JULIET.
Ann, having completed her mistress' unusual and oft-resisted toilet,
received with surprise a message to convey to Father Duffy. She glanced
at Mrs. Temple, to discover if she were really in her right mind. Upon
this point she could not satisfy herself, for Juliet had buried her
flushed face in the fresh handkerchief she had just given her, and added
but the words: "go at once!"
Father Duffy, but little past the prime of life, was in the full vigor
of energy and usefulness. A worker himself, he infused others with his
spirit; droneishness wilted under the scorching rays of his perpetual
activity, as weeds wither in the noon-day sun. He had accomplished
wonders in his parish, and many another, less efficient than himself,
might have supposed nothing more was to be done. Not so, thought Father
Duffy. Literally and figuratively hills were to be brought down, and
level places to be made smooth.
By precept, and still more by example, he taught his people to bear
their burdens heroically, their prosperity with humility, their
adversity with pious resignation. He had little patience with
indecision, still less with querulousness and complaints. With those of
his class, he believed that one's "first fruits" should be given unto
God. One's best emotions, fullest love, highest loyalty, precious
treasure. He had no faith in the piety of him, who, living in a costly
dwelling, proposed to worship God in a habitation mean and contemptible;
nor in that of her, who, clad in a thousand-dollar shawl, would drop a
five-cent upon the plate of charity.
He was as quick to perceive, as was his will to act, or his hand to do.
He saw at once through all sham and artifice. He could be almost said to
perceive what was passing through one's mind, so quick was his
discernment, so penetrating his thought. He might have been a Jesuit,
nor fallen a whit behind the most polished and profound of that
marvellous society of men.
Poor Juliet! To have sent for such a man, whose one glance could dissect
her thoroughly! But, let us wait; maybe we shall have no occasion to
repeat the epithet just applied to her name.
Juliet little understood, indeed, was incapable of comprehending the
nature of the man whom she had invoked into her presence. Otherwise, she
would never have sent for him. She had bestowed no particular thought
upon him, anyhow; but he shared involuntarily in that measure of
contempt, which she ever had cherished for Roman Catholics in general.
She was not one bit in awe of him, nor felt less hesitation in
addressing him, than she would have done in speaking to a merchant's
clerk.
"I wish to see you, Mr. Duffy," she said, upon entering the little
parlor, where she had met him the one time previously. The memory of
that day, scarcely ten ago, came over her with such sudden distinctness,
that she sank to the floor, beside the sofa upon which she had been
about to seat herself, and groaned aloud.
"I fear you yield too immoderately to grief," said the priest.
"I can never mourn enough for John Temple," said the widow,
disconsolately.
"Mr. Temple was a worthy man. We have all lost in his death; but we must
not forget that he has gained."
"I forget everything but that I am wretched--the most wretched creature
in existence. I hate equally the light of day and the darkness of night.
I would take my own life, only that I have such a horror of death."
If the priest felt horror at her expressions, he did not evince it; but
he said firmly:
"It is very wrong for you, Mrs. Temple, to speak thus. God does not
afflict His children willingly, nor--"
"I am no child of God," broke in the unhappy woman, hiding her face in
the crimson velvet of the lounge, against which she leaned, for she
still retained her position upon the floor, in utter disregard of
conventionalities.
"Though you may not acknowledge God, He is none the less your Lord and
Master. Your will opposed to His is as smoking flax. He has seen fit
sorely to afflict you, and you are utterly powerless. But, God does
everything in wisdom. He has chastened you for your good, if you will
but make a wise improvement of this dispensation."
"You talk as if you think I am a Christian. But, I tell you I am not,
and never was. I know nothing about God. I have never cared anything
about Him. I have lived without Him, and as though He did not exist.
But, I am left alone now. I have nobody in Heaven or on earth. I am
afraid--as if I were on water, and about to sink, or, as if the heavens
were to fall and crush me."
"Yet God is near you. You have but to stretch forth your hand, and He
will support you. Give Him your heart, and He will be a present help in
time of trouble."
"But, I cannot find Him! And see, you do not tell me truly; for I put
forth my hand, and it falls back wearily. I know--I do not expect to see
God as I see a person; but they tell about Faith that is as good as
sight; if I could only have that!"
"Are you willing to make sacrifices for that faith--what would you do,
what give?" willing to test her sincerity.
