A MIDNIGHT CALL

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIV, Issue 4, 25 January 1906, Page 23

A MIDNIGHT CALL

Miss Mary was putting on her hat before the little blurred mirror in the kilcLen. Out on the sunken steps of the back porch, beneath a home-made awning of faded blue, sat a hulking figure in checkered jeans, his shoulders hunched over, his elbows upon his knees, meditatively chewing and gazing into space. ' Glory be to Uod, Hank ! ' cued Miss Mary, peering out at him. ' isn't it an avviul thing ? Every day alike to you, and never your loot inslide a churcn on Sunday ! ' The man on the steps giunted. ' It's the sorry woman your old mother'd be if she had lived to see this day ! ' went on Miss Mary, a bright led spot showing on cither faded cheek. '*You that never goes to Mass and hasn't kneeled your knee to a priest in twenty years—her only son ! I wouldn't mind if you had a good safe job "—Miss Mary caught her breath sharply. ' Glory De to God ' ' she cried again, raising her voice in anger to hide its quiver. ' You won't go to Mass, and you don't know the hour God'll call you away without warning ! ' ' 'lend to your own soul, Mary Ann, and don't mind me ! ' said the man sulkily. " It's none too good you are yourself ! ' He got up, sideways, and shambled down the steps and into the back} ard, out of hearing, wheie he stood smoking, his shoulders still hunched up, one hand grasping and holding up the elbow of the hand that steadiied the pipe in his mouth. Miss Mary sighed and muttered in useless anger She put on her worn silk mils and took up her parasol. The cat stretched in the sun and followed her la4ily to the front door. 1 Good-bye, Peter,' said Miss Mary to the cat, and shut the scieen door. Peter stretched himself m tne sun and yawned and svent back to his sunny spot. Miss Mary picked her way with old-fashioned daintiness down the blackened boaid walk and up the treelined street. The little dressmaker, crossing the road at right angles, met her at the corner. ' Good-morning,' she .said, timidly. ' Going to Mass ? ' A gleam of shaip humor came into Miss .Mary's c} es and her thin lips twitched , where else would she be going at this time of a Sunday morning. Then she frowned coldly, and her old face hardened. Miss Mary had a ieelmg of enmity towards the little dressmaker, and even her sense of humor would not let her unbend for an instant. 1 Good morning,' she said. ' Yes , I'm goitog to Mass.' ' The little dressmaker fell into step beside her 'I'm going, too,' she said. 'It's a real pleasant day, isn't Very much the same scene had been enacted on this very corner every Sunday morning, rain, hail, or shine L OrA fteen years now ~evcr smce the llttle dressmaker had first come to Sayre and hung up her shingle on a cottage not far from the house into winch Hank and Miss Mary had moved but a year or two before her coming. From her front window she could see Miss Mary leave her gate, and there, as Miss Mary suspected the little dressmaker stood Sunday after Sunday gloved and bonneted, watting for Miss Mary's appearance, when she had just time to meet her at the corner Miss Mary had been frankly surprised that'first Sunday morning ; she had never dreamed that Kittie Klein would come to Sayre. She held her tongue, too, when the little dressmaker told Miss Mary and her neighbors simply and in a few words, that she had come to Sayre to settle down. Beyond these brief Sunday morning walks Miss Mary purposely saw nothing of the dressmaker. Someone found out that they had both come from the same home town. The villape gossips tried to find out more about it, but somehow the most curious diid not get at the truth ™;? Ild tJ e/n llt1 } 3 Very pretty- Wheu Hank was young and full of life and God-love, before his mother s death, he and the little dressmaker had been sweethearts. She was not the little dressmaker then, but care-free Kittie Klein, the daughter of a neighboring farmer, and as beautiful a girl as the country held. It was in the days before Hank had taken to a railroader s precarious existence. He was the only son of his ™'.^ d he a? a Soo* son, whom the farm, life and.Christian obedience and love for Kittie Klein made

