charmingly proffered.
He could only mutter something about an awful headache; luckily
Violet's attention was drawn for the moment to an acquaintance who
caught her eye, and there was a speedy change of subject. Did he ever
see such execrable taste as that girl's dress? It was positively
hideous! The colors did not suit either the wearer or each other,
etc., etc.
It was a relief when the curtain rose once more. The music and the
action of the piece engrossed the attention of Violet; to Bernard they
were God-sent helps. His mind could range back over the past without
restraint, while outwardly he appeared absorbed in the play.
What torrents of self-reproach swept over him as he retraced the
wanderings of his misspent years--misspent as regarded the service of
his Creator, however prosperous in the eyes of the world! The past
came back like a dream. His innocent childhood, spent under the
vigilant care of a saintly mother; his boyhood, with its keener
joys--all tempered by religion; his school-days, his college
career--both dominated by faith; in minute detail the pictures passed
before his mental vision as he sat there, silent and solitary--heedless
of the throng of pleasure-seekers all around him. The sorrow with
which such recollections filled his heart was caused by the contrast
which after years presented. He could recall his first falling-away
from grace, when the successful attainment of a coveted appointment had
brought with it the necessity of concealing his Catholic upbringing and
convictions. How rapidly had he descended after that turning point had
been passed! Conscience had been stifled until its voice no longer
troubled him. Ambition became his goal, worldly success his God. Far
away in Ireland his mother had died blessing him for his generous
provision for her, ignorant of her darling's downfall. None were now
left for whose opinion he had cared one straw, even should they learn
of his apostasy.
Shrouded as they were in the gloom of the auditorium, his face, kept
resolutely toward the stage, could not be seen by his companion, much
less his eyes, which were wells of misery. In his overwhelming grief
he almost forgot the girl beside him until a whispered remark upon some
beautiful passage in the music recalled her presence. It did but add
fresh stings to his remorse. Could it be possible that he--a son of a
sainted mother, child of a faithful Catholic race--could have
contemplated marriage with a professed atheist? Had he indeed been
planning to take to wife, to make the mother of his possible children,
one who openly flouted the idea of a personal God--he, who had drunk in
at his mother's breast the burning love of the Faith which is the
birthright of every true son of Ireland?
The pain and the shame which filled his heart were well-nigh
unendurable! Oh, if he could but manage to keep his self-control for
an hour or two! If he could but hold out until he was alone; for at
times it seemed as though he must betray himself--there, in that public
assembly--by crying aloud in his anguish, or even by breaking out into
unmanly weeping.
How he got through that miserable evening he never could recall. He
realized by her coldness on the return journey, and by the
demonstrative encouragement shown to Aston, that he had woefully
offended Violet.
Bernard never played his allotted part in the opera; for to every one's
astonishment he threw up his appointment and left the town, bound no
one knew whither. So the course was clear for Cuthbert Aston, and he
lost no time in making good his opportunity. His engagement to Violet
took no one by surprise, when his only possible rival was out of the
way.
It does not need a very vivid imagination to voice the sentiments of
Aston and his _fiancée_ on the subject of Bernard's extraordinary
conduct--as it would appear to them.
"I was always afraid," the successful suitor would doubtless exclaim,
"that Murray would be the fortunate chap; he was so jolly clever--and
good looking, too!"
"Of course," we may imagine the lady responding, "he was all right in
that way--handsome, and well-bred, and all that sort of thing. But
surely affection is the only thing one really values, dear, and you
were always so faithful," etc., etc., etc.
Meanwhile, in the great Trappist monastery beyond the Irish Sea a
Brother Patrick labored and prayed--if so be he might make some
reparation, at least for past unfaithfulness to so bountiful a Lord.
* * * * * *
"You must have been working hard at your prayers, Ted," was Val's
morning salutation to me when I went in to breakfast one day.
"What, am I late?" I asked, glancing at my watch.
"Oh, that's nothing unusual," was the unkind response, "But I was not
thinking of this morning in particular. Don't you remember what I
asked you to pray for?"
