The Paradise Tree

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “I’ll go, Pa,” volunteered Charlie.

  “There’s a good man,” said Pa. “Send them directly to meet me at the shack. There are three points to keep in mind to help us stay as discreet as possible about this business. Number one, a murder might well have been committed. We will not know for certain until Dr. Kinney, as the county coroner, examines the body. Secondly, ‘tis highly likely a pregnancy was concealed, which is against the law in Ontario. As local magistrate, ‘tis my duty to investigate both the potential murder and the concealment. Thirdly, the fact that someone left the babe on our property means they want to pin the deed on our family, knowing I have daughters.” Bridget gasped in horror. Pa went on. “We’ll tell your mother and the girls that a dead lamb was found in the sugar shack, put there as a prank. That will upset them more than enough. And ’tis but another way of expressing the truth. The babe is a lamb, sacrificed at the altar of lust.”

  Pa moved to open the parlor door. “Now, Charlie, get a bite of food in the kitchen then be off. Bridget, you help your mother preside at table. I’ll go see what’s in the shack.”

  “Yes, Pa,” said Bridget trembling. After washing up in the kitchen, she made her way back to the dining room, said a quiet grace and began to mechanically put the food onto her plate as it was passed. She felt Ma’s eyes upon her but dared not meet her gaze. The topic of discussion was Purgatory; Annie, Lottie and Mr. Horn were debating the ministers.

  “But Reverend Mr. Hill,” Annie was saying, “the Book of Maccabees states: ‘It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed of their sins.’”

  “What’s happened, Miss Bridget?” asked Mr. Smith. Bridget told them the story about the slain lamb. She refused to look at her mother.

  “Monstrous, how monstrous!” exclaimed Mr. Brown. Tears gushed forth from Lottie. Mr. Horn’s bushy eyebrows furrowed, and he rose from the table without a word and went out the front door.

  “How hideous! Who would kill a lamb then just leave it?” sobbed Lottie.

  Bridget finally glanced at her mother. Ma’s eyes blazed at her so piercingly that they burned through her soul. She was glad when the dinner was over and the ministers graciously took their leave. She assisted Ma clean up by washing the dishes. The girls helped, too, and then went to fetch more water from the well.

  “I know, Bridget Gabrielle Mary,” said Ma. “I know.”

  “What do you know, Ma?” asked Bridget, trying to sound blithe.

  “I know that there is more to this than a dead lamb. What’s the story?”

  “Ma,” said Bridget firmly, “I have told you all I can say.”

  “Well, where’s Charlie?”

  “He’s helping Pa, I suppose.”

  Ma slammed down a platter. “Oh, I catch on. Your Pa does not want to be distressing me. Well, he’d better be realizing that by not telling me what has happened he is vexing me a great deal more!”

  “Yes, Ma. But that’s for you and Pa to discuss together.”

  Ma fell silent. When she had finished sweeping the kitchen she went out to the loom house, letting the kitchen door bang behind her. Bridget sighed and went upstairs to finish some sewing. She wondered if Dr. Kinney had arrived yet and what he had discovered concerning the little victim in the sugar shack. She also thought about what Charlie had told her concerning Anthony, although her own problems seemed trivial now.

  It was supper-time when Pa returned. Mr. Horn and Charlie were with him. “Well now, a long time it took three grown men to bury one wee lamb,” Ma commented as they sat down to eat their soup, bread and cheese. Pa said nothing, but asked the blessing and began to eat quietly. Bridget thought he had aged noticeably since the morning. Mr. Horn’s white hair was wilder than usual and weariness weighed upon his brow. Charlie had retreated into one of his silent moods. The younger girls sensed the somber spirit that had descended upon the table and were quiet as well. After washing up the supper dishes they knelt in the parlor and prayed their family rosary.

  It was a fair evening; the skies were radiant with rose-gold and lapis lazuli. The breezes from the lake were sweet. The whippoorwills were calling their goodnights, the crickets chirped and, from far away, a loon called. It was the hour that Bridget usually had her Latin lesson with Mr. Horn. On such fine summer evenings they studied on the back porch where they could concentrate since everyone else was on the front porch. Bridget found it useful to study with the old Scottish professor during her summer vacations so that she had a firm grasp of the various subjects when she returned to teaching in the fall. Lighting a lantern, she began translating from their dog-eared Latin reader, De Viris Illustribus. She had translated about half a page when she paused.

