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Authors: Owen Parry, Ralph Peters
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stay in the kitchen, for your sake. But she is not my daughter.”
“Well, a daughter never harmed a house.”
“That is a lie,” Mary said. “And she is not my daughter.”
“Well, we will see.”
She looked into my eyes. With those Welsh-green eyes of hers from up the valleys. So serious she was, and lovely as Heaven’s Grace.
“Wickedness,” she said. “Most men come to ruin through their wickedness. But not you. The greatest danger in your life is your goodness. Don’t you see that?”
I tutted her and held her, and stroked her back, which pained my Mary at times.
“Goodness is never a danger,” I told her.
“Yes, it is,” she muttered into my coat.
FOUR
“NO, IT’S NOT,” FATHER WILDE INSISTED. “IT ISN’T THAT simple at all.”
He turned his back on his bookcases and stepped toward me again. His elegance of manner was as out of place in a mining patch as a holy Hindoo monkey would have been. A lock of white hair—of utterly white hair—fell onto the youthful skin of his forehead. I hardly thought him a man of thirty years. Even his black cassock could not age him. And the curiosity of his hair only made him more striking.
“You cannot simply impose the law on these people,” he continued. “They must be made to understand its purpose. We must all of us educate them, Major Jones. It is our obligation.”
As he passed a table, he brushed a tobacco-keeper with the back of his hand, then passed his fingertips over a fancy decanter, the contents of which did not pretend to innocence. His fingers were long and delicate, almost a woman’s, and I judged him the sort of fellow who likes to touch the world, who yearns to feel the character of things, but whose intelligence warns him off. The sort of man whose strictness is particular, not uniform. Whose duty is a refuge, not a vocation. I have known such in the army, see, and recognize the signs. I will even allow that, to some measure, I am speaking of myself.
“You must endeavor to understand them,” he went on. “The Irish have experienced the law only as an instrument of oppression, not of protection.” He paused in his lecture, settling hisfingertips upon the spine of a book spread pages down. “Indeed, can we claim it to be otherwise, even here? In America? Really, you know, these people must be won for the law. First, they must see evidence of its benefits.”
“First,” I said, “they must learn not to murder.”
His eyes flashed for a moment, as if confronted with a servant’s insolence. But his tone remained almost blithe, more Sussex than Sligo. If Irish, Father Wilde’s family was of the very best. If English, they were not the worst in the county.
“I shall agree with you that they must learn, although I do not share your confidence that they have murdered.” The smile he gave me was a practiced thing. Perhaps it was a smile they teach to priests. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of St. Kiaran, Major Jones? Or St. Kyran? Or Ciaran, with a C? Who watches over our fine, new church? He rose from the working classes of his day to found the monastery of Clon-macnoise, where learning was valued and preserved among the Irish. I should like to imbue that spirit into my parishioners. For learn they must. If ever they are to advance.”
He smoothed the cloth of a chair back. “But these are hardly matters of concern to you. No more than the Irish themselves would concern you, had you no interest in criminal affairs. So I shall confine myself to your interests and lay mine aside: If you persist in opening that grave, I cannot answer for any disturbances. The villagers are frightfully upset over the grave-robbing two nights ago. And, of course, there is concern for infection.”
“Father Wilde, if you look out your front window, I believe you will see my men about their work. The grave will be opened. As I have told you. You have seen the papers yourself.”
“Then I must forbid you to open Daniel Boland’s grave.
“Well, a daughter never harmed a house.”
“That is a lie,” Mary said. “And she is not my daughter.”
“Well, we will see.”
She looked into my eyes. With those Welsh-green eyes of hers from up the valleys. So serious she was, and lovely as Heaven’s Grace.
“Wickedness,” she said. “Most men come to ruin through their wickedness. But not you. The greatest danger in your life is your goodness. Don’t you see that?”
I tutted her and held her, and stroked her back, which pained my Mary at times.
“Goodness is never a danger,” I told her.
“Yes, it is,” she muttered into my coat.
FOUR
“NO, IT’S NOT,” FATHER WILDE INSISTED. “IT ISN’T THAT simple at all.”
He turned his back on his bookcases and stepped toward me again. His elegance of manner was as out of place in a mining patch as a holy Hindoo monkey would have been. A lock of white hair—of utterly white hair—fell onto the youthful skin of his forehead. I hardly thought him a man of thirty years. Even his black cassock could not age him. And the curiosity of his hair only made him more striking.
“You cannot simply impose the law on these people,” he continued. “They must be made to understand its purpose. We must all of us educate them, Major Jones. It is our obligation.”
As he passed a table, he brushed a tobacco-keeper with the back of his hand, then passed his fingertips over a fancy decanter, the contents of which did not pretend to innocence. His fingers were long and delicate, almost a woman’s, and I judged him the sort of fellow who likes to touch the world, who yearns to feel the character of things, but whose intelligence warns him off. The sort of man whose strictness is particular, not uniform. Whose duty is a refuge, not a vocation. I have known such in the army, see, and recognize the signs. I will even allow that, to some measure, I am speaking of myself.
“You must endeavor to understand them,” he went on. “The Irish have experienced the law only as an instrument of oppression, not of protection.” He paused in his lecture, settling hisfingertips upon the spine of a book spread pages down. “Indeed, can we claim it to be otherwise, even here? In America? Really, you know, these people must be won for the law. First, they must see evidence of its benefits.”
“First,” I said, “they must learn not to murder.”
His eyes flashed for a moment, as if confronted with a servant’s insolence. But his tone remained almost blithe, more Sussex than Sligo. If Irish, Father Wilde’s family was of the very best. If English, they were not the worst in the county.
“I shall agree with you that they must learn, although I do not share your confidence that they have murdered.” The smile he gave me was a practiced thing. Perhaps it was a smile they teach to priests. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of St. Kiaran, Major Jones? Or St. Kyran? Or Ciaran, with a C? Who watches over our fine, new church? He rose from the working classes of his day to found the monastery of Clon-macnoise, where learning was valued and preserved among the Irish. I should like to imbue that spirit into my parishioners. For learn they must. If ever they are to advance.”
He smoothed the cloth of a chair back. “But these are hardly matters of concern to you. No more than the Irish themselves would concern you, had you no interest in criminal affairs. So I shall confine myself to your interests and lay mine aside: If you persist in opening that grave, I cannot answer for any disturbances. The villagers are frightfully upset over the grave-robbing two nights ago. And, of course, there is concern for infection.”
“Father Wilde, if you look out your front window, I believe you will see my men about their work. The grave will be opened. As I have told you. You have seen the papers yourself.”
“Then I must forbid you to open Daniel Boland’s grave.
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