Grandmother and the Priests (18 page)

“Would your lordship say he was a mystic?” asked Benedict.

The Bishop stared. “A mystic? No, I hardly think so. We are very dear friends. I should have known. What on earth are you talking about, Benedict?”

“He seems to have a rather mystical expression, sometimes,” said the young priest, lamely.

The Bishop smiled. “Yes, I have noticed that, myself. But he is very scholarly, you know, and scholars often assume that expression, distant and thoughtful. Is that it? No, I’d have known if Joshua were a mystic. He is, in fact, a very sensible man, though his house is utterly tasteless, isn’t it? He explained it was the sort of house his parents had dreamed of, and so he made it that way. I am sure his taste, which is very fine, does not lead in those ways, but he loved his parents dearly. He has a private gallery of marvelous Old Masters, and a collection of bibelots not to be found anywhere else in London. Objets d’art. That is in another part of the house. A mystic, you said? No, indeed. Sir Joshua is very shrewd about business matters, you can be sure, and he has the best of lawyers who examine the soap company’s books annually.”

The Bishop laughed. “He has the soundest of investments, which he manages himself. Some rascal or other attempted to cheat him a few years ago, and when Joshua discovered that he made the man smart for it, through the law. He has no mercy for cheats, and detests them more than he does any other criminal. In some ways Joshua can be ruthless, as ruthless as the aristocrat he intrinsically is.”

“Did your lordship ever notice that particularly large and beautiful ring he wears, a stone that seems compounded of all the opals in the world?”

“Yes,” said the Bishop. “He has asked that he be buried with it.”

Benedict thought of that for a moment, then began to tell the Bishop of Sir Joshua’s peculiar words on the occasion of Amanda’s dinner. But he stopped after the first word or two. Sir Joshua had not asked him to keep the matter confidential. Yet, in some way, he had intimated that he knew Benedict would not be an idle blabber and that he would not betray any trust. If there was anything to be trustful about, thought the young priest.

A few nights later Sir Joshua asked the pleasure of the company of Mrs. Amanda Seldridge and Father Benedict Hughes at dinner in his house. They accepted. But on the day of the dinner Amanda had a slight chill, and her physician ordered her to bed. She insisted that Benedict leave her, however. “He has some remarkable treasures, dear Joshua,” she said. “You really must see them, Benedict. And his greenhouse, right in the midst of London! The rarest of flowers. He tends them like a father. He has one flower no one ever saw before. He calls it C’est Egal. Beautiful. Most remarkable.”

“ ‘C’est Egal,’ ” repeated Benedict. “ ‘It is all one.’ Extraordinary. A rose?”

“No. I simply cannot describe it, child. He never tells where he found it. Perhaps in one of those dark jungle places he has visited in his travels. It is bright gold. When I had a bad chill while you were away he sent me almost a dozen of them. They quite filled the house with the most marvelous scent. Not to be described, truly. And though they were cut flowers they lived for weeks! Just weeks. And then — Now that is extraordinary.” Amanda paused.

“What is?”

“I just remembered. On the last night I saw them, and they were beside my couch, in my bedroom, they were as fresh and scented as on the first day. And when I awoke in the morning they were gone! I asked my nurse about it, and then the servants, and they swore they had not touched them. Yes, extraordinary. But it has a simple explanation; the nurse was very officious. She threw them away while I was asleep, no doubt. Nurses do seem to have an aversion to flowers, don’t they? Always taking them away.”

“ ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ ” murmured Benedict.

“Alice in Wonderland,” said Amanda, proud of her memory.

Feeling somewhat like Alice in Wonderland himself, Benedict went to dinner at the house of Sir Joshua Fielding. He did not know what he expected, but he discovered he was the only guest, and that the great mansion was as disappointingly, if as richly, ugly as his aunt’s. All the bad taste and vulgar opulence and crowded bric-a-brac and hideous furniture of the Victorian Age were here. It was the dream of some poor workingman in his most satisfying of fantasies. There was not even the smallest touch of real elegance anywhere, no grace, no charm, no delicacy. Sir Joshua greeted the young priest as warmly as though they had always been friends, expressed his regret over Amanda’s illness, and offered whiskey. “I am a true plebeian,” said Sir Joshua. “I don’t even splash a little soda into my glass. I drink my whiskey neat. And I never touch sherry. I suppose you have wondered how I got my title?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me,” said Benedict.

“I simply gave a very large amount of money to one of the Queen’s favorite charities. Ostentatious of me, wasn’t it? But I was sincerely interested in the charity. She was so pleased that she knighted me. And then we became good friends.”

He was suddenly grave, then said after a moment’s sipping. “She never can forget Prince Albert; she never will. There are some who say that long grief is self-pity. No, I do not think so, Benedict. Do you remember the story of the old man and his wife who were visited by one of the gods, and they treated him so kindly for all he was dressed like a beggar that on the next morning he asked them their dearest wish? They told him that they prayed never to be separated, and so he transformed them into trees, side by side, whose branches mingled together.”

