THE BECKONING HAND
The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was
still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far
more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand,
wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable
peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was
evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory"
and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his
countenance.
"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one,"
he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go
out now and look for another one."
"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you will
have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would
care for the same kind of position you had before--would you? I
suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not
going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought
Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I
heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his
intendent."
"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent
intend to do? It's a new one on me."
"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "is quite a
personage on the other side. He is the man who runs the business
affairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite a
good position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective.
Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness over
the property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If the
salary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer.
Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you very
much. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'a
black Protestant,' I look upon you as one of my own."
Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of difference
that makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself,
Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you."
"Now, Mr. Saunders," reproved Father Murray, "that is not very
complimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity."
Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch of
seriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain.
"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father--only it strikes me that there
is always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic'
and the one that wasn't born a Catholic."
"Well, Mr. Wise Man," said the priest, "perhaps you'll explain the
difference."
Saunders looked puzzled. "It is a hard thing to explain, Father," he
said, and then hesitated; "but I'll try to do it. In the first
place--but this doesn't go for you--I think that the convert is more
bigoted than the other kind. Now, honestly, don't you?"
Father Murray was amused. "I am glad, Mr. Saunders," he replied, "that
you leave me out of it. That is a _real_ compliment. Now, let us put
it this way: If you had been the possessor of a million dollars from
the time of your birth, it would be a matter of course with you, would
it not?"
"Certainly."
"But if you should suddenly acquire a million dollars, you would
naturally feel very much elated about it. Is that not true?"
"Yes--but what then?"
"That is the way it is with converts to anything. They suddenly
acquire what to them is very precious and, like the newly-made
millionaire, they are fearful of anything that threatens their wealth.
They become enthusiasts about what they have--and I must confess that
some of them even become a bit of a nuisance. But it is a good sign.
It is a sign of sincerity, and you cannot overlook sincerity. There is
too little of it in the world."
"I am mighty glad now," said Saunders, "that you haven't got it."
"What? The sincerity?"
"Oh, Lord, no!--the bigotry. Anyhow, if I stay here, you won't have
much trouble with me for, like a certain man I once read about, the
church I _don't_ go to is the Methodist."
"Then I will have to give you up," said Father Murray. "If the
Methodist were the one you actually _did_ go to, I might have half a
chance to make you a convert; but since you do not go to _any_, I am
afraid that my counsels would fall upon stony ground. But you will
always be welcome to the rectory, even if you do not bother the
church," he added.
"But surely, Father," said Saunders, "you are not going to stay here?
Hasn't the Bishop made you his Vicar-General again? And doesn't he
want you to go back to the Cathedral?"
"That is true," answered the priest, his face becoming grave. "But I
have grown very fond of Sihasset, and the Bishop has kindly given me
permission to remain in charge of the parish here."
"I don't quite understand that," said the visitor in an urging way. "I
should hate to lose you, Father--for of course I shall stay if the
Baron offers me the position, and I'm going to bring the wife and
kiddies, too--I like the place, and I like the people--but when I was a
common soldier, I wanted to be a sergeant, and when I became sergeant I
wanted to be a lieutenant. I suppose if I had gotten the lieutenancy,
I should have wanted a captaincy, and then I shouldn't have been
satisfied until I had charge of a battalion--and so on up the line. It
takes all the ginger out of a man if he has no ambitions. Why
shouldn't a priest have them, too?"
"Some of them have," answered Father Murray, "when they are young. But
when they 'arrive' they begin to find out the truth of what they were
told in the seminary long before--that 'arriving' does not make them
any happier. In the Catholic Church, position means trouble and worry,
because it means that you become more of a servant yet assume greater
responsibilities. If a man can center his ambitions in the next world,
it makes him a great deal happier in this. I have had my
ambitions--and I have had them realized, too. But I found means to
transplant them where they belonged. Having transplanted them, I do
not propose to take them out of good heavenly soil and put them back on
the earth again. As they are quite well grown now in the garden of
God, I am not going to risk losing them by making a change, if I can
help it. I shall stay in Sihasset if I am permitted to do so. Should
I be called away, that is a different matter. Please God, when I go
out--to quote my friend, Father Daly--I'll go out feet first."
"I suppose you're right, Father," said Saunders, "I suppose you're
right. Anyhow, I'm glad that you're going to stay. By the way, now
that you've told me one secret, won't you tell me another?"
Father Murray became very cheerful again. "I bet I can guess what you
want to know now, Saunders."
"Well, I'll give you one guess," answered the detective.
"You want to know," said Father Murray, "why the Minister gave up so
easily."
"I do," replied Saunders. "That's just what I want to know. You must
have told the Baron, but you have never told me. I want to know what
magic you worked."
