The Reverend James Hollaway, Vicar of St Swithin’s, Upper Chesham Street, was looking at his profile in the glass. The sight was pleasing to him, so much so that he lingered a considerable time before he laid the mirror back upon the dressing-table.
He saw a man of about fifty-five years of age, who looked younger, with a high forehead and magnificent iron-grey hair, that was apt to curl slightly at the temples.
The nose was straight, the mouth narrow and sensitive, and he had been told that his deep-set eyes could be in turn humorous, dangerous, and inspired. He was tall and broad-shouldered; he carried his head a little to one side, and his powerful chin was tilted in the air.
To some this was his fascination, this inquiring, conceited angle of the head; to others it was the rich tones of his ever-changing voice, the strong capable hands, the slow lilting walk that was the secret of his tremendous attraction.
Yet all these were as nothing compared to his charm of manner, his wit, his talent for making the shyest person feel at ease.
Women adored him; he was so broad-minded, so tolerant, and he always gave the impression that he understood them far better than they did themselves. Besides, he was always so delightfully intimate. Men found him a surprisingly good companion; his wine was excellent; he never talked about religion, and he ever had a fund of damned amusing stories. It was all these qualities combined that made him the most popular preacher in London.
He was bound in time to become a bishop. St Swithin’s was frequented by the very best people. The fashionable thing to do was to attend Mass on Sunday mornings, and if possible to get an invitation back to lunch at the Vicar’s exquisitely furnished Georgian house that adjoined the church.
Here one was sure to find a crowd of well-known people: a leading politician, a couple of famous actresses, a rising young painter, and of course a sprinkling of titles.
Everyone agreed that ‘Jim’ Hollaway was a perfect host, and his conversation was as clever as his sermons. He was careful never to speak about God, or anything embarrassing, but was ever willing to discuss last night’s new play, the latest book, the newest fashion, and even the most recent scandal. He made a show of his excessive modernity, and besides being a keen poker-player, and an enthusiastic dancer, he delighted the younger generation by the freedom of his expressions. There was something so very original in the idea of being shocked by a clergyman. In church of course he was different, and this they appreciated.
With his tall figure, his striking voice and eyes, his eloquent gestures, the whole effect was rather wonderful. People soon forgave him his High Church tendencies, and the celebration of Mass instead of the usual eleven-o’ clock Matins. Also there was more to watch.
Men went to listen to the singing and because it was the thing to do; women went for the flowers and the lighted candles, for the agreeable emotional sensation that was produced by the smell of incense, and above all because they were half in love with the Vicar.
When they had summoned up enough courage to go to confession they were overwhelmed by his gentleness, his discretion, and above all by his apparent understanding. Some of the more intense of his congregation went to his Thursday-afternoon teas.
Here at last religion was discussed, but the Vicar made his gatherings so free from awkwardness that there was never the slightest feeling of restraint. He was a great comforter of uneasy souls, and portrayed God in a very gentle light, insisting upon His immense humanity.
They learnt with relief that God not only pardoned but was fond of sinners, in fact it seemed that He preferred them to the ninety-and-nine just men. Of course the Vicar implied that they were all as yet but seeds in the mighty growth of evolution, and that some time, very far hence, they would know perfection and look upon beauty in its greatest form, but in the meanwhile – well, in the meanwhile one lived and one naturally sinned, and received absolution and sinned again, and one lived according to one’s merits and station-in-the-world.
One must also bear in mind that conditions were very different from what they were nearly two thousand years ago. All of which was a very consoling philosophy. It was rendered so sacred, too, when spoken in the Vicar’s soft melodious voice; and when he turned his beautiful sympathetic eyes upon each member of the party in turn they thought he was addressing them especially, and could read the secrets of their hearts.
Later, when he met them casually at the Duchess of Attleborough’s Thé Dansant, or in the front row of the stalls at a first night, he would smile his wonderful sense-disturbing smile, and whisper some amusing description in their ears, but they felt that his eyes were saying ‘I know, I understand.’
He was unmarried, of course, and yet there was always the hopeless terrible longing that perhaps one day – however, he had fallen for no one yet, though rumour, forgetting the sanctity of the cloth, had linked his name with those of many beautiful and always noble ladies.
