Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  He had listened to the long exchanges at night between Sandemon and Jan Martova, had pondered a number of the Gypsy’s questions.

  But did he believe Sandemon’s answers?

  Did he really believe that a world in which injustice seemed the norm—a world in which hatred, suffering, and violence seemed to reign unchecked—was the creation of a merciful God, an all-powerful God? Did he really believe that the madness which seemed to grip the entire universe was the result of sin, that this same deadly universe would one day be redeemed by its Creator? Did he really believe that God had a Son who allowed Himself to be nailed on a tree between two common criminals…a Son who willingly gave up His life for the sin of the world?

  He wasn’t sure. No matter how many times he raked it through his mind, he ended up back where he started: He simply did not know what he believed.

  He had, of course, felt a tug toward the faith of his Irish Catholic friends in the city. But that attraction might have been no more than his boyish desire to be like his friends. To be Irish in the neighborhoods of lower New York was to be Catholic. And fulfilling his Irishness was the most important thing in Tierney’s life—had been ever since he was a boy.

  Wasn’t that the real reason this trip to Ireland had meant so much to him? Even if it had come about because he’d gotten himself into a jam in New York, it was still the attainment of a dream: to see the land of his roots, to walk the ground of his ancestors, to finally become the son of Ireland he had always believed himself to be.

  Years ago, Tierney had set his heart on discovering for himself the ancient glory of Ireland and its people…his people. This was the distant star he meant to follow, the dream he would pursue.

  But with his careless deceit and rebellious ways he had tarnished the dream, and the star somehow seemed more distant than ever.

  He had disappointed Morgan, betrayed his trust—and the stark reality of his failure hurt more than he could ever have imagined.

  Morgan Fitzgerald was the one man he respected and idolized more than any other—including his own father. Growing up, long before he ever met Morgan, Tierney had dreamed of one day sitting at the great poet-patriot’s feet, to learn from him—to become like him.

  Like Morgan, he would wed himself to Ireland. He would become so much a part of the Irish nation that his very heart would merge with the land until they were one. He would spend his life for the country and its freedom.

  His initial disappointment, upon discovering that the legendary rebel had become more poet than warrior, had soon given way to renewed respect. For he had come to realize that, even confined to a wheelchair, Morgan Fitzgerald was still a giant of a man, still altogether worthy of his admiration—and still, in all the ways that really mattered, the embodiment of the Irish spirit to which Tierney aspired.

  He understood now, with some surprise, that he very much wanted Morgan’s respect, his approval. The realization that he would never have either was a bitter taste that wouldn’t quite go away.

  Before the cholera, he had been so sure of himself. He had come to Ireland to pursue his dream, to search out his past, to find his soul. He had known exactly what he was doing, where he was going, where he belonged.

  But now, for the first time in his life, he seemed to have nowhere to go. Separated from his father, he had no family to speak of. Alienated from Morgan by his own waywardness, he had no place to go.

  In the land his heart had long named as home, Tierney Burke had become an exile.

  44

  Folly or Grace?

  I have squandered the splendid years

  That the Lord God gave to my youth

  In attempting impossible things,

  Deeming them alone worth the toil

  Was it folly or grace?

  Not men shall judge me, but God.

  PADRAIC PEARSE (1879-1916)

  Morgan made the announcement over supper that evening. “Sandemon and his patients will be leaving the wagon tomorrow,” he said.

  He had anticipated Annie’s reaction. She bounced out of her chair, her dark eyes dancing, almost sending the tumbler in her hand flying. “Truly, Seanchai? Oh, at last!”

  Morgan gave a nod, darting a smile at Finola and Sister Louisa. “The Gypsy lad brought word. Sandemon says the risk of contagion has passed, and though his patients are not yet strong, they no longer require his care.”

  “How weary poor Sandemon must be!” said Finola.

  “Indeed,” said Sister Louisa. “We must all be thoughtful enough not to tire him with endless questions his first day back.” She directed a meaningful look at Annie. “No doubt he will be in need of much rest and renewal after such an ordeal.”

