The Keys of the Kingdom

by A. J. Cronin

  The eyes of the two priests met. Father Kezer’s fell first.

  II

  One Friday towards the end of Lent, in the dining room of St Dominic’s Presbytery, Francis and Father Slukas were already seated at the meagre midday repast of boiled stockfish and butterless brown toast served on Victorian silver and fine blue Worcester china, when Father Mealey returned from an early sick call. From the suppression of his manner, his indifferent mode of helping himself, Francis was immediately aware that Anselm had something on his mind. Dean Fitzgerald dined upstairs at this season of the Church and the three junior priests were alone. But Father Mealey, munching without taste, a faint colour beneath his skin, kept silence till the end of the meal. Only when the Lithuanian had brushed the crumbs from his beard, risen, bowed, and departed, did his tension relax. He drew a long pressing breath.

  ‘Francis! I want you to come with me this afternoon. You’ve no engagements?’

  ‘No … I’m free till four o’clock.’

  ‘Then you must come. I’d like you as my friend, as my fellow priest, to be the first …’ He broke off, would say no more to lift the heavy mystery of his words.

  For two years Francis had been the second curate at St Dominic’s, where Gerald Fitzgerald, now Dean Fitzgerald, still remained, with Anselm his senior assistant and Slukas, the Lithuanian Father, a necessary encumbrance on account of the many Polish immigrants who kept crowding into Tynecastle.

  The change from the backwoods of Shalesley to this familiar city parish where the services went like clockwork and the church was elegantly perfect had left a curious mark on Francis. He was happy to be near Aunt Polly, to maintain an eye on Ned and Judy, to see the Tullochs, Willie and his sister, once or twice a week. He had a queer consolation, a sense of indefinable support, in the recent elevation of Monsignor MacNabb from San Morales to be Bishop of the diocese. Yet his new air of maturity, the lines about his steady eyes, the spareness of his frame, gave silent indications that the transition had not been easy.

  Dean Fitzgerald, refined and fastidious, priding himself on being a gentleman, stood at the opposite pole from Father Kezer. Yet, though he strove to be impartial, the Dean was not without a certain lofty prejudice. While he warmly approved Anselm – now his prime favourite – and blankly ignored Father Slukas, – whose broken English and table habits, a napkin tucked beneath the beard at every meal, coupled with a strange predilection for wearing a derby hat with his soutane placed him far beyond the pale, – towards his other curate he had a strange wariness. Francis soon realized that his humble birth, his association with the Union Tavern, with, indeed, the whole stark Bannon tragedy, must prove a handicap he could not lightly overcome.

  And he had made such a bad beginning! Tired of the shop-worn platitudes, the same old parrot sermons that came, almost by rote, on the appointed Sundays of the year, Francis had ventured, soon after his arrival, to preach a simple homily, fresh and original, his own thoughts, on the subject of personal integrity. Alas, Dean Fitzgerald had cuttingly condemned the dangerous innovation. Next Sunday, at his behest, Anselm had mounted the pulpit and given forth the antidote: a magnificent peroration on The Star of the Sea, in which harts panted for the water and barques came safe across the bar; ending dramatically with arms outstretched, a handsome suppliant for Love, on the admonition ‘ Come!’ All the women of the congregation were in tears, and afterwards, as Anselm ate a hearty breakfast of mutton chops, the Dean pointedly congratulated him. ‘That! – Father Mealey – was eloquent. I heard our late Bishop deliver practically the same sermon twenty years ago.’

  Perhaps these opposite orations set their courses: as the months passed Francis could not but dejectedly compare his own indifferent showing with Anslem’s remarkable success. Father Mealey was a figure in the parish, always cheerful, even gay, with a ready laugh and a comforting pat on the back for anyone in trouble. He worked hard and with great earnestness, carrying a little book full of his engagements in his waistcoat pocket, never refusing an invitation to address a meeting or make an after-dinner speech. He edited the St Dominic’s Gazette: a newsy and often humorous little sheet. He went out a good deal and, though no one could call him a snob, took tea at all the best houses. Whenever an eminent cleric came to preach in the city, Anselm was sure to meet him and to sit admiringly at his feet. Later he would send a letter, beautifully composed, expressing ardently the spiritual benefit he had derived from the encounter. He had made many influential friends through this sincerity.

