University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.
THE THREE PRIESTS TOGETHER.

THE good-natured Father Terence came hastily
back from his visit up stairs to Father Nicholas,
and prepared his guest for what he himself
seemed to consider a formidable interview, by announcing,
in a rather flurried way,—

“Himself's coming, but don't heed him.”

Whoever has waited for an encounter, of the sort that
was now approaching, has felt the nervous excitement to
which Father Debree's face, slightly flushed as it was,
and his kindling eye, gave witness in him. The elder
priest seemed to feel like one who had innocently opened
a flood-gate, or set some formidable machinery in motion
which he knew not how to stop, and could only stand and
look upon, as it rushed on.

“I'm not concerned about meeting him,” said the
younger; and, as he spoke, Father Nicholas came in.

The contrast in personal appearance between the two
men who were about to meet, was very noticeable. Father
Debree looked as if his soul were woven into the
whole substance of his body. There was a nobleness of
air and manner about him that at once engaged one's confidence;
and his face, full of earnestness, and his clear eye,
had yet a gentleness that showed a living sympathy which
is very winning to love. Father Nicholas was handsome

beyond the common range, intelligent and thoughtful-looking,—giving
one, indeed, the impression that there
was might in him; and yet there was a feeling, also, that
within him were unseen, doubtful depths, such as some
people trust them to and others shrink from, by simple
intuition.

So much was on the outside of the two men; and at
the moment, while Father Debree had a slight flush upon
his cheek, and in his eye a fire, as we have said, Father
Nicholas came into the room and saluted him, (after howing
to the elder priest,) with his usual look of self-possession
and his usual paleness; though perhaps his eye
flashed and his mouth was a little compressed.

“I may come to my business without preface, I suppose,”
said the latter. “I believe you have taken upon
yourself to speak to Father O'Toole of suspicions entertained
of me in Peterport. I am not much concerned
about the public opinion of that intelligent town; but I
think I have a right to ask on what ground you have become
their representative and spokesman.”

“Ay, and don't be warm, Father Nicholas, either;
sure it's asy speaking of things in a quiet way,” said Father
O'Toole.

“I have mentioned the reports current,” said Father
Debree, “as deserving, in my opinion, to be counted of
importance to the Church, and of still greater importance
to right and justice.”

“Allow me to inquire how.”

“To the Church, because its ministers are implicated,
by general suspicion, in a cruel outrage; and to right and
justice, because, whether there is any ground for the suspicion
or not, full investigation ought to be demanded, and
every assistance given to an investigation.

“Let us take things quietly, as the Very Reverend
Father O'Toole recommends. Suppose the Church's
ministers are implicated, (we went over much the same
ground the other day,) is that any thing new, or strange,
or bad, in itself? Væ vobis cum benedixerint,—beati cum
maledixerint. As to right and justice, in case we had
this girl, or had control over her, I suppose we might
fairly claim to know something of them, and to care
something for them. I suppose, too, that the `ministers
of the Church' (as you say) have some rights which are
of value, as well as others. I suppose their freedom and
independence to be of some consequence to themselves
and the Church, and, in my own person, would not yield
an inch, or a hair's breadth, the rights of my order. If
one of us foolishly put himself into their hands, on their
demand, others will be at their mercy, forever after.
For the Church—I think she is strong enough to stand,
for some years yet, all the blasting of men's breath; and
that she would be no gainer if her priests were at the
beck of the multitude of her enemies.”

Father Debree answered:—

“I cannot see how innocent men can have any other
feeling than a desire for a thorough searching where they
have been unjustly suspected, and where, in them, a
sacred cause suffers suspicion; and I cannot see how
private right has any thing to fear in such a case;—and
where a quiet and kind-hearted people are touched and
hurt in their best feelings; and more, where a family is
suffering the greatest sorrow that can afflict human hearts,
—the loss, by some uncertain fate, of its very fairest and
dearest, its joy and its crown,—it does not seem to me too
much to expect of any who have it in their power to
throw light into the uncertain horror that surrounds those

innocent mourners, that they will not rest until they
have done what in them lies to clear it up.”

