The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 21 August 1913, Page 5

The Storyteller

AIUQ-OF-WAR ‘l’ll not hear of it, madam; I’ll not hear of it.’ Professor Weather by brought down an emphatic fist on his desk with a force that made his pile of Greek folios jump. ‘ 1 am surprised, Mrs. Weatherby, that,., knowing my principles as you do, you should have considered the matter for a moment. I’ll not have it, I say—once for all ‘ But, Amos, my dear, things have gone so far now,’ was the gentle but dismayed protest. ‘ The engagement has been announced; Iris is busy with her trousseau. I never dreamed that you would make any objection to this.’ ‘ I do, madam, I do. I’ll not have any Romish priest marrying my daughter under my very roof, madam. I’ll not have it. Devon’s faith or religion, or whatever he calls it, was an objection to me from the first, but I know how such things count with young men in these modern days, and, as he is a fine fellow otherwise, I did not think it worth while to make a stand. But I do make a stand now.’ 1 His uncle, to whom he is much attached, is the priest,’ ventured Mrs. Weatherby. ‘ So much the worse, so much the worse,’ was the irate answer. ‘ I’d be very glad to call the whole matter off. I have tried to bring my daughter up free and untrammelled by any creeds or dogmas or priestcraft. Devon seemed to me rather a clear-headed, clever young chap, and as long as Iris fancied him—’ ‘ She loves him with all her heart, Amos, and I fear—=l fear this may make some trouble.’ It will, Mrs. Weatherby, it will,’ and there was an angry spark in the professor’s eye. ‘ If you attempt to introduce any Romish priest, with his superstitions and mummery, into my house, there will be trouble indeed. I’ll turn him out, madam; turn him out, neck and crop, I warn you.’ And the fierce frown that darkened the speaker’s brow quite appalled his gentle helpmate, accustomed as she was to the eccentric orbit of the professor’s way. It was usually a way as remote and aloof from all domestic disturbance as the path of the Pleiades never before, in all Mrs. Woatherby’s twenty years of married life, had she seen him like this. It was as if the Pierian spring had suddenly burst into a boiling geyser, the calm heights of Parnassus darkened with a tropic storm. For beyond his triweekly lecture in the great college on the hill, where he filled a ‘ chair ’ generally regarded as an ornamental antique in the equipment of an institution thrilling with the live wires of modern progress, the professor lived and moved and had his being in the pagan past. Ancient Greece, its poetry, its art, its philosophy, had been the study of his life. For ten years he had been laboring on a monumental work, 1 The Comparative Philosophies of Ancient Greece,’ which for the last six months had been making its slow serial way through the pages of the University Bulletin, sadly unnoticed amid articles flash-

ing with later-day interests, of aeroplanes and electrical engineering. But recently his pale, classic flame had been reinforced by a kindred ray. Greek had joined Greek—a brilliant and masterful review of his work had appeared in the pages of the Bulletin , and had attracted universal attention. ‘ Thucydides,' as the writer signed himself, did honor to his classic name and fame, yet he wielded a ‘ pen tipped with modern fire. It was brought to bear upon ‘ The Comparative Philosophies of Ancient Greece with a touch that could both scorch and illumine, ‘ Thucydides ’ had not only studied —he had travelled, he had seen, he had delved in mines far beyond the professor’s reach; old libraries and old manuscripts had yielded their treasures to him he had caught a light in the pagan darkness which the author of ‘ The Comparative Philosophies of Ancient Greece ’ had missed, and it shone radiantly from his brilliant pages. It was the Light of the old Greek sages, standing upon their mountain tips, had seen faintly flushing the Eastern sky, the Light that was to renew the Earth. The professor was a loving father. His beautiful Iris was the idol of his home and heart, but Iris and the stormy scene of the morning were altogether forgotten as the old Greek student cut the leaves of the new Bulletin with trembling hands, to find ‘ Thucydides ’ again in brilliant evidence in its pagesto see his own loved work glowing under the reviewer’s pen as it never had glowed to a reader’s eye before. 