Men of the Deep Waters - William Hope Hodgson (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📗

could know exactly what that old vessel had originally been loaded with, and the juxtaposition of the various articles of her cargo, plus the heat and time she had endured, plus one or two other only guessable quantities, we should have solved the chemistry of the Life-Force, gentlemen. Not necessarily the origin, mind you; but, at least, we should have taken a big step on the way. I’ve often regretted that gale, you know—in a way, that is, in a way! It was a most amazing discovery; but, at the time, I had nothing but thankfulness to be rid of it… . A most amazing chance. I often think of the way the monster woke out of its torpor…. And that scum…. The dead pigs caught in it…. I fancy that was a grim kind of net, gentlemen…. It caught many things…. It …”

The old Doctor sighed and nodded.

“If I could have had her bill of lading,” he said, his eyes full of regret. “If–- It might have told me something to help. But, anyway….” He began to fill his pipe again…. “I suppose,” he ended, looking round at us gravely, “I s’pose we humans are an ungrateful lot of beggars, at the best! … But … but what a chance! What a chance—eh?”

MY HOUSE SHALL BE CALLED THE HOUSE OF PRAYER (An incident in the life of Father Johnson, Roman Catholic Priest.) “And the Great Deep of Life.”

Father Johnson’s Irish village is not Irish. For some unknown reason it is polyglot. They are, as one might say, a most extraordinary family.

I took my friend, James Pelple, down with me for an afternoon’s jaunt, to give the priest a call in his new house; for he had moved since last I saw him. Pelple knew of Father Johnson, by hearsay, and disapproved strongly. There is no other word to describe his feelings.

“A good man, yes,” he would remark. “But if all you tell me, and half of what I hear from others, is true, he is much too lax. His ritual–-”

“I’ve never been to his place,” I interrupted. “I know him only as the man. As a man, I love him, as you know; as a priest, I admire him. Concerning his ritual, I know nothing. I don’t believe he is the man to be unduly lax on vital points.”

“Just so! Just so!” said Pelple. “I know nothing; but I’ve heard some very peculiar things.”

I smiled to myself. Certainly, Father Johnson has some unusual ways. I have seen him, for instance, when we have been alone, forget to say his grace, until, maybe, he had eaten one dish. Then, remembering, he would touch his fingers together, and say:—“Bless this food to me” (glancing at the empty dish), “an’ I thank Thee for it” (looking at the full one in front). Then, remembering the dish yet on the stove:—“An’ that too, Lord,” and direct the Lord’s attention to the same, by a backward nod of his head. Afterwards, resuming his eating and talking, in the most natural fashion.

“I’ve heard that he allows his church to be used for some very extraordinary purposes,” continued Pelple. “I cannot, of course, credit some of the things I hear; but I have been assured that the women take their knitting into the church on weekday evenings, whilst the men assemble there, as to a kind of rendezvous, where village topics are allowed. I consider it most improper, most improper! Don’t you?”

But I found it difficult to criticise Father Johnson. I was frankly an admirer, as I am to-day. So I held my peace, assisted by an elusive movement of the head, that might have been either a nod or a negative.

When we reached the village, and asked for the priest’s new house, three men of the place escorted us there in state, as to the house of a chieftain. Reaching it, two of them pointed to him through the window, where he sat at table, smoking, after his early tea. The third man would have accompanied us in; but I told him that I wanted to see the priest alone; whereupon they all went happily. To have need to see the priest alone, was a need that each and all understood, as a part of their daily lives.

I lifted the latch, and we passed in, as all are welcome to do at any hour of the day or night. The door of his house opened into a short half-passage, and I could see direct into his little room, out of which went the small scullery-kitchen. As we entered, I heard Sally, his servant-wench, washing dishes in the little scullery; and just then Father Johnson called out to her:—“Sally, I’ll make a bet with ye.”

In the scullery, I heard a swift rustling and a subdued clatter, and knew that Sally (having heard that preliminary often before) was stealthily removing the handles of the knives from the boiling water. Then her reply:—

“Did y’r riv’rence sphake?”

“I did, Sally, colleen,” said the priest’s voice. “I’ll make a bet with ye, Sally, you’ve the handles av thim knives over hilt in the hot water—eh, Sally!”

And then Sally’s voice, triumphant:—

“Ye’re wrong, y’r riv’rence, thim knives is on the dhresser!”

“Aye, Sally,” said Father Johnson; “but were they not in the hot water whin I sphoke firrst?”

“They was, y’r riv’rence,” said Sally, in a shamed voice; just as she had been making the same confession for the past seven years. And then the priest had a little fit of happy, almost silent laughter, puffing out great clouds of smoke; in the midst of which we walked in on him.

