VIII Father Martin’s Tale

The Father Rector announced to us one day at dinner that a friend of his from England had called upon him a day or two before, and that he had asked him to supper that evening.

“There is a story I heard him tell,” he said, “some years ago that I think he would contribute if you cared to ask him, Monsignor. It is remarkable; I remember thinking so.”

“To-night?” said Monsignor.

“Yes; he is coming to-night.”

“That will do very well,” said the other; “we have no story for to-night.”

Father Martin appeared at supper, a gray-haired old man with a face like a mouse and large brown eyes that were generally cast down. He had a way at table of holding his hands together with his elbows at his side, that bore out the impression of his face.

He looked up deprecatingly and gave a little nervous laugh as Monsignor put his request.

“It is a long time since I have told it, Monsignor,” he said.

“That is the more reason for telling it again,” said the other priest with his sharp geniality, “or it may be lost to humanity.”

“It has met with incredulity,” said the old man.

“It will not meet with it here, then,” remarked Monsignor. “We have been practising ourselves in the art of believing. Another act of faith will do us no harm.”

He explained the circumstances.

Father Martin looked round, and I could see that he was pleased.

“Very well, Monsignor,” he said; “I will do my best to make it easy.”

When we had reached the room upstairs the old priest was put into the arm-chair in the centre, drawn back a little so that all might see him; he refused tobacco, propped his chin on his two hands, looking more than ever like a venerable mouse, and began his story. I sat at the end of the semicircle, near the fire, and watched him as he talked.

“I regret I have not heard the other tales,” he said; “it would encourage me in my own. But perhaps it is better so. I have told this so often that I can only tell it in one way, and you must forgive me, gentlemen, if my way is not yours.

“About twenty years ago I had charge of a mission in Lancashire, some fourteen miles from Blackburn, among the hills. The name of the place is Monkswell; it was a little village then, but I think it is a town now. In those days there was only one street, of perhaps a dozen houses on each side. My little church stood at the head of the street, with the presbytery beside it. The house had a garden at the back, with a path running through it to the gate; and beyond the gate was a path leading on to the moor.

“Nearly all the village was Catholic, and had always been so, and I had perhaps a hundred more of my folk scattered about the moor. Their occupation was weaving; that was before the coal was found at Monkswell. Now they have a great church there, with a parish of over a thousand.

“Of course I knew all my people well enough; they are wonderful folk, those Lancashire folk! I could tell you a score of tales of their devotion and faith. There was one woman that I could make nothing of. She lived with her two brothers in a little cottage a couple of miles away from Monkswell; and the three kept themselves by weaving. The two men were fine lads, regular at their religious duties, and at mass every Sunday. But the woman would not come near the church. I went to her again and again, and before every Easter, but it was of no use. She would not even tell me why she would not come; but I knew the reason. The poor creature had been ruined in Blackburn, and could not hold up her head again. Her brothers took her back, and she had lived with them for ten years, and never once during that time, so far as I knew, had set foot outside her little place. She could not bear to be seen, you see.”

The little pointed face looked very tender and compassionate now, and the brown, beady eyes ran round the circle deprecatingly.

“Well, it was one Sunday in January that Alfred told me that his sister was unwell. It seemed to be nothing serious, he said, and of course he promised to let me know if she should become worse. But I made up my mind that I would go in any case during that week and see if sickness had softened her at all. Alfred told me, too, that another brother of his, Patrick, on whom, let it be remembered”—and he held up an admonitory hand—“I had never set eyes, was coming up to them on the next day from London for a week’s holiday. He promised he would bring him to see me later on in the week.

“There was a fall of snow that afternoon, not very deep, and another next day, and I thought I would put off my walk across the hills until it melted, unless I heard that Sarah was worse.

“It was on the Wednesday evening about six o’clock that I was sent for.

“I was sitting in my study on the ground floor with the curtains drawn when I heard the garden gate open and close, and I ran out into the hall just as the knock came at the back door. I knew that it was unlikely that any one should come at that hour and in such weather except for a sick call, and I opened the door almost before the knocking had ended.

“The candle was blown out by the draught, but I knew Alfred’s voice at once.

“‘She is worse, Father,’ he said; ‘for God’s sake come at once. I think she wishes for the sacraments. I am going on for the doctor.’

“I knew by his voice that it was serious, though I could not see his face; I could only see his figure against the snow outside, and before I could say more than that I would come at once he was gone again, and I heard the garden door open and shut. He was gone down to the doctor’s house, I knew, a mile further down the valley.

“I shut the hall door without bolting it and went to the kitchen and told my housekeeper to grease my boots well and set them in my room with my cloak and hat and muffler and my lantern. I told her I had had a sick call and did not know when I should be back; she had better put the pot on the fire, and I would help myself when I came home.

“Then I ran into the church through the sacristy to fetch the holy oils and the Blessed Sacrament.

“When I came back I noticed that one of the strings of the purse that held the pyx was frayed, and I set it down on the table to knot it properly. Then again I heard the garden gate open and shut.”

The priest lifted his eyes and looked round again; there was something odd in his look.