“That's well said,” exclaimed Father Terence, who
was leaning forward on the arms of his chair, while the
others stood facing each other—“and the right feeling,
too!”

Father Nicholas listened devoutly to the old Priest's
words, and then said, with a bend of the body,—

“With your leave, Father Terence! As to guilt or
innocence, I have no thought of pleading here; but of
my fit course of action, under the suspicions held of me,
I shall crave leave to judge. I am by no means prepared
to say that I should consider any human affections
in comparison with the saving of a soul, if I were called
to determine between the two. In this case, however, as
it happens, I have not been gloating over the sorrows of
parents whom I had plunged in mourning, but have done
what was necessary to relieve them from uncertainty, as
far as respects myself.—What do you think of that, sir?”
he concluded, putting a paper into Father Debree's hand.
It was a copy of a Conception-Bay weekly newspaper,
published the day before; and it was folded so as to expose
a particular portion, to which, also, he pointed with
his finger. The latter read the paper attentively and
carefully, having first glanced from the top to the bottom,
as to a signature. He then returned it, with a bow, without
comment.

“I beg pardon, Father Terence, for using this paper
before making you acquainted with its contents, if you'll
allow me, I will read it.”

“Ah! then, it's bad enough having words, let alone
writing.”

“Perhaps, if you'll be kind enough to hear this read,

you may not think ill of it, Father Terence”—and looking
up at the elder priest, and taking his assent for granted,
Father Nicholas read as follows:—

“I'm glad to hear ye say that much, anny way,” said
Father Terence.

“Is the Reverend Mr. Debree satisfied?” asked the
reader.

“I can't see that it denies her having been upon these
premises,” said the person appealed to.

“You've a sharp eye for flaws, and are not disposed to
release a brother priest from suspicion, too easily,” said
Father Nicholas, sneering.

“Ah! then,” said the kindly Father Terence, “ye
shouldn't doubt his meaning.”

“I should be glad to know,” said Father Nicholas, “if
I am to be badgered in this way by a priest not only
younger than myself, but one whose recent admission and
inexperience in the Church might be expected to teach
him modesty, or, at least, reserve, in the expression of his
opinions, and giving of his advice to those who are both
his elders, and his superiors in the sacred office.”

“Indeed that wouldn't be good of anny one,” said
Father Terence; “but sure I never saw it on him.”

Father Nicholas continued: “There may be license in
the Anglican sect, which does not exist in the Catholic
Church. It must be remembered, always, that here there
is subordination. Whether your way is likely to advance
you in the Church, you must judge; but as far as regards
myself, I am not disposed to allow a censorship of my actions,
which, if intended, and persisted in, would seem to
be nothing but deliberate impertinence.”

“Stay, brother,” said Father Terence; “I never knew
a man the better, yet, of having hard words thrown at
him; and ye'll do well to mind that there's older, again,
than yourself in it; and Father Debree is a guest of my
own the same time.”

“Thank you, Father Terence,” said the Peterport
clergyman; “I'm sure that any manly truth and honesty
will find encouragement from you. I cannot say what influence
my having a conscience, and using my tongue,
may have upon my prospects in the Church; but if, to
advance in it, I must barter away my English love of
honesty and plain speaking, I will never purchase success
at such a price. There is not the man living, so far
as I know, to whom, if I felt it my duty to tell him that he
had done wrong, I should hesitate to say it; while I will
never, knowingly, fail of the respect and duty which belong
to those who are above me.”

Father Nicholas kept his eyes fixed upon the speaker,
in a steady gaze, while a smile of sarcasm came slowly
about his mouth. Father Debree colored more deeply.