  Ignoring her, Annie gave a precarious wave of the crystal tumbler. “I shall make Sand-Man a gift!” she declared. “A coming-home gift. Perhaps an ink sketch.”

  Morgan eyed the tumbler as she chattered on, her Belfast accent launching the words like arrows. “Or perhaps I should make three sketches—one for Sand-Man, and one each for Tierney Burke and the Gypsy. Will you help me, please, Sister?”

  Not waiting for a reply, she plunked the tumbler down on the table with a thud. “I’ll go and collect my sketchbook,” she said, banging into the chair leg.

  “Annie…” Morgan stopped her. “I’m afraid there will be no opportunity for you to speak with either Tierney or the Gypsy.”

  Already on her way to the door, Annie whirled around, frowning. “But Sand-Man said the danger of contagion is past.”

  Morgan drew in a long breath. “Contagion isn’t the issue,” he said bluntly. “The Gypsy will be leaving. And so will Tierney Burke.”

  Annie looked at him in obvious bewilderment. “Leaving? But where would they be going after being so ill?”

  Avoiding her eyes, as well as the questioning looks of both Finola and Sister Louisa, Morgan laid down his fork, carefully aligning it with his plate. “Where they go is none of our concern. But they will be leaving Nelson Hall. That doesn’t mean you cannot make a sketch for them, if you like,” he added, softening his tone.

  Looking up, he met Annie’s eyes. She stood very still, as if holding her breath. “You’re sending them away, aren’t you? You mean to punish Tierney Burke for his deceit.” Her voice was quiet and noticeably strained.

  Somewhat noisily, Sister Louisa rose from her chair. “If you will excuse me,” she said, “I have papers to mark.”

  Finola, too, stirred in her chair as if to get up. But Morgan shook his head, gesturing that she should stay.

  Turning to Annie, he studied her, groping for the words that might help her understand. “You’re right. I am going to ask them to leave, immediately. But not by way of punishment, alannah.”

  Annie said nothing. Her back was straight, her eyes accusing. “The Gypsy would be leaving anyway,” Morgan went on. “He will go back to his people. As for Tierney, you must see that I could never trust him after what he did. His behavior was thoughtless and inexcusable. He deceived me. He deceived us all. And his treachery could have cost us our lives. I cannot condone his deceit.”

  Annie shifted from one foot to the other, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Perhaps he’s sorry. Perhaps he will ask your forgiveness, once he has the opportunity.”

  “He can ask all he likes,” Morgan snapped, “but I’ll give him no quarter. I’ll not have him under my roof again. He will leave Nelson Hall tomorrow—he and his heathen Gypsy friend.”

  Morgan felt the force of Annie’s disappointment as she slowly lifted her face and searched his eyes. Discomfited by her unwavering scrutiny, he had to resist the urge to defend himself.

  “Sand-Man says we must always be willing to forgive.” The dark eyes held a glint of challenge.

  “Sandemon also says we must live by the Truth,” Morgan shot back, suddenly annoyed that she would question his judgment. “Tierney Burke is a stranger to the truth.”

  Annie continued to study him for another moment. Where Morgan would have expected the cu
stomary flare of temper or childish stubbornness, there was only a steady gaze, a faint hint of reproach.

  “May I be excused, please, Seanchai?” she finally asked, her words clipped.

  Morgan was reluctant to let her go. He felt an unreasonable need to explain himself, yet sensed it would be best to wait. At his brief nod of dismissal, the girl whipped about and walked stiffly from the room.

  Alone with Finola, Morgan avoided her gaze. Annie’s odd behavior had unsettled him. Half-expecting a fit of temper or even outright defiance, he didn’t quite know what to make of her silent censure. He realized now that he had hoped for her understanding and felt strangely wounded by the lack of it.

  Finola’s chair was pulled close to his. He could have easily reached out to take her hand. Instead, he gripped the arms of the wheelchair, feeling uncertain and awkward.

  Finally he looked at her. “And do you also disagree with my judgment?”

