The Holy Grail
By this time the whole parish knew about the affair at the Club. Like
all reports, it increased in the telling until there was the general
impression that the Club was a pack of rowdies. Many a father and mother
wondered why Father Boone tolerated such an organization.
"I thought these boys were in good keeping," said one mother to another.
"Yes, and it's worse than we know of," replied the other, "for I tried
to get at the facts from my Johnnie, but he was as close as a clam.
Unless it was something dreadful, he wouldn't mind telling his mother."
The fact was that the boys had reached an understanding not to talk
about the affair at all. They were determined to clear the Club's name
and until they had something definite to offer, explanations, they
decided, had best be omitted. So 'mum' was the word.
Mrs. Mulvy was returning from early Mass, that morning, when Mrs. Doyle,
a woman she highly regarded, stopped her to say that it was too bad that
Frank was mixed up in the row at the Club. Mrs. Mulvy only smiled and
remarked that she thought there must be some mistake. But a little later
in the day, Mrs. Duffy called on her and after a few conventional
remarks, said "I really think it is too bad, Mrs. Mulvy, that those boys
should be up to such mischief."
"Why, what do you refer to, Mrs. Duffy?"
"I thought you knew all about it--that wholesale smash-up at the Club.
Surely it was disgraceful. Furniture broken, the pictures and walls
disfigured and the whole house ransacked. It's a wonder some of them
were not arrested."
This was news to Mrs. Mulvy. She had heard Father Boone call the doings
at the Club serious, but she supposed that they were only serious in his
eyes, because of the high standard he had set for the boys. Now she
heard for the first time of wholesale damage, of wrecked rooms and
furniture! "Are you sure of all this?" she inquired.
Mrs. Duffy replied, "It must be so, for everybody is talking about it."
Then she added, "But my boy, George, won't open his mouth about it. It
must be bad if he is afraid to let me know. I am going to take him to
the priest tonight and find out all about it, and if he had a hand in
it--well, he'll wish he hadn't."
Mrs. Mulvy was too confused to speak. She had wondered why Father Boone
was so stern when he addressed Frank as "sir." Also she had wondered at
Frank's intense emotion on that occasion. "So it was really serious,"
she reflected. "And gossip is getting Frank all mixed up with it!"
Mrs. Duffy continued hesitatingly, "I thought I'd come over to see you
first, Mrs. Mulvy, because they all say that Frank is the only one who
owned up to knowing anything about it."
Mrs. Mulvy caught her breath. However, she answered, composedly enough,
"I should be sorry to know that my boy was really in such awful
mischief, but if he was, I am proud that he owned up to it. It is
boy-like to get into a scrape, but it is very noble to stand up and
admit it."
"I feel that way myself, Mrs. Mulvy. If George was in it, he will have
to own up to it, but I am sorry that he did not do so of his own
accord. George is a good boy, though, I never knew him to do anything
that I was ashamed of before," said Mrs. Duffy wistfully, as she took
her leave. Mrs. Mulvy almost collapsed as she sank into a chair.
For a few moments she was in a state of distraction. At length she
sighed, "Poor Frank!" After a while, she arose and went to a little
shrine of the Blessed Virgin which she called her oratory. Here it was
that the whole family knelt every night to say the rosary together. Here
it was that each one said morning prayers before leaving the house for
the day's occupations. She had consecrated all her children to the
Blessed Mother, and begged her powerful protection for them. The Mother
of God had been a good Mother to her devoted children, and so far Mrs.
Mulvy had realized that devotion to Christ's Mother was one of the
greatest safeguards of virtue. She knelt before the image of the Blessed
Mother and prayed, "Mother of God, to whose care I have entrusted the
little ones He has given me, be more than ever a Mother to my children
now. Especially take under thy protection my good boy Frank. Holy Mary,
Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.
Amen."
When she arose she had decided to make no inquiries of Father Boone, nor
would she have any misgivings about her boy. She would trust him.
