FRIAR BERTRAND’S CANDLE

New Zealand Tablet, 13 May 1915, Page 7

FRIAR BERTRAND’S CANDLE

Swithiu Corby was not a man of imaginative gifts The things of any other world than his own pleasant material sphere troubled him scarce a whit. In point of fact such thoughts, especially nowadays, but rarely so much as occurred to him. Despite which he was quite a regular attendant at the new services which her Grace the second Tudor queen, had seen fit to enforce upon her liege's conscience. Yet untroubled in this way, he was by no means, therefore, immune altogether from the universal experience of suffering. It is true that of the two greatest —almost the only—misfortune of his life, one had been for years now entirely unfelt and unheeded, while the gnawing of the second had long been appeased by a sacrifice which had drugged it to insensibility, soothed it to rest. And these two misfortunes were intimately connected. Swithin Corby was not a recusant, but ail apostate. He was also (and he knew it) a coward. Physical cowardice had been the misery and the .secret shame of his early life. From childish hours, all the years of boyhood, aye, and of manhood through, until that dark day which it had taken long to forget' tins agony of weakness had tormented and unnerved him. He had striven with it and it had been observed only by the few who knew and loved him best. And they grieved, for they read the signs of the troubled times. Many and grave, though affectionate, had been the warnings of his dead father and mother, and of far-sighted Father Bertrand Shuttleworth, the Dominican, who had been his confessor and friend until the heavy hand of the pursuivant had come between them. For ' Christ's prisoner,' as he smilingly styled himself, never robust at the best, had fallen sick on the long road to London, dying ere he reached it. Yet, despite warning and prayer, all had fallen out as their worst fears had dreaded. Swithin Corby had one day been put to the test that few of ' the household of the faith ' in those times might hope to escape. He had been asked to choose between his faith and the world, between the surrender of the pearl of great price and the surrender of himself to suffering and death. (Not alone the clergy, but the laity also suffered under the Penal Laws. It was felony, punishable with death by the Act of 1585 to harbor,a priest. Rejection of the Royal Supremacy in Henry VIII.'s time, and, in Elizabeth's time, the receiving of absolution, constituted high treason. And, thanks to the Act of 1585, ' the merest trifle was enough to make out that the layman was the priests' entertainer,' and so to multiply martyrs who might win their crowns by the mere lending of a cap or offering of a drink to a priest in the hands of authorities.) And he had chosen. Not in a moment of panic, although, indeed, in terror ! not hastily, but deliberately. He had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. What heart-searchings had harrowed the young squire, so long a frequenter, of the exquisite little Gothic priory church, now a defaced ruin, it was impossible to guess. But he had never given a single outward sign

