Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “I confessed to having terrible, uncharitable thoughts about my uncle.”

  Rowland and Milton laughed, even Clyde smiled.

  “Father Murphy stayed and stayed. I confessed and confessed.” Isobel’s shoulders slumped wearily. “’Twas nearly midnight before he left… by then, I was sure Orville would be angry.” Her cheeks flushed red once more. “He is not… was not… a patient man.”

  “So you went to meet him?” Edna asked quickly as she noticed Isobel’s eyes well again.

  “I would certainly have done, but Uncle Shaun arrived to say the rosary with me.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Rowland put down his teacup.

  “Uncle Shaun is often moved by the Holy Spirit at unusual times,” Isobel informed him sadly.

  Milton looked at Clyde. “This rosary thing… does it take long?”

  “If you do it properly.”

  “One supposes a bishop would do it properly,” Rowland noted.

  Isobel nodded emphatically.

  Rowland Sinclair observed the bishop’s niece thoughtfully. Her distress at Urquhart’s demise seemed thoroughly genuine, though she had known him only a few days. He was somewhat relieved that Isobel appeared utterly unaware of his altercation with Urquhart. She would probably not have looked well on him for that.

  “What part of Ireland are you from, Miss Hanrahan?” he asked, deciding to take her focus from Urquhart and his unfortunate end.

  “Dublin, Mr. Sinclair,” she smiled as she thought of home. For several minutes she told them of the Irish capital, of her family. She spoke wistfully of her parents’ decision that she accompany her uncle to Sydney. She did not elaborate on why and they did not press her. Eventually, she stood to leave, concerned her uncle would soon notice her absence.

  “You cannot be walking me back,” she protested, when the men stood and Rowland moved to walk her to her room. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Sinclair, but Uncle Shaun will be furious if he saw me with the likes of you. He is more than sufficiently cross with me. I’ll not risk angering him further.”

  “I’ll accompany you, Miss Hanrahan,” Clyde volunteered. “I’m a lot less objectionable than Rowly, and I did sit through Mass.”

  That decided, Rowland and Milton returned with Edna to the Reynolds Suite, whilst Clyde saw Isobel Hanrahan to her door.

  Rowland dropped into the couch, rubbing his leg. It was holding up well, he thought. He hadn’t won the deck tennis, but he had played.

  “Do you want a drink, Rowly?” Milton was already pouring.

  Rowland nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Ed?”

  The sculptress declined and sat down beside Rowland. She was quiet.

  He put his arm around her. “I’m sorry about your locket, Ed,” he said softly. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

  She shook her head and then leant against him, curling her legs up next to her. “You can’t tell the poor thing that he gave her a stolen locket. It would break her heart all over again.”

  “You’re a good sport, Ed,” he murmured, hearing the sadness in her voice. He could smell the familiar rose of her perfume as she left her head on his shoulder.

  “Rowly…”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What do you think he did with the picture of Mama?”

  Rowland tightened his grasp upon her, gently, protectively. He suspected that Edna didn’t have another photograph of her late mother.

  “I don’t know, Ed,” he said. “I’ll talk to Madding—we’ll have his stateroom searched.”

  Milton proffered a glass to Rowland. “Get off the man’s drinking arm, Ed.”

  Edna ignored him. “Rowly’s ambidextrous,” she said flatly.

  “Since when?”

  “I started out with a preference for my left,” Rowly confirmed, as he took the glass.

  “I’ve never noticed you using…”

  “I don’t generally. Was persuaded to use my right hand when I started school.”

  “Persuaded?”

  “They have ways.”

  “Rowly paints with his left hand sometimes,” Edna murmured. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

  Milton remained surprised.

  “I don’t paint with my left often,” Rowland qualified. “Just when the work isn’t going well—sometimes it helps.”

  “Well as long as you can still drink.” Milton took to the armchair with his own drink. “I wonder how that bastard got hold of Ed’s locket.”

  “I was wearing it the day before he died,” Edna offered. “I hadn’t even noticed it was missing.”

