A modern revolt from Rome

Contents

Chapter Page I. Memory Picturgs, - - - ay

II. THE SACRIFICE OF THE Mass, - 15 Ill. Tue RETURN oF THE TRAVELER, - 26 IV. Tue Story oF HER LiFe, - - 40 V. AN UNWELCOME DIscovERY, - - 53 VI. AN Erranp or Mercy, - - - 63 VII. A WARNING, - - . - - %8 VIIl.. An Irony or Fare, - - - 86 IX. A FoRESHADOWING OF EVENTS, - - 98 X. THe Missine Note, - - - 104 XI. THE MESSAGE OF THE SEA, - - 114 XII. A Private INTERVIEW, - - - 122 XIII. THE MonsicNnor’s Succgss, - - 137 XIV. ADELINA VALENTI, - - . - 148 XV. Rover SEEKS AN EXPLANATION, - 166 XVI. UNEXPECTED REEFS, - - - 1%4 XVII. AN ExXcHANGE OF CONFIDENCE, - - 186 XVIII. AN UNINVITED GUEST, - - a “199 “XIX. Extremes MEET, - - - - 211 XX. Tuer PHILOSOPHY oF PHILOSOPHY, - 222

Ohapter

CHAPTER I. Memory Pictures

A GENTLE, yet keen and forceful man was Father Donald Underwood, respected and beloved priest of the large and influential parish Church of St. Carmel, in the city of San Francisco.

It was the eve of All Souls’ Day, and Father Underwood was walking to and fro in his room, passing in deep meditation the hour which must elapse before he entered the church and took his place in the confessional to shrive the many penitents who surely would be present.

It had been a busy day, and a yet busier evening awaited him. As he now quietly walked back and forth, with his hands clasped behind his back, his whole appearance would betoken that he was at peace with God and man. Of fine physique, dignified in bearing, and scholarly in appearance, with the true nobility of a kindly soul beaming from every feature, he well deserved the proud and affectionate esteem i

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in which his people held him. For ten years he had labored among them with untiring zeal, cheering the sorrowing, visiting the sick, burying the dead, carrying with him everywhere the true spirit of Christ:

Underneath his calm exterior his self-sacrificing heart long had felt a strange unrest, conflicting emotions, known only to his Maker and himself. His eyes now glanced lingeringly over the books which occupied nearly two sides of the room.

‘‘What words these volumes speak to me!’’ he mused. ‘‘That which I hear within my heart, is it the echo of these words, or is it the voice of God speaking to me? This work—I love it. My soul is in it. How I love these true-hearted people who come to me like confiding children! I am their father, guide, and friend. They come to me with their trials and afflictions, their joys and their sorrows. I share in them all. The little ones—how dear they are to me, and yet—and yet—‘and the Word was made flesh.’ Do I preach that Word? Do I preach as I believe? Do I believe as I preach? In my whole life my one desire has been to be true. O, Thou Great Spirit, far-reaching as the horizon of eternity, yet tender as mother-love, come unto me! Direct me, O Father, and make me strong to follow Thy lead ever.’’

The hour sped on. Back and forth he paced, with head bent in thought. The great problem of the ages weighed on him. In panoramic vision he saw the eager answers of the world of thought in the generations which had lived before; but the skyline of his own thought would not clear; though often it seemed luminous, yet was it impenetrable. For the hundredth

MEMORY PICTURES.

time his conscious mind turned back baffled, and the great mountain of truth which his subeconsciousness had raised into dim light became submerged again.

His mood gradually changed. Mingled with his meditations and half-formed prayers a memory of other days long vanished, yet ever living, ever real, flashed before him like a vision. From out the past there arose the features of a fair-haired girl, almost a child in years, fragile in appearance, sweet and lovely of face. The trusting and affectionate eyes look on him with love. The years seemed to slip from his shoulders. He was again a slender youth, with all the world before him. The vision became more and more a living, breathing reality; and he seemed to hear a gentle voice say, ‘‘Donald, dear, I will be true always, come what may.”’

