The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 19 June 1913, Page 5

The Storyteller

OUR LADY’S ROSARY It has been such a beautiful visit. Marian’s eyes, apparently viewing from the car window the gliding and receding scenery, were grave and retrospective 0 She was going home now, after a delightful vacation spent with her aunt, confident that though the visit r was over, the romance of it was not. She glanced down at the books and candy and flowers, piled high on the seat beside her, which he had placed there in the way of a man with a maid when he considers her charming. He had been frankly attentive throughout her visit, while her aunt had been jubilant over what she designated Marian’s ‘catch.’ Remembering the word, Marian grew just a trifle grave: her aunt was a very different type from the girl’s mother, the latter being a convert to the Catholic faith, while Aunt Emma was quite ignorant on religious subjects. With a smile

Marian recalled explaining that she could not eat meat on Friday; and her aunt had inquired solicitously: Wouldn't she eat a little if it was boiled, and it was mutton?' evidently considering her something in tfte nature of a Jewess. She reflected now with some uneasiness, that she knew nothing of the religious principles of Edmund Norris; but surely it would not be difficult to show him the truth of Catholicism—were not his.ideals- already Catholic? She remembered what he had said in regard to his ideal woman: before all things she must be good, with a heart as innocent and undefiled as that of some .little child. Smiling, he had added that she must have grey eyes, and light brown hair that curled. , At the last he had held her hand for a very long time, much to Marian's embarrassment and the amusement of her fellow-passengers— and she had promised him letters. Surely her romance had only begun! But now the girl gathered up her belongings, and peeped into tho mirror to straighten her hat, as she was nearmg her destination; and soon she was in the midst of a bevy of brothers and sisters who had come to the station to meet her and escort her home. It was late that night before Marian finished talking things over with her mother, who was an invalid seldom able to leave her room. She had spoken of Edmund Norris; how attentive he had been, and'how very nice he was—quite innocently . telling about theideal woman, though leaving out as irrelevant what he had said about the grey eyes and curly hair. Mrs. Newcomb sighed, and did not tell the girl that the ideal woman of any man is good. Perhaps they had not been wise in allowing Marian to visit her worldly aunt; but she had needed a change, and the invitation had seemed most opportune . She (Mrs Newcomb) would write to her sister and ask her for full particulars in regard to Edmund Norris. The next few days passed very happily for Marian. She was living over again in imagination all her beautiful summer romance. Then one morning came a letter; and at once she fled to the privacy of her own room to open it. My dear one,' it began, 'I had thought my first letter to you would have been a formal affair. I had meant to woo you slowly, fearing that any impetuosity on my part would prove fatal to the blossom that is your love; but since you have gone, I can realise only this: I want you to be my wife just as soon as it can possibly be managed. Every thought of mine is a thought of you; every pulse-beat of my heart is a longing for your presence. Dearest, there is something I am going to tell you. I had thought at first it was not necessary, believing that should it come to your knowledge after our marriage, I could explain things satisfactorily; but I feel now that such a deception might wound you irreparably. Dear love of mine, you cannot know how dear you are to me; how your sweet face—pure, beautiful, and fair, came to my life's—rest as some white dove of peace; for, before I ever saw or knew you, there was a face I loved—a face as beautiful, perhaps, as yours is beautiful, but with an evil loveliness, where yours is fair in goodness. Yes I was married to her; but the law freed me, and it' is ended, passed from my wife forever. My Marian, write to me at once, I entreat, when you receive this' to tell me that our love may go on as before, and that soon I may come for you, my own white dove of peace to take you away as my bride.' Marian-sat quite still and folded the letter carefully, folded it many times, until it was a very small thing; this letter in which was folded away forever her brief and happy romance. She rose and went to, her desk, for this thing must be put out of her life at once, while the pain in her heart was only a stunned, half-sensible anguish. Very concise and clear was the little note when written, in which Mr. Norris was informed that in the eves of'the Catholic Church death only could sever the" marriage tie between Christians; consequently, Marian could no consider his proposal, and requested that he hold no further communication with her. She paused uncertainly by her mother's door on her way out to mail the letter, wishing for her sym-

