The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 17 September 1908, Page 3

The Storyteller

CLEMENTINE, PENITENT OF THE GOOD " SHEPHERD

- ~How .pathetic!.' exclaimed Rosa Waldegrave. ■ She. had paused in the Church -of St. Wilfrid's, Morne street, to read some obituary cards which were tastened by drawing-pins to a ,board covered with ■ greeri baize.- . . 'Which?' asked her niece, Cicely Archdall.- _ . - Mrs. Waldegrave/pointed silently to a black-bor-dered card which was placed at the bottom of the board. On it, under a Latin cross, were printed the words : - ■ Of your Charity, Pray for the Soul .of . - Clementine, » Aged 18. Penitent of the Good Shepherd. ' ' Not half so pathetic as her story,' Cicely Archdall answered involuntarily. Mrs. Waldegrave turned and looked at her in a mystified way. 'Did you know her?, 'she asked. ' Yes,' said .Cicely simply. 'Then that was why—^-' and the' speaker paused. People who knew Rosa Waldegrave but slightly always pronounced the verdict of < most tiresome ' -on her habit of leaving sentences incomplete. But her ma i te friends were accustomed to it, and found £0 difficulty in following her train of thought. ' Why I took up that work,' Cicely finished for her^now. Yes, Clementine was why.' Mrs. WaJtiegrave leaned forward towards her with one of the pretty foreign gestures acquired during her long residence abroad. -" - 'Tell me some time, Cecil,' she pleaded. ' Thstory, I mean.' ' Why, yes, if you wish it,"' said Cicely,' ' but it's a story one feels better than one can express it, and 1 m not much good at story-telling;' 'Is there anvwhcie else you want to go now? ' - 'rT H( V Bon Marche > Williams', -and then home.' Ihe Catholic Truth. Society .met in Fordhampton that week, and, as Humphrey Archdall was a warm supporter of the Society; the Archdalls' house and" time were alike devoted to the entertainment of lay and clerical guests during the two or three days which followed the visit to St. Wilfrid's. •I'm so 'sorry, Aunt Rosa,' Cicely said one morning, wove simply been able to see nothing of you for the last few days, but you understand how it is, don t ycu? ' — ' 'My dear, don't apologise,' Mrs. Waldegrave answered; 'I've enjoyed myself thoroughly. You t know what it is to feel the rush of life again until you ye been out of England for nearly fifteen years. What are your plans for to-day ? ' ' The Conference ends to-day. There is a recep--V°?t 5 1S - afternoon > and a delegates' dinner at the Adelphi in the evening. Humphrey will be at that of course, but you and I will have a quiet time at home, unless you'd rather do something' else.' ' No. An interval sounds rather alluring, and besides, it will give me an opportunity of hearing that story., I haven't forgotten about it.' . Cicely Archdall smiled.. ' You persistent person !' she said. ' 'Now, Cicely, begin ! ' Mrs. Waldegrave's eyes rested lovingly on her niece. Many people loved to look at Cicely Archdall. . Scarcely above middle height, her slenderness of build, and the extreme distinction oPher carriage, made her look tall when compared with other women. Her . thick brown hair was brushed simply back from her face, and knotted loosely low down on her fair neck. Her' mouth was too wide and her nose too irregular for perfect beauty • her claim to that lay in the sweet eyes, under their

