Читать книгу The Lost Angel - Katharine Tynan - Страница 5

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WALKING up and down his garden between the rows of July lilies that shed their golden pollen on him as he brushed them, Father James sighed in perplexity.

He sighed, and now and again he inhaled a pinch of snuff. It was "Best Blackguard"; but it might as well have been dust for all the pleasure it gave Father James.

His two dogs, Rex and Prince, walked soberly by the side of the shabby cassock. Generally they and Father James could pass an hour pleasantly together. He had taught them so many tricks, and he could always be won to laughter, as fresh as a child's, by putting the dogs through their repertoire. But now they might not have existed for him. Prince, who was the younger of the dogs, and had had a circus poodle for his grandmother, had turned a somersault or two in Father James's path. But seeing that the old priest took no notice of him he had given up the attempt to entertain and walked as sedately as Rex, whose increasing figure had put somersaults out of the question for him this long time back.

It was very pleasant in the walled garden, sweet with the scent of the lilies and the old-fashioned cabbage roses. Now and again came a rich fruity whiff from the direction of the white house that showed beyond the gnarled apple-boughs. Eliza Doyle, Father James's housekeeper, was making raspberry jam in the kitchen.

Now and again as she brought a steaming panful to cool on the table by the window she stood a second or two to watch the pacing figure beyond the tangle of apple-boughs.

"He's got something on his mind," she thought. "Lord send there's nothing wrong with Master James. 'Tis a while since he's come to see us: and there was that hussy yesterday. I didn't like the looks of her somehow."

Then she smiled, for she remembered how fond Master James was of raspberry jam, and certain boyish raids of his on her store-cupboard.

"Sure," she thought again, "sure you've only to look in the coaxing face of him to forgive him, no matter what he does."

James Lester was Father James Barren's nephew, his only sister's only child, and dear to his uncle's heart as if he had been his own child. It was quite surprising what a difference it had made to Father James, his possession of a scapegrace nephew. Jim had been given over altogether to his uncle at six years old, when his mother died. Father James had brought him up. The child and boy had been such a joy to him that he had often wondered why he should have been selected for so much happiness above his fellows. The lot of other priests was a lonely and barren one compared with his. "You see I'm a family man," he used to say roguishly to the other priests. And indeed his vicarious fatherhood had all the joys, all the possible sorrows of real fatherhood.

Every one loved Jim Lester as every one loved Father James. Allowing for some forty years of difference in their ages they were strikingly alike.

Time had been when Father James's thinning curls had been like his nephew's, golden-brown and plentiful. The priest's eyes yet were nearly as blue as the lad's. Both faces had the expression of a quiet and roguish humour. Father James was old enough to have had continental training, and although he was only a farmer's son he was a fine gentleman. Perhaps it was because of their association together that Jim Lester had learnt his uncle's ways. He had a charming way with women, not common among his class. No wonder that girls had been in love with him from the time he began to make love, and that was very early in his career.

Jim had flitted about from girl to girl as the bee from flower to flower. It had not made his uncle seriously uneasy. Jim had flirted so openly, so universally, that hitherto he had escaped the consequences of his flirtations. Father James had almost ceased to be anxious. He could remember a time, before he had known that the Church was his only love, when he had been gay and irresponsible among the girls himself. He could trust Jim, he thought, not to do any harm, not to hurt any one. Why Jim was the softest-hearted fellow alive. Ask the dogs if he wasn't? Ask the animals that had the good luck to depend on him. Ask the children and the old people in the village. There was no harm in the boy. No harm at all, Father James had said fondly over and over to himself.

Then, trouble had come. Jim had done worse than Father James ever expected of him. He had entangled himself with two girls. And each had brought her claim to Father James. And for the life of him he could not tell which had the better claim to the scapegrace.

Jim had helped him but little. He had been unlike himself, something of a mystery. He had been sullen like a child in trouble. Yes, it was quite true that he had engaged himself to Rose Maguire while he was up in Dublin studying for a profession. He had given her a ring. People knew about it. He had asked her father's consent. They had been about together as an engaged couple.

