University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
FATHER O'TOOLE'S ASSISTANT.

FATHER O'TOOLE, on leaving the other priest,
went out at the outer door of the house, and—
no pig appearing, in the course of his circuit of
the narrow grounds of the Mission,—visited his geese
and ducks, and heard a chorus of contented grunts from
the dwellers in the stye. At length, turning away with
decision, he again entered the house.

With a good, solid, steady step he mounted up the
stairs, shut a door or so, and then, knocking one loud and
several lesser knocks (which expressed resolution,—qualified,—)
quoted, aloud, one line of a hymn:—

From within the door at which he stood, came forth—

Please come in, Reverend Father.”

And Father O'Toole entered.

The room was much more substantial-looking and
elegant than the rest of the house in which it was. The
woodwork, generally, was painted of a dark color; that
of the chimney was black and varnished. Well proportioned
book shelves of black, varnished wood, and well
filled with handsome books, covered a portion of the wall;

the wall-paper was slate-colored, with black border. A
slate-colored drop-curtain hung partly down before the
window. Not every thing in the room was elegant
or costly; but some things were rich, and all were
tasteful.

The table at which the occupant of the room sat, had
a cover of black broadcloth, with a narrow edge of
velvet of the same color; a priedieu stood at a little distance
behind it, against a folding-screen adorned with
boldly-marked crayon drawings of allegoric subjects. The
priedieu, itself, was decorated with black silk velvet turned
up with silk. Upon the top, and flanked on each side
by a wax candle, was a crucifix about three feet high,
superbly wrought in ivory. A painful representation of
Our Lord's agony on the cross, like what may be seen in
German churches, hung opposite the window.

A perfect match for the surroundings was the man sitting
at the table, with his ivory features and black, glossy
hair and dress;—for there sat Father Nicholas as we
before described him, resting his feet, in black velvet
slippers, on a hassock of the same material beneath the
table. There was now hanging on his bosom, by a black
bead-chain from his neck, a miniature of a fair, saintly
female, with hands clasped and eyes looking upward.

He arose, with much dignity and humility, at once, as
the other entered, laying down a book open, on the back
of which, in very distinct letters, was the name: “Exercit.
Spirit. S. Ignatii.”

“I am very proud to see you in my room, Reverend
Father,” said he; “will you be so kind as to occupy this
chair, an easier one than mine, and more appropriate to
years and honors?”

He wheeled out, accordingly, a comfortable arm-chair

of stuffed morocco, into which the senior, with a somewhat
awkward, but sincere and solid courtesy, suffered
himself to descend gradually, and then (a little suddenly,)
drop.

“Always well engaged. Ah! what a happy thing to
have that leisure from great and constant cares that will
permit of holy studies. It was mine, once. 'Twas my
own, once. But there's many's the candle is put under
a bushel without our meaning it. Before I found my
place I thought often of making a bit of a blaze in the
world, some way; but now all that is metamorphosed entirely.
`Introduction!' ah! what's this, then? Oh!
Saint Francis de Sales. French, I suppose. Oh! to be
sure. `Chapitre XI;'—chapter Eleventh. That's plain
enough. `Of the exercise of'—something or other, `and
examen of the conscience.' It wouldn't be so hard after
all; but considering it isn't every body that learns French,
it would have been small blame to the holy man if he
had written in plain English that every one understands,
or in Latin itself.”

“You wished to see me on business, I believe, Father
Terence,” said Father Nicholas very engagingly, laying
his watch carefully down upon the table. “I hope you
won't be afraid of interrupting me, for I'm quite at your
service.”

Somewhere in this calm courtesy, or in the action that
accompanied the words, there must have been something
peremptory or in some way embarrassing, for the dignitary's
good-natured face and eyes testified to such a feeling.

“Indeed a good deal of business we have together,” he
answered, for the time, not being prepared, perhaps, to
answer more definitely on the sudden.

“Our Sisters are inclined to complain that they never
have the benefit of a visit from the head of the mission,”
said Father Nicholas again, smiling. “Will you allow
me to pray for them, while it's on my mind, that you'll
honor them and favor them in that way before long?
Excuse me for taking the conversation away. I listen.”