delicately arched brows. Irt color they were of that .changeful gray, which is sometimes violet and sometimes black. They were set wide apart, and had the guileless look of an innocent child. It had been - said that you could look through Cicely Archdall's * eyes into her mind. , Rather, her pure soul looked fearlessly out at the. sin and sorrow of life,- through ' eyes undimmed by selfish desire or sordid motive. It • was that which gave her face the" sunlit look which was - her. peculiar charm. ' " '' - „ • , ' Come, Cicely, ' -Mrs. Waldegrave urged/ * 'I was thinking,' said Cicely. ' I can't tejl a- story - properly. I never could, but as you won't give me any peace, I'd better-begin at the.beginning'in my own way. i . a - , ' The year after you went abroad with, Uncle Rudolf was the year I first met Humphrey. He was a friend" of Ralph's at Lincoln's Inn, and had come down with - him to Beresford for the shooting. I was just home from the Sacre Coeur. I needn't tell you now that we fell in love with each other, and you will already know .that at first' no one except ourselves was very much ■ pleased. ' Humphrey was 'of a good family and a Catholic, but at that time he was only^ moderately well off, and intended to practise in Fordhampton, which all my people regarded as" little short of exile. However, they gave way in the end, and we were married and home from our honeymoon before the following Lent. One thing mother had insisted upon — that Phillipson, • who had been with us so long in every capacity, should follow me into exile.' ' Poor Phillipson ! ' laughed Mrs. Waldegrave ; * I can well imagine how sorry she was for herself, trying to keep up .the, dignity of the, family.' ' Oh, she was,' said Cicely. *By the way, she's married here now and very happy. You must go and w see. her before you leave, she'll be so pleased. We ' didn't live out here then; it was long before the K.C. days. We had an old-fashioned house in Mason street, not far from St. Wilfrid's. I loved that old house and the life there. Besides Phillipson and' a "Tweeny girl," we had a woman once a week to clean. ' Oh, that " woman once a week," what a thorn she was to me ! Either she didn't come, or she broke all our plates and dishes, or she horrified Phillipson by wanting meat on Friday,, or she stole. There was' always something, until at last I had a brilliant idea. I went to our rector, Father. Carr, and asked- him to recommend me some one whom he knew, and he sent Mrs. Cunningham. ' How glad I was ! Angel was quite a baby then, and Phillipson did manage to make it so uncomfortable if her underlings did not suit her. However, everything went "on blissfully for some months, until one morning Mrs. 'Cunningham did not arive. I knew the little street where she Jived and went around during the morning. I knocked at her dooF more than once, but got no answer. Then I looked through the window, and I saw that she was sitting by the fireplace. . "\ ' Fearing she must be ill, I opened the door and "went in. • ' The fire had either not been lighted or had gone out, but she didn't seem to notice. Her face looked drawn and gray, and her poor hands were trembling. '"Are you ill, Mrs. Cunningham?' I asked. ' She looked at me dully, as though she scarcely understood, but she answered me at once. • ' " No, 'm," she said, "I'm not ill, but I'm in sore trouble; my Clementine's gone and left me." ' I knew Clementine quite .well. I had often given her old blouses, and ties, and little things of - that * kind. ' L • ' ' Aunt Rosa, she was just the loveliest child. How Mrs. Cunningham came to be her mother, I never could think. ' . 1 She was tall and angular and bony, with no outward attractiveness of any kind, but Clementine was like a lovely flower. She had the bluest eyes, gentian blue, you know, and a delicate complexion and features ""* and hair like spun, floss silk. Her mother, just adored

