CHAPTER X.

A RAY OF HOPE.

Many times during what we shall call his captivity within the gates of the strangers Paul had contrived to write letters to Father O'Shane in the city of T----, as well as to his uncle in Ireland; but from some cause or other, to his innocent mind inexplicable, the letters never reached their destination, nor were they ever after heard of. The postmaster of S----, not generally supposed to be a very exact man, particularly when remitting money in letters for farmers' boys to their Irish friends in eastern or western parts, was ever ready to oblige, and with hearty good will entered into the views of, Parson Gulmore, when he called on him, according to the advice of Amanda, "to have Paul's letters seen to." And never mind they were "seen to" and secured.

This disgraceful proceeding, so disreputable to all concerned, and so characteristic of the fidelity with which the business of "Uncle Sam" is managed, was not confined to the detention and destruction of the poor orphan's letters, but to the piracy of their contents too.

There is no department of the public service in the United States so badly managed as the post-office department. Not only do robber postmasters continue in office after their exposure and their plunder of money letters, but they can be bribed to convey the epistles of individuals to interested parties, who would come at their secrets; and thus the most sacred and secret concerns of life are liable to exposure, and to be sold for gain. We knew a postmaster who for years continued to rob with impunity the letters that were deposited in his "den of thieves;" and when he was exposed and disgraced through the instrumentality of the writer of this tale, whole bushels of letters, directed to Ireland by poor emigrants to their fathers, wives, and sons, were found thrown aside in a nook of his office; the sole motive for this scandalous robbery being the plunder of the twenty-four cents paid on the letters to free them to Europe.

Sadly did the mysterious miscarriage of his letters puzzle the ingenuous heart of poor Paul; though he had reason to suspect, from certain hints thrown out by Amanda, that she, somehow or other, was in possession of their contents. On a certain day, however, a circumstance convinced Paul that he could not now expect an answer from his letters to Father O'Shane; for Miss Amanda had just pointed out to him a paragraph in the newspaper stating that the Catholic priest of T---- had died of ship fever, taken by him in the discharge of his duties among the sick of his flock.

"God rest his soul," said Paul, raising his eyes to heaven; "he was a good friend to us in our hour of need."

"What's that you say, Paul?" said Amanda, with a frown. "Did I not tell you repeatedly, Paul, that it was useless to pray for the dead?"

"I know _you told_ me that often, 'Mandy; but am I bound to believe you, when I know the church teaches me the contrary? In fact, the Bible says it is 'a holy and a wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from their sins.'" (Mac. xii. 42.)

"Don't you call me 'Mandy, Paul," said the vain old maid; "my name is Miss A-man-day."

"A-man-a-day," said Paul, with a sarcastic smile. "I beg pardon," said he, "miss; I must guard against that blunder in future, and say _A-man-a-day_."

"Ah, you naughty boy!" she said, catching him by the hand. "Come here to me till I teach you the knowledge of God's word. Now, Paul, that passage you quoted I do not find in my Bible."

"No," said Paul, "for your Bible is no other than an imperfect, mutilated Bible, corrupted by the men who made your religion. The Catholic church, from which the Protestants stole their piecemeal Bible, always regarded the book of Machabeus as the inspired word of God."

"But, Paul, it is so foolish, this 'half-way house.'"

"Then, miss, you must blame God, who created it, for the folly of his not consulting with some Protestant philosopher before he created such a 'half way.' For most certainly there was always, since the dawn of creation, a third place; as, for example, the place where the souls of the just were confined before Christ, who was the first to ascend into heaven, as himself says in his gospel. Now, the Bible does not say that this half way was 'foolish,' or abolished either. Besides, it is but reasonable that there should be a place to purify the frail and imperfect soul before admitting her to God's holy presence."

"Where the tree falleth, there it lieth," said she.

"Yes, fallen," said Paul, "it lieth there till it is taken away to another place. Where the soul falleth,--that is, whether in a state of grace or in sin,--there it will lie forever; but those who go to purgatory die in a state of grace, and so their eternal destiny is heaven--like those just souls who died before Christ; yet they are not fit for heaven immediately, for 'nothing defiled can enter therein.'"

"You wrote to the priest, didn't you, to say masses for your mother's soul in purgatory? How do you know she is there?" said Amanda, unguardedly.

