Grandmother and the Priests

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Eh! That must be a wondrous thing, to hae such authority,” the minister said, wistfully.

  “God is the Authority,” said the priest, with some surprise, for he knew little of Scots Presbyterianism. “The duty to obey is man’s. A man hae no merit of his own, save that Our Lord grants him through His own merits. A man must labor with God in the saving of his ain soul.”

  The wee minister seemed somewhat confused at this. “Aye, but God hae predestined man before his birth to heaven or hell, and it comes to me sometimes that it is possible that the Squire is predestined to heaven and Betsy and me to hell.”

  Father Tom thought this idea entirely unlikely. “A man hae free will,” he said, cautiously, and suddenly remembered the Presbyterian doctrine of Predestination.

  “Ah, that he doesna have,” said the minister, sadly. “Not entirely, but only within the framework of Predestination. Man is the puppet of his predetermined destiny.”

  Father Tom had been taught not to engage in arguments with other clergy concerning points of faith, for that was not ‘prudent’ and only incited enmity. But he was a young man and the very thought of such a stern belief depressed him and upset him. Life was hard enough, God knew, but how much harder it was if the shadow of hell lay on a man’s spirit so that he believed that no merit he could acquire, and no faith he could be given, could save him if his Lord had determined to cast him into eternal fire.

  “Ye mean,” said the priest, appalled, “that one such as the Squire, who hae no heart and only virtue, is assured of heaven if it were determined before his birth?”

  The minister nodded. “Aye, that, he hae virtue, full and overflowing, though nae heart. I am a sinful man, I know, and oft do I wonder where my destiny lies. Hell, mayhap, for I am rebellious at times, and is not rebellion the sign of Satan?”

  “What is it ye rebel against?” asked the priest, feeling as if he were in some heavy darkness full of pits and dragons.

  The minister sighed and sighed. “I rebel that none here hae the courage to come to the kirk because the Squire hates me, and he hates those who will stand with me. The hamlet’s life depends on his ain good will. I rebel that my Betsy mourns to be with her faether, whom she loves, and he willna have her the noo. I rebel when she, who is with our child, pretends to have no appetite so that I may hae something to eat. I rebel that man’s heart is sae hard and there is no kindness in him, but only darkness. ‘Man is desperately wicked and evil from his youth.’ The Master showed the way, but man willna follow it, and laughs at his shepherd. I rebel that I, the minister, am sae futile! And have sae little spirit. I rebel that the Squire terrorizes the countryside so that nae man dare oppose him, and that the Squire will let nae man have a little joy and merriment in his life, in the name of virtue.”

  All these things did not seem ‘rebellion’ to the priest, and he said warmly, “That is nae rebellion, Bruce! That is good and not evil. The Squire is a bad and wicked man, for a’ that he does in the name of virtue. Evil is an excess of virtue, sae often times. You have too scrupulous a conscience, and scrupulosity is oft an error.”

  The minister was a little shocked and sat back and stared at the priest. “Tom! A man’s conscience canna be too scrupulous!”

  We are not speaking the same language, thought the priest in distress, and it came to him, in a startling fashion, that semantics could be a stony barrier between man and his brother, not bringing them together but holding them apart. He had never thought highly of Socrates, so bent on his exact definition of terms and his exact semantics that he had lost touch with the warm heart of man, but now he conceded that Socrates may have had a point. Father Tom thought of the Tower of Babel. It had not only been the cause of new languages among men but had confused the same language which all spoke in common.

  It was a relief to the priest when the lovely little Betsy shyly rejoined the two young men. She appeared tired. She sat down and looked earnestly at the priest. “I hae heard my faether is not sae well,” she murmured. “Did he appear so to you?” Her eyes were full of wretched love.

  “He seemed,” said Father Tom, with his new grimness, “unco well indeed.” He wanted to add the Scots saying, “The divil takes care of his ain,” but that would have been not only un-Christian but would have upset little Betsy.

  He could not resist, however, saying to the minister, “God does not ‘determine’ a man’s immortal fate when He creates that man’s soul. God gives man free will. If He did not, then He would be the creator of evil and not of sublime and absolute good.”

  The minister was freshly shocked.

  “He gives man the choice,” went on the priest, firmly. “He knew, when He created the soul of the Blessed Mother, that she would accept Christ as her Son, but she had the free will to accept or not. God is omniscient, but man’s will is his own.”

  The minister was embarrassed at this sudden spout of dogma, and ashamed that he had put the priest into this position. His innocent eyes filled with tears. “I am not even a good host,” he said with miserable contrition. “I thought to make ye my friend.”

  “I am not a good guest,” said Father Tom, contrite also. “We each hae his belief; we shouldna step on toes. Forgive me. Ye are not only my friend but ye are my brother.”

  Touching relief flooded the minister’s very young face, and he held out his hand frankly. Never before had he extended his hand to anyone, because of his shyness, but had always waited to see if handshaking would be pleasing to others first. The two clergymen shook hands, Betsy curtseyed timidly, and Father Tom, now definitely feeling he was an Older Man — in fact, quite elderly — took his leave, thinking.

