The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 24, 15 June 1905, Page 23

The Storyteller

FOR THE SAKE OF A SOUL

If you had asked anybody in Deepdean who was the one indispensable person in the little parish, he or she would ha\e answered immediately : ' Mrs. Pennywell.' Mrs. Pennywell was the only ' character ' worth while, they would have told you, and although her fhstcousm Father De\ine, who w«.s pastor of the church of St. Michael, called her ' Mrs. Penny wise,' half-jokingly, it was well tor him that she was true to the name he gave her so facetiously. She was not ' pound-foolisii' either ; as careful with the none too plentiful resources of the rectory as it 1 they had been her own— more careful, in fact. She had been old Father Devine's housekeeper for eighteen years. Some said that in her girlhood and early womanhood great trouble had been her portion, and it was known that her two children were buried side by •ide in the little churchyard. She never spoke of them to any one. But if a child were ill or neglected Susan Pennywell's ready hands were there, and her sharp tongue also. She was a born nurse, and nnore than one lusty little fellow owed his life to her knowledge and her care. She did not set aside the older folks— "but her tenderness seemed all for the children, and there was no waif too poor to claim that tenderness, let his creed or color be what it might. Father Devine rallied her more than once on her ' young army,' and she gave him word for word, merrily and otten wittily. ' What a mother Susan Pennywell would be,' said people often. ' What a pity her children were not spared to her.' A strange light shone m Ihe honest gray eyes when she heard tnis— not sorrow, rather the light of purpose and earnestness. They did not know how cheei fully and with what motive Susan Pennywell had laid her children side by side in the grave when the epidemic swept through the town a score of years before The C-atholic church at Deepdean was a model of cleanliness, in which fact Mrs. Pennywell seemed to take a satisfaction amounting to pride. Often, when she was sitting in the back porch of the priest's cottage, she would lay aside her knitting or her sewing to ' run over ' to the church for a look around, to see that nothing was awiy. And generally nothing was. A \illager or two, perhaps, would be kneeling foi a few bncf moments befoie the tabernacle, for Father Devine kept the little church open, that, those wno so desired might rest fiom the world's care a little while and conveisc with God. It happened one Maich afternoon that Mrs Pennywell had vist taken from the oven one oi the fine ' batches ' of home-made biscuits which stamped her, m her opinion and that of her neighbors, the finest 'baker in the town She set the brown rolls on the table to cool, and surveyed them with silent satisfaction, her hands on her hips. Drawn perhaps by the savmy odor— Father Domic was as bad as one of her ' young army on baking-day— the priest appeared suddenly from the dining-room 'I'll take h% biscuit for my supper, Susan Pennywell,' he announced, chuckling. ' And be< telling me what a fool lam to give you such things to-moirow,' she said, half-laughmg. ' At your age, Cousin Luke, I'd be ashamed to ask for hot bread.' 1 I've been eating yours a good many years now,' he answered. ' And I'm pretty sound ' ' Did you go to see Mis Daly ? ' asked Susan, irrelevantly. ' I 'did— the poor soul She won't be living much longer.' ' And little Joe * ' The priest smiled ' We'll do something for little Joe, Ru<>an,' he said. Then looking back as he left the room, he added, qui/7ically. 'On one condition . hot biscuits — ' Susan nodded. Then she slipped her apron off and put on her hat ' God make iti easy for the poor thing,' she said under her breath. ' The poor thing ! ' Something choked her. ' Poor thing, poor thing ' ' She knelt befoTe the tabernacle, her kind heart sore for the woman who was dying, and for the little foui-vear-old boy who was being left motherless-, an-d worse than fatherless. A shadow lay heavy on her forehead, and the lines about her mouth were set more deeply as she rose. Pas^slng through the church, she noticed a man bending half o\er the top of the pew in front of