As the Vicar replaced the glass upon the dressing-table, and ran his hand carelessly, boyishly he considered, through his sleek grey hair, he smiled a little to himself. Yes, he had worn well, he was still a very good-looking man.
He went downstairs, and into his study. The room was large and furnished in remarkable taste. On his desk was a large portrait of one of England’s most beautiful actresses; on it was written ‘Jim, with my love, Mona,’ and the date of a summer two years ago.
The mantelpiece was adorned with Her Grace of Attleborough, ‘Your very affectionate Norah,’ and on a little table by the window was a striking study of Lady Eustace Carey-Slater, and her dashing signature ‘Attaboy! from Jane.’ The Vicar ran through his letters, and then rang the bell for his butler.
‘Any message for me, Wells?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir; two ladies called who said they were in terrible circumstances, and would very much like to have a few words with you. I told them you were very busy and would they see the Curate.’
The Vicar nodded his approval – some of these women were a pest.
‘Then Lord Cranleigh rang up, and asked to see you some time this morning. I told him to come over at once, as you were not engaged.’
‘Quite right, Wells. That’s all, thank you. Bring in the paper, will you?’ The man was an admirable servant.
While he was waiting for his visitor he let his eye run over the list of births, marriages, and deaths. By Jove, Kitty Durand was going to be married, and she had never told him. He must send her a present, he supposed, and a letter of congratulation. ‘Kitty, you wicked child, what’s the meaning of this? You deserve to be spanked. Only eighteen! Your fiancé is a lucky fellow, and I’m going to tell him so. Bless you both.’
Something like that would do, and a cocktail set from Goodes.
‘Yes, Wells, what is it?’
‘Lord Cranleigh,’ said the butler, and closed the door behind a boy of about twenty-two, with fair hair and a pleasantly weak face.
‘I say, sir, this is most awfully decent of you; can you really spare me a few moments?’
‘Come and sit down, young fellow, and take your time,’ said the Vicar, at once assuming his manner of easy comradeship, and pushing forward a box of cigarettes. He sat down in front of his desk, crossed his legs, and prepared to listen, while the boy flung himself into an easy-chair.
‘The fact is, sir, I’m in the devil of a mess,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I hadn’t the slightest idea who to turn to, and then I remembered you. Of course in the ordinary way I should never dare to ask the advice of a parson, but you’re different. You’re so, excuse my cheek, you’re so, well, damn broad-minded!’
The Vicar’s heart warmed to the usual praise. ‘I’ve been young myself once,’ he nodded sympathetically, and he let his eyes wander vaguely towards the various photographs in the room. This boy must be made to understand that he was talking to no raw hand, in fact—
‘It’s about a girl,’ Cranleigh went on. ‘A girl I met at Oxford last term, just before the long vac. She was nobody, you know, just acted as companion to some old lady, and I met her first of all when I was fooling about on the river. She was with a friend, and I was with another fellow, so we all sort of chummed up. Well, after that I began to see her pretty often, and got desperately keen on her. Of course I dare say I wouldn’t have looked at her if I’d been in London, but up there it’s different. She was mad about me too, though I say it myself, and then – oh, Lord, I’m afraid I made a colossal ass of myself. Well, sir, I lost my head one night. I don’t know how it happened, but it did – we were in a boat, and it was a glorious evening, and—’
‘I know,’ said the Vicar, his voice full of meaning; ‘I was at Oxford too, over twenty years ago.’
The boy smiled, it was being easier than he expected. ‘Well, you understand me, sir, I kind of couldn’t help myself. Then very soon afterwards we came down, and I didn’t see her again. Last week I got a letter from her; it was pretty awful, and she said she was going to have a baby.’
The Vicar sighed gently. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Of course I arranged to meet her, last Tuesday evening, and it’s absolutely true, sir; she’d been to a doctor and everything. I was in a terrible state, and said I’d give her money and help her to get away somewhere; but – this is the awful part – she doesn’t want money, she wants me to marry her.’
The Vicar raised his eyebrows. ‘And what did you say to her?’ he inquired.
