The Cost of Honor
The next morning at about ten, Father Boone was in his office at the
Club, waiting for Mr. Roberts, who had phoned him asking for an
appointment.
"This has been a crowded week," said the priest to himself. "On Monday
morning I found the Club rooms a wreck. Since then, we have had a fire,
Bill Daly's adventure and death, all the worry over the mystery and,
thank God, its solution.
"All cleared up now. And out of it comes Frank Mulvy, pure gold. He had
a hard ordeal, poor boy. I was certainly severe on him. But under the
same circumstances, yes, I'd do the same again. What a _mirage_ life is!
We see or fancy we see, so many things that are not there."
Presently, Mr. Roberts was shown in, and after the usual greeting, he
said, "I know you are busy, Father, and so I won't take up much of your
time. You know I had intended putting William Daly through school, but
that's off now."
"Yes," interrupted Father Boone, "he knows more now than all the
colleges could impart."
"Say, Father Boone, do you know it's taken my breath away--the way you
people look at things. You talk and feel about the other world as we do
about this! Why, last night, everybody seemed to be right next door to
God."
"That's our Faith," replied the priest. "It's our greatest treasure, the
best thing we have in life. That is, for those of us who live up to it."
"It must be so, Father. I couldn't help but notice how happy that boy
looked after the Sacraments. But, I came on another matter today.
William Daly is dead. What I was going to do for him I want to do for
some other whom you will designate. Preferably, that young lad who was
with you last night. But I leave it to you."
"God will bless you for that. But Frank Mulvy comes of a well-to-do
family. He is one of the finest lads that God ever made. He intends
going to college after finishing at our high school. I have another boy,
however, very deserving and very poor. If you will consent, I should
like to designate him. His name is Edward Morgan."
"Edward Morgan it shall be," replied Mr. Roberts.
"Now, another thing, Father. I have told Mrs. Daly to have as nice a
funeral as possible for her boy. That's not an act of kindness, but of
justice. He saved my wife and child. I shudder when I think what life
would be without them. All my money would be nothing, with them gone. Of
course I shall take good care of Mr. Daly," he added.
"I am sure you are doing the part of a good and grateful man," said
Father Boone.
"And another little thing, Father. We are close on to Christmas. I want
to do something for you personally, for yourself, do you understand?"
"I thank you very much," said the priest, "but, really, I prefer to have
you help some one else."
"No, it must be you, Father. I am set. I want to do something to please
you, personally."
"O, you do! Well now, I'll tell you how you may do that. I have any
number of poor people in the parish. Some need clothing, some food, some
rent. Suppose you help me to help them?"
"I'll go the limit, Father, I have the money. You send me word how much
you need, and you will have it."
"Not so fast, my good man. I only want you to help to a certain extent.
You know we have many poor. I could easily ask you for a large sum and
not half supply our needs. Just how much do you wish to give?"
"How much do you want?"
"Well, I have at least thirty poor families on my list."
"Suppose, then," said Mr. Roberts, "that we make it a hundred dollars to
each family. How would that suit?"
Father Boone felt like calling for help. Three thousand dollars! It
almost toppled him over. "Suit!" he exclaimed, "why, it will be royal!
Rather, let me say, it will be very Christian, Christlike."
"It's done," said Mr. Roberts.
"I thank you," said Father Boone earnestly.
"I thank _you_," replied the millionaire. Then he continued: "I see you
are doing a lot here for the boys. That is the best work I know of. If
you turn out others like Frank and William, you ought to be blessed and
thanked. I know your heart is with your boys. Can't I do something for
the Club?"
They talked over the situation for some time, with the result that the
Club was to get a new piano, new up-to-date billiard tables, a bowling
alley, and six sets of boxing gloves. All these were to be delivered
Christmas week.
As Mr. Roberts was leaving, the priest said, "It's my turn now to do
something for you. I am going to ask you to do a little favor for
yourself. I want you to kneel down every night before going to bed and
say a prayer. It's not a long one, just this: 'O God, grant me the grace
to see the light, and the courage to follow it.'"
"Why, that's easy," said Mr. Roberts. "I thought you were going to ask
me something big."
