Read Death of a Pilgrim for Free Online Page B

the workings of God’s grace around the theme of the Miracle in Manhattan, as he referred to it. He was going to preach the sermon after Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.
    The Father had been thinking a lot about Delaney’s pact with his creator. Such pacts, he knew from personal experience, were sometimes found in families struck with terminal diseases and
desperately trying to buy a reprieve for their loved ones with the promise of some unspecified future conduct. He knew, Father Kennedy, that he could ask for a new hospital, new schools, fresh
charities to support the starving and destitute of New York. But all Michael Delaney would have to do would be to hand over the money. There would not be any sacrifice, for Father Kennedy had
private intelligence of the relative wealth of the New York patrician classes in his parish which told him that Delaney was one of the richest of the rich, a millionaire’s millionaire.
    ‘Come in, Father,’ said Delaney, ‘come in! Would you care for a glass of John Powers?’ Father Kennedy nodded and settled down in a chair by the fire.
    All through his son’s illness Delaney had lost weight. His shirt collars grew loose. His trousers sagged at the waist. He discussed with his valet the possibility of buying a whole new
wardrobe to suit his new figure. The man advised him to wait. Now, very slowly, he was beginning to fill out again.
    ‘I’ve been thinking about my deal with God, Father.’ Delaney plunged straight into business. He made the Delaney Compact sound like a commercial contract, a takeover perhaps,
or the sale of some of his blocks of New York real estate. ‘And I’ve been thinking about that St James the Greater man and the pilgrimage to Santiago.’
    ‘I am glad you have been thinking about such matters, Michael. It may do some good to your immortal soul.’
    Delaney resisted the temptation to say ‘To hell with my immortal soul.’ He pressed on.
    ‘Can you tell me some more about the pilgrimage, Father? Has it died out completely, or do people still go on it?’
    Father Kennedy had no idea what was coming next. He wondered if Delaney was going to offer to buy up the city of Santiago, or to turn the memory of the pilgrimage into a subsidiary of one of his
great companies.
    ‘Well,’ he began, ‘it hasn’t died out completely, the pilgrimage. But it’s only a trickle, a tiny trickle of what it used to be. It takes a long time, you see, to
walk from one of the starting places in France all the way to the far corner of Spain.’
    ‘I’ve been thinking, Father, and I want to put a proposition to you. It may sound strange. You may think I’m mad. But what about this? Why don’t I and selected members of
my family go on this pilgrimage? I’d pay for them all, of course. It would be a thank-you to God, don’t you see? For my James’s life.’
    Father Kennedy thought another miracle had come to Manhattan. Deeds in the service of the Almighty were going to replace the bankers’ drafts to New York’s charities. It is easier for
a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. The good of the Delaney soul, for a while at least, was going to replace the good of the Delaney
wallet. Maybe Michael Delaney would get to meet St Peter up above after all.
    ‘What a splendid idea, Michael! I’m sure our Lord would approve. Would you like me to think about some of the details, possible starting points and so on? Do you have any idea of
when you would like to set off?’
    ‘Not in this weather certainly,’ said Delaney. ‘I don’t know if James will be strong enough to do the whole thing – if we go, that is. I’d have to hire
somebody to work out the details. Easter perhaps? Early summer? To start, I mean.’ Delaney was not an expert on European weather patterns but he thought it might be easier to make the journey
once the rains and storms had gone.
    ‘Easter might be good, very propitious to start a