‘Well, naturally, I said it was impossible. How could I marry her? She’s pretty and sweet, but I’m not sure she’s even a lady, and I don’t really love her. Besides, what on earth would the family say? When the old man dies I come into the title, and I’ve got to think of all that, although it sounds beastly snobbish. It would be madness to marry Mary, you must see my point?’
‘My dear fellow, of course I do. There shall be no question of marriage as far as I’m concerned. And you say she refuses money?’ His tone was brisk now, alert, that of a shrewd man of the world.
‘Absolutely, sir; she went white when I suggested it. Apparently she doesn’t seem to mind having the baby, she says she’ll live for it, and she wants me to marry her so as to give it a name. She’s still most awfully in love with me, and she doesn’t seem to understand that I don’t care any longer. If she goes to my people there will be the most colossal row. Thank heaven, she hasn’t told a soul yet. Look here, sir, what on earth am I going to do?’
The Vicar was thinking rapidly. If he helped him out of this mess the boy would naturally be very grateful. He knew the family were rich, and the Earl was said to be in a wretched state of health. Cranleigh Castle was one of the beauty spots of England, he would be invited often: the Countess herself was an ardent politician – yes, everything would be comparatively easy. He rose from his chair, and going over to the boy he laid his hand on his shoulder. ‘My dear chap,’ he said, ‘if you will trust me I am certain I can manage the whole wretched business for you. There is no need for your family to know, we have your future position to think of; as for the girl, she will understand the whole situation when I have explained it tactfully to her. I will look after her. Don’t worry any more about it; all I want you to do is to give me her address.’
‘Mary Williams, sir. She’s staying in a boarding-house in St John’s Wood, it’s on the telephone under the name of Datchett – that’s her sister, she keeps the place. Oh! good Lord, you are the greatest brick; I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you enough.’
The Vicar smiled and held out his hand. ‘It’s only because I understand so well what you have gone through,’ he said gently.
The man must have been a bit of a dog in his day, thought the boy; odd for a clergyman. ‘I think I’ll try and get away for a bit, until it’s all blown over; but don’t forget you’ve got to come down to Cranleigh directly I come back – we’ll have a shot at the birds.’
When he had gone the Vicar went back into his study, and lifted the telephone receiver. He believed in doing things on the spot.
He looked up the number in the book.
‘Is that Mrs Datchett’s? Could I possibly speak to Miss Williams? Yes. Thank you . . . Hullo? Is that Miss Williams speaking? My name is Hollaway, James Hollaway. I’m the Vicar of St Swithin’s, Chesham Street. I’m a great friend of Lord Cranleigh’s. He has just left me . . . Yes. Would you be so good as to come and see me this evening at six o’clock? I should very much like a little talk with you, I wish to help you. Yes, he has told me everything. No, you have nothing to be frightened of. Then that is settled? Twenty-two Upper Chesham Street. Thank you. Good-bye.’
He hung up the receiver, and wandering to his desk he glanced at The Times.
Hallo, George Winnersly was dead at last. He must write to Lola. She was getting a bit passée now, of course, but she was still lovely. Funny the way she went religious all of a sudden. Must have come as a sort of anti-climax. She was always at St Swithin’s at one time; he could remember once – However, that was all over.
He began to run over in his mind conventional phrases of consolation: ‘immeasurably grieved,’ ‘unspeakable loss,’ and ‘the consolation of God.’
He yawned a little as he took up his pen.
‘My dear daughter-in-Christ,’ he began.
‘Hollaway, you’re a regular mascot, and I don’t mind telling you I feel a lot more sure of myself now I’ve had this talk with you. Have a cigar?’
The Vicar declined. ‘Sorry, but I haven’t the time. I’m a busy man, you know, and I’m shortly due at a hospital in the slums. I’m very glad to have been of use to you, my dear Colonel, I understand so well what you are going through.’
His voice was full of the deepest sympathy.
The lunch at the Carlton had been a great success. His host was Colonel Edward Tracey, the Conservative candidate in the West Storeford by-election, and as polling day was on the following Monday the Colonel was nervous and agitated.
West Storeford was an important seat and the Colonel a powerful man; if he was returned he would owe many of his votes to Hollaway, who had been one of his most ardent canvassers.