On the other hand there was Nora Fay. Nora was a girl in a shop, much humbler than Rose. He had never intended to go so far with Nora. He was engaged to Rose at the time. Rose had been masterful and exacting; and Nora was gentle and sweet and soft. He had taken refuge with Nora, and things had gone too far between them. He was fit to shoot himself when he thought of hurting Nora.

He looked oddly haggard by the time his uncle had extracted so much from him.

"Of course Rose has the right," he said, "but no matter what happens Nora shan't suffer. Rose can cover me with disgrace. Every one will think me a dishonourable cur; but, after all, Rose will not suffer as Nora would. She's a splendid girl. She could marry any one she liked. I shall have made Dublin too hot to hold me when I throw over Rose. They have so many friends. What matter? I shall have Nora. I am sorry, Uncle James, for being such a disappointment and trouble to you. I'll fling it all up and go to Australia. Nora won't mind. It won't be like taking Rose into poverty."

"Rose might release you," Father James said, looking with a tenderness that hurt his heart at the haggard young face.

"Oddly enough, she will not," the boy responded with a sudden flush. "God knows why she thinks me worth the keeping, but she does."

"You know?"

"Yes, I know."

Father James mused with his cheek upon his hand. In a lower social environment than that to which Miss Rose Maguire belonged Father James had known a sum of money to prove a solatium for a broken heart. It was unlikely that the young lady could be moved by such poor considerations as had affected her humbler sisters. Still, there was no knowing. If it had to be, if Jim's happiness lay with Nora and not with Rose, Father James was inclined to dare much to secure it. And there was a little nest-egg in the savings-bank,—all Father James could spare from the poor and his own few personal wants—slowly gathered year by year since Jim had been a little child, and helped of late by a bequest to Father James over and above the money for the poor and for masses.

Jim knew nothing about the nest-egg. He was not to know till the moment came when the nest-egg should be of great value to him—should open him some door, purchase for him some unhoped-for step, accomplish some wonder for him. Perhaps the moment had come now. It would hurt Father James to reduce or to part with the nest-egg;—it was impossible to say what a fine young lady's demands might not be, if she should stoop to accepting money instead of a lover.

Father James wanted to think. He wanted to think and to act quietly, without Jim's miserable eyes upon him.

It was the Long Vacation. While the matter was unsettled Jim was better away. Father James did not like the look of the young face, oddly unfamiliar with its rebellious, unhappy air. All of a sudden Jim had come to his manhood. It was no longer the gay and debonair boy his uncle had to deal with. A passing thought came to Father James that if Jim were well through this he would be a better man for the experience. It was time for the things of childhood to be given up and the affairs of manhood to take their place.

"Father Denis wants you, Jim," his uncle said softly. "I've a letter from him in my pocket here saying he hoped you'd go to him for a bit of the vacation. Go to him now instead of coming home with me. Let me think the matter out in quietness. You're not looking over-well, Jim. The sea air will do you no harm."

For a moment the boy looked hopeful, as though he had had a respite, before his face clouded again.

"You wish me to go?" he asked shortly.

"Yes, Jim, I wish you to go. There's no use in your coming home with me now. You have your bag packed. Go off to Father Denis and let things be for a bit. Perhaps we'll find a way out of it."

Again Jim's face brightened. So often Uncle James had found a way out of his childish and boyish escapades. Still he went half-unwillingly on the visit to Father Denis in the wild Northern Glen. The new-found manhood in him wanted to stay and see the thing out. Something prevented Father James telling him that he was going to try what he could do. This new, mysterious Jim might resent being acted for.

Father James had seen Miss Rose Maguire. She was a tall girl, with a hard handsome face, so finely dressed that she had set the village gaping as she came through it from the railway station.

She had turned Rex out of the chair in which he was curled, comfortably asleep. Before she took his place she had looked at the chair as though to say she did not care to occupy it after him; but Prince was in the only other comfortable chair in the room.

Her sweeping glance took in the deficiencies of the room, the threadbare carpet, the shabby book-case, the cheap prints on the wall, the spotted mirror above the mantelpiece, the ormolu clock which had long ceased to keep time. Finally it rested on Father James who was watching her with a gentle air of expectancy. There was that about her which made him suddenly aware that he had dropped his snuff on his cassock. He brushed it away unhurriedly.

