Our order of service was: Rosary, Hymn, Lecture, Hymn, Litany of Loretto. Did you ever hear:

"Oh, my Mother, still remember What the sainted Bernard hath said,— None hath ever, ever found thee wanting Who hath called upon thine aid."

or:

"Rose of the Cross! thou mystic flower!"

or Father Faber's splendid hymn:

"Hark, hark, O my soul! angelic songs are swelling."

Well, if you didn't, God help you!

I used to read a book sometimes—sometimes Father Gratry's "Month of May," sometimes that good little book by the Abbe Berlioux. But when the people began to yawn I flung the book aside, and said a few simple words to the congregation. And I spoke out of a full heart, a very full heart, and the waters flowed over, and flooded all the valleys.

* * * * *

The 31st of May fell on Sunday; and it was on this Sunday evening Father Letheby was to preach in the cathedral. I told the people all about it; and we offered the evening devotions for his success. Somehow I thought there was a note of emphasis in the "Holy Marys" that evening; and a little additional pathos in the children's voices. Miss Campion presided at the harmonium that evening in place of Father Letheby. I think, indeed, that the people considered that prayers for their young curate were a little superfluous; because, as we came out, I was able to hear a few comments and predictions:—

"Faith, you may make your mind aisy about him. They never heard anything like it before, I promise you."

"I heard they used to say over there in England that Father Burke himself couldn't hould a candle to him."

"If he'd spake a little aisier," said a village critic, who had a great opinion of himself, since he was called upon to propose a resolution at a Land-League meeting, "and rise his wice, he'd bate thim all."

"Did you ever hear Father Mac?" said an old laborer, dressed in the ancient Irish fashion, but old Father Time had been snipping at his garments as he couldn't touch himself. "That was the pracher! He hadn't his aiqual in Ireland. I rimimber wance a Good Friday sermon he prached in Loughboro'. Begor, you couldn't stick a pin between the people, they were so packed together. He kem out on the althar, and you could hear a pin dhrop. He had a crucifix in his hand, and he looked sorrowful like. 'In the Name av the Father,' sez he; thin he shtopped and looked round; 'and av the Holy Ghost,' sez he, and he shtopped ag'in; 'but where's the Son?' sez he, rising his wice; and begor, 't was like the day of gineral jedgment. Thin he tore off a black veil that was on the crucifix, and he threw it on the althar, and he held up the crucifix in the air, and he let a screech out of him that you could hear at Moydore; and—"

"Was that all the sarmon?" said a woman who was an interested listener.

"Was that all?" cried the narrator indignantly. "It wasn't all. He prached that night two mortial hours, and"—he looked around to command attention and admiration—"he never fetched a sup of wather the whole time, though it was tender his hands."

"Glory be to God," said the listeners; "sure 't was wandherful. And is he dead, Jer?"

"Dead?" cried Jer, rather contemptuously, for he was on the lofty heights of success; "did ye never hear it?"

"Wisha, how could we, and 't is so far back?"

"Some other time," said Jer, with a little pitying contempt.

"Ye may as well tell it now," said an old woman; "I hard the people shpake av him long ago; but sure we forget everything, even God sometimes."

"Well," said Jer, sitting on a long, level tombstone, "maybe ye don't know how the divil watches priests when they are on a sick-call. He does, thin. Fram the time they laves the house till they returns he is on their thrack, thrying to circumwent them, ontil he gets the poor sowl into his own dirty claws. Sometimes he makes the mare stumble and fall; sometimes he pulls down a big branch of a three, and hits the priest across the face; sometimes he hangs out a lanthern to lade him into a bog. All he wants is to keep him away, and WHAT he has wid him, and thin he gobbles up that poor sowl, as a fox would sling a chicken over his showlder, and takes him off to his din. Well, this night Father Mac was called out late. It was as dark as the caves down there by the say av a winter's night. As he wint along the road, he began praying softly to himself, for he knew the divil was watching him. All of a suddint he was taken out av his saddle and pitched head foremost in a brake of briars. When he recovered himself he looked around him and saw at a distance—"

"I thought it was dark, Jer," said a young mason, who knew that Jer was drawing the long bow.

"Av coorse it was, but couldn't ye see a light shining even on a dark night, my fine young man?" said Jer, in a temper.

"Oh, was it a light?" said the mason.

"Ye ought to think twice before intherrupting yer elders," said Jer. "Well, as I was saying, when he come to himself, he looked around, and he asked, in a loud wice, 'Is there anny wan there who could sarve Mass for a priest?' There was no answer. Thin he said a second time, 'For the love av God, is there anny wan there who could sarve Mass for a priest?'"

"Begor, I always thought that was the shtory about the priest that forgot to say the Masses for the dead, and kem out av of his grave on Christmas night," said an old woman.

"Thrue for ye, so it is," said another. "Many and many's the time we heard it."

"Begor, Jer," said a young man, "ye 're getting mixed."

"There's a hole in the ballad and the song fell out," said another.

"Jer could tell that story betther, if he had a couple of glasses in, I'm thinking," said the young mason, as they strolled away and left Jer sitting on the monument.

"Yes; or if he had the clay in his mouth, and the pint on the dresser," said his companion.

So was this great actor hissed off the stage. It was a bad breakdown, and there was no mercy. It turned the women's conversation back to their curate.

"May the Lord stringthen and help him in his endeavor, our darlin' man," said one.

"Amin, thin, and may the Blessed Vargin put the words into his mouth that he has to shpake," cried another. The children listened gravely. All that they could conjecture was that Father Letheby was engaged on a great and dangerous enterprise.

I never had a moment's doubt but that their prayers were heard and their predictions verified, although when Father Letheby called the next day he looked depressed and gloomy enough.

"Well," I said, "a great success, of course?"

"I'm afraid not," he said moodily.

"You broke down badly just in the middle?"

"Well, no, indeed; there was certainly no breakdown, but the whole thing was evidently a failure."

"Let me see," I cried. "There are certain infallible indications of the success or failure of a sermon. Were there any priests present?"

"About twenty, I think," he replied. "That was the worst of it. You don't mind the people at all."

"And weren't they very enthusiastic," I asked, "when you returned to the sacristy?"

"No, indeed. Rather the contrary, which makes me think that I said something either perilous or ill-advised."

"Humph! Didn't any fellow come up to you and knock the breath out of your body by slapping you on the back?"

"No!" he replied sadly.

"Didn't any fellow say: Prospere procede, et regna?"

"No!" he said. "It was just the other way."

"Didn't any fellow shake you by the hand even, and say: Prosit! prosit!! prosit!!!"

"I'm afraid not," he said gloomily.

"That's bad. Nor even, macte virtute esto, Titus Manlius?"

"No," he said. "There was no indication of sympathy whatsoever."

"Didn't any fellow drop into the vernacular, and say: 'Put the hand there. Sure I never doubted you,' and wring your hand as if he wanted to dislocate it?"

"No, no, no! There was simply dead silence."

"And perhaps they looked at you over their shoulders, and whispered together, as they put their surplices into their bags, and stared at you as if you were a sea-monster?"

"Something that way, indeed," said my poor curate.

"Did the bishop make any remark?"

"Yes. The bishop came over and said he was very grateful, indeed, for that beautiful sermon. But that, of course, was purely conventional."

"And the people? How did they take it?"

"They were very quiet and attentive, indeed: apparently an intelligent congregation."

"You don't think you were talking over their heads?"

"No, indeed. Even the poor women who were gathered under the pulpit stared at me unmercifully; and I think a few persons in front were much affected."

I waited for a few minutes to draw my deductions. But they were logical enough.

"My dear boy," I said at length, "from a long and profound experience of that wilful thing called human nature, allow me to tell you that every indication you have mentioned points to the fact that you have preached not only an edifying and useful, but a remarkable sermon—"

"Oh, that's only your usual goodness, Father Dan," he broke in. "I'm quite certain it was a failure. Look at the attitude of the priests!"

"That is just my strongest foundation," I replied. "If their enthusiasm had taken the other shapes I suggested, I should have despaired."

"Well, 't is over, for better, for worse," said he; "I did my best for our Lady, and she won't blame me if I failed."

"That is sound Christian philosophy," I replied; "leave it there. But don't be too flushed if my predictions come true."

"I suppose we may have a procession of the children on Corpus Christi?" he said abruptly.

"Hallo! another innovation! Where are you going to stop, I wonder?"

"Why not have it?" he said. "It will be a sermon to the people!"

"Around the church, you mean," I conjectured, "and back again to the High Altar?"

"No! but through the village, and out there along the path that cuts the turf over the cliffs, and then back to the mill, where we can have Benediction (I'll extemporize an altar), and down the main road, and to the church."

"Go on! go on!" I said in a resigned manner; "perhaps you'll invite our pious friend, Campion, down to Benediction—"

"He'll be carrying the canopy."

I looked at this young prestidigitateur in a bewildered manner. He was not noticing me.

"You know," he said, "I'll put Campion and Ormsby and the doctor, and the old Tertiary, Clohessy, under the canopy. It's time that these men should be made to understand that they are Catholics in reality as well as in name."

I was dumfounded at his audacity.

"I have got faculties from the bishop," he continued, "to receive Ormsby, and to use the short form. He'll be a noble Catholic. He is intelligent, and deeply in earnest."

"And who is this great man he is bringing from Dublin?" I asked.

"Oh! the doctor? An old chum. They have seen some rough and smooth weather together. This fellow is gone mad about his profession, and he studies eighteen hours out of the twenty-four—"

"He ought to be a Master of Conference," I interrupted. "But won't our own man be jealous?"

"Not at all. He says he has done his best for Alice; and if any one else can help her on, he'll be delighted. But he is not sanguine, nor am I."

"Nor I. It appears a deep-rooted affair. But what a visitation—God's angel, cloaked from head to foot in blackness, and with a flaming sword."

We were both silent, thinking of many things.

"Then the procession will be all right, sir?" he said at last, waking up.

