University of Virginia Library

52. CHAPTER LII.
FATHER DE BRIE DETERMINES, AND DEPARTS.

DAYS had again passed by; men's minds were
fevered as the time for Father Nicholas's trial
drew near; and he came, and went, and was seen
more than ever; and people came to him.

The Roman Catholic press was busy arguing that “the
whole thing was the offspring of fanatical prejudice; there
was not one link connecting the history of the young girl
who had been lost with any Roman Catholic, after her
leaving her father's house; and the notion of her having
been made away with, by Roman Catholics, or carried off
by them, would be absurd, if it were not outrageous. As
well might it be said, in the case of the Protestant's
house that was blown down, at Carbonear, that the Catholics
had all got behind it, and puffed it down with their
breath.”

The Government and the “Protestant Faction” were
“warned not to goad a peaceable people too far; there
were limits beyond which patience ceased to be a virtue;
and it might be found that the spirit of a united body,
long exasperated and trifled with, would suddenly rise, in
its majesty, and visit the senseless aggressors with terrific
retribution. If the last indignity—of confronting the
sacred character of a Catholic priest with that of a felon,

pardoned for the purpose of this persecution—should be
dared; if it were attempted to wash out the stains upon
that felon's gory hands, to fit him to take part in these delusive
forms of law, it might, too late, be found impossible
to make a people,—who, though loyal, almost to a fault,
had an intelligence and quick perception of right, as well
as a chivalric sense of honor denied to the coarser Saxon,
—blindly accept a monstrous, hideous wrong, though
labelled justice.”

So ran the printed opinions of the journals, and so ran
the uttered words of many excited groups of men and
women, in the capital and in the Bay; but happily the
public peace was more than ever well kept. At the
same time, as a measure of precaution, a detachment of
the Royal Newfoundland companies, to the number of
ninety men, was posted in Bay-Harbor, under the command
of Major Birnie. Mr. Wellon's life was said to be
in danger; but he was not harmed. There was no outbreak
of any kind, and no injury to person or property.

Father Nicholas was an object of more devout reverence
on the part of Roman Catholics, many of whom
every day uncovered themselves, and went down on their
knees as he passed, much as they would have done to a
procession of the Host. To Protestants he was an object
of more curiosity than ever, in the streets.

Father Terence neither meddled nor made with the
business; but lived his quiet life as before. Another
thing lay far heavier on his honest heart.

Some time had passed since his last talk with Father
De Brie, when the latter came in again. This time his
manner was rather timid and hesitating.

They talked (not very readily) of different things; at
length the younger man said:—

“I have given many a thought to what you said the
other night, Father Terence.”

Father Terence strove to speak cheerily: “Was it
about the old faith it was?—Ah! it's good to give manny
a thought to the old way,” said he, not looking up.

“What sort of faith was it St. Charles Borromeo had?
and St. Catharine Senensis and the like of them? Hadn't
they faith then? And where's St. Thomas and St. Bernard?
and all those blessed men in the Land of Saints—
that's Ireland I mean; first and foremost St. Patrick,
and there's those three with Col at the beginning o' them,
Columbkille, and Columbanus, and Columba, and St.
Malachy, and St. Finian, and St. Fergus, and St. Colman,
and—and the rest o' them, in the early days of that
beautiful island, as thick as capelin itself, if I'd use a
figure, not to speak of the great St. Lawrence, of my
own name,—(and family most likely,)—Archbishop of
Dublin, and true to his country against King Henry that
time?”

The good man's patriotic ardor had led him a little off
from his first train of thought; but brought a solace very
much needed to his laboring heart. When he had finished
his kindling recitation, he looked at his companion with
an eye that sought sympathy of zeal and admiration; but
as he looked at the absorbed, earnest, lofty face of Father
Ignatius, the glow burned out like an unanswered beacon-light,
and he sank back into a despondent recollection of
present circumstances, relieved perhaps by a spiritual
companionship with the famous men, whose memory he
had summoned.

“Father Terence,” said the other at length, “if I speak
plainly, I know that I shall hurt your feelings, kind and
patient as you are; but I cannot do otherwise. The

question with me is not of other people, but of myself.
That one may have faith in Christ, out of the midst of
error held unwittingly, I cannot doubt; God forbid! But
if one see that doctrine and practice are alike false and
corrupt, God cannot accept faith out of the midst of
known falsehood. How can I rest when I begin to see
falsehood written wherever I turn my eyes, falsehood in
the creed, falsehood in worship, falsehood in practice,
falsehood in priest, falsehood in people?”

The elder man shook his head as he ejaculated,—

“Sancta Virgo! cunctas hœreses, sola, interemisti.—
That's a long list then,” added he, turning and speaking
sadly, “and a dangerous one to say. I'm astonished at
the spirit of ye! And I thought ye'd leave the creed at
the very least.”

