 | CHAPTER XXIII.
AN INTERVIEW OF TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE. The new priest in Conception Bay |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
AN INTERVIEW OF TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.
IN the whirl of happenings and doings we must not
too long forget some of our chief characters. Fanny
Dare, who saw most of Mrs. Barrè,—indeed
any one who knew her, could not but see the change
which a little while had made in her; for she was
changed. There were tears oftener in her eyes now
than before; and they were formerly not seldom there.
Her cheek was something thinner and more pale; there
was a fixed and intent look in her eye when she was
listening to another, or was in thought; and when she
spoke,—if her thoughts were not apparently abstracted,—
her words came so few and strong, that it seemed as if
all she did were done with a great might. Yet she was
gentle and tender.
There was a wakefulness about her, as if she were ever
fearing or expecting something; and she had that expression,
which, to the best hearts, is most touching in the
human face; not of asking pity, but of needing it. Her
eye grew fuller, as her cheek became more thin and pale.
It is very touching to see one to whom life is so earnest
and serious a thing, as it evidently was to Mrs. Barrè;
(there was no trifling, or play, or idleness with her;) and
it was quite as touching to see how unforgettingly she
kept her burden from bearing on the young life of little
Mary.
It was on Monday evening that she sat in her chamber,
whose window looked to the west, and gazed upward into
the sky. Her smooth forehead, whose clear brows were
bared by the falling-back of her dark hair, and her large
eyes fixed, made her a fit figure for the silent time.
Miss Dare sat near her.
Before them both hung one bright star, in air; and on
the earth was the still land and water; and far off, the
inland hills, which, at this distance, and in this waning
light, and standing in a land as unknown as if it were yet
undiscovered, look like a rim of some happy, hidden valley.
Mrs. Barrè had never opened her mystery, further, to
her friend; nor of course, had Fanny sought to look into
it; only, that there was something, was understood between
them.
Mrs. Barrè broke the thoughtful silence, saying,
“Sometimes what I am striving and hoping for seems
as hopeless and unattainable as the star that the child
reaches after.” (Such was the bright star shining down
to them, mildly as it had shone so many—countless
many—nights since first this world knew darkness.)
“And yet,” she added, “auguries are nothing. The faith
of our best wisdom, and clearest conscience, and simplest
trust, is right!”
So she spoke, in faith; and so God heard, who orders
all things. There are, to us, no gates,—the “geminæ
somni portæ,”—through one of which fleet disregarded
hopes and prayers unheeded; while, through the other,
go glad prayers accepted and bright hopes to their fulfilment;
and yet in our day, as of old, one strong wish forces
its way through rugged, rocky soil, grows up from sturdy
root, and comes to ripeness; another falls and leaves not
globe of loveliest hues.
While she was speaking, a man came across the little
open green towards the house. He was of an unfamiliar
look and unlike the harbor-planters, but he came straight
forward, turning neither to the right nor left, and not
hesitating, up to the gate and through the gate, to the
door, and there he had a message for the lady of the
house; for Mrs. Bray, as he called her.
Mrs. Barrè was much agitated, and pressed Fanny's
hand, as she rose to go down to him, and leaned against
the stairs in the hall, as she stood to hear his message.
The man was an uncourtly messenger. “A Catholic
clergyman,” he said, “desired his compliments, and would
like to meet Mrs. Bray at Mr. Henran's, at any time she
might please to set.”
The lady's voice testified to her agitation, as she answered,
“I shall be happy to meet such a person as you
speak of; but, of course, I cannot make appointments out
of my own house.”
“It's a Catholic praste,” said the messenger, almost
gruffly.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“That I don't know any thing about, ma'am; I was to
say `a clergyman.'”
“And what is your own name?”
“Froyne is my name.”
“Yes; then have the kindness to say that I am at
home now, and expect to be at home to-morrow, till three
o'clock.”
The man turned on his heel, and with an ungracious
or awkward ceremony departed.
Mrs. Barrè, after standing a few moments where she
taking Fanny's hand and holding it. Presently she spoke
of the appointment she had just made, and hoped that
Fanny Dare might be in the house when the meeting
took place. They both started, as again a man's dark
figure came upon the green; Mrs. Barrè, clasping her
hands, turned away to the wall.
A knock was heard; not long nor loud, but even, regular,
decided; the work of a hand whose weight was
exactly known.
