As the little crowd joined in the lusty singing every eye turned down the street to the Squire’s house.
The westlin wind came in with a roar that night and drove the summer from the land with its lances of lightning and its drums of thunder. But the roofs of the rectory and the manse did not leak though the slates rattled with gusts of hail and water flowed over them in miniature rivers. Father Tom lay contentedly on his hard bed and listened to the storm, secure in the knowledge that his house was safe, and the manse of the minister was safe, too. The sea rushed at the high headland on which the village perched, and roared away furiously, and all the air was filled with its salt and the scent of the pines. The hills crouched under the lightning, and echoed back the thunder. It’s nae night for man or beast, thought the priest as he fell asleep.
The one Mass was well attended the next morning, for all the rain and the wind, and as Father Tom turned to bless his flock he saw the gleam of pride in many an eye in that leaden light. They were proud of him! Almost everyone came to the Communion rail, and the prideful eyes beamed upon him. Our ain priest! they seemed to say. And all he had done was to mend a roof.
Mrs. Logan informed him, when he entered the rectory shrugging water from his shoulders, that he had a visitor. “It’s auld Jim,” she said in a curious voice. “A bad lot, that Jim.”
Father Tom doubted that there was any ‘bad lot’ in the hamlet save for Squire MacVicar, that man of monolithic virtue. He could not recall any ‘auld Jim’. Mrs. Logan, sniffing as she warmed the kippers, said that Jim was a heathen, not even a Presbyterian. He had probably not even been baptized. He had had nary a wife or a bairn, but had lived what Mrs. Logan discreetly described as an un-Christian life. He was a roisterer, a son of Satan, himself, and second to the Squire in money. He had been born somewhere ‘aboot’, but where exactly no one ever had discovered. He had a small farm which he did not cultivate, and no animals but a herd of sheep. His money? He had been a smuggler ‘in the lang ago’. Somewhere in England, it was said. But she, Mrs. Logan, should not complain. He spent much time in the pub and was one of its most valued customers.
“But it’s the foul mouth he has, Faether, and there’s many who crosses himself when auld Jim passes, or makes the sign against the evil eye.”
“Why should he come to me, then?” asked the priest
Mrs. Logan shrugged. “Not to be shrived, and ye can bank on that, Faether!”
She insisted that the priest have his breakfast before seeing his visitor, “who is smelling up the parlor with one of them cheroots from London, Faether.” So the priest ate his kippers and a boiled egg, after downing a monster plate of oatmeal, milk and treacle, and drank his good hot tea. Mrs. Logan complained only once about the ham which had been given to the wee minister, but her eyes were proudful too. To think it was our ain priest who had driven the Squire off like a bad schoolboy, and never turned a hair!
Father Tom opened the door of his parlor cum study, where it was icy cold. He hesitated on seeing a large cloud of smoke rising from a chair, then glanced back at the kitchen. Mrs. Logan affected to be totally absorbed in washing up. The priest closed the door firmly, shivered, and advanced into the tidy room. “Ye wish to see me?” he asked.
The cloud moved and a short fat figure rose from under it, a rough figure in coarse but hearty tweeds. Then the priest saw an uncommonly fat round face, very old and very jolly, and the naughtiest and brightest blue eyes he had ever encountered. For some reason he wanted to laugh, for laughter was etched all over that ancient red face. Not evil laughter, but the virile mirth of a man who has greatly enjoyed life and who was continuing to enjoy it robustly.
The short stout figure extended a short fat arm. “Jim Ferguson, my lad,” said the old man in a booming voice that echoed laughter. “Ye’ll be the priest, Father Weir?”
The handgrip was as strong as a youth’s and the priest winced a little. He assured Mr. Ferguson that he was indeed the priest and what could he do for his visitor? Mr. Ferguson settled back in his chair, blew another cloud of smoke, then offered Father Tom a cheroot. The priest had never smoked one. He accepted the cheroot and Mr. Ferguson lighted it for him, smoothly bending to strike a lucifer on the sole of his excellent boot. The priest puffed; the cheroot was excellent.
