Such Is My Beloved (9 page)

There was a sermon that still had to be prepared for the eleven o'clock mass to-morrow, and Father Dowling did not look forward to it with much enthusiasm. The pulpit had lost some of its attraction for him since he had been advised to avoid controversial social problems. But as he sat in his room with the night air coming in so freshly through the open window, he opened his Bible and found himself reading the Song of Solomon. And it began to seem to him as he leaned
forward breathlessly that he understood some of the secret rich feeling of this love song, sung so marvellously that it transcended human love and became divine. Then he forgot how he had been worrying about borrowing money. He began to write rapidly. He smiled with exaltation. He prepared his sermon on human and divine love. The bold sensual phrases of the love song startled him, stirred him and were full of such meaning that he read them over and over again.

And in the morning he preached on the Song of Songs, only he made it a song of love that all people ought to have for one another. Words rolled out of him with passion, and his ardor was so great that many who listened felt uneasy. He had got thinner. His deep-set blue eyes were no longer mild, but full of defiance as he shouted out, “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.”

When mass was over he stood by the church entrance, bowing to men and women with a little more warmth in his smile than there had been for many weeks, for he was searching into their faces, wondering, “Which one of them will I speak to? Which one will be kind enough to give me something for Ronnie and Midge?”

Young men of the parish sauntered past him to the street, looked around to see who among their friends was at this mass and then went down to stand by the curb and light their cigarettes. Soon there was a long line of young men along the curb, all wearing their best clothes, all smoking and talking to each other. In the course of a year a priest gets to know the faces of many of his parishioners even when he forgets their names, he gets to know their voices, their thoughts, the little things that worry them. At the Cathedral there were, of course, a great many strangers from all over the city and from out of town, too, who just came once and never even noticed Father
Dowling, but the old parishioners, like Mrs. Haley, the white-haired widow who wore the oddest bonnet with artificial pink flowers and who had such a rosy face, bowed very low to him. And Hahn, the doctor, with a morning coat on his hungry-looking body, squinted his sharp fanatical eyes and smiled coldly, too. And there were three young girls with arms linked, who glanced up charmingly, half flirting with Father Dowling without knowing it. There was a little boy with an Eton collar, holding the hand of his sister, with long golden curls. They all kept coming out, hundreds of strange faces and a few he saw every Sunday; the rich ones at once began to look around for their cars; the jolly, poor women formed little groups on the pavement and began to chatter. A cripple, a Frenchman who had had rheumatism for twenty years, was being helped into his wheel chair. Father Dowling had never smiled more patiently, or looked at these people more shrewdly than this morning.

Then Mr. James Robison and his daughter passed by; the daughter, a slim, tall, dark girl who smiled good-naturedly at Father Dowling and nodded her head shyly. The lawyer, florid-faced and handsome in his morning coat and very amiable, with his face wreathed in smiles and a bit of morning sunlight touching his white hair, put out his hand heartily and said, “Good morning, Father. It was a great pleasure to listen to you this morning. Seldom have I heard such eloquence. Seldom have I been so moved.”

“Then we don't disagree about the subject matter of the sermon this morning, Mr. Robison?”

“Oh, tut, tut, come now, Father. Who am I to disagree with you about such matters? All I can say is that love and charity always will seem to me to be the divine themes, the most powerful themes for affecting the human heart.”

“I'm glad you were moved. I hope many others were, too.”

“You may be sure they were. You gave us all something to think about,” Mr. Robison said.

The handsome lawyer was more gracious, more humble this morning than he had ever been. Both he and his daughter seemed to be full of admiration for the young priest. A strange confidence, a sudden joyfulness surged through Father Dowling. Putting back his head, he laughed out so loud that everybody standing on the steps turned and smiled. It was always exhilarating to hear one of the young priests laughing in this way.

Father Dowling bent over and whispered to Mr. Robison. “I've a little matter I'd like to talk to you about. It would only take a few minutes this evening. I wonder…”

“Come around, Father. We'll all be glad to see you.”

“If it's possible I'd like if we were alone.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Mr. Robison said, shaking his white head in agreement.