He paused, and Benedict thought of his young parents, who had hardly lived except in their dream.

Sir Joshua continued: “There are many who love only once. They are the sort who, once loving God, for instance, never again betray or wound Him, but serve Him with delight and joy and faith all the days of their lives. And there are the people who only love once in the world. Who can say that mortal love is passing, and will be gone? Love, which is the very fiery core of the Godhead, is eternal. A man and woman who truly love each other can never forget, even when reconciled after one of them dies, and sometimes they are never reconciled, though they tell themselves they bow to the will of God. After all, we are human beings. A little more whiskey, Benedict?”

Benedict, accepting, pondered. Had Sir Joshua loved a woman who had died, and did he live with that memory? His words would lead one to think so. If that was correct, then he lived with the thought of her and all his days and nights were permeated with the joy not only of her memory but of the living pulse of her.

“The human heart and soul and flesh are well known to Our Lord,” said Sir Joshua, “for does He not possess them, Himself? Who can doubt that He loved His Blessed Mother, and thought about her when He was absent, and then, when He ascended to heaven, did He not remember her? Who can deny this, after a moment’s thought? I know it is not a Church dogma as yet, nor even a doctrine or article of Faith, but one of these days it will be infallibly known that God did not forget His Mother, nor cease loving her, for He had been, and is, flesh of her flesh, and heart of her heart. The tradition that she was assumed bodily into heaven will become fully accepted, and then will be a dogma. If He who was begotten from eternity could not forget His Mother, then surely we cannot forget those we love, and look forward eagerly to seeing them again in a far better place than this tumultuous world, this world of sin and wrong and sorrow and evil. To forget them is to insult them, to diminish their memory, to reject their love for us. I am afraid I am speaking in a stately manner, Benedict, but I am of an old generation, you know.”

I have seen him only twice, thought Benedict, and he is old enough, almost, to be my grandfather. Does he confide in me because I am a priest?

“I often talked with Amanda about you,” said Sir Joshua. “She told me of your parents, and your childhood, and how you grieved for your father and mother. I thought, then, that if I ever met you I should tell you — a very strange story, and a very true one. If,” and Sir Joshua smiled, “you were as your infatuated aunt told me you were.”

“Am I?” asked Benedict.

Sir Joshua studied him. “I think so,” he said, after a moment or two. “But I will be able to know better shortly. What do you think of my thesis?”

Benedict hesitated. “You know we are taught to pray for the dead, and we ask their prayers for us. But we are not supposed to grieve and rebel constantly; we are supposed to be happy that they are safe with God.”

“Don’t you think that the Blessed Mother was lonely for her Son, and that, perhaps, He was lonely for her, in heaven?”

Benedict said, “As you have pointed out, Our Lord possessed, and still possesses, a human heart and a human soul. So, I should answer ‘yes’. Though, of course, there is no time with God; there is only eternity.”

“I think our dinner is served,” said Sir Joshua. They went into a huge dining-room every bit as ugly and immensely furnished as Amanda’s. Benedict thought that the dinner, at the least, would be finely French, with a dash of Italian savor, for one, after all, can carry filial love to extremes. The house was bad enough. But the dinner was exactly like one of Amanda’s, and as uninspired. Even the wine was dull.

Sir Joshua, the man of noble profile and patrician graces, relished every morsel of the bloody roast beef, the brussels sprouts, the mashed turnips, the boiled onions and potatoes. He looked with pleasure at the suet pudding, which Benedict, who had a touch of ‘liver’, could not eat. Sir Joshua said, “I’ve heard about your fevers, Benedict. Perhaps you’d like an apricot or a peach, instead of this delicious pudding?”

“At this time of the year?” said Benedict. “Do you import them from Spain, in silver paper?”

“Oh, no. I grow them in my greenhouse.” Sir Joshua touched the bell, and his manservant brought in a dish of opulent apricots and peaches, dewy and cool and fragrant.

“In your greenhouse? In London?” asked Benedict, with incredulity.

“Certainly. They are a dwarf variety, not generally known. I cultured them myself. Do taste them.”

Benedict carefully peeled the fruit with the fruit knife, and ate them. He had never tasted such flavor, either in Spain or in Italy or in the Orient. Not only were the fruits refreshing but they were delightful in scent and texture. They were too delicious to spoil even with the best of cheese. A pale rose wine was served with them. “I never tasted wine like this,” said Benedict.

“It comes from Chile,” said Sir Joshua, pleased at the young man’s pleasure.

“I have heard of your greenhouse, Sir Joshua, from my aunt.”

“Would you like to visit it after dinner?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“And my little gallery of Old Masters?” Joshua laughed a little. “No, I suppose not. You’ve seen the best in the Vatican and the Louvre and so why should you bother with second-best, which are all I have? I prefer modern artists, however, but they are a little strong for the stomach. You shall see my greenhouse instead.”

