THE CATHEDRAL OF THE HOLY CROSS, episcopal seat of Lawrence Cardinal Glennon, had been in its day an architectural marvel. Cruciform in shape, built of Roxbury pudding stone, and covering an area nearly as great as that of Notre-Dame de Paris, it was considered in 1875—the year of its consecration—the handsomest church between Baltimore and Montreal. But the luckless truth about the Cathedral was this: in selecting its site, the builders had guessed wrong! Scarcely had the glorious edifice been erected in the quiet purlieus of the South End —at that time the most substantial section of Boston—when one of those unforeseen population shifts that plague property owners and city planners took place. Tall green waves of Irish immigration began to flood the port of Boston, foamed southward past the Cathedral, and flattened out in the unstylish backwaters of neighboring Roxbury. To meet the rapid-transit needs of these newcomers, the elevated railway thrust an unsightly double track along Washington Street, and at the turn of the century a noisy procession of elevated trains began roaring past the Cathedral’s enormous rose window at three-minute intervals. The intolerable clatter marred the dying fall of pulpit oratory, broke in on prayer, and destroyed meditation. Worse, the el drove die more prosperous people away from the neighborhood. Into the vacuum of rundown dwellings and lowered rents rushed a poorer and ever poorer tenancy, until the noble buttresses of the Cathedral were surrounded by a wasteland of cheap lodginghouses, huddling shops, and dingy taverns.
The Cathedral’s location secretly troubled Cardinal Glennon, but in public he made eloquent rationalizations of the matter. Many famous cathedrals, he was fond of pointing out, bordered on the poorer sections of their cities. Even St. Peter’s in Rome rose out of the squalor of the Borgo slums. It was fitting and proper, declared Glennon, that the feet of God’s loftiest temples should be laved by streams of the living poor. These high pulpit utterances had not prevented His Eminence from diligently canvassing possible sites and probable costs of a new cathedral. Tucked away in his confidential files were sketches of a structure that would dwarf the poor dimensions of Chartres and Strasbourg, not to mention Manning’s Anglican effort on Morningside Heights.
The cost of such a temple would run into millions of dollars. Estimates varied: Cornelius Deegan’s figure of fifteen million was conservative; the Cardinal himself, specifying the finest of Rutland marble and twin spires fifty feet higher than Bunker Hill Monument, believed that the cost might be nearer twenty. But whatever the new cathedral might cost, the money could be had. Two millions in cash were already on deposit in various Boston banks; another four million lay in gilt-edged securities registered in the name of the Archdiocese of Boston, a corporation sole. Assuredly, it was not lack of cash that stayed the builder’s hand. No, there were other brakes that operated powerfully whenever the Cardinal’s fancy played too wantonly among the groined ceilings, Gothic lily-work, and soaring spires of his marble dream.
The nature of these brakes was demonstrated one March afternoon in 1920 as His Eminence presided at a meeting of the Congregation for Archdiocesan Affairs. Privy and high, the council was being held in the directors’ room of the Cardinal’s residence. At the head of the long mahogany table sat Lawrence Glennon in the cassock of a working priest; at the Cardinal’s right hand was the Most Reverend Vincent Mulqueen, Auxiliary Bishop of Boston (sometimes mentioned as the Cardinal’s successor), a man of glacial mien whose temperature had been known to rise from zero to freezing point during a particularly warm discussion. At Glennon’s left sat Monsignor Timothy Blake, Vicar-General of the Archdiocese, a sanguine, hearty cleric onto whose shoulders the Cardinal slipped many an administrative burden. And beside the Vicar-General sat Chancellor Michael Speed, as efficient an executive as ever escaped the clutches of corporate big business. These three acted as archdiocesan consultors to Glennon in matters of large policy; by canon law they possessed an ancient, inalienable right to be heard. The Cardinal in turn was obliged to listen and give proper weight to their opinions. But the final decision always rested with the Cardinal alone. From his person, and his divine office of Bishop, emanated supreme authority in all matters affecting the Archdiocese of Boston.