1 I must know him,’ murmured the professor, his author’s soul stirred to its depths—‘ I must meet him. Such scholarship, such sympathy, such— appreciation of my years of work. And though we don’t agree about Aristotle, he puts his case fairly, and I’d like to argue it out with him at leisure—l’d travel a thousand miles to meet this “Thucydides” face to face.’ And, taking up his pen, the professor indited a letter, which he directed, in ‘ Care of the Editor of the Bulletin ,’ and dispatched it at once. ***** ‘I didn’t think it of you, Jack, I couldn’t.’ Mr. Jack Devon’s priestly uncle and guardian leaned back in his chair and surveyed his nephew with unusual disapproval in his eyes. ‘ After all my care of you, to fall in love with an out-and-out little heathen.’ Oh, no, no, Uncle Hugh, not a heathen!’ protested the young man eagerly. ‘ Rather a beautiful young soul to whom faith has been denied. She will turn to it—she is turning already, like a flower to the sun— ’ ‘ Well, I hope so,’ answered Uncle Hugh, with a doubtful sigh. 1 For your sake as well as hers, I hope so. But I don’t put much trust in Cupid as a missionary, Jack. It’s not in his line. I have no doubt the young lady is most charming, or she would never have won your heart; but she is of heathenish stock that I fear will out-balance all your hojDes for her. The father is as out-and-out a pagan as ever lived before Christ. “Old Zeus” our students used to call him from the omniscient tone of the essays that sometimes reached us on the other side of the water; regular thunderbolts of essays they were —thunderbolts without any lightning in them,’ added Father Hugh, with a' laugh. 1 How does he take to you, Jack?’ ‘Take to me!’ echoed the young man lightly. ‘ Really, I haven’t given the old pater much thought. Of course, I approached him as the conventions demanded, and we had the usual interview, during which he seemed to be looking vaguely beyond me into some Hellenic past. But the mother has taken to me all righta dear little woman who regards the professor as if he were Zeus indeed, a being throned on some far Olympian heights, who must be loved and served without question.’ ‘ Well, I’m glad they have some Christian ideas about marriage, at any rate,’ said the priest dryly; ‘I thought those might be pagan with all the rest.’ 1 Now, don’t, don’t be too hard on us, Uncle Hugh.’ Jack had seated himself on the arm of his uncle’s chair, and stolen a coaxing hand to that gentleman’s broad shoulder.

*Of course, I know that justly, naturally, and professionally you have the right to kick, I mean object, but—lris is an exception to all rules; she is in a class by herself. If you could only see her, once know heras she is— wouldn’t blame me, you couldn’t blame her ’ ‘ Blame her, poor child, no no,’ said the priest gently. ‘ But—but a mixed marriage is a sad business at best, Jack. Bless it as I may, and often must, I always feel that the devil is chuckling somewhere in the background. You may be able to keep his claws out of the bargain; but there’s a big risk, my boy, a big risk.’ ‘ There will be none here,’ said Jack, and there was a , glow of faith and hope and love in the young man’s face that Father Hugh had not the heart to shadow with another doubting word. 11. Beyond the dim room, lined with ponderous tomes, where the professor dwelt with his Greek gods and demigods, Parnassus lost its classic chill and ran into sweet riot of vine-wreathed porch, blooming rose-bower, and wide garden-bed, where all the dear old-time flowers held their own. Here reigned supreme the fair daughter of the house. ‘ Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Queen lily and rose in one,’ Jack Devon’s heart had sung when he met Iris Weatherby at the ‘ College Room ’ one year ago, and the yoke of her sweet sovereignty had been upon him ever since. And she was, indeed, as her lover had said, in a class by herself. In some subtle way the old professor’s mind and thought seemed to have flowered in this one girl, for Iris was of that pure, perfect type of female beauty the Greek artists have immortalised beauty that could even bear the trying test of tears, for it was a hopeless Niobe that sat in the garden rose-bower on this June —her lover, breathless with indignant surprise, at her side. He had just heard of the sudden impasse that blocked the happy course of their love—of the professor’s ultimatum delivered this morning. ‘ I never dreamed he would object, Jack, especially as it was your uncle who would marry us. But, as dear mamma says, we must not expect to understand papa. He is so wise and so deep — far beyond us —’ ‘ Then, we’ll leave him beyond,’ said Jack, resolutely. ‘ The matter is very simple, darling. I’ll just carry you off to Uncle Hugh’s, and marry you in his parlor, ’ ‘Oh, no, Jack, no! I couldn’t. He —he would never forgive us.’ ‘ Well, we could stand that, couldn’t we, darling — together?’ and Jack lifted the' little hand he held to his lips. ‘Yes, yesl mean Jack! Oh, no. It would be so hard, so cruel to poor mamma!' It would shut me out of her life, if papa were angry ; it would break her heart, for I am all she has. And, of course, neither she nor papa can understand how you feel in the matter, why you cannot give way.’ And as the sweet, tearful eyes were lifted to his, Jack felt—as if a faggot and stake were small trials of faith to this. ‘ Iris,’ he said hoarsely, ‘do you ask me —’ ‘No, no!’ she interrupted quickly. ‘I understand, Jack, though they do not. It would be a sacrifice I would not dare to askdare to accept, Jack. It would be asking you to turn traitor to all that you hold true and holy. And I love your loyalty, your •truth; for this very faith I know is a guiding star where I have been taught all is dark, cold, nothingness ’ ‘My darling!—and you will let such atrocious teaching influence you now/ said Jack, ‘ when your soul as well as your heart is crying out for Faith, Hope, Loveall that sweet soul craves? Be brave, dearest, and break away —’ ‘ Oh, no, no,’ she shook her head sadly, but resolutely, ‘we must wait, Jack; we must wait. Perhaps when papa sees that—that my heart—breaking ’

He won’t see it,’ interrupted her lover tempestuously. ‘He is blind and hard as the old pagan gods with whom he lives. When these old Dryasdusts get a crank in their craniums, it’s there for good and all, Iris. There’s no hope for him, I tell you,’ added the young man gloomily; ‘ no hope ’ ‘Oh, don’t say that, Jack/ she faltered; ‘I thought that for those like you, who can see stars in the darkness, that there is always hope and help. I don’t know how, Jack/ she added, simply but can’t you pray ? ‘Pray?’ echoed Jack, looking into the violet eyes Uplifted with childlike truth to his. ‘ You believe there is a God who hears you/ she went on softly ‘ a Father, loving and tender and wise and powerful. Who guides and rules our hearts and lives. Surely He will help us in this trouble you ask Him, Jack. I have never been taught, but you know, Jack, you know how to pray. Try it, dear;* and, though the faith had been a Devon heritage for generations, Jack felt he had never known how priceless was his birthright until he saw Iris turning from her darkness in sweet, trusting appeal to the God she did not know. But, despite all his Faith and Hope and Love, it was a very disconsolate young gentleman that broke into Uncle Hugh’s study late that evening with his story of woe. The story had to wait its turn, for their was a parish feud to be settled amicably between church sweeper and sexton, and the organist was there for full pontifical explanation of the new and old chant, and Mrs. Rafferty was lingering outside the door to say ‘a word for Mickey,’ who was ‘in throuble wid the teacher;’ while plans for the new schoolhouse strewed the big table in the study, and the shabby desk was loaded with pamphlets, papers, and letters—would keep Father Hugh up to midnight at least. ' With all the cares, the sorrows, the burdens of a great parish upon him, perhaps Jack’s troubles did not seem to Uncle Hugh the mighty things they were in the eyes of the young lover. ‘ Well, well,’ he said, when at last his nephew found time and chance to burst out his indignant story; ‘so the old pagan has gone back on us, eh, my boy ? I was afraid you would not find it all plain sailing in such strange seas, Jack. And the pretty little pagan stands by her father. Most natural, I suppose, too.’ There was perceptible relief in Father Hugh’s tone. ‘ Never mind, my boy. It’s a little hard, of course, at first, but it may be a bad business well ended for you, Jack. And there are plenty of other good girls in the world— ’ ‘ But there is only one—one wife in the world for me,’ was the answer, and there was a thrill in the words that went to the good priest’s heart. And then, Jack related at length the story of that last interview, the kind heart softened more and more, until the clear eyes were dimmed with pitying tears for the white lamb that had never known Shepherd or fold. . ‘ Poor child, poor child/ he said; ‘she is an exception, as you say, Jack. This will be no mixed marriage, for she is one of us already in heart and soul.’ And then suddenly a light flashed into his eyes, and he burst into a laugh. ‘ I believe I’ll try it, Jack. I’ll face old Zeus for you, myself.’ ‘You, uncle!’ exclaimed the young man; ‘why, you are the chief . objection the priest that is the difficulty! He swears he won’t have one under his roof. He’ll turn on you— ’ ‘With all his thunderbolts, eh/ laughed Father Hugh, who, leaning back on his chair, was regarding his nephew with twinkling eyes. ‘ Well, it may be a fight, Jack, but I’m something of a Greek myself, and I’ll risk it; for your sake I’ll risk the “tug of war.” We’ll have it out, together, if I live, to-morrow’.’ 111. Father Hugh was as good as his word. Though it was Sodality night and his promised talk on * Vocations ’ would be greatly missed, though the architect was coming to discuss the lecture room of the new

