to hear confession in the evening. She wanted so badly to pour her feelings out to someone.
When Father Donahue saw Carmel enter the church, and the dejected stance of her, he rushed forward and led her to one of the pews. ‘Carmel, my dear child, what is all this? Are you in trouble of some kind?’ He hoped, even as he spoke the words, that she wasn’t in that kind of trouble.
Carmel looked at the priest, her eyes glistening with tears and said. ‘It’s trouble of my own making, Father, for I think I must tell Paul our friendship is over.’
‘And why is this, my dear?’ the priest asked gently, sitting down beside her.
‘It’s because of something from my past. Something no one can help me with.’
‘I see,’ the priest said. ‘And this thing—was it something you did, something you could confess, get forgiveness for and put behind you?’
‘It wasn’t anything I did, Father.’
‘But you are not responsible for the sins of others.’
‘I know that deep down, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘It’s just…I can’t expect Paul to…He’s going to be a doctor, Father.’
Father Donahue had seen Carmel in the church a few times with Paul and had been delighted that she had found herself a good Catholic boy. Carmel’s duties prevented her from doing more than attending Mass on Sunday and Holy Days and she had been unable to go to any social events where she might meet other Catholic young people.
When he expressed this regret not long after Carmel made herself known to him, she had told him not to worry; that she didn’t intend marrying anyone. He had hidden his smile, though he did say she was young to make such a momentous decision. He couldn’t help thinking, however, that a doctor was a good catch for this girl, whom the nuns had told him came from one of the most desperate families in Letterkenny.
Suddenly the priest knew what Carmel was talking about because shame and degradation were mirrored inher eyes and he said gently, ‘Carmel, I know the sort of home you come from and the sort or rearing you had.’
Carmel’s head shot up and she looked at him in sudden alarm.
He went on in the same soothing voice, ‘The nuns told me. They thought I should know.’
‘Oh, Father,’ Carmel said, and the tears began trickling down her face. She covered her face with her hands and moaned.
The priest took hold of those hands and pulled them from her face as he said, ‘Come, come now, Carmel. Don’t distress yourself like this. There is no need. Have I ever treated you differently because I had this knowledge?’
Carmel made an effort to control herself. ‘No, Father, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘In fact you have always been kindness itself to me. But that isn’t the same everywhere. In Letterkenny, for example, there were many there who looked down on us and I can’t expect Paul to want even friendship from the likes of me.’
‘Are you ashamed of your family, Carmel?’
‘Aye, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘And ashamed of being ashamed.’
‘Then be ashamed no more,’ the priest said. ‘Pity them instead. Take responsibility just for yourself. Seek out your young man and tell him about your background and see what he says.’
‘I couldn’t, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he despised me.’
The priest gave Carmel’s hands a small shake and looked deep into her eyes. ‘He will never despise you. The love he has for you shines bright in his eyes and thatwill not be dimmed when he hears how you were reared. Carmel, you owe it to him to tell him.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I know so. And you speak of friendship—is that all you really want from Paul?’
‘Yes, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘As I said, I never intend to marry.’
‘And how does Paul feel?’
‘He admitted last night that he loves me, Father.’
‘And you can’t feel the same?’
Carmel shook her head and the priest said, ‘I know that I am a fine one to talk about love. But sometimes you
When Father Donahue saw Carmel enter the church, and the dejected stance of her, he rushed forward and led her to one of the pews. ‘Carmel, my dear child, what is all this? Are you in trouble of some kind?’ He hoped, even as he spoke the words, that she wasn’t in that kind of trouble.
Carmel looked at the priest, her eyes glistening with tears and said. ‘It’s trouble of my own making, Father, for I think I must tell Paul our friendship is over.’
‘And why is this, my dear?’ the priest asked gently, sitting down beside her.
‘It’s because of something from my past. Something no one can help me with.’
‘I see,’ the priest said. ‘And this thing—was it something you did, something you could confess, get forgiveness for and put behind you?’
‘It wasn’t anything I did, Father.’
‘But you are not responsible for the sins of others.’
‘I know that deep down, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘It’s just…I can’t expect Paul to…He’s going to be a doctor, Father.’
Father Donahue had seen Carmel in the church a few times with Paul and had been delighted that she had found herself a good Catholic boy. Carmel’s duties prevented her from doing more than attending Mass on Sunday and Holy Days and she had been unable to go to any social events where she might meet other Catholic young people.
When he expressed this regret not long after Carmel made herself known to him, she had told him not to worry; that she didn’t intend marrying anyone. He had hidden his smile, though he did say she was young to make such a momentous decision. He couldn’t help thinking, however, that a doctor was a good catch for this girl, whom the nuns had told him came from one of the most desperate families in Letterkenny.
Suddenly the priest knew what Carmel was talking about because shame and degradation were mirrored inher eyes and he said gently, ‘Carmel, I know the sort of home you come from and the sort or rearing you had.’
Carmel’s head shot up and she looked at him in sudden alarm.
He went on in the same soothing voice, ‘The nuns told me. They thought I should know.’
‘Oh, Father,’ Carmel said, and the tears began trickling down her face. She covered her face with her hands and moaned.
The priest took hold of those hands and pulled them from her face as he said, ‘Come, come now, Carmel. Don’t distress yourself like this. There is no need. Have I ever treated you differently because I had this knowledge?’
Carmel made an effort to control herself. ‘No, Father, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘In fact you have always been kindness itself to me. But that isn’t the same everywhere. In Letterkenny, for example, there were many there who looked down on us and I can’t expect Paul to want even friendship from the likes of me.’
‘Are you ashamed of your family, Carmel?’
‘Aye, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘And ashamed of being ashamed.’
‘Then be ashamed no more,’ the priest said. ‘Pity them instead. Take responsibility just for yourself. Seek out your young man and tell him about your background and see what he says.’
‘I couldn’t, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he despised me.’
The priest gave Carmel’s hands a small shake and looked deep into her eyes. ‘He will never despise you. The love he has for you shines bright in his eyes and thatwill not be dimmed when he hears how you were reared. Carmel, you owe it to him to tell him.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I know so. And you speak of friendship—is that all you really want from Paul?’
‘Yes, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘As I said, I never intend to marry.’
‘And how does Paul feel?’
‘He admitted last night that he loves me, Father.’
‘And you can’t feel the same?’
Carmel shook her head and the priest said, ‘I know that I am a fine one to talk about love. But sometimes you
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