(IV)
At the hospital, Daly was sinking fast. The doctor came in frequently. And then, as often happens shortly before death, the delirium terminated for awhile. Bill looked up and saw his father and mother standing over him. It took him some seconds to realize where he was. It all came back to him in a rush. He also felt very weak. He had never felt like this before. Something told him he was going to die.
In a low voice he said to his father, "Pop, I guess I am wanted up there. I'm sorry for all I've done. I know you'll be good to ma." A pause. "Ma, it's hard to go and leave you, but Dad will take care of you like he used to, when I was a kid. That'll make up." Another pause. "Pa, ma, make the Act of Contrition with me." They knelt at his side, made the sign of the cross, and he said, falteringly but clearly:
"O my God! I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest allmy sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen."
"O my God! I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest allmy sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen."
He fell back exhausted, from his slightly raised position.
In a little while he said, "Ma, I want Father Boone and Frank." The mother knew that the priest was rushed day and night, and hesitated to call him. Then she remembered that Father Boone had said, "If he returns to consciousness, be sure and send for me."
While she was thinking how best to do so, Mr. Roberts entered the room. He took in the situation at a glance. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. On learning of Bill's request, he said, "My machine is here. I'll run up for Father Boone and the boy, and have them here in no time," and off he went.
Mother and father held either hand of their darling. Not a word was uttered. In about ten minutes, the door opened and Father Boone and Frank appeared. Bill recognized thepriest, and said with an effort, "I am——so glad——to see——you——Father. I want to go to confession. Then I'll go home." Mr. Roberts, who was not a Catholic, found tears running down his cheeks. Mr. Daly was sobbing.
"I shall have to ask you all to leave the room for a few minutes," said the priest, and as they filed out, he put on his sacred stole, and blessed the boy. Then bending over him, he heard Bill's confession.
Bill told him everything. He wanted to go into details, but the priest, to whom a single word meant volumes, quieted him and allowed him to say only what was absolutely necessary. When his confession was made, the priest took out a crucifix and pointing to it, said, "He came for us, for us who offended Him. He is more glad to forgive you than you are to receive forgiveness. Make your act of contrition, and I shall pronounce God's absolution. Speak from your heart as to Christ on the Cross. He sees your repentance. He will heal you and make you His dear child."
As the dying lad was saying his words of sorrow for sin, the priest was pronouncing absolution. "May Almighty God have mercyon you and forgive you your sins and bring you to life everlasting, Amen. May the Almighty and Merciful Lord grant you pardon, absolution and remission of all your sins. Amen. May Our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and I, by His Authority, do absolve you from every stain of sin. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. May the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the Saints, whatever good you have done and whatever suffering you have borne, make for the forgiveness of your sins, for an increase of grace, and for the reward of life eternal. Amen."
Father Boone arose, opened the door and bade all come in. "All please kneel down," he said, "I am going to give William, Holy Viaticum." They all knelt, including Mr. Roberts. Before the priest administered the sacred rite, he turned to the boy and said,
"My child, I am bringing to you Our Lord Himself, to be your friend and companion. Speak your heart to Him." Then administering the Blessed Sacrament, he said,
"Receive, my child, the Holy Viaticum, theBody of Our Lord Jesus Christ. May He guard you against the evil one and conduct you to life everlasting. Amen."
The boy received the Sacred Host with intense reverence and joy. He crossed his arms in prayer. After a short while, he turned to his mother and said, "God wants me, mother."
She responded, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
The father came over to his son, and taking his hand kissed it, saying with a voice of suppressed emotion, "Good-bye, Willie, pray for your poor old Dad."
"Good-bye, Dad. A kiss."
His eyes caught Frank kneeling beside the bed and he faintly smiled at him.
Then, to his mother, "Good-bye, Ma."
She kissed his forehead tenderly. He looked up a moment, and closed his eyes. Father Boone and Frank were just saying, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death," when the mother gave a gasp and said, "My Willie is dead!"
