On the outskirts of one of our large mill towns, at the very end of a
narrow street lined on each side by a row of dwelling houses of the
poorer class, stood a tiny cottage. It was a humble, unpretentious abode
of only four rooms, but it was home to the weary girl struggling up the
hillside. The tired eyes brightened and lagging steps quickened
involuntarily as she turned the corner and saw the welcoming light
streaming from the kitchen window.
It was very late on the eve of Christmas day and the street was deserted
save for the solitary figure hastening towards that beacon light of
home. Darkness and silence reigned in most of the houses she passed, and
she sighed as she said to herself:
"Poor mother! Still up and still at work. I wish she would not work so
hard; there is no need for it now."
Reaching the kitchen window, she stood for a moment to take note of the
little scene within. By the table her mother sat sewing, her head bent
over her work and fingers flying as she plied the needle in and out. As
the girl watched, the mother looked up at the clock on the shelf above
the stove, shook her head sadly, and hastily brushing away the tears
which spring to her eyes, resumed her sewing.
"Poor mother!" again sighed the girl. "Worrying about Tim, as usual, I
suppose." Then opening the kitchen door, she stepped into the welcome
warmth and light of home.
"Well, little mother," she cried cheerily; "here I am at last, and I
suppose you thought I was never coming. You see, dear, we had to work
very late to-night to finish a large order. Then there was confession
and I was delayed there quite a while. I was almost the last to be heard
and it was considerably after ten by the time I left the church.
Everyone in town seemed to be going to confession to-night."
"Not everyone," said her mother sadly. "There is _one_ who has not been
in spite of his promise to us and to the Father."
The girl glanced quickly at the table on which plates for two were
laid, then at the supper keeping hot upon the stove, and exclaimed
rather bitterly:
"So Tim is away again, as usual, is he? And he promised faithfully to
come home early to-night and go to confession for Christmas. But then,
he promised the same last Easter and every First Friday since, and has
broken his word every time. Mother, how long is it now since Tim has
been to Mass or to confession?"
"I do not like to think, child; it's a pretty long time. I can't
understand what has come over him. He used to be such a good boy, such a
help and comfort to me, and now he is slowly breaking my heart. I've had
trials enough, trials enough, as you know, but I never complained. I
never murmured till now. I was always ready to say: 'God's will be
done.' But this, this is different. Long ago, when you and Tim were
children, and the twins upstairs were but a few weeks old, and your
father met with that accident that crippled him for life, I only said:
'God's will be done.' All through the years he lingered in sickness and
suffering and I had to work day and night, day and night to support you
all, I still said only: 'God's will be done.' All through that long,
hard fight to keep starvation from the door, when I saw my little
children crying at times with cold and hunger, and watched my husband
slowly dying and was unable to give him any of those little comforts and
luxuries which the sick require, my only words were: 'His holy will be
done.' But in this, the worst of all the trials that have come to me,
when I see my boy drifting away from us all, turning his back on God and
his religion and wandering away night after night with careless, jovial
companions, intent only on the pursuits of pleasure and folly; God help
me, I simply cannot bow my head and say: 'God's will be done'"; and
tears streamed unheeded from the mother's eyes.
The girl stepped quickly to her mother's side and drew the gray head
gently to her shoulder, whispering comfortingly: "There, there, little
mother, don't cry so. You are fretting yourself to death over Tim, and
surely, surely, things will come right in the end. Tim is not a bad boy,
mother dear, only a little wild just now. Remember how good he used to
be, how kind, how helpful, in that hard time you were just speaking
about. Remember how good he was when father died, and how young he was
when he first went to work to help you support us all. Tim's a good boy
at heart, mother, and he's bound to come back before long."
"Yes, dearie, that's what the Father says," returned her mother, slowly
drying her eyes and rising to lay the girl's supper upon the table.
"He says not to worry but just pray, pray, pray, and Tim will surely
come back before long. But there, dear, sit down and eat your supper;
then we'll fill the children's stockings for I can guess what is in all
those parcels you brought home. Poor little things, it would not be
Christmas for them unless they hung their stockings. Thank God, I've
always managed to find something to put into them if it was only an
orange or an apple and a little candy. Indeed, that's about all it was
when you and Tim were younger, but life is so much easier now that you
are helping me."
