The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 3 October 1918, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By Cardinal Wiseman.)

FABIOLA; OK, THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS

Part Second— Conflict

CHAPTER XXVIII.— CRITICAL DAY: ITS FIRST PART. There are critical days in the life of man and of mankind. Not merely the days of Marathon, of Cannae, or of Lepanto, in which a different result might have influenced the social or political fate of mankind. But it is probable that Columbus could look back upon not only the day but the precise hour the decision of which secured to* the world all that he taught and gave it, and to himself the singular place which he holds among its worthies. And each of us, little and insignificant as he may be, has had his critical day; his day of choice, which has decided his fate through life; his day of Providence, which altered his position or his delations to others; his day of grace, when the spiritual conquered the material. In whatever way it has been, every soul, like Jerusalem, has had its day. And so with Fabiola, has not all been working up towards a crisis'? Emperor and slave, father and guest, the good and the wicked, Christian and heathen, rich and poor ; then life and death, joy and sorrow, learning and simplicity, silence and conversation, have they not all come as agents, pulling at her mind in opposite ways, yet all directing her noble and generous, though haughty and impetuous, soul one way, as the breeze and the rudder struggle against one another, only to determine the ship’s single path ? By what shall the resolution of these contending forces be determined? That rests not with man ; wisdom, not philosophy, can decide. We have been engaged with events commemorated on the 20th of January ; let the reader look and see what comes on the following day in his calendar and he will agree it must bo an important day in our little narrative. From the audience Fabiola retired to the apartments of Irene, where she found nothing but desolation and sorrow. She sympathised fully with the grief around her, but she saw and felt that there was a difference between her affliction and theirs. There was a buoyancy about them; there was almost an exultation breaking out through their distress; their clouds were sunlit and brightened at times. Hers was a dead and sullen, a dull and heavy gloom, as if she had sustained a hopeless loss. Her search after Christianity, as associated with anything amiable or intelligent, seemed at an end. Her desired teacher, or informant, was gone. When the crowd had moved away from the palace she took affectionate leave of the widow and her daughters; but, some way or other, she could not like the heathen one as she loved her sister. She sat alone at home and tried to read; she took up volume after volume of favorite works on Death, on Fortitude, on Friendship, on Virtue; and every one of them seemed insipid, unsound, and insincere. She plunged into a deeper and a deeper melancholy, which lasted till towards evening, when she was disturbed by a letter being put into her hand. The Greek slave, Graja, who brought it in, retired to the other end of the room, alarmed and perplexed by what she witnessed. For her mistress had scarcely glanced over the note than she leapt up wildly from her seat, threw her hair into disorder with her hands, which she pressed, as in agony, on her temples, stood thus for a moment, looking up with an unnatural stare in her eyes, and then sank heavily down again on her chair with a deep groan. Thus she remained for some minutes, holding the letter in both her hands, with her arms relaxed, apparently unconscious. . „

