the winter had nearly rolled by, and the sky was opening out its eyelids wider and wider, and letting in light to man and all his wondrous train of servitors. it was a cold, steely light indeed, particularly on those march evenings; and the sunsetting was a dreary, lonesome thing, as the copper-colored rays rested on hamlet or mountain, or tinged the cold face of the sea. but it was light, and light is something man craves for, be it never so pale. will not one of heaven's delights be to see the "inaccessible light" in which god—our god—is shrouded, and to behold one another's faces in the light that streams from the lamb? and so, very tempting as my fire is—and i am as much a fire-worshipper as an irish druid or a peruvian inca—i always like to go out as the days are lengthening and the sun is stretching out his compasses to measure in wider arcs the sky.
this evening, too, i had a little business with father letheby. as i entered his parlor, i carried a tiny slip of printed paper in my hand.
"you'd hardly guess what it is?" i said, holding it from the light.
"a check for a hundred pounds, or my removal!" he exclaimed.
"neither. read it!"
i am quite sure it was infinitely more gratifying than the check, to say nothing of the removal; and i am quite sure the kindly editor, who had sent me that proof of father letheby's first poem, would have been amply repaid for his charity if he had seen the shades and flushes of delight and half-alarm that swept like clouds across the face of the young priest. and it was not all charity, either. the good editor spoke truly when he declared that the poem was quite original and out of the beaten track, and would probably attract some attention. i think, next to the day of his ordination, this was the supreme day in father letheby's life hitherto.
"it was very kind," he said, "very kind indeed. and how am i to thank you, father dan?"
"by keeping steadily at the work i pointed out for you," i replied. "now, let me see what you have done."
"do you mean about the books?" he asked.
"yes," i said determinedly, "and about the horarium i marked out and arranged for you. have you conscientiously studied during the two hours each evening, and written from 11 a.m. to noon every day, as i appointed?"
"to be candid," he said at once, "i have not. first came the lack of books. except butler's 'lives of the saints,' i cannot come across a single indication of what basil and the gregories did or wrote; and my edition of butler is expurgated of all the valuable literary notes which, i understand, were in the first editions. then the moment i take the pen into my hand, in comes mrs. luby to know wouldn't i write to the colonel of the connaught rangers to get her little boy discharged and sent home. he enlisted in a fit of drink. then comes mrs. moriarty with the modest request to write to the pastor of santa barbara about her little girl who emigrated to america sixteen years ago. then comes—"
"never mind," i said, "i have been there. but i won't accept these excuses at all. you must work, whether you like or no. now, i am going to take away all excuses. i have been searching a lot of old catalogues, and i have discovered that these are the books for you. on the subject of 'modern pantheism' we will get:—
"(1) lewes' 'history of philosophy,' 4 vols.
"(2) brucker's 'historia critica philosophiæ,' 6 vols.
"(3) tenneman's 'history of philosophy' (cousin).
"(4) émile saisset's 'modern pantheism,' 2 vols.
"(5) 'history of pantheism' (plumtre).
"(6) 'an essay on pantheism,' by j. hunt, d.d.
"(7) 'spinoza,' by principal caird, ll. d.
"(8) 'spinoza,' by d. j. martineau.
"(9) 'spinoza, his ethics and correspondence,' by r. willis, m.d.
"(10) 'spinoza,' by nourrisson.
"now, on the subject of ecclesiastical history we will get, read, and consult:—
"(1) 'historia literaria ecclesiæ,' by cave.
"(2) farrar's 'lives of the fathers,' 2 vols.
"(3) cave's 'lives of the fathers,' 3 vols.
"(4) 'lives of the fathers,' by the s. p. c. k.
"(5) the bishop of lincoln (kaye) on 'the fathers and early councils.'
"(6) 'lives of the fathers,' by the author of 'a dominican artist,' 3 vols.
"(7) neander's 'church history,' 8 vols.
"(8) neale's 'oriental church.'"
here father letheby stopped me, as he broke from a suppressed chuckle into uncontrollable laughter.
"why, father dan, what in the world are you reading? don't you know that you are calling out a list of the most rampant heretics and disbelievers, every one of whom is probably on the index? is it possible that you cannot discover any english catholic authorities on these subjects?"