Down the table, four other clerics ranged themselves according to rank. And at the foot of the table, reading the minutes of the last meeting, sat the Reverend Stephen Fermoyle, secretary to His Eminence these last ten months or more.
“Any objections to the minutes as read?” asked Glennon with nice parliamentary deference. There being no objections, the Cardinal swung his head on the pivot of his short neck and addressed his Vicar-General. “Have you anything ready for us on the college business, Tim?”
“I think Father Gorman’s report will cover the matter, Your Eminence.”
Halfway down the table, a priest with the cheekbones of an ascetic unlimbered a sheaf of notes. David Gorman, president of Regis College, was by temperament a scholar (he had studied philosophy under Mercier at Louvain). Events had placed Father Gorman at the head of a Catholic college in an era of physical expansion. The task of raising a huge building fund lay like a galling yoke on shoulders too delicate, perhaps, for the job. But implicit obedience to the rule of his superior denied David Gorman even the luxury of a wince. He began speaking now in longish periods as though translating from a rather dull passage in Cicero.
“Our estimates, based on the bids of primary contractors, and augmented tentatively by the addition of figures from subcontractors, indicate that our envisaged program of erecting two new buildings at Regis College—a library and a science laboratory—will require a sum not less than one million, nine hundred thousand dollars, and not greater than”—Father Gorman consulted an outlying note—“two million one hundred thousand dollars.”
The Cardinal nodded approval. “The figures seem not unreasonable, Father Gorman.” (Good-by to lily-work dreamery a while, thought Glennon.) “And how do you propose to raise the money?”
Father Gorman took a header into another Ciceronian period. “Recognizing, as we do, that the public has become indifferent, if not calloused, to campaigns for large sums we—our committee, that is—nevertheless see no alternative to launching another drive, provisionally to be known as ‘A Greater Boston Fund for a Greater Regis College.’” Father Gorman took a breather. “With the aid of the Knights of Columbus and other Catholic organizations we propose to raise half the money in this manner.”
“And the other half?” asked Glennon.
Father Gorman dropped his translator’s manner. “Frankly, Your Eminence, we are counting upon your personal interest in the College for the rest of the money.”
Glennon frowned. “You are quite right, Father, in counting upon my personal interest in Regis College. It nourished my early studies, bent my youth toward the priesthood. More importantly, the college carries on the most essential of activities—Catholic education.” The Cardinal paused in the manner of a judge setting a respected barrister to rights on a point of law. “But these are not reasons for saddling the archdiocesan treasury with obligations of a million dollars. I think you must raise your campaign sights, Father. The college has many wealthy alumni. Reaching them is merely a matter of organization.”
The educator shook his head doubtfully. “It would be overoptimistic to expect our volunteer committees to raise more than a million, Your Eminence.”
“Then call in professionals. We must make use of all available means to raise at least four fifths of the money by popular subscription.” Glennon’s tone was absolute. “You may count on me for a balance not to exceed four hundred thousand.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” said David Gorman with an exhalation of mixed relief, gratitude, and obedience that Stephen could not transcribe into the minutes.
The Cardinal turned again to his Vicar-General. “What progress on the children’s wing of St. Joseph’s Hospital?”
“Slow but sure, Your Eminence.” The Vicar-General’s heartiness evaporated somewhat as he explained the “slow” part of the progress. “Looking back on it now,” he concluded, “I think we counted rather too heavily on local support.”
“What do you mean by ‘local support’?” asked Glennon. “You didn’t expect contributions from China, did you?”
“I should have said ‘nonsectarian support,’ Your Eminence. Since St. Joseph’s takes in patients of all creeds, we had hoped that a larger share of the money would be forthcoming from Protestant and Jewish sources.”
“The Protestants won’t give it, and the Jews take care of their own,” said Glennon. “But what about the South Boston rectors themselves? Why don’t they run bazaars, raffles? Sixty thousand is not an impossible sum to get from two prosperous parishes.”