“Gentlemen, we are getting near the point of the story. I will ask you to listen very carefully and to give me your conclusions afterward. I am relating to you only events as they happened historically. I give you my word as to their truth.”

There was a murmur of assent.

“Well, then,” he went on, “at first I supposed it was Alfred come back again for some reason. I put down the string and went to the door without a light. As I reached the threshold there came a knocking.

“I turned the handle and a gust of wind burst in as it had done five minutes before. There was a figure standing there, muffled up as the other had been.

“‘What is it?’ I said. ‘I am just coming. Is it you, Alfred?’

“‘No, Father,’ said a voice—the man was on the steps a yard from me—‘I came to say that Sarah is better and does not wish for the sacraments.’

“Of course I was startled at that.

“‘Why, who are you?’ I said. ‘Are you Patrick?’

“‘Yes, Father,’ said the man; ‘I am Patrick.’

“I cannot describe his voice, but it was not extraordinary in any way; it was a little muffled; I supposed he had a comforter over his mouth. I could not see his face at all. I could not even see if he was stout or thin, the wind blew about his cloak so much.

“As I hesitated the door from the kitchen behind me was flung open, and I heard a very much frightened voice calling:

“‘Who’s that, Father?’ said Hannah.

“I turned round.

“‘It is Patrick Oldroyd,’ I said; ‘he is come from his sister.’

“I could see the woman standing in the light from the kitchen door; she had her hands out before her as if she were frightened at something.

“‘Go out of the draught,’ I said.

“She went back at that, but she did not close the door, and I knew she was listening to every word.

“‘Come in, Patrick,’ I said, turning round again.

“I could see he had moved down a step, and was standing on the gravel now.

“He came up again then, and I stood aside to let him go past me into my study. But he stopped at the door. Still I could not see his face; it was dark in the hall, you remember.

“‘No, Father,’ he said; ‘I cannot wait. I must go after Alfred.’

“I put out my hand toward him, but he slipped past me quickly and was out again on the gravel before I could speak.

“‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘She will be none the worse for a doctor, and if you will wait a minute I will come with you.’

“‘You are not wanted,’ he said rather offensively, I thought. ‘I tell you she is better, Father; she will not see you.’

“I was a little angry at that. I was not accustomed to be spoken to in that way.

“‘That is very well,’ I said; ‘but I shall come for all that, and if you do not wish to walk with me I shall walk alone.’

“He was turning to go, but he faced me again then.

“‘Do not come, Father,’ he said; ‘come to-morrow. I tell you she will not see you. You know what Sarah is.’

“‘I know very well,’ I said; ‘she is out of grace, and I know what will be the end of her if I do not come. I tell you I am coming, Patrick Oldroyd. So you can do as you please.’

“I shut the door and went back into my room, and as I went the garden gate opened and shut once more.

“My hands trembled a little as I began to knot the string of the pyx; I supposed then that I had been more angered than I had known”—the old priest looked round again swiftly and dropped his eyes—“but I do not now think that it was only anger. However, you shall hear.”

He had moved himself by now to the very edge of his chair, where he sat crouched up with his hands together. The listeners were all very quiet.

“I had hardly begun to knot the string before Hannah came in. She bobbed at the door when she saw what I was holding, and then came forward. I could see that she was very much upset by something.

“‘Father,’ she said, ‘for the love of God do not go with that man.’

“‘I am ashamed of you, Hannah,’ I told her. ‘What do you mean?’

“‘Father,’ she said, ‘I am afraid. I do not like that man. There is something the matter.’

“I rose, laid the pyx down, and went to my boots without saying anything.

“‘Father,’ she said again, ‘for the love of God do not go. I tell you I was frightened when I heard his knock.’

“Still I said nothing, but put on my boots and went to the table where the pyx lay and the case of oils.

“She came right up to me, and I could see that she was as white as death as she stared at me.

“I finished putting on my cloak, wrapped the comforter round my neck, put on my hat and took up the lantern.

“‘Father,’ she said again.

“I looked her full in the face then as she knelt down.

“‘Hannah,’ I said, ‘I am going. Patrick has gone after his brother.’

“‘It is not Patrick,’ she cried after me; ‘I tell you, Father——’

“Then I shut the door and left her kneeling there.

“It was very dark when I got down the steps, and I hadn’t gone a yard along the path before I stepped over my knee into a drift of snow. It had banked up against a gooseberry bush. Well, I saw that I must go carefully, so I stepped back on to the middle of the path, and held my lantern low.

“I could see the marks of the two men plain enough; it was a path that I had made broad on purpose so that I could walk up and down to say my office without thinking much of where I stepped.

“There was one track on this side and one on that.

“Have you ever noticed, gentlemen, that a man in snow will nearly always go back over his own traces in preference to any one else’s? Well, that is so, and it was so in this case.

“When I got to the garden gate I saw that Alfred had turned off to the right on his way to the doctor; his marks were quite plain in the light of the lantern, going down the hill. But I was astonished to see that the other man had not gone after him as he said he would, for there was only one pair of footmarks going down the hill, and the other track was plain enough, coming and going. The man must have gone straight home, I thought.

