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The storyteller. THE DELINQUENT.

(By Dorothy Gresham in Catholic World.)

One day, after a heated discussion, as he rose to go his antagonist said calmly : " Perhaps you would not be so severe and unjust towards the Catholic Church if you knew somewhat of her doctrines and teachings. Will you let me give you some of our books, and ace for yourself 1 They cannot do you any harm, and they may teach you more toleration and — charity." He looked disgusted at first ; then, seeing how hurt and sad she looked, said for politeness' sake, " Well, if you wish it, I will look at them." She handed him the "'lmitation" saying earnestly : "Everything I love and want is there." He left, and for weeks they saw none of him. At last he came one morning and asked if he might keep that little book some time ; it required thought and study. The request was willingly given, and as the'rector was leaving he said hurriedly : " You have nothing else you would like me to read, have you ? " " Yes," she answered, giving him the only two books she had besides the " Imitation" — " Christian Perfection " and " The Catholic Christian Instructed." Nothing more was said on the matter, though he came and went, flinging a stone at Rome when he got the chance, and she was always ready with a Roland for his Oliver. When he met her occasionally at entertainments through the winter there was no disguise about his repulsion for her. It always amused her, and, as their mutual friends sympathised with the rector though they loved her, their little battles were well known across the Point and over the bay. As the ice broke, and the first breath of spring came over the water, a great change was gradually noticed in the rector's bearing towards the Delinquent. He was constantly at the old house ; all his former harshness had disappeared ; she was the last to notice it, as his peculiarities had grown so familiar, but people said he had given up all hope of converting her. It was just as well, they thought ; she was a Catholic now, alas ! and she was the one to suffer ; and — well, let it be ; there was no accounting for tastes ! So peace was proclaimed, and things dropped into the normal "ways, and the old life by the lake was cloudless and happy. The Delinquent, coming out of an Irish cottage one wild, stormy day, met the rector on his rounds, and together they started homewards Through the fury of the blast they battled onward, the waves breaking with merry resounding music against the cliffs. He went along in silence, and then " I was coming to bring you this,"' showing her a copy of the " Confessions " of St. Augustine ; •' would you care to see it ? — and — and — I have finished the first volume of "Christian Perfection," and would like to read the second." He seemed anxious to be off. and when they reached the old house only waited at the door till she gave him " Rodriguez " and hurried away. It was some time before he called, and then casually asked the Delinquent what she thought of the " Confessions " ; she replied by inquiring had he noticed where St. Augustine said that his mother's last request to him was that he should remember her daily in the Holy Sacrifice. What sacrifice did she mean if it were not the Mass .' St Augustine evidently believed in prayers for the dead, which of course he, the rector, did not. '• Perhaps Ido " was all he said, and the subject was dropped. Two weeks later a long tuneral procession wended down the village street and to the little Episcopal church on the hill. Through the open doors the casket was borne within, where the congregation were gathered for the services for the dead. Never did the rector look more spiritual than on those sad and solemn occasions. Today he seemed much moved as he spoke of the friend who had left them — brave old Captain Wells, whom every one knew and loved, for miles along the lake. His genial, happy smile, and kindly sunny heart were gone from them ; but, the young preacher urged, " we must not forget the dead, they like to be remembered ; and alas ! how few of us ever think of them, once the sods are laid over them, and we turn away from the church -yard. St. Augustine tells us, as he stood at the bedside of his dying mother, St. Monica, she asked him not to forget her, and to-day I ask you to remember the dead." Listening sadly to his words, seated with her mother, who had come to see the last of their old friend, the Delinquent was startled at the St. Augustine allusion, and was eagerly waiting for the rest, when the rector stopped, and the procession slowly left the church. The congregation remained seated as the coffin was borne away, she alone kneeling, of all who were there, to pray for the poor soul. Behind the casket the rector followed reverently ; as he passed his eyes fell on the solitary kneeling figure, and her expression told him too well what she was doing. He was startled — stung — perplexed. " Remember me daily at the Holy Sacrifice " ; surely St. Augustine was one of theirs ; and yet — and yet — The following afternoon found him in the drawing-room of the old house, anxious and weary, but with his usual quiet smile. They talked of the funeral yesterday, of the loyal old man whom they knew so well, of the changes his death might mean to the place and people, and then in a sudden pause he said, " How did you ever 'become a Catholic ?" The Delinquent looked at him in amazement, so abrupt, so strange his question, and then answered very earnestly, " The goodness of Almighty God, and the beautiful examples of saintly lives I saw in that Faith." " What do you mean ? There are no Catholics here that would lik«ly influence you, I am sure." " Yes, even here, if you knew them ; see the fidelity of those poor Irish, their patience under every trial, their brightness, their joy, even in every privation ; but it was not to those I allude particularly. You may remember seeing how happy I was last

