"THIS IS THE PRIEST ALL SHAVEN AND SHORN."
LITTLE Maida was like a sunbeam in the home of Father Francis. The old
man had quite forgiven Ratcliffe for his former misdemeanours, and for
the concealment of his marriage from his own relatives and friends;
and now, in his loveless, childless old age, Ratcliffe's little one
called forth all the best feelings of his nature. For some time past
his health had been too poor to allow of his undertaking any active
duty in connection with his religion or profession, but having a little
property of his own, he contented himself with such quiet occupations
as his little house and garden afforded, varied sometimes by a visit to
a neighbouring friend, or a drive in his little chaise to some place of
interest within easy distance.
His only servant was a youth, James Cocks by name, whom he had employed
in his service from a child. The boy was a staunch Protestant, nor did
the priest ever try to influence him against the religion in which he
had been brought up; and James, or Jim as he was usually called, repaid
his master's kindness with the most devoted care and attention. A
thorough Jack-of-all-trades, he united in himself the varied capacities
of cook, housemaid, gardener, and coachman, and perhaps a more
unselfish, industrious servant never sang and whistled over his work.
Jim was like other people in the fancy that he took to little Maida,
only that he showed his affection in a practical way, by trying to add
the office of nurse to his numerous avocations.
As for Ratcliffe, the presence of his child brought with it a softening
influence which his wife could not but notice with thankful heart.
Before he and Nancy had left home, the little one's prattle had
sometimes seemed to annoy him, and he had even been impatient with her
occasionally, and brought the frightened tears to her wondering blue
eyes. But he had now been without her for some time, and had learned
to miss and long for the nestling golden head, and the sweet-toned
voice of his little maiden; and perhaps, too, as the disease which was
slowly stealing away his life, marched on with rapid strides, all the
fatherhood in him awoke and clutched instinctively at the treasure
which he must so soon leave.
Nor was this the only change visible in the behaviour of the young man.
The sullen, dogged expression of his face was fast disappearing, and
in its stead had come a sad, yearning, regretful look, which told of
dawning repentance.
Once, when his wife came suddenly into his room, she found the little
old Bible which he had picked up on the dust-heap, lying on the bed.
Ratcliffe had evidently put it down as she entered. Perhaps he was
ashamed as yet to be seen reading it. On another occasion, when she had
taken up the volume, she had asked him whose initials were the letters
E. D., which were written in the fly-leaf, and he had answered, "They
stand for Emily Drinkrow, Nancy dear. That was my mother's name; and,"
he added with a sigh, "she was a real good woman, I believe, and if
she'd only lived, I should have been a better man."
Nancy was too wise to pursue the subject, but she welcomed these few
words as tokens of the change for which she had so earnestly prayed,
and so long waited.
One evening the time had come for Maida to go to bed. It was Sunday,
and Nancy was at church, as she had been unable to go out before that
day. Mrs. Curr undressed the child, and then told her to say her
prayers before going to sleep. But the little one, with the curious
obstinacy that children sometimes show, declined, since her mother was
out, to say them to any one but her father.
"Baby go dadda!" she kept saying in piteous tones, until at last Mrs.
Curr was obliged to take her to Ratcliffe's bedside, and tell him what
the child wanted.
A painful flush dyed his cheeks.
"I never did such a thing in my life as hear a child's prayers," said
he, glancing anxiously up at Mrs. Curr.
"Never mind, sir," replied she; "which you might do worse than begin
now. Chil'en gets nearer heaven with their little prayers than many
of us grown ones; and, if it's the pure in heart a sees God, why, the
babies must needs see Him, for ain't they the purest?"
Ratcliffe was still hesitating, however, when the little one broke into
a wailing cry, and stretched out both her arms to her father, sobbing,
"Baby say p'ay'rs to dadda! Please dadda, take baby."
Such entreaty as this Ratcliffe could not resist. With tears in his
eyes, he motioned to Mrs. Curr to lift the child on to his bed. She did
so, and left the room.
