A PRAYER AT EASTERTIDE

New Zealand Tablet, 20 May 1915, Page 5

A PRAYER AT EASTERTIDE

Do you think she will live, doctor?' The great specialist looked into Gilbert Kenmore haggard face. Intimacy with suffering and death had not made him impervious to pity. He had the good fortune, still, to possess the rare gift of sympathy. Then the circumstances were unusual. Mr. Kenmore and his wife were Americans and had been in Naples only a few days. They had gone for a drive in the morning and met with an accident. Mr.. Kenmore had escaped injury, but his wife was not so fortunate. His voice trembled as he asked the question, and the physician hesitated. ' Doctor, I want to —the truth.' ' I can give you no hope, and the time will be short. But I can promise one thing. She will not suffer.' Mr. Kenmore stood for a moment incapable of speech. Then like a flash came the remembrance of a line he had heard his wife sing only yesterday: ' The light of a whole life dies when love is done.' Was she going to die—his beloved? Then there would be nothing in life for him, for love would die, too. A wave of anguish seemed to roll over him, and he felt the doctor grasp his hand. 'Try to bear it like a man,' he said, and turned away quickly. He went down the broad marble steps and through the garden. Who can describe a Neapolitan garden. Clusters of flowers, bright-hued as the rainbow; tropical blooms, so redolent, it seemed, that there must be hidden in the orange grove a magician who presided over a mystical alembic. And to think in the midst of that beauty and fragrance the angel of death was hovering near. If only the sun would darken and the incessant warbling of the birds would cease, it would have been more in - accordance with Gilbert Kenmore's mood, as he listened to the words that threw over his life the pall of sorrow. Always before fortune had favored him. He had accumulated wealth and in the literary world he had won merited recognition. ■ Earth's cup of joy, brimming, he had lifted to his lips. The blow had fallen and he reeled beneath it. • He staggered to a chair, sat down, and his head fell forward on his breast. With a groan he muttered aloud, ' This is the end of all, life, love, everything !' ' No, it is the beginning for the one you love,' said a firm yet pitying voice. He .started and looked around. It was the nurse, a Sister of Mercy, who had come softly down the stairs. ' Mrs. Kenmore is asking for you, sir.' He sprang to his feet and turned to the Sister. ' Thank you for reminding me of my duty, Sister. I will go to my wife.' As he hurried along,- the truth came to his mind.

His wife was going; to, die, * and she had no faith. ' ; , He!» must': speak to her, exhort " her. It was : not too ; late. • ; The soul can seek God, on the -very threshold of eter- - nity—-the great yawning depths that lie beyond earth's r . boundary may, by a single heartfelt petition; 0 be trans--, formed into an.abyss of mercy. - ":.-. ' n : c / She lay in. the high carved bed. Pallid; and no ;" longer young, she was still very fair. She stretched forth her hand eagerly. -► """"". ~~''" ■- ' V : Gilbert, I have something to tell you.V - ' Are you able to talk?' he asked tenderly. : ~ 'Yes. I have been talking to the Sister, and" I—£ know I ; am going to die.' ~t* - ; , ; ; He started. ';_. ' ,'"V>J .' J l ...•'"•■-- -..■- >.''.■;; 'I insisted. At first "I was wild, rebellious, but she talked to me of God's mercy and forgiveness. She wept and prayed, and, strange as it may seem, I have experienced a "change of heart. . Before I do "anything else, it is necessary to make a confession to you.' - ~~~' A confession to me - ' Yes. You are the one who will have to right the great wrong I have done. Oh, how wicked I have been, but, Gilbert, I have suffered for it.' . 'My dear, this is too much. You have ' never wronged anyone. This excitement has made you imagine things.' ' No, Gilbert, you have never understood me—that is all. I've deceived you. Sit down.' Something in her face and expression he had never observed before arrested his speech, and he sat down, and waited. :■■■.-■'-\ ' ' It is of your sister Alice I wish to speak. Some time ago, nearly six months, I intercepted a letter addressed to you. You were away from home at the time. . I was curious and opened the letter. That was not a criminal action, but when I read it I was filled with anger and mortification. Your sister wrote that her husband had committed a crime and received a prison sentence. She said he was innocent and falsely accused of theft. He did not live long after his sentence.-. She had struggled along for some time and when she wrote was hopelessly ill of an incurable disease. She thought of her children soon to be orphans and asked you to help her. When I read the letter my heart turned adamant. I thought only of your honored name and the disgrace it would bring on us. I knew " your kind heart, your noble, generous nature, and that you would love those children of your sister. I think it was jealousy that possessed me, and the thought of humiliation heaped on us story became known. On the impulse of the moment I burned the letter. Directly afterward I regretted having done so, and, to make -things worse, I could, not remember the address given in the letter. I only know that it was somewhere in Kentucky. Then remorse came and I grew ill in mind and body, but tried to keep it from you. I succeeded partly, although it was mostly on my account that you* came abroad at this time. If only I could have told you, but I was too cowardly. I have seen those. children's faces, gaunt, meagre, even in my dreams. I have listened to their accusing voices until I have almost gone mad. I am tired, Gilbert, more tired than I can tell you, and if I can obtain peace and rest, I shall be thankful. Now, you know mysin; can you forgive me?' % He lifted his head and met her look. What he saw in her face made >him forget everything but the fact that even if she had sinned she had suffered, and she was dying. '• - " , . "; He knelt beside her and clasped her cold hands in . his. • - ' /■"■-' " -■ ■• „•; . -i... !- ' 'Think of nothing but your soul, my dear Marian. "May the God of Mercy forgive you as freely" as I do.' ,t But tho children ' . ■ , : -,..■ 'Be comforted. I promise to find the children; God ; will show me the way.' ***** : ' ; It was a beautiful day in early April. In picturesque Bloomington spring "had come. Buds wore

