'You know, Miss Denton-Smyth, you asked me a little while ago to use such small influence as I have on behalf of the Christian Cinema Company.'
'Yes, yes indeed, and I can't tell you how pleased I am, because once we can have the interest of the Church I know that is just what we are needing. You see, the omens have been very propitious lately. Did I tell you about the very nice notice we had in the Christian Herald? And another in the Methodist Free Press about the little lecture I gave at Willesden last week? I tell you, it spreads; it spreads.'
'What I really wanted to know,' Roger began; but she interrupted him.
'You see, I've written to Lady Huntingdon, and her secretary says she's coming back in March. I know she's very well off, because I read in the papers about her husband's will, and she is sole legatee, and that means quite twelve thousand a year, if not more, and really with all that money she should be able to spare us just a little, say five thousand, and I know she's interested in the cinema.'
'But Miss Denton-Smyth -'
'Oh, I know you'll agree with me. And then you know there's Mr. Macafee. Of course he's difficult. You know, I always say that genius is the converse side of abnormality and of course you can't expect a brilliant man like that to have the common sense and practical knowledge of the world which people say, for instance, that I have, though I'm sure I don't know. And speaking of the company - I suppose you couldn't lend me five shillings just as a loan over the week-end? I did send a post card to Eleanor asking her to call round to-day, but then she has to be down at that firm she works for in the city this evening, and of course she mayn't have time to come in. Young people will be young people.'
So she not only swindled Eleanor as a director, thought Roger. She borrowed from her as a relative. She was a dangerous and tiresome old woman. He braced himself for condemnation; but his sympathies ran counter to his reason. For when he looked at her, he observed her debonair vitality rising above her fatigue and loneliness. Her large romantic eyes gazed at him with adoring trust. It was so obvious that she saw herself as a brave if battered adventurer steering through storms and perils towards a splendid harbour. She was talking now of the great things which the Christian Cinema Company would one day accomplish, of the need in England for an organization to purify public taste. The glory of her theme caught her up like a wind and swept her to the heights of her idealism. Her gallant spirit triumphed above her weary flesh, until Roger saw, acted before his eyes, the drama of the mystic whose strength transcends the limitations of mortality. He could not force himself to break in upon her ecstasy. Also he had a committee meeting ior the Church Bazaar at 6.30 and it would take him quite a quarter of an hour to reach it.
Across the emotional world was woven the net of practical routine. If he was late for the committee, Mrs. Rawlins would bully the wretched secretary, Beattie Laver, into gibbering incompetence, Mrs. Masters would push the Romney girls out of the Sweet Stall, and time would be wasted, nerves shattered and dignity lost over absurd confusions. He must deal with Miss Denton-Smyth another time. Meanwhile he fumbled in a shabby leather case where a pound note lay in wait for such emergencies. If Eleanor came that night she must not be troubled by the old lady's importunity.
So he handed Miss Denton-Smyth his pound note with matter-of-fact indifference as though it were the most natural thing in the world that he should lend her money, and decided to return within a day or two to complete his rescue of Eleanor. Meanwhile he made his excuses to his hostess.
'Well, if you must go, of course you must, but I can't tell you what your coming has meant to me. A light in a dark hour - a wonderful privilege to pray for help and find it. It's this kind of sympathy that makes us know that God is good. I shall never, never forget it. Never, And I won't keep you because I know that you must go. But before you go, won't you say just one prayer? It would be such a help to me. I should always have it, as a sort of memory - blessing this room.'
Mrs. Rawlins, Beattie Laver and the Romney girls must wait. Roger had prayed in too many similar rooms to feel any self-consciousness now as he cleared a little space among the discarded tea-things and knelt beside the table. Caroline got stiffly to her knees, her head pillowed among the broken springs of the armchair. Father Mortimer's quiet voice was music in her ears. It was enchantment. It was wonder. She did not hear the soft tap on the door, nor the faint sound of its opening.
But Roger saw.
