The Wide House

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  A little later Stuart looked at the draft in his hand for seven thousand dollars. He did not look at the corner in which had stood his cabinet, and its treasures. He put the draft in his pocket, threw his coat over his shoulders, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and went out, calling for his carriage. He was driven to Father Houlihan’s house. As he had not looked at the empty corner where his cabinet had stood in its lovely glory, so he did not glance at the gutted shell of the little white church near the priest’s house, its blackened fragments partially covered by dirty snow. He went into the house, and was greeted by Mrs. O’Keefe, who had become old in these weeks, and whose eyes were constantly puffed by weeping. Stuart frowned at her, while his heart ached. “It’s cold here,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I sent an order for eight tons of coal. Haven’t they arrived? Well, then, I could have had some of my own brought over. Such nonsense.”

  But there was a small fire in the priest’s bedroom. Father Houlihan, sunken and aged, lay listlessly on his pillows. It was an effort for him to turn his head when Stuart entered. He tried to smile. His hands were still bandaged, and a healing burn scar marked his cheek lividly. Stuart sat down near him, and smiled briskly. “I’ve brought you some excellent port, Grundy,” he said. “Three big glasses a day, with an egg beaten up in it, remember. Get you on your feet in no time.”

  “Stuart,” said the priest, and then could not speak through his thickened throat. His eyes, so faded now, were almost colorless, drained by his tears and his agony. Yes, reflected Stuart, the world had become too much for this harmless, good old man. He made himself scowl. “You’ve got to get up, Grundy. You can’t lie like this forever. What will your new assistant think, when he arrives tomorrow? You always had plenty of grit, old feller. You’ve still got it. And Malone says there is no reason in the world while you shouldn’t be up and about.”

  The priest said nothing. He only gazed at Stuart as if the very sight of him was life-giving, and consoling.

  Stuart drew out the draft and laid it on the quilt. “There is seven thousand dollars. Enough to begin again, for a church. We’ll make it bigger and handsomer, Grundy. Gray stone this time, perhaps, with rich Italian doors. I’ve already ordered the doors. They’ll not keep you down, Grundy, poor old boy.”

  The priest lifted the draft in his bandaged fingers. He stared at it. He burst into silent tears. “Good God,” fumed Stuart, wiping the tears away with his own kerchief. “That’s no way to receive largesse. You’ve taken to weeping like a drunkard to his bottle. Be a man, Grundy, or I’ll be sorry I came.”

  The priest was trying to speak. “Stuart, where did you get this money?” he croaked. “I can’t take it lad. You need it. Where did you get it?”

  “Never you mind,” said Stuart, bluffly. “It—it was an unexpected profit. I’ve been doing a little something in Wall Street. Very unexpected. You might as well have it I don’t need it, damned if I do.”

  The priest began to shake his head, his heart too full for speech. “Don’t be an ass, Grundy,” said Stuart, irately. “Look here. You’ve always been trying to get me into your confounded church. I’ll make a bargain with you. When the church is finished, I’ll be the first in a pew. How is that? You can preach to me, and I won’t yawn in your face. You can go on with your mumbo-jumbo, and I’ll be as respectful as hell. I’ll even kneel, confound you.”

  Father Houlihan’s tears flowed more slowly. Suddenly, he began to smile. Finally, while Stuart watched him naïvely, he even laughed. At that strange and unaccustomed sound, Mrs. O’Keefe popped into the room, amazed. Father Houlihan’s laughter became somewhat hysterical, and he waved the draft at his sister. She took it, began to cry soundlessly, throwing her apron over her face.

  Stuart stood up. “Damned if I’m going to sit here and be drowned,” he said. “Don’t forget, Sarah. Three glasses of port, with an egg beaten up in them. And, Grundy, you mustn’t worry about—anything. I’ll take care of your worries. I only want to see you on your feet again. We’ve come a long way together, old boy. First you hold me up, then I hold you up. We’ll come over all of them yet, Grundy. Tomorrow, when I come, I expect to see you downstairs, full of ginger again, receiving your new assistant with proper dignity.”