(II)
On his way to school the same morning, Frank was stopped a number of
times and asked, "What was that scrape you got into, Mulvy?" At first,
he laughed it off. But gradually it irritated him, as one after another
referred to it. It was his custom to make a visit to the church every
morning on his way to school. This morning he went straight to the altar
of the Blessed Virgin and prayed fervently that in this trying situation
he would do nothing displeasing to her or her Son. He also begged her
that she would be a Mother to his mother and help her in this hour of
trial. Arising from prayer he felt that he could submit to
misunderstanding or even injustice, and do it patiently.
On leaving the church he met Tommy and Dick also coming out.
"Gee!" exclaimed Dick, "you are in for it, Hank. Everybody says that you
are the cause of the Club damage. The fellows are saying nothing, but
one or two must have leaked, for it's all over the parish that you
admitted you were in it."
"Yes," added Tommy, "I nearly got into a fight denying that you had a
part in the matter."
"You two are true blue," answered Frank. "Things do look bad for me. But
in a day or two it'll be all cleared up." He was calculating on Bill
Daly's telling everything to Father Boone on his next visit to the
hospital. Frank knew that the priest would see Bill every day or so
until he got well, and that it was only a rush of work that had kept the
director from going down again before this.
When Frank got to school he noticed almost at once that Mr. Collins
seemed somewhat disturbed. He barely bade Frank good morning. When a
teacher prides himself on the fact that his class bears the highest
reputation in the school for deportment and application, of course he
feels it keenly if one of his best boys is the subject of criticism and
veiled accusations. On the way to school, Mr. Collins had got many
inquiries about Mulvy's character. 'He was glad to say that Frank was
the finest boy in his class.' But by the time he reached the class room,
he showed his disturbed feelings in his greeting to Frank. The boy
really cared greatly for his teacher, and was hurt to think that he
should lose his good opinion even for a short while.
However, class went on as usual until about ten o'clock, when the
principal of the school entered the class room. He listened to the
recitations for a short while and spoke approvingly of the good work
being done. Then he turned to Mr. Collins and said, "Have you any of
Father Boone's boys in your class?"
"I believe I have. Will the boys who belong to Father Boone's Club
please stand."
Four stood up.
"That will do," said the principal. "Be seated. I should like you four
boys to report at the office at noon."
At recess, the four got together and conjectured what was up. "O, it's
clear," said Frank. "He wants to find out if any of the High School boys
are implicated."
"What do you suppose he'll do?" remarked Redmond.
"Why, he'll quiz us, of course. He may have heard exaggerated reports of
the thing."
"I don't see that it is any of his business," observed Cavanaugh.
"Well, you know," responded Frank, "that the Regal is mighty touchy
about its reputation and he does not want any mud slung at it if he can
help it."
At noon the four went together to the office. The principal met them and
began at once.
"Boys, it's really not my affair, but I can't help being concerned. You
know our school puts a value not only on learning, but on character. I
should say, mainly on character. I hate to hear of any of our boys being
mixed up in an ungentlemanly affair. I have called you in order to get
the truth of the matter. There are bad rumors afloat. I don't trust
them. Mulvy, may I ask you to state just what occurred?"
"I'd rather you'd ask Redmond, Father, if you please."
"It's all the same. I asked you, Mulvy, because they tell me you are
secretary of the Club, and Mr. Collins informs me you are the leader of
his class."
"Thank you, Father, but I have personal reasons for declining to speak
of the affair."
"Very well, my boy, I don't wish to embarrass you. Tell me, Redmond,
just what happened."
Redmond narrated everything.
"That sounds very serious," declared the principal. "Father Boone is a
good friend of mine, and very devoted to you boys. He undoubtedly feels
this thing more than you can imagine."
"We know that, and really, that's what hurts us most," said Frank.
"Now, young men, I am going to ask you a question. You are not obliged
to answer it unless you wish. It is outside my domain. Did any of you
have a hand in that affair?"
The four answered together, "No."
"Good, I knew it. Now I can state that the High School boys were not in
the mischief at all. Now another question. Do you know who did it?"
Three answered, "No."
The principal noticed Frank's silence, and turning to the boys, he
dismissed them, at the same time asking Frank to stay a moment.
"My boy," he began, "you indicate that you have some knowledge of this
affair. You also show that you're concerned about Father Boone's
feelings in the matter. I wish you to know that he is terribly cut up
over this thing. You are, or were, an official of the Club. If, without
actual dishonor, you can give him any clue to the perpetrators, you
should do it, for it concerns justice and charity."
