The Paradise Tree

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “Brigit, I want you to come with me,” Pa said. “Anthony has agreed to drive us to Mr. and Mrs. Kelly’s. Charlie is going to stay with your mother and the girls and see them safely home.”

  “Does Anthony know?” she asked, startled.

  “Yes, Charlie and I had a talk with Anthony last night since he was once close with Patrick. We told him the whole story and we agreed we would confront Patrick about his letter if he came to the funeral today. My dear, I am sad to tell you that he adulterously ruined the Kelly girl, whom he met while helping with the harvest last autumn at the Kelly farm. He has admitted to it. The maid you talked to last night seems to have been telling the truth. We must now go and talk to Miss Kelly herself.”

  They spoke little over the hour it took Anthony to drive them down one of the many side roads that wound throughout the lakes to the Kelly place. As the house came into view, Bridget gasped. It was the brick house she had seen in her dream. She even saw the weathervane shaped like a running horse. She turned to her father.

  “Pa,” she whispered.

  “‘Tis the house you saw in your dream, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Kelly has done very well for himself since he became a Protestant,” her father explained. “There is nothing better for business than having the right connections at the Orange Lodge. He hobnobs with the Tory elite. Well, at least he has tried to be one of them. No doubt, he has his reward. I hope it is enough for him.”

  They approached the front door. Bridget was glad Anthony was with them, since even though her father gave the impression of sturdy invincibility he was not as young as he used to be. Molly the maid opened the door. She curtseyed silently and showed them to the parlor. Bridget experienced a momentary wave of awe at the stylish, new furniture, the velvet curtains and painted glass lamps. In a moment, Mr. Kelly joined them. Bridget had never seen him up close. His red hair was all gone except for some stray unkempt locks on the sides of his head; his eyes bleary and bloodshot; his nose red with drink. He looked at her father with hatred.

  “And to what do I owe this honor, Squire O’Connor?” His tone seethed with sarcasm.

  “Mike Kelly, as local magistrate I have come to make an arrest,” said Pa. “We have evidence not only of concealment but of a murdered child as well. Both are against the law in this province. I must speak to Mrs. Kelly and to Miss Amelia.”

  Mr. Kelly looked like he wanted to spit. Bridget actually took a step backwards. “My wife and daughter are both very ill. The only one in this house who has given birth is Molly here. You had better be speaking to her and then leave.”

  “We have already spoken to Molly, Mike Kelly. She has no part in this. There is another child. Your grandchild, Mike.”

  Mr. Kelly began to look more distressed than angry. “Very well. They are both upstairs in my daughter’s room.” He led the way. There was a rich oriental carpet on the stairs and in the hall of the second story. He knocked on a door at the end of a long hallway. A woman’s soft voice bade him enter.

  “Please, let me go in alone,” insisted Bridget. “This matter is for women.” Mr. Kelly nodded, and she slipped in and closed the door. The curtains were drawn, although since they were white muslin curtains there was a pale glow. It was an excruciatingly dainty room, with white furniture and rose-colored printed wallpaper. At the center of the chamber was a four-poster bed with white crocheted lace hangings and canopy. Pink satin ribbons held back the hangings. At the foot of the four-poster was a daybed with clothes piled upon it. In the midst of the massive bed was a young girl whose plump face was almost as white as the bed hangings. She had on a frilly white nightcap with two auburn braids hanging down.

  “Miss Amelia?” inquired Bridget with a curtsey.

  “Yes, who are you?” The lass would have been pretty had her face not been so bloated and pasty.

  “I am Bridget O’Connor. I remember you from Long Point School.”

  “Ah, yes,” sighed Amelia, sounding distracted.

  “You had a child,” Bridget stated. “And Patrick Ivey was the father.”

  “He said we were going to run away together,” Amelia whimpered.

  “What happened to the baby?”

  “It’s dead,” and she began to cry silently. “Someone killed it.”