“I didn't expect him to be on us so soon,” said Fanny
Dare; “what shall I do?”
“Just stay here, if you'll be so good. Don't go further
off; there's a good girl,” said Mrs. Barrè.
“But it's almost the same thing as being in the same
room,” said Fanny, in a whisper.
Mrs. Barrè was too occupied to answer, and the servant
announced a gentleman to see her, waiting in the parlor
below.
Mrs. Barrè came to the door of the room, pale, and
earnest, and straightforward, as she always was in all
things; but as she paused upon the outside, so on
first entering the room, the door of which she did not
shut entirely, she paused, with her sight fixed upon the
floor.
When she raised her eyes, she found the gentleman
standing respectfully; it was Father Nicholas. In the
light of the candle, which marked distinctly the well-cut
outlines of his features, and threw the deep lines and
hollows into shadow, he looked more handsome and
thoughtful than even by day. His simple black dress
was just as fit, and seemed as much to belong to him as
his smooth, shining cassock or soutane.
“I have made a mistake, I think,” said Mrs. Barrè, instantly
possessing herself. “You do not wish to see me,
Mr. Crampton?”
“Yes, if you please; that was the object of my visit.
I hope you'll excuse my availing myself of the earliest
opportunity mentioned to the messenger, for the importance
of the business that brought me. But I wait to
know your inclination.”
She satisfied him upon that point.
“Oh! for the time, it is of less consequence than it
may seem to you. If we meet, it matters little to me
when it is. Our interview is not likely to be very long,
I suppose. You may wonder that I suffer you to speak
to me; I have my reason; and you know, long since, that
I have no need to fear you.”
To this the Priest said nothing. His answer was to
another point.
—“And I hope that any harsh feelings or injurious
suspicions, formed in other days, may be set aside from
our present meeting, that what is said may take its tone
and character, not from remembered prejudice, but from
present truth and reason.”
“I permit your speaking to me, Mr. Crampton; I may
see cause to answer. Let that suffice. I cannot destroy
a part of my nature, or turn a faculty of my mind awry.
I cannot forget; nor can I misunderstand what I remember,”
answered Mrs. Barrè, looking steadily at him with
the distance of the room between.
He stood in a meek, unobtrusive posture, looking on
the floor.
“I thank God, I can forget,” said Father Nicholas,
gently.
“It is not always a thing to be thankful for,” she answered;
“It is a duty to forget the things that are behind, in
going forward to new work and hope,” said the Priest.
“Let there be no cant between us, Mr. Crampton. I
think I may well expect you to speak very plainly, if you
speak at all.”
“I cannot lay aside my priestly character, if that is
what you wish. I speak as a priest; I cannot speak
otherwise.”
“I have known you speak otherwise,” said Mrs. Barrè.
“I ask of you mere honesty.”
“If I have ever, for a moment, forgotten that character
since I bore it,—if I have done amiss, or spoken wrongly,
—the mighty force of second nature and the grace of consecration
have rushed upon me and made me more than
ever what I am,—a priest.”
“We will not argue that point, if you please. If you
knew not what I know of you, I could not tell it to you.
What is your present business with me?”
“I cannot come in any other character; and it is only
as a priest of God that I have any thing to say. Will
you sit down? and shall we speak together?”
If he had at all lost, he had now resumed, the manner
of one accustomed to be yielded and deferred to.
They were still standing, as at first; the lady made no
movement towards a chair, and they continued standing.
She, evidently, was not one that would defer to him.
“I am prepared to hear you, Mr. Crampton, and to
judge of what you say by its own merits. Will you be
good enough to let me know what you desire of me?”
“What I shall say, with your permission,” the Priest
answered, “will not depend, for its effect, upon your estimate
of or for myself, in any way; but first, may I, in meeting
you again, after so long an interval, be allowed to ask
about your little children; how they are?”
“I have but one,” returned the mother.
“Ah! is it so?” said the Priest, with a deep emphasis
and very thoughtfully; “you have lost one of them since
you left the —? How is the other? I heard of a
child of your's meeting with a severe accident, some time
ago; was it the one whom you have left?”
“Yes; she has recovered, thank God!”
“What a sweet, happy family it was, three years ago!”
said Father Nicholas, as if drawing up a fair, vanished
island, or a noble ship, long foundered, out of the waste
of waters; then he said, sadly and thoughtfully again, as
before, “It might have been otherwise!” as if speaking to
himself. “The Catholic Church was a safe harbor!” he
added, as if it were a sad reflection immediately following
from what had just been said and thought.