"I have considered that, Father, and I am persuaded that I must not say
what I know."
"Well," said the principal, "I'll take your word for that. I know you
better than you think. If you feel that way, I would not insist a
particle. But bear in mind, young man, the only thing that stands
between you and condemnation is yourself. With those who know you that
is sufficient. With others, you may have to suffer for the stand you are
taking."
"I'm suffering now, and expect to suffer more. But I know I'm right, and
that's the main thing."
"I am proud of you, Mulvy," said the principal, as he dismissed him.
Outside the school it was rumored that Frank had been ordered to the
principal's office and had been threatened with suspension. Color was
given this report by the fact that he came out from the school alone
and much later than the rest, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The
words of assurance given him by the principal had affected him deeply.
Of course the report was that he had got a dreadful laying out from the
principal. There were not a few boys of the school who were glad to hear
of Frank's downfall. He had been so much respected by teachers, and so
well liked by his companions, that there were bound to be some fellows
rather envious of him.
As he passed the first corner of the street, he encountered a group of
some eight or ten boys standing around. One of the largest boys, John
Morris, remarked, for Frank's benefit, "I say, fellows, lots of statues
are toppling these days." For a moment Frank's blood boiled, and he was
on the point of resenting the slur, when he recollected that after all,
appearances were against him and he must take the consequences of his
attitude. So he came up smiling. Most of the boys were of the class a
year ahead of him, but Frank had always been welcomed in the older
groups.
When Morris perceived, or fancied, that his shot had missed the mark, he
said calmly, "I see you got a 'call-down,' Mulvy."
"Yes," said Frank, "and a hard one, too."
At this, most of the fellows sympathized with him. Boys have, for the
most part, a sense of justice. They desire to see fair play--they know
when to let up. When he reached home, he went straight to his mother.
"Mother," he said, "you won't listen to any of the stories and things
they are saying, will you? I could speak of it--of that whole Club
matter, you know, to the priest, in confession, mother, but to no one
else and in no other way. If some one had told you, mother, in the most
sacred confidence, something about his most secret doings, and if it was
something which you never could know otherwise, would you feel justified
in revealing it?"
"Certainly not, Frank."
"Well, that is my position, mother. For the present my mouth is locked,
but in due time everything will be set right."
"Yes, yes, my boy. Mother knows you will do what is right. Duty costs
dear, but one must pay the price. After all, if it were easy to do
right, there wouldn't be much credit in it. It is the hard things that
count."
"I am glad, mother, that we both look at it in the same way."
Her answer was a kiss.
(III)
On his way to the Club that evening, Frank met Dick.
"Did you hear the news, Hank?" he said. "Bill Daly is dying. He has
typhoid."
"Who told you, Dick?"
"Tom Gaffney. He was down to the rectory before supper and Father Boone
had just come back from the hospital. He told him that Bill was
delirious three days. He also said that he had given him the last rites,
and that there was slim chance for his recovery."
Frank and Dick accelerated their pace. They were both anxious to hear
more about the matter. At the Club, they met Father Boone going out.
"Boys, say a little prayer for William Daly. I think he is near the
end."
"Was he prepared?" asked Frank, a lump in his throat.
"Everything except confession," replied the priest. "You see, he is
delirious. I have been down to see him twice a day the last two days,
but he has not regained consciousness. I am going down now in hopes I
may find him able to go to confession. If not, we must leave him to God
and the Blessed Mother."
Saying that, he started off to the hospital.
Frank turned white as a sheet.
"What's the matter, Hank?" said Dick. He could not answer. "Why, what's
up, Frank?"
"O, nothing, Dick, I'm all right now."
Like a flash it had occurred to Frank. "What if Daly should die without
saying anything about the Club affair!" No wonder his heart beat like a
hammer! No wonder Dick showed alarm.
"I've been intending to go down and see Daly," said Frank, "but it has
been one thing after another these past two days. Besides, I left him
all right. Yes, I hope he comes out of it."