Then Maida knelt, and, with her little hands folded reverently, and her
golden head bent, she prayed—
"Dear Desus, b'ess dadda; and mamma, and mate Maidie dood, and mate
dadda well, and mamma no k'y, and take us all up high wen us is 'eddy,
for Desus died sake, amen."
So the little three-year-old lisped her simple prayer in the hearing of
her guilty, sorrowing father, and as she finished, and flung her soft
arms round his neck, and laid her rosy cheek against his pale face, wet
with tears of shame and remorse, he groaned aloud—
"Oh, my little innocent child, God keep you so, never to be lost,
oh, never, like your poor father! Oh, my child, my child!" And he
strained little Maida to his breast, and covered her brow and hair with
passionate kisses.
As the child raised herself again to a sitting posture, her face had
grown grave and thoughtful beyond her years. She gazed with strangely
penetrating eyes at her father's suffering countenance; then, putting
out her tiny hands and gently stroking his thin cheeks, her lips broke
into a sudden smile, as if the child-spirit had seen a way out of
the darkness which she felt was about her father. She stooped lower,
lower still, till her face was close to that of the sick man; then she
murmured in soft, caressing tones, "Desus loves 'oo, Desus does love
'oo, dadda!"
Ratcliffe started as if a new thought had struck him, then sank into a
deep reverie. He hardly noticed when Mrs. Curr came and took away the
little preacher with her one text. To his inmost heart the words had
been spoken, "Jesus loves you!"
In thought he went back to earlier days, to the time when he was
a pleasure-loving boy, but before he became wicked and wild. He
remembered the sadness that stole over him when he lay down at night,
with no words of endearment sounding in his ears, no mother-kiss upon
his cheek. Ah! If the words had been but spoken then, "Child, Jesus
loves you!"
Then had come the later time; the nights when evil companions began to
tempt him, and he yielded; when the excitements and false pleasures of
the world were smothering all the better feelings of his nature.
"Surely not even God's love can have followed me since then!" said the
stricken man to himself. But, as if in reply, his child's words echoed
again in his heart and memory—
"Desus 'does' love 'oo, dadda!"
At length, unable to bear the strife of his own inner nature, he
started up and seized the little old Bible that lay on the table beside
his bed. He opened it and turned over some of the leaves. In doing
so, he noticed with fresh interest, and a deeper understanding, the
underlined passages which Nancy had remarked on the night when he had
brought home the book.
Parts of texts, the half of a verse—even a single sentence sometimes
bore this mark, and Ratcliffe, with a strange feeling of being brought
nearer to his dead mother by the perusal of her much-loved Bible, read
such words as these in the fresh light that his child's words had shed—
"When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had
compassion." "Now Jesus 'loved' Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus."
"This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved
you." "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us."
"God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us."
He was still engaged in turning over the discoloured leaves, and
reading such passages as we have given, when Father Francis came in.
"Ah, Ratcliffe," said he, "I've come to sit with you a little till
Nancy gets home. Is anything the matter, my boy?" For the old man
noticed the tearstained cheeks, and the trembling hands that laid the
book down.
"No, uncle; I've only been thinking," replied Ratcliffe, with a touch
of his old reticent manner; and the priest asked no more questions. But
he said to Nancy privately, soon after she reached home—
"Have an eye on your husband, my child, for his mind is very full of
something. If he were of my religion, I should recommend him to confess
to me that he might have the comfort of absolution, but I can't do that
now, I suppose."
"No, uncle, you cannot," replied Nan, gravely. "If he wants to confess,
he has a Heavenly Father who is ever ready to hear him, and to grant
him absolution through Christ."
Father Francis sighed.
"So be it then, child, so be it," said he, "but don't break your own
heart meanwhile."
Nancy made no reply, but stole away to her husband's room. He lay in
the sort of stupor which took the place of sleep with him, and he
seemed unconscious of her entrance; but as she bent over him, she heard
him whisper to himself with a half sob—
"Baby said, 'Desus does love 'oo, dadda!'"
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