  Father Houlihan’s face changed, became somber and desperate. “Stuart,” he began, “I won’t—”

  “Now, now, no more talking. You must rest. Didn’t I tell you I would take care of your worries? You’ll see: there is nothing to be distressed about. Why, Grundy, I’d give my soul to help you, you know that; not that my soul is worth anything. Probably mortgaged to the devil a long time ago.”

  But the priest’s expression had changed again, become solemn and tender. He lifted one bandaged hand, beckoned Stuart to him. Then, very gently, he made the sign of the Cross before his friend’s face. “God bless you, and keep you, Stuart,” he whispered. “If there is a mortgage on your soul, God holds it, and will redeem it”.

  The bishop’s house was cold also, for all its discreet comfort and austere dignity. He had given away most of his coal to the poor and the deprived. But he sat in his black robes before the smallest of fires, a little thin with a lean ascetic face and bright cold eyes. His ring flashed in the candlelight, as he restlessly tapped with his hand on the carved arm of his chair. He regarded Stuart aloofly.

  “Do you not think it impertinent of you, Mr. Coleman, to come into this house requesting, nay demanding, what you call ‘consideration’ for Father Houlihan? Are you not aware of the impropriety of your—request? I cannot recall such a situation in my experience, which has been long. You are a Protestant. I do not believe that even a Catholic would be so presumptuous in a matter which can concern only myself and Father Houlihan. I should call this impudence, did I not know that only your ignorance of churchly etiquette prompted your visit.”

  “Oh—,” said Stuart, impatiently, then caught back the oath. He reminded himself that angry words would not benefit his friend. He controlled himself. But his exhausted face became suffused. He choked on his words.

  “Moreover,” continued the bishop, sternly. “I resent the fact that you have sent to me a delegation consisting of his honor, the Mayor, your kinsman, Judge Cauder, and assorted dignitaries and prominent gentlemen of Grandeville. You imply, in all your acts, that I am incapable of managing the affairs of this diocese. Or worse, that I am personally hostile to Father Houlihan. Really, this is outrageous. I must remind you, Mr. Coleman, that the affairs of this diocese are mine, not yours, and while I am not insensible to your kindness, nor to your love for Father Houlihan, I naturally resent all this impertinence.”

  “Impertinence, hell!” exclaimed Stuart, unable to restrain himself now. “All these stately phrases. I only know that you’ve never understood poor old Grundy. You’ve been too damned severe with him. You’ve never considered him a gentleman. You’ve frowned on his activities.

  “You’ve written me letters of thanks, and summoned me here to thank me personally, for what you have considered my ‘generosity’ to your Church. Hasn’t it ever occurred to your Reverence that what little I have done has been done for Grundy—”

  “Grundy?” interrupted the bishop, flushing with affront.

  Stuart waved his hand irately. “Yes, Grundy. I call him that, for a personal reason. Please let me finish. You’ve heard me call him Grundy a hundred times, yet you always pretend to be bewildered when I use the name.” He drew a deep breath, flashed his angry black eyes at the bishop. “Well, then. I didn’t help Grundy because he is a priest, but in spite of it. I love him. He’s a wonderful old beggar. He’s marvelous. He’s a saint. I love the ground he walks on. Everything I’ve done—the church, the school, the convent, the hospital, has been only for him, not for your Church. Dozens of others, non-Catholics, have helped your Church, at my suggestion and instigation. Because they, too, honor and love poor old Grundy. Because they know he is good and sincere and gentle and honorable. I’ve told you my plans for a new church. If y
ou insist on removing the old fellow, I withdraw my offer. I’ll tear up the damned draft And I promise you that your Church will get no further help from my friends, either. You’ll antagonize every decent man in the city, Protestant and Catholic alike.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Coleman?” cried the bishop, turning purple. “Dare you threaten me?”