  “’Tis not for me to agree or disagree, Morgan,” she replied softly.

  “That’s not true. You know I value your opinion.” What he did not say, of course, was that he coveted her good opinion—of himself. “What you think is very important to me, Finola. Sure, you must know that by now. Please…speak your mind.”

  She smiled, the faint, shy smile he had come to cherish. Leaning toward him a little, she lifted her hand as if to touch his arm, then seemed to reconsider. “I think…perhaps…you are being too hasty.” She spoke slowly, obviously choosing her words with care. “I wonder if you shouldn’t take more time before making such a decision.”

  So Finola, too, thought him unreasonable! Morgan stiffened, looking away. “I mean only to protect you and the rest of the household,” he said tightly. “I can’t think why you and Annie are so quick to condemn me for guarding your safety.”

  Now she did put a hand to his arm. He turned to look at her and was caught off guard by the tenderness in her eyes. “Oh, Morgan, I don’t condemn you! How could I…” She released his arm, for a moment turning away, as if she had spoken out of turn.

  Finally she looked at him. “I think I understand why you feel you should send Tierney away. May I speak frankly?”

  “I would never have you speak any other way to me,” he told her, meaning it.

  His eyes went to her hands, the long, slim fingers now laced tightly together in her lap, as if whatever she was about to say disturbed her.

  But she looked directly at him when she spoke, and her voice was strong and steady. “Perhaps you mean to discipline Tierney for his thoughtless behavior. I’ll not deny he acted carelessly—”

  “He deceived me!” Morgan bit out, his tone much sharper than he’d intended.

  “Yes, he did. He betrayed your trust.” She paused, but her gaze never wavered. “I think he also frightened you. He exposed all of us to the cholera, and that was a terrifying thing.”

  Morgan nodded, trying to anticipate her argument.

  “Yet I can’t help but think that you care deeply for Tierney, and not simply because he’s the son of a friend. I believe you care about him as a person.”

  She looked to him for confirmation, and again Morgan nodded, grudgingly. “I had developed a certain amount of fondness for the young fool, that’s true. But the boy should pay for his deceit, Finola! It was no small thing he did!”

  She drew back, staring at him. “Morgan—he almost died with the cholera! He has been deathly ill for weeks. Do you not think that payment enough? What must he do to earn your forgiveness?”

  Morgan’s ears rang with her words. Abruptly, he whipped the chair around, wheeling himself over to the window, where he turned his back on her and sat, staring outside.

  “He might have been responsible for all our deaths,” he said woodenly. “I could have lost you…Gabriel…Annie…because of his waywardness. How do I forgive him for that?”

  He heard the rustle of her skirts as she rose and came to stand behind him, but he did not turn around. After a moment he felt her hands rest lightly on his shoulders. He shuddered under her touch, his pulse racing wildly, foolishly, at her nearness.

  “Morgan, you’ve remarked more than once how very much Tierney reminds you of yourself when you were younger. ‘Poured from the same mold,’ I believe you said.” She paused. “You’ve also admitted that, like Tierney, you committed your share of thoughtless deeds. I can’t help wondering…were any of your own youthful escapades irresponsible or dangerous? Perhaps even treacherous?”

  Morgan’s shoulders tensed. “No doubt,” he said shortly. The truth was, his own wanton past would make Tierney’s behavior appear almost harmless. “I told you the rogue I used to be. And who can say that if it weren’t for the infernal bullet in my back, I might not still be making the grandmothers wag their tongues. But I cannot recall ever endangering an entire household simply to indulge myself, and that’s the truth!”

  He was almost certain he detected a smile in her voice when she responded. But he deliberately didn’t turn to see, for fear she would drop her hands away.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” she replied. “But Tierney had no way of knowing he had been exposed to the cholera.”

  “More to the point,” Morgan countered, “if he hadn’t defied me in the first place, he would not have been exposed.”

  Her hands tightened on his shoulders, and he felt somewhat reassured that at least she wasn’t angry with him.

  “You told me once that the good priest, Father Mahon, helped to save you from yourself,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “What did you mean?”

