The world is very stern with those that thwart her. She lays down
her precepts, and woe to those who dare to think for themselves, who
venture to exercise their own discretion as to whether they shall
allow their individuality and natural characteristics to be stamped
out, to be obliterated under the leaden fingers of convention.
Truly, convention is the stone that has become head of the corner in
the jerry-built temple of our superficial, self-assertive
civilization.
“_And whosoever shall fall on this stone shall be broken: but on
whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder._”
If the world sees any thing she cannot understand, she assigns the
basest motives to all concerned, supposing the presence of some secret
shame, the idea of which, at least, her narrow-minded intelligence is
able to grasp.
The people no longer regarded their priest as a saint, and his acolyte
as an angel. They still spoke of them with bated breath and with their
fingers on their lips; they still drew back out of the way when they
met either of them; but now they gathered together in groups of twos
and threes and shook their heads.
The priest and his acolyte heeded not; they never even noticed the
suspicious glances and half-suppressed murmurs. Each had found in the
other perfect sympathy and perfect love: what could the outside world
matter to them now? Each was to the other the perfect fulfilment of a
scarcely preconceived ideal; neither heaven nor hell could offer more.
But the stone of convention had been undermined; the time could not be
far distant when it must fall.
* * * * *
The moonlight was very clear and very beautiful; the cool night air
was heavy with the perfume of the old-fashioned flowers that bloomed
so profusely in the little garden. But in the priest’s little room
the closely drawn curtains shut out all the beauty of the night.
Entirely forgetful of all the world, absolutely oblivious of every
thing but one another, wrapped in the beautiful visions of a love that
far outshone all the splendour of the summer night, the priest and the
little acolyte were together.
The little lad sat on his knees with his arms closely pressed round
his neck and his golden curls laid against the priest’s close-cut
hair; his white night-shirt contrasting strangely and beautifully with
the dull black of the other’s long cassock.
There was a step on the road outside—a step drawing nearer and
nearer; a knock at the door. They heard it not; completely absorbed in
each other, intoxicated with the sweetly poisonous draught that is the
gift of love, they sat in silence. But the end had come: the blow had
fallen at last. The door opened, and there before them in the doorway
stood the tall figure of the rector.
Neither said any thing; only the little boy clung closer to his
beloved, and his eyes grew large with fear. Then the young priest rose
slowly to his feet and put the lad from him.
“You had better go, Wilfred,” was all he said.
The two priests stood in silence watching the child as he slipped
through the window, stole across the grass, and vanished into the
opposite cottage.
Then the two turned and faced each other.
The young priest sank into his chair and clasped his hands, waiting
for the other to speak.
“So it has come to this!” he said: “the people were only too right in
what they told me! Ah, God! that such a thing should have happened
here! that it has fallen on me to expose your shame—our shame! that
it is I who must give you up to justice, and see that you suffer the
full penalty of your sin! Have you nothing to say?”
“Nothing—nothing,” he replied softly. “I cannot ask for pity: I
cannot explain: you would never understand. I do not ask you any
thing for myself, I do not ask you to spare me; but think of the
terrible scandal to our dear Church.”
“It is better to expose these terrible scandals and see that they are
cured. It is folly to conceal a sore: better show all our shame than
let it fester.”
“Think of the child.”
“That was for you to do: you should have thought of him before. What
has his shame to do with me? it was your business. Besides, I would
not spare him if I could: what pity can I feel for such as he——?”
But the young man had risen, pale to the lips.
“Hush!” he said in a low voice; “I forbid you to speak of him before
me with any thing but respect”; then softly to himself, “with any
thing but reverence; with any thing but devotion.”
The other was silent, awed for the moment. Then his anger rose.
“Dare you speak openly like that? Where is your penitence, your shame?
have you no sense of the horror of your sin?”
“There is no sin for which I should feel shame,” he answered very
quietly. “God gave me my love for him, and He gave him also his love
for me. Who is there that shall withstand God and the love that is His
gift?”
“Dare you profane the name by calling such a passion as this ‘love’?”
“It was love, perfect love: it _is_ perfect love.”
“I can say no more now; to-morrow all shall be known. Thank God, you
shall pay dearly for all this disgrace,” he added, in a sudden
outburst of wrath.
“I am sorry you have no mercy;—not that I fear exposure and
punishment for myself. But mercy can seldom be found from a
Christian,” he added, as one that speaks from without.
The rector turned towards him suddenly, and stretched out his hands.
“Heaven forgive me my hardness of heart,” he said. “I have been cruel;
I have spoken cruelly in my distress. Ah, can you say nothing to
defend your crime?”
