GOD'S CHILD

New Zealand Tablet, 8 May 1913, Page 7

GOD'S CHILD

'And you are quite satisfied now, my child?' ' Yes, Father. I want to be baptised I will

bring Joyce, too, of course.' ' .„ . The priest looked at her thoughtfully. She was such a frail little woman in her clinging black robes and the heavy crepe veil that seemed too weighty for her small head. ..

'Bring the child at once, to-day,' he suggested., ' Oh, Father —well, yes, I will. It is her birthday she is two years old to-day,' she added, and a : shadow clouded her blue eyes for a moment —then she smiled resolutely. ' I will go at once, Father,' she said, and went away.

It was done that day, on the day of the Holy Angels —her child was God's child now, and the thought gave the lonely mother a little more courage to face the future. It was but a few months since the child's father had been swept in an instant from the side of his wife and little Joyce. A sudden attack of an unsuspected malady had taken him off—there had been no chance for farewells, no moment in which he might look once more on the faces of his loved ones he had been brought homedead. . He had been a good man, according to his lights, and his widow felt that , in some mysterious way God had provided for his sudden

end. In her bereavement she had taken to going into the Church of the Holy Angels and sitting there quietly with her sleeping child in her arms. She did not pray she scarcely knew why she went there day after day, only that she found peace for her aching heart in the silence of the sanctuary, and it may be that she fumbled," in some ill-defined way, for the. ' hem of His garment.' The good priest in charge of the little seaside mission had noted her visits, and that she was evidently not a Catholic; yet he had not spoken to her. He had put the matter into more capable hands, he said to himself, when he recommended the widow and her child to the Holy Angels who guarded them, and to the other blessed spirits who stood about the earthly . throne of their King. Little by little the -widow came to love the refuge she had found from the cares and troubles of life, and when she began to attend Mass on Sundays, and to hear the simple sermons of the good pastor, she speedily came to realise, for the first time in her life, the claims of the Catholic Church. And so, step by step, she had accepted them and was now prepared and eager for baptism. The first few months of her life as a Catholic passed peacefully enough with her child to care for and her new faith to study and test. She lingered in the little seaside village, too, for her health was failing, and sometimes she was anxious for the child's sake—her own she was willing to lay down her life at any moment—but who would care for Joyce if she were left alone She put the dark thought steadily from her. ' She is God's chila,' she said once to Father Hall; 'if I have to leave her, He will take care of her.' And the priest had turned aside hastily, that she might not see the mistiness of his eyes. The call came suddenlyit was Joyce's third birthday—the first anniverstry of her baptism. Father Hall had just time to administer the last rites. The widow looked toward Joyce—the priest understood, and guided her hand to the child's head. She traced the Sign of the Cross on the little forehead, and her hand fell back.

' God's child !' she said, but so faintly that no one but the priest heard herthen, with a smile, she passed away.

John Olliver was a Protestant of a most uncompromising type. He had been sent for by Father Hall as the only relative of the child, and he came, attended the funeral, remaining seated in his carriage outside the church while the ceremonies were being conducted within it, then accompanying the remains of his sister-in-law to the grave in the hill beyond the village, where they laid her within sight and sound of the restless waves that broke over the golden sands at the foot of the cliffs. The following day he departed, taking the child with him.

'I don't believe in it, Mr. Hall,' he said to the priest. ' I can't bring up the child in a religion that I think erroneous.' ' But the child's mother was surely the best judge of what is fitting for her own child,' represented the priest, ' and she has already been baptised a Catholic, Mr. Olliver.' ' .

' Excuse me, sir, we don't see alike in this. I thank you for your kindness to my deluded sister-in-law — am sure you meant well—but I may not peril the child's soul.' Father Hall looked deeply into John Olliver's eyes for a moment, and saw there only honesty, and steadiness of purpose. With a sigh he held out his hand.

'She is God's child,' he said reverently. 'Goodbye, Mr. Olliver; God deal with you as you deal with His child.'

'Amen!' he responded. 'Good-bye, and thank you once more for all your kindness.' He turned to his carriage as he spoke and lifted out Joyce. ' Come and say good-bye, niece Joyce,' he said, and led her to the oriest.