“Now——”

“One moment, Father Martin,” said Monsignor, leaning forward; “draw the two lines of tracks here.”

He put a pencil and paper into the priest’s hands.

Father Martin scribbled for a moment or two and then held up the paper so that we could all see it.

As he explained I understood. He had drawn a square for the house, a line for the garden wall, and through the gap ran four lines, marked with arrows. Two ran to the house and two back as far as the gate; at this point one curved sharply round to the right and one straight across the paper beside that which marked the coming.

“I noticed all this,” said the old priest emphatically, “because I determined to follow along the double track so far as Sarah Oldroyd’s house, and I kept the light turned on to it. I did not wish to slip into a snowdrift.

“Now, I was very much puzzled. I had been thinking it over, of course, ever since the man had gone, and I could not understand it. I must confess that my housekeeper’s words had not made it clearer. I knew she did not know Patrick; he had never been home since she had come to me. I was surprised, too, at his behavior, for I knew from his brother that he was a good Catholic; and—well, you understand, gentlemen, it was very puzzling. But Hannah was Irish, and I knew they had strange fancies sometimes.

“Then there was something else, which I had better mention before I go any further. Although I had not been frightened when the man came, yet when Hannah had said that she was frightened I knew what she meant. It had seemed to me natural that she should be frightened. I can say no more than that.”

He threw out his hands deprecatingly, and then folded them again sedately on his hunched knees.

“Well, I set out across the moor, following carefully in the double track of—of the man who called himself Patrick. I could see Alfred’s single track a yard to my right; sometimes the tracks crossed.

“I had no time to look about me much, but I saw now and again the slopes to the north, and once when I turned I saw the lights of the village behind me, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Then I went on again, and I wondered as I went.

“I will tell you one thing that crossed my mind, gentlemen. I did wonder whether Hannah had not been right, and if this was Patrick after all. I thought it possible—though I must say I thought it very unlikely—that it might be some enemy of Sarah’s, some one she had offended, an infidel, perhaps, but who wished her to die without the sacraments that she wanted. I thought that, but I never dreamed of—of what I thought afterward and think now.”

He looked round again, clasped his hands more tightly and went on.

“It was very rough going, and as I climbed up at last on to the little shoulder of hill that was the horizon from my house, I stopped to get my breath, and turned round again to look behind me.

“I could see my house lights at the end of the village, and the church beside it, and I wondered that I could see the lights so plainly. Then I understood that Hannah must be in my study, and that she had drawn the blind up to watch my lantern going across the snow.

“I am ashamed to tell you, gentlemen, that that cheered me a little; I do not quite know why, but I must confess that I was uncomfortable. I know that I should not have been, carrying what I did, and on such an errand, but I was uneasy. It seemed very lonely out there, and the white sheets of snow made it worse. I do not think that I should have minded the dark so much. There was not much wind and everything was very quiet. I could just hear the stream running down in the valley behind me. The clouds had gone, and there was a clear night of stars overhead.”

The old priest stopped; his lips worked a little as I had seen them before two or three times during his story. Then he sighed, looked at us and went on.

“Now, gentlemen, I entreat you to believe me. This is what happened next. You remember that this point at which I stopped to take breath was the horizon from my house. Notice that.

“Well, I turned round and lowered my lantern again to look at the tracks, and a yard in front of me they ceased. They ceased!”

He paused again, and there was not a sound from the circle.

“They ceased, gentlemen; I swear it to you, and I cannot describe what I felt. At first I thought it was a mistake; that he had leaped a yard or two; that the snow was frozen. It was not so.

“There a yard to the right were Alfred’s tracks, perfectly distinct, with the toes pointing the way from which I had come. There was no confusion, no hard or broken ground; there was just the soft surface of the snow, the trampled path of—of the man’s footsteps and mine and Alfred’s a yard or two away.”

The old man did not look like a mouse now; his eyes were large and bright, his mouth severe, and his hands hung in the air in a petrified gesture.

“If he had leaped,” he said, “he did not alight again.”

He passed his hand over his mouth once or twice.

“Well, gentlemen, I confess that I hesitated. I looked back at the lights and then on again at the slopes in front, and then I was ashamed of myself. I did not hesitate long, for any place was better than that. I went on; I dared not run, for I think I should have gone mad if I had lost self-control; but I walked, and not too fast, either; I put my hand on the pyx as it lay on my breast, but I dared not turn my head to right or left. I just stared at Alfred’s tracks in front of me and trod in them.

“Well, gentlemen, I did run the last hundred yards; the door of the Oldroyds’ cottage was open, and they were looking out for me, and I gave Sarah the last sacraments, and heard her confession. She died before morning.

“And I have one confession to make myself—I did not go home that night. They were very courteous to me when I told them the story, and made out that they did not wish me to leave their sister; so the doctor and Alfred walked back over the moor together to tell Hannah I should not be back, and that all was well with me.

“There, gentlemen.”

“And Patrick?” said a voice.

“Patrick, of course, had not been out that night.”