her. -. Her husband had been lost at sea when Clementine was a month old, and ever since she had toiled and worked her fingers to the bone to tiring her child . up to something ' different to that which she herself had*known. ♦•--'. , - Clementine wa7s.._what is known as. an "improver " *to the millinery, nofrat one- of the good' shops, but at. a third-rate House, in one -of , the third-rate streets.- ■ - ■„'•-■ v«' „ • ' " Left you- !"-! exclaimed, when she told' me, not in the least realising -what she meant, "has she got work .out of"town*gt" " >'~ . - ' ~ „ .'Mrs. Cunningham fumbled in her dress-pocket, and drew out .a letter written on cheap, highly-scented paper^ with a large sprawling C in gold on the v envelope. ' I read the letter, written in a childish hand ': \ '"Dear mother,'.' it said, "I write these few lines, hoping. they ; will find/you well as they leave me at present. Dear mother, lam going to be a lady, - and don't you take cm about it, for I'm very happy. ;He quite a gentleman, and has bought me a gold watch. I will write to you again when we have ' settled, so no more at present, from ' Your loving daughter, / ' Clementine. ' " Where has she gone to?" I asked. ' ; ' 1 " Is it where's she gone?" said Mrs. Cunningham, " the black-hearted devil that stole her knows, an' the God that made her. ' " Is it myself would be sitting here, ff I'd knew where she'd gone, the poor child? God help her. ' ' ' When I got her letter I ' went round to her companion, Carrie Webster. She's a bold hussy, that taught my girl all the wrong she knew, but I couldn't keep her off her. And I says, " Where's my Clementine?" I says. And is it me you're asking about Clementine, ■ Mrs. Cunningham?" she says. "I wasn't" supposed \o be fit to speak to her ladyship a" while ago," she says, " but I'd have you know, Mrs. Cunningham, that I'm a respectable girl, and don't consort with girls of your Clementine's stamp," she says, '"nor yet with her gentlemen friends," and with that she' lets out a laugh. God forgive me r l could have kilt her when I heard it, but I says no more to her, and I come home. ' Speaking to some one unsealed her sorrow, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.- I lighted the fire and made her some tea, and then I went round with -her to Father Carr. " " ' We searched for Clementine, but of course to no purpose. No. one seemed to know with' whom she, had gone, and if Carrie Webster guessed, 'she -did not divulge it. " 'One other.. message her mother had from her, a postal card from Dieppe. On this she said they -were, on their way to Paris, then silence swallowed her up, and Mrs. Cunnjngham settled down to the tragedy of her life. - • ' Aunt Rosa, I wish I could make you understand all the pathos of it. That was what I meant wlren I said was a story one could not put into words. ' That poor woman was just a. revelation to rie of what a mother's love could be. ' She kept on .her little house, for she lived in— the hope that one day Clementine would return. * "An'- what would she do, the poor child, if shefound, me gone?" ,she said to -me one day, when i had urged her to .move into a single room, which would have sufficed for her needs. After that I said no more to her. ' v - , ' Every morning she went to Mass to pray for Clementine's salvation. Each time she frequented the Sacraments they were offered for this intention. ' All day she toiled for her daily bread, every night she went out to search for the child. : 'It was the most pitiful thing. Late "into the night, often far into the morning, she went fearlessly into unspeakable dens in the city to sear,ch for Clementine. " * - ' She-even got some photographs of herself taken. Oh I Aunt Rose, how I cried when she shpwed me the

poor, cheap pictures, and told me why she had done it, why she gave away to the ~Magdalens she knew !^ It was all in the hope that one day Clemen-, tine might come across her mother's picture, and meeting it unawares in such a.place, realise that unchanging . love called to her to return. 'And so"" among the poor, girls with whom she went in and out, "Clementine's mother" became a sacred care. " No one of them was so lost as to utter a ribald jest at her expense, none so hardened as to mock at her love. , * More than once she came across one who, wearied of sin and loathing the hateful bondage of 'her life, longed to escape, but knew "not the way. ' Any such one Mrs. Cunningham would take home to Clementine's room, which was ever ready, arf9 in the morning 1 would bring her round to me. It was here my share in the work first began. I was the intermediary between Mrs. Cunningham and the Sisters of the Good Shepherd at Marshlands ,who received these lost ones, and gave them a fresh start. , . ' I never could tell you how good Humphrey had been about it all these years. How he has helped us over and over again with money or advice, never once opposing my taking a personal part in the work, as so many might have done. I have loved him for it so ! How thankful lam to God that my children have such a father ! ' Two years passed, and still we heard. nothing of Clementine ; then one day I had a letter, from the Rev. Mother at Marshlands, telling me, that she had been brought to them the day before, and asking me to bring her mother. Later we learned that she Had been deserted in Paris by the man who had betrayed her, her baby had died, and she, ill and heart-broken, had spent the last money she had in returning to London. Then, friendless, fallen, starving, there seemedto her left but the dreadful resource of the streets. ' Then one night she got ill, with an attack '>f hemorrhage from the lungs, and, in a place where she seemed beyond hope, God raised up the friend who brought her home. It was a girl named Dora, whose own home had once been Fordhampton. Lostrand abandoned as she was herself, she" still had pity in her heart for this miserable child. She nursed her as far as she was able, and then finding where she came f rom and seeing how ill she was, she had brought her down herself to Marshlands, and given her over to the Sisters' care until her mother could be found. ' No persuasion could induce Dora herself to stay. " It's too late for me," she said, " but save her." 4 We have often prayed that that Act of Charity she gave so freely may avail for her owjq healing, before her life is done. ' Alas ! in one way it was too late for Clementine, for it was evident to all from the very first that she was dying.. -.-,', ' Gentle and patient* in her suffering, grateful for all that was done for her, she lay in her little bed, looking like a flower that has been broken in some wild^ storm. All her fatal beauty had gone. * Her mother made no sign, even when she knew that Clementine could never return home to her as" she had hoped. ' With the intrepid courage that nothing seemed able to daunt, she accepted the will of God, and as she had prayed before for Clementine's return, so now she . asked for the grace of a good death. J June was intensely hot and dry that year, and day. by day we could see her strength failing." ' It was the eve of the Visitation when I heard that she had received the last' Sacraments, and 'was not "expected to live through the night. ' The children Avere -at Beresford, and" Humphrey , away on Circuit, so that I was able without delays to go for Mrs. Cunningham and take her over to Marshlands. - . - . ' I don't know if you have noticed how,- in 'any stress "of feeling, the poor so seldom say anything.- ' Any great crisis in their lives is borne in a silence that seems to me more pathetic than any words. * And all that .night, this mother, whose .whole life

