CHAPTER TWELVE
The chapel of St. Spitz was crowded that fine Sunday morning, and theclang and thud of its bells came merrily through the thin quick air toworshippers arriving in their luxurious motors. The amiable oddity ofthe lay reader's demeanour as priest had added a zest to churchgoing.The congregation were particularly pleased, on this occasion, to seeGissing appear in surplice and stole. They had felt that his attire onthe previous Sundays had been a little too informal. And when, at thetime usually allotted to the sermon, Gissing climbed the pulpit steps,unfurled a sheaf of manuscript, and gazed solemnly about, they settledback into the pew cushions in a comfortable, receptive mood. They had asubconscious feeling that if their souls were to be saved, it was betterto have it done with all the proper formalities. They did not noticethat he was rather pale, and that his nose twitched nervously.
"My friends," he said, "in this beautiful little chapel, on this airyhilltop, one might, if anywhere, speak with complete honesty. For youwho gather here for worship are, in the main, people of greataffairs; accustomed to looking at life with high spirit and with quickimagination. I will ask you then to be patient with me while I exhortyou to carry into your religion the same enterprising and ambitiousgusto that has made your worldly careers a success. You are accustomedto deal with great affairs. Let me talk to you about the Great Affairsof God."
Gissing had been far too agitated to be able to recognize any particularmembers of his audience. All the faces were fused into a common blur.Miss Airedale, he knew, was in the organ loft, but he had not seenher since his flight from Atlantic City, for he had removed from theAiredale mansion before her return, and had made himself a bed in thecorner of the vestry-room. He feared she was angry: there had been avigorous growling note in some of the bass pipes of the organ as sheplayed the opening hymn. He had not seen a tall white-haired figure whocame into the chapel rather late, after the service had begun, and tooka seat at the back. Bishop Borzoi had seized the opportunity to driveout to Dalmatian Heights this morning to see how his protege was gettingon. When the Bishop saw his lay reader appear in surplice and scarlethood, he was startled. But when the amateur parson actually ascended thepulpit, the Bishop's face was a study. The hair on the back of his neckbristled slightly.
"It is so easy," Gissing continued, "to let life go by us in its swiftamusing course, that sometimes it hardly seems worth while to attemptany bold strokes for truth. Truth, of course, does not need ourassistance; it can afford to ignore our errors. But in this quiet place,among the whisper of the trees, I seem to have heard a disconcertingsound. I have heard laughter, and I think it is the laughter of God."
The congregation stirred a little, with polite uneasiness. This was notquite the sort of thing to which they were accustomed.
"Why should God laugh? I think it is because He sees that very often,when we pretend to be worshipping Him, we are really worshipping andgratifying ourselves. I used the phrase 'Great Affairs.' The point Iwant to make is that God deals with far greater affairs than we haverealized. We have imagined Him on too petty a scale. If God is so great,we must approach Him in a spirit of greatness. He is not interested intrivialities--trivialities of ritual, of creed, of ceremony. We haveimagined a vain thing--a God of our own species; merely adding to theconception, to gild and consecrate, a futile fuzbuz of supernaturalism.My friends, the God I imagine is something more than a formula onSundays and an oath during the week."
Those sitting in the rear of the Chapel were startled to hear a lowrumbling sound proceeding from the diaphragm of the Bishop, who halfrose from his seat and then, by a great effort of will, containedhimself. But Gissing, rapt in his honourable speculations, continuedwith growing happiness.