And he would be returned, of this the Vicar was certain. He was feeling very pleased with himself. ‘There’s not the slightest doubt about it,’ he said warmly, ‘the majority of voters in West Storeford are intelligent men and women. They know when they see a leader, and that’s what they’re after. Never mind if he’s a Conservative, a Liberal, or a Socialist. Luckily for them you’re a Conservative. My dear Colonel, I’ve heard you speak, and I know what I’m talking about. When you’re in the House you’re going to make those lazy fellows sit up. Lively times, eh! Wait till you are a Cabinet Minister!’ He lowered his tone, and winked significantly.
The Colonel flushed all over his face with pleasure.
This parson was an amazingly good fellow, and when he was in Parliament he would remember to show his gratitude. He called for his bill, and the waiter brought the white slip of paper on a plate. The Vicar turned his head away discreetly, and bowed gallantly to a revue artiste who was just leaving the room. ‘Pretty as ever, aren’t you?’ his eyes seemed to say. Then he rose from the table. ‘My dear Colonel, I must leave you; I had no idea it was so late. This has been very delightful, and I shall be the first to congratulate you Monday night. No, don’t bother to come out.’
He walked slowly across the room, his head a little to one side, his chin in the air.
Many people turned to watch him as he walked past.
The Vicar was aware of the disturbance he had caused. At the opening of the Royal Academy he had been taken for a distinguished actor.
He handed half-a-crown to the cloakroom attendant, and then stepped out into the street, where his Wolseley car was waiting. ‘Drive to the East London Home for Disabled and Paralysed Men, and be quick about it,’ he said to the chauffeur.
He leaned back, and let himself relax, as the car sped through the City. These weekly talks were rather a strain on the mind. The men were often surly and disinclined to listen, but he flattered himself he generally made an impression. He remembered last year at Pentonville, when a boy had taken a fancy to him. The whole thing had really been rather amusing, not only did he— but his car drew up in front of the Home, and his train of thought was interrupted.
He was greeted by a smiling nurse. ‘We were afraid you were not coming, Mr Hollaway.’
‘I had great difficulty in getting away at all, Sister. I was obliged to break up a very important political lunch, much to everyone’s annoyance.’
There was no need to mention he had been the only guest, these nurses took everything so much for granted.
‘We’ve got twenty-five of them up in the big ward, Mr Hollaway, and I must say I’m very glad you can spare them an hour. They get so dull and lifeless, I know you will cheer them up.’
The Vicar felt a little doubtful as he entered the ward. A quarter of the men were in bed, lying prone upon their backs, while the rest were in invalid-chairs, propped up with cushions.
A little doctor came forward hurriedly.
‘My dear Vicar, this is too good of you. The men have been looking forward to your visit with the greatest pleasure. You’ve no idea,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘of the amount of good these talks can do. It puts new life into them, and it helps us more than I can say. They are very difficult sometimes, aren’t they, Sister?’
He turned to the nurse, who nodded her agreement. The Vicar took her hand. ‘I know so well what you must go through,’ he murmured.
Then they left him alone with the men, and he plunged into his rôle of humorist and consoler. His cheerful voice and his delightful personality soon won the attention of the little group of men, doomed for the rest of their lives to lie on their backs, and to gaze at the ceiling.
‘Because I’m a parson, there’s no need for you to be shy of me, my lads,’ he said, with his well-known infectious laugh. ‘I’ve gone through a lot in my time, and I’ve talked and lived with every kind of fellow under the sun. Why, bless you, I feel exactly the same as all you men here, and I know and understand everything you don’t tell your nurse and doctor.
‘You don’t know what a joy it is to me to come and talk to you this afternoon. It reminds me of the old days in France.’ (Oh, shades of Paris!) Soon he had them all laughing at his stories, gleaned from every corner of the globe.
Good healthy humour, he told himself, and he warmed to his subject. Even the old chestnuts of four or five years ago were new here, he discovered. From these he went on to contemporary events. He discussed racing, boxing, cricket, and even politics with the more serious.
From politics it was an easy step to the apparent powerlessness of the Church to-day in State affairs, and from thence to religion, which he had really come to talk about.
The men of course had expected this; he was a parson, and now that they had heard his opinions on other subjects they were willing to listen to him in silence for the last half-hour that remained.
