PART II LEASAN PARSONAGE (continued 2)

“Well, I must be off, I suppose. Glad to have had a chat. Come and preach for me one day,” he added rashly.

“With pleasure—but I warn you, I’m simply hopeless as a preacher.”

“Oh, never mind, never mind,” said George—“all the better—I mean my people will enjoy the change—at least I mean——”

He grabbed desperately at his hat, and followed his host through the kitchen to the cottage door.

“Here’s Noakes coming up the street to cook supper,” said Luce—“I didn’t know it was so late.”

129George stared rather hard at the Daily Communicant—having never to his knowledge seen such a thing. He was surprised and a little disappointed to find only a heavy, fair-haired young lout, whose face was the face of the district—like a freckled moon.

“I’m a bit early tonight, Father; but Maaster sent me over to Dixter wud their roots, and he said it wun’t worth me coming back and I’d better go straight on here. I thought maybe I could paint up the shed while the stuff’s boiling.”

“That’s a good idea—thanks, Noaky.”

“Father, there’s a couple of thrushes nesting again by the Mocksteeple. It’s the first time I’ve seen them nest in the fall.”

“It’s the warm weather we’ve been having.”

“Surelye, but I’m sorry for them when it turns cold.... Father, have you heard?—the Rangers beat the Hastings United by four goals to one....”

§ 17

When George had walked out of the village he felt better—he no longer breathed that choking atmosphere of a different world, in which lived daily communicants, devout children, and clergymen who hadn’t always enough to eat. It was not, of course, the first time that he had seen poverty among the clergy, but it was the first time he had not seen it decently covered up. Luce seemed totally unashamed of his ... had not made the slightest effort to conceal it ... his cottage was, except for the books, just the cottage of a working-man; indeed it was not so comfortable as the homes of many working men.

George began to wonder exactly how much difference it would have made if he had been poor instead of well-to-do—if he had been too poor to live in his comfortable vicarage, too poor to decorate his church in “Anglican good taste” ... not that he wouldn’t rather have left it bare than decorate it like Vinehall ... what nonsense Luce had talked to justify himself! The church wasn’t the village’s Best Parlour ... or was it?...

130He felt quite tired when he reached Leasan, and Rose scolded him—“You’d much better have come with me to the Parishes.”... However, it was good to sit at his dinner-table and eat good food off good china, and drink his water out of eighteenth-century glass that he had picked up in Ashford.... Luce was not a total abstainer, judging by that story of the claret.... It is true that the creaking tread of the Raw Girl and the way she breathed down his neck when she handed the vegetables made him think less disparagingly of the domestic offices of the Daily Communicant; but somehow the Raw Girl fitted into the scheme of things—it was only fitting that local aspirants for “service” should be trained at the Vicarage—whereas farm-boys who came in to cook your supper and then sat down and ate it with you ... the idea was only a little less disturbing than the idea of farm-boys coming daily to the altar.... He wondered if Rose would say it was un-English.

“Oh, by the way, George”—Rose really was saying—“a message came down from Conster while you were out, asking you to go up there after dinner tonight.”

George’s illness had brought about a kind of artificial peace between the Manor and the Vicarage.

“What is it now? Have you been invited too?”

“No—I think Sir John wants to speak to you about something.”

“Whatever can it be?—Mary’s in Switzerland. It can’t be anything to do with her again.”

“No—I believe it’s something to do with Gervase. I saw Doris this evening and she tells me Sir John has found out that Gervase goes to confession.”

“Does he?—I didn’t know he’d got as far as that.”

“Yes—he goes to Mr. Luce. Mrs. Wade saw him waiting his turn last Saturday when she was in Vinehall church taking rubbings of the Oxenbridge brass. I suppose she must have mentioned it when she went to tea at Conster yesterday.”

“And my father wants me to interfere?”

“Of course—you’re a clergyman.”

“Well, I’m not going to.”

131“George, don’t talk such nonsense. Why, you’ve been complaining about your father’s disrespect for your priesthood, and now when he’s showing you that he does respect it——”

“He’s showing it no respect if he thinks I’d interfere in a case like this.”

