He had been deputed by the others to confront the unwelcome visitor, as
being the eldest, and therefore responsible for all unpleasant duties;
but as far as he was concerned, he had no feeling in the matter. Like
any Scotsman who had lived with his mother from childhood to mature
manhood, he was deeply attached to her, and willing to agree to
anything that might give her satisfaction in her present weak state;
that the visit of the priest would be a comfort to her he strongly
suspected, and hence the conflict between duty--as he regarded it--and
affection.
It took very little persuasion from the priest to overcome Adam's
scruples and gain admittance to the sick-room; this accomplished, it
might seem that the battle had been won for religion, but the victory
was not yet complete!
Adam had relented so far as to admit the priest, but no argument could
persuade him to leave him alone with the invalid. He was the agent of
the family, and it was his duty to see everything that went on. He
would have nothing underhand in the matter!
Mr. McGillivray easily interpreted his action. He was afraid of what
the others might say should he desert his post--that was all.
Diplomacy was necessary and the priest rose to the occasion.
"Look here, Adam," he said; "I know you are merely carrying out what
you feel to be a duty to your family in staying here. We can arrange
matters without any difficulty. I must have a few minutes' private
talk with your mother on religious matters which concern herself and no
one else. Just leave me with her for a bit and you can come back and
stay here as long as I do."
But Adam was obstinate. He acknowledged that the others "wouldna' be
pleased" should he relinquish his post of watch-dog. He must "bide" in
the room as long as the priest remained.
As in many houses of that class, there was what is called a
"bed-closet" opening out of the room in which the sick woman lay. It
was literally a closet, containing nothing except the bed, and lighted
by a tiny window. Without more ado, Mr. McGillivray seized the man by
the arm and led him to the closet.
"Just jump onto the bed," he whispered. "No one will know that you
have not remained in the room. You shall come out in a few minutes."
So the burly Adam climbed onto the bed, and the priest shut the door
upon his prisoner and fastened the "sneck." After hearing the mother's
Confession, he released his captive, and Adam stood by while the saving
unction was administered to prepare the poor woman for her last
journey. It was soon over and the priest took his leave.
Adam was quite relieved to find that his mother had been gladdened by
the priest's ministrations--for she had poured forth grateful thanks
for his kindness--while he had not been compromised in the eyes of his
brothers and sisters. He willingly consented for Mr. McGillivray to
return next day to administer Holy Communion for the first--and
probably the last--time in the life of the dying woman.
"I've only one more office to do for your mother, Adam," the priest had
explained, "and then she will be quite at rest. So I will call
to-morrow about this time." And Adam had cordially agreed.
But there were others to be reckoned with. The news of the priest's
visit was soon carried to the Free Church minister, and down he swooped
upon the luckless Fordyces that very afternoon. Poor Adam was the
scapegoat. He it was who had to bear the whole of the blame. The
minister congratulated himself, when he took his leave (without
venturing into the sick-room, for the present), that he had
successfully prevented any further "popish antics" in that house!
Consequently, when Mr. McGillivray returned next day, according to
promise, he was met, not by Adam, but by the younger son--a dour
Presbyterian, of pronounced type. He absolutely refused to allow the
priest to cross the threshold again. His brother was "oot"; but he had
left word that he must not be allowed to enter the house. The
minister, as the brother explained, "had been sair angered" on account
of the proceedings of the previous day. He had threatened to remove
Adam from his post of "precentor" should he allow any more intercourse
between his mother and any "popish minister."
Remonstrances, persuasions, entreaties were all unavailing. The man
declared that his mother "didna' wish to see" Mr. McGillivray. The
latter had therefore reluctantly to submit to circumstances and return
home with the Blessed Sacrament, leaving the poor woman
"unhouselled"--although not "unanointed." He feared that she had given
in to the persuasions of the minister to refuse further help. But
after her death, which occurred a few days later, the good priest
ascertained that she had died in most edifying dispositions. The
minister had not visited her, and she had thought it best to wait a
little before seeing the priest again, merely on account of her family.
The McGruers, who were present at the last, assured him that she had
died a good Catholic---her only regret the deprivation of Holy
Communion.