(V)
On the way home an hour later, Frank and the priest walked for a while in silence. Each had his own thoughts. In an indefinable way, the priest showed a marked respect for the boy. He understood all now, "A truly noble boy," he kept saying to himself. But Frank occupied only a part of his thoughts. The mysterious ways of God's Providence furnished him food for reflection. "A soul saved, a life lost," he said to himself, as he considered the reform of Mr. Daly and the death of Bill.
Frank, too, had his thoughts. His tired head was full of all he had seen and heard of Bill's life and family. Bill was a "victim of circumstances." "What if my father had been like his?" he asked himself. "I have never thanked God enough for my good father and mother." Then he was glad both for Bill's sake and for his own that Bill had gone to confession. In his own relief at knowing that the strain of misunderstanding was ended for both himself and Father Boone, he expected the priest momentarily, to refer to the subject. When they had gone a distance in silence, Frank burst out—the first words between them since leaving the hospital.
"Father, you know all about it now!"
"All about what, Frank?"
"Why, didn't he tell you . . . about the . . ." here he stopped. The priest gave him a look that startled him. "O, I beg your pardon, Father, I forgot it was confessional."
From that moment the subject never came up again. But Frank knew in his heart that he was cleared. It would not matter now, no matter what happened. The subject never came up again, but in a thousand ways, from that night on, Frank realized that Father Boone was his dearest and best friend.
Switching the conversation, Father Boone said, "Our prayers for Daly tomorrow will be for his welfare beyond, not here."
"It will be a great shock to the fellows, Father," said Frank.
"Yes, doubtless. Death always is. And the death of a boy especially."
"Why, Father?"
"Well, I suppose because we don't expect the young to die. It seems out of place. But God calls at all hours. After all, it's only a question of a few years, more or less. We all go sooner or later. The great thing is not the going, but the manner of it—to live in sucha way that whenever God calls, we are ready. Then, it's all one,—for compared with eternity, the longest life is but a fraction of a second. Not even that."
They soon reached the rectory. "Good-bye, Frank, my good boy Frank," and the priest gave him a hand shake that almost made him yell.
"Good-bye, Father."
And when in later years Frank recalled that night, he marvelled that one small boy could have been both so sad and so happy.
The next morning at about ten, Father Boone was in his office at the Club, waiting for Mr. Roberts, who had phoned him asking for an appointment.
"This has been a crowded week," said the priest to himself. "On Monday morning I found the Club rooms a wreck. Since then, we have had a fire, Bill Daly's adventure and death, all the worry over the mystery and, thank God, its solution.
"All cleared up now. And out of it comes Frank Mulvy, pure gold. He had a hard ordeal, poor boy. I was certainly severe on him. But under the same circumstances, yes, I'd do the same again. What amiragelife is! We see or fancy we see, so many things that are not there."
Presently, Mr. Roberts was shown in, and after the usual greeting, he said, "I know youare busy, Father, and so I won't take up much of your time. You know I had intended putting William Daly through school, but that's off now."
"Yes," interrupted Father Boone, "he knows more now than all the colleges could impart."
"Say, Father Boone, do you know it's taken my breath away—the way you people look at things. You talk and feel about the other world as we do about this! Why, last night, everybody seemed to be right next door to God."
"That's our Faith," replied the priest. "It's our greatest treasure, the best thing we have in life. That is, for those of us who live up to it."
"It must be so, Father. I couldn't help but notice how happy that boy looked after the Sacraments. But, I came on another matter today. William Daly is dead. What I was going to do for him I want to do for some other whom you will designate. Preferably, that young lad who was with you last night. But I leave it to you."
"God will bless you for that. But Frank Mulvy comes of a well-to-do family. He is one of the finest lads that God ever made.He intends going to college after finishing at our high school. I have another boy, however, very deserving and very poor. If you will consent, I should like to designate him. His name is Edward Morgan."
"Edward Morgan it shall be," replied Mr. Roberts.
"Now, another thing, Father. I have told Mrs. Daly to have as nice a funeral as possible for her boy. That's not an act of kindness, but of justice. He saved my wife and child. I shudder when I think what life would be without them. All my money would be nothing, with them gone. Of course I shall take good care of Mr. Daly," he added.
