The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 16 April 1914, Page 5

The Storyteller

THE HURDLE RACE No one precisely knew why William Stone, especially after the death of his wile, had chosen to live a retired life, and to shrink from any social contact with Ins fellow-beings. He attended with great assiduity to the various sorts of business in which he was engaged, and was regularly present at the meetings of various boards for the transaction of municipal concerns, but he . asked no man to his house, and accepted absolutely no invitations. His countenance, moreover, was so forbidding and his manner so harsh and abrupt, that none ever got sufficiently intimate with him to put a question. In one direction he made himself conspicuous, and that was in the hatred which he showed to the Catholic priest and the Catholic Church. Both were comparatively newcomers to that small western town of Slatersville, which had grown up with mushroom-like rapidity, and which had been churchless, in so far as the ancient faith was concerned, and priestless. Father Brophy had come there, to face a mountain of difficulties, and had fought his way, step by step, against great odds. When William Stone met the priest, he frowned, and took no notice whatever of the salutation, which Father Brophy, with undisturbed mien, continued to offer. He opposed him, whenever by any chance they met at board meetings, openly contradicting him, with a hectoring and brow-beating manner. He was heard to say, .quite audibly, so as to be overheard by him, that religion was all stuff and nonsense, its professors, hypocrites, and its priests paid to deceive the people. The priest heard, indeed, but never answered. .; ‘ A busy man,’ he explained to some of his friends, /has no time to argue with people like that. Who cares a fig for him and his theories, anyhow !’ - > One day William Stone chanced to pass where the priest was busy ■ directing the building of that small church, into • which he might be said to have put his whole soul. . For not-only had he assumed the financial 4 burden of it, but he literally pulled and hauled, and assisted in a variety of ways, its material construction. One day William Stone stopped his horse, to, watch with a - sinister interest the priest’s performances; to one of the workmen who stood near, he said with an evil sneer: '

- - -• Look at that fellow— priest, I mean ! He might be employed at some useful occupation, and there he is wasting his time, putting up a 'building for no useful purpose and that will be an eye-sore to the public.' The workman, a stolid foreigner, stared at him, without comprehending, and Stone went on : ‘ Such buildings are no use. A man who wants to say his prayers can worship God in the open.' To which responded an Irish working-man, who was within earshot : ‘Oh, then, my fine fellow, it’s yourself will be wishing one of these days that you had put your foot oftener in one of them same buildings.’ ‘ Glory be to God !’ cried an old, grey-haired man, Tim Dolan, who was said to be the priest’s right-hand man, ‘did you hear that, boys? Sure, the devil must have, got fast hold of him entirely.’ Stone gave both speakers a black look, as he touched up his horse, preparatory to driving on, and saying as he did so: ‘ I’ll see if there isn’t some way of putting a spoke in his wheel, with his d ignorant brood of foreigners and Papists.’ He shot out the last word as if it were a missile, hurled right into the centre of the group. Then there might have been trouble and two or three stalwart men sprang forward to seize the horse’s bridle. But the priest, who had been too busy to heed what was going on, now rushed forward: ‘My men,’ he said, ‘have some common sense ! Don’t you see that you can afford to despise whatever he says, and that that very word he hurled at you as an insult will be your brightest crown of glory in the end.’ ‘ Sham ! , Humbug!’ roared Stone, but he took the opportunity to drive away as fast as possible. N It is certain that but for the presence of Father Brophy he would have been pursued by a shower of stones and mud. That incident was only one of many, and Stone’s influence made itself felt in so many ways, openly or covertly, that it seemed hopeless to struggle against it, but the priest, serene and cheerful, as well as doggedly determined, kept on his way. ‘These,’-he said, ‘are the stepping-stones to success. Every one of these obstacles we leap over helps us immeasurably. Why, it’s as good as a hurdle race getting over them.’ This saying, being overheard by Stone, or repeated to him by some one, he cried out, with a great oath, that he hoped the priest would break his neck one of these days, ‘ a little Hop-o’-my-thumb like him ,talking about hurdle races.’ That race, indeed, had been for Father Brophy a difficult and trying one. - At college he had been a bright, ambitious lad for whom every one predicted a great future, and who, though very small in stature, had been first in athletics, as in letters had carried away prizes and out-distanced school fellows. Now, for several years, he had been a priest and a missionary. He had been laboring there, in that ungrateful soil, rugged and rude as a field of briars. The crop that he had gathered had been so far a meagre one—a handful of poor laboring people, a few recalcitrants brought back to the truth, some children baptised, and some couples married. Every step in advance had been made with indescribable toil and heart weariness,* Father Brophy had literally to beg his daily bread, and a very scant supply he got. As for the church, every nerve and fibre had been strained in his effort to get the land, to begin the building, and to gather in the scattered flock from the outlying districts, while keeping all his congregation faithful to their religious duties. It must be owned that the enmity of William Stone gave a fillip to this part of his work. It made at least the Irish portion thereof more faithful and more zealous. . . ...* When a dirty blackguard like that comes round here for .to insult the priest,’, cried Tim Dolan, and his words were echoed by many of the congregation, ‘ why it brings every drop of good Catholic blood in a body veins to the fore.’ • • ■