"i have not seen them," i said mournfully. "and do you mean to say that all these protestants, and many of them, you say, infidels, have not been interested in these subjects?"
"well, i presume they would not have gone to the vast trouble of accumulating material, and writing ponderous volumes otherwise."
"and what are we doing? and if ever these grave subjects become of importance or interest to our youth, say in the higher systems of education, what books can we put into their hands?"
we were both in a brown study. these things make men thoughtful. at last father letheby said:—
"how do they manage in the german and french universities, i wonder?"
"depend upon it," i replied, "there is no lack of catholic authors on every subject there. and i'm told the italian priests take an extraordinary interest in these higher studies. and in france every french priest thinks he is bound to write at least one book."
"i never understood the importance of this matter till i met ormsby," said father letheby. "he opened my eyes. by the way, father dan, i must congratulate you on the impression you have made there. some things you said have made a vivid impression on him. he keeps on saying: 'a sixth sense! a sixth sense. perhaps he is right, after all.' and that dependence on the prayers of little children and the afflicted touched him deeply. do you know, i think he'll come 'round."
"god grant it," i said, rising. "but i suppose this little project of ours is knocked on the head."
"you mean the books?"
"yes."
"i fear so. the fact is, father dan, i find i have no time. between my two hours with the choir on tuesdays and fridays, the saturday and sunday evenings in the church, the occasional evening out, and my correspondence, i don't know where to get time to fit in everything. and now that you have been so good as to secure the sympathy of the editor of the——for me, i think i may do something for him at intervals."
"i have regretted a few things during my life, young man," i said; "but i never regretted anything so much as to have sent on that poem of yours instead of sending it up the chimney."
"my dear father dan," said he, "what are you saying? don't you know that the pope himself writes poetry, and writes it well?"
"may god forgive him!" i said fervently. then i got sorry, as this was not reverent, and a bright thought struck me.
"what kind of poetry does his holiness write?"
"why, the most beautiful latin elegiacs and hexameters."
"i thought so," i said triumphantly. "i knew that the holy father would write nothing but in the style of the divine mantuan. if you do anything that way, my boy, i'll forgive you. keep to your classics, keep to your classics, and you're all right."
it was delightful to find us, the last remnant of the great generation of the classical priests of ireland, backed up by the first authority in the world.
it was twilight when i left, and i made my usual detour around our hamlet. outside the village and just beyond the school-house, in a little cottage whose diamond windows are almost hidden under green creepers, lived alice moylan, the head monitress in our little school. i rather liked alice, for when she was a little child of seven years, she gave me an idea of something for which i had been long seeking. it was a few years back, when i had not laid up my pen finally, but still retained the belief, with a certain author, that "there is no greater mental excitement, and scarcely a sweeter one, than when a young man strides up and down his room, and boldly resolves to take a quire of writing paper and turn it into a manuscript." and in these latter days of life i still sought for a vision of our lady, which i could keep before my imagination when writing certain things in her honor. now (perhaps i have already said it), i had a peculiar devotion to the child-virgin of the temple and of the house of nazareth, where in the noontide the archangel entered and spoke his solemn words. and i never said the magnificat but on my knees and with a full heart, as i thought on the child-prophetess of hebron and the wondering aged saints. but i sought her face everywhere in vain—in pictures, in the faces of my little children; but not one came up to my ideal of what the little maiden of the temple and nazareth was like. at last, one day, little alice came, and in her sweet oval face, and calm, entreating eyes and raven hair, subdued beneath such a dainty frilled headdress, i saw our blessed lady and wondered and was glad. and in those days of her simple childhood, before the awful dawn of self-consciousness, i used dream and dream, and put into form my dreams; and the face that haunted all my sacred and poetic conceptions of our dear queen was the face of little alice. but the child grew, and waxed in strength, but waned in beauty,—at least the beauty i regarded when the white soul looked out of the beautiful childish face. but alice grew to be the village beauty, and she knew it. every one told her of it; but her chief admirer was the little milliner, who lived down near the post-office, and whose simple life was a mixture of very plain, prosaic poverty, and very high and lofty romance. from this miss levis, who was a confirmed novel-reader, alice learned that "she had the face and form of an angel"; that "her eyes had a velvety softness that drew you like an enchanted lake"; that these same eyes were "starry in their lustrous beauty"; that she had "the complexion of a creole, or rather the healthy pallor of the high-born aristocracy of england"; that "her figure was willowy and swayed like a reed in the wind"; and all the other curious jargon of the novelette—the deadly enemy of simplicity and innocence. then alice grew proud and vain, and her vanity culminated on the night of our concert in november, when she drew up for the first time her luxuriant black hair and tied it in a knot and bound it in a fillet, which was said to be the mode à la grecque. but she was a very pure, innocent girl withal, and exceedingly clever in her work at school.
