^F-CAUFO^ ^OF-CALIFO/?^ k g I^/^M I* ^AavaaiH^ ^Aavaan-i %130NV-SO^ :IOS-ANCEI% <&UIBRARY0A % *? 1 and daring wickedness as sacrilege, or heresy, or even theft or manslaughter, he would not have been overcome in her presence with such a sense of utter nothingness. Even to be regarded as deserving of reproof would have been something ; but he recalled with bitterness that the priestly father fell into little naps while hearing his confessions, and never adjudged him to heavier pen- ances than the repetition of unlimited "Aves." A lion or a panther is more respectable than a worm, thought this dismal-minded boy ; and he wondered whether a great sinner does not come nearer the ele- vation of a great saint, than does a very small sinner. Moreover, he mournfully wished himself a traitor or a brigand, if thereby he might stand daringly con- fronting the holy sister, instead of crouching in ter- ror by the fire. Two tears rolled down his cheeks as GABRIELLE STREET. 13 he reflected that he was only a boy twelve years old, never greatly good nor greatly bad, and so less than the dust under the feet of Sister Saint Maria Felix. This state of mind might be primarily referred to the early instruction of his mother, who had done homage to her sister's sanctity, had spoken of her with awful reverence and had held up to Philip the reporting of his juvenile misdoings to Saint Maria as the severest punishment that could be inflicted. Memory recalled how on a luscious summer day he had played truant from school, and spent the idle hours in Guilbault's Gardens, seeing all the shows, feeding the portly white-breasted water-fowl, poking up the alligators that lay in the mud, swinging in the swings, whirling in the whirligigs, and playing "toss up" with three other naughty boys. He had even stayed at night to the dance, and drank a glass of beer. Thereafter had gone home weeping and penitent, and bribed his mother not to tell the holy aunt, by promising wonderful amendment. And now, alas ! his mother had died and left him to no one but this aunt, to whom he dared not open his lips on any subject. Meanwhile the holy aunt was busy at her prayers, and now that death had done away with the trivial difference in garb, the still figure on the bed looked more like a nun than Saint Maria. Maria had a 2 14 ALMOST A PRIEST. full, round, dark-skinned, dark-eyed face, that waa clearly displayed by the white folds about it. It was a kind, calm motherly countenance, far better suited to grace a fireside picture with little children for a foreground, than to be stiffly set in a solitary frame for the cloister. To do her justice she was not to blame for her nephew's reveries, and was not at all conscious of his indulging in them. Philip was the last of kin to Saint Maria, and she loved him, though she felt bound to hide her natural affection. The planning of mothers for their chil- dren, the castle-building of other women for the babes in their arms, this nun had known for Philip. She had no future for herself; she had one for him. He was a boy; he would become a -man, and might become a priest. It seemed almost desecration to think it, but holy Father Pope himself and all the long succession of worshipful cardinals, reverend bishops, and venerable confessors, had once been boys ; and, since that was so, Avhy might not this boy ascend the goodly line that to her was as Jacob's ladder reach- ing from earth to heaven and become a priest, a bishop, a cardinal, even the holy Pope ! As she prayed in the corner, Saint Maria thought on these things. She had become so adept at her usual prayers, that she could tell her rosary and think of something else at the same time. As the UABRIELLE STREET. 15 last bead fell from her fingers, she rose from her knees. Philip, with a deprecating glance at her, put some fuel on the dying fire. He was ashamed of being so earthly as to feel cold. Saint Maria gave another tender look at the body on the bed, a faint wish rising in her heart that her sister could be buried near her early home, could find her last narrow house under the skies that had smiled over her infancy. But Saint Maria had renounced these things ; she had no home but the convent, no country but the empire of the Papacy, no mother but the church, no relatives but the fraternity. She took a long dark wrap from a chair and folded it about her. " Are you afraid to stay here alone, Philip ?" He was, but was too proud to say it, so he replied that he could stay. " I will be back by and by," said the nun, and went out into the dark entry and groped her way down the stairs. She was used to cold and darkness, and had forgotten what it was to be afraid. She turned down Gabrielle street, finding the wind bitter and the snow deep, but plodding steadily on, came soon to the wharf where the wind had got the vic- tory over the snow, and had driven it away, leaving only scattered drifts. Sister Maria Felix held her head down, grasped her wrap firmly, kept her 16 ALMOST A PRIEST. footing despite the wind, and waded through the drifts with a dogged perseverance. Passing the long line of wharves, she turned up a street, got under the lee of some houses, came to a brick wall, and then to a gate overarched and having a gray stone cross above it, in the angles of which the snow was finding lodgment. At- this gate she stayed her steps anxl pulled a bell. It was a quarter of an hour before her ring got any answer, but she cowered close to the gate and waited with patience. An old man in a felt cloak unlocked the gate at last, and let her in. This aged gate-keeper was a pensioner. He gave her reverential greeting. She nodded accustomed to reverence and hurried across the court-yard to the doorway. There was a small fire in a little waiting-room, and she crouched close beside it. A sound of singing came to her from the chapel hymns of the Christmas time. *The superior, the nuns, the novices and pupils were worshiping before the high altar where lay a waxen babe on a dainty bed, watched by a waxen Virgin in a robe of silk. Saint Maria had been excused by her superior from attendance on this service, and presently went to her cell and lay down to sleep on a pallet very like that whereon her deceased sister was then lying. Next morning Saint Maria tapped at the door of GABRIELLE STREET. 17 the superior's private room, and being bidden to enter, she opened the door and knelt down just within. The superior was reading, but after a time lifted her eyes and motioned the nun to rise and ap- proach her. "She is dead," said Saint Maria. " Rest her soul ! We all must die I" " There is a boy twelve years old, not too old to enter our orphan school." " We have many orphans. What is he fit for?" " I had hopes that he might have a vocation be- come a priest." " More likely his vocation is for a coach-box, or a shoemaker's bench all boys are not to be priests. You can bring him here, and we shall see. Was there money for masses ?" " She had laid up twenty dollars in gold for the good of her soul what little else she had will pay for her funeral." " We shall have visitors on Christmas-day," said the superior. " Look to the wards, daughter Maria, and put the prettiest children at the sale cases. Are the walks cleared enough for our procession to show as it goes to the cathedral ?" Saint Maria thought the snow wonld not hinder the effect of the procession. " Go, daughter. Ah, stay, she was your sister ?" 2* B 18 ALMOST A PRIEST. "Yes, mother." " We will have a mass said for her benefit in the chapel." Sister Maria crossed her hands and dropped on one knee, the superior rapidly and rather indistinctly ran over a form of benediction, and the nun left her presence. The chapel was not far from the superior's room, and between the two doors of entrance was a table with a show-case upon it, the lid of which was lifted, displaying cushions, slippers, embroidery, trinkets of fanciful constructions, knit articles and lace work. Beside this case stood a nine-year-old child, dressed in black, with a white kerchief pinned over her shoulders. " What have you to say ?" asked Sister Maria. " Buy some of the sisters' work for the support of the orphans, and the aged sick !" said the child. " And if they ask who you are ?" " An orphan, with no friends but the sisters." " And what will you be w r heu you grow up ?" " A sister, to live a holy life, and do good." Sister Maria, having pulled the wires of this pup- pet enough for the time, went into the chapel to offer a prayer. The chapel was converted into a bower of evergreens, lights, and flowers for Christmas-day. It looked pretty enough to make visitors amiable and QABRIELLE STREET. 19 an alms-box stood near at hand to receive the benefit of the amiability. Through wards, schoolroom and nursery walked Sister Maria. In each sat a nun at work, never speaking, never looking up ; in each was the inevi- table show-case with the child beside it, and each child had some form of speech prepared for the ears of guests. At the schoolroom door Sister Maria was stopped and forced to stand one side. The procession from the nunnery to the cathedral was getting under way. First, two sisters then the orphan school two by two then two more sisters next, the old men pen- sioners, each with open prayer-book then more sis- ters, followed by the old women pensioners, each with open book a nun with an alms-box containing an offering for the cathedral another nun with a cruci- fix and lastly, a liberal supply of sisters, as sisters were plenty, closed the line of march. Sister Maria had been in the nunnery sixteen years, and had seen sixteen just such processions. Near the schoolroom was the nursery, and here was the oldest feminine pensioner with the young- est orphan, a year-old babe whose mother had died in a hospital. I think Sister Maria would have taken the little creature in her arms and kissed it, if she had dared, but she only looked 20 ALMOST A PRIEST. kindly at it, and bade a four-year-old orphan " make all the ladies buy something." Through the halls old men pensioners strolled in list slippers and gray coats. There was one particular old man, the janitor of the previous night, who always walked about reading his prayer-book in a half au- dible tone, and never passed a holy water basin without dipping his finger in it and signing himself with the cross. He was supposed to be a very im- pressive old man before heretical visitors, and, being ready to fill "any order however extensive" for de- votion, was in great demand. Indeed " religion " of a certain stamp was the particular quality of this establishment; everything smacked of it; religion pervaded the air a sort of religion that appealed to and touched the senses. Over every ward-door was a saint's name "St. Lazarus," "St. Elizabeth," "St. Barnabas," " St. Papin," etc. Did not one recall the length of the Romish Saint's Calendar one would be quite surprised at the number of saints that were found to be invoked. The institution as a whole was devoted to Mary, having this inscription carved in stone over the front door, "Maria Sanctissima Favete." Over the chapel-door was " I. H. S," on a cross, and " Ave Maria." Sister Maria Felix finished the rounds. Every- thing was in order every bed well made up, every QABRIELLE STREET. 21 window polished, every pensioner and orphan in place. The pensioner who had no feet, and was ever elaborately displaying his stumps as he sat making fish-nets, was at his work. The old pensioner, who made lace on a pillow with pins and little bobbins, was at work also. Two or three pensioners were praying in the chapel ; we cannot answer for its be- ing a rule of the place, but some few were always in the chapel at their prayers. Coming through the main hall a young woman in a cap running noise- lessly and swiftly along fell on her knees before Sis- ter Maria, and in an instant was running on again. She was a postulant, and was hastening to answer the ringing of the superior's bell. As Sister Maria had been stopped at the school- room by one procession, she was hindered before the main door by another, a procession of men-servants and maid-servants and drapers and grocers' boys bringing baskets or bundles, Christmas gifts to the holy order of Franciscan Sisters at their " House of Charity." The baskets contained like the spider's pantry " good store of all that's nice," designed for the Christmas feast in the refectory. The bundles had material that would during the year be made up for clothing, bedding, etc., for the House of Charity. The pensioners, especially Ambrose the devout, re- ceived the baskets with humble thanks and profuse 22 ALMOST A PRIEST. blessings, and passed them along the halls to be set out duly by a novice, two postulants and nine old women on the refectory tables. To keep the novice, two postulants and nine old women in order, a sister sat making paper-flowers in a corner, but she neither spoke nor looked up. This Franciscan " House of Charity" was a show- case on a grand scale. From attic to cellar, from arched front gateway to high back wall, from sacristy to nursery, it was gotten up for the reception and delec- tation of curious visitors. The front door and the front gate were kept locked, but otherwise there was an air of freedom from restraint, an apparent candor and openness that was on the outside very refreshing. Having seen that this peculiar air and appearance were in full freshness, Saint Maria Felix summoned Saint Pauline Anna from her cell to accompany her to Gabrielle street ; not that she was in need of com- panionship but because it was the rule of the house for the nuns to go out in twos, never singly, except by special permission, which had been granted to Sister Maria for the evening before. Had these been two ordinary women walking to- gether to the house of death, the deceased a sister to one of them, there would have been between them a subdued flow of conversation, dwelling on the early life, characteristics and last illness of the departed. GABRIELLE STREET. 23 There would have been a tender mourning and re- gretting from one, a respectful sympathizing from the other. But there was nothing of this between these " sisters." They moved on in perfect silence. Never having studied the Bible, they had never learned the Christian rule, " Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ." Sister Pauline Anna had no idea of bearing Sister Maria Felix' burden, why should she? These sisters knew very well that the Church ordained them to "run in couples" that one might be a watch and a restraint upon the other, and this knowledge did not tend to mutual confidence. Besides, there was a little matter of five hundred dol- lars between them, which Saint Pauline at least could not forget. Sister Maria Felix had brought a dowry of two thousand dollars to the altar, when she be- came the bride of Heaven, and Sister Pauline under the same circumstances brought but fifteen hundred ; therefore Sister Pauline thought the other was pre- ferred before her. Gabrielle street did not appear particularly jubilant on Christmas-day. The narrow walks had been shoveled out in a slovenly fashion ; piles of snow lay in nooks and corners and hung over doorways, as just ready to drop on any intruder's head ; the milk- wagon had ploughed one track down the middle of the street ; a dog on the step of the lock and key 24 ALMOST A PRIEST. depdt whined for its breakfast, and a cat scratched on the laundry window. As the two nuns went up stairs in the house Sister Maria had left near midnight, a door on the second floor opened and a woman came curtseying out. " The key's here, and the boy's asleep on me lounge. I gave him his breakfast, poor lad, and I lighted a small fire up above, but not much." The nuns took the key and went up the next stair- way. Sister Pauline's first movement was to help herself to a chair by the fire. Sister Maria Felix looked at the body and sighed. She then opened a trunk and a chest of drawers and seemed to make an inventory of their contents. She opened the cup- board and peered in, then looked out of the window and saw Father Arnholm coming down the street. Father Arnholm soon entered stamping and shiv- ering, took the chair Sister Pauline vacated for him, threw what fuel was in the box on the fire, and vouchsafed to ask where the boy was. The boy was down stairs, and it was not thought worth while to bring him up to listen while his future was decided. It was speedily ordained that he was to be taken to the House of Charity, and there fashioned into what- ever should be seen fit. The funeral was to be the next morning at the church of the Madonna, where the dead woman had worshiped for sixteen years. QAERIELLE STREET. 25 There would be a hearse and three carriages Father Arnholm and Philip in one, Saints Maria and Pau- line in the next, and whatever neighbors chose to go in the third. Sister Maria Felix then took from the trunk a little moleskin bag, and counted out twenty dollars in gold into Father Arnholm's hand. This had been saved by much pinching, overwork and underfeeding by the dead devotee, to pay for masses for her soul. Father Arnholm took the gold in one hand and rat- tjed it down slowly into the other, his head, always a little on one side, bent lower yet to listen to the music of the clinking coin. Then he rose and walked about the room, kicked his heel into the old carpet to discover its thinness, pinched the table-cover to decide its quality, shook a chair by its back, jarred the chest of drawers, looked into closet and trunk, and having finished his exam- ination, told Sister Maria he would send a second- hand dealer there, and she was to let everything go at such a price, which he concluded would bury the dead and set up her gravestone ; the clock and a few ornaments on the mantle were relics of better days, and of some worth, and in the closet were a dozen of thin silver spoons; the priest charged Sister Maria to take no less than he named, and went away. The two nuns then began to read certain prayers 26 ALMOST A PRIEST. for the dead, and continued reading until interrupted by the dealer in second-hand goods. It was curious to see how exactly he examined the articles to be sold as the priest had done, so that one would wonder whether the dealer had taken lessons of the priest, or the priest of the dealer, or whether it is a way natural to some high order of the mercantile genius. So nearly did the minds of these two great men run in one channel that the dealer's first offer was only two dollars less than the priest had named. Sister Maria Felix now laid down her prayer-book, rose up and made him in soft monotone an oration calculated to raise his terms, by arguments based on the value of clock and mantle ornaments. He rose one dollar. Sister Pauline Anna now laid down her prayer- book, rose and in soft monotone made another address calculated to raise the offer of the dealer still higher by subtile deductions drawn from the value of silver spoons. He rose one dollar more, attaining the level of Father Arnholm. The sisters sat down satisfied and referred him to the father for the conclusion of the business. Then they fell to reading prayers again : but Sister Pauline thought of the festival- dinner in the refectory, and began to grow hungry, her appetite being no whit lessened by the reflection GABR IELLE . STREET. 27 that said dinner consisted largely of Protestant tur- keys, Protestant tarts, and Protestant plumcake, which Protestants had sent in as tokens of their high appre- ciation of the notable excellence of the House of Charity. Down stairs the woman who had taken in Philip was watching the cooking of her Christinas dinner, meanwhile conversing with a widowed neighbor, like herself a Romanist, whom she had invited to share it. " When will the funeral be ?" asked the widow. " To-morrow, most like that's the third day. I wish his Reverence had had it sooner ; but the soul must be in purgatory that long before masses begin." As the woman said this a stifled sobbing came from the lounge where Philip Lester lay. " What is the matter, me boy?" said the woman. " Is my mother, my poor sweet mother, in pur- gatory?" cried Philip, lifting a white terrified face from the pillow, and striving in boyish pride to hush his sobs. " Say, is she burning in that awful place all this while when she was so good and so kind and had so much trouble ?" The words came in short, quick gasps. "Oh, mother! mother! you mustn't be there take her out, take her out!" his voice rising to a wild cry in his terror. " Whist now, boy," said the widow ; " don't take 28 ALMOST A PRIEST. on so ; she'll be out one of these days if there's masses said enough, and sure there will be. It's bad, to be sure, dreaming of our friends in purgatory I mind how I felt it when me man died but it is what we've all got to come to, and after the fires there's the glory if nothing fails in the getting out and sure there won't this time she was a good Catholic, peace be with her and isn't your aunt a nun ?" " Oh, but she musn't be there, no, not now how can I live with my mother burning in purgatory ? she cried, when I burnt my finger, and I can't let her stay there !" " Bad luck to our tongues ! the boy'll go crazy," muttered the woman. " Come, lad," said the widow, " to talk against pur- gatory, and say she sha'n't stay there, is to set your- self against the holy Church, and that will never do. It's for our good like many another thing that ain't pleasant. Say your prayers and that will help her out sooner than talking." " Will it ? will saying my rosary help her ?" " Be sure it will, here it is fast to your neck," said the widow, loosing the beads. " Leave them a bit, and come to dinner, it is just ready," said the hostess. "I can't eat while my mother's there oh, why don't the Virgin take her out? I'll say my rosary GABRIELLE STREET. 29 over here by the window. Go on and eat. I can't Oh, mother, mother." A little girl here came in to borrow a bit of tea. " What are you doing?" she asked Philip. " Praying," said Philip ; " each bead is a prayer." "To Jesus?" asked the child. "No, to our lady. See here; there are fifteen 'Meditations/ and for each one we say one 'Our Father/ ten 'Hail Marys/ and one 'Gloria' in all, fifteen 'Our Fathers' and one hundred and fifty 'Hail Marys.' I don't say but five 'Our Fathers' and fifty 'Hail Marys' generally, but now my mother is dead and and and " and Philip was sobbing again. " Don't cry, she's gone to God in heaven," said the girl. "No, no, she isn't she's burning oh, oh, mo- ther!" The widow put the paper of tea in the girl's hand and gently pushed her from the room. " Poor child, she's a Protestant, poor little heathen, she don't know anything praying to Jesus ! and going to heaven! poor little sinner!" So mur- mured the good neighbor, as she cut her Christmas pie. Doleful Christmas-day, mournful anniversary for Philip of His birth who came to save sinners. Then 30 ALMOST A PRIEST. first was it brought home to the boy that souls are not saved by their Saviour's death, but left to burn in fire, until the Church be slowly prevailed upon to let them go to the mansions he founded in his blood. Agonizing in heart for his mother's suffering soul, Philip Lester said his rosary over and over. The nuns had gone, the dinner was finished ; over ' Hail Marys' still he mumbled on, until fasting, weariness and sorrow sharp and new overcame him quite, and he fell fainting on the floor rosary in hand. The funeral was next day. Philip had been at funerals before, but how much more solemn, tender and touching was this one. The life where his life had been kindled, the heart whose pulses had been shared with his, the hands that had tended, the eyes that had smiled, the feet that had never grown weary in his service, the lips whose every syllable had been a benediction all more precious in this extreme hour of parting were being buried from his sight for ever. To the mournful wailing of the Litany for the dead, to the cry " Be merciful, spare them, hear them : From evil, from thy \vrath, from flame of fire, from region and shadow of death, O Lord, deliver them," his quivering heart gave answer; and with stiff dry lips he strove to murmur the adjuration to twenty-two saints and orders as Martyrs, Bishops GABR1ELLE STREET. 31 and Confessors to supplement what was lacking to the mighty power of God. The requiem mass was said, and the opened grave received the coffined sleeper to a mornless rest. The rattling clods of frozen earth fell upon the narrow bed, and seemed to fall also on Philip's chill heart. With the first of those ominous sounds a shiver ran through Sister Maria Felix's frame. She drew her black veil closer, and, when the grave was filled, took her nephew's hand and slowly turned away. At this same hour in the small but wealthy town of Northville, lying some one hundred and twenty miles away, they were laying the rich man of the village, Henry Courcy, in a new vault. The towns- people, in a long train of carriages, followed him to his burial whispering in decent undertone that " his property was an unincumbered half-million at least, well invested, all to go at last to his daughter what a pity only one heir for a property that might have given good fortunes to half a dozen children !" CHAPTER II. SIS TUBS' SCHOOLS VERSUS COMMON SCHOOLS. Saint Maria Felix, returning from the funeral of her sister, brought her nephew to the House of Charity, she committed him to Ambrose the devout, to be shown all the wonders of the place. She desired to divert the boy's mind from its morbid musings on purgatory, to make him feel at home in the new dwelling ; and as the house was to Maria the sum of all perfection, and was made wholly to be seen, she desired him to see and admire. As they passed from room to room, Ambrose said BO many prayers, knelt so many times, and addressed himself so frequently to the holy water, that Philip was suitably impressed with his piety, and ventured to question him on the subject that was pressing so heavily on his mind. "Ambrose, how long do you think my mother will have to stay in purgatory ?" "Was she a good Catholic?" " Oh, yes, indeed !" " And was there any money for masses ?" "Oh, a whole pile of gold." 32 SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 33 1 She'll get out pretty soon then, likely. Say your prayers and don't fret over it. All good Christians have to go there, and I suppose it isn't so bad when one's used to it." Philip shuddered. "The picture of it, Ambrose, is so horrible people twisting and stretching out their hands from such great red flames." " Most likely those souls in the picture were here- tics, not Catholics." " BulP it is said under it pray for the souls burning in purgatory, and are we to pray for heretics ?" "No, indeed; let 'em burn, it's their own fault. Most likely your mother's out now, or will be to- morrow. Come, I'll show you the chapel. I don't believe there is another like it in the country." As Ambrose spoke he opened the chapel-door. The great altar-piece faced them, and at first in its beauty seemed to fill the room with itself, as sunlight. Am- brose at once knelt, pressing Philip down with him. Philip had been often brought to this house to visit his aunt when he was a young child ; but of late years these visits had ceased, and he had no recollec- tion of this chapel. As he repeated a Hail Mary, he kept his eyes fixed on the picture. It was the first great painting he had ever seen. It represented Mary with the serpent beneath her feet, her face uplifted, and angels gathered about her in lowly adoration. 34 ALMOST A PRIEST. Ambrose rose and went half way down the aisle; then knelt again. Philip still gazing bowed readily. He was in a trance of admiration. When they reached the steps of the altar and knelt for the third time, the boy was carried away in an ecstasy of sen- suous worship. Ambrose was going through an old form and praying thinking of what impression he made ; but Philip, lost to all thought of self, prayed to the picture with a passionate yearning over its wonderful loveliness. To him it opened all heaven. It woke a new taste. Here was a Mary which he could adore waking with tireless ardor, which could fill his sleeping fancies. Heaven and Deity, things so far away and intangible that they were for ever slipping from him, lost in wonderings and question- ings, were now realities. Mary was heaven, Mary was divinity. "Whatever else he lost, or failed to understand, here was an object for his thoughts, a shrine for all his devotion. It was some time before Ambrose could turn the boy's attention to anything but the altar-piece. At last he drew htm toward a recess divided from the chapel by a low railing, and furnished with benches. Against the wall of this recess was a sort of stall, on the closed door of which in gilt letters was the name of Father Arnholm ; and the stall was flanked by two little doorless cells, with a stool for kneeling, and SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 35 a square of lattice-work supposed to be at the ear of the reverend occupant of the stall. This was the confessional, and it was arched by a black semicircle bearing the words " Whose soever sins ye remit they are remitted," written in English and in Latin. Directly opposite this recess was another of equal size, devoted to the shrine of Mary. At the little gate in the railing was a box, having on its lid the words "Give to Mary of seven sorrows." Philip felt as if he would be willing to coin himself body and soul and be presented here as an offering, and thus the boy was carried away in a passion of mari- olatry. This shrine was a singular piece of work- manship, a triumph of baptized paganism. Frag- ments of rocks partly covered with lichens were piled up to represent Calvary ; the rocks were sur- mounted with a cross ; a full-sized image of Mary in colored statuary, sat at the foot of the cross, holding her dead Son in her lap, and below her feet knelt twin cherubs, pointing to the inscription on the wall overhead, "Behold thy mother!" Thus the dying words of that matchless Son and Saviour to the be- loved disciple were perverted to apply to every per- son approaching the shrine. This statuary jarred on Philip's excited feelings. Like all colored sculpture, it was ghastly rather than lovely; and from the haggard and painted face at 36 ALMOST A PRIEST. the foot of the cross, Philip turned to the exultant, enraptured countenance over the altar. There was the Mary for him ! That night, when Philip with the rest of the boys of the orphan school was laid down in the dormitory set apart for them, Ambrose having a bed near the door, Philip thought more of the picture of the Queen of heaven, and less of the doubts that hung over his mother's present happiness and safety. Joshua Huntington has blessed Romish literature with a book entitled a "Life Journey from New Eng- land Congregationalism, to the One Catholic Apos- tolic Church ;" and Philip lay sleeping in the dor- mitory of the House of Charity, because his grand- mother had made such a journey, and had taken her descendants along with her. This grandmother had died just about the time her journey between these two diverse creeds was completed. She was a feeble woman and the exertion of the change had probably proved over-fatiguing. She left two daughters whom she had seen baptized and confirmed; gave orders for them to go to the convent of the Franciscan Sis- ters as pupils, and also wished them to become nuns. If but one fulfilled her wish, that one was to have the little fortune of two thousand dollars to bi'ing as her offering to the church. The girls were fifteen and seventeen years of age when they entered the SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 37 convent, not too early for the elder to have already had a little romance of her own. Before her mo- ther's death, she had learned to prefer a young clerk named Frederick Lester to a life in a nunnery. It thus fell out that after two years the younger sister, taking vows and the money, went to the convent, and Charlotte the elder brought her mother's little house- hold property as her sole dowry to Frederick Lester. At first there had been success, money, servants and an easy life. Charlotte Lester venerated her consecrated sister, but did not regret her own choice. After success came loss, discouragement, sickness and widowhood. Charlotte took refuge in Gabrielle street, and lived by the labor of her hands. She grew morbid, life looked dark, and with her venera- tion for Sister Maria Felix was mixed a little envy at her more tranquil lot. Priests harassed her by representing her sorrows as God's vengeance on her for refusing her vocation. She remembered her hus- band, she looked upon her boy, and could not wish the past undone, yet her heart was burdened with doubt, she was melancholy, painfully rigid in all re- ligious observances, a loving, over-anxious mother. Her life had been she thought a failure and it was a failure inasmuch as she had not been allowed hon- estly to choose and bravely to follow her aims, but had been kept for ever uncertain and half regretful 38 ALMOST A PRIEST. and at last, worn out with the uncomforted strife, she died. Could such a history be envied? "We say not; but Sister Maria Felix, wearying secretly of the yearly sameness of the cloister, having nothing to love and nothing to hope for, looked at her sister's child and sometimes wished she had made her sister's choice. She never framed the wish so plainly that it was brought with her other sins to the confessional ; but when it came she put it away as quickly as possible, and lest it should get a dwelling and a name in her heart, she saw even less of her sister than she need have done, and held back any outward tokens of affection from her and from the boy. All this was over now. The scattered fragments of that house- hold-life which had existed before the "Journey" began were now gathered in the "House of Char- ity" -just Philip and Sister Maria Felix. There was a schoolroom for the orphans, Sister Pauline Anna was the teacher, and Philip was num- bered among her pupils. It took him the time be- tween Christmas and New Year's day, to learn that in Pauline Anna's domain whispering was not ob- jected to, making pictures and playing puzzle on slates was up to the ordinary tone of schoolroom eti- quette, and scuffling with feet was the general rule. The classes extended clear across the room, and with SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 39 heads thrust In all positions, arras, shoulders and feet exhibited at the will of their owners, presented the elegant regularity of a stump fence. " Don't know" was an answer indifferently received by the teacher ; and giving back books, getting lessons over, and be- ing kept after hours, the order of every day. New Year's Day was a holiday, a day when many visitors were expected, and when everything was dis- played at the best advantage. Ambrose had a clean collar, his book opened at a well-thumbed page, a new pair of slippers on his feet, and his countenance admirably touched with humility and gratitude. Philip, having nothing to do, followed Ambrose about for the sake of seeing the visitors he piloted through the building, and of hearing the remarks he made. During the day he was enlightened by Ambrose in the following fashion. " I suppose," said a lady visitor, glancing down a long ward and seeing here a shrine and there a saint's picture, "that all your patients are Roman Catholics?" " The sisters are very liberal the institution is devoted to charity," said Ambrose, dipping his finger in a little china dish of holy water, " and if a per- son is poor and sick, that is all they ask they take them in without question of religion." " But once in, they are expected to conform to your observances ?" 