Grandmother and the Priests (14 page)

Robert reproached her for using such a term, but she was not contrite. He spoke of law again. But the MacDougall was the law, the nun assured him, and that made matters all the more terrible. She would go to him at once. She did and reported back to Robert in as close to a state of hysteria as a Scotswoman can reach.

“I saw the lass, mesel’,” she wept. “Walkin’ in the garden with her cousin, the small dark one. She isna a true woman, Faether, though I had but a glimpse, she so haughty and cold, and not speaking to the small dark one who saw me and came to me and smiled like an angel. Why will he not have such a one as this, and not the other?”

“God knows,” said Robert, gloomily. He advanced the notion to the old lady that she prevail on some fisherman to deliver a message for her to the nearest large island, where there were Authorities. Mother M. Dominic was shocked afresh. “But the MacDougall is the Law!” she exclaimed.

It was useless. What the MacDougall did was right in the eyes of his people, many of whom were servile in their regard for him. He was a high, proud man. He was a despot. He did not appear again at Mass, not even on Sunday, and, of course, he did not come to Confession. Robert wrote him a note.

You are living in a state of mortal sin, my lord. And well you know it. You have committed a crime, have not confessed it and promised to make amends, and have not received absolution. Therefore, your immortal soul is in terrible danger. You live most dangerously. What if you die without sanctifying Grace? No human being should be more important to you than God. Too, you are a man of overweening pride and you are a tyrant. I will call you a despot, too.

You will say that all the MacDougalls have been despots, but it would not make it just or pardonable. You will say that you are benevolent, even if a despot, and I will say to you that a benevolent despot is more evil than a cruel one, for the people will rebel against cruelty in time but never — in their greed — against benevolence. Such is the corrupt nature of mankind. You are a man of intelligence and learning, and so your corruption of your people is then the more reprehensible and it is deliberate and done with full knowledge and with the full consent of your will. I need not remind you that he who corrupts his people with gifts and kindnesses, in return for the freedom which God gave them as a birthright, is accursed. He has taken on himself the nature of Satan.

You must, for your soul’s sake, free those young ladies and deliver them to Edinburgh to their friends, as you found them. You must free your people. Is it joy to your heart to see their servility, to have their mindless, unquestioning obedience — because you gift them and so buy their allegiance? Those who love you truly are not servile towards you; those who do not truly love you are like serfs under your hand. Is that the love you desire? I have walked among your people for days, and have talked with them. You say none would betray you. I say the servile will, for a price, for diey are men not of good will but only of sly and greedy spirit.

In all things, therefore, you have deeply offended God. Make your peace with Him.

He underlined the words in which he had said the servile would betray the MacDougall for a price. If nothing will bring him to his senses that will, thought Robert, sealing his letter before giving it to Mistress MacDougall to deliver for him. That proud-hearted man! thought the young priest, and he thought this with compassion, and then went into the church to pray for the MacDougall. He also prayed for Pamela Stone, and that her hopes would be fulfilled. It did not once occur to him to try to corrupt a man into betraying the MacDougall, and it would not have occurred even if he had had any money, which he had not. Benevolent despotism must cleanse itself, for the people would not cleanse themselves of it.

He did not know until later that what he had written had not been read scornfully by the MacDougall but with a deep frown and thoughtfulness.

Then one day, almost June, the MacDougall came to him, himself, greeting him with exuberance and just catching himself before he clapped the priest on a braced shoulder.

“My Mary will have me, at last, Faether!” he cried.

Robert felt sick and undone. He fumbled for a chair in his parlor and sat down heavily. He could not speak.

“There are terms,” said the MacDougall, and he seemed to fill the room.

The priest shook his head despairingly. The MacDougall laughed.

“She will marry me before ye, Faether, and will promise about the bairns. And after we are married she will take instructions.”

A soul was not to be despised. “Why not before?” asked Robert.

“I willna wait,” said Douglass. “Time for instructions later, we hae decided.”

“And the little lass?” asked Robert, more sick than before.

“Pamela?” The MacDougall was silent for a moment or two, then he said, “Had I not loved Mary first, or if I had seen Pamela first, then I should want her, for she hae a great heart and a lovely face.” His voice had changed considerably, and Robert glanced up with hope. “But not sae lovely a face as my Mary’s,” the MacDougall continued.

“There is a Chinese saying,” said Robert, praying passionately in his mind. “ ‘A mon who marries a woman for her face is like a mon who buys a hoose for its paint.’ The beauty will go, but what of the heart over the years?”

“She hae a proud, high heart,” said the MacDougall.

“Like yours,” said Robert. “Is that what ye wish?”

The MacDougall chuckled. “I am master of all women.”

“There was niver a mon,” said Robert, with aged wisdom, “who was ever master of any woman. Aweel. Let me hear the worst.”

The MacDougall was silent again, and Robert looked at him alertly. The MacDougall was scratching his poll of thick black curls, and his cheeks were bright red.

“There is a worst, then?” said Robert, hopefully.

The MacDougall’s laugh was very loud and very long. But it was false.

“Ye hae heard of Lady Godiva, Faether?” he said when he stopped laughing, and the stopping was very abrupt in the way of all simulated mirth. “Weel, then, my Mary — she of the proud, high heart — thinks to humble me. Ye have said I am a despot, and so thinks my Mary, and she will humble me. So, she will hae me if I walk through the streets of the hamlet at sundown, when a’ are at home, men and women and bairns, on the first day of June, in my mother-nakedness, with not even a boot on my feet.”

Robert could only stare at him and blink. The MacDougall chuckled again, but this time the sound was a trifle sickly. “I hae no fear that my folk will see me disgraced, Faether, for a’ ye have written that some are servile and would betray me for a fistful of pounds. And glad I am ye do not have them!”