swelling on ■ the trees and! thick verdure carpeted the hill-v. side. - Early that bright morning a dreadful accident H had happened on the 1 railroad. if. Heavy rains had flooded the. tracks and ''..; caused them to spread - apart. ' When the "express from the north"came thundering through the still sleeping village, the engine-had "reared like a living thing, left the tracks and plunged down an embankment. : - Not far from the scene stood 5 an humble ;■ cottage, the home of three orphan children. Their names were Leonore, Gilbert, and Irma Ashton. r They had-lost their mother early in the winter, and since then had had a struggle for- existence. •;"'}: They "were ' the r children for ; whom 1 ; Gilbert Kenmore ,\ had searched for ' nearly three months. He would have been L proud . of" them, although theyj'had been reduced to poverty.';./;' Leonore was 17. "She had wonderful golden hair • and eyes that reminded one of the Fringed Gentian,'- ■'■;■■ 'Blue, blue, as if the sky let fall J. 1 A -flower from its cerulean wall.' Gilbert 'was a bright boy of 14, who grieved daily because he was a cripple and not able to work hard for his two sisters. ;. •> / Irma, the youngest, was ten years old, and so attractive in face and gentle in manner that several well-to-do families in Bloomington would willingly have adopted her. Leonore could not' bear to relinquish her claim on her loved sister, and she had worked too hard for her tender years. The night before she had gone to rest • completely discouraged. Even her cheerful brother's words had not their usual stimulating effect. 1 Don't feel so downhearted,' he had said. ' Irma and I have both been praying all during Lent. It's almost Easter now, and I think our prayer will be heard.' Leonore had smiled faintly. She was proud of her brother's courage and proud of his faith and confidence in God's goodness. Then she sighed as she thought of his affliction. If he could have medical treatment, perhaps he would become cured of the lameness and the severe pain. It was still quite early, but Gilbert was up" and outside the door chopping kindling wood.- The birds were singing, and if the boy had been a poet he could not have been more delighted with the beauty of the scene. Wooded emerald hills, stretches of meadowland and blooming orchards, and some distance away the noble Cumberland glistening in the clear morning air. His eyes swept the landscape, and the perfume of the flowers made him drink the sweet air in deep draughts. As the express whistled, he turned to look at what was always an object of interest. And as he looked he saw -the fearful plunge. _ A wreck!' cried he, and called his sisters shrilly. In a short time Leonore had hurried to the scene, followed by the others. Soon after the lame' boy found something to do. Leonore offered her humble abode for two of the injured, a fine-looking man of middle age and a child of three whose mother had been killed. The man was unconscious, but the child was suffering from a dislocated shoulder. Leonore did all in her power for both' the stricken ones. Gilbert Kenmore had found the State of Kentucky larger than he anticipated. He had gone from place to place without success and was beginning to be discouraged. When he stepped aboard the express at Louisville he had no particular destination in View. When he opened his eyes he did not observe the humble surroundings, and when a face bent over him he was certain it was the face of an. angel. Then he heard a child cry, and remembered. Leonore turned to soothe the child and whispered something to her brother. The boy brought a cup of water and held it to the man's lips. He drank, and there. had been compassion in his glance as the boy limped painfully toward him. Pale and tired from unusual excitement, "the poorly nourished; lad looked -almost ill. • ... '-'- '■■-. " \. ' . * ■■■'.:

"*"""' What is your name V - -, .- *-- • --' :■'.''. Gilbert Kenmore ..Ashton.' A touch of unconscious pride : was in the still childish vQice. ;CrA deep flush rose to the man's pale face. Then he lifted his hand to his head,./ His brain seemed scarcely clear perhaps his mind was wandering. But no —he looked at the I boy again intently. '-Is your mother living?' : . ' ' No, sir; she died before Christmas.' _ , fP ,' And her name ? ' Her name was Alice Ashton. lam named after her only brother ' 'I am that brother. I've been searching since- ':■ *>;,'• The effort was too much and he became unconscious. When he awoke again, another day had dawned. He felt better, stronger, and something told him he would get well. Leonore came to him, kissed him, and called him her dear Uncle. Her lovely face, her tender touch, brought joy to his longing heart. ' How you must have suffered!' he said, holding her little hands, rough and hard from work. ' Yes, but God has been good.' 'I prayed,' said Gilbert, limping closer, 'every day that we might stay together and be happy. Now I'm going to pray that I may be cured from being a cripple.' Tears were in Gilbert Kenmore's eyes as he said : 'I feel sure that your vers will be answered. I, too, have learned to trust in God's goodness.'