The Storyteller 'WHAT DOTH IT PROFIT?'

New Zealand Tablet, 12 August 1909, Page 1243

The Storyteller 'WHAT DOTH IT PROFIT?'

The great financier sat »t his desk in his private office and watched with impatient disgust the figure standing on the mat by the door. It was a gaxmt, dishevelled figure that stood ,there, with hollow cheeks and bent shoulders, while trembling fingers nervously picked at the ragged cap they held. The mass of nondescript rags which - formed his clothing, the worn and battered shoes, in fact the entire appearance of the figure by the door, proclaimed him what he was —the wreck of what might once have been a man. And, indeed, -that was the only name by which he had been known for many a day; it was the only name by which he eared to be known, ' The Wreck.' The"~great man's face spoke unutterable disgust, and his voice citt like cold steel as he spoke to the figure by the door: ' Well, what brings you here to-day ? Did I not tell you the last time you honored me with a call that I hoped never to see yoiir face again?' ' Yes, Dick, I know, I know,' replied a shaking voice from the doorway. ' I know I ain't nothin' to be proud of; I know I've been a disgrace to ye all my life, an' ye ain't got no call ter be glad ter see me. I know I'm nothin' but a wreck what has just been driftin.', drifting, always driftin' from bad to worse. But I'm yer brother still, Dick, an' she was yer sister, an' it's a message from her that brings me here to-day. Oh! yes; I know what ye mean by that look on yer face. Ye think I lied to ye that last time I come here (almost a year ago now, warn't it?), when I told ye she was dyin', just dyin' from cold an' hunger an' neglect, and I begged ye ter do somethin' tc»itry an' save lier. Ye thought then I was lyin' to ye an' ye told me so, an' ye turned me out without listenin' to what I'd come ter say. Remember that day, Dick? You may have forgotten it, but I never will. There you was, sittin' just where y'are now, with yer fancy cigar between yer lips, yer rugs all over the floors, them pictures on the walls, the roomjso warm an' cosy, an' everythin' that money could buy all around ye. ~, .Then there was she, yer own sister, dyiti' in a miserable little attic, so cold, so hungry, an' ye told me I was lyin' to ye, an' ye wouldn't do a thing to help her. No, Dick, ye needn't start to interrupt me, an' ye needn't ring that bell to have me put out. Ye did that once before, but I've a message ter give ye now, an- I mean ter give it before I, leave. When I've said my say-11l go an' yell never see my face again, but ye've got J ter listen ter me this time, for it's a message from the dead I'm bringin' ye. Yes, from the dead, Dick, for she died that night after I was here before.' .The figure by the door had unconsciously straightened itself, and something like the spark of a lost manhood glistened in his eyes as he came a few steps nearer to the man at the desk. A strangely tender note crept into his voice as he went on reminiscently: ' Ye remember that day, Dick, when I had come ter ye for help for her, an' ye had me turned out into the streot an' threatened ter have me arrested as a drunken loafer. I had been drinkin' that day, but I wasn't drunk, an' what I went through after I got back to the leaky little attic we called home would have sobered a man much worse than me. An', Dick, I've never touched a drop from that day to this. - \ ' Well, when I got home an' see her lyin' there on the bed, her poor, thin face an' hands all blue with the- cold an' she dyin' for want of food an' medicine, my heart just raged within me, an' I would have cursed ye with all the black curses I coujd think of. But she wouldn't have it so. She made me sit beside her, an' she took my hand in both of hers, an' she talked to me so kind an' gentle. Ye know how she-used -ter talk to us, Dick, when we was little lads back there on the farm, an' she the only father an' mother that we had. Well, it was just like that until she made me feel I was, a little child again. I saw that she felt so, too, an' seemed ter think we w_as all young again an' back in the old home. By an' bye, I knew her mind was wanderin', for she was livin' the past all over again. She spoke of things I had long forgotten, an' she spoke of things what I never knew,, an' it broke my heart ter listen to her. She was a girl again, an' we was two little scraps of boys, an' she was\bringin' us home from father's funeral. She had always been the only mother we ever knew, an' now she would * have to take father's place as well. We was too little to understand it all, but the sight. of the coffin or the black clothes or somethin' must have frightened us, for we had cried ourselves to sleep. She carried us up one at a time an' put us in our little bed, an' was kneelin' down beside us an' prayin'. I wish ye could have heard her, Dick; even your heart would havo

