THE CHRISTIAN.

Press, Volume LIV, Issue 9817, 28 August 1897, Page 2

THE CHRISTIAN.

By Hall Caiitb. Author of "The Manxman '* XIX. «• The Priory—May Day. " Doav Atiutie Rachel,—The great evening fa over! Such dresses, suoh diamonds—you hever saw the liko! The smart folks are jjuct like oilier human beings, and I was not the tiniest bit afraid of them. My own part of the programme went off pretty well, I think. Mr Koenig had arranged the harmonies, accompaniments and symphonies of some of our old Manx songs, bo I sang • Mylecharaine, , and they listened and clapped, and then ' Ny Kirree fo Niaghtey,' snd they cried (and so did I), and then I fteitated some work girls singing in the streets, and they laughed and laughed until I laughed too, and then they laughed because I Was laughing, and we all laughed together. It was over and dona before I know where I was, and overybody was covering mc with— well, no, not kisses, as grandfather used to do, but the society equivalent—ice 3 and jellies, which tho gentlemen were rushing about wildly to get for mc. •' But all this is as nothing compared to what is to happen next. I mustn't whisper ft word about it yet, so false face must hide what the false heart doth know. You'll have to forgive mc if I succeed, for nothing is wicked in tnis world except failure, you know, and a little sin must be a great virtue if it haa grown to be big enough, you see. There! How sagacious of mc! You didn't know what a philosopher you had in the family, did you, my dears? "Itis to be on the 24th May. That will be the Queen's birthday over again ; and when I think of all that has heppeued since the last one, I feol as romantic a3 a school girl, and as sentimental as a nursery maid. Naturally I am in a fearful flurry over the whole affair, and, to tell the truth, I have hied mc to the weird sisters on the subject; that is to say, I have been to a fortune teller end spent a " goolden " half sovereign on the creature at one fell swoop. But she predicts wonderful things for mc, so I am satisfied. The newspapers are to blaze with my name, I am to have a dazzling success and become the idol of the hour, all of which is delightful and entrancing, and quite reasonable at the money. Grandfather will reprove mo for tempting Providence, and of course John Storm, if ho knew it, would say that I shouldn't do such things under any circumstances ; yet to tell mc I oughtn't to do thi3 and I oughtn't to do that is like saying I oughtn't to have red hair and I oughtn't to catch the measles. I can't help ill I can't help it 1 so what's the good of breaking one's heart about it ?

•• But I had not got to wait for what related Co the newspapers. You must know, dear Aunt Rachel, that I did meot Mr Drake at tha bouse of the Home Secretary, and he introduced mo to a RHss Kosa Macquarrie, who is no longer very young or beautiful, but a dear, for all that! and shs, baing a journalist, has bruited raj praises abroad, with the result that all the world is ringing with my virtues. Lietea, all mon and women, while I sound mine own glory out of a column a>9 long as the Duke of York's:—

•'* She is young and tall, and has auburn fcair • (always thought it was red myself) • and large grey eyes, one of which seema at A distance to be browu ' (it squints), ' giving nn effect of humour and coquetry and power rarely, if ever, seen in any other face. . . Her voice has startling varieties of tone, being at one moment soft, cooing and liquid, and at another wild, weird and plaintive, and her face, which is not strictly beautiful' (Oh!)' but striking and unforgettable, h&a an extraordinary range of expression. . . . She singe, recites, speaks, laughs and cries (literally), and some of her selections are given in a sort of Irish patois' (Oh, my beloved Manx I) • that comes from her girlish l'.pe with charming vivacity and drollnesa. . All of which, though it is quite right, and no more than my due, of coarse, made mc Bob so long and load that my good little hippopotamus came upstairs to comfort mc, but finding mc lying on tho floor, he threw up bis hands and oried, " Ach Gott 1 I taught it vas a jjroung lady, but vhatever ie it 1" " Yeb wae'a mc t Sometimes I think how many poor girls there must be who have never bad a chance, while I have had so many and each glorious ones; who cannot get anybody to listen to,them, while I am so pampered and praised; who live in narrow alleys and serve in little dark shops where men and men-things talk to them as they can't talk to their sisters and vrivea, while I am held aloft in an atmosphere of admiration and respect; who earn their bread in clubs and oasinoes, whore they breathe the air of the hotbeds of hell, while I am surrounded by everything that ennobles and refines ! O God, forgive mc if I am a vain presumptuous creature, laughing at everything and everybody, and sometimes forgetting that many a poor girl who is being tossed about in London is just as good a girl as I tun, and as clever and ac hrave!

