MRS. VERNON ALL BUT ABANDONS HOPE
John Compton had vainly attempted to get any details in regard to
Bobby’s rescue. It had been a bad day for swimmers at Long Beach. The
waters had been unusually rough, and in consequence several bathers were
drowned and nearly a score in imminent danger rescued. Over the
telephone he got a complete list of those whom the life-savers had
brought safely in, but in that list was no name in any wise
corresponding with that of Bobby Vernon. Had not the earthquake come
along at the wrong moment, Bobby would not, unconsciously breaking his
promise, have run away, and Mrs. Vernon would not have been whisked into
the Pullman and been borne northward on the wings of steam. No; Bobby
would have waited and Mrs. Vernon would have remained. They would have
come together very shortly, and this story would not, failing that
earthquake, be worth the writing.
Nor would Mrs. Vernon have gone on toward San Luis Obispo utterly broken
in spirit. In reply to telegrams and long-distance telephone calls made
by Mrs. Sansone and the big-hearted nurse, they learned that no boy
corresponding to hers had been rescued, and that it was impossible at
the moment to give any adequate report of those who had met death in the
angry waters.
As for Bobby’s rescuer, when he returned to the beach and failed to find
the boy awaiting him, he was highly disgusted. The boy had broken his
promise and gone off without so much as a word of thanks. Being a
native, so to speak, it did not occur to him that an earthquake might
put a lone little lad into a panic. Meditating grimly on the
ungratefulness of mankind in general and of a certain small boy in
particular, he turned himself with a glum face to the bathing house. He
was already long overdue in the city, and putting the incident out of
his mind as an unpleasant memory, he went his way, telling no man of his
morning’s adventure. Thus it came about that Bobby’s rescue was recorded
only in heaven.
Thus too it came about that Barbara Vernon gave up all hope of her son’s
having been rescued. He was dead, and she was alone in the world. In
vain did Mrs. Sansone beg her to hope; equally in vain did Mrs. Feehan
fold her to her generous heart and whisper in her ear those sweet
nothings which love makes more valuable in such circumstances than
pearls of great price. Mrs. Vernon, dry-eyed and with set face, speaking
nothing, apparently hearing nothing, gazed into vacancy. Even Mrs.
Feehan, whose hope was as strong as her love, began to lose courage.
Something must be done or the poor bereaved widow might go mad.
Resigning the unhappy lady to the care of the Italian, Mrs. Feehan
walked through the car, scanning quickly the face of each passenger.
Disappointed in her inspection, she went into the next car, and as she
entered, the smile returned to her face.
Seated in a section near her entry was a venerable priest. His thick
spectacles failed to conceal the kindly old eyes; while the large, red,
weather-beaten face seemed somehow to tell the tale of myriad deeds of
consolation and kindness. To look upon him with unprejudiced eyes was by
way of loving him. He was sitting with folded hands.
“Oh, Father,” exclaimed the nurse, “pardon me for disturbing you. But
there is a woman in the next car who, I fear, will go mad unless some
one can reach her. She is a widow, and her only boy has just been
drowned. She is a devout Catholic, and I am almost certain that if any
one can bring her out of her despair a Catholic priest can do it. I’ve
dealt with a number of like cases, and I know it.”
The priest arose, and, as Mrs. Feehan observed, slipped his beads,
concealed in his folded hands, into his pocket.
“I’ll talk to her, my good woman, and while I talk, do you pray.”
As they entered the car the porter met them.
“You will find the lady in the drawing-room. I put her in there myself.”
“You’re a trump!” said the priest, patting the porter on the back.
Mrs. Vernon, as they entered, was showing once more some signs of
improvement. She was gazing not without a touch of tenderness down upon
the tear-stained, almost despairing face of the beautiful little child
Peggy, who on her knees was imploring forgiveness.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vernon. I lost my wits. But do forgive me.”
“She’s as good a girl as I know,” said the priest. “How are you, Peggy?”
“Oh, Father Galligan, ask her to forgive me!”
“I don’t know what it’s all about,” said the priest, “but I’m sure
little Peggy would not wilfully do anything wrong. As you expect God’s
help, my dear lady, in this trying hour, send this child away in peace
and quiet.”
Mrs. Vernon raised herself up and threw her arms about the little one’s
neck.
“There’s nothing to forgive, little dear. But pray, pray for me.”
“I think, madam,” observed the priest, “that if ever you were fit to
receive all that comes with the blessing of the Church now is the time.