schoolhouse, though, he had a fight on for a band of Italian emigrants that had been corralled by the ‘ Calvin Colonisation Society,’ the busy pastor let all these and a dozen other pressing engagements go by for the nonce, and took the evening train for the Parnassian heights that stood some twenty miles away from the smoke-veiled city in which for the last five years he had found his life-work. He was no stranger in the great university whose splendid range of buildings crowned the hill. His broad, strenuous life had brought him in contact and sometimes in conflict with many of the professors and students engaged in sociological and economic studies in the neighboring city; but he had never met Professor Weatherby, and he was conscious of a certain humorous trepidation as to the coming interview. But Jack, the son of his only brother, was very dear to him, and he felt that he alone, perhaps, could break down the gnarl of prejudice that stood in the path of his boy’s happiness. So, armed with fitting weapons for the ‘ tug of war,’ he approached the pleasant little home- at whose garden gate a slender, white-robed girl was gathering roses. ‘ Miss Weatherby, I presume,’, said the visitor, and as the pale, pure young face, with its shadowy eyes, turned to him, Father Hugh felt he really did not blame Jack for losing his young heart and head. ‘ I am Father Devon,’ he continued. ‘Father Devon!’ The sweet face flushed and then paled again as quickly; the name was evidently a shock, ‘ Perhaps,’ the visitor went on, and the kind eyes twinkled, ‘a pleasanter introduction would be “Jack’s Uncle Hugh.” I have come out to see your father.’ ‘To see papa!’ The violet eyes widened with surprise and dismay. Oh, you can’t, lam sure!’ ‘ Why not,’ asked Father Hugh, composedly. ‘Oh, don’t you know? Has not Jack told you?’ was her breathless question. ‘ All about you, yes,' the visitor answered frankly. ‘ And though I didn’t approve at first, I must confess, I have come round. Jack is very dear to me, and — since there is only one wife in all the world for him, as he says want to see him happy. So I concluded to accept your father’s invitation to come out and ‘Papa’sinvitation!’ stammered Iris, the professor’s thunders as re-echoed by her mother still ringing in her ears; ‘ oh, there must be some mistake— ’ ‘ None at all,’ answered Father Hugh, pleasantly. * I have his letter in my pocket.’ And he drew out an envelope whose crabbed chirography was unmistakable. ‘So just tell him, if you please, lam here—at his request And, with a sudden joyful light breaking in upon her bewilderment, Iris darted off to the study where her father sat, a grim stoic philosopher in the fading sunlight. For it had been a hard day on the professor; the skies of Parnassus had been heavy with gloom, and the old Greek, usually lapped in delicious domestic calm, had found the atmosphere both depressing and irritating. Vainly he strove to lose himself in the pages of the Bulletin; even the brilliant pen of ‘ Thucydides’ seemed to flash with antagonistic light as it pierced the old pagan darkness and stormed the ‘ Comparative Philosophies,’ tottering before the conquering Cross; and the professor returned to his personal grievance with a new rancor. It was all so absurd, so unnecessary; he would never yield to such foolish whims, such unfilial defiance. There was no reason why Iris should not be married by a Mr. Martin, a man of liberal views, in the college chapel. But to have a priesta Romish priest—who was scarcely allowed to thinkmumbling bad Latin here in his very house, marrying his daughter—he would have none of it. And the professor pressed his lips together in an ugly, stubborn line, and, leaning back in his chair, resolutely shut his eyes to the sweet, sad vision of a pale young man, with shadowy eyes, that had been haunting him appealingly all day, for the father’s heart was traitor to his head, struggle as he might.