“No: I do not think I can do any good by that. If I attempted to deny
all guilt, you would only think I lied: though I should prove my
innocence, yet my reputation, my career, my whole future, are ruined
for ever. But will you listen to me for a little? I will tell you a
little about myself.”
The rector sat down while his curate told him the story of his life,
sitting by the empty grate with his chin resting on his clasped hands.
“I was at a big public school, as you know. I was always different
from other boys. I never cared much for games. I took little interest
in those things for which boys usually care so much. I was not very
happy in my boyhood, I think. My one ambition was to find the ideal
for which I longed. It has always been thus: I have always had an
indefinite longing for something, a vague something that never quite
took shape, that I could never quite understand. My great desire has
always been to find something that would satisfy me. I was attracted
at once by sin: my whole early life is stained and polluted with the
taint of sin. Sometimes even now I think that there are sins more
beautiful than any thing else in the world. There are vices that are
bound to attract almost irresistibly any one who loves beauty above
every thing. I have always sought for love: again and again I have
been the victim of fits of passionate affection: time after time I
have seemed to have found my ideal at last: the whole object of my
life has been, times without number, to gain the love of some
particular person. Several times my efforts were successful; each time
I woke to find that the success I had obtained was worthless after
all. As I grasped the prize, it lost all its attraction—I no longer
cared for what I had once desired with my whole heart. In vain I
endeavoured to drown the yearnings of my heart with the ordinary
pleasures and vices that usually attract the young. I had to choose a
profession. I became a priest. The whole æsthetic tendency of my soul
was intensely attracted by the wonderful mysteries of Christianity,
the artistic beauty of our services. Ever since my ordination I have
been striving to cheat myself into the belief that peace had come at
last—at last my yearning was satisfied: but all in vain. Unceasingly
I have struggled with the old cravings for excitement, and, above all,
the weary, incessant thirst for a perfect love. I have found, and
still find, an exquisite delight in religion: not in the regular
duties of a religious life, not in the ordinary round of parish
organizations;—against these I chafe incessantly;—no, my delight is
in the æsthetic beauty of the services, the ecstasy of devotion, the
passionate fervour that comes with long fasting and meditation.”
“Have you found no comfort in prayer?” asked the rector.
“Comfort?—no. But I have found in prayer pleasure, excitement, almost
a fierce delight of sin.”
“You should have married. I think that would have saved you.”
Ronald Heatherington rose to his feet and laid his hand on the
rector’s arm.
“You do not understand me. I have never been attracted by a woman in
my life. Can you not see that people are different, totally different,
from one another? To think that we are all the same is impossible;
our natures, our temperaments, are utterly unlike. But this is what
people will never see; they found all their opinions on a wrong basis.
How can their deductions be just if their premisses are wrong? One law
laid down by the majority, who happen to be of one disposition, is
only binding on the minority _legally_, not _morally_. What right have
you, or any one, to tell me that such and such a thing is sinful for
me? Oh, why can I not explain to you and force you to see?” and his
grasp tightened on the other’s arm. Then he continued, speaking fast
and earnestly:—
“For me, with my nature, to have married would have been sinful: it
would have been a crime, a gross immorality, and my conscience would
have revolted.” Then he added, bitterly: “Conscience should be that
divine instinct which bids us seek after that our natural disposition
needs—we have forgotten that; to most of us, to the world, nay, even
to Christians in general, conscience is merely another name for the
cowardice that dreads to offend against convention. Ah, what a cursed
thing convention is! I have committed no moral offence in this matter;
in the sight of God my soul is blameless; but to you and to the world
I am guilty of an abominable crime—abominable, because it is a sin
against convention, forsooth! I met this boy: I loved him as I had
never loved any one or any thing before: I had no need to labour to
win his affection—he was mine by right: he loved me, even as I loved
him, from the first: he was the necessary complement to my soul. How
dare the world presume to judge us? What is convention to us?
Nevertheless, although I really knew that such a love was beautiful
and blameless, although from the bottom of my heart I despised the
narrow judgment of the world, yet for his sake and for the sake of our
Church, I tried at first to resist. I struggled against the
fascination he possessed for me. I would never have gone to him and
asked his love; I would have struggled on till the end: but what could
I do? It was he that came to me, and offered me the wealth of love his
beautiful soul possessed. How could I tell to such a nature as his the
hideous picture the world would paint? Even as you saw him this
evening, he has come to me night by night,—how dare I disturb the
sweet purity of his soul by hinting at the horrible suspicions his
presence might arouse? I knew what I was doing. I have faced the world
and set myself up against it. I have openly scoffed at its dictates. I
do not ask you to sympathize with me, nor do I pray you to stay your
hand. Your eyes are blinded with a mental cataract. You are bound,
bound with those miserable ties that have held you body and soul from
the cradle. You must do what you believe to be your duty. In God’s
eyes we are martyrs, and we shall not shrink even from death in this
struggle against the idolatrous worship of convention.”