"I am sure you are doing the part of a good and grateful man," said Father Boone.
"And another little thing, Father. We are close on to Christmas. I want to do something for you personally, for yourself, do you understand?"
"I thank you very much," said the priest, "but, really, I prefer to have you help some one else."
"No, it must be you, Father. I am set. I want to do something to please you, personally."
"O, you do! Well now, I'll tell you how you may do that. I have any number of poor people in the parish. Some need clothing, some food, some rent. Suppose you help me to help them?"
"I'll go the limit, Father, I have the money. You send me word how much you need, and you will have it."
"Not so fast, my good man. I only want you to help to a certain extent. You know we have many poor. I could easily ask you for a large sum and not half supply our needs. Just how much do you wish to give?"
"How much do you want?"
"Well, I have at least thirty poor families on my list."
"Suppose, then," said Mr. Roberts, "that we make it a hundred dollars to each family. How would that suit?"
Father Boone felt like calling for help. Three thousand dollars! It almost toppled him over. "Suit!" he exclaimed, "why, it will be royal! Rather, let me say, it will be very Christian, Christlike."
"It's done," said Mr. Roberts.
"I thank you," said Father Boone earnestly.
"I thankyou," replied the millionaire.Then he continued: "I see you are doing a lot here for the boys. That is the best work I know of. If you turn out others like Frank and William, you ought to be blessed and thanked. I know your heart is with your boys. Can't I do something for the Club?"
They talked over the situation for some time, with the result that the Club was to get a new piano, new up-to-date billiard tables, a bowling alley, and six sets of boxing gloves. All these were to be delivered Christmas week.
As Mr. Roberts was leaving, the priest said, "It's my turn now to do something for you. I am going to ask you to do a little favor for yourself. I want you to kneel down every night before going to bed and say a prayer. It's not a long one, just this: 'O God, grant me the grace to see the light, and the courage to follow it.'"
"Why, that's easy," said Mr. Roberts. "I thought you were going to ask me something big."
"Well, for all you know, that may turn out to be the biggest thing you have ever done," replied Father Boone, as they clasped hands on parting.
Father Boone's thoughts just now had turned to the McCormack concert. After the disturbance, he had sent the tickets to a priest down town, who had a boys' club in a poor section of the city. "But I don't know as it's too bad," he thought. "Those boys down there never get much of anything. I'll find some way to make it up. The boys won't suffer for my mistake, that's certain."
He phoned down to Carnegie Hall.
"Sold out," was the answer.
"I thought so," he reflected, not at all disappointed.
That afternoon while down town on business, he turned over 57th Street to Seventh Avenue and dropped into Carnegie Hall to see what other date McCormack was booked for. While he was making his inquiries, a man standing nearby approached him.
"Pardon, Father, you're from St. Leonard's? I am Mr. McCormack's manager; perhaps I can help you out." When he heard that ninety seats were wanted, he almost collapsed, "But your boys are little chaps, aren't they, Father, from nine to fifteen? Lads of that age don't take up much room. How would you like to have them seated on the stage?"
"Why, that's capital," exclaimed Father Boone.
"Well, I can manage that. We'll give them the first row on either side. That will put them right close to McCormack while he's singing. I know how kids like to be near to what's going on."
So it was all arranged, and Father Boone returned home very happy. He had received that very morning a letter from one of the parishioners who always gave him something for the Club at Christmas. This time it was a check for $150.00. The tickets cost him $90.00. "With the rest," he mused, "I shall be able to give them a good time."
(II)
That evening the boys were rather subdued. Bill Daly's death had affected them greatly. To be playing with a lad on Monday, and to know he is dead on Friday, is a terrible shock to boys.
As Father Boone entered the Club he observed how serious they were. It was natural, he reflected, and best to let it work itself out. He would not mention the McCormack treat just now.
