ST. MARK'S OR ST. PATRICK'S?
A few months later, and Juliet Temple, with her niece and children,
returned from St. Mark's, whither they had been for morning service.
"I declare this is the last time I shall go out to church while this hot
weather continues," exclaimed Juliet, throwing herself upon the parlor
lounge, not having sufficient strength to mount the stairs. "I was a
dunce for going to-day," she continued, having panted awhile for breath,
and fanning herself with a feather fan; "there were but few out; almost
none at all of the fashionables. Let me see: there was Dr. Elfelt's pew
vacant, the Shreves' vacant, the Dunns', and the Quackenboss'; not one
of the Herricks, Messengers, nor Livingstons there; you'll not catch me
there again with only such a common crowd; it is high time Dr. Browne
shut up for the summer, though somebody said he wasn't going to shut up
this summer, there has been such a hue and cry in the papers about this
shutting up of churches; but he might as well, I can warn him, or he
will preach to empty pews; it beats all, and to-day was communion day,
too; I should have thought more would have turned out; but, I declare,
I thought I should smother when I went up to the rails; and, to cap all,
that old Mrs. Godfrey, who weighs at least three hundred, came and knelt
close by me, and just completely crushed all one side of my flounces; I
was provoked and indignant; this, added to the intense heat, was almost
insupportable; but here I am again, thank God. O, Althea, you look so
cool and comfortable; won't you come, please, and fan me a minute--untie
my hat, and take away my gloves and scarf, they are like so many
fire-coals. It is too bad to make a servant of you, dear, but that is
just the way, the girls stay so long at their Mass, as they call it; I
wouldn't have Catholic girls just for this very reason, that they insist
always upon going to Mass, only that I really can trust a good Catholic
girl better than anyone else. If a girl calls herself Catholic, but is
not particular about her religious duties, I am on the watch for her;
but a girl that insists upon going through thick and thin, heat and
cold, such a girl I trust in spite of me. Now, Johnny, bring me a glass
of ice-water, dear. And daughter, if you will just step up to my room
and bring my salts, you will be a darling. Dear me! shall I ever get
cool again? If you will just bring me that sofa pillow, but no, it will
be too hot. I wish I had a nice pillow from my own bed, the linen slips
would be so refreshing."
Althea started to go for one, when her aunt pleased again to change her
mind.
"On the whole, I think now I will be able to go up stairs, and you can
unlace my tight boots, they are just killing my poor feet, and I can
get into my wrapper; yes, that will be nice."
And Juliet started briskly for her chamber. She met her daughter at the
foot of the stairs with the tiny cut-glass bottle.
"You can bring it back; I have concluded to go up myself; and, Johnny,
that is right, my son, bring the waiter up stairs, where, if I am not
completely exhausted first, I will try to get comfortable."
The stream of Juliet's talk ceased not to flow, while her niece, son,
and daughter flew hither and thither, as was dictated by her caprice.
At length, in her snowy wrapper, she half reclined gracefully upon an
equally snowy lounge, which she had ordered drawn to the darkest corner
of the room.
"Now, Johnny and Flora dear, you can go anywhere you please, until the
girls come and lunch is served. Althea will stay and fan me, and perhaps
I can sleep," said this selfish woman, languidly closing her eyes.
She had done talking enough for any one member of a sociable; and
Althea, commendably preserving her patience, devoutly hoped the
poppy-god, of which she had lately been reading in her Virgil, would
shower well the eyelids of her Aunt. Vain hope! The uneasy tongue again
commenced:
"I wonder how your uncle endures it! Every week-day at his counting
house--every Sunday twice at Mass, and then again at Vespers. It is all
of six months now since this very pious fit came over him. And strange
to say, I believe I brought it about myself. I never had given up the
notion of his coming around to be with me a High Churchman. He always
_was_ the most honest soul--the offer of thrones and kingdoms could
never induce him to tell a lie--but as to what he called his religious
duties, he had become very careless; I could easily coax him to stay
from Mass when I did not feel like dressing for St. Mark's, but about
six months ago, I think it was, I undertook to convert him to my way of
thinking, and to make him see how vain and wicked these Romish practices
were, when he astonished me by his earnest defence of them, and ever
since he is a perfect enthusiast; wouldn't stay from Mass if the house
was on fire, and if you would believe it, is actually insisting that the
children shall go with him whenever they don't go with me; next thing
will be to take them with him anyhow, and the idea of having Johnny and
Flora brought up to believe that it is a mortal sin to be absent from
Mass, even when the day is scalding hot, or piping cold! That is
downright tyranny. I would never endure it! It is well I was never
brought up a Catholic; they'd find a rebel in me, sure. All the priests,
and Bishops, and the Pope, and a hundred like him, couldn't oblige me to
go to church, if I was not a mind. And Althea, only think of it, your
uncle, good as he is, every month now goes on his knees to Father Duffy
and confesses his sins! That is too much. Your uncle, Althea, if I do
say it, who am his wife, is the best man in the world--the very best,
and the idea! Why, I believe it is the other way, and this priest, Mr.
Duffy, had better go on _his_ knees to my husband--he would have more to
say, I'll wager. John Temple is sensible upon everything else, but upon
the matter of his religion he has become childish and absurd. I believe
he would give me up and the children too, dearly as he loves them,
rather than his religion. There he is at last," she exclaimed eagerly,
as the hall door opened below, and a man's foot was heard ascending the
stairs.
