Top

THE MIRACLE

(From Penelope's Diary)

Lourdes. A Week Later.

Today, with a multitude of the afflicted, I bathed in the piscine, a long trough filled with holy water from the grotto. The water was cold and not very clean (for hours it had received bodies carrying every disease known to man), but as I lay there, wrapped in a soaking apron and immersed to the head, I felt an indescribable peace possessing my soul. Was it the two priests who held my hands and encouraged me with kindly eyes? Was it the shouts and rejoicings, the continual prayers of pilgrims all about me? Or was it a sudden overwhelming sense of my own unworthiness, of my ingratitude and lack of faith and a rush of new desire to begin my life all over again, to forget my selfish repining? Whatever it was I know that as I arose from the bath and bowed before the statue of the Blessed Virgin, I was caught by a spiritual fervor that seemed to lift me in breathless ecstasy.

A young woman who was blind stood beside me, splashing water from a hand basin upon her reddened, sightless eyelids, and praying desperately. Together with her I prayed as I never had prayed, crying the words aloud, over and over again, as she did, while tears poured down my cheeks:

“Oh, Marie, conÇue sans pÉchÉ, priez pour nous qui avons recours À vous!”

As I came away and started back to the Bureau, walking slowly under the blazing Pyrenees sun, I knew that an extraordinary change had taken place in me. I was not the same woman any more. I would never again be the same woman. I was like the child I knew about that had been miraculously cured of infantile paralysis; or like the widow I had spoken to who had been miraculously cured of a fistula in the arm that had been five times vainly operated upon; or like the old woman I had seen who had been miraculously cured of an “incurable” tumor that had caused her untold suffering for twenty-two years. I was a miraculÉe, like these others, hundreds of others, one more case that would be carefully noted down by skeptical investigators on their neatly ruled sheets, if only the mysteries of a sick soul could be revealed!

Suddenly a great burst of singing drew my attention to the open space beyond the gleaming white church with its sharp-pointed towers, and I drew nearer, pushing my way through a dense multitude gathered to witness the procession of pilgrims and the Blessing of the Sick. In all the world there is no such sight as this, nothing that can stir the human soul so deeply. Inside the concourse, fringing the great crowds, lay the afflicted—on litters, on reclining chairs, on blankets spread over the ground; standing and kneeling, men, women and children from all lands and of all stations, pallid-faced, emaciated, suffering, dying, brought here to supplicate for help when all other help has failed them.

“Seigneur, nous vous adorons!” chanted a priest with golden voice and ten thousand tongues responded:

“Seigneur, nous vous adorons!”

“Jesus, Fils de Marie, ayez pitie de nous!” came the inspired cry.

“Jesus, Fils de Marie, ayez pitie de nous!” crashed the answer.

“Hosanna! Hosanna au Fils de David!”

“Hosanna! Hosanna au Fils de David!” thundered the multitude, and the calm hills resounded.

It was an immense, an indescribable moment, not to be resisted. I felt myself literally in the presence of God, and choking, almost dying with emotion, I waited for what was to come.

Suddenly at the far end of the crowd a great shouting started and spread like a powder-train, with a violent clapping of hands.

“A miracle! A miracle!” the cries proclaimed.

They told me afterwards that five miraculous cures were accomplished at this moment, but I knew nothing about it. My eyes were closed. I had fallen to my knees in the dust and was sobbing my heart out, not in grief but in joy, for I knew that all was well with me now and would be in the days to come. I knew that Christopher would be restored to me, and that I would be allowed to make him happy. There would be no more doubt or fear in either of us—only love. I knew this!

As I knelt there filled with a spirit of infinite faith and serenity, it seemed as if, above the tumult of the crowd, I heard my name spoken gently—“Penelope!”

I knew, of course, that it could not be a real voice, for I was a stranger here, yet there was nothing disturbing to me in this illusion. It came rather like a comforting benediction, as if some higher part of me had inwardly expressed approval of my prayerful aspirations, and had confirmed my belief that Christopher would be restored to me.

“Penelope!” the voice spoke again, this time with unmistakable distinctness, and now I opened my eyes and saw Seraphine standing before me.

“Seraphine! Where did you come from? I thought you were in America—in New York.”

