The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXV, Issue 36, 5 September 1907, Page 3

The Storyteller

AT LAST

' O spotless maiden, hail to thee ! ' rang out in rich, full tones from the music room. Joseph Harrington paused on the stairs to listen. Never had he heard a voice so sweet, and he wondered who the. singer could be. It was one of the last rehearsals for the Vincentian Hospital benefit concert. Joseph had come in late and was on his way to Father Stephen's ''room for a book he had left; there.. • There had been much confusion this last week, caused by the sudden illness of the soprano. The manager had despaired of finding a substitute at so late an hour. Evidently they had at last succeeded, and "Joe Harrington was more than glad of the golden promise in that rare young voice. - They had all. worked -too hard for this concert to see it a failure. He entered the music room a little curious to see the new acquisition. # Smiles greeted him on all sides, for he was a general favorite. Smiling in return, he glanced from face to face, seeking the stranger. When he found what he sought he caught his breath in sharp surprise. ' N Over by the organ, facing him, a tall, slender girl was standing, listening attentively to the . instructions of the organist. Her face was as rarely lovely as some pictured saint, a clear-cut oval' in its frame of dark hair. But it was not her beauty alone which so caught and held the attention. There looked from those sad, clear eyes a white young soul, troubled, but unsullied. • ' . A low prelude on the organ and that voice rang out again, filling the| room with, its , thrilling sweetness. ' O spotless maiden, hail to thee, who deign'st our gujiding star to be.' The breathless hush was the best applause. The face of the singer was lifted up, and her eyes saw some lovely vision. 'To point to heaven's felicity.' As the last low Aye Marie died softly away- the listeners came back to earth with' a. sigh. After the rehearsal , J oseph Harrington was presen 7 ted to the fair young singer, and talked with her a while. To / his surprise, he found that she was not a Catholic. She had been educated at Immaculate Conception Academy, she said, and to that fact was due her presence there that evening. To his cousin, Sister lgnatia, teacher of music, at , the academy, Father Stephen had written of his dilemma about a soprano for /the concert. Sister lgnatia* Tiad told .him 1 of this old pupil of hers, who had graduated some years before, and whose home was but a short distance fron*. St. John's Cathedral. Mary 'ICingsley proved to be an earnest, eager wor- ! ker; as anxious for the success of the concert as those who had been interested from the first. ■ During the rehearsals and in the days that followed Joseph Harrington met her frequently. As he came to know her better he found that the admiration tie felt from the first was more than justified. Her beauty of face was no mere accidental physical perfection, but the outward semblance of the beauty within. There was a nameless, mysterious something about her which he found himself constantly trying to solve. She was so frankly fond of pleasure, so girlishly gay and light-hearted, ye 6 reserved and quaintly dignified. -But it was- not that either ! It was an unfathomable something, a fleeting seriousness of expression, a look in her 'eyes, now there, now gone, puzzling, baffling. "•Her voice as he had" first heard it rang ever in his ears. He had heard "others sing that ' Aye Marie,' but no one else put into it that indefinable expression of childlike confidence and loving tenderness that made it *a veritable prayer. ~ He never, saw her look quite so lovely as she did when she sang -that song. He asked her once what it was she saw that"* made her face light up and her eyes grow bright. Was it some girlish dream of ' heaven's, felicity ? ' She smiled and shook her head. Her answer .was as puzzling as everything else about her. , c I see a little convent chapel, dimly lit and shadow-filled ; a flower-decked shrine and a statue of a lovely, slender woman, | crowned with stars, a crescent arioon beneath her ~ feet. I sing to her. Do you s know, Mr. Harrington, no flowers' have . ever smelt so sweet as the flowers in that shrine. Their fragrance comes back as I sing.' i , c But you are not a Catholic, Miss Kingsley.' «No '—slowly, was it regretfully ?— And there came

