A Complete Story

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 7, 18 February 1925, Page 11

A Complete Story

(By Alice Dease in the Magnificat.)

“May God’s blessing attend yon, and when your time comes, may you not pass out of this world without the assistance of your clergy.” It was the first time Hugh L’Estrange had come in contact with anything Catholic. He laughed to himself-the idea of either death or clergy seemed incongruous in connection with his vigorous life. But he did not forgot the blessing that the old Irish woman at the corner of a Liverpool street had bestowed upon 'him. A gust of wind had sent her battered bonnet flying, and before her old limbs were set in motion lie had stepped out, into the road and recovered the truant headgear. Returning it, with something in addition to replace the mud-stained trimming, he noted anew her patient, povertyworn face. In return she again filled the blessings of heaven upon him. On Sunday when he sat decorously in his new pew while the clergyman of his parish read the prayers in a monotonous voice, the Irish woman's words recurred to his mind. He repressed a smile .at the thought of how much he would prefer Air. Brake's absence to his assistance, even when death should come to him. For an instant,. too, the thought flashed across his mind that a religion of which the ministrations of the clergy were a vital part might hold something worth having for the poor and the dying. At this juncture Air. brake's high-pitched call to prayer brought him back to the duty of the moment, and he rose to his feet with In's neighbors. Though he did not know it. the blessing of God was attending Hugh L’Estrange. For after this, often this Liverpool man of business came in contact with things Catholic. Possibly it was only some reference in a society paper, or the name of a church which he had never noticed before, or the knowledge that one or other of his many workmen was Irish, and therefore Catholic. Then ho gave a thought to the old woman, whom, curiously enough, he had never forgotten. Perhaps tho second direct cantict that Hugh L’Estrange became aware of was one day at a meeting of the Board of Chanties. The case of a Catholic b >y was brought .forward on account of some oversight in his registration on the vo'-klmnse books. He was to be brought up nominally in the Church of England; practically, according to the views of those with whom he was to be boarded out. The child, a sturdy young Lancastrian of eight or nine years, was standing near Mr. L’Estrange whilst a. heated discussion went on between the other guardians. Touching the boy on the shoulder, Air. L’Estrange spoke to him in an undertone. “What do yon think yon are yourself,

THREE BLESSINGS

oh?” lie asked, with a movement of the head to show that he referred to the theme of his guardians’ conversation. The boy looked at him squarely. Without hesitation he answered: “I be a Catholic.” Then he added; “If you weren’t a Catholic, what would yon be?” A Baptist, a Methodist, and a Congregational home were being discussed in turn. “If I weren’t nn,” replied the boy sturdily, “I’d be one.” “By jove! so you shall!” exclaimed LHist range, throwing, himself into the discussion in which heretofore he had taken no port. So insistently did he press his point, declaring his intention of calling in legal opinion if necessary to support his claim, that before the meeting closed the boy was inscribed a. Catholic on the books and handed over to the manager of a Catholic boys’ home. Afterwards Mr. L’Estrange noticed the boy pointing him out to the priest, who was losing no time in freeing him from the workhouse. “Young George here tells me what yon have done for him, sir,” said the priest as Mr. L’Estrange passed him. “God will reward you for this.” That was the second Catholic blessing ho received. The third blessing came through no net of his own. He was only a- spectator of a scene, ami that, it seemed, by chance. Afterwards he understood that God’s blessing was attending him. Ihe instinct of Isaak Walton was strong within him, and the yearly holiday he allowed himself from business was always spent whore fishing might be had. It was only natural, therefore, that the west of Ireland should attract him. There, Into in the autumn season, he found himself in a primitive riverside inn. During his stay the eqninoxial gales changed the Atlantic into a gray,-cruel sea, till, rising in mountains of water and foam, it seemed like a. huge wall of roaring liquid rushing against the sky. A pier to make safe harborage for tho boats coming .in from the islands had been built in the congested districts, but on this night the little gray wall was one mass of seething whiteness, which seemed to offer neither shelter nor safety to any craft. Yet here it was Hugh L Estrange, watching the storm with Barbie Joyce, his boatman on the lakes, his self-constituted guide along the river, saw, hardly believing his own sight, a small craft cresting the huge billons for an instant, then falling away out of sight. It reappeared at intervals, however. Each time it took more certain shape in the fitful light of the fleeting moon. “A boat! God help them this night!” cried Barbie, steadying himself against the pier and straining his eyes to see when the black, oblong shadow rose again on the waves.

“Never can they live at the pier end there till the priest gets out to join them.”

“The priest?” repeated the Englishman, thinking the -wind had miscarried his com-

< pardon's meaning. J pardon's the priest,” returned Barbie. “What “Aye, the priest,” returned Barbie. “What ' else would bring ten men in their sense over from Irishbeg this night?”

He turned quickly and disappeared in the darkness, and L’Estrange guessed that he had gone to where the parochial house stood in some pretence at shelter.

He had learned long ago that- Catholics wish for the presence of the priest to help a passing soul, into eternity, but he never realised before how universally, even in the face of almost unsurmountable difficulties, that presence was sought.