  “Did Dr. Kinney ever arrive?” she asked in an undertone.

  “Aye, Bridget. Squire McArdle sent him a telegraph from the hotel in Lyndhurst; he arrived on horseback late in the afternoon, and McArdle brought him down to the sugar shack. He examined the bairn. ‘Twas a wee lassie, newborn.” He hesitated a long minute; when he spoke again his voice was full of tears. “Her neck was broken. She had been strangled.”

  Bridget felt her throat constricting as if she herself were choking. Mr. Horn continued. “We buried her at St. Philip Neri’s. The priest will read the burial service over her next time he comes that way. We sent word to him and requested that a Mass be said. We know not whether she was baptized or not.”

  “Who would baptize a baby and then kill it?” wondered Bridget aloud. Her voice sounded hoarse and dry. “At any rate, Father Spratt will know what prayers to say.”

  “Aye,” replied the professor, soberly. “Dr. Kinney is staying at the hotel in Lyndhurst and will write up his report tomorrow. He’s going to try to keep it as quiet as possible.”

  They spoke no more about it, but finished the lesson and then Bridget went upstairs to bed. The winds and the familiar night sounds calmed her nerves somewhat and she slept. She dreamed of the river bank and of Mrs. Barnes, who was pointing towards the forest. In the dream, Bridget ran into the forest, which was full of little children. One of the children, a little girl, was crying. Bridget picked her up and tried to comfort her. As she sang to the child, she grew rigid in her arms until Bridget realized she was dead. She tried to scream, but could not. The child vanished, turning into a cold mist. Bridget began to run through the forest, which turned into a swamp with snakes in the trees. She was knee deep in mud. She struggled along until she came to a field. The field was vaguely familiar. A little boy with black hair was standing in it. He pointed towards a farmhouse. It was a brick house of a well-to-do family. On top there was a weathervane shaped like a running horse. Suddenly, the wind picked up and the weathervane began to spin furiously until it was nothing but a blur.

  Bridget awoke with a start. It was dawn and a robin was singing outside her window. She could hear Lottie and Annie chattering at their washbasin. She experienced a rush of joy as she realized it had only been a dream. Then she remembered the murder. She dressed quickly, and ran out to the barn where she knew Pa and Charlie were milking the cows. Conn, the hound, barked happily in greeting. She told Pa about her dream as he sat on the milking stool. He looked at her quizzically.

  “Now, Bridget, darlin’. You’re nigh twenty-seven years old. You should know not to pay attention to dreams. This matter has put your heart crossways, and there’s an end to it.” Charlie said nothing, but kept milking the other cow.

  “But, but, it was so real, Pa” she insisted. “And the brick house was some place around here, I just know it!”

  “‘Twas the McArdles’ house, no doubt,” said Pa.

  “No, no, it wasn’t. It was a house I have never seen before, at least not up close.”

  “Go have breakfast, daughter. Your mind will be clearing up after some tea.”

  “Yes, Pa.” She left the barn and walked towards the house, feeling like a foolish child. Mr. Horn was standing in the front yard, having a morning smoke on his pipe. She bade him “Go
od morning.” Then she said, “I had a strange dream last night, Professor.”

  “Did you now?” He took a long puff. “Let’s hear it.” She related the dream to him. “Hmmm. That brick house. Sounds like the Kelly place.” In his capacity as schoolmaster for so many years, Mr. Horn had visited most of the houses in the vicinity. “I think I will walk over there after breakfast and pay a friendly call upon the Kelly clan.” He winked at her and continued smoking quietly. Bridget went into the house and helped her mother put breakfast on the table.

  Mr. Horn went out after breakfast. Squire McArdle came by and he and Pa spent a long time conferring in the parlor. As for Bridget and her sisters, the morning passed quietly with their usual Friday chores of dusting and scrubbing. The fish they had caught yesterday were fried up for dinner and served with potatoes and greens. Mr. Horn had not yet returned when it was time to sit down and eat.

