Myles Muredach - Charred Wood
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Myles Muredach >> Charred Wood
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"You desire to see His Excellency?"
Father Murray bowed.
"I am sorry, but His Excellency is very much engaged. He has requested
me to ascertain the nature of your business."
"I regret that I may not tell you the nature of my business." Father
Murray's reply was instant. "I may speak only to the Minister himself."
"Then," answered the secretary, "I regret to say that he cannot receive
you. A diplomat's time is not his own. I am in his confidence. Could
you not give me some inkling as to what you desire?"
"Since I cannot see him without giving you the information, you might
say to His Excellency that I have come to speak to him in reference to
Miss Ruth Atheson--" Father Murray paused, then added coolly: "He will
understand."
The secretary bowed courteously. "I will deliver your message at
once," he said.
In exactly one minute the Minister himself was bowing to Father Murray.
"I beg your pardon for detaining you, Reverend Sir, but, as my
secretary explained, I am extremely busy. You mentioned Miss Atheson
and, at least so I understand from my secretary, seemed to think I
would know of her. In deference to your cloth, I thought I would see
you personally, though I do not recall knowing anyone by that name.
Perhaps she wishes a _vise_ for a passport?"
"That might explain it," answered Father Murray; "but I think she
desires a passport without the _vise_. I have reason to believe that
Your Excellency knows something of her--rather--unexpected departure
from her home in Sihasset. In fact, my information on that point is
quite clear. I am informed that she was mistaken for another, a
visitor in her home. Possibly she is here now. The passport desired
is your permission for her to return to her friends."
The Minister's face expressed blankness.
"You have been misinformed," he answered. "I know nothing of Miss
Atheson. Would you kindly give me some of the facts? That is, if you
think it necessary to do so. It is possible I might be able to be of
service to you; if so, do not hesitate to command me."
"The facts are very easily stated," said the priest. "First, the young
lady is my niece."
It was the Minister's boast--privately, understand--that he could
always tell when a man believed himself to be telling the truth, and
now--past master in the art of diplomacy though he was--he found it
hard to conceal his shocked surprise at this confirmation of the girl's
story.
"You say she left her home unexpectedly?"
"She was seized by two men and hurried to a waiting auto, Your
Excellency."
"And this happened where?"
"At Sihasset. Your Excellency passed through there quite recently, and
will probably remember it."
The half-closed eyes almost smiled.
"Had your niece lived there long?"
"Only a few months. She arrived less than a week before her visitor."
Outwardly the Minister was calm, unmoved; but underneath the cold
exterior the lurking fear was growing stronger. He must know more--all.
"Before that--?"
"She came direct from England, where she was visiting relatives."
"She was educated there perhaps?"
"She received her education principally in Europe."
"She has traveled much, then?"
"She has spent most of her time in America since I came here; but she
has many friends both in England and on the Continent, and visits them
quite frequently. She has very special friends in San Sebastian."
"Ah!"
"Perhaps Your Excellency knows something about it now?"
"Nothing, I assure you. But I find your story very interesting, and
regret that I can see no way of assisting you."
Father Murray perfectly understood the kind of man he was dealing with.
He must speak more plainly, suggesting in some degree the extent of his
knowledge.
"I see, Your Excellency, that it will be necessary for me to mention
another name, or rather to mention a title. There are, in your Great
Kingdom, dependent duchies, and therefore people called grand dukes,
and others called grand duchesses. Does that help Your Excellency to
understand?"
The Minister still had control of himself, though he was greatly
worried.
"It does not, Reverend Sir," he answered, "unless you might possibly be
able to introduce me to a grand duchess _in America_. I am always
interested in my countrymen--and women. If a grand duchess were
brought here--that is," he corrected himself, smiling courteously, "if
a grand duchess should call to see me, I should be glad to place my
entire staff at your service to find the Ruth Atheson you speak of.
Perhaps your Reverence understands?"
"Thoroughly," said Father Murray. "I could not fail to understand.
But it would be difficult for me to bring a grand duchess to call on
you, since the only one I have ever known is, unfortunately, dead."
At last the Minister lost his _sang froid_. His face was colorless.
"Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?"
"I think Your Excellency already knows."
"How did she die, and when?"
"I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident."
"Where?"
"If Your Excellency will pick up this morning's paper--which you
possibly have neglected to read--you will see a list of those killed in
a railroad wreck which took place the night before last on a
Washington-bound train. The list includes 'two women, unknown' and the
pictures of both are printed. Their bodies are now in the morgue in
Baltimore awaiting identification."
The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapers
had been carelessly laid. He picked up a Washington publication. On
the front page was a picture of two women lying side by side--taken at
the morgue in Baltimore. Despite the rigor of death on the features,
the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman an
unmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs. Greatly agitated, he
turned to the priest.