"I ask you, though probably in vain, to lay aside for the moment yourinherited timidities and conventions. I ask you to lay aside pride,which is the devil itself and the cause of most unhappiness. I askyou to rise to the height of a great conception. To 'magnify' God isa common phrase in our observances. Then let us truly magnify Him--notminify, as the theologians do. If God is anything more than a socialfetich, then He must be so much more that He includes and explainseverything. It may sound inconceivable to you, it may soundsacrilegious, but I suggest to you that it is even possible God may be abiped--"
The Bishop could restrain himself no longer. He rose with flamingeyes and stood in the aisle. Mr. Airedale, Mr. Dobermann-Pinscher, andseveral other prominent members of the Church burst into threateninggrowls. A wild bark and clamour broke from Mr. Towser, the Sunday Schoolsuperintendent, and his pupils, who sat in the little gallery over thedoor. And then, to Gissing's horror and amazement, Mr. Poodle appearedfrom behind a pillar where he had been chafing unseen. In a fierce tenorvoice shaken with indignation he cried:
"Heretic and hypocrite! Pay no attention to his abominable nonsense! Hedeserted his family to lead a life of pleasure!"
"Seize him!" cried the Bishop in a voice of thunder.
The church was now in an uproar. A shrill yapping sounded among thechoir. Mrs. Airedale swooned; the Bishop's progress up the aisle wasimpeded by a number of ladies hastening for an exit. Old Mr. Dingo, thesexton, seized the bell-rope in the porch and set up a furious pealing.Cries of rage mingled with hysterical howls from the ladies. Gissing,trembling with horror, surveyed the atrocious hubbub. But it washigh time to move, or his retreat would be cut off. He abandoned hismanuscript and bounded down the pulpit stairs.
"Unfrock him!" yelled Mr. Poodle.
"He's never been frocked!" roared the Bishop.
"Impostor!" cried Mr. Airedale.
"Excommunicate him!" screamed Mr. Towser.
"Take him before the consistory!" shouted Mr. Poodle.
Gissing started toward the vestry door, but was delayed by the mass ofscuffling choir-puppies who had seized this uncomprehended diversion asa chance to settle some scores of their own. The clamour was maddening.The Bishop leapt the chancel rail and was about to seize him when MissAiredale, loyal to the last, interposed. She flung herself upon theBishop.
"Run, run!" she cried. "They'll kill you!"
Gissing profited by this assistance. He pushed over the lectern upon Mr.Poodle, who was clutching at his surplice. He checked Mr. Airedale byhurling little Tommy Bull, one of the choir, bodily at him. Tommy'steeth fastened automatically upon Mr. Airedale's ear. The surplice,which Mr. Poodle was still holding, parted with a rip, and Gissingwas free. With a yell of defiance he tore through the vestry and roundbehind the chapel.
He could not help pausing a moment to scan the amazing scene, which hadbeen all Sabbath calm a few moments before. From the long line of motorcars parked outside the chapel incredible chauffeurs were leaping,hurrying to see what had happened. The shady grove shook with thehideous clamour of the bell, still wildly tolled by the frantic sexton.The sudden excitement had liberated private quarrels long decentlyrepressed: in the porch Mrs. Retriever and Mrs. Dobermann-Pinscher werelocked in combat. With a splintering crash one of the choir-pupscame sailing through a stained-glass window, evidently thrown by someinfuriated adult. He recognized the voice of Mr. Towser, raised invigorous lamentation. To judge by the sound, Mr. Towser's pupils hadturned upon him and were giving him a bad time. Above all he couldhear the clear war-cry of Miss Airedale and the embittered yells of Mr.Poodle. Then from the quaking edifice burst Bishop Borzoi, foamingwith wrath, his clothes much tattered, and followed by Mr. Poodle, Mr.Airedale, and several others. They cast about for a moment, and then theBishop saw him. With a joint halloo they launched toward him.
There was no time to lose. He fled down the shady path between thetrees, but with a hopeless horror in his heart. He could not longoutdistance such a runner as the Bishop, whose tremendous strides wouldsurely overhaul him in the end. If only he had known how to drive a car,he might have commandeered one of the long row waiting by the gate. Buthe was no motorist. Miss Airedale could have saved him, in her racingroadster, but she had not emerged from the melee in the chapel. Perhapsthe Bishop had bitten her. H
is blood warmed with anger.
