The Weird Picture

by John R. Carling

We had not occupied our position in the aisle above two minutes, when forth from the sacristy issued the train of the priests and their auxiliaries. Thurifers swinging slow their golden censers, and acolytes with lighted tapers, led the way to the chancel. Father Ignatius, his eyes fixed on the ground, came last, robed in a magnificent white cope, and bearing under a veil the sacred vessels, which he deposited on the altar.

"What is the matter?" remarked Daphne presently. "Why do they not begin?"

This question found an echo in my own mind. Though several minutes had elapsed since Ignatius had entered the sanctuary, he had not yet begun the prefatory rite of incensing the crucifix, but was conversing in whispers with his deacon, and their motions and glances, which were directed towards Angelo, seemed to intimate that the artist was the subject of their talk. It was with considerable surprise that we saw the deacon leave the sanctuary and, walking over to the spot where Angelo sat, still absorbed in his Missal, hold a brief but animated conversation with him. Presently he returned to the side of Father Ignatius. Whatever the object of this intercourse may have been, it had met with failure, to judge by the perplexed looks of the deacon.

The service commenced. The organ, touched by a master-hand, rolled with grand cadence through the cathedral, now swelling high and loud to the lofty arches above, now dying away with faint echoes in far-off aisles.

From the chancel issued voices so mysteriously beautiful as to suggest the idea of a hidden choir of angels. Daphne was deeply interested, and even my anti-ecclesiastical uncle condescended to remark that it was a "well-organised noise."

As for me, the character of the worship was such that at any other time it would have enthralled my senses and filled me with dreams of mediævalism; but on the present occasion curiosity to know the nature of the communication that had passed between Angelo and the deacon overcame every other feeling, and made me inattentive to the solemnity.

The tinkling bell of the acolyte sounded, and the assembly fell on their knees as Father Ignatius elevated the sacred host for the adoration of the faithful. The sun by this time had mounted high above the rooftops and was now gilding the chancel-window with its splendour: and from the holy dove figured at the apex of this casement, arrowy beams of mystic and many coloured light slanted full on the head of the aged priest, lighting up a countenance thin and ascetic, yet bearing in every lineament the lofty spirit and iron will of a Hildebrand.

The time had come for the people to receive the Mass. Among the first to advance and kneel reverently at the altar-rails was Angelo. My position prevented me from seeing his face. I could not help wondering whether his faith was sincere, and whether, in accordance with the spirit of the holy mystery, he was in charity with all mankind, even with me, his rival.

The administration of the sacrament was conducted by Father Ignatius accompanied by the deacon, who held the paten under his host as it was placed on the tongue of the receiver. The worthy padre commenced at the Epistle side of the altar. Angelo was the ninth in order from that end. We noticed with surprise that Ignatius, while giving the host to the first eight, never once looked at them, but kept his eyes all the time on Angelo with a fixed stony expression that gave no indication of his thoughts.

I waited with painful interest for the priest to confront Angelo, absurdly thinking there might be some secret between them, and that in addition to the ritual words Ignatius might whisper others not of sacred import. I was certainly not prepared for the result. As Angelo reverently elevated his face to receive the wafer between his lips, Ignatius, affecting not to notice the action, passed him by for the next communicant, and proceeded with the delivery.