"How do I know," he asked, "that this--" pointing to the picture--"is
not Ruth Atheson?"
"I think," said the priest, "that you will have to take my word for
it--unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visit
to the morgue. The body is still unburied."
"I shall send to the morgue."
"Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning. Before
going, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in your
custody is my niece. And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, is
taking an active personal interest in the matter. Baron Griffin is now
in Washington and requests me to state that he will give you until
to-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends. That will afford
ample time for a visit to Baltimore. Unless Miss Atheson is with us by
ten o'clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in the
hands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department--with
all the details. I might add that I am stopping at the New Willard
Hotel."
The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistent
hammering of that "something" he should have remembered. The phrase,
"all the details," bore an almost sinister significance.
His Excellency gave a sudden start. "Atheson--Atheson." His voice was
tense and he spoke slowly. "What was her father's name?"
It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along.
Forgotten for years--yes. But where was the diplomat who did not have
the information somewhere in his files? His face saddened as he
answered.
"Edgar Atheson."
"Etkar--"
But the priest raised his hand.
"_Edgar Atheson_--if you _please_."
The Minister bowed. "And you are the brother of--"
"Alice Murray," the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch of
dignified hauteur.
His Excellency was silent, and his visitor continued.
"I must also suggest to Your Excellency that the fate of the young
Italian officer is known to others beside myself. It would make
unfortunate state complications if the occurrence should be made
public. I wish Your Excellency good morning."
He turned to go, but the Minister stood between him and the door.
"One moment," he said. "I regret that it is necessary to request your
Reverence to remain. You will pardon the necessity, I am sure. I
cannot permit His Majesty's secrets to be made known to the public.
State complications often oblige us to take stern measures, and--" he
continued coldly--"you are now on the territory of my royal master."
But Father Murray did not seem at all afraid.
"Do not think of detaining me, Your Excellency," he said quietly. "I
mentioned Baron Griffin. There is another. Both know where I am. Nor
need you worry as to our discretion. We are well enough acquainted
with state complications to know when silence is best. We shall not
speak unless it becomes necessary; but in that event we shall not
hesitate. Don't make matters more difficult for yourself. I shall
insist on the release of my niece, and I warn you that neither you nor
His Majesty may touch either of us and go unscathed. Kindly stand
aside."
But His Excellency still barred the way.
"Your Reverence," he said, after a pause, "I shall stand aside on one
condition: that you will again give me your word that you will keep
silence. To-morrow morning you shall have your answer; but in the
meantime not one syllable about this must pass your lips, and Baron
Griffin must not approach the British Embassy on this matter. There
may be no need of his doing so at all. Please understand my position.
I must guard His Majesty's interests, and do my best under difficult
circumstances. Whether the lady be the Duchess or your niece, no harm
shall come to her. Have I your word?"
"You have my word. Unless Your Excellency makes it necessary to act,
we shall keep silence."
"Then," said the Minister, stepping aside, "I will bid you good
morning."
Father Murray bowed himself out. He met Mark and Saunders at the
corner. As they walked away, they saw nothing of the spy upon their
footsteps; but they knew that the spy was there, for they had knowledge
of the ways of diplomacy. As a matter of fact, inside of twenty
minutes the Minister knew what room each man was occupying at the New
Willard. An attache did not leave the hotel all night; and the next
morning the same man found himself in the unusual surroundings of St.
Patrick's Church where Father Murray said Mass.
When the Minister returned to the library his face was white. Wratslav
was in his confidence, and did not have to wait long for information.
For the first time in his diplomatic career of thirty years His
Excellency was nonplussed.
"If she is dead, Wratslav," he said, "what will be said of us, and what
new trouble will arrive? Who is next in line of succession?"
"The Duchy," said Wratslav, "will pass to the Grand Duke's brother."
"Not so bad, not so bad. The King would like that. I think, then,
that the brother is the only one who will benefit by this unfortunate
complication. The Salic law should be enforced throughout the whole
world. When we have to deal with women, only the good God knows what's
going to happen. I am afraid the girl above told the truth."
"But," objected Wratslav, "even if she did, Excellency, you cannot take
the risk of letting her go without orders from His Majesty. The Grand
Duchess was always clever. She knew she was tracked down. It would be
easy for her to pretend that she did not know her native language. You
cannot let her go until you are sure."
The Minister passed his hand wearily across his forehead and sighed.
"At any rate we can verify some of the details. You must go to
Baltimore, Wratslav, and view the bodies. Arrange for the embalming.
Say that the two are ladies of our country. Give any names you wish.
Place both bodies in a vault until this thing is cleared up; and bring
me half a dozen pictures of the young one, taken close to the face on
every side. Note the hair, the clothes, any jewels she may have about
her; but, above all, find out if there are any papers to be found. See
also if there are identifying marks. Return to-night; for by to-morrow
morning I must be ready to decide. I shall send no dispatches until
then."
