An Apostle to the Genteels

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 24, 17 June 1905, Page 7

An Apostle to the Genteels

The ’Story of Doughty Father McGann’s Mission, to Murray Hill

By

Vincent Harper

I T was up to. "Holy Joe” to act, and with characteristic simplicity and directness h? acted. Technically his perish did not include Hurray Hill, his corner of he Vineyard lying wholly within “de Ate” Assembly District; but what are ecclesiastical boundaries to a man with a message? Did not John Wesley claim the whole world as his parish? Let doctrinaires haggle over the niceties of clerical etiquette: when Macedonia cries "come over and help us” it is not for such as the Reverend Joseph Aloysius Met ann to waste time discussing the professional propriety of invading another shepherd's fold. To the unsophisticated mind of Father "Holy Joe,” every man who was "up against it.” as he would have put it. had a claim upon him. and with an alarming profusion of evidence Mr Herbert Mortimer. Jr., of Fifth Avenue and Bohemia, was in that appealing condition. Accordingly. after passing through the artistic hands of an Italian barber on Third Avenue, from whose establishment the aposle emerged oily and redolent, he took a hansom eab in Cooper Square and prepared to extend his missionary efforts beyond the field assigned to him by his ecclesiastical superiors. "Sure. I always knew that I'd rather be after buttin' in o society wan of them days." said Father McCann to his friend Meehan, the bookmaker, who was one of the few who knew the present whereabouts of Mr Herbert Mortimer. Jr. ■'Can you break in. do you think. Fader?” asked Meehan incredously. "Never fear, me lad,” replied the Driest, his little eager, tender, roving eye dancing with interior joy. After paying the cabman and telling him not to wait, as he might stop for dinner, the round little man toddled up he great steps and rang the bell. The door was soon opened by an English butler, who. if appearances count for anything, must that day have heard of the death of his nearest relative. "Not receiving.” said the bereaved one. shutting the door in the face—and on the foot—of the messenger of peace, the latter fact being the result of the reverend gentleman anticipating some

such inhospitable art on the part of perfidious Albion. ••Judgment! I had me foot on he base!” laughed “Holy Joe.” as the butler, finding it impossible to close the door tight, opened it again. “But Mrs Mort’mer is not receiving, sir.” repeated the butler. “Now. see here. Clarence.” said the priest insinuatingly. “I didn’t ask you anything about that, did 1? No. Well,

now, chase yourself and just tell Mrs Mortimer that a clergyman is hereabout her boy, you know.” Keeling that there was some guaran tee in the critical garg of this extraordinary visitor, the suspicious butler conducted him to a small r.ception room so full <f things that “Holy Joe” thought they must be going to have an auction. After a very long time—spent by his reverence, as he afterward

explained, in taking stock—th? butler letuined to say that Mrs. Mortimer would be down immediately; and so she was, for a sweet, middle-aged lady presently came in betraying very much more embarrassment than her visitor supposed any one could feel on meeting him. Aou are from the Little Church Around the Corner, I presume, sir?” she said after Father McCann had stated that it was a fine day. "Hear that, now!” replied the priest, his fat sides shaking. "From the Little Church Around the Corner, is it I , ’. l " ■ 1 not. ma’am. but ti-oni th? big church around the world. Father McCann. ma’am, from the Seven Dolores Church in First Avenue, and 1 hope you’re as well as you look, ma’am." I fear that is—there must be some mistake, sir. We are not Catholics. ,'ou know. sa d Mrs Mortimer nervously. "Oh. sure, we can’t be blamed for our misfortunes, ma’am, no more than for picking out the parents we have. And anyhow. God help us all. trouble is neither Catholic nor Protestant—is it, nia’am?—but conies to every wan of us! like death and the minion of our sins,” leplied Holy Joe* reassuringly. Ami you are not from the Little < liureh Around the Corner, then? The servant sad that you wished to speak to me about my son.” continued the poor lady, her voice so full of tears that Father McCann felt that things were coming his way faster than he <•<•11 hl have hoped. Not at all. nia’am.” replied the apostle: "though I must say that I Imve a great respect for that same little church, for they do be sayin' that ann.v poor corpse can get a dacent burial there and no questions asked, especially if the dead man is a woman that. God have mercy on us. made a mistake or two. Hut! annyhow. I came to see you about the boy, ma'am as line a lad as anny mother could wish to see doin’ different from what he is.” In sp'te of her perfectly trained manner. Mrs Mort ; mer winced as she heard this gentle but unmistakable evidence that the reason for the present visit was Bertie’s seeming inability to act

