CHAPTER V
AS a natural consequence of his wife’s visit to Mrs. Kiernan, Everton could gain from her very little information as to the injured woman’s actual condition beyond the fact that she was ‘very bad.’
“And very miserable,” added Azalea, as an afterthought— “I wish, Dick, you could get Dan Kiernan out of the village.”
“That’s impossible,” — said the Vicar, gently— “Every man has a right to live where he likes, provided he pays his way.”
“But if he is a positive scandal — a disgrace to the neighborhood!” exclaimed Azalea, with indignantly flashing eyes.
“Well, my dear child, it must be my business to try and reform him, — I can’t turn him out!” and Richard smiled— “Have you ever thought, Azalea, what would happen if the clergy were allowed to summarily eject all drunkards from their several parishes?”
She pouted. “No, I haven’t! You are laughing at me, Dick — but you don’t see the seriousness of the case—”
“Oh yes, I do! — no one realizes the horror of the drink craze more forcibly than I do, — but — as I have just suggested, if we parsons could carry matters with such high authority as to banish all drunkards out of their chosen habitations wherever we find them, I’m afraid — I really am afraid, Azalea, that our parishioners would be rather scarce!”
“Then you think there are drunkards everywhere as bad as Kiernan?” she said.
“I not only think it — I know it!” he answered, and a cloud of sadness shadowed his features— “For there are public-houses everywhere, and as a matter of course there must be drunkards. Though I prefer to call them poisoned people rather than drunkards. If you saw a man reeling under the effects of laudanum or cyanide of potassium or any other such deadly drug, you would be sorry for him — you would try to apply such remedies as might most quickly restore him to health and sane consciousness. Yet our ‘drunken’ working-men are just in the same condition, and instead of trying to cure them, we reproach them for getting poisoned, while we let the poisoners go scot free! We read in history of Caesar Borgia who, whenever he had a grudge against any one, invited that person to a friendly banquet and mixed a few drops of swift poison in the loving-cup of wine, — now, in my opinion, many a brewer and spirit distiller is nothing but a commercial Caesar Borgia, whose poisoning tricks are carried on, not for vengeance, but for gain, — and who is, therefore, more sordid in his wickedness than even the mediaeval murderer!”
He spoke with energy and emphasis. Azalea was silent.
“Think for a moment!” he went on— “You and I do not get ‘drunk’ when we enjoy our light French wine at dinner, or when at some friend’s house we take a glass of champagne in a sociable way; to show that we appreciate the hospitality offered us. But if you or I were to drink a tumbler of Minchin’s beer, or threepennyworth of the whisky sold at Minchin’s public-houses, we should be, to put it quite plainly, ‘drunk,’ or rather, so heavily drugged that we should find it difficult to stand straight. And it is not fair or just to the poor that they should get poison instead of pure stuff for their hard-earned money, — they have as good a right to be thirsty as gentle-folk, surely! — and they ought to be able to buy good, wholesome beer, not a pernicious concoction which is purposely contrived to stimulate thirst afresh, and to confuse the brain as well. Cocculus indiens and tobacco used to be employed in the adulteration of beer, — these deadly ingredients are forbidden now by law, but in how many instances is the law not privately set at defiance! There’s never a brewery without its own ‘chemical shop’ close by.”
“Well, I think,” said Azalea, pursing her pretty lips primly, “that under all the circumstances, Dick, you, as a clergyman, ought to be against drink altogether — I do really! We could easily do without our little quantity of wine, I’m sure — and you might perhaps have more influence over the parishioners if you were a complete teetotaler.”
“Like Minchin himself!” retorted Everton, with a slight shrug of contempt— “He drinks nothing but water, — does his example benefit the community? Is he not known as a sanctimonious money-grubber and hypocrite? No, Azalea! I am for temperance — not teetotalism. I like men who are manly enough to understand the first duty they owe to themselves, that of self-restraint, — and a fellow who has to wear a blue ribbon in his button-hole as a sign that he never gets drunk, is merely advertising himself as a moral coward.”