Also Stone’s attitude, and his petty persecution, procured for Father Brophy a few contributions from liberal-minded Protestants, who were disgusted by the man’s ways. The priest pocketed these with singular complacency, not only because they came at an opportune. : time and showed- good-will from reputable outsiders, but because they were like obstacles overleaped in- the hurdle race, lie made that the subject of a sermonette, how obstacles help one, spiritually and even temporally, more in many cases than direct helps. Still there was no denying that William Stone’s determined antagonism did harm in many quarters. He stirred up sleeping bigotry, and brought lukewarm lodge members to a sense of their duty in making war upon the Church. He even influenced timorous, halfhearted Catholics, who were intimidated by his methods, or those others, growing like weeds on the outskirts of that little congregation, who were mean and niggardly to God and their own souls by refusing help altogether or dealing it out in the most penurious fashion. Several of these were heard to say that it was quite true what men like Stone said, that the priest could very well have gone on for some time longer saying Mass in the schoolhouse-. It was quite large enough for his congregation, and he should .not be always begging and laying burdens on his people. And all the time the .priest’s serene cheerfulness acted on Stone like the traditional red flag before a bull. ‘ I’ll drive him out of this town before I’m much older,’ he said, and by I’ll never let him put a roof on that church. Two can run in a race, and I’ll see to it that he breaks his neck before he wins.’ The man, in his malignancy, forgot the cloud of witnesses, which the priest ever saw, and - whose assistance he asked, as they took note above there, of that race wherein he strove for the mastery. There came a climax on© day in the situation, when the enemy had so far, prevailed that work upon the new church became impossible. He had arranged that a certain number of the workmen should drop off, that the price of certain materials should be raised, that, a new tax should be laid upon the piece of ground, and -that a mortgage which had become due, should be suddenly foreclosed. And all this, just when the frost and snow were at hand. For once the little priest was fairly staggered. It had been his dearest wish that the edifice should be roofed in for- Christmas, and now it almost seemed as if it would never be roofed in at all. He braced up his courage to say a few heartening words to the Irish workmen and some faithful Italians, who had only consented to lay off work when they saw that it was hopeless to continue. Then Father Brophy went home to the shack that served him for a presbytery and sat down disconsolate, his boyish figure bowed, and the first tears he had shed, since coming to man’s estate, trickling through his fingers, as he sat with his elbows leaning on the deal table. That his work should be ruined just now when it was nearing completion seemed the more lamentable that- there were Catholics, at no great distance, who by expending one-half that they would have given for a summer’s outing, could have saved the church, and with it numberless souls. Just as the shadows were falling and darkening the room, Father Brophy roused himself. - ‘T have been too proud and boastful,’ he acknowledged, * talking about the race that I was running and the hurdles that I was going to leap over, and here I am crippled and cast aside.’ ■■■■■'% He could see, through the window, a lowering sky in the west, piling up masses of grey and purple clouds, that were to burst later into a storm. The weather seemed to harmonise with his frame of mind and the desperate condition of. his affairs. But he took, out his breviary and read a few pages to tranquillise his mind.' Then he slipped. down on his knees and prayed, and the petitions that he sent up were not only for that success, which seemed to be denied himj -not only that he might have -strength to continue the struggle and 'to be . enabled to keep and to finish - that poor little edifice which he had so manfully striven to build

