Charred Wood Part 31

MISS RUTH ATHESON TO WED BARON GRIFFIN Former Vicar-General Announces the Engagement of His Niece.

And, in the next column:

GRAND d.u.c.h.eSS CARLOTTA VICTIM OF WRECK Ruler of Ecknor Killed While on Her Way to Washington.

The story was skillfully written. No one had "remembered," or at least influence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for the Bishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he was back in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. He saw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portrait of a charming child.

"My niece," he had said. "She's a winsome little thing. I miss her sorely."

He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had been strangely silent, he remembered. And--yes, it was just after that that the picture had disappeared from his desk. "It is best," had been Donald Murray's only comment.

The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked so surprised and reproachful when asked to give his "full" confidence regarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, "My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you."

The Bishop bowed his head. "Blind, blind," he murmured, "to have known so much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, my friend?"

CHAPTER XXI

THE BECKONING HAND

The autumn tints were full on the trees in Siha.s.set, but the air was still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, wearing his comfortable old ca.s.sock, and with a smile of ineffable peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory"

and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his countenance.

"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one,"

he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go out now and look for another one."

"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you will have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would care for the same kind of position you had before--would you? I suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his intendent."

"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent intend to do? It's a new one on me."

"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "is quite a personage on the other side. He is the man who runs the business affairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite a good position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective.

Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness over the property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If the salary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer.

Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you very much. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'a black Protestant,' I look upon you as one of my own."

Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of difference that makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself, Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you."

"Now, Mr. Saunders," reproved Father Murray, "that is not very complimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity."

Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch of seriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain.

"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father--only it strikes me that there is always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic'

and the one that wasn't born a Catholic."

"Well, Mr. Wise Man," said the priest, "perhaps you'll explain the difference."

Saunders looked puzzled. "It is a hard thing to explain, Father," he said, and then hesitated; "but I'll try to do it. In the first place--but this doesn't go for you--I think that the convert is more bigoted than the other kind. Now, honestly, don't you?"

Father Murray was amused. "I am glad, Mr. Saunders," he replied, "that you leave me out of it. That is a _real_ compliment. Now, let us put it this way: If you had been the possessor of a million dollars from the time of your birth, it would be a matter of course with you, would it not?"

"Certainly."

"But if you should suddenly acquire a million dollars, you would naturally feel very much elated about it. Is that not true?"

"Yes--but what then?"

"That is the way it is with converts to anything. They suddenly acquire what to them is very precious and, like the newly-made millionaire, they are fearful of anything that threatens their wealth.

They become enthusiasts about what they have--and I must confess that some of them even become a bit of a nuisance. But it is a good sign.

It is a sign of sincerity, and you cannot overlook sincerity. There is too little of it in the world."

"I am mighty glad now," said Saunders, "that you haven't got it."

"What? The sincerity?"

"Oh, Lord, no!--the bigotry. Anyhow, if I stay here, you won't have much trouble with me for, like a certain man I once read about, the church I _don't_ go to is the Methodist."

"Then I will have to give you up," said Father Murray. "If the Methodist were the one you actually _did_ go to, I might have half a chance to make you a convert; but since you do not go to _any_, I am afraid that my counsels would fall upon stony ground. But you will always be welcome to the rectory, even if you do not bother the church," he added.

"But surely, Father," said Saunders, "you are not going to stay here?

Hasn't the Bishop made you his Vicar-General again? And doesn't he want you to go back to the Cathedral?"

"That is true," answered the priest, his face becoming grave. "But I have grown very fond of Siha.s.set, and the Bishop has kindly given me permission to remain in charge of the parish here."

"I don't quite understand that," said the visitor in an urging way. "I should hate to lose you, Father--for of course I shall stay if the Baron offers me the position, and I'm going to bring the wife and kiddies, too--I like the place, and I like the people--but when I was a common soldier, I wanted to be a sergeant, and when I became sergeant I wanted to be a lieutenant. I suppose if I had gotten the lieutenancy, I should have wanted a captaincy, and then I shouldn't have been satisfied until I had charge of a battalion--and so on up the line. It takes all the ginger out of a man if he has no ambitions. Why shouldn't a priest have them, too?"