“I would betray ye for nothing, nothing at all!” cried Robert, and then was aghast, remembering his threats.

The MacDougall, very serious now, even grave, looked deeply into the young priest’s eyes, and his own, gray and fierce, softened. “And it is true,” he said. “Ye wouldna betray me if they killed ye to do it. God love ye, Faether.”

Robert groaned. He was confused, and he was grief-stricken and wretched.

“Strange,” said the MacDougall, “but the little lass, Pamela, told me also, when I told her of my Mary’s command, that some of my folk would betray me. But I said to her, ‘Nay, it is not so. They will pull their curtains and shut their doors, and not a mon nor woman nor bairn will peep at me, but will hide himself in his hoose as if asleep, and I will walk through the streets with none to see.’ ”

“Ye would punish and humble yesel’ so?” asked Robert, incredulously.

“Nae more than standing or walking in my chamber at sundown, mother-naked, Faether, alone.”

“She would ask this of ye? A woman who professes to love ye?”

“To humble me, the dear lass hae said. It is little enough for my Mary. But after we are married — ”

Robert jumped up and cried, “It is nae to prove your love, nor to soften your despotism, which she knows, that she hae asked this silly and shameful thing of ye! It is to gain mastery over ye for life, ye puir fool, to set her foot upon your neck all the days of your life, to laugh in your face for what ye did in your folly! Do ye not see, mon? I hae called you a benevolent despot. But your Mary is a cruel one, and well ye shall rue it until the day ye die, and may God have mercy on your soul!”

The MacDougall’s face darkened dangerously.

“Ye do not even love her!” Robert said in his extremity. “I know this, in my heart! Ye are a despot, but benevolent, and ye are also a guid mon. It is not possible for sich as ye to love sich a woman. It is your pride, your ugly pride, that will not be wise and will not understand! Ye hae said ye will marry her, and marry her ye will, if God does not halt it, because when ye make up your foolish mind ye feel less manly if ye change it!”

“Silence!” said the MacDougall, and Robert fell back before the furious thunder of that voice. And then courage returned to him.

“Do what ye will. There is no gainsaying ye, for ye are proud and without wisdom at a’. But I tell ye that if I witness your wedding, as I must as your priest, for ye are Catholic for a’ your sins, it will be with a heavy heart and a sadness I hae never known before. But first ye must make your peace with God, in the Confessional, and receive absolution, and do penance, and one of the penances will be that ye free the little lass, Pamela Stone.”

The MacDougall had regained his usual good temper. “That I will do, a’ of it, and the day after I walk, for my Mary, that day I will hae Pamela taken to Edinburgh.” He took up his bonnet and said, “My Mary will visit ye, Faether, before we are married. But it could be ye’d prefer to dine with us?”

“No,” said Robert. He had not wanted to weep since he had been ten years old and now he was afraid that he would, right before the MacDougall, unless he left quickly.

The news was all about the hamlet before sundown, and every soul swore by the saints that he would hide himself and would not look. But Robert did not believe them all. He did not believe the servile ones, who would rejoice in seeing the mighty brought low, for all their professed devotion.

Robert thought of going to each of his flock and telling them to hide themselves and not peer at the laird, but all, even the servile ones, would vow and promise. Ye could not trust the servile ones! They would peep, ‘accidentally’ or inadvertently. They would be covered with sorrow, and in their mean hearts they would believe their protestations. Then they would confess their betrayal of their laird, and be so honestly — to them — contrite at the breaking of their promises that the priest would then not be able to do anything but absolve them and inflict penances, and they would march from the Confessional and make a large display of their penances — if they dared do it in public at all — and feel very virtuous, indeed. Who could pierce the dark and devious heart of man? Not even a priest.

Later, forgetting both contrition and betrayal, they would meanly snicker to a wife, a neighbor, a friend. Such was mankind. A servile people, losing awe and respect for their despot, would become a chaotic people, and this isle would suffer, and especially the innocent. It was always the innocent, at the last, who suffered from the cruel and the base.

Robert did not know what to do. He consulted with Mother M. Dominic, who thought exactly as he did, and who had little charity in her heart for mankind. “I hae lived a long life, Faether,” she said, “and I hae seen many things, and few there were that were guid. I hae dealt with children for sixty years or more, and it was the rare bairn that lifted my heart and made my soul glad. The MacDougall was one of the few, and ye say he is a despot, and so it is, and my heart is heavy.”

Robert knew that cold, proud women were selfish, and that selfish people can love no one but themselves. He had no doubt but that Mary Joyce was fascinated, in spite of her nature, by the MacDougall, but it was a fascination, and even a gratitude, which was based on her own self-love and on her pride that such as the MacDougall could want her and go to such extremities to have her. He appreciated her, therefore, for what she thought she was, and so she could extend her own self-love for a little to the one who had confirmed her opinion of herself. Yes, it was only gratitude and approval; even then, had she not seen Pamela’s obvious love for him, and had not her amour-propre been angrily aroused, she would still have rejected him. So, there was spite mixed with her fascination. She could not have borne that at the last the MacDougall might have preferred Pamela to herself. Rumors move fast even in isolated hamlets which only occasionally get newspapers from the outside world. There were claims that Mary Joyce’s father had numerous sons, all in his counting-houses, and like many Scotsmen he preferred his sons to his daughter. Mary, with all her airs and graces, was not really an heiress. Her father considered that such a beauty as his Mary should marry well on her own. The MacDougall was no bad catch. He was really rich. A rich girl, the only heir, would long have been claimed by other men had those men been assured of a very substantial dowry. The dowry would not be forthcoming.