A MIRACLE
“’TIS a miracle! ’Tis nothing but a miracle!” cried Father Maloney, for
perhaps the fiftieth time.
He stared at the yellow parchment upon the table in front of him. It
was real, it was tangible. He could touch it, finger it, even read the
crabbed writing upon it; and yet, for the life of him, he could hardly
bring his brain to believe that he was not dreaming.
“To think,” he ejaculated, “that it has lain there under our very
noses, so to speak, and us wondering and worrying all these weeks.
Well, well!”
Lady Mary looked silently at the yellow parchment. Words, so far, had
failed her. The bigness of the thing, gripping her, had held her silent.
“’Tis plain enough what the old Sir Antony was up to, when Henry came
upon him, the scoundrel,” said Father Maloney. “And the secret kept all
these years! ’Tis a miracle has brought it to light now.”
Lady Mary raised her head.
“And perhaps too late,” she said quietly, voicing the fear at her
heart; a fear which, with the last hour, had been waxing stronger.
“Too late!” cried Father Maloney cheerily, “not a bit of it. If it’s
two miracles is needed, God will be working them; though I’m thinking
there’ll be no miracle in bringing the boy home. He’s hiding safe
enough somewhere, and will be found before sun-down, I’ll be bound.”
“Perhaps,” said Lady Mary very low, and unheeding his words, “I didn’t
give up everything whole-heartedly. Perhaps I still held to it in my
mind. If I did, it was for him, and not for myself. And now he is gone.”
“Rubbish,” said Father Maloney.
“Is it?” asked Lady Mary.
Father Maloney put his hands upon the table and looked across at her.
“Weren’t you doing your best to accept God’s will in the matter?” he
demanded.
Lady Mary smiled faintly.
“I believe so,” she said.
“Then if you did your best, you may be sure God took it as such, and
wasn’t holding you to account for any little weakness which was but
part and parcel of human nature. I’m thinking He knows the human side
of us well enough, and doesn’t look at it too closely when we’re trying
to do His will. He’ll not have been taking a trifle of fretting into
consideration, when your heart was set the right way. You needn’t be
thinking He was waiting to pounce down and punish you because you
didn’t throw the Castle over to that young fella with devil a bit may
care in your heart. Sure, it’s giving Him the things the human side
of us is fretting after that counts. Don’t you go fearing God likes
punishing people. Where’s your faith at all?”
“But supposing--” began Lady Mary.
“I’m not supposing at all,” broke in Father Maloney. “The child’s safe
enough. And if he isn’t--though surely ’tis in my heart he is--’tis no
punishment to you. Glory be to God! Who do you think loves him best,
our Blessed Lord, or you? I tell you he’s as safe in His keeping,
storm or no storm, as if he was in his bed this very minute with you
on one side of him, and Biddy on the other. ’Tis all for talking about
the Love of Christ we are, and when it comes to the test, it’s precious
little believing we show. And I’m as bad as any of ye.”
“Then you are anxious,” said Lady Mary quietly.
Father Maloney blew his nose.
“Anxious! of course I’m anxious,” he said half-testily. “Who wouldn’t
be anxious with a bit of a boy out in the weather we’ve had. ’Tis
against all sense I shouldn’t be anxious. But he’ll come home right
enough,” he ended obstinately.
And then suddenly the cloak of quiet dignity, the gentle control, fell
from Lady Mary.
“Oh, Father,” she cried, “go on saying that. Say it again and again.
I don’t mind how often you say it. Somehow,” her lips were trembling
piteously, “it makes it seem true.”
For the moment she was nothing but a frightened old woman, fear
gripping her close.
“There, there,” said Father Maloney soothingly speaking as he would
speak to a child, “aren’t I understanding every bit of what you’re
feeling. But remember you’ve got Michael, whatever happens. And
whatever happens is the very best thing possible; though, for that
matter, as I’ve told ye--” He broke off, listening.
And then, through the open window, came the sound of voices, Rosamund’s
plainly distinguishable, and a child laughing.
“Glory be to God!” cried Father Maloney, the laugh finding triumphant
echo in his voice. “What did I tell you, at all!”