For a few moments longer Father Dowling stood on the steps, smiling, looking down at the cement sidewalk, noticing no one, then he turned, the skirt of his soutane swung out like a sail, and he went hurrying up through the church.

 

FOURTEEN

T
hat evening Father Dowling came down the path by the church, stood a moment on the sidewalk, as though making sure for the last time of an explanation, and started to walk rapidly up the street. When he passed under the light his red lips were still moving in time with his thoughts. It was a very fine night. At dinner-time he had hardly eaten anything; he had kept going over and over his plan.

The lawyer lived in an old, vine-covered stone house, one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood. As Father Dowling stood on the sidewalk looking up at all the lighted windows, he felt afraid, for he seemed to be risking so much. “If he will not come, or if he does come and won't help them, what will I do?” he wondered.

When James Robison came into the drawing-room, Father Dowling was walking up and down, his hands clasped behind his back, the excitement so strong in him that he smiled vaguely at the lawyer, trying to find great kindliness in his healthy face. He had decided to discuss the matter in an impersonal way, but as soon as he heard James Robison saying, “Gracious, Father, you look very uneasy. Won't you sit down
and smoke a cigar?” he turned with his young face full of his intense eagerness and said, “Mr. Robison, you'll have to forgive my eagerness, but I want you to help some one. I want you to give some one a little money, just as much as you think is deserved. Are you in a position…do you think you might be willing?”

Far from being startled, Mr. Robison said, “Tut, tut,” and beamed rosily, for as soon as the priest had spoken to him in the morning he had imagined that a contribution of some kind for some worthy charity was being solicited. On the way home from church he had even made up in his mind how much he might give; if it was a small, unobtrusive charity, he had thought he might suggest fifty, or a hundred dollars, a check he would write while chuckling to himself, glancing occasionally over his shoulder at the delighted face of the young priest. After that was done he had intended to offer Father Dowling a drink of very old, expensive wine and send him away full of good humor and praise.

So as he chuckled at Father Dowling now, he said, “Dear me, Father, what is it that I'm expected to give? Has Father Anglin something in mind? You know you don't give us folk much rest. But it's a blessing in a way to have you think of me. What is it, Father?”

“Do you remember those two girls I once spoke to you about?”

“You asked me to get jobs for them, I believe.”

“Yes, they're the ones. They're the ones again to-night.”

The smiling, ruddy-cheeked assurance which made Father Dowling's manner so agreeable, vanished as soon as he mentioned the girls; he was so desperately serious now that he was making James Robison uncomfortable, for the lawyer preferred the way the older priest asked for contributions, with
a splendid aplomb, a fine, gracious exchange of compliments that set them both rolling with hearty laughter. “I've kept them in mind, Father. I've asked about jobs for them but there is little work these days,” Mr. Robison said defensively.

“It's not a job I want for them now. I want some money for them. I want you to give it to them. I want you to come and see them and understand the situation and help them. Will you do it for me, Mr. Robison?”

The lawyer was irritated, for if he refused to see the girls Father Dowling could certainly accuse him of a complete lack of charity. But he resented being dragged from his house in this way. “Please come, won't you?” Father Dowling pleaded. “It will be a great personal favor to me, and certainly you'll please God. It won't take more than a half an hour, and I'll tell you all the special circumstances.”

While still hesitating, Mr. Robison amused himself by fancying he could see himself and the priest walking into some poor girl's home like two benevolent patrons of the whole parish. There would be an old woman who would dust off a chair in great confusion. The man of the house would be ashamed of his unshaven face and become inarticulate. And while he was having these thoughts the priest was begging him to go with him. “I'll get the car,” he said. “We'll drive there.”

“No, let's walk. It's not more than fifteen minutes away,” Father Dowling said.

“Why walk when we can go in the car?”

“It won't seem so grand, don't you see?”

“Ah, yes, quite true, quite true.”

