Father Tom took a large draught of tea. “Mesel’,” he said.
“Ye-sel’!”
“Aye.”
Mrs. Logan was scandalized. “Ye’ll be jesting, Faether!”
“I’ll not be jesting,” he said. “I can do a good job. My Dada taught me.”
Mrs. Logan threw up her hands. “But Faether! The scandal!”
“There is nothing scandalous aboot honest work, Mistress Logan,” said Father Tom. He drew a deep breath. “And I’ll be damned if I live under a roof that leaks.” He was freshly amazed at himself, and at his profanity. He rose severely to his full height, which was very tall indeed.
“Our Lord did nae ask the great ones in the cities to do His work,” he said. “And He was a carpenter, Himsel’.”
He was pleasantly tired and went for a nap in his tiny cell of a bedroom and slept more deeply and sweetly than he had ever remembered. When he awoke there were four old gentlemen waiting to see him to discuss kirk matters, and to brief him about the hamlet. He gave them some of Squire MacVicar’s whiskey, to their delight and shy pleasure, and drank a tot himself. He could not recall having felt so vigorous since his early boyhood.
“That Squire MacVicar,” said one old gentleman, shaking his head proudly. “He is a fair one. A saint.”
Now Father Tom could satisfy his curiosity. Squire MacVicar had the finest sheep in the country, and many flocks of them, and employed many shepherds. He was also the landlord of half the hamlet. He owned the rich meadows three miles distant, and had a revenue from the pubs of six villages. He was also ‘invested’, which Father Tom took, rightly, to mean that he had property and money and bonds in Edinburgh, his original home. He had come here when a young man because he, too, had had A Chest. Now he was practically lord of the hamlet and its vicinity, and was lordly in appearance, too.
He had founded and set up a fine free school, and had been, until very recently — the old gentleman coughed — almost the entire support of his kirk. He kept his houses ‘up’, and had established a fund for the support of the old folk, another for the sick and temporarily indigent, and supplied all the hamlet’s geese on Christmas and all its hams or young lamb for Easter Sunday. He made no difference between Presbyterians and Catholics. Though it must be admitted, another old gentleman said, that he had no love for those he called ‘Romans’. Quite the contrary. But he was a just man, merciful, provident and charitable, though with a temper when crossed. “If there was ever a man without sin, Faether,” said an old gentleman, “that one be Squire MacVicar.” The Squire did not smoke or drink; he lived plainly in a house ‘doon the road’ not distinguishable from its neighbors except for its large garden, and its furniture and curtains. His life was austere, almost rigorous. He paid uncommonly large wages, and expected and received good work in return. He was ‘down’ on the sinful, the slothful, the heavy drinkers and smokers. He demanded that others live as purely as he did, except for the Catholics, whom he had long ago decided were residents of the Outer Darkness. Nevertheless, he ‘did’ for the Catholics as he ‘did for ‘his ain folk’. Just. Firm. Severe. Blameless. All the old gentlemen agreed.
“And his lady?” asked Father Tom, with an innocent face.
They shook their heads. The poor lady died ten years ago. There was a housekeeper in the house, and there was a gardener for the garden and jobs outside.
“And nae bairns?” said Father Tom, more innocent than ever.
Only one child. The old gentlemen did not move in their stiff chairs but they subtly seemed to draw together as if in defense of the Squire. Betsy MacVicar, a lovely lass, but she had not married well.
“Sad, that,” said Father Tom, encouragingly, and deftly refilling the glasses. The old gentlemen exchanged eloquent glances, and sipped the whiskey and did not speak for a little. Then the most loquacious, his ancient face flushed with the whiskey, spoke. The daughter of Squire MacVicar had married the wee minister of the Presbyterian kirk. They had run off together to Gretna Green, when the Squire had refused his consent.
“And what had he against the minister?” asked Father Tom.
They all looked at each other uneasily. Well, it seems that the Squire had not liked the minister from the very beginning, when he had come here less than two years ago. “A soft lad,” the Squire had called him, and the Squire did not like soft lads. Moreover, the minister was ‘sae poor’, with no private means, and he could never bring himself to ‘speak up’ even to the most cantankerous of his congregation. (And when a Scotsman is cantankerous, thought Father Tom, he can make the devil, himself, nod enviously.) The wee minister did not come of gentry, as did Squire MacVicar, who had inherited considerable money. His father had a poor shoe shop in Glasgow, and he was a Borderlander, which meant, of course, that there was more than a suspicion of Sassenach blood in the family. The wee minister protested that he was pure Highlander, and it was only misfortune which had sent his parents to Glasgow, but the Squire did not believe him and so the hamlet did not believe him, either. It was evident that what the Squire disliked all his neighbors disliked automatically.
Even before the marriage the Squire had attempted to have Mr. Gregor removed. But the authorities in Edinburgh were as adamant as himself, and every bit as stubborn. The hamlet was small, and Mr. Gregor was a young man of impeccable character, said the authorities, sternly. It was his first parish, and the authorities intimated bluntly that if he survived this hamlet he would survive anywhere. In short, they had not too high an opinion of the Squire and the hamlet, which was very cruel of them. (Father Tom took a sudden liking for ‘the authorities’ in Edinburgh, whoever they might be.)