“Still, it would surely be a good thing, wouldn’t it, if Dan Kiernan could be persuaded to take the pledge?” she said.
“I doubt it! He would add to his fault of drink, the second and worse one of hypocrisy. For the possibility is that he would indulge himself in secret drinking then, and pretend that he never touched a drop. And to my mind anything’s better than pretending to be honest when you know you’re a humbug!”
Azalea looked at him a little nervously. If he only knew, she thought, that the whole parish was just now ‘pretending’ that nothing was wrong with Jacynth Miller and Kiernan! She wondered what he would say. She remembered his words “Even a bad girl may be sorry for her badness and may wish to be better.” And he had said — poor dear Dick! — that he really ‘hoped’ Jacynth did wish to be better. What would he think now — now if all the truth were told? She longed to speak — but her promise to Mrs. Adcott held her within bounds, and she checked the words that rose to her lips. Her husband glanced at her inquiringly.
“You seem to have something on your mind, little woman,” he said tenderly— “Any worry or vexation?”
She colored.
“Oh no, Dick! — nothing of that kind. Only — I was thinking, — people often do ‘pretend,’ don’t they?”
Pie laughed.
“They do! — most assuredly!” he answered— “A great portion of what we call our ‘social’ life is made up of nothing but social lies. But because such a condition of things exists we need not admire it, or lend our aid in any way to support it.”
She looked down and carefully fitted the point of her little shoe into the pattern of the carpet.
“You wouldn’t approve of a lie on any occasion, would you?” she asked— “Not even to cover up the sins of somebody very dear to you?”
He was a little surprised at the question, and considered it a moment.
“No — I don’t think so,” — he replied, at last— “Personally, I think truth is always best. Because, to begin with, it is the unwritten law of the universe that what is shall remain, and that what only seems shall perish. Therefore, we do ourselves wrong when we run counter to the Divine Mathematics. While a sinner conceals his sins he is selfcondemned; when he confesses them he is at once half redeemed.”
“Then you would forgive any wicked person who confessed their wickedness?” queried Azalea, still looking at the carpet.
“My dear girl, you make me quite anxious!” Here approaching her, he took her face between his two hands, and studied its lovely coloring fondly— “Have you been doing anything very wrong?”
At this she laughed, and her eyes danced with merriment.
“Not very!” she answered gayly— “I’ll confess to you at once when I have trespassed against any of the Ten Commandments — you may be sure of that!” She raised herself on the tips of her toes and kissed him— “You are a dear old Dick! You never suspect anything or anybody!”
At that moment a knock came at the study door, and on Everton’s calling “Come in,” the parlormaid entered, bringing a small visiting card on a large silver salver.
“This gentleman would like to see you, sir,” — she said.
Everton took up the card and read its small neat superscription: ‘Sebastien Douay.’
“I don’t know the name,” — he began dubiously.
“He told me he was a stranger to you, sir,” — said the parlormaid— “He particularly wished to see the church. He’s quite a gentleman.”
“Oh very well — just show him into the drawing-room, and say I’ll come in a moment.”
The maid retired.
“Don’t ask him to luncheon!” implored Azalea— “Whoever he is, Dick, dont do that!”
Everton laughed.
“As if I should ask any fellow to luncheon without knowing something about him!” he said— “Really, Azalea, you are a quaint little woman!”
“Well, sometimes you are rather impulsive,” — she answered. “We see so few people down here that if a very pleasant man turns up, it is no wonder you don’t want him to go away again at once.” Here she also looked at the visitor’s card. “Sebastien Douay! Oh, that’s a French name. He’s a foreigner.”
“Let us beware of him then,” — said Everton, smiling— “Let us be on our guard like true-born Britons who view everything un-British with dark suspicion! Yet even a native of France may be a man and a brother all the same, mayn’t he?”
“Of course he may! Oh, Dick, why are you so nonsensical! But I don’t want this particular man and brother invited to stop to luncheon, no matter how nice and agree-
“All right! But may I ask -why?”
