Little hinges to great doors, and other tales

Front matter

Google to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

Preface

We sincerely hope that the appetite of the public for books of this character may continue to grow. Time was, not so long ago, when there was a dearth of intelligent liveliness in English Catholic literature. The effort made by our Catholic publishers to supply the want has had its reward bj;*, increasing^ the demand. Books which, whilst they interest the imagination, also teach the doctrines and practices of the Church will surely find many readers.

The lowliest of principles, which, apprehended, has moved empires, is mysteriously breathed into the minds of men. By what means it reaches this or that mind it is difficult to say ; but when the principles of supernatural life are quickening the mind and heart of an intelligent writer, it may well be that the force working so powerfully within should penetrate and influence the quiescent minds of the multitude. So we may hope that these histories vi ' Preface,

of the working of the little seeds of the Gospel in the human heart may stir many young men and women to aspirations above the dead level of ordinary life. Simple as these little histories are, some are true biographies, and tell, what is always interesting to us, the experiences of others' hearts. They show us how in them the principles of Faith, Hope, and Charity struggle triumphantly against the apparently overwhelming weight of worldly influence.

E. L.

Contents

PAGE

Little Hinges to Great Doors . . • i

iopc.

Cousin Prudence 99

Old Isaac's Chkistmas-Bjx . . .167

9x * 6% titt Infadinm.*

Chapter I. All Round The Fire

It was an evening in the Christmas week, and a very dismal-looking evening it was too — at least, so thought Miss Margaret Myddleton, otherwise Daisy, as she stood looking out into the twilight through the dining-room window of a pretty house in a West-end suburb of London. Snow had fallen during the day — pretty, white, virgin snow — ^but it had long since been trodden by hundreds of footsteps into a black unctuous mess, that coated the pavements, and boots of the passers-by, penetrating their soles and worn-out * uppers ' with a spiteful diligence, and sending oftentimes a pang to the very hearts of the wearers. Nor was this all ; for overhead there hung, extended like a funereal pall, a yellow, murky, frosty fog that looked almost substantial enough to be cut with a knife or

B chopped with a hatchet It was making the old city, at that very moment, a perfect bewilderment of noise and nowhere, smoke and smother, flare and fluster ; and if it was not putting suburban pedestrians in actual danger of a violent death, it was doing its best to choke them on the sly by oozing into their mouths and noses, and creeping down their throats into their lungs.

The scene altogether was so dispiriting that Margaret pulled down the blinds and shut the shutters with her own fair hands, and drew the crimson curtains as closely as they could possibly be drawn. She next poked up the fire, and threw on a small beech-log, which flared and crackled until such a glorious blaze was dancing and sparkling in the grate that everything around that could call up a beam danced and sparkled too, and the whole room was flooded with liquid rosy light. For all this, she struck a match to light the gas ; but, finding that the maids had not yet turned it on, she gave up the idea, and, taking a large book from the table, drew a stool to the front of the fire, to read in the light and warmth she had created, and shape pictures and stories in the depths of the glowing coals.

Not a word was spoken to break the thread of her fancy tissues, although Daisy was not the only occupant of the room ; for, in a large easy-chair by the side of the fireplace, there reposed, in delicious holiday quiescence, her mother's old and valued . friend, Father Benedict Stanhope, who had always been their Christmas guest for as many years as Margaret could remember. But Father Benedict (for so he was always called, to distinguish him from his brother, also a priest, and also a friend of the family) had been for an hour past either asleep or at his prayers, she was not quite certain which. But she was quite sure, when she suddenly turned her eyes from her firestudies, that his face made a very striking picture in the firelight ; and she began to consider what a glorious model that fine old head would be for a painter who wanted one for a St. Ambrose or a St. Chrysostom.

When this subject, too, was quite dreamed out, the young lady opened her book, and, drawing nearer to the blaze, began to con over certain plates and sketches of mediaeval times contained, in the volume, which had just freshly arrived from Mudie's. So deeply absorbed did she become in them that she was altogether unconscious of the fact that a double knock had announced a visitor; and when, later on, two of her younger sisters entered the room, and addressed her, it was not until they had made three successive attempts that they managed to attract her attention.

* Really, Daisy, any one would think you were both blind and deaf,' said Wild-Rose, the youngest child, and, of course, the pet of the family. * No wonder you were called " Cloudy" at school. I really don't believe you take in one half we say to you.'

* Yes, she does/ said Violet, sidling up to her elder sister ; * or if she does not, it is because she is taking in better things than any we ever say to her ; arn't you, Daisy dear ? I wish I had been there when the girls called you ** Cloudy." ' And kneeling down, she nestled her head on Margaret's shoulder.

* What would you have done, Violet ?* asked Wild-Rose, quivering all over with fun at the idea of Violet the pacific taking up the cudgels, * What would you have done ?*

A kiss on Margaret's forehead was answer sufficient that, if powerless to repel the injury, Violet would at least have consoled the injured.

^ And now, Daisy,' said Wild-Rose, * I don't expect you know who's here, and has been here for about ten minutes.'

Daisy was obliged to confess that she was in profound ignorance of any arrival whatever having taken place.

* Just like you ! Well, guess.'

' I can't,' said Margaret. * I could never have thought any one would have come out on such a night as this, unless, perhaps, aunt Amy, who has a wonderful knack of turning up just when one least expects her.'

* That is just who it is. She came to Oxfordstreet on business ; but the fog grew so thick that she felt frightened to go back home again, and so jumped into an omnibus and came on to us. Mamma has just sent off a telegram to her uncle to say she is safe, and wants her to stop, now she is here, till next week. I do so wish she would.' And Wild-Rose executed a pirouette that, light as it was, set the glass on the sideboard ringing like a peal of bells.

