ALTHEA'S TRIALS.
Althea's conversion from error to truth, from premeditated crime, though
she was criminal almost unconsciously, to firm amendment, was one of
those miracles in which even Protestantism believes. Such Althea
considered it--a direct interposition of Providence. She recognized,
with peculiar awe, the hand of Almighty God, and became as a little
child, willing to be led whithersoever He would.
It was natural she should turn to the bosom of that Church, before whose
altar she had seen her own soul as in a mirror, and whose anointed
priest seemed to have been chosen of God for her awakening and
instruction.
A few years earlier, she might have had prejudices to overcome; though
slight, for one brought up an Episcopalian. That her uncle lived and
died a good and true Catholic, and that her embittered aunt had embraced
and become greatly attached to the true Church, had insensibly
recommended it to her confidence. At first, she deemed herself unworthy
to enter the fold. She had broken, in thought, one of its stringent
laws. What she had come to regard as but a venial error, now appeared to
her as an unpardonable sin. So unpardonable, indeed, that left to
herself, she might have despaired of forgiveness, and returned to it
cherishingly, seven times worse than before. But this aged Missioner,
wise and experienced, knew well how to guide this untried soul. She was
not the first, by hundreds and thousands, who had knelt to him for
direction. He well understood the malady, and like a skillful physician,
knew what remedies to apply.
In a week, at the close of the Mission, Althea was ready for baptism.
She had her catechism by heart, and was pretty well grounded in
instruction. She had faith which would remove mountains, a confident
hope in Jesus, and a willing heart and hand for Christian action. She
stumbled not over Transubstantiation, nor Confession, nor any of the
Seven Sacraments. She embraced them with a loving heart and a simple
faith, not questioning but they were of God, since they were in His own
Church.
Whispers and winks were on the increase among Protestants. To secure an
election according to his own ideas, Mr. Rush had placed his wife where
she had made her own calling and election sure. This fact was slow in
dawning upon him, but when it had fairly caught his vision, it shone
with the effulgence of the sun. His friends had no pity for him. He had
placed his wife in the fire; what could he expect but that she would be
burned? It did not alter the case that Mrs. Sharp had been also in the
fire, but came out unconsumed. She was made of sterner stuff. Stubble
would burn, but rocks were incombustible.
Althea anticipated a storm; but she braved it, and asked Thornton's
consent to her baptism. She might as well have asked the mountain to
come down and be bathed in the sea. He was fierce as the whirlwind,
unrelenting as death. His words of scorn and anger poured down like a
water-spout, but unlike this element of destruction, his fury became not
spent.
He forbade her attendance at the closing exercises of the Mission, or
any further discourse with the Jesuit. Of this Jesuit, he had jocosely
asserted he was going to take lessons in the art of intrigue. He deemed
the lesson had been given without his seeking, and it was no less
galling from his secret conviction that it was all his own fault.
Had his wife asked his permission to join either of the other sects, he
would have answered her with an indifferent laugh and sneer. _That_
would have been of no consequence. She could have been a Methodist, or a
Universalist, anything but a Catholic! Like a Pagan Diocletian, he would
have gathered all Catholics together, and thrown them to wild beasts.
The coming election had lost for him its interest. It had cost him dear.
Everything might go to Sharp and the dogs; one thing was certain--his
wife should not become a Catholic. He remained steadily at Vine Cottage,
a Cerberus to guard his domain. The Missioner would leave Windsor on the
morrow. Althea wrote him a brief note, which she sent by Mary, asking
him what she should do.
His reply was this verbal message: "Wait--and trust in God!" Mary
delivered this faithfully, and added:
"He said, ma'am, to tell you that he would never forget to pray for you
at every Mass he should say."
"God will hear _his_ prayer," was Althea's thought, and she was
comforted.
The very spirit of evil seemed to have taken possession of Mr. Rush. He
was more and more resolved to have entirely annihilated every trace of
the new faith in his wife. For this purpose he sent far and near, until
he had literally the proverbial "house full of ministers." His wife was
under exhortation first from one, then from another, every hour in the
day.
