THE INTERRUPTED PRAYER

New Zealand Tablet, 5 June 1913, Page 11

THE INTERRUPTED PRAYER

It was a day in late spring. Beneath one of the votive lamps in the little church, and facing the picture of our Lady of Votive Help, knelt . a llgure whose very . attitude symbolised prayer. Her intense, burning gaze saw beyond the picture, the church, the sea; .her whole body and soul were offering a petition with, a fervor that needed not the medium of the. lips —they were closed. ' But suddenly, in the midst of this voiceless prayer, she fell unconscious to the floor. A young girl> who* had entered the church a few moments earlier, and who, in walking through the aisles, had noted with' interest and reverence the absorption of the woman in prayer, was about to leave, when the shuffling sound from the elder woman’s pew attracted her attention, and she was immediately at her side. When, through the efforts of the girl, the woman revived and sat back trembling, the colorless, quivering lips expressed her thanks with an appealing humility. The girl noticed how frail the woman was and how helplessly weak; how poorly clad, yet how unmistakably refined. ‘ Madame will permit me to accompany her home?’ ‘ No, Mademoiselle ; and I thank you with all my heart. God will bless and reward you. I—l—must remain —longer. My prayer was not finished, and if I go now I may not be able to come back today. Thank you, child! But go; I feel better, and, in any case, I must fin ’ ‘No, Madame,’ respectfully interposed the girl; for she had seen the lips grow white again from the effort to talk. ‘ I can not leave you like this. I pray you pardon me, Madame, but—is it not so that you came early to Mass, perhaps to receive Communion, and then waiting to pray, have not yet broken your fast

. ‘Ah, yes, I knew!’ as her charge acquiesced with a scarcely perceptible movement of the head. ‘ Listen, then, Madame, I shall go with you, if you will, and when you have had a cup of tea or some food, I promise to bring you back here to finish these prayers ’ (and the smile that accompanied this plea was not to be lightly repulsed). ‘ Besides, you could finish them at home ; you have ’ ‘ Mademoiselle does not understand.’

The quick flush on the girl’s face was not lost, for the woman immediately added : ‘ But I shall do as you say; I can return later, since my refusal to go now distresses you.’ The little cottage in which she lived being near the church, she was soon at home.

‘ You are too kind; I am not used to such services,’ said the weak voice, as deft hands were gently removing the bonnet and shawl, and arranging pillows comfortably in the armchair near the sunny window. I am so happy that you permit me, Madame,’ replied the self-appointed nurse ; ‘ and 0 when I have given you some hot tea, you will lie down and will promise me not to go out again until you are stronger.’ ‘Ah, yes! It would be well, perhaps; but it may not be. You do not understand, my dear, as I told you before. You can not understand that I must finish my prayers in church.’ The girl turned quickly. ‘ Madame, I ’

* ‘I know what you would say, but it is in fulfilment of . a vow made years ago,’ came in low tones to which feebleness added solemnity. And then silence fell in the little room.

It was years since she had mentioned her vow to any one, and then it was to an old priest who had long since died; but now the kindness of this young stranger and her own weaknessyes, that was it, her weakness — made her talk of personal affairs. Well, she would say no more on that subject. And yet silence now might imply that she was annoyed by the girl’s advice to remain at home ; and then, somehow, to-day she craved sympathy; and in addition to these reasons, she painfully realised that she was not well, and that she might have to ask for help to get back to the church. So she decided that it would be best, after all, to explain her apparent obstinacy. ■ "

‘lt is an old, old story,’ she began, ‘written deep on many, a mother’s soul. I had a son. He was a wild lad, but he had a good, true heart; and on the morning that he went to sea (for I could not keep him) I placed him under the protection of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, and asked her to bring him back safe to me. I had faith then that my prayer was heard, and that it would be answered but God willed ’ And the voice broke. Quickly recovering herself, however, she continued