“But surely you’ve a right—Gervase is your brother and he doesn’t ever come to your church.”

“I think it would be unwise for me to be my brother’s confessor.”

“It would be ridiculous. Whoever thought of such a thing?”

“Then why shouldn’t he go to Luce?—and as for my church, he hasn’t been to any church for a year, so if Luce can get him to go to his ... or rather if Our Lord can get him to go to Luce’s church....”

“I do hope it won’t rain tomorrow, as I’d thought of going into Hastings by the ’bus.”

Rose had abrupt ways of changing the conversation when she thought it was becoming indelicate.

§ 18

George went up to Conster after all. Rose finally persuaded him, and pushed him into his overcoat. She was anxious that he should not give fresh offence at the Manor; also she was in her own way jealous for his priestly honour and eager that he should vindicate it by exercising its functions when they were wanted instead of when they were not.

There was no family council assembled over Gervase as there had been over Mary. Only his father and mother were in the drawing-room when George arrived. Gervase was a minor in the Alard household, and religion a minor matter in the Alard world—no questions of money or marriage, those two arch-concerns of human life, were involved. It was merely a case of stopping a silly boy making a fool of himself and his family by going ways which were not the ways of squires. Not that Sir John did not think himself quite capable of stopping Gervase without any help from George, but neither 132had he doubted his capacity to deal with Mary without summoning a family council. It was merely the Alard tradition that the head should act through the members, that his despotism should be as it were mediated, showing thus his double power both over the rebel and the forces he employed for his subjection.

“Here you are, George—I was beginning to wonder if Rose had forgotten to give you my message. I want you to talk to that ass Gervase. It appears that he’s gone and taken to religion, on the top of a dirty trade and my eldest son’s ex-fiancée.”

“And you want me to talk him out of it?” George was occasionally sarcastic when tired.

“Not out of religion, of course. Could hardly mean that. But there’s religion and religion. There’s yours and there’s that fellow Luce’s.”

“Yes,” said George, “there’s mine and there’s Luce’s.”

“Well, yours is all right—go to church on Sundays—very right and proper in your own parish—set a good example and all that. But when it comes to letting religion interfere with your private life, then I say it’s time it was stopped. I’ve nothing against Luce personally——”

“Oh, I think he’s a perfectly dreadful man,” broke in Lady Alard—“he came to tea once, and talked about God—in the drawing-room!”

“My dear, I think this is a subject which would be all the better without your interference.”

“Well, if a mother hasn’t a right to interfere in the question of her child’s religion....”

“You did your bit when you taught him to say his prayers—I daresay that was what started all the mischief.”

“John, if you’re going to talk to me like this I shall leave the room.”

“I believe I’ve already suggested such a course once or twice this evening.”

Lady Alard rose with dignity and trailed to the door.

“I’m sure I hope you’ll be able to manage him,” she said 133bitterly to George as she went out, “but as far as I’m concerned I’d much rather you argued him out of his infatuation for Stella Mount.”

“There is always someone in my family in love with Stella Mount,” said Sir John, “and it’s better that it should be Gervase than Peter or George, who are closer to the title, and, of course, let me hasten to add, married men. But this is the first case of religious mania we’ve ever had in the house—therefore I’d rather George concentrated on that. Will you ask Mr. Gervase to come here?”—to the servant who answered his ring.

“Mr. Gervase is in the garage, sir.”

“Send him along.”

Gervase had been cleaning the Ford lorry, having been given to understand that his self-will and eccentricity with regard to Ashford were to devolve no extra duties on the chauffeur. His appearance, therefore, when he entered the drawing-room, was deplorable. He wore a dirty suit of overalls, his hands were black with oil and grime, and his hair was hanging into his eyes.

“How dare you come in like that, sir?” shouted Sir John.

“I’m sorry, sir—I thought you wanted me in a hurry.”

“So I do—but I didn’t know you were looking like a sweep. Why can’t you behave like other people after dinner?”

“I had to clean the car, sir. But I’ll go and wash.”

“No, stay where you are—George wants to speak to you.”

George did not look as if he did.

