Grandmother and the Priests

by Taylor Caldwell

  The priest was still in a state of bewildered shock, but he said, “It never does any real good to forget. It is best to remember, and then try to forgive.”

  “Yes. Yes. You are quite right, Father — ”

  “Geoffrey!” his wife cried. “You didn’t kill Agnes. You did not! You did not!”

  The squire touched her arm briefly and said, “I don’t know. Please let me continue, and don’t cry so hard, my darling.

  “Father Shayne, my wife was in good spirits the day before her death. She had confessed her sins to our priest and had received Holy Communion. She was feeling much better, though she had to take a mild sedative to relieve her pain. She was suffering from angina pectoris, and it is painful, I have been told. She was not in danger of death, but she was languid, a semi-invalid, though she persisted in believing that she was a true invalid. I think that was to discourage me,” and he smiled sadly, “from asking for conjugal relationships. She never wanted children, and she disliked those she had. Oh? Geoffrey told you? How much the poor boy knows, and I never knew he knew. How piteous for him.

  “I always believed that children should say good night to their parents, and so I brought them into my wife’s room. Eric was a restless little boy, just under two, and he raced about the room in his usual way, which always annoyed my wife. He accidentally turned over a tiny table she had, which was covered with exquisite miniatures, objets d’art. They were badly smashed, of course, falling on the bare, polished floor.”

  The squire squeezed his eyes shut, tightly, as if to try to shut out the memory. “Geoffrey remained; Elsa — she could not seem to be happy in her mother’s presence, had left, and now I know she remembers something. My poor children. So, only Geoffrey and I saw what happened after that accident. Agnes jumped from her bed, screaming, and before I could stop her she had seized Eric in her hands, had thrown him to the floor and was savagely beating his little head on it. Over and over and over. It happened like lightning. When I could finally reach them the child was unconscious. Unconscious.

  “I carried him out of the room, leaving my wife still screaming behind me. Her nurse, who was having tea in the servants’ hall, came running, and closed the door after me. I took Eric to his room, and then called Florence. You see, we didn’t ever want the servants to know about — Agnes. We were afraid they’d then gossip, and that Geoffrey and Elsa would overhear them. I’m afraid, though, that they must have known something — ” He opened his suddenly sunken eyes and looked at the priest.

  “They knew,” said Father Shayne, grimly. “That is why they testified so generously in your behalf at your trial, Mr. Gould. They must have been devoted to you.”

  “Well,” said the squire, in a voice that had become an old man’s voice. “How good of them . . . I put Eric on his bed and his nurse came and I said the child had had an accident, had fallen badly. He was still unconscious, and his face looked — dead. The nurse wanted to call a doctor immediately, and then Eric opened his eyes, his color returned, and he began to cry. I thanked God. I thought I should not have to send for the doctor. Doctors’ eyes are very keen. Our doctor would have known at once that the child had not had a mere accident; there were too many — too many swollen and bleeding places on the back and sides of his head. I thought it would be well for him, for he did appear to be quite normal.

  “I told Florence, only. She would have suspected, under the circumstances, knowing Agnes. She knew how the other children had come to be so — injured. I had to tell someone!” cried the desperate father. “It was too much to bear alone! And I needed help with Geoffrey, who had seen it all. He had run screaming out of the room when Agnes had begun to — So Florence spent hours with him that night, soothing him.”

  “And lying to him,” said the priest. “You knew he was an intelligent child, and yet you lied to him. What he must have thought of you both!”

  The squire groaned. “I know. Now. But how can you let a child understand the enormity of such a thing?”

  “Children have much more strength than we have,” said the priest. “They can understand everything. Except those they love lying to them. Children are not only realists but they are natural cynics. They expect anything from the world and are never surprised. They fear, but they expect; it is their instinct. But no one they love should ever lie to them, for they never forget lies, and they color all the rest of their lives. But, go on, please.”

  “Thank you,” murmured the squire, stricken. “I remember when my mother died; I was Geoffrey’s age then, about eight. I knew she was sick; I listened at doors, as all frightened children do, and as I suppose Geoffrey and Elsa did. I knew when she died, though I was not near her room when she left us. But my father came to me and said that my mother was very sick, and that someone, one of the servants, would take me to my aunt’s home some two miles away. My mother must have quiet, my father said. Didn’t he know that I could see his pale face and his red eyes? Didn’t he know that I knew all about death? I loved him, but I never really trusted him after that, though I understood that he had lied to spare me. And so, I suppose, Geoffrey is the same. I wonder how I had forgotten!

  “At any rate, Florence stayed with Geoffrey until he fell asleep, long after his usual bedtime. And I remained with Eric and his nurse. The little boy appeared to be quite normal by midnight, though the nurse was worried about the wounds on his head. He slept quite peacefully, however. But in the morning he took a turn for the worse.

  “I stayed with him for hours. He was restless and feverish, and sometimes he appeared not to know me. I am so guilty! Of course, the damage had already been done to his brain — but still I am so guilty. Agnes, of course, had recovered her good spirits. She laughed about the episode, and I was afraid to tell her that Eric did not seem well. You see, Father, I was always trying to protect her against herself, too.”