  It was then the Bridget noticed that in the day bed what she thought was a pile of clothes was a person. It was Mrs. Kelly, her face thin and grayish, half hidden in a heap of blankets. She was trembling and perspiring and appeared to be extremely ill.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kelly. I am Bridget O’Connor.”

  Mrs. Kelly groaned. “‘Twasn’t Amelia’s doing. She wanted to keep the baby here, or give it to Molly to rear or go away with it. But I know how things like that get out. People would discover the truth. We had to keep our place in society. We worked so hard and gave up our religion, our friends, our relatives, all for our prosperity. So I choked it to death at the moment of birth. Then I took it out to your father’s sugar shack in the dead of night. Both Amelia and Mike are angry at me.” She went into a convulsion.

  “Would you like me to summon a doctor, ma’am?” asked Bridget.

  “No.” Mrs. Kelly’s voice was raspy and shaky. “Summon a priest. A Roman priest. I want to be shriven before I die. I am so sorry for what I have done. I don’t want to go to Hell. I want to die a Catholic.”

  Bridget opened the door again where Pa, Anthony, and Mr. Kelly were standing in the hallway with expressions of deep concern. “Please! Someone must go for a priest. Mrs. Kelly is asking for one! I would summon a doctor, too.” Anthony nodded and left. Then she closed the door again.

  “Mother, what is the matter?” Amelia asked. “What have you done?”

  “I took some arsenic. I should not have done it but I could not live with myself anymore.”

  Amelia screamed. “Oh, no! No!”

  Mr. Kelly burst in. “What have you done now, Mary Teresa? As if the babe’s death was not enough!”

  Pa came into the room. “Who killed the babe?”

  “I did,” gasped Mrs. Kelly. “No one could ever know about our Amelia’s fall. I wanted her to make a good marriage. I did not want disgrace to come upon our family. But there are worse things than disgrace.”

  Amelia began to weep hysterically. “I wanted my baby! I wanted her to live!” Mr. Kelly fell to his knees at his wife’s side and buried his face in his hands.

  The priest came first, about two hours later. Pa and Bridget had been caring for Mrs. Kelly, who had begun to vomit furiously. They all left the room so she could try to confess; even Amelia, who was able to walk without difficulty. When Mrs. Kelly had made her confession and received anointing, Pa, Anthony and Bridget knelt and prayed with the priest the prayers for the departing soul. By the time the doctor arrived, Mrs. Kelly was dead. They told him she had admitted to taking arsenic, although the doctor said that such poisoning resembled other fatal illnesses such as cholera and there was really no way to tell without opening the body.

  Bridget arranged Mrs. Kelly peacefully until the undertaker could arrive. Then Pa said, “Let’s go.” It was dawn and the birds were singing.

  When they reached Anthony’s buggy, Bridget asked, “Pa, you didn’t arrest Mr. Kelly.”

  “I can’t kick a man when he’s down. He’ll be paying for the rest of his life. As for the girl, the concealment wasn’t her doing. She was being kept a prisoner by her parents, especially by her mother. She’ll suffer the rest of her life, too. Sometimes one must leave the dead to bury their dead.”

  Bridget sat in the back of the buggy with her father while Anthony drove them to Long Point. She slept with her head on Pa’s shoulder, and when she awoke the sun was rising over the golden fields of O’Connor land.

  Days passed, and they did not speak of the tragedy. Bridget had no wish to; she perceived her father had told her mother about their night at the Kellys’ because she noticed Ma regarding her anxiously, but
neither mentioned it. Somehow, it seemed too alien a topic for life on Long Point, where days rolled by punctuated with prayers, toil, tears and laughter; unnatural, hidden crimes were as alien to their homestead as flying fish. Bridget had never before realized what a happy home she had always had, and it humbled her. She had seen her parents as quaint, stubborn, sometimes cranky and perhaps a bit backward, but she had never before been conscious of the extent and depth of the love they had for each other, for their children and for God. She had been so bathed in the radiance of that love since the moment of her birth that she had taken it for granted. She never would again.