If he listened, he listened to small purpose. The dignitary
sat uneasily; prepared to speak by clearing his
throat, and looking to either side. In doing this, if he
did not prepare himself for proceeding to business, he, at
least, secured a subject for a passing diversion of the
conversation.

Taking up something from the floor, under the table,
which proved to be a glove, he laid it upon a book, observing,—

“Y'have a small hand of yer own, if ye can put that
on it.”

Father Nicholas's hands were quite small and graceful,
as one might see who looked at them; but this glove was
smaller and more slender still, apparently. It looked like
one in frequent use. Such as it was, it seemed strange
in that place, and the occupant of the room seemed to feel
awkwardly at the first sight. Leaving it, however, to lie
where it was, he spoke very freely of it.

“No,” said he, “that's not mine. It's a lady's, apparently;
and, probably, belongs to one of the Sisters. How
it came there, I can't say; but things often come and go
between them and me. This might come in a parcel.”

The elder priest looked grave. He might not have
thought of there being any other proprietor of this article
of apparel than the occupant of the room until he
was told it; but having heard what he had heard, he
seemed to have mastered his difficulty of speaking, and

the occasion brought him, most unexpectedly, to the very
subject on which he and Father Debree had been talking.

“It's my opinion,” he said, “it's better not having too
much to do with women, if they're nuns, itself. The old
rules for priests are the good rules, I'm thinking. Yourself's
perfectly innocent, certainly;—it's not that I'm
speaking of;—but bad things happen sometimes; and it's
good for the like of us to be a long way from evil tongues.
They're saying now, ye've got that young Protestant girl
from Peterport.”

The good-natured Father Terence had uttered his first
two sentences with the confidence of a man speaking
truths of general acceptation. At that point where it
may have occurred to him that he was making a personal
application of general principles, and assuming a
superiority which he was always diffident about asserting,
his usual kindness of feeling came over him, and he
went precipitately over the next sentence, and by the
time he came to the last very important one, which contained
the gist of his whole business, it might have appeared
to be only a side observation to withdraw attention
from the former ones.

Father Nicholas had been sitting with steady eyes fixed
upon the speaker, and the most easy, well-bred (or elegant)
air of listening; his ivory face being at all times a secure
screen for any thing that was passing behind it, unless to
a very keen sight, and only his eyes showing a little more
fire than usual.

The elder having ceased to speak, he made answer.

“Scarcely a Protestant, Father Terence; she is baptized
a Catholic” —

“I never hard that,” said the elder. “She didn't get
baptized to my own knowing.”

“No, but she was baptized sixteen years ago, as your
book shows.”

“That's before I was in it.”

“Yes, it was in Father Dale's time, and, if you'll be
kind enough to look, you'll see it.”

While the worthy old priest was arranging his thoughts
upon this subject, and very likely preparing to express
an opinion upon the extent of that authority which the
Church had acquired by the secret administration of that
sacrament, his informant was waiting to allow the information
to take possession. When Father Terence began
to speak, and had got so far as to say,—

“But she's grown up a Protestant, and she's a Protestant
this” —, then he was gently interrupted,—

“If you please, Reverend Father, I have only told
half my story yet. Will you allow me to tell the rest?
You know it as well as I, or better, but when it's all put
together, it may make a different impression from any
that you have had. We all know her mother for an
apostate; to save her child would be a triumph” —

“There's many's the one's the same way, then,” interrupted
the elder in his turn.

“Happily, as I have good reason to know, she very
recently put herself, of her own accord, in the way to be
reconciled. If she had drawn back afterward, in fever or
in fear of the step that she was taking, it would have been
mercy not to let her be lost, through any such weakness.
If we had taken any means to secure her, it would have
been simply duty; but as the girl is missing, we need not
speculate upon what might have been. Let it be a consolation
to you, Father Terence, and to any Catholic that
is interested in one so related to the Church, that she was
baptized in infancy, and had made an effort to be reconciled.

That suspicion should have turned from you to
me, does not surprise me. They will suspect, and, finding
it impossible long to suspect you, they put one less
known, and less generally esteemed, in your stead.”