“The creed,—but I speak of the additions made to it.
Oh! Father Terence, the conviction is striving and struggling
in me for mastery. It is a conviction, that this
system is not of God. This strife within would kill me
if I could not get away from it. Woman-worship,—the
Confessional, Relics, Images, Violation of Sacraments,
Despotism, Superstition, Men abusing the power and
character of the priesthood, unquestioned, people murderous,
licentious, and unimproved—nation after nation—
wherever this religion has prevailed: whatever morality
is in it, whether of priest or people, being in spite of it,
and having to fight against the corrupting influences of
the system itself, in its idolatrous worship and defiling confessional,
and power without check unless by chance! the
right hand against the left. Even wolves maintained and
lambs driven to them! Is it so? Is it so? And who
come to it but luxurious women, conscious of sin and
ignorant of repentance, (pardon me, pardon me, good

Father Terence, I speak of those who come to it,) or fools
like me, that for a whim blast their whole lives!”

The speaker paced the floor in the most intense excitement,
turning to this side and that, as he uttered these
questions, as if he looked across the world and called for
answer. Stopping suddenly in front of the elder priest,
who with a troubled face was looking on the floor, he
exclaimed,—

“Is it NOT so? One word of the Bible!—one word
of Holy Scripture! One word for images! One word for
interceding Saints! One word for Mary's Kingdom or
Empire of Grace! One word for purgatory! One word
for our awful taking of men's souls out of their bodies
and standing accountable for them! Has any part of the
whole fabric any authority or countenance in the Word
of God? Has it any? Has any part of it? Which one
of the old Fathers writing about their religion, defending
it, explaining it, has one word? Which one of the old
Liturgies? Where was Christianity like this, at the
beginning?”

He paced the room again, his companion being silent.

“If this is not true, what is it? and what am I?” he
exclaimed again, holding up his clasped hands. He then
sank upon his knees, and remained for a while in prayer.

On rising, with his eyes full of tears, he saw that
Father Terence was engaged in the same way, and when
the old man had ended his holy occupation, the younger
grasped his hand and thanked him heartily.

“Forgive me, Father Terence,” he said, “if I have
shocked you. It is no excuse that I have torn the flesh
of my own soul, in the struggle that is going on in me; I
have no right, because I suffer, to make others suffer
also; but it will be excuse for me with you, that there

has been and is no feeling in me towards yourself, but
one of love and honor.”

“Say nothing of it,” said the kindly elder, but in the
saddest way, “I care nothing for my own feelings; but
I do care to see ye going the way y'are. Is there no
help for ye?”

Evening was near; the day was drawing off, and night
had not yet set her watch; but while the silent shades
were coming in and taking up their places in the inner
and farther parts of the room, and seemed to be throwing
a dark and mournful tinge upon the very spoken words
as well as on the walls and furniture, gradually a brightness
broke on the far off hills, as if through a rift in a
leaden sky. Father O'Toole was last to have his eyes
drawn aside in that direction.

The younger had caught its earliest ray, and had his
eyes fixed upon it.

“Oh yes, there is help for me in my God,” answered
he. “You do forgive me?”

“Oh! then, what have I against ye? Sure it's not
worth the while me bringing in my own small matters of
feelings betwixt you and Him.”

As Father O'Toole said this, Father De Brie thanked
him more heartily than before; then bade him “Good-bye!”

“Stay then!” said the older Priest, “are ye sure isn't
it something about the wife and the world, it is, now?”

He asked this in a tone of sorrowful doubt; the shadows
of the evening, which was drawing on, clothing his
plain, kindly features with a softening shade. The room
in which they were grew darker. Mr. De Brie answered:—

“I'm sure that it was no regret or desire for happiness,

or desire for old associations in the world:—that I am
sure of;—but it was under God my wife's true love, and
her strong woman's faith and the straightforward reasonings
of her woman's conscience, that conquered me;—and
a sense of my forsaken duty!” (He took a turn in the
room and came back; the old priest sitting deeply agitated
and breathing hard.) “It was the homely speech
of a fisherman that first brought me face to face with the
question: of this Skipper George, whose daughter has
been stolen,—or lost. A child's tongue carried on the
argument. Pater, Domine cœli et terræ, abscondisti hœc
a sapientibus et prudentibus, et revelasti parvulis.”

“Oh!” said Father Terence, hoarsely and brokenly,
“don't be unpriested and cast out!—Don't, for the love
of God!”

In a low voice to himself, he said:—

“Ah! if I'd taken heed to um that time when he
wanted to speak to me about her being there!”

He sat as if ready to wheel round his chair away from
his companion.

“Ay, Father Terence,” said the latter, in a voice of
great feeling; “you don't know what the loss of your
love would be to me.”

The old Priest turned away; but as he turned, said, in
a low voice,—

“Ah! my son! how will I ever take that from ye,
more than a father will forget his child,—whatever happens
him?”

