Grandmother and the Priests

  Conscience money? An effort at atonement? Father Shayne found, in those first two or three drowsy, sunlit, bee-humming weeks, that he was giving tremendous thought to the whole matter, quite out of proportion. He excused himself by recalling that the Bishop was deeply concerned.

  Should he go to that distant house on a friendly call? After all, the Goulds were his parishioners. He would have an excuse. But something made him hesitate.

  They were surely off on holiday! Father Shayne ate his breakfasts of strawberries with thick cream, nicely prepared oatmeal and kippers and eggs and good tea, and ruminated. Sometimes he would wander casually, just strolling, in the direction of the house. He saw no one but gardeners, no one playing under the oak trees, no flutter of girls’ bright summer dresses, no wandering of Mrs. Gould, no sign of the squire. The glistening green lawns were empty, the bright windows blank. Yes, they must be away. Or, remembering Old Tom, of whom Father Shayne was not thinking too kindly now, they were keeping away from the church. This, of course, was not only a great sin, but was dangerous for the Gould children.

  Father Shayne went to see the Sister Superior, a majestic old lady whose very presence intimidated him. He said, “Sister, I have records of a Gould family here, and their deep love for St. George’s. Yet, I don’t recall — are they away?”

  She gave him a long, slow look, penetrating and thoughtful. Then she said briskly, “I think not. I’ve seen young Geoffrey and Elsa and Eric every Sunday at the ten o’clock Mass.”

  “Oh?”

  “And little Alice, with her nurse.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mrs. Gould is not Catholic. A lovely lady.”

  “Oh?”

  She smiled at him tightly. “Mr. Gould was deeply hurt by Father Thomas McGinnis. Of course, that should not keep him from his religious duties. But one can understand.”

  “One can’t understand not attending Sunday Mass,” said Father Shayne, sternly. Sister gave him an even grimmer smile. “After all, it is his duty, and a sin to be absent.”

  “One,” said Sister, in his own tone, which made him flush, “can be afraid of Scenes, Father. I declare that it is quite sinful of Father McGinnis, and I told him so.”

  “Scenes?”

  “It is not my affair, Father. There was some trouble between Father and Mr. Gould. I am not a busybody.”

  Rebuked, and feeling ten years old and with a distinct sensation that the Sister Superior had whacked him with a ruler for his impertinence, Father Shayne went back to his study, fuming. The old lady was definitely on Squire Gould’s side, even though she understood, clearly, that he was committing a grave sin by absenting himself from Mass. But then, it was possible that Old Tom had actually forbidden him to come, a grave sin in itself. The Church receives sinners with tender warmth, not ravings. She asks only repentance and penance. Old Tom, then, not hearing of repentance and penance for what he believed mortal sins, had been outraged. It was a very untidy business, indeed, and very wrong of the Sister Superior to take sides with Squire Gould when she did not know the circumstances. Father Shayne wanted to call her and chide her, but he shrank from the thought. He was still smarting.

  Father Shayne went for a walk through the village, admiring, as always, its smart little shops, its good buildings, its charming houses — even the poorer ones — all aglow with summer flowers, its clean and winding streets, its air of contentment under the summer sun. A pastoral, he thought. He was bored to death. He would be glad when the absent ones returned, though it would mean rainy autumn and winter.

  How had Old Tom gotten the story from Squire Gould? Had it been in the Confessional his lips would have been sealed. He must have heard it confidentially, without the seal of the Confessional. If Squire Gould was at home, he was afraid to come to the rectory for more Scenes, for doubtless he knew that Old Tom had confided in the Bishop, and the Bishop in the new priest.