They went out together, with the priest leaning close to Mr. Robison, who walked erectly, carrying a cane, wearing a hard hat and a white scarf, and listening to the young priest with a judicial expression on his crisp, ruddy face. Father
Dowling had wanted to appear grave and judicial, too, but as they walked along together he found himself taking hold of the lawyer's arm, talking impulsively about Ronnie and Midge, leaning forward so he could half see the lawyer's face, his words full of passion and conviction. Words poured out of him and he never stopped to wonder why the lawyer was not answering. He told about his first meeting with the girls, that night when he had gone to see them to help them, and all he had tried to do for them, and how he had worried and hoped to keep them off the streets. By this time they had left the good old residential district and were in the rooming-house neighborhood, and the lawyer was looking up anxiously at all the houses. The priest went on, “I've given all I can of my own money. I'd give more, but I'm no longer able to help them. I want you to do something for them. Somebody has to help them. They must be kept off the streets. Don't you understand that?” he said. “I've worried so much about them. When you see them you'll like them as I like them. You may be just as anxious about them as I am.”

“Where have you been seeing them, Father?”

“I've been going around to the hotel where they live.”

“Is that where they do their entertaining?”

“You mean is that where they took men?”

“Yes.”

“It is.”

“Lord in heaven, Father. You haven't let people see you going around there, have you?”

“I've gone at night. Nobody has noticed me.” Father Dowling got a bit excited and almost angry at the lawyer. “What would it matter if they had noticed me? Tell me that. Are there some places where a priest must not go, some people that must not be touched?” But he restrained his irritation and
with extraordinary diplomacy said, “Of course, I understand your point of view. It worried me a good deal, too. You understand how it would worry me, don't you?”

“I imagine it would give you the gravest concern.”

“It concerned me night and day.”

“I'm glad you realized the implications.”

Looking quickly into the young priest's face, Mr. Robison felt all his sincerity, he felt even some of his love, so he, himself, became uneasy and then gradually inarticulate. A moment ago he had been bursting with shrewd criticism, but now he kept thinking of the surprising eagerness and love he had just seen in Father Dowling's face. In spite of himself, he was curious to understand this love, this eagerness which did not seem like any emotion he had ever felt.

By this time they were near the old hotel with the broken sign. They were across the road, opposite the quick lunch, the counter lined with customers. Suddenly Father Dowling said, “This is the place. You come in with me. We'll go up and I'll introduce the girls to you and say you're thinking of helping them, eh?”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, Father.”

“What's the matter?”

“We shouldn't barge into this thing in such a rush,” he said testily.

Mr. Robison looked up at the hotel with the darkened windows, the narrow entrance and the faded yellow bricks. The stream of light from the lunch-counter window, gleaming on a narrow strip of pavement, made the house next door darker and dirtier. He was uneasy and very cautious. “What a miserable little place,” he said. “This is where you've been coming, Father?”

“It looks brighter on other nights when the barber shop is lit up.”

“Maybe this isn't the right night for a visit, then.”

“Nobody will notice you, Mr. Robison. Just follow me inside and up the stairs.”

“No, no, Father. Leave go of my arm. I'll wait here. You go in. You know the place. If you find them tell them to come out. I don't really know that I ought to be here at all,” he added irritably.

Father Dowling went into the hotel and up the stairs and he rapped on the white door. There was no answer. He was so impatient and excited that he began to pound on the door, listening, pounding, waiting, hearing only the beating of his own heart. He looked along the narrow, dimly lit corridor. “Why should they be out on such a night? Lord, don't let them be far away.” He turned, sighed and came down the stairs very slowly, glancing toward the desk where the proprietor was sitting with the old imperturbable expression on his face, as if he hadn't even noticed the priest coming in. Father Dowling was so disappointed he forgot his contempt for Mr. Baer and he said ingratiatingly, “Excuse me. Could you tell me if the two girls went out?”

“Certainly, neighbor. They went out about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe one of them or both will be back at any time. Stick around. There's the Sunday newspapers over there.”

“Thanks very much,” Father Dowling said. “It's very important that I see them. I'll loaf outside.” And he went out and crossed the street to Mr. Robison, who was pacing up and down and muttering to himself. “They're not in,” he said. “Not at this moment, anyway.”

