A Complete Story

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 5, 4 February 1925, Page 11

A Complete Story

(“You will change your mind, Margaret.” “No, I am afraid not. It would be unfair for ns to marry, unfair to yon especially. You are a good Catholic. I can claim to he a Catholic no longer. I am sorry to say that I have lost my faith.” “Surely, you are mistaken.” “No, John, it is just as I have told yon. I should have told you before, but it is only now that I have come to see my position clearly.” The young woman, just speaking, was Margaret Austin, full of womanly grace and dignity, the talented daughter of a well-to-do business man. Her companion and suitor, John Desmond, was of her own age. He was manly in appearance, of an athletic type, and, though only a year out of college, was already making a name for himself in the mercantile world. The two were walking through the rustic Fenway, whose winding walks were enticing in their borders of contrasting verdure. The picturesque park abounded in delightful scenes and its restful coolness made a pleasant retreat after a sultry day downtown. Their conversation had not been long. Margaret, with accustomed directness, had asked John Desmond that she be released from a tacit agreement to marriage. She had told him the reason for her request, now that she was certain of her lack of religious Desmond was taken aback and hardly r belief. what to say or think. aback and hardly Knew what to say or think. At first it had occurred to him to jest, but Margaret’s seriousness shortly impressed him. Then he had argued. She was firm. llis dream castles for the future, so long ahnilding, were tottering. They were walking along in silence now, while John sought some thought—anything that would banish the oppressing constraint. Slowly, there crept over him the fearful conviction that what Margaret had said might be true. Still he found it difficult to reconcile a loss of faith with the one he loved. A hundred thoughts crowded through his mind, only to be rejected in turn. He prayed, hoped, and almost despaired in quick succession, and something of this interior conflict must have shown itself, for Margaret broke the silence. “It hurts me to see you suffer so. But I had to tell you the truth and this time the truth is difficult to accept. When I went to college,” she continued, “I was a militant Catholic; I defended the Church before students and even members of the faculty. But I was not prepared sufficiently for that sort of thing. After mother’s death, you know, I had to instruct myself. My first error was in trusting in my own ability and. not in prayer. I think that was my first mistake, -«**<now that I look back. “They used clever arguments that I could ' uot answer; and so many of them! T tried to reason out these difficulties and failed. As a result there came doubts and I weakened ; then came weariness and apathy.

Faith and Science

“Such was the condition of my mind a year ago, when I returned home from college. This past year, I have spent a good deal of time in reading books on scientific subjects, written by unbelievers, atheists, you would call them. I read them wilfully and my faith has slipped away. I have lost it and —yon.” “Yon. have not lost me, Margaret,” he said impulsively. “There can be no other way,” was her reply. “You are deceived by a passing notion.” “T would that it were. No. it is real enough. I am an unbeliever,” she pronounced the word slowly as if afraid of the sinister sound. With a pathetic little turn of her mouth she went on: “That name sounds odd applied to me. But I am afraid that it fits.” Then with a perceptible shrug and a forced change of mood, she tried to say gayly: “"Let our last walk be a happy one. We shall try to make it like the others which we have enjoyed together.” It was a striking scene that, lay before them, one deserving to waken the noblest sentiments. All about was a wealth of verdant shrubs and leafy trees, flanked by neat gravel walks that wound in and out with delightful abandon. There were sunexpected vistas of green lawn and rush-lined river bank, quaint bridges spanning the little stream and handsome buildings in the distance, half hidden by dense, clustering leafage. Walking along, they met few passersby. There was only a sprinkling of people in the parkway and an infrequent rider cantered past on the nearby bridle path. In the hope that he might help IJargarct by a show of courage, which he did not feel, John assented to the sugegstion that their last walk be like the others of the dear past. But first, by a final attempt, he tried to save the critical situation. “Tell me, what are your difficulties, Margaret? I am sure that they can be answered.” “There are too many,” she sighed. “All my science courses at school attacked religion, indirectly at least; some of them were openly hostile. Even in English literature »such attacks revealed themselves. And so, I have been fairly steeped in them.” She turned towards him. ■ , “You went to a Catholic college anyway, and studied only one side of these disputed questions. How can you hope to help me?” “By answering them one by one,” ho replied. “At Boston College we went even further than you did at your fashionable college. We studied both sides. You admit that you had but one phase presented to you, and that largely by false teaching. Look at the men the Church has given to science. The greatest names are Catholic or at least professedly Christian. Your pagans are nob only prejudiced hut superficial and absolutely illogical in their reasoning.”