Vicar-General Blake put a frank face on the matter. “The truth is, Your Eminence, a feud is boiling up between the two South Boston pastors. McConickey of the old Sacred Heart claims that Melanson at the new Star of the Sea is drawing people away in droves. …”
“Which is precisely the reason I put Melanson there,” barked His Eminence. “Tell McConickey for me that unless he simmers down and—and comes across—there’ll be a scrawling of transfer papers and much loud gnashing of dental plates in outer darkness. How much have they actually raised over there?”
“Twenty-five thousand, give or take a few hundred.”
“Build a fire under them, Tim. Get some steam up. Advise McConickey and Melanson that I’m giving them thirty days to collect the rest of the money.” Glennon consulted a small calendar at his elbow. “Tell them I’ll lay the cornerstone myself on April fifteenth.”
His Eminence was really administering now. In quick order he pulled the Cathedral Home for Foundlings out of the red by making a personal contribution of ten thousand dollars; displaced an incompetent supervisor of the Working Boys’ Institute; gave his permission to use photographs in The Monitor (quite a departure), and assigned Bishop Mulqueen to inspect the new convent of Poor Clares in West Newton. “Rake it from attic to cellar, Vincent; I want the whole story on the furnace, plumbing, and kitchen facilities. Piety isn’t enough; we’ve got to be sure that these nuns take care of their health.”
The agenda seemed clear when Chancellor Michael Speed lifted a document rolled up like a diploma. “Another petition from the Sons of Assisi,” he said.
“The old tune?” asked Glennon.
Chancellor Speed nodded. “With a couple of new verses. Pretty scurrilous.”
“Read it. No, never mind. I can give it to you backwards: ‘We, the undersigned Italian Americans known as the Sons of Assisi, hereby protest for the twenty-fifth’—or is it thirty-fifth?—‘time against the highhanded attitude of Lawrence Cardinal Glennon in refusing us permission to hear Mass on the premises of 25 Prince Street, a decent edifice purchased by the above-mentioned Sons of Assisi.’” The Cardinal’s diagonal mouth slipped into a wry grin. “Isn’t that the way it runs, Michael?”
“To the dotting of the i’s, Your Eminence. Except that they’ve added a couple of new threats about taking the matter directly to the Minister-General of the Franciscans.”
“Let them take it to the Holy Father himself,” snapped Glennon. “They’ll get no permission to hear or celebrate Mass at 25 Prince Street until they hand over the property—lock, stock, and warranty deed—to the Archdiocese of Boston.” His forefinger shot out in a directive to Stephen. “Write their president, that troublemaking malcontent, Bozzi; send him a stiff letter. Draw his attention to our previous correspondence and state that our position is unchanged.”
His Eminence circled the table with querying eyes. “Is there any further business?” No one spoke. The Cardinal got up, inclined his head; the members of the Congregation for Archdiocesan Affairs rose, bowed back. Stephen opened the door.
“No appointments for the next hour,” said the Cardinal. “I shall be in my chapel.”
In the arch-episcopal stall of his private chapel, Lawrence Glennon knelt gratefully. He was not praying; he was not meditating. The mere act of kneeling always soothed him, relieved the high blood pressure generated by executive tensions. Refreshed by ten minutes on his knees, he sank back into his cushioned stall, cinctured his large abdomen with plump hands, and gave himself up to sweet sedative thoughts of an American Chartres built on a commanding promontory (exact site unknown), with twin spires higher than Bunker Hill Monument.
Yesterday he had seen the tops of those spires quite clearly, but today a cloud of mist enwound the upper part of the structure—and somehow it seemed a little further off. Then too, other buildings had sprung up in front of it—a library, a hospital wing for children, a science laboratory, a convent heated by a modern furnace—buildings lower in stature but more pressingly needed by the Archdiocese.
The Cardinal picked up his crushed-morocco Douay Bible and turned to the Old Testament. He was looking for a certain passage in the Book of Kings, and when he found it, the words were strangely comforting.
And it came to pass … that Solomon began to build a house to the Lord.
And the house which King Solomon built to the Lord was threescore cubits in length, and twenty cubits in breadth, and thirty cubits in height.
And the house when it was in building, was built of stones hewed and made ready, that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house while it was in building.
So he built the house and finished it; and he covered the house with roofs of cedar.