"I suppose I shall have to tell you. Being a detective, you have
learned to keep your mouth shut. Here is the whole story: As I told
you, I had a friend in the State Department. Well, I went to him and,
for old times' sake, he tried to help, and did. When I told him my
story, he believed me, but he very frankly informed me that the matter
was a delicate one and that, officially, he could do nothing. He
wasn't entirely ignorant of the young Italian, but he said that would
probably have to be 'forgotten.' He pointed out that the body had
disappeared, that the man was absolutely unknown here, and that to
prove murder would be practically impossible. Still, he agreed that
our knowledge of the murder would be a powerful help toward making His
Excellency reasonable. He outlined how that game should be played, and
before I left he had arranged for someone to meet the Minister at the
banquet that night, and delicately suggest that the State Department
had had some inquiry regarding the disappearance of a brilliant young
Italian officer. Knowing what would happen at the banquet, I was ready
to meet the Minister. But it wasn't necessary to rely wholly on that.
Late that night--after my return from Brookland--my friend sent for me
to come to him at once. I went, and he showed me the translation of a
cipher-dispatch which had just been received from Europe. That
dispatch gave information concerning a dangerous situation which might
lead to war. It was very long, and dwelt also on the situation in a
certain Grand Duchy, the ruler of which had just died. The next in
line, a girl, had disappeared. The King was worried. With war almost
on his hands, he did not want the girl to take the throne, but rather
desired the succession of her uncle, who was a strong soldier and just
the man for the emergency. The dispatch left it plainly to be
understood that the girl was in America, and that the King would be
glad if she remained here permanently--in other words, that she be
allowed quietly to disappear. It was a cold-blooded proposition to
deprive her of her rights, or to find some means of doing it. Our own
military attache at the royal capital secured the information; and,
since America had been mentioned, thought it his duty to forward the
dispatch to our State Department. As soon as my friend had read it, he
sent for me. He put me under a pledge of secrecy until the matter was
settled. It has been settled now; but there is no need of the story
going any farther than yourself. 'Since the girl has died,' said my
friend, 'the wishes of the King may easily be obeyed. The uncle will
ascend the throne, and the Duchy will remain an ally of the Kingdom.
This information should be in the hands of the Minister now and,
instead of trying to prove that the lady is the Grand Duchess, he will
probably be only too anxious to be rid of her.' I had all that
information," continued Father Murray, "when I went to find you
gentlemen and save you from getting into mischief."
"We would have had a glorious time, Father," sighed Saunders,
regretfully. Then he leaned back and whistled softly as his mind
grasped the full significance of the priest's words. "The detective
business, Father," he said energetically, "has many angles, and few of
them are right angles; but I think that the number of obtuse and other
kind of angles is much larger in diplomacy. But I rather like that
Minister," he added. "He isn't heartless."
"No," replied Father Murray, as he contemplatively lighted a cigar.
"He was mighty human when he came to see us at the New Willard. Don't
you remember how he forgot himself--even had tears in his eyes when he
referred to the dead Duchess and the fact that she was better off in
her grave than she would have been at court? His wife had taken a
genuine liking to Ruth, and the man himself was more than half
convinced that she was all she claimed to be, but he wasn't free to
release her. He now wants to make reparation--but he wants also to
support the idea that Ruth Atheson was only the _friend_ of the dead
Duchess and, therefore, that the Duchess is really dead. It would be
very unfortunate, if, later on, it should prove that he had been
deceived. He would find it difficult to explain matters to His Majesty
if a Grand Duchess, supposedly dead, should suddenly prove very much
alive and demand possession of a throne already occupied by her
successor. So His Excellency wants the lady married as 'Ruth Atheson'
with due solemnity and with proper witness. There is method, Mr.
Saunders, even in his kindness."
Saunders whistled again. "It beats me, Father," he said. "I own up.
They know more than detectives."
At this moment Mark came striding over the lawn.
"Hello, Saunders," he called. "I've been looking for you. Now that
I've got you, I might as well have it out and be done with it. Ruth
wants you to stay here. She wants to make you one of us. We are going
to Ireland for six months, and then we're coming back to live here part
of each year. We want you to take charge of Killimaga. I've bought
it. A good salary--no quarreling or dickering about it. What do you
say?"
"This is certainly a surprise," said Saunders, winking at the Padre.
"Have you room for an extra family?"
"You're married?"
"Very much so."
"The bigger the family the better. But," he added, as an afterthought,
"I'll have to tell Ruth, or she'll be trying to marry you off. You'll
come, then?"
"Yes," said Saunders, "I guess I'll take you up on that."
Mark shook hands with him. "Done. You're a good old chap. I thought
you would stay."
Then, turning to Father Murray, Mark spoke more seriously. "Don't you
think, Father, that it is almost time to meet the Bishop? He is coming
on the next train, you know." He paused and seemed momentarily
embarrassed. Then he straightened up and frankly voiced his thought.
"Before he comes, will you not step into the church with me? I have a
lot of things to straighten out."
The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you mean
that, my boy?"
"I do," replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed an
open church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning hand
behind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's face
behind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination,
perhaps--in fact, I know it must have been--but it was mother's
face--and I am coming home."
The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priest
and the penitent entered the church.