 | CHAPTER L.
FATHER DE BRIE DOUBTS. The new priest in Conception Bay |  |
50. CHAPTER L.
FATHER DE BRIE DOUBTS.
THE body was not found; the Grand Jury had
indicted Father Nicholas for abduction, and not
murder; the day of trial was fixed for the
fifteenth of October.
Mr. Wellon made several calls at the Priest's house,
in Peterport, without finding the occupant at home.
Father De Brie had kept himself entirely secluded; and,
for the time, had resorted to Brine's empty house, on
Grannam's Noddle.
Within a few days he was again at Bay-Harbor, and
begged leave to talk with Father Terence. The old
gentleman looked anxious.
“Didn't ye finish those preliminaries ye were having
with Father Nicholas, that time?” he inquired.
“I believe I have finished with Father Nicholas, and
perhaps with more,” answered Mr. De Brie, with an emphasis
quite alarming to the worthy elder; and from
which, and its antecedents and consequents, he sought an
escape, thus:—
“Then have ye any objection to take a step across the
hall to the library? and bring—?” but, surprised at the
manner of the person whom he addressed, he exclaimed,
“But what ails ye, man? Is it angry ye are? Or
troubled? or what is it?”
“Can you oblige me with an hour's conversation, good
Father Terence?”
“Ah! now, don't be calling me good; no man's good,
and me least; but what'll you want of an hour's conversation?
Take my advice, now; let what ye're
after having, do ye. It's best not saying anny thing about
those troublesome things. It's not good, quarrelling, anny
way, and laste of all with a man—.”
“My dear Father Terence,” said Mr. De Brie, with a
decision and force which showed that he knew, perfectly,
what he was about, and could take his own part, “quarrelling
is not my way; but when I am unavoidably brought
into collision with any man, I am ready to meet that
emergency.—Will it be convenient to you to give me so
much time? I hope I am not asking too much.”
Poor Father O'Toole, who had lived a quiet life, and
exercised a gentle sway for so many years, was uneasy
at finding himself among these strong spirits of a younger
generation; but like an honest man, as he was, determined
to take up the duty that fell to him, little as he
liked it.
“Sure, if you want it, and I can be of anny service to
ye, I'll do it with all my heart;” and he sat down to the
duty. On second thoughts he locked the door, and then
seated himself again.
The younger Priest began abruptly:—
“Father Terence, I'm losing my faith in the Roman
Catholic Church!”
“`The Roman—Catholic—Church!' and `losing faith!'
Ave Maria!—Sub tuum præsidium.—Why, man, ye're
mad! Don't lose your faith!” exclaimed the kind-hearted
old man, starting to his feet, and losing his pipe,
which fell, in disregarded fragments, on the floor.—
“No; I'm thinking of something else; I forget him.—
Father Terence, this is no personal difficulty between
me and any one. My difficulties are religious. I've
lost”— the younger man was continuing, in a sad, determined
tone; but was interrupted.
“Be easy, now! Take care what ye're saying. It
was only ye were `losing,' a while ago, and now it's, I've
lost.' Don't say that! Don't say it! Take time; take
time. And is yer memory going, too? Ye say ye forget
Father Nicholas.”
Silence followed, while the old man had his hand upon
the other's arm.
“Sit down again, now,” he went on, in a kind way,
(though it was himself that had risen from his seat, Mr.
De Brie not having been seated at all.) Father Terence
sat down again; the other stood, as before, with his back
to the mantel-piece.
“Man dear!” exclaimed Father Terence, sorrowfully,
after fixing himself in his seat. “How long are ye this
way? I never hard a word of it, before. Holy Mother
of God! What's this! Poor man!”
As he said this he looked most anxiously upon his
companion.
“Father Terence!” said Mr. De Brie, with a deep
calmness, his face being, at the same time, pale with the
strong feeling gathered at his heart, “`Losing' and `lost,'
in faith, are nearer one another, than in other things. To
be losing is to have lost, already.”
“Stop there, now; say no more at present. Y' are
under some sort of delusion, I'm thinking. The way is
to turn from it, altogether. You don't make use of the
can't we? I'll have it early, too.”
“Thank you; but I've no appetite for food. I cannot
fairly eat or sleep, my mind is in such a heaving state.
