“And I knew that all my great fortune did not truly belong to me. It belonged to God. I held it in trust for Him; I was His steward. He had given it to me to use in His Name, for the relief of the wretched and despairing, for the enlightenment of those who live in darkness, to help those who spread Faith and courage and assistance. I was, to bring it all down to earth, only God’s banker, to pay out the funds which belonged to Him.”
He smoked peacefully for a moment or two. “Do you know, Benedict? When I realized these things, and the realization did not come all at once, my very appearance changed. Oh, nothing radical, of course. I had always had some handsomeness, but it was a coarse and common handsomeness. I am not being vain, but only factual. My features did not actually become other features; they merely lost their lustiness, and lightened and quickened. I have, in my long lifetime, seen that change take place in the faces of rosy-cheeked and hearty young girls when they became nuns. I have seen the change take place in the faces of strong and burly young men when they became priests. Not all nuns, not all priests. But so many that it has been remarked upon by others besides myself. Of course, they are holy people, and I am not. But I share a revelation with them, I who was nothing at all. And that is a great mystery.”
“You look like an Italian Cardinal I met a few years ago,” said Benedict.
“You are very kind, my dear boy.
“But I must tell you the rest. My love came to me more often on that street as I came closer to God. Two years went by, then three. My house was completed. I furnished it. I lived two lives, one concerned only with brief meetings with my love, the other concerned with increasing my fortune, so I could help the Church more and more. Yet, they were a single life; they were like two leaves on a stem.
“Then one Sunday my love said to me, ‘Today, you may come with me through the door.’
“She gave me her hand, and I had never touched it before, for she seemed too precious for my touch. It was warm and soft and firm. I had had vague thoughts that if I touched her my hand would touch nothing but air. But her hand seemed as fleshly as my own. She led me to the door, pressed against its golden gleam, and it fell aside and we stepped within together.
“I don’t know what I had expected to see, my mind half filled with the memory of the clay and gravel and the storehouse. Strange, but I had not really thought much about it, except that I imagined that in stepping through that door she had simply disappeared from my sight. You can understand, then, with what awe I looked at what was beyond that door.
“Imagine, if you can, an exquisite garden, but a garden that had no boundaries, no walls, no real horizon. It was as wide as the earth, and as endless. It was Eden, before the Fall. Grass was there, and uncountable flowers, among them my C’est Egal, and mighty trees I had never seen before, and fountains and arbors and glens and knolls. The place was full of birdsong, and the wind sounded like a thousand soft harps. But more than anything else was the light, the immutable light, not exactly like the sun, but deeper and more intense. And what peace, what sense of joy, what radiance! And there was no mar anywhere, no blight, no spot, no small ugliness, no dying, not even of the smallest or fullest flower. And, there seemed to be no time at all, but only eternity.
“I don’t know how long I stayed. We walked together, serenely, hand in hand. Fragrance was all about us, and sweetness and the tenderest warmth. I have never told you what we had said on the street. I will not tell you what we said to each other in the garden. I will tell you this only: we spoke of our love for each other, but all the rest is my own, except that we also talked of God and His love. There was no lust between us.
“Then time had to take me again, and we went to the door. Before she pushed it she said, ‘We will not meet again until you come here to stay. But remember me, and be patient.’ Was I sorrowful? A little, perhaps. But how long is a man’s life? A few years, a few years of delusion, of waiting. It is a waiting full of peace and faith and joy. I knew, even when I was alone on the street again, that my love was in the garden, waiting for me, and that the waiting would not last forever. But when I go again into that garden, there will be the end of waiting, and only eternity will be there.”
The old man sighed and smiled. “I go to the street often, as you can imagine, hoping it will be for the last time. But there is only the brick wall and the gray Sunday silence. Apparently, my time hasn’t come as yet. I am growing very old. It can’t be much longer, can it?”
Benedict did not answer. He struggled with himself. His common sense told him that he had been hearing a dream, a fairy tale. Harmless, for it had made an ambitious young man almost saintly; harmless, it had brought a somewhat ordinary young man to God. There was nothing actually wrong with all this, and certainly nothing evil. Evil does not lift a man’s heart to God; evil does not set a man’s feet in the path of justice. Evil does not grow the fruit of joy and charity and love for God on a thorn-tree. Evil does not keep a man chaste and serene all the long years of his life, and urge him to the service of his Lord. Evil does not bring peace.
And, who knew? Benedict shook his thoughts back into a sensible pattern.
“You have told no other priest, except me, of this, Sir Joshua?”
“No. I did not feel it was necessary. But I felt it was necessary to tell you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Benedict.”
“Forgive me, but has it ever occurred to you that you may have been suffering from some illusion?”
Sir Joshua laughed heartily. Then he held out his hand to Benedict. “My love gave me this ring, on the last day I saw her in the garden.”