40 ALMOST A PRIEST. " If any one desires to see a Protestant clergyman she is at liberty to do it, he will be sent for/' said Ambrose, making the sign of the cross. " Did you ever know one to come here ; did you ever know a Protestant clergyman to be sent for?" persisted the lady. "I'm a humble son of the holy Church," said Ambrose, his eyes seeking his prayer-book, " and to do my duty and repent of my own sins is all that I find time for, without attending to the faults of the other pensioners." "Then you cannot mention any clergyman that you have seen here ?" " I see my own priest if the lady desires to know further, she can ask a Protestant patient." " Will you point me out one ?" " I do not know them they are taken in, and I do not ask of their belief I wait on all as I am bid." " That man in this bed for instance ?" " Madam can ask." Madam did ask and found him a Catholic. The next was a German, who could not speak English. The third was deaf. Madam ceased asking. "What is the tuition in the school?" "Madam," said Ambrose, in a deprecatory tone, SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 41 " there is no tuition the holy sisterhood works not for money, but for love of charity our children are all orphans gathered into the bosom of the Church." At the door of a great room, in which many old wo- men pensioners were working, and at different tables sisters were cutting, basting and dealing out work, Ambrose stopped. " No one is idle ; all work ; that old woman pensioner who can do nothing but spin you see her yonder last year she made a hundred pounds of yarn." " And does this work support the institution ?" Ambrose shook his head, "So great charity costs much; the subscription paper of the house is at Fitch's music store; visitors give money in our boxes; we have many presents; but what is all that? See what the holy sisters give themselves, and all they have." Saint Maria Felix passed the door, and Ambrose added, " There is a holy sister who gave all her fortune to the Church." A gentleman visitor after such remarks as these laid his hand on Ambrose's shoulder, and said, " It seems to me, you are a big strong fellow to be here as a pensioner ; you are hardly sixty yet ?" " I came here very ill," said Ambrose. " But you are bravely over it ; why burden these charities any longer?" " I am giving myself to prayer and penitence for 4 42 ALMOST A PRIEST. the sins of my youth/' said Ambrose, interrupting his reply to bow and whisper a prayer at a shriue. " I shall spend my old age serving the Church ; prayer and penance are the duties of old men." " Here," continued Ambrose, "is the sacristy. This is the convent library," and he pointed to some hun- dred dingy volumes ranged on a small set of swinging shelves in one corner. In the sacristy were a high stool, a locked desk, a cylinder stove, and a cloudy smoky picture of the Immaculate Conception, before which Ambrose stood praying while the guest turned over the books. As Ambrose prayed, Philip, stand- ing in the door, saw that one eye twisted into the corner of its lid in a remarkable manner and watched the visitor at the library. " That is our charity-box," said Ambrose with a little groan. He need not have thus introduced it, for " Give to our poor !" was over it in large letters ; ho\vever, when it was thus brought to his notice the gentleman twisted up a bank-note and dropped it in the hole in the lid. Again Philip detected the watching eye, and a thought shot through his brain, that, if Ambrose had a sufficiency of such notes, he would return with avidity to the so-frequently-meu- tioned " sins of his youth." Ambrose threw open the door of a closet-like room, which was filled with paper flowers, tall bouquets in SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 43 pots, great imitation rose-bushes, small bunches in vases, wreaths and single sprays in profusion. " The work of the sisterhood," said Ambrose. "They make them for sale ; they are bought for shrines and churches, and the money goes to the poor." We wonder if one of the poor that the money went to was Father Aruholm. The visitor going out of the arched gateway almost ran over this reverend father, pacing up and down the walk reading his missal in the keen January air it was one of Father Arnholm's ways of advertising his office. Monday morning Philip was in the schoolroom. Devotions occupied an hour, and catechism an hour. " Arithmetic class !" said Sister Pauline Anna. A long line of scholars twisted and wriggled them- selves into place, and a motion communicated at one end of the line by a kindly exchange of pin-pricks extended in a sudden jerk, giggle and eager look through the entire length. " Tables !" cried Sister Pauline" six times one !" A voice began at each end of the class. " Six times one is six I'm 'head !" said Maggie McGuire, a red-pated damsel. " You ain't," cried Pat Maloney his black locks standing erect as in indignation at the daring assump- tion of Maggie" I'm 'head." 44 ALMOST A PRIEST. "Sister Pauline, I was 'head yesterday," said Maggie. " Well, then let Pat be 'head to-day," said Sister Pauline, tranquilly looking up from her tatting shuttle. " Six times six !" " That ain't fair !" cried Maggie. " Be quiet, Maggie, or you will have to do a pen- ance in the chapel." Maggie put her finger in her mouth, and turned her face to the wall, inconsolable. Pat recited "sixes," Sister Pauline taking up the book to fol- low him after the first three. At this Philip winked at his neighbor, and his neighbor, not seeing the point, dropped a fragment of slate-pencil down Philip's back to increase the jollity of the occasion. When the table of six had been repeated by twenty pupils, Maggie was reached. " Sixes, Maggie," said Saint Pauline. " I ain't reciting," said Maggie. " Class dismissed. Maggie, go stand by the pillar in the middle of the room with a book on your head." " Reading class !" and one after another three classes blundered through their reading. This week there were frequent passages at arms between Sister Pauline and Philip. SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 45 " Philip, you are not studying." " Nothing to study." " Your tables." " Knew 'em two years ago." " The reading lesson." " Read in higher books last year." " How much is nine times nine ?" " Eighty-one." " Nine times twelve ?" " One hundred and eight." " Yes," said Sister Pauline, after a little meditation. " Why can't I study grammar and philosophy ? I have studied them," said Philip, plaintively. " You mustn't set yourself above the other pupils," said Sister Pauline. " This is an orphan school, and you must learn what orphans ought." "Why oughtn't they to learn as much as other folks?" "You are a wicked boy to ask such questions. You must go do a penance." "What penance?" " Go say nine ' Hail Marys' in the chapel." " Oh, good," said Philip. " I wish you'd keep me at that all the time." That evening Sister Pauline presented herself before the superior, whose name was Mother Denny. Having done reverence on her knees, and been per- 46 ALMOST A PRIEST. mitted to rise, she said she could not do anything in school with Philip Lester. " He knows enough and too much already." " He is not very old." "Only twelve but he wants to study grammar and philosophy." " How comes it that he has got to such a pass as that?" queried the superior, as if discussing some early and astonishing development of natural de- pravity. " He has been allowed to run about to all sorts of schools," said Sister Pauline. " If his mother had been a good Catholic, or had had pious relatives to do their duty by her, she would have kept him at sisters' schools." Here was a side thrust at Sister Maria. "And he has learned all that we teach in our schools?" " So he says ; and he knows all his lessons without studying, which is very troublesome, and a bad ex- ample to the other children. It might be well to apprentice him to a shoemaker. He has a wonderful faculty for wearing out his shoes, and kicks his toes into the walks without reflecting that he is an orphan brought up by charity." Here was another hit at Saint Maria Felix, whose secret hopes Saint Pauline had shrewdly guessed. SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 47 " I will lay the matter before Father Arnholm," said the superior. " To-morrow you can give him the catechism for mass, and make him learn it be- tAveen recitations." Pursuant to this recommendation, Philip was next day relieved for a time of the duty of shooting his neighbors with paper balls and the like. " Spelling class/' called Sister Pauline, and all her older pupjls sprang to the middle of the room, shouldering and elbowing stoutly for places. " Children, be quiet !" said Sister Pauline, who had her book open in her lap, and was hemming ruffles. The children were not quiet, but continued strik- ing with the shoulder so briskly, that Victor Valse upset Biddy Morgan. Here the gentle saint's patience was exhausted, as there was ample reason it should be, and she straight- ened Victor by his ear, led Maggie to her place by a lock of her red hair, and cuffed Pat Maloney with the spelling-book. Order thus achieved, she put forth the word " Believe." " B e, be, 1 e v e !" said Maggie. " That's wrong ! B e, be, 1 e i v e," cried Victor. "Be 1 e v," chimed Biddy; and while both Victor and Biddy rushed prematurely after Maggie's place, Philip's voice rose over the din, "Believe!" " He's right !" cried Pat Maloney, who had peeped 48 ALMOST A PRIEST. into his book. " Come out of there !" and he grasped Victor's coat-tail to make him give way to Philip. "Order!" said Sister Pauline. "Philip, go to your seat, you spelled out of your turn." " He ought to go 'head ; he spelled right," said Pat. " He did not study his lesson ; if he had been to decent schools he would have had to study this morn- ing he cannot go 'head for knowing without study. Victor may stay 'head for he is nearest right. Now, Victor, spell believe, and put your i before the e." " I want Philip to spell if I have to," said Pat Maloney. He wanted Philip because Philip benev- olently prompted him. " Patrick, you must do a penance for rebellion and impertinence. Go now." " Give me a long one so I needn't come back to spelling class." "You must go kiss the floor three times, and say ' O my good angel/ and so on, each time." Pat made a wry face, but went as ordered, knelt with his back to the sister, put his knees close to- gether, and, thus sheltered, laid a fragment of paper on the floor to receive his kisses. The disengaged pupils saw this and laughed in chorus. There are strong efforts making now in various cities in the United States to divert part of the com- mon school fund to the exclusive use of Roman SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 49 Catholics, and these have in a measure succeeded. There is also a strong effort to put the Roman Cath- olics in possession of the public schools, by appoint- ing Catholic Directors and Committeemen, therefore catholic teachers. We would suggest to American citizens what an admirable thing it will be to see all our schoolrooms supplied with such judicious teach- ers as Sister Pauline ; what an advantage to our chil- dren to receive such discipline, drill, and education as this ; what wisdom, to divert a large portion of the public school fund to the support of just such schools as this in the House of Charity, where chil- dren may be educated away from all possibility of being intelligent citizens and wisely discriminating voters. How is the future good of this Republic regarded and the interest of its sons conserved when the school taxes are used for destroying instead of upbuilding good schools ! when bad schools are nour- ished at the expense of better! when Protestant min- isters and church members pay taxes into the pockets of priests and sisters ! and when the children of these ministers and church members are calmly handed over by "the public" to nuns for instruction! As Uzzah fell under the destroying bolt of heaven when he laid his hand profanely on the Ark of God, so ought every hand to wither, and every brain to reel, that desecrates the sacred Ark of our liberties, 50 ALMOST A PRIEST. the mind-fostering, God-fearing, and Bible-reading school system of the United States of America. A postulant in a white cap entered the schoolroom, knelt hastily to Saint Pauline according to rule, and gave the superior's order that Philip Lester should come to her. The postulants hated this kneeling to Sister Pauline, as she always regarded -them with a grim triumph. Sister Maria Felix on the contrary gave them a gentle approbative glance, which almost recompensed them for the humiliation. In Mother Denny's room was Father Arnholm. Philip bowed low to both the priest and the superior, with an ease and refinement in which his mother had carefully trained him, and which at once pleased the two people before whom he now stood. " Philip," said Father Arnholm, " why is it that you have got so far beyond Sister Pauline's school ?" " Because, reverend Father, I have been to better schools," said Philip with innocent frankness. " Have you not been to our parochial schools ?" " Sometimes, father." " And why not always ?" "Because I got tired of bothering always over the same thing, and I wanted to get ahead faster, and go farther than those schools take a fellow." "That was unfortunate, son Philip." "Why don't those schools teac^h more like the SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 61 other ones ? I know a good many boys who leave them just because they want to learn more." "They must be satisfied with what the Church teaches. I have forbidden the children of my parish to go any more to schools which are only dens of devils. This morning," added Father Arnholm, " I went into one of the public schools, when they were having what they call 'worship,' and bade the Catholics rise from their seats and cast their vile Tes- taments on the floor." "And they obeyed you surely," said Mother Denny. "Obeyed! they trembled at my look!" cried the priest, his voice rising in anger, " had they dared do otherwise, I would have sunk them all in per- dition." " Those wicked schools !" said Mother Denny, be- tween her teeth. " They are fish for our net," said the priest, " we are setting our seine properly, and by and by we shall drag them all in, and then let the fool Protestants grind their teeth." As he spoke, the priestly German's mouth widened a little toward his ears, and his eyes rolled up to a corner of the ceiling that was his way of laughing. Had he any right to laugh ? 52 ALMOST A PRIEST. Witness One hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars given to the Papal College at Rome.* Witness The appropriations from the school fund for Papal Hospital and Asylum schools. Witness A public school with every teacher a Romanist.f " And now, Philip, what is to be done with you ? Have you learned the mass catechism set you to- day?" said Father Arnholm. Philip pulled the little book from his pocket, handed it to the priest, and began rattling over ques- tion and answer at a lively rate. " So much learned to-day, Philip ?" " I like to learn." " And Sister Pauline says you like penances." " When they are prayers to our lady in the chapel. Oh, how I love our lady's picture she has heaven in her face I could look all day !" " Good boy, you are no heretic," said Father Arn- holm. "A heretic!" Philip's lip curled. To him a here- tic was all that was mean and contemptible. He had * (a) See Appendix of " Priest and Nun," p. 523. (6) See circu- lar published at Bible-House, N. Y., by the " League." f For such instances notice the schools of Shakopee, Wis. (see Pres. Monthly), one also in Illinois, another in New York, and indeed the list might be greatly increased. SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 53 heard the priest utter the word as a terra of the greatest reproach, and he did not consider that the wisest and most powerful people about him were heretics. Heresy was what he had been educated to loathe. To be a Romanist was a sort of title of no- bility to the most debased; but heresy would drag an archangel from the heavenly heights. Father Arnholm marked the flashing eye and the curling lip. Here was a boy of ardent feeling and good ability. Mind as well as money is what Rome wants. The boy might become what is rare an able and thoroughly in earnest priest. Then the remembrance that the boy could not become a man in a moment, and what choke-damp of example and training he must pass through to reach the priest- hood it was not likely that he would reach it lov- ing, ardent and faithful changed the current of Fa- ther Arnholm's thoughts. " We must find something for you to do, since you are too wise for our school," said Father Arnholm. " I wish I might learn Latin." said Philip. "That would make a bad matter worse, as you would only be wiser still. We must try and appren- tice you. Meanwhile you need not go to school, but you may wait on the reverend mother here, dust the chapel, and read what you can find in the sacristy." Saint Pauline was both glad to be rid of Philip, 5 54 ALMOST A PRIEST. and angry that Saint Maria Felix had a nephew too wise for her to teach. " A priest does she want him to be !" said Saint Pauline, " she is very fond of priests ! We shall see how she turns out ; she was no true Catholic when she was a postulant I remember she ate bread and jelly on fast day, and stole cream out of the pantry ; and she has allowed this boy to go with heretics ; I hope she is not watching for your shoes, mother." Mother Denny smiled. She knew Saint Pauline's disposition; but Saint Pauline was in some things as Mother Denny's right hand ; she was the general spy and tale-bearer of the institution ; she noticed if any sister slipped a bit of bread in her pocket at meals, if any one broke the vow of poverty by con- fiscating a stray needle or pin, if any sister's book was upside down at prayers, or if any one stayed ^longer than the rest at confession. These were things not beneath Mother Denny's notice. "Armed with a little brief authority," Mother Denny was puffed up with vain glory over her posi- tion as local superior. She was monarch of all she surveyed, except when Father Arnholm or Mother Elizabeth Valle, the superior of the convent of "Our Lady of Seven Sorrows," of which the "House of Charity" was a branch institution, loomed up in the horizon; and she held herself right despotically in SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 55 her little kingdom, exacting honor where it was due and where it was not due, and ruling with a rod of iron, tyrannizing over those under her as cowards will. Sister Josepha had just come to the House of Charity, and unfortunately her face was prettier than the others'. This led Mother Denny to see that in distributing new aprons, Sister Josepha had kept the- finest. Sister Josepha humbly thought they were all alike. Mother Denny was sure Josepha's apron was the best, and Josepha's pride was punished by for- cing her to lay aside the new alpaca apron and put on a check one from the kitchen. Josepha wept. Tears were rebellion, and Josepha was condemned to whitewash the kitchen. The work was new and hard Josepha was small and delicate the wash fell into her eyes, and over her clothes her hands trembled, her back ached. Sister Maria Felix passed by, looking kind. " I must throw down this brush and say I can't do it," said poor little Josepha. " Remember your vow of obedience, and do your best." Thus counselled Saint Maria Felix, and Pauline (unaccountably within sight) reported the two as conversing. " What was she saying to you ?" questioned Mo- ther Denny of Saint Maria. 56 ALMOST A PRIEST. : " Scarcely anything, mother," evaded the nun. " I command you to tell exactly her words." Thus adjured, Sister Maria reported Josepha's re- marks. It was February, but Josepha was ordered to walk barefoot for three days. We commend these incidents to the consideration of romantic girls, who become weary of home and of helping their mothers, and " think they will go to a convent and be a nun." Philip eagerly availed himself of the permission to read in the sacristy, and mounted on the high stool he read all the books on the little shelves, some of them several times over. He was reading there one evening poring over "Mater Admirabilis, or the first fifteen years of Mary the Immaculate" under the light of a little swinging lamp, when Am- brose pulled his arm, saying, " You must come to the chapel to see the penance it is a good sight for all humble and devout souls." " Who is to do a penance ?" asked Philip. " Margaret the pensioner, for eating meat on Friday, three weeks ago. She kept it to herself past two confessions, and never mentioned it until yester- day, which has increased her sin." "What did she eat meat Fridav for?" asked SCHOOLS CONTRASTED. 57 Philip, accompanying Ambrose to the chapel, where all the household except the sick were gathering. " She said she was so hungry she could not help it she was getting over the fever and fast-day came hard to her," Ambrose sneered. " Poor thing," said Philip, " I dare say she was hungry. When I was getting over the fever I had a ferocious appetite. I know just how she felt as if she'd eat if it killed her." " Here she comes !" said Ambrose with relish. Sister Pauline advanced ringing a bell. Old Mar- garet the pensioner, her hair dishevelled and sprinkled with ashes, weeping, her feet bare, her tall bony frame tottering in her distress, followed Pau- line, and behind came a nun with a cross. Old Margaret knelt three times in the aisle and kissed the floor, kissed each of the steps of the altar, and then kneeling said, " I confess to the holy mother superior, to each of the holy sisterhood, to the holy novices and postu- lants and to all the pensioners my grievous folly and sin, and humbly entreat forgiveness." Her voice trembled at the last so she could hardly speak, and with difficulty rising from her knees she was escorted back as she came. " Poor thing," said Philip, " how weak she is, and see her gray hair ! How I'd feel if it were my mo- 58 ALMOST A PRIEST. ther. Poor old creature, do you think her fault was so very great, Ambrose ?" " Of course it was. Do you think I'd eat meat on Friday ? No, not if I starved I hope I know rny duty to the holy Church better ! Sorry for her she ought to have twice as much penance !" Philip shrunk away from Ambrose involuntarily ; yet said to himself, " What a very holy man he is." Paul had " nothing of which to glory." Ambrose it seems had much. CHAPTER III. HOUSES OF CHARITY. [E have mentioned the show-cases of work dis- tributed over the House of Charity, also the room of artificial flowers, and the charity- boxes. These boxes were all kept locked, and the keys were in the hands of Mother Denny. Mother Denny was just as careful of her keys as if she were not living in a family of saints and of pensioners regen- erated by baptism in the true Church. Every Sat- urday night Mother Denny took her keys in one hand and a basket in the other. Philip preceded her with a lamp, and thus attended she made a tour of the house and emptied all the boxes into her basket. Returning to her room, the reverend mother would unlock a strong secretary, count the money, write the amount in her account-book, and finally secure the money in a secret drawer with a curious spring lock. Weekly, the charity-boxes yielded a respectable addition to the finances of the house. And besides, many larger gifts were received, such as were borne in on Christmas-day ; and the friends of the pension- 60 ALMOST A PRIEST. ers and orphans made frequent small donations which in the year swelled to a considerable amount. The work of the pensioners and sisters also netted annu- ally a large sum. The institution was a House of CJiarity, a standing monument of the benevolence of Rome, and was supposed to be in some way a great benefactor of poor Protestants; and yet it was in point of fact a source of no small pecuniary profit to the Church, and like the maid of Philippi brought much gain to its masters. "When Mother Denny set down on one page of her account-book her weekly income, she set down on another the weekly expenses there was always a margin in favor of the income. Protestant charitable institutions are for the most part kindly allowed by their supporters to get into debt, and quarterly lift up the cry " Come over and help us !" But no such getting into debt is tolerated in Romish Houses of Charity. A fundamental prin- ciple in their creed is that, " Charity must be made to pay." " Hold," says somebody " a large house like this in the business part of a crowded city has an enor- mous ground-rent to pay " Allow me to explain that the ground whereon the House of Charity was built in imperishable granite, was rented to the Institution perpetually, for one dol- HOUSES OF CHARITY. 61 lar a year, and even this dollar was sadly in arrears. * On Sunday morning after early mass, Father Arn- holrn went to the superior's room for refreshments. The father was generally entertained with hot coffee, beefsteak, toast, and an egg, brought on a handsome server by a postulant. After the refection was con- cluded, Mother Denny handed to Father Arnholm the surplus money, and glibly ran over her accounts. She did not levy any black mail on her money sur- plus, but gave it to Father Arnholm intact; the father was supposed to hand it to his bishop, and so from hand to hand it passed up along the line of ecclesiastical authorities, tapped maybe pretty well en route, and yet, with the excess of other chari- table (i. e. money-making) institutions, what a golden stream did it pour into the pope's pocket. Look over the membership of the Romish Church, and how few you find who pay income tax, how many even who are not able to support themselves. The rich men as a general thing are in the other churches. And yet the Roman Catholic Church is the richest Church. In what other denomination do * Lots on Fifty-first street and Lexington avenue, and on Fifty- first and Fifty-second streets, and Fourth and Fifth avenues, New York, have been leased to the Boman Catholics perpetually, at $1 per annum. The first-mentioned lias failed to pay its yearly $1. 62 ALMOST A PRIEST. you find such buildings, such landed property, such a sum as THREE MILLIONS to send out of the coun- try, or six hundred thousand gold dollars to scatter about in proselyting ? * Think of this when the subscription paper of the House of Charity is laid before you. Think of this when the pretty little sister humbly invites you to put something in the " charity-box." Think of this when cook, laundress, and chamber- maid with one consent begin to raise their wages fifty cents a month, and you find that all the Catholic damsels at service in the city have done likewise. "}" " I question what we are to do with Philip," said Mother Denny to her spiritual director, " the boy is trying to learn Latin." " What has he got to learn Latin in ?" " Only his prayer-book, and he is trying to pick out something from that." * Three millions is the moderate tribute of Americans to his Holiness Pope Pius IX. $600,000 (in gold) is the generous dis- tribution of the Romish Propaganda devoted to proselyting in the United States. The Propaganda is just now zealous among the Freedmen, we hope Protestants will be equally as zealous among them. f When the R. C. Cathedral in Trenton, N. J., was being built, the Catholic servants raised their wages fifty cents per month, and devoted that to the building; another way this of making Prot- estants support Romanism. HOUSES OF CHARITY. 63 " Philip," said the priest, " I think we must ap- prentice you to a shoemaker." Philip hung his head and looked sullen. " Or a baker ? or a confectioner ?" " One is as bad as the other," said Philip. " And suppose we do so apprentice you, and a Protestant comes along and offers to teach you, lan- guages for instance, and those sources of heresy, Greek and Hebrew, would you learn ?" " I would learn," said Philip, " but I would not be a heretic." " And the heretic would lend you his books and you would read them ?" " If I had no others, for I must read something, but I would never believe their heresy." "And what must be done to a boy who would learn of heretics and read their books ?" "Let the Church teach me and give me books, and then I will have no temptation," said Philip, shrewdly. Father Arnholm laughed "Brother Dominick shall come here and teach you Latin." % After this, Father Arnholm brought Philip a grammar much behind the times, and told him that Brother Dominick would come now and then to hear him/ recite. " You will get enough of it," he said. 64 ALMOST A PRIEST. If Philip had ever had better classical advantages than now offered, he would soon have had enough of his musty, inconsistent old grammar and Brother Dominick's blunders, but he was ignorant and his ignorance was bliss. Peter Robert Olivetan said in the sixteenth cen- tury " The priests hate good grammar more than they do bad lives/' and we might say so with equal truth in the nineteenth century. As for Brother Dominick, his life was better than his grammar. He was a monk whose gray hair fringed his tonsured crown ; he had a smoothly shaven chin, a pleasant smile, strong white teeth, and kind brown eyes under rugged brows. His gown came to his an- kles, and was fastened about his waist with a sash tied behind, in a fashion young ladies much affect at pres- ent. He had a round cape over his shoulders, and a square collar standing up about his ears. Philip in his inexperience conceived a high respect for Brother Dominick's learning, and looked upon him, coming to release him from the dungeon of his ignorance, much as Peter must have looked on the angel who laid potent touch on the bars of Herod's prison. One evening Father Arnholm put on his gloves, brushed his hat and went out to make a call. He entered a stylish house and was courteously welcomed HOUSES OF CHARITY. 65 by a stylish family. They were not of Father Arn- holm's flock, but he was none the less at home for that. One of the young ladies was at the piano, and she sang "When the swallows homeward fly" and " Ever of thee I am fondly dreaming" which Padre Arnholm was doubtless glad to hear. The rest of the family were playing cribbage, and one of the sons resigned his place in Father Arnholm's favor, who took it nothing loath indeed he had come for a game of cribbage of one kind or another^ and prob- ably he thought he might as well get his hand in. It was a pleasant evening, and the Honorable John Smith and his family thought the priest a very pleas- ant man. When he took his leave, the Honorable John accompanied him from the parlor carefully closing the door. They stood in the hall while the priest got his hat, coat and gloves. "See here, Smith," said Father Arnholm, easily, " next session you must get me an appropriation of two thousand for the House of Charity, and two thousand for the House of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows." "Whe-w-w-w, that's coming it pretty strong," said the Honorable John, with a lengthening face. " Strong or not, I've got to have it," said the un- worldly priest, smoothing his glove. "Well, the House of Charity that's a sort of 6* E 66 ALMOST A PRIEST. hospital, and old people's home and so on I might get it for that. But Our Lady of Seven Sorrows " " Oh, that's a school you know." " Eh ? Didn't know they took pupils there." " Oh yes they do, very select, and orphans generally. What's the use of haggling, Smith? I must have these two appropiations, and you must get them." " Well, the newspapers are beginning to prick up their ears over these appropriations going all to one class of institutions. I'd just as lief, you know, that you'd have them " " Yes, I know," said Father Arnholm, jocularly " You haven't a very large income, you don't pay very heavy taxes, and you are giving away other people's money of course you'd just as lief, eh ?" and Father Arnholm's mouth widened toward his ears, and his eyes rolled obliquely to the ceiling. "But you see, there's Brown he keeps looking out for these little matters, and talks about making differences in favor of Catholic Institutions, and gets up a confounded turmoil all the time." " I can't help that," said the priest, smoothing his other glove " I shall not fall a penny two thou- sand a piece,, or very likely you won't see yourself in the legislature another term." He took down his hat, shaped it, put it on. "Smith?" HOUSES OF CHARITY. 67 " Oh yes, yes I'll see to it I'll do what I can for you I always have." "Certainly much obliged to you good-night, Smith." And so John Smith promised the public moneys in spite of the nevrspapers auribus erectis, and Mr. Brown's " turmoil." * Did this man's wife know how he was betraying the interest of the State ? Pray what had his mother been doing all his early years, that now he was selling the good of his country to secure votes and position ? In our school days, during one of the Presidential campaigns, party spirit ran high, and some embryo politicians canvassed the school for votes the girls of course not being allowed the privilege of express- ing their opinion. In a few days a second vote was taken, and two boys who had been in one party sold their franchise to the other for a cent apiece ! Again the school was polled, and the boys resold themselves at an advance of one penny ! Thus the * Honorable member of the New York Legislature, though I reil your name under the pleasant little fiction of " John Smith," you know who is meant, and casting your eye over the list of ap- propriations made by that Legislature you recognize the two for which Priest bargained with you, and the passage of which you corruptly secured. 68 ALMOST A PRIEST. strife went on during the whole campaign, these two boys being found to be political rolling stock, and keeping first one party and then the other in the as- cendant. In the years that have passed we trust these two boys have become honest men. But they were then fourteen years of age, and in those fourteen years what had their mothers been doing that in their hearts the first principles of political probity were wanting ? My sisters, I say nothing to you on the question of your voting ; but I do say to you, look to your cradles and the children at your knees. "Would you have them honest men, citizens who will not pervert the public funds, sell their votes, and prostitute their influence, begin to-day ! Make them patriots, make them Protestants. Do we follow the streams of pat- riotism and political purity to their source, we shall find them in cradles watched by wise, patriotic and honest-hearted Protestant mothers. It was Spring, and the bishop began his annual tour through his diocese, for the purpose of laying apostolic hands on the heads of candidates for con- firmation. He took with him Father Arnholm and Brother Dominick. In the course of his travels, he came to the town of Northville. He found it rich, lazy and fashionable. He considered the situation, HOUSES OF CHARITY. 69 and concluded it was time for the holy Apostolic Church to make a move. All the townspeople crowded out to hear the bishop preach, and every time the church was full a collection was taken up. Father Aruholm wrote little morceaux for the papers stating how the church of the Immaculate Mother was to be architecturally improved, so that it would be an ornament to the town. The bishop was often invited out to dine, and generally came back from these dinings-out with money for the " improvements " in his pocket, given by wise Protestants for the benefit of the town and the honor of eating with a bishop; and that was an honor sure enough, when you take into consideration how Abrahamic was the bishop's air, as hje patted the heads of the family juveniles, and how unimpeachably elegant was his manner of handing the lady of the house out to dinner. Additional money for church-building was to be raised by a fair ; and to have a fair some sisters must be imported to the town ; and indeed the bishop said it was quite time to buy a house, put a few sisters in it, and have them establish a parochial school, vie it the sick, make friends with the townspeople, and keep the true Church well before the public's eye. Father Arnholm went with the bishop to negotiate for the purchase of a large brick house next the 70 ALMOST A PRIEST. church, and could give four thousand dollars " cash down," for which flourishing state of the holy father's 'pocket we refer you to the (dis) honorable John Smith. When the house was bought, a corps of devout sons of the Church, of the artisans' rank, were set to work to make it a tabernacle meet for the habitation of the saints. To hear the bishop hold forth in the Church of the Immaculate Mother, came the widow of Henry Courcy, accompanied by her daughter and her daugh- ter's most intimate friend. The sexton of the church, knowing well his business, gave the lady the best seat as was due her wealth and position. Seated in his episcopal chair of state, the bishop marked the ele- gant repose and easy self-assurance of Mrs. Courcy, judged correctly of the cost of her garments, appre- ciated the deference shown her, and privately inquired of the parish priest her name and estate. Very likely the faithful thought he was speaking of some im- portant spiritual matter ! After service Mrs. Courcy was introduced, and herself presented her daughter Magdalen, and the d^ighter's friend, Viola Hastings. How benignantly the bishop regarded these young maidens ! Mrs. Courcy invited the bishop, Father Arnholm, Brother Dominick, and the parish priest to take din- ner with her the next day. They went, and enjoyed HOUSES OF CHARITY. 71 a dinner of five courses and three kinds of wine a very nice little dinner for a widow in the most incon- solable state of mourning ; and besides, the bishop took home a hundred dollar note a trifle for the building "from one who trusts she is public-spir- ited," said Mrs. Courcy. Father Arnholm also took home a bright idea ; the parish priest, the assurance of Mrs. Courcy 's patronage of a fair, and Brother Dominick, the adoration of the two girls, who said he was " such a dear old man " which we do not deny and doubtless the bishop knew it when he took him there. As these reverend guests left Mrs. Courcy 's gate, they met a lady who so arrested the bishop's atten- tion that he looked after her, asking the parish priest, "Who is that ?" " Miss Vaughn." "Kich?" "Yes very." "Many relations?" " No. She is her own mistress, manages her own property, meddles in stocks, real estate and mort- gages, and they say she has as good a business-head as any man in the place." " I have not seen her in Church." " No ; and she will not be seen there. She is a rabid Protestant. I have burned up more than forty 72 ALMOST A PEIEST. Bibles which she has given my people, and as for the tracts one might as well try to gather up the leaves in autumn." " Such women are very troublesome/' said Father Arnholm. And the parish priest replied " She is the torment of my life in this place." "See how excellent is the policy of our Church," said the bishop. " We have no such women. Those of our women, who do not marry and mind their own families, are generally gathered into religious houses, where their restless energy is modified, their ambitious will subdued. If they are permitted to work, it is as the Church directs, and under order of the clergy." " Vy does you not try and convert cet jeune dam- oiselle ?' said Brother Dominick to the parish priest. "You might as well talk of converting arch fiends such as Luther and Calvin. All the holy Church couldn't do it," said the parish priest. , When the bishop-and his satellites returned from Northville, Mother Elizabeth Yalle, Reverend Mo- ther Superior of the convent of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, and also of the House of Charity, received orders to detail a small force of sisters for the North- ville establishment. Mother Vall6 was sixty years old, and had lived in convents from her sixth year you may believe HOUSES OF CHARITY. 73 she had experience in all their departments and emergencies. She had long been a subordinate, never getting any higher than housekeeper, and greatly had her proud spirit pined and chafed over its ungratified ambitions ; but she had fretted strictly in secret. She belonged to a Church which more than any other appreciates the strength of waiting. She waited year by year, and at last, when gray hairs first began to come at forty years of age, she was sent with five subordinates to establish a new house, the convent of " Our Lady of Seven Sorrows." Here she found free scope for her abilities. Under her rule this convent became rich and prominent. Its resources were large, its cloistered nuns numerous, its chapel and its orna- ments beautiful and valuable, and the " House of Charity" stood as its offspring, greater almost than the parent-tree. "Seven Sorrows," was now to strike a new root at Northville, which Mother Vall6 trusted should live and flourish, so that she, the patient waiter and steady worker, might be mother of three convents before she died. When the house at Northville was finished and furnished, it was named " House of St. Vincent de Paul." There must be a sister for a superior, old enough, wise enough, not so unainiable as to be likely to create trouble. Mother Vall6 called the convent- carriage and was taken curtains shut down in the 7 74 ALMOST A PRIEST. warm spring day, very much as if she were, riding in a hearse to the House of Charity; told Mother Denny to call Sister Maria Felix, and bade Maria Felix get into her carriage to go next day as superior to Northville. Sister Maria had nothing to pack up; she had taken a vow of poverty and was poor enough ; she put her prayer-book and her examined book in her pocket and stood ready to go. Mother Valle wanted a teaching sister. This sis- ter must be amiable and skilled in fancy work, and she had better also be pretty and winning to attract the Northville ladies. Mother Valle did not need Mother Denny to tell her what material was in the House of Charity, as she kept herself well-informed. She called for Sister Josepha. Poor Josepha came limping. Since she had been forced to go barefoot in winter, she had had inflammatory rheumatism and it had settled in her knee. Her eyes brightened un- der her downcast lids, when she was ordered to depart with Sister Maria Felix. Sister Maria Felix thought of Philip. She would have been glad to bid him good-bye, but she belonged to the Church, her business was to obey Mothers VallS and Denny, and have no private wishes, so she vanished like a dream out of that period of Philip's life. The boy had learned to love her, and he cried HOUSES OF CHARITY. 