"I hope so," I said resignedly. "Everything else that you have touched you have adorned. This will follow suit."

"Thank you, sir," he said. "It will be a glorious day for the children."

"By the way," I said, as he was going, "was Duff at the sermon?"

"He was, poor fellow; and I am afraid he got a wigging from the bishop. At least they were walking up and down there near the sacristy for at least half an hour before dinner. You know Duff is an awfully clever fellow. He has written some articles in the leading English magazines, in which, curiously enough, he quite agrees with Professor Sayce, the eminent Assyriologist, who has tried to disprove the theories about the Pentateuch originated by Graf and Wellhausen—"

"My dear fellow, this is not a conference. Spare my old nerves all that nonsense. The Bible is God's own Word—that is enough for me. But what about Duff?"

"Well, at table, the bishop was specially and expressly kind to him, and drew him out about all these matters, and made him shine; and you know how well Duff can talk—"

"I wouldn't doubt the bishop," I said; "he always does the kind and the right thing."

"By the way, I forgot a moment ago to say that Duff met me this morning at the station, and said, I am sure with perfect sincerity: 'Letheby, I must congratulate you. You taught me a sharp lesson the other day; you taught me a gentler lesson last evening. Pray for me that I may keep farther away from human will-o'-the-wisps, and nearer the Eternal Light than I have been.' I shook his hand warmly. Sedes sapientiae, ora pro nobis."

"Amen!" I said humbly.

"I've asked him over to dine on the day our fishing-boat will be launched," said Father Letheby, after a pause. "Some of the brethren are coming; and you'll come, sir? Duff is very anxious to meet you."

"Of course," I replied. "I never refuse so delightful an invitation. But why should Duff be anxious to meet me?"

"I really don't know, except that you are, as you know yourself, sir, a celebrity. He thinks a great deal of you."

"Probably a great deal more than I am disposed to think of myself. Did he say so?"

"Oh, dear, yes! He said: 'I must make the acquaintance of that pastor of yours, Letheby, he's an immortal genius!'"

"An immortal genius! Well, you must know, my innocent young man, that that expression is susceptible of a double interpretation—it may mean an immortal fame like William Shakespeare's, or an immortal fame like Jack Falstaff's; it may mean a Cervantes, or a Don Quixote, a fool who has eclipsed the name of his Creator. But, as I am charitably inclined, I shall give your learned friend the benefit of the doubt, and meet him as one of my many admirers, rather than as one of my few critics. Perhaps he may change his opinion of me, for better, for worse, on a closer acquaintance."

"I'm quite sure, sir, that there will be a mutual appreciation. That's arranged, then—the procession on Corpus Christi, and dinner the day of our launch."



CHAPTER XXVI

AT THE ZENITH

For one reason or another, the great events to which our little history is tending were deferred again and again, until at last the Monday within the Octave of Corpus Christi was chosen for the marriage of Bittra Campion and the launch of the great fishing-boat, that was to bring untold wealth to Kilronan. Meanwhile our faculties were not permitted to rust, for we had a glorious procession on the great Fete-Dieu, organized, of course, and carried on to complete success by the zeal and inventive piety of my young curate. My own timidity, and dread of offending Protestant susceptibilities—a timidity, I suppose, inherited from the penal days—would have limited that procession to the narrow confines of the chapel yard; but the larger and more trusting faith of Father Letheby leaped over such restrictions, and the procession wound through the little village, down to the sheer cliffs that overhang the sea, along the narrow footpath that cuts the turf on the summit of the rocks, around the old mill, now the new factory, and back by the main road skirting the bog and meadowland, to the village church again. It would be quite useless to inquire how or where Father Letheby managed to get those silken banners, and that glittering processional cross, or the gorgeous canopy. I, who share with the majority of my countrymen the national contempt for minutiae and mere details, would have at once dogmatically declared the impossibility of securing such beautiful things in such a pre-Adamite, out-of-the-way village as Kilronan. But Father Letheby, who knows no such word as impossibility, in some quiet way—the legerdemain of a strong character—contrives to bring these unimaginable things out of the region of conjecture into the realms of fact; and I can only stare and wonder. But the whole thing was a great and unexampled success; and, whilst my own heart was swelling under the influence of the sweet hymns of the children, and the golden radiance of June sunlight, and the sparkling of the sea, and the thought that I held the Lord and Master of all between my hands, my fancy would go back to that wondrous lake on whose waters the Lord did walk, and from whose shores He selected the future teachers of the world. The lake calm in the sunlight, the fish gleaming in the nets, the half-naked Apostles bending over the gunwales of their boats to drag in the nets, the stately, grave figure of our Lord, the wondering women who gazed on Him afar off with fear and love—all came up before my fancy, that only came back to reality when I touched the shoulders of Reginald Ormsby and the doctor, who, with two rough fishermen, belonging to the Third Order of St. Francis, held the gilded poles of the canopy. They manifested great piety and love and reverence all the way. Ormsby had brought over all his coast-guards except the two that were on duty at the station, and they formed a noble guard of honor around the canopy; and it was difficult to say which was the more beautiful and picturesque—the demonstrative love of the peasant women, who flung up their hands in a paroxysm of devotion, whilst they murmured in the soft Gaelic: "Ten thousand, thousand thanks to you, O white and ruddy Saviour!" or the calm, deep, silent tenderness of these rough men, whose faces were red and tanned and bronzed from the action of sun and sea. And the little children, who were not in the procession, peeped out shyly from beneath their mothers' cloaks, and their round, wondering eyes rested on the white Host, who in His undying words had once said: "Suffer little children to come unto me!" Let no one say that our poor Irish do not grasp the meaning of this central mystery of our faith! It is true that their senses are touched by more visible things; but whoever understands our people will agree with me that no great theologian in his study, no philosopher in his rostrum, no sacred nun in her choir, realizes more distinctly the awful meaning of that continued miracle of love and mercy that is enshrined on our altars, and named Emmanuel.

But all things come around, sooner or later, in their destined courses, and Monday dawned, fair and sunny and beautiful, as befitted the events that were to take place. There was a light summer haze on sea and land; and just a ripple of a breeze blown down as a message from the inhospitable hills. Father Letheby said early Mass at eight o'clock; and at half-past nine, the hour for the nuptial Mass, there was no standing or sitting-room in the little chapel. Of course, the front seats were reserved for the gentry, who, in spite of an academical dislike to Ormsby's conversion, gathered to witness this Catholic marriage, as a rare thing in Ireland, at least amongst their own class. But behind them, and I should say in unpleasant proximity (for the peasantry do not carry handkerchiefs scented with White Rose or Jockey Club,—only the odor of the peat and the bogwood), surged a vast crowd of men and women, on whose lips and in whose hearts was a prayer for her who was entering on the momentous change in her sweet and tranquil life. And young Patsies and Willies and Jameses were locked by their legs around their brothers' necks, and trying to keep down and economize for further use that Irish cheer or yell, that from Dargai to Mandalay is well known as the war-whoop of the race invincible. I presume that I was an object of curiosity myself, as I awaited in alb and stole the coming of the bridal party. Then the curiosity passed on to Ormsby, who, accompanied by Dr. Armstrong, stood erect and stately before the altar-rails; then, of course, to the bride, who, accompanied by her father, and followed by a bevy of fair children, drew down a rose-shower of benedictions from the enthusiastic congregation. Did it rest there? Alas, no! Bridegroom and bride, parish priest and curate, were blotted out of the interested vision of the spectators; and, concentrated with absorbing fascination, the hundreds of eyes rested on the snowy cap and the spotless streamers of Mrs. Darcy. It was the great event of the day—the culmination of civilization in Kilronan! Wagers had been won and lost over it; one or two pitched battles had been fought with pewter weapons at Mrs. Haley's; ballads had been written on it in the style, but not quite in the polished lines, of "Henry of Navarre"; and now, there it was, the "white plume" of victory, the cynosure of hundreds of wondering eyes. I dare say the "upper ten" did not mind it; they were used to such things; but everything else paled into insignificance to the critical and censorious audience behind them.

"Didn't I tell you she'd do it?"

"Begor, you did. I suppose I must stand the thrate."

"Father Letheby cud do anything whin he cud do that."

"Begor, I suppose she'll be thinkin' of marryin' herself now, and Jem hardly cowld in the clay."

"Yerra, look at her! She thinks she's wan of the gintry. Oh my! she's blushin'. 'T wasn't so long ago that you could sow praties in her face."

"I suppose thim cost a lot of money. But, shure, it was the priests give 'em to her."

"Wisha, thin, there's many a poor creature that would want the money more."

Now, all this was not only sarcastic, but calumnious. The cap and streamers were Mrs. Darcy's own, bought out of her hard earnings, and donned to-day to honor the nuptials of her idol and benefactress. She knew the mighty ordeal that was in store for her; but she faced it, and thanked God she was "not behoulden to wan of thim for what she put into her mout' and upon her back." And she stood there at the altar-rails, erect and defiant, and there was not a tremor in the hand that held the holy-water vase, nor in the hand that held the aspergill.

But it was very embarrassing to myself. I am not disposed to be nervous, for I have always conscientiously avoided tea and too much study, and I have lived in the open air, and always managed to secure eight hours of dreamless, honest sleep; but I was "discomposed," as some one charitably explained it that morning; and Mrs. Darcy's cap was the cause. I couldn't take my eyes away from it. There it was, dancing like a will-o'-the-wisp before my dazzled vision. I turned my back deliberately upon it, and lo! there it was in miniature in the convex arc of my spectacles; and if I looked up, there was my grinning congregation, and their half-audible remarks upon this dread and unwonted apparition. At last I commenced:

"Reginald Darcy, wilt thou take Bittra Ormsby here present—"

A forcible reminder from Father Letheby brought me to my senses; but away they scattered again, as I heard Campion muttering something uncomplimentary under his black mustache.

