AUNT NORINE'S PRAYER-BOOK

New Zealand Tablet, Volume 19, Issue 42, 19 October 1905, Page 23

AUNT NORINE'S PRAYER-BOOK

I. 1 And to my dearly beloved niece and goddaughter, Marian Morton, 1 leave my old prayer-book — '■' St. Vincent's Manual "—that has given me comfort and help in my sorrow for fifty years ; asking that she will sometimes make the Stations of the Cross for my departed soul.' < A faint but irrepressible smile flickered around the grave group of mourners as the dry voice of Lawyer Banning read out these words. Mrs. Marion Morton's faoe flushed slightly, but she gajve no other sign. Aunt Nomine had been cruelly disappointed in her, she knew— disappointed by her mixed marriage, her care-l^s, indifferent life, the irreligious education of her children ; but she had expected no such stinging puiblie rebuke as this. Her old prayerbook"— Autnt JMoirine's oJd prayer-biook — to her, when she had not been within a church for half a dozen years ! Legacies, memorials, beqiiuesls to all the other nieces and nephews ; and to her, who had once been the best belotved of all, only this ! Rut the pride which had always been her bitter strength helped Marian Morton to sit calm and unmoved, save for the rising flush on her cheek, while the final terms of Ihe rich Miss Norine Parker's will were read alouid 1 ta the mourners, listening with ill-concealed eagerness. ' Amd all the residue of my estate, not other wise given ot beiqjkieat'hed, I leave in trust to the pastor of St. Margaret's Church, to be held for the term of ten years, when, with all rentals and interest accruing therefrom, saidi residue shall be used for the erection of an Orphan's Home in St. Margaret's parish.' The words fell like a chill upon the breathless listeners. Parker's Hill, with all its fair outstanding land, to become an Orphan's Home, when at least hve-atud-thirty of Aunt Norine's blood kin had been in a state of hopeful expectancy for the last forty-eight hours !' But there were none to dispute Aunt Norine's will in death, as there had been none to defy it m life , none but the dark-haired woman who had broken passionately away from her hoLd and rule fifteen years ago, and to whom the prayer-book had been left to-<kiv Aunt Norine had been calm and clear-headed to thy last, as everyone knew. Parker's Farm, with its wide, well-tilled acres stretching down to the willow-girdled river, its ' great house ' with its polished floors and glittering windows, its silver and china and linen pi esses attesting to its old mistress' watchful care, bore witness thai Miss Norine's ' faculty ' had ne\er failed Waa not the pantry key under her pillow, the spoons counted by her bedside, her silver hair wrapped carefully in its buckle curl-papers, on the very night she had been found, witth her worn rosary clasped in her withered' frnigprs 1 , placidly slopping her last sleep Yet, though Aunt Norine had prove*! her lawful right ten have her will and way unto the end, gossiping tongues were busy that evfning as the mourners scattered over the sunset hills ; and the prospective Orphans' Homo received scant approval even from the most charitable. 1 It's her own flesh and blood she might have t'bou>gM of first,' said Cousin Ja,ne Parker sharply. ' There's my own Mary Ann drudging away in the Kitchen — she that would be made outright by the few years' schooling a mite of that sane Orphans' Home would have given her ! ' ' And oiur Henry, wijh his weak back and lame leg — it would have been noth'ng more than Christian chanty to give a bit of a lit to him instead of strangers that she will ne>\cr sec, said Mrs. Almua Brown, bitterly. ' Hem ! an Orphans' Home ' ' growled Uncle- Jios'iah G-wynn. l It's easy scei who was at the bottom of that Priest and parson are all alike. Once they get the grip of .a poor dvim fool's pairs e^st rings, blopd and kin may starve on all tiat's left. Norine Parker may have been queer and se in her ways, but she was a kind woman at heart It was a hard blow her dead frarni ft&ve M-a/ri-an M'ortm this 'day, and t j hc priori was behind it sure.' ' I beg your pardon ' said a quick, crisp voice, and little Lawyer Banning, aho was making his brisk wav to the evening train, brok< sharply into the conversation. ' Though it isn't in th> line of business, I really must put in) a. disclaimer her 1 . I can assure you all that Father Morris was as s'tnorant of the terms of the will