Overcome by the pleasing memory, he lived for the time in that bright vista of the long ago, when suddenly the sharp clangor of a bell called him back to the present. Looking up he found himself facing a long mirror, in which he saw reflected no slender youth, no ardent lover, no tender maiden, but a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in the black cassock of the priest, and wearing on his head the four-cornered biretta.

‘“That bell calls me back to earth,’’ he soliloquized. “‘Donald Underwood,”’ he continued, ‘‘you are thirty-five years old, and many seasons have come and gone since first you donned this gown. That sweet girlface long has been with the angels. They are her fit companions, as heaven is her true home. From each here below the past has gone forever; why disturb its g

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rest? We have but the ever-changing present. The future points toward the hill of Eternity; thither on the ocean of Time we drift, whether we will or no.”’

Struggle as he would, the image of those fleeting moments seemed loath to leave him. There still lingered the dream, precious and beautiful, of other days; an oasis of memory on which he looked with the eyes of the soul.

Another bell rang, and Father Underwood knew by this that callers awaited him below.

Reluctantly he descended the staircase; but he was a devoted man, with the habit of duty strong; so when he reached his reception-room he was once more the dignified ecclesiastic whose heart was filled with genuine kindly interest as he greeted a little girl who came into his presence.

‘*What can I do for you this evening, my child?’’

‘‘Wather, please bless this rosary of the Seven Dolors of the Blessed Virgin. I have waited three days to see you. I want your blessing on them.”’

‘‘Have you attached all the indulgences to this rosary, Father ?’’

‘“Yes, my child; all that the Church allows. Good-night, and may God bless you.’’

““Thank you, Father, ever so much.’’

The little girl quietly went out, proudly bearing her newly-blessed treasure with her.

MEMORY PICTURES.

There entered a woman bearing on her face the trace of recent grief.

‘“Father,’’ she addressed him, ‘‘I have just received news of the death of my son Henry in South Africa. I want some masses said for him. Can you say one of them to-morrow morning in black vestments? Say the others when you can. Here are five dollars. I am sorry I have so little. God grant that my poor boy had the priest before he died! Henry was a good boy, Father; but that is a strange country, and he was at times inclined to be a little wild. His father and I didn’t want him to go, but he would. He said he could find a fortune for us all; and now he is dead, dead; and only a few words written to us from some man who was with him—a Protestant—is all we have had. O Father, Father, if only I knew he had the priest I would be a happy woman this night, bitter as is my sorrow!’’

The priest consoled the heart-broken mother in a few words that seemed to her like a breath from heaven, and with a ‘‘God bless you!’’ he ushered her to the door. The woman left with firmer steps and heart lightened by the kindly words of the priest as well as by the thought that she had done her highest duty to her dead son.

The next callers were a young man and a young woman, who were evidently on some mission bent, although it was difficult to determine just what, as the young man kept up a rapid-fire talk on the condition of the weather, which seemed to be uppermost in his mind; though his statements thereon seemed rather misleading, aS one moment he made the assertion,

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‘“We are having fine weather now,’’ and with the next breath he unblushingly stated, ‘‘It looks much like rain out.’’ However, the young woman, having more courage, came to his rescue:

‘Thomas, have n’t you something to tell Father ?’’

Thus aided, the young man managed to say that they wished to be married in three weeks, with a nuptial mass as late in the morning as would be convenient for Father Underwood, as many of their friends lived at a distance

“‘T know the fasting will be hard on you, Father,”’ she said; ‘‘but I do want my cousins to see us married at mass, and their earliest train arrives here at ten o’clock in the morning. I would n’t feel married, Father, unless you married us.”’

Having spoken thus far, she blushed a vivid scarlet and relapsed into silence, while Thomas very seriously contemplated the toes of his shoes as though they were the chief factor in his existence.

**Very well,’’ replied Father Underwood, ‘‘we ’1l have the nuptial mass begin at half-past ten on the day you wish. That will allow time for your friends to reach the church. I do not mind the long fasts before saying mass. I have grown accustomed to them.’’