' w*. : 4 v ..... ........ pathiy and counsel, but Mrs. Newcomb bad been quite ill lately,, and it was best not to trouble her more than was necessary; - - - The next few days Marian went about quietly. The household tasks required her supervision, so she was very busy, and with smiling lips she hid the heartache that was sharp and constant now, but at night in the privacy of her own little blue-and-wh'te room, the tears fell ceaselessly, and only the early morning hours brought the gift of sleep. .One afternoon she was lying down (all this day she had- been suffering from headache, though now the pain had ceased), when one of her younger sisters entered with a note which, she said, a little boy had just brought. Though sealed it was not stamped, and all unsuspecting Marian opened it. In startled amazement she read the first few lines then calmly continued to the end. He was here in town, at the hotel, and demanded an interview with her. He would have come to her house, but feared her people might object. He supposed her father or mother had dictated that cruel little note he had received, so unlike herself. All morning he had been wandering about the town, hoping he might meet her; but he could not stay over night, so she must see him some time to-day. Surely she had not understood that he was freed from the woman. Did her Church hold itself higher than the law of the land? He would wait on the River road, beyond the town, from five to half-past, and she must meet him there, for it was his right to see her, if only to say good-bye. At the old abandoned mill he would be waiting. She sat up wide-eyed and stricken with fear; here in her own blue-and-white room, with the Madonna picture smiling down at her sweetly, compassionately from the wall, this evil thing would draw near to touch and hurt her. 9

'He does not understand' she whispered, with white lips. 'lt is because he does not that he asks me to do this thing.' In truth he did not understand — no more does the vulture understand the whiteness of the dove his talons clutch and rend apart. One sentence of the letter had branded itself ineffaceably in her brain: 'Marian, my Marian, what is Heaven or Hell or creed to us who love? One moment may hold an infinite bliss, and why should we care for the rest V 'Or an infinite pain,' she answered the sentence wearily, 'to us who love,' and there was a crimson flush-dyed face and brow, as she remembered that she must not love this man, that it was sin to do so. He would wait, and wait in vain, on the quiet River road this evening—and then it was that something seemed to call to her sweetly almost irresistibly. ' Marian, my Marian.' It was as though his voice was in her ears, tender, beseeching. After all, would there be anything wrong in seeing him once ? Would it not be best to explain in person that the barrier between them was insurmountable?

The- clock on the mantle struck three, and she started- tremblingly; then rose and locked the letter in her desk. The next instant her heart gave a sudden wild leap as the door-bell sounded. ' Was it possible that he had come after all V

With a sigh of relief she recognised the voice of her own particular friend, Alice Grey son, inquiring for her. The blue-and-white room was always open to Alice, and it was only as a matter of form when she now came upstairs that she knocked before entering. In her arms she carried a great bunch of American Beauties.

'l'm depending on you, Marian,' she said, 'to go to the church with me and arrange these properly for Blessed Mother's altar. You know to-morrow will 3rathe Feast of the Annunciation, and I never can put flowers in a vase myself, as you are aware, without having them look like hat-pins or pokers.' Then she caught sight of Marian's pale face. ' You poor child,' she said pityingly, 'you are not feeling well ?'

Marian was brushing out her brown curls deliberately. She was thinking if she went with Alice no one would ask if she were going anywhere else, and after doing what her friend had requested, she could

also .: keep the "appointment, though as yet, she reminded herself, she had not decided that she- wished to keep it. - - 'I did have a headache,' she responded, but it is better now. I shall be glad to go with you.' While Marian - finished - dressing, Alice ran in to see -Mrs. Newcomb. The invalid was somewhat better to-day, though secretly anxious ■ over her daughter's pallid looks and languid manner. She"was convinced that her affair with Edmund Norris had something to do with it and was impatiently awaiting an answer from her sister to the letter she had sent asking for particulars concerning him. „ , —- Presently the girls were on their way to church, talking gaily as they went, but in Marian's inner consciousness two sentences "kept repeating themselves, as though they were beggars knocking for entrance at her heart. What is creed to us who love! Marian, my Marian?' and the other only this To-morrow will be our Lady's feast day.' ■'-...."' Both Marian and Alice were quite at home in the church, so at once they made their way .to the Baptistry, and selected suitable vases for the flowers, after which Alice could only admiringly watch her friend arrange them. When this was done each girl carried a vase to the altar, and then returned to sweep up the scattered leaves.