aaVany of you. It was drawn, up three years ago, before he became pastor of St., Margaret's ; and he is both surprised and troubled at the responsibility placed upon him.' But while all other tongues were thus boisily discussing the event of the day, one woman was walking homeward without word or sign of the fierce storm raging in her breast. She held her legacy in a reluctant hanld — the old brown prayer-book/with its silver corners, its graven clasp, its toluch seemed to sting her like at serpent's fang. Pride, anger, disappointment, mortification, remorse, swelled: the tempest of passion in her heart., Some' thing in Aiwiit Norlne's manner at their last meeting bald led her to think, to hope, that the past had been forgiven, that the old woman's heart haxl softened to her wandering, wayward child of long ago. The old brown prayer-book seemed a hideous mockery of her hopes and dreams. She felt she hated it— hated it and her, the dea»d woman who had given her this cruel, pitiless public blow. For all knew the sore need in which she stood, despite her defiant strength ; all knew that the man tflie had married against Ann* Norine's will lay crippled and helpless; that tihe gaunt wolf of poverty stood at the door of her home. For a moment she stood at Ihe bend of the river, almost yielding to the angry impulse to fling her legacy into the blue depths beneath. But she could not— it seemed as if she dared not ; even now the old prayerbook was aj holy thing to her. Slve knew its story ; she ha r d heard it from Aunt Norine's lips in those far-off days when she had learned forgotten lessons of faith, hope, and love ai her Knee. The old book had 'been the gift of one whoso early death had changed the world to Aunt Norine ; whose betrouh'al ring had bound her as faithfully as the unspoken marriage vow ; for whom she had made the Way of the Cross daily for fifty years. She could not fling Audit Norine's prayer-book away , but her husband must not see, must not hear of it. It would rouse him into demo-nuac fury, she knew. Hjurrying 'home, she thrust it unto an old bureau drawer, out of sight, out of reach, oiut of memory— as she bitterly resolved — forever. 11. ' Pus-ili me closer to the window, mother, so I can breathe. 'It is so hot, so clo'.se, so crowded here ! All last night I was dreaming of the woods and the fields, and the river. I thought I h<oai.d the plash of the water under the old willows. Oh, how CQjpl and green they loodvdil after these hiu,h brick walls ' ' And the speaker, a ii ail girl of seMMiteen, looked wearily out on the unlo\ely rows of chimneys and ho'iisKoivs blinrung the bla/mg sticUh of the August sky. 1 We will take a day on the boat when you are better, Milly,' answered the mother, whose gaunt, haggard face was sadly changed fiom that of the Marian Morton of oUI r l he last, seven years had been <n sore struggle. Her husband had died, and she had come with Mally amd the little boys to this great factory town for work. But misfortunes had followed In r thick ami fast. The mills had shui down', and JYlilly's health had given way. Nov. the children were running wikl m the court of the crowded tenement house, while up in the close little room uai'd'cr the roof she and Death were making a fight for her 'darling's life. ' AVhcn I'm better ' ' the girl repeated sadly. 'Do son think That I'll e\er be better, mother dear? What did the doctor say last nmht 9 ' Ami she lifted her hollow, wistful eyes to her mother's face. ' That this weather was hard on you, Milly.' ' Yes, and that 1 was lailmu, fast,' the girl continued. ' I board him — the poor doctor is not too careful in Ins speech Thai means lam dying, mother.' ''No, no, no, my Milly ! '—the words came with a hoarse, passionate sob. Don't say that, darling ! 'You are- only wenk and ill and discouraged Don't let Iho doctor's careless words frighten you, dear ' ' I—lI — I can't help ii,' answered the ghl, with a shiver. ' When I think of it, mother— the awful darkness, the blank urlo which I cannot see \' Dying ' What docs dying mean ? Whcie do we go, what do we find ? If I only know— if I only knew ' ' ' Milly, darling, don't talk, don't think like that ! ' pleaded the wretched mother. 'I must, I must ' We nd\ or went to church or Sunday-school, because, I suppose, papa and you didn't agree which was right It has been such hard work to h\c that we ne\cr thought of what it w,is— to die. But now, mother, I'd like to know something, to belic\e something ; to feel there was some One to pity, to care for me, in this strange darkness, where I must go all alone— all alone ! '

