Chapter Four

Mr. Hathaway

It was not only Vivian Greensleeves who found in the new Vicar an acquisition to Silverstream; the Tennis Club also benefited from his presence, and benefited very considerably. Mr. Hathaway played an excellent game of tennis, he was streets ahead of anybody else in the club; but a fairly even match could be made if the Vicar were given an absolute rabbit as a partner—and there were plenty of rabbits to choose from.

Barbara Buncle was one of the most frequent of the Vicar’s partners; she was a keen player, but her game never seemed to improve. The more she tried the worse she seemed to get; it was really very discouraging.

One fine afternoon in September, toward the end of the tennis season, Barbara Buncle walked down to the club. There was a match in progress, and those who were not taking part in the struggle were watching it from the verandah of the small pavilion. Barbara changed her shoes and joined the audience. It was an exciting game to watch, Mrs. Bulmer and the Vicar against Mr. Fortnum and Olivia Snowdon. They should have been evenly matched, for Miss Snowdon was one of the best players in the club, and Mrs. Bulmer one of the worst, and this should have counterbalanced the Vicar’s superiority over Mr. Fortnum; but this was mere theory, and did not allow for the psychology of the players at all. Barbara Buncle perceived that the Vicar and Mrs. Bulmer were going to win. The Vicar was in great form and he had managed to inspire his partner with unusual confidence. She was playing several degrees above her usual form, whereas their opponents were getting on each other’s nerves and in each other’s way and becoming more and more annoyed with each other. Miss Snowdon—in spite of her obesity—was a most energetic performer on the tennis court; she swooped here and swooped there, poaching in Mr. Fortnum’s court and getting extremely red and hot. Mr. Fortnum was annoyed at having his strokes interfered with; he withdrew to a corner and left Miss Snowdon to do as she liked—if she wanted to play a single, let her. He sulked and became careless. Miss Snowdon glared at him every time he missed the ball.

Barbara watched it all with interest; it was such fun to watch people and see how they reacted to one another’s personality. Vivian Greensleeves was watching it too. She did not care for tennis, but she had begun to come down to the courts in the late afternoons—nobody quite knew why. She sat in a deck chair with a good deal of very neat leg clad in beige silk stocking exposed to view. She looked cool and graceful and very pretty. The women members did not take much notice of Vivian—if she liked to come down she could come, they didn’t mind much either way—but some of the men were quite pleased to sit and talk to her between the sets. The women members felt that she was not really a Silverstreamite, not really one of themselves. Miss Snowdon declared that she was “not good form,” and Miss Isabella Snowdon added that her clothes were “ootray.” Vivian was fully aware of their opinions; she, on her part, despised the whole lot of them. She thought them frumpy, and dull, and incredibly stupid. Her sole reason for appearing at the tennis club was to keep an eye on Ernest Hathaway. If he came, so must she; but she was bored stiff by the whole performance; she felt, and looked, as alien as a bird of paradise in a murmuration of starlings.

The game was almost finished—it was finished to all intents and purposes, for Mr. Fortnum was beaten and not all the energy and vim of Miss Snowdon could pull him through.

“Olivia has such beautiful style,” announced Miss Isabella Snowdon to all who cared to hear. She merely wished to point out, in a thoroughly ladylike manner, that it was not dear Olivia’s fault if her side was losing.

“It would have made a better game if they had had Dorothea Bold instead of Olivia,” said Miss King firmly.

“Oh, Miss King, how can you say such a thing?” cried Miss Isabella in horrified tones.

“Merely because it happens to be true. Dorothea is a more reliable player than Olivia,” replied Miss King firmly, and moved away.

“Horrid old thing!” said Miss Isabella to Barbara Buncle who happened to be sitting next to her. “It’s just jealousy, that’s what it is. She may dress herself up like a man, and talk and smoke like a man, but she’s nothing but a cat—that’s what she is.”

“I rather like Miss King,” said Barbara placidly, and she looked at Miss King’s tall commanding figure as it strode off across the court with some affection. Of course she was rather funny with her deep voice, and her short hair, and her strange habit of wearing tailored coats and skirts with collars and ties like a man, and very often she was to be seen with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and her hands in her pockets; but, after all, these little peculiarities did nobody any harm, and there was something rather nice about the woman. At any rate she would never say behind your back what she would not say to your face (like some people one could name). You always knew exactly where you were with her; she said what she thought without fear or favor.