Some remarks dropped by the Free Church minister as to the priest's
"interference" with a member of his congregation drew forth so vehement
a denial from Mr. McGillivray, and a demand for a public contradiction
of the statement from the pulpit on the following Sunday, that the
crestfallen minister had to eat his words.
The priest was indeed a match for any of his opponents in whatever way
they chose to attack him. Once at a dinner, when three ministers were
present as well as Mr. McGillivray, one of them thought to make a butt
of the priest, and during the after-dinner toasts proposed suddenly:
"The Auld Kirk!" But the priest was too quick for him. Raising his
glass, he responded promptly: "The Auld Kirk--the True Kirk!"
"No! No!" cried the entrapped Presbyterian.
"Then I'm sorry for _you_!" was the quiet retort.
One feature in Bell's recollections must not be passed over. The
priest was renowned as a peacemaker. Anything like family strife was
speedily put an end to by his tactful intervention. Even by
Protestants his services were not infrequently asked for in this
respect, and the result was a great popularity with all classes in the
district of Ardmuirland. There was much pathos about the old man's
last days; for he hastened his end by his self-denying charity in the
cause of peace.
A violent quarrel had taken place some years before between two
Protestant farmers, both living some distance away from the priest's
house. They had married two sisters, and a dispute had arisen on the
subject of a legacy left to one of these nieces by their father's
brother, while the other was passed over entirely. Suspicions and
insinuations of underhand dealing on the part of the successful legatee
had aroused strong feelings, with the result that all communication
between the two families had ceased.
At length the wife of one of the belligerents lay upon her deathbed,
and under the softening influence of that solemn hour she begged that
her sister should be asked to visit her, that they might part as
sisters should. The other woman was just as anxious for a
reconciliation, but their respective husbands could not be brought to
terms.
In her distress the dying woman sent a message to the priest, begging
for his intervention. It was the dead of winter, and a severe frost
had set in. The old priest had to drive in a friendly farmer's open
vehicle for ten miles in a keen wind. He succeeded in persuading one
of the men to seek for peace and friendship, then drove on five miles
farther to interview the other. Through his earnest remonstrances the
strife was entirely brought to an end. But it was at the cost of the
life of the aged peacemaker. He caught a severe chill, which he was
never able to throw off, and after two or three months he bade farewell
to earth.
Mr. McGillivray had desired, when old age should have rendered him
incapable of his priestly charge, to be allowed to retire from active
work, and end his days in the quiet seclusion of his native district--a
strath shut in by hills, many miles to the north of Ardmuirland. But
the family from which the priest had sprung were no great favorites
there, and his wish, when made known, had not been cordially received
by the people. This had been sufficient to excite the wrath of the
Ardmuirland folk; they had risen up as one man against any such
arrangement. An appeal was made to the Bishop to prevent their beloved
pastor from leaving his flock to die among comparative strangers. So
it had been settled by authority that Mr. McGillivray should continue
his ministrations among them as long as he was able, and should then
receive a helper; thus he was never to take leave of Ardmuirland except
to receive his heavenly reward. As we have seen, he died in harness,
before there could be any question of retirement.
And now another difficulty arose. His own native district naturally
laid claim to his mortal remains, and his relatives had speedily made
arrangements for his burial in the family grave. Then, indeed,
Ardmuirland was stirred.
"They wouldna' tak' him leevin'; they'll nae get him deid!" was the
universal cry.
So in the bright springtime, after a late fall of snow had clothed the
countryside in dazzling whiteness, his people bore him to the grave.
An immense gathering--of both Catholics and Protestants--had assembled;
in Bell's expressive phrase--"the country wes full o' men!" Every man
took his turn in helping to bear the coffin shoulder-high all the five
miles which lay between the priest's house and the ancient
burial-ground of St. Michael below the hill. There, surrounded by the
flock he had tended so long and so faithfully, the body of the pastor
awaits with them the general awakening to life eternal.
XI
A SPRIG OF SHAMROCK
"Amid the roses fierce Repentance rears
Her snaky crest."