that he regretted the step he had taken. His parents, ~;as well as. Father . Shuttleworth, were dead before this hour of trial had struck. And Squire Corby, though—or rather because—affectionate after his slow kind, had been glad. . ~:".. " '-."-:;.' r Things had prospered with him. He owned a comfortable farm and a pleasant house. His wife, Mistress Alice, was a notable housekeeper, placid and even tempered as one.of her own dappled cows. They had no family, and Alice, so far as she had any religious notions at all, was fully contented with Sunday's attendance at the parish church. And ;of recent years Swithin Corby, having at length forgotten a certain day that it had irked him painfully to recall, had been a peaceable and happy man. His days and nights went by in unbroken tranquillity : he never thought much of the future, and the past was unremembered. He was very unimaginative. Without conscious self-analysis he was himself aware of the fact. Nevertheless, although he could not classify his present experiences, they remained astounding and thought-provoking. And Swithin did not wish to think. They had taken place now for four successive nights. He never hitherto had been troubled with dreams or fantasies, his slumbers being profound. This he knew, and as he lay awake in the starred blackness of a December morning, he pondered the matter gravely. For four nights running he had dreamed. And the dream was always the same. He was in a vast dark space, windy and filled with a multitude beyond reckoning. It reminded him vaguely of the priory church of other days. In the far distance he gradually made out the luminous outline of a gate or door ajar. It was as though this door gave upon halls of light; now and again it seemed half open. The throng pressed eagerly towards it. All bore candles in their hands, but not all were lighted. Some of those that were lighted flickered fitfully in the breeze ; some would hardly take > light. Here and there he beheld a candle-bearer's taper glow suddenly into perfection, the clear full flame ilium-. inating its owner's garments, proclaiming them, unlike the rest, a dazzling white. Like stars, these souls then soared swiftly upwards to disappear within these far ' gated golds.' And then he always wakened. He knew he was awake, thoroughly aroused. Then there stole such a wind through his sleeping apartment that he thought that the snow, lying white and deep without, was surely covering him also with its fleecy mantle. And now, plain as the hand he held before his face for fear, he saw Father Bertrand Shuttleworth stand there in the old familiar white habit, the black cloak gathered about him with his own peculiar gesture—saw him stand in the chill moonlight by the bedside, an arm's length distant. The face of the friar was sad and stern, and in his right hand he held a candle. It was of great beauty, marvellously white, twisted and patterned of surface, and set in gold and jewelled sconce exquisitely wreathed with tiny roses delicately hued. The first night he had not spoken a word. He had stood there in silence until Swithin, held by that piercing and sorrowfully accusing glance, well-nigh fainted. Then he passed, like a mist. The next night he had shown him the unlighted candle with a gesture of infinite pathos. Swithin saw now that his former Father required a service at his hands. Nor was it long in being made known to him. For on the third night the friar spoke. Hast thou no care for me, son Swithin V he had asked piteously. 'O my son, my son, have I deserved this ingratitude at thy hands Long "years hast thou left me in darknessthou who fearest darkness and loneliness ;of old time. Had but thy hand been stretched forth to light this my candle I had gone free, ah ! long ago. Wilt thou not now have pity on me But -Swithin could not answer for this overwhelming terror at this visitation. He strove to awake Dame Alice, but she lay as though insensible. On the fourth night the entreaty had been renewed. _l ' Son, Swithin, hearken! When I was transported to -London yon time I bore thee day and night

in my heart. Thou were my chiefest thought, my heaviest, care, for all too well I knew thy one great weakness and its-dangers. 'Son Swithin, thou were , ever my dear child, and I offered myself on that journeying unto my Lord as victim for thee, undertaking thy penance shouldst thou fail as I dreaded, that: so I might win thee salvation. And my prayer was" heard. ; There in purgatory for thy sake have I languished weary and alone in darkness to this day. ~ For thee I have waited and suffered silent until now, for otherwise I might have been with God ere this— thou who hast not seen His Face canst never guess at that privation. Yet fain was I to suffer it that thou mightest never know the ultimate extremity of woe—that terrible denial "I know thee not" from God. ' And now, Swithin, 'tis thou and thou alone canst release me. Wilt thou at length do this V Swithin was sobbing. And Dame Alice never movedhardly breathed, it seemed. ' Ah ! how, most dear and holy Father, may such an one as I V Friar Bertrand smiled, and it was like a Dawn in Paradise. 'Thou and none other, dear son,' he replied with affection. 'Lo ! when this my readied candle shineth forth the Bridegroom cometh forth to meet me. 'Tis thy hand must kindle it, and the brand that thou must bring is naught but that of faith. Light once again the torch of truth in thy soul, return to Mother Church, and in that hour I go to God to wait thee with thy parents—l enter then into light and gladness everlasting.' It was now after Christmas, a heavy winter snow and cold, and a fortnight had elapsed since Father Shuttleworth's fourth and last visit. He was evidently awaiting Swithin Corby's action. So much was plain to Swithin Corby himself. He had passed through a variety of emotions, and all painful, during these last three weeks. At first he had endeavored to doubt everything. Finding this impossible, he had pondered the project of repentance, lie had never actually lost the faith and he saw his duty far too plainly to admit of evasions. • But there were difficulties. He knew no priest; no Catholic would trust him, probably. The greatest difficulty, however, lay in that old trouble, the root of the whole, matter. He was afraid, desperately afraid. Reconciliation could only spell loss, suffering, and, almost certainly in his case, death also. It was a grace, a glorious expiationoh, he knew, it, he knew it, he knew it right well ! —yet he feared, suffered terror as he surely never had before. Yet the commonest gratitude and the strongest self-interest required the sacrifice of him; and he knew it to be his only hope of salvation. If he resisted nowand he could so easilythere would be peace again after a time, he knew it truly. Heaven would not ask again. Dreams, all dreams, and men could pay no heed to them—he knew the argument with which he would finally clinch the matter in such a case. Then peace, comfort, respect, his good wife's affection and care—after all, he owed her some consideration also. A quite life—but after He was absent in January for a short time. On his return he found the little town in commotion. There was to be an execution on the morrow. Sick at heart, Swithin asked no more, but set spurs to his gallant grey for home. ' Have you heard the news, Swithin V questioned good Mistress Alice as she sat at meat with him that day, a little after the hour of noon. ' A Papist priest whom they caught red-handed at his Mass some six months ago has been tried, and today word is out that he is to suffer on the morrow—why, Swithin, man, what ails you?' 'Tis nothing, nothing, good Alice,' he returned hastily. ' 'Tis but that I bethink me of a certain and important piece of business which, had slipped my mind - till now.' The die was cast. Swithin Corby's mind was settled at last. Dame Alice marvelled at the unwonted - tenderness of his salutation and embrace, and at the