Miss Isabella looked at Barbara with contempt—fancy standing up for Miss King! But of course nobody in Silverstream cared what Barbara Buncle thought; the woman was nothing but an idiot. She wondered idly what Barbara Buncle was thinking about now, sitting there with that silly vacant smile upon her face. She would have been surprised if she could have read the thoughts that prompted the silly smile.

The truth was that Barbara was feeling somewhat pleased with life today, and she had good reason to be pleased, for, only that morning, a parcel of books had arrived from Messrs Abbott & Spicer—six neat copies of Disturber of the Peace with the firm’s compliments. She had spent the whole morning reading her book, and marveling at the astounding fact that she had written every word of it, and here it was, actually in print, with a smart red cover, and a jacket with a beautiful picture of a Golden Boy playing on a reed pipe.

The jacket was just a little disappointing because the Golden Boy was quite different from Barbara’s conception of him. For one thing he seemed to have goats’ legs and his ears were pointed in a peculiar way—Barbara had imagined quite a human, ordinary sort of boy—but that was, after all, a mere detail and you could hardly expect a strange artist to depict a Golden Boy exactly as you had imagined him.

The set was over now, and the players were returning to the pavilion talking about the various strokes which had made or marred their fortunes in the game. Mr. Hathaway was illustrating a back-hand drive to Mrs. Bulmer. He was a kind man, always ready to help the rabbits to improve their status.

“What about a men’s four?” suggested Dorothea Bold, “Here’s Dr. Walker coming—it would be splendid to watch.”

“Awfully sorry, I must go now,” said the Vicar, struggling into his blazer. “The truth is my uncle is coming for two nights—”

He said good-bye to everybody and strode off. He was late, for the set had lasted longer than he had expected. He wondered if it would matter much if he broke into a run. Would it do Silverstream any harm to see its Vicar doubling along the High Street like an ordinary young man? Perhaps it was better just to walk quickly. When you became a Vicar it seemed necessary to stifle so many natural impulses.

Uncle Mike wouldn’t mind him being a bit late—there was no foolishness of that kind about Uncle Mike—but Ernest was longing to see Uncle Mike after all these weeks, and to add to his pleasure it was delightful to be going to entertain Uncle Mike in his very own house.

The Reverend Michael Whitney was Ernest Hathaway’s uncle, guardian, tutor, his father in God, and general confessor. He had looked after Ernest ever since the latter had been left an orphan at eleven years old. Ernest had spent all his holidays at the big old-fashioned country rectory, a corner of which was amply sufficient for the bachelor Rector’s needs. Uncle and nephew—an oddly assorted couple—had walked and talked together and fished various small streams in the neighborhood with more or less success. Uncle Mike had devoted one entire summer holiday to the important task of teaching Ernest to hold a straight bat, to keep his eye on the ball, and step out to it. There was a certain telling pull to leg which Uncle Mike had imparted to Ernest and which had brought that young man laurels on more than one occasion.

Ernest owed everything to Uncle Mike, and he knew it and was grateful. It was nice to be able to entertain Uncle Mike in return. He was only coming for two days, of course, but Ernest had managed to include most of Uncle Mike’s favorite dishes in the two days’ menu. He hoped Mrs. Hobday would make a success of the dishes and not forget the orange salad, nor make the curry too hot.

As Ernest put his hand on the gate and vaulted lightly into his own garden, he saw that Uncle Mike had arrived and had established himself in a deck chair on the lawn beneath the chest-nut tree. Ernest waved his hand, and shouted, “Don’t get up.”

“I can’t,” said Uncle Mike (his figure was not of the type that rises easily from deck chairs), but his round fat face beamed with pleasure as Ernest came toward him across the lawn.

“Been teaching your parishioners to play tennis?” asked Uncle Mike chuckling.

“Trying to,” smiled Ernest.

“Not getting stuck-up, are you?”

“Trying not to,” smiled Ernest again.

“How often have I warned you against the Sin of Pride?” demanded Uncle Mike with mock severity.

“Hundreds of times,” Ernest agreed with mock humility.

They both laughed. It was very pleasant to joke with somebody who understood. Ernest was happy; the garden was full of the late-afternoon golden sunshine and the song of birds. It was quiet and peaceful after the chatter of the tennis club. He sat down on the grass beside Uncle Mike and took off his hat.