He did not stop at this point; but hastened to touch a
subject of importance which had, perhaps, slipped from
Father Terence's mind.

“You speak truly of the caution and distance to be observed,
as regards persons of the other sex. My dear
Father Terence, if there were any thing dangerous or
improper in a priest exercising his sacred function singly,
(and I grant the propriety of always being associated
with another priest in the work, according to the rule and
practice of the Society,) yet how is it that so much care
and labor and responsibility, in regard to these Sisters, has
been thrown upon me against my wish? I do not complain;
I might not have mentioned it now, except for
what has been said; but I am sure that not only it
would have been the greatest pleasure to me, as well as
privilege to them, but, also, I have repeatedly begged, in
person, the favor of Father O'Toole's joint and superior
supervision. I should be very glad to hope that hereafter
it might be secured.”

The assault was fairly turned upon the dignitary,
whether by accident of war or by Father Nicholas's skill;
and the good-natured man began to defend himself.

“It's true I did not do much in that way this while
back. The truth is, I don't fancy that sort of work, when
it doesn't come pat in my way. In parish-duty it's my
desire to be diligent; but I'm not accustomed to females,
and I'm not for having charge of a House o' them.”

“Pray forgive me,” said the other Priest, “it isn't for
me to call you to account, or to complain.—Is our Peterport

man happy in his place? I can't find out any thing,
pleasantly, from him.”

“Faith, then, I'd forgotten him; he'll take care of himself,
a bit; but I mustn't leave him too long, this way.”

“Don't allow me to detain you,” said Father Nicholas;
“but you had some business with me, I think. I fear I've
interrupted it.”

The elder Priest looked disconcerted.

“Will ye see him yourself, then?” he asked, gathering
himself out of his seat, and preparing to go. Father
Nicholas rose politely; but with a changed expression.

“I thought there had been some modest and charitable
suggestion of Debree's,” said he; “he's a young gentleman
that will need to be taught his place. If you'll allow
me, I'll come down. I'll follow you directly, Father
Terence.”

And Father Terence took his leave.

Almost immediately after his solid tread had begun to
be heard on the stairs, a young woman, in a conventual
dress, made her appearance from behind the screen.
Without noticing her, the Priest snapped with his finger
nail a folded paper quite across the room, exclaiming,—

“Bah! I don't care for any trouble they can make us
about that girl; I don't think the law will kill us; but
this is small game for me. I ought to be at work among
long heads and long arms, diplomatists and statesmen, as
I once was: guiding and controlling, and thwarting, on
occasion. I want a place where I can meet foot to foot,
and strain inch by inch, against the keenest and strongest
minds; and here I am!”

He twirled, impatiently, the medallion portrait of the
saintly lady; and while he was standing in thought, the
nun spoke:—

“But you are doing a great deal, and exerting great
influence here,” she said.

“Yes, this seems as much of a world to you as any, I
suppose,” he answered, without turning, “except Longford.
I am directing the consciences of fishwives, and
counselling this Very Reverend Father, when I might
just as well be, and have been, in the closets of princes
and cardinals!—and I am beginning at the bottom again,
and in the very dirt, as if I had never climbed before!”

“But it's a good deal to have such power in the Council
and in Government-House”—

“Dabbling, at this distance, in the politics of St. Johns
and Government-House! That, instead of swaying a
department of state in a country of the first rank! Quousque!
Ah! `Quomodo cecidisti de cœlo, lucifer, qui
mane oriebaris!'”

He put one hand to his forehead, and swung the portrait
about a finger of the other.

The nun made another trial:—

“This last time I was a month at Government-House,
I heard them often”—

The Priest had quite recovered himself, and looked as
the calm sea looks, as if he never was tossed with tempest.

“Copy these papers, please, Frances,” he said, summarily,
“and lay them here afterward with the copies, under
a weight.”

“Are you going out?” she asked, with what sounded
like regret.

Without any answer in words, he laid before her the
glove which Father Terence had picked up, opened the
door, and passing out, turned to give a silent bow, and
closed the door again behind him.