His Excellency turned to his papers, and Wratslav left the room.
CHAPTER XVII
THE OPEN DOOR
That night, Mark Griffin and Father Murray sat in the priest's room at
the New Willard until very late. Father Murray was by far the more
cheerful of the two, in spite of the strain upon him. Mark looked
broken. He had come into a full knowledge of the fact that Ruth had
not been false to him, and that no barrier existed to their union, but
he could not close his eyes to the danger of the girl's situation.
Father Murray, however, could see no dark clouds.
"My dear Mark," he said, "you don't understand the kind of a country
you are in. Affairs of state here do not justify murder, and an
elected public official cannot, even in the name diplomacy, connive at
it. It is true that a Minister cannot very well be arrested, but a
Minister can be disgraced, which is worse to his mind. You may be sure
that our knowledge of the murder of the Italian will be quite
sufficient to keep His Excellency in a painful state of suspense, and
ultimately force him to yield."
"I could wish him," said Mark, "a _more_ painful state of _suspense_."
Father Murray smiled at the grim jest. "He will never see the rope,
Mark, you may be sure of that. But there will be no more murdering.
The situation of the Ministry is bad enough as it is. His Excellency
looked very much perturbed--for a diplomat--before I was done with him.
There is nothing more certain than that he has had a messenger in
Baltimore to-day, and, unless I mistake very much, he will be able to
identify the body. Then they must free Ruth."
"I wish, Father," Mark's voice was very tense, "that I could look at
things as you do. But I know how a court works, and how serious are
the games of kings. Then I haven't religion to help me, as you have."
"I question a little," replied Father Murray, "if that last statement
is true--that you have no religion. You know, Mark, I am beginning to
think you have a great deal of religion. I wish that some who think
that they have very much could learn how to make what is really their
very little count as far as you have made yours count. It dawned upon
me to-night that there is a good reason why the most religious people
never make the best diplomats. Now, you would have been a failure in
that career."
"I think, Father Murray, that your good opinion of me is at least
partly due to the fact that I may yet be your nephew. Ruth is like a
daughter to you; and so I gain in your esteem because of her."
"Yes," answered the priest thoughtfully, "Ruth is like a daughter to
me. And it is a strange feeling for a priest to have--that he has
someone looking up to him and loving him in that way. Though a priest
is constituted the same as other men, long training and experience have
made his life and mental attitude different from those of men of more
worldly aspirations. A priest is bound to his work more closely than
is any other person in the world. Duty is almost an instinct with him.
That is why he seldom shines in any other line, no matter how talented
he may be. Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin almost had to
unfrock themselves in order to become statesmen. Cardinal Wolsey left
a heritage that at best is of doubtful value--not because he was a
priest as well as a lord chancellor, but because as lord chancellor he
so often forgot that he was a priest. There are many great
priest-authors, but few of them are among the greatest. A priest in
politics does not usually hold his head, because politics isn't his
place. There are priest-inventors; but somehow we forget the priest in
the inventor, and feel that the latter title makes him a little less
worthy of the former--rather illogical, is it not? The Abbot Mendel
was a scientist, but it is only now that he is coming into his own; and
how many know him only as Mendel, forgetting his priestly office?
Liszt was a cleric, but few called him Abbe. A priest as a priest can
be nothing else. In fact, it is almost inevitable that his greatness
in anything else will detract from his priesthood. Now the Church, my
dear Mark, has the wisdom of ages behind her. She never judges from
the exceptions, but always from the rule. She gets better service from
a man who has sunk his temporal interests in the spiritual. She is the
sternest mistress the ages have produced; she wants whole-hearted
service or none at all. I like thinking of Ruth as my daughter; but I
am not averse, for the good of my ministry, to having someone else take
the responsibility from off my shoulders."
"But," said Mark, "how could a wife and children interfere with a
priest's duties to his flock?"
"The church does not let them interfere," answered Father Murray. "She
holds a man to his sworn obligations taken in marriage. A husband must
'cleave to his wife.' How could a priestly husband do that and yet
fulfill his vow to be faithful to his priesthood until death? His wife
would come first. What of his priesthood? Besides, a father has for
his children a love that would tend to nullify, only too often, the
priest's obligations toward the children of his flock. A man who
offers a supreme sacrifice, and is eternally willing to live it, must
be supremely free. In theory, all clergymen must be prepared to
sacrifice themselves for their people, for 'the Good Shepherd gives up
his life for his sheep.' In practice, no one expects that except of
the priest; but from him everyone expects it."
"Do you really think," asked Mark, "that those outside the Church
expect such a sacrifice?"
Father Murray did not hesitate about his answer.