Smiling tenderly she helped me to my feet and led me away from the multitude.

“Let us go where we can talk quietly,” she said.

“We will go to the hospice, where I am staying,” I replied, not marvelling very much, but more than ever filled with the knowledge that God was guiding and protecting me.

“This has been a wonderful day for me, Seraphine,” I told her when we came to my room, “the most wonderful day in my whole life.”

“I know, dear,” she answered calmly, as if nothing could surprise her either.

Then I explained everything that had happened—why I had left America so suddenly, why I had felt that I must never see Christopher again.

“But you don't feel that way any more?” she asked me with a look of strange understanding in her deep eyes.

“No,” said I, “everything is changed now. My fears are gone. I see that I must count upon Christopher to have the same faith and courage that I have in my own heart. Why should I expect to bear the whole burden of our future? He must bear his part of it. The responsibility goes with the love, doesn't it? I saw that this afternoon—it came to me like a flash when the procession passed. Isn't it wonderful?”

“Dear child, the working of God's love for His children is always wonderful. This is a place of miracles”—she paused as if searching into my soul—“and the greatest miracle is yet to come.”

I felt the color flooding to my cheeks.

“What do you mean?”

“I must go back a little, Penelope, and tell you something important. You haven't asked about Captain Herrick.”

“Is he—is he well?” I stammered.

She shook her head ominously.

“No. He is far from well. You did not realize, dear, what an effect that letter of yours would have upon him. It was a mortal blow.”

I tried to speak, but I could not; my bosom rose and fell with quick little gasping breaths, as if I was suffocating.

“There was no particular illness,” my friend continued, “just a general fading away, a slow discouragement. He had no interest in anything, and about a month ago Doctor Owen told me the poor fellow would not live long unless we could find you.”

“Oh, if I had only known! If I had dreamed that he would care so—so much,” I sobbed. “How—how did you find me?”

Seraphine answered with that far-away, mystic look in her eyes: “It was your mother, dear—she told me we must go to Lourdes, she said it quite distinctly, she said we must sail that very week, or it would be too late—and we did sail.”

I stared at her with widening, frightened eyes.

“Seraphine! You don't mean that—that Christopher is—here?” I cried.

The clairvoyant bowed her head slowly.

“He is here, at the hotel, but he is very ill. He took cold on the ship and—it got worse. He has pneumonia.”

“Oh!” I breathed. I could feel my lips go white.

“The doctor is with him now, and a trained nurse. I left them to search for you. I knew I should find you—somewhere.”

I rose quickly and caught my companion's arm.

“Come! We must go to him.”

“No! You cannot see him until tomorrow. This is the night of the crisis.”

“Please!” I begged.

“No! You must wait here. I will send you word.” Then she left me.

Hour after hour I waited at the hospice, knowing that Seraphine would keep her promise and send me some message. At about nine o'clock a little boy came with a note saying that I must come at once. Christopher was worse.

As we hurried through the square, the whole place was ablaze with lights, the church itself outlined fantastically in electric fires, while great crowds of chanting pilgrims moved in slow procession, each man or woman carrying a torch or lantern or shaded candle and all lifting their voices in that everlasting cry of faith and worship:

Until the day of my death I shall hear that thunderous chorus sounding in my ears whenever memory turns back my thoughts to this fateful night.

Seraphine met me at the door of the chamber where Christopher lay, feverish and delirious. A French doctor, with pointed beard, watched by the patient gravely, while a sad-eyed nurse held his poor feet huddled in her arms in an effort to give them warmth. Already the life forces were departing from my beloved.

The doctor motioned me silently to a chair, but I came forward and sat on the bed, and bending over my dear one, I called to him fondly:

“Chris! It's Penelope! Oh, my dear, my dear! Don't you know me?” I pleaded.

But there was no answer, no recognition.

An hour passed, two hours and still there was no indication that my dear Christopher realized that I was near him, bending over him, praying for him. He turned uneasily in his fever and now and then cried out with a great effort in his delirium; but he never spoke my name or made any reference to his love for me. It was heartbreaking to be there beside him and yet to feel myself so far away from him.