"O John! I am so glad you have come. You have almost been the death of
me though, you naughty man."
"How so, Juliet?"
"Why, did you not tell me when I objected to going to St. Mark's that if
I did not go and take the children you should take them with you?"
"I did."
"Well, of course, rather than to have them go to that Irish Church, I
made a martyr of myself and went with them to St. Mark's, but it is for
the last time this summer, I can promise you. Why, I have almost died
with the heat."
"It is a very warm day, unusually warm for the season," was the only
response.
"And is that _all_, John, that you have to say? You are _not_ going to
take the children hereafter to church with you, when it is impossible
for me to go with them to St. Mark's?"
"That is what I told you, Juliet. I have thoroughly made up my mind,
and--"
"O, don't tell me you have made up your mind," cried the lady
hysterically, who knew from a twelve years' experience that John
Temple's made-up mind was like an adamantine wall to all her feeble
missiles.
"Juliet," he replied firmly, "I will no longer see our children growing
up without religious training. And this very day I have formed a new
resolution. Johnny and Flora are to go with me every morning to early
Mass. This is a subject which must be no longer neglected;" and here Mr.
Temple, having loosened his necktie, and donned dressing-gown and
slippers, took up the fan that Althea had dropped upon his entrance, and
seated himself by his wife.
Juliet, as usual, betook herself to tears. But tears did not always
drown her tongue; certainly not upon this occasion.
"I don't see how it is possible for a man, generally so kind and good,
to make himself so obstinate and disagreeable. You don't find me so
obstinate; do I not often yield to you, John Temple, I would like to
know?"
"You look upon but one side, Juliet; we are man and wife; our religions
are different. I speak not of yours, I know only my own, and this, my
own religion, binds me to bring up my children in the fear and love of
God. You may, for some reasons, be attached to your religious service,
but the rules of your Church have no binding force upon you. For you it
is no sin to allow your children to attend Mass. Your Church claims to
be a branch of ours, admits ours to be the true Church of Christ, from
which it sprang. In attending Mass with me, your children are still
within the fold of the Church. With me it is different. I believe in
but one Church. All others so-called, however well-intentioned, have not
the banner of Christ, not unto them were given the promises of our
Divine Lord. For me it is a mortal sin to allow my children any longer
to remain in their present state. Johnny should have been already well
instructed, and ready for First Communion and Confirmation."
"O, John! when you know I am so dreadfully opposed to it, how can you
insist upon having the dear children brought up in such a way. It will
ruin their prospects for life. Likely as not Johnny would become a cruel
priest, and our sweet little Flora would be dragged into a convent."
"Don't be a fool, Juliet," said Mr. Temple, losing his patience, "who
talks about dragging people into convents? Not Catholics. Have you not
confidence in me, and will you not believe when I assure you I could not
ask a higher, nobler place for our children than that you so deprecate?
Thus far have I yielded to you in this matter. But, Juliet, who has made
me father and master in this house? Unto God shall I have to render my
account; and though I would spare your feelings, I must still be true to
my conscience."
"As far as the religion itself goes, I don't care so much," responded
Juliet, attempting to dry her eyes with her handkerchief, already
saturated, "but what grieves me to the heart, what I cannot bear nor
tolerate is this association with the low and vulgar," the one idea
still uppermost in the weak woman's mind.
"Juliet, are you never to have thoughts higher than those that pertain
to society and fashion? Do you never think the time is surely coming
when you must give up all these things to which you are attached, when
death must come to you, and a new life, and have you no care as to what
that life shall be?"
The lady shivered and covered up her eyes.
"Why do you talk thus to me? Do you not know that I have a perfect
horror of such things? O, John, the very thought of dying almost
distracts me. _Must_ we all die? How I wish we could live forever, and
never grow old! When we get very old, John, then, if I should be taken
sick, I want you to hold me strong by the hand that death may not take
me."
"But, Juliet, if you should be taken sick before you are old?"
"I have no fear, John, while you are with me, even though I be sick. Do
you not know, have you not learned, that I fear nothing when with you,
and have a good hold of your hand? In a thunder-shower I am so timid
without you, I think every bolt is to strike me; if you are near, but
you must be close, I have no fear. It seems nothing can harm me if you
are by. So, John, while I have you, I have no fear of death."
Mr. Temple had dropped the fan, and Juliet's two little hands were
nestled in his strong, broad palms. He looked with tenderness into the
face upturned so trustfully to his.
"But if I should die, Juliet, and you should not have me?"
Juliet gave a piercing scream and threw herself into her husband's arms.
Was it for the first time such a thought had ever been presented to her
mind? Life without her husband! She could not conceive of it. It seemed
as if he had always been with her; as though he had become so much a
part of herself that she could not live without him. For, though she
wearied and annoyed him, teased, opposed, and vexed him, she loved him
beyond all things, even her children. Beneath all her vanity, folly, and
thoughtlessness throbbed one passion deepest of all, love for her
husband.
"My poor little wife," said John Temple, when he could again speak, "I
am frail and human, but there is One mighty and eternal. I am weak and
erring, but there is One strong and infallible. Put your trust in One
worthier than I; lay your hand in His who shall lead you by the still
waters of peace; in His which shall never fail you, neither in life,
death, nor eternity."