  One late afternoon, she was coming from weeding the garden when she met Pa who had just been currying the horses. The sun had been shining but as it slanted in the West, it became shrouded by wispy, wandering clouds. “Let’s walk, daughter,” he suggested. They walked back to the old orchard, laden with young green apples.

  Bridget sighed. “I feel sad, Pa, about the baby. She was cheated of life.”

  “We must place her in God’s hands. But you are correct, Bridget Gabrielle. The worst part about depriving an innocent human being of life is that the murderer puts himself in God’s place, deciding who shall live and who shall die. By taking the life of an infant, not only does the baby lose life, but all the generations who might have been descended from the child are killed as well.”

  “And the baby was killed because Mrs. Kelly was afraid of what others might think. I never understood before, when you and Ma warned us about seeking human respect, how dangerous it can be. I can see now all the times I have given in to it, in little ways, but little ways can lead to big ways.”

  “That’s true of everything, darling.” He paused as if thinking deeply. Then he said: “One of the main culprits in this disaster is none other than our own Julia’s husband, that Ivey character. I hope you understand now why your mother and I have been so cautious and careful about the men we have allowed to court our daughters. Not that I condemn your aunt and uncle. They did their best to protect her, but Julia defied them. I am grateful that you chose to obey. It is better to remain unmarried than suffer the way Julia suffers. Well, at least, she has her children.”

  “I do not take credit for anything, Pa. I had no other choice. Anthony respected your wishes and went far way. And there was no one else I wanted to marry.”

  He reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. “Speaking of Anthony, I received a letter from him this morning. Let me read it to you.” He put on his spectacles and began:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor,

  Ten years ago, I asked your permission to court your daughter, Bridget Gabrielle, but you refused my suit. I tell you now, as hard as it was at the time, that you were right to do so. I had nothing to offer her, only my love and devotion, which has since increased a hundredfold. I have in the meantime gone to British Columbia and labored until my prospects have greatly improved. While I am not a wealthy man, I have been able to invest in properties, which have led to my being able to purchase land in Delta where I have the means to build a hotel. It will take three years to build and to establish business. At the end of that time, I hope, with your permission, and if she is willing, to marry Bridget. In the meantime, I am asking if I may court her, in view of the aforesaid matrimony, and thus in time enter into a betrothal. In order to discuss this proposal in further detail, I ask to wait upon you both this Saturday afternoon.

  Your Humble Servant,

  Anthony Flood

  “Saturday afternoon! Does that mean today?” exclaimed Bridget.

  “Yes, I believe it does,” replied Pa soberly.

  “Then I must get ready!” And she ran into the house. She could smell supper cooking; her mother would have to leave it to speak to Anthony. Glancing out her bedroom window, she saw Anthony and his buggy coming down the road. She washed her face and hands and changed her dress, putting on a blue and purple calico in a paisley pattern. She brushed out her hair, pushing her curls to the top and pinning them in place and tucking the rest into a snood. She splashed on some violet-scented cologne that Ellen had given her for Christmas last year and hurried downstairs. She heard her parents’ voices from behind the parlor door, talking to Anthony. She headed for the kitchen to see what was happening to their supper. Lottie was stirring a pot of split pea and ham soup with a small book in hand, which Bridget recognized as having belonged to Mr. Horn, one of Shakespeare’s plays. Annie was curled up in one of the big rocking chairs, with a large volume of Shakespeare’s Collected Works.

  “Oh, Brig, just in time!” exclaimed Lottie. “Ma asked us to watch the supper for her as we were about to read Antony and Cleopatra in honor Mr. Horn!”

  “So we’re watching and reading,” said Annie, biting into an apple. “Won’t you read the part of Cleopatra?”

  “Of course,” said Bridget, taken off guard. “But you know we are going to be eating soon.”

  Charlie had just come in from the barn and was washing his hands in the basin. “Wait, why are you reading Antony and Cleopatra? I thought Mr. Horn’s favorite play was Julius Caesar?”