And the word of the Lord came to Solomon saying:
This house, which thou buildest, if thou wilt walk in my statutes, and execute my judgments, and keep all my commandments, walking in them, I will fulfill my word to thee. …
In the quiet of the chapel, the promises of the Lord seemed very real to His Eminence. He nodded, dozed, dreamed of a temple with ceilings of beaten gold and lily-crowned columns of rich jasper. He snored a little, and was still snoring when Stephen woke him up an hour later.
DAILY, Stephen’s education went forward. As secretary to the Cardinal, he gained a knowledge permitted to few men: the inner workings of a great archdiocese, and the complex operations of Lawrence Glennon’s mind.
The Cardinal’s day began at seven-thirty with Mass in his private chapel, followed by a substantial breakfast of fruit, eggs, toast, marmalade, and coffee—during which His Eminence riffled through the Boston Globe and L’Osservatore Romano, the official Vatican newspaper. At nine, Stephen brought in the mail, already opened and sorted according to Glennon’s stated preference. Contributions, if any, came first; a check for five thousand dollars was a pleasant eye opener; anything larger meant a delightful day. Next came letters from personages lay or clerical. Stephen always tried to top this department with a laudatory puff from some senator or college president, felicitating His Eminence on a nice turn of phrase in a recent episcopal utterance (Glennon, a brilliant pulpit orator, was humanly fond of praise). Official correspondence with rectors and congregational heads came next in order. To some of these Glennon might dictate detailed replies; usually, however, he indicated the line to be taken and let Stephen frame the actual letter. The Cardinal’s rule was that every piece of mail must be acknowledged on the day of its arrival—a task that often kept Stephen and two typists at their desks till late in the evening.
Appointments and conferences began at ten A.M. and went on till four P.M., with a brief halt in mid-flight for a cup of bouillon, a cracker, and an apple. The dark-wainscoted antechamber was always full of pastors, architects, contractors, politicians, erring curates, and assorted favor-beggars. It was Stephen’s job to shuttle them tactfully in and out of the Tower Room or the study with the two pianos, depending on the Cardinal’s mood or the nature of the interview.
Stephen discovered that His Eminence kept three moods in fairly constant rotation. His prevailing tone was abrasive—gritty enough to flick a chunk of skin off an unlucky victim. In this mood, usually induced by high blood pressure, Glennon addressed Stephen as “Father Fermoyle,” and put a caustic edge on the title. (“Your thumbs are curiously prominent today, Father Fermoyle.”) The Cardinal’s second manner was impersonally executive: at such times he called Stephen “Father.” (“Search the archives, Father, for the records of that nineteen-ten Diocesan Synod.”) The third and deepest layer of Glennon’s temperament was fatherly affection, indicated by the use of Stephen’s first name. (“Get me a couple of tickets, Stephen, for the Kreisler concert next Monday. We’ll take a night off together.”) Sometimes His Eminence was jocular. (“Cast your eye over this menu, Stephen,” he would say. “Lowell of Harvard is dining with me tonight. Do you think that escargots à la marseillaise and filet of sole amandine will persuade the Prex that our custom of not eating meat on Friday has its advantages?”)
It was at dinner and afterwards that Glennon laid aside his official personality and emerged as the man of taste, lover of high company, and amateur of the arts. His Eminence had a gourmet’s palate that he gratified not too sparingly at his evening meal. Sometimes he dined alone at a long table gleaming with silver and napery. Two or three times a week he would invite dinner guests—a visiting governor or bishop, a novelist on a lecture tour of New England, the publisher of the Globe or Herald, a soloist appearing with the Boston Symphony—or just an assortment of old friends and clerical colleagues. After the pleasures of table and cellar, His Eminence would lead the way to his music room, where, with little or no encouragement, he would sit down at one of his Steinways and play Bach and Beethoven with the flair of a superb amateur.