'Of course you are coming home with me ?' Alice said, drawing on her gloves. 'Not to-day,' Marian answered, flushing hotly. 'I will stay in church a while.' There was something queer in Marian's voice. Her friend glanced at her in surprise then her face cleared. * Oh, you are going to confession,' she said. ' I noticed Father Grey was hearing when we put the flowers on the altar. Isn't he nice—Father Grey Though it must be a little hard for him just yet, so new to the parish as he is. Well, I will not wait, as I went to confession Saturday,' and with a nod and a smile she was gone.

Marian looked at her little watch. It was just halfpast four. She would wait half an hour, and then go to meet Edmund; and she passed into the church, prefering to wait there. A little later, Father Grey came out of his confessional, his penitent having departed; and glanced inquiringly at the young girl kneeling near the back of the church. Was she preparing for confession, he wondered? If so he must not hurry her, and kneeling down he quietly told his beads while he waited. Again he glanced at her, and found himself growing anxious over the child, for they were all children to him, silver or golden-haired, as the case might be; all those in whose faces, as in this girl's, he could read marks of suffering, or in whose eyes gleamed that mute look of anguish which comes alike to brute or human creatures in its hour of pain. He felt he must speak to her. ' I will be back in just a few minutes, if you wish to go to confession,' he said, pausing beside her on his way up the aisle.

Startled, she looked up. ' I do not think—that is, I do not wish to go,' she faltered'. „ Very well,' Father Grey returned quietly, and passed on, to kneel within the sanctuary before our Lady's altar. As he looked up at the sweet face of the statue it seemed to him that the Blessed Mother was not quite pleased with him7~as though she considered it somehow his fault that this child was not going to confession in honor of her feast day to-morrow; as though, indeed, she were asking him to do something more about it. But he had surely done a little more than his duty in suggesting confession; besides, the girl had said she did not wish to go, so there the matter must end. He just barely knew the child. But still the Virgin seemed to be gazing at him reproachfully, and her outstretched hands . seemed to beseech him earnestly for some gift he could grant for her feast day, and such beautiful fragrant roses were on her altar; but apparently she did not .care for roses to-day ! There was a slight movement in the back of the church. Was the girl leaving? Panic seized the heart of this old priest. He rose and in the act of brushing