The boys gathered around him, and asked all sorts of questions about Bill's last moments. Even to these lads it meant something consoling that he had died a beautiful Catholic death. They told Father Boone that they had gone to Mass in a body that morning, and had received Holy Communion for Bill's soul.
"I offered up the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass for William this morning," said the priest, "and I suggest that on the day of the funeral you all go to Communion again in a body for the repose of his soul."
"We had already decided on that, Father," said Dick.
"That is good," remarked the priest, "and now another thing. You know his mother is terribly broken up by her boy's death. That is natural. She would not be a mother otherwise. Of course, she is resigned to God's will. So was Our Blessed Mother, at the foot of the Cross, but that did not prevent her heart from being pierced with grief. Mrs. Daly was very brave under it all. So much so that Mr. Roberts, who was there, said to me afterwards, 'Your religion is a wonderful thing in affliction.' But, boys, she feels the separationkeenly. William was a remarkably good boy to his mother. Now that he is dead, I can say to you that the poor boy had an awful lot to contend with, and if it were not for his religion and his mother, no one can say how he might have turned out.
"Now I suggest, boys, that you divide up, and some of you go over to the house at one time, and some at another, on a visit of condolence."
"Yes, Father," said Tommy. "We were thinking about going over."
"What's the best thing to say to her, Father, if we want to show our sympathy?" asked Dick.
"Nothing," replied the priest. "Words are useless in deep sorrow. Just go there quietly. Your mere presence will say more than any words, if your behavior is considerate."
"Shouldn't we say anything at all?" asked Ned.
"Just a word or two to say who you are, and that you are sorry for her. Your presence is what will talk most."
It was after ten o'clock that evening when Father Boone reached the Daly flat. He had been stopped several times on his way over,by inquiries about the Club, and Daly. On entering he found six of the Club boys kneeling around the body saying the rosary. The lads had held a meeting after Father Boone had left them, and decided to go in groups of six, each group to stay a half hour. They also decided that the best way they could show their sympathy for the parents, and to aid Bill, was to say the beads.
In order not to disturb them, Father Boone went quietly into the rear room. Some one told Mrs. Daly that the priest was come, and she went to him at once. As soon as she saw Father Boone, she broke down. The priest had expected it. He had seen less devoted mothers become hysterical under such circumstance. He simply said nothing. He let her have her cry out. When it was over, he remarked, "That's good now; that cry will do you good." He spoke kindly, but very firmly. He knew that one little exhibition of his own feelings would start her all over again.
When she was composed, she said, "O, but Father, what lovely boys you have at the Club! Sure, they came in here in droves all the evening, and every one of them kneltdown and said the rosary for Willie. It did my heart good. Forgive me, Father, for the cry I had. They gave me so much comfort, I thought I was altogether resigned to God's blessed will. But the sight of you, Father, brought the tears."
"Well, I am not surprised at that, my good woman. Did not our Lord have tears of blood in Gethsemani? Yet He was resigned. The end of His prayer was, 'Not my will, but Thine be done.' If we did not feel these things keenly, there would be little merit in being resigned to God's will."
"God bless you, Father, for saying that. I was afraid I was rebellious."
"Not at all. You were only human, only a mother."
Again she started to cry, and the priest sat silent.
After a moment he said, "And now, Mrs. Daly, remember that by offering up your sorrow to God for Willie, it becomes something precious in the sight of heaven, and will benefit his soul."
"Thank you, Father, I'll do like you say. But Father, you should see himself. I never thought he would take it so hard."
"Where is he?"
"Inside."
"Tell him to come here."
In a moment Mr. Daly came in. There were no signs of tears on his face, just a drawn, sad expression. His eyes were sunken and dull. He began first.
"O Father, it's the hand of God on me and I deserve it. If the home was what it should be, it never would have come to this."
"Well, Michael, if it's the hand of God, and it is, it is for your good. The hand of God will never lead you away from your true welfare."
"But it's the Missus I'm thinking about, Father. It will kill her. I can stand it. But she can't. Oh, if the good God had taken me instead!" He sighed heavily. "Of course, I feel Willie's going, too, almost as much as the mother, for I had just found him again. All these years he was lost to me, and mine the fault, the crime I should say, and it is God that is punishing me."