-was bound up in her dying child, uttered no word. She isat there silently watching- and praying. From time to time she wiped the moisture from Clementine's forehead, or straightened' the coverlet, at which she feebly plucked.- It was. the. first time I had ever sat up all night with anyone, Und the hours passed very slowly to me; but at length the morning of the feast dawned. ' , _'_ Clementine sstill slept} but even I could see that a subtle change had passed over her. 4 She^ did rrot move or speak until, oh the arrival of the priest, the convent bell rang for the 6 o'clock Mass. At .the sound, she opened her eyes. . ' " Six o'clock, ain't it, mother?" said she. ''"Ay," said Mrs. Cunningham; " they're wonderful punctual here." 'It was such a lovely morning. The window was open, and in the convent garden the birds were singing gaily, the dew lay heavily on the yet unopened flowers, and glittered on every leaf and, twig. 4 It. was very So still that -as* we knelt we could hear the murmur of .the priest's voice at the altar, " and— more distinctly— the silvery chiming of the" bell as it rang to announce the Elevation. -— . ' Then — as_if in answer to some call — Clementine sat up. ' She looked beyond her mother to the glory of the morning sky. ' A£ the Vision, withholden from us, upon which she gazed^ a look, so poignant in its joy. and wonder as .to strike sharp, pain to one's heart, dawned on her wasted face. '"I've come Home,- Mother, she said. -' Tenderly, as one lays down a -sleeping; child to .rest, Mrs. Cunningham laid the dead girl back upon the pillow. Then at last she spoke : *" Blessed be God !" -. Ye're safe now, me poor lamb," she "said, " Blessed be His Holy Name !" ' ft was long before the silence in the room was broken, and Rosa 3Valdegrave's eyes were full of tears when she turned to Cicely again. . " - ' Oh, Cicely,' "she said, * and there are so many Clementines in the world !' * * ' And so few to find them,' Cicely answered. - 'So few, perhaps, that are absolutely free to go,' Mrs. Waldegrave continued. ' But God has made my life empty. I have tried to fill it for myself and . failed.- If: this js His purpose for me, how can I turn away?' - , ' I said :. 'But the skies are black,' There is nothing but noise and din.' But He wept as He sent -me" back, 'There is more,' He said ;• ' there is sin.-* I said : ' But the air is thick, And fogs are veiling the sun. ' He answered : ' Yet souls are sick, • And souls, in the dark undone/ Cicely quoted softly. . - - And once more her lips uttered the Divine Praises ~ 'Blessed be God!' 'Blessed be His Holy Name!' ■ " x -^English Messenger.