“Ah, well, maybe it's better that way.” The lawyer was much relieved. “Some other time, Father. We tried, that's the main thing,” he said. “Let's walk home together.”

But the priest took hold of Mr. Robison's arm and said firmly, “We can't do that. They'll be back. They may be just a little piece away. Just let's walk up and down here for a few minutes, anyway.” And he kept hold of Mr. Robison's arm as they went up the street. To make it appear like a normal everyday bit of parish work, Father Dowling began to make an impersonal conversation about other interesting matters, for instance, the possibility of a war in Europe and whether it might mean the collapse of European civilization; but having started such a conversation he listened without any interest to Mr. Robison's opinions, and his eyes kept shifting across the street, seeking out and trying to recognize the form of any woman far up the avenue, longing to see the girls, but dreading to find them actually on the streets. Silent, and in step, they walked on. Suddenly a cat darted across the road, slowing down, its tail sticking up stiffly, and from the other side of the road the cat watched them walking on.

And when they turned the corner by the hospital, Father Dowling saw Ronnie coming toward them, loafing, hunting. The sight of her in her old coat, with her head moving so alertly, filled him with such compassion that he stood still and held the lawyer's arm tight. “There's the tall girl I told you about,” he said. “The poor kid. Look at her. Wait here a moment,” and he hurried up to Ronnie and stopped her.

“Ronnie, I've been looking for you. It's important. Where's Midge?”

“Hello, Father,” she said. She did not seem glad to see him. It was a good evening and she had expected, if she
hustled, to do very well in such weather. “I have a date with a girl to-night, Father,” she said.

“No, no, Ronnie. You must do as I say to-night,” he said, taking hold of her arm. “The gentleman back there is going to help you. See him waiting there. I've told him all about you and Midge. Come and meet him now. Please be nice to him. Be a good girl, Ronnie,” and the priest was pulling her along toward Mr. Robison, who was standing there with his head thrust forward aggressively. Ronnie stood two paces behind the priest, eyeing the prosperous lawyer, and when she was introduced, she stepped forward apprehensively. After one quick, shrewd glance, the lawyer dropped his eyes and said, “How do you do, Miss.”

“Hello,” Ronnie said.

“Father Dowling wanted me to meet you and your friend.”

“You may meet Midge and you may not. You can't be sure about Midge.”

They walked on again, the three of them now, going toward the lighted avenue, the lawyer walking near the curb, and next to him Father Dowling, and then Ronnie, who kept her head down and would not speak, and even dragged her feet. Father Dowling tried to make a conversation, but Ronnie was resenting the way Mr. Robison had looked at her. They kept on walking for twenty minutes, going right over to the avenue. From time to time Mr. Robison took out his watch and made an impatient clucking noise with his teeth. He was dreading the notion of the three of them walking down the crowded avenue together.

Then a man with a white beard, in an old tattered brown coat, stooped at the waist, and with his shoulders thrust
forward, passed by and he was whistling loudly between his teeth and looking straight ahead.

“I've seen that poor fellow many times around here. Haven't you?” Father Dowling said suddenly to Mr. Robison.

“I've never seen him in my life before,” Mr. Robison said shortly.

“Father's right. I've seen him five hundred times,” Ronnie said bluntly. “That's Whistling Joe. He whistles when he sees a girl. He's a bit daffy.”

“Very interesting,” Mr. Robison said.

Father Dowling was hoping that they might meet Midge before the lawyer got into a very bad temper. He wished he could start an interesting conversation.

They saw Midge standing on a corner by a hosiery store that had a large plate-glass window. She saw them at once and came up looking quite pretty, smiling very slyly and winsomely at the well-dressed and prosperous-looking lawyer. Her face was no longer round. Her cheek bones protruded slightly, but her eyes were much bigger and rather brilliant. When she was introduced to the lawyer she made a little bow and said, “I'm awfully pleased to meet your friend, Father,” and he couldn't help smiling at her. Her presence, her composure, made them all feel better. Father Dowling, starting to laugh, said amiably, “Now I just want us to have a conversation. I want Mr. Robison to take an interest in you girls. Perhaps we'd better go back to the hotel and sit down.”