  “I’ll dare anything for old Grundy,” said Stuart, with hard resolution. “And I warn your Reverence that if you stick him away in some monastery or other, in the name of ‘discipline,’ you’ll regret the day. I mean it. I’ll fight to the death for the poor old chap, whose only sin is that he loved an accursed humanity, and believed in it, and fought for it”

  The bishop was almost beyond speech. He struggled for breath. It was hard for him to control himself, to retain his dignity. Finally, he began to speak, in a strangled voice:

  “I owe you no explanation, Mr. Coleman. I need say nothing to you. I could request you leave this house at once. But I am remembering your kindness and generosity, and am patient with you.

  “For years, I have warned Father Houlihan to refrain from his dangerous activities. It is not in the province of a priest to engage in popular, and secular, agitations. His work is the saving of souls, the proper administration of his parish. But Father Houlihan has been guilty of addressing motley audiences of workingmen, urging them to demand what he declares are ‘better wages and living conditions.’ He has been a firebrand, agitating in causes which cannot, and must not, concern him. He has infuriated influential gentlemen in this city, both Catholic and Protestant He has gone about proclaiming loudly against what he chooses to call ‘intolerance and hatred and oppression.’ I have warned him repeatedly—”

  Stuart sprang to his feet. He cried out: “‘Saving souls’! Why, curse it, what is ‘saving souls’? Sprinkling holy water on sarving men, uttering pious imbecilities over children who are dying for want of food, urging oppressed laborers to be patient under the yoke of their exploitation? Have you heard of revolutions, your Reverence? In spite of the priests, there have been bloody revolutions because the people could no longer endure their agonies and their starvation, and the cruelties of their masters. And the Church has suffered in those revolutions, because she has refrained from standing with the humble and the desperate, whom Christ loved, against those He hated and denounced. Have you not thought what a power the Church could be, if she set her face against the murderers, the tyrants, the oppressors? The world is full of atheists, non-believers, haters of religion, because the ‘men of God’ have rarely seen fit to champion the suffering and to denounce those who have inflicted that suffering!”

  The bishop, his face convulsed, tried to rise, but before Stuart’s wild passion and crying words, he sank back again in his chair, speechless, petrified.

  Stuart paused. “You may please a group of bast—, of rascals, if you remove old Grundy from his parish, which he has served so faithfully and so tenderly. Yes, you may please them. But you will, really ‘infuriate’ ten thousand of Grundy’s friends, and they, too, are influential, and have power. Have you considered that? Have you thought of their angry sentiments against you, and against your Church?”

  The bishop was silent. He stared steadily at Stuart. His hands had begun to tremble. Finally, he began to rub his chin.

  He said, almost gently: “There is much in what you say, Mr. Coleman. I realized, of course, that there was a great friendship between you and Father Houlihan, but I confess that I did not understand how great it really is. There is much to be said for a priest who can inspire such fervid sentiments, especially among those who are not of his Church. I shall take this fact into consideration in my final disposition of Father Houlihan’s case. Mother Mary Elizabeth has also pleaded for him, which surprised me, as I was not aware she held him in such high regard.” And the bishop smiled.

  A huge flooding of relief filled Stuart. He stammered: “Thank you, thank you. And, Monsignor, I ask you to pardon my vehemence, and my disrespectful approach. But I became frantic—If you could have seen him today, as I have seen him so many days since that calamity, you would have been overcome with grief for him. If your Reverence would but send him a word of kindness, through me, perhaps, or by letter, a word of sympathy—”

  The bishop spoke austerely. “Mr. Coleman, I beg of you. I need no suggestions.”

  “I assure your Reverence that I meant no impertinence,” said Stuart, hurriedly. “But I know what joy it will bring to Grundy if he receives a word from you, the smallest word of consolation.”

  The bishop’s smile was slightly less bleak. He shook his head with faint amusement. “You must allow me to conduct the affairs of my diocese in my own way, sir.”

  “Certainly, certainly! I meant no harm.” Stuart hesitated. His blotched and haggard face took on the sudden smoothness of youth and simple eagerness. “There is another thing, Monsignor. I understand that you have often spoken to Grundy about my coming into your Church. Damn it, sir, I confess I have no faith in anything, and, to be honest, I never could have faith. But, if it will please you, and incline you to poor old Grundy, I shall be glad to come into the Church—”

  The bishop stared. Then, though he tried to restrain himself, he began to laugh, softly at first, then with gathering tempo. Stuart regarded him with affront, frowning. When the bishop paused for breath, Stuart said, with dignity: “I am pleased that I have amused your Reverence, though how, I confess I do not know.”