“It’s about this new folly of yours,” continued Sir John. “George was quite horrified when I told him you’d been to confession.”

“Oh, come, not ‘horrified’,” said George uneasily—“it was only the circumstances.... Thought you might have stuck to your parish church.”

“And you’d have heard his confession!” sneered Sir John.

“Well, sir, the Prayer Book is pretty outspoken in its commission to the priest to absolve——”

“But you’ve never heard a confession in your life.”

134This was true, and for the first time George was stung by it. He suddenly felt his anger rising against Luce, who had enjoyed to the full those sacerdotal privileges which George now saw he had missed. His anger gave him enough heat to take up the argument.

“I’m not concerned to find out how Luce could bring himself to influence you when you have a brother in orders, but I’m surprised you shouldn’t have seen the disloyalty of your conduct. Here you are forsaking your parish church, which I may say is also your family church, and traipsing across the country to a place where they have services exciting enough to suit you.”

“I’m sorry, George. I know that if I’d behaved properly I’d have asked your advice about all this. But you see I was the heathen in his blindness, and if it hadn’t been for Father Luce I’d be that still.”

“You’re telling me I’ve neglected you?”

“Not at all—no one could have gone for me harder than you did. But, frankly, if I’d seen nothing more of religion than what I saw at your church I don’t think I’d ever have bothered about it much.”

“Not spectacular enough for you, eh?”

“I knew you’d say something like that.”

“Well, isn’t it true?”

“No.”

“Then may I ask in what way the religion of Vinehall is so superior to the religion of Leasan?”

“Just because it isn’t the religion of Vinehall—it’s the religion of the whole world. It’s a religion for everybody, not just for Englishmen. When I was at school I thought religion was simply a kind of gentlemanly aid to a decent life. After a time you find out that sort of life can be lived just as easily without religion—that good form and good manners and good nature will pull the thing through without any help from prayers and sermons. But when I saw Catholic Christianity I saw that it pointed to a life which simply couldn’t be lived without its help—that it wasn’t just an aid to good behaviour 135but something which demanded your whole life, not only in the teeth of what one calls evil, but in the teeth of that very decency and good form and good nature which are the religion of most Englishmen.”

“In other words and more briefly,” said Sir John, “you fell in love with a pretty girl.”

Gervase’s face darkened with a painful flush, and George felt sorry for him.

“I don’t deny,” he said rather haltingly, “that, if it hadn’t been for Stella I should never have gone to Vinehall church. But I assure you the thing isn’t resting on that now. I’ve nothing to gain from Stella by pleasing her. We’re not on that footing at all. She never tried to persuade me, either. It’s simply that after I’d seen only a little of the Catholic faith I realised that it was what I’d always unconsciously believed ... in my heart.... It was my childhood’s faith—all the things I’d ‘loved long since and lost awhile.’”

“But don’t you see,” said George, suddenly finding his feet in the argument, “that you’ve just put your finger on the weak spot of the whole thing? This ‘Catholic faith’ as you call it was unconsciously your faith as a child—well, now you ought to go on and leave all that behind you. ‘When I became a man I put away childish things.’”

“And ‘whosoever will not receive the kingdom of heaven as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.’ It’s no good quoting texts at me, George—we might go on for ever like that. What I mean is that I’ve found what I’ve always been looking for, and it’s made Our Lord real to me, as He’s never been since I was a child—and now the whole of life seems real in a way it didn’t before—I don’t know how to explain, but it does. And it wasn’t only the romantic side of things which attracted me—it was the hard side too. In fact the hardness impressed me almost before I saw all the beauty and joy and romance. It was when we were having all that argument about Mary’s divorce.... I saw then that the Catholic Church wasn’t afraid of a Hard Saying. I thought, ‘Here’s a religion which wouldn’t be afraid to ask anything of me—whether it 136was to shut myself up for life in a monastery or simply to make a fool of myself.’”

“Well, on the whole, I’m glad you contented yourself with the latter,” said Sir John.

George said—“I think it’s a pity Gervase didn’t go to Oxford.”

