The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 8 July 1915, Page 3

The Storyteller

MARY’S SON Francis Morrison was a wealthy bachelor, who, more than a generation ago, inhabited a comfortable mansion on a side street in New York, between the two fashionable avenues of Fifth and Madison. People wondered why its owner had never married; but his secret was his own. 1 Francis Morrison was not a lawyer for nothing. The impassivity of his countenance betrayed little. The sorrow that had made his life different was the breaking of a betrothal by a girl to whom he had been ardently devoted. Her reasons had appeared all sufficient to herself. One of them had been that the man, some years older than herself, had ceased to be a practical Catholic. The girl had soon after married another man. She had been—or so young love had thought— beautiful, and she had possessed a voice the echoes of which still thrilled him. The songs that she used to sing, varied by the hymns of the Church, often sent the man of business back to his lonely library, where that last scene between them had been enacted, with quivering nerves and aching heart. ... It had seemed strange that he, plunged in a very whirlpool of affairs, and made much of in society, could not forget. The heart which apparently played so small a part in his organism, once wounded, could not readilv be healed.

It was not until Mr. Morrison found the letter on his library table, one evening, that the curtains- of the past parted. It was from his former sweetheart. She was a widow, penniless and dying. She asked him by the old tie between them to take her only child a boy —to bring him up well, and, above all, a good Catholic.

A quizzical expression crossed the stern countenance, contradicting the deep pathos of the eyes as Francis Morrison read that last portion of her request. To bring the lad up a good Catholic seemed a task beyond one who himself had so early strayed from the arms of the Church. Still he must find means to do it. An intense yearning to see her once more seized him. He never gave a thought to the probability that they had drifted far apart in mind, in interests, in their views on life. He found infinitely pathetic that fidelity of hers to the religion which she had always loved, which did not yet preclude a trust, a confidence, that he would do her bidding, where her son was concerned, and to do it loyally.

He sent a servant for a time-table that he . might study the trains which should take him to the little New England town from whence she was going forth. But it was too late. Mary was dead ! The yellow slip that his man gave him assured him of that. He managed to reach her late home in time for the funeral, but he missed the last sight of a face that had lost almost every trace of its youthful beauty. It was as well, perhaps, for thus the glamor of romance remained untarnished.

When Mr. Morrison returned to New York', Mary Johnson’s son, Edmund, was with him. He was a well-grown and intelligent lad of twelve, with eyes and the voice of his mother, and one danger in store for him that of being spoiled. Nor did the growing boy ever understand why it was that a light of tenderness shone on the strong, plain face, and the voice which by its very force and directness was accustomed to sway juries, should soften in addressing him. Romance would have been the last idea that Edmund would have associated with his guardian. He did not question why these good things were showered upon him he accepted them unquestioningly. In the years that followed, the most absorbing interest in the wealthy lawyer’s life was the boy whom he had adopted. Edmund passed brilliantly through a Catholic college. Once his college course was_ completed, he was received into society with a flourish of trumpets and a warm welcome, especially from the

mothers of marriageable daughters, for it was well known Edmund would be Morrison’s heir. Nor were the daughters themselves averse' to his attentions, which were distributed with. praiseworthy impartiality. The joy of Edmund’s life echoed to the soul of Morrison. It . almost compensated him for the sufferings of the past. The one cloud on the horizon was the growing indifference to it all of Edmund himself. The sharp eyes of Morrison discovered it almost as soon as. Edmund felt it. But it was not until after the return of Edmund from a few days’ retreat, which he had gone to make at his alma mater, that matters came to a crisis. He sought an interview that very evening with his guardian in the library. What, a comfortable room it was, where the very spirit of home seemed to preside ! The young man braced himself for the struggle which he felt was coming, and also strove to think of some form of words in which to announce his decision. He put aside hastily, as of no account, the temptation which assailed him from the very luxury of those externals.