  “Where’s Horn?” asked Pa, as he took his chair.

  “Mr. Horn said he was going to call upon the Kellys,” said Bridget.

  “Now why ever would he be doing that?” wondered Ma. Bridget said nothing and her father gave her a sharp look.

  “He should have returned by now,” Pa mused. “I cannot imagine him having that much to say to the Kellys.”

  “Perhaps we should go look for him after dinner to make certain he is well,” suggested Annie.

  “I shall go, and Bridget Gabrielle shall accompany me,” said Pa.

  After dinner, Bridget found her hat and went with Pa. “Did you tell Mr. Horn about that dream of yours?” he asked quietly.

  “I did, Pa,” Bridget responded. The sun was hot above them and the wind brisk as they started the across the fields. Pa was aiming for the woods and the path that was a shortcut to the Kellys.

  “Bridget, might you be knowing that Squire McArdle called this morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And have you an inkling of what he spoke to me about?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Pa cleared his throat. “McArdle has been investigating on his own, asking questions here and there, and has discovered that the Kellys’ housemaid has been suspected of being in the family way.”

  “Oh, so the house in my dream is the Kellys’!” exclaimed Bridget.

  “What I am telling you, daughter, is that we can find the truth without resorting to dream interpretation. Furthermore, I want you out of this matter. It is not appropriate for an unmarried girl to be involved in such brutal business. Why, if I don’t want your mother to know of it, she who has borne many children and buried two, then it stands to reason, does it not, that it is not fitting for you to occupy yourself with it. I have been a magistrate for nigh on twenty years; please trust me to manage this sordid affair.”

  “Yes, Pa,” she said. He was right, she thought to herself. The very idea of the murder made her feel queasy.

  They passed the Saddle Rock and eventually came to the forest where they found the winding path. They were not too deep into the forest when Bridget cried out, “Look, Pa!” There was a person prone upon the ground on the path ahead. “It’s Mr. Horn!” They ran forward. It was indeed the professor, lying face down.

  Pa gently turned him over and felt his heart. “He is dead,” he said incredulously, making the sign of the Cross. Bridget blessed herself also as tears welled into her eyes. What had happened? Had she sent Mr. Horn to his death? His face looked peaceful in its final stillness. Then she noticed that he had something clenched in his right fist.

  “There is something in his hand!” she exclaimed. Pa pried open Mr. Horn’s hand. It was a torn piece of paper. “It looks like a letter!”

  “I don’t have me eyeglasses,” muttered Pa. “You read it.” And he handed to her what appeared to be the lower portion of a letter, penned in a semi-legible scrawl. She slowly read it aloud:

  While you must have no doubt of my love for you know that I can do nothing for you or your child. I already have several children to rear. You must ask your family for help. Or go west or to the states and start a new life under another name. Please remember me fondly as one who truly loves you in spite of himself and his weaknesses.

  Yours,

  Patrick Ivey

  Bridget and her father regarded each other with shock. “Patrick! Cousin Julia’s husband!” she cried.

  “So Ivey has a part to play in this tragedy,” her father murmured. “I might have known.” It was then he noticed Mr. Horn’s boots. “Look here, the boots are still soaked and there is mud caked on them as well. He must have been in a hurry to walk right through a stream or a marsh or a puddle without bothering to go around it.”

  “And look!” Bridget jumped to her feet, pointing to the path. On a flat rock there was the footprint of a large dog. “There was a dog chasing him.”

  “Ah, the Kellys have two mastiffs.” Her father examined the ground as he spoke. “Yes, there are several marks in the dirt as well, fresh tracks.” He turned the body over again.

  “And his jacket and shirt are torn! Ripped by a dog’s fangs, I would think!” Bridget declared.

  “The dog must have been chasing him and leaped upon him when it caught up with him. He must have been running and had heart failure. My poor friend!” Pa choked on the words. “Go home, Brig my girl, and fetch one of the horses. We must get him home. I’ll keep the letter as evidence.”