' God give His angels charge over thee, little Joyce,' said Father Hall huskily. He stood looking after the carriage until it turned the corner where the

road runs in behind the hill -then he walked slowly into the church and knelt for a space at the. altar-rail* while he commended the dead mother and the living child to the guardianship of the Holy Angels. It was his pet devotion. ; Frequently he referred to the Angels Guardian as the forgotten friends of men, and in season, and out of season he sought to impress the memory of the blessed spirits on the flock committed to. his care. John Olliver’s house was a handsome, though somewhat gloomy, residence in North London, and faced a chapel noted for its Calvinistic tendencies and ultraProtestant tone. Joyce was taken there solemnly every Sunday by her uncle, and in due course she was entered at the Sunday-school. She grew .up to be a very beautiful girl, with her mother’s deep blue eyes and fair white skin, and the dark curly hair of the Ollivers. John Olliyer was proud of her as she knelt beside him in the red-cushioned pew of his favorite chapel, or shared his hymn-book with him when it was time for them to sing. There were some wonderful days when he rose and went to the platform to address the. congiegation, and Joyce sat with puckered brows trying to follow the hard, dry doctrine that he endeavored to instil into his hearers. ; When she was seventeen she began to think for herself, and then John Olliver was often hard put to it to answer'her' questions. ‘ But you said that we must think for ourselves, uncle, she said a little helplessly once, when he had been more than usually dogmatic. You are as bad as the Pope. You won’t let me believe what I think is right.’ Ho started. ‘What do you know about the Pope?’ he questioned. 1 Joyce hesitated. ‘ Not much, uncleonly what you have told me. You said that he enslaved men, and would not permit them to think for themselves—that—that— wanted to lay down the law for all his followers. I don’t see it, uncleyou do the same thing yourself.’ ‘ Yes, but, Joyce, the thing is different— Pope is a Catholic, and Catholics are superstitious idolaters —that alters the case if he taught the truth, it wouldn’t matter.’ Joyce thought for a long while. ‘lt’s all very hard to understand, uncle,’ she said absently, ‘ and you may be wrong and the Pope right, after all.’

' Joyce!'

' I didn't say that you were wrong,' she said, and threw one arm about his neck in the fashion that he could not resist. A new realisation of her beauty came to him, and with it a dream that he had had for her future. ' You are getting quite grown up,' he said, after a silence. ' What shall I do when you go away and leave me

She flushed a little.

'I wanted to talk to you about that,' she said, and there was a catch in her voice. ' I should like to be a nurse, uncle. I think nurses can do so much good. Next year I shall be eighteen, and then I shall be old enough to start training.' . A nurse! There will be no necessity for you to work, Joyce. Listen, child—it is time that I told you something of your history. Your father and I were twin brothers. We were all-in all to each other until we met——your mother. We both wished to marry her. She preferred him, and so I stood aside. Even when poor Charles died I would not intrude upon her, for I loved her too well. Then, for some inscrutable reason, because she was lonely perhaps, she embraced the Catholic faith—— '

'My mother! How awful!' He drew her to him tenderly.

'Not awful, dear child, because I feel sure that she thought she did right. . I suppose that she was happy, in her beliefl don't —but she died a Catholic and even had you : baptised so.' •-.•"■ 'Me? Am I a.,Catholic, then, uncle?'

.':,' 'God ; forbid!' lie exclaimed, so energetically ; that —the started from his embrace.

( . -'I.. don't understand,' -she said, with a puzzled frown settling between her eyes. He smiled.; ■V.-.-'-Npi- Joyce. I rescued you from bondage, child. You are a free Protestant —a child of God. "He hath given His angels charge : —" ' he began and stopped. Memory had come suddenly to him. It was the parting blessing of Father Hall to the motherless child that he was quoting. How strange that it should have occurred to him just then. She had not noticed his sudden stop—her mind was too full of wonder at, what he had told her. ~' • ,":; , r

■-."•'- 'I should like to see my mother's grave,' she said softly, .' and, the church she used to attend, just to see what it was like.'

He hesitated a little.

