Not that John was blind to the imperfections of his friends (and here I use the word in its full meaning),—those few—they were few—whom he had admitted, or who had somehow found entrance, to the inner shrine of his heart. But I could fancy him shielding those imperfections from the eyes of the world with his own body; standing between them and the gaze of a curious multitude; suffering death, if need be, in the shielding.
Call him absurd, if you will; but, for my part, I like this rare absurdity.
CHAPTER XVIII
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.