This afternoon the Vicar surpassed himself in eloquence, never had the life of the virtuous sounded more full of possibilities, never had the life of the sinner shone so dull in comparison.
‘The world is so full of glorious opportunities to-day,’ he said, in rich persuasive tones; ‘we have every chance to better ourselves, to improve our minds, to give the best in exchange for the best.
‘In enjoying the great facilities that are now open to us, I think we are apt to forget the Creator of it all.’ The men blushed awkwardly, they were not quite sure what he was talking about. The Vicar felt he was swimming slightly out of their depth, so he returned to safer channels.
‘What we forget,’ he said, smiling his brilliant smile, ‘is that Our Lord came to earth a man like ourselves. He felt all the pains and miseries that we feel. He underwent the troubles and vexations that we undergo. It is because we no longer remember this that we do not take our burdens to be lifted from us by One Who above all others can understand and help us. There has never been anyone so human as Christ. For well over thirty years He was a man amongst other men, a poor working man, the son of a carpenter. What do we know of that early life? Practically nothing. But we are sure it was a mixture of joy and sorrow such as falls to the lot of each of us. And in that part of His life that has been revealed to us through the medium of the Blessed Gospels (he lowered his voice suitably) there is full, unbounded proof that His feelings were those of a man.
‘His adoration for Our Lady, the affection for Lazarus, the friendship for His disciples, the understanding of poor Magdalene – are these not all signs of His glorious Humanity? He was fond of animals and children; He talked with sinners.
‘Remember the anger in the Temple and the distrust of the Pharisees; these all show those human qualities so dear to us. And lastly, in the Agony and Death on the Cross, were not His last cries those of a man?’ The Vicar paused, a little out of breath. The men were obviously impressed, he had been victorious again.
Then a voice spoke from the far corner of the room. It came from a grumpy old man who had taken no part in the conversation.
‘I thought Christ was the Son of God,’ he said. There was an awkward silence, and for the moment the Vicar was a little taken aback.
Then ‘He was,’ he said gently; ‘He was.’ But it was too late: the spell had been broken. He left the room sensing defeat.
‘Will you see a Miss Williams, sir?’ said the butler, coming into the study shortly after six.
‘Oh! yes, Wells, show her in. I was expecting her, but I forgot to tell you.’
The Vicar finished a much-needed whisky-and-soda, and placed the empty glass in a small cupboard built especially for that purpose.
Mary Williams came into the room.
She was small and dark, and though she was not looking her best he could see that she was very pretty. She was neatly and simply dressed, and there were dark shadows under her eyes.
‘Will you sit down?’ he said courteously.
The girl obeyed silently, and waited for him to speak. He cleared his throat, the situation intrigued him.
‘My dear child,’ he began gently, ‘I want you to look upon me as an elder brother, as one who knows the world far better than you do, and who every day tries to do his best, alas a very poor best, to lighten the responsibilities of those around him. And besides thinking of me as a brother, you must remember that I am a priest, and in that capacity I am capable of guarding over your spiritual as well as your earthly welfare.’
He paused. The girl made no reply, but stared at him with scared eyes.
‘And thus,’ he continued, ‘I want you to tell me in your own way the story that Lord Cranleigh told me this morning; and spare no detail, however irksome it may be to you,’ he added.
The girl blushed and lowered her eyes. ‘I met Tommy first one day last term,’ she began in a low tone. ‘I was with a friend, we had hired a boat. He must have told you all this already. I was a companion to a Mrs Grey at the time, who lived in Oxford, and she went abroad alone as soon as the University went down for vacation.
‘Tommy and the other man spoke to us that day because we were all sheltering under a tree during a heavy shower, and we soon got friendly, and laughed and joked together. We all had tea I remember.
‘Then we arranged to meet again, and afterwards I always went out with Tommy whenever I could get away. Very soon he told me that he loved me. I should not have listened to him, I suppose, but I could not help it; and when he kissed me for the first time I knew I loved him better than anything in the world. We used to make plans about all the wonderful things we would do in the vacation, and I thought – I didn’t understand – I thought he meant he wanted to marry me.
