Chapter 8

But let us go on. Of all the things in this world that Father Tom believed in, it was that his "parish rights" were first and foremost. So he never touched foot in his neighbor's parish, except to pay him a friendly visit, or to go to his righteous confession. He visited no homes out of his territory, though he had baptized pretty nearly every little curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer and that was enough. He wanted no visitor in his limits either, except on the same terms. So no one in Father Tom's parish had helped much in building the church across the river. The people understood.

It had never occurred to Father Tom that his own purse--not _too_ large, but large enough--might stand a neighborly assessment. No, he had "built his church by hard scraping, and that is how churches should be built." Now, do not get a bad opinion of Father Tom on this account. He thought he was right, and perhaps he was. It is not for me to criticize Father Tom, whom every poor person in the town loved as a father; only I did feel sorry that poor Father Ilwin grew so thin and worn, and that his building work was stopped, and people did not seem to sympathize with him, at all, at all. Over in his parish there were open murmurs that "the people had built one church and should not be asked now to build another"; or "what was good enough for Father Tom was good enough for anyone"; or "the Bishop should have consulted _us_ before he sent this young priest into Father Tom's parish." In the other part of the town, however, everything was quiet enough, and none would think of offending his pastor by showing any interest in Father Ilwin, financially or otherwise. Father Ilwin said nothing; but do you wonder that one day when a generous gift was announced from "the Rev. Thomas Connolly, our respected fellow citizen," to help in the erection of a Soldier's Monument for the town, Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, where, on the table, were laid out the plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby?

It happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his parish, which was again much to his credit with the people. "Sure, _he_ never takes a vacation at all," they said. But at last a call came that he could not refuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure a monk from a monastery quite far away to take his place over Sunday, he left to see a sick brother from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far in the Southwest. Perhaps it was significant, perhaps not--I do not know, and I do not judge--that Father Tom was particular to say in his letter to the monastery that, "as the weather is warm, the father who comes to take my place need only say a Low Mass and may omit the usual sermon." It was known that Father Tom did not care for preachers from outside. He could preach a little himself, and he knew it.

It was a long and tiresome journey to the bedside of Father Tom's dying brother, so when the big, good-natured priest stepped off the train at Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and weary. But he soon had to forget both. A dapper young man was waiting for him in a buggy. The young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat of clerical cut. Father Tom passed the buggy, but was called back by its occupant.

"Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?"

"I am," said the priest in surprise.

"Then father is waiting for you. I am your nephew. Get in with me."

Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction.

"You--you are a clergyman?" he stammered.

"Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next village. Father was always a Romanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians."

If you could only have seen Father Tom's face. No more was said; no more was needed. In a few minutes the buggy stopped before the Connolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother. He lost no time.

"Patrick," said he, "is that young Baptist minister your son?"

"Yes, Tom, he is."

"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be no warm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side."

"Perhaps not, Tom. I've thought little of these things, except as to how I might forget them, till now. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite right. But I did the best I could. I have one of the children to show her."

"How did _one_ stay?"

"She didn't _stay_. She came back to the Faith. She was converted by a priest who was down here for his health and who was stationed in this town for about a year. He went back North when he got better. I would not have sent even for you, Tom, only _she_ made me."

Father Tom felt something grip his heart and he did not speak for a long minute. Then he took his brother's hand and said in his old boy language: "Paddy, lad, tell me all about it--how you fell away. Maybe there was something of an excuse for it."