(_Thomson's Seasons---"Spring"_)
"Shamrock in Scotland!" I seem to hear some captious critic exclaim. I
do not attribute Scottish birth to the particular sprig of shamrock
which is to figure in these pages, dear reader. Like all true
shamrock, it was grown in the Emerald Isle. Nevertheless, it was by
its means that the subject of this story migrated to Ardmuirland; hence
it is responsible for my narrative.
* * * * * *
It was no fault on Bernard Murray's part that all his acquaintances
should without exception imagine that he was of Scottish race. For
every one who knew him well--and they numbered not a few--dubbed him "a
canny Scot." He had not started the fiction, even if he had done
nothing toward contradicting it. For what did it matter to any one
else that his nationality should be so widely misinterpreted? He did
not care a straw. Indeed, it is possible that in his secret heart he
was rather pleased that the illusion had grown up. For it might prove
awkward to be known as Irish; Ireland, among the set in which he moved,
was looked upon as so impossibly retrograde! So when he was hailed as
"a canny Scot" Bernard merely smiled pleasantly and held his peace.
No doubt Violet Rossall thought that smile well worth awakening. It
was so sunny--lighting up to classical beauty Bernard's usually grave
yet always handsome features. The rarity of his smile, too, rendered
it all the more precious. His habitual quiet thoughtfulness of
expression helped to settle so definitely his supposed origin; yet had
his admirers been better learned in physiognomy they could never have
guessed so wide of the mark. The clear, pale skin, the black hair and
dark blue eyes so palpably proclaimed him Irish! Moreover, it was to
his native traits that he really owed his wide popularity. The quiet
reserve which usually characterized him hid a fund of brilliant humor,
which would occasionally, and often unexpectedly, flash out in some
quick retort or witty jest; nor was there ever wanting that indefinable
attraction which is the special charm of Erin's sons and daughters all
the world over.
Even Cuthbert Aston was not proof against that charm, although in a
sense he and Bernard were rivals. For it must have been as evident to
Violet Rossall as it was to all onlookers that both Murray and Aston
sought her company in preference to that of any other maiden of their
acquaintance; which of the two was preferred by her was not so evident,
since she seemed to favor both alike.
Violet was, indeed, the center of attraction for all the unattached
males of her particular set. For one reason, she was undeniably
beautiful. An oval face, creamy complexion, large, changeful gray
eyes, abundant hair of bright chestnut hue, a slim and graceful
figure--these were but the half of her charms; there was beauty in her
ever-changing expression, and beauty, above all, in that radiant,
winning smile, apart from all loveliness of form or feature. She was
so undeniably clever, too. She had passed through school and college
with flying colors, carrying off one distinction after another; now she
held a prominent position as teacher in a secondary school, with the
certain prospect of advancement in course of time to spheres of higher
responsibility and social position. Violet, therefore, was well
pleased with her lot, and felt, it may be taken for granted, little
anxiety about her future.
As regards a life-partner, were she disposed to relinquish the chance
of future honors for present ease and happiness, there were many
aspirants to the distinction; she might choose freely among the
eligible bachelors of her acquaintance. Two only of these, however,
seemed to appeal to her sense of fitness--Murray and Aston.
The former, a year or two older than herself, was a master at the same
school; clever and capable, he was evidently destined to rise rapidly
in his profession, and his future promise, together with his attractive
personality, might well render him the more favored suitor.
Cuthbert Aston could not be compared with Murray as regarded intellect,
attainments, or personal charm; but he had other attractions of no less
weight in the eyes of a girl who had social ambitions. His father had
made money in business, and bore the reputation of possessing great
wealth. Cuthbert, was the only child of infatuated parents, who had
spared no expense in his upbringing, and were ready to gratify his
every whim. For a genteel occupation he had been placed in a
bank--"not that it would be necessary for him to earn his living at
it," as Mrs. Aston was careful to inform her lady friends; "but it was
well to give him something to do, and banking is not trade! If the
dear boy should get tired of the routine, he could easily take up
something else more to his taste."
