LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS.
Mr. Rush was privately informed that his rival was to canvass "Stony Creek" precinct on the following day. Accordingly he was up before daylight, drank half a dozen raw eggs, for which he had a particular passion, mounted his horse, and left Windsor behind, before Mr. Sharp had opened his eyes. Before leaving, however, the politician shook his wife by the arm; there was no need, although, for she had not slept, and thus addressed her:
"Althea, I am going to 'Stony Creek' that I may head that fellow. Don't fail to attend the Mission to-day; and do, for goodness' sake, hold your head up, and not fall fast asleep as you did last night. You acted like a mummy. Don't know when I shall be back; you need not look for me. Have you heard what I said? Don't forget now about turning in with the idolaters, look at the old Jesuit, and pretend to hear what he says, if you don't."
Althea breathed a sigh of relief as she found herself thus unexpectedly left alone for the day. She would surely avail herself of the permission, command rather, to go to St. Mary's. She had not slept, nor felt need of sleep; she had never been so wide awake; indeed, it was as if she were just awakened from a life-long slumber.
While still meditating upon her pillow, the six o'clock bell rang; this reminded her that Mass had been appointed for that hour. She would go. She dressed hurriedly, and proceeding to the kitchen, told Mary, who was a Catholic, that she might postpone breakfast, and come with her to Mass. Mary looked up with a pleased surprise and cheerful "Yes ma'am," and was soon in readiness.
Althea understood nothing whatever of the ceremony of the Mass; nor, on this morning, did she seek to understand it. It was not for this purpose she had come to St. Mary's. It was to feel again a sense of that strange nearness to her uncle and her child; to feel again near to Heaven and to God. And, though her conscience had been painfully aroused, though she felt keenly a thousand stings and reproaches, which would probably but be renewed and heightened by this repeated visit, she would not have remained away, not though her dearest wishes could have been realized in an hour.
Althea remained absorbed in deep thought and reflection through the first, second, and third Mass; the quiet intervals were all the same to her. She was heedless of those who came in or who went out, as well as of those who knelt around the confessionals, except now and then to wonder, as she chanced to meet some tearful eye, if the world held another heart so lonely, desolate, hopeless as her own.
Hopeless? She recalled the day when she had beheld the space of blue in the sky—the hole in the day, Pug-on-a-kesheik, thus termed by her Chippewa friends—which she had taken as a token that her love for Hubert was no sin. She recalled the momentary joy that had animated her as she, in imagination, clasped that love to her heart, as a gain for her loss, as a balm for her bitter sorrow. She remembered how she had even dropped upon her knees in thankfulness to heaven for having given her such a comfort in the midst of her grief. Should she have scruples when ministers of God had lifted up holy hands and sanctified such unions? Thus had her first sense of horror been blunted, and blushless become her keen, womanly shame.
Why then, with a sense of the presence of the glorified spirits of her uncle and child, assumed that caressed infatuation, that which she had deemed a higher, nobler love, proportions of gigantic horror? Why had she spat out as gall and wormwood the sweet morsel she had rolled under her tongue? Why, giving up her only joy, trampling down with all her strength and might the one hope of her existence, had she returned to this strange house, wherein she could but beat her breast and cry out "unworthy, unworthy"? Was she the first woman who had mistaken dross for gold; and, finding her error, might not she, like others, fling it aside for the shining ore that lay in her path? Should her hand still grasp the piercing thorn, when the rose bloomed temptingly before her?
Thus listened Althea to human sophistry, until God spoke to her through the lips of the Jesuit priest. And he said, slowly and solemnly, grasping in his right hand the emblem of our religion:
"And unto the married I command, yet not I, but the Lord, let not the wife depart from her husband. But if she separate, let her remain unmarried, or be reconciled to her husband; and let not the husband put away his wife."
Had these words come down from the heavens in tones of thunder they could not have produced upon Althea a more stunning effect. Was she here to recognize the hand of God? Had He inspired this priest to speak upon a subject that was thrilling her with pain, doubt, and fear?