“You’re very comfortable here,” Uncle Mike told him. “I like the look of that woman you’ve got—Mrs. Hobday, isn’t it? Your bookcase fits into the library nicely, doesn’t it?”

“I’m too comfortable,” Ernest replied tersely.

“You said so in your letter,” agreed Uncle Mike. “I didn’t know what you meant. How can a person be too comfortable? I suppose you have got one of your wild-cat ideas—”

“Yes, I have,” Ernest owned, smiling a little, “at least you will probably think it is a wild-cat idea.”

“I have no doubt of it. Let’s hear the worst.”

“It’s like this, Uncle Mike,” Ernest said, clasping his hands round his knees and looking up at the other man with his frank gaze, “I’ve got too much money.”

The fat man began to laugh; he laughed and wheezed and laughed again.

“You’ve got your asthma—” said Ernest anxiously.

“You’re enough to give anyone—asthma,” gasped Uncle Mike. “Absolutely unique in this planet—don’t you know that the—whole world is on the verge of bankruptcy?”

“I’m not talking about the whole world,” replied Ernest. “I’m talking about myself. Here am I, a strong healthy man, living in luxury—it’s not right.”

“You can help people, Ernest.”

“There is nobody here that needs help,” Ernest replied, “nobody really poor. Of course I can give money away to people, but it doesn’t do much good—in fact I’m beginning to see that it does harm. People here think that I’ve got plenty of money and they come to me with tales—not always strictly true—and expect me to help them.”

“Human nature,” suggested Uncle Mike who had seen a good deal of human nature in his time.

“It’s doing harm,” Ernest told him, “my money is doing harm in this parish. Instead of giving, they take. It’s not right. St. Paul said people should give to the church, and support their priests.”

“You find them grasping?” inquired Uncle Mike.

“Only because I’m well off—I’m sure of that, or at least nearly sure. They are only grasping because they think I can afford to give.”

“Well, you can.”

“Yes, but the system is all wrong. The whole thing is back to front—oh it’s so difficult to explain—” Ernest cried, waving his arms. “My mind is so full of it all that I simply can’t put it into words. Look at the Apostles, look at St. Francis! They stripped themselves of their worldly goods (perhaps it was to teach people to give) and they didn’t starve, did they?”

“People fed them,” replied Uncle Mike. “People don’t feed saints nowadays; they ask them why they are not on the dole, and advise them to apply for parish relief.”

“Now don’t be horrid, Uncle Mike,” said Ernest, as if he were, once more, only eleven years old. “You can understand if you want to. It’s really quite simple—here I am living in luxury and getting fat and lazy. It’s frightfully bad for me, and it’s bad for other people too. Mrs. Hobday is wasteful and extravagant, and I don’t care—why should I?—People come and ask me for money and I give it to them because it’s less trouble to give it to them than to refuse—it’s bad, bad, bad.”

“Well, supposing it is bad—what is the remedy?” inquired Uncle Mike uneasily.

“I ought to be able to live on my stipend.”

“You couldn’t,” replied Uncle Mike, “we went over all that before you came here. The living was offered to you because you had private means. It is such a poor living that no man who had not private means could take it—”

“That’s another wrong thing,” said Ernest excitedly. “A living shouldn’t be offered to a man because he has private means—the laborer is worthy of his hire—it is debasing the church—no living should be so poor that a single man couldn’t live on it.”

“The world is far from perfect,” Uncle Mike said (he had lived in the world a long time and had learned to take the bad with the good, like a Gregory powder in jam). “The world is far from perfect. There are lots of things wrong but you can’t change the world.”