“I would join your kirk, sir,” said Mr. Ferguson.
Father Tom sat up straight. “Why?” he exclaimed.
Mr. Ferguson wagged a pink finger at him. “I swore, as a lad, that never would I join any man’s kirk unless that man had blood in his veins and not milk. I hae,” said Mr. Ferguson, “a low opinion of the clergy, Roman or Protestant.”
“Oh,” said Father Tom. He puffed again. A fine cheroot, this.
“I’ll not be offending you, sir?”
“No,” said the priest, after a moment’s thought. “Every man to his ain opinion. But why do ye want to join this kirk?”
Mr. Ferguson gave so infectious a chuckle that the priest found himself chuckling also.
“I heard of the row ye had with the Squire, and there’s a man I hate,” said Mr. Ferguson, cheerfully. “A man of virtue, to turn a good man’s belly. I hae known him for many a year, and never hae I seen him but what I puked. So, ye drove him off, and gave him word for word! Him, who always had the clergy crawling at his feet and whimpering like a wean.”
The priest reflected as he smoked. “Now,” he said, “that’s an unco strange reason for wanting to enter Mother Church. Are ye a Christian, Mr. Ferguson?”
“No, thank God,” said Mr. Ferguson, with gusto.
“Ye have had no religious training?”
“None,” said Mr. Ferguson, pridefully. He nodded at the closed kitchen door. “No doot Mrs. Logan has told ye of me. She dinna know the whole truth!” He chuckled mightily again.
The priest cleared his throat and waved away a rich cloud of smoke. “Ye are thinking of this time in your life, Mr. Ferguson, and your immortal soul?”
“Not a damned bit of it!” said Mr. Ferguson.
The priest sat up. The man must be all of eighty. “Ye believe in God, then?” said Father Tom.
“Not a bit,” said Mr. Ferguson. “But I’m a man what listens. I’ll listen the day to ye, my laddie, courteous as a Sassenach banker.”
“Don’t ye want to believe in God?” asked the priest, a little desperately.
“Now why?” asked Mr. Ferguson, all sweet reason. “What hae He done for me? I done it all by mesel’, and I’ll not tell you how.”
Again he chuckled and shook his head happily, remembering his youthful years.
“But why do you want to enter this kirk?” Father Tom’s voice rose a little.
The old man pointed his finger at the priest. “You,” he said. He cocked his head like a fat old rooster. “Do ye, now, believe in God?”
“I do that!”
“Aweel, then,” said Mr. Ferguson, all sweet reason once more, “it is enough for auld Jim. Ye believe and so auld Jim will believe.”
“There’s a wee bit more to faith than that,” said Father Tom, baffled.
“Tell me then, and be quick about it, for there’s another storm coming up.” Mr. Ferguson sat back in his chair and waited brightly.
The priest’s thoughts whirled. No one in the Seminary had ever spoken of any such situation as this and how to manage it. And here was an ancient soul definitely for the burning. Father Tom looked into the cheerful blue eyes, the naughty, not evil eyes, and at the sturdy and friendly face which openly admired him.
“Suppose, then,” said the priest, “that we begin with the catechism.” He got up and went to his little store of catechisms, and the old man watched him carefully. “Nae much meat under those skirts,” he commented. Father Tom, assuming the utmost dignity, put the catechism into the wide red palm open to receive it.
“I canna read,” said Mr. Ferguson. He winked. “But that didna keep me from getting rich.”
“Is there someone who could read it for you?”
&nb
sp; “My auld lassie. She reads well enough, and writes.”
“I — I thought ye had nae wife, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Nor do I have, sir. She’s just my auld lassie. I hae had her for forty year or more. Bonnie, still.”
The priest was shocked. Mr. Ferguson looked at him with friendly expectancy.