"I thought there was," said the dying man, "but now all seems different. When I came here first, I was one of the few Catholic settlers, and I was true to my religion. I saw the other churches built, but never went into them, though they tried hard enough to get me, God knows. But I was fool enough to let a pretty face catch me. It was a priest from Houston who married us. She never interfered; and later a few more Catholics came. The children were all baptized and we got together to build a church. I gave the ground and all I had in the bank--one hundred and fifty dollars. We were only a few, but we got a thousand dollars in all. We could get no more, and money was bringing twelve per cent, so we couldn't borrow. We had to give it all back and wait. Without church or priest, the children went to the Sunday-schools and--I lost them. Then, I, somehow, seemed to drift until this priest came for his health. He got us few Catholics together and converted my best--my baby girl--Kathleen. She was named after mother, Tom. We could only raise eight hundred dollars this time, but the priest said: 'I'll go to my neighbors and ask help.' So he went over to Father Pastor and Father Lyons, but they refused to help at all. They have rich parishes, whose people would be glad to give something; but the priests said, 'No.' They thought helping was a mistake. It hurt our priest, for he could do nothing on eight hundred dollars. We needed only another five hundred. But that ended the struggle. I say my beads and wait alone. Murphy and Sullivan went away. Keane died. His family are all 'fallen away.' My boy went to a college his mother liked--and you saw him. The others--except Kathleen--are all Baptists. I suppose I have a heavy load to bear before the judgment seat, but Tom--Tom, you don't know the struggle it cost, and the pain of losing was greater than the pain of the fight."

A beautiful girl came into the room. The sick man reached out his hand which she took as she sat beside him.

"This is Kathleen, Tom. He's your uncle and a priest, my darling. She sits by me this way, Tom, and we say our beads together. I know it won't be long now, dearie, 'till you can go with your uncle where there is a church and a chance to profit by it."

Father Tom closed his brother's eyes two days later.

He left with Kathleen when the funeral was over. His nephew accompanied them to the train and said with unction:

"Good-bye, brother, I shall pray for you," and Father Tom groaned down to his heart of hearts.

Father Ilwin was at the train when Father Tom and his niece arrived home, though quite by accident. Kathleen's eyes danced when she saw him and she rushed to shake hands. Father Tom said:

"Sure, I had no idea that you knew one another."

"Yes, indeed, we do," cried the child. "Why, uncle, it was Father _Peter_ who converted me."

Father Tom heard, but did not say a word.

It was only three days later when Father Tom stood in the miserable little room that Father Ilwin called his library. On the table still reposed the plans of the new church, but no sound of hammer was heard outside. Father Tom had little to say, but it was to the point. He had profited by his three days at home to think things out. He had arrived at his conclusions, and they were remarkably practical ones.

"Ilwin, me lad, I don't think I've treated ye just as a priest and Christian should--but I thought I was right. I know now that I wasn't. Ilwin, _we_ can build that church and _we will_. Here are a thousand dollars as a start to show that I mean it. There'll be a collection for you in St. Patrick's next Sunday. After that I intind going about with ye. I think I know where we can get some more."

Then and there Father Tom Connolly began to be a Saint.

THE UNBROKEN SEAL

The priest ran right into a mob of strikers as he turned the corner of the road leading from the bridge over the shallow, refuse-filled Mud Run, and touched foot to the one filthy, slimy street of the town. He was coming from the camp of the militia, where he had been called to administer the last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers had shot down the night before.

Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priest while he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hate alone showed that he had seen him. Only a few of the people in the rear of the crowd noticed the priest's presence at all. He was glad enough of that, for suspicion was in the air and he knew it. Right in his way was Calvalho, who had been one of his trustees and his very best friend when he first came to the parish. It looked now as if he had no longer a friend in all the mud-spattered, bare and coal-grimed town. Calvalho returned his salute with a curt nod. The priest caught a few words of Slevski's burning appeal to hatred and walked faster, with that peculiar nervous feeling of danger behind him. He quickened his steps even more for it.

"Company--oppressors of the poor--traitors"; even these few words, which followed him, gave the priest the gist of the whole tirade.

The women were in the crowd or hanging about the edges of it. A crash of glass behind him made the priest turn for an instant, and he saw that Maria Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. She had a shawl quite filled with large stones. With the crash came a cheer from the crowd around Slevski, who could see the bank from their position in front of the livery stable.

A soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he came running down the street, gun in hand, followed by half a dozen others. One of them saluted. "Bad business, Father," he said. "Will the lieutenant live?"

"I am afraid he will not," answered the priest.

"They will surely burn down the company's buildings," said the soldier. "God! There they go now." And the soldier hurried on.

Later the priest watched the red glow from his window. It reminded him of blood, and he shuddered.

