Father Tom said, “Quare fremuerunt gentes, et populi meditae sunt inania?”
The Squire snorted. “I know me Latin, laddie.”
“And as ye know your Latin,” said Father Tom, innocently, “ye’ll know, too, where that hymn occurs, and the occasion.”
The Squire smiled that dour smile of his. “Ye think me a fool? It is Midnight Mass, Christmas, the entrance hymn.”
Father Tom looked down at him with a beautiful affectation of admiring boyhood. “And ye’ll have such words and hymns in the Presbyterian church, perhaps? Aweel, aweel! If so, then the day of ane Fold and ane Shepherd is near at hand!”
The Squire scowled up at him in deadly silence, and his sharp cheekbones reddened. Father Tom smiled at him in immaculate innocence, waiting. The Squire cleared his throat. “I am a traveled man,” said the Squire. “I hae been in many’s the cathedrals in the Popish countries.” He waited a moment. “I do not like your tone. I am not ‘raging’, nor do I ‘plan vain things’.”
“Very, very good,” said Father Tom. He looked into his basket. “Now, if I should ask your worship to refill my basket with the slates, would ye do it for me and save me a scrambling doon?”
“Give it doon,” said the Squire in an irascible voice. So Father Tom leaned down and gave the Squire the basket, and the Squire, astonishingly, swung from his horse and filled the basket with slates. “Ye’ll have a pile here,” he said. “How many blasted holes do ye have in your roof?”
The priest surveyed the work he had already done. “Fifteen,” he said.
“But there’s more here.”
“Aye. I hae another job to do, another broken roof to make tight.”
“Not one of my hooses!” said the Squire, handing up the basket. (Mrs. Logan, peeping from behind the curtains, could not believe her eyes.)
“No,” said the priest. “Yours are all fair tight, I take it.”
“I take care of my ain,” said the Squire. “Have you a quarrel with me aboot it?” When Father Tom did not reply, he said, “And is there none of your ain to do the roof for ye?”
“The men,” chanted Father Tom, “are sae busy, with the sheep and the shops and the lambing.”
“Perhaps we didna like the parsons we got,” said the Squire.
“Some sheep, the fractious ones, perhaps do not like the shepherds, sir. But the shepherds will guard them from the storm, for a’ that. Our Lord did not promise us obedient sheep with good manners and kind hearts full of duty. Many a sheep hae a divil.”
“A fine Christian sentiment, that!” said the Squire. “A Popish sentiment. We’d not allow the minister to say that of one of us.”
“Calvin did. And there was Knox, a braw man with his tongue. Are the sheep teaching the shepherds in this village, sir?”
“Oh, be damned to ye,” said the Squire.
“It isna for ye to say,” said Father Tom. He became engrossed with his work. He scrambled about, examined critically, chipped here and there. He waited to hear the horse go away, but there was only silence except for his own brisk noise.
Then the Squire said, “That slate there ye are holding, it’s nae good.”
“Can a man expect goodness in all things, in this world?” asked the priest. He examined the slate. “Ye are right, sir. I was cheated. It was your Auld Bob, a rascal.”
“How much did he charge ye?”
“Seven shillings for thirty.”
“Ye say he cheated you? Laddie, ye cheated him!” The Squire gave his harsh chuckle again. “He doesna like Romans. Ye fair diddled him!”
Father Tom did not reply to him. He was frowning at the slate. Ah, well, he could halve it and put it near the eaves in a little place. He chopped.
“I like a man of parts,” said the Squire.
“I can lay bricks, too,” said the priest.
“Can you, now! And nae doot build a whole hoose?”
“Aye,” said the priest with pride. “A good hoose.”
“Stick to your last,” said the Squire. “Ye are in the wrong pew.”
“Our Lord was a carpenter,” said Father Tom. “Will ye give me some nails, too?”
So the Squire, growling, dismounted again and handed up some nails. “Ye’ll not dine well, after the offerings,” he said.
“Nae doot,” said the priest. “Ye will have a hand in that the noo. Ah, weel, the good Lord went hungry too, and hadna hoose to guard His head.”
“Ye hae a rash tongue, laddie. What business is it of mine if ye starve? I’m not a Roman.”
“I hear rumors,” said Father Tom. “It’s a hard hand ye have on this hamlet. Ye smile, and a man has a full stomach. Ye frown, and a man dines on oatmeal with nae milk or treacle.” He looked down at the Squire. “There’s some who hae a great empire, and some who hae an empire the size of a man’s hand. Both are not content”
“I am a just man,” said the Squire, strangely furious.
“So say all the tyrants. There’s nae difference between ye.”
“Ye’ll mind that tongue of yours, lad, or the village will be seeing the last o’ ye.”
“Oh? Ye’ll know my Bishop then, and ye sip your whiskey together?”
“Blast you! I am a man of righteousness and justice, but I’ll nae endure a mock from such as ye.”
Father Tom slowly and carefully turned himself about so that his back leaned against the steep pitch of the roof.