“Whether he’s been to Oxford or not, he’s at least supposed to be a gentleman. He may try to delude himself by driving off every morning in a motor lorry, but he does in fact belong to an old and honourable house, and as head of that house I object to his abandoning his family’s religion.”

“I never had my family’s religion, Sir—I turned to Catholicism from no religion at all. I daresay it’s more respectable to have no religion than the Catholic religion, but I don’t mind about being respectable—in fact, I’d rather not.”

“You’re absorbing your new principles pretty fast—already you seem to have forgotten all family ties and obligations.”

“I can’t see that my family has any right to settle my religion for me—at least I’m Protestant enough to believe I must find my own salvation, and not expect my family to pass it on to me. I think this family wants to do too much.”

“What d’you mean, Sir?”

“It wants to settle all the private affairs of its members. There’s Peter—you wouldn’t let him marry Stella. There’s Mary, you wouldn’t let her walk out by the clean gate——”

“Hold your tongue! Who are you to discuss Peter’s affairs with me? And as for Mary—considering your disgraceful share in the business....”

“All right, Sir. I’m only trying to point out that the family is much more autocratic than the Church.”

“I thought you said that what first attracted you to the Church was the demands it made on you. George!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Am I conducting this argument or are you?”

“You seem better able to do it than I, Sir.”

“Well, what did I send you to Oxford for, and to a theological 137college for, and put you into this living for, if you can’t argue a schoolboy out of the Catholic faith?”

“I’ve pointed out to Gervase, Sir, that the so-called Catholic movement is not the soundest intellectually, and that I don’t see why he should walk three miles to Vinehall on Sundays when he has everything necessary to salvation at his parish church. I can’t go any further than that.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I can’t reason him out of his faith—why should I? On the contrary, I’m very glad he’s found it. I don’t agree with all he believes—I think some of it is extravagant—but I see at least he’s got a religion which will make him happy and keep him straight, and really there’s no cause for me to interfere with it.”

George was purple.

“You’re a fool!” cried Sir John—“you’re a much bigger fool than Gervase, because at least he goes the whole hog, while you as usual are sitting on the fence. It’s just the same now as when I asked you to speak to Mary. If you’d go all the way I’d respect you, or if you’d go none of the way I’d respect you, but you go half way.... Gervase can go all the way to the Pope or to the devil, whichever he pleases—I don’t care now—he can’t be as big a fool as you.”

He turned and walked out of the room, banging the door furiously behind him. The brothers were left alone together. Gervase heaved a sigh of relief.

“Come along with me to the garage,” he said to George, “and help me take the Ford’s carburetor down.”

“No, thanks,” said George dully—“I’m going home.”

§ 19

He had failed again. As he walked through the thick yellow light of the Hunter’s Moon to Leasan, he saw himself as a curiously feeble and ineffective thing. It was not only that he had failed to persuade his brother by convincing arguments, 138or that he had failed once more to inspire his father with any sort of respect for his office, but he had somehow failed in regard to his own soul, and all his other failures were merely branches of that most bitter root.

He had been unable to convince Gervase because he was not convinced himself—he had been unable to inspire his father because he was not inspired himself. All his life he had stood for moderation, toleration, broad-mindedness ... and here he was, so moderate that no one would believe him, so tolerant that no one would respect him, so broad-minded that the water of life lay as it were stagnant in a wide and shallow pond instead of rushing powerfully between the rocky, narrow banks of a single heart....

He found Rose waiting for him in the hall.

“How late you are! I’ve shut up. They must have kept you an awful time.”

“I’ve been rather slow coming home.”

“Tired?”

“I am a bit.”

“How did you get on? I expect Gervase was cheeky.”

“Only a little.”

“Have you talked him round?”

“I can’t say that I have. And I don’t know that I want to.”

“George!”

Rose had put out the hall lamp, and her voice sounded hoarse and ghostly in the darkness.

“Well, the boy’s got some sort of religion at last after being a heathen for years.”

“I’m not sure that he wouldn’t be better as a heathen than believing the silly, extravagant things he does. I don’t suppose for a minute it’s gone really deep.”

“Why not?”

“The sort of thing couldn’t. What he wants is a sober, sensible, practical religion——”

“Soup?”