  The next morning, cold and early and stark with strong northern light, found the priest trundling his noisy barrow to the manse, to the high excitement of the watchers behind the curtains. He knocked smartly on the door, and Betsy, sleepy-eyed and pale, answered. “A good morning to you, Mistress Gregor,” said Father Tom. “And may I hae the ladder we talked of yesterday?”

  Betsy looked at the barrow filled with slates and topped with hammer and nails, and swallowed. “Ye?” she murmured. The priest nodded with that wonderful new firmness of his, and, speechless now, Betsy gestured towards the back of the manse. The priest fetched the ladder and set it up against the eaves, carefully removed his coat and hat and laid them on the gate. He flexed his muscles, filled his basket, and climbed. Betsy came to the foot of the ladder and called up faintly, “Faether, if my Dada hears of this he will drive ye from the hamlet.”

  “He’ll drive nae man from this day forward from the hamlet,” said Father Tom, examining the roof with a keen eye. Betsy stared up at him with enormous and very dazed eyes. “It’s nae proper for a clergyman,” she murmured.

  “Not proper to labor?” said the priest. “I must disagree, Mistress Gregor.”

  “Bruce will nae like it,” she said.

  “Bruce will like a sound roof,” he answered in a tone of authority, which immediately made the girl respectful. She retreated within the tiny manse.

  The Protestants were appalled at the thought of a ‘Roman’ repairing the manse, and the Catholics were indignant and embarrassed. A priest, roofing the manse of a heretic! “I’ll nae hold up my head again,” declared Mrs. Logan to a neighbor, after she had run to her pub to spread the news. The pub was not officially open, but people were there as to a common gathering place for the dissemination of scandal. But Mr. Logan was thoughtful, and as he blew on a glass and polished it he said, “It will fair madden the Squire, and I dinna find it in my heart to shed tears for his worship.” He had no love for the Squire, who, though he was ‘invested’ in numerous pubs in surrounding hamlets, constantly inveighed against drinking. A fair hypocrite he is, thought Mr. Logan, resentfully. A mair one I niver knew. If it were not for the Squire there would be more merriment in the village, and more open conviviality. Now a man had to drink almost in secret to avoid annoying the Squire, and secrecy, thought Mr. Logan, was the mother of sin. And th
e Sundays! It was ‘mair’ like death than death itself; even the bairns dared not laugh in their prams on the street. It was the Squire’s doing. It was sinful, but the Catholics, themselves, dared not take happiness and relaxation on Sundays in the hamlet, not even playing horseshoes or singing softly on doorsteps. Did Our Lord want man to suffer on the Sabbath? Nay, nay!

  Father Tom found the same isolation about him as he worked on the roof that he had found when repairing his own. Curtains tweaked, but no face appeared. The hammer rang. Father Tom began to sing. He fervently dedicated his heart to Old Scotia in passionate off-key. He throbbed over ballads concerning the sufferings and deaths of true Scotsmen at the hands of the Sassenach. “ ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled!’ ” he cried to the strong cold wind. “ ‘Welcome to your gory beds!’ ”

  He aroused even the invalids from their beds so that they tottered to the curtains to see the scandalous sight of a clergyman hammering and chipping away and scrambling about a roof. “Lak a beetle, wi’ no respect for his calling,” was the general consensus. But eventually some very aged gentlemen, of both religions, gathered before the manse and added their quavering notes to the rousing choruses. Sometimes Father Tom would pause to lead them with his hammer from above, like a conductor of a symphony. It was very scandalous indeed.

  Suddenly the old gentlemen in their caps fell silent, and Father Tom looked down to see the Squire on his horse.

  “A guid morning to you, sir,” said Father Tom, saluting with his hammer. “I hae not forgotten I am having tea with you tomorrow.”

  The Squire’s face was an interesting lavender and his eyes sparked with something that was not mirth. The old gentlemen meekly pulled their caps off, then drifted slowly away, not entirely away but to a small distance.

  “In the name of hell what are ye doing?” asked the Squire in a soft voice.

  Father Tom looked surprised. “I am mending a roof,” he said.

  “Get ye doon from there,” the Squire said, even softer.

  Father Tom fitted a slate and hammered it cleanly into place. The clatter echoed in the deep and shining silence. Then he said, “No.”

  “Ye are doing Our Lord’s work, are ye?”

  “Aye, that I am.”

  “Get doon!” The Squire had not raised his voice, but the old men retreated another few feet. The hamlet held its collective breath.

  “I take it,” said Father Tom, critically examining another slate, “that ye dinna want me for tea tomorrow?”

  “Get doon!” The Squire drove his horse almost up against the house.

  “No,” said Father Tom. He looked at the roof. “A fair shame it is, that the wee minister’s manse is not fit for man or beast. That beastie of yours, he lies sweeter in his stall than your daughter lies in her bed in this hut.”

  “Damn you!” said the Squire. “Shall I pull ye from the roof?”