“And, so you are a man of righteousness and justice? You admit that, yourself? There’s no humility in ye, but only pride, which is the sin above all that drove Lucifer into hell. ‘Here the Almighty hath not built for His envy.’ Nay, Squire MacVicar built his ain little hell.”
The Squire colored deeply, and then turned ghastly white. He grasped his crop and started up the ladder and Father Tom watched him come in sober silence. The Squire’s head rose to the level of the priest’s knees and the priest could see his eyes even more clearly in that stark light, and they were evil with rage and vengeance.
“Ye are a man much older than my Dada,” said the priest. “And I canna kick your face or strike ye back. It is a’ your advantage.”
The Squire looked at his crop, then at the priest, then he hurled the crop down to the ground, and the two men stared at each other in silence. Finally the Squire spoke, very softly, “And did ye think I’d raise my hand to a priest?”
“And why not? Ye hae lifted your hand many’s the time to a man, have ye not?”
The Squire looked at him again, then looked away. He let his eyes rove over the new slates which had been fastened in place. “There’s one not sae good, near the chimney,” he said.
He climbed higher on the ladder. He was still deathly white, and the priest could see the tension about his mouth.
“I’d not have taken ye for a man of spirit,” said the Squire. “Ye are but a lad, a puling bairn, fresh from his mother’s breast. And where did we get this fine high spirit?”
“Here,” said Father Tom, making a gesture that encompassed the village.
“It’s good for something then, my hamlet.”
“Ye may own the land and the hooses, but ye do not own the souls, nor do ye own any man unless he lets ye. I will pray for such a man.”
The Squire grunted. “Then, ye’ll pray for a’ of them.”
“And ye, too, while I am aboot it.”
The Squire’s face changed again. “Ye’ll not be saying your nasty prayers aboot me!” he said. “I want none of your Popish prayers! I hae done with — ” He paused. Then he climbed still higher, and pointed to the chimney. “Ye’ll hae that falling and bashing in your saucy head. It’s fair falling now.”
“I know that. I will buy some mortar and mend it.” The priest turned slowly again, chipped off a damaged slate and replaced it. The Squire watched him. “I’ll give a man his due,” he said. “That’s an unco good job ye are doing. There’s many could learn from ye.”
“I need more nails,” said the priest, and the Squire, as if musing
, went down and fetched more nails. Father Tom began to sing; the Squire winced, then joined in, and one voice was boyishly tenor and the other deep bass:
“Oh, never, never, Scotia’s realm desert,
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!”
They ended on a loud and lusty note. Not a soul appeared, though the street had rung with melody. They smiled at each other. “I dinna take it back,” said the Squire. “Ye hae a fearsome voice. Ye’ll shrivel the eardrums o’ the communicants.”
The bee was humming very fast over the priest’s mind. “I’ll be mair enchanted to shrivel yours,” he said. The Squire’s face became harsh and cold. “Hae ye done?” he asked, as the hammer paused.
“Aye, I hae done,” said the priest, and he followed the Squire down the ladder. They stood face to face now, both tall even for Highlanders, but one massive and the other lean. “Ye’ll be needing some meat on those bones. A plucked fowl,” said the Squire. “Will ye come to tea tonight?”
“No,” said the priest. “There is my sermon, and tomorrow is Confessions.”
“Sunday, then?”
Mrs. Logan heard this exchange, and put her hand over her rounded mouth of astonishment.
“No, and I thank ye,” said the priest. “And I canna come Monday; I hae the other hoose to make tight.”
“I will send ye a man,” said the Squire. “It isna right for a priest to be mending other folks’ hooses. Shameful.”
Father Tom had a tantalizing vision of the Squire’s ‘man’ appearing at the manse to repair the wee minister’s roof, and he smiled longingly. Then he was surprised over this entire episode. Ah, but the man had a way with him, for all his tyrannies and his hard, proud and righteous heart, his lack of humility, his arrogance. And, the bee was very insistent in Father Tom’s mind now, buzzing quite noisily.
“I’ll come Tuesday for tea, sir,” he said. “If it will please ye.”
“Tuesday, then, it is,” said the Squire. He swung lithely up upon his horse, who was nuzzling the priest curiously. The young man patted the silken nose. “Ye hae a bonnie face,” said the Squire, with abruptness, and pulled on the reins and cantered off down the road.
The odd encounter was all over the village not too long after the lingering twilight, via the avid gossip of Mrs. Logan. The pub chattered with it. The Squire had ‘taken’ to the young priest. By the time it was truly dark the Squire had also helped to ‘bang on the slates’. There were excited rumors among Father Tom’s flock that the Squire had promised to replace all the plain glass windows in the kirk with ones similar to that which he had already given. There were even rumors that he would be ‘converted’.
“We’ll hae a saint o’ our ain at last, Ian MacVicar,” said some of the Catholics optimistically. A little boy, born at midnight, was named Ian in honor of the first ‘saint’, who was somberly drinking too much whiskey at that hour. At two in the morning he was dead drunk and slept on a sofa in his parlor. It was often that he did this, and his housekeeper was loyal and devoted and so no one ever knew. “He hae his sorrows,” she would tell herself, shaking her head. She cooled a glass of barley-water and took it sympathetically to her master in the morning. It was sae sad to suffer from a delicate stomach.
