My New Curate | Page 8

two o'clock on Sunday morning, when the
house bell was pulled violently and a rapid series of fierce, sharp
knocks woke up the house. What priest does not know that tocsin of the
night, and the start from peaceful slumbers? I heard the housekeeper
wake up Father Letheby; and in a short time I heard him go down stairs.
Then there was the usual hurried colloquy at the hall door, then the
retreating noises of galloping feet. I pulled the blankets around my
shoulders, lifted the pillow, and said, "Poor fellow!" He had to say last
Mass next day, and this was some consolation, as he could sleep a few
hours in the morning. I met him at breakfast about half past one o'clock.
There he was, clean, cool, cheerful, as if nothing had happened.
"I was sorry you had that night call," I said; "how far had you to go?"
"To some place called Knocktorisha," he replied, opening his egg; "'t
was a little remote, but I was well repaid."
"Indeed," said I; "the poor people are very grateful. And they generally
pay for whatever trouble they give."
He flushed up.
"Oh, I didn't mean any pecuniary recompense," he said, a little nettled.
"I meant that I was repaid by the extraordinary faith and fervor of the
people."
I waited.

"Why, Father," said he, turning around and flicking a few invisible
crumbs with his napkin, "I never saw anything like it. I had quite an
escort of cavalry, two horsemen, who rode side by side with me the
whole way to the mountain, and then, when we had to dismount and
climb up through the boulders of some dry torrent course, I had two
linkmen or torchbearers, leaping on the crest of the ditch on either side,
and lighting me right up to the door of the cabin. It was a picture that
Rembrandt might have painted."
He paused and blushed a little, as if he had been pedantic.
"But tell me, Father," said he, "is this the custom in the country?"
"Oh yes," said I; "we look upon it as a matter of course. Your
predecessors didn't make much of it."
"It seems to me," he said, "infinitely picturesque and beautiful. It must
have been some tradition of the Church when she was free to practise
her ceremonies. But where do they get these torches?"
"Bog-oak, steeped in petroleum," I said. "It is, now that you recall it,
very beautiful and picturesque. Our people will never allow a priest,
with the Blessed Sacrament with him, to go unescorted."
"Now that you have mentioned it," he said, "I distinctly recall the
custom that existed among the poor of Salford. They would insist
always on accompanying me home from a night sick-call. I thought it
was superfluous politeness, and often insisted on being alone,
particularly as the streets were always well lighted. But no. If the men
hesitated, the women insisted; and I had always an escort to my door.
But this little mountain ceremony here is very touching."
"Who was sick?"
"Old Conroy,--a mountain ranger, I believe. He is very poorly; and I
anointed him." "By Jove," said he after a pause, "how he did pray,--and
all in Irish. I could imagine the old Hebrew prophets talking to God
from their mountains just in that manner. But why do they expect to be

anointed on the breast?"
"I do not know," I replied, "I think it is a Gallican custom introduced by
the French refugee priests at the beginning of the century. The people
invariably expect it."
"But you don't?" he asked in surprise.
"Oh dear, no. It would be hardly orthodox. Come, and if you are not too
tired, we'll have a walk."
I took him through the village, where he met salaams and genuflections
enough; and was stared at by the men, and blessed by the women, and
received the mute adoration of the children. We passed along the bog
road, where on either side were heaps of black turf drying, and off the
road were deep pools of black water, filling the holes whence the turf
was cut. It was lonely; for to-day we had not even the pale sunshine to
light up the gloomy landscape, and to the east the bleak mountains
stood, clear-cut and uniform in shagginess and savagery, against the
cold, gray sky. The white balls of the bog cotton waved dismally in the
light breeze, which curled the surface of a few pools, and drew a curlew
or plover from his retreat, and sent him whistling dolefully, and beating
the heavy air, as he swept towards mountain or lake. After half an
hour's walking, painful to me, the ground gently rose, and down in the
hollow a nest of poplars hid from the western