Terebess Asia Online (TAO)
Orwell Home

A Clergyman's Daughter
by George Orwell
http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks02/0200011.txt

CHAPTER 1

1

As the alarm clock on the chest of drawers exploded like a horrid
little bomb of bell metal, Dorothy, wrenched from the depths of
some complex, troubling dream, awoke with a start and lay on her
back looking into the darkness in extreme exhaustion.

The alarm clock continued its nagging, feminine clamour, which
would go on for five minutes or thereabouts if you did not stop it.
Dorothy was aching from head to foot, and an insidious and
contemptible self-pity, which usually seized upon her when it was
time to get up in the morning, caused her to bury her head under
the bedclothes and try to shut the hateful noise out of her ears.
She struggled against her fatigue, however, and, according to her
custom, exhorted herself sharply in the second person plural. Come
on, Dorothy, up you get! No snoozing, please! Proverbs vi, 9.
Then she remembered that if the noise went on any longer it would
wake her father, and with a hurried movement she bounded out of
bed, seized the clock from the chest of drawers, and turned off the
alarm. It was kept on the chest of drawers precisely in order that
she should have to get out of bed to silence it. Still in
darkness, she knelt down at her bedside and repeated the Lord's
Prayer, but rather distractedly, her feet being troubled by the
cold.

It was just half past five, and coldish for an August morning.
Dorothy (her name was Dorothy Hare, and she was the only child of
the Reverend Charles Hare, Rector of St Athelstan's, Knype Hill,
Suffolk) put on her aged flannelette dressing-gown and felt her way
downstairs. There was a chill morning smell of dust, damp plaster,
and the fried dabs from yesterday's supper, and from either side of
the passage on the second floor she could hear the antiphonal
snoring of her father and of Ellen, the maid of all work. With
care--for the kitchen table had a nasty trick of reaching out of
the darkness and banging you on the hip-bone--Dorothy felt her way
into the kitchen, lighted the candle on the mantelpiece, and, still
aching with fatigue, knelt down and raked the ashes out of the
range.

The kitchen fire was a 'beast' to light. The chimney was crooked
and therefore perpetually half choked, and the fire, before it
would light, expected to be dosed with a cupful of kerosene, like a
drunkard's morning nip of gin. Having set the kettle to boil for
her father's shaving-water, Dorothy went upstairs and turned on her
bath. Ellen was still snoring, with heavy youthful snores. She
was a good hard-working servant once she was awake, but she was one
of those girls whom the Devil and all his angels cannot get out of
bed before seven in the morning.

Dorothy filled the bath as slowly as possible--the splashing always
woke her father if she turned on the tap too fast--and stood for a
moment regarding the pale, unappetizing pool of water. Her body
had gone goose-flesh all over. She detested cold baths; it was for
that very reason that she made it a rule to take all her baths cold
from April to November. Putting a tentative hand into the water--
and it was horribly cold--she drove herself forward with her usual
exhortations. Come on, Dorothy! In you go! No funking, please!
Then she stepped resolutely into the bath, sat down and let the icy
girdle of water slide up her body and immerse her all except her
hair, which she had twisted up behind her head. The next moment
she came to the surface gasping and wriggling, and had no sooner
got her breath back than she remembered her 'memo list', which she
had brought down in her dressing-gown pocket and intended to read.
She reached out for it, and, leaning over the side of the bath,
waist deep in icy water, read through the 'memo list' by the light
of the candle on the chair.

It ran:

7 oc. H.C.

Mrs T baby? Must visit.

BREAKFAST. Bacon. MUST ask father money. (P)

Ask Ellen what stuff kitchen father's tonic NB. to ask about stuff
for curtains at Solepipe's.

Visiting call on Mrs P cutting from Daily M angelica tea good for
rheumatism Mrs L's cornplaster.

12 oc. Rehearsal Charles I. NB. to order 1/2 lb glue 1 pot
aluminium paint.

DINNER (crossed out) LUNCHEON . . . ?