“I don’t want to change the world—at least perhaps I do want to, but I’m not such a fool as to think I can—that isn’t the point. The point is that there’s something wrong here, something wrong in my life and I’ve got to change it. I’m going to try and live on my stipend, Uncle Mike. After all a man should be able to live on very little. Look at St. Francis—”

“Well, go ahead then,” said Uncle Mike who was beginning to feel rather weary, and had no wish to hear anymore about St. Francis at the moment. “Go ahead and try to live on it for a bit. I don’t suppose it will do you any harm. Try to keep your expenses down to three pounds a week—”

“That wouldn’t be any good,” interrupted Ernest, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Isn’t that just what I’ve been telling you?” asked Uncle Mike in exasperation. And how could he? How could Ernest, who had always had as much money as he could spend, suddenly start living on three pounds a week? (Especially when there was no real necessity for it. If you had to do a thing you just had to, and there was the end of it.) It was not that the boy was extravagant, exactly, but he always liked the best of everything, and, since his father had left him well provided for, there seemed to be no reason why he should not have the best of everything. Mr. Whitney had nothing to complain of about Ernest’s spending. The boy spent wisely, and he had always been generous in a wise manner, but up to now, he had managed to go through his large yearly income without the slightest difficulty.

“I shan’t be able to live on three pounds a week unless I have only three pounds a week to live on,” Ernest was saying. “If I have only three pounds to spend, I can’t spend more.”

“Can’t you?” inquired Mr. Whitney.

“Well, I shan’t, anyhow,” returned Ernest, “and what I want to do is this, I want to arrange for all my money to go to various charities, to go to them straight off just as it comes in, so that I shan’t have it at all, even if I want it. You can get a deed of gift made out, or something like that, I suppose.”

Mr. Whitney gasped.

“Here’s a list of charities I’ve thought of,” Ernest continued, taking the list out of his pocket and handing it over. “You can probably suggest others. Of course the capital is tied up in the trust or I could have got rid of it much more easily—it’s a pity.”

“It is indeed,” replied Mr. Whitney with deplorable sarcasm.

“I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit of a nuisance for you,” continued Ernest. “But I don’t see how else I can arrange it, or who else I could get to do it for me—”

At this point Mr. Whitney ceased to listen; he knew Ernest sufficiently well to know that when Ernest got an idea into his head nothing would remove it. The only thing to be done was to safeguard the rash youth from the consequence of his wild-cat scheme. If Uncle Mike took the management of the wild-cat scheme into his own hands he could keep part of the money in reserve for Ernest when he wanted it (as he most assuredly would want it). Yes, that would be the best way—he would fall in with Ernest’s plan and agree to distribute the money, and of course he would distribute the greater part of the money as Ernest wished; but part of it—say five hundred pounds—he would bank safely in Ernest’s name so that it would be there if required, and if not required it could be distributed at the end of the year. A year of poverty would do Ernest no harm—no harm at all. In fact it would be quite a valuable experience for Ernest. He had always had too much money, and too much money was bad—not that it seemed to have done Ernest any harm—. Mr. Whitney had been worried about Ernest’s affluence at one time, but when he saw that the boy was turning out all right in spite of the money, he had ceased to worry. It was strange how things worked out. Mr. Whitney had wished that Ernest might have the experience of poverty, and now Ernest had chosen to have it, and Mr. Whitney was worried. But there was really nothing to worry about, thought Mr. Whitney, comforting himself—he hated having to worry about things—because everything would be quite all right, and it would do Ernest good to count the pennies for a year. As long as the boy did not starve himself it would be all right. He must keep an eye on Ernest and see that he did not do that, of course.

They discussed the whole matter again after dinner—the dinner had been very satisfactory—and it was decided that Ernest should sign a paper making over his year’s income to Uncle Mike. Uncle Mike would then distribute the money to various charities as he thought best. (Ernest didn’t mind very much who got the money as long as he was rid of it—he had begun to look upon it as a burden—perhaps the burden that Christian had carried strapped to his back.) At the end of a year the matter would be reconsidered. Mr. Whitney insisted on the year’s probation—Ernest might want to marry, or he, himself, might die; anything might happen in a year—

“Good,” said Ernest at last, stretching his arms, “I’m free.” “You are bound,” thought Mr. Whitney but he was too wise to say so.

***

The next morning was a Saint’s birthday. Ernest and Uncle Mike walked down through the garden to the little church. The dew glistened on the grass like millions of diamonds; a lark was singing blithely.

Ernest thought that he had never enjoyed anything more deeply and perfectly than that Early Celebration, his heart was full of peace and happiness. It was too wonderful to talk about. After it was over they walked back through the sunlit garden, very near together in spirit.

“Do you think I’m a fool, Uncle Mike?” asked Ernest suddenly.

“If you think it the right thing to do you are right to do it,” replied Uncle Mike quietly. “I believe the experience will be valuable.”