A masterly discourse followed upon the indissolubility of the marriage tie. "Shall it be insisted upon then, do you say," toward the close of his impassioned words, "that a woman shall suffer insult, effects of drunkenness, abuse of all kinds? This is hard, indeed, but there is something worse than that; for a suffering wife to break the law of God, and marry another husband! For, whether is it not better to suffer than to sin? Wherefore came our blessed Lord upon earth, but to save us from the effects of our transgressions? He laid down his life that we might live. He suffered that we might rejoice. But He suffered not the death of the Cross that we might enjoy to the utmost the pleasures of this life. He endured not the bloody sweat, the scourgings, scoffs, revilings, and all the attendancies of betrayal, trial, and crucifixion, that, with impunity, we might set at defiance His divine law, and live in open rebellion to the Christian rule He came to establish. God Almighty help us, if we expect to get to heaven in any other way than by the Cross of Christ! Think of it! The Cross of Christ! Can you associate with those words, so dear, so sublime, to every Catholic heart, aught of this world's ease, or luxury, or happiness? How many thousands saintly souls have flung aside all that the world could offer sweet and beautiful to embrace this hard, this cruel Cross! And meet they no reward? Hard Cross and cruel to eyes not comprehending, because separate from transitory joys, but yielding balm and incense sweeter and more as most closely pressed to the heart. And woman, first at the sepulchre, first in every good word and work, is it not her glory to suffer for the Cross of Christ? How much has she of His spirit, who cannot bear without rising anger one unkind word or provoking act? Who gives taunt for taunt, and blow for blow? Who disregards His express commands, availing herself of the civil law of divorce, which she knows to be at open variance with 'Let not the wife separate from her husband: but if she separate, let her remain unmarried, or else let her be reconciled unto her husband!'
"What is termed in Jurisprudence the common law, falls sometimes heavily in individual cases; but for that reason would we do away with it altogether? The law of the indissoluble tie of marriage does, we admit, fall heavily upon some, yea, many lives; should we, therefore, infer God's dictation to be erring, and practice the human law opposing His own? Supposing in some instances, a life to be made happier, even better; would that compensate for the abolishment of a law upon which rests the general happiness of domestic society—nay, upon which rests society itself? Better that few should suffer than that anarchy prevail. Better that all should understand the marriage bond to be indissoluble but by death, that it may be assumed carefully and solemnly as a life-affair of the utmost moment, and not entered into with thoughtless levity as a bargain that may be broken to-morrow. In a life-journey so intimate, patience, forbearance, meekness, long-suffering are requisite. These are Christian virtues which will render any yoke easy and every burden light. No Christian nation should legalize divorce. No true Christian will avail himself of the law of divorce. In the eye of every Christian man or woman, whosoever is married to him or her that 'has been put away' is one of whom it is said, 'they shall never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.' Be not deceived. Even though those called and calling themselves ministers of God blaspheme Heaven by professing to bless such unhallowed unions, they are of the spirit of darkness, and lead unto moral death.
"Were there but this life, the case would be different. You could live and be merry, because to-morrow you die. It is upon this principle the divorce law has obtained. The world and Christianity are at variance. The one offers you comfort and ease, the other a continual conflict with the flesh and the devil. In the end, the world's votary shall vainly beg for a drop of water to cool the parched tongue; while the Christian warrior, having lain aside buckler and shield, reposes under the green palms of victory and peace in the Kingdom of Infinite Love."
The noble follower of St. Loyola might reasonably find fault with the above, as a citation of his words. But they so glowed and sparkled that they could be caught only in fragments and snatches; imperfect as they are, we trust they convey an idea of what was impressed upon the mind of Althea when the Jesuit closed—"in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost."
Althea was stricken—not blind as was the persecutor of the Christians—but with a steady lightning-flash of light that was intensely distressing. It discovered to her her heart full of sin and shame. It betrayed the slippery sands upon which her feet were treading. It revealed the gulf into which she had been about to plunge. Upon such a flood of light she could not close her eyes. She reflected that Paul had cried, "Lord, what wouldst thou have me to do," and he had been sent to Ananias, the priest, "who would tell him what he was to do." She did not stop to marvel why the Lord had not Himself told him what to do directly, but instinctively did what Paul did, obeyed instructions and sought the priest.
It was now nearly noon. Althea had been sleepless, and had not tasted food since the preceding evening. She looked around for Mary, that she might accompany her to the priest's house, where she rightly supposed the Missioner to have taken up his abode. She saw not Mary, who had gone home before the sermon, supposing that as her mistress had had no breakfast, she must stand in need of dinner. Instead of Mary, Althea beheld Kitty Brett, one of Mary's comrades, whom she had often seen at her house.
Kitty Brett had one of the sunniest faces in the world; and it smiled all over with willingness as Althea made her request. O yes, she would go right over with her, and, if she wished, would introduce her to Father Ryan, the parish priest, whom she would at first be likely to see. Moreover, her mistress had gone to the country with her children, so she had nothing to prevent her remaining during the little time Mrs. Rush might wish to prolong her visit.
Father Ryan evinced no surprise, however much he might have felt, on meeting this unaccustomed visitor. Althea was in a state for no preambles and no delays. She at once inquired if she could be permitted an interview with the Missioner.
The priest hesitated for a moment. Had she been a Catholic, he would have put her off until after the laborer of the morning had been refreshed. Reflecting, he withdrew, and very soon after, invited her into another room, where she found herself alone with the true priest of God.
Oh! Althea, thy mother, who gave thee to God at the first moment of thy existence, and at the last of hers, who had aspirations for the truth which God may have regarded, must have wept tears of joy, and called upon the angels of Heaven to rejoice over her daughter that repented.