for the glory of God, but he also -prayed with indescribable ardor for that man, who, through no fault of his, had been his persistent enemy. His supplications were the more fervent that Satan sent surging through his soul, hard and bitter thoughts, a longing for revenge, with certain suggestions as to how he might retaliate. And so he prayed and wrestled, while the dusk grew to darkness, and the storm that had been muttering burst into fury. Undisturbed, the priest remained upon his knees. He did not even trouble to strike a light, nor to put a match to the fire, with a view to the cooking of his supper. The struggle seemed too hard and* bitter. There was no use striving and toiling any more. Something like despair had cast upon his soul a blackness more appalling than that without, and the bitterness of wrath was there, too. For he had not been born meek and gentle, but prone to anger which he had resolutely curbed, and swift to resent injustice. Despite the ferment that had been raised within him, he poured forth broken words of supplication to our Lord, to Mary, and the Saints. While he still knelt there, he heard through the pauses of the storm the trampling of feet, and, at last, the sound of a voice. - Wondering who could be abroad in such weather, he hastily rose to his feet, and almost mechanically lit a candle. At the same instant there was a loud knocking at the door, and it was thrown open from without. The candle which had just been lighted flickered and went out, but through the profound darkness that enveloped everything, as he put forth his hand to grope for the matches, a voice said: " v - ‘Father, dear, are you there?’ ‘ Yes, come in and shut the door,’ was the prompt reply, ‘ ’till I get the candle lighted.’ The light which showed the intruder the face of the priest, gaunt and haggard after the strain of the last hour, displayed also the gaunt form and rugged features of Tim Dolan. Father Brophy, seeing the old man out in such weather, forgot everything else but the fear that some misfortune had happened to this faithful pillar of the Church. ‘Nothing wrong at home, I hope, Tim?’ he inquired anxiously. ‘ Never a thing at all, your reverence,’ he said, ‘ but I was belated out in the storm with a couple of the other men, and we took shelter over there, near the church. But it’s a poor fellow is hurt badly over there, if he’s not killed entirely. The horse he was driving shied, and threw him out over a heap of stones.’ . . Where is he?’ asked the priest, already rising to his feet, and advancing to get his pyx case. ‘They’re bringing him this way, your reverence.’ ‘ That’s right,’ said the priest, ‘ let them bring him right in here,’ . and he hastened to light a lamp, putting it carefully out of the way of the draught from the open door. He stood beside Tim, peering out, though neither of them could discover anything/ for the blinding sheets of rain, the gusts of wind that took away one’s breath, and the black clouds that intensified the early darkness of . the November evening. Only, in the pauses of the storm, they could hear the sound of men’s voices and the slow, steady tramp of feet. Indescribably solemn and terrible is the approach of something that is portentous, unknown, and even the stouthearted priest shivered. ‘ Who is he, Tim ?’ he asked in a low voice. • ‘ Divil a wan of me knows, Father,’ Tim answered. ‘ By reason of the darkness, I could see nothing but a man huddled in a heap on the road, and the horse off with itself, like a mad thing. I didn’t wait while the others were picking him up, but just ran to prepare you for what the boys ; were bringing along.’ That darkness of the soul which had tortured , the priest 'seemed, -‘by this unexpected happening, to be dispelled, The clouds rolled away and light illumined ail his sniritual horizon.-. In the face of-disaster, perhaps even death, that' had sprung out of ' the darkness to meet some fellow creature," what were all the other trials. - . -

