CHAPTER XXVIII
THE HAVEN
"Stripp"d as I am of all the golden fruit Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts Of self-reproach familiarly a.s.sail"d."
Ringfield bared his head as the priest approached, standing with lowered eyes and heaving breast. Father Rielle stopped short in wonder as he noted the pale drawn face, the working hands, the averted eyes and trembling lips.
"Can I do anything for you?" he cried in his excellent English.
"Monsieur is not well perhaps? This peculiar day, this air----"
"You are right. I am not well. I have been very ill, but that was nothing, only illness of the body. Yes, there is one thing you can do for me. Oh! man of G.o.d! What does it matter that I do not belong to your communion? It must not matter, it shall not matter. Father Rielle, I need your help very much, very, very much."
In still profounder astonishment the priest took a step forward.
"You are in trouble, trouble of the soul, some perplexity of the mind?
Tell me then how I can help?"
And Ringfield answered:--
"Father Rielle, I wish to confess to you. I wish you to hear a confession."
"Oh! Monsieur, think! We are not of the same communion. You have said so yourself. You would perhaps ridicule my holy office, my beloved Church!"
"No, no! I am too much in earnest."
"You wish me to hear a confession, you, a minister of another religious body not in sympathy with us, not a son of the only true Church? I do not care to receive this confession, Monsieur."
Ringfield"s hand pressed heavily on the priest"s arm and his agonized face came very close. Father Rielle"s curiosity naturally ran high.
"Monsieur," he said nevertheless coldly, not choosing to display this desire to know too suddenly, as there darted into his mind the image of Miss Clairville, "it is true you have no right to demand absolution from me, a priest of the Holy Catholic Church, it is true I have no right to hear this confession and give or withhold absolution. Yet, monsieur, setting dogma and ritual aside, we both believe in the same Heavenly Father, in the same grand eternal hope. I will hear this confession, my brother, _in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_, Amen. And may it bring peace to your soul."
There was a silence, and then Ringfield led the way to the little church. Father Rielle, who had never been inside the finished edifice before, although he had frequently walked through it while the builders were at work, entered respectfully and crossed himself in the porch.
"Ah!" he whispered or rather breathed in French as if disinclined to speak louder, "if you were but as I am, my brother, if you were but one of the true flock shepherded by the only Shepherd! Perhaps this is but the beginning. Perhaps you desire to cast away your inadequate faith and come to us, be one with us. My brother, I pray that this may be so. With us alone you shall have comfort to your soul and sweet solace in affliction, peace of mind, honesty of conviction, and after many a struggle, purity of life."
As he ceased, Ringfield, by some extraordinary instinct which mastered him, at once fell upon his knees at the side of Father Rielle, who had taken a seat not far from the door, where he might command a view of the bridge in case of interruption, and with that dangerous hole in the footway in his memory.
"If I say "Holy Father," will that be right?"
"Quite right, my son. Have no fear. Say on."
Ringfield bowed his head on his hands and began:--
"Holy Father----"
The priest waited quietly. His thin sensitive visage was transfigured and his whole being uplifted and dignified as he thus became the Mediator between Man and G.o.d.
"Holy Father, I know no form of word----"
"That does not matter. Whether you cry "Peccavi" or "Father, I have sinned," it is all the same."
"Holy Father, I have sinned, sinned grievously before G.o.d and Heaven, before men and angels, but most of all have I sinned before my own ideals and conceptions of what I meant to be--a Christian clergyman.
Hear my confession, Holy Father; with you to love, love a woman, would be sin; it was not sin for me, and yet in loving a woman it became sin also with me, for it blotted out G.o.d and humanity. I not only loved--I also hated; I lived to hate. I hated while I was awake and while I slept, in walking, in eating, in drinking, so that my life became a burden to me and I forsook the throne of G.o.d in prayer."
The priest, in the moment"s pause which had followed these words of self-abas.e.m.e.nt, had seen something across the river that claimed his attention, nevertheless he gravely encouraged the penitent.
"Keep nothing back, my son. Let me hear all."
What he had seen was a man running up and down in front of Poussette"s, in some agitation as he fancied, presently to be joined by two or three others.
"Thus I lived, hating. I left this place, hating, and I followed him, you know whom I mean, hating. I met him there or rather I sought him out and helped him to fall, watched him drink strong liquor and did not intervene, did not stay his hand. I made him drunk--I left him drunk--I left him drunk. I went away and lied. I said he was ill and I locked the door and took the key. I went back again and saw him; he was still drunk and I was glad, because I thought "This will keep him here, this will make her hate and avoid him, this will prevent the marriage"."
Father Rielle, though listening intently, still kept his gaze riveted on the peculiar actions of the men outside Poussette"s. The running to and fro continued, but now suddenly an impulse prompted them to go in one direction; they pointed, gesticulated, and then with startling rapidity disappeared around the corner of the bridge. By this time the priest was convinced that something was transpiring of serious and uncommon import, yet he gave precedence to the wants of the penitent, kneeling with head on his hands.
"I vowed he should never marry her--you know of whom I am speaking, of both?"
"I know, my son."
"I say--I followed him. I took a room--I will tell you where, later--which enabled me to watch him should he go out. Then I fell ill myself and had to be kept in bed. O the torture, the pain, of knowing that I might miss him, that he might leave without my knowledge, I, from weakness, being unable to overtake him! And that happened, that came to pa.s.s, as I feared it would."
"You watched him go?"
"No. When I recovered sufficiently to walk, I went to find him. I went to that place where I had helped to make him drunk, but he was gone."
"What day was that?"
"I do not know. I have lost track of the days, lost track of the time."
Father Rielle was now more than professionally interested; he saw that the man before him was in a terrible state of incipient mental collapse.
"Surely you can tell me what day this is?" he cried.
"I cannot."
"Nor yesterday?"
"No."
"Yesterday was Sunday."
"Sunday? The word has no meaning."
"But at least you know where you are, where we both are at this instant."
"Yes, I know that. We are in the church built by M. Poussette."