Ronald Heatherington sank into a chair, hiding his face in his hands,
and the rector left the room in silence.
For some minutes the young priest sat with his face buried in his
hands. Then with a sigh he rose and crept across the garden till he
stood beneath the open window of his darling.
“Wilfred,” he called very softly.
The beautiful face, pale and wet with tears, appeared at the window.
“I want you, my darling; Will you come?” he whispered.
“Yes, father,” the boy softly answered.
The priest led him back to his room; then, taking him very gently in
his arms, he tried to warm the cold little feet with his hands.
“My darling, it is all over.” And he told him as gently as he could
all that lay before them.
The boy hid his face on his shoulder, crying softly.
“Can I do nothing for you, dear father?”
He was silent for a moment. “Yes, you can die for me; you can die with
me.”
The loving arms were about his neck once more, and the warm, loving
lips were kissing his own. “I will do any thing for you. O father, let
us die together!”
“Yes, my darling, it is best: we will.”
Then very quietly and very tenderly he prepared the little fellow for
his death; he heard his last confession and gave him his last
absolution. Then they knelt together, hand in hand, before the
crucifix.
“Pray for me, my darling.”
Then together their prayers silently ascended that the dear Lord would
have pity on the priest who had fallen in the terrible battle of
life. There they knelt till midnight, when Ronald took the lad in his
arms and carried him to the little chapel.
“I will say mass for the repose of our souls,” he said.
Over his night-shirt the child arrayed himself in his little scarlet
cassock and tiny lace cotta. He covered his naked feet with the
scarlet sanctuary shoes; he lighted the tapers and reverently helped
the priest to vest. Then before they left the vestry the priest took
him in his arms and held him pressed closely to his breast; he stroked
the soft hair and whispered cheeringly to him. The child was weeping
quietly, his slender frame trembling with the sobs he could scarcely
suppress. After a moment the tender embrace soothed him, and he raised
his beautiful mouth to the priest’s. Their lips were pressed together,
and their arms wrapped one another closely.
“Oh, my darling, my own sweet darling!” the priest whispered tenderly.
“We shall be together for ever soon; nothing shall separate us now,”
the child said.
“Yes, it is far better so; far better to be together in death than
apart in life.”
They knelt before the altar in the silent night, the glimmer of the
tapers lighting up the features of the crucifix with strange
distinctness. Never had the priest’s voice trembled with such
wonderful earnestness, never had the acolyte responded with such
devotion, as at this midnight Mass for the peace of their own
departing souls.
Just before the consecration the priest took a tiny phial from the
pocket of his cassock, blessed it, and poured the contents into the
chalice.
When the time came for him to receive from the chalice, he raised it
to his lips, but did not taste of it.
He administered the sacred wafer to the child, and then he took the
beautiful gold chalice, set with precious stones, in his hand; he
turned towards him; but when he saw the light in the beautiful face
he turned again to the crucifix with a low moan. For one instant his
courage failed him; then he turned to the little fellow again, and
held the chalice to his lips:
“_The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee,
preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life._”
Never had the priest beheld such perfect love, such perfect trust, in
those dear eyes as shone from them now; now, as with face raised
upwards he received his death from the loving hands of him that he
loved best in the whole world.
The instant he had received, Ronald fell on his knees beside him and
drained the chalice to the last drop. He set it down and threw his
arms round the beautiful figure of his dearly loved acolyte. Their
lips met in one last kiss of perfect love, and all was over.
* * * * *
When the sun was rising in the heavens it cast one broad ray upon the
altar of the little chapel. The tapers were burning still, scarcely
half-burnt through. The sad-faced figure of the crucifix hung there in
its majestic calm. On the steps of the altar was stretched the long,
ascetic frame of the young priest, robed in the sacred vestments;
close beside him, with his curly head pillowed on the gorgeous
embroideries that covered his breast, lay the beautiful boy in scarlet
and lace. Their arms were round each other; a strange hush lay like a
shroud over all.
“_And whomever shall fall on this stone shall be broken: but on
whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder._”
X.
_June, 1894._