up the sum of a very happy life. The years passed in sunshine, and the light 'storms of youth ; the crops prospered and brought rich returns, and Kiltie Klein began to make her wedding-clothes. Antoinette, Miss Mary's oldest sister, had married and gone to live lin the city They were glad that she was happy— and it made more more room lor the coming ot Hank's wife. They got a new team and new farming implements, and Miss Mary and her mother bought new parlor lurniture Those were sunny days, and Hank's spirits ran high. And then troubles came, as sometimes nappens not singly but in battalions. E\er afterwards Miss Mary turned from the memory of those days with bitter tears. Little Cassie, the youngest and best beloved of their home ones, sickened and died that spring The doctors could do nothing lo keep her on earth and there were those wno said that shu was too good to live. Fief loss wsu, a blow to them all, and the widowed mother drooped. She was ill, too, during the summer, and the doctor's bills multiplied. That season a long period of drought was follow ed by incessant rains, and the crops were wcll-mgh ruined. Some of the cattle were visited with distemper, and died Little wrinkles of trouble crept into Hank s Uce and never a patient fellow, he railed «xt their increasing ill-for-tunes. The farm had to be mortgaged. Ihe widow bowed her head to God's will and went out into the kitcnen and the dairy and the farmyard with Miss Mary —a thing she had not done in years. Hank grown suddenly sober and preoccupied, repeated his nightly Rosary with less and less iervoi Hank had to disturb him a matter more potent— to hum— than the farm He and Miss kittie were to have been married that spring but he had had to put it oft. Miss Kiltie, vivacious and self-willed as she was, was vexed. She pouted and sulked and flirted with former lovers. Hank's heart was sore. Until this time Hank had never touched liquor, and he had always been a good, practical Catholic. No one can blame Miss Mary because she laid hlis fall from grace at Kiltie Klein's feet. It was one Saturday night that he had taken Kiltie to a sleigh-ride. It was late when! he got home— so late that Miss Mary had fallen to sleep on the lounge while waiting for him , and if her eves had not been half closed when she let him in, she might have noticed how wild and white was his face. He went upstairs without a word, and Miss Mary could hear him pacing up and down his room as she sank to slumber. Sunday morning' dawned clear and crisp, and Miss Mary and her mother were dressed and had breakfast laid, but no Hank came downstairs. At ten o'clock the horses were not harnessed— Miss Mary had gone out and fed them— and .Mass was said five miles away. His. mother went upstaiis with a slow tread. Hank lay in bed with his eyes closed, his head pillowed on his arms She called him, gently first, then sharply when he did not answer. He opened his eyes and looked at her. 'Do you know what time it is 9 ' she asked • Yes,' he said. ' It's after ten.' The widow's eyes opened wide with surprise 'Would* you be late for Mass ? ' she cried. ' I don't care,' he said sullenly, ' I'm not going ' The widow walked with a cane. She stood and stared at her son for one speechless second. Then she thumped her cane upon the floor. 1 Get up ! ' she thundered. ' Whatever the cause of this madness, you shall go to Mass while I lijve ! ' Hank got up and harnessed the horses and drove with them to Mass. Next day Kitty Klein went away on a visit, and on Tuesday Hank went on the first drunk of his life. Would to God that it had been the last ! Things went headlong to ruin then, despite his mother's and Miss Mary's efforts to keep up. When, in a month, a repentant and a soberrd Kiltie came home to. leclaiim her lover, it was too late. That last quarrel had been the bitterest thing of Hank's life. He had run away from the scene of his unhappiness and was tramping the country ' looking for a job.' The railroad in- • variably gets these rambling ones, and Hank became a switchman in the yards at Sayre. The following year the mortgage was foreclosed, an* the widow died. Kittie Klein was there when she died. In spite of the coldness and disapproval with which they treated her, Kittie clung to these relatives of her lost lover. Hank had not reached her dying bed. Her fading old eyes sought bravely to outstare death until he should come. The priest stood by, the last Sacraments having been administered, reverently reading the prayers for the dying. The widow's face was calm but for that one straining ; she was ready and glad to meet her Maker. 'Her breath became more labored, and death