‘When his ship returned, I went to meet him, only to learn instead that he had not sailed, but would wait for a later boat ; and then, after many weeks of endless days, the terrible word came that his ship was lost at sea. My husband had died and I was alone alone and* ill. I would have gladly given up the struggle; but after long, long days I recovered. Having paid my indebtedness a long illness costs much, my dearl sold my home, with its furniture and pictures and books, and came here to this little place by the sea; for the sea haunts me. I cannot leave it. It holds all in holding my son. I chose this house because from its windows I can see the great, wide stretches of the cruel waters. And then, in the little church here, I again saw the picture of our Lady of Perpetual Help; and, although my prayer had not been answered when I sought her aid before, I wanted to hope that she would hear me now ; for it is something to have even a strong hope to hold one’s life by, since without some kind of anchor many of us would drift to desolate places. I had tried at times to believe that, as a test of faith, the answer had only been delayed; but as I knelt there that first day in the little chapel by the sea, the thought came to me.that perhaps our Blessed Mother had answered by bringing him to God instead of to me. And even in my sorrow I could thank her if such were the case ; for sailors are careless, and not all who went down with him may have' been prepared to go. ‘ And so at last a great peace flooded my soul; I learned to accept God’s will, and to place—not. the life —just the memory of my son in our Lady’s keeping. If, in answer to my first petition, she could not bring him back, then I asked that I might, • at least, know what manner of preparation had his soul before its departure. And thenl was almost afraid of the promise I was about to make, but the love for my boy was strong within me —I vowed that a votive lamp would perpetually burn in her honor before the picture; Not until to-day has bodily infirmity interfered with my prayers; and now what am Itodo if my strength fails me?’

Overcome with emotion and fears, she sank back leaning her head against the pillow, which was not whiter than the pain-stricken face that rested upon it. ‘But,’ responded the girl, in low, even tones, ‘ assuredly you meant to keep the conditions of your vow only if your physical strength permitted. If you are unable to walk, and cannot ride, how can the promise be kept ? God is not so exacting in demands, nor is His Blessed Mother; and, besides, if you feel bound, you could be released.’

A smile of hopelessness crossed the pale face. ‘ You -do not understand. I must either keep my word or give up hope; and the life would, indeed be hard.’

‘ But you ask miracles. You say he is dead, and that all who were with him are dead. How, then, can you hear of , his last moments? Do you not see what an unreasonable petition yours is ? I would not dissuade you from it; but you are so weak, and for your own good ’ ‘ Until the day that I hear from him or of him, I shall keep my vow.’ And the white face grew resolute . ‘Very well, then,. Madame, we shall go soon.’ And a soft arm stole around the thin shoulders. ‘ You are just splendid, and I am so sorry that I must leave here to-day. I am on my way home from a visit in the north, and out of mere curiosity stopped for the day in this quaint little village. I could see the church from the train, but I never dreamed that it would hold

forever afterward such a pleasant remembrance; and I am deeply interested in your petition to our Lady of Perpetual Help. Perhaps you will permit me to write to you. And now, Madame, do you feel quite strong enough to go back?’ (The woman had looked toward her bonnet and shawl.) ‘ Then let me get you ready, and I shall wait for you in the church while you finish your interrupted prayer. Now,’ arid she gave an extra pat to the bonnet strings, ‘are we ready ‘Oust a moment! I have quite inexcusably talked so much concerning myself, that I did not learn your name; and we must have a name as well as a face to fit memories to. What is your name, my dear?’ ‘ Indeed, Madame, I intended to write it with my address for you, when we should have returned from church, and I hoped to learn yours. My name is Marie Renaud.’ \ The girl was adjusting her own hat as she spoke, and for the fraction of a second was unaware of the sudden silence. Then she turned quickly, to find her hostess grasping the arms of the chair, but apparently speechless. ‘ What is it, Madameoh ! what is it ? Another attack? See! I knew you were unable to go. Let me make you comfortable again, dear, and remove your wraps. But the hands that would have loosened the wraps were pushed aside, as the trembling woman cried : , * Why do you mock me ? Why do you mock me in my grief ? You were so kind, and now ’ * Mock you, Madame ? What ’ And then it dawned on Marie that the poor creature’s sorrows had been too great for the taxed mind, and it had given way. She would change the subject. No, rather would she ask for her hostess’ name, and that might bring -back the wandering mind. ‘Will Madame have some more hot tea? And then, while she is resting, she can tell me her name, and I shall copy it with the address.’ ‘My name ? My name ? It is—it —oh, Ido not understand —yet. My name was— —is— Renaud.’ It was the girl’s turn to be startled. What was to be done? The woman, whatever her name might be, was plainly demented. Would it be prudent to call some of the neighbors ? But the agitated woman, although visbily weaker, was regaining her composure. Hesitatingly, she inquired: ‘ You said—you said—your nameis— ’ * Marie Renaud,’ slowly and apologetically replied the girl. ‘ Marie Renaud ! —Marie Renaud ! That is my name, too.’ And she put her hand wearily to her head. Then, as if at some sudden, overpowering thought, she clutched the girl’s arm, and earnestly and pathetically studied the young face turned toward her. But what she sought was not there, and she slowly relaxed her grasp and leaned heavily aganist the chair. ‘ What folly,’ she reproached herself — ‘ what folly to think that , when he died so long ago!’ * Madame Renaud,’ said the girl, ‘ you shall rest a while here. See, I relieve you of your wraps again, and I shall remain until you feel stronger. That is better,’ as the tired head leaned back again and the eyes once more closed. ‘ And now, while we sit here, shall I not tell you of my family, as you have told me of yours ‘ My father, Henri Renaud, was born in France, but lived in India for many years. I was born there, and it was there that my mother died. When I was graduated from the convent school last year, my father decided that we should travel for a year. My maid and I left him only yesterday because I wanted to f stay here for a day. The little place had attracted me, as so many of the little villages along the coast have already done; and he went on to the city of X where we are to meet him again to-night. My maid awaits me at the queer little inn near the station.’ And then she looked pityingly and closely at the poor, shrinking woman in the chair, and spoke very . slowly and distinctly :