"To be sure I do. For a particularly good mistress for the school."
(For we had just had the misfortune to lose one who was next door to
perfection, and wanted to increase in perfection by entering a convent,
and Val had been worrying himself to replace her before the holidays
were over.)
"So you've heard of one? That's good!" I continued.
"Well, not exactly," said Val. "I've heard of a person who is on the
lookout for a place of this kind, and reference seem quite correct,
but----"
"But what? If she is all right, why hesitate? Write at once, my dear
fellow, and snap her up before some one else does!"
Val's eyes twinkled.
"It's not a _she_ at all. That's the difficulty. It's a master who is
applying."
I whistled my astonishment, then shook my head in distrust.
"If he's not a fraud he must be fooling you!" I rejoined irreverently.
"No capable master would come up here."
"Read that before you make a pronouncement," said Val, as he threw a
letter across the table to me.
It proved to be from an old college friend of Val's, and backed up very
warmly the application for our vacant post of a young man who was an
excellent trained teacher, who had tried his vocation as a monk, and
had failed through a breakdown in health. He was in want of an easy
berth in good country air, where he could pick up his strength and fit
himself for entering college to train for the secular priesthood in a
couple of years. No man with sense in his head would think twice about
closing with such a promising candidate; Val wrote back gladly
accepting the young man.
So Bernard Murray came to Ardmuirland, and won all our hearts in no
time.
"That gentleman's got the face of a priest, Mr. Edmund," was Penny's
remark at first sight of him.
"Murray's a treasure!" cried Val in delight. "He'll do wonders with
our bairns, Ted!"
It was a true forecast. The children all took to him at once; the
little lassies loved him; for he had a gentle way with them--like that
of a kindly, grown-up brother; the boys regarded him with more awe, but
were ready to stand up for him against any adversary, as the best
shinty player in the district. He thoroughly transformed our little
choir of children--leading them and accompanying them with taste and
skill.
To Val as well as to myself he grew inexpressibly dear. It became the
regular custom for one or other of us to look in at the schoolhouse of
an evening, to smoke a pipe with the master, or to lure him for a
walk--should the weather be favorable; while on Sunday evenings after
service Murray dined with us as a matter of course. It was in the
intimate fellowship thus engendered that he confided to me his life
story as detailed above.
It was a wrench to all three of us when the parting came, and the dear
boy left us to begin his training for the Foreign Missions--his elected
field of labor; but we could not grudge our sacrifice when we compared
it with the immensity of his.
Bernard is devoting rare talents, ceaseless energy, abundant tenderness
to the winning of souls to God. Difficult and hopeless as his efforts
appear, yet his rare letters breathe patience and cheerful content.
Like every true missionary, he is prodigal of labor, in spite of the
apparent scarcity of the harvest gathered; for like his fellows, he
relies upon those inspired words which promise a plentiful reaping
before the great Harvest-home.
"They went forth on their way and wept: scattering
their seed.
But returning, they shall come with joy: carrying
their sheaves."
XII
PENNY
"While memory watches o'er the sad review
Of joys that faded like the morning dew."
(_Campbell--"Pleasures of Hope"_)
Although Penny's early history is not concerned with Ardmuirland or its
neighborhood, yet her long residence in the district will serve as an
excuse for its introduction here, apart from the fact of its undoubted
interest. Indeed, any account of Ardmuirland which should ignore so
prominent a figure in its social life would fail to give a perfect
picture of the place; yet but for the circumstances of her youthful
career Penny would never have appeared there at all. Her story, as given
here, is pieced together from knowledge gained at various times in
intimate conversation; in such a form it is more likely to meet with the
reader's appreciation than related in her own words.
Lanedon, in the Midlands, was a humble village enough half a century ago.
It lay low, amid gently swelling green hills, and was shaded by luxuriant
woodlands; out of the beaten track it slept in rustic seclusion,
undisturbed by the events of the outside world, its knowledge of such
things being confined to scraps of information which the local newspaper
might cull from more up-to-date journals.