It seemed madness even to fry to reach the boat that tossed just beyond the pier, much less to board her and turn again into the storm. Yet sooner than he would have thought possible Barbie, with half a dozen others, were back at the pier head again, and from the lanterns some of them held he could see a tall figure in black tarpaulin and close-fiting sou’wester standing whilst a rope was firmly fastened round it. L’Estrange knew intuitively it was the priest. A momentary lull enabled the little band to make their way to where the boat tossed and strained against the determined efforts of the rowers to keep her from destruction. Coming nearer, they threw out a line. The priest took it, winding it around his body. Then he dropped down as the boat waited for him. He loosed the rope afterward, and the men on the pier would have hauled it in, only there seemed some hitch or delay. Then they saw that one of the boat’s crew ’f— was coming ashore in place of the priest. As he reached the pier L’Estrange, by some act of Providence, being nearest the boat, heard a groan of pain, and the hands of the sailor as he grasped them were wet and warm with blood, L’Estrange understood then that this man, hurt by some accident, was of no use in the boat, and that they were waiting because they needed another rower. Barbie, the next man to L’Estrange, was the father of a family; so, too, was the next beyond. L’Estrange was not a good seaman, but he was a strong rower. Further, he had neither wife nor child to leave. There was hardly time even for this to shape itself in his brain. He scarcely knew that he had decided to go when he felt the rope in his hands, saw for an instant the tossing depths beneath him. Then strong arms caught and held him, and he was in the ' boat. The priest facing him was young, boyish, almost too young, too boyish, he had carelessly thought, to he the pastor of strong men’s souls. But his face was white, determined, and his jaw was set. In his eyes was a strange light—excitement, perhaps, but certainly not fear. Young as he was, this was not the first midnight struggle he had had with the sea, but to-night, as before, S he carried his passport of safety on his * heart. I Down went the boat, green walls of water j before her and behind appeared, and nothing

was left of the sky but a narrow ribbon of black overhead. The Englishman, straining every nerve at the clumsy oar which he shared with one of the islanders, had‘no time for thought. Even afterwards everything seemed to him like a shapeless dream. Once even the helmsman faltered. The last wave nearly swamped them with a return of foam, and a rower from either side was forced to abandon his oar. From the white faces and distended eyes of the men about him L’Estrange realised that this was a greater peril than they had ever braved before. “Steady, boys!” above the storm the priest’s voice rose. Then he pulled himself upright, and even now no fear was in his eyes, though his face was white. “Remember, we cannot go down. Have you forgotten we are not alone?” All except L’Estrange understood. With a stilled sob the helmsman turned again to crest the breaker. For an instant they spun up in the air a blurred black mass, then a collection of moving lights appeared in the darkness ahead, and the men knew their journey’s end was near, and they felt assured of safety now, though only certain knowledge and skill could have taken the boat up to the only possible landing place. But before they touched the land twenty men were in the water at their sides, half drowned by the swirling foam, to meet and welcome the priest. They .seized the boat, and the exhausted rowers sat at rest. High up onto the shingle they dragged her, and suddenly Hugh L’Estrange was aware that he alone of all those present was not bareheaded and on his knees. Between two rows of kneeling figures, women bowed down and men bareheaded, the priest passed up to the rough—built quay. He was in time, they told him. Some impulse bade L’Estrange to follow him to the house of the man who lay dying. They said that for hours he had been calling in agony tor the priest. Now ho was calm and content; his prayer had been answered. L’Estrange saw the priest bend over the bed, saw those who had been waiting keep

back until he drew, himself upwards again, felt himself pressing forward, kneeling with the others; saw the flash of a silver case as the priest drew something from his breast. or ini s Domini nustri Jesu Christi, custodial unimam, ilium in vitain ete.rn.am. Amen. Then Hugh Estrange understood. It was. not for the priest alone; it was for what he brought with him, for the Master, in whose name he had power to forgive sin, that Catholics pray all their lives long. The living man was at rest, ami, half turning to those who had risked their lives to secure for their comrade what he had so passionately craved, the priest raised his hand in a. final blessing. Tims a third time a Catholic called down the blessing of God on Hugh L’Estrange. ' These of his colleagues who wen; present when George, the Lancastrian, had been allowed to keep the faith of his fathers declared themselves not in ttie least surprised when they heard that Hugh L’Estrange had been received into the Catholic Church. To others the news of his conversion came as a nine days’ wonder. But to no one was the wonder of it all so deep or so lasting as to the man himself. Faith had come to him in the midst of the blindest ignorance. As a child he had to learn the catechism from its first page.. On one point only he needed no, teaching. He knew that God the Son was truly present: in the sacrament of the altar, and that light made everything idea In the boat on the open sea, in the isjand cabin, with the stern still raging without, the faith of priest and people had shown him a reflex of heaven’s light. And knowing himself, with a sudden, overwhelming knowledge, to he in the presence of Jesus Christ, be bad understood that this was the fulfillment of his first two Catholic blessings. The blessing of God had indeed attended him. and here, unexpectedly as to form and place, the reward of God had come upon him. It would lead him, God willing, some day to die at peace, with the assurance of forgiveness tor the past and happiness for the future on the lips of the priest at his side.