"I hope she is in no worse place," said Paul, the fire kindling in his dark Celtic eye; "and whether in heaven or in hell,--which God forbid!--the mass can do no harm, but tend to the honor and glory of God, and I hope procure me and the celebrant merit. But, Amanda, how do you know that I wrote any such request to the priest? I know you are above reading my letters, though I should leave them open under your eye; but I am afraid that hypocritical-looking postmaster may have kept my letters, and given them to somebody. In Ireland, that crime deserved hanging as a punishment; and I do not know what I would do to any body I would detect in opening my letters, and pilfering my secrets," said he, raising himself up.

"O, my dear Paul," said the old maid, perceiving her imprudence, "I only guessed at the contents of your letters. We Yankees are great at guessing, you know. Be silent; shut up, my good fellow," she added, going over to the window. "What crowd is that there below on the road?"

An unusual sight in that part of the country now presented itself to view. Slowly moving along the road was a crowd of men and women--the men, as they came up, taking off their hats, and the women courtesying, in that way that only Catholics can courtesy, to a young gentleman, who, seated in a one-horse carriage, the top lowered down, seemed to be engaged, as he was, in earnest conversation about some subject of an absorbing interest to those around him. In truth, any body, even Amanda, who never saw one, could have guessed that this personage, surrounded by so many of the Irish railroad laborers lately settled in the vicinity, was no other than the Catholic priest. Paul's eye, so lately kindled into passion from the hints dropped by Amanda about the foul play regarding his letters, became immediately subdued into composure, and, taking out a small miniature reliquary and silver crucifix which he ever wore on his breast, he pressed them to his lips, saying to himself, "Glory be to God; and Mary, his virgin mother, be ever blessed. I see the priest, if he is alive." And instantly he was over the fence and on the road.

"There is one of 'em," said Mrs. Murphy, "your reverence; and it would be a charity to do something for the poor children, for they were well reared."

Paul could not, owing to the tears that rushed on him in floods, dare for some time to join the crowd to offer his respects to the representative of religion; and it was a full quarter of an hour before he could say, "Welcome to these parts, your reverence."

"Thank you, my child," said the priest, reaching him his hand.

"Forgive me, sir," said the poor youth; "I can't but weep, 'tis so long since I saw a priest or heard mass."

There was not a dry eye in the crowd as the young lad clung to the priest's hand, embracing it, and crying aloud, "O my uncle! my uncle!"

"Take him into the shanty and calm him a little," said the stalwart missionary. "Poor little fellow! poor child! poor child!"

"O, God help the orphan!" said Mrs. Murphy again, fearing she had not touched his reverence's heart. "It would be the charity of God to do something for them. The men would be all willing to subscribe."

"We will do all we can," said his reverence. "God will provide for them, if they be what you represent. Meet me here to-morrow, at six o'clock. We will have mass and confessions here in the shanty, as we could procure no better place. Give word around through the entire neighborhood. Good by for the present," said he, moving along towards the village of S----.

"God speed your reverence," answered a hundred voices, as they returned the adieu.

This was the first night since the death of his beloved mother, and that was over two years, that the slightest ray of hope penetrated the burdened but confiding soul of Paul. For himself he did not much care. He could have escaped any day, and repudiated the iniquitous contract by which the villanous poormaster had sold him and his brethren; but what was to become of his younger sister and brothers? He knew how to plough, mow, cradle, and farm it, as well as any body of his age. He knew how to read, count, write, and even defend his religion, against all opponents, as he did last winter at the Lyceum; but what was to become of Bridget, Patrick, and little Eugene, who had yet many years to serve? This was what puzzled him. But now the priest had come for the first time to this remote region, and _he_ knew what to do, and would not desert the orphan, for no priest ever had done so. He felt there was to be now a change, and he felt assured that it would be for his good. "Thank God," said he, "I saw the priest at last. I return thee thanks, my God, and thee, my mother in heaven, now my only mother, and I thank all the heavenly citizens and all heaven, for this dawn of hope that I feel in my soul. O Lord, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

Fervent and pious were the prayers offered to God on this night by Paul, as he thanked him for having seen one in whom he could confide as a friend, as well as because he was preparing to go to his religious duties on the morrow. Let it not be said that it was superstition in Paul to thank God so fervently for having permitted him once more to converse with his priest. What can be imagined a more worthy cause for thanksgiving than the meeting with a true friend? What better gift can we receive from God than a friend? And who ever, in need, has failed to find the good priest a friend in all emergencies?