"Well, for all you know, that may turn out to be the biggest thing you
have ever done," replied Father Boone, as they clasped hands on
parting.
Father Boone's thoughts just now had turned to the McCormack concert.
After the disturbance, he had sent the tickets to a priest down town,
who had a boys' club in a poor section of the city. "But I don't know as
it's too bad," he thought. "Those boys down there never get much of
anything. I'll find some way to make it up. The boys won't suffer for my
mistake, that's certain."
He phoned down to Carnegie Hall.
"Sold out," was the answer.
"I thought so," he reflected, not at all disappointed.
That afternoon while down town on business, he turned over 57th Street
to Seventh Avenue and dropped into Carnegie Hall to see what other date
McCormack was booked for. While he was making his inquiries, a man
standing nearby approached him.
"Pardon, Father, you're from St. Leonard's? I am Mr. McCormack's
manager; perhaps I can help you out." When he heard that ninety seats
were wanted, he almost collapsed, "But your boys are little chaps,
aren't they, Father, from nine to fifteen? Lads of that age don't take
up much room. How would you like to have them seated on the stage?"
"Why, that's capital," exclaimed Father Boone.
"Well, I can manage that. We'll give them the first row on either side.
That will put them right close to McCormack while he's singing. I know
how kids like to be near to what's going on."
So it was all arranged, and Father Boone returned home very happy. He
had received that very morning a letter from one of the parishioners who
always gave him something for the Club at Christmas. This time it was a
check for $150.00. The tickets cost him $90.00. "With the rest," he
mused, "I shall be able to give them a good time."
(II)
That evening the boys were rather subdued. Bill Daly's death had
affected them greatly. To be playing with a lad on Monday, and to know
he is dead on Friday, is a terrible shock to boys.
As Father Boone entered the Club he observed how serious they were. It
was natural, he reflected, and best to let it work itself out. He would
not mention the McCormack treat just now.
The boys gathered around him, and asked all sorts of questions about
Bill's last moments. Even to these lads it meant something consoling
that he had died a beautiful Catholic death. They told Father Boone that
they had gone to Mass in a body that morning, and had received Holy
Communion for Bill's soul.
"I offered up the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass for William this morning,"
said the priest, "and I suggest that on the day of the funeral you all
go to Communion again in a body for the repose of his soul."
"We had already decided on that, Father," said Dick.
"That is good," remarked the priest, "and now another thing. You know
his mother is terribly broken up by her boy's death. That is natural.
She would not be a mother otherwise. Of course, she is resigned to God's
will. So was Our Blessed Mother, at the foot of the Cross, but that did
not prevent her heart from being pierced with grief. Mrs. Daly was very
brave under it all. So much so that Mr. Roberts, who was there, said to
me afterwards, 'Your religion is a wonderful thing in affliction.' But,
boys, she feels the separation keenly. William was a remarkably good
boy to his mother. Now that he is dead, I can say to you that the poor
boy had an awful lot to contend with, and if it were not for his
religion and his mother, no one can say how he might have turned out.
"Now I suggest, boys, that you divide up, and some of you go over to the
house at one time, and some at another, on a visit of condolence."
"Yes, Father," said Tommy. "We were thinking about going over."
"What's the best thing to say to her, Father, if we want to show our
sympathy?" asked Dick.
"Nothing," replied the priest. "Words are useless in deep sorrow. Just
go there quietly. Your mere presence will say more than any words, if
your behavior is considerate."
"Shouldn't we say anything at all?" asked Ned.
"Just a word or two to say who you are, and that you are sorry for her.
Your presence is what will talk most."
It was after ten o'clock that evening when Father Boone reached the Daly
flat. He had been stopped several times on his way over, by inquiries
about the Club, and Daly. On entering he found six of the Club boys
kneeling around the body saying the rosary. The lads had held a meeting
after Father Boone had left them, and decided to go in groups of six,
each group to stay a half hour. They also decided that the best way they
could show their sympathy for the parents, and to aid Bill, was to say
the beads.