■dew gathered on her forehead!' "-It wasf all'tqo" that she f ipould not last until* Eer son. came. She sought Miss Mary's grief-drawn face and turned from it to sobbing Kittie Klein.- Her eyes, said much,, but they were softened and pitying. ■ ' Tell my son— l will— watch— over him,' she said, and died. , .• Kittie Klein did not seek Hank to deliver that message, for Hank would not see her. Even when she had followed them to Sayre after the death of her. parents and a consequent change of fortunes, her one-time lover so managed it that he never encountered her. Miss Mary, with all a woman's unforgiving pride, had little sympathy for poor Kittie in her lonely state, and for fifteen years Kittie had not been able to 'break through the wall of Miss Mary's cold disdain. Hank had mot gone to Mass since his mother's death,, and it was twenty years now since he had gone to his duty. Miss Mary's sad old face bore marks of the heartsick worry which this had caused her. Every prayer and act of her life was wholly tor his redemption. It was the one boon that she craved from God. llf nothing more, let it be the. grace of a happy death, dear God,' she prayed again and again. Hank knew that she was incessantly praying for him. Sometimes he scoffed at her. The railroad had hardened him until he was a bit of unreasoning mechanism. He had drunk until he thought that he could not live without it, and he had lost all pride in his personal appearance. ,At forty, Hank was unbelievably •changed from the gay, handsome, healthy youth whom, Kitty Klein had fiist loved. To-day Miss Mary was even shorter than usual in her replies to the little dressmaker. There had been a big smash-up in the freight-yards the night beiore, and someone had been killed. It hurt Miss Mary to think -of it. Dear God, how near Hank was to death every night of his life ! And his soul !— ah, that was the worst of it ! An old white-haired lady in faultless widow's weeds was going into church just ahead of them. She walked with a cane, which she hit upon the ground determinedly as she walked. Miss Mary and the little dressmaker exchanged a sudden glance ; the same thought had come to both of them. ' How like ' Kittie Klein began impulsively. Miss Mary's mouth set hard, with a click. She turned from her companion and swept into the church, her cheeks burning with resentment, her eyes bright with sudden v tears. It was that very week that Hank was to lay off and did not. There was no good reason for his postponing this desired vacation. The hand of God guides our acts. The little dressmaker was making a bride's dress, and she had sat up late into the night to finish it. It had been very hot all day and evening, and the big kerosene lamp in* her room had drawn added heat and many flies. These buzzed around her now and made her nervous with their droning noise. The clock ticked monotonously, and the heavy night breeze blew the window curtains at her back with a rubbing, flapping sound. Off in the freight-yards the engines shrieked and clanged their bells, and the switching cars came together with intermittent crashes. She shivered at each new crash and patted down with caressing fingers a fold of the wedding gown. She had wept many bitter tears over its making. The memory of her own wedding gown folded away in lavender blossoms lived very dear to her heart. Kittie Klein was not a brave woman. She was a timid one, and now, as she sat alone at night, she had barracaded her opened window with a curious arrangement of chairs to thwart any intruder's ' attempts to ■enter. She blessed herself when a belated wayfarer's step passed along the board walk beneath her windows, and she breathed more freely when it had echoed away into the distance. The hollow ring of the clock made "her heart quicken ; and when suddenly, without a warning step, a knock sounded at her door, fear seemed to drive the breath from her body. She crushed her hands into the wedding gown and sat, unable to stir. The •clock said three-thirty. Who could it be at this unearthly hour ? The knock sounded again impatiently. It was a lights feeble knock, like a child's. ' Who's there ? ' she called. She stood up, grasping the table, and her knees shook her whole body. There was no answer. "Who's there ? ' she called again. The knock was repeated and prolonged with feeble strength. Kittie grasped the scissors in her right hand and the lamp in her left, and went to the door. She unlocked

