that I had experienced a sense of loneliness, even with my friends,
during five minutes spent in that upstairs room. I can only suppose
that if I had remained longer I should have experienced such a further
degree of that sensation that I should have felt exactly as those two
pairs of brides and bridegrooms felt and have come away immediately. I
might even, if I had been in authority, have given orders that nothing
was to be touched except my own luggage.”
“I do not understand that,” said Father Brent, looking puzzled.
“Nor do I altogether,” I answered; “but I think I perceive it to be a
fact for all that. One might feel that one was an intruder, that one
had meddled with something that desired to be left alone, and that one
had better not meddle further in any kind of way.”
“I suppose you went down there again,” observed Monsignor Maxwell.
“I did; a fortnight afterwards. There was only one girl left; the other
was married and gone away. She did not remember me; it was nine years
ago, and she was a little redder in the face and a little more stolid.
“The lawn had been clipped and mown, but was beginning to grow rank
again. Then I went upstairs with her. The room was comparatively clean;
there was water in the basin; and clean sheets on the bed; but there
was just a little film of dust lying on everything. I pretended I knew
nothing and asked questions; and I was told exactly the same story
as I had heard nine years before; only this time the date was only a
fortnight ago.
“When she had finished she added:
“‘It happened so once before, sir; before I was born.’
“‘Do you understand it?’ I said.
“‘No, sir; the house is a little _triste_ perhaps. Do you think so,
sir?’
“I said that perhaps it was. Then I gave her two francs and came away.
“That is all, reverend Fathers.”
* * * * *
There was silence for a minute. Then Padre Bianchi made what I consider
a tactless remark.
“Bah! that does not terrify me,” he said.
“‘Terrify’ is certainly not the word,” remarked Monsignor Maxwell.
“I am not quite sure about that,” ended Father Brent.
* * * * *
The bell rang for night-prayers.
“Sum up, Father Rector,” said Monsignor without moving. “You have heard
all the stories and Mr. Benson is going to-morrow.”
The old priest smiled as he stood up; and was silent for a moment,
looking at us all.
“I can only sum up like this, with the sentiments with which Monsignor
began,” he said: “The longer I live and the more I hear and see, the
greater I feel my ignorance to be. I heard a man say the other day that
Catholics were the only genuine agnostics alive; and that he respected
them for it. They knew some things that others did not; but they did
not pretend to affirm or to deny that of which they had no possibility
of judging. Is that what you meant me to say, Monsignor?”
Monsignor nodded meditatively.
“I think that is a sound conclusion,” he said. “It is understood then,
Mr. Benson, that if you print these stories, you will add that not one
of us commits himself to belief in any of them--except, I suppose, each
in his own.”
“I will mention it,” I said.
“Perhaps you might say that we do not even commit ourselves to our own.
You can say what you like about yours, of course.”
“I will mention that, too,” I said, “and I will class myself with the
rest. The agnostic position is certainly the soundest in all matters
outside the deposit of faith. We all stand, then, exactly where we did
at the beginning?”
“Certainly I do,” said Padre Bianchi.
“We all do,” said a number of voices.
* * * * *
Then we went to night-prayers together for the last time.
PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK
Transcriber’s Notes
• Italics represented with _underscores_.
• Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.
• Each chapter was preceded by a half-title page that reproduced
the chapter name. These redundant chapter titles have not been
reproduced.
• Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.
• Variations in hyphenation kept as in the original.