  Naturally there were limits to his capacity for work. While he vigorously assumed the post of secretary to the new Diocesan Foreign Missionary Centre in Tynecastle – a cherished project of the Bishop – and worked unremittingly to please His Grace he had been obliged reluctantly to decline, and depute to Francis, the management of the Working Boy’s Club in Shand Street.

  The property round Shand Street was the worst in the city, tall tenements and lodging houses, a network of slums, and this, properly enough, had come to be regarded as Francis’ district. Here, though his results seemed trivial and meaningless, he found plenty to do. He had to train himself to look destitution in the eye, to view without shrinking the sorrow and the shame of life, the eternal irony of poverty. It was not a communion of saints that grew about him but a communion of sinners, rousing such pity in him it brought him sometimes to the brink of tears.

  ‘Don’t say you’re taking forty winks,’ said Anselm reproachfully.

  Almost with a start Francis came out of his reverie to find Father Mealey, waiting on him, hat and stick in hand, beside the lunch table. He smiled and rose in acquiescence.

  Outside, the afternoon was fresh and fine, with a rousing, bustling breeze, and Anselm strode along with a brisk swing, clean, honest and healthy, greeting his parishioners bluffly. His popularity at St Dominic’s had not spoiled him. To his many admirers his most engaging characteristic was the way in which he deprecated his achievements.

  Soon Francis saw that they were making for the new suburb recently added to the parish. Beyond the city boundary, a housing development was in progress, on the parklands of an old country property. Workmen were moving with hods and barrows. Francis subconsciously noted a big white board: Hollis Estate, Apply Malcom Glennie, Solicitor. But Anselm was pushing on, over the hill, past some green fields, then down a wooded pathway to the left. It was a pleasant rural stretch to be so near the chimney-pots.

  Suddenly Father Mealey halted, with the still excitement of a pointing hound.

  ‘You know where we are, Francis? You’ve heard of this place?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Francis had often passed it: a little hollow of lichened rocks, screened with yellow broom and enclosed by an oval copse of copper beeches. It was the prettiest spot for miles around. He had often wondered why it was known as ‘The Well’ and sometimes, indeed, as ‘Marywell’. The basin had been dry for fifty years.

  ‘Look!’ Clutching his arm, Father Mealey led him forward. From the dry rocks gushed a crystal spring. There was an odd silence, then, stooping with cupped hands, Mealey took an almost sacramental drink.

  ‘Taste it, Francis. We ought to be grateful for the privilege of being among the first.’

  Francis bent and drank. The water was sweet and cold. He smiled. ‘It tastes good.’

  Mealey regarded him with wise indulgence, not without its tinge of patronage. ‘ My dear fellow, I could call it a heavenly taste.’

  ‘Has it been flowing long?’

  ‘It began yesterday afternoon at sundown.’

  Francis laughed. ‘Really, Anselm, you’re a Delphic oracle today – full of signs and portents. Come on, give me the whole story. Who told you about this?’

  Father Mealey shook his head. ‘ I can’t … yet.’

  ‘But you’ve made me so confoundedly curious.’

  Pleased, Anselm smiled. Then his expression regained its solemnity. ‘I can’t break the seal yet, Francis. I must go to Dean Fitzgerald. He’s the one
who must deal with this. Meantime, of course, I trust you … I know you will respect my confidence.’

  Francis knew his companion too well to press him further.

  On their return to Tynecastle, Francis parted from his fellow curate and went on to Glanville Street to make a sick call. One of his club members, a boy named Owen Warren, had been kicked on the leg in a football game some weeks before. The youngster was poor and under-nourished and heedless of the injury. When the Poor Law doctor was eventually called in, the condition had developed into an ugly ulcer of the shin.

  The affair had upset Francis – the more so since Dr Tulloch seemed dubious of the prognosis. And this evening, in his endeavour to bring some comfort to Owen and his worried mother, the peculiar and inconclusive excursion of the afternoon was driven completely from his mind.