It had but one street--if a single straggling line of dwellings along a
roadside might be so termed; on one side were cottages, each in its
embowering garden, and on the other ran a clear streamlet, which supplied
all the residents with abundance of fresh water. Besides these
habitations in the village proper, there were others, more pretentious,
though simple enough, in the shape of small farms situated in outlying
districts which claimed to belong to Lanedon parish, whose dwellers
worshiped in the little Norman church.
At one end of the village stood the "British Lion" public-house. It was
a quaint old homestead of two stories, with black, oaken interlacing
beams in its wattled walls and mullioned windows, retaining the small
diamond, leaded panes, long ago discarded by more pretentious
contemporaries. Before the door still stood an ancient horse-block,
which had served in its time to mount many a lady of olden days; for the
inn had once been of no little importance when stage-coaches plying
between London and the north, along the old Roman road, daily passed the
end of the lane leading to the village. Many a guest of quality, in
those days, spent a night in the "British Lion."
Opposite the inn door, on the other side of the road, a signboard swung
in a frame upheld by a massive oaken pillar, under the shelter of a
cluster of tall elms; on a marine background, the noble beast that stands
for the type of national courage and strength was depicted rampant, his
fierce claws raised in defiance of all invaders. Under the sign shone
out in golden letters the name, "Stephen Dale."
The other end of the straggling street was closed by the old church with
its squat tower, whose carven doorways and capitals were wont to attract
to the place many a traveler learned in archaeology; for it was a famous
building in its way, and was honorably mentioned in most manuals of
architecture.
The inn and the church had little in common--less, indeed, than an inn
and a church in other villages. Stephen Dale's sole interest in the
sacred building was of a temporal nature; he regarded its attractions
with satisfaction because they served to bring past his door many a
wayfarer who would otherwise never set foot in Lanedon. Such might pass
on their way to the church, but would seldom omit to enter the inn on
their return journey for a few minutes of rest and refreshment. And a
charming place of rest it was! From a stone-paved passage you entered
the "house-place," a large square room, also stone-paved, a step lower
than the passage. Its wide chimney had settled on either side, where one
could sit warm and comfortable--heedless of winter winds--in the glow of
the log-fire burning on the iron "dogs" of the low hearth. In summer its
sanded pavement made it a gratefully cool retreat from the sunshine
outside. Moreover, Stephen Dale's renowned home-brewed ale added to the
attractions of the house.
Neither Stephen nor any of his household ever set foot in the church for
the purposes of worship; for, strange as it may seem, the Dales,
surrounded by English country yokels, whose sole notion of religion lay
in a perfunctory attendance at church once on a Sunday--afternoon for
preference--to listen uncomprehending to the service, and slumber through
the sermon, came of a Catholic stock. Both Stephen and his wife hailed
from Lancashire; they had spent many years in service together in a
Catholic household about fifty miles distant from Lanedon before they had
married and set up housekeeping at the "British Lion." Nor were they so
utterly deprived of the consolations of religion as at first sight might
appear; four miles away were the military barracks of Melliford, and a
Catholic chapel which had been built there--principally on account of the
soldiers--was served every Sunday and holiday from a larger center, and
thither the Dales regularly drove to worship.
Seven children had been born to the worthy couple, but death had snatched
all in turn except the last; this was Penelope (our Penny), who, needless
to say, was the idol of both parents. The result of their devotion was a
rather strict surveillance, to which she was subjected, not only during
childhood's years, but with even greater insistence when she had reached
maidenhood. For it became necessary then to guard their treasure from
any adventurer who might seek to win her in marriage for the sake of the
goodly dowry which every one knew must fall to her lot. Her father would
often remark with no little show of determination: "Penny shall never
throw herself away on any whipper-snapper of a fellow! She'll not be a
pauper, and she can afford to wait a bit till she meets her match!"