" Bui hoot! ' I likes to bo jelly and I allus ia. . So Aunt Anna doesn't like this Wandering Jew existence! Well, do youknow, I always thought I should love a gipsy lifeIt has a sense of movement that must bo delightful, and then I love going fast. Do you remember tho days when ' Caesar' used to take the bit in his teeth and bolt with mc 1 Lo, there was little mo, cross-legged on bis bare back, with nothing to trust to bu Providence and a pair of rope reins; but, oh myl I couldn't breathe for excitement and delight 1 Dear old maddest ol created • Caesara, , I feel as if I wero whacking at him yet! What do you think of mc? But we •that be females are the same craythurs fclwis, , as old Chaise used to say, and what a woman is in the cradle she continues to be to the end. There again! I wonder who told you that, young lady! "But to tell you the truth at last, dear Joint Rachel, there is something I havo kept back until now, because I couldn't bear the thought of any of you being anxious on my tcoount, especially grandfather, who thinks of Glory so much too often as things are. Can't yon guess what it is ? I couldn't help taking Dp my life of Wondering Jew, because I was dismissed from the hospital 1 Didn't you understand that, my dears ? I thought I was telling you over and over again. Yes, dismissed ac unfit k> be a nurse, and so I was, according to the order of the institution first, Kud human love and pity last. But all's well Chatenda well, you know, and now that my wanderings seem to be over and I am in ruy light place at length, I feel lite one who is coming out of a long imprisonment, a great peril, a darkness deeper even than John Storm's cell. And if I ever become a famous ....man, and good men will listen tome, I will tell them to be tender and merciful to poor girls who are trying to live in London and be good and strong, and that the true chivalry is to band themselves together agaiDSt the men vho are selfish and cruel and impure. Oh, Has great, plorious, devilish, divine London! 1$ mast stand to the human world as the seething, boiling, bubbling waters of Niagara <Jo to the world of nature. Either a girl floats over its rapids like a boat, and in that case she draws her breath and thanks God, or she is tossed into its whirlpool like a dead body and goes round and round until she finds the vortex and ia swallowed up 1

*• There ! I have blown off my steam, and now to business. Mr Drake is to give a luncheon party in his rooms on the 24th in honour of my experiment, but the great event itself will not come off until nearly ball-past nine that night. By that time the ran will have set over the back of the sea at Peel, tha blackbird will have given you his last ' gny-sxuook,' and all the world will be dropping asleep. Now, if you'll only remember to say just then,' God bless Glory !' Yl\ feel strong and big and brave. " Soar poor, silly, sentimental girlie, 6mb?."

CHAPTER XX.

Some weeks had passed, and it was the morning of the last day of John Storm's residence at Btshopsgate street. After calling the brotherhood, the Father had entered John's room and was resting on the end of the bed. " Yoa we quite determined to leave us ? " he said. John answered firmly, but respectluUy, •« Quite determined. Father." "You are of the same mind 03 at Easter?" " Precisely the same. ,, "Then this is the last time I am to call you ? •» " Yea." The Father sighed deeply end sa:d in broken sentences, " Oar house is passing through terrible trials, my son. Perhaps we did wrong to oome here. There is no cross in our foundations, and we have built on a worldly footing. 'Unless the Lord ? Copyright

build the house. , .... It wag good of yon to delay at my request the execution- of your purpose, but now that the time has come I had set my heart on you,

my son. lam an old man now, and something of the affection of the natural father—" John Storm had re.ached for the old man's hand. " Father, if you only knew "

" Yes, yes; I know, I know. You have suffered, and it is not for mc to reproa-h you. The novitiate Las its great joys, but it hiv3 its great trials also. Salt has to be got rid of, faith has to k? exerted, obedience has to be learned, p.nd übove all, tho heart has to be detached from its idols in tho world—a devoted laoiher, it may be; a dear sister; perhaps a dearer one still." There was silence for a moment. John's head was down ; ha could not speak. " It is not for mc to probe tho heart that does not reveal itself to its epiritual father. That you wish to return to the world only shows that you came before yon heard the call of God. Some other voice seemed to speak to you, and you listancd and thought it was God's voice. But God/3 voice will coma to you yet, and you will hear it and answer it and not another. . . Have you anywhere to go to when you leave this house ? " '• Yes, tho home of a good woman. I have written to her—l think she will receive mc."

"All that you brought whh you wiil be returned, and if you want money " " No, I came to you as a bsggar—let mc leave you as a beggar too." " There is one thing more, my son."