  “I see,” said the priest, severely. “Entirely too much protecting was going on in that house, and so inevitably it led to tragedy. Mr. Gould, did you, on that day, stop loving your wife?”

  The squire looked at him directly. “I had stopped loving Agnes within six months after we were married. Had she not been expecting Geoffrey I’d have left her then. But there was my child to consider — and with such a mother. Then I was so happy over Geoffrey, when he was born, that I decided it was my duty, as a good Catholic husband and father, to try to reform Agnes, to lead her away from her violent moods and unpredictable angers and rages. For a time she did seem more kind and more content. I promised her a visit to the Continent when she had fully recovered from Geoffrey’s birth. Then, she became pregnant with Elsa. She could not forgive me, though what she thought I should have done I do not know.” The squire sighed. He glanced at his silently weeping wife. “These are not things a gentleman discusses in the presence of a lady, but you would not go away, Florence.”

  “I wondered how you could — possibly look at her!” said Florence, in a sick tone. “I often wondered, all through those years. For I knew all about Agnes by that time; that is why I visited so often. I thought I’d help you protect the children.”

  “Well. Well,” said the squire, speaking in dead sounds. He tried to bring life back to his voice. “Florence and I were worried about Eric. We talked all day about calling the doctor, and we also talked of the scandal. Our doctor would have been outraged. He might even have called the police. He was that kind of a martinet. We had the other two children to think of, and even Agnes, herself. And, as the day went on, Eric did appear to improve, didn’t he, Florence?”

  “Yes. A little,” said his wife. “We decided to wait until the next day to see if Eric would continue to improve or get worse. We didn’t realize — ”

  “I’m sure,” said the priest, wryly, “that those words are heard oftener in hell than any other. ‘We didn’t realize.’ But please continue.”

  “You can imagine how agitated and numb we were, Father. We tried to conceal everything from the servants, too. We wanted to protect Agnes
’ name and dignity, and now I see it was all useless. They knew all the time.

  “Agnes’ nurse, Rose Hennessey, was a good nurse, though she was quite young. It was her evening off; she had friends farther in town. She worked very hard, for Agnes could be trying, to say the least. Now, she testified that before leaving she said to me — Florence and I were discussing Eric’s condition in the morning-room — that she had prepared Mrs. Gould’s medicine and that I should give it to her at midnight I, myself, remember only that she said, ‘Please give Mrs. Gould her medicine at midnight.’ Florence does not recall anything else, either. We were too disturbed to listen fully.”

  The priest sat and thought. Then he said, “Was it customary for Rose to prepare your wife’s medicine before she left on her evening off?”

  The squire’s hands clenched on his cane. “Before God,” he said, with deep quietness, “I don’t remember. I didn’t remember then, either. That is why I don’t know — Rose said it was customary, to save me the bother, and to be sure that the exact dosage, three drops, had been measured out. But, I don’t remember! You must believe me. I don’t remember. The last twenty-four hours had wiped all thought for anyone but Eric out of my mind.

  “And so, at midnight, I went into my wife’s room. She was more than half asleep. The glass, partly filled with water, was on her bedside table. I measured drops of the colorless medicine into the water and woke her up. She was in a very bad temper. She said she didn’t need my ministrations; she kept up a babble of talk, even in her half-dozing state. She repeated, over and over, that she wished she had never married me, and that she had no children. She called me — various names. She ordered me from the room. I had come for only one purpose, she said.” The squire’s pale face flushed. “I left. And that is all, before God. But I cannot understand how a double dose could have killed her. The medicine was potent, yes. The doctors of the autopsy said she had died of much more, that a double dose might have caused her severe trouble but it would not have killed her. Florence! What is it?”

  For Florence was sitting upright in her chair, with a look of profound dread and horror on her face. “Geoffrey!” she cried. “Oh, dear God, Geoffrey! I killed her!”

  “No!” said her husband. He tried to pull her head to his shoulder, but she resisted him and drew away from him.

  “Let Mrs. Gould tell her story,” said the priest, in a sharp, loud voice. But his heart was hammering. The husband — he was protected by double jeopardy. But his wife was not.

  “I never read the newspapers! I couldn’t bear to!” said Florence, in a harsh and suffering voice. “And I only remember what you told me, yourself, that you had given Agnes her medicine. I didn’t think you had added anything to it; you never told me!”

  “Florence, my dear. Of course you didn’t read the newspapers, and afterwards we never talked of the matter again. What is wrong?”

  Florence turned desperately to the priest. “You must believe me! I didn’t read the newspapers! And, like Geoffrey, I thought Rose had merely said, ‘Please give Mrs. Gould her medicine at midnight.’ You must believe me! The girl was in a hurry. She testified that she had prepared the medicine and that she had told us. I don’t think she told us she had. I don’t think, now, that she had ever done so before! Geoffrey,” and now she turned to her husband, “we didn’t remember that she had ever done so, and that is why — After all, the girl had to protect herself, and it is possible that she actually thought she had prepared previous doses on her evening off. I don’t know! Geoffrey, Geoffrey, you must let me speak!”