In order not to disturb them, Father Boone went quietly into the rear
room. Some one told Mrs. Daly that the priest was come, and she went to
him at once. As soon as she saw Father Boone, she broke down. The priest
had expected it. He had seen less devoted mothers become hysterical
under such circumstance. He simply said nothing. He let her have her cry
out. When it was over, he remarked, "That's good now; that cry will do
you good." He spoke kindly, but very firmly. He knew that one little
exhibition of his own feelings would start her all over again.
When she was composed, she said, "O, but Father, what lovely boys you
have at the Club! Sure, they came in here in droves all the evening, and
every one of them knelt down and said the rosary for Willie. It did my
heart good. Forgive me, Father, for the cry I had. They gave me so much
comfort, I thought I was altogether resigned to God's blessed will. But
the sight of you, Father, brought the tears."
"Well, I am not surprised at that, my good woman. Did not our Lord have
tears of blood in Gethsemani? Yet He was resigned. The end of His prayer
was, 'Not my will, but Thine be done.' If we did not feel these things
keenly, there would be little merit in being resigned to God's will."
"God bless you, Father, for saying that. I was afraid I was rebellious."
"Not at all. You were only human, only a mother."
Again she started to cry, and the priest sat silent.
After a moment he said, "And now, Mrs. Daly, remember that by offering
up your sorrow to God for Willie, it becomes something precious in the
sight of heaven, and will benefit his soul."
"Thank you, Father, I'll do like you say. But Father, you should see
himself. I never thought he would take it so hard."
"Where is he?"
"Inside."
"Tell him to come here."
In a moment Mr. Daly came in. There were no signs of tears on his face,
just a drawn, sad expression. His eyes were sunken and dull. He began
first.
"O Father, it's the hand of God on me and I deserve it. If the home was
what it should be, it never would have come to this."
"Well, Michael, if it's the hand of God, and it is, it is for your good.
The hand of God will never lead you away from your true welfare."
"But it's the Missus I'm thinking about, Father. It will kill her. I can
stand it. But she can't. Oh, if the good God had taken me instead!" He
sighed heavily. "Of course, I feel Willie's going, too, almost as much
as the mother, for I had just found him again. All these years he was
lost to me, and mine the fault, the crime I should say, and it is God
that is punishing me."
"I believe it, Michael. And He is punishing you here rather than
hereafter. But His chastisements are different from men's. He draws good
from His punishments. This will make a man of you, and you will save
your soul. It brings God and His judgments before you. It shows you
that we never know when He may call us, and that we should all be ready.
Suppose He had called you suddenly two weeks ago, where would you be
now?"
Michael said not a word. He just bowed his head.
Father Boone continued, "Be a man, Michael. Take your sorrow as
chastisement from God. You deserve it, as you know. You did not
appreciate the child God gave you, and He took him. Live now as a good
man and husband. Don't worry over the Missus. Her faith will take care
of her."
While he was speaking, Mrs. Daly came in. Turning to her, he said, "Mrs.
Daly, I feel sorry for you and Michael, but I do not feel sorry for the
boy. Willie is now with God. He died the way Christ wants His followers
to die. He is with God now. He would not exchange places with the most
fortunate person in this world. He would not come back again if he
could. God grant that you and I may finish our journey to eternity as
acceptably as he has done!"
"Blessed be the holy will of God," responded the mother.
"Amen," said Michael.
"Now I am proud of you," declared the priest. "Your sorrow is great, but
like true followers of Christ you carry your cross after Him. That is
why He had His way of the Cross, so that when we have ours, we shall not
be alone. Come into the front room and let us say a prayer for Willie's
soul."
As they entered, the friends sitting around stood up. The six lads
saying the beads continued their prayers, but on seeing Father Boone,
they terminated the rosary at the decade they were saying.
When all was silence, the priest spoke out, "My dear people, let us all
say the 'Our Father' for the repose of William's soul. When we come to
'Thy Will be done,' we shall pause for a moment, and dwell particularly
on those words. All please kneel."
He began: "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy
Ghost, Amen. 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. May
Willie's soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the
mercy of God rest in peace. Amen."
He rose from his knees and quickly and quietly left the room. The boys
soon followed, for it was late. One by one the others left, and the
father and mother were alone with their dead. They sat silent for a long
time. Then Mrs. Daly touched her husband's arm and said, "Michael, let
us kneel down and say the 'Our Father,' the way Father Boone did."