So, under all these circumstances, said the old gentlemen, the Squire was not to be blamed for withdrawing support from the Presbyterian kirk, and the congregation gave as little as possible for the support of the kirk and the wee minister and Betsy. She had made her bed, had Betsy, and she could lie in it. The old gentlemen nodded solemnly.
Father Tom was very young and very gentle; he felt almost the first wrath of his life against Squire MacVicar. Had he not met Mr. Gregor that morning he might have been as censorious as these old folk, and would have spoken of disobedience to parents and such like. But he had met Mr. Gregor, and in those moments he had felt a fraternal fondness for him and a vague desire to help him in some way.
The Squire had intended to build a new manse for the minister, but when he had met Mr. Gregor he immediately withdrew his offer. His money would not go to house a lad without visible character and family and funds. The Squire was of the Clan of MacGregor on his mother’s side. Father Tom lifted his head alertly. His father had been a true Highlander, with a vague relationship to the Clan, himself. Father Tom felt his thin cheeks beginning to burn warmly with excitement.
“The Squire’s mother, then, was Catholic?” he said.
The old gentlemen looked vague. Well, now, they had never known the Squire’s parents. He was not very young when he had come here. He had been thirty at least. After he had established himself in the hamlet, which had taken five years, he had gone to Edinburgh for a wife and had brought his lady home. “A lovely lass, like Betsy,” said one old gentleman. “And little more than half his age. He was fair to die when she died.” The Squire, who had doted on Betsy before his wife’s death — his only child — had become obsessed with her afterwards. There was nothing too good for Betsy. She had gone to school, a fine school, in Edinburgh, and had lived with the Squire’s sister-in-law, her aunt, a widow of much wealth, herself. The Squire had brought the lass home when she had done with her school, and had intended to take her abroad two months later. Then she had fallen in love with the wee minister, and they had married in great haste. The Squire, said the old gentlemen, had been quite mad for a while. Then he had begun his revenge against his daughter and her husband.
“Sich a good man,” said Father Tom, with irony.
But the old gentlemen took him seriously, and nodded in chorus, and said “Aye” in choru
s. Had he been a Catholic he would inevitably have been called a saint, and probably canonized in the future. Sad that he wasna Catholic.
“I think,” said Father Tom, dropping his Scots caution, “that the Church will survive, not having him as a communicant.”
This startled and confused three of the old gentlemen, but the fourth looked at the young priest shrewdly. Not sae soft as he seemed, but what did he mean by that sly remark? There was a nasty look in his eye, too. The old gentleman began to smile. He liked a lad with spirit, and he had thought, originally, that the young priest sadly lacked that commendable virtue.
Had the Squire liked the minister before Mr. Gregor? the priest asked. The old men again exchanged uneasy glances. Well, no. The Squire had not liked that one, nor the one before him. Nor the other. He had fair broken their spirits, too, but it was their fault, not the Squire’s. Weak lads. Feckless. No character. Father Tom nodded grimly to himself. He was beginning to have a very good idea of the Squire.
There were no Sisters in the hamlet. The Catholic children attended the Squire’s good free school, and none of the Protestant children were permitted to jibe at them. The priest, of course, was expected to teach the children their catechism. In time, and with the growth of Catholic families, the Sisters would come. Father Tom hoped, a little unkindly, that this would not happen too soon. Sisters invariably took over a parish and dominated it.
Then one old gentleman said that the Squire had actually offered the ‘auld Faether’ a convent for nuns, but for some reason the ‘auld Faether’ had politely refused. This aroused Father Tom’s interest; however, the old gentleman had no explanation.
Father Tom wondered what the priest of the nearest hamlet which had enough Catholic families to warrant a priest thought of Squire MacVicar. A saint! said the old gentlemen, on the doorstep. Father Tom decided not to visit his brother in Christ for some time. His stubborn Scots loyalty had been aroused in behalf of young Mr. Gregor and his very young wife, who was expecting a child. And there was a vague thought hovering like a bee over his mind.
There were only forty Catholic children in the village, ranging from a month to twelve years in age. There were but sixteen in the catechism class. The Catholic families were, in the main, middle-aged or older. The younger did not breed more children than their Protestant neighbors.
Within a few days Father Tom had settled down in his parish and had met all his people. He could not understand himself, and often marveled. Whence had he acquired this new strength, this new spirit, this new sense of authority? He wrote his parents: “I have not coughed since I came here. The air is very salubrious, if cold. I have the heartiest appetite and am in good spirits. You would not know me.” In fact, the young priest did not know himself.
On Friday afternoon he brought out the ladder, filled a basket with slates, and climbed on the steep roof of his rectory. It was odd, he thought, as he hammered and chipped away, that no one seemed about; his hammer echoed all up and down the street. He did not know, until later, that he had scandalized his own people and was embarrassing the Protestants, who thought it ‘fair dreadful’ for a clergyman to be crawling and hammering all over the place, his coat off and his pullovers tucked in. No one, of course, offered to help him or do the job. The men were ‘sae busy’ and were too tired at evening. Besides, there was a bad conscience among both Catholics and Protestants. They covered this by telling themselves that the clergy should be above wanting a tight roof. The old prophets and holy men had lived in caves or in the desert or the forests, and had thought nothing of it, their minds fixed only on God. When Mrs. Logan repeated this opinion to Father Tom, he said, “The old prophets and holy men lived in warm climates, not in sae Godforsaken a place as this. I’ll not hae a leak over my head in the winter.”