“It might have been otherwise, indeed!” she answered.
“It was in that `safe harbor' that my fair ship went down.
A `safe harbor'!—Ah! I wouldn't trust my dear ones in
it.” Her words were short but bitter.
The Priest answered, without bitterness:—
—“And yet our enemies allow that salvation may be
had among us, (and you are no enemy;) and if the Catholic's
belief be true, what priceless privileges belong to
those who are in and of the Church!” This he said
gently and sadly.
“For any thing not written in your Bible or mine,”
said she, again, “I wouldn't give the snuff of that candle.—Will
you oblige me by coming to your business?”
“And yet, if it be true (what we are compelled to
in a more gentle and a sadder voice; “if that be
true—!”
“And if it be true what the Mahometan believes—!
Pray, Mr. Crampton, what has your belief, or his, to do
with my salvation? Your believing a thing does not
make it true. Pray, do not argue theology; please say
what else you have to say.”
“But suppose,” he pleaded gently, “that it should be
true; and that one cast out of the Church is cast out of
God's kingdom—”
“So, you wish to argue!—One word, then, for God!
I suppose nothing about it; for it is simply not true.
There are good rules of morals in your Bible as well as
ours. The things between your church and us are in
neither, nor in the creeds. I have no fear at being cast
out a hundred times for not believing them!”
The Priest pleaded gently, in answer:—
“And yet your reasoning is not quite sound. Suppose
it could be shown that we have other doctrines beside
those contained in the Gospel; you see they are beside
the Gospel,—and we have the whole Gospel, too. Accordingly,
our enemies are compelled to grant that salvation
may be had with us, while we deny that it can be
had with them. Would not a child see that it was safer
to believe even more than enough, than not to believe
enough?”
It was no reasoner of yesterday that was speaking;
and yet in Mrs. Barrè's sad, thoughtful eye, fire flashed,
and her pale, thin cheek glowed, and her lip curled with
scorn, as if, for the moment, she forgot all but the insidious
reasoning.
“Yes, it's just a child's argument; I am not a child.
Again you speak of your denying, and other people's
granting! What has either your granting or denying
to do with me? I begged you not to argue; and if
I permit myself to answer, it is for your good, priest
though you are!” (Father Nicholas bowed, with a slight
smile, looking to the ground. She looked straight at the
Priest, and spoke steadily and strongly.) “`More than
enough?' and `less than enough?' What is true, is
true; and what is not, is a lie,—less than the truth, or
more! `True Gospel, only something added!' Let me
remind you that there was only `something added' to that
true wine that Pope Alexander VI. prepared for his
guests;—it was, in that case, a very little `something;'
it did not, to the eye, or taste, or smell, change the true
wine, even in the least particular; and yet Pope Alexander
VI. drinking of his true wine, `with something added,'
died. Remember, that only a few words `beside' his own
part, made another priest's confessional into a devil's-school.
A very little something added may make poison
of pure wine. The raising of a throne in heaven, and
digging of a pit in purgatory, are no small things in doctrine,
as sin is a monstrous thing in morals, Mr. Crampton.”
The Priest's face grew damp, as some of the statues of
his religion are said to sweat, portentously. He waited,
as if to hear more; but Mrs. Barrè had said all that she
intended. When he spoke, it was only in a pained and
regretful tone:—
“I have not come to excite or weary you or myself,
with the discussion of particular points of theology; but it
seems a fearful flippancy to speak of the faith of the
Catholic Church in this way! That very doctrine that
Church, and universally accepted by its members. It is
one on which the tenderness of the deep heart of the
Common Mother breaks itself; over which the broad,
dark, silent wings of a dread mystery are stretched;
before it the stupendous, unbloody sacrifice of the Lamb
of God is offered without ceasing; and around it roll the
agony of prayer, and the mournful, melting melody of the
divinest music! Is this to be blown away by the slight
breath of a woman's scorn?”
“Why not by a breath, if it be but froth of the work
ing human fancy?” she answered. “God has not revealed
it; and whatever beauty or terror man may clothe
it with, cannot make it any thing to my salvation, Mr.
Crampton,—or to yours.”
