He paced up and down his room, and his glance presently, fell on a pretty photograph of his wife that stood on a small table near his desk. The sweet young face smiled at him, and he paused in front of it, looking at it long and earnestly, till suddenly he found his eyes suffused with tears.
“Poor little woman!” he murmured, tenderly— “Poor innocent little woman!”
And then he thought of Jacynth Miller. He remembered every detail of her appearance the last time he had seen her, — he knew the exact and particular shade of blue she had worn — he could almost see the fashion of her bodice, open at the throat to show the whiteness of her skin, and the drooping petals of the flowers she had pinned just above the full curve of her bosom. And she — even she — had come fresh from the embraces of Dan Kiernan! A shudder ran through him, — a kind of nausea, such as might possibly affect a sensitive man if he were told that a delicately plumaged bird had fallen into the gutter and been trampled by a routing swine. Could she not have been saved from such a fate? Bob Hadley’s dying cries: “Save Jacynth!” rang in his ears with haunting persistence. If he had only known! But he had never even suspected that she could, or would have had so much as a passing fancy for such a brutish creature as Dan Kiernan. Accrediting her with no more evil than an excess of vanity and heartlessness, he had thought of her as a wild, half-educated girl, endowed with an extraordinary beauty which in her case amounted to a misfortune, — a girl who needed to be dealt with firmly, yet kindly, — and he had hoped that in time, with care and teaching, he might have helped to mold her character, and fit her for some useful service. As this reflection crossed his mind he felt his face grow hot with mingled anger and shame. For while he, like a fool, had been meditating on possible ways and means for her better training, she, if her boorish lover might be believed, had merely been vowing to number him, the Vicar of the parish, among her conquests! The whole episode worried him, — he would have given a great deal had he been able to forget it. But it was just one of those uncomfortable happenings which, in the whole length of a lifetime, refuse to be forgotten.
That evening he found the Vicarage very lonely, and himself very restless. It was a fine night, though cold, — the sky was covered with masses of dense cloud which drifted along so slowly as to almost appear motionless, and now and then a solitary star gleamed forth like a spark glowing through smoke, to vanish again as soon as it appeared. A touch of frost made the air keen and bracing, and deciding that a walk would do him good before retiring to rest, he put on his hat and overcoat and went out. As he shut his house door behind him, he stood for a moment in the garden listening, as it were, to the silence. It was a silence heavy and intense, yet suggestive of an under-current of sustained sound that sullenly refused to make itself audible. One heard nothing, yet felt that there was everything to hear. Oppressed and saddened by his own thoughts, he went quickly across the lawn and through the dark winding shrubberies to the gate which opened upon the high-road, and there leaned for a moment looking at the dim twinkle of the lights in the village of Shadbrook — very few and uncertain in their glimmerings, like glow-worms shining in a moist tangle of green.
“A handful of souls!” he mused— “Just a handful — scarcely enough to make the merest infinitesimal speck of molecular dust in the whirl of the cosmos! And yet — we must believe that God cares for even this handful!”
He unlatched the gate, and passing out, walked on down the road towards the bridge. From that point he could command a view of both ‘old’ and ‘new’ Shadbrook, and here the solemn stillness of the night was broken by the noise of the little stream running along, no doubt with quite as busy a cheerfulness as when the Romans built their durable arch of stone across it. On either side of the bridge, — to the east on the one hand, to the west on the other, a strong flare of light shone forth with a vivid yellow brilliancy, and Everton sighed impatiently as he looked at what he knew was the fiery Pharos of Drink flaming from the two public-houses, which, so far from being rivals, were jointly concerned in making as much as they could for themselves and for Minchin to whom they were ‘tied,’ out of the bodies and souls of the hapless villagers who ignorantly consumed the deadly poison they were licensed to sell.