  Next morning, however, loud and minatory sounds emerging from Dean Gerald Fitzgerald’s room brought it back before him.

  Lent was a deadly penance for the Dean. He was a just man, and he fasted. But fasting did not suit his full elegant body, well habituated to the stimuli of rich and nourishing juices. Sorely tried in health and temper, he kept to himself, walked the Presbytery with no recognition in his hooded eye, and each night marked another cross upon the calendar.

  Although Father Mealey stood so high in Fitzgerald’s favour it demanded considerable resourcefulness to approach him at such a time, and Francis heard Anselm’s voice full, persuasive and pleading, across the Dean’s irascible abruptness. In the end the softer voice triumphed – like drops of water, Francis reflected, wearing out granite through sheer persistence.

  An hour later, with a very bad grace, the Dean came out of his room. Father Mealey was waiting on him in the vestibule. They departed together in a cab in the direction of the centre of the town. They were absent three hours. It was lunchtime when they returned and for once the Dean broke his rule. He sat down at the curates’ table. Though he would eat nothing he ordered a large pot of French coffee, his one luxury in a desert of self-denial. Sitting sideways, his legs crossed, a handsome elegant figure, sipping the black and aromatic brew, he diffused an air of warmth, almost of comradeship, as though a little taken out of himself by an inner, thrilling exaltation. He said, meditatively, to Francis and the Polish priest – it was notable that he included Slukas in his friendly glance:

  ‘Well, we may thank Father Mealey for his persistence … in the face of my somewhat violent disbelief. Naturally it is my duty to maintain the utmost scepticism towards certain … phenomena. But I have never seen, I had never hoped to see, such a manifestation, in my own parish –’ He broke off and, taking up his coffee cup, made a generous gesture of renunciation towards the senior curate. ‘Let it be your privilege to tell them, Father.’

  That faint excited colour persisted in Father Mealey’s cheek. He cleared his throat and began, readily and earnestly, as though the incident he related demanded his most formal eloquence:

  ‘One of our parishioners, a young woman, who has been delicate for a considerable time, was out walking on Monday of this week. The date, since we wish above everything to be precise, was March fifteenth, and the time, half-past three in the afternoon. The reason for her excursion was no idle one – this girl is a devout and fervent soul not given to giddiness or loitering. She was walking in accordance with her doctor’s instructions – to get some fresh air – the medical man being Dr William Brine of 42 Boyle Crescent, whom we all know as a physician of unimpeachable, I might say, of the highest, integrity. Well!’ Father Mealey took a tense gulp of water and went on. ‘As she was returning from her walk, murmuring a prayer, she chanced to pass the place which we know as Mary’s Well. It was twilight, the last rays of the sun lingering in pure radiance upon the lovely scene. This young girl stopped to gaze and admire when suddenly to her wonder and surprise she saw standing before her a lady in a white robe and a blue cape with a diadem of stars upon her forehead. Guided by holy instinct our Catholic girl immediately fell upon her knees. The lady smiled to her with ineffable tenderness and said. “My child, sickly though you are, you are the one to be chosen!” Then, half-turning, still addressing the awestruck yet comprehending girl: “ Is it not sad that this Well which bears my name is dry? Remember! It is for you and those like you that this shall happen.” With a last beautiful smile she disappeared. At that instant a fount of exquisite water sprang from the barren rock.’

  There was a silence when Father Mealey concluded.

  Then the Dean resumed: ‘As I have said, our approach to this delicate matter was made in the frankest incredulity. We don’t expect miracles to grow on every gooseberry bush. Young girls are notoriously romantic. And the starting of the spring might have been a sheer coincidence. However –’ His tone took on a deeper gratification. ‘ I’ve just completed a long interrogation of the girl in question with Father Mealey and Dr Brine. As you may imagine, the solemn experience of her vision was a great shock to her. She went to bed immediately after it and has remained there ever since.’ The voice became slower, fraught with immense significance. ‘Though she is happy, normal and physically well-nourished, in these five days she has touched neither food nor drink.’ He gave the amazing fact its due weight in silence. ‘Moreover … moreover, I say, she shows plainly, unmistakably and irrefutably, the blessed stigmata!’ He went on triumphantly: ‘While it is too early to speak yet, while final evidence must be collected, I have the strongest premonition, amounting almost to conviction, that we in this parish have been privileged by Almighty God to participate in a miracle comparable to, and perhaps far-reaching as, those which gave our holy religion the new-found Grotto at Digby and the older and more historic Shrine at Lourdes.’