"Well?" he asked, with an air of quiet interest.

"You wished to see me," she said. "I did not feel that there was very much to add to what I said in my letter. I am engaged to your nephew, but he is neglecting me. I don't know when he has been to see us. Of course people are talking."

"Yes, yes," said Father James, looking at her as though from a distance, while he drew Rex's silky ears between his fingers. "Yes, yes, I see. I am surprised at Jim. I sent him to Dublin to pursue his studies."

"There is no reason why he should not do that too," said the young lady sourly. "In fact his engagement ought to be an incentive to him. He promised me that he would work hard to provide such a home for me as I've been accustomed to. It wasn't what my people expected, that I should become engaged to a medical student in his first year. Many of my friends think I am wasting my time. You see I could do much better."

"Naturally," assented Father James, with the tips of his fingers together.

His agreement with her seemed to act as an encouragement to the young lady. She talked quickly, fluently, so fluently that Father James blinked his eyes as though in face of a heavy shower. She said the same thing over and over again in many different ways. She might have done much better than Jim, but since she had accepted him and all the people knew it there was no going back. Father James must make his nephew do his duty by Miss Maguire. She was no more prepared for a long, indefinite engagement than she was for being an old maid. Couldn't Father James help them? He had no one, she understood, but Jim. If he had her by his side it would be an incentive to Jim to work. She would see that he worked.

"Excuse me," said Father James, interrupting the steady flood, "if you knew my nephew did not love you as a man should love his wife, would you still be willing to marry him?"

Miss Maguire stared.

"It is not likely," she said with some indignation; "but if it were so I should still be willing to marry him."

"Would you hold him to his engagement if he cared for another girl more than for you,—if his happiness was wrapped up in another girl?"

"I should certainly hold him to his engagement."

Father James sighed.

"That is your engagement-ring, I presume?" he asked, indicating a half-hoop of pearls and diamonds upon the young lady's square-tipped third finger.

"It is;" she held it for his inspection.

"Jim never had much money," he said, as though to himself.

Miss Maguire flushed angrily, but before she could find words to refute the vague accusation of the priest's words, he spoke again.

"Supposing that your engagement comes to nothing," he asked, his eyes watching her, "it cannot matter to you whether he marries another girl or not."

"But it does," she panted. "If he marries another girl I will make him pay for it."

"You would think it worse that he should do that, loving the girl, than that he should remain unmarried?"

"Am I to be a laughing-stock to the people who know of our engagement?"

"If you were to...excuse me, but sometimes unpleasant things have to be said...if you were to bring my nephew into court the amount of damages would be problematical."

"Not in my case," she flashed at him; "I have no fear of the result."

No wonder that Father James was perplexed after this interview. On the one hand there was Miss Rose Maguire, whom he certainly did not like, but there was nothing against the girl either personally or socially. In fact she belonged to a highly reputable family which had a good social standing. The girl herself was highly esteemed, The revelation of vulgarity in her had been a shock to Father James.

On the other hand there was Nora Fay, a girl in a shop. Would not her connections, if she did not, drag down Jim, who was inclined to be facile and too good-natured? A marriage beneath him would be a black mark against Jim presently when he was qualified and trying to make a practice. It would hinder him as much as a marriage with Rose Maguire would help him, for the Maguires were ambitious and hospitable: they had many friends: the ramifications of the family and its connection were far-reaching.

"Your Reverence," said Eliza Doyle at his elbow. "There's a young woman at the door waiting to speak to your Reverence."

To be sure, it was Saturday afternoon, and he had asked Nora Fay to come when she was free. Doubtless this was she. The shops closed early on Saturday. He noticed the disparagement in the housekeeper's tone. "A young woman". Perhaps the poor girl had walked from town. If she had it was a hot dusty road she had taken.

He hurried in, carrying a deal of the golden pollen on his cassock. The blinds were down in his parlour, and it was almost dark, and deliciously cool coming in out of the glare of the sun. The blinds flapped in the summer wind and stirred the modest muslin curtains. There was some one sitting in one of the least comfortable chairs, who would have stood up at Father James's entrance if it had not been that Rex sprang into her lap.