Benedict examined the ring he had marveled at before. He looked into its brilliant and glowing heart, and saw the colors change as the colors of the sky change at sunset. They shifted and shone, blue and gold and scarlet and pearl and rose and fire and flame. They merged and moved, became limpid and still, then swirled again, as if alive. The stone was set in a metal that was pale and shining, unlike any other metal Benedict had ever seen.
“It resembles an opal, slightly,” said the young priest. “But it is not an opal.”
“No,” said Sir Joshua. He said a moment later, “I’ve looked all over the world to find a place as lovely as the garden, for, you see, I am homesick. If I had found a place which resembled it only a little I’d have stayed there for at least a while.”
“Have you ever wondered why all this — all this — has happened to you, Sir Joshua?”
“Of course. A thousand times. I am not in the least worthy.”
Benedict frowned. “Sir Joshua, you know there is no marriage or giving in marriage in heaven.”
“I know. So Our Lord has said. But we have His promise that we shall see those we love again. Shall not parents know and love their child again, and a man his daughter, and a son his mother? Shall He who loved His Mother and brought her to heaven deny a man that joy? Shall He who is now surrounded by His saints, whom He knew on earth, deny that other friends shall meet again and love each other with a greater love? Shall a man and his wife who loved each other in God in this world not fall into each other’s arms again in rapture and happiness? God who is love will never deny love, our human love, for His Son took on our nature and our flesh, and He knows.
“Not only shall we possess God, but also the love we have known on earth. ‘All else besides.’ Our treasures wait for us, for He gave them freely.”
“I still don’t know why you have told me, Sir Joshua.”
The old man looked at him gravely and gently. “Nor do I, Benedict.”
“Who is that girl?”
“That I cannot tell you. Do not ask me, Benedict.”
Old Amanda was waiting up for Benedict when he returned. He saw the light under her door, and then heard her booming voice, “Come in, boy, come in!”
He went in and said severely, “You should be asleep, Mother.”
“Nonsense. Hah, what is this? You look disturbed. Did my darling old fool d
isturb you, child?”
“No. I don’t think so. He’s a little odd, though.”
Amanda grinned wickedly at him. “Do you really want to know why I wished you two to meet? I wanted you to see what you’d not have escaped if your poor, sweet father had lived. He was exactly like Joshua. He’d have made a dreamer of you, too, Benedict, and this is no world for dreamers, though I must admit that Joshua really does very well.”
“There are worse things than dreams,” said Benedict.
Amanda stared at him, her bold old eyes narrowed. Then she said, quietly, “I’m glad you know that, my dear. I thought you’d forgotten, priest though you are. For, you see, I never had dreams, none at all. Your father had them, and so did your mother, and they were so happy. I’ve never been truly happy, Benedict. We realists, you and I, may have many virtues, and you above all, but if we lack a dream, then we are more than half blind. No, I have never been happy. And I’ve been very unhappy, lately, thinking that I had made a complete realist of you, too. You, who can celebrate a Mass! Think of that.”
Benedict thought a great deal about that in the days that followed, and as his health improved.
One day he went to the old Bishop and said, “Will your lordship please be frank with me? What is your opinion of me?”
The Bishop did not seem to be surprised. He said, genially, “Benedict, you are an intelligent, worthy, diligent and devoted priest. You have sacrificed your health, and almost your life, in God’s service. You have been utterly obedient and steadfast. Nothing has been too much for you. I doubt if you have much in the way of sins, even venial ones. You have served God nobly, and will again serve Him.”
“Thank you, my lord. Do you think I love God perfectly?”
The Bishop dismayingly hesitated. Then he said, “What do you think, Benedict?”
“I don’t know,” said Benedict, with misery. “I suppose I do. Why else should I try to do His work? Why else should I have become a priest?”
“I see,” said the Bishop. “Yes, I think, I know, you love God deeply. You had a genuine vocation from the beginning. All of us love God in a different way from others. Just as not all flowers are the same, so love is not the same. There are also degrees of it. Let me put it this way, from what I know of you: you love God, in your own way. But I don’t think, in spite of your sacrifices, that you love your fellow-man very much. Do you?”
Benedict was startled. He had not thought of that at all. With shame, he said, “I think I have tried. I have given all of myself that I could. Isn’t that love?”
“Not entirely. A man can love God but not his brother. It isn’t a new thing even for a very pious man. Do you know what the Protestants say? ‘Protestants love man but not God, and Catholics love God but not man.’ That is a broad statement, and like all broad statements it is not entirely true. The ideal thing is perfect love for God, and perfect love for our fellows. But, my dear Benedict, it is quite worthy to have the intellectual will to love both, even if we don’t have the emotional desire. It is, I believe, enough to will it, God understands more than we know. And, eventually, if one wills love, it will come.”
Benedict thought of that, and prayed inwardly for the grace of perfect love for both God and man. Then he said, “Has your lordship seen Sir Joshua Fielding’s strange flower which he calls C’est Egal?”