75 when he found she had left him. He asked Mother Denny "where his aunt had gone?" " Your aunt belongs to the Church, and she has gone where the Church bids her ; you must ask no questions, questions betray a selfish and distrustful spirit." Philip took refuge in his Latin grammar and the instructions of Brother Dominick, but in spite of all his efforts two tears fell on the page he studied. "Cheer up, mon fils," said Brother Dominick " carry vatever trouble oppresses you to our lady ve must make vous a priest some day." "Will you? Oh do, Brother Dominick, I so hate to be a shoemaker !" cried Philip. " Be comforted ve does not make shoemakers of Latin scholars/' said Brother Dominick. Mother Vall6 gave Sister Maria Felix her orders, and gave her also a sister for a housekeeper. This sister owed her new position to a natural penchant for tale-bearing, and it was tacitly understood that she was to be Mother Valla's spy in the new house. Sister Maria Felix was also given a sister who was to nurse the sick, and she had been selected because she had a great talent for gossip, and in her rounds would pick up for her priest's ear most of the North- ville news. She would hear of all eligible orphans, of all Papists with Protestant incliuings, of all dying 76 ALMOST A PRIEST. people who might be unexpectedly baptized into the true Church and set down as converts. Lastly, there was sent to Northville a devout and learned sister, a passionate, fervid zealot, who would be known for rites and observances, who knew how to talk of the only true Church, argue after a shallow fashion, and urge and exhort any souls who might be found linger- ing on the border-land between Romanism and Prot- estantism. If any one can indicate to me any new institution more ably planted, and with better prospects of work- ing out its ends, or one more likely to succeed and extend itself than the House of St. Vincent de Paul at Northville, I should be happy to hear of it. Per- haps somebody will be good enough to look into these matters, and see how religious houses are founded, and how rapidly they grow, and how widely they spread, and then will that somebody be able to draw from these observations the prevalent idea that "Romanism is not increasing," "Romanism is dy- ing out?" Our five nuns had gone to Northville and taken possession of their house. Their arrival was duly noticed in the daily paper. Their house had a pretty little parlor, and there Sister Josepha's most elaborate work was displayed. Wax flowers and fruits that might vie with nature's fairest specimens were Jose- HOUSES OF CHARITY. 77 pha's handiwork. So also paper flowers, such as were made at the House of Charity. Josepha's knit- ting, crocheting, and silk and muslin embroidery were marvellous she had invented several new stitches and patterns her tufted work in worsteds won universal approbation; and her pretty young face and soft voice "took" wonderfully with the Vorthville ladies. The house was for the first year or two to be open to visitors, it was best to make the Xorthville people feel at home in it. Mrs. Courcy called soon after the sisters came, and was much charmed. She praised their devotion, she thought their manner of life romantic, she advised Magdalen to become Sister Josepha's pupil in fancy work. What Magdalen Courcy did, her de'voted ad- mirer Viola Hastings must do; and though Mr. Hastings had to think twice before he could make up his mind to afford the price of tuition and materials which were mere nothings to Magdalen, he at last consented, and the two girls received instructions together. Viola Hastings had a step-mother. If ever this step-mother presumed to have an opinion of her own, Viola put on an injured air, and covertly referred the difference between them to the "step" also be- tween them. Mrs. Hastings did not think that an intimacy at the House of St. Vincent de Paul would 78 ALMOST A PRIEST. be beneficial to Viola, and in this opinion she waa confirmed by Miss Judith Vaughn. " Miss Vaughn says she will teach you any kind of fancy work you wish to learn, daughter," said Mrs. Hastings. Viola grew restive at once. " I don't wish to learn of her she would not take pay I shall not have charity lessons." " I cannot feel that nuns are safe companions for a young Protestant girl," said Mrs. Hastings. " The sisters are perfectly lovely," said Viola, "and Mrs. Courcy lets Magdalen go there as often as I do. She is her mother, and would not let her go if it would injure her." There Was an emphasis on the word mother. Mrs. Hastings had her baby in her arms, and she smoth- ered a sigh in its little fat neck. " Mrs. Courcy has been to see the sisters, and she knows all about them. You have not called there." " No, and I do not think I shall. I cannot bear to have you go there, Viola. I wish you would be ruled by my wishes " " If I were," said Viola, " I should never have, be or do anything. You cannot be any more inter- ested in me, than Mrs. Courcy is in Magdalen." Mrs. Hastings lacked that decision of character which would have given Viola no more indulgence HOUSES OF CHARITY. 79 than if she were her own daughter. She dreaded Viola's insinuations and the hasty judgment of so- ciety, if she exacted obedience and respect. If little three-year-old Annie had been in Viola's place, Mrs. Hastings would have refused her permission to go to the House of St. Vincent de Paul ; but since Viola would not heed a request, she shed a few tears and let her go. The sisters called Magdalen and Viola their "dear children." The girls had the freedom of the house and would sit with the nuns by the hour doing fancy work, chatting freely of all their affairs, and asking many questions which the sisters liberally answered. The housekeeping sister, Mary Angela, sent Mother Elizabeth Vall6 voluminous letters, wherein very much of what Magdalen and Viola said was re- corded. In a short time Mother Vall6 knew them almost as well as they knew themselves, and was able to form a much more correct estimate of their cha- racter and prospects than they could. The summer passed with this intimacy growing closer ; the girls regarded the nuns as their best friends, and their familiarity with the House of St. Vincent de Paul was looked upon with respectful envy by their young companions, whose parents did not care to have the "spider and the fly" find its ante-type in their families. 80 ALMOST A PRIEST. Fall came, and Mrs. Courcy was going to the city to buy new clothes and new furniture. The woman was troubled with more time and more money than she knew what to do with, and this was one means of getting rid of some of both. Of course Magda- len was going with her, and of course she told the sisters. " You must go to our dear convent of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, and see our chapel, and our paint- ings. Mother Valle will be so glad to see you and show you everything," said Saint Mary Angela. " Do indeed, dear child," said Josepha, " and pray carry there for me a cluster of wax lilies which are too delicate to go by express. I vowed them as an offering to our lady's altar, if she would cure me of my lameness ; and see, I can walk quite well now." The girls looked on this recovery as almost mirac- ulous, when it was thus put beside the vowed lilies. It is barely possible however that Sister Josepha owed it quite as much to Maria Felix's good judg- ment and tender care as to our lady. But, although Sister Maria Felix did the work, our lady's image was to have the pay, and Magdalen gladly promised to carry it. "You must visit our House of Charity, and see all the invalids and orphans and pensioners, and our chapel, which is a great sight. Mother Denny will HOUSES OF CHARITY. 81 show you everything herself, though she does not always see visitors. I will write to her about you. You will see my orphan nephew there, Philip Lester, unless they have sent him elsewhere." Thns said Sister Maria Felix, and privately she said to Magdalen, "Give Philip my dear love, tell him to be a good boy, and when you come back tell me what he was doing, and all you hear about him." " Oh dear, how I wish I were in your place, Mag- dalen," sighed Viola, as they walked home together. Money was nothing to Magdalen, and she asked her mother to take Viola with them to the city. " Just as you like," said Mrs. Courcy, ever ready to gratify her daughter. Magdalen rushed over to Mrs. Hastings' modest dwelling and demanded permission for Viola to go with her to the city. " Say yes, Mr. Hastings, say yes, or I'll turn incendiary and burn your store. Oh dear, Mrs. Hastings, come and make this man say what I want hijn to ! You said yes, didn't you, Mr. Hastings? I hope you heard him, Mrs. Hastings!" Mr. Hastings looked at his wife for a sign of ad- vice. Mrs. Hastings demurred, for she knew, after permission to go was given, Viola would insist on a iu'w hat and traveling suit, and money was not over- abundant with. Mr. Hastings. But a frown \vas gathering on Viola's brow, and Magdalen, the beau- 82 ALMOST A PRIEST. tiful, petted and happy, was so irresistible, that Mrs. Hastings looked " yes " at her husband, and the husband said "yes" to Magdalen, and while this was being said Mrs. Hastings was planning what she could deny herself that Viola might have a hat nearly as handsome as Magdalen's, and that the new suit might be stylishly made. Having thus obtained her wish, Magdalen got the baby, kissed it, shook it, praised it, and opined that Viola must be " perfectly happy with such a little tot to play with. It was so lonesome up home, wouldn't Mrs. Hastings lend three-year-old Annie to them for one day at least, it would be so delightful to have such a little pet." Mrs. Hastings wished Viola were like Magdalen, and wondered if it were the beneficent influence of outward circumstances that made all the difference. Viola spent the night previous to the journey with Magdalen. They were in the parlor after tea, a fire was lighted in the grate, Magdalen sat in the circle of ruddy-flame light, lolling in an arm-chair boarding-school mistresses tell us lolling is ungraceful, it was not in Magdalen. Viola took a hassock at her friend's feet, and, folding her arms across her lap, gazed up into her face. Magdalen was at once Viola's idol and her ideal. Capable of passionate attachments, with a keen HOUSES OF CHARITY. 83 sense of the beautiful, and a romantic sentimentality, Viola had been growing up, her emotions undirected and her violent temper unsubdued: she was a girl of some ability and with much in her disposition in- teresting and attractive, but one to fill any mother's heart with anxiety. Plain of face, Viola intensely admired beauty, and Magdalen possessing beauty, wit and a subtle fascination acknowledged by all who met her, Viola paid her loyal homage. This homage Magdalen recognized and indeed ac- cepted as her due; from her earliest years she had been taught that nothing was too high to be tribute to Magdalen Courcy. To-night, leaning back in her chair, her mourning dress setting off her well-cut profile and clear delicate complexion, she idly gath- ered up the slender length of her jet watchchain, twining it about her white fingers, and slipping it through them in little coils, and met the worship beaming in Viola's eyes with a look of pride that was too well blended with love and too gracious to be displeasing. Mrs. Courcy dropped her book in her lap, and turned her eyes upon the girls. She liked Viola, liked her none the less that she sat admiringly at Magdalen's feet, and crowned her queen. Like many other mothers, Mrs. Courcy lived only in her daughter; to her the future was full of visions for 84 ALMOST A PRIEST. her child, her choicest treasure and her darling care. To the two girls the one chief point of interest in the city was the visit to the sisters at the convent of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows and at the House of Charity. Of this they chatted until bedtime, chatted in the cars, and were hardly willing to allow Mrs. Courcy to do any of her particular business before she accompanied them to these places. They had visited the stores times enough in other expeditions to the city, and were neither of them young ladies to whom a shopping expedition is the very quintessence of enjoyment. Magdalen at least had been taken to all the places of amusement and " sight-seeing," until they were robbed of novelty or attraction as far as she was concerned. Finally these two girls were convent bitten, and its "dim religious light" was all that would satisfy them. Like many American mothers, Mrs. Courcy was obedient to the mandates of her daughter. She sent for a carriage and gave orders to be taken to Our Lady of Seven Sorrows. " Seven Sorrows " the coach- man called it for short, and as " Seven Sorrows " it was known all over the city. So we shall call it also, to save time and trouble, for all we believe ourselves guilty of falsehood in limiting its sorrows to seven. Seven ? Yea, verily, seventy times seven and seventy HOUSES OF CHARITY. 85 times again, and yet you could not have numbered the stings and pains, the loneliness and disappointment and heart sickness, the bitterness and envy, the tyr- anny, the remorse and fear shut up in the convent of " Seven Sorrows." " Seven Sorrows, ma'am !" and Patrick Connor opened the carriage-door and let down the steps. They had stopped before a large building piled up of solid blocks of granite as if its founders meant it to stand " as long as the sun and moon endure." The convent of Seven Sorrows had a front of one hundred feet, and was three stories abdVe the base- ment ; it was a high basement, and had iron shutters always closed, the rooms receiving light from two windows in the rear, and from the gas that burned all day within. There was a small stone-paved area in front, and an enclosed porch to the front-door. As Patrick opened the outer door of this portico for the ladies, the loud sharp clangor of a bell sounded through the house, to warn the inmates of guests without. " You may wait for us, driver," said Mrs. Courcy, and Patrick returned to his coach-box. After some delay the inner door opened slowly a very little way, and the eye, nose and half the mouth of a sister ap- peared at the opening. " We should like the privilege of visiting your 86 ALMOST A PRIEST. house and chapel, and of seeing the abbess," said Mrs. Courcy. " We do not generally admit visitors," said the sister. "You will please hand my card to the abbess," said Mrs. Courcy, loftily. The sister took the card, her face with its white wrappings and head covered with the black veil were withdrawn, the door silently swung shut, and the key was turned within, leaving the guests in the portico. At length the sister returned, set the door half open, said, 'VMother Valle will be glad to see you," and Mrs. Courcy and her girls were fairly within the convent of Seven Sorrows. One of them found easier access afterward. CHAPTER IV. FATHER ARNHOLM OX WAYS AND MEANS. HE opened door had admitted the visitors at the convent of Seven Sorrows to a wide hall paved with blocks of two kinds of stone. On one side was a small waiting-room barely furnished with cheap table and chairs, hung with several colored devotional prints, and containing a case in which' were one or two small bas-reliefs and a letter from the pope, which had come to Mother Vall6 from Italy, after an unusually large offering finding its way from "Seven Sorrows" to the Vatican. At one side of this room was a grating, behind which the sisters stood when receiving visits from friends. A heart pierced with seven daggers and emitting from the upper surface tongues of flame was a favorite device, and was carved over the doors, moulded in the iron of the grating, and painted on the walls. The nun usher left her guests in the bare waiting- room for about ten minutes, and then returning, re- quested them to follow her to Mother Vall6's parlor. Mother Valle advanced with a quick and firm step to greet the strangers. The grasp of her small thin 87 88 ALMOST A PRIEST. hand was strong and decided ; the black eyes, that searched the new countenances, were restless and keen ; her face was pallid and seamed with wrinkles, and if her gray hair had been revealed and her false teeth removed, she might have looked even older than she was. Erect and supple in her straight black garb, an unusually long and heavy rosary and cru- cifix depending from her girdle, her voice a clear, even treble, her words few and to the point, Mother Valle appeared capable of holding steadily the reins of the convent of Seven Sorrows, and as many others as might be coupled with it, for years to come. In the superior's room were no ornaments or luxuries akin to the outer world. The whole apartment showed a mind and taste nurtured only in a convent. The furniture was of rigid mahogany and hair-cloth, and only articles of necessity, as sofa, table and chairs. The curtains and carpet were green and black, heavy and gloomy enough. Around the walls hung some dingy oil-paintings in black frames scenes from the life of "Mater Admirabilis," wherein the "Mater" wore an invariable red gown of the tunic description, even after her assumption when she was represented as " being crowned by her son in the midst of the holy angels." Magdalen presented Josepha's box of lilies. " You shall accompany me to the chapel and see AENHOLM ON WA TS AND MEANS. 89 them placed on the shrine," said Mother VallS. " I desire also to show you a painting by one of our sis- ters, an excellent artist, and if you love music you will have an opportunity of hearing some, as a choir of the sisters are having an exercise in the chapel." " You have pupils ?" asked Mrs. Courcy. " We do occasionally. Young ladies of talent and family who have a preference for this house, and the high order of instruction they here receive, are some- times taken as an especial favor. We also have some- times young friends as guests, who love our seclusion and quiet, who are for the time without homes, or are unhappy in them," a hint for Viola ! " who come here for a while and then go back to the world again, happier and better we trust for their sojourn with us." After a little conversation the sister who admitted them 'was called, and showed them the sacristy, the library, tfie work-room, and the refectory ; and then Mother Vall6 gave orders that her visitors should be conducted to the gallery of the chapel to witness the unveiling of the picture and hear the music. Despite all the manoeuvers at the front door, Mrs. Courcy and the young ladies had been expected and prepared for ; and the ceremonies of the picture and the music had been well-timed by this mother supe- 90 ALMOST A PRIEST. rior, who had so trained herself that she had a far reaching motive for almost every act of her life. Just within the balustrade of the gallery ran a low carpet-covered step for kneeling, and there the nun bowed. Viola, ever ready to yield to new emotions, and now excited by the strangeness of the place, the pictures, the music and the flowers, at once placed herself by the sister's side. Mrs. Courcy glanced about. Two priests stood before the altar; in the front seats were postulants in thin caps, next novices in white veils ; behind them a cloud of black-veiled sisters, with their prayer-books, reading in a loud singular tone with a regular rise and fall of voice. The abbess, entering at a distant door, took her place before the veiled picture with a nun at either hand. Seeing these things, Mrs. Courcy willing to conform to the habits of those about her, knelt also on the step within the gallery-railing. The abbess did not appear to be looking up ; but she saw this concession, and a grim smile relaxed for one instant her set features. Noting the deference paid by the mother, Superioress Vall6 awaited some sign of the same feeling from Magdalen ; but that damsel leaned carelessly against a pillar, clasped her hands before her, and looked down into the chapel, with half-curi- osity, half-indifference. The haughty daughter of the Courcys would not bend the knee to priest or ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 91 picture. A wrathful red stained Mother Valle's lips and burnt a moment along her high cheek-bone, and her right hand clenched itself until the nails marked the palm. The voices of the priests sounded through the chapel, then the music of the organ shook the still perfumed air, and the veil fell from the picture. Mary. was depicted weeping at the cross of which the lower portion only was revealed; little cherubs hung about her, one at her feet holding the seven times wounded heart. A moment more and a full choir of nuns took up the " Stabat Mater," and the sonorous full notes and stately words of the mediaeval hymn seemed to shake the fretted arches of the roof. The music and the surroundings entirely overcame Viola, and yielding to her ungoverned sensibilities she burst into tears. The nun at her side gently pressed her hand. Mrs. Courcy volubly professed herself " charmed " and " delighted," was " so glad they had come when they did," would "never forget such a treat," etc., etc. While the scenes at the chapel awoke no devotional feelings in Magdalen, they pleased her taste, and she told her mother she would not mind staying at the convent a few weeks or even mouths, to devote her- self to music and painting. " How could I spare you !" cried Mrs. Courcy. 92 ALMOST A PRIEST. " You need not," said Magdalen, " I do not doubt I shall find equally as good teachers elsewhere." Their next visit was to the House of Charity. They were invited to Mother Denny's room, and found her more communicative than Mother Vall6 j but the coarseness of her nature and its petty selfish- ness were apparent through all the thin disguises of garb and station. Mrs. Courcy afterward informed her daughter that " Mother Denny was evidently no lady she had a large hand and incorrect pronun- ciation." Ambrose was deputed to conduct them through this institution. They gave liberally to the charity-box, and bought at every show-case. " How charmingly neat everything is," said Mrs. Courcy. " How good of the sisters to educate so many chil- dren !" exclaimed Viola. "This is certainly a great charity! How many orphans have you here ?" asked Magdalen. " Forty," said Ambrose, bowing at a shrine. " And how many invalids in the hospital wards ?" " Twenty-six," replied Ambrose, and as they passed a holy water vase, he dipped his finger and crossed himself. "How many pensioners?" was Magdalen's next question, after a few moments' interval. ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 93 Ambrose was occupying his time in saying a prayer; he finished it and, bowing low, replied " Eighty." " What a holy old man " whispered Viola to Magdalen, "so devout and sincere I don't think you find such earnest piety in any denomination but the Catholics." " He makes too much display to suit me," said Magdalen. " I don't think he does it for display ; see how he follows us reading his prayer-book so absorbed in it, he has no idea we are speaking of him. Doesn't it make you feel devotional, Magdalen, to see these shrines and pictures and saints' names? religion every- where ?" "No it doesn't," said Magdalen, shortly; "but Viola, I believe you are just the one to be bewitched by it." " If I had as happy a home as you, and everything I wanted as you have," said Viola, sombrely, " I should not be driven to seek consolation elsewhere." " Pshaw, Viola," said Magdalen, " your mother's real nice, and the babies are the darlingest little souls " " This is our chapel, ladies," said Ambrose, and fell on his knees. There were two others kneeling in the chapel. An 94 ALMOST A PRIEST. old monk with a shaven crown and a boy of thirteen were bowed side by side before the grand altar. The monk said his prayers with closed eyes and bent head, the boy looked upward to the pictured Mary. They were Philip and Dominick, and Philip was happy in that he could now say his prayers in Latin. The two rose, " We will finish our lesson in the sac- risty, son Philip," said Dominick. " Is this Philip Lester ?" asked Magdalen, stopping them. " I have just seen your aunt, Sister Maria Felix, and she sends her dear love to you, and bids you be a good boy, and learn all you can." " II est un bon ga^on," began Brother Dominick, then recollecting himself, added in English, " Pie do learn most well ; he is devout, tres devout ; the love of our lady is in his heart." " And what shall I tell your aunt for you ?" asked " Tell her I wish she'd come back, I want to see her." " It is wrong to want anything that the Church does not ordain," began Ambrose, sententiously ; " as the Church thought right to send her away, it is wrong to wish her back." "Wouldn't you, if she were your aunt and you wanted to see her ?" demanded Philip. " I hope I have no private wishes or affections," ARNIIOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 95 said Ambrose. "I have committed sin enough in my youth, without feeling rebellion to authority now." "Mon frere, Ambrose," said Dominick, putting him gently aside. "Since Philip has not done so mooch sin in youth, ve vill let him rebel so far as to love sa tante now." " I am glad to see you, Brother Dominick ; you were at my house in Northville," said Mrs. Courcy. Brother Dominick courteously paid his respects to the three ladies, and then led Philip away. Mrs. Courcy and her girls returned to Northville, having seen the best side of the convent of Seven Sorrows, and also of the House of Charity. They were all well pleased, and Viola privately told the sisters that the convent seemed to her like heaven. " It might be the door of heaven to my dear sister Viola," said Saint Mary Angela. Just now Northville, with its church, its school and its sisters' house, was among the least important of Rome's interests; greater hopes hung about the institutions in the city, and Father Arnholm, the busy priest among these stakes in the city, was editor of the "Catholic Ensign." A Catholic newspaper is a great institution. It is prepared for the faithful to prevent their learning liberal-minded- ness, free thought, free speech, or anything worth knowing from Protestant journals; and it is also 96 ALMOST A PRIEST. prepared for the inspection of Protestants, being sometimes held up threateningly like Patrick's shil- lalah, or suspended like the sword of Damocles over their heads ; and sometimes thrown at them, like a sop to Cerberus, to quiet their fears, mislead their vigilance, disarm just suspicion, distract attention, and work the ways of Father Pope generally. Being used for all these purposes, it is gotten up with great care by the craftiest minds in the Church. Father Arnholm was one of these crafty ones, and was often busy for the columns of the " Catholic Ensign," the " Ensign " office being not far from his own dwelling. Father Arnholm sat at his desk on a November evening. His room was warm from the fire in the grate, a handsome, bright-hued velvet carpet covered the floor, the furniture glowed in red reps, and the curtains were crimson and gold. Over the mantel hung a picture in oil colors not a Madonna, but a fancy sketch of a gold-haired damsel with a lavish display of shoulders. Between the windows was a picture of fruits and flowers, flanking a decanter and wine glasses a good picture, yet we do not see the holy father's need of it, inasmuch as he had the re- ality on a mosaic table just beneath. The bell rang, there was a light step through the hall, a careful unfastening of the front-door, and presently a maid-servant ushered in a brother priest, ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 97 Father Ansel, instructor at the college and preacher of the Church of St. Ignatius Loyala. " Hullo, help yourself," said Father Arnholm, put- ting his pen between his teeth, throwing a written page of foolscap to the floor, and taking from a niche in the desk a heavy ledger. The book had a clasp and a padlock, and Father Arnholm unlocked it with a little key hung to his watchchain. Father Ansel took a glass of brandy, wiped his lips, ran his fingers through his hair until it stood stiffly above his brow, pulled around a large chair and stretched himself in it with his feet toward the fire, his hands thrust in his pockets, his head tipped back, and his sharp, closely-shaven chin elevated. Over this chin his nose bent as a self-constituted committee of inquiry, while his lips, resenting this inquiry, curled away toward the corner of his heavy black eyebrows. Imagine yourself lying in a forest-shade on a sum- mer's day you hear a stir in the stillness, you look ha, near you the glittering half-shut eye of a ser- pent ready for a spring ! it gleams along the danger- ous triangled head, it frightens while it holds in fatal fascination such an eye was Father Ansel's. " His face was keen as is the wind That cuts along the hawthorn fence ; Of courage you saw little there, But in its place a medley air Of cunning and of impudence." 9 G 08 ALMOST A PETES T. Through the warmed and lighted hall came the maid with a scuttle of coal. She wore a little white apron, and at her neck a jaunty red knot. " Bring us a cigar, Kitty, and a lighter," quoth Father Ansel. The girl brought the cigar and lighter. "Here, you Kitty, tell 'grandmother' to send us a bowl of flip," said Father Arnholm, throwing another sheet of foolscap on the floor. Father Arnholm's housekeeper was a wrinkled old dame in cap and spectacles, whom he designated " grandmother." Very likely she was, though there was no family resemblance. Kitty brought the flip on a salver, with a silver ladle and two silver cups, set it on a table midway between the two priests, and departed. "Here's to the Ehine!" cried Father Arnholm, tossing off a cup of flip. "Confound that woman, what did she make it so hot for, I've burnt my tongue." " My tongue's fireproof," said Father Ansel, knock- ing the ashes off his cigar. " Here's to the Tiber !" and he followed Father Arnholm's example. " I say, Arnholm, were you inspired by flip when you got up last Sunday's sermon on Temperance ? That was a smasher." " Ja !" cried the German priest. " Flip is not for the laity. Like the Eucharistic wine, I reserve it ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 99 for the priests ! Get on with your article there, while I tell you what to put in. Just state that there are not so many young men preparing for the priesthood as heretofore, the Church not be- ing largely on the increase. Then you might just throw off an item stating that the Magda- lena Foundling Asylum has been nicely furnished and made comfortable for the unfortunate infants in it, by the proceeds of the last sisters' fair, which was largely attended by our Protestant friends, and for which we offer them our thanks." Father Arnholm wrote on. " I say, Ansel, what did the bishop do with that money from the fair?" "I don't know, sent it out of the country, or bought Enfield rifles for all I can say. He is close mouthed over it." " The bishop wants the parish statistics. His messenger is going over to Italy, and is to start next week. There's the book ; come round here and set it down fairly in Italian," quoth Father Arn- holm. Ansel gathered himself up, took the ledger from Father Arnholm's hand, and saying, " He might send me, I hav'n't seen Italy this fifteen years," began to copy figures from the book on a slip of paper. Again the bell rang. As the low sound of voices 100 ALMOST A PRIEST. came through the hall, Ansel said, "There's old Dominick." " We'll have some fun with him," said Arnholm, winking. As soon as the monk entered, Father Arnholm pressed him to take a glass of brandy. He refused it, and sat down near the fire, holding his hands to- ward the coals. " Try some flip," said Ansel, thrusting a cup of the hot liquid under his nose. " Shall I be worse than a beast to drink when I am neither hungry nor thirsty ?" asked Dominick. " We do, are we beasts ?" asked Ansel. "My brothers, we have forsaken the world and vowed ourselves to poverty does this room and this entertainment look like poverty?" " Poverty on a certain scale," said Arnholm, pick- ing up his papers and numbering them " compared with a palace it is poverty." " And it is a palace compared with those cells and forest retreats where the holy priests, monks and her- mits of old made their abode," we write in plain English his mongrel speech " It was in a bare cell that Saint Philip Neri Avrote and prayed. Unless we mortify the flesh, my brothers, the Church will never again produce a Saint Simon Stylites, a Francis de Sales, or a blessed John Berchmans." ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 101 " Likely not," said Ansel, " a Church filled with such men would be rather a bore." " Surely, Brother Ansel, your tongue does not take its instructions at your heart," said Brother Dom- inick, looking pained. "Did you come to help us get up our statistics and our editorials ?" asked Father Arnholm. " I came to talk with you of the future of son Philip Lester : he is a gracious, pious youth, and if he takes holy orders may revive the Church, and show himself akin to those holy men of other days, ,Peter Claver, Saint Anthony of Padua, and the Fa- thers of the desert," " Which would be more than our deserts," said Ansel, with a loud laugh. " As your time is occupied, brothers, I can come again," said Dominick, mildly. " Xo, stay now you are here, and we will talk by and by, when our work is done perhaps you can help us in this with your advice. There's pen and paper, Ansel; get up that document and read it to me, and then you can hear how this last communication for the ' Ensign ' sounds." Ansel began writing rapidly. He was only copy- ing fairly Arnholm's statistics. Arnholm on the other hand paused at times to think, at other times he chuckled and rolled his eyes. Withdrawing the 102 ALMOST A PRIEST. oblique glance wherewith he had favored a corner of the ceiling, he saw Dominick nodding in his chair. " Brother Dominick, Brother Dominick ! you are indulging the flesh by getting asleep, which is not edifying to this good company." " Pardonnez moi," said the polite old Frenchman, rubbing his heavy eyes, " I will not so transgress once more. I kept a vigil last night, in honor of St. Stanislaus, I am getting old, and it makes sleep come." " A vigil," sneered Ansel to Arnholm. " I kept a vigil too under a good pair of blankets, assisted by a bowl of hot punch." He spoke so low, Dominick could not hear the words, but he caught the tone, sighed and shook his head. " I'm done," said Ansel, presently. "Hold on there so am I now read, while I look over the book to see if you've got it right." " Ah, h-m-m yes stop, you hav'u't got converts from Protestant Churches twenty I believe you left it out on purpose you know it's my best point." " No, I didn't leave it out on purpose. See there, it is in." " Let me see the figure what word is that." " Gained." "Sure it isn't 'lost to' instead of 'gained from?'" " Yes, I'm not so deep as you are." ARNHOLM ON WA YS AND MEANS. 103 "You're too deep for implicit confidence. Here, Dominick, read that Italian for me." " ( Gained from Protestant Churches, twenty' very good, my brother very good all your report is good. May the saints increase our holy Church." How beautifully did Arnholm trust Ansel, and this honest, simple old monk was his resort at last when he wanted the truth told. " Hear me read now," said Arnholm, when Ansel had got a fresh cigar and stretched himself in the easy chair, his sharp profile and pale olive skin clearly defined by the bright cushions. As Father Arnholm scowled over his paper to de- cipher his script which was not of the clearest, "His forehead wrinkled was and furred, A work, one-half of which was done By thinking of his whens and hows ;" and the travesty which he had made of the statistics just read by Ansel was enough to add a wrinkle even to the most dishonest face. Dominick bent eagerly forward to listen while Arn- holm read. As he listened, Dominick's face darkened. When Arnholm came to the astounding assertions, that twenty thousand children were annually lost to the Romish Church, that Romanism in America in- creased chiefly by what it gained from immigration from foreign lands, that consequently American Ro- 104 ALMOST A PRIEST. manism's advance was European Romanism's de- crease, and that Catholic immigration was falling off, Dominick burst forth : " Burn it, my brother, destroy it, tear up that pa- per. You are mistaken, mistaken ! Compare what you were reading with what Brother Ansel has just copied from your book, and you will see the foul mistake." " This is just as I meant to have it. Don't you know Protestant papers quote these things ?" " But this will please them, will console them, will lead them to undervalue the Holy Church !" "That is just what we want to do," said Ansel. " Want to please the heretics, the evil and rebel- lious children, the revolted servants of the house of Rome !" cried Dominick. "Of course we will please them. I'm perfectly willing to please them out of the evidence of their senses if possible, and they snap up a bait easily." " I cannot I cannot know ah, you distress me"* until I forget Englaise Je ne comprends pas votre intention " < He looked so distressed that Father Arnholm took pity on him, and replied, " We, Brother Dominick, would hardly believe what our enemy said of him- self, certainly not without corroborating evidence of our own senses; but these Protestants believe our ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 105 statements as if we were the fountain of all truth," said he, with a self-satisfied, malicious sneer. Brother Dominick still looked puzzled, "Our Church is the fountain of all truth," he said. "See here," said Ansel, impatiently, "Arnholm's stuff is a feint to throw the enemy off guard. Do you ' comprehend ' now ?" " Ah, oui, oui," said Dominick, thoughtfully. Father Arnholm read on, something about Cath- olic children going to public schools, and then gath- ered up his papers. "That matter of the schools needs looking after," said Ansel. " There are a dozen of your parish young- sters in the Third ward school-house now; you'd better go there to-morrow and raise a row. Get up a fuss that will find its way to the papers, maybe to the court- room ; constant dropping you know, and if we badger them long enough we'll get our way about the schools yet. We will never have our triumph here until the schools knock under." " Now by Saint Aloysius, the Egyptian, I'll do it," said Father Arnholm with gusto. "Don't go alone; take Brother Dominick with you; two are better than one," said Ansel, nudging Arnholm's elbow. " Truly ; will you go, Brother Dominick ?" " I am at the service of the Church," said the monk. 106 ALMOST A PRIEST. Father Ansel was tying up the statistics he had copied, and putting them into an oiled-silk wrapper. " That goes to our venerable and holy papa," he said in such a tone, that Dominick gently remarked, " I trust, my brother loves and reverences the holy head of the Church, the Vicar of Christ ?" "Why not? when he first got the tiara, I yelled after him through the streets of Rome, ' Evviva Pio Nono r " Father Ansel shouted the old refrain so that Kitty heard in the dining-room, and stole into the hall to listen. " And thus you love him still ?" said Dominick. " To be sure, why not ? Believing in his promises, my father, my brother and my uncle fell under French swords and Austrian powder. But what of that? Pius IX. is my father, my brother, my uncle, ray everything indeed he tells me he is my Way, Truth and Life what more can I ask ? To be sure I tooted Ahi Pio, No I no! under the Vatican one night; but I was not myself I had a domino on, like others. I shall go see the venerable papa some day : ' Give me a case to put my visage in !' then say I. Arnholm, have Kitty bring another bowl of flip, and make it rather sweeter than the last." AENHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 107 It was thus that these reverend fathers obeyed the injunction to "watch and be sober." The clock hands rested together on twelve; cle'arly the hour strokes rang out under the hammer, and Father Arnholm's visitors arose to take leave. " To- morrow," said he, "at fifteen minutes to nine, Brother Dominick, I will look for you to go with me to that nest of heresy." " Yes, brother ; and I trust you will remember that zeal tempered with gentleness is the best zeal." Ansel winked at Arnholm ; the sincere, quiet old monk was only a source of amusement to these men. At five minutes after nine next morning, Father Arnholm softly turned the knob of the large lecture- room of the Third ward school-house. The pupils from every room in the building were gathered here for morning worship, each in a chair with hands de- murely folded, and eyes on the principal, who stood by his desk. Behind him on the platform were three la- dies and two young gentlemen, the under teachers in the school. The principal had his Testament in his hand, and had just begun to read the morning por- tion, when the door swung open and the two priests stepped within, Father Arnholm foremost. Brother Dominick had provided himself with his missal, and had tied about his neck his choicest treas- ure, a little black velvet bag, containing what he 108 ALMOST A PRIEST. believed to be a fragment of the true cross, a joint of St. Mark's forefinger, and an infinitesimal portion of the rope that bound St. Peter to the cross of his martyrdom. Dominick had brought the missal and the amulet of relics as charms against all heretical sophistries, and to prevent him from losing his tem- per or saying anything unbecoming his office of which last, however, there was little danger. The principal, seeing the visitors, bowed and waved his hand toward two vacant chairs left near the desk for guests. Instead of recognizing this courtesy, the face of Father Arnholm grew dark, and in the deep grating tones he used in church to utter his fiercest threats and denunciations, he cried out, "Let every Catholic child rise and leave this room !" There was a sudden bustle, as in different parts of the room the children indicated rose. " Let every child sit down ! " cried the principal. The children had been taught to obey the priest ; but they had learned whose voice was law in the Third ward school-house. They sat down quickly. " Catholic children ! to your feet and obey me !" cried Father Arnholm, his voice quivering with fury. " In your seats, every child of you," shouted the principal. The children, who had again half risen in fear of " Leave the room, sir, or I must call a policeman ! ' Almost a. Priest. Page 109. ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 109 the priest, dropped into their places in fear of the teacher. " Sirs," cried the principal to the intruders, " you disturb my school; take seats and listen quietly to these exercises, or leave the room. " I leave it when my children go with me," re- torted Father Arnholm, hotly. " Children, to the .all !" The frightened children looked toward the desk : the principal laid down his book, stepped from the platform and approached the priests, the two young men teachers following him. He threw open the door and Brother Dominick quietly stepped out. Laying his hand on the arm of Father Arnholm, the principal pressed him toward the door, saying, " Leave the room, sir, or I must call a policeman." Father Arnholm turning about left the room, and the school exercise continued in peace, while the two priests departed from the building.* "What will you do now?" asked Brother Dominick. " I will bid you good-morning I shall see you to- night come to me at eight," replied Priest Arnholm, gruffly. At eight, Brother Dominick found himself in Fa- ther Arnholm's parlor. Ansel was there, not loting- * The performance above described took place in one of the largest cities in New York Slate. 10 HO ALMOST A PRIEST. ing lazily as the night before, but angrily striding up and down. " Brother Dominick," said Father Arnholm, rising from his desk where he had been writing a glowing account of injuries and insults received 'by himself from the Third ward principal, "I am going to bring a suit for assault and battery against that fel- low; it comes off to-morrow at eleven, and you are to be my witness." "Of assault and battery, dear brother?" said Dominick, astounded. "Of assault and battery, don't you know what that is ?" sneered Father Ansel. " Oui, parfaitment ; mais, mon frere, there was no assault and battery." " None ! come now, did you not see him lay his vile, foul, heretical hand on my arm, on my priestly robe !" cried Father Arnholm, working himself into fury. " Oui, oui ; mais cet assault and battery, is it not to hit, to beat, to strike violentment, to assail, eh ?" "See here, Brother Dominick, which had you rather do, knock down one of the boys up at the college, or hit his Holiness the Pope a cuff on the ear ?" said Ansel. " I should not like either, mais if I must, vy I had better knock down le garfon." ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. Ill " Truly. Listen now, Dominick, while I explain this matter," said Ansel, placing himself in a chafr behind the old monk. "You admit that you saw the principal lay his hand on Brother Arnholm to expel him from the room ?" " Non, non to say go, or I call call police- hornme." Ansel muttered something under his breath. "Well you admit the laying his hand on his arm ? That is enough, for, listen, in laying his hand thus on Father Arnholm, he laid his hand on the bishop, in assault- ing the bishop he assaulted the archbishop, in assault- ing the archbishop he assaulted his sacred Holiness the Pope. Now, Brother Dominick, is not one sacri- legious touch laid on so lofty a person an assault? It is not the violence of the thing done, but the great- ness of the person so assaulted, that must be consid- ered, and in that light a rude hand on the arm be- comes an assault of the most disgraceful, unwarranted and extraordinary nature." "Oui, vraiment," said Brother Dominick, medi- tatively. "Considering it in this light, you must go as a witness to-morrow, not so much for our injured Brother Arnholm as for his defied Holiness the Pope." " Therefore," said Father Arnholm, cutting short 112 ALMOST A PRIEST. the argument, "be at the court-room at eleven; I will meet you there; I have business first at the House of Charity. And mind you don't get into the fog and forget what you saw ; you saw Father Arn- holm assaulted by the principal, when he entered as a visitor the Third ward school-house." Brother Dominick went home bewildered. After he had gone, Ansel copied what account of the affair Arnholm had written, and signed it, " A Lover of Justice." He made a second copy, and then directed one to a daily paper of the city, and sent the other to the " Catholic Ensign," in which it would be pub- lished as copied from the city paper. Next morning at nine, Father Arnholm went to the House of Charity. He sat down in Mother Denny's room to eat apples, and to give a highly colored narration of his visit to the school. Ambrose was cleaning the grate and polishing the fender. He listened with his ears while he apparently prayed with his lips. When he was done, he went into the sacristy and found there Father Arnholm's coat. Ambrose, the devout, took down this coat and rubbed the sleeve and a part of the skirt on the door- sill ; he then drew out his knife and cut a few stitches where the sleeve was sewed in at the shoulder ; next he caught a part of the breast on a tack sticking out of the book-shelves, and giving a little jerk, produced ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 113 a tri-angular rent; next he doubled the garment hastily together and sat down on it until he heard the priest coming, then he hurriedly went to rubbing the stove. 1 My coat, Ambrose," said Father Arnholm. Ambrose picked up the garment in question. " If I had known it looked so bad, your reverence, I could have fetched it to one of the sisters to mend and clean. Bad luck to the heretic that assaulted your reverence. Shall I brush the coat now or leave it as a witness of the treatment you got from him ?" " Help me on with it, I'm in a hurry," said the priest, giving no sign of his amazement or admira- tion of the stratagem. At the gateway of the House of Charity, he met Brother Dominick. " Vat is de matter," he asked, looking at the coat. "Voyez! I vill clean notre habit," and he pulled out his kerchief. " Let it alone ; it is where that rascal attacked me yesterday, pushing me against the wall, and tearing my coat. Let it alone, it will speak against him, and prove the justice of my cause. Dominick looked sorely puzzled, eyed the coat again and again, and followed his brother priest to the court-room. 10 * H 114 ALMOST A PRIEST. Arnholm pleaded that he had gone, as other people did ; to visit the school, that he had desired to address the children, that he wished them to show the cus- tomary respect by rising before their priest, that he had not understood the nature of the exercise in pro- cess, that the principal had assaulted him, handled him roughly, pushed him to the wall and from the room ; and lo, in proof of it, as showed the Gibeon- ites rent shoes, worn garments, and mouldy bread, so Father Arnholm showed his coat-sleeve and breast torn, and the skirts soiled, and here was Dominick for a witness. As for Dominick's testimony, it was mainly that they went to see the school, knowing some of the children of Father Arnholm's flock to be there, and the principal had said they were disturbing an exer- cise and bade them go out, came to them in 4 fact and opened the door. Cross-examined, Brother Dominick did not come out much better. " Did the teacher assault the priest ?" " Oh, he certainly put his hand on him." "Was he angry?" " Yes, he must have been angry," and then soft- ened the statement by adding, " How could he tell surely, he could not see his heart." " Did he see the teacher push the priest from the room, tear his coat, thrust him to the wall?" ARNHOLM ON WAYS AND MEANS. 115 Brother Dominiek mournfully admitted that he did not see that. " And how came it that so violent a scuffle passed unnoticed ?" Brother Dominiek was distressed, he looked about at Ansel, at Arnholm, at the lawyers and loungers; then his face cleared a little ; he humbly stated that " he had been saying his prayers." That absorbing devotion, which had prevented the monk from being cognizant of so fierce an assault and so violent abuse, so amused this heretical court-room that there was a general laugh. The principal had the five teachers for witnesses of his provocation, and his mild and gentlemanly conduct. The coat of Father Arnholm had some effect, but was not accepted as evidence. The ver- dict was in favor of the principal, and Arnholm and Co., retired from the court-room disgusted. How- ever he had raised a fuss and called public attention. One of the daily papers stated his side of the story, as he had written it, the " Ensign" apparently copied it, and Father Arnholm did not think this affair thrown away among his many ways and means. CHAPTER V. FUTURE OF THE BOY. jjjVUT of the assault and battery case Brother Dom- inick did not come with shining honors ; indeed, Arnholm and Ansel abused him openly, and argued him almost out of his senses. Father Arn- holm felt that Ambrose the devout had done himself credit in the affair, and, without alluding specifically to it, was yet willing to give him rewarcl of merit. " You are a good Christian and a zealous Catholic, son Ambrose," he said ; " what is there I can do for you?" " If I might be janitor at the college, I would humbly thank your reverence," said Ambrose, promptly. " It is a modest request ; janitor you shall be, my son," said Father Arnholm. Janitor Ambrose became, although not without op- position. He had a little room for himself in the college court-yard, his keys hung on a peg, his brooms stood behind the door, he swept halls, made fires and carried out ashes. One would not think he had improved his .condition in any respect, but to FUTURE OF THE SOT. 117 Ambrose there were possibilities in this situation which the other did not afford. One evening late in November, Father Ansel went to Father Arnholm's as he was accustomed to do nearly every evening. The wind was keen and cold, carrying with it sharp particles of sleet, whistling around corners and taking liberties with cloaks and wrappers a wind very different from the winds of Italy. Father Ansel found the Northern November a sharp contrast to his native climate, and his temper grew sharp and bitter as the wind. But as he entered the warm hall of Priest Arnholm's house, he smiled he smile^ still more when he gave his coat to Kitty he smiled because he carried little stings and tor- ments with him for his dear Brother Arnholm. " Who was that I met going out?" of Mary." Published by P. O'Shea, N. Y. FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 153 Going from such lessons as these into the gym- nasium for an hour, when free conversation was allowed, what wonder that much of their talk turned on the subjects of their studies. When we say " free conversation " we do not in- tend that the boys were left to their own impulses. A monk or priest with missal in hand sat on the seat of one of the windows ; and, while his look was on the volume he held, he had the pedagogic eyes in the back of his head, his ears caught nearly every word spoken ; but unless he were appealed to, or the holy Church were assailed, he gave no sign of vitality, except turning the leaves of the missal. Of all the monks the boys preferred to have Dominick in their gymnasium, for he was ready to believe good of everybody, never suspected them of mischief, and they found their greatest freedom in his presence. ' Among the youthful crowd in the gymnasium were a vivacious Frenchman, a credulous Irishman, a coolly indifferent American, a sly Italian, a hot-tem- pered Spaniard, and a resolute German. Tutored and watched, guarded day and night as they were, the boy spirit was in them, and sometimes the boy blood rose up for mischief, and the antagonism of many nationalities was merged in the unity of mob- ism, when they would relieve themselves by a "rise" against authority. 154 ALMOST A PRIEST. " What are you in here for ?" asked one lad of an- other, as Brother Dominick took his accustomed seat and opened his book ; " I thought you had a pen- ance to do, for not knowing your lesson." "I got excused from doing it until night; then I shall repeat the litany for the dead : I had rny choice of litanies, and I took that because a year ago my mother died." Philip drew near the speaker. He too had lost his mother, and the old wound opened when the words were spoken; a vision came up of dismal Gabrielle street, and of a dead form with clasped hands and glassy eyes half open ; the gymnasium swam in mist before him ; he placed himself beside the young Irishman who had spoken, and said, "So have I lost my mother." " So have a good many of us," said the Spaniard, " but what's the use of mourning over it ; we cannot stay with mothers for ever." "To lose them is hard enough," said Philip, warmly, hurt by. the careless tone, " but that is not the worst of it. I could have given my mother up, for life was hard to her, and she was lonely; but there is the fearful thought of purgatory. It comes to me at night, can my mother be there ! And then the altar for the souls in purgatory the sight of it nearly kills me sometimes." FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 155 " No need for you to feel so/' said one of the boys. " The blessed Virgin has more power over purgatory than any one else has, and she will surely take out your mother; you are such a servant of the Virgin and so devoted to her, to carry your mother to Para- dise would be the least she could do for you." " Yes," said the Italian, with a covert sneer, " the holy Virgin descends every Saturday into purgatory to see if she can find there any souls who are her property and carry them out." " As to the purgatory, I did not fret over that," said the Spaniard, " for my mother died on Thursday night, and as she wore the Scapular of Mount Car- mel, and kept Wednesdays and Saturdays, and re- cited the rosary and the little office, she could claim the Sabbatine privilege and get out the first Saturday, nobody having power to hinder her and that was only a day and two nights." " I say, Ferd, do you wear the brown Scapular too?" demanded the boy who began the discussion. " To be sure I do. Are we not told that the suf- ferings of Christ were not to be compared to the tor- ments of purgatory? and these may be endured ten, thirty, fifty or a hundred years." " I don't know what the Scapular of Mount Car- mel is," said a new pupil. A cry of astonishment arose at this, and several 156 ALMOST A PRIEST. hastened to explain the advantages of this especial Scapular. The last remark of the Spaniard had been too much for Philip, and he slipped apart from the group and turned toward Brother Dominick, as to one who had himself suffered affliction and who could feel for him. " Brother Dominick/' he said, " will you tell me about your sister ?" The monk laid down his book. " It is a long while since I spoke of her to any, my son. I don't know why I should want to tell you of it, but perhaps it may be a lesson to you. It is not much, only this : There were but two of us, Minette and I for, although she bore her religious name for seven years, I think of her oftenest by the name I called her when we were little children, and long time as it is, I dream of her still, and, in dreams she comes to me not as a 'religious,' not as when we parted, but as she was when a little girl and my play- mate, in our mother's house. We lost our mother early, and to obey her last commands w r e parted to enter each a religious house, she to become a sister of the Sacred Heart of Mary, I to be a monk in a Jesuit college in our land they give the tonsure early, Philip I was a monk when but little past your age. Our confessor at home was the General of my Order, and he was also my sister's confessor in her convent. FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 157 He held her in high esteem for her devotion and fine mind, and said she would be a second Saint Catherine of Sienna. We were allowed to write to each other, and until she was twenty-two my sister was happy in her convent, her duties and her art at least I believed so." " I've often wondered what makes sisters look so unhappy," said Philip, " and so old my mother had so much trouble and yet she looked younger and happier than sisters. If you look right into their eyes it seems as if they were just going to cry, although they have everything to make them happy." " They may gain in a religious life such clear views of holiness, that it is a cause of mortal sorrow that they cannot in life attain to sinlessness that was doubtless my sister's case at least I try to think so." " And she told you she was unhappy !" " Oh no, no. But there was a little word which in childhood she had used when she was troubled, and by a change of form that word expressed for her great sorrow; this word crept into her letters, and came in more than once, and it told me of some grief that could find no earthly cure, and stopped short of heavenly healing. I had been permitted to visit her once a year, and now I asked the privilege " u 158 ALMOST A PRIEST. " It was never refused !" cried Philip. " Surely." " How wicked ! how cruel !" " Hush, boy, do not condemn our reverend Gen- eral. Do you not see that, being vowed to heaven, m} sister and I had no right to private affections ? They would wean our souls from higher things." " I can't believe it," said Philip with set teeth. " I must believe it ; it accords with my vow, and I should at once have submitted and so should she. All our bitter trouble came from rebellion against authority, and a setting up of our own opinions. I urged, my sister begged and insisted she knelt to her confessor to obtain permission for me to come and he believed she had something on her mind that she was resolved to confess to none but me, which was wrong enough, for I was not her confessor my poor hot-headed Minette !" " He ought to have let you go !" cried Philip. " He must have done right he was General of out Order, and as such loved us both. He told me to write her that I would not come, that we would meet no more, and that she must unfold all her heart to him. He bade me do this, as she had failed in health and would probably soon die of consumption." "And you did it, Brother Dominick?" " Truly, boy, I obeyed, but in a wrong spirit. I FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 159 \vrote it rebelling in my heart. My punishment came. My poor Minette sent me a letter secretly I received it as secretly she implored me to come to her she was dying she suffered mental agonies she was going to eternal death. This must have been insanity, and I should have addressed myself to prayer; but I here committed the great sin of my life. Had I been obedient here, I might have won her salvation and my own eternal content, and risen .to be a blessing to our Order and the holy Catholic Church. Instead of this, I revolted against au- thority. I went to her. She was wasted, as our confessor said, by mortal disease. But what availed my visit ? I broke my own vow of implicit obedi- ence, but I was not allowed to cause her to break hers. Her mother superior was true to her charge, and before we exchanged a word two sisters carried my Miuette out of my sight." " She spoke to you" " Only one word { brother !' as she spoke they took her in their arms, and from that moment she was insensible." "She died?" " She is dead." " And how, and how soon ?" " God and the angels know, my boy. For me, I had merited punishment; merited death for my dis- 160 ALMOST A PRIEST. obedience.* Our General kindly gave me solitary imprisonment, and after two years allowed me our books to read. I made my submission many times, but, Philip, I believe not sincerely. However, as years went on there came something into my heart that had never been there before. Ambition died, self perished, eternity grew before my eyes ; life, how sharp soever its pains, seemed short indeed ; my soul was able to bridge the pangs of purgatory and rest in the hope of a heavenly land. I have gained from somewhere a blessing which I cannot express to you, which I cannot explain to myself." " Brother Dominick, you spoke of years." " It was ten years, Philip." "Ten years, brother, ten years imprisoned alone" " Have I not told you what good came to me from it? At the end of that time our General died. You know, Philip, when a king comes to his throne the prison-doors are often opened: so this good man, going to his celestial throne to reign with Christ and Mary, sent me pardon his blessing those pictures. Then I was sure that my Minette was dead. I spent in our Oratory two months, one in offering peniten- tial prayers for myself, the other in the indulgence prayers and rosaries for her soul. During those two * See " Loyola and the Jesuits." FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 161 months I fasted entirely every alternate day. I was then sent to this country, and allowed to bring my missal and the pictures with me." " And you heard no more from your sister ?" "No word." "Suppose she had not died suppose she lives yet!" The monk's face blanched a wild horror filled his eyes: "Such thought has come to me it is the devil's last strong temptation utter it no more. How old do you think me, Philip?" He spoke with an evident attempt to change the conversation. " Seventy, perhaps," said Philip. The monk made no reply. Bowed form, gray hair, wrinkles, hollow eyes, these had ten years in a dungeon given him. Brother Dominick was forty- five! But while the monk, prematurely old, and his pu- pil, unnaturally grave, had touched such pitiful themes, the group of lads who had withdrawn to the furthest part of the gymnasium, trusting to their teacher's evident preoccupation, had indulged in quite different conversation. As they had finished the catalogues of the privileges of the different Scapulars, the Italian said, " These are disputed by some, de- nied too by others. There are pious beliefs in our Church which change and are done away. I have 14* L 162 ALMOST A PRIEST. heard of such things in Italy, and here also. I think even some of those litanies will go out of use." He was one of the oldest pupils, was about to be ordained a sub-deacon, and was listened to respect- fully by the others. " Observances do die out," said a young Breton, whose short solid frame, low heavy brow and strong thick hair betokenedTiis descent ; " did you ever hear of the Festival of the Ass ?" His small bright eyes sparkled with fun. " No, no, what is it ? tell us," said several at once. "My grandfather told me of it. It used to be regularly kept in Brittany, but is not observed now. It honored the ass which carried Mary and her son into Egypt. There was a hymn^to it too." " The ass ought certainly to be honored ; the cave, the manger, the carpenter's shop, all those things are reverenced, and the people of Brittany showed their piety by not neglecting the ass," said the Italian, as ever with a sly sneer. "Tell us how they did it?" said an inquisitive American. " They put a young woman holding a baby on the ass, led it to the altar of the parish church, blessed it, gave it a handful of barley, and sang the hymn." "What time of year?" " Why, the middle of February, I think." FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 163 " Let us hear the hymn," said the Irishman who had missed his lesson and was to do penance in the evening. Speaking in a low, cautious tone, the Breton quoted, " From the country of the East Came this strong and handsome beast, This able Ass beyond compare, Heavy loads and packs to bear. " Now, seignor Ass, a noble bray At large your beauteous mouth display Abundant food our hay-lofts yield, And oats abundant load the field He haw, he haw, he haw !" A roar of laughter unprecedented in those quiet halls greeted the Breton's recitation. Philip had just guessed "seventy" about the monk's age, when this hilarious shout broke forth, and Dominick hurried toward the noisy group. At the same moment Father Ansel and the janitor, Am- brose the devout, appeared at opposite doors. "You must have been sleeping, Brother Domi- nick," said Ansel, curtly. "I would recommend more quiet, and it is nearly time for the daily walk." " I will order them for the walk at once ; do you go, brother ? the noise of the young men is to be at- tributed to my inattention," said Dominick, meekly. 164 ALMOST A PRIEST. Ansel nodded and left the room ; and the exem- plary janitor, who had stood glaring on the pupils, said peevishly, " Oh, you're here, father ! the young men made such unseemly noise for this sacred place, that I supposed there was no one here to govern them." " None of your business to come," muttered the Spaniard aside. " The lads will be more prone to silence at our age, Brother Ambrose," said Dominick, with much gen- tleness ; " laughter is natural to youth." " It hurts my feelings in this sacred house," said Ambrose. " This is heaven, and you's Saint Peter with the keys," whispered the Irishman to a friend, as Domi- nick marshalled them two and two for their walk. They filed from the room, Dominick bringing up the rear of the march. At the front-door Father Ansel waited with cocked-hat and cane. Ambrose with a groan unlocked the door, with another groan set wide the gate, and the pupils were conducted up the street. The boys nearest Father Ansel and those close to Dominick were constrained to silence, or perfectly correct conversation ; but some half dozen had con- ceived a delightful plot of mischief and had man- aged to get themselves in the centre of the line, where they had better opportunity for an exchange of ideas. FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 165 These six were the Breton, the Irishman, the Italian, the Spaniard, and two Americans. "I should think, Jacques, that your conscience would reproach you for neglect of ancestral observ- ances," said one. " Indeed," replied the Breton, " I have a good will to keep the Festival, of the Ass." " Tradition is the foundation of our Church, the holy fathers are the fountains' of knowledge, we should never despise the antique, the older a form is the more likely it is to be correct. What a pity to reject the Festival of the Ass !" said the Italian. " It is the practice of Jacques' fatherland, and our duty of hospitality to help him continue it," said a jolly young American. " Faith it's myself is ready to observe it," said the Irishman. " The vestment- room would be such a good place." " The old altar, that was removed from the oratory, is in a closet there." " We can have the boy that brings the vegetables bring us some candles on the sly." " And he owns a jackass, the very beast we want, and we can manage to get it." "Next week Thursday is our college feast-day, and we shall have no evening lessons. Let us then celebrate the Festival of the Ass." 166 ALMOST A PRIEST. " It will be so noisy, we shall be found out." After so many remarks this one came from Jacques. " Who cares, they cannot kill us, and it will be fun to raise a row. I am absolutely spoiling for a fight. I wish I were in Italy this minute so I could fight. I'd be on either side," said the Italian. " There'll be fight enough if they catch us, as they surely will," said the Breton, shrugging his shoulders. " Let 'em ; who's afraid ?" said young America. Though priests and monks are ever watching, play- ing the spy and reporting each other, these lads their pupils had still the boy clanship, the contempt of a tale-bearer and a sneak, and in their own set they placed entire confidence in each other. "Jacques, you see the grocer's boy and strike a bargain for that ass the boy's a Frenchman, one of Brother Dominick's pets," said the Irishman. " Yes," returned the Breton with a grimace, " he's a good boy too, and won't do it." " He can be bought anybody can," said the Italian, whose domestic and religious training had cherished this fo*ul belief. " I have no money," said Jacques. " I'll give you a half-eagle," said the American. " What good is money to us here ? We cannot buy what we like, and we're all sick of gambling when we can't use our winnings." 1'ESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 167 "We'll wear our gowns and surplices," said the Spaniard. " And, Jacques, if the boy will bring the beast to the gate on Thursday at Vespers, I'll get it in. He has only to ride the ass along under the wall and sing Marseillaise," said the Italian. Father Ansel having stopped and allowed several pairs of boys to pass him, now demanded " What is all this talking about ?" "We discuss who first said mass," replied the representative of Italy. " Ah, a good theme ! and who was it ?" " We are not decided," said the countryman and namesake of the wily Ferdinand. " It is such a hard question," added the Breton. "Well, you may prepare yourselves for that point for eight o'clock recitation, Monday morning." And knowing from his own spirit that outward devotion was not to be trusted, Father Ansel returned to the head of the procession, chuckling inwardly. What the boys called the vestment-room, was one room and a closet apart from the ther building, de- voted to the tarnished and worn out paraphernalia of church and priests. Here were stored all that was considered too sacred to be cast away, and yet not fine enough for exponents of a creed dependent so largely upon pomp and show for its hold upon the multitude. 168 ALMOST A PRIEST. Few ever went there save to add one more relic to the general assortment. When one of the pupils asked permission to use the place to practice intoning an important part of their business in which they were lamentably deficient the authority in the case being unsuspecting Dominick, they quickly obtained their request; and resorting to the room betimes, three of them intoned loudly while the other three procured from the old treasures a metal basin, an altar, ornaments and a missal. Thither they stealth- ily conveyed a half-pound of candles, which they cut into lengths and fastened to the altar with melted grease. Matches were in readiness, things were well in train, and on the evening of the feast-day nothing was wanting but the ass and the barley. Even An- sel was beguiled by the distressed face with which the Italian came to him, Vespers being just begun, and begged to be excused on the plea of severe cramp. The cramp ceased to contort the acolyte as soon as he passed out of sight of priestly eyes. He stealth- ily drew near the gate, locked to be sure, but with the porter's keys 141 the lock, for the boys being all under age and sent there by parents and guardians, there was small fear of their designing an escapade. Hearing the familiar notes of the Marseillaise outside, the Italian hastily opened the gate, and waived his hand for the " garyon " to draw near. To avoid ob- FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 169 servation he closed the gate while he asked the boy a question or two; then opened it again, received the barley and the ass, and turning the key led his prize to the closet of the vestment-room, which was easily done unobserved, as the high walls and buildings kept the yard dark and the room was in the rear, for- tunately far from Ambrose the devout, who soon came with dignity from service to the lodge. One by one, with varied excuses, the boys stole after supper to their rendezvous. Hither, to increase the jollity, they had smuggled a sheet of ginger-bread and six bottles of ginger-pop, and before they pro- duced the quadruped which they had met to honor, they proceeded to regale themselves. It was a singular scene the delighted faces of the boys, the faint flickering light of the tallow- candles, the dusty moth-eaten garments swayed by truant airs against the wall. Alb, maniple and stole, violet, crimson, dingy, white and tarnished tinsel censers, basins, cruets, water-pots along the floor towels, altar veils, cast-oif robes from the images, cracked flower-pots, rheumatic tongs, bent chafing-dishes, dilapidated missals the de*bris of years and glaring grimly from a distant corner a Holy Virgin with a broken head, and a Saint Joseph armless from an encounter with the jani- tor's broom. Amid such weird surroundings the 15 170 ALMOST A PRIEST. lads ate homely cake and drank "pop" with ju- venile gusto. The Italian then placed himself on the " epistle side " of the altar ; on his left stood the Breton with the barley ; on the right the Spaniard, their song in- terleaved in the missal and ready to lead off the music. The Irishman and the Americans led the ass from the closet to the outside of the vestment-room door. Thus far he went peaceably enough, but with asinine stupidity preferred the outer darkness to the flare of the candles, and would not come in. The boys finally seized him by head and legs and dragging him in shut the door. " He needs housings," said one American, and the other in his haste to supply the deficiency rushed into the closet and returned with a frayed white and scar- let satin chasuble. "Mount him and hurry along," they said. Straightway, " Paddy leapt Upon the creature's back and plied With ready heel his shaggy side." This mild form of moral suasion prevailed upon the ass, and he paced slowly up the room until he came into the circle of light, when, seeing the barley, he sprang forward unexpectedly, and the unguarded rider FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 171 fell over his head into the basin held by the Breton, causing the loss of half the precious food and bruising his own nose. After such vicious deeds of Seignor Ass, the Italian's benediction and eulogy were slightly inappropriate. All went safely until the singing. The ass, robed in a chasuble and venerated before an altar, should have showed appreciation, but no sign was given, " Only the Ass with motion dull Upon the pivot of his skull, Turned round his long left ear." Losing all hesitation the boys sung louder the second verse of their song thus "He was born on Shechem's hill In Reuben's vales he fed his fill, (Here the barley was administered) " He drank of Jordan's sacred stream, And gamboled in Bethlehem." Uproarious was then the chorus " Now, Seignor Ass, a noble bray At large your beauteous mouth display Abundant food our hay-lofts yield, And oats sufficient load the field : He haw, he haw, he haw." The ass was roused to emulation, and one of the Americans seizing the propitious moment *to grasp 172 ALMOST A PRIEST. the poor beast's tasseled tail and give it a wrench, he brayed both loud and long, the discordant clamor shaking the cobwebby rafters of the vestment-roorn, and clanging among relics that had been used to a finer style of intoning. Hardly had this sudden braying ceased and one of the Americans designing a repetition of it touched the tail as a key-note again, when the door burst open and Fathers Ansel, Arnholm and Dominick dashed in, accompanied by Ambrose the devout, three college servitors and a tutor. Ansel and Arnholm blazed with fury, like Nebu- chadnezzar's furnace heated seven times hotter than ever before. They rushed forward calling the ser- vitors to follow, aud each collared a boy and deliv- ered him into custody, while Dominick more mildly laid his hand on the Breton's arm and bade him re- tire to the sacristy. Ansel seized in his hand a crosier which having passed its best days had been left in a corner of the vestment-room. Having made one captive, he turned part of his rage against the ass and gave it a heavy kick. Just then he caught the eye of the Spaniard fixed on him with an expression quite the reverse of respect, and carried away by passion he sprang at him and struck him with the crosier. For centuries Spaniards have been subservient to FESTIVAL OF THE ASS. 173 Eome ; but years in a free land had revived in this youth the fiery spirit of his Castilian ancestors who had lifted Ferdinand and Isabella to the throne. He could not brook a blow, and seizing the emblem of office from Ansel's hand he flung it across the room. " He despises the most holy cross !" cried Ambrose, ind springing forward caught him by the throat and might have strangled him, had not the tall Italian come to the rescue, and taking the head of devout Ambrose in his hands knocked it unscrupulously against the wall. Three boys had already been con- ducted to the sacristy, and after a few moments' melee, the other three were sent thither also. Am- brose picked up the crosier, kissed it, wiped it on his coat-tail and laid it away, removed the candles from the altar, affected to weep over the desecration of that piece of furniture, and darkness and silence at last reigning in the vestment-room, he grasped poor trembling Seignor Ass by the ear, dragged him to the gate and dismissed him to the street with such a vengeful kick that three tremendous brays straight- way woke the echoes on the evening air. Side by side went Ansel and Dominick to the sac- risty, to question and condemn to varied penances the offenders, Ansel bitterly to do the worst he might, to demand to the full the pound of flesh, but 15 174 ALMOST A PRIEST. Dominick, taught compassion by what he had suf- fered, Portia-like, to plead the cause of mercy. " Truly," said Dominick, as they took their way through the darkness, passing here and there a gleam of light from the windows, "our Ambrose seems very devout." " Bah," said Ansel, who being less charitable might be a better judge of the dark side of human nature. CHAPTER VII. DOMINICK AND ANSEL. "INING the culprits who had been guilty of fes- tival keeping extraordinary to the amount of half a year's pocket money each ; giving them twenty prayers from the Kaccolta to learn, and to repeat morning and evening for three mouths, and lastly sentencing them to do penance barefooted and with candles in hand before the church altar on a day of entire abstinence from food or drink, seemed to the boys to be full settlement of their flagrant crime of burlesque. On the minds of the priests it left a deeper impression, and Ansel regarded the Spaniard with a vindictive hatred, likely to last at least the natural term of his life. About a week after the excitement in the vestment- room several young men were consecrated as priests in Father Arnholm's Church of the Madonna. The bishop preached a sermon on the occasion from the text that the Levite should say " unto his father and to his mother, I have not seen him ; neither did he acknowledge his brethren, nor knew his own chil- 175 176 ALMOST A PRIEST. dren." It was a very clever discourse, considering that it came from a bishop. On the first clause, he showed that the filial tie was inconsiderable, trifling and easily broken, and that the greater part of that tie was absorbed by the holy Church. As an ordi- nary man was to leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife, so that extraordinary man, a priest, was to leave his father and mother and cleave unto the Church. The discussion of the next point was calculated to be very comforting to Father Arn- holm on that little matter of his starved sister that is if he had any regard for the prelate's deduction. From the last clause the bishop argued that, as the Levitical priest was to have no parental interest in or affection for his children, so the Romish priest, advanced to a higher plane of consecration, was to have no parental relationship. After the service, Ansel, Arnholm and Dominick being in Father Arnholm's parlor to discuss Church matters, "How did you like the sermon?" asked Ansel of Dominick. " Very good," said the old monk. " I was pleased to see that the Levitical priesthood was almost entirely like the Catholic only the children we have none at all." " Not as a general thing," said Ansel, maliciously, and with a wink. Arnholm laughed. DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 177 " Oh, my brother, my brother, why to a heart of holiness will you add lips of folly !" cried Dominick, tears rushing to his mild gray eyes. "The holy priesthood should be sacred even from an idle word." "And what sort of a holy priest is that rascal of a Spaniard going to make do you think, who threw the crosier across the room ? He ought to have had his right hand cut off" " He is young and foolish he will improve," sard Dominick, the mild. " I'll wager anything," said Father Arnholm, par- ing an apple, quartering it, and feeding himself with the portions stuck on his knife-blade, " that those young scoundrels have all at one time or another been to those hot-beds of wickedness, the public schools. If there's anything I loathe and hate, it is a public school. If I had my way I'd wipe every one of them from the face of the country and until that is done there is no hope of our Church in this land."