into her eyes ,that look ,f-he, f - he could not understand. Words failed before it, and for a lime they were silent. ' Then they spoke of other things. He would not force her confidence. Suddenly one day he realised that he loved her. "She had not been out, of his thoughts once since that evening he entered the- music room, seeking the owner of that lovely voice. . ' When he asked her to marry, him and she accepted he half hoped that she v would speak of .their difference of religion, but she . did not. .Looking into those pure, earnest eyes, he was willing to wait, confident that in a" short time there ~would be no difference. When he spoke of his religion he found no occasion for argument or dispute. Mary listened attentively, sometimes eagerly, and seenied as conversant jwith thesubject as he was. , - , He often ■ thought that' she was going to surprise him by telling him she was .already a Catholic, but their jwedding day passed and his hope was unrealised. Nor did she avail herself of the many opportunities that presented themselves during the first five years of her married life. Her home life was peaceful and happy, but she" herself was .often restless and discontented. She tried to conceal it from her" husband, but his loving eyes saw more than she thought. So it was that when a mission was given ■at St. John's in the September ' of the in oh year after they were married he urged her more than was his wont to attend^ the exercises. She put -111111 off from' day to day, and when the night of the closing exercises 'came was apparently still . indifferent. He found it hard to leave Tier -alone that evening, lingering as long as he could, hoping to the last moment that she would change her mind. She felt the silent pleading in his parting kiss, and when he was gone sank down for a moment into the nearest chair in an abandon of -bitter thought. I All about her were the evidences of his care for her - coir fort, luxuries even, that he delighted in giving her. What were all these to a troubled spirit ? Across the gloomy; silence stole the sound of abell, ringing out its "tuneful -summons from the tower of St. John's. Mary arose hastily and went to the '" piano. Her fingers ran rapidly over the keys in an accompaniment, and she tried to sing. It was no use. The, words ended in a sob. Rising again, she paced' up and down the room. Suddenly the signs of struggle vanished from her face, replaced by the calm', of decision. Hastily donning her wraps, she hurried to the church. She entered -and sank breathless into the last pew, just as her husband began to sing the ' Veni Crea- , tor.' She listened* 1 with mingled feelings of pride and pleasure to his rich baritone, and the words of the hymn had a new meaning for her. ' What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul ? ' Mary started. She leaned forward and drank in eagerly the words of the priest. She forgot the .crowds of people about her, forgot all things save the - burning message straight from the lips of the speaker to her own heart. It was no flowery flight of eloquence, but an earnest, forceful appeal from, a' true soldier of Christ. Behind his words lay < the strength of a life lived in the manner he presented to his hearers as the only one worth while. ' Mary Harrington's doubts and fears fell away from her, and 'her restlessness and agitation were stilled to" a fitm and' holy purpose. As Joseph came down the stairs from the choir loft, still thrilled with Jthe beauty of the services just concluded, his eyes fell on an upturned face in the outsurging crowd below — the beautiful, eager face of his wife. With a little cry of 'surprise he hurried to her. c Mary, you here— alone,? ' . { Take me to him, Joseph, now, this very night. I - must speak to him.' ' Take you to -whom, dear— to— to— ' he began- doubtingly. ~ • 'To that' priest who preached. It is not,, too late. Don't you think we can see him to-nigHt ? ' \Vondering, but rejoicing, lie led the way to the sacristy. They found that Father -Casgrain had g-one to the rectory, so they followed and in a few moments he joined thorn in the reception. room. * , Mary found his presence as inspiring as his words nad been, and the silence of years was oroken. She told him 1 that she had known the .Catholic Church' to' be the true one since she was a girl at school, but liad not had the strength to put her belief into practice. - Seeing the look of surprise on her husband's face, and the very evident interest of the priest, she told at •

once the story of what had so long been her heart's secret. ' • ' I shall have .to go back many years to make clear to you both the influences and, circumstances 'that have shaped my life. 1 You have often heard me speak, Joseph, of the time our home, -up*, to that so , happy, x was broken upby my father's^ disappearance. He had gone to California, the gold, fever being then at its height. He halt great' hopes of increasing his fortune. 1 For a time we heard from him -regularly, , then suddenly his letters ceased. Ail mother's efforts to learn of his whereabouts were fruitless. She was heartbroken. I .was only twelve, but I remember, it all as if it were but yesterday. ' That my sister Angela and myself might not be' neglected during the many times mother was necessarily absent 'from home, she placed us at Immaculate Conception Academy. ' What a terrifying mystery those words were to my youthful in: agination— Immaculate Conception.' , Then half to herself: 'And the unutterable beauty of the solution. - ' ' • "" ' Those years at the convent were peaceful and happy,,, as well as ntomentous ones, for me: I used to wonder sometimes why mother sent us there. I knew Trom things I had heard them say that both my paiv ents were prejudiced against the Catholic religion. ' I was t a dreamy, romantic ciuia, giving to weaving stories about every incident of my daily life. The idea that I had been sent to the convent for some special- purpose, yet unrevealed, became a favorite theme with me. Little did I guess in those days what the real purpose was. ♦ ' When I -was told that a statue I much admired in the chapel was that of the Immaculate Conception, I went there frequently and knelt at the "shrine as the other girls did. It seemed the best place to stud/ out all that so puzzled me. ' That shrine and the lovely statue had a peculiar fascination for me. Particularly did 1 love to be alone there at dusk. ' Gradually things that had seemed so mysterious were mysterious no longer. I read and studied every book \I- could find that -treated of the religion practised by those about me". ' And it was in that dear old* convent chapel, ab- - out a year before I graduated, that my last doubt fell away, and I saw with the clear light of faith. How happy I was— for a time. c Then came -temptation. I tried a thousand times to tell- Sister Superior to write my mother, but ever my courage railed me. Oh, I have been such a coward ! ■ * 1 When mother came to visit -us and I looked at her .sad face, I ,told myself that I would be an ungrateful daughter to repay all her v kindness* by adding to her sorrow. She had lost one. dear, orie ; it would kill her to lose another. From her point of view, I would indeed be lost to her. That I ascertained by judicious questioning. ' It never seemed to occur to her that Angela or N I could in any way be influenced by our (Surroundings. She- had not the faintest, notion of the real truth. Nor indeed has she to this day. ' You see, I have been weakness itself. 1 My last * days at the convent were comparatively happy, for -I .had convinced myself that once at home I . wou^d tell mother all and be baptized, whatever happened. c But when that time came' I had less strength than before. None of our friends were Catholic, and I dreaded the curiosity and ridicule that I fancied my change of religion would excite. , ' Mother's careworn face and absorption in her sor- >. row was a constant reminder of our peculiar loss. I longed with all my heart to do something to restore her happiness. Daily it became more difficult 'to do^ that which my conscience kept urging, for I thought it -I might* banish all hope of happiness from her. ' I used to put "my hands over my ears to shut out the sound of the bell of St. John's- ringing for services": To me those Qeep tones said, "He that loveth father or mother more than Me," "He that, loveth father or mother more than Me," over and over again, as the bell at the convent used to do. 1 One - day I happened to be passing the church, and could not resist the impulse to enter. I went to Our Lady's altar and wept out all my bitterness at her feet. . . ' Memories of the old- days came over me, and I prayecf as I had • not prayed since then. I recalled the novenas made "at the convent "before special feasts ' or^ for particular requests'. 'In a sudden "access of fervor I resolved to make a novena for my father's return. I promised" that if