The two Masses were attended encouragingly that Sunday. The communicants swarmed to the Communion rail. That afternoon Father Tom, feeling that things were getting on very well indeed, called on his brother in Christ, the Reverend Mr. Bruce Gregor, and his Betsy. The rectory was as tiny as Father Tom’s own, but less cared for, and the slates were higgledy-piggledy all over the roof. However, there was a beautiful little garden like a rainbow with late summer flowers, and when he entered the house the priest was immediately impressed with the air of love and innocence which pervaded it.
The young pastor was shyly delighted, and brought his very young wife by the hand. She was most obviously pregnant, and timidly tried to conceal her state. The rumors had been quite right, thought the priest. She was a very lovely lass, with light brown curls, very large dark eyes, a complexion like a tearose and a mouth the color of a particularly bright carnation. She was as small as her husband. It was evident that they loved each other devotedly. Their very presence lighted up the mean little parlor like the sun itself.
“Gooseberry tarts, my Betsy’s,” said Bruce, with pride. The girl blushed. They all blushed together. The tea was hot if a little, and necessarily, weak. There was loaf sugar and a pitcher of cream, and not only the boasted tarts but fresh hot scones and current jam and a lump of butter. Father Tom had not forgotten his share of the feast; he had asked Mrs. Logan to boil a large section of the ham. She had then wrapped it in a white tea towel which she had brought from her own house. There was no doubt that she thought it imprudent of him to be visiting the wee minister, who lived outside almost everyone’s pale. Squire MacVicar would not like it at all.
The minister tried to hide how desperately hungry he was, therefore he began by insisting that he was not hungry, that he had had a fine dinner, cooked by his Betsy, and that the priest must eat the major part of the ham, himself. Betsy would ‘taste’ a little. But Father Tom stoutly insisted that he had a large joint for dinner that day, and would not be famished for a week in consequence. So, at first with reluctance, then with youthful avidity, the minister and his wife fell upon the ham and ate it with an expression of touching rapture on their faces. Father Tom, feeling rich and overstuffed and elderly, could have wept with sympathy. This did not keep him from enjoying the scones and tarts, however, and he ravaged them. There were only sixty-one years among the three of the young people about the tea table, if that many.
It began to rain, and the minister threw a small lump or two of coal on the fire. The room chilled and darkened. Betsy lighted a paraffin lamp. The little kettle sang over the coals. Betsy drew the curtains. The boyish clergymen sat before the fire and sipped their tea. Father Tom regretted that he had forgotten to bring the whiskey the Squire had left for him. It would cheer the minister, and the priest would enjoy the thought of him drinking his father-in-law’s whiskey. Betsy went to the scullery to wash up.
The minister stammered, “I hope ye’ll not be taking it as impertinent,” he said, “but I hae heard that the — that the — Squire — himself, himself, hae invited you to tea in his hoose on Tuesday. It is but a rumor, perhaps?”
“No,” said the priest. “He was very civil.” He smiled an unecclesiastical smile. “And I hae insulted him.”
The minister’s mouth opened in consternation. “You were nae afraid of him, then?”
“Him?” said Father Tom, superbly. “A man of mean temper and pride, but a human soul for a’ that,” he hurriedly added.
The minister apparently considered that a vast overstatement, and stared gloomily at the fire, his fine red hair like a copper nimbus over his long head. Then he turned awed and fascinated eyes on this doughty priest.
“I envy ye your courage,” said Bruce Gregor.
No one, at any time before this, had envied Father Tom’s courage. On the contrary. He sat up very tall in his stiff chair and his white collar glimmered. He looked every inch the Older Man. He waved his hand deprecatingly. “A petty tyrant, and it is naebody’s fault but the villagers that he is so.”
The roof began to leak a little and the minister regarded it with dismay. “It didna leak in here before this,” he said, and ran for a pan to catch the drops. “Only the bedroom and the scullery,” he said, as he came back with the pan. Father Tom stared at the whitewashed ceiling and marked the spot accurately with his eye. He wondered if he should tell the little minister that a ‘man’ would repair the roof tomorrow, the ‘man’ being himself. No. They would be embarrassed enough when he wheeled his barrow here and demanded a ladder. He said, “Ye hae a ladder, Bruce?”
“A ladder?”
“So if one comes to repair the roof he’ll not need to bring his own,” said the pries
t, patiently.
“A ladder,” repeated the minister, reflectively. He called, “Betsy, hae we a ladder?”
She assured him, from the scullery, that there was a ladder ‘aboot’. The young minister sighed. “But none will come to the manse, Tom. There were but eight folk in the kirk this morning. Four shillings in a’ in the plate.”
Father Tom thought of the ham. At least these young people would have meat for a few days, and he regretted all the jam and butter and scones he had eaten.
“The auld faether — he was fair afraid of the Squire,” said Bruce. “But his people came to the kirk — ” He looked at the priest questioningly.
“It is a serious sin to miss Sunday Mass, unless for serious cause,” said the priest.