"And it is going to be easier still, mother dear, and you will be the
happiest little woman in the world one of these days. This wild spell of
Tim's is bound to pass and then he will settle down and be his own old
self again. There, dear," the girl continued, a few moments later; "my
supper is finished and now I'll clear away these dishes and fill the
children's stockings. Just see all the pretty things I've brought for
them. Won't their little eyes dance when they see them! Then, mother
dear, before we go to sleep, you and I will say the rosary for Tim. It
is too late for him to go to confession to-night, but wherever he is,
and God alone knows where he may be, he needs our prayers and he will
have them. As the good Father said, we will pray, pray, pray. If we only
pray hard enough and trust hard enough, things are bound to come right
in the end."
The afternoon and evening had been unusually busy ones for Father
Xavier. Hour after hour he had sat in the confessional listening to the
tales of sin and sorrow that were poured into his ears. Hour after hour
he had spent bestowing the priestly absolution on the repentant sinner,
giving fatherly advice and consolation to the sorrowful, sending all
those troubled souls away lighter and happier for his ministrations.
Hour after hour he had waited, hoping against hope, for the sound of the
one voice above all others which he most desired to hear.
In a town like that which formed Father Xavier's parish, the pastor is
indeed the father of his flock. Every man, woman and child is known to
him personally, and he takes a direct interest in each one's welfare. As
Father Xavier sat that Christmas eve and listened to the confessions of
his people, his heart grew sad and hope gradually died away as he waited
in vain for the voice of one whom he was striving to bring back to God
and to his duty.
The crowd of penitents melted away one by one, the few last stragglers
had been heard, and still the priest waited in his confessional. The boy
might possibly come even yet, his boy whom he had loved with a special
affection ever since he was a tiny little chap first learning his
prayers in the baby class of the Sunday-school. Why was it he had not
been able to hold the boy? Why had he not been able to prevent his
wandering away with bad companions, this absolute neglect of all
religious duties on the part of his boy? Why could he not succeed in
bringing him back again even though the boy had wandered far afield?
Father Xavier had hoped much from this Christmas eve, for Tim had
promised faithfully to make his confession and to start anew in the path
from which his feet had strayed. Tim had promised it as his Christmas
gift to the Father. Yes, Tim had promised, but Tim had broken his
promise.
With a sigh of utter weariness, weariness of body, weariness of mind,
Father Xavier rose and left the confessional. He glanced over the
church; it was empty. He glanced towards the altar and his eyes rested
on the sanctuary lamp which appeared to be burning with unwonted
brightness.
The hour was late, much later than he was accustomed to keep the church
open, still he lingered, unwilling to give up a last forlorn hope that
his boy might yet keep his promise. With eyes fixed on the Tabernacle
door, the priest knelt and commenced to recite the rosary, pleading,
pleading for his boy. The joyful mysteries were finished and no one
came; the sorrowful, still no one; finally, the glorious mysteries, and
still the priest was alone.
With one last appeal for the welfare of that wandering soul, Father
Xavier rose from his knees and walked to the door of the church to close
it for the night. He passed out on the steps and stood for a moment
listening to a band of roisterers that were coming up the street
disturbing the peaceful quiet of the night with their noisy songs and
laughter. Where was his boy at that moment? He might possibly be with
this very band of half-drunken revellers who were even now passing by
and would soon be swallowed up in the darkness of the street. If not
with this band, he was probably wandering somewhere with another just
like it. Where was his boy at that moment? The priest turned, re-entered
the church, and locking the door, passed up the aisle extinguishing the
lights as he went along. He stood before the altar and once more looked
at the sanctuary lamp. It was certainly burning with unusual brightness
to-night. It set weird, fantastic shadows dancing along the walls and
peopled the dim recesses of the church with goblin shapes. It seemed
beckoning to him, calling to him, drawing him gradually to the steps of
the altar, where he sank upon his knees to pray once more for his
wandering boy.
For yet an hour the priest lingered before the Tabernacle. Then, utterly
worn out in mind and body, he passed through the sacristy, locked the
door, and mounted the steps of his own house to seek a few hours of
rest before commencing the arduous duties of Christmas day.
The church and rectory were situated on a hill and the priest stood in
his doorway and looked down upon the town below. It was now after
midnight, but many lights were still burning and the faint sound of
distant merry-making reached the priest's ears. Was his boy down there
among the revellers?