When the two friends entered the Club they found the crowd pretty
serious. The exploit which had landed Daly in the hospital had endeared
him to the fellows, and they now felt genuinely sorry for him. They
began to recall their mean treatment of him on the very night of the
fire. They asked one another what it was he had wanted to say, when they
gave him no chance to open his mouth. Everything occurred to them except
the one thing, the damage at the Club. Somehow that never seemed to
connect itself with Daly.
As they sat around more or less in silence, Frank said, "Tomorrow is the
First Friday; what do you say, fellows, if we go to Communion for Bill?"
Every boy assented.
When, about an hour later, Father Boone returned, he was very serious.
"Boys," he said, "Daly is in a critical condition. The doctors hold out
little hope. Tomorrow I shall say Mass for him. I hope you boys will
also remember him in your prayers."
"We are all going to Communion for him tomorrow, Father," said Ned.
"O, that's good," answered the priest. "That's very good of you. God
knows what is best. His holy Will be done, but we shall pray that if it
is God's Will, he may be spared."
"Was he conscious?" anxiously asked Frank.
"No," answered the priest, "I have been watching him carefully the past
two days, but so far he has not got out of his delirium." Frank had a
return, suddenly, of that faint feeling. True, the Club damage was in
the background now, in the presence of death, but it was only deferred,
not settled. And what would happen if the secret died with Daly?
Frank was extremely conscientious. He was not counting on what he could
lawfully do in case Daly should die. He was determined that if worse
came to worst he would bear the brunt of the disgrace himself rather
than say a word that would blacken the name of one who had passed away.
He must not flinch. He must be a real Knight of the Cross.
Frank left the Club much earlier than usual and alone. Something seemed
to draw him to the hospital. At any rate, after five minutes, he found
himself on the avenue going down to where Bill Daly lay in delirium. He
got permission at the office to visit him. When he reached the patient,
he found Mr. and Mrs. Daly there. Mrs. Daly welcomed him and introduced
him to Mr. Daly as "that nice boy I told you about."
"And you are Willie's friend?" said Mr. Daly.
"Yes, I am glad to say."
"O, he was the good boy," continued Bill's father. "He should have had a
better chance!"
Frank said nothing.
Then the mother began, "Willie was all I had to live for these many
years, and now that his father's himself again, maybe God will take
away my boy. Oh, but it's a cruel world and hard to understand! But God
knows best."
"We are all going to Communion for him tomorrow," said Frank,
sympathetically. "When Father Boone told us that William was dangerously
ill, all the boys of the Club agreed to go to Holy Communion for him.
You know tomorrow's the First Friday."
"O, thank you, you are such good boys," she sighed.
Frank did not know whether to stay or go. Bill lay there unconscious,
muttering from time to time. His father and mother sat by the bed on
either side. Frank was standing. They were in a private room. Bill had
been moved from the ward after a visit from Mr. Roberts. Every comfort
that good nursing and attention could give was supplied. An automobile,
moreover, took Bill's parents to and from the hospital. Mr. Roberts had
told Mrs. Daly that as soon as her boy got well he would put him to
school and see him through to any profession he chose, and that he would
place Mr. Daly in a good position.
Mrs. Daly told all this to Frank as he stood looking down into the
patient's fevered face. "But now I suppose it's all over with Willie,"
she groaned, "God's ways are not our ways. His holy will be done! I told
Mr. Roberts about you, and how good you were to Willie and me. He said
he wants to see you. He will be down soon, so you must wait till he
comes."
"I shall be glad to," replied Frank.
Bill was tossing about a good deal and now he began a string of
incoherent words. His father and mother bent over him to see if they
could help him in any way. But he was only rambling. After a little
while, he began to speak again. "Dad, you'll never drink again, will
you? Dad, you'll be good to Ma, won't you?" Frank was about to retire
when Mrs. Daly beckoned to him to remain.
"Don't mind what he says, dear," she whispered. "He talks that way all
day." Then she added, the tears filling her eyes, "and what he says is
so often the truth. But sometimes he talks awful nonsense. Just before
you came, he was telling us about smashing tables and furniture at the
Club, poor boy!"
"And what he says is so often the truth," repeated Frank mentally.
Again Bill began to talk. "O, he has 'sand.'"
"I wonder what that means?" asked Mrs. Daly.
