Fabiola : or, The church of the catacombs - Digital Repository Services

12 Tin: T\VU
oil my love nn3 tenderness, could be guilty of siuh an utter
aa all tliis supposes, ami thai h
could accompany me to church on. every Sunday and yet be a
i-t ami au apostate iu heart. I noticed with deepest con-
\ our worn and anxious look for some time past, and I was
often alarmed lest it might be caused by this affair ; but still I
could not believe it, nud I endeavored to account for it by
your delicate health and constitutional weakness. Hence
though I heard these reports, and though I was both alarmed
and pained by them, still I had too much confidence in you,
and I did not mention them. But," and he grew paler as he
'
proceeded I this morning entered your room by accident,
and, to my astonishment, and I will say horror, I found upon
your desk this book, containing an exposition of the doctrines
of the Romish Church, underlined, and with notes in your
hand-writing. It would be impossible for me to tell you all I
felt for I trembled to see what appeared to be such a confirma-
tion of what i have heard. I took the book to my own room,
I have waited until I was calm and composed before I spoke
to you, and now I am waiting and anxious to hear you disclaim
all that has been said, and explain how it was that I found
such a book as this in your room."
He paused and looked steadily at Edwin, who raised his
eyes, full of tears, to his father's face, as he answered : "Excuse
me, papa, but I cannot explain this ; or rather," he
added, as his voice faltered more and more," I hope you will
not press me to do so at present."
As Edwin uttered these words, so confirmatory of all that he
dreaded, Mr. Stauhpe turned deadly pale with suppressed
passion, and bit his lip to repress the angry words that were
about to rush forth. He was, at least externally, calm, but
his voice was fearfully stern, and his look most determined, as
lie answered :
"Edwin, I am still your father, at least yet; do not trifle
with me, for I am determined, and nothing shall move me.
','iilighteu me. I
a of what I was engaged in, and I coiild find none to
; I
thought, and I prayed, and still
ail was doubt, and dread, and darkness ; and what wonder,
then, if, when, for the first time I entered a Catholic Church,
Iii-Ul at least the appearance of that which I had so earn-
estly Bought and desired, I took means of investigatin
discovering whether the appearance were indeed the rel I
01 the reality? With every prejudice against it, with the fear
of your anger, dear papa, before me, with every natural in-
stinct to remain as I am, I have studied, oh ! how deeply, tho
claims of the Catholic Church to my allegiance, and, in spite
of myself, I have been driven to confess in my own heart that
there must be one true Church on earth, and that the Catholic
Church alone can claim the title. O dear papa, " he continued,
his cheeks flushed with excitement, and his large, dark eyes
gleaming with animation, " if you knew the sleepless nights
this has cost me, if you knew how I have wept and prayed, if
you knew how I have striven at times against this, if you knew
how I have trembled as I thought of your anger, if you knew
half my sufferings, my own dear papa, you would take pity on
me and forgive me ; you would not look upon me so coldly and
so sternly ; you would not turn away from me as you do. In
all my life before, you know, papa, that I have never contradicted
you, that I have never crossed you, and I tremble as I
do it now ; but I cannot help it, oh ! indeed, I cannot. I cannot
stifle my conscience ; I cannot be deaf to its voice, and that
voice tells me that I must be a Catholic, whatever it may cost
me. I have not been a hypocrite, for I have longed to tell you
this, but I durst not do it I durst not, dear papa ; and oh !
forgive me for it. I durst not face your anger; and, moreover, I
had not made up my mind, and I was not sure that I should ever
become a Catholic. Father Eustace has always pressed me to
tell you, and I have often crept down part of the way to your
room to throw myself at your feet and tell you all ; but my
heart has always failed me, and I have had to turn back, weeping
and sad, to my own room but now that ; you know all, O
dear papa, say that you forgive me say that you will not cast
me off. I will try to love you more and more, and to be more
obedient than I have been. I will never cross you again, and
it shall be the sole object of my life to render you happy. O
Dearly as I love you, and God alone knows how dearly that is,
although, perhaps, I have never been able to show that love as
much as I could desire, I would not allow even you to question
my authority, and by that authority I request, nay, I demand
to know where you obtained the book I found upon your desk,
and why I found it there ?"
"Since you insist upon knowing," answered Edwin, very
slowly, and with a voice trembling with fear and "
anxiety, I
am bound to answer. The book belongs to a Catholic priest
of the adjoining chapel, and it was borrowed by me in order to
assist me iu prosecuting my inquiries into the nature of the
doctrines held by the Catholic Church."
Mr. Stanhope started as though he had been stung by a serpent,
but, although his lingers twitched convulsively as he
grasped the arms of the chair iu which he sat, he kept down as
yet the raging passion that was in him.
" And niay I ask, sir, how you made the acquaintance of this
Popish priest, who, true to his creed, seems about to rend
asunder tho members of this hitherto happy family ?" demanded
Mr. Stanhope, in his sternest and coldest manner.
"
Papa," answered Edwin, who, now that the ice was broken,
began to feel more collected and courageous, " papa, you do
Father Eustace grievous wrong. The acquaintance commenced
from me. You do me wrong, too, in supposing that I
have been influenced in the change which has come over me by
the grandeur of the ceremonial of the Catholic Church. It is
gj-iiiid," he continued, "but it has but little share in my
change of feeling, for I have witnessed it only once. From my
childhood I have been dissatisfied with the state I was in. I
have been chilled and beaten down by the coldness and emptiness
of the religion I professed. I have been perplexed and
alarmed by the contradictions and papa, my
discrepancies of her belief.
For years I have found none to counsel me, none to explain
what perplexed and alarmed me. "When I received the rite of
confirmation, when I approached the communion, ,1 had no
own dear papa, don't look at me so sternly, but say
that you forgive me, or it will kill me."
For the dark stern face was awful now awful as it worked
and quivered in every feature, as the eye glared upon the boy,
who sat before it with his face buried in his hands, and the
tears streaming down upon the floor awful, as the forehead
swelled as if it would burst awful, as the lips, which were
bitten till they bled, twitched and quivered even then awful
as the perspiration ran in cold drops along it, giving it an appearance
still more ghastly and dreadful to behold.
And thus they sat for a moment, father and son, neither of
them speaking, and the heavy silence only broken by the sobs
of Edwin, who wept as if his heart would break, as he trembled
beneath the gaze that was bent upon him a gaze that told of
pain and bitter grief of blasted hopes and blighted expectations
that spoke but too plainly of the fearful struggle that
was going on within, rending his very heart as he grappled
with it but telling, above all, of a fearful, withering pride,
that would ciush whatever opposed it, but never ! never 1 bend
or yield.
When Mr. Stanhope broke the painful silence, it was with a
voice that was hoarse and husky. "Edwin Stanhope,' at length
he exclaimed, in a low and quivering tone, " have you done,
sir ? I was not prepared for this, and you have taken me by
surprise. You have learned your lesson well, sir, and yon do
credit to your instructors," he added, sarcastically. "Yes.
you have taken me by surprise ; for, when I summoned you
here, I did not expect to find you so far gone in your delusions.
I did not expect to find you so far lost to your duty, sir. Of
course, I shall not presume to enter the lists of controversy
with you,
as you are, doubtless, much more learned than I am
in these matters ; but, at least, rash boy, allow nie to cull in
Mr. Grant, he may drive these mad and foolish notions from
your mind.
"Papa," answered Edwin, weeping, but still firmly, -'again
you wrong me. I have learnt uo lesson I have received no