There is a hot force, within, striving for an outlet.”
Father Terence answered with a cheeriness evidently
beyond his feeling:—
“But why does your mind be heaving? my own never
heaves; but just goes as steady and as true as the race
of a mill, or whatever it is they call it, meaning the big
stone that goes round and round. Discipline is the thing;
discipline for the body and the same for the mind, as well.
Sure, if I found a new thought coming up in my mind, I'd
know something was wrong about it.”
“You're happy, Father Terence, but I can never be
happy in the same way. What I believe, I believe; and
what I don't believe, I do not.”
“Very good, then,” said Father O'Toole, evidently
anxious to prevent the other from getting farther in his
speech, as if that would keep his thoughts back, also,
“sure, it's a small thing to believe. Here's the Faith, for
example, and here's myself; I say, `I hold this faith and
will hold it till my last breath.' That's easy saying.”
“It's easy speaking, Father Terence, if it be only
working of the tongue and lips; but in my case, it could
only be without thinking. I cannot say so. I have once
thought it possible, and for a long time, have been satisfied
with not doubting, as if that were believing, and have
not doubted because I would not doubt. It cannot be so,
with any thing essential to salvation. I must believe, indeed,
if I believe at all. A dawning light is beginning to
make me see that the claim of the Roman Catholic
Church” (the old priest hitched himself, a little, at this
though by lamp-light it was splendid. Things that
I dared not doubt begin to look like scarecrows and
effigies.”
“What time is it ye see these sights?” asked the elder,
as if he had found the key to his companion's strange
state of mind; “is it by day, or by night, ye said?”
Mr. De Brie heard with the gravest patience and politeness;
and his mighty fervor and force lifted the surroundings,
and kept the scene up to its own dignity.
“I ask pardon for speaking in figures,” he said, “which,
perhaps, spoken hastily, have made my meaning indistinct.—I
mean to say that I don't feel safe;—I doubt;—
I'm afraid of the Church!”
“What's the matter, then?” asked Father Terence,
anxiously, “What's it ye mane?”
“I fear I'm in a ship unseaworthy,” said Father De
Brie, sadly.
“But there's no ship, man; y'are not in a ship,
at all.”
“Ah! I spoke in a figure again; I mean the Church,—
the Church,—Father Terence!”
“And why wouldn't she be seaworthy, then?” asked
Father Terence, evidently not knowing how to take what
the other said. “A good manny years she's going!” and
he looked up, steadily, into De Brie's face, who answered,
slowly and thoughtfully,—
“But oughtn't she to have been cond—?”—He
broke off.—“I don't wish to pain you, Father Terence,”
he said, “but what can I do? This doubt will come!”
“Aren't there bad men in all of them?” asked the old
priest, going back to his first explanation.
“This has nothing to do with Crampton,—unless the
Church!”
And what ails the Church?—sure, if she was good
enough once, she's good enough now.—Y'are not for
going back?”
“I must satisfy this doubt, Father Terence, if it costs
my life!—Is it all a cheat?” His eyes were restless,
and presently he began to walk the room.
“Oh dear! Oh dear! Is this what it is!” said Father
Terence, in great pain.
The young priest stopped in his walking, very much
agitated.
“I came by steps, Father Terence. I saw what seemed
innovations, contradictions, corruptions, falsehoods; but I
thought that authority was there, and shut my eyes, and
kept them shut.—Shall I dare this? Having eyes, must
I not see? If, before my eyes, a man is slowly climbing
into Christ's place on earth, and a woman obscuring both
Father and Son in heaven —”
“Are ye setting yer foot on the Faith?” asked Father
Terence, mournfully.
“Faith is not faith in articles, even if they were true;
but in Christ! not about even Him. `Whosoever believeth
in Him shall not perish:' `He that believeth in
Me, though he were dead, shall live!'”
“Sure, ye can believe as the Church believes, can ye
not? Isn't the Church infallible?” argued the worthy
elder, in his kind, simple way.
“But, dear Father Terence,” returned Mr. De Brie,
feeling, strongly, his kindness, “what will her claim of
infallibility do for me if I doubt it?”
“But what need ye be troubling yerself to pick into
her faith? Why can't ye leave that to the Church?
doubting?”
