And now it was to be claimed by an American.
John suffered from no racial prejudice, I would have you to believe; but there were some things that could be, and some things that could not be. And for Delancey Castle to be in any but English hands would be, to his way of thinking, a thing as incongruous and impossible as that a Chinese should don the kilt of the Highlander, or that a South Sea Islander should assume the Irish brogue. Oh, it was preposterous, preposterous, preposterous. It was altogether unthinkable and unimaginable.
And then suddenly he was aware of a difference in the old priest’s attitude. It was a tiny difference, a subtle and quite inexplicable difference, nevertheless it existed. And all at once John felt himself a bit of an intruder, looking at what he had no atom of right to see. Had he not feared that movement would make his presence known, he would have moved on the instant. As it was he became absorbed in pulling up small blades of grass from the ground. He pulled at them fiercely, his eyes fixed upon them, the while he was most intensely aware of that motionless old figure a hundred paces from him.
At length a sound—it might have been a half cough—caused him to raise his eyes again. He saw the old priest pulling a pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.
John watched him. The pipe filled, and the pouch replaced, Father Maloney still fumbled at his pockets. It would appear that something was missing.
“Matches!” said John. And cautiously he heaved himself to his feet. Softly he advanced some steps, came to a line directly behind the old priest, then marched boldly forward.
“Can I be of any use?” John held out a box towards him.
Father Maloney looked up surprised.
“I’m much obliged. Where did you appear from?”
“From over there.” John waved his hand in a backward and non-committal direction. “I saw you intended lighting your pipe, but your intentions were being frustrated.”