  The next several hours became a blur for Bridget when later she tried to remember them. They brought Mr. Horn to the schoolhouse where the wake was to be, and there the local undertaker came and prepared the body. Pa had long ago built a stone school house to replace the old log cabin; the new building was large enough to accommodate the mourners. Word spread throughout the community and folk sent food, bouquets of flowers and Mass cards. By nightfall, Mr. Horn was laid upon a bier surrounded by flowers and four tallow candles that cast a yellowish glow. Members of the O’Connor, Slack, MacDonald and McArdle families took turns keeping a vigil of prayer throughout the night at the side of him who had been a most beloved mentor and guide to many. The wake was scheduled for the next afternoon. In the meantime, the O’Connor household was turned upside down as the family struggled through an overwhelming grief.

  Their mother could not stop crying. “He opened the door of knowledge to us. My children are all scholars because of him! Long Point will never be the same!” Pa walked around as if in a mournful stupor, trying to make the funeral arrangements. The younger girls wept aloud loud. They had never known any other teacher. Charlie spent every free moment praying at the old professor’s bier. Bridget tried to keep the house going and the meals coming as callers came and went, and buggies began to crowd the road near the schoolhouse.

  To Bridget fell the heart-wrenching task of going through Mr. Horn’s possessions to see if they could find the address of any relatives to whom they could send word of his demise. Bridget had only been in the Professor’s rooms a handful of times in order to clean. The walls were lined with books and there were stacks of books on the floor as well. In the corner at the foot of the bed was an old chest. It was locked, but she found the key in the pocket of his patched overcoat. She opened it. There were reams of papers, which appeared to be notes he had taken as well as various lesson plans he had used over the years. She found Mr. Horn’s bagpipes, an old kilt, a highland purse and other Scottish regalia, including a lithograph of Bonnie Prince Charlie. At the side of the chest was a small compartment, which slid open easily, containing some papers and an old daguerreotype. The daguerreotype was of a man and a woman. The man, in Scottish highland dress, was obviously a much younger Mr. Horn. The woman, who was quite beautiful, wore a tartan sash draped over what appeared to be a white dress.

  “It must be their wedding picture,” Bridget thought. “I wonder what became of his wife?” Turning it over, she saw written in Mr. Horn’s familiar hand the words “Mr. and Mrs. Adam Gillespie, July 16, 1843.” Adam Gillespie? Puzzled, she began to examine the papers which accompanied the photogr
aph. There was a worn, yellowed gazette clipping which mentioned the murder of a British officer in India. The officer had molested the wife of a British schoolmaster, a Mrs. Adam Gillespie. Mr. Gillespie, a professor at a boys’ academy, was accused of murdering the officer in retaliation for the injury done to his wife, who had taken her own life following the assault. Another paper was a warrant for the arrest of Adam Gillespie, who had managed to elude the authorities and was said to be at large in Bombay. There were also discharge papers from the military, diplomas and certificates of achievement, all of which bore the name Adam Gillespie. She took the papers and the photograph to her parents, who were sitting by the lamp in the kitchen. Pa was reading the Bible and Ma was mending her mourning veil. She gazed for a moment upon her parents’ serene and sorrowful faces. Her father’s countenance was aged like creased leather; her mother’s, in soft fine wrinkles. She handed the information to Pa, explaining what she had discovered. He carefully studied the daguerreotype, handing it to Ma.

  “It appears our good friend Mr. Horn was hiding from the law all this time,” he uttered philosophically.

  “Begorrah!” Ma proclaimed as she held the picture up to the light. Pa read to her from the gazette clipping and the other documents. “So he was hiding out at Long Point! We have sheltered a murderer all these years!”

  “Horn was no killer,” insisted Pa. “Why, I would have done the same!”

  “Yes, you would have.” Ma nodded. “God rest his soul. By the by, not to bring this up again, but I need to tell ye both that I know about the child.”

  “What? How?” Bridget and her father cried out together.

  “Mrs. McArdle called today with flowers for Mr. Horn and a cake. She told me the whole story. I don’t how you two thought you were going to keep it from me.”