* " I don't go with you there," said Ansel. " I see plainly that if we can get the Bible out of those schools and Catholic teachers in, the schools would soon be turned entirely to our purposes, and be our help rather than our hindrance." * For these views even more broadly and violently expressed, see " Catholic Telegraph." 178 ALMOST A PRIEST. "You would have to remodel them, get in the catechism and our own school-books, and cut down the range of studies, which is too broad, and develops the young out of the idea of unquestioning obedience. There's too much education in this country." " Get "out the Bible, get in the sisters to teach, and that would all follow," said Ansel. " Bah, what a land this is to live in ! Give me France, give me Austria, give me Italy or America fifty years hence but not a country where there is such a petting of schools and such an outcry if one lays a finger on them. What do you say, Brother Dominick ? Speak to the point." Ansel was quizzing the monk as usual ; but Dom- inick was moved beyond himself, to speak his se- cret thoughts, hardly realizing the force of what he said " You are right yes, truly, brother, you must be yet we are forced to admit that in the countries you mention there is a great excess of crime over this country. Naples is the most criminal place in any Christian land ; France may rank next in order to the Italian states, unless Bavaria exceeds her; I am not versed in statistics I speak from observation ; - Austria is bad ; Tuscany is worse ; and in these coun- tries there are no public schools. Perhaps the schools may not have such an effect here as you suppose, and DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 179 if the schools are not evil the reading of the Bible has had no damaging effect. Well, well, brothers, maybe I am speaking unadvisedly !" " I should think you were," said Ansel ; " why, man ! that is rank heresy !" " Oh no, not for the world, never, never !" said Dominick. " It is do you teach that sort of stuff?" asked Arnholm. "Never, never; I do not trust my own feeble judgments ; I offer my boys no private opinion, I speak only the deliverances of the holy Church ; thus I am sure of being right." "Oh, well then," said Arnholm, knowing that Dominick's word could be entirely trusted, " I don't see as your opinions make any difference. So you keep them to yourself, and teach the views of the Church, it's no matter whether you believe exactly right or not." " Oh yes, it is ; it is great difference to me; I want to be right ; if as you tell me these views are wrong, I must not entertain them." " There, you see, you were brought up without any public school, and you yield to authority, but these rascals in the college have minds of their own," said Arnholm, "and the worst of it is that public opinion here interferes in some measure with even 180 ALMOST A PRIEST. the workings of our Order we are not half as se- vere as we ought to be those boys were not half punished." " No/' said Ansel ; " we ought to have applied the laws of the code of Draco." " What is that ?" asked Dominick. " In other words the code of the Jesuits." " I never heard of the code of Draco before," said the monk. " It was a code that judged the least offence worthy of death ; and, as no heavier punishment Avas possi- ble for higher crimes, death was the penalty of every infraction of law." " And our code is so too," said Dominick, medi- tatively. The corners of Arnholm's mouth made a sudden raid upon his ears and withdrew from the charge as suddenly. He knew that before Dominick's mental vision floated the gloom, the dampness, the loneliness of a dungeon, and the slow decade that there had rolled away, but the thought that Domi- nick had such a memory was not unpleasing to Arn- holm misfortune of other men was a sweet morsel under his tongue. "Do you not see the similarity between Draco's code and ours?" asked Ansel. "Do we not read that disobedience is death, hesitation is death, honest DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 181 doubt is death.* By that law, my dear Brother Dominick, you are condemned already." Dominick looked uneasily about, and the gray- white of his face blanched a little. " Never fear," said Ansel, " we are not disposed to carry on the matter to extremities." "No, we will be merciful for all we have the honor of having founded the Inquisition." f " Arnholm, ring for Kitty this brandy's out and I'm fearfully thirsty intoning is an abomination to my throat last Sunday I was forced " Ansel stopped, it would never do to say " to drink a glass or so of brandy before high mass," so he said " nearly to kill myself at mass -just missed a double sacrifice, you see, as there is a double atonement.! Dominick fairly groaned with horror at this speech. Arnholm rang for Kitty, gave his order, and pull- ing a dish of nuts toward him cracked one or two, and then putting his thumb in the cracker closed it gingerly. "Not so bad as a thumb-screw suppose we have the pleasure of trying that on these Yankees some day ?" he said. " Not a very republican institution," said Ansel. " Ah, Kitty, here you are !" *See "Loyola and Jesuits." fRanke 1, p. 74. t See Month of Mary, p. 150. 182 ALMOST A PRIEST. There was the ripple of brandy into the glasses. "We priests do not profess to be republican/' said Arnholm ; " but that priest at North ville is a repub- lican, he is indeed." Ansel laughed uproariously. " Hear that, Dom- inick? Ought he to be a republican? The word is an abomination." "I trust we are all Christians," said Dominick, mindful of " thumb-screws." "Republican or democrat, what difference?" said Arnholm. "Both are foreign in their principles to our intentions. Republicanism is incontestably anti- Catholic and, on the other hand, democracy sup- poses men capable of self-government, which they are not such a supposition is odious and abominable, and a flagrant contradiction of our doctrines and rights.* Yes, and for all we cry 'Democracy' they'll find some day that when the holy Church and de- mocracy come into conflict the Church will not be the power to give way." f " I do not understand politics, and I had better go back to the college," said Dominick, rising. "No, no, stay until I go, two are better than one going home dark nights," said Ansel, holding on to the monk's gown. Dominick patiently sat down. * See "Tablet "of N.Y. flbid. DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 183 "How did you like my sermon on the seven sacraments?" said Arnholm. " It was a very learned discourse, brother." "What do you think I heard that Italian saying in the refectory about it?" said Ansel. "Said he, if marriage is a sacrament, why not permit the priests to indulge in it? are they holier than the sacra- ments ?" " I'm afraid the holy Church is in great danger," said Dominick, "if our lads talk so recklessly of things too high for them." " Seven sacraments ! ha, ha, seven sacraments," said Arnholm, scoffingly, and again he rang his bell. Once more came Kitty. "You and grandmother," said Arnholm, keeping up the pleasant little illusion about the housekeeper, " bring us some supper, the castor, a box of sardines, a plate of biscuits. Is cook out ?" "No sir." " Tell her to make some hot punch." Kitty vanished, and the 'master of the household put his feet on the back of a chair, yawned and waited. As priests must eat and drink like other men, as they must live in houses, have beds made, carpets swept and clothes mended, and as these are feminine avocations which no man that has yet been discovered 184 ALMOST A PRIEST. can properly perform, it seems to me that priests ought to marry and thus have some one to superin- tend their domestic life without fear and without re- proach. It is a question worthy of public consider- ation. It is a question which some of the most en- lightened minds in the Romish' Church have decided in the affirmative. It is a question which Victor Emanuel has settled in his own dominions so far as he can. And here is a single other question : If Protestant clergymen as a body vowed themselves to celibacy, and then insisted. upon having houses and sup- porting domestic establishments like other people, icould there not be not to put too fine a point upon it great room for remarks? The supper was brought in, and Arnholm invited his guests to draw near, as he filled glasses with punch. Ansel drew up with alacrity and proceeded to help himself. Dominick shook his head, saying, " I am neither hungry nor thirsty," turned about his chair and looked into the grate, softly whispering to himself a fragment of an epistle, " not in rioting and drunkenness." Can any good thing come out of Nazareth ? Can a clean thing come out of an unclean ? The Koraish system is foully corrupt, and yet by God's mercy there have been found in its membership some gracious souls. Dear Father Dominick ! verily he was a gentle, hum- DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 185 ble, honest man ! Even in Jesuitism, the most in- tolerable creed under which earth ever groaned, God is not left without a witness. In all ages Rome has had some such as Dominick, and some with more powerful minds and no less piety, who have left the weariness and darksome mazes of their perverted creed, their cowls and their albs, their cinctures and their stoles, to go up and stand white-robed before the throne of Christ. Such thy lot, Dominick. This poor man's God had found him in a desert land ; he had met him wounded, oppressed and poor, fainting in the way, smitten with a sore disease, and he had borne him and comforted him as a mother soothes her child. The cripple healed at Bethesda knew not that it was Jesus who had healed him, but when he found him in the temple then his eyes were opened, and he worshiped him, no more in type and shadow but face to face. So when Dominick finds Jesus in the upper temple, he shall know his Lord, and shall adore him with none to come between. As yet Dominick does not know that the peace and ten- derness in his heart are external to his creed, a some- thing nobler than is held by his brother priests, a special work of the Holy Spirit, binding him to Jesus as an only and ever present Saviour. Our story lingers. After so long delays, it is yet only the Lent following Philip's entrance to the col- 16* 186 ALMOST A PRIEST. lege. The Seven Sorrows and the House of Charity have not yet had their fair, nor has North- ville been enlivened by the strawberry festival. It is Lent, and Father Arnholm preaches daily, dis- coursing on the u Twelve Stations" of the cross. It must not be concluded that he was going through any arduous mental labor; he had twelve sermons on the Stations, which he had collected from various fathers in the first year of his priesthood, and he had used them regularly at every Lent since; he was pretty well acquainted w r ith them by this time, and so would his people have been, if they had made any practice of paying attention. To express how Father Arnholm actually regarded the Stations, we can pervert Wordsworth's sketch of Peter Bell and a primrose: "Those Stations hung in twilight dim, Poor painter's daubings were to him, And they were nothing more !" f He passed from one delineation to another, wonder- ing how in the world anything so ugly had ever been perpetrated, and seeing never the God-man burdened with the weight of our iniquities. He had been preaching on the fifth station very fluently, his ad- miring flock had said, and when the church was emptied, he came out upon the steps putting on his DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 187 gloves. His buggy stood near the sidewalk, a small boy was holding the horse's head. The holy father, glad his task was done, stood looking up and down the street, a jaunty, reckless air developing even through the robes and cocked-hat. This air suddenly changed when he perceived that his horse had been permitted to rub and injure the harness against the iron hitching-post, and he came down from his eleva- tion three steps at a time, collared the boy, shook him, boxed his ears, and when he had thus reduced him to temporary idiocy condescended to explain whereof he accused him, and with a parting tweak of the lad's hair got into his buggy and drove away frowning blackly. "Some decent in demeanor while they preach, That task performed relapse into themselves, And having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye, Whoever was edified, themselves were not!" Down the great thoroughfare drove the priest, stop- ping here and there; and having alighted, he was just getting into the vehicle again, when he was de- tained by a portly person, the great man of the Church of the Madonna. This portly person made a most important communication, to which the priest listened politely for a few words, and the injury to the harness was buried in oblivion a few more, and 188 ALMOST A PRIEST. the priest's mouth widened to its pleasantest wont, invading the legitimate domains of the ears, and dis- playing the double row of strong white teeth yet more words, and under downcast lids Father Arn- holm's eyes were turning golden with the miser's joy, and I had almost said the yellow light touched as with sunset his brown, high-boned cheeks. This informer stated that the congregation of the Church of the Madonna, with the " Seven Sorrows," and " House of Charity " were about to present on Easter-day a token of their love to their revered priest, and that, as became the occasion, the gift was a goodly service of silver solid silver the best they could procure casually dropping the remark also, that it was worth fifteen hundred dollars. No wonder that Father Arnholm rejoiced, expressed himself as flattered, honored and grateful, and finally shaking hands warmly, sprang into his seat and drove away with head erect, eyes shining, and heart swelling with pride and gratified avarice. It was Lent, as we have told you, and not only Lent but Friday. As Father Arnholm drove to- ward home, he held the reins with one hand while the other was ostentatiously occupied carrying a brown paper parcel, from which depended the tail of that Romish fast-day delicacy, a salmon-trout; but we regret to be obliged to state also, that a narrow DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 189 inspection of the back of the buggy would have revealed the elegant proportions of a leg of mut- ton carefully covered and hidden from the public eye. Lying before Arnholm now was one great day, the day on which he should take possession of his silver, and to that day he would willingly go at a bound, losing the time that lay between. How Ansel would gnaw his envious lip ! Even the bishop had never received such a splendid token of esteem from the churches in that city. How would poor old Dominick look and wonder ! Arnholm prepared a delightful speech suitable to that bright event, and hoped and fancied and waited, until at length the weariness of Lent was over, the sun danced on Easter morning, and Father Arnholm's heart danced too children broke gaudy Easter eggs, and Father Arnholm walked as if he walked on eggs, from the jubilant lightness of his heart. The day came auspicious day ! Before the ad- miring crowd the presentation was made, with many flourishing expressions of love, admiration, respect, and the like. Upon the large oval of the silver tray six tall, silver, gold-lined goblets gleamed, a gold- lined pitcher lorded it over the goblets, a sugar-basin, bowl, ladle and spoons glittered attractively, and gave promise of good cheer to come. 190 ALMOST A PRIEST. When all was over, when all had been said and done and admired, Ambrose the devout, who was lingering in the aisle, was one of those called to carry the treasure into the priest's adjacent house. When Ambrose, with both careful hands, lifted the laden salver and looked down into the golden depths of the utensils, we cannot say that as in Judas of old the devil entered into him, but he felt suddenly as if that shining burden had entered into his pockets, and wings were on his feet. He felt thus all day, when he was plodding about the college and while he knew very well that the silver had taken its appropriate station on Father Arnholm's black-walnut sideboard. It was a singular sensation and Ambrose dreamed of it ; he read of it in his prayer-book ; it stuck to his fingers as he told off his rosary; it winked to him from the virgin's hitherto unflinching eyes, and seemed whispered by holy Joseph's moveless lips ; it followed him day after day. But Lent was passed, and business pressed him. Up and down through college, lodge, garden, and church, went Ambrose the devout, more devout than ever, dipping his fingers oftener than before in holy water, yet never washing away the tingling pleasure thrilled through them by the gold and silver burden he had carried into Father Arnholm's house. Longer each day he knelt as if praying; but instead of pray- DOMFNICK AND ANSEL. 191 ers strange fearful thoughts crowded his soul, and were not fought against and banished, but were dwelt upon, courted and cherished, until to heaven's clear challenge Ambrose the devout might well have answered "my name is Legion for we are many." And now Ambrose became apparently very active in duties for his Church. He must look after stray sheep and ravening wolves, and he went out often professedly on such errands. He told rare tales of arguments he had held, of wavering minds he had established in the faith, of converts he was likely to secure, and by these narrations won high eulogiums from the students. Moreover, he hinted darkly of hatred he had excited, of threats against his poor life, and of the glory of the martyr's crown. Ambrose had in fact abundant business abroad; but it was personal and private. Some of it lay at the wharves, questioning of the coming and going of the ships, some at a shop where he bought queer second- hand garments and a strong blue box such as seamen use, and some at a miserable den close by the docks where jolly tars just after pay-day are beguiled and fleeced. At this last resort he held confidential in- terviews with a hang-dog rascal, with a scarred face, and shambling gait that ball and chain had often im- peded, whose whole air as he drank the brandy Am- 192 ALMOST A PRIEST. brose bought for him proclaimed that the devil had not yet collected all his dues, but had here one ac- count at interest still. One evening Ambrose called to see Father Arn- holm, and, while Kitty (who opened the door) went to inquire if he should be admitted, he modestly turned his back to the hall and was lost in a devout contemplation of the door-lock. " Come in," said Kitty, and in went Ambrose bow- ing low and in the most humble manner explained that he had a duty to perform he hoped it was no offence but he was deeply grieved over the sins of Patrick and Mary Connor, who were disobedient to the holy Church, and leading all Gabrielle street astray. " Were they holding Bible readings and prayer- meetings again ?" roared Father Arnholm. "Very like there was a rich heretic lady, Miss Vaughn, from Northville, spending the winter in the city Mary Connor had lived with her once and now this same heretic lady was beguiling the innocence of the children of the Church, reading that wicked book the Bible, and getting some children together to question and teach many heresies and blasphemies, even to think of which greatly hurt the feelings of Ambrose the devout. " Thank you, Ambrose you have done the Church DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 193 a service I shall look to this. Stay, Ambrose, will you go to the kitchen and have something to eat ?" Ambrose declined " It was growing late, he had enemies, he would be safe in his lodge, did not always feel safe on the street." " Pull the bell-cord for Kitty to let you out." " So much attention was needless," Ambrose could let himself out he knew the way "good-evening to his reverence :" and then Ambrose went to the hall, took hold of the wrong part of the door first, then righted himself, went out, banged the door after him, and stumbled down the steps with studied noise. But who is this, on stealthy foot, that creeps up the Btcps, softly opens the door whereof mysteriously the dead-latch is not down gains the hall, puts the latch down, and in ghost-like quiet, learned at the House of Charity, slips into the chill darkness and silence of the great drawing-room is lost in the shadow but followed by spirit-eyes might have been found crouched behind a costly high-backed sofa, and so quite concealed ? The clock chimes eleven, the voices of housekeeper, cook and Kitty, are hushed in sleep. Father Arn- holm in gown and slippers idles through his house, sees that the doors are locked, turns off the gas, throws open the door between his bedroom and sit- ting-room which adjoin, and begins to undress; then 194 ALMOST A PRIEST. takes a small lamp, crosses the hall, thrusts his priestly head into the drawing-room, the lamp illum- ining the room and his hard face together, sees that all is right, and goes back to bed. The holy father keeps a jet of gas burning low in his bed- chamber, and the crimson glow from his parlor-fire falls full on his silver service standing at night on a table near his bed's head. His couch is soft, his pil- lows are laced, the blankets are the finest, and the quilts of silk. Straight on his back, he soon sleeps, his arms dropping listlessly outside the covers, his hard face growing a little softer in sleep and in the subdued light. Unseen by watchmen, the villainous accomplice from the den by the docks slips into the yard of the priest's house and crouches in the darkness under the side window of the parlor. After a time, the figure behind the sofa rises up, opens doors and turns han- dles deftly, and noiselessly as his own pursuing shadow enters the bedroom. Verily it is Ambrose, the devout, who in midnight stillness now lays firm grasp on either side of that salver which he has car- ried once before. Plunder is his only object the man- ner of the deed not over-well defined but now it is fearfully complicated ; for all unexpectedly the sleep- er's eyes open wide, and are fixed on the intruder's face, with a dreamy half-somnolent gaze. Ambrose, DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 195 looking at the priest as he grasped his prey, saw the eyes fly open, and at once the instinct of self- preservatioiv awoke in him. Those opened eyes pro- nounced his ruin. At a leap, before the mists of (1 reams could clear away and the priest arouse to ac- tion, Ambrose flung himself upon him, dragging the unused pillow over his victim's face, and crowding it down with all his might to stifle every sound. Fa- ther Arnholm was a strong man, but he was taken at a disadvantage. Ambrose pressed one knee into the chest of the prostrate priest, held down with the other one of his arms, grasped fiercely his left hand, and with arm, shoulders, head, and bull-dog neck, forced the process of suffocation by means of the pillow. It was a fearful struggle all the more fearful for being soundless. The priest fought for life with des- perate energy; but a mortal fear of the consequences which would befall him if unsuccessful, urged Ambrose to equally desperate efforts to finish the fell work he had begun. Gradually the writhing and resistance erased under his weight ; but even then he delayed, afraid to stir. At last he lifted himself a little the priest's hands were livid and chill, the nails purple slowly lie raised the pillow the blood had settled darkly about his victim's eyes and mouth, the nose was pinched, between the white teeth the stiffened J.9.6 ALMOST A PEIEST. tongue protruded certainly Father Arnholm was dead. Ambrose must fly the spot ; but not without the booty which had cost him so dear. He was more deliberate now ; he took a large woolen table-cover and tied up his plunder ; he took the priest's pocket- book and also successfully explored the secretary for money ; then he looked at the bed to see if his horrid work was complete, and ah ! the eyelids quivered, the throat worked, the broad chest trembled : too late now for Ambrose to hesitate the priest must die or must live to denounce and destroy him ; with cruel fingers (fingers which had been dipped so often in holy water) Ambrose grasped that twitching throat and grasped it closely he would make no mistakes this time and he set his teeth and the big drops caused by horror and remorse rolled over his brow, and his face was whiter than the awful face beneath him and still his fingers grasped and clutched in their despair until he fully believed his victim was dead. Then he took up his fatal burden and stag- gered away, not out of the door but out of the side window, unscrewing the shutter-fastenings to make it seem that the robber and murderer had entered there. The accomplice who had waited helped him, and went with him to the den where his blue box was in readiness. There Ambrose dressed himself in DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 197 the queer second-hand clothing, paid his coadjutor and went on board a vessel that he had found the previous day. When the East was ruddy with the coming morn- ing, Ambrose the devout and his ill-gotten booty were fai out at sea. Slowly the night slipped by in that invaded bed- chamber. With morning came Kitty to make the fire in the parlor grate, and kneeling on the hearth, her task nearly accomplished, she just then discov- ered the window half-raised, the shutters tampered with, and other evidences of burglary. " Mother of angels, we're robbed !" cried Kitty, as she sprang from the floor and rushed to the bedroom, whereof the door was closed but not latched. " Oh, Mr. Aruholm, will ye " Kitty had the door open now and confronted the ghastly spectacle on the bed. Shriek after shriek brought housekeeper, cook and pot-boy wilder shrieks at the front-door called policemen and neighbors in. "He's dead! he's murdered! he's gone!" yelled Kitty. " Oh, you fool, bring me help !" said the house- keeper, who was bending over the bed, scrutinizing the fearful marks upon the throat and feeling for the lost pulse "I believe there's a twittering at his 198 ALMOST A PRIEST. heart yet help me everybody maybe we can bring him to !" There was much excitement at the college that day. The pupils said that cruel Protestants had murdered the great priest of the Church of the Madonna and holy Ambrose the janitor was missing he too must be a prey to heretic vengeance, and hourly the boys expected to see his gory corpse carried in "done to death" with daggers, a martyr to the Catholic Truth. Nurses and surgeons stood about the priest hour after hour, until at length the slow blood began to move along the veins, the swollen tongue drew back within the teeth, the cruelly used lungs filled feebly and painfully. Out of the region and shadow of death, they brought him by tardy advances during the next three days, and when at last the priest's voice could whisper through the bruised throat, when the eyelids lifted to the light of day, when the stiff purple hands regained the softness and color of life, he told them oh wonderful revelation ! that Ambrose the devout, that humble votary of the saints, that true son of the Church, that active enemy of all heresy, had come in the night time to rob and murder his benefactor and his priest ! Oh, shameful truth ! In his cell good Brother Dominick wept bitter tears over the janitor's crime. Along the DOMINICK AND ANSEL. 199 line of pupils marshaled for their daily walk, passed whispers "So much for extra holiness !" "So much for Ambrose the devout !" " I wouldn't give a fig for piety," said the Spaniard. " The age of holiness is gone by," said the Italian. "And what shall we do?" asked Philip, as- tounded. " Uphold the Church and preach her doctrines, for there is our bread and butter be Catholics, for that is our business but, bah for piety piety is a relic of the dark ages piety is dead." CHAPTER VIII. A VOCATION. [HEN June's festal roses crowned the earth, Father Arnholm was so far recovered as to be able to make his accustomed rounds in the city once more, but his precious silver seemed an irrecov- erable loss, and he had with loud and deep anathemas doomed Ambrose to eternal destruction. At the col- lege, the excitement caused by the appearance of the devout janitor in the role of Othello with additions was dying away. The roses bloomed, the fragrance of blushing fruit crept out of the green leaves of the strawberry beds, and the festival was held at Northville. For this festival Viola was aglow with enthusiasm, but Mag- dalen, when asked to take a table or lend her aid, excused herself. "Why do you decline, darling?" asked Mrs. Courcy, looking up from a study of the last fash- ions. " Because I am a Courcy," said Magdalen, proudly. "The last of your race, and worthy of it," said A VOCATION. 201 her mother, fondly. " But why does that cause you to refuse ?" " Do you want me to turn Catholic ?" asked Mag- dalen. " Turn Catholic ! It is impossible that you should. No Courcy has been a Catholic for many generations. Your ancestors, as I have often told you, fought be- side Henry of Navarre for religious liberty in France. In this country they have been strong Protestants. Your great-grandfather built a church, your grand- father did the same, and, as I have often remarked to you, your father nearly supported this church, and presented it with a communion service of solid silver." "After all that good example," said Magdalen, "I shall beware of the beginnings of evil, and not be enticed by Romanism. I have been carried away somewhat by the nun-excitement here ; but I see that they are doing a very bad work in Viola ; I have talked to Miss Judith, and my mind is made up. The spirit of the Huguenots is strong in me, mother !" Mrs. Courcy looked with swelling heart on the beautiful face, the kindling eyes, and the high bear- ing of her only child. "Your father grieved very much that you were not a boy, Magdalen. I always told him you were better than ten sons, and I am sure if he were living he would say so now," she said. 202 ALMOST A PRIEST. "You are over-fond of me, mamma/' said Mag- dalen. " As to religion, I know that there is as much in Protestantism as in Romanism, and more. Where can you find among Catholics such a woman as Ju- dith Vaughn, who lives religion without ostentation, without hypocrisy, without fanaticism lives it gen- erously and beautifully every day?" " But I dare say the nuns are very devout." " They are devout with the devoutness of ignor- ance and of stunted intellects ; they are devout in passive obedience, every act ruled, guarded and as- signed them by somebody else ; but not devout with a strong mind, an honest heart, and an unfettered will, like Judith Vaughn !" " And will your anti-Romanism, like Judith's, bid you remain at home and not attend the festival ?" " I really do not care to go," replied Magdalen. " Nor I ; so that is settled. But how about visit- ing the sisters ? Don't be extreme in anything, my dear." " I shall visit them they are friendly, and I have no hereditary grudge against them if I have against the Church besides, I want to watch over Viola." " Her fancy for a religious life will die away, as she gets out into society," said Mrs. Courcy. " She will see it is wisest and pleasantest to marry and have a home of her own." A VOCATION. 203 " Maybe so," said Magdalen, " but you have no idea what an influence Sister Mary Angela has over her, mother she is perfectly fascinated." " Mrs. Hastings is very much hurt by Viola's per- verseness. She shed tears as she talked of it to me the last time I called. I'm thankful enough I never was anybody's stepmother. I might have been I refused several widowers," said Mrs. Courcy, who was apt to talk of past conquests. Magdalen smiled. This was a very dear mamma, but she had her weaknesses, and daughter Magdalen could not help seeing them. Daughter Magdalen had heard these remarks about mamma's suitors be- fore, and they always set her in a maze of wonder- ment about who she herself would have been had mamma made any other matrimonial choice ! She was getting into this state of bewilderment again, when mamma asked, " Couldn't you influence Viola, Magdalen?" " Not in the least against the sisters Viola always attributes the difference in our feelings to what she calls the difference in our circumstances." " There is a great difference certainly," said Mrs. Courcy, complacently. At the festival, besides fruits, flowers, cakes and cream, was that mild form of lottery much in vogue, 204 ALMOST A PRIEST. notwithstanding its illegality, among churches of all denominations "the taking of chances" for various vases of wax-flowers, state pincushions, and groups of statuary. Visitors could hardly turn in the "hall" where the festival was in progress, without being solicited to "take a chance for" a cake, a cushion or a mantel ornament. With that paternal carefulness peculiar to the Romish priesthood, Father Arnholm came to Northville to superintend the mon- etary matters of this festival. The reverend Father smiled grimly at seeing Protestant girls standing at tables with nuns smiled again when he saw the good-natured Protestants crowding in to the festival to help Holy Mother Church, already rich, to become yet richer and smiled most of all, when among the names of the faithful he saw long rows of signatures of Protestants who were " taking chances." The sisters did not confine their business operations to the "hall." Sisters Mary Angela and Josepha went all about the village, liberally giving everybody an opportunity to sign for something. Among other persons they came to Miss Judith Vaughn. She was perfectly courteous, but declined to subscribe. " All the village ladies have," said Sister Josepha. " I think these lotteries wrong, I know them to be illegal," said Miss Vaughn, " and it is against my conscience to have any share in them." A VOCATION. 205 " Then," said Sister Mary Angela, blandly, " you can give us something and not sign for a 'chance.'" " It is also against my conscience to help your Church, because she refuses education to the masses, keeps the Bible from them, and exalts other objects of worship than the one living and true God." " Madam is mistaken," said Sister Mary Angela. " Our Church strongly upholds the cause of edu- cation, the people are welcome to the Bible, and we worship none but God." " Can you tell me so, when your churches are full of pictures and images ?" asked Judith. "We do not worship them; they are only simili- tudes to lift our souls to what we really adore," said Josepha. "But does not the Bible expressly forbid these similitudes in these words : " Take ye therefore good heed unto yourselves ; for ye saw no manner of simil- itude on the day that the Lord spake unto you in Horeb out of the midst of the fire : lest ye corrupt yourselves, and make you a graven image, the simil- itude of any figure, the likeness of male or female?" " We don't know anything about that," said Josepha. " You would if you were allowed the Bible, for those words are in it; and the Bible your Church certainly prohibits, for only a month ago I gave a 206 ALMOST A PRIEST. Bible to a woman here, and to my knowledge the priest snatched it from her hand one day, and the next day threw it in the fire." " You should not argue with us ; we are only wo- men ; you should argue with our priest," said Sister Mary Angela, rising. "And what am I but a woman?" asked Judith, smiling. " Ah, but Protestant women reason, while Catholic women only believe." " And your priests have by wisdom or wickedness got where they can reason as well as believe ?" " We made no attack on your faith," said Sister Mary Angela, with an air of injured innocence, "and you should have respected ours," and thus she re- tired triumphant, while Judith Vaughn bit her lip. " Did you take a chance ?" asked Viola, coming in shortly after the sisters departed. "What good would it have done?" asked Judith. " If you notice, Viola, at all these fairs the prizes are drawn by members of the l True Church.' " " I know that the sisters will not be unfair," said Viola, flushing. " I say nothing about that. I make no charge ; but I have mentioned a rule that has rarely an ex- ception. You will see who gets these prizes in this A VOCATION. 