After our greetings, which the priest had met with that strange magnetism of heartiness, that had left even the critical Pelple less disapproving, we were set down to a tea, which we simply had to eat, the priest waiting on us himself, and making the little meal “go,” as you might say, with the abundance of his energy and humour—telling a hundred quaint tales and jests of the country-side, with his brogue making points of laughter where more formal speech would have left us dull and untouched.

The meal over, the priest suggested that we might like to accompany him down to his chapel, and see whether things were “kapin’ happy,” as he phrased it. As you may suppose, we were quite eager to accept his invitation; for, as I have made clear already, I had never been down to his place before, and I had heard many things—even as had Pelple—about his chapel and his methods.

We had not far to go. On the way, Father Johnson pointed with his thumb to a little stone-built cabin, very small and crude, which I learned was rented by a certain old Thomas Cardallon, who was not an Irishman.

“Tom’s wife died last week,” said the priest, quietly. “He’s to be evicted to-morrow as iver is, if he cannot fhind the rint.”

I put my hand into my pocket, with a half involuntary movement; but he shook his head, as much as to say no good could be done that way. This was all, and we were past the small hovel in a minute; but I found myself looking back with a sudden, new curiosity at the little rough-built living-place, that, before, had been only one poor hut among many; yet was now instinct to me with a history of its own, so that it stood out, in my memory, from the others, that were here and there about, as something indicative of the life-hope and striving of two poor humans. I put it badly. I know; but it was just such a jumble of vague thoughts and emotions as these, that stirred in my mind. I had reason afterwards to have further memory of the cottage and its one-time occupants.

We reached the chapel very soon; but when we entered, I stood for a moment, in astonishment, looking up the single aisle of the long whitewashed room. There was not much noise; for, as I discovered, reverence and the sense of the Place, held power all the time; moreover, they were Father Johnson’s people. I looked at my friend, smiling, I fear.

“Even worse than Rumour foretold,” I suggested in a low voice; but he made no reply; for he appeared to me to be stifled by the excess of his astounded disapproval. The priest was a few paces before us, where we had made our involuntary pause in the doorway; and he, too, came to a stand, and looked at the scene, unobserved.

You will understand that there was cause for my astonishment, and even—as many will agree—with the strong disapprobation which my friend was feeling, when I tell you that there was an auction in progress within the House; for within the doorway to the left, was a pile of household goods, evidently from the cottage of one of the very poor. In front of the little heap was an old man, and round him, in a semicircle, stood a number of the villagers, listening intently to the old man’s extolling of each article of his household gear, which he was putting up for sale.

“‘My House shall be called–-’” I quoted softly and involuntarily; but less with any blame in my heart, than a great wonder, salted by a vague shockedness. The priest, still standing a little before me, caught my half unconscious quotation; but he only said “Hush!” so gently that I felt suddenly ashamed, as if I were a child fumbling with the Garments of Life, which the priest had worn upon his shoulders all the long years.

For maybe the half of a minute longer, we stood staring at the scene, Father Johnson still a few paces before us into the chapel.

“Tom Cardallon,” he explained presently, over his shoulder. “If he sold outside, the officers would confiscate. I showed ye the house av him, as we passed.”

He beckoned us to join the group of villagers round the pitiful pile of household goods, which we did, whilst he went on up the chapel, speaking a word here and there to the many who were gathered together in companionship for the quiet hour that preceded the evening Rosary. Some were praying; a few were sitting quietly in restful isolation from the world of reality; many of the women, I noticed, were knitting, or sitting making butter in small glass jars, which they shook constantly in their hands. The whole scene, in the soft evening light that came in through the long narrow windows, giving me an extraordinary sense of restfulness and natural humanity.

I turned presently from my viewing of the general chapel, to the particular corner where I stood upon the skirt of the little group around the old man. I began to catch the drift of his remarks, uttered in a low tone, and found myself edging nearer, to hear more plainly. I gathered—as the priest had told us—that he had just lost his wife, after a long illness which had run them hopelessly into debt. Indeed, as you know, the eviction from the little hovel was arranged for the morrow, if the old man could not find the small sum which would make it possible for him to stay on in the old cottage, where he had evidently spent many very happy years.

“This ‘ere,” the old man was saying, holding up a worn saucepan, “wer’ one as my missus ‘as cooked a pow’r o’ spuds in.”

He stopped, and turned half from us a moment, with a queer little awkward gesture, as if looking round for something that he knew subconsciously he was not in search of. I believe, in reality, the movement was prompted by an unrealised desire to avert his face momentarily, which had begun to work,