A Complete Story

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 11, 25 March 1925, Page 9

A Complete Story

"I still lack seventeen cents," muttered old Danny, as he jingled a handful of shiny coins from one gnarled hand to the other. "Seventeen —and I'll have my dollar." "And what do you want so much money for?" asked Nurse Mary, who had come on him unawares, and now stood smiling down at the old man, huddled in his invalid chair, his black, frayed coat buttoned tightly, as he liked it, across his frail chest. "You look for all the world like the misers in the movies," she laughed, as she professionally arranged his covers, and turned his chair that he might not face the glaring sun. Danny smiled and answered very simply: "I need a dollar, and when I get seventeen cents more I'll have one. Until then — maybe I am a miser." "Then it is my duty, as your self-adopted daughter, to supply the necessary amount," said Mary, her hand seeking a small pocket in her crisp, white apron. Danny's eyes were the pleading eyes of a little boy. "No, I cmkm't do that," he sad. "T must earn it myself. 1 have al'nost had a dollar more than once, but someone would

DANNY’S DOLLAR

come along who needed it worse than I did, so I've never been able to make it." "What do you want a dollar for, dear?" Mary urged kindly. "Won't you tell me? Won't you let me help, too?" There was nothing professional about her now. "You wouldn't understand, child," he told her gravely. "No one here," with a sweep of his hand that took in the entire grounds, "would understand. It's something special, and I want to earn the money myself." "Perhaps I could understand, if you would only give me the opportunity," Mary persisted. "But never mind," she added gaily, as she noted the uneasy look in his ev a s, "I'll get a secret of my own I" Nurse Mary looked very beautiful, to Danny, as she stood over him in pretended disappointment. He called her his little girl this bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, keen young woman,, who had earned an enviable place for herself in . the White Memorial Home during the short time she had been numbered among its nurses. She had scattered sunshine all along her path, but there was -a particular friendship between herself and the

lonely old .*man, who , lived on and among his memories. Mary learned from the records at the -Home that he was supported by a rich young divorcee, whose name Mary had .noticed now and then in ' the society .»K'"Jnns of the newspapers. She had left licit instructions that her name be kept a secretone of her works of charity, evidently, to cover a multitude of sins. Danny sometimes talked of relatives—his "folks" —of whom he was very proud. They had come unexpectedly into a fortune, he would explain, and wealth advanced them to a place of social prominence which had no sympathy or room for a helpless invalid like himself. They had left him at WhiteMemorial, "in good care," as they had told him. To all appearances they had forgotten him, but they were Danny's life, and in his. generous gratitude he loved them, bravely putting out of his mind the bitter memories of their desertion.As the days went by this odd friendshipbetween a helpless old man and the popular nurse deepened, until now Danny looked on the girl as belonging to him. The other nurses marvelled at Mary's patience in sacrificing her spare time to cheer up the old fellow, for her companionship was in constant demand at the Memorial. She had come from the East with a letter of recommendation, very flattering praise, from no less a being than the "Big Doctor" himself, who was regarded in this small community, as little lower than the President. At first the girls had envied her, because of her. brilliancy and her capability, but most of all for the "Big Doctor's" letter. Mary, however, had won over all her associates by a modest bearing in spite of the honors, which to her retiring nature seemed distasteful as a subject of conversation. All eager questions about the "Big Doctor" were parried by a careless: "Oh, one has to have credentials, you know. The "Big Doctor" is a very good very gentle person. Any one of you, had you worked with him, would have been praised just as generously as I." The First Friday in June was very warm. Even the velvet lawns, usually so invitingly green and cool, seemed sadly shrivelled • for so early in the season, and the heads of the stately hollyhocks were drooped and forlorn. Danny was sitting in his wheel chair, on the wide veranda, but, unusual for him, he had removed the frayed frock coat. His tired eyes were closed, and the worn hands lay folded in his lap. Here Mary found him. Thinking him asleep when he did not stir at her arrival, she took a chair near by and commenced to work industriously on her knitting. ■ Often she raised her eyes from the bright blue yarn in her lap to glance at kindly old Danny. What heartless people must they have been to leave him here all these long years? Why had they sent him no message in all that time —except perhaps the monthly cheque, which barely covered his meagre expenses? Even as she was pondering, the old man stirred restlessly, and opened his eyes. "Hot, eh?" he suggested, with a weak smile. , "Yes, it is rather warm," agreed Mary. "But," she added, with a knowing look to-