,'.I don't see any harm in it,' he said, after a thoughtful pause. 'I will take you there some day.' And so it chanced that on Joyce's eighteenth birthday they motored down to the little village and visited the lone graveyard on the hill that overlooked the sea. Then they drove to the Catholic church. Joyce entered it with a sort of shrinking from some influence that she suspected and dreaded. Her uncle followed her silently, and ' together they stood for a few moments watching a white-haired priest who knelt motionless before the altar. He rose after a while and came toward them.

••'.-.' 'Mr. Olliver!' he exclaimed, and led them through a, side door into the presbytery. ' And is this little Joyce?' he asked, looking earnestly at the young girl.. ..'.How. old are you now?' ' Eighteen to-day,' she answered him. ~ 'Ah! sixteen . years ago I baptised you,' he said. ' I told her about that, Mr. Hall,' broke in John

Olliver. ' She is quite convinced that it was a mistake on her mother's part—she is quite a contented Protestant now.'

The priest smiled. . v 'A good Protestant, I hope, Mr. Olliver.' 'Of the best, Mr. Hall.' ' Well, well, time will prove, Mr. Olliver—l am getting old now, but the angels don't grow old, and "He hath given His angels charge" over her. They will not fail.'

He held out his hand. ' Come in again if you are passing this way. God bless you,' he said. And when he turned back into his house again he was smiling. 'They're coming —thanks be to God!' he said, as if speaking to a friend.

A sudden crash, a blinding flash of light, darkness, silence, nothing! Then a faint stirring of life, and with it the keenness of agonising pain— eyelids flickered once, but they could not bear the light. There was a faint rustling and the murmur of a voice. He lay still for a little while, then some one put brandy between his lips, and he opened his eyes only to close them with a sense of fear, for he had looked upon the face of a Sister of Charity. After a pause he opened them again—this time he felt sure there was no mistake. There had been an accidenthe was in severe pain— was lying on a white bed with white curtains all round it. He remembered.

'Joyce?' he asked weakly. ' She is not injuredonly shaken —she is resting now. If you keep very quiet she shall come and look at you for a moment presently but you must not try to speak.' The nun moved softly, and dropped the curtain. He was shut in by the white walls that kept away most of the sounds of the hospital' ward where he lay. He could hear soft footfalls, and the rustling of garments that suggested to him the rustling of angels' wings. He hath given His angels charge over thee,' he murmured, and fell into a fitful sleep. Joyce was beside him when he woke, but she did. not speakonly smiled lovingly at him, and stroked one hand that lay upon the coverlet. He smiled back at her. Some one touched Joyce on the shoulder and led her away. The curtain dropped again. For many weary days he lay upon his bed, thinking, thinking, until one day he astonished Joyce by speaking Father Hall's name.

"--■ 'Ask him to come to me,' he said simply.a And the old priest came with a smile on his face, for he knew that John Olliver. was coming home, ■ and that lie would bring God's child with him. After all, it did not take long to convince the injured man of the truth of Catholicism. ... ' - ■ ' - ■•-' . c

" ' I have been to blame, Father,' he said, ,when he had finally expressed his determination to submit to the authority of the Church, because I "would not inquire into the matter. It was prejudice, of course^ I see it all now, but it needed an accident and the los3 of a limb to make me stop and think.'

:: /. 'lt is j: better to go into Heaven maimed than, having both limbs, to lose your soul,' answered ' ; the priest, /and: you see that the Holy Angels* have not failed "God's child."' . ,-/.. ..V, ",;.• Joyce came to him the same evening. ,' I shall have to nurse you now, uncle,' she whispered, and her face was radiant with happiness, for they were both to be received into the Church on the following day. 1 'You. will not leave me?' he asked anxiously. 'No, uncle,' she answered, not so long as you need me.' And he lay content, thinking of .the happiness of the morrow. A nun came and prayed beside him., - - .■'■■'-'■'■: ■'■-■■■ '.: : '

' When I die I should like to know that Joyce was one of you,' he said. .;• •>.■ ''•.'.,. ;'iy 'Hush!' she replied, holding up a warning finger, ' that is God's secret. For the present her duty is to you.' He smiled ;at her. \ ' It was a fortunate accident,' hp murmured, as he fell Benziger's Magazine.