"High office is closed to Catholics in this country."
"Here I run up against the mysterious again," he complained.
"Go down into your memory," Monsignor said after a little reflection, "and recall the first feeling which obscurely stirred your heart when the ideas of Irish and Catholic were presented to you. See if it was not distrust, dislike, irritation, or even hate; something different from the feeling aroused by such ideas as Turk and atheist."
"Dislike, irritation, perhaps contempt, with a hint of amusement," Arthur replied thoughtfully.
"How came that feeling there touching people of whom you knew next to nothing?"
"Another mystery."
"Let me tell you. Hatred and contempt of the Irish Catholic has been the mark of English history for four centuries, and the same feelings have become a part of English character. It is in the English blood, and therefore it is in yours. It keeps such men as Sullivan and Birmingham out of high office, and now it will act against you, strangely enough."
"I understand. Queer things, rum things in this world. I am such a mystery to myself, however, that I ought not be surprised at outside mysteries."
"I often regret that I helped you to your present enterprise," said the priest, "on that very account. Life is harsh enough without adding to its harshness."
"Never regret that you saved a poor fellow's life, reason, fortune, family name from shame and blood," Arthur answered hotly. "I told you the consequences that were coming—you averted them—there's no use to talk of gratitude—and through you I came to believe in God again, as my mother taught me. No regret, for God's sake."