  “Julius Caesar is Pa’s favorite. Mr. Horn’s was Antony and Cleopatra,” insisted Annie. “Charlie, please be Mark Antony!”

  “Oh, very well,” he took Lottie’s copy of the book. “But I’m hungry.”

  “Thank you!” exclaimed Annie. “I’ll be Philo and Lottie, you be Demetrius. Then we’ll take up where we left off after supper.”

  “I have a boring part,” complained Lottie. “Why can’t I be Cleopatra?”

  “Go ahead and be Cleopatra,” Bridget said. “I’ll be Demetrius and the maids and everyone else. Annie, you go first.”

  Annie cleared her throat and began to read Philo’s part in a dramatic tone, giggling at the word “strumpet.” Then Cleopatra made her entrance on the arm of Mark Antony and it was Lottie’s turn.

  “If it be love indeed, tell me how much.” Her voice rose theatrically.

  Charlie said his line in an annoyed monotone. “There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.”

  “Oh, Charlie!” chided Bridget. She took Annie’s book in preparation to read her part.

  “I'll set a bourn how far to be beloved,” Lottie intoned.

  Charlie uttered with thrilling pathos: “Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.”

  “News, my good lord, from Rome,” read Bridget, as Pa walked in the kitchen with a stern expression. Their mother entered behind Pa. She had a weepy appearance. What had happened? Where was Anthony?

  “Time for supper!” Pa announced. “Girls, help your mother. Come, Charlie.” Bridget was frozen to the ground. She could not say a word.

  “Oh, tell her, Daniel,” Ma sniffed.

  Pa put his hands on her shoulders. “Bridget Gabrielle, Mr. Anthony Flood wishes for you to become his betrothed. Your mother and I joyfully give our consent. He is out on yonder hill awaiting you.” Pa motioned towards the hill near the Saddle Rock. “He said he wants to propose to you under the open sky. Best wishes!”

  Bridget threw her arms around her father’s neck and kissed his leathery, scratchy cheek. Then she hugged her mother, who held her tightly as if she did not want to let her go.

  “Supper is ready so don’t be long!” reminded Ma.

  Bridget flew out the back door, around the house and through the meadow. Above her the clouds curled and swooshed in silver and aubergine, reflecting glints of fire from the setting sun. The daisies stippled the meadow like asterisks, fluttering in a wind-stoked sea of emerald, jade and verdigris grasses. As she ran her snood and every hairpin fell behind and her hair tumbled loose about her. The wind made her feel that she was flying; knowing Anthony was awaiting her she felt borne aloft. She saw him at the top of the hill, silhouetted against the turbulent sky, watching the sun recede. “Anthony!” she called. He turned and started towards her, holding out his hand to her. She reached the top of the hill. In a minute her fingers touched his and then sh
e was in his arms. He crushed her against him; she could not breathe. After a while he released her, and taking both her hands in his, he knelt before her. And there was a new heaven and a new earth.

  Part IV

  Charlie’s Windmills

  “For what is your life? It is a vapour which appeareth for a little while, and afterwards shall vanish away.” James 4:15

  CHAPTER 15

  A House for Emily

  June 1878 – April 1879

  “Not life I own, nor liberty

  For love is lord of all.”

  – “My Lagan Love”

  The sun had vanished behind the horizon and the light grew dim but Charlie continued to work on the house he was building for Emily. He had found the long summer evenings a good time to work, because he had the farm chores of the day behind him and could labor without interruption. As Charlie hammered the boards of the siding into place he thanked the Lord once again for giving him Emily McArdle as his wife. He had thought for many years that he would never be worthy of marrying her. He still felt unworthy, but at least he had been able to better himself enough to win the approval of Squire and Mrs. McArdle. He had travailed long years on the farm, plowing and planting more fields than had ever been cultivated before, leading to several successful harvests allowing him to buy those materials for the house which he was able to build himself.