"Some of them have," answered Father Murray, "when they are young. But when they 'arrive' they begin to find out the truth of what they were told in the seminary long before--that 'arriving' does not make them any happier. In the Catholic Church, position means trouble and worry, because it means that you become more of a servant yet a.s.sume greater responsibilities. If a man can center his ambitions in the next world, it makes him a great deal happier in this. I have had my ambitions--and I have had them realized, too. But I found means to transplant them where they belonged. Having transplanted them, I do not propose to take them out of good heavenly soil and put them back on the earth again. As they are quite well grown now in the garden of G.o.d, I am not going to risk losing them by making a change, if I can help it. I shall stay in Siha.s.set if I am permitted to do so. Should I be called away, that is a different matter. Please G.o.d, when I go out--to quote my friend, Father Daly--I'll go out feet first."

"I suppose you're right, Father," said Saunders, "I suppose you're right. Anyhow, I'm glad that you're going to stay. By the way, now that you've told me one secret, won't you tell me another?"

Father Murray became very cheerful again. "I bet I can guess what you want to know now, Saunders."

"Well, I'll give you one guess," answered the detective.

"You want to know," said Father Murray, "why the Minister gave up so easily."

"I do," replied Saunders. "That's just what I want to know. You must have told the Baron, but you have never told me. I want to know what magic you worked."

"I suppose I shall have to tell you. Being a detective, you have learned to keep your mouth shut. Here is the whole story: As I told you, I had a friend in the State Department. Well, I went to him and, for old times' sake, he tried to help, and did. When I told him my story, he believed me, but he very frankly informed me that the matter was a delicate one and that, officially, he could do nothing. He wasn't entirely ignorant of the young Italian, but he said that would probably have to be 'forgotten.' He pointed out that the body had disappeared, that the man was absolutely unknown here, and that to prove murder would be practically impossible. Still, he agreed that our knowledge of the murder would be a powerful help toward making His Excellency reasonable. He outlined how that game should be played, and before I left he had arranged for someone to meet the Minister at the banquet that night, and delicately suggest that the State Department had had some inquiry regarding the disappearance of a brilliant young Italian officer. Knowing what would happen at the banquet, I was ready to meet the Minister. But it wasn't necessary to rely wholly on that.

Late that night--after my return from Brookland--my friend sent for me to come to him at once. I went, and he showed me the translation of a cipher-dispatch which had just been received from Europe. That dispatch gave information concerning a dangerous situation which might lead to war. It was very long, and dwelt also on the situation in a certain Grand Duchy, the ruler of which had just died. The next in line, a girl, had disappeared. The King was worried. With war almost on his hands, he did not want the girl to take the throne, but rather desired the succession of her uncle, who was a strong soldier and just the man for the emergency. The dispatch left it plainly to be understood that the girl was in America, and that the King would be glad if she remained here permanently--in other words, that she be allowed quietly to disappear. It was a cold-blooded proposition to deprive her of her rights, or to find some means of doing it. Our own military attache at the royal capital secured the information; and, since America had been mentioned, thought it his duty to forward the dispatch to our State Department. As soon as my friend had read it, he sent for me. He put me under a pledge of secrecy until the matter was settled. It has been settled now; but there is no need of the story going any farther than yourself. 'Since the girl has died,' said my friend, 'the wishes of the King may easily be obeyed. The uncle will ascend the throne, and the Duchy will remain an ally of the Kingdom.

This information should be in the hands of the Minister now and, instead of trying to prove that the lady is the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, he will probably be only too anxious to be rid of her.' I had all that information," continued Father Murray, "when I went to find you gentlemen and save you from getting into mischief."

"We would have had a glorious time, Father," sighed Saunders, regretfully. Then he leaned back and whistled softly as his mind grasped the full significance of the priest's words. "The detective business, Father," he said energetically, "has many angles, and few of them are right angles; but I think that the number of obtuse and other kind of angles is much larger in diplomacy. But I rather like that Minister," he added. "He isn't heartless."

"No," replied Father Murray, as he contemplatively lighted a cigar.