“You mean — mean,” stammered the priest, “ye hae not married — your auld lassie?”
“No. I dinna believe in it,” Mr. Ferguson was just slightly impatient now.
“Ye are living in sin!” the young priest blurted in horror.
Mr. Ferguson was interested. “Are we, the noo? What is sin, sir?”
Father Tom was aghast. The old man was actually primitive! A heathen, indeed. “Sin — sin — is disobedience to the Laws of God, Mr. Ferguson! And God doesna approve of men and women living together and they not being married.”
“Aweel, aweel!” said Mr. Ferguson. “He is like the Squire, is He?”
“No!” Father Tom almost shouted, and Mrs. Logan, her ear against the door, recoiled in trepidation. “God is not like the Squire!”
“Then,” said Mr. Ferguson, somewhat startled, “He’s the Man for me.” He eyed the priest a little anxiously. “I hae not offended you, sir? Ye see, anyone like the Squire would turn a man’s belly. There were two little lassies here in the hamlet who were left orphans; no faether, no mither. No hame. So they obliged the lads, and Squire MacVicar drove them away and when the winter went the poor wee things were found dead in the forest yon. I wasna here; if I had been here I’d hae given the lassies some money to send them to Edinburgh to open a shop or some’at. Bonnie wee things.” The blue eyes filled with anger and tears.
“The quality of mercy,” thought the young priest, in confusion. The virtuous man had driven two children to their death; the bad man would have saved them.
“They had a handsome grave the noo,” said Mr. Ferguson. “The auld minister that was let them be buried in the churchyard, and there’s a fine stone on their graves. The Squire tried to stop it, but no man can stop auld Jim!” He sighed, gustily. “The Squire wouldna give them bread, the wee bairns, but auld Jim could give them a stone. With their names on it, as a reproach to the Squire and the divils in the hamlet.”
Father Tom knew all about the problem of evil, or at least thought he knew something. But he had never heard of the problem of virtue before. Who was the evil man, the Squire or Mr. Ferguson? He decided, after a moment’s study, that the Squire was the evil man, and Mr. Ferguson, who ‘lived in sin’, was actually a good one. Dear me, the young man thought, there are great problems in this world and sometimes one does not know where he is.
He said, “But the Squire, I hae heard, does good things for the hamlet, the school, and the auld folks, and the food — ”
Mr. Ferguson waved a dismissing hand. “It’s a reputation for virtue he would have, but I know him for a bad man. It’s a bad face on him, and a bad heart in him.”
The priest was inclined to agree, then hastily shut off the thought. He had not the slightest idea of how to manage this matter, so he closed his eyes and prayed for help. When he opened them he discovered that Mr. Ferguson was regarding him with concern.
“Are ye sick, sir?” said Mr. Ferguson.
“Why do ye ask that?”
“Ye closed your eyes and leaned hack.” He fished in a very large pouch and brought out a bottle of whiskey. “A wee drap.”
“I was praying!” said Father Tom, considerably nettled.
“What for?” Mr. Ferguson was deeply interested.
“For you!”
“Now, that’s fair good of you, laddie.” He considered this for a moment. “Why?” he asked.
Father Tom had never wanted to swear in his life before but now he felt the need of a good oath. He groaned inwardly and reminded himself to make a perfect Act of Contrition tonight. “Ye need it. Ye are a sinner, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Am I now?” Mr. Ferguson was more interested than ever.
“Do you not know right from wrong?”
Mr. Ferguson turned that about in his mind with great concentration. Then he nodded eagerly, wishing to please this peculiar young man.
“I do that!” he said. “Ye never steal from a puir or a good man, and ye never kill unless the bas — the divil wants to kill ye first. And ye hate the Sassenach.”
The priest looked mortally pained. Then he remembered the mission priests in darkest Africa. They had to start from absolute bottom, as he would have to start. Ah, it was no different! God had answered his prayer. He smiled palely.