"What is it, Father?" The old man's voice was scarcely audible. ,: You are breaking obedience by leaving us before the end of your novitiate, and the community must separate itself from you as from one who ha 3 violated his vow and caefc hira3clf off from grace. This will have to be done before you cross onr threahold. It is our duty to the brotherhood ; it h also our duty to God. You understand that? " " Yes." " And will be prepared for it ? " " Yes." " It will be in the church a few minutes before midday service." "Yes." The Father rose to go. " Theu that is all?" " Yes, that is all." The Father's voice was bra&k'mg. " Goodbye, my son." " Good-bye, Father—and God bless you! " A leather trunk which he had brought with him on tho day he came to tho brotherhood was returned to his room, containing the clothes he had worn in the outer world as well as his purse and watch and other belongings. Ho dressed liinisolf in his habit as a secular priest, and put the ca?sock of tho society over it, for ho knew that to remove that must be par) of the ordeal of his expulsion. Then the bell rang for breakfast, and he wont down to tho reiectory. The brothers received him in silen.-je, hardly looking up as h.9 entered. Nevertheless, by ttieii- furtive glances he could plainly see that he was the only subject that occupied their thoughts. When the meal was over he tried to mingle among them that he mighi say farewell to &3 many as ware willing that ho should do so. Soma gave him their hands with prompt RooiVwill, some avoided him, and some turned their backs on him ft!together. Bufc if his reception in the refectory was chilling, hi 3 welcome to the courtyard was warm enough. At the first sound of his footstep on the paved way the dog came from his quarters under the sycamore. One moment the creature stood s,nd looked at him with its sad and blood-shot oye3, then with a bound it threw its fore paws on his breast, and then plunged and pitched around him and uttered deep bays thai were like tho roar ol! thunder.

Hβ sat on the seat and caresaed the dog, and Jiia heart grow foil and happy. The inorning was bright with suneliine, the air was fragrant with tho flowers of spring, and birds were singing and rejoicing in the tree. Presently Brother Andrew came and sat beside him. The lay brother, like a human dog, had been following him about all morning, and now in his feeble way he began to talk of his mother, and to wonder if John would ever ace her. Her name was Pincher, and she wa3 a good woman. She lived in Cook lane, Crown street, Soho, and kept honse for his brother, who was a pawnbroker. But his brother, poor fellow, was much given to drinking, and perhaps that had been a reason why he himself had left home. John promised to call on her, and then Brother Andrew began to cry. The sprawling features of the great fellow were almost laughable to look upon. The bell rang for terce. Whilst the brothers were at prayers, John took his last look over the house. With the dog at his heels—the old thing seemed resolved to lo3s sight of him no more—he passed slowly through the hall and into tha community room and up tho stairs and down the top corridor. He looked again at every inscription on the walls, though he knew them ail by heart and had read them a hundred times. When he came to his own cell he was touched by a strange tendjrness. The place where he had thought so much, prayed so much, suffered so much—it was dear to him after all! He went up to the roof. How often he had been drawn there as by a devilish fascination! The great city looked innocent enough now under its mantle of sunlight, dotted over with green; but how dense, how difficult! Then tho bell rang for midday service, though it was not yet noon, and he went down to the hall. The brothers were there already, making ready to go into the ohurch. The order of the procession was the same as on the day of his dedication, except that Father Paal was no longer with them — Brother And rev 7 going first with the cross, then tho lay brothers, then the religions, then the Father, and John Storra last of all. Though the courtyard was fall oE sunshine, the church looked dark and gloomy. Curtains were drawn across tho windows, and the altar was draped as for a death. As soon as the brothers had taken their places in the choir the Father stood on the altar steps and said :

" If any member of this community haa one unfaithful thought of going back to the outer world I charge him to conic to this altar now. But woe to him through whom the offence oometh! Woe to him who turns back after taking up the golden plough ! " John wp.s kneeling in hia place in the second row of tho choir. The eyes of the community wero upon him. He hesitated a moment, then rose nnd stepped up to the altar. " My son," said the Father, "it is not yet too late. I see your fate as plainly as I see you now. Shall I tell you what it is ? Can you bear to hear it ? I see you going ou. into a world which has nothing to satisfy the cravings of your soul. I see you fore-doomed to failure and suffering and despair. I sec you coming back to ua within a year with a broken and bleeding heart. I se* you taking the vows of life-long consecration. Can you face that future?" "I must." " There is no help for it," said tho Father, And taking a book from the altar he read the awful service of the degradation:— "By the authority of God Almighty, Father (X), Son and Holy Ghost, and by our owri anthority, we the members of the Society of the Holy Geihsemane do take away from thee the habit of our Order and depose and degrade and deprive thee of all rights and privileges in the spiritual goods and prayers which, by the grace of God, are done among us." "Amen ! Amen !" said the brothers. Daring the reading of the service John had been kneeling. The Father motioned to him to rise and proceeded to remove the cord with which he had bonnd him at liis

consecration. When this was done he signalled to Brother Andrew to take off the cassock.