  Father Shayne went to Windsor Castle on a fine day. Trippers were down from London. He stood, yawning, in the long line. He thought Windsor Castle extremely dull, too. The Queen was in residence, of course; she hated Buckingham Palace. Her standard flew from a gray tower. The only exciting things there were the Grenadier Guards, with their bearskin hats and red uniforms and ostentatiously stamping feet. He looked at the vast gardens, the view over the wall. Lovely. But the priest was restless. The Bishop would be waiting for at least the first letter, and there was nothing to write. But — prudence, prudence. And, of course, discretion. Silly things, really, when a man’s soul was at stake. When the Church had not been so prudent, she had gone, like her Lord, to look for the lost sheep in the most perilous places, and had brought them tenderly home. And ‘prudence’ and ‘discretion’ be hanged! Possibly more civilizations had fallen to the barbarians through a policy of prudence and compromise and gentility than anything else. Diplomacy was truly Satan’s most effective gift to governments.

  Father Shayne, with some hot thoughts, bicycled back to the village. When he went into the rectory his housekeeper told him, with a meaning glance, that he had visitors in his study. At once, the priest had a sudden high hope, but it was squelched when he found three children awaiting him. But, as he loved children, he greeted them affectionately, and sat down near them, smiling.

  The children consisted of a boy about fifteen, a girl probably nearly fourteen, and a boy child about ten. The older boy, in a controlled voice, introduced himself as Geoffrey Gould, the girl as his sister, Elsa, and the younger boy as his brother, Eric. Father Shayne sat up, alertly, and his thin and intelligent face flushed with new hope and interest. He said, “I think I overlooked you at Mass — at Confession — ”

  “We were at Mass,” said Geoffrey, gravely. He was a tall dark youth, very thin and obviously very intense, for his fine olive-tinted features were mobile and expressive. His black and curly hair fell over his forehead, a little girlishly, the priest thought, or a little Byronically. But he was obviously aristocratic, and his manners were perfect. The priest glanced at Elsa, a lovely child, with a mass of smooth golden hair, a still and saintly face, and remarkably beautiful blue eyes. Her mouth, however, was in a continual tremor which she pathetically tried to suppress.

  The younger boy, Eric, immediately caught the priest’s alarmed attention. He sat politely enough on his chair, but he was in constant motion, frail though it was and controlled. A perpetual trembling kept his muscles in almost imperceptible rippling; his fair eyebrows, over his very wide dark eyes, jerked up and down; his silky brown hair kept dropping over his white forehead; his mouth quivered; his nose twitched; his hands jerked noticeably; his feet had a little jumping movement. When he smiled at the priest, his timid mouth actually lurched sideways.

  All the children were abnormally thin, though otherwise they appeared healthy enough and were dressed expensively.

  “I’d like to speak to you alone, Father,” said Geoffrey. Immediately his sister and brother got to their feet. Then the priest noticed another thing; the girl, Elsa, leaned to one side and he saw, as she stepped back, that she had a limp. Not a pronounced one, but one quite bad enough, for her left leg was shorter than her right.

  “Certainly, Geoffrey,” said Father Shayne. “Your sister and brother may wait in the parlor.” He went to the door and opened it, Elsa came first, limping, her pretty mouth tremulous; Eric followed, all jerks and movement. Had the poor child suffered from St. Vitus Dance? Elsa curtseyed as she passed the priest; the little boy bowed. Dear children! For some reason the priest’s throat knotted tightly, as he followed the boy and girl with sad eyes. He closed the door then and returned to Geoffrey. The boy was leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped tightly between his knees, and he studied the priest with a passionate intensity.

  “It’s about my father, and my mother,” he began at once. “I tried to talk with Father McGinnis about them, but he immediately stopped me. He spoke of the Commandment to honor our parents. So, he never heard what I wanted to tell him. Father, do you think one s
hould suppress the truth because of that Commandment? If you think so, then we won’t bother you any longer. We will leave immediately.” He moved forward on his chair, and his dark eyes were watchful and resolute.

  “Will your truth be revealing the sins of others?” Father Shayne asked.