“Since a sort of fraternal inquisition seems to be in
vogue with us, allow me to take my turn for a moment.
Does my strictly-conscientious reverend brother happen
to know where one Helen Mary, (or whatever she was
called,) not long since a postulant in the Presentation
Convent at Lisbon, and who ran away from it, is, at this
present moment?”

The person addressed started at the mention of the
name, and became instantly pale; such an effect had it
upon him, that his frame seemed coming together.

“It may be necessary to remind you, Father Terence,”
said Father Nicholas, “that this lady is the Mrs. Barrè
whom you have heard of. I believe my reverend brother's
susceptible conscience has been so occupied in imputing
fault to his neighbor, as to have forgotten the danger of
scandal to the church from a much nearer quarter.”

“Ah! what's this, then?” asked Father Terence, turning
a pained and alarmed look upon the priest from Peterport;

“I don't know what ye mean, at all, Father
Nicholas; I'm sure there's no harm in him.”

“Far be it from me to say that there's any harm in
him; but, perhaps, when you hear more, you may incline
to think that the circumstances are such as to make it
important, as he says, to the Church, and to right and justice,
that an explanation should be made of them. I
doubt whether he has thought of mentioning the circumstance
to you, but I have reason to know that this lady is
comfortably settled within his limits, and within a very
short distance of him.”

“This is a strange story!” said Father O'Toole, sitting
uneasily.

“I also know that she is living in Peterport,” answered
the priest from that place, “and I—”

“But how is this? Sure, ye wouldn't be bringing her
there to be a snare to yerself, and a scandal to the
Church!”

“No; that is just what I have not done; and what
you, Father Terence, at least, would not suspect me of.
It is by no action or wish of mine that she is there; and
it was to my entire astonishment that I first learned the
fact.”

“You seem to have suffered it to grow into a more
than nine-days' wonder,” said Father Nicholas. “Of
course, I do not say that there's any harm in it; but it is
well known in that intelligent community, which, as he
says, has devoted so much of its attention to my humbleness,
that several meetings and conversations, of various
character, have had place between this lady and the
Reverend Father Debree. I, of course, know nothing of
their nature, whether in the Confessional or in private
houses, or elsewhere.”

“Does she come to the confessional, then?” asked
Father O'Toole, very ready to subside out of his alarm
and uneasiness. “Sure I think ye've got, in a manner,
the bit between her teeth—to use a figure of speech—and
ye can bring all right.”

“It wouldn't appear that she has any disposition to
come back into the bosom of the Church,” said Father
Nicholas; “she seems, indeed, to have `the bit between
her teeth.'”

“Ah! then, it's a bad thing having any thing to do
with her; and I wonder, indeed, you didn't mention it to
myself,” said the old priest, addressing Father Debree
gravely, and twirling his thumbs over each other.

The younger man was much agitated.

“I haven't done that, I confess,” said he; “I tried to
speak of it the other day. I have never met with her
of my own will; and in whatever I have said to her my
conscience is clear, before God, that I have spoken as became
a Christian priest.”

“I believe ye, man; and is this it, then, ye were
wishing to speak about that time? but couldn't ye write
me, the way I could give ye a bit of advice? It's not fit
to go on, the way it is, in my opinion;—but how would
she come to confession, and she not wishing to be reconciled?”
As Father Terence added this, he glanced from
one of the younger priests to the other. Father Debree
stood silent. Father Nicholas answered, in a subdued
tone:—

“I fear the gossip or the scandal of the place might
assign motives, the least harmful of which would be a
wish to assail the faith of the father confessor; a more
directly personal and more material motive might be insinuated.”

“I think y'are not kind, some way, Father Nicholas,”
said the elder.

Father Debree's expression and manner changed at the
remark from his brother priest, to which the kind-hearted
old man had just taken exception. All hesitation disappeared
at once, and an indignant look took possession of
his face, and he stood straight up to confront the speaker.