'Lighten our darkness,' he prayed, and raising his eyes saw the figure of Eleanor in the doorway. She stood against the darkness of the passage, buttoned up in her trim leather coat, her eyes shining, her cheeks glowing from the cold wind. For one instant she paused there, seeing Roger on his knees, his hands clasped among the egg-cups, and the broken leather of Caroline's upturned shoes. A flicker crossed her face - a faint ripple of amusement, embarrassment and something that might have been contempt. Then the door closed.
'. . . and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night,' Roger repeated. Then he pronounced the blessing and remained for a moment quiet.
When he rose, Caroline lumbered up after him, her joints creaking.
'It's been too wonderful - too lovely,' she cried, her voice trembling, 'the tea, the flowers - your coming, everything. Do you know who you remind me of? Barnabas, the Son of Consolation.'
He bade her good-bye, escaped from her clinging knotted hands, and ran down the stairs. At the front door he paused. He had come just in time to see Eleanor's motor-car disappear round the street corner. He heard the arrogant scream of her syren as she turned into the Richmond Road. Then she was gone.
He stood, his hand unconsciously crumbling the damp plaster of the pillar, his face livid with pain. For he had thought that he had cured himself of his folly and now he knew that the cure was an illusion. He had lashed himself with the whips of his ridicule, but Eleanor's smile lashed him with scorpions. He saw himself as she saw him, a comic curate, praying among the buns. 'Not quite a real man.' Just so; just so. And she had not even troubled to wait to see her cousin. But he had seen, in that swift vision, all that she meant to him. He knew that her scorn could wither the universe. What did he care for his soul's safety or the honour of the Church (which Church in any case?) if she could look like that at him? He needed her respect. Yes, and by God, much more than her respect. He wanted her, loved her, lusted for her. 'Think straight, then, think straight,' he gibed at himself. 'Call things by their proper names. Face up to this, you fool. You are a priest, and to an intelligent modern young agnostic like Eleanor de la Roux a priest is slightly comic, and entirely despicable. If your prayers amuse her, the knowledge of your love would afford her delicious entertainment. This is not the place for heroics. In ten minutes you are due at a meeting of the Church Bazaar Committee, to adjudicate between the rights of Fancywork and Home Produce to hold the place of honour just before the platform. This is the life you have chosen. Down these steps, hurry along the road, catch your bus, stand to allow the fat woman with the parcels to sit down. Pass right along the car, please. One penny fare, please. Now shall I back the Romney girls or Mrs. Masters? Ah, God, God, God. How can a man live in this agony of frustration? That's right. Call upon God. You chose Him as your consoler — the illusion conjured up by generations of chained and frustrated men - the protest of the human soul against the limitations of experience. This is reality, this blinding pain, this shame, this agony — Eleanor de la Roux is reality. And you have chosen - Church bazaars. God. I can't stand this bus - these hideous drivelling stupid people - no - there's no time to walk. Five more minutes now before the committee meeting. That's what? I beg your pardon. My ticket? Oh, Hell - a comic curate never is able to produce his ticket for inspection - ah - here it is. But this isn't tolerable. This is not to be borne.'
He swung himself down from the bus, crossed the pavement, entered a building and took his place at the committee table just as a timid secretary polished her pince-nez and began to read the minutes of the last meeting.<
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§4
Committee meetings do not drown sorrow, but they can sometimes prevent sorrow from drowning its victims. Roger's pain was not mitigated by the state of his engagement book, but the necessity for constant action strengthened his endurance. He could not think continually of Eleanor when he was rushing from the church to care-committees, from boys' classes to funerals, from baptisms to swimming classes and bazaars. For nearly a month he drove himself forward on a self-imposed routine of work which aroused Father Lasseter to faint protests.
'You need not think you have to bear the whole burden of the shortage of clergymen on your own shoulders, my dear boy.'
'I don't,' laughed Roger. But when he heard of the demand for an assistant at Saint Saviour's, Bermondsey, he told Father Lasseter of his desire to make the transfer.