Stephen’s notes, personal observations, and the carbons of his letters might have served as source material for a diocesan history of this period. Boston was expanding, and the volume of Glennon’s affairs was expanding with it. His huge building program was merely one aspect of the ecclesiastic province that he administered with viceregal fidelity to Rome. Yes, to Rome, for despite Glennon’s personal differences with the papal Secretary of State, he preserved a broad outlook on the Universal, Apostolic Roman Catholic Church ruled by the Sovereign Pontiff, Christ’s Vicar on earth. In conformity with the new Codex of Canon Law promulgated by Benedict XV, Glennon had established in Boston a complete Curia modeled on the Roman design. The Archdiocesan Chancery handled matters legal and disciplinarian; the Marriage Tribunal was a first-rate domestic court; the Bureau of Charities, the Auditing Division, and the Office for the Propagation of the Faith—though cut on the Roman pattern—were oriented to American needs and tempo. Only gradually did Stephen realize how vast, intricate, and efficient was the ecclesiastical machine that Glennon kept in motion.
Currently, the Cardinal was breaking up the big parishes around Boston. One after another, sleek suburban rectors were summoned into his presence to hear that a third or a half of their domains were to be shorn away from them and given to younger men. The shearing followed a pattern, tactful but firm. His Eminence, seated in the Tower Room with a map of the Diocese before him, would stretch out a hand to his visitor. “Sit down beside me here, Father Tom” (or John, or Bill), he would say cordially, “and have a look at this map.”
A bit of exposition was now in order. “These crosshatchings,” Glennon would explain, “show density of Catholic population. You can see for yourself, Tom, that your parish is solid black, which means a population upwards of three thousand per square mile.” The Cardinal would lay his pencil tip on the parish under discussion. “And along this eastern edge here, the Melfield section is building up very rapidly.”
Then the rector, who knew what was coming, might say: “Thus far, Your Eminence, we’ve had no trouble handling the increased population. Sure, the church is crowded on Sunday mornings, but what’s more cheerful than nice full pews and people standing in the back? If I could have an extra curate, and brighten up my basement church for the overflow, I’m sure we could accommodate everyone.”
“I’m sure you could, Tom—for a year or two. But have you heard that Henry Ford is putting up a new assembly plant right on the border of your parish? When that goes up, you’ll be overrun entirely. Now here’s what I’ve decided to do.” Pencil in hand, Glennon would indicate a dotted line. “I’ve taken the eastern quarter of your parish and the western half of St. Vincent’s, and combined them into the makings of a new pastorate. Beginning next month …”
For a few minutes Father Tom would be sullen, crestfallen, angry, or whatever else he dared be. But in the end it always came out on Glennon’s dotted line, and the pastor would walk out resigned to the partitioning of his parish. Sometimes he might even be grateful for relief from a burden becoming too heavy for his aging shoulders. Somerville, Newton, Lynn, and a dozen other overgrown parishes were divided in this way. Under the Cardinal’s scheme of reorganization, new churches were springing up all around Boston.
Among the yet undivided pastorates was the Medford domain of the Right Reverend Patrick Barley—the Immaculate Conception parish, an ecclesiastic barony, huge, old, and immoderately ripe for pruning. Glennon’s pencil had often skirmished along its eastern marches, making a sally here, a foray there, yet never quite daring to invade the baronial holdings of Pastor Barley. Rumor said that His Eminence stood a bit in awe of Pat—and rumor spoke with a half accent of truth. Pat Barley, the oldest pastor in the Diocese, was already a cast-iron fixture when Lawrence Glennon came to Boston as Bishop in 1905. Father Barley’s memory ran back to the days when the United States was a missionary country, and the powers of individual pastors were virtually unlimited. Stubborn in the face of change, the Right Reverend Patrick Barley had clung to those powers. When, for example, Glennon installed a uniform system of bookkeeping for the entire Diocese, Father Pat had openly rebelled. “I’ll keep my books the way I’ve always kept them—in the crown of my hat,” he announced. It took Glennon five years to persuade Barley that he should keep a set of ledgers and send in monthly financial reports like everyone else.