"Expect it? They demand it. Why, my dear Mark, even as a Presbyterian
minister I expected it of the men I almost hated. I never liked
priests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as my
personal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the Catholic
Church eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered and
fell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and a
failure--His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively I
knew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world would
fall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christ
turned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist,
every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated a
priest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, the
representative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did not
hate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classed
me with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond of
enmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against their
enemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my position
increased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome a
scandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on my
own kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer relief
the high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who had
forsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfaction
was tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would not
be denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priest
greater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while I
judged--and, judging, condemned--I knew that I was measuring him by his
own magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy of
honor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than never
to have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever;
it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fall
should call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer to
God. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles--no
return save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrant
criminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants,
demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but a
sublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand it
yourself--you know you do."
For a moment Mark did not answer.
"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I do demand it. I only wondered if
others felt as I do. This job of trying to analyze one's own emotions
and thoughts is a difficult one. I have been trying to do it for
years. Frankly, there are things I cannot grasp. Let me put one of
them before you now."
"Go on," said Father Murray. "I am glad the conversation is off the
worry."
"You remember, Father," said Mark, "the day I met you in your study
that eventful Sunday in London?"
The priest nodded.
"I had decided then to go out of the church, as I told you, to get away
from my faith. I thought that I had come to that decision with a clear
conscience, but I know now that I had merely built up a false one and
that that was why I sought you out--not to give up, but to defy you,
and defy my own heart at the same time. I thought that if I could
justify myself before such a man as you it would set things at rest
within me for the remainder of my days. I did not justify myself.
Ever since that day I have been attracted by the open doors of Catholic
churches. I never pass one without seeing that open door. The minute
I seriously think of religion the picture of an open church door is in
front of me; it has become almost an obsession. I seem to see a hand
beckoning from that door; some day I shall see more than the hand--my
mother's face will be behind it. I can't get away from it--and I can't
understand why."
Father Murray's eyes were serious.
"Why, my dear Mark," he answered, "you ought to know that you can't get
away. Do you suppose anybody ever got away from God? Do you suppose
any man ever could close his eyes to the fact of His existence? Then
how is it possible for you to get away from that which first told you
of God, and which so long represented to you all that you knew about
Him? There is in the Catholic faith a strange something which makes
those who have not belonged to it vaguely uneasy, but which makes those
who have once had it always unsatisfied without it. There is an
influence akin to that of the magnetic pole, only it draws
_everything_. It intrudes itself upon every life. There seems to be
no middle course between loving it and hating it; but, once known, it
cannot be ignored. It has had its chain around _you_, Mark, and you
are only now realizing that you can't cast it off."
Mark Griffin was silent. For some minutes not a word was exchanged
between the two men. Then Mark arose and, without looking at his
friend, said good night and left the room.
A minute later he returned.
"Father," he said, "you are very hopeful about Ruth. I am trying to
share your hope. If everything comes out right and she is not lost to
me, will you--heretic or unfaithful son though I may still be,
whichever you are pleased to call me--will you still be a friend and,
should she accept me, join our hands?"
Father Murray walked over and put his hand on Mark's shoulders.
"I am afraid, Mark, that it is again the Faith instinct. Of course I
will marry you--that I expected to do. I could not be a mere onlooker
to give her away. When you get her, Mark, you will get her from me,
not only with an uncle's blessing, but with another as strong as Mother
Church can make it and as binding as eternity."
CHAPTER XVIII
SAUNDERS SCORES
It lacked but five minutes to the hour of ten next morning when the
card of the Minister's secretary was handed to Father Murray. The
priest sent down a polite request for the visitor to come to his room,
and at once telephoned for Mark. Both men arrived at the same moment
and were introduced at the door. Father Murray, at Saunders' own
request, kept the detective in the background. Saunders had, in the
meantime, been learning all he could about the Ministry and its
interior--"for emergencies," he explained to Mark.
The secretary proceeded to business without delay.
"I have come on behalf of His Excellency," he said, "and to express his
regrets."
"I scarcely expected regrets," answered the priest; "for at ten o'clock
I was to have a definite answer."
"It is impossible, Reverend Sir, to give you that. His Excellency bade
me offer full assurance that a definite answer will not long be
delayed; but a somewhat unforeseen situation was found in Baltimore--a
situation that was unforeseen by you, though rather expected by His
Excellency."
"I cannot imagine," Father Murray spoke rather tartly, "what that
situation could be."
"Let me explain then." The secretary talked as one sure of his ground.
"I take it that neither Baron Griffin nor yourself, Reverend Sir, would
be at all interested in the movements of the Grand Duchess?"
"Not particularly," answered the priest.
"Then I am sorry to say that the dead girl in Baltimore is surely your
niece. The other--"
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