broken. She was prayin' God ter help her be father an' mother ter the two of us, prayin' Him ter keep us always as good an' innocent as we was then, an' make us groAv up into good, brave men. Oh I Dick, as I sat an' listened to her an' thought of her prayin' over us as ive lay asleep ,n our little bed, an' then thought of all I'd been since, an' the kind of a man I'd grown into, I could have crawled in the dust like the worm that I was. ' She went through it all that night, Dick ; all our school days, all the days that followed when you' had gone down into the city to make yer fortune an' I was the black sheep an' terror of the village. She went through it all over again; her days'spent in constant drudgery, her nights spent in prayin' for her two boys ; the one down in the great city makin' his way in the world, mountin' step by step up the ladder of fame an' fortune, but slowly, slowly forgettin' tlie folks left behind in the country town; • the other, a good-for-nothiu' scamp, the village scandal, who was wastin' his youth and manhood in drink an' gambliu'. ' Then she went on talkin.' about that time when her eyes began to fail an' she had to- o give up the sewin' an' was gettin' poorer an' poorer every day. Her blindness sorter sobered me for a while, an' we came down to the city, she an' me, hopin' that I could find somethin' to do an' begin all over again; hopin', too, to find you atf r ' have her eyes attended by some good doctor, who might cure her, perhaps. You had long ago stopped writin' to us, but ye was pretty famous by that time, an' t'waxen't hard work to find ye. She had me write to ye; an', Dick, I never knew until that night she was dyin' what was in the letter ye sent her in answer. Her eyes were pretty bad, but she made out to read yer letter, an' only told me that ye wouldn't have nothin' to do with us. I never knew until that night" she was dyin' that ye offered ter take her into yer home an' provide for her if she'd leave me an' promise never ter see me again. Ye never liked me, Dick, even when we was little chaps, perhaps because she seemed ter like me best. But, Dick, she only did- that because I was always the wild one, an' I guess she thought I needed her most. That's always the way with women like her; it ain't the strong one that's on the top; the one that'll take care of 'em an' do for 'em, they'll stick to. It's the weak one, the one that's underneath, the one they think needs 'em most. She knew I wanted ter do better, an' she wouldn't leave me, not for anything ye could offer her. ' I don't blame ye for what ye done, Dick. Ye knew what I was .an' ye didn't want me disgracin' ye in yer grand home with all yer fine friends an' the great lady who was yer wife. No, Dick, I don't blame ye for not wantin' me, but I wish I'd known what was in yer letter, Things would have been very different for her, poor girl. ' Well, I didn't know, an' she studs -ter me an' we tried ter scrape along somehow. 'Twas hard work, mighty hard, for her eyes grew worse an' worse, an' then she took sick an' was failin' day by day. I done what I could for ,her, an' I tried ter let the drink alone, but sometimes i^ would get the better of me. I tell ye what, Dick; them, were the black days for both of us. 'At last, in despair, I came to you that day, an' then, went home an' sat an' watched her dyin'. All night long she talked on an' on, all about the past an' about you an' me. Then, towards mornin' she fell into a kind cf doze, an' when she woke her mind was all clear again, but she was so weak she could hardly speak to me. I saw there was somethin' she wanted ter say, so I leaned over close to her an' then -she gave' me the message I've come ter bring ye to-day. Her voice was only a whisper an' her hard breathin' an' the wicked cough kept stoppin' her, but she .couldn't rest until she'd sent her message ter you. These was the Very words, Dick, just as she spoke 'em : '"Tell Mm," she says; "tell him I've watched him an' followed him along every step of the way. I watched hjm when he first came down ter this great, cruel city. I watched an' prayed for him in them days of struggle an' 'homesickness when he was figlitin' so hard to make his way in the world. I watched him when he first began to climb up, step by step, an' I was proud of him an' glad of his success. But, oh I the little worm of bitterness that began tc creep in when I saw him slowly but surely forgettin' not only me an' the old home, but. everything he had ont c held dear. Oh ! the pain in my heart as I watched tho ♦ cares of the world, the strivin' after fame an' fortune, the thirst for money an' power gradually drivin' out of his life all thought of his God and his religion. Still I kept watchin' him an' pTayin' for him even when his letter stopped comin', and I knew we 1 was all put outside his life for evermore. Tell him I've neveT quit lovin' him; I've never quit prayin' for him, an' now Avhen I know I'm dyin', my last thoughts are of him. He lias won a great place in the world, he has money, friends, a grand homo, everything the world can give, but what will all these do for him when he comes to lie as I'm lyin' now? Can he take bis home an' gold an' silver with him? Can any of

