Grandmother and the Priests by Taylor Caldwell Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Taylor Caldwell
Tags: Roman, Catholic, irish, Miracles, bishop, Scots, priest, Welsh, Early 20th Century, Sassenagh, late nineteenth century, Monsignori, Sassenach, mass
remaining walls overgrown with ivy, it was hard to believe that anyone lived there at all, and especially not two young people filled with joy and the celebration of life.
The younger brother lived in a hut a quarter of a mile from the castle, and he lived as rudely as his shepherds. What little income the family had came from rents in the village, the sale of wool and mutton to hard-eyed English traders. Even that small income was depleted by taxes demanded by London Town. There was only an old female servant in the castle. Lady Dolores, nineteen years old, was dressed as poorly as any village girl. If Lord Cunningham, twenty-eight, hunted, it was for food and not for sport. He was too poor to be welcome even among his impoverished colleagues in other counties, and as he was quiet and shy he was let quite alone.
Lady Dolores had been the only child of a family as impoverished as Lord Cunningham’s, noble and old, if without a title. She had been born in County Mayo, and from birth had been extraordinarily beautiful, with wide, dark blue eyes, skin like the petals of a white daisy, and hair that resembled black silk. Her family had sent her to a convent-school in Dublin, and had had their dreams that one day their Dolores would marry into wealth and a title. They garnered their last pounds before them and gave a reception for their daughter when she was eighteen years old, and invited the gentry and nobility for miles around. Lord Cunningham and his brother, Henry Laurance, had been invited, and sensing an opportunity for some pleasure, and some free meals and a little dancing and gaiety, had accepted. There had been considerable scurrying for the proper clothing, some sale of sheep, some accepted debt. But when they appeared at the dilapidated home of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick MacMuir they had created a sensation, for they were fine figures of young men. Henry was even more handsome than his brother. Michael was three inches shorter, though still tall; his smooth brown hair was gold on his brother; his pale blue eyes were a brighter blue in Henry’s face; his overly large nose was patrician on Henry. He had a gentler chin and a more retiring air than his brother, and did not stand out in the assemblage.
Still, he would have been considered very handsome — had it not been for the glowing presence of Henry, Henry who appeared like a young Irish Tara, with a touch of Apollo in his profile.
Both young men had the Irish indifference to immediate wealth, and the Irish love for serenity and life. Michael, to the horror of his people, had enlisted in Her Majesty’s Navy, had acquired a bullet in ‘some heathen place’, and had subsequently received a pension, which was more than could be said for Henry. Neither of the young men had been educated to make his living. After all, lords do not go into the market place, particularly Irish lords. And Henry liked the bucolic life.
“No one ever suspected, except myself, and one other, that poor Henry was really stupid,” said Monsignor Harrington-Smith. “Beautiful as a Greek god, but absolutely stupid.” Monsignor hesitated, then went on resolutely: “One sees that, in decayed families. Michael was the one with the brains, though he put them to little use. He preferred living in their molding castle than to take lodgings in London and learn a profession. He loved his country.” Monsignor reflected. “There is a lot to be said for that, even in these bustling, modern days. Love of country appears to be degenerating everywhere, and when that happens — the barbarian comes in.”
Dolores MacMuir was indeed a great beauty. But she had no money, and her countrymen, even the eligibles, had no money either. Her parents could count on leaving her only two hundred pounds a year. Noble sons were all about them, drinking the free beer and whiskey, and hardly a penny among them. Of course, there were rich families in Dublin, but sons of rich families wanted to
The younger brother lived in a hut a quarter of a mile from the castle, and he lived as rudely as his shepherds. What little income the family had came from rents in the village, the sale of wool and mutton to hard-eyed English traders. Even that small income was depleted by taxes demanded by London Town. There was only an old female servant in the castle. Lady Dolores, nineteen years old, was dressed as poorly as any village girl. If Lord Cunningham, twenty-eight, hunted, it was for food and not for sport. He was too poor to be welcome even among his impoverished colleagues in other counties, and as he was quiet and shy he was let quite alone.
Lady Dolores had been the only child of a family as impoverished as Lord Cunningham’s, noble and old, if without a title. She had been born in County Mayo, and from birth had been extraordinarily beautiful, with wide, dark blue eyes, skin like the petals of a white daisy, and hair that resembled black silk. Her family had sent her to a convent-school in Dublin, and had had their dreams that one day their Dolores would marry into wealth and a title. They garnered their last pounds before them and gave a reception for their daughter when she was eighteen years old, and invited the gentry and nobility for miles around. Lord Cunningham and his brother, Henry Laurance, had been invited, and sensing an opportunity for some pleasure, and some free meals and a little dancing and gaiety, had accepted. There had been considerable scurrying for the proper clothing, some sale of sheep, some accepted debt. But when they appeared at the dilapidated home of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick MacMuir they had created a sensation, for they were fine figures of young men. Henry was even more handsome than his brother. Michael was three inches shorter, though still tall; his smooth brown hair was gold on his brother; his pale blue eyes were a brighter blue in Henry’s face; his overly large nose was patrician on Henry. He had a gentler chin and a more retiring air than his brother, and did not stand out in the assemblage.
Still, he would have been considered very handsome — had it not been for the glowing presence of Henry, Henry who appeared like a young Irish Tara, with a touch of Apollo in his profile.
Both young men had the Irish indifference to immediate wealth, and the Irish love for serenity and life. Michael, to the horror of his people, had enlisted in Her Majesty’s Navy, had acquired a bullet in ‘some heathen place’, and had subsequently received a pension, which was more than could be said for Henry. Neither of the young men had been educated to make his living. After all, lords do not go into the market place, particularly Irish lords. And Henry liked the bucolic life.
“No one ever suspected, except myself, and one other, that poor Henry was really stupid,” said Monsignor Harrington-Smith. “Beautiful as a Greek god, but absolutely stupid.” Monsignor hesitated, then went on resolutely: “One sees that, in decayed families. Michael was the one with the brains, though he put them to little use. He preferred living in their molding castle than to take lodgings in London and learn a profession. He loved his country.” Monsignor reflected. “There is a lot to be said for that, even in these bustling, modern days. Love of country appears to be degenerating everywhere, and when that happens — the barbarian comes in.”
Dolores MacMuir was indeed a great beauty. But she had no money, and her countrymen, even the eligibles, had no money either. Her parents could count on leaving her only two hundred pounds a year. Noble sons were all about them, drinking the free beer and whiskey, and hardly a penny among them. Of course, there were rich families in Dublin, but sons of rich families wanted to