"There, my child, never mind him," said Father James, taking into his own hand a hand that trembled and was damp. "He's a spoilt dog. He jumped into the Reverend Mother's lap at the convent the other day. She nearly fainted. She doesn't like dogs, and I'm afraid I'm an unwelcome visitor with these two rascals at my heels. They always sit in the velvet chairs and when she turns them out they have a roll and a tumble on her best carpet."

He chuckled to himself at the reminiscence. The blind flapped a little way into the room and the light fell on the girl's face. She was looking at Father James with wide eyes of terror. There were purple rings about them, and the veins in her forehead were too blue. But it was a soft face, an innocent and gentle face. The look of fear in it smote Father James as though a child or an animal were terrified of him. He had a glimpse of things he had renounced. He could imagine how good it would be for a lad, aye, or a man, to turn away from handsome black-browed Rose to the consolation of this gentle creature.

"Please, Father, I am..." she began, and could scarcely speak for trembling.

"To be sure, you are Nora Fay," Father James said reassuringly.

He went and pulled up the blind a little and coming back he sat down where he could see her. She was poorly dressed but with great neatness. Like most short-sighted people Father James could make astonishing discoveries sometimes. He discovered now that Nora Fay's gloves were darned at the finger-tips; that her little black, thread-bare jacket was too dingy for the time of year, that her skirt was faded and of poor stuff. She had a little cheap black hat; but Father James had an idea that a lad would not have thought of the hat because of the pale, gold hair beneath it and the tender and innocent face. There was dust on her shoes and her skirt; and no doubt heat and fatigue had done their part in making her paler than she usually was.

"You've walked from town, my poor child," he said, "and you're tired. Now, wouldn't you like a cup of tea?"

She looked her grateful assent.

There were no bells in Father James's establishment, and he had usually to carry his own messages to the kitchen.

"I want tea, Eliza," he said, coming in on the good woman, "and a drop of cream for it, and a new-laid egg, and some of the raspberry jam you've been making. And a few of your griddle cakes could come in handy; my visitor has had a long walk."

"It'll take time to bake the griddle cakes, Father."

"Never mind that." Father James had an idea that his visitor would enjoy her tea better when there had been an explanation between them. He did not want the explanation to be disturbed by the coming and going of Eliza Doyle, so he added with great cunning: "and I'll tell you what, Eliza. Put the tea in the summer-house in the garden. And when you're ready for us, just ring your little bell."

When he returned to the parlour he was pleased to see that his visitor had somewhat recovered herself. Apparently she had dreaded an unfriendly reception, and had been reassured by Father James's kindly way. The colour had come back to her cheeks and she smiled, showing little even teeth. Her smile had the ingratiation of a child's.

"We'll have a cup of tea in the garden," he said. To him women and children were the flowers of the world. He said to himself that Jim was not to be blamed, poor boy. There was character in the face as well as that heavenly innocence and gentleness. Now she lifted her little white chin.

"You're too good to me, Father," she said, and came to the point with a directness he was not prepared for. "'Tis about Jim, Father. He isn't to be blamed. I don't know how you knew. I'd rather die than tell his secret—"

"He told me himself."

"We didn't know what was happening till it was too late," she went on, her cheeks firing. "He used to come in for his lunch. He was sorry for me because I'd no one to take me out; and he didn't like the town, and I didn't, being always used to the country. So he used to talk to me and we were friends, and then he took me out and it went on and on, and we didn't know where we were till we were fond of each other."

"Did you know my nephew was an engaged man?"

Her lids fluttered nervously over her frightened eyes, and she looked down in her lap, twisting her fingers together as she answered him.

"He told me; he never kept anything from me. I used to say to myself that it was so little I was having: that it would all be done and over in a little while, and then he'd belong to her for ever. It wasn't so much; just a few walks and talks. He need never have said a word. I wouldn't have asked anything from him. I never thought he was going to like me the best. That was what made the trouble."

Father James drew a deep breath.

"Supposing he didn't like you the best?" he said quietly.

She gasped and stared at him like one who has had a shock.