“George!”

“Well, that’s what Mary called it. And when I see that the 139boy has found adventure, discipline and joy in faith, am I to take it away and offer him soup?”

“George, I’m really shocked to hear you talk like that. Please turn down the landing light—I can’t reach it.”

“Religion is romance,” said George’s voice in the thick darkness of the house—“and I’ve been twelve years trying to turn it into soup....”

§ 20

Rose made up her mind that her husband must be ill, therefore she forebore further scolding or argument, and hurried him into bed with a cup of malted milk.

“You’ve done too much,” she said severely—“you said you didn’t feel well enough to come with me to the Parishes, and then you went tramping off to Vinehall. What can you expect when you’re so silly? Now drink this and go to sleep.”

George went to sleep. But in the middle of the night he awoke. All the separate things of life, all the differences of time and space, seemed to have run together in one sharp moment. He was not in the bed, he was not in the room ... the room seemed to be in him, for he saw every detail of its trim mediocrity ... and there lay George Alard on the bed beside a sleeping Rose ... but he was George Alard right enough, for George Alard’s pain was his, that queer constricting pain which was part of the functions of his body, of every breath he drew and every beat of his heart ... he was lying in bed ... gasping, suffering, dying ... this was what it meant to die.... Rose! Rose!

Rose bent over her husband; her big plaits swung in his face.

“What’s the matter, George?—are you ill?”

“Are you ill?” she repeated.

Then she groped for a match, and as soon as she saw his face, jumped out of bed.

No amount of bell-ringing would wake the Raw Girls, so Rose leaped upstairs to their attic, and beat on the door.

“Annie! Mabel! Get up and dress quickly, and go to 140Conster Manor and telephone for Dr. Mount. Your master’s ill.”

Sundry stampings announced the beginning of Annie’s and Mabel’s toilet, and Rose ran downstairs to her husband. She lit the lamp and propped him up in bed so that he could breathe more easily, thrusting her own pillows under his neck.

“Poor old man!—Are you better?” Her voice had a new tender quality—she drew her hand caressingly under his chin—“Poor old man!—I’ve sent for Dr. Mount.”

“Send for Luce.”

It was the first time he had spoken, and the words jerked out of him drily, without expression.

“All right, all right—but we want the doctor first. There, the girls are ready—hurry up, both of you, as fast as you can, and ask the butler, or whoever lets you in, to ’phone. It’s Vinehall 21—but they’re sure to know.”

She went back into the room and sat down again beside George, taking his hand. He looked dreadfully ill, his face was blue and he struggled for breath. Rose was not the sort of woman who could sit still for long—in a moment or two she sprang to her feet, and went to the medicine cupboard.

“I believe some brandy would do you good—it’s allowed in case of illness, you know.”

George did not seem to care whether it was allowed or not. Rose gave him a few drops, and he seemed better. She smoothed his pillows and wiped the sweat off his face.

She had hardly sat down again when the hall door opened and there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It must be the girls coming back—Rose suddenly knew that she was desperately glad even of their company. She went to the door, and looked out on the landing. The light that streamed over her shoulder from the bedroom showed her the scared, tousled faces of Gervase and Jenny.

“What’s up, Rose?—Is he very bad?”

“I’m afraid so. Have you ’phoned Dr. Mount?”

“Yes—he’s coming along at once. We thought perhaps we could do something?”

141“I don’t know what there is to do. I’ve given him some brandy. Come in.”

They followed her into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. Jenny, who had learned First Aid during the war, suggested propping him higher with a chair behind the pillows. She and Gervase looked dishevelled and half asleep in their pyjamas and great-coats. Rose suddenly realised that she was not wearing a dressing-gown—she tore it off the foot of the bed and wrapped it round her. For the first time in her life she felt scared, cold and helpless. She bent over George and laid her hand on his, which were clutched together on his breast.

His eyes were wide open, staring over her shoulder at Gervase.

“Luce ...” he said with difficulty—“Luce....”

“All right,” said Gervase—“I’ll fetch him.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have Canon Potter, dear?—He could come in his car.”