‘Every day I think I loved him a little more, and then – the night on the river – I forgot everything when he began to kiss me.
‘He told you, I expect – I was so ashamed – I don’t know how it happened,’ she faltered.
The Vicar passed his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Tame excuse – didn’t know how it happened! Apparently not, or she would not be sitting there in front of him now.
‘Yes,’ he murmured, closing his eyes and sighing. ‘Yes?’
‘A day or two after that Tommy went down. Mrs Grey went abroad, and I stayed with friends in the country. I wrote to him nearly every day, but I never had a reply. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t write, I was so certain that he meant to marry me. I began to feel wretched and unhappy at the same time, my friends told me I was looking pale.
‘Still no news from Tommy, though I knew he was in London, I saw something about his having been to a dance somewhere. Then one day I fainted – luckily no one was about – but I was frightened at once, and I went up to London in secret and saw a doctor.
‘He – he told me what was the matter. I know it was wicked of me, but somehow I didn’t seem to mind. I knew that Tommy would marry me now. I wrote to him, and went to stay with my sister in St John’s Wood. When I saw Tommy he told me that he couldn’t possibly marry me.
‘I don’t understand even now, my mind refuses to take it in. Please, Mr Hollaway, will you tell me what he said to you this morning? You see, I love him so terribly, and I can’t do without him – now.’
The Vicar saw that she was ready to burst into a flood of helpless tears.
‘Now, my dear, don’t worry, but try and console yourself. I want you to sit quite quietly while I explain everything to you. I am going to help you, and I understand more than anyone just exactly what you have been through. But, at the same time, you must realise that God put us into the world so that we should know both joy and sorrow. If our joy has been sinful, then we must pay for it with tears and suffering.
‘As we sow, so shall we reap.
‘You are paying now for that night in the boat, and even for what occurred before.
‘Has it ever struck you that you were guilty in the first place by being so friendly with a young man of whom you knew nothing?’
‘I never thought,’ stammered the girl.
‘Of course not, and you must pay for that forgetfulness. You may not be aware of it, but if the world knew it would say that you had run after Lord Cranleigh, that you had visions of wealth, titles, and many other things besides.’
‘It isn’t true, it isn’t true!’ she gasped.
‘Perhaps not, but if you told your story to anyone but me – to the boy’s family, for instance – that’s what they would say. They might even suspect that you are a girl of loose morals, and that to save yourself from prostitution you accuse a generous, impulsive young man of being the father of a child that is not really his.’
‘No, no! How can you say that?’
‘I am only saying what the world would say, who, I am afraid, is a very harsh critic.
‘I want you to understand the position in which you will place yourself if you ask for justice at the hands of your lover’s family. And then you must remember that Lord Cranleigh will very shortly become the Earl of Haversham. He will be a leading figure in society, he will have many duties and responsibilities, one of which will be to marry into some family as illustrious as his own. You say that you love him. Do you wish to wreck his career? Can you not see that the greatest proof of your love will be to go straight out of his life at once, before you can damage it any further?’
The girl was deathly pale now, the Vicar was afraid that she might faint.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I understand that I must give him up. What am I going to do?’ She seemed quite stunned, and unable to think.
‘I will see that you are amply provided for,’ replied the Vicar, in deep generous tones. ‘I know of two ladies who live in Wimbledon, they are gentle humane creatures, and they will look after you until the trouble is over.
‘Your sister need know nothing about it, you can easily tell her you are with friends.
‘When you are well again it would be better perhaps if you went abroad. I know of a missionary’s wife in India, a charming, sympathetic woman, who will take you as a companion.’
‘What about my baby?’ asked the girl, with a queer frightened gleam in her eyes.
‘That, of course, you must be prepared to give up also. The child shall be brought up in a beautiful Home in Surrey, of which I am one of the governors. Surely you must see the need of this?’
The girl rose from her chair.
‘Thank you for all your trouble,’ she said quietly. ‘I think I had better go now. I will write if I want anything.’
The Vicar shrugged his shoulders. She did not seem particularly grateful to him, what more did she expect, he wondered.
‘Good-bye, my child. I shall expect to hear from you in a few days, then.’
The door closed behind her. It had been a difficult interview, but it did not look as if she would bother Cranleigh any more.