Th<j bell was tolled. The Father dropped to his kneos. The brothers, hoarse and husky, began to sing In Exitn Israel de Aegypfo. Their head 3 were down, their voices seemed to come up out of the earth.

It was all over now. John Storm tnrned about, hardly able to see hig way. Brother Andrew went before him to open the door of the sacristy. The lay brother was crying audibly. The sun was still shining in the courtyard, and the birds were still singing and rejoicing. The first thing of which John wns conscious was that the dog was licking his rigid fingers. A moment later he was in the little covered passage to the street, and Brother Andrew was opening the iron gate. " Good-bye, my lad." He stretched out his hand, then remembered that he was an excommunicated man, and tried to draw it back, but ihs lay brother had snatched at it and lifted it to bis lips. The dog was following him into the street.

" Go back, old friend." He patted the old creature on the bead, and Brother Andrew laid hold o£ it by the neck. A hansom was waiting for him with hia trunk on the top. "-Victoria Square, Westmiaatec." he ailed.

The cab was moving off when there was a growl and a lurch—the dog had broken away and wa3 running after it. How crowded the streets were! How da.ifening was the traffic! The church bell was ringing for midday service. WiiaS a thin tinkle it made out there, yet how deep was its boom within ! Sioek Exchange man with their leisurely activity were going in by their sev«n doorways to their great counting house in Capel Court. He began to feol a boundless relief. How his beart was beating ! With what a strange and deep emotion he found himself once more in tho world! Driving in the dense and devious thoroughfares was like sailing on a cross se.i outside a difficult headland. Hβ could smell the briue and feel the flick of the foam on hid lips and cheeks. It was liberty, it was life. Feeling anxious about the dog, ha drew r.p the cab for a moment. The faithful creature was ruuning under the driver's seat. Before the cab could start again a line of sandwich men had passed in front of it. Their boards contained one word only. The word was •' Gloria."

He saw it, yet it barely arrested his consciousness. Somehow it seemed like an echo from the extstenca he had left behind.

The noises of life were as wine in his veins now. He was barntng with impatience to, overtake his arrer.rs of knowledge, to see what the world had gone through in his absence. Leaning orer the door of the hansom, he read the names of the streets and the signs over ihe shops, and tried to identify the houses which had bsen rebuilt and the thoroughfares which had been altered. But the pasi wag tli3 past, and the clock -would turn back for no mwi. These men and women in the streets knew all that had happened. The poorest bsggav on the pavement knew more than he did. Nearly a year of bis life was gone—in prayer, in penance, in fasting, in visions, in dreams—dropped out, left behind and lost for over.

Going by the bank, the cab drew up again to allow a line of omnibuses to pass into Cheapside. Every omnibus had its board for advertisements, and nearly every board contained tho word he had seen before— " Gloria." ,; Only the name of some music hall singar," he told himself. Mat the name had begun to trouble him. It had stirred the fibres of memory, and mp.de him think of the past — of his yacht, of Peel, of hvs father, and finally of G!oiy—and again of Glory—and yet again 01 Glory. He saw that flags were flying on the Mansio.i House and on the bank, and pushing up the trap of the hansom, he asked if anything'unusual was going on. "Lawd. down't ye know what day if is terday, sir ? It's the ole lyedy's birthday. That's why all the wiinmiug's going abiut in their ponny carridges. Been through a illness, s';r?" " Yes, something of that sort." "Thort so, sir." When the cab started afresh he began to tell himself what he was going to do in the future. He was going to work among the poor and the outcast, the oppressed and the fallon. Ho was going to search for them and find them in their haunts of sin and misery. Nothing was to be too mean for him. Nothing was to be common or unclean. No matter about his own honour! No matter if ho was only one man ia a million t _ The kingdom of heaven was like a grain of mustard seed. When he came within sight ol St. PauVs the golden cross on the dome was flashing like a fiery linger in the blaze of the midday sun. That was the true ensign ! That was tl>e zreat example ! It was a. monstrous and wicked fallacy, a gloomy and narrow formula, that religion had to do with the affairs of the eternal world only. Work was religion ! Work wa9 prayer ! Work was praise ! Work was the love of man and the glory of God ! Glorious gospel! Great and deathless symbol 1 (End of Second Book.)