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I may be talking a bit above your head, we've been talking philosophy all the evening, but if you concentrate you'll follow my meaning." "Here we are," said Mark, for by this time he had persuaded Mr. Mousley to put his foot upon the step of the front door. "You managed the house very well," said the clergyman. "It's extraordinary how a house will take to some people and not to others.
Mousley across the gymnasium," Mark explained. "I think I'd better take him up to his room." "If your young friend is as clever at managing rooms as he is at managing houses we shall get on splendidly, Father Rowley. I have perfect confidence in his manner with rooms. He soothed this house in the most remarkable way. It was jumping about like a pea in a pod till he caught hold of the reins."
He went down with a lighted candle, crept across the gymnasium, and opened the door. Mousley was still tacking from pavement to pavement and making very little headway against a strong current of drink.
He divined from the Missioner's quick glance that he was going to hear Mr. Mousley's confession. A week later Mr. Mousley asked Mark if he would serve at Mass the next morning. "It may seem an odd request," he said, "but inasmuch as you have seen the depths to which I can sink, I want you equally to see the heights to which Father Rowley has raised me." It was never allowed to be forgotten at St.
Well, I was put into training, and after five weeks we met at Mousley Hurst, and a hard fight it was but I've got the whole of it somewhere, Mary; look in the drawer there, and you'll see a newspaper." Mary brought out the newspaper, which was rolled up and tied with a bit of string, and Stapleton handed it over to me, telling me to read it aloud. I did so, but I shall not enter into the details.
"Come in, come in, Mousley, and take a seat." Mr. Mousley walked timidly across the room and sat on the very edge of the chair offered him by Father Rowley. He was a quiet, rather drab little man, the kind of little man who always loses his seat in a railway carriage and who always gets pushed further up in an omnibus, one of life's pawns.
About the time when Mark was beginning to be recognized as Father Rowley's personal vassal, it happened that the Reverend George Edward Mousley who had been handed on from diocese to diocese during the last five years had lately reached the Mission House.
"The letter is to the Lord Bishop Suffragan of Warwick, St. Peter's Rectory, Warwick," Father Rowley began. "My dear Bishop of Warwick, I have now had poor Mousley here for two months. It is not a long time in which to effect a lasting reformation of one who has fallen so often and so grievously, but I think you know me well enough not to accuse me of being too sanguine about drunken priests.
"Don't talk as you go upstairs," Mark admonished. "Isn't that a dog I see there?" "No, no, no," said Mark. "It's the horse. Come along." "A horse?" Mousley echoed. "Well, I can manage horses too. Come here, Dobbin. If I'd known we were going to meet a horse I should have brought back some sugar with me. I suppose it's too late to go back and buy some sugar now?" "Yes, yes," said Mark impatiently.
In the gallery above Mark, who had not dared to disobey Father Rowley's orders, asked him what was to be done to get Mr. Mousley to bed. "Go and wake Cartwright and Warrender to help me to get him upstairs," the Missioner commanded. "I can help you. . . ." Mark began. "Do what I say," said the Missioner curtly.
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