  “Yes. But something is more important: my father’s soul and peace of mind, and his return to the Sacraments.” The boy’s voice was strong and uncompromising. “If you refuse to listen, then we must go. We,” and he hesitated, “have been approached very kindly by Vicar Martin, who believes that Father McGinnis behaved abominably to my father, as he did.”

  Vicar Martin was the rector of the local Anglo-Catholic church. He was a splendid and erudite gentleman in his middle age, and Father Shayne had chatted with him often. If such a man had come mercifully to that family, while they had been rejected by their own, then Old Tom had indeed ‘behaved abominably’.

  “Does Vicar Martin know what you wish to tell me, Geoffrey?”

  “Yes. I told him, myself. Father Shayne, we don’t want to leave the Church; we’d never be happy again. But we’ve been driven out, or, rather, Papa has, and where Papa goes, we’ll go, too.”

  Now here was a dismaying problem. It could not be defined in such sharp terms as good or evil. Father Shayne was agitated. After a little thought he said, “Tell me, Geoffrey. And I know you wish this to be confidential. I want to help you. Frankly, your family has worried me. If I think you are about to commit a sin — ” He stopped, for Geoffrey’s face had changed, become a little cold and distant. Then the boy smiled. “If I sin, I will confess, and will ask you for absolution, Father.”

  There was an atmosphere about the boy as of despair, and this was piteous at his age. Abruptly, he lifted the thick hair from his forehead. Across the dark fine skin a long deep scar ran. Geoffrey let the priest look at it for a moment, then he dropped his curls over it. “My mother did that to me,” he said, without emotion. “When I was seven years old. You’ve noticed Elsa’s limp. My mother did that; she threw her down the stairs and broke her leg in several places. You’ve seen Eric; she beat his head against the floor until he was unconscious; he was two, then, and he almost died. He has a brain injury. My mother did that to us.”

  He looked at the horrified priest, who had turned very pale. “Have I committed a sin against that Commandment, Father?” he asked, and his voice was the voice of a man.

  Father Shayne paused. His heart was beating with outrage at these evidences of cruelty. Finally he could say, “Let me judge a little later, Geoffrey. Continue.” Who had done these things? The stepmother? Or the real mother? It could not possibly be the latter!

  “Your father!” exclaimed the priest. “Surely he knows what your stepmother has done to his children! Why did he permit these horrible things? There are the police — ” Old Tom had been right, after all. The stepmother was evil; if she could do things like this to helpless children, then she could commit murder without the slightest compunction.

  The boy studied the priest. Then his mouth twisted slowly, bitterly.

  “I said, Father, my mother. Not my stepmother; we call her Mama Florence, and we love her, for she is good and kind to us, and loves us. You see, I’m the oldest. Papa thinks we were too young to remember, and so to help him I’ve pretended not to have known. Elsa and Eric don’t remember. At least, I don’t think so. We never talk about it.”

  “Your mother,” said the priest. He was stupefied. Then he thought: The poor woman must have been insane.

  “My mother could deceive anyone, except Papa and me,” said Geoffrey. “She even had our priest believing that she was saintly. She had the most cruel face, and it was mostly laughing. She hated Papa. She hated us.”

  “Why, Geoffrey?” Father Shayne could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  “I don’t really know, Father. But I’m not a child. I know there are wicked people in the world, who love to do cruel and malicious things, and lie and slander and libel for the very pleasure of it.”

  It was dreadful knowledge for a youth to have, thought the priest.

  “They aren’t mad,” said the youth. “They are just evil. Some of my teachers in school in London, good schoolmasters who never knew a wicked person when they saw one — they’re so wrapped up in their teaching and soccer and cricket, such simple people! — believe that bad people are either mad or the world has been so harsh to them that they are only retaliating. It isn’t true, Father. I’ve met some lads in my own forms who were evil just for evil’s sake. Doesn’t St. Paul speak of these people? You believe in absolute evil, don’t you, Father?”