“Does it not occur to you,” said the Priest, “what
danger there is in thus taking your soul into your own
keeping?”
As quietly as a person swimming with one hand, she
answered: “Since God has put it into my keeping, and
said, `work out your own salvation,' the danger would
seem to be in my committing it to the keeping of others.”
“You will remember,” said the Priest, “that the Bible
also says, `obey your prelates, for they watch as to give an
account for YOUR SOULS.'”
“Ay, an account for the souls lost through their misleading
or neglect; but `every one of us shall give
account of himself unto God!' I shall try and make
the two things go together; to `obey them that have the
rule over me,' while I work out my own salvation.”
“Rejecting,” said Father Nicholas, sadly, “that sacred
body which alone has power to bind and loose, and in
which is the fulness of divine presence and authority!”
“We are wasting time, Mr. Crampton; you can hardly
expect me to argue over the dozen or more new articles
of faith added to the Nicene Creed, or the crowd of your
other doctrines not yet added, that I know as thoroughly
as you. Is there any other subject upon which you wish
to speak to me?”
“Yes; indeed, I did not come to argue. The mind is
not the chief seat of religion, and one so strong, and active
and inquiring as yours, might be allowed a little latitude,
with safety, where the moral principle is so strong. We
need not discuss these irritating subjects; we may put
them entirely aside; for there is a nobler field to work in.
Your strong character, and ascendancy of mind, might be
most useful in the Church of God; not in a subordinate
capacity, like that which, in the novitiate, you found so
irksome, but in a more fitting one. In a very short time,
the place of Lady Superior—”
“Allow me; the time is valuable, and the end of your
sentence obvious. You make such a proposition to me,
knowing me to disbelieve and reject your church!—and
employ a little gross flattery, as if I should take it into
my ears,—to put myself into the control of your Church,
and under the immediate spiritual guidance of one whose
foul heart once showed itself to me. No! I trust that
the lovely girl who is missing is under no such control.”
“She is under no control of mine,” said Father Nicholas,
“nor have I any means of knowing where she is.—
You refer to the past, again. A priest is a man, and
strong temptation has been, momentarily, too much for
chosen saints; and yet they remained God's saints,
and—”
“No more, sir! Your temptation was from the Devil
and yourself. Do you dare, calling yourself a minister
God's word in that way? To make warnings into examples?
I need no answer; you may consider your proposal
as answered,—if you intended one.”
“Your charges and constructions,” said the Priest, “I
suppose, you have made the new priest acquainted with.”
“If you wish to know whether I have exposed your
character to him: No!—You have no further business
with me, Mr. Crampton?”
The Priest collected himself:—
“I wish I were more eloquent, that I might save you
from the ruin you are drawing upon yourself. You care
not for the scandal you are bringing on God's Holy
Church! You are blind to the loss of your soul. The
judgment of God in taking away your child is sent in
vain; his warning hand laid upon the remaining child is
disregarded; but there is one thing that presses often
nearer yet, than fear of unseen things or visitations of
God. If, as is so often the case, your own character and
reputation should be visited, and if men should say, with
more than a sneer, that the fault in your separation did
not lie on the side of the Church—”
“You needn't be at the trouble to go further, sir. I
have listened to you patiently to this point, and have answered
you. I have, in turn, a single question to propose,
which I think I may claim an answer for: Was
Mr. Debree privy to this visit?”
“My motions,” answered Father Nicholas, “are generally
without consultation with other people, as my
means of information, also, are independent. I am rather
in the habit of giving advice, than of taking it from them,
and Mr. Debree knows nothing of my coming here.”
“I have had patience with you thus far, Mr. Crampton,”
the sake of the little information I have indirectly got.
You have had no claim on my forbearance, and less than a
right to expect me to talk with you. We shall have no
further communication together.”
The Priest bowed formally; but there was an intensity
in his look which showed what was roused within
him. His face was livid and his forehead moist. He
passed out, with another slow inclination of his body,
saying,—
“Not now, but very likely hereafter. I think you will
not forget—I came with little hope of saving you, but
to clear my own soul.”
“I couldn't help hearing,” said Fanny Dare. “I
wish I had been deaf; I can be dumb.”
They sat long silent, and she held Mrs. Barrè's hand.
Mrs. Barrè sat long after Fanny had gone home.
| CHAPTER XXIII.
AN INTERVIEW OF TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE. The new priest in Conception Bay | |