Read Online Grandmother and the Priests by Taylor Caldwell - Free Book Online Page B

before his fire. A handsome young man, handsomely clad in English hunting costume: pink coat, smart britches, polished boots, and gloves. He had a long head, covered with smooth yellow hair, and a thoughtful, well-bred face. A whip lay across his knees, and he played with it with one hand. His hunting cap was beside him on the log.
     
    The priest blinked, thinking that with each blink the young man would disappear. But he became clearer, instead. I am not dreaming! thought the priest. But what is such a man doing here, in the secret wilds of Ireland, at midnight, smoking a pipe pleasantly, as if it were midday and he waiting for hunting companions? Oh, I am dreaming! My leg has made me delirious.
     
    The young man looked up, smiling pleasantly. “Good evening, or rather, it should be good morning, should it not, Father Harrington-Smith?”
     
    The priest’s pale mouth fell open in astonishment. Then he felt a sudden rise of hope. “Is your horse here?” he asked, forgetting his amazement. “I — I have hurt myself. I must go to the castle yonder, immediately.”
     
    “Yes, I know,” said the young man, meditatively. “That is why I am here.”
     
    “Your horse!”
     
    “I suppose,” said the young man, as if thinking about it, “that I could produce a horse. To take you back to your rectory. You are badly hurt, are you not?” he added in a solicitous tone.
     
    “What does that matter?” cried the priest, only half hearing him in his extremity. “I must go to the castle at once.”
     
    The young man sighed and shook his head. “I am sorry. I am also sorry, though you would not credit it, that I had to command the wheel to fall from that appalling cart. What a vehicle for an English gentleman! Please rest yourself. I am afraid you have torn an artery in your leg. I am sorry about that, too.”
     
    I am certainly mad, dreaming or delirious, thought the priest. Staring, he watched the young man rise, and saw his white and glinting smile in the light of a moon that appeared huge and caught in the very branches of the tangled trees. “Please rest yourself,” repeated the young man, in a warm tone of sympathy, and in the best of English accents. “Let us talk about the matter.”
     
    The priest clung to the tree near him, gasped, closed his eyes for a moment. He saw the redness of agony and exhaustion behind his lids. He opened his eyes to see that the young man was regarding him with gravity. The cold dark forest, the awful moon, swam about the priest as he struggled to keep his consciousness. “In God’s name,” he groaned, “help me. I have to reach the castle yonder. A young man — ”
     
    The stranger’s face still smiled, but it was a cold smile. “Michael Cunningham? Yes, I know. He is about to kill himself; hanging. A very disagreeable and unpleasant way to dispatch oneself. But after all, a man’s life is his own, is it not?”
     
    “No,” said the priest, faintly. “It belongs to God.” He struggled to keep himself upright. “Don’t you understand, whoever you are? If Michael kills himself, with full knowledge and the assent of his will and soul, he will be forever barred from the presence of God?”
     
    “Do you believe that?” asked the young man, indulgently. “Oh, yes, I had forgotten that you are a priest. My dear fellow! You are a gentleman, of family and culture. You are, in your way, a philosopher, and possess some logic. You are not really superstitious, are you, with all that nonsense about God’s eternal anger?”
     
    A sickness such as he had never known before struck the priest, for he thought, I am surely going to collapse. He put his hand on his stomach; he could feel the leaping of his heart. Then, very slowly, his hand dropped.
     
    “How did you know about Michael Cunningham?” he whispered.
     
    The stranger shrugged. “A shepherd came to you, did he not? Perhaps I talked with him, too.”
     
    “If you know him, you can let him die, in mortal