1 Milly, Milly, don't ! ' pleaded the mother despairingly. ' You won't mind hearing it now,' continued the sick bjirl. ' Lxwig a-gjb, when I w/ajs a child, I u,setd to 1 steal off to the little chapel at home— St. Margaret's. I knew that father would be angry, he used to say such dreadful things about Catholics , so I never told. It was so beautiful, mother— the lights, the flowers, the mu-ji?, tl:? little boys in their red and white ;i owns, the priest i-. his sinning robes ! Once 1 saw old Aunt Norine kneeling near the altar, and I stole up t o her ; she r"itltti my curly head and made me l-.neel down at, her side. Then she; took me home with hex, and ga\e me chn: ; i^ from the tree that shaded her porch. Oh, what a beautiful porch it was, with the red roses climbing over its white pillars, and the cool breeze blowing up from the river below.' And the speaker sank back among her pillows with a long, wistful sigh r ihe mother set her strong lips together in a hard, thin line. She could have cried o*ut in her pain as Milly spoke. The fold porch, the old home, the beautiful, blessed life that had k\xn hers in the long ajg|o, for which her child was hunger ing, body and soul ' All night long! the memory ■liiilgc.red, rising like the desert mirage before the dying traveller's despairing eyes. All night long, while. Milly tossed restlessly in delirium, raving of flowing waters and Avaving trees, the sword seemed turning in the mother's heart. The lamip touintd low in the close little chamber ; the hoarse cries of drunken revellers came from the street) below. In the strange, dead hour that follows midnight, MUlyi started up, panting and wide-eyed, struggling fox breath. 'I am afraid,' came the piteous, gasping cry — i' lam afraid to gio out in the darkness ! Help me, motherhelp mo— to die ! ' And then, at last, Marian Morton called her little boy from his wretched pallet and Wade him go find a priest. Father Maurice came at once— a white-haired old man, with kind, dim eyes and gentle vioicc 'My child is dying ! ' was the greeting of the haggard woman Who met him at the threshold. 'It is God's just judgment on me I have robbed her of faith, of hope, of heaven. She is dying unbaptiscd ' ' ' May God forgave you, my daughter ' ' was the pitying answer , and Father Maurice stopped to the bod where the dying girl lay struggling in fear ami agony, took her icy; ifoandj tmd whispered words of comfort and hope. / In a little wln'e the waters of regeneration were poured upon Milly's pale bnow , and when the grey dawn trembled in the narrow window, the young smil went forth, spotless in. its baptismal innocence, into the radiance of Eternal Light. 111. Fhe days later a crushed and hum'blod penitent knelt before Father Maurice's altar Penniless, homeless, heart-biro kern Marian Morton bowed at last in sorrow and submission at the feel of her God Her little household goods had bc>en taken ))y her creditors^, her boys were to go lo tiie asylum on the morrow ; Milly lay, her weaiy hands folded on her breast, in a nameless gra\c ; yet for the first time hi long, bitter yeai s her mother's proud, restles-s heart was at peace The ' Stations ' had been the penance fitly imposed by her confessor, and. with A mil Noime's prayerbook — that luad been cast out from the buieau drawer when her furniture was so hi— Marian Murton prepared to make the Way of the Cioss. Th-e tarnished clasp of the old prayei-book was stiff with rufct , but, once unfastened, the pages, .stull stained with Aunt Norine' s tears, fell open at a touch. Pressed close within tihe yellow leaves, as if marking the old lady's favorite devotion, was a folded sheet of paiper ' My beknod niece and irc'dda'if^hter, Marian Morton,' wcr-e t«hto words that started out befoic Mve mourner's tear-dimmed eves , bunging wirh them bitter, remorseful nienvorit'S k>P that summer evening lo,ng ago when the old prayer-bioo'* had been flung aside, unopened, scorned, all its lessons of faith and hope and lo\ c forgot Hen. Wondering, she read on, c\en there at the foot of the altar, bewildered, confused, breathless What did they mean, those cramped line"?, witnessed, attested, signed the week be-fare Aunt Nonne's (L'at'i 7 That by this late deed of cift the old home was hers ; that porch aiml roses, trees ami river, all that her dying child 'had cra\ed, «11 that would liaAe gi\en health and life, had been witlnm her hold, her torn oh these long, cruel velars ; -that all that tho pastor of St. Margaret's held in trust, this yellowimg bit of paper nuaide heir own. And Milly, whoso childlike touch had woftetnod the old woman's lie-art— Mill y had died

parcMmg for cool watprs, pining for the breeze and bloom held in tihe old prayer-hook's rusting clasp. Gasping and panting, the wretched mother started to her feet in remorseful agony. But aisle and pillar seemed to reel around her, and she fell fainting amd senseless, Aunt Norine's- legacy clasped at last in her icy hand.

• A gentle, white-haired woman sits on the rose-wrea-thed porch, and listens to the rippling flow Of the wil-low-girdled river. The shout of her hapipy boys come!! fioni meadow and stream, and the wide halls of Aunt Norine's old home echo with song and music and laughter. Life is still full of duty and love to the mistress of the great house, whose doors are open to the needy, the sorrowful, tihe sinful of every rank and ace a/nid race. & But one spot on Mrs. Morton's wide beautiful grounds is kept sacred from all intrusion. A high trellis oovered by clambering roses guards its approach. Ana far dowm by the river-shore the drooping willows sweep a spotless pedestal, o,n which a sLender marble figure ia poised as if for upward flight. The inscription below reads simply : Milly, Who Died August 4, 18—. Mea Maxima Oulpa. And the low ripple of the river seems always tt> echo the penitent words that are the burdeiv of Marian Morton's prayer by night and day : Mea Culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa !.— ' A\c Maria.' »