  “You know, Rowly,” Milton started, “I’m inclined not to care that Urquhart’s dead. Perhaps we should just raise our glasses and wish the killer the best of British—he may have done us all a favour.”

  The door opened and Clyde walked in.

  “You took your time,” Milton commented.

  “The bishop was waiting for Isobel,” Clyde responded tersely. “She might have an easier time in a nunnery.” He cast his eyes to the ceiling. “God forgive me—His Grace is a bloody nutter.”

  “What if the bishop killed Urquhart?” Rowland mused looking at Milton. “Should we still wish him luck?”

  The poet hesitated. “Well… there’s Isobel.”

  “And the next bloke who wins her heart.”

  “Do you think he could have killed Orville and then returned to say rosary with Isobel?” Edna was sceptical.

  Milton shrugged. “Maybe it was the bishop who needed to ask for forgiveness… or whatever it is that you do with the rosary.”

  Clyde sighed and shook his head. “We make port tomorrow.” He poured himself a drink.

  “The bishop and his entourage will reboard for the leg to Sydney,” Rowland returned ominously. “We’ll have another few weeks in His Grace’s charming company.”

  Clyde sat down and pulled a deck of cards from his jacket. “He can move in and call me ‘darling’, but I’m not going to Mass again. Edna, get off Rowly—you’ll be able to see his cards from there.”

  Their final dinner aboard the Aquitania before she reached New York Harbour, was a celebration of particular grandeur. Only Jiddu Krishnamurti and the clergymen weren’t in white tie and tails, remaining in the attire of their respective religious affiliations. The ladies glittered in their most lavish gems, both true and paste. Edna’s claret gown had been purchased for her in Paris. She wore no jewellery this night. She was startling.

  “What the hell are we going to do with these outfits when we get home?” Clyde muttered as he tried to sit without catching the tails of his coat.

  “We’ll be the best dressed blokes at Trades Hall,” Milton grinned in response. “Even Rowly might have trouble finding a fancy enough do for these get-ups.”

  They were seated again with Theosophists. In Orville Urquhart’s place was Richard Waterman, a middle-aged surgeon, whose accent only just betrayed him as Australian. His wife was an American, severe eyes, lips drawn tight like the neck of a drawstring bag. The only time she stopped looking disapproving was when she spoke to Krishnamurti, whom she seemingly held in high regard. Also at the table were the Colonel and Mrs. Benson, an elderly couple who started in the movement with Annie Besant. They were on their way to Sydney to stay with Charles Leadbeater at The Manor, which served as the Theosophical Society’s southern headquarters.

  Annie was talking with Rowland who had clearly become a favourite of hers. In this conversation she extolled the virtues of Co-masonry over its more traditional prototype, Freemasonry. The new Lodge had adopted much of the ritual and regalia of the original, but its membership was not restricted. Unaware that the Sinclairs had been Freemasons for generations, she did not curb her criticisms of the exclusively male society.

  “Freemasonry has much to commend it,” Annie declared. Her hand once again found Rowland’s knee, where, it seemed, she preferred to keep it. “But it is a patriarchal anachronism—determined to exclude women.”

 
; Rowland smiled. “I would not have thought you so keen to wear an apron, Annie.”

  His membership of the secret society was a family tradition more than a personal choice, though his brother Wilfred took the Lodge quite seriously. Indeed Rowland only went to meetings under sufferance when Wilfred insisted. He honestly couldn’t imagine why women would want to join.

  “I will write to Charles,” Annie Besant said, undeterred. “You must go and see him when you return to Sydney. I am sure you will get as much from Co-masonry as I have over the years. You must take your companions too.”

  He tried to dissuade her without admitting to being a Freemason—it was after all supposed to be a secret society. Annie Besant would not be moved, and it so seemed he would have to call on Charles Leadbeater with a letter of introduction.

  Father Bryan came by their table to admire Edna, as did many young men. She dealt with it graciously, as she always did.

  Milton nudged Rowland and pointed out Isobel, who sat at a table on the other side of the hall beside her uncle. Her gown was white, extremely modest with girlish flounces at the shoulders; her face was mutinous.