The boy was well out of it anyway. He had rung up in the afternoon and left a message that he was going up to Scotland by the night train, and would probably stop there for about six weeks. He would soon forget the whole affair in Scotland. The Vicar glanced at the clock. Jove! he had no idea it was so late. He was due at the Duchess of Attleborough’s little dinner-dance at eight-fifteen.
‘James, you ought to be ashamed of yourself; how dare you make me laugh at your stories! Go away at once!’
The Duchess pushed the Vicar away from her with what she believed was a roguish gesture.
She was devoted to him, but she adored to pretend that he shocked her. He caught her hand, and would not let her escape.
‘Norah,’ he said reproachfully, ‘how can you be so unkind to me? You place me next you on purpose, and then you complain when I try to amuse you. Perhaps you would rather I went away and sat beside that very charming young lady in pink who is looking at us?’
The girl, whom he had met at dinner for the first time, heard his remark and blushed. She thought the Vicar was terribly attractive.
The Duchess laughed indulgently. ‘I won’t allow you to say a word to her unless you behave yourself.’
He whispered something in her ear, and she went into peals of laughter. ‘No, no; you are quite hopeless, and then you expect me to take you seriously when I come to St Swithin’s. What are you going to preach about to-morrow?’
‘Haven’t decided yet,’ he answered carelessly.
It was always a good pose of his that he never prepared his sermons. The Duchess shook her head at him, and very soon after she gave the signal to rise.
‘The band has come,’ she announced, ‘and you men have got to come up and dance. I give you ten minutes down here and no more.’
The men laughed, and rose clumsily from their chairs. As soon as she had left the room, followed by a little crowd of lovely women, they sat down again, leant back comfortably, and began to discuss their hostess. The women whose husbands were not present were picked to pieces, physically and morally, while those who were received just the right amount of flattery and attention.
Someone made a few witty remarks about a scandal that was centring round a prominent society beauty, while another man began to be very boring about old china. At his opening words, however, it was decided to go upstairs and dance, and the bore was cut short in the middle of a sentence.
A few of the women were not dancing, but were sitting about in a corner watching the others. The Vicar at once made his way towards them, and began to keep up his reputation as being one of the most amusing men in London.
He was serious, witty, and intimate in turn, and they would have kept him there all the evening had not the Duchess finally come to the rescue and commanded him to dance.
He did his duty with the few important people, and then his eye wandered in search of the girl in pink. He was a beautiful dancer, and though a keen follower of all the latest steps he knew that he was at his best when waltzing. There was something about the lilting time and the wail of the violin that appealed to him. He knew that all eyes were upon them as they swayed in the centre of the room. He could imagine their remarks: ‘What a lovely couple they make.’
Something of the kind was sure to be said. The Duchess was watching them from the doorway. Glorious woman, Norah, quite unique in many ways. She knew life, if anybody did; he could remember conversations with her – other things too – oh! yes, theirs had been a remarkable friendship. This child was as light as a feather. As they side-stepped in a corner he fancied that she leant a little against him. Delightful creature! He pressed her hand ever so slightly, and began to hum the tune under his breath.
Soon after midnight the Vicar left.
He did not believe in keeping late hours, they tired his brain and spoilt his temper.
However, he had enjoyed his evening.
The little girl had been very pretty, and amusing into the bargain; he flattered himself that he had made a very definite impression.
She was coming to St Swithin’s anyway.
As he sank into bed he remembered with relief that the Curate was taking Low Mass at eight the following morning instead of him.
His prayers said, his sins of the day acknowledged, he fell asleep in a state of grace.
The next day, when he rose and went down into his study, it occurred to him that he had not prepared his sermon.
He glanced through the Sunday paper at random, in the hope of finding an inspiration.
There were two paragraphs that caught his attention, and disturbed him.
One was the copy of an article from a Socialist newspaper, attacking the smart society women, declaring them to be mere expensive ornaments who had never done a day’s work in their lives, and who generally lived in idleness, immorality, and vice.