Beyond the town lay the river, frozen, dark and still; and beyond that
again shone the lights of the neighboring city. Was his boy over there
beyond that dark, silent river? Was he over there in the city in some
one of those dens of iniquity which had lured so many young men to their
ruin?
Well, wherever the boy was he must be left now to the care of God and
his angel for Father Xavier had done all he could that night; and the
priest went in and closed the door.
At that same moment, in a little cottage at the other end of the town, a
sleepless mother rose from her knees beside the kitchen table and passed
slowly up the stairs to her own room. The children and the eldest girl
were long since asleep, but the mother could not rest for thinking of
her wayward boy. Where was he to-night; where at this very moment? And
he had promised, promised faithfully to turn over a new leaf with this
Christmas eve. Christmas eve was here, nay, it was come and gone for
midnight had sounded and it was now Christmas morning. Still, this night
must be for her as all those other nights when she had lain awake hour
after hour listening in silent anguish for the footstep that did not
come. She had hoped much from that promise of his to Father Xavier and
to her, and her disappointment was proportionately bitter.
The mother walked to the window and looked out upon the silent, frosty
night. Low down upon the horizon myriads of stars were twinkling
merrily, but high up in the heavens the moon shone with a brilliant
radiance that totally eclipsed all lesser lights. The night was very
still, very beautiful, but the silence and the beauty failed to bring
peace to the mother's heart. She looked up into the heavens. How
placidly cold the moon looked back at her, the same moon that was
probably shedding its beams upon her boy at that moment and could tell
her where he was if it could but speak. Why, oh why, could those beams
not speak and tell her what they saw; why could they not bring her some
message from the absent one! She had never felt like this before, she
had never felt so restless, so uneasy. It was impossible to think of
sleep; she would pray still longer. Perhaps the boy needed her prayers;
perhaps he was in danger, danger of body, danger of soul, and needed her
help. Her rosary in her fingers, she knelt by the window praying,
praying, while the moonbeams danced and played around the kneeling
figure. Perhaps it was just as well they could not speak and tell her
what they saw out there upon the river. Perhaps they were trying to tell
her and could not; trying to tell her of the three men, one of whom was
scarce more than a boy, struggling out there in the icy water,
struggling for life as the current sought to drag them down beneath the
frozen surface. Their fingers clutched desperately at the ragged edges
of the ice that had broken through with them and cracked and crumbled
away at their touch.
Now but two figures were visible to the watching moonbeams; one had been
dragged down into the black waters, down to his death in the freezing
depths below.
For a moment a cloud covered the moon's face obscuring its view of
things terrestrial. When it passed and that scene upon the river was
once more visible, only one figure remained still struggling bravely;
still clutching at the slippery, crackling ice; still fighting, not for
life alone, but for his soul's salvation. What thoughts must have passed
through his mind in those dreadful, despairing moments! Thoughts of sins
committed, of graces neglected; thoughts of all that might have been and
of all that was. Who can know of the sorrow and remorse that filled his
heart, of the wild cry for help and pardon that went up from the river
that night?
Meanwhile, the moon shone calmly, steadily, on the boy still fighting
for his life, on the mother praying at her chamber window, and on good
Father Xavier sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.
Somewhat later, but still before the dawn, he was summoned from that
sleep to answer a sick call from the hospital just across the river, to
which he was chaplain. Three young men coming home from the city shortly
after midnight had attempted to cross the frozen river, though warned of
the danger of doing so. The ice had broken through, two were drowned,
one saved, and the doctors thought he would live though unconscious at
present.
No, the names of the young men were not known as yet. The sisters at the
hospital sent for the priest because the boy brought there wore a
scapular and they knew he must be a Catholic. Aside from that nothing
was known about him.
Father Xavier's heart stood still. Something told him that his boy had
been one of those three. Two drowned, one saved! Which, oh, which was
the one saved?
The hospital reached, it was with rapidly beating heart he followed the
nurse through the ward and stood beside the bed at the farther end. The
night light burned low and the features of the boy upon the bed were
scarcely visible. Stooping low, a fervent "Thank God" broke from the
priest's lips as he recognized in the silent figure, the boy for whom
his heart had been yearning. His boy had been the one that was saved.
Yes, saved from death, saved from worse than death, saved to carry out
the resolutions he had made while struggling in the icy river that
Christmas morning.