“All the mischief is centered there!” he said half aloud— “In the drink, which it would seem that Heaven itself is powerless to fight against. If by some miracle of intervention those two public-houses could be closed, or done away with, I should have more hope of the men and women committed to my charge, — but while the actual laws of the country permit so many blood-poisoners, masquerading as brewers and spirit distillers, to make utter havoc of the moral and physical condition of the people, what can I or any member of my calling do? Our remonstrances are met with derision, and we ourselves are looked upon as fools for our pains. Even the teaching of Christ Himself hardly touches the Drink question, for he preached His Gospel in the East, where drunkenness is not a national vice. I have heard special pleaders quote His own words and actions as arguments in favor of the public-house, — because He praised the publican more than the Pharisee in the parable, and also because His first miracle was to turn water into wine. And they recall His choice of Levi the Publican, whom He commanded to follow Him, and they relate the story of how Levi ‘made Him a great feast in his own house, and there was a great company of publicans and others that sat down with them.’ Therefore, so they would argue, the Founder of the Christian Faith would seem to have rather favored than blamed the sellers of drink to the people. It is all very difficult and very perplexing; the evil is one which we clergy ought to fight, but we lack both the means and the authority for combat.”
Just then he heard a confused din as of shouting and laughter echoing out on the air from the public-house which was nearest to where he stood, — the ‘Stag and Crow,’ with whose proprietor, Mr. Topper, he had ventured to plead against the sale of more drink to Dan Kiernan on the day of that misguided man’s assault on his wife. He walked towards it, halting immediately opposite its brightly lit up windows, two of which were open at the top, though the blinds were all drawn to prevent any stray passer-by from seeing what was going on inside. One blind, however, was not quite down, — between its lower edge and the windowsill there was about an inch of clear glass, — and through this some half-a-dozen small boys of the village were earnestly peeping, all holding each other by the arms and pressing their noses against the pane. The tin-like tinkling of a bad piano badly played struck the quietness of the outer air with a rough blow of vulgarity, and every now and then the roar of men’s rowdy laughter, capped by a feminine scream or hysterical giggle, outraged the peaceful hush of night. The boys who were spying through their inch of window-pane were frequently convulsed with mirth, — at certain moments they bent and doubled up their childish figures with such an excess of laughter, that as they stood outlined in the darkness by the flare of the lights within, they suggested to the mind a band of fantastic gnomes, engaged in watching the progress of some devil’s mischief to humanity. Everton looked at them scrutinizingly, but though he knew every boy in the village, he could not immediately identify them, — presently, however, when he saw them rolling together, as it were, one upon another, in a prolonged and united fit of ecstasy, he went straight up to them.
“Boys, what are you doing here?” he asked, gently.
They all turned, and stared at him. One of them, a rosy-cheeked little urchin with a tangle of fair curls falling over his innocent blue eyes, answered shyly:
“We was watchin’ the droonk folk!”
Everton patted the small upturned head.
“And do you think they’re worth looking at?” he asked.
Another bigger boy spoke.
“They’se like the clowns at the circus!” he said— “All a-toomblin’ over each other an’ a-grabbin’ at chairs an’ tables to keep steady-loike — an’ there’s gels as is pullin’ all their ‘air down an’ larfin’ theirselves silly!”
Everton, recognizing one
of his Sunday-school lads, took him gently by the arm.
“I wish you’d all go home,” — he said, kindly— “It’s not a pretty sight. It’s a shocking, horrible sight! — try to forget you’ve ever seen it. Or, if you must remember, let it remain in your mind as something to be feared and avoided. There’s nothing so vile and ugly in all the world as a drunkard. You know I’m right, don’t you?”
They peeped up at him submissively. A faint chorus of small voices answered:
“Yes, sir!”
He smiled, and led them along in a little group away from the scene which had so fascinated them.
“Run home, like good children!” he said, cheerily— “Home to your mothers, and to bed! It’s time for you all to be sound asleep. Good-night! God bless you!”
Off went all the little caps in a row.
“Good-night, sir!”
Everton lifted his own hat and stood bareheaded in the quiet gloom for a moment, while these small scions of future manhood went their way in obedience to the impression his kind voice and manner had made upon them, — and there was a stinging moisture in his eyes as he watched them disappear.