wards the sky, "there is I rain; in the air, I should not be surprised if we had a thunder storm this afternoon." "Thunder storm reminds, me of Little Billy," Danny said reminiscently. • Mary settled herself more comfortably in her chair, for she knew a story would follow the mention of that name. "Did I ever tell you about tho limes we had playing j-oidiers?" tic asked after a pause. . . "No, Danny, ; .ion'i believe you've told me about thai/-' Mary s;iid encouragingly. "Well, those were real wars, ' r.o began, happy to have a listener i< r the story he loved to -tell. 'Little Billy wasn't much more than so high," indicating an extremely short distance from the ground. "He d always be the Yankee army —his Daddy was from the North," explained Danny, half apologetically, "and of course, I *vas the South." Pride thrilled in the old man's voice as he mentioned the cause that was lost but ever gloriously remembered. "I recollect one day particularly. It was a hot June day like this. Little Billy's army of tin soldiers were not as lively as usual, so my men were winning right and left. And then, just as Billy Boy got in line where he could have wiped out the whole Southern army with one blow, his mother came in and kicked the whole lot of them all over the floor. Said she didn't want such trash cluttering up her best room. Martha was particular that way, for when the money came, there were always fine ladies calling on her." Mary's needles clicked savagely. "I remember how bravely Billy took it," he rambled on. "He got up like a little man, saluted me, and then he crumpled up, all a-quiver in my arms." "Never you mind, Gramp"—he called me 'Gramp,' the dear little chap,— ( never you mind. Some day when I get to be a big man, I'm going to build a house just for you an' me. An' you can smoke your ol' pipe all day, an' my tin soldiers can stay wherever we put 'em." Mary knitted steadily in the silence that followed. "He must be a fine man," mused Danny, more to himself than to Mary. "I wonder if he built the house. I wonder if he has a place for pipes and soldiers. I wonder if he'll come back." "Perhaps he will, dear," said the nurse, soothingly. "But it's been twenty years, Nurse," he objected, as the tired eyes closed again. For a time both sat in silence. "There, what did I tell you?" Mary cried, pointing to a dark shadow coming up out of the east. "That has rain in it, as sure as you're born. And it's a blessing, too," she murmured to herself, as her sympathetic gaze went from one bent, suffering form to another along the big, hot porch. "You wait here, Danny," she cautioned him. I'm going to get your coat." Danny's grateful eyes followed her retreating form. "God bless her," he said softly. His shaky old hand felt for the pocket

of his shirt, and he brought out one by one the shiny coins. v * v * ' * " 4 ~'**?**| "I still lack seventeen cents," he told, the lady on a ten-cent piece sorrowfully. "But, then/' with a sigh, "even if I had my dollar, how could I get away from here long enough for that? Mary! Perhaps I'll tell: Mary. I wonder if she'd understand. '~I% wonder if she'd take my dollar to Father Flynn, to have a Mass said in honor, of the Sacred Heart —that Little Billy will come for me." ._ Meanwhile Mary was hurrying to Danny's room. She hardly glanced at the bed cover and plump pillow, hollowed in the centre by Danny's silvery ,head. The walls were decorated with clippings and bright colored pictures, while over the door a gilded horseshoe hung perilously near the head of a nail that supported it. Mary reflected that here, as in every room in the hospital, there was a sad absence of holy things. 'White Memorial boasted that it was a strictly nonsectarian institution, and religion in any ( form was barred. Across the back of a chair lay Danny's coat, neatly folded. Mary picked it up tenderly, and brushed a fleck of dust from the worn lapel. The movement caused the front of the coat to open, and Mary's astonished gaze rested on a small, oval-shaped badge. Faded with age, and stained in places as though from water, or from tears, was a Badge of the Sacred Heart, with a rim of red and blue lace, pinned with a huge safety pin to the torn lining. "Oh, Danny," Mary cried, as she kissed the old Badge reverently, "why didn't you tell me?" So this was his secret! Poor old Danny! A stranger in a strange land, helpless and alone, with nothing to live on but memories. Lovingly she laid her cheek against the tattered garment. \ "You'll have to let me really adopt yon now, my old fraud," she said, between smiles and tears. "I told you we belonged to each other." "Some one in the sun room to see you, Mary," Rita Nolan told her, as Mary descended the stairs from Danny's room, his coat across her arm. .;' |: "It must be some one very important," laughed Mary. "You look as though you had seen a ghost." * | "It was almost as bad," Rita told her mysteriously, and disappeared through the door leading to. the nurses, home to spread her choice bit of news that the "Big Doctor" himself had called at the Home and had asked, personally, for Mary. Mary entered the sun room, and closed the door softly behind her. For a moment, she stood gazing at the broad back, which looked so strangely familiar. Then the "Big Doctor" turned, and without a word held out his arms. ; ; "You!" she breathed. "Why did you come here?" ' 4 "Because,' 'said the "Big Doctor" simply, "I love you." "Please don't go into that again, she told him coldly. "My decision in regard to that was final. I could not even respect, far from love, a Catholic who does not practise, who is ashamed of his holy religion.'.'. ....,.;..,.1., j; -.."

