A Vicar’s Recollections

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXVIII, Issue 3483, 23 August 1937, Page 2

A Vicar’s Recollections

“Yes, she's a little better to-night, Vicar,’* said Mary Sanders, when I came downstairs from a visit to her almost bedridden mother, “She’s so brave, isn’t she? I think she’s wonderful.”

To myself I thought that Mary was wonderful also. Nobody could blame the frail woman upstairs for being so delicate, yet it had meant for Mary a life of devotion. Ever since her father’s death, twenty years ago, Mary had bad to work and nurse with never a break. She did fine sewing for a firm in Cowleigh, the nearest town, not because it was well-paid work, but because it allowed her to be at home with her mother.

When that began, she had been a girl of twenty-two, pretty and brimful of life. Now her hair was grey, her eyes dimmed, her speech slow and not very interesting. She had been a wonderful daughter, and still was, but that was nearly all that anybody could say. Two soft taps on the floor sent her flying upstairs to the mother who was always needing her. I waited, and when Mary came back with an apology for leaving me, she added something which was quite unexpected. “Could you find a use in the parish somewdiere for about thirty pounds, Vicar?” she asked. “Some really deserving cause?” I was surprised at her question.

“There’s never been a time, in all my experience as a minister,” I said, ‘‘when I did not know of a case where money would be very useful to somebody. But haven’t you need of the money yourself, Mary? You need a holiday and a real rest." “But it isn’t really ray own money that I’m offering,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I’d better tell you how it all happened, and then you’ll understand. Long ago, when I was younger, I had a friend, George Timpson, of whom I was very fond. We were sweethearts. Father was alive then, and when my sweetheart went to New Zealand, I promised to go to him as soon as he sent for me.”

“And didn’t he send for you, Mary?” I asked.

“Yes, he sent for me,” she answered. “He sent me, as well, this money that I’m offering you; it was to help pay my passage out to him. He had a home ready and everything. And then —” “And then —what?” 1 prompted, as she hesitated.

“Then,” she said, “my father died and mother fell seriously ill. We saved her after a long struggle, but she’s never been really well since.” “And George Timpson?” I asked. “What could I do?” said Mary simply. “I couldn’t leave mother. She couldn't come with me, so I had to wTite and tell George 1 wasn’t coming yet. Mother got a little better, but the doctor said she’d never be much better than she was, so I had to offer to send George the money back, as it didn't seem I could ever go. But he was doing well, and he told me to keep it. He waited years. Then he wrote to me at last and told me he had married a dear girl—he said I was to keep the money—but how could I? It wasn’t mine. It was sent to pay my passage out to him.” I thought over what she had told me.

“It’s curious you should offer me this money just now, Mary,” I said. “There’s a servant girl in Cowleigh that I know of. who has had a hard life from the first. Something has come to her to lighten her lot; she has found love. The man is an old schoolmate of hers who went out to India to a job and is now working in a retail shop in in Bombay. He has enough to keep them both if only they could afford to pay her passage out to him, but they can’t.” Mary saw what I meant. Her brave lips winced at some hidden pain. Was it jealousy, able to attack even a quietened heart like here all these years after?

“Yes, I see. Vicar,” she said slowly. “George meant the money to take me out to him, and it w f as never to be. But the money* could be spent on sending this young girl out on the same sort of voyage. Then let her have it. Let her come and see me.” So I sent the girl to her. I wasn’t there to see or hear, but I knew what took place between the saintly woman wiio had missed love, and the eager and buoyant young girl whose life and love were still before her.

“Take it, my dear,” said Mary, giving her the money. “The good man who sent it to me meant it for just such a voyage, only to another country. It’s him >'ou must thank —not me.”

Phyllis Jones went aw r ay with the money and came back soon after, bringing her sweetheart’s letter from Bombay, Harry was delighted to hear she was coming, and they would be married and in their new home as soon as she landed. "Good-bye and good luck," said Mary quietly, and waved her away. Later, she received a postcard written on the boat and sent from one of ports it called at. Mary’s mother saw the card and asked what it was. "Oh, nothing, mother,” said Mary, who had told her mother not a word lest she worried at having kept Mary from being the one who should have taken a similar voyage. “Only from a girl I know who is on a cruise."

Phyllis has named her first baby Mary, and has decided that Mary is to be her godmother. Mary looked happy and proud when she told me. May a far greater happiness come to her some day.