His old housekeeper called him to his frugal supper.

"I can not go out much now," he said to her. "I am a Pole. What could a Pole do with these Huns who have no sympathy with him, or the Italians whose language he can not speak?"

He wondered if he were a coward. Why should he discuss this with his servant?

"Slevski," she said, "makes the people do what he wants. He cursed me on the street this morning."

"Yes," said the priest, "he speaks in curses. He has never tried to speak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and these men are his property now."

"There will be no one at Mass next Sunday," said the old housekeeper. "Even the women won't come. They think you are in league with the soldiers."

"Never mind, Judith," said the priest, "at heart they are good people, and this will pass away. The women fear God."

"They fear God sometimes," said Judith, "but now they fear Slevski always."

The priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church which could wait and does not grow old.

After his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow of the burning buildings. He heard shots, but he knew that it would be useless to interfere. He waited for some one to come and call him to the dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots?

A knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a woman entered. The priest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski's wife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She was English-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married her three years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited for her to speak.

"Tell me," she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of a confession may ever be revealed by the priest?"

"It is true," he answered.

"Even if he were to die for it?" she urged.

"Even if he were to die."

The priest's eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on:

"May he even not betray it by an action?"

"Not even by an action."

"Even if he died for it?" Her voice was full of anxiety.

"Even then."

"I wish to confess," she said. "May I do it, here? I will kneel afterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here--and I must do it quickly."

"It will take only a minute if we go to the church," he answered. "It is irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place, unless in case of illness."

"Then let us go," she said, "and hurry."

They entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent's side of the confessional. Later she told all that had happened.

"What troubles you?" asked the priest. "Have you been to confession of late?"

"Three years ago," and she shuddered, "I was to confession. It was before I married him, never since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known to you. Listen now, for there isn't very much time." He bent his head and said: "I am listening."

She went on without taking breath. "They are going to murder you. I heard it, for I was in the secret. I consented to summon you, but I could not. They charged that you were in the company's pay and working against the men. One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on a sick-call. They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I had to warn you to prepare. I could not see you killed without--without a prayer. It is too cruel. Do what you can for yourself. That's all I can say."

"It is very simple," said the priest. "I need not go."

"Then they will know that I told you," she answered breathlessly. Her eyes showed her fright.

"You are right," said the priest. "I fear that it would violate the Seal if I refused to go."

"Yes," she said, "and he would know at once that I had told, and he--he suspects me already. He may have followed me, for I refused to call you. If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you. I am not ready to die--and he would kill me."

"Then do not trouble your mind about it any more. God will take care of me," said the priest. "Finish your confession."

In ten minutes she had left. The priest was alone with himself, and his duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski--and he knew that the woman had been followed.

He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide open eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went back to the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and finished his daily office. He laid the book down on the arm of his chair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in an envelope and left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly calm, but his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell upon the crucifix above his desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees before it. The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and whispering:

"Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pity on me. I am not strong enough to be so like You."

Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did not go. Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all--but had the priest not seen him outside the church?

The sweat was over his face, and he walked to the door to get a breath of air. The priest knew there was no longer even a lingering doubt as to what he should do. He went back to the church, and, before the altar, awaited his call.

It was not long in coming. The old housekeeper appeared in half an hour to summon him.

"Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other side of the Run. It is for his wife, who is sick, that he comes. She is dying."

The priest bowed and followed the old servant into the house, but Kendis had left.

The priest looked at his few books and lovingly touched some of his favorites. His reading chair was near. His eyes filled as he looked at it, with the familiar breviary on its wide arm. The crucified Christ gazed down from His cross at him and seemed to smile; but the priest's eyes swam with tears, and a great sob burst from him. He opened the door, but lingered on the threshold. When he passed out on the street his walk was slow, his lips moving, as he went along with the step of a man very weary and bending beneath the weight of a Great Something.

The people did not know then that their one dark and muddy street was that night a Via Dolorosa; that along it a man who loved them dragged a heavy Cross for their sake; that it ended for him, as had another sorrowful way ended for his Master, in a cruel Calvary.