Now, under the supposition that Father Benedict was asleep, Wild-Rose's share of the conversation had been carried on in an earpiercing whisper that might have awakened the very heaviest of the Seven Sleepers. That it was gradually rousing him might have been gained from Violet's nervous and often-reiterated * Hush !' But it was not till he had fairly opened his eyes, at the end of the pirouette, and looked the madcap through and through, that Wild-Rose took in the terrible fact that she was waking Father Benedict — z, catastrophe threatened by Mrs. Myddleton with no end of pains and penalties. The situation was so overwhelming that she fled for her life to the door she had left all this time wide open, to be seen no more for the present.

Violet followed with her usual quiet demure step, and, carefully closing the door after her, left the occupants of the dining-room once more in peace and quietness.

'Who is this aunt Amy?* asked Father Benedict, after he had rubbed his eyes well open and taken a pinch of snuff. * I have been trying to make out, and I cannot ; there's no Amy, that I can remember, on either side of the family.'

' O, it is only a name that Wild-Rose gave in fun to Miss Kenrick, a lady about mamma's age, with whom we have become very intimate of late. She is a convert of very many years' standing ; but I do not think you have ever met her, father, for she was abroad last year, and the one before we did not know her.'

The entrance of a servant with the tea-tray here put a stop to the conversation ; and Daisy went up-stairs to help to welcome aunt Amy. The large bell soon rang, and a few minutes later a bright little party were assembled round that most sociable of all sociable institutions — the tea-table.

They would have made a pretty picture as they sat grouped round that well-furnished table, with its handsome appointments of china and silver, and its store of dainty fare. Very pretty, with the sweet motherly face of Mrs. Myddleton presiding, and the hale, hearty, pious one of Father Benedict saying grace ; with aunt Amy in her favourite place at the bottom of the table, more than happy in the unexpected joy of finding herself there, flanked on one side by Violet silent as she was happy, and on the other by Wild-Rose, all chatter and excitement. Nor must we omit Margaret, who — when her head was out of a book — ^was the very life of the party, and who was now cutting bread, flashing out fun and repartee, and attending to everybody but herself at one and the same time.

Happy hearts, with that substantial partition of bricks and mortar separating them from the slushy snow and murky fog without Happier still, with that golden barrier of affluence entrenching them beyond the reach of the poverty that was lurking in foodless and iireless homes, not many yards away. Happier than all in the grace of God, that was shielding and protecting them from the vice and iniquity that were blackening, even more deeply than the fog, the great heart of London that night. There was no adjourning to the drawing-room after tea ; for, in winter-time, and especially during the absence of Captain Myddleton, the 'state apartment,' as Daisy styled the double drawing-room, was comparatively little used. Not only was the dining-room warmer and snugger, but its large square table was better adapted than the numerous little ornamental ones of the drawing-room to the evening pursuits of a large party. For it must not be supposed that the three young people to whom we have been introduced constituted the whole of Captain Myddleton's family.

Two boys had started that iiKM-ning for a country visit, and three girls were in a foreign convent, where no Christmas holiday was allowed. That they were not forgotten was testified by Wild- Rosfe's enumeration of the prizes gained by Burr and Teazle, and Violet's longing loving wish to have her sisters home again.

* This is indeed a Christmas party,' said Mrs. Myddleton, glancing smilingly at the happy faces that surrounded the table.

' Yes,' said Daisy ; * all we want to make it complete is a story.'

* What a capital idea !' exclaimed Wild-Rose ; * who will tell one ?*

That was the question. Each one, on being appealed to, declared she was the very worst one in the world to figure as a story-teller ; and Father Benedict, whose talents had often been put in requisition on similar occasions, seemed so fast asleep in his favourite corner that even Wild-Rose feared to disturb him.

* I know ; let us draw lots,* cried that little lady, so energetically that mamma's finger was raised in warning. *Let us draw lots,' she repeated, in what she called a whisper ; and immediately began to tear a piece of paper into long thin strips, one of which she marked with a cross. Great was the delight of all — save the party interested — when the said pencil cross was found in the hand of Mrs. Myddleton herself.

* But, my dears, ybu have heard all my stories so many, many times.'

' Not all, mamma ; I am sure there must be some we have never heard,' said Violet.

* Let it be a true one, if you can,' put in Wild- Rose ; * made-up stories are more exciting, and all that, but they're not as interesting, after all, as things that have really happened to real people.'

* A true story is it to be ?' said Mrs. Myddleton reflectively. *Well, I will tell you one if you like, but I am afraid Miss Kenrick will find it very uninteresting.'

* O, I am sure she won't ! Will you, aunt Amy?*

Of course the lady in question protested that she was quite as anxious to hear the story as the rest of the party.

* There ! didn't I tell you so ? You see, I am always right !' cried Wild-Rose, so exultingly that Mrs. Myddleton, with a prolonged * Hush !' pointed warningly to an eye that was opening like an oyster in the large armchair. * Well, I'll be quiet now, really ; I didn't mean to make so much noise. Now, mamma, please begin, or you will not get it finished before supper !'

* One moment. Miss Impatience ! I must first find something to do meanwhile, for I am not clever enough to count stitches and talk at the same time. There, now I am ready ;' and after clearing her voice in the manner proper to amateur singers, speechifiers, and story-tellers in general, Mrs. Myddleton commenced, greatly to Wild-Rose's satisfaction, in the old-fashioned and orthodox fashion, * Once upon a time.'