Mrs. Baxter reached out for the toast-rack.
“My dear, there’s nothing to be done. You know what Laurie is. It’ll only make him worse.”
Maggie looked at her uneasily.
“I wish we could do something,” she said.
“My dear, he’d have written to me—Mr. Morton, I mean—if Laurie had been really unwell. You see he only says he doesn’t attend to his work as he ought.”
Maggie took up the letter, put it carefully back into the envelope, and went on with breakfast. There was nothing more to be said just then.
But she was uneasy, and after breakfast went out into the garden, spud in hand, to think it all over, with the letter in her pocket.
Certainly the letter was not alarming per se, but per accidens—that is to say, taking into account who it was that had written, she was not so sure. She had met Mr. Morton but once, and had formed of him the kind of impression that a girl would form of such a man in the hours of a weekend—a brusque, ordinary kind of barrister without much imagination and a good deal of shrewd force. It was surely rather an extreme step for a man like this to write to a girl in such a condition of things, asking her to use her influence to dissuade Laurie from his present course of life. Plainly the man meant what he said; he had not written to Mrs. Baxter, as he explained in the letter, for fear of alarming her unduly, and, as he expressly said, there was nothing to be alarmed about. Yet he had written.
Maggie stopped at the lower end of the orchard path, took out the letter, and read the last three or four sentences again:
Please forgive me if you think it was unnecessary to write. Of course I have no doubt whatever that the whole thing is nothing but nonsense; but even nonsense can have a bad effect, and Mr. Baxter seems to me to be far too much wrapped up in it. I enclose the address of a friend of mine in case you would care to write to him on the subject. He was once a Spiritualist, and is now a devout Catholic. He takes a view of it that I do not take; but at any rate his advice could do no harm. You can trust him to be absolutely discreet.
It really was very odd and unconventional; and Mr. Morton had not seemed at all an odd or unconventional person. He mentioned, too, a particular date, February 25, as the date by which the medium would have returned, and some sort of further effort was going to be made; but he did not attempt to explain this, nor did Maggie understand it. It only seemed to her rather sinister and unpleasant.
She turned over the page, and there was the address he had mentioned—a Mr. Cathcart. Surely he did not expect her to write to this stranger. …
She walked up and down with her spud for another half-hour before she could come to any conclusion. Certainly she agreed with Mr. James Morton that the whole thing was nonsense; yet, further, that this nonsense was capable of doing a good deal of harm to an excitable person. Besides, Laurie obviously had a bad conscience about it, or he would have mentioned it.
She caught sight of Mrs. Baxter presently through the thick hedge, walking with her dainty, dignified step along the paths of the kitchen garden; and a certain impatience seized her at the sight. This boy’s mother was so annoyingly serene. Surely it was her business, rather than Maggie’s own, to look after Laurie; yet the girl knew perfectly well that if Laurie was left to his mother nothing at all would be done. Mrs. Baxter would deplore it all, of course, gently and tranquilly, in Laurie’s absence, and would, perhaps, if she were hard pressed, utter a feeble protest even in his presence; and that was absolutely all. …
“Maggie! Maggie!” came the gentle old voice, calling presently; and then to some unseen person, “Have you seen Miss Deronnais anywhere?”
Maggie put the letter in her pocket and hurried through from the orchard.
“Yes?” she said, with a half hope.
“Come in, my dear, and tell me what you think of those new teacups in the Bon Marché catalogue,” said the old lady. “There seem some beautiful new designs, and we want another set.”
Maggie bowed to the inevitable. But as they passed up the garden her resolution was precipitated.
“Can you let me go by twelve,” she said. “I rather want to see Father Mahon about something.”
“My dear, I shall not keep you three minutes,” protested the old lady.
And they went in to talk for an hour and three-quarters.
II
Father Mahon was a conscientious priest. He said his Mass at eight o’clock; he breakfasted at nine; he performed certain devotions till half-past ten; read the paper till eleven, and theology till twelve. Then he considered himself at liberty to do what he liked till his dinner at one. (The rest of his day does not concern us just now.)
He, too, was looking round his garden this morning—a fine, solid figure of a man, in rather baggy trousers, short coat, and expansive waistcoat, with every button doing its duty. He too, like Mr. James Morton, had his beat, an even narrower one than the barrister’s, and even better trodden, for he never strayed off it at all, except for four short weeks in the summer, when he hurried across to Ireland and got up late, and went on picnics with other ecclesiastics in straw hats, and joined in cheerful songs in the evening. He was a priest, with perfectly defined duties, and of admirable punctuality and conscientiousness in doing them. He disliked the English quite extraordinarily; but his sense of duty was such that they never suspected it; and his flock of Saxons adored him as people