"Ahem!—Reginald Ormsby, wilt thou take Mrs. Darcy—"

Here Father Letheby nudged me again, and looked at me suspiciously. I got a sudden and violent paroxysm of coughing, a remnant of an old bronchial attack to which I am very subject. But I managed to say:—

"For the love of God, send that woman into the sacristy."

She covered her retreat nobly, made a curtsey to the priests, genuflected calmly, laid down the aspergill, and, under pretence of having been sent for something which these careless priests had forgotten, retired with honors; and then I suppose had a good long cry. But poor Bittra was blushing furiously; Ormsby was calm as on the quarterdeck; but Dr. Armstrong was pulling at his mustache, as if determined to show the world that there was no use any more for razors or depilatories; and Miss Leslie had bitten right through her under lip, and was threatened with apoplexy. We got through the rest of the ceremony with flying colors: and the moment I said, In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, the hush of death fell on the congregation. Then the nuptial blessing was given, the choir threw all their vocal strength into the grand finale; the registers were signed; Campion kissed his beloved child, and shook hands with Ormsby; and then commenced the triumphal march. I forgot to say that for the glorious procession on the Thursday before the village was en fete. Great arcades of laurel were stretched from chimney to chimney, because there were no upper rooms in the cabins; the posts and lintels of the humble doors were covered with foliage and flowers; and the windows were decorated with all the pious images that had been accumulating in the cabins for generations. Little eikons of the Sacred Heart, gorgeous statues of our Lady of Lourdes, colored prints of Leo XIII., and crucifixes without number dappled the dark background of the windows,—and all the splendor was allowed to remain untouched during the octave. And glad they were, poor people, to show their love for their young idol and mistress, even with the decorations of their Lord and King. But what a shout tore open the heavens as Bittra appeared, leaning on her husband's arm; and what prayers echoed round and round them, as Ormsby handed Bittra into the victoria that was waiting! No genteel showers of rice, no casting of slippers nor waving of jealous handkerchiefs here, but—

"Come down out o' dat, you grinning monkey," and the gorgeous coachman was hauled down ignominiously, and a score of strong arms replaced the panting horses under the bridal carriage. And so it moved on, this bridal procession, amidst a strange epithalamium of cheering and blessings, whilst rough hands from time to time grasped the strong fingers of the smiling bridegroom or the tiny gloved hand of the bride. Ay, move down the valley of life together, you two, linked hand-in-hand, having said your farewells to the world, for you are entering on a new and altogether consecrated life. No wonder that the Church insists on the sacramental nature of this stupendous compact between two human souls; no wonder that the world, anxious to break its indissolubility, denies its awful sacredness; no wonder that the Catholic girl enters beneath the archway of the priest's stole[6] with the fear of great joy, and that the Catholic bridegroom is unnerved with dread at undertaking the responsibilities of a little universe.

We had a little chat over this matter, my curate and I, the evening before Bittra's marriage. It came around quite naturally, for we had been debating all kinds of possibilities as to the future; and he had been inveighing, in his own tumultuous manner, against the new and sacrilegious ideas that are just now being preached by the modern apostles of free thought in novel and journal. We agreed in thinking that the Christian ideal of marriage was nowhere so happily realized as in Ireland, where, at least up to recent times, there was no lurid and volcanic company-keeping before marriage, and no bitter ashes of disappointment after; but the good mother quietly said to her child: "Mary, go to confession to-morrow, and get out your Sunday dress. You are to be married on Thursday evening." And Mary said: "Very well, mother," not even asserting a faintest right to know the name of her future spouse. But, then, by virtue of the great sacramental union, she stepped from the position of a child and a dependent into the regal position of queen and mistress on her own hearth. The entire authority of the household passed thereby into her hands, as she slung the keys at her girdle; she became bursar and econome of the establishment; and in no instance was her right to rule supreme ever questioned by husband or child, unless drink came in to destroy this paradise, as the serpent fouled with his slime the flowers of the garden of Eden. Married life in Ireland has been, up to now, the most splendid refutation of all that the world and its gospel, the novel, preach about marriage, and the most splendid and complete justification of the supernaturalism of the Church's dogmas and practices. But, reverting to the new phases in the ever-shifting emotionalism of a godless world, with which marriage has become a question of barter—a mere lot-drawing of lambs for the shambles—he compared the happy queenly life of our Irish mother with that of the victim of fashion, or that of uncatholic lands, where a poor girl passes from one state of slavery to another.

"I hope," he said, "that we never shall be able to compare Bittra, like so many other brides, to the sleeping child that Carafola has painted, with an angel holding over it a crown of thorns, and whom marriage, like the angel, would awake by pressing the thorns on her brow."

"God forbid!" I said fervently. How little I dreamed of the troubles that were looming up out of the immediate future to shroud her marriage sunshine in awful gloom!

As the marriage procession passed the door where Alice lived, Bittra gave a little timid, imperious command to her admirers to stop. She and Ormsby alighted and passed into the cottage. The orange blossoms touched the crown of thorns on the head of the sick girl; but, somehow, both felt that there was need of a sisterhood of suffering on the one part to knit their souls together. Ormsby remained in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Moylan; and from that day forward she was secured, at least, from all dread of dependence or poverty forevermore.

At the breakfast table it was, of course, my privilege to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom, which I most gladly did; and, let me say, so successfully as to bring back unwonted smiles to Campion's face, who now freely forgave me for the gaucheries at the marriage service. Then the guests strolled around, looking at the marriage presents—the usual filigree and useless things that are flung at the poor bride. Bittra took me into a little boudoir of her own to show me her real presents.

"Father," she said, "who is a great artist, wanted me to give back all this rubbish, as he calls it; but I would much rather sacrifice all that bijouterie outside." And she exhibited with glistening eyes the bridal offerings of the poor fisherwomen and country folk of Kilronan. They were fearfully and wonderfully made. Here was a magnificent three-decker battleship, complete from pennant to bowsprit, every rope in its place, and the brass muzzles of its gun protruded for action. Here was a pretty portrait of Bittra herself, painted by a Japanese artist from a photograph, surreptitiously obtained, and which had been sent 15,000 miles across the ocean for an enlarged replica. Here were shells of all sizes and fantastic forms, gathered during generations, from the vast museums of the deep. Here was a massive gold ring, with a superb ruby, picked up, the Lord knows how, by a young sailor in the East Indian Islands. Here, screaming like a fury, was a paroquet, gorgeous as a rainbow, but ill-conducted as a monkey; and here was a gauze shawl, so fine that Bittra hid it in her little palm, and whispered that it was of untold price.

"But, of course, I cannot keep all these treasures," she said; "I shall hold them as a loan for a while; and then, under one pretext or another, return them. It is what they indicate that I value."

"And I think, my little child," I said, "that if you had them reduplicated until they would fill one wing of the British Museum, they would hardly be an exponent of all that these poor people think and feel."

"It should make me very happy," said Bittra.

And then we passed into the yard and dairies, where the same benevolent worship had congregated fowl of strange and unheard-of breeds; and there was a little bonham; and above all, staring around, wonder-stricken and frightened, and with a gorgeous blue ribbon about her neck, was the prettiest little fawn in the world, its soft brown fur lifted by the warm wind and its eyes opened up in fear and wonder at its surroundings. Bittra patted its head, and the pretty animal laid its wet nozzle in her open hand. Then she felt a little shiver, and I said:—

"That bridal dress is too light. Go in and change." But she said, looking up at me wistfully:—

"It is not the chill of cold, but of dread, that is haunting me all the morning. I feel as if some one were walking over my grave, as the people say."



"Nonsense!" I cried. "You are unnerved, child; the events of the morning have been too much for you."

Here we heard her father's voice, shouting: "Bittra! Bittra! where are you?"

"Here, father," she said, as Ormsby came into the yard with Campion, "showing all my treasures to Father Dan."

She linked her arm in her husband's, and Campion looked from one to the other admiringly. And no wonder. They were a noble, handsome pair, as they stood there, and the June sunlight streamed and swam around them.

"Go in," he said at last. "The guests expect you."

He and I walked around the farmyard, noting, observing, admiring. He called my attention to this animal and to that, marked out all his projected improvements, and what he would do to make this a model country residence for his child; but I could see that he had something else to say. At last he turned to me, and there was a soft haze in his gleaming black eyes as he tried to steady his voice:—

"I have been a hard man," he said, "but the events of this morning have quite upset me. I didn't know that my child was so worshipped by the people, and it has touched me deeply. You know, brought up in the school where I graduated, I have never been able to shake off a feeling of contempt for these poor, uneducated serfs; and their little cunning ways and want of manliness have always disgusted me. I am beginning to see that I have been wrong. And then I have been a bad Catholic. Ormsby, lately an unbeliever, has shown me this, not by his words, for he is a thorough gentleman, but by his quiet example. You know I did not care one brass pin whether he was Turk, Jew, or atheist, so long as he married Bittra. Now I see that the Church is right, and that her espousal would have been incomplete if she had not married a Catholic, and a true one. All this has disturbed me, and I intend to turn over a new leaf. I am running into years; and although I have, probably, thirty years of life before me, I must brush up as if the end were near. I am awfully sorry I was not at the rails with Bittra and Ormsby this morning; but we shall all be together at Holy Communion the Sunday after they return from the Continent. By Jove! there goes the Angelus; and twelve is the hour to start the boat!"

He took off his hat, and we said the Angelus in silence together. I noticed the silver gathering over his ears, and the black hair was visibly thinning on the top. I watched him keenly for those few seconds. I did not know that those musical strains of the midday Angelus were his death-knell—the ringing up of the great stage-manager, Death, for his volte subito—his leap through the ring to eternity.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: In many places in Ireland the priest places the broad ends of the stole on the heads of the newly married couple.]



CHAPTER XXVII

THE "STAR OF THE SEA"

There was a vast crowd assembled down where the extemporized pier jutted into the creek, and where the new fishing-boat, perfect in all her equipments, lolled and rolled on the heaving of the tide. Her high mast made an arc of a circle in the warm June air, as the soft, round wavelets lifted her; and many was the comment made on her by those whose eyes had never rested but on the tarred canvas of the coracle.