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an imaginary speck of dust from the altar-cloth his elbow came in contact with something—and down crashed a vase of roses to the marble of the sanctuary floor. , The ruse worked admirably, . for even as he' stooped to pick up the the girl stood at the railing. ‘ Wait just a moment. Father/ she said, ‘ I will get a broom and sweep them up/ and an instant later she disappeared in a dim recess near the choir stairway, emerging with broom and dust-pan. Very carefully Father Grey picked up the fallen roses and brought them into the Baptistry, where Marian, carrying the debris, joined him presently. ‘I hope it was not a very valuable vase/ said Father Grey, with a qualm of uneasiness at thought of a wrathful altar society he might have to reckon with, ‘Oh, no/ Marian reassured him; “and there are more like it. I will place the flowers in, one, as they are not injured in the least.’ ‘ You are surely a friend in need/ said Father Grey as he watched her artistic arrangement of the roses. ‘ Whenever I can be of any service to you, please let me, will you? Do you know/ he continued gravely, ‘ I think we often make mistakes in that way—-we do not let our friends help us enough. Trials come perhaps they are new to us, and we do not quite understand how to meet and bear them; but the more we keep them to ourselves . the more heavily they press upon us and the more unable we are to cope with them. If only we could trust some friend with our trouble, it might be that he has had experience in just such a trial as we are undergoing, and therefore could show us how to triumph over it, though it might be that he himself had failed.’ The girl glanced at Father Grey suspiciously. Was it possible that he had guessed something of her trouble ?’ But he surely was speaking of merely abstract things, for on his face was a far-away look and he seemed to have forgotten that she was with him. She could not know that his thoughts were with the Presence in the sanctuary— a command, clear and sweet, as when given long ago on the shores of Galilee, seemed to issue from the Tabernacle to him who held its key: Feed My lambs.’ ‘ But surely/ the girl responded doubtfully, ‘ it is best to keep our troubles to ourselves. Wo should not .thrust them on others.’ ‘ In my opinion,’ he assured her calmly, ‘ it is good for people to hear about the troubles of others. It keeps them from brooding too much over their own. As for me, I have met a great many people in ray life, but I count those only my friends who have helped me in sorrow, or who have allowed me to help them.’ She had finished her task now, but she made no move to go, and her face was very troubled and wistful. She spoke at last haltingly: ‘ But sometimes there is no way we can be helped; sometimes, through no fault of ours, we get tangled up in things, and there is no way to free us.’ She paused— ‘ No, she would not go on.’ Passionate and pleading a voice called to her: ‘ Marian, my Marian !’ Father Grey nodded encouragingly. ‘ I understand just what you mean/ he said. ‘ At least it seems that way occasionally, for we know, always we know, there is some way to free us when it is a question of right.’ ‘But is there?’ she questioned doubtfully; then went on recklessly. ‘You see it is like this: There is something I have tried to put out of my life because I found (only lately) that it is wrong. I thought I >. had succeeded, but to-day an event occurred which ' showed me that I have notindeed, that I can not, even if I want to.’ ‘Are you quite sure, my child/ he answered gravely, ‘ that you want to? To say you can not means . you have thought of compromise with this evil, claiming it necessary to your weakness. Ah ! One there is Who knows our weakness as we can never know it, and therefore does He give himself to us to be our strength, and He it is Who bids us to be perfect. On earth we learn His lesson of perfection slowly, with lips that often falter and pronounce the words but poorly. Only

in Heaven shall we recite it swiftly, gladly, as the language of our native country.' He paused, and as something that held no interest for her now Marian-heard the clock in the churchtower strike five. ' There is a prayer in the Mass,' he continued earnestly, most beautiful to me because of the high sweet hope of holiness it offers to human nature; it comes when the priest .pours the water and wine into the chalice: "O God, Who in creating human nature hast wonderfully dignified it, and still more wonderfully reformed it, grant that by the mystery of this water and wine, we may be made partakers, of His Divine Nature Who became partaker of our human nature, Jesus Christ, Thy Son> our Lord?" Do you see what the Church claims? That human nature in its reformation is more wonderful than in its creation; yet created, it was perfect. Ah! !.my child, there is no sin we dare to claim we can not triumph over, no matter how or when it comes into our lives. There is no height of holiness to which we may not, at last, attaintrusting in our Divine and Human Christ; and no depth to which we may not fall relying on our own strengthwhich is weakness. Take your roses now to our Lady, and pray a little while before her altar, that your will may be strengthened to do God's Will completely.' In silence she lifted the vase and went to do as Father Grey advised, while he had busied himself preparing the main altar for his early Mass to-morrow; and presently when he was in the sacristy taking out the vestments, she came to him there: ' I would like to go to confession, if you have time, Father,' she said. 'Very well,' he answered, and he did not tell-her that was what he had been waiting for. When it was over it was Father Grey who knelt before the altar of our Lady; and he noted that now her outstretched hands seemed to bless the roses there; then overhead the ' Angelus' rang out, and peace was in the heart of the girl as she whispered the prayer, and the eyes that turned to the Tabernacle were like those of some little child, that has wakened to life and happiness from an evil dream of death. Le Couteulx Leader. „ -" *