summer, when the new York cousins were here. Tou refused to come near us then, and our amusements were so delightful, no childlike in one way, and always so supremely happy. Last year there was a great blank in our holidays, for one was gone who had cast a sunshine over all our fun ; he was only a boy of seventeen, the merriest of the party, the first in everything that was gay and mischievous ; his laugh rang over the bay with such a light-hearted, joyous peal that echoed the innocence of his very soul. With all that, he was so unwaveringly, unpretendingly good ; never in all our sports and frolic was he known to say a quick, unkind word ; every act, and thought even, seemed angelic, and above all a complete unconscious forgetfulness of self. We all loved him, and nothiner seemed right without him. " One evening towards the end of the vacation, at one of our memorable gipsy-teas on one of the islands, wandering away from the others, he told me on his return to New York he intended entering the Jesuit novitiate. At first I could not understand ; then slowly it dawned on me that this beautiful life was about to be given up voluntarily, nay joyously, with all its promise, to God. It was a revelation, and only in one Church would such a sacrifice be asked, and still more wonderful, given, and given in such a spirit and from such a soul. I was a Catholic from that moment. In silence we reached the others ; I could not speak, so strangely were my thoughts and inclinations warring within me. I said nothing to anyone, but the first letter he received from me at the novitiate began, ' I am a Catholic ' — it never struck me as being absurd to write, * I am ' ; not, 'I am going to be ' ; for I was then, and never seemed to have been anything else. In his answer he wrote that on reading my opening line, ' I am a Catholic,' he dropped the letter and went at once to the chapel to thank God for this answer to pruyer. He couldnottell me how many Masses had beensaid and prayers offered for my conversion, and yet he had never said one word to me ; but as his parting gift left me a little catechism. This was now my sole instructor. I read chapter by chapter slowly and carefully, hunting up the references in my own Protestant Bible ; and as I read, my only wonder was why I had not become a Catholic long ago, seeing the truth as it really was. The cook's prayer-book was my only help, and for half a year I waited for permission to be received into the Church. You know what a grief to my mother ; she was so good about it, tried to hide her disappointment, but said she could not come between me and God. Father, whom I dreaded most of all, gave his consent very willingly, declaring the Catholic Church had always excited his admiration ; that he had seen the extraordinary devotion of her priests during the cholera epidemic in New York, fi«-htin', r nobly for their people when all the other clergymen fled from the dread disease. And once going down the St. Lawrence he met two young French priests, gay as school-boys, going to some island where small-pox raged, and where even to land seemed certain death. They spoke of it as if it were such a privilege to be sent, when so many others were longing to go. Our Protestant friends were kind, they were more hurt and surprised than angry ; indeed it was with one of them I stayed in New England, while under instruction for my reception in o the Church." During this narrative the rector listened attentively, without interruption: then kindly: "You will forgive me for the many unjust speeches I have made to you. my harsh judgments and criticism^. 1 see now how wrong I have been. 1 should have sought intorm.it ion first: then weighed the evidence before condemning you without knowledge : my ignorance and misguided zeal are my sole apolojjips. •■ It is strange. " he said regretfully, " how we cimsure the Catholic Church and her doctrines, m perfect iynoranee of what we denounce. On any other subject, political, social . even physical, we should not dream of discussing without some previous study, but on such a serious matter as religion we take it tor "ranted that all the blood-curdlino 1 tales ot our youth must be correct, and we fling charity and truth to the winds, and alas ! too often teach those under our charge the same vile scandals and concoctions that have disgraced our childhood. Though.'" he added. ■• that is but a sorry excuse : if we were honest men the world ot books would enlighten our dulness. and bigotry. The rector left the old house that evening armed and ready for the fi^rht — the most severe and painful tor poor human nature — right and wrong, peace and strife, prosperity and adversity. July, glorious and radiant, brought the merry New York cousins to the village. Flow lively they made the old house on the hill, the lake, the islands the woods : how gaily their jokes rang over the water, how infectious their good humour. They timidly asked the rector to join their excursions, and to their surprise he consented. At first he went to show his old prejudice had gone ; soon he enjoyed the novelty and the adventures with the rest. He joined in theiv song^ and witticisms and was in return teased, unmercifully teased (they would not spare the whole bench of bishops if they had the chance") ; the rector grave it back with all his polish and thrust, which won their hearts at once. Returning one evening with them across the bay he told them his favourite sister was about to pay him a visit, and as a matter of course a picnic to one of the islands celebrated her arrival. Never, it seemed, had there been such a day : the accidents more humorous and thrilling than usual ; and the sun was preparing for slumber before the party were ready to embark for the main-land. It was one of the loveliest and loneliest spots on the bay, surrounded by hills ; the water lay like a valley of mist between the dim outline of great woods ; the setting sun transformed it into a superb combination of light and shade. The bay plashed the golden ripples in wanton frolic, protected by the hills which borrowed of the heavens glories to drape their rugged side-, while wood and water revelled in flashingsunbeams, and mocked the ever-varying-sky by the ethereal beauty of their colouring. Standing apart, the rector looked longingly yet ■adly at the beloved scene : a determined yet happy light shone in his eyes, and turning abruptly, he made his way to where the Delinquent was putting the last touches to baskets and boxes before having them carried down to the boat*. It wa9 his only chance for what he bad to say, and he felt that it must be said to-day. " I