Apart from his worldly prospects, there was little to attract a girl of
Violet's character toward Cuthbert Aston. He was what men technically
style "a bounder!" Yet, empty-headed, arrogant, self-centered though
he might be, he was a rich man's only son. In Violet's eyes that in
itself condoned many flagrant defects. The Astons moved in the highest
circles of the city--spite of Mrs. Aston's "flamboyant" style and her
husband's demonstrative vulgarity; as a member of their family,
therefore, her social status would be secure.
If the girl had any heart it must have pleaded on behalf of Bernard
Murray--young, handsome, lovable, as he was. Nothing else except
ambition could have allowed her to compare Aston with him. There
might, it is true, have been a spice of adventure connected with her
encouragement of the latter; it was well known that his parents looked
with dismay upon the prospect of their idolized boy "throwing himself
away on that little school-teacher," as his mother phrased it.
To do the Astons credit, their objection to Violet did not rest wholly
upon an imagined social disparity; there was a much graver reason. The
girl lost no opportunity in proclaiming herself a pronounced
Free-thinker. Her mother had died while she was quite a child, and for
her upbringing Violet had depended wholly upon her father--an ardent
Socialist as well as Atheist. Thus she had grown up in an atmosphere
thoroughly anti-religious, until death had claimed her father also.
Socialism had never strongly appealed to her, and was not likely to do
so, under present circumstances; for religion she entertained a
supercilious disdain, as "out-of-date nonsense."
Here, then, were three young people kept in contact by the evident
attraction of both men for the same girl, and by the diplomatic
encouragement which the latter seemed to give to each in equal
proportion. Had Violet not been in question, Murray would have given
the cold shoulder to Aston; but as Violet tolerated Aston, he perforce
must put up with him. Aston, on his part, admired and feared Murray,
whom he regarded as a formidable rival.
"What puzzles me about Murray," he exclaimed once to a boon companion,
"is his jolly good English! Why, the chap has positively no kind of
provincial accent!" (Cuthbert's English, by the way, was not regarded
by his intimates as the perfect thing!) "He doesn't speak like a
Scotch Johnny at all! You never hear an 'Aye, aye' or 'd'ye ken?'--not
a broad vowel even! Why, he might have lived all his life this side
the border, to judge by his tongue, confound him!"
There could be no doubt of Cuthbert's attachment to Violet. No
remonstrances of his mother--and they were but mild, in spite of her
objection to Violet, since she recognized the futility of opposing her
son's determined will--had the slightest effect with him. He felt
confident in the final acquiescence of both parents in whatever he
might choose to do with regard to marriage. Everything, as he saw,
rested with Violet, and he was shrewd enough to appreciate the
advantages--not so much personal as social--involved in her ultimate
decision.
An amateur operatic company had been started in the town, and all the
musical talent among the younger generation had been stirred up to take
part in what was regarded as a pleasant occupation for winter evenings
with the pleasurable anticipation of the excitement of a public
performance as the outcome of practices. Our human triangle formed
part of the company. All three were musical, and two of them more than
usually talented both in singing and acting--Violet and Bernard. The
former especially--endowed with a beautiful soprano voice, which had
been well cultivated, added to what is styled by the initiated "a good
stage presence"--was much in request on all such occasions. She had
filled more than one title-role in popular operas presented by their
little company, and no one would dream of casting her for any other
than the leading part. Bernard had a good tenor voice, and Cuthbert a
very fair bass.
It happened that the particular opera chosen for presentation during
the Easter holidays was to be performed by a capable traveling company
in a neighboring town a month or so before. Consequently our amateurs
felt it their duty to witness the performance, and thus pick up some
valuable hints for future use by such a mild form of "under-study."
Not only our three friends, but two others of the company--the second
soprano and the contralto--started on their short railway journey on a
certain evening in March, intending to return by the last train.