i had missed her recently, but had been occupied with other thoughts until the time came for the quarterly salaries of the teachers; and i noticed in the returns from the principal teacher that alice had been absent the greater part of the time. this evening, after leaving father letheby, i determined to call, unprepared to witness the little tragedy that was before me—one of those little side-scenes in the great drama of existence, which god turns suddenly to the front lest we should ever mistake the fact that our little world is a stage, and that we have all the denizens of the veiled eternities for our audience. mrs. moylan was one of those beautiful irish mothers, who, having passed through the stress and storm of life, was moving calmly into the great sea of death and eternity. she had one of those irish faces that were so typical of our race some years ago, and the intense resignation and patience of which rivalled the sweet innocence of our little irish children for the admiration of such a keen and sympathetic observer as dr. newman. there were a few wrinkles in the pallid cheeks, and one or two lines across the white forehead, crowned with the clean white cap which our irish mothers wear. she looked, i thought, a little reproachfully at me as i entered, but only welcomed me with that courteous reverence which makes us priests so often humbled and ashamed. after a few words i inquired for alice.
"my poor child hasn't been well, your reverence. we were jealous that you never asked for her."
i protested my utter ignorance of her illness, and inquired what was the ailment.
"you can see yourself, your reverence," the poor mother said, silently wiping away a tear. "but," she whispered, "don't pretend to see anything. she feels it very much."
i passed into the little chamber and was making my apologies to the poor child, when, in spite of her mother's warning, i started back, shocked and horror-stricken.
"good god," i could not help crying out, "what has happened to you, my poor child?"
she smiled faintly, and then a tear rolled down the leprous cheek. ay! indeed! my poor little madonna, my little child, whose beauty was such a dream of paradise, was changed. the large, lustrous eyes were untouched; but the fair cheek was one hideous, leprous sore. the black, glossy hair was now a few dirty wisps. the child, whose face and figure every one turned around to look at a second time, was now a revolting mummy, seamed and scarred by some terrible disease. i had presence of mind enough to take up the thin, white hand; she picked the coverlet and said nothing. her heart was too full of her misery to utter a word. i could only say:—
"my poor child! my poor child!"
i turned to the mother.
"this is too dreadful! what has happened?"
"dreadful enough, your reverence," she cried; "but welcome be the will of god!"
"but what has happened?" i cried.
then i thought it would be a relief to the poor child's feelings to tell me her own sad tale, so i said:—
"never mind! alice will tell me all herself. now, my child, tell me all."
she did, with all the humility and such gentle submission to god's decree that i wept freely. it would appear that on the afternoon of that november concert, alice, like so many other girls, was very much engrossed in her preparations for the evening. she had studied the "young lady's journal" and several other works of interest and usefulness, and all day long was highly excited over her appearance. once, when she was particularly engaged at the looking-glass, she heard some one fumbling at the half-door, as if anxious to come into the kitchen. angry at being disturbed, she burst from her room, and saw in the framework of the door an awful sight. it was a poor woman, whose face was completely eaten away by a dread disease called nasal polypus. the nose was completely gone and the upper lip. the eyes stared out as if from a death's-head. the poor creature begged for alms; but alice, flushed at the thought of her own beauty, and in a rage from being called away from her glass, clapped her hands and shouted:—
"well, you are a beauty."
"not so handsome as you, alanna," said the afflicted one. "there was wance when, perhaps, i was. but your time may come. mockin' is catchin'. mockin' is catchin'."
and with these words the woman strode away.
