The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 12, 23 July 1897, Page 21

The Storyteller.

MY STORY.

(From the Aye Maria.)

About eighteen years ago I lost my father and mother within a few months of each other ; and in losing them, I lost all. A year had not passed before my faith and morals had suffered shipwreck : morals first, faith afterwards, I gradually became a follower of Voltaire — impious, materialistic, — then, as occurs every day, an avowed infid' 1. By a soit of Satanic logic. I conformed my acts to my new opnions. I. who belonged to a family of saints, never entered a church, not o\eu for an interment or a marriage. This conduct w<tt< the natural result of a course of life which scandalised the wholi' pari.-b. The old cure, from whom I had received my first Holy Communion, probably from a hope to preserve some link which would bind me to religion, wrote to inquire whether I wished to retain the family pew. I did not even 'leign t o reply t>> hi Icommunication. Eighteen years p,.ssed away, — uighte-n years which I would gladly efface from existence at the price of the time which I have yet to spend on earth. One incident will inform you w hat manner of man I was. It was New Year's Day ; and, 1 urious at hearing the joyous church bell pealing out in their own sweet language, and at seeing the highway filled with men and women on their way to Mass in their gay holiday attire, I seized a woodcutter's axe and began to fell a beautiful oak-tree which grew by the roadside, in one of my fields. Thus did 1 wish to protest against what I foolishly called popular superstition. Several months after this fine exploit, on a hot summer's day, a terrible storm arose, and a family composed of father, mother and three children were killed by lightning. All the parish attended the funeral of those five persons called so suddenly to meet their God, and I followed the crowd. Impiety is sometimos out of season. So 1 thought, with sincere -orrow, a.- 1 joined thr ihrong <>t sympathising friends who wended their way to the church. It was almost eighteen years since I had set my foot in the house of God ; it was natural, therefore, that I should feel embarrassed in the crowd that day in the church. As I was about to hide myself in a corner, the old sacristan approached me and with a kindly smile invited me to follow him. 1 did so mechanically, wondering what he could want with me. What was my surprise to see him pause at the old familiar pew, making a sign for me to enter, as though I had never forfeited its occupancy ! But I was not at the end of my surprises. Having seen me to the pcw — which I entered in a whirl of conflicting emotions, though I believe my face did not reveal them — he went away : but soon returned with a rusty little key, which he handed me. " Your key, Monsieur," he said, in a low voice, and retired. _ Then 1 remembered that we formerly had in our pew a box, of wflich this was the key ; and, looking- around, I found it still lying in its accustomed place, at the farthest end. Impelled by a power I could not resist — for it was something far deeper than curiosity — I turned the key in the lock. It opened without difficulty and my heart beat loudly as 1 saw — lyin^, no doubt, where she with her own hands had last placed them — the prayer-boo s my mother had used for so many years. Oh. how often had I not also prayed fervently from those pages, now damp and mouldy and yellow with age. As one might lift the relic of a dead friend from the coffin where time had destroyed all else, 1 lifted them "Daily Prayers," "The Angelic Guide," "The Imitation of Christ.'" Thanks to the sad and extraordinary occasion which had brought me to the church, public attention was diverted from me : otherwise, my presence there would have been the source of great curiosity to my neighbours — a curiosity which, under the new and conflicting emotions now agitating my soul, I could scarcely have borne. I could not pray — I had forgotten how — but remembrance and reflection took possession of my soul. After some moments spent thus, I began to turn the leaves of '• The Imitation," anxious in some way to hide my embarras-ment, in case curious eyes should look my way. A detached slip of paper fluttered from the book to the ground. I stooped to pick it up and found it contained my mothers writing. By the ink, well-nigh faded, and the worn appearance of the edges, I saw that it had often been in those dear hands. These were the words — shall I ever forget them ! '■ 0 my God ! do not punish me if I have not enough faith to wish, like the mother of St. Louis, that my boy might rather die than commit one mortal sin. Pardon my weakness. Preserve the life and health of my child. Save him from the misfortune of offending Thee. But if he should ever be so unhappy as to leave the path of virtue, lead him back, gently and mercifully, as Thou didst lead the prodigal son to his father." You can understand my feelings. My pride could not restrain the tears which flowed from my heart. To say that I was fully converted at that moment would be, however, to say too much. One cannot break so quickly with eighteen years of impiety. But I was at least touched and awakened to a sense of what I had done. That very day I hastened to thank the good cure for having so delicately and kindly preserved the pew for my unworthy sake. It was with the greatest difficulty that I could persuade him to accept the pew-rent for those eighteen wasted years. " You see " he said to me, " good blood must always tell, does always tell, in the end. One can not discard a family of Baints with impunity. I knew well that one day or another you would return to occupy the old family pew.' Taking both my hands in his, he added : " I beseech you, now that you have made a beginning 1 , come back again." What can I say more ? The following Sunday I went to Mass, Alter that the grace of God was not denied me.