"I believe it, Michael. And He is punishing you here rather than hereafter. But His chastisements are different from men's. He draws good from His punishments. This will make a man of you, and you will save yoursoul. It brings God and His judgments before you. It shows you that we never know when He may call us, and that we should all be ready. Suppose He had called you suddenly two weeks ago, where would you be now?"
Michael said not a word. He just bowed his head.
Father Boone continued, "Be a man, Michael. Take your sorrow as chastisement from God. You deserve it, as you know. You did not appreciate the child God gave you, and He took him. Live now as a good man and husband. Don't worry over the Missus. Her faith will take care of her."
While he was speaking, Mrs. Daly came in. Turning to her, he said, "Mrs. Daly, I feel sorry for you and Michael, but I do not feel sorry for the boy. Willie is now with God. He died the way Christ wants His followers to die. He is with God now. He would not exchange places with the most fortunate person in this world. He would not come back again if he could. God grant that you and I may finish our journey to eternity as acceptably as he has done!"
"Blessed be the holy will of God," responded the mother.
"Amen," said Michael.
"Now I am proud of you," declared the priest. "Your sorrow is great, but like true followers of Christ you carry your cross after Him. That is why He had His way of the Cross, so that when we have ours, we shall not be alone. Come into the front room and let us say a prayer for Willie's soul."
As they entered, the friends sitting around stood up. The six lads saying the beads continued their prayers, but on seeing Father Boone, they terminated the rosary at the decade they were saying.
When all was silence, the priest spoke out, "My dear people, let us all say the 'Our Father' for the repose of William's soul. When we come to 'Thy Will be done,' we shall pause for a moment, and dwell particularly on those words. All please kneel."
He began: "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen. Our Father....who art in heaven....hallowed be Thy name....Thy kingdom come....THY....WILL....BE DONE....on earth....as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread....and forgive us our trespasses....as we forgive those....who trespass against us....and lead usnot into temptation....but deliver us from evil....Amen. May Willie's soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen."
He rose from his knees and quickly and quietly left the room. The boys soon followed, for it was late. One by one the others left, and the father and mother were alone with their dead. They sat silent for a long time. Then Mrs. Daly touched her husband's arm and said, "Michael, let us kneel down and say the 'Our Father,' the way Father Boone did."
The day after the funeral of Bill Daly, Frank was on his way down to school when he met Dick and Ned.
"I say, Frank," began Dick, "don't you think you better do something about that Club row?"
"There's nothing to be done, as far as I can see, Dick."
"That's because you're not hearing what we hear. But it won't be long before you get it, too. It's just got to us, because they know we're friends of yours."
"Well, in the name of Sam Hill, what is it you hear?" asked Frank.
"Want it straight?" asked Ned. "The word's round that the Club is going to be disbanded, and that you're the cause of it. I almost got into a fight with the first guy that told me."
"Yes," added Dick, "and they say that the best fellows are getting out on account of you."
"Where did you get that?" asked Frank.
"Some one saw three or four of the fellows' mothers coming from the rectory the last few days, and one of them asked Joe Rooney if his mother was going to let him stay in the Club. You know Joe's father keeps a store on 42nd Street and is somebody. Well, Joe is true blue even if he is a dude, and he said, 'Why shouldn't I stay in the Club?' She said, 'Oh, I thought all the decent boys had left. I can't have my boy ever put his foot in that place again, with that pack of rowdies.'"
This was news for Frank, but to their surprise he showed little concern.
"Don't you see, Hank," said Dick, "that you are getting in bad. If a lot of mud is thrown, some will stick. It's easy to give a fellow a bad name, but it's hard to get rid of it. Why don't you do something? I am sure Father Boone also will get a lot of annoyance from it, unless you clear yourself."
But Frank did not seem to mind. It was so unlike him that Ned said, "If we didn't knowyou so well, Frank, we'd think you were mixed up in it ourselves."