"i could not get the thought of my sin out of my head all that day," continued alice; "her face was always coming before me, until at last i gave up looking at the glass. but when the night came and we were all in the concert-room, my vanity came back again, for i heard people whisper as i was passing, and my foolish head was turned. then, when it was all over, and the girls broke into groups, and the people were all around, i tried to attract more attention. and i had been reading of a trick in the novels for making one's self more interesting by standing on tiptoe and opening the eyes widely; and, god help me! i was practising this foolishness, thinking that some of the young men were admiring me for it, when suddenly father letheby saw me, and he gave me a look that struck me like a flash of lightning. i felt dazed and blinded, and asked one of the girls to take me from the room and lead me home. but all that night i never slept, the woman's face and the awful look that father letheby gave me were staring at me out of the curtains and out of the dark, until late in the morning i fell into a sleep, only to dream the same dreadful things."
here the poor girl broke down and sobbed in an agony of remorse.
"well, then, father, i got up sick and sorrowful, and before my breakfast i went over there to the blessed virgin's altar and said a rosary, and begged and prayed her not to punish me for what i had done. sure, i said, 't was only a girl's foolishness and i was young; and i promised then and there to give up novel-reading and to be good, and to let my hair fall down, and to drop all my foolish notions; but 't was no use. i saw something in the face of the blessed virgin that frightened me, and i knew i was in for something. i didn't think my punishment would be so dreadful."
here the poor child sobbed again, and picked the coverlet mournfully as she tried to choke down her emotion. i looked over at that statue of the blessed virgin and shook my head reproachfully.
"oh! father, why does god punish us so terribly for such small sins?" the poor girl went on. "and what must purgatory be, and what must hell be when he punishes us so dreadfully here! i thought 't was all over and my fear was vanishing, when one sunday morning, dressing for mass, i noticed a tiny pimple here on my cheek. it wasn't as big as the head of a pin; but it gave me great trouble. not that i suspected anything; but when our poor heads are turned with vanity, you don't know, father, what a worry these little blemishes are. i just touched it with my finger and it bled. that night 't was an angry spot. i used everything i could think of—lard, and butter, and ointment. no use. every day it grew and grew and grew into an ugly sore. then i wrote, as miss levis advised me, to a london doctor, recommended in the journals; he sent me a prescription—"
"for nothing?" i interjected.
"no, indeed, father. before i was done with him it cost me a pound. but i applied his cosmetics and became daily worse. then my mother spoke of making rounds. but i wouldn't leave her. i went to the school every day, but i saw the girls watching me. i heard them whisper to each other, and sometimes i caught their words. they weren't kind. then i stopped away. one day, while i was sitting at the door knitting, suddenly the sun was darkened, and there was the dreadful face of that woman over me.
"'i'm asking charity for god's sake,' she said.
"i got up humbly and gave her bread and twopence. she looked at me keenly and said: 'god save you, alanna, and purtect you from misfortune. sure, 't was only a hasty word you said. god save you and purtect you, alanna!'
"then the frightful anger of god coming down upon me suddenly flashed upon me, and i flung aside my knitting and rushed into this room, and cried and screamed, and bit the counterpane until i tore it in threads, and shrieked:—
"'don't! don't, o lord; oh, don't! don't!'
"and then i turned to the blessed virgin and said the little prayer 'remember' that you taught us, father; 'remember;' and then i said:—
"'you won't let him, mother! you won't let him! didn't you say you wouldn't let him?'
"but the face stared down at me pitilessly, pitilessly. there was no hope."
the poor child stopped again, and to relieve her from the pain of memory i said:—
"but wasn't the doctor called in all this time? the doctor is very clever, you know."
"oh, he was, father! and he was very kind. but he was very angry; and i think, father, he cursed when i told him about these london cosmetics. and one day he asked mother a lot of queer questions about father and grandfather; and then he said something about 'strumous' and 'hereditary;' and he has done me no good."
"did father letheby call?" i asked.
"oh, dear, yes, that was my only consolation. he calls twice a week, sometimes three times; and he brought miss campion, and she comes every day and reads for hours with me; and look at those violets and lilies of the valley—'t was she brought them; and sometimes a strange gentleman comes with her, and he sits down and talks and puts queer questions to me—all about god, and what i do be doing, and what i do be thinking. but since father letheby told me that there is something behind it all that i don't understand, and that some day i will understand it, and see it is all god's love and not his anger, i am quite resigned, father, and i do be saying all day: 'thy will be done! thy will be done.' but i break down when i think of all i've gone through."
