PADRE SALVATORE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 48, 28 November 1891, Page 622

PADRE SALVATORE.

BY

THE MARQUISE CLARA LANZA.

L . RETAIN LY, Padre Salvatore was very lonely •l(i[ ’ n V ie rectory. He had never before felt flltlz’r) 80 j s °l atet * and completely cut off from the society of his fellow-men. Besides, ever since i l>i» arrival in the village, his southern blood seemed chilled by the dazzling atmosphere of that northern latitude, where even in midjtWSGft summer the sun-pierced air was often cold and penetrating. But he thought the place itself chai ming in its vivid and varied picturesqueness. The island, lying in the blue straits in the upper portion of Michigan, was swept by the fresh breath of the Great Lakes, and from the thick forests behind the primitive settlement came the pungent odour of the waving pines and the faint scent of woodland flowers. XX henever the sunk sank behind the purple mists that hung cloudlike over the dim outlines of St. Ignace, the rippling waters of Huron glinted strangely in long streaks of tender violet and opalescent green, and then he was forcibly reminded of Italy, and would try to imagine that the Canadian fishing smacks sporting the English colours and the tiny steamers putting their way to Sault Ste, Marie and Les Cheneaux were real Italian craft, and that he had only to turn round in order to see the placid Bay of Naples, the olive and orange-groves, the exquisite verdure of the Italian hills, and the smoking summit of Vesuvius. It was chiefly the climate that he found hard to bear, in addition to the solitude, for he had no companions. Most of the village folk were French < 'anadians, uneducated, and densely superstitious. He could not talk to them. They had nothing in common with him. His books were his only comfort. He was an industrious and earnest student. One day, a change came in his life. The first letter he had received during his residence on the island was put into his hands, and with eager curiosity he tore it open. It was from a distant cousin who had lived in America for the past twenty-five years, and at whose instigation Padre Salvatore had finally summoned courage to cross the ocean. He wrote now to make a proposition, hoping it would prove acceptable. The proposition was as follows : The writer, who had married an American woman, had an only daughter, Rosa by name. The girl had been ill and ailing for some time, and the physician had recommended a brief sojourn in the North as a means of restoring her to perfect health. If convenient, would Padre Salvatore allow her to visit him for a time ? Perhaps he needed a housekeeper, and if so, Rosa would be invaluable. Of course, it was not customary for priests to have young girls as housekeepers ; but this was an exceptional case ; and, then, Rosa was a relative, which made all the difference in the world. Nobody could cook as she did. Padre Salvatore naturally would be glad to receive such a jewel, and so forth. Padie Salvatore turned the letter over in his long, slim lingers and deliberated. He was absolutely ignorant of young women and their ways, and the mere thought of taking his cousin to live with him, even temporarily, caused a delicate flush to dye his cheeks. Then there was the bishop to consider. Would he approve? He wondered, also, how the village people would take it. He had lived among them long enough to know that they were hard and exacting, forever gossiping and often displaying a moral obliquity that astonished his own unfailing simplicity and charity. But he was not a weak man. He had a proud and independent spirit, and presently his resolution was taken.

Nobody could fathom the intolerable sense of desolation that had long oppressed his genial nature, and involuntarily his thoughts travelled to the approaching winter, when, he had been told, the entire village would be snow bound, and for days at a time he would be unable to leave the house except to cross the street to the church by a path he must perforce cut for himself through the massive snow-drifts, with the thermometer at twenty degrees below zero. It was not for him, of course, to complain. He did not mean to complain, but all this appalled him. As yet he had had no housekeeper or even a servant. Both were hard to obtain in that neighbourhood, and he had depended almost entirely upon the good-natured services of an old woman, bent and withered, who came every day, for an hour or two, to scrub, wash and dust, and pel form such menial offices as might be required. Padie Salvatore always took charge of the church unaided. He washed and ironed with his own hands the linen altarcloths, vigorously polished the immense silver candlesticks, and dusted the artificial flowers one by one. <ln Saturday he removed his soutane, rolled up his sleeves, and scrubbed the Hoor from the outer door to the sacristy. There was no carpet in the church except within the chancel-rails. The people said they were too poor to buy one. But he took the greatest possible pride in keeping the precious relics of Father Marquette in perfect order. The holy Pere Marquette was regarded almost as a saint on the island. His name was always spoken reverently. The spot whereon he had established his Indian mission chapel was looked upon as a sacred shrine, and Padre Salvatore adored his memory as did the people. The great chalice of embossed gold ; the crucifix of ivory and silver ; the gorgeous vestments, stiff with embroidery whose lustre time apparently could not dim ; the vellum-bound missals and illuminated parchments, all were carefully overlooked once a week by Padie Salvatore, and then restored for safe keeping in an antique oaken chest in the sacristy. He generally carried the key in his pocket, so as to be always ready to exhibit the treasures to any visitors who might happen to come.