"She has a list to port!" said an old mariner, critically.

"Where's yer eyes, Jur?" cried another. "Don't ye see she lanes to stabbord?"

"I'll bet dhrinks all round she's level as the althar," said a third.

"'Twill take six min to navigate her," cried an old salt, who had been around the world.

"'T is aisy to get 'em for the big wages the priest is offering."

"How much?" cried a mariner from Moydore.

"Fifteen shillings a week, an' a share in the profits."

"Here's the capt'n and the priests. Now, boys, for a cheer."

And there was a cheer that made the ocean shiver, and fluttered the flags over the tents, and made even the trick-o'-the-loop men pause in their honest avocation, and the orange-sellers hold their wares suspended in midair.

"Is that him?" was the cry, as Father Letheby, his face aglow with excitement and pride, came down the by-path to the pier.

"That's him, God bless him!" said the Kilronan men. "'Twas a lucky day brought him among us. What are yere priests doing?"

"Divil a bit!" said the strangers, who felt themselves humiliated.

There was a ring of merchants around Father Letheby, the shopkeepers over from Kilkeel and Loughboro' who had subscribed to the balance of local aid required by the Board of Works. They scanned the boat critically, and shuffled, in imagination, the boundless profits that were to accrue.

A light breeze blew off the land, which was another favorable omen; and it was reported that the coast-guards had seen that morning the Manx fishing-fleet about twelve miles to the south'ard.

There had been a slight dispute between Father Letheby and Campion about the naming of the craft, the latter demanding that she should be called the "Bittra Campion of Kilronan," and Father Letheby being equally determined that she should be called the "Star of the Sea." Bittra herself settled the dispute, as, standing in the prow of the boat, she flung a bottle of champagne on the deck, and said tremulously: "I name her the 'Star of the Sea.'"

But she grew pale, and almost fainted, as the heavy bottle, without a break, pirouetted down between sails and cordage, and seeking an opening in the gunwale of the boat flopped into six fathoms of sea-water.

It was a dread omen, and all felt it. Nothing could have been more inauspicious or unlucky. But the Celtic wit and kindness came to her aid.

"Never mind, Miss; 't isn't you, but the d——d old hulk that's unlucky."

"Thim bottles are made of sheet-iron; they're so tick they don't hould a glassful."

"One big cheer, byes, for the 'Star of the Say.'"

It was a big cheer; but somehow there was a faltering note somewhere; and when Father Letheby handed Bittra ashore and the decks were cleared, and the crew summoned to make her ready to clear off, the men held back, cowed and afraid.

"You miserable cowards," said Father Letheby; "afraid of every little accident! I'll not let one of you now aboard; I'll get a crew of men from Moydore!"

This stung them to the quick; and when a few Moydore boys stood forward and volunteered, they were rudely flung aside by the four stalwart fishermen, and we went near having a good free fight to crown the morning's proceedings. Yet it was easy to see that their hearts were heavy with superstition and fear; and it was just at this crisis that Campion stepped forward and offered himself as captain and helmsman. There was a genuine ringing cheer when he walked down her deck; for every one knew what a splendid seaman he was, and it is exhilarating to see a strong man, self-reliant and confident, assume an authority and premiership by natural right, where weaklings are timid and irresolute. The clouds moved off from Father Letheby's face only to gather more deeply upon poor Bittra's. Campion saw it and came over to where she stood, leaning on Ormsby's arm.

"I would be miserable up at that old castle, mignonne," he said fondly, "when you and Ormsby depart. It is only a few hours at sea, and it will give nerve to these poor fellows."

"Father! father!" was all that she could say through her tears. What dreadful forebodings filled that gentle heart!

"Tell her it's all right, Ormsby!" Campion said, turning away from the tearful face. "You know all about the sea, and that there's no danger. What a noble craft she is! Good by, little woman! You have no time to lose if you want to catch the mail. Good by, Ormsby! Take care of her!"

He choked down his emotion as he kissed his child, and then sprang on deck.

"All right, lads! Ease off her head first! There, cast away aft!"

And the pretty craft was caught up by the flowing tide; and with the strong hand at the helm, floated calmly down the deep creek until she reached a wider space, where the wind could catch her. Then they raised a white sail, half-mast high, and she leaned over to the pressure until she shot out amongst the breakers, and her mainsail and topsail shook out to the breeze, and she cut the calm sea like a plough in the furrow, and the waters curled and whitened and closed in her wake. Then, at a signal, her pennant was hauled to the masthead; and every eye could read in blue letters on a white ground "Star of the Sea." There was a tremendous cheer, and the fishing-boat went forward to her fate.

Long after the crowd had dispersed, two figures leaned on the battlements of the bridge that spanned the fiord higher up near the great house. Bittra fluttered her little handkerchief as long as the dark speck at the helm could be discerned. Then the boat, now but a tiny white feather in the distance, was lost in the haze; and Bittra and her husband set out on their wedding journey.

* * * * *

As we went home, Father Letheby showed me a letter received that morning from the manager of the great firm at Loughboro', complaining that the work lately sent from the Kilronan factory was very imperfect, and, indeed, unsalable, and calling for the first instalment payable on the machines.

"I called the girls' attention to this," he said, "some weeks ago, when the first complaints were made; and some pouted, and some said they were doing too much for the wages I gave them, although, to encourage them, I gave them nearly double what I had stipulated for, and have left myself without a penny to meet this first instalment."

"Come," I said, "this won't do. Let us go in and see all about this!"

We went upstairs to the great room, to find it empty of workers. The girl who was placed in the position of superintendent was knitting in a corner, and rose as we entered.

"Where are the girls, Kate?" he said, not unkindly.

"I don't know, your reverence. They were saying yesterday that this should be a holiday."

"They knew all this work was waiting, and that the manager was complaining."

"They did, indeed, your reverence. I told them so, and one said: 'Let them wait.' They're grumbling about the wages, though they were never better off in their lives before."

"Are they all of the same mind in that matter?"

"Oh, no, your reverence. Nine of the girls are anxious, and are really grateful for the work; but there are three doxies, who have bachelors, if you please, and they think themselves quite above the work."

"I see. I think I know them. They won't come here again. Can you supply their places?"

"Easy enough, your reverence, but—"

"Never mind. I'll do that myself."

He did. He dismissed the recalcitrants promptly; but when it became a question of obtaining substitutes, it was not so easy.

The rest of the girls went to work the following day; but as they passed through the village in the evening on the way home, they were hooted unmercifully, called "staggeens," "thraitors," "informers," and, as a result, remained at home, and sent in their resignation to Father Letheby. Not that the entire body of villagers sympathized with this disgraceful conduct; but the powers of evil are more aggressive than the agents of goodness; and the children of darkness are wiser in their generation than the children of light. I suppose it is the same the wide world over; but, of a surety, in Ireland one rebel makes a thousand. No one thinks himself called upon to be a martyr or witness to the right. Of course, Father Letheby had sympathizers; but they limited their sympathy to kindly criticism:—

"He was well in his way, making ladies of thim that ought to be diggin' praties in the fields."

"He's young, Maurya; when he gets oulder, he'll know betther."

"Shure, they were bad enough to say he was puttin' the money in his own pocket, and dem goin' to their juty every month."

"I hard my lady with the fringes and the curls and the cuffs say that the poor priest was turning a good pinny by it; and that he larned the thrade from his father."

"The dirty whipster; an' I saw the chops and the steaks goin' in her door, where a fryin'-pan was never known to sing before."

"An' her kid gloves an' her bonnet on Sunday. Begor, the Lady G—— is nothin' to her."

"Well, the poor priest is well rid av thim, however. I suppose 't will be shut up now."

Nevertheless, the girls never came back. The terror of some nameless, undefined apprehension hung over them.

* * * * *

But I am anticipating. We dined with Father Letheby the evening of this eventful day. We had a pretty large party of priests; for a good many had come over to witness the launch of the fishing-boat. And, Father Letheby's star being in the ascendant, he had a few worshippers, unenvious, except with the noble emulation of imitating him. This is the rarest, but most glorious success that life holds forth to the young and the brave. Fame is but a breath; Honor but the paint and tinsel of the stage; Wealth an intolerable burden; but the fire of noble rivalry struck from the souls of the young in the glow of enthusiasm—here is the only guerdon that the world can give to noble endeavor, and the kingly promises of success. And my brave curate, notwithstanding the reverses of the morning, rose to the occasion, kindled by the sincere applause that rang around him for noble efforts that had passed into completeness and fruition; and I, an old man, just about to make my bow and exit, felt almost young again, as the contagion of youth touched me, and I saw their eyes straining afar after the magnificent possibilities of the future. God bless them! for they need every square inch of energy and enthusiasm to meet the disappointments and defeats, the lack of sympathy and appreciation, and the superabundance of criticism that await them. Dear me! if only the young had fair play and the tonic of a kindly word—but no, kind words appear to be weighed out like gold; and then comes deadly depression and heart-searching, and all brave courage is extinguished, and all noble aspirations checked, until in middle age we find only the dried-up, cauterized, wizened soul, taught by dread experience to be reticent and cautious, and to allow splendid opportunities to pass unutilized rather than risk the chances of one defeat. And the epitaph on these dead souls is: Foris pugnae, intus timores.

This evening we let ourselves out bravely. It was a great occasion; we were all proud of the success of my brave young confrere; and when Father Duff rose to propose his health, the table rang and rocked with our applause. The westering sun threw a soft glory over the beautiful flowers and plants that decorated the table, and lingered long in the ruby flames of the glasses; the room was filled with a hundred odors from plant and shrub, and the blood of grapes that were crushed in the wine-presses of Languedoc and Dauphiny; and from afar through the open window came the scented June air and the murmurs of the ever restless sea. Father Duff spoke well, and feelingly, and generously, and wound up a fine, eloquent speech with the words:—

"And whilst we heartily wish him many years of increased utility in wider and loftier spheres of action, and, with successful work, the laurels and the prizes that should follow it, may we be tempted to follow his noble initiative, and to learn that the very war against difficulties, and their conquest, is one of the richest prizes of labor and effort, and that toil and battle, even of themselves, have the faculty of ennobling and refining."