Here, Peggy, kneel down and pray; and you too, Mrs. Sansone. And you
too,” he added, addressing himself to the nurse; “though I’m thinking
that Peggy’s prayers are worth all yours and mine put together. Now,
speed her up, Peggy, while I recite the Gospel of St. John.”
It was, in all seriousness, an exquisite prayer-meeting. If angels can
be influenced by human beauty, delicate innocence, and the awful faith
of childhood, legions of them must have pressed about the great White
Throne to tell the wondrous tale of Peggy’s praying. It is doubtful,
also, whether they could have been insensible to the ardent petitions of
the nurse and Peggy’s mother. However this may be, one thing is certain:
the authorized prayer of a priest uttered in the name of the Church has
an efficacy behind it which pierces high heaven. Such a prayer goes
flying upward, winged by the power of that Church, in whose name it is
uttered.
“Now,” said Father Galligan, closing his little book and gesturing the
suppliants to rise from their knees, “you may all go outside and talk
about your neighbors; and the more you talk about them the
better—provided you speak of their good qualities. This lady is going
to entertain me.”
“Well, we’ve all got to go now anyhow,” said Mrs. Sansone. “Los Angeles
is our home, and Mrs. Feehan with her dear little daughter is stopping
to visit a relation—”
“But if you say the word, Father,” put in Mrs. Feehan, “I’ll go on and
see Mrs. Vernon through.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary,” said the Father. “Take your
holiday and God bless you all. And don’t you forget, Peggy, to go to
communion every day you can. You need it, dear child.”
“Indeed I won’t forget, Father. Good-by, Mrs. Vernon. You are just
lovely, and I’ll pray for you every day and for Bobby.”
As Peggy left the compartment the priest lightly laid his hand on the
child’s raven-black hair and blessed her.
“Poor child!” he remarked to Mrs. Vernon. “She’s as lovely now and as
good as an angel. But she has the fatal gift of beauty, and she’s going
to grow up. Lovely, untainted children—and the world is full of
them—quite upset me. I don’t want them to die and I don’t want them to
grow up. Confound original sin anyway!”
“I’m sure my little boy is in heaven. But I am a mother. Oh, how I want
him! I can’t give him up!”
“You don’t know what you can do. None of us knows till we try. Remember,
there is a faith that moves mountains.”
“Thank you so much, Father,” said Mrs. Vernon. “A moment ago I was
tempted to take my life.”
“I’m sure the angels didn’t notice it, and so it won’t go on the
recording book. You have had a great sorrow. But listen to the words of
an old priest who has spent his priestly life of forty-three years
supping with sorrow—other people’s mainly. When God sends us a great
sorrow, He sends us a great strength, if we will only accept it. And
more: if we bear our sorrows in simple faith, somehow, somewhere, God
will turn our sorrow into joy.”
“Ah, Father, He can never give me back my son!”
“I don’t know about that,” demurred the Father, taking a pinch of snuff.
“Didn’t Christ say, ‘Out of these stones I can raise up children to
Abraham?’ Never say can’t when you’re talking about God.”
“I see, Father; you want of me the deepest faith.”
“Exactly, my good woman, the faith that moves mountains. ‘Earth has no
sorrow that heaven cannot heal.’”
“Father, I will try.” As she finished these words, Mrs. Vernon fell to
weeping.
“Good for you!” commented the priest. “What alarmed me most when I first
saw you was the fact of your being so dry-eyed. But let us talk about
something else. You don’t belong out here.”
“No, Father. I come from Cincinnati. My name is Barbara Vernon. Almost
two years ago I lost my husband. He died a good death; but he was a poor
business man, and the thing that bothered him most at his last hour was
that he had neglected to renew his life insurance. It lapsed just two
weeks before the day of his death.”
“An artist, possibly?”
“I think you might call him so, Father. He was an actor, and, if God had
given him a longer life, would have become a playwright. He was engaged
on the third and last act of a play when he took sick. I am confident,
not only on my own judgment, but on the authority of several critics,
that had he lived to complete it he would have made a fortune.”
“These artists are all alike,” commented the priest. “They see
everything in the heavens above and the waters under the earth but their
own interests. They all die uninsured—most of them, anyhow. But what
brings you out here?”