At eighty-two, Pat Barley was a grumpy old tyrant—a terror to curates and parishioners alike. Stephen knew him well. Father Barley had baptized him, and on many a frosty dawn Stephen had run all the way from Woodlawn Avenue to serve Father Barley at early-morning Mass—a service that had been an act more of fear than of love. Age had not softened the pastor; full of years and contending diseases—of which arthritis and a double cataract were the most crippling—he stood his ground against innovation and authority, defying anyone but death to budge him from his pastoral seat. Small wonder that Glennon hesitated to trim down the Barley holdings.
Yet trimmed they must be. In the past decade the Catholic population of Medford had nearly doubled; the Immaculate Conception Church was no longer big enough, nor was Pat Barley strong enough, to care for the needs of the Medford flock. New parish lines were imperative, and Stephen happened to be present on the day Glennon drew those lines.
The Cardinal and Chancellor Mike Speed were bending over a map like a pair of artillery officers when Stephen entered with the afternoon letters. Glennon’s pencil was tracing creatively. “With the Medford carbarns as a hub,” he said to his Chancellor, “we’ll describe a flat circle along Barley’s eastern boundary.” At the mention of “Medford carbarns” Stephen pricked up his ears. “Pat can keep the rich residential core of the old Immaculate Conception,” continued Glennon, “and we’ll give the poorer outlying sections to the new parish.” The Cardinal completed his dotted line. “What do you think of it, Mike?”
“I think Pat’ll bell like a beagle when he hears the news.”
“Let him. His belling and bawling have gone on long enough. The thing I’m worried about is finding a man capable of handling the new parish. Whoever goes in there will run smack up against the loyalties of old-timers—plenty of them—who were christened and married, shriven, yes, and shorn by Pat Barley. They’ll resent a newcomer, no matter who he is. And when they remember the money that old Pat Barley shook out of them (what a man he was with the collection box!), they won’t like the idea of digging down for a new church.”
Chancellor Speed grasped the complexity of the problem. Part of his strength with the Cardinal was his unwillingness to minimize difficulties. “We’re running low on first-class administrators, Your Eminence,” he warned. “I’ll begin combing the Archdiocese for the best we have.”
“Do so, Mike,” said Glennon thoughtfully, as Stephen left the Tower Room. “We won’t make a move until we find just the right man.”
FOR A YEAR NOW, shiploads of khaki-clad heroes had come straggling home from war. At first, civic committees greeted them with boutonnieres, oratory, and brass bands; fresh from the awful crossroads of the Chemin des Dames and the carnage of Belleau Wood, the homecomers were harangued as national saviors by many a fulsome tongue. But gradually the welcoming committees mislaid their boutonnieres and lost their tongues; the brass bands forgot to go down the harbor on tugboats, and by the spring of 1920, incoming transports were docking like any other cargo vessel. Rumpled and seasick, the debarkers told bitter tales of yearlong waits at Brest for westward passage across the Atlantic. Some of these tales got into the papers. Congress investigated, Pershing pleaded, and the Boston Globe ran a streamer, BRING OUR BOYS HOME. But the country was thinking about something else. America, like the rest of the world, was emerging into the common light of postwar day.
On a June morning in 1920, Stephen Fermoyle, coming out of the chancery office with his brief case full of documents for the Cardinal’s signature, saw the military figure of Paul Ireton ascending the steps. Still in his chaplain’s uniform, with a major’s oak leaf at his shoulder, Paul was grayer, older-looking than his forty-three years. The cleft in his blue-black chin seemed deeper, but the severity in his eyes lightened as he grasped Stephen’s hand.
“Why the delayed home-coming, Paul? Where’ve you been?”
“At Brest, where the paths of glory end in duckboards. A couple million Americans happened to be waiting there at the same time.” Paul’s voice lost color, like a phonograph record running down. “Some of them are still waiting.”
Stephen could make no comment on the tragedy of those waiting men. He hedged with the standard question: “Is the mud as bad as they say?”
“It isn’t the mud. It’s the idleness and desperation. No one can describe it, Steve. I won’t even try. All I want is a nice dry parish and work enough for three men. Say, where do I report for assignment around here?”
“I’ll show you.” They were at the very door of the Chancellor’s office when a brazen idea leaped fully armed into Stephen’s mind. “Could you postpone reporting for duty till this afternoon?” he asked.
