if this—his own voluntary invitation—had surprised father maloney, twenty minutes later he was more surprised still. his mind was in one chaotic state of surprise. it had entirely lost its bearings; it had drifted into an extraordinary geniality with, apparently, no volition on his own part. as surely as he contracted it momentarily into a state of astonished frigidity, so surely it expanded, thawed again, into an altogether untoward hospitality.
“sure, it’s entirely bewitched i am,” he muttered sternly, bewildered at one moment, and the next expatiating on the individual beauties of some rose, as a mother expatiates on the virtues of her child, provided, of course, that her audience be sufficiently sympathetic.
“’tis in june you should have been seeing them,” he said at length, tenderly fingering a [pg 153]madame abel chatenay, salmon pink, pale, and graceful, “’tis in june you should have been seeing them. for every one rose on the bushes now, there were ten then. sure, i never know which of them i’m for loving best. at times i think ’tis this fair lady, then i’m for thinking ’tis yonder creamy devonionsis, or that drooping white niphetos, or caroline testout smiling away over there. but for the most i’m always coming back to general jacqueminot. ’tis the old-fashionedness of him, and his sturdy ways, and, more than all, the sweet scent of him. if you’re down on your luck, and take a good sniff at him, why, the world’s a different place that very minute. there’s all the sunshine of the summer, and the humming of the bees, and the laughter of children, and your mother’s voice, and all the memories of your boyhood in the scent, there is that. and you’d laugh yourself, the while there’s a queer tenderness is catching at your heart for happy tears.”
“i know,” nodded david. (i have not insulted your intelligence by giving him a former and formal introduction.) “i know. there are scents like that. they are alive. they are worth [pg 154]a million words, or a million pictures. i could be taken blindfold across the world, and if i were set down on the veldt i would know the scent in an instant. it’s hot, pungent, aromatic. i’d see the scrubby bushes, the scarlet everlastings, the flame-coloured heaths, and the straggling blue lobelia. i’d see the mountains, blue against the sun, and golden facing it. i’d feel the great spaces, and the vast distances. i’d—” he broke off with a laugh. “there i am trying to give you in words what only the scent of the place can really give you.”
“words are poor things,” said father maloney smiling, “when you come to wanting to express what lies closest to your heart. i’m thinking ’tis like the tower of babel over again, after a fashion. we can talk fast enough when our thoughts are down near the earth, but the moment they get up a bit, for the most of us our tongue is halting and stammering, and there’s confusion. i’m thinking it’s as well, or we might get a bit above ourselves with glibness of speech, and be fancying ourselves embryo prophets and visionaries, and getting others to fancy it along with us.”
david flicked an insect off a rose.
[pg 155]
“there’s not much need for speech if you happen to be with the right person, is there?” said he thoughtfully.
father maloney’s eyes twinkled.
“there is not,” quoth he. “or, at all events, your stammering will stand you in good stead.”
and then anastasia rang the tea-bell.
father maloney started almost guiltily. time had stolen a march on him, it would appear. he looked uneasily towards the house.
“that’s your tea-bell,” said david calmly, voicing the obvious.
“it is that,” said father maloney. “i—will you be having a cup,” he blurted out.
for one instant, for just one brief instant, david hesitated, then,
“thanks,” he said.
“’tis altogether bewitched i am,” groaned father maloney inwardly, as he accompanied his guest towards the house.
