by Max Brand
CHAPTER II
IRENE
"You have seen him," murmured the tall priest. "Now let us go back andwait for him. I will leave word."
He touched one of the two or three men who were watching the athletes,and whispered his message in the other's ear. Then he went back withFather Anthony.
"You have seen him," he repeated, when they sat once more in thecheerless room. "Now pronounce on him."
The other answered: "I have seen a wonderful body--but the mind, FatherVictor?"
"It is as simple as that of a child--his thoughts run as clear asspring water."
"Ah, but they are swift thoughts. Suppose the spring water gathers upa few stones and rushes on down the side of the mountain. Very soon itis wearing a deeper channel--then but a little space, and it is araging torrent and tears down great trees from its banks and goesshouting and leaping out toward the sea.
"Suppose a strange thought came in the mind of your Pierre. It wouldbe like the pebbles in the swift-running spring water. He would carryit on, rushing. It would tear away the old boundaries of his mind--itmight wipe out the banks you have set down for him--it might tear awaythe choicest teachings."
Father Victor sat straight and stiff with stern, set lips.
He said dryly: "Father Anthony has been much in the world."
"I speak from the best intention, good father. Look you, now, I haveseen that same red hair and those same lighted blue eyes before, andwherever I have seen them has been war and trouble and unrest. I haveseen that same whimsical smile which stirs the heart of a woman andmakes a man reach for his revolver. This boy whose mind is soclear--arm him with a single wrong thought, with a single doubt of theeternal goodness of God's plans, and he will be a thunderbolt indeed,dear Father, but one which even your strong hand could not control."
"I have heard you," said the priest; "but you will see. He is comingnow."
There was a knock at the door; then it opened and showed a modestnovice in a simple gown of black serge girt at the waist with the flatencircling band. His head was downward; it was not till the blue eyesflashed inquisitively up that Father Anthony recognized Pierre.
The hard voice of Jean Paul Victor pronounced: "This is that FatherAnthony of whom I have spoken."
The novice slipped to his knees and folded his hands. The two priestsexchanged glances, one of triumph and one of wonder, while the plumpfingers of Father Anthony poised over that dark red hair, pressedsmooth on top where the skull-cap rested, and curling somewhat at thesides. The blessing which he spoke was Latin, and Father Victor lookedsomewhat anxiously toward his protege till the latter answered in adiction so pure that Cicero himself would have smiled to hear it:
"Father, I thank thee, and if my mind were as old as thine I might beable to wish blessings as great as these in return."
"Stand up!" cried Father Anthony. "By Heavens, Jean Paul, it is thepurest Latin I have heard this twelvemonth."
And the lad answered: "It must be pure Latin; Father Victor has taughtme."
Gabrielle Anthony stared, and to save him from too obvious confusionthe other priest interrupted: "I have a letter for you, my son."
And he passed the envelope to Pierre. The latter examined it withinterest.
"The writing sprawls like the knees of a boy of ten. What old man haswritten to you, Pierre?"
"No man that I know. This comes from the south. It is marked from theUnited States."
"So far!" exclaimed the tall priest. "Give me the letter, lad."
But here he caught the whimsical eyes of Father Anthony, and he allowedhis outstretched hand to fall. Yet he scowled as he said: "No; keep itand read it, Pierre."
"I have no great wish to keep it," answered Pierre, studying anxiouslythe dark brow of the priest.
"It is yours. Open it and read."
The lad obeyed instantly. He shook out the folded paper and moved alittle nearer the light. Then he read aloud, as if it had neverentered his mind that what was addressed to him might be meant for hiseyes alone. And as he read he reminded Father Anthony of some childishchorister pronouncing words beyond his understanding. The tears cameto the eyes of the good father.
And he said in his heart: "Alas! I have been too much in the world ofmen, and now a child can teach me."
The musical voice of the boy began:
"Morgantown, "R. F. D. No. 4.
"SON PIERRE:
"Here I lie with a chunk of lead from the gun of Bob McGurk restingsomewheres in the insides of me, and there ain't no way of doubtingthat I'm about to go out. Now, I ain't complaining none. I've had myfling. I've eat my meat to order, well done and rare--mostly rare.Maybe some folks will be saying that I've got what I've been askingfor, and I know that Bob McGurk got me fair and square, shooting fromthe hip. That don't help me none, lying here with a through ticket tosome place that's farther south than Texas."