"let me see," i said, as a light began to dawn upon me; "you are now perfectly resigned, my poor child, are you not?"
"oh! yes, father; and really happy. only for mother, who frets about me so much, i wouldn't care to be well again. sure, as father letheby says, i don't know but that something dreadful was in store for me; and that god, in his mercy, has just saved me."
"quite right! quite right! my child. and tell me now,—this strange gentleman,—has he ever asked you to pray for him?"
"he did, father. and i didn't like it at first; but father letheby said i should. and i have been saying a rosary for him every day since. and the last day he was here he asked me: 'now, alice, tell me the plain truth. are you glad this has happened you?' i hesitated for a moment, then i looked at the wounds of our lord, and i said firmly: 'i am.' and he said: 'do you believe god will give you back your beauty, and make it a hundred times greater in heaven for all you have suffered here?' and i said confidently: 'i do.' 'alice, my child, will you pray and pray strongly for me?' i said: 'i will, sir.' and he went away looking happy. but, you know, father, these are my good times, when i feel resigned and think god is using me for his own wise purposes; welcome be his holy will! but i am sometimes bad, and i get unhappy and miserable, and i ask myself: 'why did god do it? why did god do it?' and once i said to our blessed lady, when she looked so cold and stern,—i said—"
"what did you say, dear?"
"i said: 'if daddy dan was here, he wouldn't let you do it.'"
and the poor child smiled at her own childishness and simplicity.
"but that's not all, father. i have told no one but mother and you; but i'm all one running sore down to my feet, and the doctor said something about an operation the other day. sure, you won't allow that, daddy dan, will you?"
she was rolling one of the buttons in my sleeve round and round in her thin fingers, and looking wistfully at me.
"no, my child, no operation! you have gone through too much for that. but now cheer up, alice, it will all come right. some of these days you will see how our dear lord and his holy mother love you. why, don't you know, you little goose, that these are signs of your predestination? don't you remember all that you have learned about the saints, and how they prayed to be afflicted?"
"i do, daddy dan."
"and don't you remember all about those holy women that were marked with the wounds of our divine lord?"
"i do, daddy dan."
"very well! now you're one of them. the lord has made you his own. now, good by. i'll come to see you every day in future. but pray! pray! pray! won't you?"
"i will, daddy dan! will you come to-morrow?"
this was all very well; but i was as cross as a bear with a sore head, notwithstanding.
"wisha, then, mrs. moylan," i said, as i was leaving the house, "aren't you the mighty proud woman entirely, never to call in your parish priest, nor send him word about your poor child! what are we coming to, i wonder, when poor people are getting so much above themselves?"
"well, then, i didn't like to be troubling your reverence. and sure, i thought you knew all about it, and that father letheby told you."
"he didn't, then. you and he have kept it a great secret,—a great secret entirely. never mind. but tell me, is the poor child really resigned?"
"well, indeed she is, your reverence, excep' now and then, when the whole thing comes back to her. in fact, she's less trouble than when she was well. then nothing could please her. she was always grumblin' about her clothes, an' her food; and she was short and peevish. now she is pleased with everythin'. 't is 'whatever you like, mother;' or ''t is too good for me, mother;' or 'thank you kindly, mother,' until sometimes i do be wishing that she had some of the old sperrit, and take me short in her answers. but, sure, 't is all god's blessed and holy will. glory be to his holy name!"
i went back through the village again and called upon father letheby. he was just sitting down to dinner.
"i don't want to take away your appetite," i said, refusing the chair which he proffered; "but i am for the first time genuinely angry with you. i suppose you had your reasons for it; but you ought to know that a parish priest has, by every law, natural and canonical, the right to know about his sick or distressed poor people, and that a curate has no right to be keeping these things a secret from him. reticence and secretiveness are excellent things in their way; but this too may be overdone. i have just been down to mrs. moylan's to learn for the first time that her child has been sick for nearly two months. you knew it and you never told me. now, i'll insist for the future that a sick-call book shall be kept in the sacristy, and that the name of every patient, in the parish shall be entered there. good evening."
he flushed up, but said nothing.
i passed the chapel door and went in straight up to the altar of the blessed virgin.