  It was impossible not to be affected by the nobility of his peroration.

  ‘Who is the girl?’ Francis asked.

  ‘She is Charlotte Neily!’

  Francis stared at the Dean. He opened his lips and closed them again. The silence remained impressive.

  The next few days brought a growing excitement to the Presbytery. No one could have been better equipped to deal with the crisis than Dean Gerald Fitzgerald. A man of sincere devotion, he was wise also in worldly ways. Long and hard-won experience on the local school board and urban councils gave him an astute approach to temporal affairs. No news of the event was permitted to escape, not a whisper, even, in the parochial halls. The Dean had everything under his own hand. He would raise his hand only when he was ready.

  The incident, so miraculously unexpected, was a breath of new life to him. Not for many years had he known such inner satisfaction: both spiritual and material. He was a strange mixture of piety and ambition. His exceptional attributes of mind and body had seemed to destine him, automatically, for advancement in the Church. And he longed passionately for that advancement as much, perhaps as he longed for the advancement of Holy Church herself. A keen student of contemporary history, he likened himself often in his own mind to Newman. He merited equal eminence. Yet he remained, becalmed, at St Dominic’s. The only preferment they had given him, the reward of twenty distinguished years, was this petty elevation to the rank of Dean, an infrequent title in the Catholic Church and one which often embarrassed him on his journeying beyond the city, causing him to be mistaken for an Anglican clergyman, an inference he most cordially resented.

  Perhaps he realized that while he was admired he was not liked. With the passage of each day he was growing more and more a disappointed man. He strove for resignation. Yet when he bent his head and said ‘ O Lord, Thy will be done!’ deep down beneath his humility was the burning thought: ‘ By this time they should have given me my mozzetta.’

  Now everything was changed. Let them keep him at St Dominic’s. He would make St Dominic’s a shrine of light. Lourdes was his exemplar and, nearer in time and space, the recent striking instance of Digby in the Midlands, where the foundation of a miraculous grotto, with many authenticated cures, had transformed the dreary hamlet into a thriving town, and e
levated, at the same time, an unknown but resourceful parish priest to the status of a national figure.

  The Dean sank into a splendid vision of a new city, a great basilica, a solemn triduum, himself enthroned in stiff vestments … then sharply took himself in hand and scrutinized the draft contracts. His first action had been to place immediately a Dominican nun, Sister Teresa, trustworthy and discreet, in Charlotte Neily’s home. Reassured by her impeccable reports he had taken to the law.

  It was fortunate that Marywell and all the land adjacent formed the estate of the old and wealthy Hollis family. Though not a Catholic, Captain Hollis had married one, Sir George Renshaw’s sister. He was friendly and well-disposed. He and his solicitor, Malcom Glennie, were closeted with the Dean upon successive days, holding long conferences over sherry and biscuits. A fair and amicable arrangement was at length worked out. The Dean had no personal interest in money. He regarded it contemptuously as so much dross. But the things that money could purchase were important and he must ensure the future of his shining project. No one but a fool could fail to realize that the value of the land would rocket to the sky.

  On the last day of the negotiations Francis ran into Glennie in the upper corridor. Frankly, he was surprised to find Malcom dealing with the Hollis affairs. But the solicitor, when articled, had shrewdly bought himself into an old established firm with his wife’s money and quietly succeeded to some first-rate practice.

  ‘Well, Malcom!’ Francis held out his hand. ‘Glad to see you again.’

  Glennie shook hands with damp effusiveness.

  ‘But I’m amazed,’ Francis smiled, ‘to find you in the house of the Scarlet Woman!’

  The solicitor’s answering smile was thin. He mumbled: ‘ I’m a liberal man, Francis … besides being obliged to chase the pennies.’