"Yes," declared Dick, "to one on the outside it looks bad for you. That Dunn kid told everybody that you were over to see his father and then someone else blabbed what happened in the Club, that you owned up to knowing all about it. Putting two and two together, they have built up an ugly story, and it's spread like fire."
"That's all right, fellows," replied Frank nonchalantly, as they parted at the school. But just the same Frank was doing a lot of thinking. "Suppose the decent fellows should leave the Club! Suppose it got a rowdy name!
"But," he went on, "Father Boone knows how things are, and he'll straighten them out. But can he? What he knows, he does not know, for all intents and purposes. He can't use what he got in confession, and that's all he got. He may know that I am right. That settles something. But how about my mother, and the others?"
These reflections came to Frank as he was going upstairs to his class room. It was a relief to know that his teacher had some confidence in him. Some of the boys gave him slylooks and one or two made insinuations. At recess, however, he met his real ordeal. First one, then two, and at length a dozen or more had gathered around him.
"Well, fellows, you are getting a good show, I hope," laughed Frank, with a forced grin. As they kept on staring he added, in a tone trying to be pleasant, "Movies free today."
Outside the circle someone called, "What's up over there?"
The reply cut him through and through. "That's the goody-good kid that got caught in the roughneck stuff over at the Club."
If a thrust were made designedly in order to inflict exquisite pain, it could not have served the purpose better. Frank moved off with hot iron in his very flesh. He knew that the last word in contempt among boys was that same "goody-good." It implied everything that he detested. With the boys it meant a girlish goodness, a sort of "softy." That hurt him. Of course, in a school where there were nearly a thousand boys, he was known only to his own set. He was not thinking of them, but of the great crowd who knew him but slightly, and who would credit what they heard. And out over the whole yard hadrung those words, "goody-good!" And on the top of that, to be called a "roughneck!"
In class the next hour, the recess and its every incident occupied Frank's whole mind. Every word and look was rehearsed over and over again. He was called on for recitation, but his name had to be repeated before he responded. When he did reply, he appeared like one just out of a trance. The hour of class seemed very long.
At noon, he delayed going out in order not to face the crowd. When he thought that most of the boys had gone, he went out into the street. His face was burning. He fancied everyone he met was looking at him. He could almost hear passersby say "goody-good" and "roughneck."
If Frank had been "just any boy," the experience of the recess hour would not have caused him such exquisite anguish. But a boy of high honor resents with all his soul the insinuation that he appears one thing, while in reality he is another. "But why," he reflected, almost aloud, "why should I carry a load that is not mine? I did not ask Daly's confidence. Why should I suffer for it?" He knew the answer, at once. Honor demandedit, and honor's price at times comes high. That is what makes its value. But the thing kept coming back. It would not let him alone. When apparently settled, it came again in a new form.
"Daly is gone," he reflected. "He hasn't got to face a crowd and bear their jeers and insults. I kept this secret as long as it could possibly hurt him any. Now, what's the harm in clearing myself?"
This thought clung to him like a wet garment. It looked right, but his fine sense of honor detected the wrong that lurked in it.
"Yes," he said, "Daly is gone, but his father and mother are here. What a blow it would be to them!"
But back again came the temptation, were his own father and mother not to be considered also? Did he not owe more to them than to Bill Daly's parents? And so he went on, balancing duty with duty. Yes, it certainly was right for him to clear himself. This conclusion, however, did not satisfy him either.
"Two things are against it," he mused. "First, any crook can accuse the silent dead. I am free of guilt, but I must not establish my innocence by making the dead guilty.Moreover, who would believe me? They'd all say that a fellow mean enough to wreck a club room, would be mean enough to lie. It wouldn't do me any good to speak out.
"And then—Bill Daly's death made a profound impression on everybody. Father Boone's sermon at the funeral was as good as a mission. All that would be undone if I let out on Daly. I can live this thing down, he can't. Should I, even because of the pain of this thing to myself and my father and mother, break up all that? No. Not even if I was sure it would help my case. I know I am right with God. That counts most. If I am doing something for Him, I must do it right. No whining, nor complaining, nor getting amazed that I am ill-treated. All that goes with the sacrifice."