  The ship’s orchestra struck up a waltz and Captain Madding led his partner onto the parquetry floor. Many couples followed. Edna grabbed Rowland’s hand.

  “Come on, Rowly, let’s test your leg.”

  He looked at her dubiously.

  “Oh, don’t be such a coward,” she said pulling him up. “It’s a waltz—just grit your teeth and dance. Excuse us, Annie.”

  The result of Rowland’s first dance since the bullet had done its damage was not altogether successful, but neither was it a disaster. Edna chatted blithely in her usual manner, ignoring the fact that her partner was concentrating on forcing his leg to take the weight required of it.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled as he stumbled slightly on a turn.

  She smiled at him. “Just don’t fall—everybody’s watching.”

  Rowland glanced up… several young men were indeed watching them from the tables.

  “They’re waiting for a chance to cut in,” he said, wincing as they went into another turn. “They’re probably hoping I’ll fall.”

  Edna giggled. “You’re not going to—you used to quite like dancing—what happened to you?”

  “You shot me, I believe.”

  “Are you still going on about that?” she laughed. “I thought you’d forgiven me.”

  “Nothing to forgive, Ed.”

  She gazed at him openly, intensely, and he looked away in case his knees buckled again.

  “We’ve had fun, haven’t we, Rowly?” she said. “I never imagined the world to be so marvellous.”

  Rowland nodded. “It’s been smashing. Are you sorry to be going home?”

  “We have a while before we see Sydney,” the sculptress replied. “And we’ll see the world again.” She smiled. “We have yet to conquer it, Rowly.”

  “I rather think you already have,” he said, though he knew she was talking of their work. Edna had always been more ambitious than he—for both of them.

  “As I thought,” Rowland murmured as he caught sight of Hubert Van Hook weaving towards them.

  He relinquished Edna to the arms of Van Hook and returned to the table. Milton and Clyde were on the dance floor, so he sat again with Annie Besant.

  “You did very well out there, Rowland,” the old lady commended as they watched Edna reign over the ballroom. “Your stick will be a distant memory soon.”

  “I certainly hope so.” He leant in towards her. “Tell me Annie, did you know about Urquhart’s association with Miss Hanrahan?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded gravely. “I’m afraid he was quite cocky about it. I begged him not to treat her badly… such a sweet, innocent thing.” She fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Annie, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Quite all right, my dear boy… this has been such a tragic affair in every way. Miss Hanrahan is not a worldly creature… I’ve never seen Jiddu so angry. He, Orville and Hubert all grew up in the movement… but only Jiddu truly understood the teachings of the Society… and Orville grew to be the furthest removed from them.”

  She smiled knowingly at him, her aged hand finding his strong one. “I’m eighty-five, Rowland. I had rather wished I could die leaving the ideals I have worked for in good hands. I had hoped to convince Jiddu to return but there is little chance of that now.”

  “Perhaps there will be someone else…”

  She shook her head. “I cannot help feeling we have run out of time. Not so long ago the world was ready to hear of hope and tolerance, of brotherhood and love.”

  “And now?”

  She sighed. “I have just come from Europe, Rowland. Mad, evil men are coming to power… men with closed minds and dark hearts… and before you ask, it is not clairvoyance but common sense that leads me to that belief.” Her eyes were soft and bright with sadness. “I worry about young men like you, like Mr. Isaacs who wears his ideals so outrageously, loyal Mr. Jones with his quiet decency… You must promise me that you will not let yourselves be changed—that you will keep your minds open.”

  Rowland pressed her hand warmly. He admired her, believed her, though he was not entirely sure what she was saying. “Annie, would you care to dance? I would consider it an honour and a kindness if you would.”

  Annie Besant laughed. “I should be delighted, Rowland. I am not yet too old to raise the occasional eyebrow, I think.”

  And so Rowland Sinclair danced with the great liberationist. Their steps were careful, without flair or showmanship, but their conversation was that of sincere friendship and mutual regard, and in that respect there was no misstep.