“Oh! I would if I could. I have tried it.”—Here he
looked fixedly at his hearer, as if considering his easy
condition of content. He added: “It will not do. I
must believe for myself! I see it. There is no doubt
of it.”
“There, now! Ye're coming round. Ye'll do, after a
bit. That's well said; ye see ye must believe,” said
Father O'Toole, his kindly heart going before his head.
“Ah! I wish I could satisfy myself as easily as you
think; but I cannot. The Holy Scripture —”
“But what sort of way is that, then?” asked Father
Terence. “If the whole of us would be picking this and
that article, sure, which one of us would believe every
one of them? but if we hold as the Church holds, sure
the Church is accountable, and not we.”
The other went on:—
“There's a true Church,—ay, and a visible Church,
too,—the Body of Christ, in which we must be members;
but is the man lost in it? Is his reason gone? Is his
conscience gone? Can he bury his accountability?”
Father Terence heard, but scarcely understood:—
“Ah, then!” said he, “that's the very thing; the man
won't be lost in it! No, and his reason's not gone, nor
his conscience ayther; it's not that bad he is. No, no.”
As he spoke he rose again, and laid his hand upon the
younger priest's arm, soothingly.
“Ah! Father Terence,” said De Brie, taking the hand
in his, “I am going over the old questions,—the same
old questions that made martyrs and men of faith in
all ages—though I'm no martyr!—the same that
Luther —”
Father Terence half drew away his hand, instinctively,
and his voice was a little discomposed, as he interrupted
the speaker, at this word—
“But why do ye be stirring old questions? sure,
haven't they made trouble enough, already?”
“The questions are all old, Father Terence; all questions
are old; the same over and over again; only new
to each man in turn, when they compel him to answer.
`What must I do to be saved?' is an old question of that
sort.”
“Hasn't the Church Holy Scripture, and Tradition, and
Infallibility?” asked the elder priest, kindly, seeking to
lead him back to the old ground.
“Compared with the written Word, what is Tradition?
`nescit vox missa reverti.” Opposed to the written Word,
what is Tradition? Naught!—and Infallibility,—who
believes the better for it? We doubt or disbelieve particulars,
and think we can believe the general. `I believe
as the Church believes,' and yet half the articles of her
faith, perhaps, we do not believe; when even if we believed
every article, and every article were true, that
would not be believing in Christ so as to be saved by
Him! Add Obedience; will that make it? Never!”
The speaker seemed rather thinking aloud, to have
room for his thronging thoughts, than conversing.
“Ah! what's this? what's this?” said Father Terence,
mournfully, “is it leaving the Catholic Church, y'are?”
(he withdrew his hand, and turned away.) “What ever'll
the Vicar General say; and him telling myself, only a
little ago, ye were the most hopeful priest in the country?”—He
sat down, heavily, in his chair.
“I will not be out of the Church; it is the Body of
Christ,” said the other, “and I believe every word of the
old Creeds.”
His hearer, at this last sentence, made an impulsive
movement of hope, and was about to speak in that mood;
but he had snatched at several hopeful-seeming words,
already, and found them nothing. The glow, therefore,
upon his face faded, and he did not speak.
“The words in which Apostles made profession of their
faith; what saints and martyrs spoke with breath flickering
through the flames; what babes and sucklings gathered
from the lips of dying fathers, and mothers doomed
to death, I will hold, while I live! God grant me to have,
moreover, a faith like theirs, of which one of them said:
The life that I now live, I live by faith in the Son of
God!”
Father Terence spoke again:—
“And what's to hinder you keeping on, just the old
way?” he asked; “and can't ye have that faith in the
Church?”
As the other did not immediately answer, Father
O'Toole followed up the advantage.
“There, now! Take time to that.” I know ye will.
Ye didn't think of that,” said he, fairly trembling with the
excitement of his feelings. “I'll leave ye with yerself,
for a little; I'd only be plaguing ye with my talking,
when ye want to be alone. Ye'll just stay, and go, and
do what ye like in this house.”
So saying, he suddenly went out and shut the door.
| CHAPTER L.
FATHER DE BRIE DOUBTS. The new priest in Conception Bay | |