“Oh! Old Joshua! Certainly I’ve seen that flower. Beautiful, isn’t it? He never tells anyone where he found it.”
“Has he always been peculiar?”
“Joshua? Dear Benedict, the man really has no eccentricities at all! Feet on the ground, and all that. What makes you think he is — peculiar? I wish we had more rich men in the Church as peculiar as he is! Then hundreds of our priests wouldn’t be half starved to death everywhere in the world. He is a saint; I’m convinced of that. We have talked together innumerable times. He is full of sanctifying Grace.”
I wish I were, thought Benedict. He did much walking and praying and thinking for the next week or so. Then one morning his aunt said delightedly, “Benedict! While you were tramping about, my dear Joshua brought you four of his lovely flowers, and he has left a letter for you! Do open it and read it to me.”
The flowers had been placed in one of Amanda’s best crystal vases, and they shone in the Victorian dusk of the drawing-room like living gold. Benedict touched a petal, certain that it would not feel as flowers feel. But it did, indeed. It had an unusual warmth, as if fresh from a hot sun. The flowers blew out fragrance, as if breathing. Benedict opened the letter and read:
My dear young friend —
When you receive this letter I shall be gone from your mortal sight forever. No one on this earth will ever see me alive again. I have heard the summons tonight, as my clock struck twelve, and today I enter through the golden door forever. Rejoice with me.
Joshua Fielding.
“Good God!” cried Amanda. “What on earth does he mean? Benedict! Where are you going!”
But Benedict was already flying from the house, and the echo of the slamming of the door pursued him down the road in the direction of Sir Joshua’s home. A disturbed servant answered his knocking. No, no one had seen Sir Joshua so far today. It was most unusual for him to leave so early in the day. Word had been sent to his club; no one had noticed him there. He had not rung for his breakfast; there had been no sound from his room since he had retired last night. Where had Sir Joshua lived as a young man? The servant stared. Why, he did not know. But wait, Father, please. Sir Joshua was fond of treating the children on a certain road on Sundays; he gave them shillings and pence and brought them toffee, and often sent boxes of new clothes — fancy that, new clothes — for the old people there. The name of the street? “I have it on the tip of my tongue, Father. Just a moment — ”
Benedict knew that priests did not seize harmless people by their shoulders and shake them and shout at them, but he forgot that now. He literally shook the name of the slum street from the servant, then went racing off. He found a hack a few streets away, and flung himself on the damp leather seat and promised the man a pound if he would hurry. The horse galloped off, and Benedict clung to the seat as the hack bounced on the cobbles and clattered through the streets. If I am only on time! thought the young priest desperately. But why he wished to be on time he did not know.
“Here ye are, Parson,” said the driver, cheered by the note given him. It was not for him to wonder why a clergyman should be in such a confounded hurry to reach a slum district full of snotty kids, workmen, sinister pubs and screaming, dirty old women in rags. Mission of mercy, as they called it. Benedict flung himself from the vehicle, and raced down the street. It is not a Sunday, he recalled, with some incoherence. The street was alive with noise, racing children, screams, yells, the rumble of drays, the shouts of men, the shrill voices of slatternly women. Ah, there was the long brick wall, and above it the sooty roof and chimneys of the storehouse. A long, long wall, running the length of the street. The flags along it were broken; the houses opposite fumed with crowded life and noise. Strangely, no one was walking near the wall except Benedict, himself, and he was almost running, searching, praying for what, he did not know.
Then he saw Sir Joshua serenely strolling ahead of him, and he stopped and blinked incredulously. He strolled like a young man, swinging his cane, his topper gleaming silkily in the smoky sun. Benedict called hoarsely, “Sir Joshua! Wait!”
The old man turned and smiled at him, not surprised. His face was the face of a happy youth. He touched his hat in salutation, then turned and went on, and Benedict ran behind him. Then he stopped again.
There was a yellow door, narrow and small from this angle, in the brick wall. Joshua put his hand against it and it opened, and he stepped within; the door swung to behind him. He was gone.
Benedict ran to the door. He reached it and pressed his hand to it, panting. It was brilliantly gold, smooth and like metal to the touch. Benedict hurled himself against it with all his strength. It did not move.
He beat on it with his fists and shouted, “Sir Joshua! Sir Joshua! Come out!”
A hand was put heavily on his shoulder, and Benedict turned his head and saw a burly workman behind him, his wool cap set low over his eyes, a stinking pipe in his mouth. “What’s up, matey?” asked the man. “Not gone daft, be you?”
Benedict cried, “Help me to open this door!”
The man’s little eyes stared piglike at him. “What door, Parson?”
Benedict swung about. There was no door at all. The brick wall extended ahead and behind him, for the full street. “There was a door!” exclaimed Benedict. “Here! Didn’t you see it, man?”
The other shook his head and squinted at the young priest. He grunted. “Never a door here since the wall was built. Only the gate on the other side. You’d not be out of your head, like, would you, Parson?”
Grandmother and the Priests Page 19