He answered the letter by and bye, giving his cousin a cordial invitation tocome and remain indefinitely. It would be delightful to have a young person near him, and she could lie of great assistance in the house. He would do all he could to make her happy while she stayed.

XX hen he had finished writing, he fetched his hat from the entry, where it hung between big bunches of rosaries and scapularies that he kept for sale, and walked down to the post-office. He met a number of acquaintances on the way, and to each of them be made the same remark, in his broken English, smiling and showing his brilliant white teeth : ‘ I shall not be alone any more, no ! My cousin, she come to keep the ’ouse. She maka the macaroni much better nor me, yes ! That niee for me, yes !’ The people stared open-mouthed, and as they passed on, shrugged their shoulders. ‘Hi ! we must have an eye on APsieu V Cure,' they said among themselves, with ready suspicion. ‘ A woman— une '■reature in his house ! And how are we to know that she is his cousin? We must look out, and, if we see anything wrong, it shall be our duty to tell Msieu I’Eveque. He comes for confirmation in the early autumn, and then we shall see about yPsieu I'Cure and his cousin— si! He is Italian, and everybody knows that the Italian priests are not like the French ones.’ But Padre Salvatore did not hear, and even had he done so, it would not have mattered to him. He had nothing to conceal. His life was open and blameless, and they might watch him as much as they pleased. He studied no more that day. He put everything in order downstairs. Then he went to the spare room that he reserved usually for the bishop or the priests who came occasionally from St. Ignace, Marquette and other places near by. It was a very nice room, by far the best he had. The furniture was of prettily painted wood, and a matting covered the floor. Filled with a vague yet pleasurable excitement, he got out a pair of sheets that were in the closet, and made the bed, tucking his soutane about his waist, so that he might move about more freely. Then he brought from the small parlour a couple of terracotta figures representing Neapolitan mandoline players, and an anged them with much precision on the chimney-piece. He stood in the doorway with half-closed eyes, viewing the effect. ‘ Madonna mia ! It is fit for a signorina, he murmured, in a voice tender with emotion.

XVhen the eventful day arrived, he was cold with nervousness and a trepidation he could neither explain nor subdue. He had never seen Rosa ; on the one occasion he had visited his cousin, Rosa had been away at school, and now, in thinking of her, he began to wonder vaguely whether she looked American or Italian, and whether she had learned to speak his language. He hoped she was pretty. He had all the passionate love of beauty that is part of the Italian temperament, and he was as sensitive as a woman where personalities were concerned. He himself was remarkably handsome. His dark eyes were softly luminous, and his clean shaven lips and chin revealed a finely cut mouth. He had the aquiline nose of the Latin race, and the slight stoop in his shoulder, born of much continued study, did not add in the least to his thirty-five years. He was tall and strong, carrying his-head erect, and although the people complained that they could not understand his French, they were forced to admit that he sang the mass beautifully, in full, rich tones. He went into the garden when breakfast was over, to gather a bouquet for the visitor. The tiny enclosure that surrounded the house was brilliant with rich bloom and fragrant with perfume. He weeded and planted and watered day by day, for he loved the modest little garden, and he adored flowers. He selected some full-blown damask roses, to which he added a few sprays of jasmine. These he placed on the table in Rosa's room and in so doing discovered that he had forgotten to fill the water jug. He laughed at his stupidity, calling himself ‘ bestia' and ‘ savage,’ as he trudged down to the clear, deep well behind the house. The July afternoon was glorious. Lake and sky were radiantly blue. The sunlight fell in a shower of palest gold on the water and shimmered amid the foliage, against whose sombre green the white houses of the village stood out with a scintillant distinctness. The long, projecting wharf where the lake steamer had just been moored was alive with an expectant crowd of people of all sorts and conditions. There were drummers from the new hotel just opened on the far end of the bluff, curious yet sleepy-look-ing half breeds, alert negro porters, a few genuine Indians, any 7 number of French Canadians, and a sprinkling of plain American citizens. Among them all stood Padre Salvatore, the sunlight shining full upon his bronzed face, scanning the passengers as they filed cautiously from the heaving deck to the creaking landing. He glanced intently at every person that passed out, and suddenly his features glowed with pleasure, for a young girl, fair and blonde, was coming directly toward him. He proffered his hand, embarrassed and uncertain, being overcome all at once by a strange timidity. ‘ You are Rosa I You knew me?’