"Supposing he found he had made a mistake?—a very natural mistake for a young man to make when he is thrown into such a friendship—and discovered that after all his heart was where it ought to be, with the girl who was wearing his ring?"

Plainly she took his question for an assertion. She gazed at Father James for a few seconds, and something like a film came over the blue of her eyes. She shivered as though she were cold. Then she stood up and raised her little hand with a forlorn dignity. The dispossessed Rex fell with a little thud on to the rug.

"If that be so," she said, "I shall never trouble him."

"Wait," Father James said, putting his hand on her arm. "You haven't had your tea. Besides, I haven't finished. Supposing he is really fonder of the other girl than he is of you, but that he feels he has done you the greater wrong. Supposing he feels that she can do without him better than you can, and is prepared to give up his own happiness to make you happy?"

"That would be very kind of him," the girl said gently, "but, of course, I couldn't take it from him. Will you please tell him from me, Father, that I shall do very well, and that I'm mindful of all the kindness he showed to me; but that the best of friends must part; and I shall be happy thinking of him as happy."

A small sob broke the heroic speech.

"But you wouldn't be happy, child?"

"I would not, Father," she said; and he felt as though the secrets of a soul were laid bare to him in the Confessional; "but he is never to know it. I shall do very well. I have my mother to think of—"

She held out her hand.

"And you refuse him?" said Father James. "Remember that he will marry you if you say the word."

"I refuse him," she said, and made a step or two forward; and her eyes were as though she stepped into illimitable space.

"Oh, depths of love in a woman's heart!" said Father James softly to himself. Then he put the girl back gently into her chair. Rex saw his opportunity and jumped into her lap again. It was a soft lap made to hold children, and perhaps a man's hidden face when he came for confession and comfort.

"There, there, child," he went on soothingly. "You haven't had your tea yet, and it is a long, dusty walk back. Better wait a while till the coolness comes and the dews. Maybe I'll be borrowing a pony and trap to take you part of the way. What, you want to be by yourself—to break your heart alone! Child, what did you think of us—of me and Jim? I thank God for the revelation of a pure, unselfish love. Trust me and trust him. He is a good boy, but you will need to watch over him. Ah, there is the tea-bell!"

* * *

Three or four days after Nora Fay had eaten and drunken griddle-cake and tea and other good things in the arbour in Father James's garden, with the smell of lilies all about her, feeling as though she fed on heavenly meat and drink in Paradise, Jim Lester, fretting his life out in the Glen to the trouble and bewilderment of Father Denis, received a small postal packet.

Within it lay the ring he had given to Rose Maguire, with a formal and very cold quittance from that young lady. Fortunately she had discovered her mistake before it was too late; she could never have been happy with Mr. Lester. She therefore set him free and claimed her own freedom. Would Mr. Lester send her letters and she would return his and his gifts.

Jim Lester whistled like a blackbird as he packed his bag. There was just time for that and to write a note to Rose accepting his freedom before catching the mail from the North. He asked Rose to keep the gifts in memory of one who was unworthy of her. He was inclined to be reproachful of himself at that moment for his recent thoughts about Rose. How magnanimous she had been, standing out of the way and leaving the path to heaven free for him and Nora.

He had no idea at all, nor ever had, of the depletion of that little nest-egg which Father James had put by for him by a few hundred pounds. Father James had shown more diplomacy than any one would have credited him with in that second interview with Rose, in which he had persuaded her that the results in hard cash of a law-suit were problematical, while the depreciation in the marriage-market of a young lady who had set a money value on a broken heart was considerable. Jim asked no questions. He was too delighted with the fortunate issue of his troubles to ask how it had come about. If he was inclined to give Rose too much credit for generosity and high-mindedness that did no harm in Father James's opinion. He rejoiced with his nephew when Rose became a bride within the year; and was inclined to think that the shrinkage of the nest-egg was well atoned for by the excellent results.

"It was a Judgment of Solomon," he used to say to himself when he was once more left to the companionship of Rex and Prince. "I had to give him to the woman who loved him best and had the best right to him, so I had, and sure the Lord guided me. The one who was ready to give him up was the right one after all."