word * farewell,' as he took leave of her that afternoon, going out to transact his business. ; " J .But if she marvelled, jfar more so did those who, at. the jail, whither the squire bent his steps, heard his request .to confer with Robert Hooper, the prisoner whose high treason in having received orders and exercised his priestly faculties was to be publicly punished on the morrow. Eventually, however, his name standing him in good stead, he was admitted to the priest's presence without much demur. Here, in the large bare room in which the captive had latterly been confined, Squire Corby discovered a number of the local Catholics taking affectionate leave of their Father, availing themselves of his ministrations, and listening with tearful reverence to his last words.. The Father himself, though bearing the traces of suffering, I was composed and cheerful, with a sweet and sincere gaiety of mien. All looked somewhat surprised on seeing the newcomer. But Swithin was master of himself. On his knees at the martyr's, feet, he exclaimed in a loud voice: . 'As by my defection I scandalised many, so by my —which I humbly crave permission to make to holy Mother Church, may I repair before many my grievous wrong. Receive me, a poor penitent, most blessed Father, and you my faithful brethren, pray for your erring but sorrowing neighbor.' And it was once more a son of St. Dominicthe martyr, it transpired, was a friar' who turned the key of the Kingdom of Heaven ' for Swithin Corby. No later was it than that same afternoon (for their intercourse had been spied upon) that the newly reconciled stood at the bar upon his trial also for so high a misdemeanor. The proceedings were short and sharp. ' Since you have such sudden liking for this traitor's company,' cried the magistrate, laughing angrily, ' ye need not part. Go with him, therefore, to the gallows tree upon the morrow.' And Swithin was in more than readiness. Yet that very night the call came. The will stood for the deed with Infinite Mercy. And they found him in the morning, his heart stilled forever, and on his face the sweetest smile that even men or angels had seen there. Well might it be so. He had witnessed a glorious sight. There had entered his small and noisome cell a procession of light-bearers, as though the stars themselves had come from heaven. There were his parents ; ah! there dear Father Bertrand, glad of face and with his lovely candle all alight at last; there was St. Dominic with his torch of silver radiance and with him a glittering host of the Saints of ' the Order of Holy Light.' And every one of all that company carried a shining taper. There was the Rose Queen, Star of the Sea, and Mother of Him Who walked by her, King of glory of the new light,' light enlightening the Gentiles, and the Glory of His people. The soul that had so long abode in darkness was now in everlasting light.— Magnificat.