;' "Mary, you must listen to me—you must understand. I am not ashamed of the re- " ' ligion. Rather lam a stranger ,to it. What chance had a youngster of ten to grasp the Sl truth of his Faith, when his worldly wise sent him to school where the name of .'.;'.''' €n was stricken from the curriculum, and when all his assosciates in after years were non-believers? Why the women he knew, even his own mother, laughed at religion and lived as the pagans of old. Mary you are the first real Catholic I have known." ~4 "Why did you not tell me this before?" asked Mary sceptically. "Because, God forgive me, I, wanted to bring you over to my easy-going side. I ; . „ wanted to make a pagan of you." Mary recoiled as from some loathsome thing. .: "Religion to me," he went on, unheeding -. the motion, ''was a very light matter, indeed, until you came, until I realised that ;: the biggest thing in .my life was slipping from me." "The day yon left—l thought it was the end. Your picture, which you reluctantly left me, seemed to gaze reproachfully at. me, and I cirried it to the one sacred place among my worldly belongings—the little trunk I had when I was a hoy. I meant to put it away with a few other dear memories, for your ultimatum was, I thought then, too much for me to accent. T did not want religion. It meant parting with some of my worldly dross. As J cleared a place among my dusty relics to make room for your photograph, I clumsily knocked over a wooden box, a reminder of my baby days, and half a' dozen rusty old tin soldiers fell at my feet. I W,t stooped to pick them up, and my hand on this." He held out to her a small oval-shaped ; Badge of the Sacred Heart. As Mary gazed her coldness melted away. Then the look of interest and sympathy gave _ ; way to amazement. There was the dear, bruised Head, the wounded Heart, the eter- , nal wounds. And outlining the whole, like a halo, was an odd, lacy design of bright red and blue. Instinctively Mary's fingers caressed the old Badge on Danny's coat. " 'Twas a gift from my old ' Gramp ' the day I made my First Communion " '•••-? "Gramp!" The "Big Doctor" blushed furiously. ; "That was a pet name I had for the dear-. est friend of my boyhood. My grandfather. He was a real Catholic— kind, Mary. But he died while I was away at boardingschool, and Mother, whose mind was on social things and who could not understand l-s. i the love of a small boy for an old man, did > not bother to have ■me come home from school." . "Little Billy!" Mary whispered softly, as ....:;. one in a dream. •;:; ■: "Little Billy! Mary, dearest, what are v you saying?" But the tenseness of the situation was jforgotten as the "Big Doctor" saw the woM&nan he loved sway forward, her face deathlv I / white. . . ~ . J "What is it, darling? Are you ill?" he asked tenderly, his lips brushing the soft ■ • curls that peeped out from under her white m§ cap. ; ' . ■ V.- /.. ~

"He isn't dead!" she sobbed. "Who isn't dead?" the "Big Doctor" asked in a puzzled voice. "What does it all mean, dear?" "Gramp. He's been waiting—out there — twenty years—for you to come, Little Billy." Danny scowled as he watched the approach of the two lovers. Though busy, the other nurses managed to watch Nurse Mary as she walked serenely down the corridor, her hand confidently clasping that of the "Big Doctor" himself. "We'll break it to him as gently as possible," Mary whispered, as they drew near the wheel chair. "Of course you haven't time for an old man, when a nice young handsome doctor comes around," Danny began petulantly, but with a twinkle in his eye, however. If Mary had planned an easy way to break the news, she was to be disap idn + .->d for Danny's old eyes, dimmed to shallow worldly objects, were far-seeing and keen for better things. Weakly he raised his shaky old arms towards the "Big Doctor," tears streaming down his withered cheeks. "Billy Boy. I knew you'd come!" : : The afternoon sun was disappearing, a

The experiences of ( Mrs. McKenzie during the strenuous pioneering days she and her husband and family passed in South Westland were related in our issue for March 4, under the heading of "The Church in New Zealand."

golden ball falling through the evergreen trees on the horizon, and Danny watched it quietly, as a mother watches her sleeping babe. He could see Mary's form passing to and fro before the window, for preparations were being made to move to the big house where pipes and tin soldiers were made welcome. When she had made him comfortable and left him, Mary whispered that she was thinking up words to use in a nice resignation which she meant to put on file in the White Memorial Home, and that if she was sure of being welcome she might come to visit him and the "Big Doctor" in a month or two in his new home. Danny smiled serenely. He pulled the Navajo blanket over his knees and slowly dropped a few glittering coins into his lap. In his withered right hand he held some thing very dear, for he kissed it now and then. . .'..,■■• ' ; "You have answered my prayer," he assured the Sacred Heart, pictured on the Badge. - . , ; ,-, Then he fingered the shiny coins, j "And I still lack seventeen cents." ■ — Messenger of the Sacred Heart. ; >■>.