  The priest started. The old problem of evil. He fell back on his doctrinal training. “Certainly, Geoffrey, I know that a great many people in this world are purely evil, and love evil, and do evil, and prosper in their evil. The Holy Bible speaks of them often. They aren’t mad, or hurt. They are simply of the tribe of Satan.”

  The boy sighed. “Thank you, Father. My mother wasn’t mad, and she had no grudge against the world. She thought Papa was a fool because he was kind and charitable and would not listen to her vicious lies against their friends, and her lies about her children. She used to accuse me of the vilest things, and Elsa, too, and we were then only eight and seven, and Eric was only two. Once I found some money under my pillow, quite a lot of it. I was seven years old then. I had just lost a tooth, and I wanted to put it under my pillow,” and he smiled shyly at that childish superstition. “And I found the money there and took it down to Papa, who had put it there anyway. And my mother screamed that I had stolen it, and that she had missed it only that afternoon! Papa brought me back to bed, and he said to me, ‘Your mother was only joking, of course, Geoffrey. Think nothing of it.’ But,” said Geoffrey, “I thought of it. It was only one of many such in our house.”

  The priest was silent. The boy went on.

  “My mother despised Papa. He was rich, but she wanted much more. When she was in the wrong he opposed her. And so she made us children suffer, for she knew how Papa loved us. I know a boy at school who has a mater just like her, and he won’t go home for the holidays. He visits relatives near Bournemouth. When Papa would do something for our church she would flare up and throw things about, such as Papa’s collection of Meissen china. She did so love to destroy his treasures! But he always gave to the Church in both their names and then the priests would come to thank them and Mama was so gracious and smiled so prettily. She was very pretty; she looked like Elsa, and people — how very stupid people can believed her because she was so pretty. She was very charming, too, to her friends and the clergy, and even to the servants. You see, she almost always managed to go on her rampages when the servants were off, or on holiday, and the family was alone. So no one knew, except us. Or, perhaps, old Bailiff, our butler in Belfast. He wasn’t a bailiff, of course, but he was so strict and straight that we called him that. I don’t think Mama ever deceived Bailiff. He hated her. But at the trial, for our sakes, he said nothing.”

  The priest, the product of intensive training, had been listening and watching closely, and he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Geoffrey had been telling him the truth. His horror increased.

  “You knew about the trial, Geoffrey? You see, I do know something about this, myself.”

  The boy stood up and began to pace the room in extreme agitation. “Of course I knew! Everyone tried to keep it from us, but I knew. They hid the newspapers, and I found them. Papa wasn’t on holiday, as he had tried to tell me before the police took him; he was in gaol. Mama Florence — she was staying with us then — pretended that everything was so nice and serene, and I let her believe what she wanted us to believe. It was the least I could do for her.”

  “And you were only eight years old.”

  The boy gestured impatiently. “I don’t know why people think boys of eight are utter idiots! Or infants. We know a great deal more then than we’ll ever know again, about people.” He paused. “I don’t think
Papa murdered my mother. But, if he did, I’m glad!” He clenched his fists, and his young face was distorted for a moment. “I’m glad! I’m glad she’s dead! She might have killed one of us, if she hadn’t died. No,” he added after another pause, “she’d always stop short of murder. She was very cunning; she did what she did to us all in private, and carefully, and she knew that Papa would never expose her. For our sake! That was foolish of Papa. He should have taken us away, before it all happened to us. That’s the thing I can’t forgive — that he didn’t leave my mother. But he explained to me, when I was a child, that even the worst of mothers are better than none. I don’t believe it, Father, I don’t believe it! And then after Eric was born, Papa said to me, You see, Geoffrey, that your mother wasn’t responsible. She is so ill, and must have been ill for a long time.’ I didn’t believe that, either. She would fly into such awful rages, and scream and shout, when we were all alone, and threaten, and I think all that wicked anger hurt her heart.”