Slevski told the whole story before the trap of the gallows was sprung.

MAC OF THE ISLAND

When the "Boston Boat" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac waving me a welcome to the "Island" from the very last inch of standing space upon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen minutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, only outwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the natives call "the Island," as if there were no other, was upon him; but that stamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over his rough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes, made the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer.

We had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. It was a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat; but the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod--oh, such potatoes and cod--were the best part of it. I then and there began to like the Island for more reasons than because it had produced Mac.

We drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into the country, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, and always with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheep and kept bright green by the moisture.

"You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit," I said to Mac, as the buggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture in which the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky and the bluer waters were blended.

"Yes, I do," replied Mac. "This is Tea Hill. You know I think if I were in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could close my eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smell of haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant. Just look at that," he pointed toward the water. "We call it Pownal Bay. Do you see how it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields. Then look off in the distance. That is Hillsboro Bay. You passed through it this morning. Do you see the little islands out there? One is called St. Peter's and the other is called Governor's. It is a funny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows them by name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has ever set foot upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn't it, Bruce?"

"Yes, yes," I replied. "It is a grand scene, Mac, and--" But Mac turned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in a buggy.

"Good morning, Doctor," he called. The doctor bowed with what looked like gracious condescension.

Mac turned to me again. "What were you saying, Bruce? Oh, yes, that I must love it. Why, of course I do. Wasn't I born here? By the way, that chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. He is head of a college in Charlottetown. Prince of Wales they call it. It is a very important part of Island life."

"But I do not think, Mac," I suggested, "that he was quite as fraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be."

"Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer," said Mac quickly. "In fact, nobody around here does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec McKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow--you know that Boston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on this Island--and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father's farm. But say, Bruce," and Mac turned to me very quickly, "what brought you here, anyhow? I wager there is a reason for the visit. Now, own up." He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road and looked me in the face. "Surely," he went on, "you would not have thought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times."

"Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad I came," I answered, "but you guess well, for this time I was sent."

Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice: "You were sent? Good! I am glad. Now, out with it."

"Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had a chance to get you."

"Get me?" Mac grew grave again.

"Yes, the old place wants you--for Greek, Mac. We need you badly. Old Chalmers is dead. His place is vacant. No one can fill it better than the best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, you must come, and I must bring you home. You know the old college is home for you. You can't fool me, Mac. You love it better even than this." And I waved my hand toward the bay.

Mac's face showed emotion. I expected it would. I had prepared for the interview, and I knew Mac. I thought I had won; but he changed the conversation abruptly.

"Look over there, Bruce," and he pointed with his whip toward the distance. "Away off on the other side of the Island is where Schurman of Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who come from around here. Down in that village is the birthplace of your Secretary of the Interior. These people, my people, worship God first and learning next. They are prouder of producing such men than they are of the Island itself, and to use student language, that is 'going some.'"

"Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac," I answered, not quite seeing why he had thrown me off, "but they do not seem to know _you_."

"No," he answered quickly. "they do not, and I do not want them to. It would frighten them off. It would require explanations. What difference if I have six letters after my name? To these people, worshiping what I know rather than what I am, I would not be Alec any more."

"But Mac, you will come back now, won't you! The college wants you; you mustn't refuse."

There was still more emotion in Mac's voice, when he answered: "Bruce, old man, don't tempt me. You can not know, and the faculty can not know. You say I ought to love all this and I do; but not with the love I have for the old college, though I was born here. Can you imagine that old Roman general, whom they took away from his plow to lead an army, refusing the offer but keeping the memory of it bright in his heart ever after? That is my case now, old man. There is nothing in this world I would rather have had than your message, but I must refuse the offer."

"Now Mac," I urged, "be reasonable. There is nothing here for you. Scenery won't make up."

"Don't I know it?" and Mac stopped the buggy again. "Don't I know it? But there is something bigger to me here than the love of the things God made me to do--and he surely made me for Greek, Bruce. Do not think I am foolish or headstrong, I long for my work. But Bruce, if you can not have two things that you love, all you can do is to give up one and go on loving the other, without having it. That's my fix, Bruce."