‘ My father’s parents died many, many years ago. On the way home we are to visit his mother's grave. In his boyhood my father thought that the sea called him but the ship on which he sailed lay at Bombay for some weeks. Long, before the boat left port, however, the spell of India was upon my father, dnd the fascination of the strange surroundings appealed to his adventurous spirit. lie journeyed inland, and it was five years before he found it possible to sail for Calais, where he learned of his mother's death. He went to her room, —the room in which she had died, and in which so many of the once familiar objects of her care still lay. He went to his old room and he often says that his tears that day were , the bitterest that -he ever shed. He visited her grave, and then went back to India, changed in heart, but not in venturesome spirit. He became a soldier of Fortune; and, as is too seldom the case, she smiled on the soldier who enlisted under her banner. He rose to power and wealth, and married an English lady, my mother. She died when I was three years old, so I scarce remember her; my father says 1 resemble her. He is such a dear, gentle soul, and so very tender to the aged,trying, he says, to make amends for his neglect of his own. mother; and last year he had erected a most beautiful monument over her grave. She lies in L , and we are to visit there before we return home.’ ‘ His mother’s name? His mother’s name?’ gasped the white-faced woman. . ‘Madame, I .was named in her —Marie Renaud.' ‘ No, no, no ! It cannot be—even though you say it, yet it cannot be ! It is some false trick, some manner pf deceit that I do not, can not understand! Not Marie Renaud —no, no! not Marie Renaud—it is Claire Renaud who lies in L—— . She died four years after my boy, my Henri, was lost. And he,- my Henri —my boy ——— he is your father! You say— O child, tell me, did you say that you will see him to-night? Oh, no ! It is too wonderful, too good, too blessed to be true! And yet, it is true: I know it, I feel it true ! I see now how easy that mistake of a lifetime was made. When I left my home, it was Claire .who bought all that I had. She was Henri's aunt. She bought my house, with all that it held; and then, in less than four years, she died. Henri’s mistake was a natural one. He could not know of the transfer of the property, and therefore believed that the Madame Renaud who died in that house, and who left the furniture and keepsakes that he knew so well, was his mother. And all these years I have believed what the captain, in good faith, told me: that Henri had gone down with the ship that was lost in mid-ocean. All these long, terrible years I have sorrowed for him, nor ever knew that he came back to look for me, I never knew; but I trusted and hoped always, and now —now ’ She had fainted again, but this time it was because the joy was greater than the faithful heart could well bear. Later in the day, Madame Renaud and her granddaughter returned to the church to finish the prayer that had been so strangely interrupted by the granting of its petition, and to make fitting thanksgiving to our Lady of Perpetual Help, who had so generously redeemed the pledge which her title bestows upon her clients. . The next morning, as usual, the ocean spray, catching the sunlight in its mist, splashed against the church walls; the refreshing salt air blew through the open windows and across the framed face that looked out from her dimmed background. The little fleet, with the lights -trimmed, swung rhythmically ; and kneeling once more, and now for the last time in that church, was the bent, black-robed figure. But she was no longer alone. A grey-haired man and his daughter were beside her, and a trinity of thanksgivings ascended. —Ave Maria.