“I guess the Diocese could struggle along without me till then. But what’s up?”
Stephen’s idea was generating arms, legs, and a wonderfully smiling countenance. “Don’t cross-examine me now, Major. But be at the Cardinal’s residence at two P.M. today. That’ll give me a couple of hours to get the big wheels turning.”
When Paul left him, Stephen darted into a room off the Chancellor’s office and walked down an alley of steel filing cabinets. He opened a file, ran his finger along an index until he came to the folder containing Paul Ireton’s record as a priest. Under a twenty-five-watt bulb Stephen studied the dossier. There it was, the whole story of Paul’s life and achievements, meticulously detailed, and very impressive.
“If Number One isn’t convinced by this, he’s no judge of dossiers,” murmured Stephen.
At two o’clock, with the antechamber full of suppliants—Paul among them—Stephen entered the Tower Room and plunged in medias res. “There’s a returned army chaplain, Major Paul Ireton, outside, Your Eminence.”
Glennon looked up skeptically. “What does he want?”
“He’s awaiting assignment to parish duties,” said Stephen, trying to remain impersonal. But the attempt failed, and the Cardinal’s secretary became a special pleader for his friend. “Paul Ireton is the best priest I know. He’s forty-three years old, was assistant pastor for ten years at St. Margaret’s, and has a brilliant record of overseas duty. …”
“What’s the drift of this unsolicited panegyric, Father Fermoyle?”
Stephen flushed. “I respectfully suggest to Your Eminence that Paul Ireton be assigned to one of the new parishes.”
Glennon’s sarcasm cut like a carborundum wheel. “Thanks for your suggestion, Father. And have you selected any particular spot for this priestly paragon?”
“Yes. The toughest, unlikeliest-to-succeed.”
“We’ve got plenty of those. Where’s his dossier?”
“I have it here.” Stephen spread the confidential record of the Reverend Paul Ireton on the table. The Cardinal’s suspicion that jobbery was afoot led him to examine the papers with more than usual care.
“Let’s see, now. Ah, yes. Paul Ambrose Ireton, ordained Brighton Seminary, nineteen-five. Tenth in a class of twenty-six. Hm—m, not precisely a prodigy. Curate four years at Wakefield. Moderate praise from pastor. Transferred to St. Margaret’s, nineteen-nine. Ha, let’s see what Dollar Bill says about him.” His Eminence pored over Monaghan’s letter. “Father Paul Ireton, a priest of unusual caliber … high spirituality … exceptional devotion to parish duties. Wholly dependable in financial and administrative matters … judgment conservative but sound … sorry to lose him.”
“Why did he go away to war?” asked Glennon suddenly.
“I think, Your Eminence, that Father Ireton should answer that question himself.”
“Bring him in.”
Introducing Paul Ireton to the Cardinal was one of the happiest offices that Stephen ever performed. He was proud of Paul’s unflustered genuflection and soldierly mien as Glennon dissected him with a surgeon’s eye.
“Sit down, Father Ireton,” Stephen heard Glennon say as he closed the oaken door.
Half an hour later Paul Ireton came out of the Tower Room, a pale smile quivering above his cleft chin. Seemingly he was without a tongue.
“Well?” Stephen shook him by the arm. “Well, what happened?”
Paul Ireton’s voice was that of a man recounting hallucinations. “He’s sending me to Medford.”
“To set up shop next to Pat Barley? What a location!”
Paul was still in a daze. “He says I’m to build a church there. … He’s given me a start financially.”
“He has! That’s most unusual, Paul. How much?”
Paul Ireton opened his hand. There in his palm lay a worn Liberty-head nickel. “Carfare to my new parish. Oh, Steve … it’s come true.” The muscles of Paul Ireton’s throat contracted as he gulped down a rising lump.
When His Eminence opened the door a moment later, his fine hazel eyes witnessed the extraordinary scene of two grown men, one in black, the other in khaki, pummeling each other joyfully about the head and shoulders. It occurred to His Eminence that jobbery had indeed been done, but on re-examining the papers in Paul Ireton’s folder he could not decide offhand who was jobbing whom.