“Ye and your — your — auld lassie will have to be joined in lawful wedlock,” he said. “Before ought can be done. What is her name?”
“Florrie.” Mr. Ferguson’s face became fond. “She was in a hoose in London. The bonniest lassie in the whole hoose.”
The priest winced. A heathen and a Magdalen. “Florrie what?”
Mr. Ferguson scratched his thatch of vigorous white hair. “I dinna know,” he confessed. “I didna ask.”
“And ye have lived with — with — her for forty years?”
“Forty-one. I mind me it was a Christmas Eve I met her.”
The priest winced again.
“Ah, that was a lively night!” said Mr. Ferguson enthusiastically. The priest raised his hand. He had no desire to hear about that ‘lively night’.
“Will ye bring her to me and be married before me?” (Was that correct? Father Tom asked himself with new wildness.)
“I will that!” cried Mr. Ferguson. “If it will please ye, sir.”
“It’s not I to be pleased. It is God.”
“Good,” said Mr. Ferguson. “He is your God, and He will be mine. Hae a wee drap?”
The priest felt he needed a wee drap very badly, and so he took the bottle, wiped the top with his sleeve, and drank slightly more than a wee amount. He wished his Bishop were not so far away. But then, the priests were far away from their Bishops when they were in Africa, too.
“Will — er — Florrie want to be married to you, Mr. Ferguson?” The whiskey was very warming and comforting in this dank little room.
“Oh, Florrie willna say me nay in anything, sir.” Mr. Ferguson was very happy as he saw color coming back into the young man’s face. “Never a cross word from her. A mair lovely woman was nae born. My bonnie Florrie. I talked aboot ye last night to her, and she fair fell in love with ye. She was in your kirk, sir, when a little lass.”
“A Catholic!” Father Tom’s spine became rigid again.
“Weel, yes. But she doesna know much aboot it. She hae the paper, but that’s a’. Lost her mither and faether when a wee bairn, and left on the street.”
The priest groaned aloud now, then took another draught of the whiskey. God forgive him, but he needed it.
He said resolutely, “Bring your — your — lady — tomorrow, Mr. Ferguson, with the paper, and I will witness your wedding.” (Was this creating scandal? But the natives in Africa — Surely the priest wedded them first. It was only right.)
Mr. Ferguson leapt to his feet like a lad. He seized the priest’s hand. “That I will, sir! Gie me the time, and we’ll come. And then ye’ll let us in the kirk?”
The woman was Catholic, even if she knew little or nothing about it, and this ancient would wed her, and she would learn, with him, all that they should know. Father Tom desperately hoped, again, that this would not be a cause for scandal. But, what else could he do? He could not instruct an old man in the Faith who was living in sin. The wedding must come first, after the baptism. It would be like baptizing an infant.
“Will ye be baptized?” asked the priest.
The old man stared, confused. “Christened,” said the priest. Mr. Ferguson nodded eagerly. “That I will. Florrie hae told me. Last night. She doesna want to go to heaven if I canna go, too.”
More than a little dazed, Father Tom saw his guest to the door. A fine carriage waited outside. And a coachman! Mr. Ferguson was sta
ring with disapproval at the church. “It doesna look braw,” he commented. “I will build ye a new kirk, sir.”
The priest, more dazed than ever, watched the ancient march rapidly to his carriage, and bounce up into it like a troll. Then Father Tom returned to the kitchen to find Mrs. Logan with a very red face and a sheepish smile. “I hope,” he said severely, “that ye heard everything, Mistress Logan. If not, I will tell ye. And it is a serious sin to gossip or repeat what ye hae heard in this hoose.” He walked away sternly, noting how the poor woman’s face had fallen.
The westlin wind had dropped by tea-time, and the sky, though dark as lead, did not threaten more rain. The flags of the road were wet and puddly. Father Tom made his way to Squire MacVicar’s house.