207 Sure enough, when the festival was over, and the lucky numbers were announced, a long line of O'Shins, MacNamara's and O'Mahon's were pos- sessed of the prizes, and, as the things drawn were unsuitable to their estate in life, the cakes were by them given to be sold at auction for the benefit of the church, the cushions ditto, the waxwork went to the grand altar of the " Church of the Immaculate Mother," and Father Arnholm got the best statuette. " I told you so !" .said Judith Vaughn. The day after the festival, Mrs. Hastings wanted Viola very much, to aid her in household matters, but Viola was not to be found. Mrs. Hastings concluded that the truant was visiting Magdalen ; but she was in fact in the nuns' parlor, sitting near to the closed blinds, on a low hassock, while Father Arnholm was stretched in tRe large rocking-chair, giving her spir- itual advice. " If you believe the Holy Catholic Church to be the true Church of God, daughter Viola, you do your soul great injury by delaying to express that belief." " But my family would be so angry," said Viola, in a little flutter of romantic delight. " Fear not them that kill the body," said Father Arnholm, pompously. " I'm sure I only want you to tell me my duty," said the infatuated girl. 208 ALMOST A PRIEST. " You should attend confession, read our books, and be baptized into the True Church." " I should have no peace of my life at home after that,'"' sighed the would-be martyr. " That can all be privately attended to, and your family know nothing of it," said the priest. " But, father, would I not have to be confirmed ?" " At some future time, yes ; not immediately." " And when that time came, you don't know how I would be persecuted at home !" " Then leave your home !" " And where should I go, father ?" " Our Church offers asylums to all her children. To you the sacred refuge of the convent would be open." " Oh, father, do you, do you really think I have a vocation, and might be a nun ?" "Undoubtedly," said the good father then added, " If to the convent your whole heart inclines, yisu must accept that as the divine dictate, and obey by taking the solemn vow. For our own members we generally prefer those to enter holy Orders who can bring to the altar, in humble sacrifice, some offering of worldly wealth to prove their own sincere devo- tion. You, my dear daughter, coming from another creed, leaving like Ruth your own country and your father's house to follow your new mother the Church A VOCATION. 209 wherever she goes, give proof enough of your fervor iu offering up yourself." "Ah," said this easily beguiled damsel, "but I have a little money only a thousand dollars which my own mother left me, and when I am of age no one can keep that from me that at least I can give to the Church." " My dear daughter shows fervent charity; but has she considered what it is to renounce the world, its hopes, its ambitions, its society, to live in seclusion, silence and poverty as the 'Bride of Christ?'" The father fully understood the temperament he was dealing with. Viola replied ecstatically, "Oh, but it is such a calm, holy, beautiful life !" " That is true ; but you cannot be ushered at once into those gardens of repose, those heights of serene contemplation. As a teachable, earnest-minded pos- tulant, you must wait at the gate of bliss ; as a novice you must be practiced in subduing the flesh, in self- denial and in learning humility by entire obedience; this done, you might indeed reap all the advantages of being the holy child of the Virgin mother, and the beloved spouse of her Son." " I can do all these things," said Viola, yet more than ever fascinated with the life she desired. "My mind, I think, is fully made up. To live out of the mean cares of household life, out of the misery of 210 ALMOST A PRIEST. seeing others loved better than one's self and pre- ferred before one, to be where there is no strife, no drudgery, no care, no jealousy, where taste is gratified in the beautiful seclusion, and where only kindred minds are gathered together this, father, is ray ideal life." As she spoke, the father passed his big hand over his face to hide the bitter smile of sarcasm that curled his lips, and mocked her from his gleaming eyes. Ah, he knew all the beauties of convent life how Mother Valle 1 despised Mother Denny and Mother Denny covertly hated Mother Valle how those kindred spirits, Sister Pauline Anna and Sister Mary Angela, detested each other and what sort of social intercourse passed between scores of other saintly sisters. He knew it all ; but, true to his Jesuitical creed of concealment and deception, he said, " You are right, my daughter;" and gave her his benedic- tion. It was not because he himself believed that he used such artful effort to make others believe, if only for a fatal initiatory season ; but because thus he could secure his bread and butter, make prefer- ment possible, attain higher place and power in the Church, accomplish that for which he had all his life been trained. Viola went homeward from the " House of Saint Vincent de Paul," rejoicing in the thought of how A VOCATION. 211 she would vindicate her own independence, and as- sert her own judgment. Father Arn holm also left the " House of Saint Vin- cent de Paul," and went to Mrs. Courcy's, where he wn.s really charming, discussing the weather, the sea- son, the city and the scenery in a manner most agree- able and quite unexceptionable. By and by, he re- marked that he had not seen Mrs. Courcy and her daughter at the festival. No, they did not attend, but Mrs. Courcy hoped the sisters had done very well. Very well, Father Arnholm thanked her. Miss Courcy did not accompany her friend Miss Hastings to Vespers on Sunday ; and really, on Sunday morn- ing the Father had hoped Miss Courcy would have been there to hear him preach. " No, really," said Mrs. Courcy, with a little be- witching laugh which years before had carried cap- tive the often-mentioned widowers and with a little smooth malice in which women of her stamp delight " Magdalen did not go ; Magdalen is a very fierce little Protestant, quite the exponent of Courcy blood and spirit; and the Courcys were always Huguenots, you know !" Father Arnholm bowed, and smilingly remarked that, "He was always accustomed to speak his mind frankly, as became his office; might he say that hav- 212 ALMOST A PRIEST. ing all faith in his own Church he had hoped that the holy ministrations of that Church might win the excellent judgment and amiable heart of Miss Courcy, to a just consideration of that Church's claims ?" "Ah, really!" that was very kind, Mrs. Courcy said; "but such a thing was impossible; it would need a complete making over of dear Magdalen ; for, as she had before remarked, Magdalen was a Courcy, and Courcys were invariably Protestants not bigots you know but merely Protestants." " Oh, Father Arnholm knew very well there was no bigotry bigotry was a very ugly and unchristian term but madam was mistaken ; for a Courcy, by blood if not by name, was now an acolyte in the col- lege of Saint Ignatius Loyola, and another Courcy by blood also was a nun." "Of the Courcy family? How can that be?" Mrs. Courcy was more than astonished. "Was there not a self-willed daughter of the house, an aunt of the late Henry Courcy, who made a marriage quite distasteful to her family, and disap- peared and could be found no more ?" Father Arn- holm could prove that Philip Lester, now acolyte at Saint Ignatius, was that lost daughter's grandson, and that Sister Maria Felix was her daughter, first cousin therefore of the late Henry Courcy. It was A VOCATION. 213 easily proved, and the Father had all the papers ; but what use of proving? there was nothing to be made by it. " But," said Mrs. Courcy, " I have seen Sister Maria Felix often, and she never mentioned it to me. I cannot understand it." " What should she have said ? As a nun she claims no family ties; and she was not likely to speak on a subject upon which she had received no instruc- tions from her superiors and directors." Mrs. Courcy was lost in contemplation of the toe of her slipper, and also of the reticence and impas- sivity of that extraordinary being, a nun. " But Sistef Maria does not look at all like a Courcy," she said, rousing herself. " She is probably more like her father, but her sis- ter, Mrs. Lester, was very strikingly like the Courcys, and Mrs. Lester's son Philip, our acolyte, has their cast of face also." " But why did not this daughter of the family, Maria's mother, make herself known to her kindred? why did she die without a word, and her children preserve her silence ?" "They proved by this silence their birth they had the indomitable Courcy pride and as you know there was nothing to be made by speaking, the property having been closely tied up, and the disobedient 214 ALMOST A PRIEST. daughter disinherited. Was it likely, therefore, that she should seek relatives who had forgotten and re- jected her? In the bosom of the Catholic Church her wounded spirit found refuge, to that Church she left her children, rather than to a family who for one error had passed her coldly by. She was never des- titute. Her husband was a drunkard and a villain ; but a support was secured to her, and she died a pious woman, leaving two pious daughters." " I really must talk to Sister Maria Felix about this !" cried Mrs. Courcy. " Certainly, as you like, if you go to the house to see her sisters make no visits of ceremony you know." " And the boy, I believe I have seen, but did not notice him. Has he any fortune ?" "Not a cent, poor fellow. But he is a very bright lad. He may be sent here some day." " I really must think about it," said Mrs. Courcy. "A Courcy ought not to be poor, or a dependant." " And dependent on that very Church which the Courcys have always scorned," said the priest; and knowing when he had said enough, he now took his leave, Mrs. Courcy being in a state of high excite- ment over the " family." That evening Viola carried from her home a parcel, which with every precaution for secresy she gave to a A VOCATION. 215 little boy, who for a fee of ten cents took it to the House of Saint Vincent de Paul. Next day, about two hours before Father Arnholm was to leave for the city, there was a little private scene enacted in the parlor of that Northville " Sisters' House." The bundle brought by the boy proved to be a white dress, which Viola put on, and then having retired to a small closet-like room for her first effort at con- fession, and having confessed all she had ever said, done or thought, and been rigidly questioned and cross-questioned, Viola returned to the parlor for her baptism. Sister Mary Angela, aided by the North- ville priest, had been the particular instructor of Viola, and she regarded the present ceremony with even more satisfaction than the otl|er nuns who were present. The necessity of strict secresy was ex- plained and impressed. Viola repeated her vows and promises; the wafer was put in her mouth; her forehead was crossed with holy chrism ; and, after some further detail of ceremony, Viola was baptized into the only True Church. Of this ceremony, by the way, the white dress was not an indispensable part, except in the estimation of that romantic vic- tim of chicanery, Viola Hastings. "While Viola was in the first tumult of agitation and foolish delight over this important step how im- portant she did not thus early realize which she 216 ALMOST A PRIEST. had taken unknown to her nearest and truest friends, the Padre Arnholm was being trundled along city- ward by that most aggravating means of locomotion, an accommodation train a train that while accom- modating all who want to get off, is exceedingly un- accommodating to all who want to go on. The Padre Arnholm had missed the through express on ac- count of Viola Hastings, and, as he was jarred and delayed on this slow-going train, he felt that Viola owed him a life-long reparation, and be sure he meant to demand it. Why, it may be asked, did not the parish priest baptize this convert? Does not one see that having the city priest take the affair on his hands the parish priest would not be blamed, or fall below par in Protestant estimation, when Viola's dereliction was discovered? In the train, Father Arnholm leaned against the window, put his feet in the most comfortable position he could find, and took out his Breviary to read. He always did his reading where the Pharisees did their praying in places where he could be seen of men. What Father Arnholm read out of his Breviary that day was that the fact of Sister Maria Felix being of the Courcy blood would form a new hold on Magdalen, who was slipping out of convent influence A VOCATION. 217 that Mrs. Courcy was soft, liberal and easily managed, and if that handsome boy Philip could be brought whore he would please and interest her, she was very likely to endow him with some fair portion of those worldly goods which had very unkindly been willed away from his grandmother. Another thing that Padre Arnholm seemed to find in his Breviary was, that Philip was too modest, too devout, too self-sac- rificing by half; he must be braced up with vanity, selfishness and cunning; and Father Arnholm con- cluded to withdraw the young acolyte in a measure from Dominick, and make him more of a worldling, by a few months under his own instructions. Then Father Am holm thought Philip could be trusted in Northville, to aid the parish priest, and to court the favor of his rich cousin. Arriving at these conclusions, the Breviary sud- denly subsided into a very stupid book of prayers and ceremonies, and Father Arnholm from nodding went to sleeping, and from sleeping to dreaming, and as was lately his wont, went to dreaming that the de- vout Ambrose was stifling him with a pillow, grind- ing his knee into his breast, and clutching at his throat; dreaming thus, he cried out and awoke. Other people in the car heard him cry out, saw him, struggle as he roused. " The priest is suffering from a bad conscience," whispered one to another. 218 ALMOST A PRIEST. " Such a singular train of circumstances," said Mrs. Courcy to her daughter at the tea-table referring to the story the priest had told her in the morning, and not to the accommodation train " quite out of the common way, and really romantic." " I don't know as it is, mamma," said daughter Magdalen, as she daintily tasted sponge-cake "peo- ple are for ever getting scattered and lost to one an- other, and then turning up again if I were to run away from you to-morrow, fully resolved never to be heard of again, I haven't the least doubt that when you were a lovely old lady of ninety or so, you'd stumble upon my grave-stone, or have your door be- sieged by half a dozen of my descendants, and there would be just such another eclaircissement as is hap- pening every day." " My dear child ! I am perfectly shocked at you !" " Please don't be, mamma being shocked at meals is apt to produce or promote dyspepsia." " Well, now, Magdalen, if you are ready to speak seriously about anything, doesn't it seem a pity that your cousin, Sister Maria Felix, should be poor, \vhen we have money that might have part of it gone to her if your grandfather had not been over-indignant? It seems as if we ought to give her something, an annuity or something of that kind, it is so distressing to think of a poor Courcy." A VOCATION. 219 "If you gave her a million to-day, mother, she would be just as poor to-morrow. Don't you know she is vowed to poverty ? All she had she gave to the convent, and if she were given anything now it would go to the convent. You might as well give to the convent outright and have done with it : and as you have so often told me about my grand lathers building Protestant churches, it hardly looks consist- ent that their money should now be diverted to building up Romish Churches." "Well, really, Magdalen, I had not looked at it in that light," said Madam Courcy. " Do you suppose Sister Maria Felix is happy?" "No, of course not; how can she be? Of all wretched, distorted, perverted conditions, a nun's lot, in my opinion, is the most pitiable and bitter; and I believe Sister Maria Felix feels it so. I have seen her almost bite her lip through sometimes, when she thought no one was looking at her, as if she were in a very agony of repression." Mrs. Courcy was exceedingly kind-hearted. She sighed feelingly over this picture of Saint Maria Felix, and tear-drops gathered in her eyes, until, looking through them, she saw two or three silver tea-urns instead of one, a multiplicity of sugar-bowls and creamers, and the cow couchant upon the lid of the butter-dish suddenly grew antic and frolicsome. 220 ALMOST A PRIEST. When these mists of vision had cleared away, Mrs. Courcy said, " But there is Philip, Magdalen we really ought to do something about the boy perhaps we might adopt him you always said you wanted a brother." " I never wanted a priest for a brother, though, and a priest he is sure to be," said Magdalen, the obdurate. " But, my dear, very likely we can persuade him out of that notion." "His notion is of very little consequence," said this discerning maiden " it is the Church that holds the power over him, and if you persuade her acolyte out of her grasp, you will have to be a second young David, persuading the lamb out of the jaws of the lion and the bear." " I hope you are not selfish, Magdalen." " Not at all," said Magdalen. " And I shall write to this Philip." " Yes, do, mamma." "And very likely we can settle some personal property, as bank stock, or mortgages on him ; and Father Arnholm and I could be his guardians Fa- ther Arnholm seems a very honorable man." What a blessing that this charming specimen of a weak woman had a daughter stronger-headed and more wise than herself. A VOCATION. 221 Magdalen replied promptly, "I hav'n't the most infinitesimal atom of confidence in Father Arnholm, and if he were allowed in any way to meddle with personal property, I should want three or four lawyers to keep the legal eye closely upon his performances." "I am really grieved tcfcsee you so uncharitable," said the amiable materfamilias. * * * * * * Several months rolled away. The steady fires of summer waned into the fitful flames of autumn, and died out in white ashes where the snow fell; and through the woods beneath the white covering, like smothered embers", the winter-greens and checker- berries and rose and thorn-apple berries glowed un- seen. On the warm winds the robins sped southward, and cold blasts from the North brought snow-birds, piping a hunger-cry. At the House of Charity, at Seven Sorrows, at church and college, and in North- ville and Saint Vincent de Paul, all was outwardly the same. Mother Denny ruled on with a rod of iron, and Mother Vall6 chilled and repressed with a hand of ice. Sister Mary Angela watched Sister Maria Felix and reported her as slow and lukewarm. A new set of pupils had come into the anarchy of Anna Pauline's school-room; and those, who had quarrelled for places when Philip was there had gone out to be servants, artisans and day-laborers, who 19 222 ALMOST A PRIEST. could hardly write their names, whose cramped minds and idle, unfaithful lives should be so many clogs on the wheels of the progress of the State. But while all was outwardly the same the life in death, or the death in life, stirredi slowly from within, as all that exists must stir and change. Day after day, in stolid silence, Sister Maria Felix trod the routine of her duties. She was trusted she was be- lieved firm in her faith no omission, no betraying word did even the vigilant Mary Angela have to lay to her charge and yet the passing months fixed more and more firmly in Maria Felix's mind the fact that her whole life was a folly and a mistake. She had bitten Kome's apple of Sodom, and while the ashes lay on her lips, and stifled in her throat, her secret heart cried out for bread. She had no one to love, no one to trust. The boy who had been her life's last tie was taken from her and taught to forget her, and she dared not show the craving of her affec- tion by a single inquiry, or the mention of his name. When she went in the round of her duties through the street, homes and firesides mocked her with what might have been. Her convent life had killed much of the religious instinct within her. She had found no holiness that was satisfying, and that afforded a compensation for utter loneliness, for a past without a pleasure, a present deprived of every consolation, A VOCATION. 223 and a future darkening and deepening as a night without a morning, and without a star ! The death of her sister had shaken to ruin the foundations of Maria Felix's faith. While Philip with youth's freedom could speak the woe and horror of his mind, Maria Felix must crush all exhibition of her pain, nor dared unfold one of the wild thoughts shaking her respecting that sister's soul, that no faith and no Christ had certainly saved, but which had dropped into the horrible certainties and the more horrible uncertainties of purgatory. Her creed had for her no consolation, it fenced her in^ an ever-narrowing hedge of thorns. There was a Christ ; but she could not lay hold of him for the crowd of saints between. There was Mary, there were Holy Confessors and Most Holy Martyrs; but then nobody was sure of getting anything from them. What was accepted as a certainty one day must be all lost in doubt the next. Maria Felix was in a sad case indeed. She kept all these doubts and fears to herself at confession. She dared not unburden her heart, and had less encour- agement to, as of all men she had ever seen she most hated and distrusted the North ville priest. This was another secret burden which she must bear. There was one hope that remained to her; which was, that when death came the infinite terror with which she regarded it would be done away, that she would 224 ALMOST A PEIEST. find darkness grow light at life's extremes! hour, and would be rewarded for life-long endurance, by com- fort at life's close. She could not like Dominick say with Saint Teresa, "Let us live in silence and in hope ; the Lord will take care of the souls he loves." To Dominick in long imprisonment had come, by God's free grace, renewal of soul and the spirit of God's little child, but to Maria Felix had come only doubting and almost despair. Even Maria Felix's last hope and feeble faith were doomed to be broken broken by poor little Sister Josepha, that weakest, most patient and most oppressed of nuns. Mother Denny managed to have her victim sent back to the House of Charity in the fall, and then poor Josepha had to act as scullery-maid and general doer of pen- ances, until Father Arnholm took pity on her and at Christmas sent her again to North ville, dying of consumption. CHAPTER IX. NUN AND POSTULANT. 'ATHER ARNHOLM sent Josepha to North- ville in all kindness. He knew her lot in the House of Charity was unspeakably bitter, and that she was there persecuted with all the wretched aggravations of spite and cruelty, with which one warped, hard and narrow-minded woman can perse- cute a weaker. He was sincerely sorry for the trem- bling, wan-faced, quaver ing-voiced little creature, who came weekly to kneel in his confessional, trust- ing to the gilded ostentation set above it, "Whoseso- ever sins ye remit, they are remitted." When, as she bowed there one day, the soft, catching voice ceased entirely, the kneeling figure fell inanimate, the carv- ings of the confessional cutting a long uufelt gash down the whole cheek, and Father Arnholm was forced to pick up his penitent, place her on one of the chapel benches, and call for some of the sisters to take her in charge; when he found his priestly garments stained with the slow-dropping blood from the wounded face, and realized how light and P 225 226 ALMOST A PRIEST. shrunken was the poor little form he lifted up, he felt a new pity awakened, and said she must be sent to Northville to return no more. True she was only a nun a nearly worn-out portion of a great money-making and fine-showing machine, devised for the benefit of holy Rome but Father Arnholm thought she might as well be allowed to live as be forced prematurely to die ; and perhaps quiet, kind- ness, Maria Felix's doctoring and exemption from petty persecution might prolong her days. These expec- tations seemed at first likely to be realized ; Josepha retraced her way toward life and health for a few weeks ; then the feebleness of her constitution gained the victory, turned her about, and day by day she went with steady steps toward death. The nun's afflicted case awoke all the motherly in- stinct in Maria Felix. She petted her, ursed her, sat by her side many weary hours of day and night. There was no doctor, for no lay person can enter the chamber of a holy nun; but the doctors were not much loss in a case already hopeless, and Maria Fe- lix's system of prescribing was very likely as good as any. The patient was evidently not going to live, and Maria Felix said to herself, "Now I can see how a nun will die; now I can note more carefully than ever before what consolations our Church affords in NUN AND POSTULANT. 227 the hour of death, and I can see what my chance is likely to be." To Maria Felix watching in this frame of mind there was little consolation in Josepha. The dying nun wept by the hour. " It is idle to mourn so," said Sister Mary Angela "it will not restore you you must die, why not meet death bravely ?" " Because I am not brave, and I am afraid," said Josepha. " Life, my dear Sister Josepha," said Sister Mary Catherine, the zealous sister, who did the special piety for the Northville house, " has not in it so much beauty or happiness that we should desire its continuance. We are the brides of Christ, far from his heavenly habitation, and we should be glad to go where, holy and acceptable, we shall continue in his presence for ever." " I could say so too when I was well," said Jose- pha ; " but now that death is near all looks so black ; I do not see any hope or comfort." "There will be absolution and extreme unction and the holy sacrament at the last you will do very well," said Mary Angela. In the silence of the night, when the other sisters were asleep, Maria Felix sat by Josepha in the little infirmary. On a bare stand a candle guttered and 228 ALMOST A PRIEST. burned low before a crucifix ; from the wall a dingy picture of the Mother of Sorrows looked down ; over the door was a grim portrait of Saint Vincent de Paul ; four narrow white-covered, small-pillowed pallets were in the room three were unoccupied the fourth bore Josepha's wasted frame. Maria Felix sat holding the dying nun's hand. Slowly Josepha spoke. " Oh, sister, I have done my best I have made good confessions, done no mortal sin, and yet I have no hope, no comfort before me is only loss and ruin and awful fire. I am alone, I can feel no presence of Christ the saints do not help me. Oh, sister, it is so hard to die !" " Keep on praying to the Virgin and your patron saint, and all will come right in the end. I say a rosary for you every day," said Maria Felix. "Nothing does me any good," wailed Josepha. " All is blackness and want. Something is lacking. I feel as if my soul had always been left uncared for." " I'm sure, dear Josepha, our religion is all for the soul," said Maria Felix, speaking as habit prompted. " When you come to die, you will feel as I do, that our religion has touched little trifles, has fed and clothed fancies and imaginations and outward things ; and that there is a starved, cold, naked soul NU2f AND POSTULANT. 229 within, that must go out of you, and has nowhere to go." ***** The last confession, the extreme unction, the blessed sacrament had been given. Josepha was dy- ing. After the consecrated wafer had been laid on her tongue, no less holy thing must touch her lips, even a drop of water must be denied when her mouth was parched with the fever of the last fearful agony. Two of the sisters, weary with watching, were asleep. Mary Catherine prayed in the oratory. Sister Maria Felix was alone with the dying. v " Now that all the good offices of the Church are done, are you not content ?" she asked, eagerly. Josepha shook her head. " Have you no comfort ?" " None : this burning craving after water begins an eternal thirst." " Have courage ; yet a little while and peace will come." "Never, never, sister; I cannot be more surely lost give me, as your last good office, water water soon I can be given none." " I dare not ; it might destroy you ; it would be sacrilege. Look to the blessed Virgin. Trust to what the Church has done for you, and be satisfied. Address your heart to prayer." 20 230 ALMOST A PRIEST. "No one hears me I cannot pray" There was a stupor, then Josepha opened her eyes her face had changed. "All is dark, I cannot see, I am going now." " And now at last, Sister Josepha, have you hope and light?" " No hope, no hope ; Sister Maria, they deceive us ! all is dark all is dark !" She threw up her hands, gave one cry checked by the death-rattle in her throat, and now Maria Felix was alone with the dead. The first shock over, Sister Maria Felix began to compose the limbs and settle in the due gravity of death her sister nun's body. As she did so, she muttered to herself, "I see, I see, it is one long deceit ! Our religion gives us no comfort in life, no hope in death. We are of all the world most miser- able." After this Sister Maria Felix, unchanged in out- ward seeming, was changed in spirit. She was ut- terly without faith ; she had lost all belief in her own creed ; she did not know that there was any bet- ter in the world ; she had no heroism to become a martyr by speaking her private feelings ; she did not love truth so well as to tell it in spite of everything ; she knew terrible things were in store for an apostate nun, and rather than suffer them she would keep her NUN AND POSTULANT, 231 feelings to herself, and go on in the same old way to which years had accustomed her. While Maria Felix had changed/ thus, a change had also come to her nephew, Philip. The young acolyte had been taken in hand by Father Arnholm, who gradually drew him in a measure out of Dom- inick's influence, and strove to make him less of a devotee, while not less a Catholic, and while foster- ing in him a useful religious enthusiasm, to impress on him the importance of externals, and show him that there is to Romanism a worldly as well as a spiritual view. Nor was this task a difficult one. Philip's first enthusiasm had exhausted itself. From intense worship he had sprung back to hard study, which had ever been congenial to him. The growing mind craved something higher and stronger than prayers to Mary and the patronage of Mary, and gradually he was less at the altars and more at his books. Philip was in the very midst of the most learned Order of the Romish Church ; the college library was filled with the voluminous writings of the Jesuit fa- thers, and perched on a high stool among these book- shelves Philip read as he had read in the sacristy of the House of Charity. Although as before stated the most learned of the Romish Orders, Jesuitism has produced no grand poets, no great historians, no eloquent orators, no 232 ALMOST A PRIEST. brilliant essayists. In the long lapse of years since a mighty but uneducated mind inaugurated that Order of students, of zealots and of unhesitating obedience, we look in vain for master minds that soar above the common herd, and rule the world of thought. Jesuitism develops but one way. In cas- uistry Jesuits are unrivaled. All their writers are casuists. There have been volumes written to show that reason should be completely subjugated, that the rule of obedience demands a man in full possession of his senses to believe that black is white if his su- perior says so ; and surely it must take reams of paper to prove how one should and could believe black white, while at the same time he knew it was not ! Marina has long chapters to show that while authority is to be obeyed and respected, it is perfectly right to assassinate a king. Father Garnet expounds how lying is wrong, and yet lying is right, and one commits no sin, but adds unto himself righteousness when he lies for the good of the Church. Other Jesuit authors show that it was perfectly right for Gerard the Jesuit to take the alms which William of Orange benevolently bestowed upon him, and buy a pair of pistols to shoot William through the heart. Poring over these books, Philip was likely to be- come more of a casuist than a moralist, more of a reasoner on abstruse questions than a possessor of NUN AND POSTULANT. . 233 personal piety. His mind was thus diverted from its natural honest frankness, his conscience was robbed of its original capability to judge between right and wrong, and his tenderness of heart and ready credu- lity were slowly wearing away. Once he had be- lieved all things good of the Holy Catholic Church ; once he had regarded the dress of any religious Order as the badge of holiness, and had been ready to bow down before any monk or priest ; but when he heard Arnholm denounce the Capuchins as a set of beggars and idiots, and Ansel declare the barefooted Carmelites to be a pack of hypocrites ; when other priests denominated the Augustinian Friars gluttons and wine-bibbers ; when he learned that nearly every other Order called the Jesuits self-seekers and fa- natics ; when he found that the Franciscans and the Dominicans hated each other cordially, and that be- tween all the different Orders there was an utter lack of that fervent charity which Paul recommends to Christians ; what wonder that he began to grow sneer- ing and critical, and sought for foibles and graver errors, rather than believed all things and hoped all things ? When Philip read concerning "Mary" that it " was necessary that our Lord Christ should have a mother, especially for this, that she might be the mo- ther and advocate of sinners, who, if through pusil- lanimity they should be afraid to resort to him, might 20* 234 ALMOST A PRIEST. confidently approach his blessed mother/' * was it not natural for Philip to say to himself, " Oh then, if I were not pusillanimous, if I were not cowardly, I might go to Christ without intervention of Mary, and if I worship her it is a sign of cowardice in me." Once suggested, this thought would continually in- trude and make his devotions to our Lady less fre- quent and fervent. He mentioned his thoughts to Dominick. " We are such sinners that we all have cause to fear," said the monk, mildly. Dominick felt that Philip was being withdrawn from him, and it pained him, for he loved the boy most tenderly ; but he said meekly to himself, " It is right I am not wise enough to teach this boy I am so apt to err, that I might lead him wrong." "My sou," he said to Philip, "cherish piety, cherish humility and holiness of heart. Live for religion." " It seems so uncertain what religion is, Brother Dominick," said Philip "some say one thing, some say another but if I live for study and the cultiva- tion of the mind, then I may hope to attain to eminence." " Eminence in this life, so*n Philip, is hardly worth seeking for. Let it come to him for whom God in- * Month of Mary, p. 54. NUN AND POSTULANT. 235 tends it. If you live for the cultivation of the mind, my son, how bitterly will you be disappointed ! I can speak from experience. Oh, Philip ! how the cir- cle of thought narrows day by day, how the mind grows small and cramped in a monastic life, where there is nothing to develop it, nothing to sustain it, but it is left to feed upon itself and to dwindle every hour, until one hardly knows whether we have any mind at all." " But, Brother Dominick ! consider our great men who have thought and written !" " A few, boy, a very few. Think of the uncounted thousands who have been simply animated machines. No, boy, no I speak from experience if there is no life in the heart, there is no life for us anywhere brain life slowly and surely dies among us" and Dominick pressed his hands to his tonsured, gray- fringed head, as if bewildered. Going along the corridor, Philip smiled as he thought "Brother Dominick is good, but weak, possessing a kind heart, but small brain power !" and by this soliloquy he indicated how he had changed from the simple-minded boy who had regarded Dominick as the very essence of goodness and wis- dom. Father Arnholm had begun to take Philip with him at times when he went abroad in the discharge 236 ALMOST A PRIEST. of his pastoral duties. The good Father liked to go on these progresses through his domain in state, with gown and gloves, cocked-hat and cane, a gorgeous missal in purple and gold in his hand, and two aco- lytes in black robes at his heels, each acolyte carrying a Breviary. The Connors were anything but favorites with their priest, and while he was yet lying in his bed, in the slow recovery after that fearful struggle with Am- brose, he had commissioned Ansel to go down to Gabrielle street to question, to threaten, and to con- demn. Ansel had accordingly made a descent while the Connors were eating a frugal dinner, and his ful- minations had been almost worthy of the pope him- self. He had warned the Connors against Miss Judith Vaughn, against all heretics and all their readings and instructions; and, as on the occasion of Arnholm's visit, Mary had yielded weeping and beseeching, and Patrick had yielded sullenly and re- luctantly. Patrick had been rather behind-hand with regard to church duties, confession and communion, and Father Arnholm thought it quite time to go down personally in state and reprimand him. The Father took Philip and the Irish acolyte, and paced slowly toward Gabrielle street. Philip had never been there since his mother's funeral ; but he remembered Mary Connor's room, NUN AND POSTULANT. 237 and the lounge in the corner, where he had been lying when first the word "Purgatory," had rung in his ear tne death-knell of comfort concerning his mother's soul. " Patrick Connor !" said the priest, standing in the laborer's doorway, the acolytes just behind him, "are you resolved to be one of those heretics whom we of .he true and holy Church do, on stated days, consign with curses to everlasting destruction ?" " I hav'n't left the true Church, yer riv'rence, and I'm no heretic," said Patrick Connor, sullenly. " You are going headlong into heresy," said Father Arnholm, sternly. "You are dreaming of that vile and pernicious principle called religious liberty, which is in itself the blackest heresy. You have been list- ening to a book which our holy Father the pope has called 'poisonous reading' and a 'fatal pasture- ground.' You have encouraged acquaintanceship with Christian association men, and these Christian asso- ciations are inventions of the devil. You have more- over neglected to come dutifully to confession ; you arc living in the mortal sin of secret rebellion, and, besides absenting yourself from the most holy sacra- ment of Communion, you do riot attend regularly at church, and owe four dollars and sixty-three cents of church dues !" " We can't come to church together regular, ycr 238 ALMOST A PRIEST. riv'rence," said Mary, "on account one of us must sthay home with the babby, and Patrick's coat's bad, sirr!" " As to the dues, yer riv'rence, wages are low and work scarce, and it's full as much as I can do to keep soul and body together, and if I'm behind-hand with me dues, I'm behind-hand altogether, intirely/' said Patrick, " for barring three dollars, I hav'n't a cent in the world." " You are not likely to get more unless you pay the Church her own. You can pay over three dollars, and I'll remit the remainder for another month." " But there's not a bite of meat in the house for Sunday, yer riv'rence," said Mary. " You can fast and pray, as you have much need to a judgment awaits you, Mary Connor, and the babe in your arms, which you will pervert from the holy faith Patrick, shall I pronounce upon you and your family the greater excommunication, or will you return to your duty?" " Oh, yer riv'rence, never excommunicate us !" cried \ Mary, " it's true to the Church we are intirely. Pay over the three dollars, Pat, me man ; we'll borry a bit to last over Sunday, and it's ourselves will be at church and confession." "Patrick! do you agree to what your wife says? NUN AND POSTULANT. 