It was scarcely possible, without giving offense to some one or other
of the party, to arrange beforehand who was to escort whom. One of the
men must inevitably take charge of two of the ladies; fate must
determine which! Cuthbert Aston--a youth unaccustomed to deny himself
any gratification upon which he had set his mind--had probably resolved
that it would not be he! But fortune is proverbially fickle. The
train was crowded and seats were at a discount. It was impossible for
all five to travel together. Violet--with a woman's perversity,
perhaps, because of Cuthbert's evident intention, or, it may be, to
show a deliberate preference for Murray--contrived that the latter
should accompany herself. The other cavalier was therefore compelled,
with as good grace as he could manage, to find places in another
compartment for himself and the two very uninteresting maidens thus
thrust upon him. No wonder he was nettled! Like a spoiled boy he
determined to leave Violet to herself--or rather to her chosen
escort--for the rest of the evening. Glum as an owl, he took his place
in the theater between the two girls, keeping himself severely aloof
from the fickle lady of his dreams. She, on the contrary, stirred by
the pleasurable excitement of her surroundings, and possibly not
displeased by so evident a proof of Cuthhert's appreciation of her,
gave herself wholly to the enjoyment of the hour.
Bernard, on his part, could not fail to be struck by the preference
manifested in his regard; he, too, was consequently in high spirits.
No better companion--apart from his personal attraction for her--could
have been allotted to him for such an occasion. Violet's sunny
presence, her clever criticisms of the acting and singing--which he had
learned of old to expect--promised for him a thoroughly enjoyable
evening. His heart took courage; was it possible that this charming
girl really preferred him--a man who had to make his way in the world,
and work hard to provide a home for her such as befitted her hopes and
ambitions--to this rich man's only son, who had it in his power to give
her at once wealth, position, and admiration?
The first act was over. They both had been charmed with what they had
seen and heard, and it was pleasurable to compare impressions and to
anticipate further gratifying experiences. The theater was warm, and
Violet unwound from her neck a lace scarf which she had been wearing.
Pinned to the bosom of her pretty mauve dress was a tiny spray of dull
green leaves.
"What have you there?" he asked all unthinkingly.
But before she could answer he knew, and a wave of mingled remorse,
shame, and self-condemnation swept over his soul.
"What is it? Why, shamrock, of course!"
"Shamrock!" was all he could falter lamely in reply.
"Yes, shamrock. Queen Alexandra set the fashion, you know. Every one
who wants to do the correct thing wears shamrock today. But of course
you are a Scotchman; you probably have no idea what day it is! So I
don't mind instructing you. It's St. Patrick's Day."
He dare not speak. She took his silence and his rapt gaze on the
little spray of green as token of his admiration of her.
"Perhaps," she rattled on lightly, "you never heard of Patrick, or if
you did, you are inclined to share the modern opinion that 'there never
was no sich a person'--to quote an immortal! If you were an Irishman I
should not dare to whisper such a thing; but a canny Scot could have no
regard for Patrick, even should he believe in him ever so much!"
Bernard kept his self-control, though he was deadly pale as he spoke.
"If it is so correct to wear it, you might give me a bit of it."
Smilingly she complied. He placed it in his buttonhole with what must
have seemed to her elaborate care. Luckily the curtain rose, and he
was free to indulge his thoughts.
Oh, it was almost sacramental--that tiny sprig! How it called up dead
memories--memories of the old land, of his dear ones now gone, of his
boyhood's simple faith!
"If you were an Irishman! . . . Perhaps you never heard of Patrick!"
The frivolous words burned his brain.
O God! Believe in Patrick! His breath came and went. He could hardly
refrain from pressing his lips to the tiny leaves he was wearing on his
breast.
An Irishman, indeed, he was; but how unworthy of the name! He, a child
of that dear land which Patrick's blessed feet had trodden--he, a son
of that race to whom the saint's words of grace had made known the
Truth--what was he now? A renegade! A false deserter from the ranks
of his faithful countrymen! He had been ashamed of his nationality!
He had ceased to practise or to cherish the faith which Patrick had
brought to the Isle of Saints!
The curtain fell upon the second act, and he had to be ready to listen
to frivolities and to respond. He did it with a bad grace, as he well
knew. Indeed, he would gladly have been far away--hidden in the dark
corner of some deserted church, where freely and unrestrainedly he
might pour forth penitential tears, and beg forgiveness of the Father
he had so wantonly offended.
"How deadly dull you are to-night!" cried his companion. "I believe
Cuthbert Aston, glum as he looks, would have been more entertaining!
What can be the matter with you?"