have finished your books — and — are you surprised ? — I too intend to become a Catholic ! " There was not a moment more ; an astonished, incredulous look flashed from her eyes, and the party went trooping down to the shore, where they soon pushed off amid song and chorus that were echoed back by the hills, as the merry voices died away far over the silent waters. The weeks glided pleasantly onwards ; the rector was busy with preparations for his departure — his one desire now to study for the priesthood. He had seen for the first time a Catholic prayerbook ; he had been speaking to the mother of the New York lads of the ritual of the different Churches and of the Mass prayers, which he wished to see, and she, little dreaming of his intentions. gave him her own missal. The autumn leaves were a glory of crimson and gold when the final day at length arrived for the news to be made known, and the rector should start forth on his unknown pilgrimage. For the last time he stood in his pulpit, looked at his people wistfully as they came as of old, little thinking what strange news he was to tell them. It came at last — short, pathetic, brotherly. He had loved them, he said ; his happiest days had been spent with them, and now he only left them at a call that no man but a coward could resist. It was a trial in which God alone could help him ; the ties and affections, the Church and Faith of his youth and manhood must be given up. His very kith and kin would now look on him as one unworthy their name and race. Hard things would be said ; but he could not blame, where he himself had blamed ; sometimes it seemed as if the cross were too great, but the words of our Lord are emphatic : "He that loveth father or. mother more than Me, the same is not worthy of Me." The congregation were in tears ; they oould not doubt his sincerity, no matter how misguided he might be. His voice trembled as he tried to continue, but it was too much ; the familiar faces that he would never probably see again, the memory of the kindness he had received here among them, his devoted people, came crowding on him, and with a low, fervent " God bless you I " he turned away ana passed out of their lives for ever. The next evening he paid his farewell visit to the old house ; he was to leave early the following morning. A letter from the Delinquent to the late Monsignor. then Father. Preston, was his sole introduction and help on his new road of life. He lingered long over the parting with those dear friends, for never again was he to meet them in this world. He was up and away with the birds next morning ; there were few passengers leaving the village by the old stage-coach, and long and sadly he watched the well-known scenes fade away. The sun was rising behind the woods, now blazing with autumn tints ; below the water sparkled and danced, a little yacht lay at anchor not far from the shore. The wooded islands, two or three fishing-boats with men resting idly on their oars, and anglers busy with rod and line, were silhouetted sharply against the burnished bosom of the lake. The bay caught and flashed back the changeful glories of the sun, until the very bulrushes seemed cradled in opaline clouds, while the hills, blue as a diadem of giant turquoises, made a majestic frame for this never-to-be-forgotten picture. The young rector looked until woods and water became a mere speck on the horizon, and then turned his face steadily onwards " as of one going to Jerusalem." A few lines will tell the re*t. Father Preston was just the guide for such a soul. He placed him at once in the seminary to begin his studies, which were finished in Rome, the spot he loved dearest on earth.

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Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/NZT18961218.2.32

Bibliographic details

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIV, Issue 33, 18 December 1896, Page 21

Word Count
2,928

The storyteller. THE DELINQUENT. New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIV, Issue 33, 18 December 1896, Page 21

The storyteller. THE DELINQUENT. New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIV, Issue 33, 18 December 1896, Page 21