The couple departed, and as they went down the front steps Father Underwood overheard the brideto-be chiding the husband-elect on his non-compliance with his expressed intention to ‘‘tell everything himself to the priest, and not beat around the bush.’’

Father Underwood looked at his watch and saw that it was just time for him to go to his confessional.

MEMORY PICTURES.

He opened the door of the reception-room and found the servant awaiting him in the’ hall.

“*Father,’’ said she, ‘‘I have just told several that it is time for the confessional; but,’’ lowering her ‘voice, ‘‘there was one, such a beautiful lady, one of the grand people—I think she is a Protestant; so I asked her to wait. Will you see her now?’’

‘*Certainly I ‘ll’see her, gladly.’’

Father Underwood remained standing in the hall. Almost immediately the servant appeared with the visitor—a tall, stately, and beautiful woman; young, though not in the first flush of youth; clad in rich though modest attire. Her face beautifully chiseled, exquisite in outline, would suggest a nature somewhat too proud and haughty did not certain sensitive lines around the mouth bespeak the tenderness of the heart within; a heart not easily moved, perhaps, but when once its chords were touched, responding with all the intensity of her generous nature.

The priest stepped forward to greet her, then stopped abruptly, as if some voice from another world had ealled to him. He looked at the lady intently, but spoke no word. His face assumed the whiteness of marble. His breath came hurriedly.

The visitor and the servant looked at him in astonishment.

‘‘Mather, you are ill!’’ anxiously exclaimed the servant. ‘‘Do sit down and let me do. something for you.”’

Without replying, but with all his soul showing in his face, his eyes still fixed on the stately woman before him, he faintly said,

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“Constance !’’

The visitor started, then looked wonderingly at him; then past him into space; then back again, as she replied:

‘‘Why—that is not my name! There was only one who ever called me that! How did you happen—”’

‘‘Rather, Father!’’ interrupted the servant; ‘‘you are so pale! You are very ill, I know. Do sit down.’’

‘“No, no; I am not ill—merely a passing faintness. It is nothing.’’

Then to his guest he said, with grave courtesy, **Will you kindly step into the library, please?’’

As she entered he followed, and gently closed the door.

A half hour passed, and no movement from within. It already was past the time for Father Underwood to be in his confessional, and he was promptness itself always.

Another quarter of an hour, and still no movement from within; nothing but the low sound of voices, more intense than ever.

Hesitatingly the servant knocked at the door, and Father Underwood opened it. His eyes shone with a strange light, half sad, half joyous.

“*T shall not go into the church this evening. Tell the other priests that they must do my work for me there—to- mige, and kindly see that I have no further interruption. ’’

He again closed the door, and the servant iintsed away in amazement.

CHAPTER II. The Sacrifice of the Mass

It was morning.

All Souls’ Day dawned bright and beautiful. It had rained through the night, making the early day fresh and sweet. The breath of the late-blooming rose filled the air with a delicious odor.

The sun, rising in unobscured splendor, diffused a well-nigh summer heat. His rays were flashed from a thousand windows. In the distance the mountaintops gleamed in dazzling white light, while the valleys below them had divested themselves of the purple shadows of twilight and were resplendent in their robes of mellow gold. The sky was an immense azure sea melting into the horizon, which was fringed with thin fleecy clouds.

In the parks the birds were beguiled by the warmth into singing their merriest songs; here and there squirrels darted from their hiding-places, seeming to congratulate one another on the pure joy of living.

On the bosom of the land-locked harbor—the noblest perhaps in the world—rested ships of many nations: some, with anchors down, idly rocking with the tide; others, unconscious of their mammoth proportions and magnificent power, were moved about

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by insolent, diminutive, puffing tugboats. One liner, bound for the Orient, had made an early start and, disdaining the aid of any tug, was proudly steering through the Golden Gate. Each throb of her mighty heart sent her nearer to the Jand of lotus and chrysanthemum; while moment by moment her breath, thick, heavy, inky dark, reached farther and farther back, as if wafting a reluctant good-bye to so fair a scene.