'Graves is a noted slave-driver.'
'I know. I think that just at the moment I want to be slave-driven.'
'Well-go if you must. These phases pass. I suppose you don't feel like telling me what's wrong.'
'There's nothing wrong that time and a little diversion of interest won't put right.'
'You'll get diversion of interest in Bermondsey. But there's no need to kill yourself.'
'I shan't. I'm extremely fit. Don't I look it?'
'You look as if you were heading for a nervous breakdown.'
'Nonsense, sir. I'm going to make my team win the London Junior Diving Cup. You can't associate that ambition with nervous breakdowns.'
They had both laughed, and Roger left the older man somewhat comforted.
He did not, however, forget the business which had taken him to Lucretia Road. He had gone twice to the offices of the Christian Cinema Company, and after another interview with Caroline and one with Johnson had decided that there was only one chance of salvaging Eleanor's money. If the Tona Perfecta Film was all that Johnson and Macafee claimed, it was just possible that somebody interested in the film business might think it worth financing. Then at least Eleanor would perhaps get her capital back.
It was then that Roger rang up D'Aynecourt. D'Aynecourt had been at college with him and an erratic friendship survived between the two men on the basis of an amiable incompatibility of interests. D'Aynecourt lived in Paris and Chelsea, wrote intellectual film criticism and pursued as a hobby the wholly disinterested amusement of deciphering the more scandalous riddles of film finance. He always knew whose money supported which film and why, and recounted the reasons with sardonic amusement.
To D'Aynecourt's rooms in Cheyne Row Roger went with his tale of the Christian Cinema Company, and in a spirit of malicious benevolence, D'Aynecourt at once produced his Big Financier.
'Simon L. Brooks is the man you ought to see. He's behind God knows how many companies. But, mark you, my friend, he's no philanthropist. If, as you say, there's stuff in this Scottish genius, he'll probably buy him out of your crazy company, which will then be able to die peacefully, which would be, I imagine, its happiest end. If not-' D'Aynecourt shrugged his shoulders.
It appeared that the great man was in England at the moment. It appeared that D'Aynecourt was to meet him.
'I'll see what I can do. Well, well. How are you, when you're not attempting to reform the British Cinema? You look slightly fatigued. Have you gone over to Rome yet? Or are you still satisfied with the guidance of Sir William Joynson-Hicks, Bart., Defender of the Faith?'
'God forbid,' said Roger.
But he went back to the clergy house elated and expectant. It would really be rather exhilarating if he - the comic curate, the not-quite-real-man, could produce the financial god from the machine and save the company. He wanted to show Eleanor that he was not wholly without influence.
But the days passed and he heard no more from D'Aynecourt. Then, suddenly, that casual young man rang up to say that he had seen Brooks, that Brooks was quite amused, and that if he had time he might ring up on Monday night and ask Mortimer to take him down to see Macafee and the film.
Roger had a Boy Scouts' class at half-past eight on Monday evening, but he rang up and found a deputy. He refused to sacrifice the entertainment of escorting Simon L. Brooks out to Macafee's laboratory. Johnson's casual remark, that Miss de la Roux spent most of her spare time down there now, lit in him a faint hope that he might see her also. He did not know if he wanted to see Eleanor, but an entirely human and rather disgraceful sentiment made him anxious that she should see him visiting the laboratory as the escort of Brooks and D'Aynecourt.
'I'll larn her. I'll larn her,' swore he to himself as he fumbled among black clerical coats on the peg in the bleak passage. The wind howled through the bare hall. It was a wild evening.
Roger went out on to the steps and waited for the car which was to convey them all out to Annerley. The wind had torn the clouds to ribbons and scattered the earlier rain. It caught Roger's coat and whipped his face as he stood bare-headed, waiting.
'The Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind,' thought Roger. 'Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare, if thou hast understanding! Well, it's a good whirlwind. But will the Lord answer me?'