Auld Bob expressed it as his opinion that the new priest was an oppressor of the poor and would not pay wages, and sacrilegious into the bargain, and had no respect for his calling, if one could consider ‘Romans’ as having a calling at all. He had fair stolen the slates from him, Auld Bob. This was an example of what the ‘Romans’ would do if they ever seized control of Scotland again. His friends agreed, though doubting that Auld Bob had lost anything on the slates.
The good clear weather was holding; the stone cottages along the street reflected the sun like mica; the dark cobbles gleamed; the sky had the hard jewel look of polished aquamarine. But no one was about. Father Tom whistled some dolorous ballad about lost maidens and cruel fathers, and then changed to an even more dolorous ballad concerning a young gallant sailor lost at sea. The more tragic the ballad, the happier he became, as he felt all his muscles stretch elastically in his labor and the cold wind ruffled his hair. For, as everyone knows, the true Celt reveals his contentment in singing of the more disastrous events of life. It is when his throat throbs the hardest that his heart is the happiest, a matter a mere Sassenach could not possibly understand.
The roof was very steep, but young Father Tom skittered up and down it, feeling more exhilarated by the moment, his heels and toes digging into the gutters for purchase, his knees gripping on the slates for support. Aha, he thought, godliness is entwined with hard labor; to labor is to pray. He opened his mouth to sing a particularly direful phrase which had to do with the dying of a lass in a wave rushing from the sea, and the fact that at sunset she could be heard calling, calling, calling — Joyously, the hammer becoming brisker, the priest’s eyes filled with tears at the thought of that desolate and childlike wailing as the blue and scarlet dusk came down.
So engrossed, he had not heard the calm clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles, and so did not hear the clatter stop, and was not aware of the horseman sitting below him and watching him with interest. He almost lost his footing when a loud and sardonic voice said, “Nae wonder the lass doesna come hame, with a song like yon to greet her, and such a singing.”
Father Tom, halfway up the roof, leaned heavily on the slates and cautiously glanced over his shoulder. He knew who that tall, gray, tweed-clad man was instantly, for he remembered the phrase Mrs. Logan and others had used: “A lordly man with a lordly air.” His face immediately suffused with various tints of magenta. His mouth fell open boyishly.
“A fine occupation for a priest,” said the lordly man with the eyes like bits of pale and polished stones.
Father Tom’s heart beat a little tattoo of embarrassment, and then he was angry. “You’ll know of a better, perhaps?” he said, and did not stammer once. Mrs. Logan twitched the curtain and surveyed Squire MacVicar with horror, and thought, for a moment, that he had a truly ‘divilish’ grin on his face. But she was also ashamed for the priest.
“Sich as praying for souls with the auld women — Parson,” said the Squire.
“And sich as praying for the souls of auld men — if such are not lost, the noo,” said Father Tom, and reminded himself that he must be contrite for that smarting answer — much later.
The man laughed sourly, but his eyes took on a harder stoniness. “We havena lost our spirit in the cloisters,” he said.
“I hae a good faether,” said the priest, wondering if it would be entirely sinful if his basket of slates slipped and fell like leaves onto the horseman, whose horse was as black as coal and whose coat resembled the better satins.
Squire MacVicar thought that over, his face darkening moment by moment. “And what will ye mean by that remark?” he asked at last.
Father Tom reflected. He would be doing the wee minister no good by inspiring new hostility in this very grim and very hostile man with the fine upright figure and the arrogant face.
“Sae very subtle,” he said. “If a lad hae a good faether he’ll not be afraid of the world when he is a man.”
“Um,” said the Squire, suspiciously. Father Tom resumed his dexterous work. The Squire moved his horse closer until his eye was on a level with the low eaves. “Not sae bad,” he remarked. “And where will a priest-lad be learning to manage slates?”
“My D
ada,” said Father Tom, and made the street ring with his hammer.
“I see,” said the Squire with a touch of contempt.
“ ‘Mary, call the cattle hame, the cattle hame, the cattle hame! Mary, call the cattle hame, across the sands o’ Dee!’ ” sang the priest, his voice throbbing calamitously.
“Good God,” said the Squire, putting his gloved hands over his ears. “And will ye be assaulting the ears of the puir people with that voice when ye celebrate the Mass?”
Father Tom paused. The bee that hovered over his mind twanged a little nearer and sharper.
“And arouse the dead at Matins?” said the Squire.
“I hae no complaints,” said Father Tom, looking down soberly at the horseman.
“Not even at a Solemn Mass, lad? Not even at the Gloria?” The Squire chuckled nastily.
“I see,” said Father Tom. “My kirk hae had the pleasure of your worship’s company, perhaps?”
“Not I!” said the Squire. “I do not like mummery.”