239 or shall I bid her leave you as a heretic whom the Church abhors?" " Say you're obedient, Patrick, jewel ; it's meself and the babby can nivver lave you at all !" cried Mary. " I'm not ag'in the Church," said Patrick, holding fast to his last money. "I'm a true Catholic sure enough." Mary slowly twisted the money from his reluctant fingers, and held it out to the priest, Patrick feeling it very hard thus to be made penniless, but not dar- ing to remonstrate. Philip blushed for shame behind his Breviary, as his thoughts took form thus: Can anything justify Father Arnholm for this extortion? Is it right to rob the poor, and is this not robbery in the name of God? " It is not," said Father Arnholm as he strode homeward, " the value of this trifle of money, but it is the effect of the man's submission to which we imist look. The rule of the Church must be iron, if these common people are to be kept under, Philip. The parental firmness of our Church as exercised by her priests should never be relaxed.. Let all these things be borne in your mind." With Father Arnholm, Philip went sometimes to the House of Charity, and was learning in boy- 240 ALMOST A PRIEST. pride to treat the sisters with the lofty condescension worthy of his embryo priesthood, and to look for- ward to the day when he should rule some such petty kingdoms and their revenues. One feeling Father Arnholra unconsciously failed to instill. Philip could not learn an appropriate hatred of the common schools. He had been pre- judiced in their favor, and he could not scorn and loathe what he knew to be noble : 'but he was beyond frankly speaking out his mind, so he heard the priest's tirades in a silence that seemed assent. It had taken many recitations to decide who first said mass ; but it was at length conclusively proven that to Mary belonged that honor, when she pre- sented Christ as a babe in the Temple. It took some time to instruct the college students in the Ten Commandments as to their bearing upon the Confessional. They were taught that there are venial sins and mortal sins that the same action may be a venial or a mortal sin, according to circumstances that lying, for example, if you lie for the Church, is a virtue, but if you lie for yourself it is a venial sin, and if you lie against the Church (or even if you tell truth against the Church) it is a mortal sin. As to theft, a big theft is a mortal sin, a little theft, venial nevertheless, ten cents stolen from the Church is mortal sin, ten dollars stolen for the Church is virtue, NUN AND POSTULANT. 241 five dollars stolen from one wlw can afford to lose if, is venial.* They were also thoroughly indoctrinated in the Glories of Mary, some of which are that " Mary so loved the world that she gave her only begotten son,"f that Mary is the one "in whose luinds is our salvation,"! she is our "greatest hope," " our entire hope," the " only hope of sinners." When thus sufficiently instructed, Philip was made a sub-deacon, and he exulted in his office. While Philip rejoiced in being a sub-deacon, Viola yearned to be a postulant. She had not been forced to a convent "because her doll was 'stuffed with saw- dust," but her dresses were less costly than Magda- len's, and babies at home were multiplied, and Viola did not like to sweep and dust and make cake, and she was sure her father loved the little half-sisters better than he loved herself; she would go to the convent where everybody would love her, and praise her, and where she would have nothing to do but * This assertion was boldly made to a Protestant minister by a priest in New York in 1869. t See " Glories of Mary," N. Y. James B. Kerker, approved by f John (archbishop of N. Y.), p. 449. Jlbid, page 136. Ibid, pa ge 90. See also deliverance of Pope Gregory XVI. date August 15th 1832. Says the Roman Breviary (Sep. 9th) "Tu es Spes unica 21 242 ALMOST A PEIEST. take part in ceremonies, wear a veil, pray to images and be a saint. Viola wrote to Mother Vall6, "I am so lonesome at home, dear Mother Valle no- body appreciates me nobody sympathizes with me I am sick of the world let me come to your convent and be one of your happy and holy children." After this rhapsody she calmed down, and in plain terms stated that she would go to the city on a certain day, in a certain train, and if Mother Vall6 would send a sister to the depot to conduct her to the convent, all her troubles would be ended ; and Mother Valle was to answer under cover to Sister Mary Angela. With this important document in her pocket Viola set out for the post-office. But on her way' the thought came to her of her parent's woe at her de- sertion, of the possible repentance she might feel, of the impossibility of drawing back when the fatal step was taken, and, to have a little longer to think about it, she called on Judith Vaughn. Judith's influence was healthful, she was full of bright plans, ever in buoyant spirits, life was to her full of work and bless- ing, in her presence the world and society became less odious to Viola, and the girl nearly decided not to post her letter at present, when Judith Vaughn, look- ing out of the window, quoted from Shakespeare " Verona's summer hath not such a flower !" This simple incident had a disastrous effect on NUN AND POSTULANT. 243 Viola's future ; for, as she also looked out, she saw that Judith was looking at Magdalen, who was cross- ing the street. Jealousy was Viola's bane. She was sure that Judith would never have said she was fairer than the blossoms of "Verona's summer." She would go to the convent and be the flower of that institution. She said good-bye, and directly posted her letter. Answer came in the " Come to my arms !" style peculiar to abbesses. Viola was all ready to obey, when Providence afforded her another delay. She had a cold and a chill, and instead of going to the city to meet the "sisters," she was kept in her room drinking hot lemonade, taking footbaths, and being tenderly cared for by Mrs. Hastings. Once recovered, Viola again wrote to Mother Vall6 giving explanation of her non-appearance, and beg- ging the "Mother" to send a sister to meet her on another day which she named. To make assurance doubly sure, Viola made arrangements apparently to visit a friend at a town some ten miles distant, and her father, willing to gratify her, himself escorted her to the cars one early spring morning, bought her ticket, gave her some money, and kissed her good- bye. As he was leaving the car, Judith Vaughn came in and took her place a few seats behind Viola; she knew where Viola was supposed to be going, and 244 ALMOST A PRIEST. being on a business expedition herself, and not caring for company, took out her note-book and was occu- pied with it until the car had passed Viola's station, when she saw Viola yet on the train and paying her fare to the city ! Judith put up her note-book and began to consider. She had often been told that she should have been a lawyer; she herself laughingly asserted that she ought to be chief of police, or head detective it did not take her very long to divine what Viola intended, and to lay her own plans. She went over to Viola and sat down by her side, saying, " So you are going to the city, my dear ! How nice for me to have company. I know you have no friends there, so you shall stay with me, and we will have the finest time ! I will answer for you to your father if you stay more than a day, and you can come home with me." Viola could not conceal her consternation Judith Vaughn of all persons ! and resolved to stay by her, and come home with her her plan was lost, ruined utterly ; for Viola respectfully believed that no power on earth could circumvent Judith Vaughn, and she felt convinced that Judith suspected her. Judith did not, however, look very suspicious. She opened a little basket of tempting luncheon and asked Viola to partake of it. She bought candies from the boys and gave Viola a book to read. She invited her NUN AND POSTULANT. 245 to go with her to a concert, and promised to be her escort to an exhibition of choice pictures. Viola re- signed herself to her fate there was no escaping Judith Vaughn she must go with her, be brought back by her, and disappoint Mother Valle a second time. While Viola thought these things she seemed to be reading, and was also eating gum-drops. Judith had a book and behind its pages covertly watched her young companion. By and by Judith put her book in her satchel, and began to talk, so brightly about different things which she meant to see and do, that Viola became interested in spite of herself. But now they were entering the city. "Did you bring any baggage?" asked Judith. No, Viola had no baggage. " I'll call a hack, and as soon as the driver gets my valise we will be off," said Judith, slipping her hand through Viola's arm. As Judith left the car she gave a keen glance about the depot, believing she should find somebody wait- ing for her foolish companion, and her worst fears were confirmed when she saw the big bonnets and black veils of two nuns, a tall and a short one, and detected Viola in the act of making signals to them. " See those nuns ; are they some of the Northville sisters?" asked Judith, sweetly. 246 ALMOST A PRIEST. " No, oh no, of course not," said Viola, embar- rassed. " Are you acquainted with them ?" "No, no," said Viola. " Ah, I thought you spoke to them. Here, Viola, this is the hack; jump in now, and I will be your chaperon through the city." Viola's vexation at thus being carried captive was in a great measure done away by the delights of three days spent with Judith Vaughn. She sent some would-be longing thoughts toward the " Seven Sor- rows ;" but consoled herself with the resolve that she would write to Mother Vall6, and explain mat- ters when she got home. Meantime when the tall nun and the short nun came back without Viola, Mother Vall6 was very angry. Here was the second time that Viola had been false to an appointment, and the superioress was "convinced that the girl was playing fast and loose with her, and that for the first time in her life she, the Mother of " Seven Sorrows," was a victim of treachery. Even Viola's humble letter of ex- planation, detailing all the circumstances which had prevented her from joining the waiting nuns, and had forced her back to Northville, did not satisfy Mother Vail 6. " Miss Vaughn questioned me very closely, and I NUN AND POSTULANT. 247 think she suspected something, but I kept my secret and did not tell her a word. She told me a great deal about convent life, which she says is very mis- erable. But I did not believe her I know more about sisters and convents than she does I am sure and I shall certainly come to you before long, when I hope you will kindly receive your affectionate and obedient daughter, VIOLA." Thus wrote Viola, but Mother Vall6 doubted. Father Arnholm came to the "Seven Sorrows," and Mother Vall6 handed over the letter. " The girl is trying to deceive us," she said. "Not a bit of it. I daresay this is a true ac- count." " But this is the second time I have sent to meet her!" " Try it again if she wants you to ; she is bound to come," said the priest. " But the idea of the thing ! She might ha*e ex- cused herself to that young woman, or broken right off and come to the sisters, I am sure," persisted the irate superior. " You do not know Miss Vaughn. Probably she took such firm and self-assured possession of Viola, that the girl felt perfectly helpless in her hands. Miss Vaughn has uncommon strength of character, and our daughter Viola, as you know, is rather weak 248 ALMOST A PRIEST. which makes her all the more eligible to us." The father laughed. " If she is weak, she is also obstinate as a mule/' said Mother VallS, sulkily. "Obstinacy is a characteristic of weak minds," said Padre Aruholm, " but I daresay your discipline here will rid her of her obstinacy." " I'll warrant it will," said Mother Valle, snap- ping her teeth together, in a way that might have made Viola shiver. Judith had indeed spoken plainly to Viola as they traveled home. She had questioned, reasoned, and, taking Viola's penchant for conventual life for granted, had earnestly implored. Viola also thought that Miss Vaughn had given some warning to Mr. and Mrs. Hastings; for, while they increased their kindness to her, they undoubtedly watched her closely. Viola now looked upon herself as a martyr for conscience' sake, and in this character made herself very disagreeable. When Mrs. Hastings said the "sisters" were deluded, were wasting their lives, and were very likely unhappy in their present lot, Viola burst into tears, and said she " could not and would not hear her dearest friends abused." When Mr. Hastings expressed his belief that the Northville priest was a "bad fellow," Viola flamed up, saying, that he was a wise and holy man, and she would like NUN AND POSTULANT. 249 to see the Protestant minister who would sacrifice everything for the good of the Church and the sal- vation of souls, as the priest tlid. Viola denominated Judith Vaughn a "perfect bigot, without the least morsel of Christian charity," and thought "if she would take a few lessons in meekness and devotion from the sisters, she would be vastly improved." Viola nearly broke friendship with Magdalen on account of Romanism, because Magdalen advised her not to go to Catholic church. Viola's visits to church and to the House of Saint Vincent de Paul, were now mostly stolen, and there- fore all the sweeter. She thought she was not wast- ing her time entirely in religious matters, for she was being taught by the priest and the nuns how properly to make the sign of the cross, how and when to bow in worship ; she was also instructed in the meaning of the church ernaments, the spiritual intention of the ceremonies used in mass, the signification of the different colors used in worship, and the reason for the different garments wherewith a priest is vested, in all of which points Viola became wise as her teach- ers, and wiser than the children of light. By repres- sion her fervor increased, and she resolved to make a last effort to fly to a convent. Magdalen invited Viola to spend a day and a night with her, and Viola insisted upon doing so. Mi-s. Hastings hesitated, dis- 250 ALMOST A PRIEST. liking to have Viola away so long for fear of mis- chief; but Viola said she would go, and with injunc- tions from her harassed mother to stay at Mag- dalen's, enjoy herself and be home early next day, she departed in company with Magdalen for her home. Viola had had no opportunity to send word to Mother Valle ; but she had obtained Father Arn- holm's address, and to the city she was determined now to escape. About three in the afternoon she complained of headache, said she must go home, pet- tishly refused Magdalen's proffered company, and, bidding her "good-bye," apparently started home- ward. But, alas for Viola, she diverged to the de- pot, and was soon on her way to the city. Late in the evening, there was a timid ring at Fa- ther Arnholm's door, and a girlish voice asked for the priest. Kitty, in a high state of curiosity, in- troduced the visitor to the parlor, where his reverence was reading one of his own effusions in the " Catholic Ensign." Father Arnholm laid down his paper and looked curiously at the intruder. Kitty departed with lingering feet. " Is it possible that this is my daughter Viola Hastings ?" asked the priest. "Yes, father," said Viola, with a little sob of excitement. NUN AND POSTULANT. 251 "And how come you here so late, and alone?" " I was going to Mother Vall6 at ' Our Lady of Seven Sorrows/ and I couhl not find it, and it is so late I came here. Won't you take me there, Fa- ther? Oh, I do want to go there and be a nun !" " Sit down, daughter Viola. Yours is certainly a praiseworthy wish; but it is too late to go to the convent to-night. Again, my daughter, if your fa- ther suspects where you are, he will demand you of us." " I will not go home," said Viola, stubbornly. " I was eighteen last week, I am old enough to choose for myself, and I choose to be a nun." " In that case I do not know that any one has a right to hinder your holy inclinations. And you are willing to go to the convent, renounce the world and your own wishes, and become an obedient and holy daughter of the* Church, the chosen bride of Christ?" Viola was so excited by what she considered the romance of her adventures, and also by the strife between her conscience which bade her stay at home and her stubborn will which bade her go to the con- vent in spite of everything, that she was now crying passionately. Father Arnholm hated crying. He was a hard man, and while he knew the fate this girl was achieving for herself was hard and bitter enough, he was not willing she should have the consolation 252 ALMOST A PRIEST. of crying over it. Let the stones in the way cut her feet, let the seven sorrows pierce her flesh, let her crushed heart quiver and ache and die, but let it all be done in tearless silence, and Father Arnholm was fully prepared to give her parting spirit absolution, and say a mass for her eternal repose; but he was not prepared to have her sit trembling, and soaking her pocket-handkerchief in his parlor, when he wanted to read the "Ensign." " I fear you are faint-hearted, and want to draw back from the good you have meditated," he said dryly. '' No indeed, Father Arnholm ; but I feel so fright- ened and excited." " There is no need for that. To-morrow I will take you to 'Seven Sorrows' in my carriage, and put you safely in Mother Valle's hands. For to-night, I will call the housekeeper and tell her to take care of you." Thus saying, Padre Arnholm rang a bell and in came the housekeeper, her cap-ruffle quivering, and her spectacles looking volumes at poor Viola. The housekeeper sniffed and sneezed, and fluttered her ruffles, and glimmered her spectacles at Viola under the gaslight, until Viola felt nearly annihilated. " Grandmother," said Father Arnholm, " here is a young lady who is going to the Seven Sorrows as a postulant you can take care of her to-night. "We NUN AND POSTULANT. 253 have a great regard for her she is a converted here- tic a very faithful daughter of the Church." "Come on then," said the apocryphal "grandmo- ther" to Viola, very tartly. " Won't you give me your blessing, Father Arn- holm?" said Viola, wiping her face, having now had her cry out. " Certainly, my daughter," said Father Arnholm, rising pompously, and extending his crossed hands over her bowed head he blessed her in Latin, which, as Viola did not understand a word of that language, was exceedingly edifying to her. The housekeeper gave Viola a spare bed in her own room, and while she was undressing questioned her very closely. Viola was nothing loathe to talk about herself, and she gave her whole history quite unreservedly. Thus placated, the housekeeper took off her cap, laid aside her spectacles, sat down on a stool, and beginning to scour her bald head with salt and whisky in a vain attempt to make the hair grow again, related to Viola her autobiography graphically enough, if not grammatically, and detailed also her troubles with the cook who was ill-tempered, and with Kitty who was vain and over-fond of pink, blue and cherry breast-knots and hair-ribbons. Finding time at last to say her rosary, Viola knelt and continued an hour at her devotions, intent on 22 254. ALMOST A PRIEST. impressing, the housekeeper with her eligibility for a religious life. When she rose from her knees the housekeeper was asleep. Early next morning the priest's carriage with closed curtains was at the door to take Father Arnholm and Viola to " Seven Sorrows." On the way the priest questioned Viola upon what her father was likely to do about her flight to a convent, and where her money was, how invested, under what conditions, and how obtainable. The two doors of "Seven Sorrows" opened, and Padre Arnholm led Viola into the presence of Mo- ther Vall<. Seeing her proselyte fairly in her grasp mollified Mother Valle so much that she took Viola's fingers in her own cold hand, and welcomed her in elaborate phrase. Viola had entered the harbor of all her hopes, the convent of the " Seven Sorrows." She was given a straight black gown, a rosary was hung at her waist, her hair was cut short in her neck, and she wore a plain white cap. She caught her own reflection in the polished panel of a door and thought the cap rather becoming. As to the hair, she had always been vexed that her locks were not as luxuriant as Magdalen's, and it was quite a comfort now to be on a par with everybody else, and to see all the postu- NUN AND POSTULANT. 255 laiits, novices and nuns with locks as short and straight as her own. All was new and strange the stillness, the solemnity, the method, the chilly dor- mitory, the ever-watching sister yes, at last Viola had obtained her own way, she was a postulant and would be a nun. CHAPTER X. PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. f3ME knows how to wait. More than any other organization, she realizes the policy and the strength of cautious delay. Her waiting is not patience, neither is it apathy .% It is the slowness of diplomacy, the quiet of the panther alert, repressed, claws unsheathed though hidden, eyes half shut but watching still, hair bristling, ears erect, muscles quivering waiting, waiting, never weary waiting for the prey, and ready for the spring ! According to the legend of the dreamer, " Giant Pope, though he be yet alive, is, by reason of age, and also of the many shrewd brushes that he met with in his younger days, grown so crazy and stiff in his joints, that he can now do little more than sit in his cave's mouth, grinning at pilgrims as they go by, and biting his nails because he cannot come at them." And this to-day is the judgment of many of Rome's foes who are, nevertheless, far less crafty and less strong than Rome herself. Rome is neither dead nor asleep. Had she made her onset years ago, 256 PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 257 she would have failed; did she even make the spring to-day, she would fall short of her destined victims ; but she knows how to wait. Be not de- ceived, O friends; there is a living and a fearful danger in Rome, who moves slowly in darkness, who sits quiet in daylight, who delays, but who never gives up. Rome's children are trained to this waiting. Her priests understand it full well. It is an art they have all carefully studied ; and in its logic Father Arn- holm was not deficient. When, therefore, he wanted Philip to win favor with his Courcy cousins, when he believed that the result of such favor would be that two rich, generous, impulsive and easily influ- enced women would bestow upon their pleasant young relative a portion of their abundant means, Father Arnholm did not send the boy to Northville at once. " The plan will keep, I must fit the boy for his part," said he. Hence, to mould the boy ac- cording to his own will, to mature him, to fix him in purpose, and to make him sufficient for the mission on which he should be sent, acting superior to the haste that undoes itself, Father Arnholm had Philip in training more than a year, before he decided that the tall manly lad, far beyond his classmates in his studies, and wise out of his years in Romish lore, was fit to be trusted beyond his own sight. When 258 ALMOST A PRIEST. this hour in the sub-deacon's history had arrived, Father Arnholm had him sent to Northville to aid the parish priest and to cultivate the friendship of the Courcys. We are not to suppose that Philip was out of leading-strings that is a pass to which Rome's children never attain he was under orders from his immediate superior the priest Father Arnholm was back and forth continually even Maria Felix and Sister Mary Angela were of use, to see that this child of Rome did not fall into the way of that irrepressi- ble heretic, Judith Vaughn. Prior to the time of his going to Northville, Philip had had some correspondence with Mrs. Courcy, a correspondence which was inaugurated by that lady herself in a very pretty letter, wherein she expressed much interest in her young cousin. Her letters to Philip were always directed to Father Arnholm's care. That worthy bestowed on them a thoughtful perusal, and then graciously handed them over to Philip. At a suitable time he ordered Philip to re- ply, and gave him a general idea of what his epistle should be like. The letter prepared, Father Arn- holm corrected and retouched it, thus "A little more courtliness here, Philip ! a little more elegance there Mrs. Courcy likes ceremony, it will give her a better opinion of you. A little touch for the Church here, Philip, and just now is a good opportunity to PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 259 put in a little family pride the Courcys deal in that largely never mind the 'Lester' part, Philip give that the go-by, and deal in ' Courcy blood ' and 'Courcy brains' that is good and rising stock just now, my son ! " Looks like fawning and cringing and hypocrisy did you say, Philip ? Does not the Apostle say to be all things to all men, so you may win some? Why, it is in the Epistle as plain as day, and how do you know but you may win these Courcys? At least you can win some of their money for the Church, and that will be highly creditable to you." After a year of such training, Philip went to Northville very much less ingenuous than he once was, but nevertheless not nearly so bad as his teacher. He was to cultivate the Courcy friendship, but in his calls the Northville priest was to accompany him. This arrangement was not at all to Mrs. Courcy's mind. She could tolerate and welcome Padre Arn- holm, because that priest knew how to behave him- self like a gentleman but she detested the Northville priest on account of his boorishness. Our lady judged people much by their manners had she judged by morals she would have found little to choose between these priests, and nothing to be com- mended in either of them. Looking at some rare flowers in the conservatory, 260 ALMOST A PRIEST. Magdalen told Philip that she believed the parish dignitary was a very bad man. Philip shook his head in discreet silence. It did not take him long to arrive at that conclusion himself, but he knew his business better than to speak against his superior. Philip was naturally an acute youth he was now sixteen years old, and had been educated among sharp people since his mother's death sharpness had become with him a specialty. He was not slow to discover that the Northville incumbent was unsound with an unsoundness differing from the other priests. In a little pair of private mental balances, Philip had weighed different people of his acquaintance and found them wanting. According to his standard, Father Ansel, gayly as he concealed it, was unsound in faith, Father Arnholm in morals, and Brother Dominick in Church dogmas ; Maria Felix was lacking in brain, and Mother Denny in charity ; Ambrose the devout had been very especially wanting in honesty, and as Philip secretly watched and weighed the North- ville priest, he felt more inclined to put him with Ambrose. This estimation he could not mention. Nothing but an overt act would make it safe for the young sub-deacon to accuse his priest. And how did Maria Felix regard the coming of her nephew to Northville ? Before he came, her un- happy doubts had nearly driven the poor nun wild. PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 261 Her eyes were restless, hollows came in her once calm round face, sighs were nearly as frequent as the breaths she drew, about her duties she moved wearily, and, though thus fur she had escaped suspicion or ac- cusation, she was daily in danger of drawing all the terrors of her Church upon her head by some indis- creet word or deed. But when Philip came, came light, came comfort. Daily she could see the boy whom she loved, in spite of her vows, with all the family devotion peculiar to her once persecuted and exiled race. It was a love born of days when Cour- cys had warred and suffered and died for each other, and the tie was not grown weak in this last offshoot of the old Huguenot family. Daily, as Maria Felix saw Philip passing to and fro, her eyes brightened and her sighs grew less. At every service he was at his office in the church, and to those services some good seemed now to attach, and she rested in them, somewhat as she had done in other years. Philip was a good boy, a wise boy, a boy well esteemed, and, if Maria Felix thought her own life blasted and thrown away, she could hope something better for her nephew. At Mrs. Courcy's, Philip was continually more wel- come. The lady of the house said he was "quite one of the family " and she talked frequently of what she would do for him in money matters. But the acolyte's 262 ALMOST A PRIEST. endowment was delayed by the hesitation of Magda- len, who, while she was perfectly willing to give to Philip, was not willing to give to the Romish Church, and, as without Magdalen Mrs. Courcy could do noth- ing, the business waited. Philip meantime had noth- ing to do but obey Father Arnholm, cultivate the good graces of his cousins, and weekly confess to the priest all that they said to him and that he said to them; and so long as he did this, Father Arnholm had no fears of losing his neophyte. This matter of confession, next to the dogma of purgatory, was Philip's stumbling-block. He could lay bare his own heart if he believed it his duty, but despite his Jesuit training he could not believe it was right to play the traitor and the spy, and to repeat every word of what two confiding friends had said to him to a man they especially disliked, albeit those words were not of much importance. Philip's man- liness asserted itself, his pride and his resolution joined hands, and at his weekly confessions he with- held what he pleased, first about his friends, and then, by slow degrees gaining courage, about himself, quiet- ing any latent uneasiness by the thought that he would unburden his whole mind to Father Arnholm at some future day. The confessional is the grand foundation and throne of power to the Romish Church, and is of all things PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 263 most strenuously insisted upon, Rome's prelates knowing well that when fully operating it soonest kills the strength arid dignity of the human soul, and keeps the spirit from its maturity, for ever trembling and tottering in leading-strings. But Philip from a sense of honor, that Jesuitism had not yet crushed out of existence in him, \vas foiling the intention of the confessional. At the same time, Maria Felix, morbid, doubting and instinctively shrinking from her new priest, was exercising a sort of dogged de- termination and reserve at her confessions, muttering over only some set forms, instead of revealing her whole thoughts, words and works. If this priest had been intent on his office and on his flock, he would soon have discovered this state of mind in two people who had very little guile about them ; but he was not so intent and the confessional was but small trial. The prayer-book bids the devout Catholic " beware of relying too much on the interrogatories of his priest;" but Maria Felix, after settling a brief general form, relied very much on her confessor's questions, and answered "yes" and "no" quite in- discriminately. The prayer-book says, " banish fear and be contrite;" Maria Felix was neither fearful nor contrite, but simply sulky and unbelieving. She road terrible things of mortal sin and the danger of dying therein ; but she told herself that the Church 264 ALMOST A PRIEST. abandoned its holiest children to purgatory, and al- lowed them to die wretched and despairing, and could do no worse for her; and besides, the priest made it a rule to grant her absolution, and she could take it for whatever it was worth. Thus we see that some of the Northville Romanists had not thrived spiritually, notwithstanding the lib- erality of the townspeople and the busy industry of the sisters. The establishment had however flourished financially. A new church was to be built, and a large amount had been raised for it, and the priest begged indefatigably to increase this sum, and took so great an interest in it, that most of his parishioners extolled him highly. The priest carried in his pocket plans for church- building, and estimates of the cost of needed im- provements : but Philip felt convinced that he car- ried far different plans and estimates in his head. He set himself quietly to watch his priest, and watching he discovered what served to confirm his suspicions. First, the priest became unusually anxious about col- lecting the amounts subscribed, and getting into his hands all promised sums. Next, he withdrew the money from the Northville bank, saying he meant to deposit it in the city, and yet Philip had almost pos- itive proof that he did not so deposit it. By degrees all the valuables at the priest's house vanished from PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 265 their accustomed places, and one night Philip saw three large trunks carried from the dwelling to the express-office. Philip had a little hall bed-room at the priest's, and, hearing a noise below, he thrust his head from the window, and saw the priest on the door-step, lamp in hand, delivering the luggage to two express-runners. The three men and the three trunks were clearly visible in the circle of light be- low, and Philip strained his ear to catch directions, but the priest only said, "They are marked all right." Next evening Philip went to visit his cousins. The priest declined going with him, saying he was sick ; but when, much earlier than usual, Philip was returning home, he saw this same sick priest going into an office where were sold tickets and letters of exchange and credit for foreign travel. Philip was now fully convinced that his superior meant to elope, and he resolved to take measures to defeat him. Yet, as the priest had advertised a special service for three days from that time, and had moreover a parishioner to bury, Philip, who was a poor plotter, did not think he could be going imme- diately, and therefore decided that he himself would take the first train to the city and lay his suspicions before Father Arnholm. But our acolyte had not a cent of money, and as he made this final resolution 23 266 ALMOST A PRIEST. he walked back to Mrs. Courcy, and for the first time in his life transacted a little business on his own ac- count by borrowing ten dollars for four days. Instead of grieving over his priest's duplicity, Philip felt important and elate, as about three o'clock in the morning he slipped out of the house to take an early train for the city. He knew very well that he was transgressing his limits in thus presuming to take any steps alone, but he thought the Jesuit rule, that the end justifies the means, would apply as well here as in other cases, and he also trusted to the par- tiality of his priestly friends. As the train thundered along, a strange new sense of freedom rose up in Philip's heart. He felt like a man for the first time in his life. He was going somewhere of his own accord, unwatched, untram- meled, with money in his pocket, ideas of his own in his head ah, this was a dangerous taste of free- dom for an acolyte ! Inspired by his new liberty, when about seven o'clock the city was reached, Philip went into an eating-house and bought himself a breakfast. It was not a first-class house, but ignor- ant Philip neither knew nor cared about that. The coffee was muddy, the ham strong, the eggs stale, and the bread underdone ; but the manna that fed the fathers in the wilderness would not have been sweeter to his taste than this food; nectar and ambrosia could PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 267 not have competed with that bitter and creamless coffee ordered and paid for by himself. The train had its dep6t just upon the wharves, for the convenience of passengers and freight booked for ships and steamers. The eating-house was on the wharf also, and as Philip ate he saw the crowded masts, the ropes shining transmuted to gold in the warm sun- light, the little pennons streaming in the summer morning air, while from tall black pipes issued smoke and steam, and the bells gave warning that the boats were getting underway. These sights and sounds made Philip linger a little. He did not hasten as he had meant, although he took the shortest route which was along the wharves. By this route he passed the high back-wall of the House of Charity ; on over the line of docks, where, in the snowy win- ter midnight, Maria Felix had made her way alone after her sister's death, and so up Gabrielle street, meaning to strike Madonna street and thus reach the Church of the Madonna and Father Arnholm's house. Gabrielle street was dingy, close and crowded with painful memories. Philip walked quickly enough there, and, springing along, ran full up against Father Arnholm and nearly upset him, at the door of Pat- rick Connor's house. "Philip!" cried the priest, catching Philip with 268 ALMOST A PRIEST. one hand, while with the other he settled his clerical hat which the force of the concussion had knocked over his eyes. " I was just going to your house, Father," said Philip. " I have very important business with you." " How came you here alone, and where is your permit ?" " I havVt any, Father. I came to tell you some- thing." " This is no place to tell anything," said the priest sternly, and evidently disbelieving Philip. "This matter must be looked into, sir. It is well I met you. Walk up stairs before me I have business here and don't you go three feet from me at your peril." Philip walked as directed, his face flushed, his eyes flashing, feeling much aggrieved and injured. He had done his best, and here he was scolded and sus- pected and frowned upon ! As he thought thus, they reached the unlatched door of Patrick Connor's room, and there was a sight which chased Philip's selfish fretting far away. Death had been there and kissed away the breath of the fair little boy. The babe sweet and white as the waxen child which is the nun's favorite Christmas toy lay in its clean but coarse and scanty robe, the room darkened as well as with her paper curtains Mary could darken it, the PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 269 floor clean, the poor bed smooth, and over the little form a thin kerchief spread. At the foot of her dead child sat Mary Connor weeping, while Patrick stood with folded arms and face turned away. He could not look on what he had loved so well and lost so entirely. The poor man's one lamb was dead, and what had he more ? The priest had pushed the door open by reaching his cane over Philip's shoulder, and the acolyte saw all this poverty and loss and woe at a glance. Mary Connor sprang up at sight of her priest, and cried out, " Now may all the angels in heaven bless yer riverence we thought you would desert