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

14
1
s9 they parted.
As Peter came back in the railway-carriage, those words,
" whose faith mid devotion are known uiito Him," seemed to
ronud him, as it were, in ttie air. Mrs. Peuwarne's
sweet gentle voice seemed to linger in his ears.
When ho reached Treddington he wtnt straight
Catholic clr.irch. He walked in and knelt down.
to the
Several
p-'ople were there saying their cvenirg prayers. Still in his
heart those words were sounding, and thai strong assurance
tlu.t under no c mceivabl j circumstances shou'd that soul be
desvrtcd or left in any way alone whose faith and devotion
God knew. The words were familiar enough, but they seemed
to have gathered a remarkable power that day. Then Peter
went home, was happy ard merry too, with Miss Lance and
Miss Jane he met ; Mr. and Mrs. Breward there, and the two
young girls and Frederick Drake. Fred sang out of tune, and
his cousins laughed at him. Peter tried a trio with the girls,
and they had an encore. He told them of his visit, of all
that could interest or amuse his hearers, and went tired, but
well pleased, to rest,.
He paid one visit to his bower among the chimney-sticks.
The pale clear light of a full moon fell upon Treddington, and
lighted up the docks, and fell on the broad water, which
heaved gently beneath the s^y. The shadows were broad and
black; the outlines of the buildings, distinctly marked, gave
grandeur to ihings which were not worth a second glance by
day. A great silence seemed to have fallen on that populous
city, so full of life, so crowded with human interests, where
the battle of good and evil went in ceaselessly, end where the
cause of Christ in each human heart was being lost or won.
Peter turned his eyes from the view of the town so full of life,
BO crowded with souls, and looked t.t the opposite side of the
landscape which was spread at the back of the terrace of which
Miss Lance's house was the most spacious, standing at the end,
and having a garden at the back and a shubbery at the side.
There lay a long level tract of grass-land, where a river flowed
which now showed in the light like silver by the
walk through
side of the
the long meadows which led to the cricketgrotind,
and by which he often walked to Stouemoor. The
contrast of the two scenes was great, and his heart seemed to
swell with many meditations.
H.AV much would he, Peter Sands, in the life of his manhood
have to do with a.lhe then looked upon ? He could not live
forever protected and believed in as he then lived in his fair,
prosperous and successful youth.
Then he remembered the last gift that Mrs. Penwarue had
sent him, nearly five years back, by the hands of Lady Edith;
and standing there, so near heaven as it looked, and so
above the world, he repeated the words that written paper
contained :
"Let us belong to God by love, to our superiors by submis-
si n, and to our neighbors by charity.
" We mu^t fight against ourselves to the end, and die
with our arms in our hands, for the crown is given only to the
victorious."
So ended the day,
The next day ended in a very different manner.
Once more the moon rose with its lull, fair light, as full and
fair as the light of the night before, to the gazers on the quiet
open country and in the noisy, crowded streets; but Peter had
walked to the top of the town, where the streets had corn > to
an end, and there he loitered, where well-built brick cottages
s'ood at short distances by the wayside. He waited for an
omnibus which would soon pass by.
It came, and he got up to an outside seat, and went as far as
where Mrs. Penwarne, on the day of her departure, had taken
her last Jeave of her.village fr tnds, and proceeded t:> the
Treddington lailway station. Just where Lauy Edith had ordered
the car iage to be closed, and where their last leave had
of Pe .warne. Peter Sands got dowu; ho saw the
oninib;is go upon its way, and lie stood still, lonely aud
thoughtful.
CHAPTEK IV.
In a minute more Peter was going at a good pace down the
hill to the village of Penwarne. He passed the stile on which
lie had sat watching and waiting for Father Joseph on the day
of Colonel Penwame's death. There wai the same sort 01 bit
of dry earth as that on which he had knelt down when h
found himself alone, and prayed for the dead. Five year* ha 1
passed, and, with him, all things had changed. He, the vil-
lage boy, the child maintained and taught by the bounty of
Colonel Penwarne, was there again a mm. A man in inde-
pendent circumstances, with excellent prospects in life; admired,
respected, Bought after, trusted.
Up to that day how plain his way had seemed to be ! how
it had been to walk in it ! But
easy now something had happened,
and his way was dark. He wanted guidance, and Le
was going to seek it of Father Joseph.
He got to the priest's house. It was approaching ten o'clock
at "
night. Can I sleep here ?" he asked of Mi licent, as the
opened the door and let him in with words of welcome.
"
I suppose so; there is no one here, and the spare room is
always ready. Does Missis expect you, or have you wr.tten to
Father Joseph ?"
"No ; I am not expected. Let me see Father Joseph di-
"
rectly.
"He is in the church," said Millicent.
On that Peter went by the priest's door through tbe s-.cristy
into the church, and he paw there Father Joseph on his knees.
He knelt down in his sight and prayed heart.ly till the priest
rose up, when he followed him.
"
Why, Pe.er !"
" Yes. Let me stay here for the night. "
" Of course, There is nothing wrong ?"
' '
I want to speak to you. Can I have half an hour di-
rectly ?"
Father Joseph brought Peter to his own room. He closed
the window, through which a strong fragrance from the sweetbrier
had suddenly reminded Peter of old days; and then he
drew a dark curtain close, and lighted the larr.p.
Peter seated himself, produced a pocket-book, and sr.id, " I
have been thinking myself half crazed. I can't act for myself;
I luv. e been miserable. It seems to ms aa if I could have
borne anything else in life better than the thing that has happen'
d. And yet I have made up my mind what to do; on y I
can't do it without your help; and u I could I wouldn't. Tae
decision must lie with you."
" What is the matter, then ? And what is it that you v. ish
to do ?"
" This is it," said Peter. He dropped his face in his hands
for a minute, as he s.it w th his elbows resting on the tab.e;
and when he rai-ed his hands, it was a puzzled and very
anxious countenance that the priest looked on, and it ma^e
Father Joseph feel astonished.
" Tell it all simply tell all, straight out," he said, speaking
very seriously, and witli that gentle air of holy authority that
Peter had always loved to lister to and obey.
But now Peter began to rnaka a bargain. "Everything
must be in perfect confidence. You will promise solemnly
never to betray what I shall say to you. "
"Speak out. Tell all. Don't make conditions. If you
cannot trust my judgment aud my discretion, don't speak at
all."
"Fatl-er," said Peter, pleadingly, "it is about some one
not exactly about myself. Mr. Breward has been robbed, and
I know ail. And I want well, promise to treat this as a confidence
which is not to be betrayed."
"
I promise," said the priest.
"Then look here." Peter to< k cut of his breast-pocket a
small ied-up p:ircel, and as he op ned it he said " Thirf morn-
ing Mr. and?iiiv.. Brownr.1 wcut oJf rar'y to tike their little
gills to school at Boulogne. They arc goiii-j to be absent t< n
days; they are going to spend a day at Aiukus, aud tliuy are