Chapter 8 FATHER MURRAY OF SIHASSET

Ann bustled into Father Murray's study next morning with something on her mind. When Ann had something on her mind the pastor was always quite likely to notice it, for Ann never had learned how to conceal her thoughts. Good, pious, and faithful she was, but with an inherent love of gossip. She had loyal feelings to express this morning, but long experience as the housekeeper of priests had made Ann wary of approaching a subject too abruptly.

"Mrs. Thompson was here, yer Reverence."

"Yes? What was it this time?"

"Sure, 'twas about her young b'y Jack, the good-fer-nothin'. He's drinkin' ag'in."

"And she wants me to-"

"Give him the pledge."

"All right; but why didn't you bring him in?"

"Well, wan raison is that he isn't sober yet and she couldn't bring him wid her. The other is that yer Reverence has sp'iled more good pledges on that lad than would kape the Suprame Coort in business for tin years."

Father Murray smiled and Ann knew she had made considerable progress, but not quite enough yet.

"I'll go and see him to-morrow morning. He'll be sober then," said the priest, looking down longingly at his work.

But Ann had another case. "The choir's busted."

Father Murray put down his book. Here was disaster indeed. "Again?"

"Yes, ag'in. The organist, Molly Wilson, is insulted."

"Who insulted her?"

"Ye did. She says ye didn't appreciate her music for the Confirmation."

"But I did."

"But ye didn't tell her so, the hussy."

"Hush, Ann. Don't call names. I had no time to tell Miss Wilson anything. I'll see her to-day."

"Yes, ye will, and that'll make her worse. She's got to be soft-soaped all the time, the painted thing!"

"Please, Ann, don't talk like that. I don't like it, and it makes hard feelings."

"'Tis little feelings yer Reverence should have left after the way the Bishop-"

"Ann!"

"I will say it. Didn't he slide out of bein' here three months ago? An' I wid a dinner fit fer the auld Bishop, and too good fer this-"

"Please, Ann."

"Wasn't ye the Vicar Gineral once? Why should he hurt ye now? I could tell him things if I had me tongue on him-"

But Father Murray was on his feet, and Ann was afraid. She held her tongue.

"Once and for all, Ann, I forbid you to say a word about my superiors. The Bishop is a great and a good man. He knows what he is about, and neither you nor I may judge him. No! not a word."

The housekeeper was crying. "Sure, I'm sorry, yer Reverence. I won't say a word ag'in, even if I do think he treated ye dirthy. But I hope ye won't spake like that to me. Sure I thry to serve ye well and faithfully."

"And so you do, Ann; so respect my wish in this. There, there, don't cry. I don't want to hurt you; but please don't hurt me."

"I'd cut me tongue out if it hurted yer Reverence."

"I think you would. Indeed, I know you would. Don't mind a spoiled dinner. There are plenty of dinners spoiled."

"Sure, them that has theirs spoiled kin afford it." Father Murray could not help being amused again. Ann was always bemoaning his slender revenues. "An' ye a Vicar Gineral."

"Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?"

"McCarthy's sick ag'in."

"Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning."

Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on the chronically dying McCarthy.

"Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil anointin' that omadhan four times already."

The priest passed off the unthought irreverence without notice.

"I'll go and see him now, Ann. The man may be very sick. Get me my hat. I left it in my bedroom when I came in last night from O'Leary's."

Ann gave him his hat at the door, with another bit of information.

"Miss Atheson telephoned for me to ask ye to drop in to Killimaga on yer way back. Ye'll be stayin' fer lunch, as they call it?"

"Yes, I probably shall, Ann. It will save you a little work, and there are plenty of servants at Killimaga."

He went down the walk to the street. Ann looked after him, the rebuke forgotten.

"Savin' me work, is it? Faith, he ought to be thinkin' of savin' his pinnies, slashin' thim around to the likes of McCarthy." Then the remembrance of her spoiled tirade came to her, as she thought of her ruined dinner and the Bishop. "What did he do that fer to a man who was the Vicar Gineral? But God forgive me. An auld woman niver knows how to hauld her tongue. Sure, the Father is a saint anyhow, whativer the Bishop, bad scran to him, is."