Father Underwood, after a restless and wakeful night, had risen early and was kneeling on the priedieu. ‘‘O God, our Beloved Father,’’ he prayed, ‘‘I bring myself into Thy presence, and ask of Thee light, that I may see my duty; strength, that I may perform the tasks that may be set before me; and Thy blessing on whatever I may do.

‘‘For the cruel injury wrought me so many years ago I ask not revenge, but that Thou givest me strength to forgive; for I have in my soul a wish to do Thy will, but in my heart a bitterness which Thou alone canst take away.

‘Most especially do I ask Thy Fatherly love and protection for the one who has suffered from that same cowardly blow which afflicted me. Be Thou the * Guard and Protector now as Thou hast been for so many years. Let Thy rod and Thy staff strengthen and support.

‘“Teach me, Blessed Savior, to say, ‘Not my will, O Lord, but Thine be done.’ Into Thy hands I commend myself and my future. Amen.”’

He remained long at his devotions, then arose, and went into the church to prepare for the service. His face showed high resolve and noble purpose; yet there

THE SACRIFICE OF THE MASS.

was pictured there uncertainty, doubt, anxiety, as of aman standing at the meeting of the ways, not knowing whither to turn nor where to go.

He entered the priests’ sacristy.

It was to be a solemn service, and Father Underwood would officiate, assisted by the other priests connected with St. Carmel’s Church.

One of the priests stood by the sacristy door leading into the church auditorium; one by one the people came, some handing him a list of names only, while others accompanied the list with a money offering.

**T have no money,’’ whispered one poorly-dressed woman to him, ‘‘and Mary is away from home, and I have no one to write for me; but won’t you tell Father Underwood to pray for my poor man, Timothy, who died eight months ago?”’

“‘“Certainly,’’ said the priest, almost a mere youth, only a few months from Ireland, and a countryman of the woman; ‘‘and besides I ‘ll add a prayer of my own. What county are you from?”’ he queried.

‘Sweet Tipperary,’’ replied the woman, tears welling into her eyes as she caught the soft South Ireland brogue on the priest’s words.

“God bless you!’’ said he; ‘‘so am J. Isn’t this a queer country at all, at all? Sure the people have more dollars than faith, I ’m thinking.”’

Others came, one after another, until the hour for mass. :

Father Underwood now came to the place where all the vestments were laid in perfect order for the celebrant, deacon, and subdeacon to vest themselves.

2 hat

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By the side of the vestments he was to wear were the lists of names of those for the repose of whose souls he was to offer the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. For years it had been his custom to offer this mass on All Souls’ Day. It is the usual custom with priests to offer the mass for the repose of those souls only whose relatives or friends had sent in some moneyoffering with the names, but Father Underwood never had made any exception.

He began to vest for mass, and the deacon and subdeacon followed his example. Soon all was in readiness. The master of ceremonies gave the signal by a sharp clap of the hands; then the long line of altar boys went, two by two, through the door leading into the sanctuary of the church; then to the center of the sanctuary, where they genuflected, two by two, each of the pairs bowing to the other, then defiling to a long line of chairs arranged at right angles to the altar. /

Finally the master of ceremonies, followed by subdeacon, deacon, and celebrant, came before the altar and genuflected. Father Underwood began the mass with the words, ‘‘Introibo ad altare Dei,’’ while the choir chanted the sublime ‘‘ Kyrie Eleison’’ of Willcox’s Requiem.

After the reading of the ‘‘ Dies Irae’’ the master of ceremonies signaled the officiating clergy to go to the large chairs at the side of the sanctuary; and there they sat while the solemn words were sung by the choir,

Father Underwood felt almost for the first time the awfulness of that judgment scene. ‘‘The day of

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wrath, that dreadful day secure.”’

‘Yet the gentle Master,’’ he pondered, ‘‘is to preside at that awful scene. He, whose dying words were, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,’ is to send the greater part of the human race to hell, and do so in such a terrible manner. ‘A day of wrath, a dreadful day.’ Is that the merciful spirit of Jesus? The dead for whom I have prayed for years—,’’ but the signal came from the master of ceremonies to return to the altar and resume mass.