Frank shrugged his shoulders.
"But, he's good, too," continued Bill. "That's why he has 'sand.' What a
cur I was to put him in bad." Then, after a pause, "Mulvy, never again
for me! Straight goods for mine. No more yellow for Bill Daly."
His parents looked at one another. It was all Greek to them. But it had
much meaning for Frank. Mr. Daly sat there in deep thought. He was
thinking of his early days, his happy home, his fond child. And then
came the years after. The broken home, the broken hearts and here now,
his dying boy.
"God is punishing me," he thought to himself. "But I wish He would not
punish the mother for my sins. O God, spare my boy!"
This last he said out loud. Frank and Mrs. Daly turned suddenly toward
him. His voice was choked as he said, "O God, punish me but spare those
I love!" Frank's eyes filled as he gazed on the broken man before him.
Again Bill's voice was heard. "Mother, I want Frank. Send for Frank. I
want Frank and Father Boone. Dad, we'll never quarrel again. Home will
be nice for us all. Mother, mother, mother!" And he lapsed into
unconsciousness again.
Frank felt terribly out of place. Twice while Bill was talking, he had
started to go, but Mrs. Daly held him. He seemed to be necessary to her
now. He was her boy's friend and she wanted him by her. Frank perceived
this and he made up his mind to wait as long as he could. After about an
hour Father Boone came in.
"I was down near here on a sick call, and I thought I'd just drop in for
a moment," he said. "O, you here, Frank? Well now, that's nice, I
declare." And he sat down.
The doctor was making his final rounds for the evening, and entered just
as the priest was seated. He saluted all, gave a special nod to Father
Boone, and then, after excusing his interruption, went over to the
patient. All were quiet as he made his examination. When he finished,
the mother stood up and looking him direct in the eyes, said, "Doctor,
is my boy going to die?"
"We never know, Madam. We can't tell. We do all we can, and hope for the
best. That is what you must do too. But he is very ill."
From the tone it was said in, the mother gathered that there was little
hope. That was Father Boone's impression also. Mr. Daly seemed to be in
a trance. His mind was elsewhere. But his taut face showed that he was
thinking regrettable things.
When the doctor left, Father Boone took Mrs. Daly by the hand and said,
"My dear child, you must be brave. These are the moments when our
blessed Faith means everything to us. God's will is the greatest thing
in the world. That is why our Lord, in teaching us to pray, said: 'Thy
will be done.' He taught us that because it was necessary. He taught it
by example as well as by precept. In Gethsemani He prayed, 'Not my will
but Thine be done.' He, the Son of God, had His sorrows too. Resignation
to God's will does not mean that we must not feel or suffer, but that in
spite of our feelings, we rise up in Faith and see God as our Father. We
must realize that He loves us, and we must say to Him, 'Thy will be
done.' His will may cause pain now, but it is the pain that profits to
life everlasting, and the pain that makes us like unto Him and dear to
Him. Let us all kneel down, all of us, and say the 'Our Father.'"
Slowly, solemnly, he prayed. "Our Father . . . who art in heaven, . . .
hallowed be Thy name; . . . Thy kingdom come; . . . _Thy . . . will . . .
be . . . done . . ._ on earth as it is in heaven. . . . Give us this
day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, . . . as we forgive
those who trespass against us. . . . And lead us not into temptation;
. . . but deliver us from evil. . . . Amen."
There was a pause--a long pause. Frank thought it was a new prayer. He
had never realized all that it meant. It seemed the best sermon he had
ever heard. He felt now that he could bow his head to anything that God
asked of him and say "Thy will be done." The priest arose, and the
others with him.
The mother's face was changed. There was the peace of God on her
countenance. In the presence of her dying son, she had the exaltation of
Mary at the foot of the Cross. Mr. Daly stood stunned. In a few minutes
he too showed a calm face. Father Boone was the first to break the
silence.
"If God wants your boy, Mrs. Daly, let Him have him. If you asked Willie
for something you would want him to give it to you. If it was hard for
him to give, you would know he loved you when he gave it. If God asks
you for Willie, show Him you love Him. And now good-bye.
