IN FATHER MALONEY’S GARDEN
FATHER MALONEY was pottering in his garden. I use the word pottering
advisedly, since assuredly the cutting off of a dead rose here and
there can hardly be termed work.
It was a minute place, this garden of his, a mere pocket handkerchief
of a garden, yet every conceivable flower possible to bloom in a garden
bloomed in it according to the season. At the moment it was ablaze
with African marigolds, escoltia, asters, salvias, stocks, summer
chrysanthemums, and all the rest of the August flowers, fragrant with
the scent of roses, heliotrope, carnations, and mignonette.
In the centre of the garden was a tiny square of grass, smooth and
trim. A gravel path surrounded it; beyond it were the many-coloured
flower borders backgrounded by a close-clipped yew hedge. You could
see over the hedge to the lane on the one side, and the field on
the other. The field sloped upwards to a sparse wood, carpeted with
primroses and bluebells in the springtime. Later there was a lordly
array of foxgloves on its margin, stately purple fellows, standing
straight against the trees.
Beyond the lane and the wild-rose hedge, which bordered it on the
further side, you had a glimpse of the sea. Its voice was never absent
from the garden. In its softly sighing moods it lay as an under-note
to the fragrant scents, and the humming of the insects. In its sterner
moods it dominated the little place, filled it with a note of sadness.
And always there was that strange bitter-sweetness in its sound.
Father Maloney was conscious of it now. He looked up from the rosebush
towards the distant shimmering strip of blue.
“’Tis like the far-off voice of a multitude longing for peace yet
unknowing of their desire,” he said, “it is that.” And there was pain
in his old eyes.
Then he looked round the garden.
“Sure, ’tis happy I’ve been here; and now--” he sighed. “The fella is
no Catholic at all, they say. But if he were it would not be the same
thing, it would not.”
He cut off a couple more roses, and pocketed them. Later Anastasia
would empty his pockets of the dead leaves. Also she would
suggest--more as a command than a suggestion--that there were plenty
of baskets in the house if he wanted to be cutting off withered roses
and suchlike. To which Father Maloney would make his usual shame-faced
reply:
“Sure, and a basket slipped my mind entirely, it did.”
Whereupon Anastasia would sniff. By force of habit she had gained a
certain air of command, which most assuredly he did not permit to many.
“She’s an example to all of us, is Lady Mary,” said Father Maloney,
pursuing his reflections. “It’s more than I would do to invite the
fella to the house. It’s not uncharitable towards him, I am, but he’d
not put his foot across my threshold till I’d cleared out. No; it’s not
uncharitable I am, but I’ll have a job to be civil to him I’m thinking.”
He stuffed a handful of dead roses into his pocket, and sat down on a
rustic-seat.
It was three of the afternoon. It was still; it was very hot. If I
have often mentioned heat in the course of this chronicle, I must
crave for indulgence. An almost unprecedented summer was reigning over
this England of ours. Morning after morning you woke to blue skies and
golden sunshine; night after night you slept beneath clear heavens
star-sprinkled. Day and night the earth sang the Benedicite; and men,
I fancy, echoed the blessings. In spite of the inclusive terms of
the hymn, it is infinitely easier to respond to it in sunshine and
starlight, than in fog and darkness.
Father Maloney sat facing the lane and the distant strip of sea. Two
poplars in the field across the lane rose spirelike against the blue
sky. Bees droned around him among the flowers; butterflies flitted from
blossom to blossom. Every now and again a bird twittered and then was
silent. Their song was over for the year. Only the robin would ring
later its sweet sad lament.
Through the open kitchen window he heard the clink of plates, telling
of Anastasia busy within. At intervals she hummed in a thin cracked
voice:
“_Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiæ, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra
salve,..._”
You could have recorded each of the Church’s seasons by Anastasia’s
humming of the antiphons of Our Lady. At first Father Maloney had
suffered the humming with what patience he might. It now affected him
no more than the droning of the bees in his garden.
For twenty minutes, half an hour, perhaps, he sat motionless, his
thoughts very far away. Suddenly he came back to the present. He was
conscious, in some subtle fashion, that he was not alone. It was a
moment or so before the consciousness found articulation in his brain.
He looked up. The garden was as empty of any human presence but his own
as it had been hitherto.
He turned.
In the field, on the other side of the yew hedge, a tall man was
standing. He was big, he was loose-limbed, he was red-headed. His face,
squarish and short-chinned, had a somewhat doggy expression. He was
looking at the flowers, seemingly unconscious, for the moment at all
events, of the presence of the owner of the garden.
Father Maloney coughed. The stranger’s eyes left the flowers, and
turned towards Father Maloney.
“I was looking at the flowers,” quoth he, and a trifle shame-facedly,
after the manner of a schoolboy caught in some venial offence.
“You’re welcome,” said Father Maloney genially. “Looking is free
to all.” And then a sudden idea struck him, and he stiffened
imperceptibly, or perhaps he fancied it was imperceptibly, for the
stranger spoke.
“I’ll be off,” said he. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
A little odd shadow had passed over his face, the expression of a child
who has been snubbed. It sat oddly, and a trifle pathetically on him.
He turned, limping slightly.
“It’s not disturbing me at all you are,” said Father Maloney quickly.
The honour of his hospitality had been pricked. The merest touch will
suffice for an Irishman.
And then he looked at the stranger again. There was an odd commotion
stirring in his heart, something that baffled him in its interpretation.
“Glory be to God, what’s come over me,” he muttered inwardly. Aloud
he said, and the words surprised himself, “Will you be coming in, and
having a look around. There’s a wicket gate in yonder corner.”