After the Gospel had been chanted, the deacon of the mass, having divested himself of the chasuble or outer vestment, ascended the pulpit to preach the usual sermon on ‘‘Purgatory.”’

‘‘Seripture, tradition, and reason prove this doctrine,’’ he said; “‘besides there is the solemn definition of Holy Church. Happy are they who have God’s blessed light, to know they can aid their friends who have passed through the portals of the world to come. Prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are well and salutary ; but the greatest prayer of all is the Holy Mass, in which the Lamb of God, once offered in a bloody sacrifice, is now again offered, but in a bloodless manner, yet with all the dignity, efficacy, and power of that wonderful holocaust on Calvary’s heights.

‘“‘The greatest act in all the world occurs when a priest offers mass. In great cathedral or in lowly chapel Christ again is offered, body and blood, soul and divinity, to the Eternal Father; and in the illimitableness of this sacrifice all men can find refreshment, light, and grace.

when the just are scarce

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‘‘The souls of those who have gone on before are now powerless to help themselves. We should and must help them, for love, for mercy; and also with the knowledge that the same kindness which we mete out to those in purgatory will be given to us when we leave this world by death.

‘Day after day we add to our burden of sin. Even the just man falls seven times a day, and few of us dare say that we are just. Confession and communion take away this guilt and burden, but through human frailty we renew this burden of sin daily and hourly.

“‘Tt was once revealed to a saint that he alone had gained a plenary indulgence on some day when nearly all the nation had approached the sacraments, and thousands of them seriously and devotedly. What hope haye we—poor, frail mortals—to come before the judgment seat of God, save with an immense burden of venial sin?

‘“What, then, is before us save years, perhaps centuries, in purgatory to wipe away this immense debt owed to God, except some one prays for us especially by having masses said for us. Remember the words of pious Job, ‘Have mercy on me, have mercy on me, at least you my friends; for the hand of the Lord hath touched me.’ If we do not pray for our relatives and friends now in purgatory, how can we hope that when we have gone on before, those left here will remember us? As we mete out mercy to others, so shall it be measured unto us.”’

The priest descended from the pulpit and, hastily throwing the chasuble over his shoulders, took his

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place as deacon of the mass, and Father Underwood continued the service.

He turned to the congregation and chanted ‘‘Dominus vobiscum.’’ The choir responded, “Et cum spiritu tuo.’? He then intoned the ‘‘Oremus,’’ and immediately proceeded to the Offertory. Here is offered to the Most High God the bread and wine which later, through the words of consecration, will become substantially the body and blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ, true Man, true God, the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity.

The solemn moment of consecration had now arrived. All the congregation were upon their knees, and all heads were bowed to greet the coming to the altar of the Son of man. The great organ gave forth subdued, sobbing notes. There was a hush throughout the immense church that bespoke rapt adoration for the great God who is our Creator, our Savior, and our King. Suddenly Father Underwood repeated the words from John’s Gospel, ‘‘Hoc est enim corpus meum’’—‘ This is My body.’’ The words were spoken so low that only the officers of the mass could hear them. At the same moment a deep, resounding gong was heard; and all that kneeling multitude bent lower and adored the great Guest whom they believed was now on the altar under the appearance of bread, but in substance Christ, true Man, true God.

The gong again sounded as Father Underwood raised high above his head the host, held between thumb and forefinger of both hands. The stillness in the auditorium seemed intensified, and was relieved

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only by the diminishing sound of the resonant gong and the low musie of the organ.

Father Underwood again genuflected before the consecrated host; again the gong sounded, and, mingled with the moaning of the organ, were whispered prayers from the devotees here and there who were striking their breasts and saying, ‘‘O God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’’

As the third stroke of the gong died away there seemed to come a relief from some acute physical strain after the crucial moment had passed. Here and there could be heard the rattling sound of rosaries which were being drawn quickly through the fingers of the worshipers.

Again all was quiet, and the breathless silence seemed greater than before. The sound of the organ ceased. One might imagine some lull before a storm, or he might even fancy himself in the midst of a desert with only the blue sky above him, with leagues of sand around him, and no human being within scores of miles.