  “Florence, you don’t know what this means — ”

  “There are no eavesdroppers here,” said the priest. “And what you are telling me will never be revealed by me, unless with your permission. Please go on, Mrs. Gould. There is something you want to tell me.”

  ‘Yes!” Florence’s eyes were distended and feverish. “I always brought Agnes her nine o’clock hot milk, when the nurse was off. It soothed her, and helped to make her sleep. As Geoffrey says, she was in a bad temper, after being so gay all through the day. She was drowsing, but she half sat up to drink the milk. I saw the partly filled glass of water on her bedside, and the medicine, and I — I measured out three drops and put them in the water. She didn’t see me. She just complained and sipped, and sighed and moaned. I hardly listened. She abused Geoffrey frightfully, and I tried not to hear. Then I took away her milk glass and told her that Geoffrey would be in at midnight to see that she was awake and to see that she took her medicine.” Florence stopped on a hard, dry sob.

  “Did you tell her, Mrs. Gould, that the drops were already in her glass?”

  “Yes! I never came with Geoffrey at midnight to see Agnes. That was their time alone together. I said, ‘Agnes, the medicine is ready, and good night, my dear.’ Then I left the room. She did not acknowledge that she had heard me, and didn’t answer me. She was in such a tantrum. I thought she had heard! But now I know she had not. Or, she had forgotten in her half-drugged state. Oh, my God, Father! I killed her!”

  “Florence!”

  The priest held up his hand. “Please wait,” he said. There was something stirring in his mind, something vague. “Mr. Gould, you’ve told me that when you went into your wife’s room, at midnight, she told you she didn’t need your ministrations. While she was upbraiding you, she didn’t notice that you had prepared her drops. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. She was more than half asleep when I went in. I had trouble in arousing her.” The squire’s eyes had begun to brighten, pleadingly, hopefully.

  “Did you actually see her take her medicine?”

  There was silence in the room, taut, alert. The squire and his wife stared at the priest. Then the squire said, slowly, “No, I did not. Strange, I didn’t remember, until now, that I had not seen her take it. I only said I had put the drops into her glass. I was not asked if I had actually seen her drink the water! My own lawyers did not ask; neither did the Crown Prosecutor. Nor did the judge. It was assumed, by me, my lawyers, the prosecutor, the judge, that she had drunk it while I was still there. If I had thought — but the things she had said to me, vile things, shut out any conjecture, in my own mind, as to whether or not I had seen her take the draught. I remember that when I was testifying my mind was preoccupied with despair, wondering about my children, and the disgrace, and asking myself how they would survive if I were — hanged. I can see why I was not asked; I had said I prepared the medicine and then had wakened my wife to take it.”

  “Assumptions,” said the priest, “have caused a lot of trouble in this world, and probably many hangings.”

  But the squire went on, as if he had not heard: “If she hadn’t been so abusive, if what she had said had not been so unjust and so cruel, I’d have stayed there until she drank that potion. But she ordered me out. She said she didn’t need my ministrations, and that she was capable enough, even though I wished her dead, to take excellent care of herself.”

  “Aha!” said the priest, rising in his excitement. “Is that exactly what she said?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Mrs. Gould, did you tell Mr. Gould that you had prepared the drops yourself?”

  Florence’s face went gray with concentration. “I told Geoffrey to give his wife her medicine at midnight, and that there was a glass waiting on her table.”

  “But you did not say you had put drops in yourself, those very words?”

  She stared at him, blankly. “Words, words?” she murmured. “No. No. I only said the glass was waiting.” She turned to her husband. “Is that what I said?”

  “Yes, my darling,” he said. Then he hesitated, and they both waited. “Frankly,” said the squire, “I wasn’t thinking of my wife at all. I hardly heard you, Florence. Only dimly do I remember that you mentioned the medicine Agnes would be needing at midnight and that there was a glass waiting. If you had not mentioned it now I should not have remembered at all.”

  The priest walked up and down the room. “
Mr. Gould, did your wife say anything more, at all, after she had said she didn’t need your ministrations, and could take care of herself, and after she had abused you?”

  “Help me,” prayed the squire, almost inaudibly. He shut his eyes again, and concentrated. “She only said she would take the medicine when she wished.” His eyes flew open. He half rose from his chair. “I didn’t remember that, either! Until now!”

  The priest sat down and smiled at the two extremely agitated people before him.

  “Was she quite awake after she began abusing you, Mr. Gould?”

  “A little later, yes. I was alarmed. She seemed so — extreme. In fact, I wondered, as I left the room, if I should suggest to her that she take a dose of her mild sedative. She threw a book she had been reading earlier in the day at me; it caught me on the shoulder. She shouted at me. I closed the door, and I could hear her anger even when I went down the corridor.”