“I shall never forget you!—but why do I linger?
—Father Terence, I shall give this up. Yes, I shall
give this up! and then, if I must go through every terrible
ordeal of scorn, and hatred, and loathing,—must be
hunted by the fury of my brethren in the priesthood,—

must have my priestly character torn off me, bit by bit,
—the tonsure razed,—my name put out in cursing,—I
am ready. To me it comes in the way of duty to meet
and bear the worst. The soldier is thrust through, and
mangled, and trampled, still living, under horses' feet, and
till his blood and breath be spent, still glories in the
cause for which he suffers. I shall not court suffering or
shame, but if they come, with God's help I can bear
them!”

“They don't do that way with priests, now,” said Father
Terence, who sat with his back still turned, and
spoke as if he scarcely thought of what he said. “The
worst is publishing from the altar, in every church; but
ye'll never come to that.”

“Yes, it must come. You spoke of the old way; I
shall go back to it,—from this day my place is empty!”

He kneeled down at the side of the old Priest, and
bowed his head, and was, at first, silent for a while, then
said,—

“If I have ever hurt your feelings, Father Terence,
in any thing but this, I ask your pardon, humbly;” (the
old man could not speak; his voice was choked)—“and
now I go.”

The younger priest rose slowly from his knees, then,
grasping the other's hand, pressed it; and walking softly
to the door, departed.

“Stay! Stay!” was called after him, but he did not
turn.

He mounted his horse at the gate, and rode rapidly
through the town up toward the river-head. An hour
later he knocked at Mr. Wellon's door.

“Could you give so much time and trouble to me as
to go down with me a little way?” he said, after a hurried
salutation.

The Minister at once complied, asking no questions;
for he might have seen how occupied the other was. So
the two walked together silently; and people silently
looked at them and looked after them.

It was not far to Mrs. Barrè's house; and Father De
Brie led the way straight to it. All was silent there; and
when he had knocked, and for a moment no one came, he
turned to his companion anxiously and said, “She is not
sick?”

The English servant came to the door, and, seeing who
was there, could scarcely speak or move.

They stood in the little parlor to which they were
shown; and though Father Debree did not change his
place, yet his eyes turned slowly from one of the pretty
little articles of woman's taste to another, and quietly
filled with tears. Presently a hurried and unequal step
was heard from the chamber overhead, down the stairs,
and Mrs. Barrè, in her black dress, pale and trembling,
not lifting up her eyes, stood in the room. Young as she
was, her dark hair had begun to have a gloss upon it
(perhaps a glory) that did not come of years.

She had not felt the breath of that cold air,

That had not breathed upon her.

“Mr. Wellon! I call you to witness, before God,” said
Father De Brie, “that I pray the forgiveness of this
blessed, blessed woman; whom I may not call my wife,
for I forsook her!”

Before the words were done, a sudden burst of life
and love seemed to fill up the room; there was a little
rush of gentleness, and Oh! a warm, trembling arm went
round his neck; a tender forehead was bowed down upon
his shoulder; a sweet, low murmuring was felt against
his heart, and scarcely heard—

“You are my own, own husband!”

What was there in the world to them beside each
other in that long moment? Their tears flowed down
together; and then he drew back a little, and with two
hurried hands smoothed away, more than once, to either
side, the hair from that wife's forehead; then drew her to
his bosom, that had not felt such dearness for so long,
kissed her true lips, and said—

“If ever God gave treasure to a man unworthy, it was
here! My wife! My wife!”

After another silence, he said, turning toward the Minister,—

“I may open my heart to God before you?”—and
they kneeled down, and at first without speech, then in
low, broken bursts, and then in a full stream of molten
music he poured forth prayer for the forgiveness of the
Prodigal, who had wandered in a far, strange country,
and fed on husks; for blessing on that dear woman, and
on all people;—and other voices,—of his wife, and Mr.
Wellon even, whose nature was so strong and regular,—
inarticulate, but expressing feeling irrepressible, from time
to time rose and fell with his.

Little Mary, wondering, still and tearless, came and
stole in between the two whose child she was; and in his
prayer her father put his arm about her.

The words of that prayer could not be written down
by hand; the spirit only could go along with them.

Perhaps they have been written somewhere. Then,
calmly, when they stood up, he said:—

“Now, Helen, shall I finish this unfinished work, for
which you have so long been praying, before I join my
life with yours again? Shall I first go to the chief Minister,
[1] and publicly recant my error and profess my faith?
There's a schooner going from New-Harbor.”

“You won't go now, will you?” asked the Minister,
who was no married man.

The wife who for so long had had no husband,—the
woman whose strong love had been put away from its
own proper, sacred object, to whom she was flesh of his
flesh, and bone of his bone,—her own loved, her own
wedded, her own lost,—looked up at once and answered,
“Yes, if you will—I'll wait.”

He held her close to his heart awhile, then parted from
her tenderly, and went away with Mr. Wellon. Early
next day they started together for New-Harbor.