FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET
Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something on
her mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was always
quite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal her
thoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent love
of gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but long
experience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary of
approaching a subject too abruptly.
"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence."
"Yes? What was it this time?"
"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He's
drinkin' ag'in."
"And she wants me to--"
"Give him the pledge."
"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?"
"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring him
wid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledges
on that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tin
years."
Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress,
but not quite enough yet.
"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then," said the
priest, looking down longingly at his work.
But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted."
Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?"
"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted."
"Who insulted her?"
"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation."
"But I did."
"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy."
"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilson
anything. I'll see her to-day."
"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soaped
all the time, the painted thing!"
"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hard
feelings."
"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way the
Bishop--"
"Ann!"
"I _will_ say it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago?
An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this--"
"Please, Ann."
"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I could
tell him things if I had me tongue on him--"
But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held her
tongue.
"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors.
The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, and
neither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word."
The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won't
say a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hope
ye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well and
faithfully."
"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don't
cry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me."
"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence."
"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoiled
dinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled."
"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it." Father Murray
could not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning his
slender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral."
"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?"
"McCarthy's sick ag'in."
"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning."
Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on
the chronically dying McCarthy.
"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil
anointin' that omadhan four times already."
The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice.
"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my
hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's."
Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information.
"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on
yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?"
"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there
are plenty of servants at Killimaga."
He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke
forgotten.
"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' his
pinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy." Then the
remembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of her
ruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man who
was the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knows
how to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativer
the Bishop, bad scran to him, is."
There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of the
eternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates,
without knowing why--and loves and protects too--still without knowing,
or asking, a reason.
In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. He
often dropped in for a chat.
"Where's the Father?" he asked.
"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in," she answered, with pleased
anticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of the
parish's chronic hypochondriac.
But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding off
temptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if he
had just heard a wonderful story.
Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?"
"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs the _Weekly
Herald_. Ye know him?"
"I know no good av him."
"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig.
Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited
about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be
rigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, and
he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear."
"The omadhan!"
"Av coorse." Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not have
axed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want to
be disguised?' he said. 'That I do,' said Brinn, takin' off his hat to
mop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wan
glance at his head. 'Wear a wig,' sez he."
Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected.
"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week," she confided. "'Twas auld
Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dog
does always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to the
other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin'
Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup,
and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and he
ran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day,' sez Roberts to
the Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts,' he sez, quiet-like. 'The
dogs understand each other.' 'I will, so,' sez Roberts, 'and I kin
shoot a human dog, too.'"
"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that?
He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!"
"Ye n'adn't," said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther nor
ye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry to
commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,' sez he, and off he marched. Sure the
whole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake."
"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he's
Scotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it."
Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked
quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks." A
man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed.
"Good day to you, Elder," he drawled.
"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped to
shake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the
town. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for
he was a well-to-do business man.
"Fine, fine, Elder," he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" He
fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray read
it aloud:
JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS
Justice of the Peace
The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate.
Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and
eloquently.
_Fees Moderate_. _Osculation extra_.
Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no
connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill.
_P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injure
the most delicate complexion_.
"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up,
Mr. Sturgis," laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, you
didn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I see
it on your face."
"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bit
and I'll tell you." The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose you
know Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?"
"I know him only slightly."
"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business.'
He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about that
lady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable told
it to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in it
that concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so he
gave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him."
Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank you
kindly, Mr. Sturgis," he said. "I would like to save the lady from
annoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin by
apologizing for my recent attack on his beauty."
"No need to do that, Father," assured the justice. "He printed the
joke himself in to-day's _Herald_."
When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward the
rectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressed
story was safely in his pocket.