After dinner Sir Joshua led Benedict through a series of big and gloomy rooms, flickering with firelight. Then they passed down a long corridor into an extremely large conservatory. The air was heavy and warm and damp, and Benedict thought of the jungles. Then he saw this was no ordinary greenhouse, full of cramped palms, forced roses, pale gardenias and orchids and other exotic flowers. He was familiar with all these, but he was not familiar with the flowers in this conservatory. He walked along the benches and examined them closely. The atmosphere was burdened with languorous scents. There were a number of fruit trees, darkly green and thick of leaf, gleaming with tropical and semi-tropical fruits, and there was a feeling of life here under the many gaslights.

“I searched the whole world for the flowers,” said Sir Joshua, and he named some. “Many of them were very small in their native state, but careful breeding and grafting — a new art in horticulture — resulted in these large blooms.” He stopped before a big single box filled with dark, rich earth, and Benedict stopped with him.

The box was crowded with blooms, and long stiff leaves. In the midst of these leaves stood the flowers, large and glowing as if with a life of their own, and yellow as gold. It seemed to Benedict that they emitted an aura, fainter than themselves, and quivering. The petals were as thick as those of a rose, clustered closely together. Not a single petal was withered or spotted; the stamens appeared smothering in gold-dust. And the scent of them was incredibly sweet, fresh, and pure.

“C’est Egal,” said Benedict, with awe. “My aunt told me.” He did not need to bend to sniff at the flowers, for they were tall. He looked at them lovingly, and — surely it was his imagination! — they seemed to bow towards him, as if acknowledging his love and returning it. And — what imagination could do! — they also seemed to glow brighter, as if smiling at him.

“C’est Egal,” repeated Sir Joshua.

“You found it in some far-off place?” asked Benedict.

“No,” said Sir Joshua. “In London, when I was twenty-six years old. A young girl gave me a single flower, on the street, and these are the progeny of that flower.”

“But, where could she have possibly gotten the flower, Sir Joshua?”

Sir Joshua looked at the flowers bending towards Benedict as if stirred by a breeze, and then he smiled and took the young priest’s arm. “Come back into the house and I shall tell you. I created the greenhouse to keep them company.” He turned off the lights. A dim green darkness immediately filled the greenhouse, but C’est Egal continued to shine as if illuminated, the brightest pure gold Benedict had ever seen in his life. As the two men passed through the corridor Sir Joshua said, “If the flowers had not — shall we say known you? — I’d not even have dreamed of telling you about them.”

What a fanciful old man, thought Benedict. But he glanced behind him, longing for another glimpse of the marvelous flower. When they were in the drawing-room again and sipping brandy, Sir Joshua became very silent and looked at the fire for several long minutes. It was as if he had forgotten Benedict.

Then he said, “I feel I must tell you. I’ve hardly had time to know you, but yet I feel I must tell you, and I’ve never told anyone before.” He turned his fine head and Benedict saw half of his face in the ruddy firelight, exalted and joyous.

“I was twenty-six,” said Sir Joshua. “My parents were dead, and I was very rich because of all their work. I was building this house at the time, this dear, ugly house, and living in rooms at Claridges. Yes, at Claridges. I had returned from France and Italy and Germany, and I had my tutor living with me in my rooms. Sometimes I would become very restless with my memories of my parents, and so I would often leave my hotel and take a tram and then walk the long distance to my old home where my parents and I had lived.”

The neighborhood was extremely dreary and deteriorating. It had been just above a slum when Sir Joshua’s parents had been there. Now it was a complete slum. Many of the rotting old houses had been demolished, and two streets from his old home a storehouse had been newly built. One could glimpse its gloomy tall outlines above a high brick wall, but only the higher outlines and the dun roof. The area within the wall could be reached only through an iron gate on the street behind. No grass grew within the area, not a tree or a shrub. It was hard-packed clay and gravel. Drays entered through the one gate with goods to be stored, and then sold to retailers.

“Very cheap goods,” said Sir Joshua. “Calicoes, ginghams, rattletrap furniture, bad china, pots and pans, utilities used in quantities by the very poor. The dinginess of the old-brick wall, its lifeless enclosed area, and the hideous storehouse made even the dying slum more depressing. It was a very busy street on weekdays, with the lorries and the horses coming and going, and the children playing on the flags, and the women screaming from littered doorways, and men shouting. It was an evil place, as all poverty and all commerce in those days were evil. It is often said, disdainfully, ‘the drunken poor’. But what makes a man drink? He wants to forget, and the poor must have their anodyne as well as the rich. They need it more; they will die to get it, for how can they bear their lives? A man can’t live without hope. There was no hope in those streets. I was not drawn there out of affection but only because I wanted to remember my parents and their neighbors, their friends, so that I should never forget misery and should understand it. I was rich now, but I was determined never to forget, for my soul’s sake.”