“Who brought this letter?” she then asked, quite collected. “A soldier, madam,” answered the maid. ■ “Ask him to come here.” While her errand was being delivered she composed herself and gathered up her hair. As soon as the soldier appeared she held this brief dialogue—“Whence do you come?” “I am on guard at the Tullian prison.” “Who gave you the letter?” “The Lady Agnes .herself.” “On what cause is the poor child there?” * “On the accusation of a man named Fulvius, for being a Christian.” “For nothing else?” “For nothing, I am sure.” “Then we shall soon set that matter right. I can give witness to the contrary. Tell her I will come presently ; and take this for your trouble.” The soldier retired, and Fabiola was left alone. When there was something to do her mind was at once energetic and concentrated, though afterwards the tenderness of womanhood might display itself the more painfully. She wrapped herself close up, proceeded alone to the prison, and was at once conducted to the separate cell, which Agnes had obtained, in consideration of her rank, backed by her parents’ handsome largitions. “What is the meaning of this, Agnes?” eagerly inquired Fabiola, after a warm embrace. • “I was arrested a few hours ago and brought hither.” “And-is Fulvius fool enough, as well as scoundrel, to trump up an accusation against you which five minutes will confute? I will go to Tertullus myself and contradict his absurd charge at once.” “What charge, dearest?” “Why, that you are a Christian.” “And so 1 am, thank God !’’ replied Agnes, making on herself the sign of the cross. The announcement did not strike Fabiola like a thunderbolt, nor rouse her, nor stagger her, nor perplex her. Sebastian’s death had taken all edge or heaviness from it. She had found that faith existing in what she had considered the type of every manly virtue she was not surprised to find it in her whom she had loved as the very model of womanly perfection. The simple grandeur of that child’s excellence, her guileless innocence, and unexcepting kindness, she had almost worshipped. It made Fabiola’s difficulties less, it brought her problem nearer to a solution, to find two such peerless beings to be not mere chance-grown plants, but springing from the same seed. She bowed her head in a kind of reverence for the child and asked her, “How long have you been so?” “All my life, dear Fabiola ; I sucked the faith, as we say, with my mother’s milk.” “And why did you conceal it from me?” “Because I saw your violent prejudices against us; how you abhorred us as practisers of the most ridiculous superstitions, as perpetrators of the most odious abominations. I perceived how you contemned us as unintellectual, uneducated, unphilosophical, and unreasonable. You would not hear a word about us; and the only object of hatred to your generous mind was the Christian name.” “True, dearest Agnes ; yet I think that had I known that you or Sebastian was a Christian I could not have hated it. I could have loved anything in you.” “You think so now, Fabiola; but you know not the force of universal prejudice, the weight of falsehood daily repeated. How many noble minds, fine intellects, and loving hearts have they enslaved, and induced to believe us to be all that we are not, something even worse than the worst of others!” “Well, Agnes, it is selfish in me to argue thus with you in your present position. You will of course compel Fulvius to 'prove, that you are a Christian.” “Oh, no! dear Fabiola; I. have already confessed it, and intend to do so again publicly in the morning.”

“In the morning!—what, to-morrow?” asked Fabiola, shocked at the idea of anything so immediate. “Yes, to-morrow; To prevent any clamor or disturbance about me (though I suspect few people will care much), I am to be • interrogated early, and summary proceedings will be taken. Is not that good news, dear asked Agnes eagerly, seizing her cousin’s hands. And then putting on one of her ecstatic looks, she exclaimed, “Behold, what I have long coveted, I already see; what I have hoped for, I hold safe; to Him alone I feel already associated in heaven, whom here on earth I have loved with all devotedness. Oh! is He not beautiful, Fabiola, lovelier far than the angels who surround Him ! How 1 sweet His smile ! how mild His eye! how bland the whole expression of His face! And that sweetest and most gracious lady, who ever accompanies Him, our Queen and Mistress, who loves Him alone, how winningly doth she beckon me forward to join her train ! I come ! I come ! They are departed, Fabiola; but they return early for me to-morrow; early, mind, and we part no more.” *• Fabiola felt her own heart swell and heave, as if a new element were entering in. She knew not what it was, but it seemed something better than a mere human emotion. She had not yet heard the name of Grace. Agnes, however, saw the favorable change in her spirit, and inwardly thanked God for it. She begged her cousin to return before dawn to her, for their final farewell. At the same time a consultation was being held at the house of the Prefect, between that worthy functionary and his worthier son. The reader had better listen to it to learn its purport. ‘Certainly,” said the magistrate, “if the old sorceress was right in on© thing she ought to be in the other. I will answer, from experience, how powerful is wealth in conquering any resistance.” “And you will allow, too,” rejoined Cox*vinus, “from the enumeration we have made, that among the competitors for Fabiola’s hand, there has not been one who could not justly be rather called an aspirant after her fortune.” “Yourself included, my dear Corvinus.” “Yes, so far; but not if I succeed in offering her, with myself, the Lady Agnes’s great wealth. ■ “And in a manner, too, methinks, that will more easily gain upon what I hear of her generous and lofty disposition. Giving her that wealth, independent of conditions, and then offering yourself to her, will put her under one of two obligations, either to accept you as her husband or throw you back the fortune. “Admirable, father! I never saw the second alternative before. Ho you think there is no possibility of securing it except through her?” “None whatever. Fulvius, of course, will apply fox* his share; and the probability is that the emperor will declare he intends to take it all for himself. For he hates Fulvius. But if I propose a more popular and palpably reasonable plan, of giving the property to the nearest relation, who worships the godsthis Fabiola does, doesn’t she?” “Certainly, father.” “I think he will embrace it; while I am sure there is no chance of his making a free gift to me. The proposal from a judge would enrage him. “Then how will you manage it, father? . “I will have an imperial rescript prepared during the night, ready for signature; and I will proceed immediately after the execution to the palace, magnify the unpopularity which is sure to follow it, lay it all on Fulvius, and show the emperor how his granting the property to the next in the settlement of it will redound greatly to his credit and glory. He is as vain as he is cruel and rapacious ; and one vice must be made to fight “another could be better, my dear father; I shall retire to rest with an easy mind. To-morrow will be the critical day of my life. All my future depends upon whether I am accepted or rejected. , “I only wish,” added Tertullus rising, that I could have seen this peerless lady and sounded the