  He sighed, reluctant to bare such a sordid part of his past. Yet he had never tried to mislead her or appear to be anything other than what he was—a forgiven fool.

  “You might say that Joseph Mahon epitomized to me the biblical example of the Prodigal Son’s father. Apparently the good man spent a great deal of time on his knees for my unworthy soul, and when I finally came to my senses, he opened his arms to me without so much as a word of rebuke.”

  Joseph…ah, Joseph, I will never cease to be grateful for your faithfulness.…

  Morgan’s throat tightened and his eyes stung at the memory of the priest he had loved like a father. “I’ve never doubted that I owe my redemption to Joseph’s relentless prayers on my behalf.” He smiled wryly to himself. “And did I happen to mention that he also saved my stubborn neck from the noose?”

  Her hands increased their pressure on his shoulders. “You did, yes. And you also told me that it was Father Mahon who reunited you with your grandfather.”

  Morgan nodded. “Aye, he did. I didn’t even know I had a grandfather until Joseph went searching for him.”

  As the silence stretched out between them, Morgan’s thoughts roamed to the priest who had played such a significant role in his life. “I don’t suppose a day ever passes,” he said, more to himself than to Finola, “that I don’t give thanks for Joseph Mahon.”

  Her voice was infinitely soft behind him. “And do you ever wonder where you would be now, had it not been for Father Mahon’s presence in your life?”

  Her quiet words jolted Morgan. He sat, numbed by the significance of her question.

  “I expect your life might have been much different if your compassionate priest had denounced you, rather than forgiven you.” The gentleness of her tone in no way lessened the impact of her words. “How many times have we heard Sister Louisa say that ‘grace begets grace’? It almost sounds as if the forgiveness Father Mahon demonstrated to you…might have helped you to extend forgiveness to your grandfather.”

  Morgan felt as if a burning coal had been dropped into his heart. Silence hung between them, a silence so intense Morgan could hear her soft breathing in counterpoint to the loud hammering of his heart.

  “I’m sorry, Morgan.” He heard the note of dismay in her voice. Her hands left his shoulders, and Morgan felt suddenly chilled. “I had no right to say that to you. I’m sorry…”

  Morgan shook his head, trying to dispel the thund
erous pounding in his ears. “No…no, don’t apologize,” he said, lifting a hand. “I asked you to have your say.”

  “No, it’s not my place—”

  He wheeled the chair around to face her. “Of course, it is your place, Finola,” he said, wishing she could accept the fact that he welcomed her candor, even if he did find himself temporarily taken aback by it. “You’re my wife, after all.”

  Silence fell. As Morgan watched, a look of despair came over her features. Concerned, he reached for her, but she stepped back, then turned and fled the room.

  He watched the empty doorway for a long time, trying to understand what he had said or done to cause her to run away from him. He had been about to tell her that she had reached him, after all, with her painfully accurate insights about Joseph Mahon and his grandfather. He wanted to tell her that he would always listen to what she had to say, that indeed he thought she, more than anyone else in his world, would always be able to reach inside him and touch his soul and turn him toward light instead of darkness.

  For a moment, before she left him, he had come within a heartbeat of pulling her into his arms and begging her to love him. And for one wild, irrational instant, he had almost thought she would welcome him.

  Madness.

  He had almost forgotten all the promises he had made to himself about her: promises to cherish her, to protect her—and to expect nothing from her. In his loneliness, he would have made the great fool of himself, possibly creating an irreparable breach in their already fragile relationship.

  He could not remember when he had felt so lonely, so isolated. He had somehow managed to drive them all away from him: Annie and Sister Louisa…and, God help him, Finola. With his hardheaded tactics and utter lack of sensitivity, he had alienated himself from those he needed most.

  At least tomorrow Sandemon would return. But in the meantime, he faced another long night; he could hardly expect Finola to make her usual appearance after putting Gabriel to bed. Disappointment swept over him at the thought, for he had come to anticipate with great eagerness her nightly visits to help him lay out his clothing for the following day.