First the Presbyterian, then the Methodist, the Baptist, even the
Spiritualist expounded and sermonized upon the several beauties of the
Protestant faith. Their principal ammunition, however, was expended in
besieging, battering and anathematizing the Catholic Church.
Every minister had a book for her to read, at home in his library, which
he would bring her, the reading of which would prove convincingly
conclusive. One had Fox, one Hogan, another Kirwan and Maria Monk, and
still another the multitudinous tomes of Julia McNair Wright. As to
Edith O'Gorman--no need to allude to this lately arisen bright
particular star, in whose flood of light, the black sun of Catholicism
was going down. Mary Stuart was not more tortured by Elizabeth's
emissaries, than was Althea by these clever ministers. But the ill-fated
Queen, nursed from childhood in the faith, was not more unwaveringly
firm than was this six-days' neophyte.
With this array of ministers, however, was not her greatest trial. They
might deem her stupid, obstinate, blind, and infatuated, but they were
at least gentlemanly and polite. She could reply to them as she thought
best, without danger of having her head taken off. She was even glad of
their presence as they went and came again, because, while they talked,
her husband was for the most part silent.
And when he demanded that one or other should receive her into his
church, he was in turn offended at them, because they insisted that the
lady's consent was necessary. When the subject was given over, and
everyone had departed finally to his own house, then Althea's true
martyrdom commenced.
"You have become a believer in Purgatory, and your faith shall spring
from actual knowledge; for as long as you live I will make this house to
you a purgatory," declared the enraged husband, furiously. And he kept
his word. But the good God, omnipotent on earth as in heaven, had said:
"Thus far shalt thou go, but no farther."
Althea would have remained quiet and resigned, never mentioning the
subject of her faith, but this Thornton would not permit. He would talk
of it incessantly. To Althea it finally became a fire-brand, which,
constantly waving to and fro before her eyes, threatened to turn her
brain to madness.
She became dangerously ill. A severe fever had set in, to break up which
baffled the physician's skill, when too late he was called. Thornton
had persisted in not believing her sick, and had taken his own time for
calling in Dr. Hardy.
Kitty Brett, finding a girl to take her own place, offered her services,
which were accepted, as personal attendant upon Althea. As the
unfortunate lady grew rapidly worse, Mrs. Moffat was engaged as head
nurse.
This Mrs. Moffat was by many regarded as the salt that saved Windsor.
Windsor would have gone to destruction long ago, physically, but for the
saving help of Mrs. Moffat's hands. True, she was a married woman, and,
like the martyr, was followed by "nine small children, and one at the
breast," but this never prevented her lending a helping hand to any and
every applicant. She could be absent from home a week at a time. The
children could stir up their flour and water, and bake their hard cakes.
They could lie down at night wherever they chanced to give up and fall,
and arise with the morning's sun, ready dressed. Falling down cellar--it
was a trap-door--other people's children would have broken their necks,
but these little Moffats, after turning two or three somersaults,
reached the bottom standing upright. They nursed themselves through
mumps, measles, whooping cough, and all kindred diseases by playing in
the creek; so that Dr. Hardy had serious thoughts of recommending
"creek-playing" as a specific in such cases. They were hearty, hardy
little fellows, all boys but the eldest, and cared nothing more for
their mother's brief visits, after they had had their scramble for the
_bon-bons_ with which she was in the habit of regaling them.
Mrs. Moffat was, indeed, a most valuable attendant upon the sick. Unlike
most people, she was in her element when in a sick-room. She could
accommodate herself to every situation and emergency. If things and
people did not go to suit her she could go to suit them. There was no
grating, no friction where Mrs. Moffat was; her very presence was
_oily_, so to say. She could lift people heavier than herself; there
appeared no limit to her powers of endurance. She could watch night and
day without the least detriment to her nerves. She could taste the most
nauseous potions, and submit to most disgusting odors, nor make the
least wry face about it. If she found a patient not very sick she would
sit down and pour forth a gossipy stream of talk for an hour, when, ten
to one, every ailment would be forgotten. There was a charm in her tone,
word, and manner that affected like magic. Of course, this woman had a
drunken husband--such women always have that affliction. There were
those, even in Windsor, who said they did not blame Mr. Moffat for
taking to drink--if _their_ wives were always from home, and the house
forever topsy-turvey, and the children making pyramids of themselves
like a pile of ants, they should take to drinking too. But nobody could
wait on these very people when sick but Mrs. Moffat.