* We must go and meet them.’ he said presently. • * I can not wait Here. "He might die on the way.’ He threw his coat over bis shoulders, and despite Tim’s protest and regardless of the storm, he set forth. ' But he had not gone many paces when, emerging from behind a clump of trees, he met the bearers. . Between ** them was a plank, upon which was a dark figure, with his face showing white. ", ‘ Thank (Cod, he is not dead,’ said the priest, noting the uncovered face. But the foremost of the bearers responded dryly; dead or not.’ Father Brophy paid no heed to the remark. .He was staring at the white face, which was dimly visible by the light of the lantern that one of the men was ■ swinging. Its fitful light cast uncertain gleams over the face and figure. The eyes were closed, and Father Brophy motioned the carriers to be quick in bringing their burden into the house. They would have laid it down upon the floor, but the priest directed them to his bed. * Do you know who it is?’ one of the men objected. .The priest nodded. * Lose no time,’ he ordered, and kneeling down he felt the man’s pulse and heart. ‘He is alive,’ he declared. ‘ The doctor must be brought.’ ‘ Tim’s Ned is gone for him, Father.’ Then there was silence, for the priest, supposing the man to be unconscious, prepared to give him conditional absolution. . ‘ Who is it that’s in it?’ inquired Tim of a comrade. ‘ It’s the ould rascal himself, Bill Stone,’ was the answer. Tim uttered an exclamation, but the situation was so dramatic that it simply held their silent attention, as though they were at the closing scene of a tragedy. Suddenly by the dim light of the lamp and the still unextinguished lantern, Father Brophy, with a start, became aware that the eyes were open and staring at him from a deathly white face. He bent eagerly forward, asking if there was anything he could do, but the man paid no heed to the inquiry. ‘ So,’ said a voice so husky as to be scarcely articulate, ‘ it’s you that’s going to win after all in the hurdle race.’ ‘Eh?’ said the priest, not at first catching the drift of the remark. Then the muffled voice resumed ; ‘ I used to wish that you’d break your neck, but you didn’t. It’s I that’s broken not my neck, but my back.’ ‘ It may not be so bad as that,’ said Father Brophy encouragingly. The doctor will be here just now.’ ‘No use, he can’t do anything. The spine’s broken. I want Lawyer Kelly, though.’ The priest turned to the men. The storm was abating, the distance to the lawyer’s was not great, would one of them go ? One of them consented, taking the lantern from the table, and going with the same reluctance that he would have left an interesting drama. ‘ I guess I’ll hold out ’till he comes I got something to fix up,’ said the patient. Father Brophy attempted to suggest some spiritual thought, but the man interrupted him fiercely You needn’t talk like that to me,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘.I know.’ The priest stared. ‘ You ?’ he echoed, ‘ how would it b» possible for you, a Protestant, to know? Why, if you’ll only ask for mercy, you’ll have a splendid fighting chance for ' , salvation, with your invincible ignorance.* ; - 5 ; A strange expression, half fear, half defiance, came ' into the mam’s face. ‘ ,‘. '- v .- • > * I know more about it, maybe, than you do,’ he - . , said, in . a voice that seemed to grow more raucous and : indistinct every moment. - The words seemed .to be I',/'-; . shouted in broken gasps. J I was born a Catholic,’ he declared. : ‘l'was raised 7 a Catholic. I studied for the priesthood It was just, before my ordination that the

great temptation came to turn my back - on it all. I married- a Protestant.’ He stopped abruptly, and there was an awful, fixed glare in the eyes, as though they saw eternity opening before them.. ~ ‘ And, ..please God,’ said the priest, you’ll die a , Catholic. What else did God mean by bringing you here?’ , ' ‘ He brought me here to humble me,’ said the man savagely. ' ‘ Flung me. at your feet, as it were, because I have been trying to ruin you and your —the work that I was meant to do. No, no; it’s too late. I know where I’m going—l know it well.' But I’m going to do one decent thing before I die.' If Lawyer Kelly only gets here before my senses leave me, I’m going to leave every cent I have to you—it will be the prize for the hurdle race.’ He gave a, strange, wild laugh that sounded terrible in the dimly lighted- room, and that seemed to go out into the night, where the wind had suddenly grown still, as though awaiting some event. ‘No, no,’ said the priest, ‘ never mind, that’s not the prize that I want. It’s your soul that I have been praying for, night and day.’ ‘My soul,’ the man repeated; ‘you prayed for that. But—yes, I know. So would I have done —once. And I hated you, oh how I hated you, because you were doing all that I might have done.’ ‘Never mind all that now,’ said Father Brophy, signalling to the others to withdraw. ‘ I am certain now that I am going to get the answer to my prayer. No time need be wasted, since you know everything. Only let us talk, as man to man, or, if you like, as priest to priest, seeing that you came so near to the priesthood. Think only how you would once have tried to save a dying soul.’ When 'the men were called back again it was evident that the end was near. But the priest of God had done his work, and once more there was joy in heaven. Lawyer Kelly also arrived in time to do all that was required of him, but to that part of the affair Father Brophy paid little heed. He did not even realise, as yet, “that here was the solution of all his difficulties. But he almost wept with delight when he composed the dead man’s hands and closed his eyes, so complete and heartfelt had been the sinner’s repentance, so poignant his remorse for the work that he might have done, and had not. — Extension.