Calling stoic philosophy to his aid, the professor had just vowed to himself that all the legions of Rome could not stir him from his stand,-when there came a soft flutter through the doorway, and, with a low, glad cry, Iris threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, papa, dearest, sweetest, best papa, how good of you how good of you Oh, I knew that you loved me too well to break my heart. What a wretched, wretched day it has been, for mamma said you would never give in, and —now, oh, my own darling, precious papa ’ —each adjective punctuated by a rapturous kiss—‘ you have made me the happiest girl in all the whole world ’ ‘ Eh—what! What do you mean, child V gasped the bewildered professor. . ‘ Oh, you need not pretend any more/ cooed Iris, with a soft little laugh; ‘ you’ve given up to us, I know, you dear, darling old papa. You sent for him—to talk things over ‘Sent for him !’ exclaimed the professor desperately, ‘Who—wherewhat are you talking about, child?’ ‘Why, Jack’s Uncle Hugh, of course,’ laughed Iris happily, as, all smiles and blushes, she turned to the doorway; ‘ you sent for him, and here he Father Devon, papa— ’ • -- ... ‘Father Devon!’ roared the professor, starting to his feet and staring in bewilderment at the tall, dignified stranger in unmistakable Romish garb who advanced to meet him. Yes/ was the courteous reply, ‘ Father - Hugh Devon, who is most happy to accept the very cordial invitation to visit you sent to me through Dr. Vance, of the Bulletin.’ ‘Eh, what! Then you are “Thucydides” cried the professor, fairly staggering back with the shock. ‘ “Thucydides”—a Romish priest!’ ‘ But none the worse Greek for it, I trust,’ said Father Hugh, with the mellow laugh that had disarmed many a foeman. ‘As you say, we’re kindred spirits, and should be friends. I see you have my last article here,’ glancing at the Bulletin, which had dropped from the professor’s nerveless hand. ‘ I have brought you an old manuscript to which it refers, and which in your letter to-day you expressed a wish to see. I unearthed it in an old monastery on Mount Athos several years ago. The authorship I consider doubtful. I would like your opinion on it;’ and the speaker drew a roll of mouldy parchment from his pocket. It was the final stroke. Old Zeus dropped his thunderbolts and surrendered unconditionally; Five minutes later priest and pagan were bending together over the old Greek manuscript, and Iris flitted back in happy bewilderment to tell her mother that Father Devon held the field, and the ‘ tug of war ’ was over. . ' ***** ‘ Tes, I think I’ve made everything right for you, Jack/ said Father Hugh next day to his astonished nephew. ‘lt required some nerve to brave old Zeus in his own pagan height, but I took the chances for you, and, though I generally conceal the fact, I had a bad attack of cacoethes scribendi in my younger days, and might have been a writer if the mercy of God had not made me a priest. But I suppose there’s a touch of old fever in my blood, for whenever I get in a tight place I reach for my rusty pen. And the church badly needed a painting this summer, so I have been doing heavy reviewing for the monthlies over my old college name. It kept me up into the small hours of the morning, Jack, but it paid. The church is painted and I am to marry you, Jack, in the professor’s parlor with full parental permission, and ‘old Zeus himself is to give away the bride—who, if all signs do not fail, Jack, will soon be as good a little Catholic as I could choose For you. “Thucydides” and his rusty pen settled matters and won the “tug of war!” ’ —Mary T. Waggaman, in the Catholic Columbian.