"What a nice surprise," said Paddy, walking his old roan beside his daughter's middle-aged mare.
"Yes, it is," she said. "Is it dry farther out?"
"A bit worse than this, I think. Lord, I've never seen so many kangas! It must be bone dry out Milparinka way. Martin King was talking of a big shoot, but I don't see how an army of machine guns could reduce the number of kangas by enough to see the difference."
He was so nice, so thoughtful and forgiving and loving; and it was rarely that she ever had the chance to be with him without at least one of the boys in attendance. Before she could change her mind, Meggie asked the doubting question, the one which gnawed and preyed in spite of all her internal reassurances.
"Daddy, why doesn't Father de Bricassart ever come to see us?" "He's busy, Meggie," Paddy answered, but his voice had become wary. "But even priests have holidays, don't they? He used to love Drogheda so, I'm sure he'd want to spend his holidays here.?-" "In one way priests have holidays, Meggie, but in another way they're never off duty. For instance, every day of their lives they have to say Mass, even if quite alone. I think Father de Bricassart is a very wise man, and knows that it's never possible to go back to a way of life that's gone. For him, wee Meggie, Drogheda's a bit of the past. If he came back, it wouldn't give him the same sort of pleasure it used to."
"You mean he's forgotten us," she said dully. "No, not really. If he had, he wouldn't write so often, or demand news about each of us." He turned in his saddle, his blue eyes pitying. "I think it's best that he doesn't ever come back, so I don't encourage him to think of it by inviting him."
"Daddy!"
Paddy plunged into muddy waters doggedly. "Look, Meggie, it's wrong for you to dream about a priest, and it's time you understood that. You've kept your secret pretty well, I don't think anyone else knows how you feel about him, but it's to me your questions come, isn't it? Not many, but enough. Now take it from me, you've got to stop, hear it? Father de Bricassart took holy vows I know he has absolutely no intention of breaking, and you've mistaken his fondness for you. He was a grown man when he met you, and you were a little girl. Well, that's how he thinks of you, Meggie, to this very day."
She didn't answer, nor did her face change. Yes, he thought, she's Fee's daughter, all right.
After a while she said tautly, "But he could stop being a priest. It's just that I haven't had a chance to talk to him about it."
The shock on Paddy's face was too genuine not to believe it, so Meggie found it more convincing than his words, vehement though they were. "Meggie! Oh, good God, that's the worst of this bush existence! You ought to be in school, my girl, and if Auntie Mary had died sooner I would have packed you off to Sydney in time to get at least a couple of years under your belt. But you're too old, aren't you? I wouldn't have them laugh at you at your age, poor wee Meggie." He continued more gently, spacing his words to give them a sharp, lucid cruelty, though it was not his intention to be cruel, only to dispel illusions once and for all. "Father de Bricassart is a priest, Meggie. He can never, never stop being a priest, understand that. The vows he took are sacred, too solemn to break. Once a man is a priest there can be no turning away, and his supervisors in the seminary make absolutely sure that he knows what he's swearing before he does. A man who takes those vows knows beyond any doubt that once taken they can't be broken, ever. Father de Bricassart took them, and he'll never break them." He sighed. "Now you know, Meggie, don't you? From this moment you have no excuse to daydream about Father de Bricassart."
They had come in from the front of the homestead, so the stables were closer than the stockyards; without a word, Meggie turned the chestnut mare toward the stables, and left her father to continue alone. For a while he kept turning around to look after her, but when she had disappeared inside the fence around the stables he dug his roan in the ribs and finished his ride at a canter, hating himself and the necessity of saying what he had. Damn the man-woman thing! It seemed to have a set of rules at variance with all others.
Father Ralph de Bricassart's voice was very cold, yet it was warmer than his eyes, which never veered from the young priest's pallid face as he spoke his stiff, measured words.
"You have not conducted yourself as Our Lord Jesus Christ demands His priests conduct themselves. I think you know it better than we who censure you could ever know it, but I must still censure you on behalf of your Archbishop, who stands to you not only as a fellow priest but as your superior. You owe him perfect obedience, and it is not your place to argue with his sentiments or his decisions.
"Do you really understand the disgrace you've brought on yourself, on your parish, and especially on the Church you purport to love more than any human being? Your vow of cha/y was as solemn and binding as your other vows, and to break it is to sin grievously. You will never see the woman again, of course, but it behooves us to assist you in your struggles to overcome temptation. Therefore we have arranged that you leave immediately for duty in the parish of Darwin, in the Northern Territory. You will proceed to Brisbane tonight on the express train, and from there you will proceed, again by train, to Longreach. In Longreach you will board a QANTAS plane for Darwin. Your belongings are being packed at this moment and will be on the express before it departs, so there is no need for you to return to your present parish.