it with trembling fingers, and opening it cautiously, with her light held up, peered out into the porch. The night was without moon or star/ an. inky blackness. A £mall, thin boy stood; in the porch. He had on overalls with a bib over the shoulders and a pair of little bare arms.i -His hat was tattered around his face., He was unmistakably a railroader's child, but the little dressmaker did not seem to recognise him. ' What do you want ? ' she exclaimed. ' There's a man been hurt under the big bridge, and he wants the priest,' the child piped. ' 1 seen your light, and I'm afraid to go alone.' ' You poor darling.! ' cried Kittie. ' I'll go right along with you ! ' She turned and hurried back into the room, screwing down the light as she went. She set it on the table and ran back to the door, just as she was, without waiting to throw a wrap over her perspiring shoulders. The dying light of her lamp shone into the porch and showed it empty. She called to the child and ran to the gate, but she could not see him. Fear choked her. The freight cars in the yard just then came together wiith a mighty crash, and somewhere a yardman yelled an order. His voice was terrible in the night air. It seemed to give wings to Kitties feet. The child had said that a man had been injured under the big bridge and that he wanted a priest. She tore open the gate and ran out over the uneven board walk. At the corner she turned towards the church. She had been running some minutes before she heard the footsteps beslide her. She turned her head ; she felt that someone was running with her, but she could see no one. She looked over her shoulder and ran. faster. She was no longer 'a young girl nor lithe, but fear spurred her onward. In a little while she knew that footsteps persistently! kept beside her, and before she reached the corner she heard the labored breathing ol a spent runner at her right. The little dressmaker fell up the parochial steps and pounded upon the door. ' Father, Father Perschal ! ' she cried, ' a man is dying in the yards and wants you ! ' The good priest had put his head out of the upper, window. ' Why, why, Miss Kittie ! ' he cried, ' I'll be with you in a moment.' Kittie threw herself about, her back against the door panels, and peered into the darkness. She called, but no one answered her. She could see nor hear no human th\mg. ' I must be going crazy ! ' thought the little dress^ maker. The priest joined her in an incredibly short time* and they started back towards the yards on a run. ' Who is it that is hurt, my child ? ' he askfed. ' Oh, I don't know, Father ! ' she cried. ' A child came to the door and told me that a man had .been hurt under the big bridge and that he wanted a priest, and when I stepped out to come with him to get you th<> child was gone.' The priest looked at her strangely. He took her arm, to aid her tired steps, for somehow it seemed quit/ natural to both of them that she should be going with the man of God on this strange night mission. And now again as she ran, on her other side the little dressmaker heard a third person running a little ahead of them this time, as if guiding and urging them onward. She wondered if the priest heard the footseeps too. His face was white and strained and his brows were knitted. The uneven boards trembled beneath their feet, and now and then a flog barked at them. Down the main street they sped and 1 Iturned down the black, bush-lined* -path that led beneath the great bridge. Lights were moving about on the ground before them, and there was a curiously hushed confusion all about. Kittiie's throbbing heart grew suddenly still with choking horror. She had remembered all at once that Hank's shanty was here, beneath the great bridge An engine was snorting at the brink of the ditch beneath the bridge and beside it a man was upon his knees holding the head of a prostrate comrade * *i. 'J}lf po ? r old Hank Mvr P n 7,' a grimy fellow told the -little dressmaker, kindly, surprise at seeing her stamped upon his shining black face. 'The engine iust struck him backing up.' ' Just struck him .' ' cried Kittie. ' Not a minute ago,' said the man. 'We all saw it but we hadn't time to do a thing ! ' The men gathered back respectfully towards Kittie and the shanty, and for the first time in twenty -years Hank was alone with a confessor. Miss Mary's Dravers were answered in God's own way