“Because there’s only cold mutton. There!” declared Azalea, quite desperately— “And however you put it, cold mutton is a comfortless thing, even with salad and hot potatoes. You can never get over the cheerlessness of it! We don’t mind it, because of course if we have a joint of mutton at all in the house it has to be eaten cold sometimes, but strangers always feel the dismalness of it so much!”
Everton nodded with good-humored significance.
“Very well! — I won’t argue the point!” he said— “But if every hungry fellow in the world could get a slice of cold mutton for the asking, the ‘dismalness’ might not be so very dismal after all!”
He went off then, and entering the drawing-room found his visitor standing with hands clasped behind his back, looking meditatively out of the window into the garden. He was a little man, with a clean-shaven round chubby face, and a pleasant smile which sparkled up from his lips to his eyes in a very taking and kindly way. He was dressed in a clerical surtout, buttoned up tightly to the throat, — and a soft felt hat of the approved ‘churchman’ model lay on a chair beside him.
“I must demand one thousand pardons!” he said, in somewhat imperfect English, turning round as Everton entered— “Poss-eebly it is not the time to call upon the clergyman to see the church?”
“Pray don’t apologize!” replied Everton quickly, extending a hand in frank courtesy— “My time is quite at your disposal for an hour at least. You are most welcome to see the church — I’ll take you round there at once, especially as you are of my own calling—” —
“Ah non!” — and the little man gave a deprecatory gesture, “I will not permit you to mistake me! I am a priest of the ‘True’ Church — the Roman Catholique” — here his eyes twinkled with a most agreeable facetiousness— “But that shall make no difference, shall it, in our leetle meeting?”
Everton was quite charmed with the vivacious simplicity of his manner.
“Certainly not!” he said heartily— “We both serve the same Master.”
“Not so!” and his visitor shook a forefinger knowingly in the air— “Not so by long ways! You serve the King — I serve the Pope! Two big personages that must nevare agree!”
Everton smiled rather gravely.
“I mean,” he said— “a greater Master than either.”
“Ah yes! You mean the good Christ. But nobody serves Him at all in our times — nobody!” He snapped his fingers, still smiling. “His name is une convenance! C’est tout! Let us see the church!”
A little puzzled, and not knowing quite what to say, Everton opened the long latticed windows of the drawing-room which led out immediately to the lawn, and escorted his new acquaintance through the garden to a private gate communicating with the churchyard.
“You have my name?” proceeded the little priest— “Sebastien Douay? Yes! That is me. Ah, so short while ago I was le père Douay — notre cher petit père — so the children of my village called me — ah oui! — a village not large — no, not so large as this Shadbrook” — he spread out his hands descriptively— “but charmant! Now Madame le République Française has swept me out with all that she calls her church rubbish — she has swept me and so many more into England! And here I am! — and to this place I wander like what you call a tramp — is it not so?”
“Your Church,” said Everton slowly— “is making many converts in this country — I should think you would find plenty of friends here.”
“Friends? Oh, for that!” Here he gave a shrug more expressive than words. “Yes, there are many, if you will do just as they tell you! But not if you desire to do something for yourself! I have just come from a leetle, very leetle place in Warwickshire — where there is a leetle, very leetle church — the cure is ill and poor — ah! so very poor! — and while he has been ill, the Bishop ask me to take the service — and when I say my bad English will not please, he say ‘Bah! The people are so stupid they will not mind,’ — and that is true! So I say the Mass and confess the stupid people — but I do very leetle preaching — they would not comprehend me — no! — they can perhaps follow the Latin in their missals — but I do not ask them to follow my English in the pulpit — no! — that would be a cruelty!”