"It is late, Frank. You had better come along with me," he added,
looking toward him. They made their parting as consoling as possible and
left.
Later, as they struck the Avenue, and were going along in silence,
Father Boone began to speak--half to himself, half to Frank. "I suppose
you wondered that I talked to them as though Bill's death were a
certainty? Well, from my experience, I think it is. If I were sure of
being present when he dies, I would not have anticipated. But suppose he
goes off tonight, and no one is there but themselves! They have
something now to sustain them.
"Our Faith is a wonderful thing. People outside know nothing of the
comfort and strength it brings in affliction. There may be some excuses
for a fellow when he is young, and healthy, and well-off, to say he has
no use for religion. But the whole world isn't young, nor in health, nor
rich. Most people have ills of one kind or another. Some are poor, some
in ill-health, some old, or misunderstood. So our Lord chose poverty
and suffering. He did not want better treatment than His followers were
to have.
"When anything hard happens to me, I try to bear it cheerfully, and tell
myself I should be ashamed to have better treatment than My Lord. And
I've had some pretty tough things. I don't show it, but your hair would
stand straight up if I were to tell you some of the things I've gone
through. And do you know, when I have something terribly hard to endure,
I take a positive pleasure in kneeling before the altar and saying to
God: 'This costs me a lot, Lord, but I am glad it does, for I have
something worth while to offer Thee'." He heaved a deep sigh.
"Frank, excuse me for talking about myself. Just thinking aloud. You
see, that afflicted mother and father bring out serious reflections."
By now they had reached the rectory. "Good bye, Frank," said the priest.
"Good bye, Father," answered Frank, grasping the priest's hand very
firmly.
As Frank went on his way, he said to himself, "Gee, now I know where he
gets his power. When he prays, he prays. No wonder he does so much
good, and so quietly. No one knows anything about it unless by
accident."
(IV)
At the hospital, Daly was sinking fast. The doctor came in frequently.
And then, as often happens shortly before death, the delirium terminated
for awhile. Bill looked up and saw his father and mother standing over
him. It took him some seconds to realize where he was. It all came back
to him in a rush. He also felt very weak. He had never felt like this
before. Something told him he was going to die.
In a low voice he said to his father, "Pop, I guess I am wanted up
there. I'm sorry for all I've done. I know you'll be good to ma." A
pause. "Ma, it's hard to go and leave you, but Dad will take care of you
like he used to, when I was a kid. That'll make up." Another pause. "Pa,
ma, make the Act of Contrition with me." They knelt at his side, made
the sign of the cross, and he said, falteringly but clearly:
"O my God! I am heartily sorry for having offended
Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread
the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most
of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art
all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly
resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my
sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen."
He fell back exhausted, from his slightly raised position.
In a little while he said, "Ma, I want Father Boone and Frank." The
mother knew that the priest was rushed day and night, and hesitated to
call him. Then she remembered that Father Boone had said, "If he returns
to consciousness, be sure and send for me."
While she was thinking how best to do so, Mr. Roberts entered the room.
He took in the situation at a glance. "Is there anything I can do for
you?" he asked. On learning of Bill's request, he said, "My machine is
here. I'll run up for Father Boone and the boy, and have them here in no
time," and off he went.
Mother and father held either hand of their darling. Not a word was
uttered. In about ten minutes, the door opened and Father Boone and
Frank appeared. Bill recognized the priest, and said with an effort, "I
am----so glad----to see----you----Father. I want to go to confession.
Then I'll go home." Mr. Roberts, who was not a Catholic, found tears
running down his cheeks. Mr. Daly was sobbing.
"I shall have to ask you all to leave the room for a few minutes," said
the priest, and as they filed out, he put on his sacred stole, and
blessed the boy. Then bending over him, he heard Bill's confession.
Bill told him everything. He wanted to go into details, but the priest,
to whom a single word meant volumes, quieted him and allowed him to say
only what was absolutely necessary. When his confession was made, the
priest took out a crucifix and pointing to it, said, "He came for us,
for us who offended Him. He is more glad to forgive you than you are to
receive forgiveness. Make your act of contrition, and I shall pronounce
God's absolution. Speak from your heart as to Christ on the Cross. He
sees your repentance. He will heal you and make you His dear child."