within a month from the day the novena closed he was restored to us, or if we. heard something' definite concerning him, I would make an open profession of the faith in my heart. ' \ ' Well, the nine days' 'prayer was said, and in perfect confidence I awaited the answer. ' ' You know, Joseph, for you have heard it often, the story of my fatner's return, but you don't know that that Sunday evening of his coming home' was the last day of the month following the close of my novena. Neither could you -imagine that the wife you think so brave could be such a coward in an hour like that. 1 When I realised that it was really father, when I saw mother 'in his arms, her-- dear, pale face lit up with joy, my first thought' was one, of intense gratitude that my prayer was, answered. Then I remembered my promise. All my happiness vanished. How could I break up that home a - second time ? I asked myself that question in bitter anguish a thousand times in the days that followed. ' Then, to still my torturing conscience, I took a foolish step. I induced Angela to become an Episcopalian, and we were received into that Church. It was the next thing to the Catholic Church, I told myself, but it was no use. I • was more miserable than ever. l ' I went into society more than formerly, and was very gay. People thought I was happy because of father's return. "Oh, if they could have known how wretched I was ! I 1 It was about that time that Father Stephen asked me to sing at the Vincentian beneiii, concert. And i then, Joseph, I met you. ' When I knew ,that you loved me— it seemed so wonderful. I told myself that God had wanted me to wait for this ; that I would not worry ; that it was according to His will that things had so happened. ' In all my life I was never so happy as I was in those days just before we were married. They were golden days, full of golden promise for btoth. Yours have all been kept, Joseph, but mine— mine - ' ~ She dropped her head on her folded arms with a tearless sob. Her husband was at her side in an instant, consoling arms- about her. Father Casgrain wisely left them alone for a while. ' Joseph,' she said brokenly, ' can you ever care for ■ me again, after to-night'?' , 'My darling, how can you ask ? Have you not been the dearest,, sweetest wife tliat ever man had? You used to puzzle me so when I first knew yeu, Mary, but since we've been married, since the years have drawn us closer together, I have read more of your thoughts than you guessed. ■ Mother has prayed - so hard for you, dearest. I think that she, too understands something of what lias been troubling you. You are very dear to me, sweetheart.' * You have been so good to me, both of you, so - beautifully good and kind.' When she was . calm again, and Father Casgrain returned, she told what remained of her story. 1 When we were married I found, to my grief and despair, that., the habit of concealment and delay was too strong to break. There was the dread, too, of having my husband know what a weakling I was. ' Then Our Blessed Lady once more held out a beckoning hand, and I did not follow. ' You remember, Joseph, the time I was so % ill, and ybu all thought I could not possibly live. Your mother had sprained her ankle, and so could not come 'to me. But she sent her own scapulars, arid told the nurse to put them on me. " Mary will take care of you," was her message. And she did. In that hour the crisis was safely, passed-, and I came back to life— and to my old ways. '.And why did I change to-night?" I don't know,, .except that suddenly extraordinary strength was given me. \When ■my husband had gone to the church, Father, I "tried to put away all thoughts ol the mission' and think of him alone. But my thoughts could not* but follow him, and they led, me here again and again. Then the bell rang out with the old. dreaded reiteration. I tried to sing, to .drown the sound, but it was no use. ' I felt an unutterable longing to be where Joseph was, to be ' with him alwaj'S. There came a sudden terror, a fierce conviction that we should not be together through eternity ; that he alone would be saved. I fled to the church. The manner of my going fT [ cannot' remember. You see, ,it was human love which led me, after all.' ' Thank God, my child, that it has led" you to Him at last. • And you wish to be baptized '

' As soon as possible. Father ; to-morrow if I may. I ' will n6t he content till that is accomplished. I have put if off so long.' All arrangements being made, 1 Joseph and Mary, too unutterably happy for words, went ■ out into the dim, , deserted church to kneel for a while before the altar, where long ago Mary made the promise that was to be fulfilled at last.—' New World.'