The other was shorter, and ran thus:
‘The body of a young girl that was taken from Regent’s Park Canal last night has been identified as that of a Miss Mary Williams, of 32 Clifton Road, St John’s Wood, by her sister, Mrs Datchett, who had become alarmed at the girl’s absence. It is believed that she stumbled in the dark and fell in, when walking home, and was instantly drowned. The inquest will be held on Tuesday.’
The Vicar stood silent for a while, his face white with emotion, his eyes gleaming.
‘But this is monstrously unjust!’ he cried aloud. He was thinking of the Socialist article.
St Swithin’s was always packed for eleven-o’clock Mass on Sunday mornings.
Most people had their own pews, and those who had not, generally found it difficult to get a seat at all. Large queues began to form about twenty-to-eleven.
The singing of course was famous, and musicians would go for the anthem alone.
Upon entering the church one was aware of the pleasant drugged atmosphere; a mixture of heavy-scented flowers and waves of incense filled the air. Then the organ would start, a deep sensuous throb, soft and low, whose sound would gradually swell louder until the plaintive notes echoed through the church, and then lost themselves in a dim, hushed whispering among the rafters in the roof. The sweet voices of the choirboys quavered, immeasurably high, amid the chanting of the tenors.
Then the Vicar would stand before the altar, a far-away, impressive figure in his vestments, guarded by a little crowd of boys in red, who bowed before him and shook incense in his face.
It was in his capacity of priest that he really found himself. He felt that he was a shepherd of souls, a saviour of humanity.
The vast mass of people in the congregation were listening to his voice, thirsting for the consolation that he would give them.
The Mass was a drama of which he was the chief actor. Each prayer was a speech in which he had learnt to put the fullest amount of expression, a depth of colour, a world of significance.
The choir and organ served but as complements to his own voice. Thus in the call to Confession, when he said the words, ‘Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins,’ his voice was that of a judge, stern and merciless, but who was himself stainless.
And with what compassion he faced the congregation afterwards, with what pity he pronounced the Absolution! The people would rise from their knees with the agreeable feeling that all was now well.
Of course he had favourite parts of the Mass.
The words ‘It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty’ were one of his best intonations, but he knew that his triumph, his moment of exaltation, and one that was waited for eagerly by his little band of followers, was ‘Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and with all the company of Heaven, we laud and magnify Thy Glorious Name, evermore praising Thee, and saying: “Holy, Holy, Holy”’ – the choirboys chimed in, swelling their voices to his.
This was great, this was magnificent.
To-day, however, victory was to come to him in the pulpit. He ascended the stairway with the light of battle in his eyes.
His sermon was indirectly a defence of those beautiful women who had been so ruthlessly attacked by the Socialist article.
His text was superb: ‘Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin.’
From his first words his listeners were held.
A large number of the accused were present before him; he felt rather than saw the warm colour of pleasure mount into their cheeks.
They all hoped that he was addressing each of them personally, and they inwardly registered the vow to include him among the list of their most personal friends.
He knew this, his triumph was complete.
Not a sound disturbed the full rich tones of that glorious voice, the very air was breathless.
The little curate sat with bowed head. The doctor had told him that his wife must go to Switzerland, her right lung was already seriously affected and unless she could enjoy the benefit of another climate he would not answer for her life. But Switzerland meant hundreds of pounds, how was he to afford that?
For a week he had not slept, his head was nearly splitting with the agony of thinking.
And he was overwhelmed with work at the moment, the Vicar had entrusted the whole business of the Bazaar in aid of Unfortunate Women into his hands. If only there was someone he could turn to . . .
He looked up, a subdued giggle drew his attention to the choirboys. They were playing noughts-and-crosses amongst themselves. He frowned at them, but they replied by staring rudely at his feet.
He flushed – he knew the soles of his shoes were through. Oblivious of them all, the Vicar continued his sermon. He was drawing to the end now, he was finishing in a blaze of unparalleled eloquence. A sea of faces gazed up at him, the eager tools of his ambition.
Mary Williams was dead, he had forgotten her . . . The people he knew were before him, they would repay him for his noble defence. Words of flattery, words of praise seethed through his mind. Almost dazed, he heard the torrent of sound pour from him.
He lost himself in the beauty of his own voice. At last he paused, he ended on a note of supreme victory. The world was his. With a final gesture he turned his triumphant head:
‘And now to God the Father . . .’