  “We strike no bargains for souls, Mr. Coleman,” said the bishop, with something quite warm in his august voice. “It is not possible to say: ‘If you will do this for me I shall allow you to save my soul.’ A man must feel an overpowering urge to come into the Church. He cannot buy a favor with his soul. His soul is not his to use as a bribe.”

  But he extended his hand to Stuart, and looked up into his face with an affectionate curiosity and a peculiar regard. “You have given me food for thought, Mr. Coleman, though you could not understand in what way. Do not worry yourself needlessly over your friend. With God’s help, I shall find a merciful solution.”

  CHAPTER 71

  Stuart, as he returned to his house, felt more peace, and more hope, than he had felt for months. He was firmly assured that nothing distressing would happen to his friend. His first impulse had been to return to the priest’s house and joyously communicate the news, but some rare and unusual discretion prevented him from this. Old Grundy would probably be more than scandalized, more than appalled. Absurd. These churchmen always delicately hesitated at the direct approach. They preferred to skirt and detour and mince, as if dancing a confounded minuet, and they must be careful to strike the proper attitudes and bow and sidle with the correct gestures. Stuart was exhilarated.

  Marvina and Mary Rose were expected home in the next week or so. Stuart, tossing his cane, hat and coat upon a small chair, was tenderly pleased to find a letter from his small daughter, full of childish love and of joy in the prospect of returning home to her father. There were also a number of formidable letters bearing upon them the addresses and names of New York lawyers. Stuart, as usual, flung them aside, covered them with the day’s newspaper. Once out of sight, they had little power to annoy him until he accidentally uncovered them again. There was a letter from Laurie, also. He tore it open, eagerly, and by the dim March light creeping through the windows, he stood in the hall and read it.

  “My darling Stuart,” Laurie had written, and though her words were not impatient there was a harder angle in her writing, a darker stroke than usual in her capitals: “As I have told you before I sympathize with all my heart, and can only wish that in some way I could alleviate your distress. Your last letter contained twelve pages, and nine of them were filled with descriptions of the sufferings and prostration of your friend, the priest, and maledictions against those who inflicted this suffering, and against those who killed poor Mr. Berkowitz. It touches me to read these proofs of your single-hearted generosity and loyalty and faithfulnes
s to your friends, and I am sorry that so far there has been no response to your advertisements. Doubtless, there will be. As you have said: ‘Who can resist ten thousand dollars?’ However, though I wrote you fully about my notices, and sent you clippings, and described the ovation given me after my last appearances, you mention nothing of them. I understand, most certainly, that more important affairs now occupy your attention, but my vanity is sorely wounded, I am afraid. After all, your praise and sympathy and love are more to me than the applause of thousands, and the adoration of many strangers. But I have told you this before until you must find it tedious.

  “You say that when you leave to bring Marvina and Mary Rose home from the mountains you will come to New York first. How delightful a prospect this is! I have not seen you since Christmas. The occasion will be one of exceptional joy to me. In New York the belief is very firm that the war will be concluded early this summer, and then there will be no reason why I should not go to Europe again. Nor have I abandoned by intention of persuading you to go with me, or, rather, to accompany me, for three months. But we shall discuss this when I see you next, which I pray will not be too long delayed. I might say, in closing, that I wear constantly the diamond and pearl-brooch and the earrings with which you presented me at Christmas, and constantly receive the most extravagant compliments on them. Your taste, as always, is impeccable.”

  Stuart sighed, as he put the letter in his inner pocket. Even women like Laurie could not disassociate themselves from their immediate and exigent private desires. He had felt a coldness in her letter, a stately chill, a cool offense. He was suddenly bereft, alone, filled with a tired and aching loneliness. Even love, it seemed, was a greedy emotion, and had in it no sympathy or tenderness for the torments of the beloved’s soul.