“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,...”