It happened that they had been mending the county highways, and a largesteam roller stood a few hundred feet down the road, drawn up beside theditch. Gissing knew that it was customary to leave these engines withthe fire banked and a gentle pressure of steam simmering in the boiler.It was his only chance, and he seized it. But to his dismay, when hereached the machine, which lay just round a bend in the road, he foundit shrouded with a huge tarpaulin. However, this suggested a desperatechance. He whipped nimbly inside the covering and hid in the coal-box.Lying there, he heard the chase go panting by.
As soon as he dared, he climbed out, stripped off the canvas, andgazed at the bulky engine. It was one of those very tall and impressiverollers with a canopy over the top. The machinery was not complicated,and the ingenuity of desperation spurred him on. Hurriedly he opened thedraughts in the fire-box, shook up the coals, and saw the needle beginto quiver on the pressure-gauge. He experimented with one or two leversand handles. The first one he touched let off a loud scream from thewhistle. Then he discovered the throttle. He opened it a few notches,cautiously. The ponderous machine, with a horrible clanking andgrinding, began to move forward.
A steam roller may seem the least helpful of all vehicles in which toconduct an urgent flight; but Gissing's reasoning was sound. In thefirst place, no one would expect to find a hunted fugitive in thislumbering, sluggish behemoth of the road. Secondly, sitting perched highup in the driving saddle, right under the canopy, he was not easilyseen by the casual passer-by. And thirdly, if the pursuit came toclose grips, he was still in a strategic position. For this, the mostversatile of all land-machines except the military tank, can move acrossfields, crash through underbrush, and travel in a hundred placesthat would stall a motor car. He rumbled off down the road somewhatexhilarated. He found the scarlet stole twisted round his neck, and tiedit to one of the stanchions of the canopy as a flag of defiance. It wasnot long before he saw the posse of pursuit returning along the road,very hot and angry. He crunched along solemnly, busying himself to getup a strong head of steam. There they were, the Bishop, Mr. Poodle, Mr.Airedale, Mr. Dobermann-Pinscher, and Mr. Towser. Mr. Poodle was talkingexcitedly: the Bishop's tongue ran in and out over his gleaming teeth.He was not saying much, but his manner was full of deadly wrath. Theypaid no attention to the roller, and were about to pass it without evenlooking up, when Gissing, in a sudden fit of indignation, gave the wheela quick twirl and turned his clumsy engine upon them. They escapedonly by a hair's breadth from being flattened out like pastry. Then theBishop, looking up, recognized the renegade. With a cry of anger theyall leaped at the roller.
But he was so high above them, they had no chance. He seized thecoal-scoop and whanged Mr. Poodle across the skull. The Bishop camedangerously near reaching him, but Gissing released a jet of scaldingsteam from an exhaust-cock, which gave the impetuous prelate much causefor grief. A lump of coal, accurately thrown, discouraged Mr. Airedale.Mr. Towser, attacking on the other side of the engine, managed toscramble up so high that he carried away the embroidered stole, butotherwise the fugitive had all the best of it. Mr. Dobermann-Pinscherburned his feet trying to climb up the side of the boiler. From thesummit of his uncouth vehicle Gissing looked down undismayed.
"Miserable freethinker!" said Borzoi. "You shall be tried by theassembly of bishops."
"In a mere lay reader," quoted Gissing, "a slight laxity is allowable.You had better go back and calm down the congregation, or they'll tearthe chapel to bits. This kind of thing will have a very bad influence onchurch discipline."
They shouted additional menace, but Gissing had already started hisdeafening machinery and could not hear what was said. He left thembickering by the roadside.
For fear of further pursuit, he turned off the highway a little beyond,and rumbled noisily down a rustic lane between high banks and hedgeswhere sumac was turning red. Strangely enough, there was something verycomforting about his enormous crawling contraption. It was docile andreliable, like an elephant. The crashing clangour of its movement wassoon forgotten--became, in fact, an actual stimulus to thought. For themere pleasure of novelty, he steered through a copse, and took joy inseeing the monster thrash its way through thickets and brambles, andthen across a field of crackling stubble. Steering toward the lonelierregions of that farming country, presently he halted in a dingle ofbirches beside a small pond. He spent some time very happily, carefullystudying the machinery. He found some waste and an oilcan in thetool-chest, and polished until the metal shone. The water looked ratherlow in the gauge, and he replenished it from the pool.
