"God perhaps would grant me an interview?" I said. "I was sent
here for the purpose."
St. Peter looked more than surprised.
"My editor," I said, "seemed confident that I should be admitted."
"Who is your editor?" said St. Peter. "Do we know him here?"
"I should doubt it," I replied.
"Well, I'll see," he said, "but it's all very unusual and
irregular. You'd better tell your leonid to wait."
He carefully locked the door again, with me just inside it, and
shuffled away. He was clearly irritated.
After a while he returned.
"It's very surprising," he said, "but God will see you. He seemed
quite pleased about it. I don't know what Heaven's coming to.
Personally, I'm against every kind of publicity. The emphasis
laid by a fellow-disciple on one or two unfortunate moments in
my own life has been a source of grief to me ever since. This
way, please, and remember that the interview is permitted only
on condition that no leading questions are asked. Nothing as to
the reason for the creation or anything like that, for example. A
quiet talk merely; no excitement."
How I came into the Presence I cannot remember; but suddenly I was
with God, just ourselves. Nor did I feel frightened.
But St. Peter's warning about leading questions made it difficult
for me. Of course those were what I wanted to ask, and I remember
thinking how annoyed my editor would be that I had paid any
attention to a doorkeeper. The whole business of interviewers is
to be superior to doorkeepers. But then I am not a journalist; I
have quite a lot of sensitiveness; and I could not bring myself
to disregard the old saint, who, after all, was only acting on
instructions. It would be terrible to be allowed into Heaven and
then behave in a vulgar way.
After racking my brains for a start I asked God if there was
anything that was interesting Him in particular just at the moment.
He smiled.
"As it happens," He said, "there is. Only this morning I was
looking down over London, and almost for the first time I noticed
something that gave me great pleasure. Pathetic too, in a way; but
then there is so much pathos----
"I noticed all the little gardens. I don't mean the gardens where
there are gardeners; I mean the tiny square yards among the stones
and squalor, with flowers and shrubs that literally fight for life
and would never live at all if they were not lovingly tended.
Sometimes there is a rockery, sometimes an attempt at a pool, and
then the window-boxes--they give Me pleasure too, much more than
Corporation ornamental bedding ever could. Some of these little
gardens," He said, "and the gallant struggle they make to bring
beauty into ugly places, call tears to the eyes"; and I believe He
meant it, for I watched Him. "The poor souls," He murmured, "the
poor, brave souls."
"You mentioned Corporation carpet-bedding just now, Sir," I
said. "You must have noticed that English gardens are infinitely
more reckless and joyful than they used to be? Of course, I don't
know what flowers were like, Sir, when You began, but every year
sees new varieties come into being--more lovely delphiniums,
more ethereal columbines, more glorious tulips, more delicate
daffodils, and every year more people lavish themselves on
herbaceous borders and wild gardens."
"I have certainly noticed it," said God, "and it has given Me
immense satisfaction. I know who is chiefly responsible for it
too," He added, "and her name is very highly honoured here."
And then I woke up.
Here it ended, but at the foot of the page was written: "Dear Miss
Staveley, I hope this hasn't bored you. I thought I should like you to
know that I now and then have a thought beyond book selling.
"Yours sincerely,
"PATRICK ST. QUENTIN."
Patrick was in the shop that evening when Ben left.
He said nothing, but looked expectant.
"Good night, Mr. St. Quentin," said Ben, holding out her hand. "But
really I ought to be cross with you because you made me neglect my work
for over an hour."
Patrick glowed.
"You have given me a totally new God," she said, "and I'm going home to
think about Him."