A great car droned and purred up to the door. Roger went down and saw D'Aynecourt sitting with a large, spectacled personage, so amazingly like Roger's imaginary conception of film magnates that it was all he could do to keep from laughing during D'Aynecourt's laconic introduction in the little lighted saloon of the Rolls Royce. Mr. Simon L. Brooks drove at night with his car lit and its blinds down so that he was enclosed in a small and secret conference chamber like a ship's cabin, spinning through the rapids of the London traffic. He had an appearance of owlish benevolence. The eyes behind his horn-rimmed spectacles were kind rather than keen, and instead of questioning Roger about the company he told ribald tales with inexhaustible fluency and enjoyment. Roger listened half-heartedly, disturbed by the thought of Macafee's perversity, which might easily lead him to choose this evening to keep away from the laboratory. To his immense relief his sight of the battered hoardings screening the Chemical Works from the road was followed by a shaft of light from the uncurtained windows of the laboratory itself.
'It looks as though he were here all right. You'll have to leave the car outside, I'm afraid.' He found himself looking for Eleanor's Clyno, but no other car was there. Simon Brooks's light-grey spats twinkled on the pavement. 'I'm afraid you'll find it muddy inside,' Roger warned him. 'There's a sort of field to cross.'
'Is there?' Simon Brooks looked meditatively through the gap in the hoarding. 'I feel like a bootlegger. Huh? Better take these off, eh?' he asked, indicating his spats.
'If you don't want them ruined,' said Roger gravely, and was thankful that D'Aynecourt's face was in the shadow when the great man leaned against the door of the car and with splendid absence of embarrassment tore off first one spat and then the other, and tossed them on to the seat.
'That's better. Huh? Come along, then. You'd better lead the way, Mr. Mortimer. Expect us when you see us,' he told his chauffeur. 'But if we're not back in about two hours, come to look for my dead body-with a gun.'
The wind was wilder than ever. It rattled and creaked in the crazy hoardings. It buffeted Roger as he pushed his way across the uneven ground, stumbling over broken pottery, and squelching into puddles. The land round the factory reminded him of France in war time, and his old phobia of treading on a decomposing corpse returned to him. Simon L. Brooks swore jovially behind him, and Roger strained his ears through the wind to hear, for though debarred from overt profanity by his cloth, he prided himself that his temperance was not due to poverty of diction, and appreciated opportunities of enriching his potential vocabulary.
But what a wind! Shut up in the Rolls Royce, Roger had failed to appreciate its ferocity, Here it swooped down on him, snatched at his hat and made his scarf a whip for his face. The factory itself seemed in the last stage of dilapidation. The wonder was that those high unsupported walls stood the strain of such assault.
'I don'
t think I envy Macafee his home to-night,' thought Roger, and turned to encourage the profane but pleasant Mr. Brooks.
Locating Macafee's light from across the field was one matter; finding his door in the darkness was another. Roger groped his way over piles of fallen masonry, and bruised his knuckles against several yards of wall before at last he knocked on what seemed to be a door. At first there was no response, but a gleam of light reassured him. He knocked, and finally kicked to save his knuckles, summoning his gently blaspheming companions. But at last the door opened, and Macafee, more rumpled, dusty and shock-headed than ever, stood before them, blinking through tinted spectacles. Stammering a little, but very conciliatory and polite, Roger introduced Brooks and D'Aynecourt, and followed them into the laboratory. Then, down the long lighted room, he saw the smooth brown head of Eleanor de la Roux, bent over a gas-jet in which she held a bubbling tube.
A stormy gust of emotion shook Roger. Joy, tenderness, dismay and anger broke down his valiant defences of irony and amusement. His benevolent patronage of Macafee was swept away in a gust of jealousy. So this was how she spent her evenings. This was where she came every night after her work at the Business College. This was the new hobby which had supplanted her enthusiasm for the I.L.P. There she sat, serenely indifferent alike to his anguish and to the possibilities of Simon L. Brooks, watching a vivid blue liquid which bubbled in her tube and noting on a slip of paper its reactions.
Poor Caroline Page 17