"Do! give! I would sit in sackcloth and ashes! Behold me upon the floor:
I would even sink beneath it, I would walk upon coals of fire, tread
upon thorns, seek rest upon a rack of torture! And give? O, have I not
been robbed of my all? I have nothing left to give!" and Juliet's voice
died out in a mournful wail.
"But all this would not bring you to God, unless you yield to Him your
heart."
"I have no heart; it is in the grave with my husband."
"Mrs. Temple, you will never find God while you cherish this spirit of
selfish grief. Submission to His will is your first duty. Were you a
Catholic, I could instruct you. I know not how to conduct a Protestant
to God, unless I lead her in Catholic ways. Are you prepared to be so
led? Or, madam, why did you send for me?"
Juliet hesitated.
"I hardly know," at length, "I wished for somebody who had been dear to
John. He loved you more than all the world beside, except us, of course.
He was so satisfied with his religion; his faith was so clear and full;
he lived such a good life; and he used to say he owed so much to you. I
thought if you could teach me as you had done him, if I could become
good as he was, that I would learn of you, if you would take the
trouble, even though you were a Catholic priest."
"You do not wish then to become a Catholic, really?"
"No; I do not. I wish to find God; or, to have such faith in Him, that I
may believe as if I saw Him. Can you help me to that?"
"I can," replied the priest. "God has appointed me to bring souls to
Him. He has appointed the way also, and I cannot go out of that way. I
warn you, therefore, in the beginning, that while conducting you to the
Heavenly City, I am not seeking to make of you simply a Catholic, but
the convictions of your mind and the fervor of your heart will be of
the very spirit of Catholicity. Are you still willing to persevere?"
"I am. I have no fears of becoming a Catholic. I can judge for myself. I
can never believe in the divinity of Mary; nor in the worship of the
saints and the adoration of their relics; nor in transubstantiation and
miracles, and all those things; but you know what I want--and will you
help me for John's sake?"
"And for your own. But you must have confidence in me. And first, you
must cease to believe that Catholics regard Mary, the Blessed Mother, as
a divine person; second, that they worship saints or their relics, and
many another fallacy under which you labor. You must be willing to read
and study, withdrawing your mind as much as possible from your
bereavement, and giving certain time to the care of your children. In
these matters you must be obedient, or I can promise no good result. Are
you still resolved?"
"It is my last hope," thought Juliet, disheartened for a moment, and she
bowed her head.
"You are sure you can help me," said Juliet, imploringly, as would say
one sick to the physician, in whom were placed all her hopes of life.
"And behold I am with you even to the consummation of the world" passed
through the priest's mind, and he answered, confidently: "Very sure,
Mrs. Temple."
The friends of Juliet marvelled greatly, when it became known to them
that she had sent for the Catholic priest, and was actually seeking to
learn the religion of her late husband. For they looked at the matter in
its true light, and smiled at her simplicity, in believing she could be
instructed in Protestantism by any "Romish priest," how good so ever he
might chance to be. Against her own inclination, but from the advice of
her new friend, she occasionally received her sisters and a few former
acquaintances. They went away commiserating her condition, as being
semi-imbecile, semi-lunatic.
"She will get over this, go in society, and marry again," they
prophesied. They were not the first false prophets who have arisen.
A year later, when Juliet Temple was baptized into the Catholic Church,
these same people said:
"_They_ will get her into a convent, next, where she will awaken to a
sense of her folly." Another false prophecy, for Juliet did not enter a
convent, though she had serious thoughts of doing so. Though she became
not a Sister of Charity, in fact, she did in deed, and atoned in after
years for the frivolousness of her early life, by patient self-denials
and well-directed benevolence.
In the matter of Juliet's conversion, Father Duffy, as in every thing
else, had done his work well. The widow of John Temple was no half-way
Christian. She had put forth her hand in the way directed, and God had
lifted her into the light. With her feet upon the rock of ages, she no
more trembled under the impression of sinking beneath slippery waters.
She was not ashamed to be seen by her former fashionable friends
wending her way to St. Patrick's. When she knelt at the altar to receive
the bread of life, she became not "indignant" that any humble Bridget
knelt by her side; for, dearer to her the most lowly person who now had
received the waters of Baptism than any lady who rode in her carriage.
Through the priest, it was God's work and marvellous unto all eyes.