“Perhaps that is so,” she rejoined. “But your efforts are now too late. Discussion alone about science cannot bring back my faith. That is how I lost it.” “But remember that it was the wrong kind of discussion. As for faith, I realise that it does not depend upon intellectual assent only. It is God’s gift,” John said gravely. “However, prayer will secure it for you.” “Prayer means nothing to me now,” she said wistfully. “ I cannot pray. I have tried; but it seems hollow and empty. How can I repeat a prayer when I cannot believe in its efficacy? Oh, John! Listen to that scream !” She clutched his arm with convulsive grasp and pointed ahead to an opening in the hedge of the bridle path. There was an oncoming clatter of hoofs; again, the piercing shriek of a terrified rider; an agonised face. John burst through the hedge and regardless of danger, leaped and caught at the bridle. He was swept aside in a cloud of dust into the darkness ,of the thicket. Margaret reached the spot whore the group had been lost from sight. Through the parted boughs she saw, in the dimmed evening light, John stretched upon the ground, motionless and white. The horse and its rider had disappeared. The scene, so sudden and frightful, left her dazed. What should she do? Her first impulse was to seek aid. Instinctively, she turned and called with hysteric cries. Two people, now near, a man and a woman, were running toward her. Site saw them approach, lost her strength and reeled into the woman’s arms.

The brightest of the sun’s bright rays streamed- in through an open window, shone on a polished floor, gleamed and played upon a bare, tinted wall. A vase of dark-eyed, golden marguerites on a white, metal table caught up the golden sunlight and showered brightness about the room. A nurse clothed in crisp white, looking refreshingly cool, bent over a bed which stood near the window. “Mr. Desmond,” she said, “it is medicine time and visiting hour, too.” John Desmond slowly opened his eyes, and blinked them in a sleepy, questioning way. The answer was a glass of medicine held in the nurse’s hand. She helped him to sit up. He closed his eyes and obediently gulped down the contents with a wry face. The nurse laughed. “My, how homely you can make yourself look!” she said. “But you must look your prettiest now. A new visitor has come today.” The words wore scarcely uttered, when Margaret Austin stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door. “Why, Margaret!” Desmond shouted. “I am not dying yet. Make all the noise you like. I shall be out of here in a week, the doctor says.” She brightened at his hearty words and the merry laugh that accompanied them. Tenderly she took his outstretched hand, her heart almost too full for words. She managed to say:

“It is good to see yon. I have been inquiring for you every day by telephone.” ,:j : “Why did yon not come to see me before —^— this? I have been able to see visitors for ■ over a week.” “I did come once, the day after the ac- | cident, and they told me that von were critiAfcally ill.” “That was true enough.” His hand rose unconsciously to hi bandaged head. “But why did you not come again?” “I could not.” “I do not understand,” he said, puzzled. “The first time I came, it was because I was terribly worried about you. The seriousness of your injuries alarmed me. I left the hospital that day, even more disturbed, and the anxiety increased until 1 did not know what to do, where to turn. If I could have prayed-—but I could not believe. In desperation, I walked Juno and there and a voice within me seemed In whisper, ‘ Pray, pray; now your soul sees the need of God ami His . help.’ 1 tried to stifle that ice. I was passing St. Brendan’s and again that inner voice seemed to tell me, ‘ Go in and God. Whom you have insulted, will hear yon. will help yon.’ 1 tried again to stifle that voice but I found myself kneeling before the altar in St. Brendan’s, and sobbing. ‘ God, help me to believe! Help poor John !’ “Later I went into the rectory and spok-* with Father Kane. He quieted my fears and he was so kind that soon I was telling him about my own difficulties. He took the article ‘ Science,’ written by the well-known astronomer. Father Hagen, S.J., in the Catholic Encyclopedia, and analysed it for me. The result was that 1 came away with several hooks. I spent hours at homo reading. And each evening Father Kane answered my difficulties. “I learned how shallow were the arguments which had robbed me of my faith and I found that there is a vast difference between a hypothesis, or an unproved theory and an established truth. Now I know that the Church's stand towards science is remarkable. Her loyal children have been the leaders in scientific studies. I found that practically all great scientists were either Catholics or believers in Christianity; that Pasteur, Mendel, and others, world leaders in scientific research, became more and more convinced, by their researches, of the necessity of admitting the loving providence of God in material creation and of believing in the Catholic Church.” “That is what I wished to tell yon,” Desmond interposed, “Now tell me why you delayed your visit here so long.” “If you interrupt me like that, I shall go right home,” she said, with a mock attempt at severity. “I made lip my mind never to see yon again —now do not interrupt,” she said, pointing with warning finger; “until —until I was a Catholic once more. And now, I am back in the true Faith and I see how shallow writers deceived me. I received Holy Communion this morning.” -~rw- Desmond had closed his eyes as if in an- ’ noyance, evidently occupied with his own thoughts. Could it be, thought Margaret, . that she meant no more to him now? His

apparent indifference turned her buoyant joy to disappointment. With the slightest quivering of her lips, she began: “I thought that yon would like .to know

‘Pardon the interruption, Margaret.” His eyes opened. “I make it there are two weeks more in September.” The ripple on his face broadened into a happy smile. “Do you like October for the wedding?” —Messenger of the Sacred Heart.