Adventure stories; Fugitives from justice -- Fiction
Over his head, within the doorway of the bower, he hung a box and placed
therein the beginnings of a bird's nest. The thing was not many hours
done when a pair of birds came boldly into his presence as he sat
silent and motionless in the bower, and began to avail themselves of so
excellent a start in householding. In a few days there were eggs in the
nest, and 'twas the most marvellous of spectacles to witness the hen sit
content upon them over the head of the fat man underneath, and the cock,
without concern, fly in and out attentive on his mate.
But, indeed, the man was the friend of all helpless things, and few of
the same came his way without an instinct that told them it was so. Not
the birds in the nest alone were at ease in his society; he had but
to walk along the garden paths whistling and chirping, and there came
flights of birds about his head and shoulders, and some would even perch
upon his hand. I have never seen him more like his office than when he
talked with the creatures of the air, unless it was on another occasion
when two bairns, the offspring of an inmate in the hospital, ventured
into the garden, finding there another child, though monstrous, who had
not lost the key to the fields where blossom the flowers of infancy, and
frolic is a prayer.
But he dare not set a foot outside the walls of our retreat, for it was
as useless to hide Ballageich under a Kilmarnock bonnet as to seek a
disguise for his reverence in any suit of clothes. Bernard would come to
us rarely under cover of night, but alas! there were no letters for me
now, and mine that were sent through him were fewer than before.
And there was once an odd thing happened that put an end to these
intromissions; a thing that baffled me to understand at the time, and
indeed for many a day thereafter, but was made plain to me later on in
a manner that proved how contrary in his character was this mad priest,
that was at once assassin and the noblest friend.
Father Hamilton was not without money, though all had been taken from
him at Bicêtre. It was an evidence of the width and power of the Jesuit
movement that even in the Hôtel Dieu he could command what sums he
needed, and Bernard was habituated to come to him for moneys that might
pay for himself and the coachman and the horses at the _remise_. On
the last of these occasions I took the chance to slip a letter for Miss
Walkinshaw into his hand. Instead of putting it in his pocket he laid it
down a moment on a table, and he and I were busy packing linen for the
wash when a curious cry from Father Hamilton made us turn to see him
with the letter in his hand.
He was gazing with astonishment on the direction.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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