  7

  THEOSOPHISTS IN CHICAGO

  CHICAGO

  Mrs. Annie Besant was cheered when she expressed hope of a reunion with the faction of Theosophists in this country in her address at the annual convention of the American Section of the Theosophical Society held to-day at the rooms of the Chicago branch, in the Athenaeum Building. An additional interest was imparted to the occasion by the presence of the Countess Wachtmeister and Miss Wilson.

  The New York Times

  It was the first hours of the day. The party of Australians had discarded their coat-tails, and sat in their waistcoats with their shirtsleeves rolled as they dealt with the serious business of cards. They played in the comfort of Godfrey Madding’s private suite in the company of both the captain and Yates, the ship’s ginger-haired doctor. Edna still wore the dark crimson gown in which she had captivated everyone the previous evening, but she was focussed now on the cards she held. A reasonable sum had already changed hands in the course of the game.

  Madding poured whisky generously for all, except Rowland, who never drank the malted liquor voluntarily. It was a lively informal gathering, neither unduly raucous nor overly refined.

  “I am afraid we were unable to find the photo of Miss Higgins’ mother,” Madding told Rowland quietly. “I’d say Urquhart disposed of it.”

  Rowland nodded. He had suspected as much. He would tell Edna later. For now, let her play cards.

  “My staff captain confirms that Urquhart had been liaising with Miss Hanrahan since we left England. The crew had noticed them,” Madding murmured. He shook his head.

  “Do you think His Grace was aware of it?”

  Madding shrugged. “I hope not, for the girl’s sake.”

  Milton had just upped the ante in a show of bravado when the game was interrupted by an urgent knocking. Clyde answered the door to admit a crewman who sought Dr. Yates and the captain.

  “There’s been an accident on the first class deck, sir,” the sailor reported. “Dr. Yates is required to attend.”

  Yates rose immediately. He had been losing anyway.

  “Spit it out, man,” Madding demanded impatiently. “What happened?”

  “Excuse me, sir. Mrs. Besant has fallen down the stairs.”

 
; The Australians now discarded their cards and stood.

  Madding raised his hand. “You’d all best stay here,” he said. “I realise Mrs. Besant is a friend of yours… I’ll let you know as soon as possible…”

  Madding and Yates left forthwith. Milton finished his drink and poured another as they waited.

  “She’ll be all right,” he said, a little too loudly. “Annie’s a tough old bird.”

  Madding was as good as his word and a crewman arrived within thirty minutes to inform them that Annie Besant had sustained a nasty knock to the head but was otherwise unhurt. Yates was keeping her in the infirmary until they made port in New York. The evening thus dramatically and abruptly concluded, they returned to their own suites to retire.

  When Rowland Sinclair and his friends visited, Annie Besant was looking quite well despite the large bandage that swathed her forehead. She was sitting up, sipping a cup of tea. Jiddu Krishnamurti was reading in the easy chair beside her bed. There were no other patients in the Aquitania’s infirmary and so the nursing staff was most solicitous of her every comfort.

  “Drunk again?” Milton suggested grinning.

  “Don’t be impertinent, young man!”

  “How are you, Annie?”

  “Thoroughly embarrassed, if you must know,” she responded, smiling at the several young people who had entered the infirmary. “Everybody has been most kind, which only leaves me feeling sillier for my clumsiness.”

  Rowland Sinclair, Milton Isaacs and Clyde Watson Jones lined up at the foot of her bed, all leaning against the rail as they asked about her health. Annie Besant regarded them warmly. It was a particularly Australian habit, she observed—to lean. Australian men seem to lean whenever possible—against walls, posts, chairs. Her late husband would have considered it offensive, slovenly, but Annie found it somehow charming… Australians had the ability to relax in any company or circumstance—they would face Armageddon itself leaning casually on a fence. It put her at ease in their presence.

  “We’re lucky you weren’t more seriously hurt.” Edna refilled her cup from a silver pot on the bedside table. “Whatever were you doing?”

  Annie Besant chuckled. “I can’t remember anything, Edna, my dear, but I’m sure I was not sliding down the banisters.”