As the dying lad was saying his words of sorrow for sin, the priest was
pronouncing absolution. "May Almighty God have mercy on you and forgive
you your sins and bring you to life everlasting, Amen. May the Almighty
and Merciful Lord grant you pardon, absolution and remission of all your
sins. Amen. May Our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and I, by His
Authority, do absolve you from every stain of sin. I absolve you from
your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy
Ghost. Amen. May the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the merits of the
Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the Saints, whatever good you have done
and whatever suffering you have borne, make for the forgiveness of your
sins, for an increase of grace, and for the reward of life eternal.
Amen."
Father Boone arose, opened the door and bade all come in. "All please
kneel down," he said, "I am going to give William, Holy Viaticum." They
all knelt, including Mr. Roberts. Before the priest administered the
sacred rite, he turned to the boy and said,
"My child, I am bringing to you Our Lord Himself, to be your friend and
companion. Speak your heart to Him." Then administering the Blessed
Sacrament, he said,
"Receive, my child, the Holy Viaticum, the Body of Our Lord Jesus
Christ. May He guard you against the evil one and conduct you to life
everlasting. Amen."
The boy received the Sacred Host with intense reverence and joy. He
crossed his arms in prayer. After a short while, he turned to his mother
and said, "God wants me, mother."
She responded, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; blessed be the
name of the Lord."
The father came over to his son, and taking his hand kissed it, saying
with a voice of suppressed emotion, "Good-bye, Willie, pray for your
poor old Dad."
"Good-bye, Dad. A kiss."
His eyes caught Frank kneeling beside the bed and he faintly smiled at
him.
Then, to his mother, "Good-bye, Ma."
She kissed his forehead tenderly. He looked up a moment, and closed his
eyes. Father Boone and Frank were just saying, "Holy Mary, Mother of
God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death," when the
mother gave a gasp and said, "My Willie is dead!"
(V)
On the way home an hour later, Frank and the priest walked for a while
in silence. Each had his own thoughts. In an indefinable way, the priest
showed a marked respect for the boy. He understood all now, "A truly
noble boy," he kept saying to himself. But Frank occupied only a part of
his thoughts. The mysterious ways of God's Providence furnished him food
for reflection. "A soul saved, a life lost," he said to himself, as he
considered the reform of Mr. Daly and the death of Bill.
Frank, too, had his thoughts. His tired head was full of all he had seen
and heard of Bill's life and family. Bill was a "victim of
circumstances." "What if my father had been like his?" he asked himself.
"I have never thanked God enough for my good father and mother." Then he
was glad both for Bill's sake and for his own that Bill had gone to
confession. In his own relief at knowing that the strain of
misunderstanding was ended for both himself and Father Boone, he
expected the priest momentarily, to refer to the subject. When they had
gone a distance in silence, Frank burst out--the first words between
them since leaving the hospital.
"Father, you know all about it now!"
"All about what, Frank?"
"Why, didn't he tell you . . . about the . . ." here he stopped. The
priest gave him a look that startled him. "O, I beg your pardon, Father,
I forgot it was confessional."
From that moment the subject never came up again. But Frank knew in his
heart that he was cleared. It would not matter now, no matter what
happened. The subject never came up again, but in a thousand ways, from
that night on, Frank realized that Father Boone was his dearest and best
friend.
Switching the conversation, Father Boone said, "Our prayers for Daly
tomorrow will be for his welfare beyond, not here."
"It will be a great shock to the fellows, Father," said Frank.
"Yes, doubtless. Death always is. And the death of a boy especially."
"Why, Father?"
"Well, I suppose because we don't expect the young to die. It seems out
of place. But God calls at all hours. After all, it's only a question of
a few years, more or less. We all go sooner or later. The great thing is
not the going, but the manner of it--to live in such a way that
whenever God calls, we are ready. Then, it's all one,--for compared with
eternity, the longest life is but a fraction of a second. Not even
that."
They soon reached the rectory. "Good-bye, Frank, my good boy Frank," and
the priest gave him a hand shake that almost made him yell.
"Good-bye, Father."
And when in later years Frank recalled that night, he marvelled that one
small boy could have been both so sad and so happy.