A Festival.
SO Mrs. Bernard stayed on in Rome after most of the English visitors
had departed. Her acquaintances bestowed much pity on her as they made
their adieux; but, in truth, the weeks she passed so quietly were by no
means unhappy ones, though she would have been loth to admit how much
enjoyment she found in them.
The fever followed its usual course, and though Paul suffered a great
deal, he was never in danger. Every day his mother found something
to send him. Every day, too, she met Paul's father and heard from
him the details which had for her such intense interest. They would
walk together in the Villa Borghese or the Villa Doria, and the long
afternoons they spent thus seemed to pass with marvellous rapidity.
Slowly the child's tedious convalescence advanced, till the infectious
stage was over. It was a happy day for Mrs. Bernard when she set out
for Frascati to seek rooms there to which she might welcome her husband
and child, and still happier that of their arrival.
Frascati was in the perfection of its summer beauty. The country around
was green with spreading vines and the deeper verdure of magnificent
woods. The greyish hue of the olive-trees contrasted powerfully with
the vivid green of the grass which grew about their roots. Even the
ancient ilexes had a suggestion of youth in the fresh, yellowish shoots
they were putting forth. The brilliant sunshine rendered delightful
the deep shade of the bosky villas, while it brought to perfection the
roses which flourished so luxuriantly in their gardens. It seemed to
Clarice Bernard that she had never seen a more lovely place. Her heart
was so full of joy and thankfulness that the inner sunshine enhanced
the glory of the outer.
She stood on the top of the flight of steps leading down to the railway
station, looking far into the distance, and watching for the snowy
streak which should reveal the approach of the train from Rome. It was
the most lovely hour of the day. The sun's level rays illumined the
vast, broad Campagna, and made the sea-line gleam like silver. But
Paul's mother had only one thought at that moment. The train was late;
but at last it came into view. She ran quickly down the steps, and was
soon clasping her boy to her heart.
Paul looked radiant. Illness had not marred his appearance. It had
given a more delicate bloom to his complexion, and made his eyes look
larger and more earnest. Evidently it had not rendered his tongue less
nimble.
"Oh, mother!" he cried joyously. "Is it not nice that we are all
together again, you and father, and Janet and Beppo?"
"So Beppo is one of the family now," said his mother with a smile.
"Yes, it is indeed nice, Paul; better for me than for you. I have
wanted my little boy so badly."
"And I have wanted you," he said. "But was it not a good thing, mother,
that I ran out that night? If I had not, perhaps father would never
have found me, or I him."
"It made me very unhappy at the time, Paul," said his mother; "but I
think now that everything has turned out for good."
They went slowly up the long flight of steps, looking at the beautiful
plantations, the flowering aloes, the roses, the fountains that
gradually came into view.
"What a lovely place it is!" said Mr. Bernard. "It looks one great
garden."
"It is like the Garden of Eden," said Paul.
His parents looked at each other and smiled. They were so happy that
they seemed indeed to have found a Paradise.
The following was a high day at Frascati, the festival of Corpus
Christi. From the balcony of the house in which they were lodging,
Paul and his parents looked down on the gay scene presented by the
crowded piazza. The whole place seemed astir. Peasants wearing blue
blouses were seated on the steps of the church; other country folk were
arriving on donkeys; women in gay attire with their rich black tresses
gracefully coiled, stood knitting and chatting in groups, brown-frocked
friars moved amid the crowd, and boyish priestlings sped to and fro on
important errands. Paul watched everything with eager eyes, and asked
innumerable questions.
About noon a series of mild explosions announced that the procession
was about to set forth from the old cathedral. First came the acolytes
in their white gowns and pale blue capes with quaint white hoods,
then a troop of boys wearing surplices made of coarse black calico
with white linen bands hanging beneath their chins, giving them a
resemblance to Scottish doctors of divinity. Huge black crosses,
crucifixes, and gorgeous banners were borne aloft as they advanced.
After these stepped some tiny girls dressed as "angelette," in white
frocks veiled with chiffon, from which peeped forth at their shoulders
gilded wings. Then came a group of elderly women, who had donned the
ancient and beautiful costumes of the country-side. These were followed
by a band of young girls in white, wearing their "first communion"
veils. Last of all, the archbishop attended by clergy marched forth
under a canopy, carrying the Host. As it approached, the people in the
piazza fell upon their knees.
"What superstition, what blind materialism it seems!" Mrs. Bernard
whispered in her husband's ear. "John, can you believe that I came near
joining the Roman Catholic Church?"
"No, that I cannot believe," he said.
"Yet it is true," she replied. "I was so weary, so burdened, so
desolate, and they promised me rest and peace. They said that the
confessional would ease my conscience, and the priest absolve me from
my sin."
"But you did not listen to them?" he said.
"Alas, I did!" she said. "I tried to believe their words. It was our
little Paul who kept me from that fatal mistake. His childish words
taught me that God is near and ready to forgive, and that we can come
to Him in sorrow and penitence without the intervention of any human
priest. And now that I have confessed to my God, and know myself
forgiven for my Saviour's sake, I marvel that I was ever fascinated by
this elaborate and materialistic system of religion, which hides the
very truth it professes to set forth."
"Ay, truly," said her husband. "They lift the cross on high and wreathe
it with flowers; they exalt the image of the suffering Christ, yet deny
the power of His cross, and teach men to trust for salvation to human
rites and ceremonies. It is a strange perversity by which they make
the very forms and methods of their worship defeat the main purpose of
worship and separate the soul from God."
"What is that gilt thing he is carrying, and why do the people kneel?"
asked little Paul. "Did Jesus tell them to do that?"
Mrs. Bernard smiled as she laid her hand on her boy's curly head.
"Paul's question points to the mainspring of all true Christian life
and service—the word of Christ," she said. "Truly, one must become as a
little child to enter the kingdom of heaven."
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LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.