Pierre lowered the letter and looked gravely upon Father Victor.
"There are blasphemies coming. Shall I read on?"
"Yes."
He began again, a little spot of red coming into either cheek:
"Hell ain't none too bad for me, I know. I ain't whining none. I justlie here and watch the world getting dimmer until I begin to be seeingthings out of my past. That shows the devil ain't losing no time withme. But the thing that comes back oftenest and hits me the hardest isthe sight of your mother, lying with you in the hollow of her arm andlooking up at me and whispering, 'Dad,' just before she went out."
The hand of the boy fell, and his wide eyes sought the face of FatherVictor. The latter was standing.
"You told me I had no father--"
An imperious arm stretched toward him.
"Give me the letter."
He moved to obey, and then checked himself.
"This is my father's writing, is it not?"
"No, no! It's a lie, Pierre!"
But Pierre stood with the letter held behind his back, and the firstdoubt in his life stood up darkly in his eyes. Father Victor sankslowly back into his chair. All his gaunt frame was trembling.
"Read on," he commanded.
And Pierre, white of face, read on:
"So I got a idea that I had to write to you, Pierre. There ain'tnothing I can make up to you, but knowing the truth may help some.Poor kid, you ain't got no father in the eyes of the law, and neitherdid you have no mother, and there ain't no name that belongs to you byrights."
Father Anthony veiled his eyes, but the bright starved eyes of JeanPaul Victor stared on at the reader. His voice was lower now, and thelips moved slowly, as though numb with cold:
I was a man in them days, and your mother was a woman that brought yourheart into your throat and set it singing. She and me, we were toobusy being just plain happy to care much what was right or wrong; soyou just sort of happened along, Pierre. Me being so close to hell, Iremember her eyes that was bluer than heaven looking up to me, and herhair, that was copper with gold lights in it, ran down across the whiteof her shoulder, and even past her side and around you, Pierre, till itseemed like you was lying in a red river. She being about all in, shegot hold of my hand and looked up to me with them blue eyes I beentalking about, and said 'Dad,' and went out. And I damned nearfollowed her.
"I buried Irene on the side of the mountain under a big, rough rock,and I didn't carve nothing on the rock. Then I took you, Pierre, and Iknew I wasn't no sort of a man to raise up the son of Irene; so Ibrought you to Father Victor on a winter night and left you in hisarms. That was after I'd done my best to raise you and you was justabout old enough to chatter a bit. There wasn't nothing else to do.My wife, she went pretty near crazy when I brought you home. And she'dof killed you, Pierre, if I hadn't took you away.
"You see, I was married before I met Irene. So there ain't no alibifor me. I just acted the hound. But me being so close to hell now, Ilook back to that time, and somehow I see no wrong in it still.
"And if I done wrong t
hen, I've got my share of hell-fire for it. HereI lie, with my boys, Bill and Bert, sitting around in the corner of theroom waiting for me to go out. They ain't men, Pierre. They're wolvesin the skins of men. They're the right sons of their mother. When Igo out they'll grab the coin I've saved up, and leave me to lie hereand rot, maybe.
"Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around thatcares, and to know that even after I've gone out I'm going to lie hereand have my dead eyes looking up at the ceiling. So I'm writing toyou, Pierre, part to tell you what you ought to know; part because Igot a sort of crazy idea that maybe you could get down here to mebefore I go out.
"You don't owe me nothing but hard words, Pierre; but if you don't tryto come to me, the ghost of your mother will follow you all your life,lad, and you'll be seeing her blue eyes and the red-gold of her hair inthe dark of the night as I see it now. Me, I'm a hard man, but itbreaks my heart, that ghost of Irene. So here I'll lie, waiting foryou, Pierre, and lingering out the days with whisky, and fighting thewolf eyes of them there sons of mine. If I weaken--If they find theycan look me square in the eye--they'll finish me quick, and make offwith the coin. Pierre, come quick.
"MARTIN RYDER."
The hand of Pierre dropped slowly to his side, and the letter flutteredwith a crisp rustling to the floor.