differently from the way in wlt’eh he was acting and had been acting for many a sad year. lhe words of the priest dashed from her the momentary hope that had been hers when he denied that he came from the Little Church Around the Corner, for on the two occasions when clergymen had called on Bertie’s account it httd l>een the clergy of that unique parish that had come. Once it was a curate fetching a bundle of letters wr tten by Bertie to a once popular vaudeville artiste who had been buried, friendless and penniless, from that home of the unchurched; and the other time it was. the rector with the announcement that Bertie was safe at his house recovering from an overdose of chloral. ’‘He s not home, now, I suppose?” asked lather McCann, after giving the mother time to blow her nose and arrange a curtain that was hanging wrong. “Not unless he has come in without my knowing it,” answered .Mrs Mortimer. “I will ring and implire.” ‘ Sure, little you’d be findin’ out by ringin’, ma’am, for he’s down at me friend Terry Doogan’s at Sheepshcad Bay. Don’t know, him, I suppose, ma'am? But rest aisy, ma’am, for a finer man nor a squarer don’t live than Terence Doogan, whose sister is married to Inspector O’Dea, though Doogan’s place don’t never need protection at all. Well, ma’am, it’s meself as has known the boy for I don’t know how long—so I thought I would take a walk up and make your acquaintance. It’s a fine day, Mrs Mortimer.” There was a painful pause. Mrs Mortimer dared not ask the question which was filling her heart with vague wretchedness. She heard her husband’s step in the hall and rose to call him, but Father Joe prevented her. saying: “Wan moment, if you please, ma’am. Be the law of nature, mothers is intinded to do some things that fathers can’t, d’ye see? If you’ll be quiet and aisylike for a minute I’ll tell you how the land lies—and there’ll be plenty of time to tell Mr Mortimer afterward.” “Then, sir, for God’s sake tell me all! Has anything occurred? What happened yesterday to keep my son away?” "Don’t you read the papers at all?” Bsked the priest, pulling his chair nearer To hers and speaking in low tones. “Is it yourself don’t know what happened yesterday? Sure, the Suburban was run yesterday, ma’am, and Bertie plunged like mad on Turkey Red, although I put him wise, having got the straight story from me friend. Mike Sullivan—him as trains Mr Powers’ string, you know, ma’am.” “That awful rae’ng again?” sighed Mrs Mortimer. “If it is that Ido think that Mr Mortimer had better not be told. But what has all this to do with my poor boy? How much has he lost this time?” “Lost, is it?” asked Father McCann, wondering at the poor lady’s obtuseness. “Sure, if it was only money, ma’am, there’s enough of us would chip in and give him a lift until he could get on his feet. It’s not the money that he lost as is keepin’ us guessin’ now, ma’am—it’s the ugly things that’s bein' said about the way Bertie monkeyed with the jockey that rode ! Preston Pans, d'ye see. ma’am? To be plain with you, ma’am, there's a warrant out for his arrest on a charge of fradulent conspiracy—he’s been trainin’ with a bad gang, ma’am, against me earnest advice—and the question is, will you and the lad's father stand by him? If you don't it’s all up with him this. time, for shame sends more men to the devil than conscience sends to Heaven. It’s up to you, ma’am.”

For a few moments Mrs Mortimer could only make an ineffectual effort to dam up with a tiny square of lace the tears that spurted hot and quick from her breaking heart.

“Oh, sir." she was able at last to say, “the poor boy has tried us Severe-

Iy! He has exhausted the patience of the kindest of fathers, and lie—has—crushed my heart. But—of course—anything that I can do—” “That’s the talk,” exclaimed the priest, cheerfully patting the mother's arm with his chubby hand. "But,” said Mrs Mortimer, regaining her composure. “1 really feel that this is a matter for Mr Mortimer to discuss with you. sir. You see. 1 can’t quite understand it all. Our clergy, if you will pardon me. are not associated with racing—and—” " ’Twould lie a long tale to tell the difference between your clergy and ours, ma'am, wouldn't it. now?” broke in Father McCann, laughing, “and there’s more than one way of looking at sin and sinners. But, be the powers, I’m glad that your rector has only saints to deal with—and that I have the credit of knowing more sinners be their first name than anny man in New York. A wonderful interestin' lot is sinners, when you get to know 'em through the wan way on earth where no bluff goes. Ye’d be that amazed ye wouldn’t belave me, ma’am, if 1 was to tell you how much alike the sinners and saints is when you onee get off' their flesh and their bones and make ’em sit in their souls. Sure, their own mothers wouldn’t know the half of ’em if you congregation and me own was to get mixed up like with no clothes on—saving your presence.” Mrs. Mortimer smiled through her tears. The man had a heart—and the mother seemed to feel that just then it was full of love for her boy. “I thank you, sir. for your interest in my poor son. And just what is to be done for him?” she asked after “HolyJoe” had said a few simple words about the goodness of God and the weakness of youth and the faet that hope is the only thing that ever saved a man. “Nothing aiser,” answered the apostle, glowing with the success of his mission. “I just want you. ma’am, to write Bertie the sweetest, tinderest, most affietionate letter that ever drowned the despair in a man’s heart—a fakin’, winsome, meltin’ sort of letter, ye mind, askin’ him to come home—not because you don’t know what he’s after doin’, but because you do know, and because you feel that home is the only place fit for him just now. I saw me friend Mat Creagan, and La’ll keep the whole thing out of the papers for forty-eight hours —and that means forever, for who’d care to be leadin’ about sins committed day before yesterday? Bertie said you’d never let him show his face here again—and now. d’ye see,o you’re writin’ you’re dyin’ for a look at his fine young face? Onee we have him here I’ll see me friend the. leader of our district, and lie’ll see the old man —the boss, ye understand, ma’am, and hoc Mr. Mortimer —and he’ll ring up the judge—and away goes that warrant like frowns before the smiles of love. They'll trust nt>? that far. Bertie’s no criminal at all, and it’ll be a mercy to them politicians to give ’em a chance to do good for onee. I thank you, ma’am, for preachin' the Gospel this day.” Mrs. Mortimer submitted to a vigorous handshaking, and then said sadly: “But after all this, Father”—she had not said “Father” before, and the good little apostle clijiekled inwardly I —“after all this, Father, what hope can we have? Will not the unhappy boy fall back into the same old wavs?”