The girl replied pleasantly and easily : ‘Of course ; I knew you at once by your dress. Besides, one sees that you are an Italian, Padre Salvatore.’ ‘Oh, you must call me “ cousin yes ?’ He laughed, feeling quite at ease again. ‘ Yes, we are cousins, certainly,’ she said, seriously. ‘ But ’ —changing her tone—* how lovely it is here ! The air is like wine. I have never been so far north before. Oh, I am sure I shall be very happy !’ 'Si—si— l ’ope,' he answered. ‘lt is beautiful ; only a little cold—for me. I am not used to this climate. The winter, they say, is terrible. I 'ate the winter ; I love the warm climate ;’ and he sighed. They walked along the broad, winding road to the rectory, passing the shops gay with Indian curiosities and the thatched cabins where whole families of somnolent halfbreeds ate, slept and lived in one stuffy room. Rosa, in spite of her fatigue, regarded everything with a delighted interest and a charmed surprise. Several of Padre Salva-

tore s parishioners went by and looked askance at him and nis companion, with a muttered ‘ Bonjou’, APsieu I’ Cun.’ He raised his hat proudly and smiled in his usual way. You see, he said to each one, * she ’as come—my cousin l.osa. She will keep the ’ouse. Now I shall ’ave the fine dinner—the macaroni—the risotto.’ But the people put their heads yet closer together, saving among themselves: ‘ She’s too young and too pretty, la p'tite. But we shall watch him and see. After all, the priests are but men like any others. XX'ait until the bishop comes. He ’ Msieu t Eveque will have something to say to the Pere Salvatore—sure ! And they laughed and frowned in the same breath. Padre Salvatore, however, went bravely home and con- , osa ber rOOlll with much punctilious ceremony. XX bile she freshened her dress and bathed, he prepared some refreshment—cold meat and ripe peaches soaked in Marsala. Later they sat in the study and talked until supner time, when he accompanied her to the kitchen, explaining as he went just how many minutes the macaroni should be boiled. All the while a tender happiness illumined his features. He laughed and clapped his hands in boyish glee, marvelling at the cleverness with which she set to work, and Rosa” catching some of his high spirits, laughed too. After supper he took her to the church and exhibited the relics, tellin-’ her the simple story of Father Marquette. Rosa examined everything with an interest that amounted to awe. , are they worth much money?’ she asked, openin-’ her blue eyes wide. " ‘ Oh, si! I should say. They are worth much, indeed,’ he responded, loftily. . Then, as he replaced the crucifix in the chest, he pressed it to his lips. ‘But isn’t it dangerous to leave them here? Suppose chTstF y Sh °" d COrae iQ the ni " ht and break open the . Padre Salvatore gave a little shudder at the bare suggestion. But he answered, confidently : * Oh, nobody steal. The lock is strong, an’ I carry always the key, yon see ?’ And he lifted his soutane, putting the key into his pocket as he spoke. Rosa said nothing more. In going out she knelt beside him for an instant in front of the altar, whence a tall blue-and-gold Mary looked down benignly from under a pale canopy of stars. The girl bowed her head and made the sign of the cross. The lagging summer days that followed were a delight to the simple soul of Padre Salvatore. Nobody had ever attended to his comfort as did Rosa. Nobody understood him and entered into all his moods as she did. He was never lonely now. In the performance of his most irksome duties he was always dimly conscious of her presence. Shut m his study, writing laboriously the little sermons that he was obliged to translate into both French and English and to adapt to the meagre comprehension of his nock, he would pause now and then to listen to her voice singing, as she went about the house. By - and - bye, a sombre thoughtfulness overcame him. He wondered what he should do when she went away. How could he exist during the horrible, much dreaded winter, without her .' XX henever this thought assailed him, he took refuge in his books, to escape the frightful sadness that dulled his senses. Every morning when he awoke, his first idea was of her final departure : ‘ One day less ! Dio mio !’ he would reflect with a pang of sharp misery. But his manhood asserted itself later. He reproached himself bitterly, and prayed to be delivered from weakness. What was Rosa s going or coming to him ? XX r as he not a priest by the grace of God, and wedded to the church ? XVhy should he shrink from either disappointment or hardship? He called himself foolish and unworthy. But even Rosa noted the change that had come over him little by little. His coward gaze avoided her. He spoke little. He brought a book to the table at meal times and absorbed himself in readin-’, to escape conversation. One cool August evening as they sat on the balcony, with the creeping twilight descending through the sun-streaked mists, he complained of feeling tired, and went to his room with the intention of retiring early. As he rose from his chair, he touched her softly on the shoulder : ‘ Good night, fel isissima notte, Rosa mia,’ he said. ‘ Good night, Cousin Salvatore,’ she replied without looking up, and a moment later she heard his door shut quickly. She remained sitting in the gloom, waiting to see the wondrous spectacle of the moonrise. She loved to watch the great, crimson disk emerge slowly from behind Bois Blanc, and as it mounted, turn first to fiery gold and then to whitest silver, flooding the placid waters with a track of argent light. The pine-trees bent before the breeze, and from the shadows whispers of the romantic Indian legends, that were associated with every nook and cranny of the island, seemed to emanate and die away in long-drawn sighs. Opposite, the yellow church glinted in the yellow moonlight, and Rosa, straining her eyes and ears, thought at last to see a lithe figure that came suddenly from the obscurity into the full splendour of the night. It stood still for a moment, and then disappeared mysteriously behind the sacred edifice. She started and trembled. Presently she rose noiselessly and went into the house. Padre Salvatore was generally a light sleeper, but on this occasion fatigue made his rest more profound than usual. All at once, however, he wakened with alarm, for his sleepdulled hearing bad caught a sound that assailed him with dread and terror. He sat up in his nanow iron bedstead and listened. Surely he had heard it. He had not been dreaming. He had distinctly heard the church-door creak on its rusty old hinges. He sprang from the bed and peered through the curtainless window. The church was shrouded new in darkness. The moonlight had vanished beneath a veil of clouds. He began hurriedly to dress, trembling violently. Somebody was in the church. His trained ear had not deceived him even in his sleep. Some one was there ; some thief had gone in to steal the relics. An intense excitement, from which, however, all fear was eliminated, took possession of him. He did not stop to think of himself or any danger he might incur. He only thought of the holy relics that were to him a sacied trust. If they were stolen, it should be at the risk of his own life. He would preserve them at any cost. He must hasten to save them from the desecrating hands of robbers—perhaps assassins. He remembered his pistol that was lying in the drawer of his study table. It had recently been cleaned and loaded. He thrust it beneath a fold of his soutane, and went out. XVith his hot Italian blood seething madly in bis veins, he mounted the steps of the church, and tried the