him, hi« gray head hidden in his hands. He did not look up he tiid not hear her. The attitude of the body was that of a man exhausted either by fatigue or mental distress. When Mrs. Pennywell reached the door she turned, looking over the lounging figure with disapproving eyes. cv ' He don't belong to Deepdean,' she thought. ' Some u m l come in to sleep in the quietness of God's house.' She hesitated— then shook her head and went back to the cottage. Jiul, although she had much lo do, and although she tried very hard, she could not get the memory of that t)ovu.d head and drinking figure irorn her thoughts. Perhaps he was hungry,' she imagined. ' Queer if an ordinary tramp would come into St. Michael's. And ii lie wanted to sleep, why didn't ne stretch himself out on one of the benches — ' Father Umine was sitting down to supper when word came that Mrs. Daly was dead. Susan Pennywell looked at her cousin with gloomy eyes. ' There's some strange feeling hanging over me, Luke, she said. ' I'll g0 down and bring little Joe bac* with me. There was a poor old soul in church to-day who I thought was a tramp, an<l it seems to me now as if I ought to have spoken to him. I don't know why I feel this strange. If he's there when you go o.cr to lock the door after supper, ask him if you can do anything for him. He's tormenting me, somehow.' ° ' v,! Vth v' Susan you're getting fanciful, ' said *«iUiei De.iue,. ' Dan t be letting such things bother ' I'd hate to ha\e a creature hungry near me,' said Susan ' I— l was hungry my sell— once— before you—. lhats past, Luke, but I can't forget it.' Father Luke frowned. ' (io'id gracious, woman, you talk as if I weren't in your debt a thousand times o\ er ' Susan Pennywell is the strong right aim of this parish. I'd like to know what I—' Bit Susan was gone, and Father Devine left to finish his sentence to his untasted supper. He frowned portentously several times— Susan's allusions to the early years of her unhappy life always disturbed him. She went down to Mrs Daly's, wheie the neighbors were already engaged m the last kindLy offices they could erne Ihe dead woman There was nothing for her to do so j.he staved only a few minutes, and bundling up the frightened four-ydar-iold child, she took him in her strong arms, comforting him with promises of the good things that wete to he his when he reached Father Devine's house Her v.ay led past the church, and here she paused. The priest had not yet come to lock it up and the lights £ lO rn the two tiny lamps in the wall brackets 'hone dimly through the gloom ' We'll go into the church, Joe,' she said tenderly And well say a prayer that God may be good to poor mamma, dear Remember, if you pray hard and a A (rod with gteat love, lie will listen to you ' Th« little child nodded several times, and holding her hawi, he walked fearlessly up to the plain wooden altarlailing Susan peered about her anxiously, but she could .see nothing, and she bicathed a quick sigh of relief She was glaS that the man had disappeared She said the 'De Piofuntiis/ and whispered the ' Eternal Rest ' 1o the little fellow, making him reoeat it after her, and then she bade him asic the Loid to be merciful to his mother and take her straight to hea\en Whifoh she has desened, God knows,' thought the good soul, as she left the altar-rail with the chiiy 'If suffering can cam it ' And then her eves, sharper now than when she had entered, saw an indistinct something in the corner of the pew nearest, the door She stopped. -What are you doing here?' she asked, sharply. Who are you ? ' The figuie did not move ' Come, come ' ' she said, more sharply still, although there was a tremor in her voice. ' Come' wake up ' 'What is the matter with you *> ' ' She was a bra\e woman indeed— she entered the pew —the child following. The man leaned forward and grasped at her dress, turning his head painfully. ' It's Susan,' he said. ' Suisan— and little Jem. Ah, Susan, don't be hard on a dying man — don't be.' Something in the ashen face made her blood run cold. Her hand slipped from his shoulder, and she fell into the seat with a groan. 1 John Pennywell ! ' she said. * He tried to see her face, but he could not He p-ras-r-ed the back of the pew in front of him, his eyes straining pitifully towaid her. Her hands coAered her face in the pain, the shock of that recognition. At last she drew them away and rose to her feet.

' Come outside,' she sail in a low voice. * This is no place to talk.' He obeyed her, tottering after her. She turned o* him with heaving bosom. "Have you not harmed me enough ? ' she began Have you not? What brought you nere ? Tell me. What brought you here ? ' ' Susan,' he said wearily, ' I am dying.' She did not answer. ' I came back to see you. Just once. And the little ones— Kittie and Jem. Is that Jem ? Jem was so like him— but he'd ought to be older—' He passed his hand over his foreiiead. ' I don't know, I don't know. I moant to ask some one where Susan Penny well's house was, and then in the night to steal up quietly and look at you all. I knew I'd die after that— it was all was keeping me alive. Don't tell Jem or Kittie, Susan —I don't want them to see me. They'd only hate me.' ' No,' said Susan Pennywell, mechanically. ' They wouldn't hate you.' 'No ? ' with trembling eagerness. ' Then you didn't tell them I was bad to you— a drunkard—' 1 No,' said Susan Pennywell. ' No/ '(rod bless you,' said the man huskily. 'God bless you, Susan. And perhaps— would you maybe let me see them ; talk to them—' His hesitation was pitiful. ' Come home with me and nave some supper,' said Susan. Her heart was aching with a new pain— her heart, that had not ached for her own sorrows for so long a time. • And as for Jem and Kittie—' ' Yes, Susan.' ' They've been dead this eighteen years, John,' said Susan, softly. She put her one arm about his shoulders. ' They died within twelve months after you left me, John.' There was silence. Then sobs began to shake him from head to foot. His limbs gave way beneath him, and but for Susan's supporting arm he would have fallen to the ground. Don't mind.' she said, in a very gentle voice. 1 They've been watching, John, and they'\e been praying, too. They brought you back to where you could throw yourself on the mercy of God. Come now, come home with me, and Father Luke will bid you welcome, a)nd make things easier for you than a poor ignorant woman like me knows how to do. Come home and get ready to die in peace — don't cheat Jem and Kittie this night of their prayers for you.' Father Luke prepared the man for the death that he felt was imminent . stayed with him hours, going over the longv-past years with him. Shortly after that the poor creature's mind began to wander, and he thought that little Joe Daly was indeed ' Jem,' ami would lay with the child's hand in his — content and happy only when he was in the room. Father Luke ga/.ed long into Susan Petany well's shadowed countenance ' Had you not found him he would have died unshriven, Susan,' he said-. ' Jem and Kittie were taking care of that, Cousin Luike ' ' And voni forgive him, Susan 7 ' he asked ; there was a thrill in his voice. ' You forgive him— after all f ' ' He led me a hard life, I know,' she answered "Rut his own life's been harder since, and I felt that Kittie and Jem would pray for his soul. Yes ; it isn't anything but the soul that counts. Every day 'twas mv prayer that God would listen to his two innocent children—' ' He certainly has,' said Father Duke, thoughtfully. ' He certainly has.' ' After all,' said the priest, 'we each have our apostolate.' But there was a new feeling of reverence always in his thoughts for the cheerful woman who had so cheerfully wined out from her memory, for iflie sake oT one man's soul, all those long, long years of ill-treatment and neglect.— Ben7iger's Magazine.