Then we all stood up, with our glasses poised, and sang: "For he's a right good fellow." There were greetings of "Ad multos annos," etc.; and just then there came across the fields from the direction of the pier a low, wailing sound, so thin and faint that we almost doubted the testimony of our ears. Presently it was renewed, in increased volume, then died away again as the land breeze caught it and carried it out to sea. We looked at one another in surprise, and Father Letheby, somewhat disturbed, said:—

"I did not know that any of our people was dead."

"You expected no funeral this evening?"

"No! I got no intimation that any one was to be buried."

Then he rose to respond to the toast of his health. He spoke well, and with a good deal of grateful feeling; and he seemed to appreciate mostly the generous congratulations of the younger clergy, whom he had gathered around him. But ever and anon, that wail for the dead broke over the moorland, and interrupted his glowing periods, until it came quite close to the village, and appeared to be circling round the house in dismal, funereal tones of agony and distress.

"I must bring my remarks to an abrupt conclusion, gentlemen," he said anxiously; "something is seriously wrong in the village, and I must go and see."

He had not far to go. For now a tumultuous throng had burst into the village, as we could feel by the hurried tramp of feet, and the sound of many voices, and the awful accents of hysterical women raising that chant for the dead that is so well known in Ireland. The crowd gathered in thick masses around the door and we went out.

"She's gone, your reverence, and they are all drowned."

"Sunk by a steamer—"

"Struck her foreships—"

"No! abaft—"

"The captain's drowned—"

"Can't you let the min spake for theirselves?" said Jem Deady, who assumed at once the office of Master of Ceremonies. "Bring these fellows for'ard, and let them tell the priest."

They were brought forward, the four fishermen, but were not too well able to sustain conversation, much less to detail a thrilling narrative of events; for the poor fellows had been filled up to the epiglottis with whiskey, and were in momentary peril of asphyxia. By piecing and patching their ejaculations together, however, it was ascertained that the "Star of the Sea" had a glorious run to the fishing-fleet, was welcomed cheerily by the Manx boats, and even more enthusiastically by the Cherbourg fleet; had made all arrangements for the sale of her fish; and then, with renewed vigor, was making for home. The haze that had hung over the sea all the morning had deepened, however, into a thick fog; and one wary old fisherman had ventured to warn Campion that he had too much way on, and to keep a good lookout. He laughed at the notion of their meeting any vessel in those desolate waters, and had freed the helm for a moment whilst he lit a cigar, when just then there was a shout, and a large steamer loomed out of the fog, running at right angles with the fishing-craft. Screams of warning came from the steamer, her fog-whistle was sounded, but Campion took it coolly.

"He thought it was the wather-witch, the 'Halcyonia,' he had, your reverence, and she swung to the touch of a baby's finger."

But the heavy craft was not so obedient, and Campion's attempt to show his seamanship was disastrous. He ran right under the steamer's nose, and had just almost cleared her when her prow struck the boat, six or eight feet from the stern, sheared off her helm and steering apparatus as if cut with a knife, and struck Campion as he fell. Then in a moment the boat filled and careened over, throwing her crew into the sea. The four fishermen were saved, two by clinging to the suspended anchors of the steamer, two by ropes flung from the deck. Campion went down.

"The last we saw of him was his black head bobbing in the wather; and, faith, it wasn't his prayers he was sayin'."

Here, indeed, was the dread descent of the sword on Damocles. And all looked to Father Letheby to know what he would say. He received the dread intelligence, which foreboded ruin to himself and others, like a man, and merely turned to the expectant crowd and said:—

"Get these poor fellows home as soon as possible. Their clothes are dripping wet, and they'll catch their death of cold."

True, indeed, there were little pools of water in the hall where the shipwrecked fishermen were standing.

As we turned to go in, whilst the crowd dispersed, Jem Deady took occasion to whisper:—

"Look here, your reverence, 't was all dhrink."

Jem had kept his pledge for six weeks, and by virtue thereof assumed all the privileges of a reformer.

It was a dread ending of the day's business, and it came with crushing effect on the soul of Father Letheby. They were bad omens,—the revolt at the factory and the destruction of the boat. We remained for hours talking the thing over, whilst my thoughts ran away to the happy girl who was just then speeding from Kingstown on her bridal tour. I followed her in imagination through smoky England to sunny France. I saw her, leaning on her husband, as he led her from church to church, from gallery to gallery, in the mediaeval cities of the Continent; I saw her cross from the Riviera into Italy, and I realized her enthusiasm as she passed, mute and wonder-stricken, from miracle to miracle of art and faith, in that happy home of Catholicism. I could think of her even kneeling at the feet of the Supreme Pontiff whilst she begged a special blessing on her father, and he, rolling with the tide, a dead mass in ooze and slime, and uncouth monsters swimming around him in curiosity and fear, and his hands clutching the green and purple algae of the deep.

Some one asked:—

"Was the boat insured?"

"No," said Father Letheby. "We were but waiting the result of her trial trip to make that all right."

"Then the committee are responsible for the whole thing?"

"I suppose so," said Father Letheby, gloomily.

"I should rather think not," said Father Duff, who was quietly turning over the leaves of an album. "Depend upon it, the Board of Works never allowed her to leave her wharf without having her fully insured, at least for the amount payable by the Board!"

"Do you think so?" said Father Letheby, as the cloud lifted a little at these words.

"I know it," said Father Duff, emphatically.

After a little time, and ever so many expressions of sympathy, the guests departed and left us alone. In a few minutes a knock came to the door, and Lizzie summoned Father Letheby.

"You're wanting just for a minute, sir."

He went out, leaving the door ajar. I heard Father Duff saying with emphasis:—

"I am deputed to tell you, Letheby, that we are all determined to stand by you in this affair, no matter what it costs. As for myself, I want to assure you that if you are good enough to trust me, I can see my way to tide you over the crisis."

"Ten thousand thanks, Duff," Father Letheby replied. "I shall show you my friendship for you by demanding your assistance should I need it."

He came in to tell me.

"Never mind," I said; "I heard it all, God bless them!"

I then regretted, for the first time in my life, that I had not loved money; I would have given a good deal for the luxury of drawing a big check with these brave young fellows.

I remained till twelve o'clock, debating all possibilities, forecasting, projecting all manner of plans. Now and then a stifled wail came up from the village. We agreed that Bittra should be allowed to proceed on her wedding trip, and that when she returned we would break the dreadful news as gently as possible.

"No chance of seeing the dread accident in the London papers?"

"None! It cannot reach London before to-morrow night. They will then be in Paris."



CHAPTER XXVIII

SUB NUBE

Glorious summer weather, gold on sea and land, but gloom of death and dole on our hearts, and dark forebodings of what the future has in store. I could hardly believe it possible that one night's agony could work such a change in the appearance; but when, next morning, I saw the face of Father Letheby, white and drawn, as if Sorrow had dragged his rack over it, and the dark circles under his eyes, and the mute despair of his mouth, I remembered all that I had ever read of the blanching of hair in one night, and the dread metamorphoses that follow in the furrows where Anguish has driven his plough. It appeared, then, that between the buoyancy of the day's success, and the society of friends, and the little excitements of the evening, he had not realized the extent of his losses and responsibilities. But in the loneliness of midnight it all came back; and he read, in flaming letters on the dark background of his future, the one word: Ruin! And it was not the financial and monetary bankruptcy that he dreaded, but the shame that follows defeat, and the secret exultation that many would feel at the toppling over of such airy castles and the destruction of such ambitious hopes. He was young, and life had looked fair before him, holding out all kinds of roseate promises; and now, at one blow, the whole is shattered, and shame and disgrace, indelible as the biting of a burning acid, was his for all the long years of life. It was no use to argue: "You have done nothing wrong or dishonorable"; here was defeat and financial ruin, and no amount of whitewashing by reason or argument could cover the dread consequences.

"Come out," I cried, after we had talked and reasoned to no purpose; "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. Let us have a walk; and the sea air will clear the cobwebs off our brains."

We strolled down by the sea, which to-day looked so calm and beautiful, its surface fluted with grooves where the sunlight reposed, and the colored plaits of the waves weaving themselves lazily until they broke into the white lace-work of sandy shoals. Nothing was there to show the pitiless capacity or the deep revenge it takes from time to time on its helpless conquerors. As we passed down by the creek, the "Great House" came into sight, all its blinds drawn and the white windows staring blankly at the sea.

"This poor child has a heavier cross before her than you," I said.

"Yes, but hers shall be healed in time. But who will wipe out dishonor?"

"I cannot see where the dishonor comes in," I replied. "You have neither robbed nor embezzled."

"I am a hopeless insolvent," he said. "I am security, sole security, for those men over at Kilkeel, whom I promised and guaranteed to safeguard. That I am bound to do on every principle of honor."

"Well, looking at it in its worst aspect," I replied, "insolvency is not dishonorable—"

"It is the very acme of dishonor in a priest," he said.

Then I saw the inutility of reason in such a case.

We dined together that evening; and just as the Angelus bell rang, we heard the hootings and derisive shouts of the villagers after the new hands that had been taken on at the factory. In a few minutes these poor girls came to the door to explain that they could not return to work. It was the last straw. For a moment his anger flamed up in a torrent of rage against these miscreants whom he had saved from poverty. Then it died down in meek submission to what he considered the higher decree.

"Never mind, girls," he said; "tell Kate Ginivan to close the room and bring me the key."

That was all, except that a certain listener treasured up all this ingratitude in his heart; and the following Sunday at both Masses, the walls of Kilronan chapel echoed to a torrent of vituperation, an avalanche of anger, sarcasm, and reproach, that made the faces of the congregation redden with shame and whiten with fear, and made the ladies of the fringes and the cuffs wish to call unto the hills to cover them and the mountains to hide them.