He entered the church and went to the altar of the Sacred Heart. "O my God, for the love of Thee, I do this. I offer Thee a bleeding heart. It costs me much, but I am glad to give Thee what does cost so much. And, my dear Lord, grant me the grace to give cheerfully what I give. Amen."
He arose and went out, strong and buoyant, like the martyrs who went to the lions rejoicing."A soldier fights for the flag," he thought, "and does so with enthusiasm, although he may meet with wounds, capture and death. I must fight under the standard of the Cross, and be a brave soldier of Christ, a Knight of the Cross."
There was no school that afternoon and so he took his time getting home. On his way, he was met by Mrs. Joyce, mother of one of the Club members.
"Aren't you that Mulvy boy?" she asked.
"Yes, Mrs. Joyce," he replied.
"I thought so," she continued. "Well, you've been found out at last."
That was all. It was a terrible lot for Frank's sensitive soul, but he said in his heart, "For Thee, Jesus," and went bravely on. At home, a new trial was awaiting him. His mother had been stopped on the street several times this morning, and had received very pointed inquiries about her boy. The last woman who addressed her had virtually insulted her.
"Well, Mrs. Mulvy, it's too bad. Who would have thought that your boy, Frank, would turn out so bad!"
Mrs. Mulvy had to make an effort to smileand not reply. But when she got home, she found that she had bit her lips even to blood.
When Frank came in, doubly dear to her now, she almost lost control of herself. She sank with a groan into the large arm chair. Frank was at her side in a second, smothering her with kisses, and breathing out terms of endearment to her. In a moment, she was herself again.
"Excuse me, Frank," she said, "I was all undone. But tell mother, dear, what in the world have you done?"
Frank was brave for himself. But where his mother was concerned, it was different. He knew now that what he had promised at the altar was going to cost him much dearer even than he had calculated. He was strongly tempted to make an exception in his mother's case, and to tell her all. But he remembered his promise at the altar and how Bill himself had said, "There's no going back on a promise to Him."
"A soldier does not quit when he gets a blow, neither will I," he reflected. "This blow is worse because it strikes me through my mother, but I will trust God, and do what I have promised Him. Moreover, if mothercould not trust me now, when I tell her I am blameless, would it do any good to tell her the dime-novel truth of the matter?"
Looking deep into her eyes, he said, "Mother, you never knew me to deceive you. You must trust me now more than ever. But I will tell you more than I shall say to any other human being. Mother, there is a mistake. Everything points to me, I know. I'm under this cloud because I would not be untrue to a confidence. I've just left the church, where I promised God to carry this cross for Him. I was thinking of you when I made that offering. Now, Mother, won't you be good and not worry any more?"
For an answer she embraced him, and taking him by the hand, she led the way to the little oratory. They knelt down before the Sacred Heart, and still holding his hand inhers, she said, "Dear Sacred Heart, I add my offering to my boy's. Do thou keep him ever in Thy love and Thy Grace. Amen."
"It's all right now, mother. The cross has lost its weight."
"Yes, dear," she answered, "we won't mind anything now. I'll tell your father thatI know things are all right, so he won't be embarrassed by any gossip he hears."
"Mother, I'd rather you wouldn't say anything to father. He has enough to worry him without our cares."
"Yes, dear, things don't always run smoothly with him, yet he spares us his worries. I'll do as you say, unless something makes me see it's best to tell him."
(II)
After lunch, Frank went out to the football field. There was to be heavy practice that afternoon for the big game of the year. On his way, he met Dick and Ned, headed in the same direction.
"O Frank," exclaimed Ned, "you're being terribly 'roasted' all over the parish. Somehow the thing is getting bigger and bigger, and you're made out worse and worse."
"Can't help people talking, son," was Frank's reply.
"I know, Hank, but it's something awful. Why don't you do something?"
"I'm open to suggestions, wise one. What do you advise me to do?"
"Why, deny it!"
