” said Van Lieverlee, “I thought you were more philosophical and had higher ideas than that. It seems to me that—for your friend who claimed to be a magician, and for yourself who believed in him—it makes a sad lot of bother what happens to the dust out of which his temporal presence was formed.”
“I thought,” replied Johannes, “that as you are now a Catholic, you might perhaps feel that you could do something for....”
“Certainly,” said Van Lieverlee, scornfully, “if your friend also were a Catholic. Was he?”
“No, Mijnheer,” replied Johannes.
“But, Johannes,” said the countess, “why was not your friend in a burial club? Nowadays all people of his class belong to such clubs. Is that not so, Freule?”
“Of course,” replied the Honorable Lady. “Every decent poor person belongs to a club. But it’s astonishing how people will complain of their poverty and yet be so thoughtless and careless.”
“Yes, astonishing,” sighed the other visitor.
“Then you will do nothing for me?” asked Johannes, not without a touch of bitterness in his tones.
The countess looked at Van Lieverlee, who frowned and shook his head.
“No, dear Johannes. For anything else, quite willingly; but for this there seems to be no justification.”
A whole night and day passed in which nothing could be done, since Marjon had not yet returned; and the three gulden and twenty-four cents had only increased by very slow degrees to about five gulden.
At last, on Saturday forenoon, a carriage drew up to the door of the little coffee-house, and out stepped a stately figure in black, which, with its old-time jetted bonnet, heavy rustling black-silk skirt, full mantilla, and a dainty, lavenderlike suggestion of linen chests, and of choice silken souvenirs, entirely filled the narrow entrance.
“Aunt Seréna!” cried Johannes. And in a quick impulse of warm affection he threw his arms around her.
“It is herself!” said Marjon, excited by her success. “And I’ve got ten gulden from the dark woman, who is not so bad as I thought she was.”
Aunt Seréna received a cup of coffee, and was soon on good terms with the Roodhuis family.
In the same carriage that had brought her, Marjon and Johannes drove with her to the hospital. They were sure of success, now, relying upon Aunt Seréna’s wealth.
But you will not be surprised to hear that they arrived too late—that the doorman, and the doctor on duty, gave them positive assurance that, for all the gold in the world, there could now be no question of burial—because no one could reassemble what had once been the body of their friend.
“Wretches!” muttered Marjon, as they went homeward. But Johannes cried out: “Oh, Marjon, Marjon, the time is not yet come for men to honor their kings.”
There was mourning only in the dark alcove behind the drinking-room of the total-abstainers’ coffee-house; but there the mourning, the sobbing and the sighing, were genuine.
Before going away, Aunt Seréna remarked:
“You see, the golden apples of my little tree were good for something, after all.”
“Ah, Aunt Seréna,” replied Johannes, “do not think me proud. I did not come to you before, because I was ashamed, even though you had said I need not be. But he has cured me of looking down upon others because they do not yet think as I do.”
“Then you will not be too proud to cherish my little apple-tree, if I leave it for you to transplant into your own garden?”
And she laughingly continued:
“That is not so kindly intentioned as it appears to be. I have a mischievous pleasure in thinking of your embarrassment at not knowing how to use it better than I did.”
“That is naughty of you, Aunt Seréna,” said Marjon.
“One thing I know,” said Johannes. “I shall spread broadcast, the ‘little apples,’ that from them new trees may grow; for he taught us that.”
“Good! You must come, some time, and explain that to me. God bless you both! And God bless your work, my children.”
“God bless you, Aunt Seréna! Give Daatje our greetings.”
And now I have told you all that I had to tell about Little Johannes.