"There, there, there!” protested "Holy Joe,” with a deprecating wave of his hand. “Is that all the faith that you have in a mother’s love? Sure, there’s many a lad comes and tells me the same old tale every month, year in and year out, and the old mother church forgives ’em each time and puts ’em back on their feet once more—in the hope—d’ye see? —that they'll die standing up. Go write the letter, ma’am, and I’ll bring Bertie home—and you might thank God when you’re savin? your prffi’ers th'at some of the clergy keep in a sort of touch with the races.”

Late that evening the apostle returned to the Mortimers’ house with the prodigal son in tow, having in the meantime quashed the warrant and otherwise sfUiio.Mß s ( Ußiua|ju.iff Kuno.l* imp p.ijtnibs with the world. Whether it was because of his mother’s letter, or what Father Joe said to him in the long drive home, Bertie reached his mother in a state that made the interview they had in her room one never to be forgotten l»v either, and full of consolation to Mrs. Mortimer.

After bearing from his wife the account of the priest’s visit, and while waiting for the homecoming which was

it» result. Mr. Mortimer wrote a note to one of the Cathedral clergy, with whom he was pleasantly acquainted, making some enquiries about the Reverena Joseph Aloysius McCann. The reply was as follows: Is it possible that you do not know “Holy Joe”? 1 thought every good fellow in New York knew this best of all of them. All 1 can say now is, that if you want to get into any place, or out of any place- including jail see “Holy Joe.” If you want to get anything, from a nomination to Congress to a job at the gas works, see “Holy Joe.” for he will see his friend Kildea or Pat Leary, and fix it. If your friend is in trouble don’t waste time retaining a lawyer, but se? Joe. for he knows the boss who made the judge who will try the case. If you want to get next to anybody see Joe. for he either knows him intimately or else he knows a man who knows the man you want to know. If you do not thinks things are going just right in any matter see Joe. and he will find out. If you want to believe in man and give your old heart a breaking up that w ill be good for what ails you, then go, as I have done, with “Holy Joe.” as he radiates hope ami courage and repentance amid the wretchedness and degradation in which his work is cast. Joe is not a Free Mason, of course, but he has.taken the thirty-third degree in the Grand Lodge of (Jetting-Next, and is a past-master in the still more glorious lodge of The Up- Aga in st Its. If 1 did not know the facts 1 could hardly believe what 1 hear about the countless men and women whom this chivalrous little New Yorker snatches back from the edge of despair. If you ever chance to meet him take him to your heart, for it’s dollars to doughnuts that he is at that moment planning the uplifting of some brother in the tight of life. For some reason there were tears in the yes of the undemonstrative Mr Mortimer when he finished reading this strange letter, and when, an hour or two later. “Holy Joe” came in. and Mrs Mortimer presented her husband to the little priest, it was not the latter but the polished man of the world who was embarrassed.

“If not contrary to your principles, I would like you to taste some of my wine, sir.” said Mr Mortimer, while Bertie and his mother were upstairs having their memorable talk. “My wife has told me what you have been doing

for our unfortunate son. Will you permit me to drink your health?’’’ It was past midnight when the apostle left his new mission ground. Fiom last accounts. Bertie is slowly pulling himself together, ami “Hop. .)<’><•" is tin mercifully ragged by his felh.w curates every week when he goes to dine wit a “me friends the four hundred."