depths of her philosophy before your final bargain was struck.'’ “Fear not, father; she is well worthy of being your daughter-in-law. Yes, to-morrow is indeed the turning-point in my fortunes.” Even Corvinus can have his critical day. Why not Pabiola ?• ' While this domestic interview was going on a conference was taking place between Fulvius and his amiable uncle. The latter, entering late, found his nephew sitting sullen and alone in the house, and thus accosted him—- “ Well, Fulvius, is she secured?” “She is uncle, as fast as bars and walls can make her; but her spirit is free and independent as ever.” “Never mind that: sharp steel makes short work of spirit. Is her fate certain? and are its consequences sure ?” “Why, if nothing else happens the first is safe ; the second have still to encounter imperial caprice. But I own I feel pain and remorse at sacrificing so young a life, and for an insecure result.” “Come, Fulvius,” said the old man sternly, looking as cold as a grey rock in the morning mist; “no softness, I hope, in this matter. Do you remember what day is to-morrow?” “Yes, the twelfth before the calends of February. “The critical day always for you. It was on this day that to gain another's wealth you committed——-” “Peace, peace!” interrupted Fulvius in agony. “Why will you always remind me of everything I most wish to forget ?” “Because of this; you wish to forget yourself, and that must not be. I must take from you every pretence to be guided bv conscience, virtue, or even honor It is folly to affect compassion for any one’s life who stands in the way of your fortune, after what you did to her.” Fulvius bit his lip in silent rage and covered his crimson face with his hands. Eurotas roused him by saying: “Well then, to-morrow is another, and probably a final, critical day for you. Let us calmly weigh its prospects. You will go to the emperor, and ask for your rightful share in the confiscated property. Suppose it is granted?” “I will sell it as quick as possible, pay my debts, and retire to some country where my name has never been heard.” “Suppose your claims are rejected?” “Impossible, impossible exclaimed Fulvius, racked by the very idea ; “it is my right, hardly earned. It cannot be denied me.” “Quietly, my young friend; let us discuss the matter coolly. Remember our proverb: ‘From the stirrup to the saddle there has been many a fall.’ Suppose only that your rights are refused you.” “Then lam a ruined man. I have no other prospect before me of retrieving my fortunes here. Still I must fly hence.” “Good ; and what do you owe at Janus’s arch ?” “A good couple of hundred sestertia, between principal and compound interest at fifty per cent., to that unconscionable Jew Ephraim.” “On what security?” “On my sure expectation of this lady’s estates.” “And if you are disappointed do you think he will let you fly ?” “Not if he knows it, most assuredly. But we must be prepared from this moment for any emergency; and that with the utmost secrecy.” “Leave that to me, Fulvius; you see how eventful the issue of to-morrow may be to you, or rather of today; for morning is approaching. Life or death to you hang upon it; it is the great day of your existence. Courage, then, or rather an inflexible determination, steel you to work out its destiny !” (To be continued.)