“You have tampered with the sacred privacy of the
place, then?” he said. “Some ears have been listening
for you—(I care not whose)—where only two mortal
beings have a right to hear, and if so, you know well
the falsehood of any insinuation that you may make
against the character of my involuntary intercourse with
that person; and I have a right to trust to a reputation
without blemish or reproach, and to an honest open conversation
in the world for my defence, with those who
have known me, or who have hearts like Father Terence's,
against any such insinuation.”

“I've made no insinuation, I believe; I have merely
suggested the suspicions that might be held in the world;
and it would seem from my reverend brother's intentional
or unintentional admission, that there is ground, in fact,
for the suspicion upon one or other of the points suggested.”

Though this was said in a very gentle tone, there was
a subtle emphasis, here and there, that made one feel a
sharp edge through the soft manner.

“I think, now, we've had enough,” said Father O'Toole.
“Ye say y'ave made no insinuation; and, indeed, I don't
know how anny one would make them, after hearing himself;
and sure, Father Ignatius, can't ye say the same,
when y'are after hearing him read the paper a while
ago?”

“If Father Nicholas had thought fit to make—(what
I have not asked, but what the case appears to ask)—as
full a disclaimer as I have made, myself, I should take his
word for it; but, in the mean time, knowing, as I do, sufficient
evidence to carry an appearance of probability
with it, I must reserve my opinion. I should scarcely
suppose that the publication of that paper,—omitting the
two or three important words that would assure the reader
of the Deponent's never having had any control over the
missing, or known of her whereabouts,—would satisfy the
public, or her friends.”

“To apply your rule,” said Father Nicholas, “I might
say that you seem to be in the confidence of those without;
to have sat `in ecclesia malignantium;' but I think
with the Very Reverend Father O'Toole, that we have
had enough of this.—I shall take care of myself; I hope
you will take care of yourself. At the worst, the charge
against me involves only an excess of zeal in behalf of
the one, only Church of God, and the souls of men. I
am clear of any imputation upon my moral character in
any other respect.”

“I hope so, indeed,” said Father Terence, looking like
one who saw the clouds beginning to lift; “but it's not
good to have too much zeal, either; and there's not a
ha'p'orth against our brother, here, unless, maybe, it's a
little thoughtfulness was wanting; and, sure, I wasn't
always thoughtful myself; and I think none of us was.”

Father Nicholas spoke again:—

“As for the unhappy person who has been the subject
of a part of our conversation, she has thrust herself into
the way of the advancing Church of God. The weight
is already on her; she will be crushed! I hope no one
else will be caught in her ruin.”

“Is it, indeed, a car of Juggernaut that we would make
it?” said Father Ignatius, repeating, perhaps involuntarily,
an expression which had been lately used to himself,
in bitterness of heart. “I would never be a priest,
if, in order to it, I must cease to be a man.”

“God forbid!” said the kind-hearted old priest to
Father Nicholas's dark augury,—not having heeded what
was said afterwards. “We wouldn't wish her any harm,
poor thing! But we'll just talk it over a bit, by-and-by.”

“Then I won't be a hinderance to your counsels,” said
Father Nicholas; and, bowing gravely and formally, left
the room.

“And I'll tell you what we'll do,” said the elder, as the
other went; “have you nothing to do with her, if she
seeks ye itself; and, if she stays there, we'll get ye away,
after a bit; it'll be best; and I'll not ask ye to tell me
anny thing more about it.”

As he said this, he stroked down his respectable and
kindly-looking locks, behind, and took his homely pipe.

“I would rather tell you the whole thing,” said the
younger priest; and he accordingly gave an account of
his first and the other meetings with Mrs. Barrè, of which
the reader has already been informed.

He spoke into friendly ears, and spoke without hiding
his strong feeling, though not without controlling it; and
Father Terence, having heard him, with sympathy, to
the end, said, much as before, “Ye mustn't be there, if
she stays in it.”