-"< '\D,idri't~you send a little, boy ,for ;th,e priest? 1 persisted Kittie,' dazedly. >? "?*/-,- "^'. ?•'''. IHe was just hit, 3 - the -men repeated, staring at her. Blue Pete struck out in a minute for the doctor and Hank's sister, but he ain't had. time to get back yet.' 'Hit just now I ,'- the dressmaker repeated to herself,/ as though awakening from a dream, ' hit just npw ! ' > Then somewhere on the breeze behind her a voice ; : floated to her ear: 'Tell 'my son,' it said-, 'I will—' watch— over him.' When Miss Mary, awakened by the kind-hearted railroader, came stumbling down to the tracks, a wrapper thrown carefessly over her nightdress and opened at her shrivelled neck, and her sparse grey hair straggling about a wild face, the doctor was already bending over Hank. The priest was beside him too, kneeling in the cinders, praying as only a priest can pray. The men had brought up the stretcher. Miss Mary brushed against it as she rushed forward. : . L „ . . , ' Oh, my God ! ' shrieked, and threw- dut her old hands to Hank. " '■ . - The doctor put lier aside roughly. ' ' ' 1 Hurry, boys, Uie stretcher ! ' he cried, in a strange, ringing voice, and get this man to my office as quick as you can ! It looks like only a few ribs broken 'He stopped and chuckled nervously ; he was a softhearted man. ' It's not often, boys, an engine strike?; a man and lets him live to tell the tale ! ' } The men picked up the stretcher with unspeakable relief written on their rough faces, and Hank, was borne away, groaning a little, but with such a look upon,his face as it had not worn in twenty years. The pries 0 followed them. '• By jingo ! ' cried the remaining switchman, in his rough, coarse way that meant so much less because H was but part of the iron-bound life that he led. ' I believe that Hank ain't done for yet, Miss Mary ! An' 1 dunno what saved him ! ' Miss Mary stumbled away from the track. The little dressmaker rose up from the darkness and confronted her. ' I went after the priest, Mary ! ' she cried. 'Your mother came to the. door with a little boy and sent me after the priest ! I couldn't see her, but I saw the child, and I heard her running beside me all the way and I could hear her breatlie ! Oh, Mary, Hank's been to Confession and he isn't dead .'" Miss Mary shook her head in dumb bewilderment and mumbled wildly. Her breath gurgled in her throat, her eyes were dry and staring, and a feverish red had crept into her blanched cheeks. She stumbled past and up the black, bush-lined path, looUing straight ahead, and Kittie Klein followed her, weeping hysterically now. Once she looked down and saw that Miss Mary's feet were bare and bleeding from the sharp cinders. At the doctor's steps they met a man coming out. ' The ribs on his flight side and his right leg arc* broken,' he said to Miss Mary in a kind of awe-struck \oice ; the railroad didn't olten leave its victims thus. They're going to set the leg now, and then the doctor says he can be carried straight home.' Miss Mary answered him incoherently, an uncomprehending look of fear upon her wild face. Kittie had her own shoe off and was upon her knees, forcing them on Miss Mary's bare feet. ' I'll go right ihome for you and get his bed ready,' the little) dressmaker was saying. ' You go in and hold Ms hand-while they set 'his leg. Poor old Hank ! ' she added wistfully. Miss Mary turned upon her fiercely. ' I guess ] can get his bed ready myself ! ' slie choked. She stood looking down at the little woman kneeling at lier feet. The wild look went slowly from her face. ' And Hank ain't killed ? ' she murmured dazedly. The little dressmaker sobbed anew. ' Ain't Goci good ? ' she cried. " Miss Mary stooped "and Mfted^ the little dressmaker to her 'feet. ' I -wouldn't have hysterics !" she said in her old sharp way. '.Go on and hold his hand yourself ! ' 7 She gave Kittie Klein a gentle push towards the doctor's door ; the years had" suddenly rolled away. And Kittie Klein went' into the doctor's office, her pale?, faded face all pretty -with 1 a Inew light. Hank would live and the past was past. The men turned curious eyes upon her. They .didn't know, but that didn't matter. She went to^jHahk, and he put out:his hand to her. Outside, .Miss Mary; was hurrying home: to ' get things ready tor the coming lof Hank. Her face had not held a look, like this for many' years.— 'Liverpool 4 Catholic Times.'