“Poor little souls!” he murmured—’”Who can blame them if their early conceptions of life and the things of life are dark and crooked? Man’s willful degradation of himself is bad enough — but when he degrades his children, and through them spreads the contamination of his own disease to future unborn generations, surely no estimate can sufficiently gauge the enormous extent of his selfishness and crime! It is not of ourselves we should think, for ourselves are always too much with us; — it is of others — others upon whom our conduct and example may have a lasting good or evil influence.”
At that moment a yell of hysterical laughter pierced the air, and through the open doorway of the ‘Stag and Crow’ some eight or nine men and women came reeling out into the road. The piano went on tinkling brassily inside, and two women, with their hair tossing loosely about their faces, and their tawdry ‘scoop’ hats falling off like battered lampshades on their backs, began to dance wildly opposite each other in the fantastic gyrations common to the gutter music-hall stage and known as the ‘cake walk.’
“Come on, Dan!” they screamed— “Come on, an’ show us a bit o’ yer quality!”
And roars of laughter went up from the whole group, as Dan Kiernan, in a condition that can only be described as ‘dead drunk,’ suddenly staggered forward, hatless, and coatless, his face swollen and blurred out of all intelligent human semblance by the red fire of the corroding liquor that inwardly ravened and consumed him, and his massive figure swaying with an unwieldy helplessness like a drifting log swirled to and fro in the strong cross-currents of a swift stream. The women rushed at him and seized him — one on either side and each gripping an arm, — and so between them the wretched fool was made to caper heavily backwards and forwards like a clumsy bear in chains, amid repeated shrill yells and hoarse guffaws of idiotic laughter.
“Step it out, Dan!” cried one man, stumbling back against the public-house door— “Step it out! I’d dance all night if my old ‘ooman was dead!”
Another roar of laughter hailed this witticism, and the insane ‘cake-walk’ went on with redoubled vigor, improved and sustained by sundry fits of hiccoughing on the part of Kiernan, which were loudly applauded by the clapping of hands and stamping of feet. All at once and quite quietly, Everton stepped out from the shadows which had till now concealed his presence, and stood for a moment in full view of the disheveled company. There was a sudden pause — an equally sudden silence. Then one of the women who held Kiernan’s arm burst into a tipsy laugh.
“It’s the parson!” she yelled— “Lordy-dordy me! It’s the parson!”
Kiernan stopped in his Bruin-like shuffling, and tried to steady himself.
“The parson!” he stuttered— “Wot’s ’e a-doin’ of ’ere? Turn ’im out! D’ye ‘ear, boys? Turn — turn ’im out! We doan’t want no parsons ’ere, talking ‘igh an’ mighty an’ interferin’ wi’ the poor man’s ‘ome!” Here he gave a heavy lurch forward and would have fallen, but for the women, who, giggling crazily, still held him up. “We doan’t want no parsons!” he repeated, raising his rough voice to a savage roar— “Damn ’em all, I say! Eh, boys? Damn ’em all!”
Without a word or further look, the Vicar turned and walked away. As he disappeared, the dapper, self-important proprietor of the ‘Stag and Crow,’ Mr. Topper, suddenly showed himself at the threshold of his ‘licensed premises’ and smiled benevolently on the group of his recent customers, who were, together with Dan Kiernan, whom they still escorted, beginning to roll and stagger and straggle away in the various directions of their several homes. With the pleasant smile still on his fat face, he carefully shut the door of the bar, and locked and bolted it with much emphatic noise, while some one within extinguished all the lights, exactly as the church clock struck eleven.
Everton, reaching his own house again, heard the chime pulsate in musical beats through the silence, like a sweet voice made tremulous by tears. His nerves were throbbing — his mind was weary — and a fatigued protest rose up within him against the apparent uselessness of effort and the vanity of all toil. Kiernan’s coarse words echoed in his ears with the pertinacity of an unavenged insult. “We doan’t want no parsons! Damn ’em all, I say!” To this end an irresponsible Press was bringing the People!
“And to this end,” — he thought, “Education without Religion will rear its Christ-less human brutes of the next generation!”