handle of the door. That yielded easily to his touch. He slipped into the darkness of the interior, breathin" hard. A vertigo seized him. Near the altar, a mild bar of nebulous moonlight streamed through a window and touched the image of Mary. Padre Salvatore dipped his cold fingers into the holy-water basin, crossed himself, and bent his knee. Then, fortified by this simple ceremony, he advanced with bold carriage and firm tread into the sacristy. As he th lew open the door, appearing on the threshold as might the black shade of an avenging power, a faint brightness struck his eyes, confusing him for an instant. Then he recoiled, with an involuntary cry of horror and dismay. Crouching on the bare floor beside the oaken chest and grasping the golden chalice so that it glinted in the light, was Rosa, pale and terrified, while before her, holding an uplifted candle whose flickering flame shed a dim brilliance on Padre Salvatore’s face, stood a stranger—a young man. His frightened glance swept the priest, and he uttered an exclamation of surprise. Padre Salvatore had grown livid. He staggered back against the door, and the pistol fell clattering to the floor. Presently he summoned courage to speak. • What—what you do here, Rosa ?’ he asked, in hardly * audible tones. ‘ Why you disturb the relies ?’ He seemed to gain courage from the sound of his own voice. He drew himself up and crossed both hands over his chest. ‘ You would steal—you?’ he said, passionately. • An’for what ? For whom ?’ He pointed with one finger to her companion. His pallid face flushed scarlet. ‘ls it—is it—for him, Rosa?' She burst into tears and did not answer. ‘ ’Ow came you by the key ? Answer me,’ he said, imperiously. ‘ I took it while yon slept. Oh, do not look at me like that ! Forgive me. If you only knew—’ The young man had lowered the candle and stood with averted gaze, biting his lips until they bled. Padre Salvatore took no notice. He came forward, took the chalice gently in his hands, put it back into the chest and turned the key in the lock. He wheeled about and strode out of the sacristy, holding his head aloft. ‘ Come back to the ’ouse —both,’ he said, briefly. Dazed and ashamed, they followed him through the echoing aisle of the church. When they reached the house, Padre Salvatore was standing in the reception room, drawn up to his full height, his hand resting upon the bare centretable. He had lighted the kerosene lamp, and in its wan radiance his features looked grey and rigid. He appeared to have aged horribly. ‘ Who is he—this person ?’ he inquired, unsteadily, not meeting Rosa’s glance. She turned her eyes imploringly upon the young man, who answered for her. Padre Salvatore listened like one who only half understands. He heard the miserable little love story with compressed lips and fixed gaze. He comprehended as in a dream that the two had long desired to marry, but that Rosa’s father had opposed the match because the suitor had no money to establish himself in business, and no prospect of getting any. So that was why Rosa had been sent away to visit the priest. Her father thought she would forget her foolish attachment. But she had not forgotten, nor, had her lover forgotten. He had found out where she was, and had come to the island to persuade her to run away and get married in St. Ignace. She had consented. They had met several times in the village, and all their arrangements were made. < >nly they had no money ; merely a few dollars, which were insufficient. She had thought of the relics which were worth a great deal, and were of no use to anybody, lying in the old chest in the sacristy. That was all. A blush of shame dyed Padre Salvatore’s colourless cheeks. For a brief space he could not speak. Then he asked vaguely : ‘ There was no other objection to your marriage ? Only the money ?’ ‘No, there was no other objection,’ they said. Padre Salvatore knit his brows. ‘lt is well,’ he said, moving towards the door. ‘We can talk to-morrow ; now it is late.’ He ushered the young man with ceremonious courtesy to the portico without ; then he closed and bolted the door. His white lips trembled. No more w r as said. He motioned to Rosa, and led the way upstairs, carrying the lamp uplifted, so that the yellow glimmer illumined one side of his face. He passed into the study, and sinking upon a chair, leaned his head upon his hands. He remained thus until the night was far spent, struggling bitterly with himself. A fearful blight seemed to have fallen upon him and crushed his buoyant spirit. Rosa’s sin resembled some bitter disgrace of his own. Yet, try as he would, he harboured no anger against her ; he felt naught but a tender pity. The grey morning found him still sitting there, but now a look of determination shone in his eyes. By-and-bye he rose, and, approaching the small hair trunk, that occupied one corner of the room, removed therefrom a wooden box, that he opened almost lovingly. It contained five hundred dollars, that by dint of enforced self-denial he had saved since his residence in America, and that he had meant to send at Christmas to his mother—an old, hard-working Neapolitan peasant. How much personal sacrifice was involved in this handful of gold no one but himself knew. Many a time he had gone without meat and clothes in order to save the money for his mother. Often, as he sat alone during the long winter evenings, warmed only by the lamplight, he had pictured to himself her joy when she should receive the gift. He imagined the tears of happiness coursing down her brown withered cheeks. He saw her calling to the neighbours to tell them who had sent it, and how it had come all the way from America, a wonderful country where the very streets were paved with gold. Padre Salvatore’s own eyes glistened as he placed the money on the table. Then, seeing that it was five o’clock, he recited his office and made preparation for the early mass. Rosa was waiting for him on his return from the church. She silently put the earthenware cup of strong coffee and the plate of dry bread upon the table, but as she turned to leave the room he called her back. At the sight of his white, quivering face she broke down, sobbing and imploring his pardon. He took her hand in his, murmuring soothingly in Italian a verse from the Gospel: ‘ “ Let him who is without sin among you cast the first tone.” ’ Aloud he said, trying to be calm : ‘I am very sorry, Rosa, but I do not condemn. I, too,