It is not to be surprised, therefore, that Penny should hold her pretty
head rather high. No mere plowman would dare to aspire to the hand of a
landlord's only daughter, and no marriageable farmer to whom Penny might
aspire was to be found in the neighborhood. As to the military--Penny
would have scouted the idea of wedding a common soldier, and was sensible
enough to turn a cold shoulder upon the undisguised glances of admiration
of youthful and impressionable officers. Thus it came about that she had
blossomed into a graceful girl of twenty--small in stature, yet not
without good looks--and yet remained heart-whole.
Among their few intimate acquaintances the Dales had a particular
attraction for one of the married sergeants of the barracks and his
wife--both Catholics. Sergeant Pike and his better-half would not
infrequently, especially during the summer months, stroll over to the inn
of an evening--sure of a hearty welcome to a cup of tea and a chat. Pike
had seen service in India, and his adventures would thrill his rustic
audience in the inn, as they listened over pipe and mug to his stirring
narratives. His wife was equally entertaining toward Sarah Dale and her
daughter, in the little glass-partitioned bar in the corner of the
"house-place"; she had been maid to many an officer's lady, and had
traveled as far abroad as her husband. Thus while "the tented field" and
its dangers held enthralled the larger company of men, present fashions
and past adventures--though less exciting than those of the
sergeant--were entertaining enough to the smaller audience in the bar.
Even 'Melia, the maid-servant of tender years, would share in the social
enjoyment, as knitting in hand she stole furtively in from the kitchen
and listened unreproved to the interesting discourse. Sometimes it might
happen that the Pikes had been able to drive over in a borrowed
conveyance on a winter afternoon; in such case a cosy supper in the snug
little bar, after the ordinary company had departed, would take the place
of tea. The Pikes, in their turn, were always hospitably inclined
whenever Stephen Dale, his wife, or daughter, or all of them together,
might look in upon them of a Sunday after Mass.
The acquaintance, thus ripened, was destined to influence Penny's future
beyond any anticipation on the part of either family. It fell out on one
occasion that Mrs. Pike was unable to accompany the sergeant on a visit
to the Dales, and to serve as a companion on the walk he brought with him
a fellow-sergeant, much younger, whom he introduced to the Dales as "my
particular chum--Sergeant Spence." The newcomer was a decidedly
handsome, strapping young soldier, with a merry dark eye, rendered still
more striking by his fair hair and tawny moustache. His skin would have
been fair, too, had it not undergone a process of bronzing under tropical
suns. He could not have been thirty, and looked even younger. He proved
also to be unmarried; a fact playfully made known by his companion.
"Arthur's never met with a missus to suit him since he got his stripes,"
he said laughing, as they sat at supper; "he's like me--a bit particular
in that respect." Spence merely greeted the remark with a quiet smile.
He seemed a silent young fellow, with a manner superior to his
companion's.
Perhaps it was a want of circumspection on the part of Stephen Dale that
he should welcome a stranger, and a soldier, too, as a guest at his
family meal. But it was his favorite axiom that a sergeant might not be
looked down upon "like as if he was a common Tom, Dick, or Harry in the
ranks"; so that his hospitality was to be expected in the present
instance. Had either anxious parent had the slightest fear of the
attractive sergeant's pleasing qualities proving too strong for Penny's
"proper pride," their welcome would have been less genuine; but they were
altogether without suspicion. Yet, as to Penny herself, it must have
been evident from the first that the dark eyes often strayed in her
direction, and that with unmistakable interest, even on so short an
acquaintance.
After that first visit the handsome young sergeant became a frequent
partaker of the hospitality of the "British Lion." He never omitted to
accompany the Pikes, and not seldom walked over on a summer's evening to
smoke a pipe with Stephen and feast his eyes surreptitiously upon
Stephen's attractive daughter. He proved, on acquaintance, to be an
intelligent, well-spoken young fellow, evidently superior to most of his
class; this was owing to the fact that he was a farmer's son, left,
through a combination of circumstances, orphaned and almost destitute,
who had found in the army a welcome means of livelihood.
