Father Mahon was a conscientious priest. He said his mass at eight
o'clock; he breakfasted at nine; he performed certain devotions till
half-past ten; read the paper till eleven, and theology till twelve.
Then he considered himself at liberty to do what he liked till his
dinner at one. (The rest of his day does not concern us just now.)
He, too, was looking round his garden this morning--a fine, solid
figure of a man, in rather baggy trousers, short coat, and expansive
waistcoat, with every button doing its duty. He too, like Mr. James
Morton, had his beat, an even narrower one than the barrister's, and
even better trodden, for he never strayed off it at all, except for
four short weeks in the summer, when he hurried across to Ireland and
got up late, and went on picnics with other ecclesiastics in straw
hats, and joined in cheerful songs in the evening. He was a priest,
with perfectly defined duties, and of admirable punctuality and
conscientiousness in doing them. He disliked the English quite
extraordinarily; but his sense of duty was such that they never
suspected it; and his flock of Saxons adored him as people only can
adore a brisk, businesslike man with a large heart and peremptory
ways, who is their guide and father, and is perfectly aware of it. His
sermons consisted of cold-cut blocks of dogma taken perseveringly from
sermon outlines and served up Sunday by Sunday with a sauce of a
slight and delightful brogue. He could never have kindled the Thames,
nor indeed any river at all, but he could bridge them with solid
stones; and this is, perhaps, even more desirable.
Maggie had begun by disliking him. She had thought him rather coarse
and stupid; but she had changed her mind. He was not what may be
called subtle; he had no patience at all with such things as scruples,
_nuances_, and shades of tone and meaning; but if you put a plain
question to him plainly, he gave you a plain answer, if he knew it; if
not, he looked it up then and there; and that is always a relief in
this intricate world. Maggie therefore did not bother him much; she
went to him only on plain issues; and he respected and liked her
accordingly.
"Good morning, my child," he said in his loud, breezy voice, as he
came in to find her in his hideous little sitting-room. "I hope you
don't mind the smell of tobacco-smoke."
The room indeed reeked; he had started a cigar, according to rule, as
the clock struck twelve, and had left it just now upon a stump outside
when his housekeeper had come to announce a visitor.
"Not in the least, thanks, father.... May I sit down? It's rather a
long business, I'm afraid."
The priest pulled out an arm-chair covered with horsehair and an
antimacassar.
"Sit down, my child."
Then he sat down himself, opposite her, in his trousers at once tight
and baggy, with his rather large boots cocked one over the other, and
his genial red face smiling at her.
"Now then," he said.
"It's not about myself, father," she began rather hurriedly. "It's
about Laurie Baxter. May I begin at the beginning?"
He nodded. He was not sorry to hear something about this boy, whom he
didn't like at all, but for whom he knew himself at least partly
responsible. The English were bad enough, but English converts were
indescribably trying; and Laurie had been on his mind lately, he
scarcely knew why.
Then Maggie began at the beginning, and told the whole thing, from
Amy's death down to Mr. Morton's letter. He put a question or two to
her during her story, looking at her with pressed lips, and finally
put out his hand for the letter itself.
"Mrs. Baxter doesn't know what I've come about," said the girl. "You
won't give her a hint, will you, father?"
He nodded reassuringly to her, absorbed in the letter, and presently
handed it back, with a large smile.
"He seems a sensible fellow," he said.
"Ah! that's what I wanted to ask you, father. I don't know anything at
all about spiritualism. Is it--is it really all nonsense? Is there
nothing in it at all?"
He laughed aloud.
"I don't think you need be afraid," he said. "Of course we know that
souls don't come back like that. They're somewhere else."
"Then it's all fraud?"
"It's practically all fraud," he said, "but it's very superstitious,
and is forbidden by the Church."
This was straight enough. It was at least a clear issue to begin to
attack Laurie upon.
"Then--then that's the evil of it?" she said. "There's no real power
underneath? That's what Mr. Rymer said to Mrs. Baxter; and it's what
I've always thought myself."
The priest's face became theological.
"Let's see what Sabetti says," he said. "I fancy--"
He turned in his chair and fetched out a volume behind him.
"Here we are...."
He ran his finger down the heavy paragraphs, turned a page or two, and
began a running comment and translation: "'_Necromantia ex_'....
'Necromancy arising from invocation of the dead'.... Let's see ...
yes, 'Spiritism, or the consulting of spirits in order to know hidden
things, especially that pertain to the future life, certainly is
divination properly so called, and is ... is full of even more impiety
than is magnetism, or the use of turning tables. The reason is, as the
Baltimore fathers testify, that such knowledge must necessarily be
ascribed to Satanic intervention, since in no other manner can it be
explained.'"
"Then--" began Maggie.
"One moment, my child.... Yes ... just so. 'Express divination'....
No, no. Ah! here we are, 'Tacit divination, ... even if it is openly
protested that no commerce with the Demon is intended, is _per se_
grave sin; but it can sometimes be excused from mortal sin, on account
of simplicity or ignorance or a lack of certain faith.' You see, my
child--" he set the book back in its place "--so far as it's not fraud
it's diabolical. And that's an end of it."
"But do you think it's not all fraud, then?" asked the girl, paling a
little.
He laughed again, with a resonance that warmed her heart.
"I should pay just no attention to it all. Tell him, if you like, what
I've said, and that it's grave sin for him to play with it; but don't
get thinking that the devil's in everything."
Maggie was puzzled.
"Then it's not the devil?" she asked--"at least not in this case, you
think?"
He smiled again reassuringly.
"I should suspect it was a clever trick," he said. "I don't think
Master Laurie's likely to get mixed up with the devil in that way.
There's plenty of easier ways than that."
"Do you think I should write to Mr. Cathcart?"
"Just as you like. He's a convert, isn't he? I believe I've heard his
name."
"I think so."
"Well, it wouldn't do any harm; though I should suspect not much
good."
Maggie was silent.
"Just tell Master Laurie not to play tricks," said the priest. "He's
got a good, sensible friend in Mr. Morton. I can see that. And don't
trouble your head too much about it, my child."
* * * * *
When Maggie was gone, he went out to finish his cigar, and found to
his pleasure that it was still alight, and after a puff or two it went
very well.
He thought about his interview for a few minutes as he walked up and
down, taking the bright winter air. It explained a good deal. He had
begun to be a little anxious about this boy. It was not that Laurie
had actually neglected his religion while at Stantons; he was always
in his place at mass on Sundays, and even, very occasionally, on
weekdays as well. And he had had a mass said for Amy Nugent. But even
as far back as the beginning of the previous year, there had been an
air about him not altogether reassuring.
Well, this at any rate was a small commentary on the present
situation.... (The priest stopped to look at some bulbs that were
coming up in the bed beside him, and stooped, breathing heavily, to
smooth the earth round one of them with a large finger.)... And as for
this Spiritualistic nonsense--of course the whole thing was a trick.
Things did not happen like that. Of course the devil could do
extraordinary things: or at any rate had been able to do them in the
past; but as for Master Laurie Baxter--whose home was down there in
the hamlet, and who had been at Oxford and was now reading law--as for
the thought that this rather superior Saxon young man was in direct
communication with Satan at the present time--well, that needed no
comment but loud laughter.
Yet it was very unwholesome and unhealthy. That was the worst of these
converts; they could not be content with the sober workaday facts of
the Catholic creed. They must be always running after some novelty or
other.... And it was mortal sin anyhow, if the sinner had the faintest
idea--
A large dinner-bell pealed from the back door; and the priest went in
to roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, apple dumplings, and a single
glass of port-wine to end up with.