  No one, not even the most irascible old priest, had ever spoken to Father Tom in such a tone and so he did not know that the sudden hard beat of his heart and the hot swelling of his face were the result of intense wrath. He crouched on the roof and held his hammer tightly.

  “Ye shall not pull me from anywhere,” he said. His teeth suddenly hurt; he did not know he had clenched them together and was speaking through them. “A wicked auld man with the evil in his heart! D’ye think I do this to shame ye? Ye are not that high in my regard. I bought these slates before I hae the misfortune to lay an een upon ye, and for this purpose. Along with ye, man, to your knees and contrition!”

  The lavender changed to thick purple on the Squire’s face. His whole big body vibrated. He said to the nearest old man, “Tammy, get the constable.”

  The old man scuttled away with a frightened face. Father Tom drew one deep breath after another to stop the wild roaring of his heart, then resumed his work. The blows on the slates were extremely hard, and one shattered and flew in chips. The hamlet watched. Father Tom tested the chimney and made a note in his mind to get enough mortar for the stones. His face was wet with cold sweat, the icy sweat of anger.

  Then the constable arrived on his bicycle, a small man with a very large red mustache and ears that protruded from under his cap. He dismounted and looked up at the Squire, who pointed at the priest with his crop. “Order that — that priest from the roof which isna his property, George!”

  Father Tom looked down over his shoulder at the bewildered constable and smiled a little. He was still somewhat breathless. “Inform yon auld laddie that it isna his property either, Constable,” he said.

  The constable swallowed nervously. It so happened that he was one of Father Tom’s parishioners. He said, “Faether, will ye come doon, please?”

  “Why?” asked the priest. “Is it a crime I am committing, then?”

  “Faether, it is scandalous,” the constable pleaded.

  “It is that,” the priest agreed. “Scandalous that a minister of the Gospel should live under a leaking roof, and not a man in this hamlet brave enough, or guid enough, to mend it. A braw lot of laddies ye are!”

  The constable turned a bright pink. “Faether,” he said, “it isna seemly. Hae ye permission to do this to this manse?”

  Father Tom paused. He had not considered this aspect of the question. Then he saw Mr. Gregor’s bicycle approaching at a frantic speed, and he squatted on the roof until the minister had reached the house and had taken in the situation thoroughly. The small man appeared overwhelmed with shame, fear and misery. The priest smiled at him reassuringly.

  “Bruce,” he said with affection, “I hae taken this occasion to mend the roof of the manse. Hae I your permission?”

  The Squire kept his back and the rear of his horse to the trembling young minister and gave no sign that he was there. But the minister looked at that formidable back, then up at Father Tom and moistened his pale lips.

  “There’s none to hurt you mair than ye hae been hurt,” said the priest, gently, “There’s none to fear but God.”

  “I — ” began the minister. The door opened and Betsy’s white face appeared. There were tears on her cheeks. Her father accorded her no more recognition than he had given her husband. “Betsy, my love,” said the minister, in despair.

  The girl advanced to the doorstep. The old gentlemen had been joined by several younger men, some women and a number of children. She looked at her father’s hating and disgusted profile, then at her husband’s tremulous face, then up at the priest.

  She said in a clear young voice. “The good Faether is mending our roof, Bruce. Will ye thank him kindly for us?” She put her white hands over her swelling body, and her eyes, steadfast and brown as a burn in spring, fixed themselves on her husband’s.

  Bruce looked at her long and earnestly, and she smiled. Then an astonishing thing happened. The young minister appeared to grow at least three inches taller and four inches broader. The features which had always been gentle became stern, and in that moment the minister’s youth left him and he was a man.

  “How can a man thank one sae good as Faether Tom?” he said. “I can only pray for him, that God will bless him.”

  The priest closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said to the constable, “Ye see, I hae permission.”

  The constable removed his cap and scratched his head. Then he remembered that he was The Law. He said to the small crowd, severely, “And hae ye no better to do this early in the day than to hinder a man in his work?”

  The crowd raised the smallest but surest of cheers, smiled, and dispersed a few more feet. The constable straightened, and gave them a frown from under his red eyebrows. They stepped back ten or twelve more inches.

  “And you, sir,” said the constable to the Squire, “is there ought I can do for ye?”

  The Squire touched the crop to his horse and it jumped forward. “At five, tomorrow!” Father Tom called after him. The Squire rode off down the road, and the horse’s hoofs struck fire on the cobbles.

  “Ye’ll come in for tea when ye are finish
ed, Tom?” asked the young minister, who now stood on the doorstep with his arm about his wife. He was so tall and strong now, and she leaned against him.

  “Gladly,” said the priest. The hammer banged. “Sing us another song,” said one of the people.

  So the priest sang:

  “Here’s freedom to him that wad read!

  Here’s freedom to him that wad write!

  There’s none ever fear’d that the truth should be heard,

  But they wham the truth wad indite!”

  The minister joined in the rousing chorus, and the walls of every house echoed back the singing. Betsy looked at her husband with pride and joy.

  “Oh, there’s none ever fear’d,” sang the priest, “that the truth should be heard, But they wham the truth wad indite! Indite! Indite!”