It was not long before Spence was on as familiar a footing at the
"British Lion" as his fellow-sergeant. It was strange that both Stephen
Dale and his wife were altogether blind to the real reason for his
frequent visits. Penny, on the other hand, had early discerned the state
of the young man's feelings toward her; but instinctively she guarded her
secret from all. Even when Spence had spoken, and had learned her strong
affection for him, she insisted that all knowledge of their mutual
understanding should be kept from her parents until she could gauge their
feelings in the matter. She was not without uneasiness; for it seemed
extremely doubtful whether her father--much as he liked her lover--would
consider him suitable as a son-in-law. For her mother's opinion she felt
no anxiety; since Sarah Dale was thoroughly under her husband's thumb.
Penny's own strong will had come to her from her father alone.
The course of events was much like that of other instances of the kind.
Clandestine letters, less frequent meetings--as opportunity offered--ran
the usual risk; in due time, as might have been expected by any but
ardent lovers, the secret oozed out. Some busybody or other lost no time
in conveying the startling news to Stephen Dale, who had hitherto had no
suspicion of the state of things.
To say that Penny's father was disappointed would be an altogether
inadequate description of his state of mind; he was thoroughly enraged.
Never in her life had his daughter seen him give way to such unrestrained
passion; for never before had his hopes and aspirations been so entirely
thrown over. He had set his heart upon establishing his darling in a
position in life as far above his own as might be possible; now, by her
own initiative, she had paved the way to an evident descent in the social
scale. Not content with choosing one far beneath her, she had even
chosen a Protestant! Yet Stephen had too strong a will to be easily
contravened. He was determined to prevent, at all costs, such a
disaster. His first impulse was to relieve his mind by telling Spence in
no measured language what he thought of his conduct; the latter had
perforce to keep silent, however exaggerated the abuse heaped upon him,
for his conscience told him that he was in fault. Penny was the next to
listen to some very candid truths as to the uprightness of her part in
the proceedings. Then when he had given full play to his indignation,
Stephen began to make plans for the future which might effectually defeat
any attempts on the part of the young people to renew their intimacy.
Spence, of course, was absolutely forbidden to set foot again over the
threshold of the inn. Penny was kept under strict surveillance until her
father was able to carry her off to a sister of his own in distant
Lancashire, who could be depended upon to prevent any communication
between the lovers. The Pikes--poor people--though absolutely innocent
of any complicity, since they knew no more of what was going on than
Stephen himself, were made to share in Spence's interdict. No assurances
of their total ignorance of the affair would avail; the fact that Pike
had been the unfortunate instrument in introducing his comrade to the
Dale family was in itself sufficient to kindle Stephen's wrath against
him. To add to the sergeant's discomfiture, he could not forget that in
his admiration for his "chum" he had been unstinting in his praises; for
he had a genuine affectionate regard for Spence, as a thoroughly upright
young fellow, and a striking contrast to the majority of the Protestants
with whom he was daily brought into contact.
The unhappy Penny, placed under her aunt's vigilant guardianship, was
inconsolable. She languished and drooped, during the first week or two
of her exile, as though her usually firm will had died within her. So
utterly broken did she seem that her aunt began to lose all hope of
rousing her to any interest in life; apparently she was submitting in a
spirit of blank despair to a fate which she regarded as inevitable. But
soon a change came over her. Though still quiet and seemingly docile,
she gained by degrees some vestiges of her old cheerfulness and gaiety.
Her guardian's watchfulness inadvertently relaxed, for it appeared no
longer necessary.
But the unfortunate woman had a sad awakening. One morning the girl went
out alone--ostensibly to Mass; the day wore on, and to her aunt's
consternation no Penny put in an appearance. An explanation arrived next
morning by letter. Penny's lover had contrived to communicate with her
and to arrange a meeting in Liverpool, where they had been married; by
the time the letter arrived at its destination the couple were on the way
to Ireland, whither Spence's regiment had been just transferred.