us in- tircly, and it's our only darling has died without a prayer or a touch of holy water or holy oil, and is lying all this while like a heathen heretic without a blessed candle or anything to comfort the soul of him, barring the crucifix and the prayer-book I laid at his head and his feet the Virgin bless him !" Patrick turned about and made a low obeisance, holding out a chair, but the priest stood on the threshold, Philip just within, careful not to go more than the ordained three feet from him. Philip's lib- erty was gone, he was a prisoner, but this he forgot in beholding the grief of the bereaved parents. The priest was quite unmoved. " Did you expect me to come to the death of a 23 270 ALMOST A PRIEST. child that was taken from you in judgment, as I often warned you ? Do you think I bring the blessed candles to those who have turned from the holy Church and from me in obstinate heresy ? No ; let your child lie like a heretic, and be buried like a dog in unconsecrated ground !" At these bitter words Mary Connor gave a loud cry, and flung herself on the foot of the bed, embra- cing and kissing her dead child's feet. " We are not heretics, yer riverence, we did as well as we could, and obeyed you the best we knew, but to ask us to starve or go on the town, was more than flesh and blood could bear/' said Patrick. " Very well. The Scripture is that ' he that would save his life shall lose it/ and that l it is better to save one's soul than to gain the whole world.' This is proved true in your case your rebellion against me is punished in your child's death." u Mebby it is, sirr ; but do then forgive us and have pity on us when our hearts are breaking, and let us lay out our child and bury it as becomes a Christian," cried Mary, turning again to her priest. " I'll work my best and so will she, and pay you all the fees, and the dues, and for masses enough, yer riverence. But the child died yesterday, and to- morrow it must be buried, and won't yer riverenee do for us as for others?" said Patrick. PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 271 " No," said the obdurate priest, " your repentance comes too late. Your child's soul is like the soul of the unbaptized infant. I shall neither bless, bury nor say masses for it." Mary gave a loud shriek, and springing past Philip fell on her knees and clasped the priest's gown with her trembling hands, and cried frantically " Curse us, yer riverence, cut us off, but never curse the inno- cent child ! Oh take it back, yer riverence give it the blessings and offices for the Church, and every penny we earn to the day we die we will pay for the masses of its soul ! Oh, don't be going, don't turn away. Come back, come back and have pity on the child!" - As well might an Egyptian mother utter her pray- ers to the stony ear of the sphinx that watches over the Nile. Father Arnholm gave Philip a pull, twitched his robe from the weeping mother's clasp, and turned away. Her pitiful cries and implorings followed him up Gabrielle street, and, awaking in Philip his own once bitter grief, made him sick at heart. As they turned into Madonna street Philip re- called his own position and his mission, and, though secretly revolting from the cruelty of the man at his side, said humbly, " Father, may I tell you what brought me here?" 272 ALMOST A PRIEST. " You may speak, but I shall rest upon other evi- dence than your words," said the priest curtly. This answer stung Philip, but he composed him- self and said, " You know they have raised a great deal of money at Northville for a church, and I think the priest is going to run away to Europe with it." Father Arnholm started as if he had trodden on a serpent " Ah ! Ha ! what do you say, Philip !" " He took it all out of the Northville bank, and said he was going to deposit it here in the Empire bank ; but I believe he kept it in his own hands : and he sent oft' three heavy trunks night before last, and last night got a ticket to some foreign place." " What ! and you come thus late to tell !" " I could not, dare not, accuse until I had proof," replied Philip, doggedly. Father Arnholm muttered something like a curse, redoubled his speed and soon was with Philip at his own house. He took him to a small room and bade him sit down, saying, "Your conduct has made me suspicious, sir, I shall lock you in while I go to the Empire bank." Philip threw himself in chair without replying, and was left alone some two hours. The day was sultry, the room was close, from heat and fatigue he fell asleep, and was aroused by the return of Father Arnholm accompanied by Father Ansel. They led PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 273 him to the library and questioned him over and over again about all the incidents of his Northville life, and all the facts that had caused him to suspect the priest. "Very likely he is off already," said Ansel. "Oh no," said Philip, innocently, "he had a man to bury to-day, and appointed a service for to-mor- row." " Fah, I'm sure he's gone now," said Ansel. " Where did you get money to come?" asked Arn- holm. " From Mrs. Courcy but I did not say why I wanted it." " Did he know you were coming?" " No, of course not he would not have let me." "Couldn't you have said you had a letter from me?" "Why, I hadn't any," said Philip. " Couldn't you have made one ?" " No, Father," replied the acolyte, blankly. Father Ansel sneered stretched himself in his chair put his feet up on the table "A fine Jesuit you are like to be," he said, contemptuously. " You have acted like a perfect fool," said Arn- liolni, angrily. "Don't you see he'll take the alarm from your absence and start off at once ? He's gone before this. Why couldn't you get off with a decent 274 ALMOST A PRIEST. reason to him, or why couldn't you have stayed there to watch him, and have sent me a telegram to come up quietly ? You deserve to be locked up on bread and water for the next six months." Overcome with fear and mortification, heart-broken at the sudden loss of his self-esteem, Philip buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud. " Of all foolish, stupid, reckless, disobedient, idi- otic performances, this is the worst," continued Arn- holm, his anger waxing hotter and hotter. " The boy deserves the stiletto, or the guillotine," said Ansel with a leer. " How is that Courcy matter coming on ?" de- manded Arnholm. " I don't know," said Philip, mournfully. "If you fail in that" began Arnholm " Don't look ahead," said Ansel " he must come back with us to Northville, and we'll make as little noise as possible about this performance, for fear of the example to the other acolytes I'll go up to the college for my valise." " See here, then ; just tell Dominick to go down to Connor's and see to that child, and bury it to-mor- row. I've frightened them pretty thoroughly, and he must get down there now, or those Christian as- sociation folks will be taking the matter in hand, and making a row over it in the papers." PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 275 " Oh, Father Arnholm," burst out Philip, as Ansel left the room, " I'm so glad you're going to be kind to them I thought you would and if you'll only forgive me for making such a mess of this business I'll never do anything without orders again I really forgot that there was such a thing as the telegraph, and I did not know what else to do but come to you." " Obedience, son Philip, is better than sacrifice obedience is the highest worship obey, obey, obey it is the key-note of our faith. Go now, for this once I forgive you." In saying this Father Arnholm evidently felt that he was doing the benevolent most admirably, and far be it from Philip to think otherwise. With the pa- dre's last words chimed the rattle of wheels, and Philip looking out of a window announced the bishop's carriage. Father Arnholm hastened to meet his prelate and conduct him to the drawing-room, where Ansel shortly after joined them, and their con- sultation lasted until the priest's carriage was at the door to take the party to the Northville train. As the trio emerged from the drawing-room, Philip, who hat in hand stood by the valises in the hall, heard the bishop say, " Remember now, promise anything, agree to any- thing, only bring him back quietly, and without get- 276 ALMOST A PRIEST. ting the matter into the hands of the police to oc- casion a scandal, though if all else fails you can resort to that." " No danger, the bird is flown," muttered Father Ansel. It will take but a very small part of the time oc- cupied by the return to Northville, to trace that course of Patrick Connor which had led him into such dire disgrace with his priest. The man had chafed and fretted under Arnholm's arrogant domina- tion. He had been irregular at church, confession and the payment of his "dues." After many eccle- siastical visits and reproofs, the priest determined to attack the poor fellow through his pocket, and ac- cordingly, as Patrick was driving hack for a man who was a member of the congregation at the Madonna, Aruholm ordered that he should be discharged. This being done, Patrick waited some time, waited until both cradle and rocking-chair were sold for food, and then got a place as porter in the establishment of one of those Christian association men to whom Father Arnholm was so inimical. This position Patrick would not resign unless something just as good was offered him, whereby he could support his family. For such crimes as these, Patrick and Mary were now refused religious consolation at the death of their only child. PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 277 As the day wore on Mary sat sobbing by the bed, her face buried in the pillow and her toil-hardened hand just touching the little cold fingers of her babe. Patrick had said, " Cheer up, woman ; by dark I'll go to the boss and talk to him, and he'll help us a bit. I'll never believe yon priest has power over the soul that has gone out of the boy to destroy it, or that God will be hard on the little innocent for our ignor- ance. Don't you mind what they read here one time about the blessed Jesus calling the little children? Never fret, Mary, the boy's safe." " Oh, but Patrick, you don't know as much as the priest, and mind what he said," replied Mary. " I am minding it it's burnt in the heart of me like hot lead but I'll believe the boy's safe, spite of him." There was a long silence, a silence broken at last by a mild voice pronouncing " Benedicite !" Patrick and Mary started up. " This is a sad day to you, my children, but God visits us thus in mercy not in wrath, to draw onr trt- ant souls to him. It is well with your little child. ' Of such,' says the Son of Mary, ' is the kingdom of heaven/ and this little one was by baptism a member of the holy Church." And now the blessed candles were lighted, the cru- cifix was laid on the baby-bosom, the holy water was 24 278 ALMOST A PRIEST. placed at the little golden head, and in that humble room sat Brother Dominick, and from the fullness of that which he had learned not from the perverted dogmas of his Church, but fromvthe Holy Spirit of God he taught these two mourners that their child was at rest, that the glorified soul should be a new tie between their souls and heaven, that God does not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men, but telleth all their wanderings in sorrow's darksome mazes, and treasures all their tears. Speaking in this softening hour the thoughts of many lonely years, the good monk's teachings were precious truths, and but little of the dross of Romanism clung to the sa- cred gold. In the summer twilight, Ansel, Arnholm and Philip hurried to the late dwelling of the Northville priest. The door was opened by the priest from an adjacent town, a man whom Philip had met occasion- ally. " You got the bishop's dispatch then ?" said Arn- holm. An hour later, and Fathers Ansel and Arnholm were pursuing their journey, following the track of their fugitive still northward, and Philip was safe in bed in his little room, the events of the last two days mingling and shifting in his dreams. Two days more meantime no one spoke of the PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 279 priest's flight, no one questioned church matters ran smoothly in the old rut, thanks to Arnholm's judi- cious care that no disturbance should be created. The ringing of the door-bell at midnight roused Philip, and, as he knew that the priest now in the hotisse was partially deaf and also a heavy sleeper, he rose, dressed himself, and hurried down stairs, holding a small lamp. As he drew the bolts, three priests stepped into the hall the fugitive was captured then ! Philip led the way into the sitting-room, and set the lamp on the table. Hearing a choking sigh, and turning, he saw the recreant priest had sunk into a chair, his eyes starting and his face drawn and ghastly pale. Such a terror was on his countenance that Philip shivered and trembled on the hot summer night as if exposed to December cold. Had some terrible, coming doom glared on the unhappy de- faulter in the semi-darkness, as thus a disgraced cap- tive he returned to his home? The miserable wretch grasped Arnholm's sleeve. " You remember, you know what you promised." " Certainly, be calm, I remember." The priest fumbled at his pocket, drew out a slip of paper, and held it near the lamp, " Yes, yes, this is the bishop's pardon signed by himself, if I return quietly, and I have returned." "And the money's all right but the fifty you 280 ALMOST A PRIEST. spent, and that we will make up," said Ansel. " Philip ! what are you standing there for ? to bed !" The next morning the church funds were re-de- posited in the bank, and the three priests proceeded to the city. The wide-eyed horror, the ghastly pallor had never left the poor sinner's face. Again and again Philip heard him whisper, " You know what you promised me, and I have the bishop's pardon !" but it was evi- dent that in his heart had begun an agony worse than death. Ansel was sent back to Northville as the regular priest of that parish, he had ground broken for the new church, and began to carry matters with a high hand. " I don't mind telling you, Philip it may be a warning how we got that runaway," he said. " He was off when we reached there his steamer had been gone eight hours I was just going to follow him by the next ship, when back comes the Clyde, her machinery out of order, and there is our man right in our hands. Heaven ! Philip, when we opened the cabin-door his knees knocked together, his teeth chattered in his head, he was like a man with a knife in his heart, the sweat rolled over his face !" Ansel evidently enjoyed the memory and the description. " We had just two offers come quietly PRIEST AND ACOLYTE. 281 along, all will be right, here's the bishop's pardon if you hand over the money and come back to him, it was a slight insanity and will be overlooked or, here's an officer and we take you in custody, and there's your trial, conviction, State's-prison and church censure. He fell on the floor and writhed and howled, but we let the fit pass off" and he came along." "The best he could do, and very good of the bishop to forgive him. Will he have a church again ?" said Philip, the credulous. " I rather think not," said Ansel, queerly. "But he is forgiven!" said Philip, with strange suspicions. "Forgiven! ha, ha! the world is wide and the Church is wise !" said Ansel. 24* CHAPTER XT. THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. HE world is wide, and the Church is wise," said priest Ansel ; and in this wide world and this wise Church we have now to follow three ruin- ed and sorrowful lives to their bitter end. But the world's wideness is not all bitterness, and we shall see how one life, narrowed and sorrowful here, was lifted into heaven's eternal joy; how out of darkness went our young acolyte to the shining places of this world, and how one poor life-bark drifted past the whirlpools, the storms and the shallows, and made harbor, disabled and well-nigh wrecked, but floating still. While Philip had been watching and his priest had been planning, while both the acolyte and the priest had been condemned, subdued and put to shame by those superior spirits, Ansel and Arnholm, no small stir had been caused in Northville by the disappearance of Viola Hastings. Full eight hours after Viola had been placed in Mother Valle's hands, Mr. Hastings called at Mrs. Courcy's to inquire why THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. 283 his daughter's visit there was so prolonged. When he learned on what pretext she had left their friends, he realized at once to what her folly had led her. " The girl is lost !" he cried. " Oh, I might have known this Judith warned me !" Before this, Magdalen had only seen Mr. Hastings as the active and absorbed man of business. He was one of the trustees of her late father's estate, and she supposed she knew him well ; but now the pale face, the trembling lips, the eyes blinded by tears, and finally his moans of distress, as completely over- come he buried his face in his hands, revealed to her a depth of fatherly love and anxiety which she had never suspected. Oh, how could Viola have so cut that tender father to the heart? " Mr. Hastings," said Magdalen, " if Viola has gone to a convent it must be to ' Our Lady of Seven Sorrows,' and surely if you go there and let her see how you feel about her conduct, she will come back with you." " By all means rouse yourself and go to the city," said Mrs. Courcy. " If you go to ' Seven Sorrows' as- suming that she is there, you will not be far wrong." It was evident that this was the only course open to Mr. Hastings for the recovery of his child ; and pursuing it, he next day found himself ringing at tho door of " Seven Sorrows." 284 ALMOST A PRIEST. " Mother Vall6 does not see visitors," said the nun who showed half her face at the inner door. " But I have business with her." " This is not a secular house, and the superior has no business with strangers," was the answer. " I am Mr. Hastings of North ville," said the heavy- hearted father, " and if I cannot be permitted to see either Mother Valle" or my daughter, who entered here yesterday, I shall apply to the court and come here with a police-officer." The nun replied to this, that she would mention the matter to Mother Valle", but that he was probably mistaken about his daughter being in that house. After an interval of waiting which seemed long to Mr. Hastings, and in which he repented that he had come to "Seven Sorrows" alone, the nun returned and told him that in consideration of his business, he might see the abbess, and thus saying led him to the gloomy parlor. The abbess sat in a particularly gloomy corner, her white face with the white folds bound about it turned in the shadow to her guest. The sister who had opened the door gave Mr. Hast- ings a chair, then crossed the room and stood during the interview apparently absorbed in the contempla- tion of a black and gilt crucifix upon a table. " I come," said Mr. Hastings bluntly to the su- perior, "to see about my daughter. She left her THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. 285 home to come to this place, and, as she came against my will, I have followed her to bring her back." " Have you any evidence that she reached here ?" asked Mother Valle", chillily. " I know she is here, and I wish to see her." " For what was she coming here ?" * " She was resolved to be a nun, a plan to which I will never consent," said Mr. Hastings. "And what age is your daughter?" asked the calm superior. " She is seventeen qr eighteen, I suppose." " I shall not deny, sir, that your daughter is here," said Mother Valle", slowly, " nor that she came re- solved to enter the holy sisterhood. Your daughter, sir, has reached an age when the law makes her her own mistress, and permits her to judge for herself. She is past her eighteenth birthday, and you have no authority over her to interfere with her religious con- victions. You will permit me, sir, to be much sur- prised that when your child shows such holy inten- tions, when she desires to set herself beyond all the temptations of a wicked world, and give herself to the practice of piety, you should desire to prevent her." " I wish, madam, to see my daughter, and speak with her of this infatuation." " I shall not prevent your speaking to her if she 286 ALMOST A PRIEST. is willing to come," said the superior. " Daughter, go and inquire if the postulant, Viola, is willing to see her father." The nun who was inspecting the crucifix slowly left the room. Not a word was spoken during her long absence.* She finally returned alone, saying that Viola did not wish to see her father. " Not see me !" cried Mr. Hastings. " She says it will only make them both unhappy," said the nun, steadily addressing her superior. " She sends him her love and duty, and will with your permission write him a long letter making known all her feelings. She hopes some day to be able to see him, but is now too much disturbed to do so." "You hear what your daughter says," remarked Mother Vall6, turning to her guest ; " and her reply is wise and kind. You are both excited now, and the interview would only make trouble." "Go tell my daughter," cried Mr. Hastings to the nun, " that on her duty to me as her father I com- mand her to come." The superior nodded, and again the nun left the room. Again she returned and addressed her mes- sage to the abbess. " Sister Viola hopes she is not lacking in duty to her father, but she has a duty to the Church and to THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. 287 her own soul ; she wishes for the present to be left to pious meditations, and her letters will fully explain her feelings and intentions. She sends her dear love to her father and the family, and will remember them in her prayers." " I tell you," cried Mr. Hastings, starting up, " that I will see my daughter." "And pray, sir, what am I to do?" asked the abbess. " Twice you have sent for your daughter, a person of legal age, and twice she declines to see you. Pray, sir, are we to use violence? Are we to lay hands on this young woman and drag her before you ? Sir, we cannot be guilty of such cruelty." " I shall appeal to the law !" cried Mr. Hastings. "And for what? I tell you your daughter came here of her own free will ; she of her own free will refuses to see you ; she promises to write to you ; what more can I do for you, or can the law do for you ? She is of legal age, and I do not know that she is under any obligation to come before you." " She is at any age under obligation to obey and respect me as her father !" cried Mr. Hastings. " That, sir," said the abbess, freczingly, " you should have taught her long ago." " Can I not go where she is and see her ?" asked Mr. Hastings, after a little silence spent in calming himself. 288 ALMOST A PRIEST. " That, sir, is utterly impossible quite against the rules of the institution," said the abbess. " Will you not then, as superior of this house, or- der my daughter to come to us ?" " I never can conflict with any person's convictions of duty, or force her known inclinations," said the crafty abbess. " Will you not go yourself, then, and reason with her about at least coming to hear what I have to say?" " To show you my entire good-will, I can do so," said the abbess, and with the nun she left the room. This errand did not occupy much time. The abbess came back alone. " Your daughter cannot bring herself to see you she is much agitated and fears you will be unkind to her she says her mind is made up and that she will explain her views in a letter I have now done all I can for you, sir, and must bid you good-day our rules do not allow long interviews." After that, Mr. Hastings had only to go back to Northville, ascertain from his Family Record that Viola was really of legal age, and then wait for a letter. His friends said he looked ill, that he grew old rapidly, that his hair was turning gray wonder- fully fast. Poor Mrs. Hastings, already worn out THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. 289 by this girl whom she had been unable to manage, took to her bed sick of a fever. And now what had really been Viola's part in the matter of her father's visit at the " Seven Sorrows ?" When the nun came to her telling her that her father was in the parlor desiring to see her, her first emo- tion was terror. "Oh, how can I see him? He will take me home; he will be so angry," she cried, seizing the nun's hand. " How can he take you, or even see you unless you wish?" " What !" cried Viola, catching at this clue, " will I not have to see him !" " You must do as you think you ought," replied the nun, withdrawing her hand from Viola's clasp. " But you will tell me what I ought to do." " It might draw you back to worldly things ; it would distract you from present duties, and studies, it' you see him. It might be better to write to him, and then it is an early opportunity to show your steadfastness." " Well then, sister, I'd better not see him. Say so for me ; say I had rather not, but I will write, and" she added, relenting as the nun turned to go " tell him not to be angry, but give him my love." When the nun came the second time, she said, " Mother Vallc wishes to know if you have freely 25 T 290 ALMOST A PRIEST. concluded not to see your father, and if you are per- fectly willing, and ready to abide in this house." " Surely I mean to stay here," said Viola ; " but about father how does he seem ?" " Terribly angry I never saw a man more violent, and talks of arresting you." She said no word of Mr. Hastings' "command." " But you won't let him ! Oh, sister, how horrible that would be, you will surely protect me," said the foolish girl. " There now, Sister Viola, he cannot harm you if you are firm about your duty you are of age and he cannot force your actions he will calm down after a while, so you can see him quietly." " Well, sister, and until then I can write to him." By this time Viola was really afraid of meeting her father, and her terror was increased when Mother Valle came accompanied by the nun. She rushed to her and threw her arms about her, crying, " Oh, Mo- ther Valle ! what is going to be done ?" " Nothing, my child," said Mother Vall6, with- drawing from an embrace which was exceedingly dis- tasteful to her. " I come to encourage you in your piety and obedience. Do you adhere to your resolu- tion not to be turned from the life of your choice by the commands of your angry father?" " Yes, Mother," said Viola. THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. 291 " You indeed give evidence of your sincerity and of the reality of your vocation," said the superior, " and I hope your example will be followed by some who are less devout and obedient." The superior looked around upon the postulants, and, encouraged by this commendation and the pre-eminence accorded her, Viola wiped the tears that were just about to fall at thought of her father, and allowed him to go heart-broken on his way. In all her management of Viola, Mother Valle" had shown herself equal to her position. It was not necessary to use force with Viola, for the girl was as infatuated as the abbess could desire. She was of age to choose, and the more seeming freedon^ of choice she was permitted to exercise, the stronger was the hold which the superior of the " Seven Sorrows " had upon her. She was obstinate and self-willed, and the more she could be led to commit herself, the surer was Mother Vall6 of her prey. There are some fish so easily caught that no bait is needed for the hook. Of this class was Viola of this class are ten thou- sand ignorant and willful girls, who need only be where Rome casts out her hook to become her prize. With a sardonic smile, Mother Valle" reflected how much more cruel was Mr. Hastings' grief at being refused an interview with his child when that refusal seemed to come from the child herself, and how 292 ALMOST A PRIEST. Mother Vall6 had triumphed in her parade of perfect calmness and fairness. The letter that had been promised must surely be written ; it would be another sorrow to the afflicted father, it would be additional proof of the disinterestedness of the abbess,^ and of the freedom accorded to her proselyte. If Viola's letter were not entirely to Mother Valle's liking, it could be easily improved. During a few days immediately following her father's visit to the convent, Viola was petted and praised by Mother Vall6, and was allowed to tell the other postulants long tales of the indiffer- ence of her stepmother, of the partiality her father showed to the younger children, and of the violent opposition to her new faith which had almost broken her heart ; and in response, the nuns suggested argu- ments which might be used against her parents. Viola was thus unconsciously in training for the famous document which was to vindicate her con- duct to her family. The letter was written at last, Viola sitting between two nuns and consulting them at every sentence and reading what she had written for their approval. The letter being written, it was carried to Mother Valle. Had it not suited that excellent woman, it would have been easy to write another, as the su- perior had sisters on hand versed in every kind of penmanship. But Viola's letter was all that the su- THE DAUGHTER OF A HUQUENOT. 293 perior could desire, and it was forthwith posted to North ville. Was anything lacking to Mr. Hastings' utter grief and shame and vain regret, this letter from Viola filled the measure. He carried it around with him for several days until he had learned it by heart and in that learning had grown wonderfully bowed and melancholy and gray and then he gave it to Magdalen, whom he met one evening as she was go- ing home. Magdalen took the letter to her mother. It was a lovely August evening ; the garden before the bow- window where they sat was a rare broidery of frag- rant bloom ; the birds were twittering to their nests, which were numerous in the safe stillness about the Courcy place ; the sun had sunk in purple and gold, and up the sky shot long crimson beams ; and the river, slipping in faint music through its banks of green, glowed like a stream of fire. In all this beauty of a world which Viola had rashly quitted, in all this safety and sweetness and loving companion- ship of home-life, which the reckless girl was abjur- ing for ever to her bitter cost, Magdalen read the let- ter to her mother, making comments as she read. Viola began by hoping her father would forgive her for not seeing him when he called ; she did not wish to pain him, but must follow her convictions of duty 25 294 ALMOST A PRIEST. "and if you'll observe, mother," said Magdalen, " it is always a nun's duty to trample upon the fifth Commandment." Viola "desired her father to ac- cept her respectful love, but it would be better for them not to meet at present, and" (ah, here was a wicked and spiteful thrust, suggested, we must tell you, by one of the sisters) Viola " supposed her fa- ther did not care very much ; he had never seemed especially pleased to see her at home " " how cruel that is," said Magdalen. " It made me heartsick to see Mr. Hastings when he handed me that letter." Viola went on to say that home-life was not very pleasant to her; she felt crowded out of her legitimate place by the troop of little sisters ; she was too old to be interfered with, and restrained ; the labors that had fallen upon her at home jarred on her taste, and she felt it her duty to devote her Jife to piety and good works. " Here's a lovely tissue of absurdities," said Mag- dalen ; " four sisters at home crowd her so much that she goes where there are forty ; a perfectly happy home- life is so dear to her that because she does not find such perfection, she means never to have any home again ; she is too old to be restrained, so she is going where abject obedience is the chief requirement, where she can neither eat, drink, walk, work, sleep, nor speak, without permission ; her home-duties jar on her good THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. 295 taste, so she is going to a barren and bitter life of servile occupations, where whatever is most revolting will be most surely thrust upon her, and where con- stant self-abnegation is demanded; and as for the piety and good works here's a fine way to begin them, by lying, disrespect and disobedience. You needn't think I'm hard on her, mother, she is ten times as hard on herself, and I know she'll rue the day when she took sharp-faced Mother Valle in exchange for mild little mother Hastings." " Yes, poor girl," said Mrs. Courcy, stooping for- ward to twist a spray of scarlet geranium, lying on its crimped and fragrant green leaf, into her daugh- ter's luxuriant brown hair, " and this is such an irre- mediable step ! From almost any other false step there is a retreat. Had she run away to work for herself, she could have come home whenever she got tired of it ; had she married some smooth-tongued rascal, the law or his death might have made her free, or her father's house might have been her refuge ; but from the convent there is no escape, of its miseries no alleviation. I never thought so until I noticed that poor little Josepha; I felt that she was dyin^ by inches of homesickness, pining for tenderness and freedom and mother-care ; she made me think of a poor little fluttering wounded bird, in the jaws of a cat !" 296 ALMOST A PEIEST. " Why really, my mother, you are coming out quite clearly, and in a fashion worthy, of your daugh- ter, against the convent system !" said Magdalen. " Now here are some of Viola's arguments for her new faith ; ' It is the pure faith of the true and original Church all other Churches are offshoots from the Catholic, and wherein they differ from it they are wrong, and inasmuch as they differ entirely they are entirely wrong. Christ says of his Church, The gates of hell shall not prevail against it, divid- ing the world into two classes, the Church and the gates of hell, and therefore Protestantism is the gates of hell, for no one can dispute that the Church of Rome is the true, pure and eternal Church of Christ.'"* " Nonsense, I don't admit that at all," said Mrs. Courcy. " Certainly not ; a child could overthrow such a flimsy argument. The conclusion would be right if the premises were not entirely wrong. Here is Viola's next argument. 'The Protestant Churches have done a great wrong in rejecting part of the canon of Scripture, they have in rejecting God's revelation rejected him.' Only hear that, mother ! when the popes and the councils call the Bible a poisonous * Weniger's argument in " Treatise on the Infallibility of the Pope." THE DAUGHTER. OF A HUGUENOT. 297 book, not fit to be read, against their consciences, and calculated to lead men astray ! Because Protestants reject the Apocrypha, Viola must go over to Rome and be denied the privilege of having a Bible at all !" " Well read on !" said Mrs. Courcy, with a sigh of resignation. " She says that ' Protestants are guilty of great ir- reverence toward Christ as they do not bow at the mention of his name, and do not pay homage to his image and his cross.' Just as if she were going to better herself by going over to a Church which ap- propriates to a woman the titles of God, the office of Christ, and the work of the Spirit !" * " I wonder where Viola found these arguments ?" said Mrs. Courcy. "From the sisters; I dare say some of them dic- tated the whole letter," said Magdalen, and, as we know, the surmise of this acute young woman was perfectly correct. " There is Philip at the gate," said Mrs. Courcy. " Perhaps you had better put the letter by. How does she finish it ?" " By saying that she is perfectly happy, is at rest in the performance of duty, and will never cease to pray for the conversion of her family." Closely following Philip were two ladies to visit * The Pope's encyclical letter of date August 15, 1832. 298 ALMOST A PRIEST. Mrs. Courcy, and presently Magdalen wrapped a fleecy cloud of crochet-work about her head and shoulders and strolled out with her cousin to the garden. " I was just reading a letter from Viola Hastings," said Magdalen. " Do you think it was right for her to run away as she did and cause her parents such suffering ?" They stood on either side of a tuberose which was filling with its perfume the moist evening air. Philip looked down at the flower. Magdalen broke off a blossom and tapped nim with it on the hand, saying, " Philip !" He looked up and met her clear dark eyes reading his thoughts. That steadfast look forced the truth from the young Jesuit. " No, she was wrong," he answered. They left the tuberose and passed on where a stately yucca shot up a pyramid of white bells, tow- ering far above their heads. " Philip," said Magdalen, " are women better and happier for being nuns ? Are their lives broader and richer and greater blessings ? Has Viola done well to herself to choose that lot ?" " Miss Hastings," Philip made answer, " is of a selfish, unsatisfied disposition, which would not be happy anywhere." " You evade my question," said Magdalen. ' Magdalen broke off a bloMom and tapped him with it on the hand, laying. Philip : ' " Almotl a Prift. P..-- M. THE DAUGHTER OF A HUGUENOT. 299 " That fretfulness and selfishness the convent will repress," said Philip. " But what avails that repression ? The convent will crowd those feelings back to corrode her own heart. Had she remained where God placed her, subjected to the wise discipline of the mingled joys and sorrows of a natural life, her restlessness would have softened into busy care for others, and her self- ishness have been lost in love and hope. Speak to me honestly, Philip ! Are women in convents happy and good?" " There must be nuns I suppose," said Philip, " as there must be sisters and daughters and mothers and wives." " Not at all ; these last positions were ordained of God, the conventual system comes of man, and blessed would it be for this and every country if the strong hand of the law* abolished it or curtailed its privileges, for now it is a shameful infringement of social and property rights it is a vile robbery, op- pression, slavery and despotism !" A bitterer word might have been added, but Mag- dalen was innocent and young ; she paused, the fire in her dark eye melted into its usual light, and the breast that heaved in excitement under the fleecy * In this Mexico is in advance of the United States. See letter of Colonel J. Mendez to " The Christian World." 300 ALMOST A PRIEST. wrappings grew calm. They had passed away from the yucca's pyramid of beauty, and were losing them- selves in the shadows of a long arbor, clad with grape- vines. " Speak truth to me, Philip, for I deal in nothing else," said Magdalen " how much better would / be if I were a nun ?" As they passed down the twilight of the arbor Philip tried to imagine his companion in the straight garb, the white folds, the paleness, the subdued mel- ancholy, the premature age, and the black overshad- owing bonnet of a nun ; and when they came out into the softening rose-tint of the dying day, Philip looked at his cousin in all the charm of her youth and beauty, standing among the flowers of the gar- den fair enough to be their queen, a rare young goddess among a frail mortal race, and he cried out, "fYou a nun, Magdalen! never, never! you had far better die, die as you are, and be buried among the flowers, than to live when all that makes life sweet has been for ever thrown away." He checked himself, startled at what he had said. Magdalen smiled. "Rome has not banished