There was the eternal maternal in Ann, if nothing else was left of the eternal feminine. It is the eternal maternal that fights and hates, without knowing why-and loves and protects too-still without knowing, or asking, a reason.

In the kitchen Ann saw Uncle Mac taking his ease by the table. He often dropped in for a chat.

"Where's the Father?" he asked.

"Gone to look over McCarthy ag'in," she answered, with pleased anticipation of the things she could safely say, without rebuke, of the parish's chronic hypochondriac.

But Uncle Mac, while he never rebuked, yet was adroit in warding off temptations to break the Commandments. He began to chuckle as if he had just heard a wonderful story.

Ann looked up. "What's biting ye this mornin'?"

"'Tis what the Father said to Brinn, the man that runs the Weekly Herald. Ye know him?"

"I know no good av him."

"He's not a bad fella a-tall. Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig. Well, he was goin' to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be rigged up. He met the Father in Jim's drug sthore on the corner, and he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear."

"The omadhan!"

"Av coorse." Uncle Mac fell from righteousness. "He shud not have axed such a question of a priest. But the Father had him. 'Ye want to be disguised?' he said. 'That I do,' said Brinn, takin' off his hat to mop the top of his shiny pate. 'What'll I wear?' The Father giv wan glance at his head. 'Wear a wig,' sez he."

Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected.

"Faith, he did better nor that lasht week," she confided. "'Twas auld Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it. His little dog does always be barkin' at Rover. The Father wint out walkin' to the other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe's Jacky about servin' Mass on week days. Roberts comes along with his snarlin' little pup, and the imp bit at Rover's heels. Rover med wan bite at him, and he ran off yelpin'. 'I'll shoot that big brute some day,' sez Roberts to the Father. 'Don't do that, Mr. Roberts,' he sez, quiet-like. 'The dogs understand each other.' 'I will, so,' sez Roberts, 'and I kin shoot a human dog, too.'"

"What's that?" Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant. "What's that? He said that to the Father? I'll murther him!"

"Ye n'adn't," said Ann quietly. "The Father murthered him betther nor ye could, wid an answer. 'Don't let yer bad timper make ye thry to commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,' sez he, and off he marched. Sure the whole town is laffin' at the mane auld snake."

"Murther an' Irish!" was all Uncle could say. "An' he says he's Scotch. 'Tisn't in raison that a Scotchman could do it."

Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived "over the tracks." A man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed.

"Good day to you, Elder," he drawled.

"Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis. How are you?" Father Murray stopped to shake hands. Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the town. He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for he was a well-to-do business man.

"Fine, fine, Elder," he answered. "Have you seen my new card?" He fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over. Father Murray read it aloud:

JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS

Justice of the Peace

The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate.

Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and eloquently.

Fees Moderate. Osculation extra.

Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no

connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill.

P. S. My Anti-Blushine is guaranteed not to injure

the most delicate complexion.

"You'll be running the clergy clean out of business if this keeps up, Mr. Sturgis," laughed the priest. "But unless I am much mistaken, you didn't stop me only to show the card. There's something else? I see it on your face."

"I thought you would, Elder. Let us walk down the side street a bit and I'll tell you." The Justice became serious. "Elder, I suppose you know Roberts who keeps the Depot Hotel?"

"I know him only slightly."

"He was in to see me to-day, on what he called 'important business.' He is a crony of my constable. He had a cock and bull story about that lady at Killimaga, who goes to your church. I guess the constable told it to him. I gave him no satisfaction because there was nothing in it that concerned me; but the old scamp thinks it might hurt you, so he gave it to Brinn, who will publish it if you don't drop in on him."

Father Murray put his hand on the shoulder of the justice. "Thank you kindly, Mr. Sturgis," he said. "I would like to save the lady from annoyance, and will see Mr. Brinn at once; but I must begin by apologizing for my recent attack on his beauty."

"No need to do that, Father," assured the justice. "He printed the joke himself in to-day's Herald."

When the priest left the office of the editor, he walked toward the rectory in deep thought, quite evidently worried, but the suppressed story was safely in his pocket.