his fine friends go with him into that awful world beyond? Will all his money buy him a place in- Heaven P Tell him to look back on the first pages of the little catechism I taught him so many years ago," an' read just one sentence there : What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole 'world and lose his own soul ? That's my dyin' message to him ; that's - all I havl to leave him; my love, my blessing, an' them words from the holy book." ' She was quiet then for a little while ,so quiet I thought she was gone, but soon she roused herself and - began to speak again : ' " Tell him, too," she says, " tell him I'm leavin' this world with all its cares an' worries, but I'm goin' to a better an' a blighter on; an' I'll still keep watchin' him an' prayin' for him there. Tell him when the day comes to him, as come it must, when he sees all his friends, all his money, everything, slippin' away from him an' lie stands all alone facin' the" end, he will still have a soul to save. Tell him to remember that. He may gain the whole world, bait the day must come when he will lose it all. Bid him remember that on that day he will still ha -re a soul to save." 'She never- spoke no more, but fell into a stupor-like, and just as the day came peepin' in through the cracked window panes, her poor, tired heart- stopped beatin', that kind, lovin' heart that I had helped to break. I tell ye what, Dick, when the day o' reckonin' comes, you an' me will have a pretty big pile to answer for, an' her death there in that cold, freezin' attic, her death .brought on by want an' fret an' worry, won't be the least among our sins. I realised that as I knelt beside her that winter mornin', an' I promised her solemn that I'd never touch the* drink again, an' I'd try to live as she would- want me to. I've kept that promise, Dick, though it's been pretty hard. I tried to get work to do, but there's no one'll trust the likes o' me. A little snow shovellin', a little wood choppin', the Lord alone knows how I've picked up a few cents here an' a few cents there. I've begged my bread from door to door, an' I've slept on a bench' out in the public parks when I hadn't a penny to pay for a- night's lodgin'. I tried ter see you, Dick, tried again an' again, for I wanted to bring ye her- message. They'd -keep tellin' me ye was away an' I couldn't see ye; they thought I was ■ a tramp just come a-beggin', I suppose. ' Lately, I've come to realise that I'm goin' the same way she did. The doctors at the dispensary told me so, an' I guess ye need only look at me ter know "they spoke tha truth. They've found a place for me ter go to — a home for just such -wrecks as I be, where I can wait for the end in peace. I'm goin' there - to-day, Dick, but I made up my mind to see you before I went an' give ye her message. Last night as I lay out under the stars (an' it's pretty cold these autumn nights out there under the- stars), I got ter thinkin' of her arid of" how I'd see her soon again. I couldn't face her if I hadn't brought her message, so there it is, Dick, there it is. ' " What doth it profit a man if he gain the* whole world an' lose his own soul?" ' The man at the desk was sitting now with his head , bowed upon his hand, his face concealed from view. '-The Wreck ' had drawn gradually nearer, and was standing closo behind him."" Stretching forth his hand, he continued, in trembling tones : ' Dick, old man-, we've never been very good friends, you an' me, but I'm goin' on a long journey, a journey there'll be no comin' hack from. Death is beckonin' to me, lad, and I'll be answerin' the call pretty soon now. This is the last time I'll see ye. in this world, an', after all, we're brothers, " Dick. Won't you — shake hands — before I go?' Slowly the man at the desk raised his head; slowly ho turned and looked his brother in the face. Then,- without a word, he rose to his feet and grasped the outstretched "-» hand of ' The Wreck.' For a moment they stood so, hand clasping hand, eye speaking to eye, but tongues strangely silent. Then ' The Wreck ' turned away,- and with bent head and slouching .gait drifted out through the door down . the stairs, and into the noisy - street where he ' was soon lost to sight among thebustling throng. > . As the office door closed on the departing figure of his brother, the financier dropped heavily into his chair and sat gazing into space, buried in deepest reverie. A picture rose up before him of the little attic room and of the woman dying there, and half unconsciously he repeated aloud the _words of her message to him : ' What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world ? Yes, what doth it profit? Wliat does anything profit, for that matter? I have gained a world and I have lost it; I have won place and power, and 'l have lost them; I have' had wealth and .fame, home and friends, '-and to-day I sit here alone and penniless, facing ruin and disgrace. Tomorrow the world will know me for what I am, a thief, a defaulter; the finger of scorn will be pointed at me; the very newsboys will cry my shame upon the streets. Those who haye been my friends will be friends no longer. Truly,

the day has come, as she said it would, when everything is slipping away from me and I sit facing the end of all things.' He glanced at the desk, and his eyes fell on the letter he had been writing when interrupted by the entrance of his brother. It was his farewell to his wife, in which he confessed the ruin and disgrace he would not live to face. Tomorrow his shame would be published to the world, but he would not wait to see that to-morrow. To-night, almost any moment now, they might come to arrest him, but ho would escape them. In the drawer of his desk lay the revolver with which he meant to end it all. These had been his thoughts, while writing that letter several hours ago, before ' The "Wreck ' had stpod there on the mat by ' the door. Since then something had happened, a message had been sent him, a message ir9m the dead. What was it she had said? ' He may gain the whole world, but the day will come when he must lose it all. Bid him remember that on that day he will still have a soul to save.' He picked up the unfinished letter and commenced slowly tearing it into tiny fragments, repeating to -himself as he did so : ' Bid him rememler he will still have a soul to save. What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul, and , after all, a soul can be saved even through ruin and disgrace; yes, a soul can be saved even in prison.' A little later, when the officers of the law came to take*him, it ,was with a smile that he rose and went forward to meet them. — Messenger of the Sacred Heart.