* * * * *

Nothing on earth can convince the villagers that the shipwreck was an accident and not premeditated.

"They saw us coming, and made for us. Sure we had a right to expect it. They wanted to make us drunk at the fishing-fleet; but the cap'n wouldn't lave 'em."

"You don't mean to say they dreaded your poor boat?"

"Dreaded? They don't want Irishmen anywhere. Sure, 't was only last year, whin they wanted to start a steamer between Galway and Newfoundland—the shortest run to America—the captain was bribed on his first trip, and tho' there isn't nothing but ninety fathoms of blue say-wather betune Arran and Salthill, he wint out of his way to find a rock, three miles out av his coorse, and—he found it. The Liverpool min settled Galway."

"And didn't the cap'n cry: 'Port! d—n you, port!' and they turned her nose right on us."

"But they were kind when they picked you up?"

"So far as talking gibberish and pouring whiskey into us, they were; but whin they landed us, one dirty frog-eater sang out:—

"It's addiyou, not O revwar!"

* * * * *

Just a week after these events, that is, the Wednesday after my great sermon, which is now a respectable landmark, or datemark, at Kilronan, I got the first letter from Bittra. Here it is, brief and pitiful:—

Hotel Bristol, Paris, Sunday.

Rev. dear Father Dan:—Here we are in the world's capital. The air is so light that you should sift the heavy atmosphere of Kilronan a hundred times to make it as soft and exhilarating. We ran through London, seeing enough to make one wish to escape it; and we are boulevarding, opera-seeing, picture-gallery-visiting, church-going since. The churches are superb; but—the people! Fancy only two men at Mass at Ste. Clotilde's, and these two leaned against a pillar the whole time, even during the Elevation. I had a terrible distraction; I couldn't help saying all the time: "If Father Dan was here, he'd soon make ye kneel down;" and I fancied you standing before them, and making them kneel down by one look. But the women are pious. It's all beautiful; but I wish I were home again! Rex is all kindness; but he's a little shocked at our French customs. "Are these Catholics?" he says, and then is silent. How is dear father? I fear he'll be lonesome without his petite mignonne. Mind, you are hereby invited and commanded to dine every evening with papa, and also Father Letheby. Love to St. Dolores! Tell Mrs. Darcy I inquired for her. What havoc she would make of the cobwebs here!

Dear Father Dan, Always your affectionate child, Bittra Ormsby.

P. S. Remember you dine with papa every day. No ceremony. He likes to be treated en bon camarade! Isn't that good French?

"You never know what a pitiful thing human wisdom is," said Father Letheby, one of these dismal days of suspense, "until you come to test it in sorrow. Now, here's a writer that gives me most intense pleasure when I have been happy; and I say to every sentence he writes: 'How true! How beautiful! What superb analysis of human emotion and feeling!' But now, it's all words, words, words, and the oil of gladness is dried up from their bare and barren rhetoric. Listen to this:—

"'A time will come, must come, when we shall be commanded by mortality not only to cease tormenting others, but also ourselves. A time must come, when man, even on earth, shall wipe away most of his tears, were it only from pride. Nature, indeed, draws tears out of the eyes, and sighs out of the breath so quickly, that the wise man can never wholly lay aside the garb of mourning from his body; but let his soul wear none. For if it is ever a merit to bear a small suffering with cheerfulness, so must the calm and patient endurance of the worst be a merit, and will only differ in being a greater one, as the same reason, which is valid for the forgiveness of small injuries, is equally valid for the forgiveness of the greatest.... Then let thy spirit be lifted up in pride, and let it contemn the tear, and that for which it falls, saying: "Thou art much too insignificant, thou every-day life, for the inconsolableness of an immortal,—thou tattered, misshapen, wholesale existence!" Upon this sphere, which is rounded with the ashes of thousands of years, amid the storms of earth, made up of vapors, in this lamentation of a dream, it is a disgrace that the sigh should only be dissipated together with the bosom that gives it birth, and that the tear should not perish except with the eye from which it flows.'"

"It sounds sweetly and rhythmically," I replied, "but it rests on human pride, which is a poor, sandy foundation. I would rather one verse of the 'Imitation.' But he seems to be a good man and an eloquent one."

"He apologizes for the defects of philosophy," said Father Letheby. "He says:—

"'We must not exact of philosophy that, with one stroke of the pen, it shall reverse the transformation of Rubens, who, with one stroke of his brush, changed a laughing child into a weeping one. It is enough if it change the full mourning of the soul into half-mourning; it is enough if I can say to myself, "I will be content to endure the sorrow that philosophy has left me; without it, it would be greater, and the gnat's bite would be the wasp's sting."'

"Now, this is a tremendous admission from a philosopher in love with his science. It shows that he cares for truth more than for mere wisdom—"

"Look here, young man, something has brightened you up; this is the first day for the fortnight that you have condescended to turn your thoughts away from the luxury of fretting."

"Ay, indeed," he said, and there was a faint halo around his face. "Three things—work, Dolores, and my weekly hour. I have trampled all my bitterness under the hoofs of hard work. I have my first chapter of 'The Cappadocians' ready for the printer. I tell you work is a noble tonic. It was the best thing Carlyle wrote,—that essay on Work. Then this afflicted child shames me. She takes her crucifixion so gloriously. And last, but not least, when I pass my hour before the Blessed Sacrament—an hour is a long time, Father Dan, and you think of a lot of things—and when all the Christian philosophy about shame, and defeat, and suffering, and ignominy comes back to me, I assure you I have been angry with myself, and almost loathe myself for being such a coward as to whimper under such a little trial."

"Very good! Now, that's common sense. Have you heard from the Board?"

"Yes; that's all right. They are going to hold an investigation to try and make that French steamer responsible, as I believe she is, for two reasons: she was going full speed in the fog; and she should have observed the rule of the road, or of the sea, that a steamer is always bound to give way to a sailing vessel. And I am becoming thoroughly convinced now, from all that I can hear, that it was no accident. I should like to know what took that steamer away from the fleet, and five miles out of her ordinary course. I'm sure the Board will mulct her heavily."

"But has the Board jurisdiction over foreign vessels ten or twelve miles from shore?"

"That I don't know. I wish Ormsby were home."

"So do I, except for the tragedy we'll have to witness with that poor child."

"Have you heard lately?"

"Not since she wrote from Paris."

"Alice had a letter from Florence yesterday. Such a pitiful letter, all about her father. There was a good deal that Alice did not understand,—about Dante, and Savonarola, and the Certosa,—but she said I'd explain it. Clearly she knows nothing as yet."

But the revelation was not long delayed, and it came about in this wise. I had a letter—a long letter—from Bittra from Rome, in which she wrote enthusiastically about everything, for she had seen all the sacred places and objects that make Rome so revered that even Protestants call it home and feel lonely when leaving it. And she had seen the Holy Father, and got blessings for us all,—for her own father, for Daddy Dan, for Dolores, for Father Letheby. "And," she wrote, "I cannot tell you what I felt when I put on the black dress and mantelletta and veil, which are de rigueur when a lady is granted an audience with the Pope. I felt that this should be my costume, not my travelling bridal dress; and I would have continued to wear it but that Rex preferred to see me dressed otherwise. But it is all delightful. The dear old ruins, the awful Coliseum, where Felicitas and Perpetua suffered, as you often told us; and here Pancratius was choked by the leopard; and there were those dreadful emperors and praetors, and even Roman women, looking down at the whole horrible tragedy. I almost heard the howl of the wild beasts, and saw them spring forward, and then crouch and creep onwards towards the martyrs. Some day, Rex says, we'll all come here together again—you, and papa, and Father Letheby,—and we'll have a real long holiday, and Rex will be our guide, for he knows everything, and he'll charge nothing." Alas! her presentiment about the mourning dress was not far from verification. They travelled home rapidly, up through Lombardy, merely glancing at Turin and Milan and the Lakes. At Milan they caught the Swiss mail, and passed up and through the mountains, emerging from the St. Gothard tunnel just as a trainful of passengers burst from the refreshment rooms at Goschenen and thronged the mail to Brindisi. Here they rested; and here Bittra, anxious to hear English or Irish news, took up eagerly the "Times" of a month past, that lay on a side table, and, after a few rapid glances, read:—

"A sad accident occurred off the Galway coast, on Monday, June——. The 'Star of the Sea,' a new fishing-smack, especially built for the deep-sea fisheries, was struck on her trial trip by a French steamer and instantly submerged. Her crew were saved, except Captain Campion, the well-known yachtsman, who had taken charge of the boat for the occasion. He must have been struck insensible by the prow of the steamer, for he made no effort to save himself, but sank instantly. As the disaster occurred ten miles from land, there is no hope that his body will be recovered."

How she took the intelligence, her blank stare of horror, when Ormsby entered the dining-room, whilst she could only point in mute despair to the paper; how, the first shock over, she fell back upon the sublime teachings of religion for consolation; and how the one thing that concerned her most deeply manifested itself in her repeated exclamations of prayer and despair: "His soul! his soul! poor papa!"—all this Ormsby told us afterwards in detail. They hurried through Lucerne to Geneva, from Geneva to Paris, from Paris home, travelling night and day, his strong arm supporting her bravely, and he, in turn, strengthened in his new-born faith by the tenderness of her affection and the sublimity of her faith.

Of course, we knew nothing of all this whilst the days, the long days, of July drew drearily along with cloudless skies, but, oh! such clouded hearts! Suspense and uncertainty weighed heavily on us all. We did not know what to-morrow might bring. Occasionally a visitor came over through curiosity to see the theatre of the accident, shrug his shoulders, wonder at the folly of young men, and depart with an air of smug self-satisfaction. There were a few letters from the factory at Loughboro', complaining and then threatening, and at last came a bill for L96.0.0, due on the twelve machines, and an additional bill for L30.0.0, due on material. Then I wrote, asking the proprietor to take back machines and material, and make due allowance for both. I received a courteous reply to the effect that this was contrary to all business habits and customs. There the matter rested, except that one last letter came, after a certain interval, peremptorily demanding payment and threatening law proceedings.