CHAPTER X
THERE are what may be called ‘gray days’ in every human life — days of mental mist and drizzle, when the heaven of thought is overcast and no glimpse of brightness breaks upon the soul, — days which leave a dark blur upon the mind too deep to be erased or forgotten. One of the worst and dreariest of such days was that on which Richard Everton performed the last rites of the Church for the ill-fated Jennie Kiernan. Never, to his own thinking, had he conducted a more melancholy funeral. Pitiful in its plain poorness, it was nevertheless rendered impressive by the crowd of mourners following the coffin — for the village had turned out nearly all its inhabitants, many of them giving up a day’s work and wage in order to pay a final tribute of respect to the mortal remains of a woman whose chief claim upon the regard of her neighbors had been her long-suffering and always uncomplaining patience. They gathered round the grave in massed groups, their stolid faces guiltless of any expression, — and listened in heavy silence while their Vicar solemnly enunciated the too familiar ‘ashes to ashes — dust to dust’ phrase, which by constant repetition had become almost meaningless to their ears, — and it was only now and then that Everton caught a few furtive glances from eyes that were suddenly lifted to his face, as though in wonder or inquiry — glances that set his nerves quivering and made the blood rise to his brows. For he understood the meaning of those covert looks which expressed yet concealed an unspoken doubt, — he saw that in each of those ignorant, narrow and prejudiced minds, one idea had been implanted, and that idea was, that ‘if the parson’s wife hadn’t gone meddlin’ with what wasn’t her business, Jennie Kiernan wouldn’t have died.’ Instinctively he felt the atmosphere of a dull resentment rising against him — resentment that was as reasonless as it was obstinate. And his speech faltered a little as he read of the ‘voice from heaven’ which promised the dead ‘rest from their labors.’
Rest just now seemed to him the sweetest and most desirable thing in the world, for he was weary in heart and spirit. The strong consciousness that his ministration of the Gospel was, to a very great extent, utterly futile, weighed upon him heavily. In this one poor parish of Shadbrook he could count nothing but failures. His influence had worked no good — it had neither checked drink nor immorality. Even young Hadley, who, for the greater part of his last illness had shown a wonderfully docile and Christian spirit of resignation and patience, had died raving for the love of a woman, and blasphemously denying the existence of G
od. And Jacynth Miller — she — but of her he would not allow himself to think. He was thankful when all was over, and when, having seen Jennie Kiernan’s coffin lowered into the ground, the villagers slowly and silently dispersed. One woman lingered behind the rest, and curtseying respectfully, spoke to him in a hushed voice with tears in her eyes — and this was Jennie’s loyal friend, Mrs. Adcott.
“I’m right sorry it’s all happened as it has,” — she said— “It’s cross work and cruel, — that it is, sir, — but Jennie, for all that she was a hard-working woman, had a lovin’ heart, an’ it just broke when she knew Dan worn’t true to her. She’d a’ borne anything else — ay, if Dan had a’ kicked ‘er to death, she’d a’ taken it thankful an’ died blessin’ ’im, so long as he’d been her man, but when she heerd ’im ravin’ like mad because Jacynth had left ’im—”
“Yes — yes, I know!” interrupted Everton— “I know it all, — don’t speak of it any more! The whole affair is most unfortunate. I could perhaps have saved her if I had been told in time—”
“Well, sir, it wasn’t for the like of us to tell you,” — and Mrs. Adcott wiped her eyes— “You see Jacynth, she went to church reg’lar, and took the Lord’s bread and wine—”
Everton turned very white.
“Yes,” he said, with sudden stiffness— “I am aware of all the facts — now. — Don’t let us talk of the miserable story here!” — and he pointed to the open grave— “It is not the time or the place.”
Mrs. Adcott curtsied again meekly, and went away with bent head, crying softly. For a moment the Vicar stood inert, — for a moment he lifted his pale face to the lowering sky which darkly threatened rain, as though in mute appeal, — then he signed to Stowey the sexton, who advanced at once and began the work of ‘covering in,’ or as he himself was wont to express it— ‘putting a warm quilt on a cold sleeper.’
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 718