"now," i said, "you've carried this entirely too far. is this the return i've got for all i've done for you for the past fifty years? think of all the rosaries i said for you, all the masses i offered for you, all the may devotions i established for you, all the brown scapulars i gave for you—all—all—and this is your return; and she your own child, that i thought was so like you. 'pon my word, i think i'll blow out that lamp and never light it again."
the mild, brown eyes looked down on me calmly, and then that queer thing called conscience, that jumps up like a jack-in-the-box when you least expect it, started at me and began:—
"what folly is this, father dan? do you think you know more than god and his blessed mother? do you? your head is so turned with heathen vanity that you think you ought to get the reins of the universe into your hands. here's your classics, and your spinoza, and your cappadocians, and your book-writing, and all your castles in the air, and your little children lying on their sick-beds and you knowing nothing about it. look sharp, old man, your time is at hand, and think what the judge may do with you when his hand presses so tightly on his little children."
i sat down to my dinner, but couldn't touch a bit. it was a nice little dinner, too,—a little roast chicken and a scrap of bacon and some nice floury potatoes. no use. the thought of that child would come before me, and her piteous cry: "oh, don't, dear lord, don't!" and, "sure you won't let him, mother; you said you wouldn't;" and with a great big lump in my throat i pushed aside the plate and went over to the darkening window.
after a time hannah came in, looked at the dishes, and looked at me.
"was there anything wrong with the chicken?" she said, thinking i was reflecting on her cookery.
"no, hannah, 't was all right; but i'm not in a humor for eating."
she was surprised. so was i. it was the first time for many years that i bolted. thank god, a good appetite and his divine grace have never deserted me.
"i'm thinkin' you're in for somethin'," she said. "and no wondher! i niver knew a man to timpt providence like you. will you have the hot wather, as you ate nothin'?"
"don't mind, hannah. i'll have a cup of tea by and by."
i sat down to the fire, looking into all its glowing crevices and crannies, thinking, thinking of many things. by and by, in came father letheby. he was subdued and deferential, but evidently very much hurt at my unaccustomed rudeness. he stood with his back to the fire, looking down on me, and he said, in his best sunday accent, smoothed and ironed:—
"i confess, sir, i am still quite at a loss to understand your rather—well—forcible remarks this evening. i can see, certainly, a great deal of reason in your irritation; and i am not at all disposed to contravene the principle that you have an indefeasible right to be acquainted with the sorrows and trials of your parishioners; but pardon me for saying it, i was only carrying out, perhaps too logically, your own reiterated teaching."
"look here," said i, "have you had your dinner?"
"yes, sir," said he.
"well, then, sit down, and have your coffee here. touch that bell."
he sat down, and somehow this took a lot of the starch out of him.
"you were saying something," said i, "about my teaching. when did i ever teach you to keep the most vital interests of these poor people a secret from me?"
"well," said he, balancing the sugar in his spoon over the cup, "if there was one lesson more than another that was continually dinned into my ears, it was: 'when a young man comes into a strange parish, he must be all eyes and ears, but no tongue,' and i think you quoted some grave authorities for that aphorism."
"quite so," i replied. "i think it is a most wholesome advice. for there never yet was a young man that was not disposed to think that he could run a parish better than all the pastors that lived for generations there. but did you understand me to say that we were never to talk over and discuss parochial affairs?"
"well, i confess," said he, "i did not. but you see, sir, your thoughts were running in quite another channel. you were interested in the classics and in literary matters."
"my conscience, my dear boy, has already made me aware of that, and in somewhat more forcible and less polite language than you have used. now, i admit that i have been a surly old curmudgeon this afternoon, and i am sorry for it; but hereafter, don't leave me in the dark any longer about my parishioners. it seems to me that, if we dropped our occasional uncharitableness about each other and our more occasional criticisms on our superiors, and addressed ourselves to the work god gives us to do in that limited circle he has drawn about us, it would be all the better."
"well, sir, i quite agree with you. but i must say that for the few months i have been here, i do not remember to have heard much uncharitableness about our brethren from you."
there now! how can you be angry with a fellow like that? the black cloud turned softly into gray, and the gray turned slowly round, and showed only the silver lining.
