Charred Wood | Page 7

Father Murray looked interested.
"Yes, yes," he said; "I am a convert. It was long ago, though. I was a
young Presbyterian minister, and it's odd how it came about. Newman
didn't get me, though he shook his own tree into the Pope's lap; I wasn't
on the tree. It was Brownson--a Presbyterian like myself--who did the
business. You don't know him? Pity! He's worth knowing. I got to
reading him, and he made it so plain that I had to drop. I didn't want to,
either--but here I am. Now, Mr. Griffin, how did you happen to go the
other way?"
"I didn't go--that is, not deliberately. I just drifted. Mother died, and
father didn't care, in fact rather opposed; so I just didn't last. Later on, I
studied the church and I could not see."
"Studied the church? You mean the Catholic Church?" Father Murray's
mouth hid the ghost of a smile.
"No, it wasn't the Catholic Church in particular. When we worldlings
say 'the church,' we mean religion in general, perhaps all Christianity in
general and all Christians in particular."
"I know." The priest's voice held a touch of sorrow now. "I hope you
will pardon me, Mr. Griffin, if I say one thing that may sound
controversial--it's just an observation. I have noticed the tendency you
speak of; but isn't it strange that when people go looking into the
question of religion they can deliberately close their eyes to a 'City set
upon a Mountain'?"
"I don't quite--"

"Get me?" Father Murray laughed. "I know that you wanted to use that
particular expressive bit of our particularly expressive slang. What I
mean is this: People study religion nowadays--that is, English-speaking
people--with the Catholic Church left out. Yet she claims the allegiance
of over three hundred million people. Without her, Christianity would
be merely pitiful. She alone stands firm on her foundation. She alone
has something really definite to offer. She has the achievements of
twenty centuries by which to judge her. She has borne, during all those
centuries, the hatred of the world; but to-day she is loved, too--loved
better than anything else on earth. She has hugged the worst of her
children to her breast, has borne their shame that she might save them,
because she is a mother; yet she has saints to show by the thousands.
She has never been afraid to speak--always has spoken; but the ages
have not trapped her. She is the biggest, most wonderful, most
mysterious, most awful thing on earth; and yet, as you say, those who
study religion ignore her. I couldn't, and I have been through the mill."
Mark shifted a little uneasily. "I can't ignore her," he said, "but I am
just a little bit afraid of her."
"Ah, yes." The priest caught his pipe by the bowl and used the stem to
emphasize his words. "I felt that way, too. I like you, Mr. Griffin, and
so I am going to ask you not to mind if I tell you something that I have
never told anyone before. I was afraid of her. I hated her. I struggled,
and almost cursed her. She was too logical. She was leading me where I
did not want to go. But when I came she put her arms around me; and
when I looked at her, she smiled. I came in spite of many things; and
now, Mr. Griffin, I pay. I am alone, and I pay always. Yet I am glad to
pay. I am glad to pay--even here--in Sihasset."
Mark was moved in spite of himself. "I wonder," he said softly, "if you
are glad, Monsignore, to pay so much? Pardon me if I touch upon
something raw; but I know that you were, even as a Catholic, higher
than you are now. Doesn't that make it hard to pay?"
"To many it might appear that it would make things harder; but it
doesn't. You have to be inside in order to understand it. The Church
takes you, smiling. She gives to you generously, and then, with a smile,

she breaks you; and, hating to be broken, you break, knowing that it is
best for you. She pets you, and then she whips you; and the whips sting,
but they leave no mark on the soul, except a good mark, if you have
learned. But pardon me, here's a parishioner--" A woman, old and bent,
was coming up the steps. "Come on, Mrs. O'Leary. How is the good
man?"
The priest arose to meet the woman, whose sad face aroused in Mark a
keen thrill of sympathy.
"He's gone, Father," she said, "gone this minute. I thank God he had
you with him this morning, and went right. It came awful sudden."
"God rest him. I'm sorry--"