He laughed, and Everton laughed with him. There was something quite infectious in his cheery personality. They had by this time reached the church, — a quaint gray stone edifice, small, but of perfect proportion in every line, with a genuine early Norman porch, and ivy clinging tenderly around its ancient square tower. It was a very quiet, peaceful little place, shadowed in its venerable tranquillity by a few tall old trees; among which some rooks were evidently thinking of building their nests, for they were cawing to each other persistently as though the time for housekeeping had already begun. The churchyard was scrupulously clean and well-kept, and only a few of last year’s leaves had fluttered down from the overhanging branches on some of the neatly trimmed graves. A sense of sweet repose softened by tender melancholy hung about this small ‘God’s Acre,’ and appeared to touch some chord in the emotions of the exiled ‘père Douay’ — for he paused at a small rounded hillock which covered the mortal remains of a child, ‘aged Three Years,’ where a knot of white lilies lay fresh upon the wet turf, and said gently:
“Ah the pity! Those flowers mean so much broken heart! The leetle laughing child gone! — the sweet lilies so pure and still! Sometimes — yes! — it is wrong to say it — but sometimes I feel that God must be sorry to be obliged to kill so many pretty things which He has made!”
Everton offered no reply. The words at once recalled Mrs. Moddley’s remark as repeated by her hopeful son— “Mother don’t see ‘ow God can bear to live watchin’ all the poor folks die what He’s made Hisself!” The thought was the same as that expressed by his present visitor, though differently worded. He took a large key out of his pocket and with it unfastened the church door.
“I see you lock up the dear Lord!” said Douay, with a little smile— “You keep Him a prisoner! Not so do we Catholiques. We leave our church doors open — we make the Lord always to be at home! If a man or woman is naughty, he or she can enter and say a prayer and try to be sorry. At one time I am sure, in the history of this church, the Lord was also at home in it?”
Everton took this query without any offense.
“Of course, in the past, this church, like all the churches of England, was Roman Catholic,” he said— “Up to the time of the Reformation, masses were said in it every day, — and I believe that even during Elizabeth’s reign and despite all her laws against Catholics, secret masses were held in the crypt. The crypt is the most ancient part of the building — the genuine remains of the former hermitage. You know, I suppose, that it was once a hermit’s chapel?”
Douay nodded emphatically.
“Of hermits I always read much!” he said— “They amaze me! That they should wish to leave society is not a matter for surprise,
— but that they should live quite alone, and on hard beans and water, is all beyond my comprehension. I at once say it is not for me. A hermitage à deux would be more agreeable!”
He laughed — and Everton thought him frivolous. Douay saw and understood his expression, and his bright gray eyes twinkled yet more humorously.
“You are married, Mistaire Everton?” he asked. A slight flush warmed the Vicar’s pale face.
“Yes,” he answered— “I have been married three years.”
“Ah! That is early days! I felicitate you!” and Douay made him a fantastic little bow, which was half jocose, and half complimentary— “You are still in Paradise!”
They passed through the porchway and entered the church itself. It was a very unassuming little interior, strictly in conformity with the formerly professed simplicity of the Church of England. The ugly part of it was, as is usual in many churches, the seating accommodation — this being the too familiar hard rows of light oak pews which much more suggest benches for a lecture hall than for a place of prayer. The roof was finely arched, and was supported on eight noble stone columns which mutely testified to the architectural skill of their long ago forgotten designer, while the chancel, though lofty and spacious, was spoilt by four modern stained-glass windows which, in their conception and coloring, might have found fitting place in a twentieth-century hotel ‘lounge,’ but which were much too crude and gaudy for a house of worship.
“Those windows are an eyesore,” — said Everton, noticing Douay’s quizzical expression as he looked at them— “But they were put in by Squire Hazlitt, the patron of the living, in memory of his deceased relations. He is a very good, kindly man, but unfortunately he has no taste for what is reverent and noble in art.”
“Like so many good, kindly men!” smiled Douay— “Par exemple, like that most excellent personage who wished to put a sculptured memorial of his actress-wife immediately opposite the bust of Shakespeare, in Stratford-on-Avon Church. He would have done it, too, if he had not most fortunately been caught on a point of law and so prevented. Imagine! Your great Shak-es-peare face to face with a modern actress-lady in his own burial-place! Ha-ha! What a stupidity! But no doubt the amiable provincial gentlemen concerned in the scheme, settled it over a glass of wine at dinner, and could not understand that they were ignorant and irreverent enough to make the whole world laugh at them! Your Squire is like that — he does not see any laugh in these comic windows!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 708