One shamefaced, dreary deputation came to me from the young girls who had been employed in the factory. They expressed all kinds of regrets for what they had done, promised amendment, guaranteed steady work for the future, would only ask half pay, would work for some weeks for nothing even until the debts were paid off. I referred them briefly to Father Letheby.

"They couldn't face him. If he was mad with them and scolded them, they could bear it and be glad of it; but they couldn't bear to see his white face and his eyes. Would I go and see him for them, and bring back the key to Kate Ginivan?"

I did, and came back with a laconic No! Then for the first time they understood that they had knocked their foolish heads against adamant.

"There's nothing for us, then, but America, your reverence," they said.

"It would be a good thing for the country if some of you went, whatever," I said.

* * * * *

The following Sunday a deputation appeared in the village,—the good merchants from Kilkeel, who had subscribed the balance of two hundred pounds for the boat. They called just as Father Letheby was at breakfast, immediately after his last Mass. He received them courteously, but waited for what they had to say.

"That was an unfortunate thing about the boat, your reverence," said the spokesman.

"Very much so, indeed," said Father Letheby.

"A great misfortune, entirely," said another, looking steadily at the floor.

"We come to know, your reverence, what's going to be done," said the foreman.

"Well, the matter lies thus, gentlemen," said Father Letheby. "The Board of Trade is making careful investigations with a view to legal proceedings; and, I understand, are sanguine of success. They hope to make that steamer responsible for the entire amount."

"The law is slow and uncertain," said the foreman.

"And we understand that the crew do not even know the name of the steamer that ran them down," said another.

"You may be sure, gentlemen," said Father Letheby, "that the Board will leave nothing undone to secure their own rights and those of the proprietors. They have already intimated to me that I shall be called upon to prosecute in case the Inspector of the Board of Trade finds that there was malice prepense or culpable negligence on the part of the master of the steamer, and I am fully prepared to meet their wishes. This means a prosecution, out of which, I am sanguine, we shall emerge victorious; and then there will be no delay in discharging our obligations to you individually."

"Live, horse, and you'll get grass," said one of the deputation insolently, presuming on the quiet tone Father Letheby had assumed.

"'T is hunting for a needle in a bundle of straw," said another.

Father Letheby flushed up, but said nothing. The foreman assumed a calm, magisterial air.

"You will remember, Reverend sir," he said, "that this subscription to what some considered a Uropean[7] idea was not, I may say, advanced on our part. It was only at your repeated solicitations, Reverend sir, that we consented to advance this sum out of our hard earnings—"

"Hard enough, begor," said a member; "'t isn't by booklarnin', but by honest labor, we got it."

"If you would kindly allow me, Mr. ——," said the foreman, in a commiserating tone, "perhaps I could explain to the Reverend gentleman our views in a more—in a more—in a more—satisfactory manner."

"There's simply nothing to be explained," said Father Letheby. "The boat is at the bottom of the sea; I am responsible to you for two hundred pounds. That's all."

"Pardon me, sir," said the eloquent foreman, who was nettled at the idea that his oratory was not acceptable—and he had once proposed a Member for Parliament—"pardon me, that is not all. We—a—are accustomed to repose in our clergymen the highest, and indeed, I may add, the deepest confidence. When that good lady—I quite forget her name, it is so long since I read my classics—perhaps, sir, you could help me—ahem!"

"I am quite at a loss to know to what excellent lady you refer," said Father Letheby.

"I'm very sorry to hear such a statement from the lips of a clergyman," said the foreman, with much severity; "for the lady to whom I refer is the representative, and, indeed, the personification of Justice—"

"Oh, you mean 'Astraea,'" said Father Letheby.

"Quite so, sir," said the merchant, pompously. "When Astery left the earth she took refuge in the Church."

"Indeed!" said Father Letheby, "I was not aware of that interesting fact."

"Well, sir," said the merchant, nettled at this sarcastic coolness, "at least we, laymen, are accustomed to think so. We have been taught to repose unbounded confidence in our clergy—"

"And how have I forfeited that confidence?" said Father Letheby, who began to see a certain deliberate insult under all this silliness.

"Well, you see, sir," he continued, "we relied on your word of honor, and did not demand the usual securities for the advance of our money. And now we find ourselves in a curious predicament—our money gone, and no redress."

"You doubt my word of honor now?" said Father Letheby, who, to his own seeming, had been a miracle of patience.

"We have been deceived, sir," said the merchant, grandly.

"Pray, how?" said Father Letheby. "You may not be aware of the meaning of your language, nor of the usual amenities of civilized society, but you should at least know that your language approaches very closely to insult."

"We have been deceived, sir," said the other, severely.

"Might I repeat my question, and ask you how?" said Father Letheby.

"We got the most repeated assurance, sir," said the merchant, "that this boat would be a mine of wealth. Instead of that, it is, if I may so speak, a tornado of ruin and misfortune. It lies, if I may use the expression, at the bottom of the briny sea."

"To cut a long story short," said another of the deputation, "that boat was a swindle from beginning to end, and I know it—"

"Pardon me, gentlemen," said Father Letheby, rising, "but I must now cut short the interview, and ask you to retire—"

"Ask us to retire with our money in your pocket!"

"Turn us out, and we—"

"Now, gentlemen, there is no use in prolonging this unpleasantness. Be good enough to leave my house. Lizzie, show these gentlemen the door." He had touched the bell.

"We retire, sir, but we shall come again. We retreat, but we return. Like Marius,"—the foreman was now in the street, and there was a pretty fair crowd around the door,—"like Marius, like Marius—"

"Who the d——l would marry the likes of you, you miserable omadhaun," said Jem Deady, who knew by instinct that this was a hostile expedition. "Give us de word, your reverence, and we'll chuck the whole bloomin' lot into the say. It was many a long day since they had a bat', if we're to judge by dere dirty mugs."

This was the signal for a fierce demonstration. In a moment the village was in arms, men rushed for stones, women, hastily leaving the dinner-tables, gathered up every kind of village refuse; and amidst the din of execration and abuse the shopkeepers of Kilkeel climbed on their cars and fled; not, however, without taking with them specimens, more or less decayed, of the fauna and flora of Kilronan, in the shape of eggs redolent of sulphuretted hydrogen, a few dead cats, and such potatoes and other vegetables as could be spared from the Sunday dinner. The people of Kilronan had, of course, a perfect right to annoy and worry their own priests, especially in the cause of Trades-Unionism; but the idea of a lot of well-dressed malcontents coming over from Kilkeel to insult their beloved curate was simply intolerable.

Nevertheless, that lonely walk by the sea-cliffs that Sunday afternoon was about the most miserable experience in Father Letheby's life. He did not know whither to turn. Every taunt and insult of these ignorant men came back to sting him. What would it be if the whole thing came to publicity in the courts, and he was made the butt of unjust insinuations by some unscrupulous barrister, or the object of the lofty, moral indignation of the bench! Yet he felt bound, by every law of honor, to pay these men two hundred pounds. He might as well be asked to clear off the national debt. Now and again he paused in his walk, and, leaning on his umbrella, scrutinized the ground in anxious reverie; then he lifted up his eyes to the far horizon, beneath whose thin and misty line boat and captain were sleeping. Then he went on, trying in vain to choke down his emotion. "Star of the Sea! Star of the Sea!" he muttered. Then, half unconsciously: "Stella maris! Stella maris!! Porta manes, et stella maris, succurre cadenti surgere qui curat populo!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: "Utopian," I suppose, the poor man meant.]



CHAPTER XXIX

STIGMATA?

I do not think it was personal humiliation, or the sense of personal shame, or dread of further exposure, that really agitated Father Letheby during these dreary days, so much as the ever-recurring thought that his own ignominy would reflect discredit on the great body to which he belonged. He knew how rampant and how unscrupulous was the spirit of criticism in our days; and with what fatal facility the weaknesses and misfortunes of one priest would be supposed, in the distorted mirrors of popular beliefs, to be reflected upon and besmirch the entire sacred profession. And it was an intolerable thought that, perhaps in far distant years, his example would be quoted as evidence of folly or something worse on the part of the Irish priesthood. "When Letheby wasted hundreds of pounds belonging to the shopkeepers of Kilkeel," or, "Don't you remember Letheby of Galway, and the boat that was sunk?" "What was his bishop doing?" "Oh, he compelled him to leave the diocese!" These were the phrases, coined from the brazen future, that were flung by a too fervid or too anxious imagination at his devoted head; and if the consolations of religion healed the wounds rapidly, there were ugly cicatrices left behind, which showed themselves in little patches of silver here and there in his hair, and the tiny fretwork of wrinkles in his forehead and around his mouth. Then, whilst speaking, he grew frequently abstracted, and would start and murmur: "I beg pardon! I didn't quite catch what you were saying." Then I understood that he had sleepless nights as well as troublous days; and all the time I was powerless to help him, though I yearned to be able to do so. What was most aggravating was the complete silence of Father Duff and his contemporaries during these days of trial, and the contemptuous and uncharitable criticisms that reached me, but did not reach Father Letheby, from quondam admirers and friends.

"Sure, we knew well how it would all turn out! These Utopian schemes generally do end in failure."

"If he had only followed the beaten track, there was every prospect of success before him; for, mind you, he had a fair share of ability."

"I wonder what will the bishop do?"

"I dare say he'll withdraw faculties and ask him to seek a mission abroad."

"Well, it is a warning to the other young fellows, who were tempted to follow him."