Mr. Morrison,’ he began, and as the lawyer raised his keen eyes and fixed them upon him, he blurted out, after all those words, the full bitterness of which be but dimly understood, ‘ I have made up my mind, during the course of this retreat, that it is my vocation to be a priest.’ Mr. Morrison, thunderstruck, sat mute and dazed for an instant. Then he spoke with a violence wholly foreign to him

‘Vocation! Rubbish! Understand, young man, that your place is here with me.’

Edmund did not answer, though his face turned pale. The gravity which overshadowed its brightness but accentuated the determination that showed in' its every line. Still he strove at least to delay the evil hour.

‘ Come, come,’ said Morrison, 1 don’t let me hear another word of this nonsense!’ But, sir,’ said the young man, quietly, what is there is question of the salvation of my soul?’ Mr. Morrison was startled, but he answered, brusquely : 1 You ran save your soul here. 1 cion t see that it is endangered ; and save it here you must.’ 4 What if save it here I can’t?’’said Edmund, in a low voice. He looked so young, so slender, so boyish, despite his twenty-three years, to be desirous of making so momentous a decision, to be willing to forego all that the world could offer, and presently he continued : 1 My intention is, I hope, with your consent, sir, to go as a missionary to the West or South-West, where, they tell me, priests are urgently needed.’ You need not hope for my consent,’ was the answer, 4 for that you will never have. This decision of yours you will have to reconsider.’ 4 I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ said the young man, firmly. 4 My decision, firmly made, is irrevocable.’ But Morrison would hear no more. With an imperious wave of the hand he dismissed from his presence that youthful dreamer who must be taught to give up these fantastic ideas —the fruit of religious teaching. He must learn that he could be as Catholic as he liked, as useful as he liked, there in those suitable surroundings, while fulfilling his duty to one who had been his second father. But after he had gone, Francis Morrison’s head sank upon his breast and ho seemed at once'to have grown old. The edifice of hope he had reared on the promise of this boy s life seemed ciumbling around him. A missionary in the West! Was that the end of it all ? Little as he was informed upon such subjects, he had at that moment a glimpse of what such a sacrifice meant. Also, perhaps, he had a momentary vision of the height to which the soul of his ward had climbed ; and, fight against it as he might, an inner voice warned him that that resolution was unalterable, and that, even if Edmund could be persuaded to remain where he was, the soul of him, the only part that mattered, had already gone forth. As the latter had turned and, - at his guardian’s bidding, left the

room, he had sent back a look, grave, appealing, heartpiercmg, from those eyes so like his mother’s It had been her voice that had announced that decision from which there seemed no appeal, just as her voice had once before m that very room, announced another which had changed Francis Morrison’s whole life. - ... In the lonely vigil that the strong man kept, beside the fire burning to ashes, he seemed to hear her voice pleading in that of her son, and warning him to beware lest, through agency of his, a soul might meet with shipwreck. He had to face the question whether he would or no. What if his ward remained there where he was, stilling the voice that called him by ww ID f , de ®P er and deeper into worldly pleasures? wnat if m that very process, he submerged his better self, his highest aspirations, perhaps even his manhood ? It was a long and bitter struggle. , The old anguish of the past was renewed and intensified in an agony that only the strong can know. Francis Morrison emerged from that ideal haggard, aged, a broken man. When next the subject was broached between them Francis Morrison, in a few terse words, gave his consent. he young man was left free to follow his own way, and that way led Edmund at once to the seminary, the people of their world were astonished and full of i egret at the departure of that popular favorite. That he should have gone to be a priest seemed incredible. I he affair was quite a nine days’ wonder, but, like everything else, it was soon forgotten. The house in thirty -eight street rarely opened its doors now, save lor some formal dinner party, and Mr. Morrison withdrew almost entirely from the social world. Dining the years that Edmund Johnson spent in the seminary, his guardian paid all his expenses. uithei than that he did not go. He never visited his ward, nor was he even present at the ceremony of his ordination. From the time that the newly made priest was appointed to a parish away down in East Tennessee, he was left to subsist as best he could. Perhaps it was some smouldering resentment in Morrison who could not forgive the suffering which his ward’s departure had cost him, or more probably it was a wise intervention of Divine Providence, to fit the young man tor his chosen career, by the succession of crosses that made up his daily existence; for he bore the total deprivation not only of the comforts to which he had been accustomed, but all save the barest necessities of life, and those in the scantiest measure. That pampered child of wealth became familiar with cold and hunger, besides the grinding anxiety of providing for the spiritual necessities of a flock that could not help itself. He was compelled to reach the very limit of endurance• but it seemed to harden him physically, as it enriched him spiritually. He was lifted up to a plane hitherto unreached, and his brave, indomitable spirit strengthened by its daily wrestlings, went forth to conquer all things. Frequently his guardian received his letters, glowing with apostolic zeal, and showing between the lines that ardor with which he was inspired. But he purposely refrained from mentioning his difficulties, above all his personal privations. He felt that it would seem like asking for new benefactions from one who had already done so much. Francis Morrison answered occasionally—brief, curt epistles, expressing no opinion, asking for no details. It was quite by chance that the actual state of the case was made known to him, by a client who had spent some time in that part of the country, and who had told how the fame of the saintly Father Johnson was noised abroad, and what wonders he was accomplishing in that parish of his (which numbered some thousand square miles), under enormous disabilities and with no resources at all. It was, indeed, as the stranger declared, a matter of astonishment to every one how the priest could endure the privations.and hardships of his life. The man was naturally astonished when the greyhaired lawyer brought his hand down upon the office table, with something that sounded like a smothered oath. But he did not, as the other afterward declared, 4 put him wise ’ as to the relationship in which the