Father Underwood, holding the chalice in both hands, with his face just above it, now said, ‘‘ Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei novi testamenti’?’—‘ This is the chalice of My blood of the New Testament’’—and immediately genuflected till one knee touched the floor.

At the signal from the gong, the worshipers again strike their breasts and adore the God, who is body and blood, soul and divinity, under the form of wine, but wine no longer save in color and taste. The priests raised the chalice aloft and the marks of exterior devotion in the auditorium increased.

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At the third and last sound of the gong the congregation raised their bowed heads; some began the reading of their prayer books, while the greater . number devoted their attention to their rosaries.

Father Underwood remained at the center of the altar, the other officers of the Mass moving about him in perfect order. He chanted the ‘‘Pater Noster,’’ and proceeded to the priests’ communion, partaking of both wafer and cup.

A long white cloth now was thrown over the altar railing. Communicants crowded up and held the cloth under their chins, lest the smallest particle of the consecrated Host inadvertently fell to the floor.

Father Underwood left the altar and came to the communion railing bearing with him a large silver vessel, filled with wafers. On his right was the deacon of the mass and on the left the subdeacon. He placed a wafer on the tongue of each communicant and said: “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam twam in vitam aeternam. Amen.’’ ‘‘May the body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve your soul to everlasting life. Amen.”’

The pious communicants returned to the pews, and on bended kness adored the Christ who had come. True God, true Man, He is to them, actually and really, and they worship Him as the God of Heaven and earth.

On this day especially, All Souls’ Day, the faithful beg of the Christ who is thus with them, to have mercy on the souls of relatives and friends who have passed away.

‘‘Have merey on my poor husband’s soul,’’ prays

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the widow, ‘‘shorten his days of cruel torment in the flames of Purgatory and bring him soon to Thee, O, merciful Jesus.’’

“‘O Christ, who didst raise Lazarus from the dead, free my son from his bonds in that dungeon to which Thy justice dost consign him, and soon bring him to that place of refreshment, light, and peace that is only in Thee,’’ prays the mother.

So wives pray for husbands, and mothers for sons, and brothers for sisters, and sisters for brothers. It is their duty to pray for those who have gone before, and their souls reach across the chasm between life and death, and touch by bonds of love those who have walked with them while on earth.

Mass was now finished. Father Underwood had descended from the altar to the sanctuary, and with others waited while the long line of altar boys came to the center as before, genuflected and passed out, two by two. Then, led by the master of ceremonies, the priests all left the sanctuary, and following them Father Underwood, the celebrant.

The candles were now extinguished one by one. The organ was playing weird, soul-stirring music, now loudly, now softly. Here and there a worshiper remained in the church, but the vast body of prayerful believers had gone.

The devotional service of All Souls’ Day was over. After a few moments Father Underwood found himself alone in the sacristy. The altar boys had gone to their dressing rooms, and the other priests were concerned about various duties. He was walking up and down with many memories and many thoughts crowd-

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ing in on him. The past, those long years through which his labors in the Church had engaged him, whither had it gone? The people whom he had served, how loyal they were to him, how generous and how kind! Thus he pondered, and his mind ran quickly over the different parts of the service which he had just completed.

Then the thoughts of the preceding evening rushed over him like a flood. ‘‘God, make me strong,’’ he eried. ‘‘Make me patient. Create in me the spirit of forgiveness. ’’

The sexton entered to lay away the vestments which had been used in the service.

“‘Indeed, Father,’’ said the worthy man, whose shrewd, twinkling eyes showed much good humor, “indeed, you ’1l be in need of breakfast soon. With all the late masses you’ve been saying lately, I should think you ’d forget how to eat. Fasting is beyond me. Mary Ellen has my coffee and toast the first thing in the morning, or I ’m no use for the day. But I ’ll venture the cook has something good for you ready this minute. You are the apple of the old lady’s eye. She says you are one age with her son Peter, who is in Alaska making piles of money. He never sends a cent of it, anyway, to his poor old mother. A fine congregation we had to-day, Father, and no wonder, with the day like a dream.’’