I was hoping that the return of Bittra and Ormsby would wean him away from his anxiety. But this, too, was pitiful and sad beyond words. I ventured to go see her the morning after their arrival. Ormsby came into the drawing-room first, and told me all particulars of their journey, and prepared me to see a great change in his young wife. Nevertheless, I was startled to see what a transformation a few days' agony had caused. Bittra had a curious habit of holding her face upwards, like a child, when she spoke; and this innocent, ingenuous habit, so typical of her candor and openness of mind, was now accentuated by the look of blank and utter despair that had crept over her. If she had wept freely, or been hysterical, it would have been a relief; but no! she appeared dazed, and as if stricken into stone by the magnitude of her sorrow; and all the little accidents of home life,—the furniture, the gardens, her father's room and his wardrobe, his few books, his fishing-rods and fowling-pieces,—all were souvenirs of one whose place could not be filled in her soul, and whose tragic end, unsupported by the ministrations of religion, made the tender and reverent spirit of his child think of possibilities which no one can contemplate without a shudder. How different the Catholic from the non-Catholic soul! What an intense realization of eternity and the future of its immortal spirits in the one! How utterly callous and indifferent to that immortality is the other! What an awful idea of God's justice in the one! What cool contempt for God's dispensations in the other! And how the one realizes the bursting of bonds and the setting free of the immortal spirit unto the vast environments and accidents of life, whilst the other sees but dead clay with some dim ideas of a shadowy and problematical eternity! "His soul! his soul!" Here was the burden of Bittra's grief. Ormsby could not understand it; he was frightened and bewildered. I tried every word of solace, every principle of hope, that are our inheritance, only to realize that—

"Not all the preaching since Adam Can make Death other than Death!"

Then I took her out into the yard, and placed her where her father had stood on the morning of her marriage, and where he heard "the Mass of his sad life ringing coldly to its end." I repeated every word he said,—his remorse, his faith, his determination for a future, his regret that he was not with her on the morning of her nuptial Communion, his promise to be at Communion the Sunday after they returned from the Continent. "And here," I said, "he stood when the Angelus rang, and, taking off his hat, reverentially said it; and I counted the silver in his hair. And do you think, you little infidel, that our great Father has not numbered the hairs of his head also—ay, and the deep yearnings of his heart?"

She looked relieved.

"Come now," I said, "put on your hat and let us see Dolores. She knows eternity better than you or I."

"May I ask Rex to come with us?"

"Certainly," as I thought what a merciful dispensation it was that a new love had been implanted where an old love was rudely snatched away.

"And Dr. Armstrong? He journeyed down from Dublin with us."

"Of course. He intends, I believe, to see Alice professionally."

"Yes. He is to arrange for a consultation with our doctor."

"Very good. We shall all go together."

So we did. And I had the supreme consolation to see these two afflicted ones mingling their tears in the chalice that was held to them to drink.

"One little word, Father Dan," said Alice, as I departed. "I don't mind Mrs. Ormsby. There is to be no operation, you promised me."

"No, my dear child, don't think of that. You will be treated with the greatest delicacy and tenderness."

The result of the investigation made next day was a curious one. It was quite true that her poor body was one huge sore; even the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet were not exempt. But Dr. Armstrong made light of this.

"I cannot promise to make her as handsome as I am told she was," he said; "but I can restore her health by powerful tonics and good food. That's no trouble. I've seen worse cases at least partially cured. But the poor girl is paralyzed from the hips down, and that is beyond human skill."

Here was a revelation. I told Alice about it after the doctors had left. She only said "Thank God!" But Dr. Armstrong's predictions were verified. Slowly, very slowly, in a few weeks, the external symptoms of the dread disease disappeared, until the face and forehead became thoroughly healed, and only a red mark, which time would wear off, remained. And her general strength came back, day by day, as fresh blood drove out all that was tainted and unwholesome, and even her hair began to grow, first in fluffy wisps, then in strong, glossy curls, whilst a curious, spiritual beauty seemed to animate her features, until she looked, to my eyes, like the little Alice I had worshipped as a child. In a mysterious way, also, Alice and Bittra seemed to pass into each other's souls; and as the thorns withered and fell away from each young brow and heart, little roses of Divine love, reflected in human sympathy and fellowship, seemed to sprout, and throw out their tender leaves, until the Rose of Love took the place of the red Roses of Pain; and Time, the Healer, threw farther back, day by day, the memories of trials surmounted, and anguish subdued in its bitterness to the sweetness of resignation. And when, one day in the late autumn, when all the leaves were reddening beneath the frosts of night and the hushed, hidden grays of sombre days, Alice was rolled to the door of her cottage, and saw the old, familiar objects again; and the children clustered around her bath-chair with all kinds of presents of lovely flowers and purple and golden fruits; and as the poor, pale invalid stretched out her thin hands to the sky, and drew in long draughts of pure, sweet air, she trembled under the joy of her resurrection, and seemed to doubt whether, after all, her close little room, and the weary bed, and her own dread cross, and her crucifix, were not better. But now she understood that this recovery of hers was also God's holy will, and she bowed her head in thankfulness and wept tears of joy.

And so the cross was lifted from the shoulders of two of my children, only to press more heavily on the third. As the dreary days went by, and no relief came to Father Letheby, his suspense and agitation increased. It was a matter of intense surprise that our good friends from Kilkeel seemed to have forgotten their grievance; and a still greater surprise that their foreman and self-constituted protagonist could deprive himself of the intense pleasure of writing eloquent objurgations to the priest. But not one word was heard from them; and when, in the commencement of the autumn, Father Letheby received a letter from the Board of Works, stating that the Inspector of the Board of Trade despaired of making the owners of the steamer amenable, and stated, moreover, that they might be able to indemnify eventually the local subscribers out of the receipts accruing from the insurance on the boat, no reply came to this communication which he had immediately forwarded to Kilkeel. He had one other letter from the solicitor of the Loughboro' Factory Company, stating that law proceedings were about being instituted in Dublin, at the Superior Courts. He could only reply by regretting his inability to meet the demand, and offering, as an instalment, to auction all his furniture and books, and forward the proceeds. And so things went on, despair deepening into despair, until one morning he came to me, his face white as a sheet, and held out to me, with tremulous hands, a tiny sheet, pointing with his finger to one particular notice. It was not much, apparently, but it was the verdict, final and irrevocable, of insolvency and bankruptcy. It was a list of judgments, marked in the Superior Courts, against those who are unable to meet their demands; and this particular item ran thus:—

- County. Defendants. Plaintiff. Court. Date of Amount. Costs. Judgment. - Galway. Letheby, Rev. Loughboro' Q. B. Oct. 12, 187 L126.0.0. L8.12.6. Edward, Factory R.C. Clergyman. Co., L't'd. -

"This is the end," said he, mournfully. "I have written the bishop, demanding my exeat."

"It is bad, very bad," I replied.

"I suppose the Kilkeel gentlemen will come next," he said, "and then the bailiffs."

"The whole thing is melancholy," I replied; "it is one of those cases which a man requires all his fortitude and grace to meet."

"Well, I made a complete sacrifice of myself this morning at Mass," he said, gulping down his emotion; "but I didn't anticipate this blow from on high. Nevertheless, I don't for a moment regret or withdraw. What is that you quote about suffering:—

'... aspera, sed nutrix hominum bona'?

I'll make arrangements now to sell off everything, and then for

'Larger constellations burning, mellow moons, and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade, and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.'

But the name I leave behind me—Letheby!—Letheby! It will go down from generation to generation—a word of warning against shame and defeat. Dear me! how different the world looked twelve months ago! Who would have foreseen this? And I was growing so fond of my work, and my little home, and my books, and my choir, and—and—the children!"

"Alice and Bittra have been pulled out of the fire unscathed," I said feebly. "Why may not you?"

"Ay, but they had physical and domestic troubles," he said; "but how can you get over disgrace?"

"That, too, may be overcome," I replied. "Is there not something about 'opprobrium hominum et abjectio plebis,' in Scripture?"

"True," he said, "there it is. I am forever grasping at two remedies, or rather supports—work, work, work, and the Example you have quoted; and sometimes they swing me up over the precipices and then let me down into the abysses. It is a regular see-saw of exultation and despair!"

"Let me know, when you have heard from the bishop," I said; "somehow I believe that all will come right yet."

"No, no, Father Dan," he said, "it is only your good nature which you mistake for a happy presentiment. Look out for a new curate."

* * * * *

The events of the afternoon, indeed, did not promise favorably for my forecast. About three o'clock, whilst Father Letheby was absent, a side-car drove into the village, from which two men alighted; and having made inquiries, proceeded to Father Letheby's house, and told the bewildered and frightened Lizzie that they had come to take possession. Lizzie, like a good Irish girl, stormed and raged, and went for the police, and threatened the vengeance of the Superior Courts, at which they laughed and proceeded to settle themselves comfortably in the kitchen. Great fear fell, then, upon the village, and great wrath smouldered in many breasts; and, as surely as if they had lighted beacon-fires, or sent mounted couriers far and wide, the evil news was flashed into the remotest mountain nooks and down to the hermitages of the fishermen. And there was wrath, feeble and impotent, for here was the law, and behind the law was the omnipotence of England.

What Father Letheby endured that evening can only be conjectured; but I sent word to Lizzie that he was to come up to my house absolutely and remain there until the hateful visitors had departed. This was sooner than we anticipated. Meanwhile, a few rather touching and characteristic scenes occurred. When the exact nature of Father Letheby's trouble became known, the popular indignation against the rebellious factory girls became so accentuated that they had to fly from the parish, and they finally made their way, as they had promised, to America. Their chief opponents now were the very persons that had hooted their substitutes through the village, and helped to close the factory finally. And two days after the bailiffs had appeared, an old woman, who had been bed-ridden for years with rheumatism, managed to come down into the village, having got a "lift" from a neighbor, and she crept from the cart to my door. Father Letheby was absent; he hid himself in the mountains or in the sea-caves these dread days, never appearing in the village but to celebrate his morning Mass, snatch a hasty breakfast, and return late at night, when the shadows had fallen. Well, Ellen Cassidy made her way with some difficulty into my little parlor, where, after I had recovered from my fright at the apparition, I ventured to address her:—