At about eleven the doctor saw that a change was coming and warned me that there would be a lucid interval which would precede the final crisis.

“Within an hour we shall know what to expect,” he said. “Either your friend will begin to improve—his heart action will be stronger, his breathing easier, or—he will sink into a state of coma and—” the doctor finished his sentence with an ominous gesture. “You must have courage, dear lady. The balance of his life may be turned by you—either way. It will be a shock for him to see you here, a great shock. I cannot tell how that shock may affect him. It may save him, it may destroy him. No man of science in my place would take the responsibility of saying to you that you must or must not show yourself to this man at this moment. You must take the responsibility for yourself—and for him.”

“I understand, doctor,” I said. “I will take the responsibility.”

Again we waited in anguished silence, and soon the change came just as the doctor said it would. Christopher's eyes opened naturally and I saw that the glassy stare had gone out of them. He knew where he was, he knew what he was saying, he would recognize me, if he saw me; but I drew back into the shadows of the room where I could watch him without being seen. I wanted to think what I must do.

Christopher beckoned Seraphine and the doctor to come close to him.

“I want you to write something for me,” he said in weak tones but quite distinctly to Seraphine. “I may not come out of this. I—I don't care very much whether I do or not, but—get some paper—please—and a pencil. The most important thing is about my money—all that I have—everything in the world, understand? I—I leave it all to the only woman I have ever loved—or ever could love—Penelope Wells.”

When he had said this he settled back on the pillow and breathed heavily but with a certain sense of relief, as if his mind was now at rest. I bit my lip until my teeth cut into it to keep myself from crying out.

“You are both witnesses to this—to what I have said—you've written it down?” he looked at Seraphine and the doctor who nodded gravely.

“You must find Penelope and tell her that—that she made a mistake to go away. I understand why she did it, but it was a mistake. Tell her I said that we all of us have a whole lot to be sorry for and we must not only ask to be forgiven, but we must be glad to accept the forgiveness of others for—for whatever we have done that is wrong, and we must believe that they are sincere in forgiving us. Tell her that I would have been glad to—to forgive her for—for everything.”

His strength was evidently failing and the doctor told him that he had better not try to talk any more. But Christopher smiled in that quaint brave way that I knew so well and lifted his thin white hands in protest.

“Just one thing more—please. It won't make any particular difference, doc, and I want to say it. I want you to be sure to tell her this—write it down. Tell her two things. One is that there isn't any argument about my loving her because I am dying for her—now—that's a fact. There isn't anything else I want to live for if I can't have Penelope. The other thing is that—” He paused as a violent spasm of coughing shook his wasted body, and again the doctor told him to be quiet, but he gave no heed.

“The other thing is—be sure to tell her this—that I would sooner have lived with Penelope—I don't care how many devils she was possessed with—than with all the saints in the calendar. I loved her—” He struggled to raise himself and then lifting his voice in a supreme effort, “I loved her good or bad. I—I couldn't help loving her. There—that's all. Let me sign it.”

This was too much for me. As I saw my dear love tracing his name with painful strokes, I could control myself no longer and rushed out of the darkness to him, feeling that I must cry out wildly against his leaving me. I must fight the grim shadows that were enveloping him. I must keep him for myself by the fierce power of my love.

Just then a great glare from the torches filled the chamber and Christopher's eyes met mine. I stood speechless, choked with emotion, and as I tried to force my will against these obstacles of weakness, the cry of the pilgrims resounded from the streets below, a vast soul-stirring cry:

“Hosanna! hosanna au fils de David!”

At this I fell on my knees by the bedside and buried my face in my hands. I realized suddenly that it was not for me to dispute God's will even for this life that was so dear to me, even for our great love. Once more I must fight my selfish pride and yield everything into God's keeping for better or for worse. But with all my soul I prayed, not daring to look up: “Dear God, save him! Give him back to me.”

Then I felt Christopher's hand on my head, resting there lovingly.

“Penelope!” he said.

“Chris!”

Down in the street the lines of fire swept past in a molten sea while the roar of worshipping voices came up to me:

“Hosanna! hosanna au fils de David!”

And still I prayed, with my head buried in my arms: “Save him! Dear God, save him and give him back to me!”

And God did.