THE AWAKENING.
After a few weeks, Thornton has something outside his house to engage
him. Election is approaching. Although neither Thornton nor his rival
are in the field as candidates, each has his favorite nominee to
support. The fire that Thornton has kept raging within Vine Cottage is
now transferred to hall, stump and settler's cabin. Sharp is not in the
background. His antagonist hears of him, or crosses his trail here,
there and elsewhere. He is put to his wits' end in checkmating and
circumventing him. He, at length, learns something quite astonishing. He
has returned from an extended trip to the country, supposing Sharp to be
not far in front or rear. To his chagrin he has remained all the while
in town, and been an attendant at the Catholic Mission, being held for
ten days in Windsor.
"That is a game at which two can play, I am thinking," said Thornton,
mentally, grinding his teeth at the thought of the votes Sharp's
presence might secure among such a crowd.
"Althea," he said, excitedly, going over to his house, "that rascally
fellow is robbing me of all the Irish votes. Get your bonnet and come
with me down to St. Mary's. I can drop on my knees and become as good an
idolater as that scoundrel of a Sharp. Who would ever have suspected him
of pursuing that dodge? But he is up to all games. Come, how long does
it take you to put on your bonnet and shawl? They say an old Jesuit is
going to preach; I think when his mission is over, I will take private
lessons of him in the art of intrigue. That is what Sharp is at, I'll be
bound. Never mind your gloves; you can be drawing those on while we are
walking along. You look like a charming little widow in black."
The wife looked up at the husband in blank surprise at so unusual an
epithet as "charming" coming from his lips, and applied to her. But the
truth is, Thornton had done an unusual thing--taken one glass too much,
and he spoke unguardedly. He even drew Althea's little hand within his
own and through his left arm on the way to St. Mary's, instead of
striding on a few paces in advance, as was usual. Just before arriving,
he addressed Althea:
"Now that you have come so far, do the thing up brown. Make your
prettiest courtesy to all the graven images, and particularly to that
idol toward the left corner. It will be no trouble for you to kneel;
that is always in place for a woman. Keep your eyes open and bow low to
every old lady who has a husband, or a son old enough to vote. Don't
hold your kerchief to your nose, even should you be knocked over with
the incense, and when the bell rings bow down double to the floor; ha!
it is a wife can make or break her husband's fortune for time; do you
hear, wife?"
"Yes, I hear," softly replied Althea, more than slightly disgusted.
They entered the church which was already crowded. But Thornton Rush
elbowed his way up the aisle till he stood not far from the altar. A
gentleman politely gave his seat to Althea, but Thornton continued to
stand, a perfect spectacle unto all beholders. He folded his arms and
glanced out savagely. The first eye he met was Sharp's. Yes, there sat
his enemy, snugly ensconced in Mr. McHugh's pew--that same Mr. McHugh
who had told him three days before, that he did not consider Sharp the
honestest man in the world! He had counted on McHugh--and now where was
he?
Protestants who were present were quite as much surprised at seeing Mr.
Rush as were the Catholics. He had never been seen even in a
meeting-house, unless at a lecture, political caucus, or some kindred
rather than religious entertainment. Sharp was a rigid Presbyterian; but
his rival had never thought it worth his while to pretend to imitate him
in that particular. On the contrary, by keeping aloof, he found favor
with the more numerous Methodists, the few Universalists, Baptists,
Spiritualists, etc., which more or less abounded in the rapidly growing
little town. To all these he could be all things. But as to the Catholic
fold, ah, if that sharp wolf, or wolf Sharp, got in there would be
mischief astir. He must leap after, for, to a Catholic, his religion was
more than meat or drink, and he would become naturally a friend to him
who was friendly to his religion.
Althea had but rarely been inside a Catholic church. When a child she
had been more than once to St. Patrick's, with her uncle and cousins,
during a temporary absence of her aunt. She had been partial to the
Episcopal service; but as there was no society of this sect at Windsor,
she had very often followed her husband's example of remaining at home
on Sundays; though sometimes she attended at the different
denominational houses, as inclination urged, or some stranger, man or
woman, preached.
Upon this occasion Althea was peculiarly impressed; not so much by the
blaze of light, the brightness and perfume of flowers, nor by the
commanding attitude of the aged missioner, who stood grasping the
mission cross and about to speak. It was the sudden memory of her uncle,
John Temple, who so loved and practiced this same religion that touched
her soul. He came before her, in all his simple, unpretending honesty
and truth. Never so much, as at this moment, had she appreciated his
worth. She did, indeed, bow her head with reverence before the altar,
not in obedience to her husband's commands, but in tribute to her
uncle's memory. She had named her only child his unforgotten name, and
now the child had joined him in the spirit-world. The two came before
her like phantoms evoked. Were they, indeed, hovering around her in this
sacred place? Such was Althea's impression, and how guilty felt she
before them! Still more lowly bowed her unworthy head, and pressing her
clasped hands to her heart, she cried, "O God, be merciful to me a
sinner!"
There was a hush in the swaying crowd, for the priest was about to
speak. He had stood during several minutes, until even the latest seemed
to have arrived; then, in the general silence of expectation, his voice
sounded clear and full and his words were: "O God, be merciful to me a
sinner!"
Such an unexpected echo of her own unbreathed words startled Althea like
an electric shock. For a moment she raised her head, and her drooping
eyes fell upon the utterer of that broken-hearted prayer. Then upon the
clasped hands fell again the white forehead, nor was it lifted more
until after an hour or two of stirring eloquence the missioner closed
with a repetition of his opening words, "O God, be merciful to me a
sinner!"
It had been to Althea the day, the hour of her visitation from on High.