“The hope of straightening out my affairs. You see, my husband, on the
strength of his play, borrowed twenty-five hundred dollars on a note
which falls due September the first. I want to pay it. I feel it is my
duty. He borrowed from a friend who now needs the money. I have been
teaching elocution to private pupils ever since my husband’s death, and
have managed to put aside seven hundred dollars. Three months ago it
became clear to me that I could not possibly get the full amount
together. Now, there happens to live in San Luis Obispo a wealthy
relation of mine, an uncle whom I have not seen since I was a little
girl. He was very fond of me then, and he more than once asked me to
call on him if I were ever in trouble.”
“You did very well to come, Mrs. Vernon. He lives, you say, in San Luis
Obispo?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Perhaps I know him. I spent three years at San Luis. In fact, I was
there all of last year.”
“His name, Father, is Pedro Alvarez.”
The start which the priest gave was almost imperceptible. Not for
nothing had he heard over four hundred thousand confessions.
“Do you know him, Father?”
“I do.”
“And is he well?”
“I am just wondering,” mused the priest evasively, “whether he has much
money. He was wealthy once, but he lost heavily on some oil
investments.”
“But is he well, Father?”
“It is two months,” pursued the priest, “since I was in residence at San
Luis Obispo.”
At this moment the train stopped at a small station, and there was heard
a commotion without.
“There’s something wrong, I fear,” said the Father, glad of an
opportunity to change the subject. He now regretted that he had bidden
Mrs. Feehan take her holiday at Los Angeles.
“Reverend,” said the porter, entering suddenly, “there’s a man at the
station who’s been injured by a freight, and he is calling for a priest.
He may die any moment.”
“Excuse me,” said Father Galligan, rising quickly. “When I come back I
have something to tell you.”
Father Galligan did not return. The dying man needed him, and Mrs.
Vernon saw the priest no more. He only came and went, and touched her
life into a higher faith.
That evening Mrs. Vernon stepped off the car at San Luis Obispo. The
station was almost deserted. However, she had little trouble in getting
information about Alvarez, once very prominent in the city. He was dead.
He had died seven months before almost penniless and prepared by Father
Galligan. This it was that Father Galligan had intended telling her.
The train, while Mrs. Vernon was getting this information, departed.
The poor woman was almost beside herself. Wringing her hands, she paced
up and down the deserted platform, calling upon the Mother of Sorrows to
come to her aid. Five minutes or more passed when she was interrupted.
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said a plainly dressed man to whose hands
were clinging a girl of twelve and a boy who evidently was her younger
brother; “but do you know anything about nursing?”
The man’s face was troubled and eager. The two children had been
recently crying. Indeed, so it seemed to Mrs. Vernon, it had been a day
of calamity.
“I took nearly two years’ course of training.”
“Oh!” cried the girl, breaking into a smile.
“Then for the love of God, come to my help. My wife will die unless she
gets good nursing. The doctor has said it. Look at these two children.
Think of them without a mother. I’m a ranchman living thirty miles from
here. Money is no object. Name your own terms. I know you won’t refuse.
All afternoon I’ve looked and looked for a nurse. Before you say no,
look at these little ones.”
“Please!” cried the girl, clasping her hands.
“Come on!” entreated the boy, catching her arm.
Could the Mother of Sorrows have sent them?
“I hardly know how to refuse you, sir; but my own little boy has this
day been taken from me by drowning, carried out by the undertow at Long
Beach. I was not with him at the time, and I must go back and find
whether his body has been recovered.”
The ranchman took a careful and appraising look at Barbara.
“Madam,” he said, “I think I understand. I know how you feel. But let me
make a suggestion. You are in no condition to return to Long Beach; nor
would you know what to do when you got there. Now, I’m familiar with the
place and the conditions. I have, in fact, some influence there. Now
I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If for the sake of saving my dear wife’s
life you will come with me, I’ll take you at once to our home and will
return in time to get the next train to Long Beach. And I promise you
that I will do all that you could do and more, to learn anything,
however trivial it may seem, concerning your boy. Oh, madam, for the
love of God, give your consent. I am sure He has sent you to us.”
“Please, ma’am,” implored the girl.
“My mama needs you,” added the boy.
“In God’s name!” said the ranchman.
Taking everything into consideration, Barbara Vernon could not resist
these sweet children, this fond husband, and so a few minutes later she
was on her way in the ranchman’s machine to enter upon a new phase of
life.
Thus it fell that when the telegram from John Compton reached San Luis
Obispo the following afternoon no claimant for it could be discovered.