Althea was sure of the best attention while Mrs. Moffat waited on her;
and this capable person scarcely left her bedside. Kitty Brett was _her_
right hand, as she herself was Althea's. Kitty was kept upon a steady
march, here, there, and everywhere; and she was as willing as was her
superior. She could not do enough for one who had been persecuted for
the faith.
The master of the house kept a steady watch over all. His argus-eye was
ever on the alert lest, despite his vigilance, the Catholic priest
should be smuggled into the house.
Althea was constantly delirious, and it was feared she might die without
having recovered her reason. The crisis approached, and Dr. Hardy
watched her silently for many hours. He had done his utmost, and though
he hoped faintly he feared the worst. Mrs. Moffat's whispered loquacity
was awed into silence. Kitty wept silently at the foot of the bed,
praying fervently as she wept. Thornton had walked to and fro in his
slippers, his long hands crossed upon each other behind his back,
casting out occasionally fierce glances from his cavernous brows. He
came and stood, like a thundercloud, by the Doctor's side.
"Any change?" he whispered.
The doctor shook his head.
"What do you think, any chance?"
The doctor looked at his watch, which he had been holding in his hand.
"Yes, while she breathes there's a chance, I suppose," replied the
doctor, without looking up, but changing uneasily his position.
"Well, I have an awful headache; I will lie down in the next room; if
she is worse, you can call me," and the cloud disappeared.
Althea had been some time sleeping quietly, neither articulating nor
moaning. Dr. Hardy watched her as only doctors watch their patients. It
was more to him than a question of life and death--it was somewhat like
the alchemist, trembling with hope and fear over his costly dissolvents.
At length, Althea's eyes opened, glanced hastily around and closed
again. Dr. Hardy was not surprised. For the last half hour he had been
expecting this, but he had given no sign. When her eyes again opened, he
put some drops to her lips, which she readily swallowed. By-and-bye she
gave a look of thorough consciousness, accompanied with an effort to
speak.
Again, in an hour, she looked earnestly at Dr. Hardy, and moved her
lips. He bent low to listen, and only himself caught her words: "Send
for the priest."
Dr. Hardy frowned. Was this old anxiety going yet to ruin all? Couldn't
she die or live without the priest?
"You are going to get well now," he whispered in reply.
"Send for Father Ryan, for God's sake," she again repeated, so forcibly
that Kitty caught the words.
"I will go for him," she said eagerly, but the doctor interfered.
"No, I will see Mr. Rush;" for the anger of that man and his future
hostility was not a pleasing prospective to the easy-going doctor, ever
ready to propitiate.
Mr. Rush was like a lion, aroused from his sleep, in which he had found
temporary oblivion of a torturing headache.
The doctor's words were not audible in the sick room, but Kitty
distinctly heard the reply of Thornton Rush:
"I tell you I don't care. I don't believe it will make the least
difference. If she has a mind to worry, let her worry; I won't have a
Catholic priest in the house. I'll have the devil first. If she is going
to live, she will live, anyhow. I have never thought she would die yet.
For God's sake, let me alone, and don't waken me again, no matter what
happens."
The doctor returned with lugubrious visage. But Kitty's was radiant.
She was seized with a thought or an inspiration, and she whispered:
"I will take all the blame upon myself; he cannot more than kill me. It
is a good time--he has left orders to be let alone. The priest can come
and go before he knows it," and she darted out without another word.
The doctor and Mrs. Moffat looked smilingly across at each other in the
faint lamp-light, but neither made a movement for Kitty's detention. As
the faithful girl had said, "the priest came and went" before the master
knew anything about it. And Althea, having passed through her earthly
purgatory, and now hovering, as she thought, upon the borders of death,
had been baptized by water into newness of life, and been strengthened
by that heavenly food, which is more and diviner than the bread of
angels.