am sinner. I have offended God, an' He punished me. Go, and sin no more.’

Two tears overflowed upon his cheeks. Then he took the box and pressed it into her hands.

‘See,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘ ’Ere is money for you, Rosa. You shall marry the man you love. Tell your father that I make you present ; then it be all right. Now go ; I much occupied.’ He almost pushed her from the room. He sat down to drink bis coffee. A cheerful smile was on his lips. When Rosa had gone, the village people, in spite of their vigilance, rarely saw him for days and days, except when he appeared at mass or to hear confession. He began to practice a desperate economy. The thought of his mother tortured him night and morning. He felt as if he had robbed her in her old age, and he prayed for forgiveness. He denied himself wine and macaroni, living on dry bread, with now and then a little fish. He sold a few things he did not need, and he saved nearly the whole of his meagre salary. In this way he hoped to send her something substantial at Christmas. But he had, in that short period, grown haggard and pinched and broken. The people remarked his changed appearance, and put their own construction upon it. ‘ He they whispered among themselves. ‘We know ! It is all on account of In p'tite he kept with him for so long and who left so suddenly. He said she was his cousin, but we know better- Now, next week comes Msieu I’Eveque, and then le Pi-re Salvatore shall see that we are not so blind and stupid as he thinks us. He shall be told everything—ltPsieu VEveque. The Cure Salvatore is a bad man. He is not like the French priest we had last year.’ And when the bishop came in the evening preceding the ceremony of confirmation, the people assembled in a great mass near Padre Salvatore’s door, hesitating as to whether they should march boldly in and demand an audience, or summon His Reverence outside. While they waited and took counsel among themselves a bright light shone all at once in the tiny parlour, and on the old woin linen blind were reflected the pale silhouettes of two figures—one tall and portly, that of the bishop, standing with outstretched hands, as if granting benediction. The other figure was smaller and appeared to be bowed in supplication. ‘ Oh, he ! V Pere Salvatore, he is making confession, as, indeed, he ought,’ the people murmured. ‘ The bishop will come out and tell us how bad he is.’ The door opened presently, and on the dark threshold the bishop’s form and that of Padre Salvatore stood out against the light. Something in the bishop’s face caused the people to fall back in dismay. Padre Salvatore was white as death, and his shrunken limbs seemed lost in the long, loose folds of the bishop’s coat that he wore. The sleeves hung down and hid his emancipated hands. The bishop waited for a moment before he spoke. ‘ My friends,’ he began, in vibrant tones, and with that he extended one arm ; and placing it about Padre Salvatore’s neck, gathered him to his side as he might a child in distress —‘my friends,’ he repeated, after a significant pause, ‘I bring you your'pastor, a worthy son of God. I commend you to his care and his teaching, the more so, as lately you have condemned him unjustly in your hearts. For, verily, in the pure soul of Padre Salvatore is reflected the divine spirit of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour.’ The bishop, made the sign of the cross. For an instant the people stood as if spell-bound. Then, without a word, they slunk away, one by one. By and bye only the bishop and Padre Salvatore remained standing on the chill threshold of the illuminated doorway, and the faces of both were wet with tears.