lawyer stood to the missionary, nor how the tidings had affected him.. He merely supposed that Mr. Morrison bad been touched by his account of missionaries in general. ( ‘

When Francis Morrison returned to the mansion that night, the comfort of his library and the very fire on the hearth seemed to mock him. Nevertheless he poked it vigorously, as if thus to vent his spleen, and, sitting down, he pondered. lie had vaguely imagined his ward the head of a flourishing parish, very large as to extent, with such ordinary comforts as might suffice for a pastor, and a salary small, but enough to keep him from want, a church that supported itself, and a congregation quite capable of paying for what it wanted in the spiritual order. In fact, the guardian, now growing old, had with bitter pain felt himself crowded out, superfluous, unable, beyond an occasional donation of money such as he might have put on a collection plate, to contribute to his ward’s well-being or happiness. There was a new fire in his eyes and a new purpose in his fixed gaze.

The coming of Francis Morrison struck Father Johnson dumb with amazement and joy. It meant the redemption of his mission from poverty and failure. That much Father Johnson knew. Morrison threw into 'the new interests all that fiery energy, that determination to succeed, which had marked the great lawyer’s whole existence. For the first time he learned, though not without painful and halting progress, the meaning of that command to ‘love the Lord with all thy heart,’ and to serve Him accordingly. For the first time in many a long year he tasted happiness, profound and lasting, which had come to him through the royal road of suffering. He experienced the joy of that service wherein his ward had found peace. As for the latter, he rejoiced that he was at last able to pay his own and his mother’s debt of gratitude, while giving to his guardian the pm-est of all pleasure, that of pouring forth ever new benefactions.

To Francis Morrison the old life and the new seemed mysteriously blended : the eyes and the voice of the son still recalled the mother ; in the old songs he occasionally heard, in the very hymns of Mother Church, he listened, with the old quiver of joy and pain, to the very voice, it seemed to him, that had charmed his youth.

But a few days before his death, in the wanderings of his mind, he thought he was once 'more in the old library at Thirty-eighth street, speaking with the woman he had loved. To her he seemed to be surrendering a sacred trust.

‘ I give you back your son,’ he murmured, brokenly ; ‘I have brought him up a good Catholic.’ In his conscious moments he prayed with a touchingfervor, the tears rolling down his rugged cheeks. It was from Mary’s son that he received the last rites of the Church. In his final farewell, which could scarcely be caught by the priest, were revealed to him the secret of that life. ‘ Son of a beloved mother,’ he murmured, ‘ Mary’s son, farewell.’— Extension .