It was while grooming the roller that it struck him his own appearancewas unusual for a highway mechanic. He was still wearing the famousfloorwalker suit, which he had punctiliously donned every Sunday forchapel. But he had had to flee without a hat--even without his luggage,which was neatly packed in a bag in the vestry. That, he felt sure, Mr.Poodle had already burst open for evidences of heresy and schism. Thepearly trousers were stained with oil and coal-dust; the neat cutawaycoat bore smears of engine-grease. As long as he stuck to the rollerand the telltale garments, pursuit and identification would of course beeasy enough. But he had taken a fancy to the machine: he decided not toabandon it yet.
Obviously it was better to keep to the roads, where the engine would atany rate be less surprisingly conspicuous, and where it would leave notrail. So he made a long circuit across meadows and pastures, carryinga devilish clamour into the quiet Sunday afternoon. Regaining a macadamsurface, he set oil at random, causing considerable annoyance tothe motoring public. Finding that his cutaway coat caused jeers andmerriment, he removed it; and when any one showed a disposition toinquire, he explained that he was doing penance for an ill-judged wager.His oscillating perch above the boiler was extraordinarily warm, and hebought a gallon jug of cider from a farmer by the way. Cheering himselfwith this, and reviewing in his mind the queer experiences of the pastmonths, he went thundering mildly on.
At first he had feared a furious pursuit on the part of the Bishop, oreven a whole college of bishops, quickly mobilized for the event. Hehad imagined them speeding after him in a huge motor-bus, and himselfkeeping them at bay with lumps of coal. But gradually he realized thatthe Bishop would not further jeopardize his dignity, or run the risk ofmaking himself ridiculous. Mr. Poodle would undoubtedly set the townshiproad commissioner on his trail, and he would be liable to seizure forthe theft of a steam roller. But that could hardly happen so quickly. Inthe meantime, a plan had been forming in his mind, but it would requiredarkness for its execution.
Darkness did not delay in coming. As he jolted cheerfully from roadto road, holding up long strings of motors at every corner while hejovially held out his arm as a sign that he was going to turn, darkpurple clouds were massing and piling up. Foreseeing a storm, he boughtsome provisions at a roadhouse, and turned into a field, where hecamped in the lee of a forest of birches. He cooked himself an excellentsupper, toasting bread and frankfurters in the firebox of the roller.With boiling water from a steam-cock he brewed a panikin of tea; and satplacidly admiring the fawn-pink light on wide pampas of bronze grasses,tawny as a panther's hide. A strong wind began to draw from thesoutheast. He lit the lantern at the rear of the machine and by the timethe rain came hissing upon the hot boiler, he was ready. Luckily he hadsaved the tarpaulin. He spread this on the ground underneath the roller,and curled up in it. The glow from the firebox kept him warm and dry.
"Summer is over," he said to himself, as he heard the clash and spoutingof rain all about him. He lay for some time, not sleepy, thinkingtheology, and enjoying the close tumult of wind and weather.
People who have had an arm or a leg amputated, he reflected, say theycan still feel pains in the absent member. Well, there's an analogy inthat. Modern skepticism has amputated God from the heart; but there isstill a twinge where the arteries were sewn up.
He slept peacefully until about two in the morning, except when ared-hot coal, slipping through the grate-bar
s, burned a lamentable holein his trousers. When he woke, the night still dripped, but was clearaloft. He started the engine and drove cautiously, along black slipperyroads, to Mr. Poodle's house. In spite of the unavoidable racket, no onestirred: he surmised that the curate slept soundly after the crisesof the day. He left the engine by the doorstep, pinning a note to thesteering-wheel. It said:
TO REV. J. ROVER POODLE this useful steam-roller as a symbol of the theological mind
MR. GISSING
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