“No—Luce ... the only church.... Sacrament....”

“Don’t you worry—I’ll get him. I’ll go in the Ford.”

Gervase was out of the room, leaving Jenny in uneasy attendance. A few minutes later Doris arrived. She had wanted to come with the others, but had felt unable to leave her room without a toilet. She alone of the party was dressed—even to her boots.

“How is he, Rose?”

“He’s better now, but I wish Dr. Mount would come.”

“Do you think he’ll die?” asked Doris in a penetrating whisper—“ought I to have woken up Father and Mother?”

“No—of course not. Don’t talk nonsense.”

“I met Gervase on his way to fetch Mr. Luce.”

“That’s only because George wanted to see him—very natural to want to see a brother clergyman when you’re ill. But it’s only a slight attack—he’s much better already.”

She made expressive faces at Doris while she spoke.

“There’s Dr. Mount!” cried Jenny.

A car sounded in the Vicarage drive and a few moments 142later the doctor was in the room. His examination of George was brief. He took out some capsules.

“What are you going to do?” asked Rose.

“Give him a whiff of amyl nitrate.”

“It’s not serious? ... he’s not going to....”

“Ought we to fetch Father and Mother?” choked Doris.

“I don’t suppose Lady Alard would be able to come at this hour—but I think you might fetch Sir John.”

Rose suddenly began to cry. Then the sight of her own tears frightened her, and she was as suddenly still.

“I’ll go,” said Jenny.

“No—you’d better let me go,” said Doris—“I’ve got my boots on.”

“Where’s Gervase?” asked Dr. Mount.

“He’s gone to fetch Mr. Luce from Vinehall—George asked for him.”

“How did he go? Has he been gone long?”

“He went in his car—he ought to be back quite soon. Oh, doctor, do you think it’s urgent ... I mean ... he seems easier now.”

Dr. Mount did not speak—he bent over George, who lay motionless and exhausted, but seemingly at peace.

“Is he conscious?” asked Rose.

“Perfectly, I should say. But don’t let him speak.”

With a queer abandonment, unlike herself, Rose climbed on the bed, curling herself up beside George and holding his hand. The minutes ticked by. Jenny, feeling awkward and self-conscious, sat in the basket armchair by the fireplace. Dr. Mount moved quietly about the room—as in a dream Rose watched him set two lighted candles on the little table by the bed. There was absolute silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Rose began to feel herself again—the attack was over—George would be all right—it was a pity that Gervase had gone for Mr. Luce. She began to feel herself ridiculous, curled up with George in the bed ... she had better get out before Sir John came and sneered at her very useful flannel dressing-gown ... then suddenly, as she looked down on it, 143George’s face changed—once more the look of anguish convulsed it, and he started up in bed, clutching his side and fighting for his breath.

It seemed an age, though it was really only a few minutes, that the fight lasted. Rose had no time to be afraid or even pitiful, for Dr. Mount apparently could do nothing without her—as she rather proudly remembered afterwards, he wouldn’t let Jenny help at all, but turned to Rose for everything. She had just begun to think how horrible the room smelt with drugs and brandy, when there was a sound of wheels below in the drive.

“That’s Gervase,” said Jenny.

“Or perhaps it’s Sir John....”

But it was Gervase—the next minute he came into the room.

“I’ve brought him,” he said—“is everything ready?”

“Yes, quite ready,” said Dr. Mount.

Then Rose saw standing behind Gervase outside the door a tall stooping figure in a black cloak, under which its arms were folded over something that it carried on its breast.

The Lord had come suddenly to Leasan Parsonage.

Immediately panic seized her, a panic which became strangely fused with anger. She sprang forward and would have shut the door.

“Don’t come in—you’re frightening him—he mustn’t be disturbed.... Oh, he’d be better, if you’d only let him alone....”

She felt someone take her arm and gently pull her aside—the next moment she was unaccountably on her knees, and crying as if her heart would break. She saw that the intruder no longer stood framed in the doorway—he was beside the bed, bending over George, his shadow thrown monstrous on the ceiling by the candle-light.... What was he saying?...

“Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest come under my roof....”

145