"I have."
"Well, tell them that you can prove you didn't do it. Show 'em that you were not around there when it happened."
"That's just it. Who knows when it happened?"
"Well, isn't there anything you can do? It's fierce to get the rep you're getting."
"Search me, kid. I don't know anything more that I can do."
As they approached the field, they found most of the players already on hand, in their uniforms. Subs were beginning to line up against the regulars, for the practice, but Frank noticed at a glance that John Derby, of the second team, was in a regular uniform.
"Oho," he thought, "that looks strange. And that uniform looks suspiciously like mine!" His heart sank.
Of all things that Frank liked, football came first. In the last game, with Grayson High, his playing had certainly counted big in winning the game for Regal. He was the only boy from his year on the team but no one could run and dodge as fast. His grit helped, too, for he would fight on, no matter how rough he was handled. In the early fall, hehad been carried off the field protesting, although he was terribly bruised. Considering all this, it seemed impossible that Derby had been promoted to his uniform on the eve of their biggest game. Tomorrow they were to play Stanley High for the Interscholastic championship.
However, he hurried, with as much coolness as possible, to the dressing room. He found his locker empty. Standing nearby was the captain of the team, Robert Fitzpatrick.
"What does this mean, Bob?" said Frank, quietly.
"Didn't they tell you, Mulvy?"
"Tell me what?"
"That you're off."
"Why, no. This is the first notion I've had of it. I came out for practice."
"Well, I'd rather someone else told you, Mulvy. I just want to say we had a hot row over you. I stood up for you, but four of the players said they'd resign unless you were dropped. So I had to give in, or 'bust' the team."
"What's the charge against me, Bob?"
"Don't you know?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, you ought to."
"I know the report that's around," said Frank, "but you fellows certainly don't want to go on record for condemning a man before he's heard?"
"Why, they said you admitted it."
"That's not so. I said I knew about it. I did not need to say that. I had my knowledge as a confidence, and I could have denied all knowledge of it. But because I had the spunk to speak out as I did, you fellows brand me. It's all right. I'll take my medicine."
"It wasn't easy for us to drop you, Mulvy. Tomorrow is the big game, and we need our best team. I put that before them strong. But I was out-voted."
"Well, Bob, I want to thank you for what you did. But tell me one thing. You know how the fellows move heaven and earth to get a strong team. You know how, when a fellow got into a scrape, or was behind in studies, or even if he was bounced, all the others stood by him and fought to retain him. Now, I know I'm a boob, but nevertheless, I know my worth to the team, and so do you. Tell me, then, why this action in my regard?"
"Well, I'll be frank with you, Mulvy. They look upon this matter differently. From all accounts, it was a thug affair, and it's gotten all over the parish. The fellows won't stand for it, not even if it hurts our chances for tomorrow's game."
"Thank you, Bob, for being so frank. Now, another question. It's my last, don't be afraid to be candid. Do you think the same as the others?" For a moment there was no reply.
"O, excuse me," said Frank, "I did not mean to embarrass you. Please don't answer."
Turning, he saw five or six of the team standing about. They had all heard the conversation. Not one had come forward to befriend him.
"It's all right, fellows, I have no kick. I'm in bad. But I hope you'll find out some day that I'm misrepresented."
So saying, he walked away, down-hearted, but full of exultation. He was paying a high price for that offering to the Sacred Heart. It hurt. But he was glad that he was doing something worth while for God.
He left the field. He could not bear to stay and look on. He had not gone far when Dick and Ned overtook him. "Say, fellows, don'tmind me," he said to them. "Go back and take in the sport."
"Not without you," said Dick.
At the same time, Ned put his hand in his, but said nothing.
Frank's eyes filled. Here was trust. Here was devotion. They walked along for five minutes, not a word being spoken. Rather, many words were uttered, but they were the silent language of the heart.
"I think I'll see Father Boone," Frank said eventually. "I want to get his advice on something. Good-bye fellows. I'll never forget how true you were to me." And he headed off in the direction of the Club, hoping to find the priest in his office there.