Maggie had begun by disliking him. She had thought him rather coarse and stupid; but she had changed her mind. He was not what may be called subtle; he had no patience at all with such things as scruples, nuances, and shades of tone and meaning; but if you put a plain question to him plainly, he gave you a plain answer, if he knew it; if not, he looked it up then and there; and that is always a relief in this intricate world. Maggie therefore did not bother him much; she went to him only on plain issues; and he respected and liked her accordingly.
“Good morning, my child,” he said in his loud, breezy voice, as he came in to find her in his hideous little sitting room. “I hope you don’t mind the smell of tobacco-smoke.”
The room indeed reeked; he had started a cigar, according to rule, as the clock struck twelve, and had left it just now upon a stump outside when his housekeeper had come to announce a visitor.
“Not in the least, thanks, father. … May I sit down? It’s rather a long business, I’m afraid.”
The priest pulled out an armchair covered with horsehair and an antimacassar.
“Sit down, my child.”
Then he sat down himself, opposite her, in his trousers at once tight and baggy, with his rather large boots cocked one over the other, and his genial red face smiling at her.
“Now then,” he said.
“It’s not about myself, father,” she began rather hurriedly. “It’s about Laurie Baxter. May I begin at the beginning?”
He nodded. He was not sorry to hear something about this boy, whom he didn’t like at all, but for whom he knew himself at least partly responsible. The English were bad enough, but English converts were indescribably trying; and Laurie had been on his mind lately, he scarcely knew why.
Then Maggie began at the beginning, and told the whole thing, from Amy’s death down to Mr. Morton’s letter. He put a question or two to her during her story, looking at her with pressed lips, and finally put out his hand for the letter itself.
“Mrs. Baxter doesn’t know what I’ve come about,” said the girl. “You won’t give her a hint, will you, father?”
He nodded reassuringly to her, absorbed in the letter, and presently handed it back, with a large smile.
“He seems a sensible fellow,” he said.
“Ah! that’s what I wanted to ask you, father. I don’t know anything at all about Spiritualism. Is it—is it really all nonsense? Is there nothing in it at all?”
He laughed aloud.
“I don’t think you need be afraid,” he said. “Of course we know that souls don’t come back like that. They’re somewhere else.”
“Then it’s all fraud?”
“It’s practically all fraud,” he said, “but it’s very superstitious, and is forbidden by the Church.”
This was straight enough. It was at least a clear issue to begin to attack Laurie upon.
“Then—then that’s the evil of it?” she said. “There’s no real power underneath? That’s what Mr. Rymer said to Mrs. Baxter; and it’s what I’ve always thought myself.”
The priest’s face became theological.
“Let’s see what Sabetti says,” he said. “I fancy—”
He turned in his chair and fetched out a volume behind him.
“Here we are. …”
He ran his finger down the heavy paragraphs, turned a page or two, and began a running comment and translation: “ ‘Necromantia ex’ … ‘Necromancy arising from invocation of the dead’. … Let’s see … yes, ‘Spiritism, or the consulting of spirits in order to know hidden things, especially that pertain to the future life, certainly is divination properly so called, and is … is full of even more impiety than is magnetism, or the use of turning tables. The reason is, as the Baltimore fathers testify, that such knowledge must necessarily be ascribed to Satanic intervention, since in no other manner can it be explained.’ ”
“Then—” began Maggie.
“One moment, my child. … Yes … just so. ‘Express divination.’ … No, no. Ah! here we are, ‘Tacit divination … even if it is openly protested that no commerce with the Demon is intended, is per se grave sin; but it can sometimes be excused from mortal sin, on account of simplicity or ignorance or a lack of certain faith.’ You see, my child—” he set the book back in its place “—so far as it’s not fraud it’s diabolical. And that’s an end of it.”
“But do you think it’s not all fraud, then?” asked the girl, paling a little.
He laughed again, with a resonance that warmed her heart.
“I should pay just no attention to it all. Tell him, if you like, what I’ve said, and that it’s grave sin for him to play with it; but don’t get thinking that the devil’s in everything.”
Maggie was puzzled.
“Then it’s not the devil?” she asked—“at least not in this case, you think?”
He smiled again reassuringly.
“I should suspect it was a clever trick,” he said. “I don’t think Master Laurie’s likely to get mixed up with the devil in that way. There’s plenty of easier ways than that.”
“Do you think I should write to Mr. Cathcart?”
“Just as you like. He’s a convert, isn’t he? I believe I’ve heard his name.”
“I think so.”
“Well, it wouldn’t do any harm; though I should suspect not much good.”
Maggie was silent.
“Just tell Master Laurie not to play tricks,” said the priest. “He’s got a good, sensible friend in Mr. Morton. I can see that. And don’t trouble your head too much about it, my child.”
When Maggie was gone, he went out to finish his cigar, and found to his pleasure that it was still
