Part 4 (2/2)
”True enough,” he said. ”In the Anglican Church they would make such a man a bishop, or at least a dean.”
”Well, they didn't do that with the Padre.” The detective shook his head as if to express his regret that something of the kind had not been done. ”He was the right hand man of the old Bishop of the diocese; but the new Bishop had to have new counselors. That's one way of the world that the church fellows have gotten into. Some say that it broke the Padre's heart, but he doesn't look it. Must have hurt him a little, though. Human nature is human nature--and after all he did for the Church, too.”
”Did he do so much?” questioned Mark.
”Sure he did! You saw the Cathedral, didn't you, when you pa.s.sed through the city? Well, the Padre built that, and the big college, too, the one you see from the train. He was president of the college.
He was the life and soul of the Catholic Church in this section.”
”Why was he dropped?”
”Search me,” offered the detective. ”No one knows that except the Bishop, I guess. Padre came here six months ago.Some of the young priests used to come to see him, but seldom any of the older ones. I got all I know from one of those young chaps--the one I told you I met on the train. He almost cried over the affair.”
”It's sad enough to make any friend cry over it,” said Mark; ”but somehow it makes the man seem bigger to me.”
”True.” Saunders was clearly the Padre's admirer. ”They say he had the best pulpit in London before he went over to the Catholics--big salary, and all that. Then he had to begin all over again as a layman.
Went to school, by gos.h.!.+--dead game! But when they made him a priest he jumped right to the front. His last money went into the college he built. He has only five hundred a year to live on now. You know, Griffin, if it wasn't for the rotten way the Church treated him, I honestly believe the Padre could put some religion into me. He's a power here already. Look at the way he makes that girl at Killimaga work.”
It seemed to Mark that the detective was beginning to fence again.
”She's a stranger, isn't she?” he asked.
The detective half closed his eyes. ”How do you know?”
”You told me so.”
Saunders blew a thoughtful smoke ring.
”I guess I did. You know, of course, Killimaga was rented to her about the time Padre came here. The old Irishman who built it, died, and his family went over to your country to buy a t.i.tle for their only daughter. The girl up there must be a rich one to rent such an estate; and, Griffin, that old Irishman had taste, believe me. His gardens are a wonder. Ever see them?”
”No.”
”Try to; they're worth while. This girl spends her money and herself on the Padre's charities. He directs, and she does things for the mill people. By gad, Griffin, they just love her! I pa.s.sed her just now going into O'Leary's. The old man was crushed at the mill, and died yesterday. It's dollars to doughnuts she takes care of that family all winter. Where she gets the money is beyond me.”
”You Americans are all rich,” said Mark. ”You English think we are, but you only see the gang that goes over to the other side every summer. There's one Atheson family in America worth millions, but I know that crowd; she doesn't belong to it. I don't know what Atheson family she does belong to. She's a mystery, with her Killimaga and her money and her veil.”
”Why,” said Mark, ”every woman wears a veil--the sun, you know.”
”Yes; the sun, and the rain, and the shade, and _every_ kind of weather!”
The detective's face was betraying him again. But the luncheon was over, and Mark would not be probed. He had made up his mind to go early to the rectory, so he left Saunders with a parting shot:
”You'd better go on with the book sales. You've loafed all day.
That's bad business policy for a Yankee. What would your wooden nutmeg ancestors say to that?”
Saunders grinned.
”They wouldn't like it,” he answered. ”They're not like ancestors who wouldn't have been able to sell even a real nutmeg.”
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