Take round Parish Mag NB. Mrs F owes 3/6d.

4.30 pm Mothers' U tea don't forget 2 1/2 yards casement cloth.

Flowers for church NB. 1 tin Brasso.

SUPPER. Scrambled eggs.

Type Father's sermon what about new ribbon typewriter?

NB. to fork between peas bindweed awful.

Dorothy got out of her bath, and as she dried herself with a towel
hardly bigger than a table napkin--they could never afford decent-
sized towels at the Rectory--her hair came unpinned and fell down
over her collar-bones in two heavy strands. It was thick, fine,
exceedingly pale hair, and it was perhaps as well that her father
had forbidden her to bob it, for it was her only positive beauty.
For the rest, she was a girl of middle height, rather thin, but
strong and shapely, and her face was her weak point. It was a
thin, blonde, unremarkable kind of face, with pale eyes and a nose
just a shade too long; if you looked closely you could see crow's
feet round the eyes, and the mouth, when it was in repose, looked
tired. Not definitely a spinsterish face as yet, but it certainly
would be so in a few years' time. Nevertheless, strangers commonly
took her to be several years younger than her real age (she was not
quite twenty-eight) because of the expression of almost childish
earnestness in her eyes. Her left forearm was spotted with tiny
red marks like insect bites.

Dorothy put on her nightdress again and cleaned her teeth--plain
water, of course; better not to use toothpaste before H.C. After
all, either you are fasting or you aren't. The R.C.s are quite
right there--and, even as she did so, suddenly faltered and
stopped. She put her toothbrush down. A deadly pang, an actual
physical pang, had gone through her viscera.

She had remembered, with the ugly shock with which one remembers
something disagreeable for the first time in the morning, the bill
at Cargill's, the butcher's, which had been owing for seven months.
That dreadful bill--it might be nineteen pounds or even twenty, and
there was hardly the remotest hope of paying it--was one of the
chief torments of her life. At all hours of the night or day it
was waiting just round the corner of her consciousness, ready to
spring upon her and agonize her; and with it came the memory of a
score of lesser bills, mounting up to a figure of which she dared
not even think. Almost involuntarily she began to pray, 'Please
God, let not Cargill send in his bill again today!' but the next
moment she decided that this prayer was worldly and blasphemous,
and she asked forgiveness for it. Then she put on her dressing-
gown and ran down to the kitchen in hopes of putting the bill out
of mind.

The fire had gone out, as usual. Dorothy relaid it, dirtying her
hands with coal-dust, dosed it afresh with kerosene and hung about
anxiously until the kettle boiled. Father expected his shaving-
water to be ready at a quarter past six. Just seven minutes late,
Dorothy took the can upstairs and knocked at her father's door.

'Come in, come in!' said a muffled, irritable voice.

The room, heavily curtained, was stuffy, with a masculine smell.
The Rector had lighted the candle on his bed-table, and was lying
on his side, looking at his gold watch, which he had just drawn
from beneath his pillow. His hair was as white and thick as
thistledown. One dark bright eye glanced irritably over his
shoulder at Dorothy.

'Good morning, father.'

'I do wish, Dorothy,' said the Rector indistinctly--his voice
always sounded muffled and senile until he put his false teeth in--
'you would make some effort to get Ellen out of bed in the
mornings. Or else be a little more punctual yourself.'

'I'm so sorry, Father. The kitchen fire kept going out.'

'Very well! Put it down on the dressing-table. Put it down and
draw those curtains.'

It was daylight now, but a dull, clouded morning. Dorothy hastened
up to her room and dressed herself with the lightning speed which
she found necessary six mornings out of seven. There was only a
tiny square of mirror in the room, and even that she did not use.
She simply hung her gold cross about her neck--plain gold cross; no
crucifixes, please!--twisted her hair into a knot behind, stuck a
number of hairpins rather sketchily into it, and threw her clothes
(grey jersey, threadbare Irish tweed coat and skirt, stockings not
quite matching the coat and skirt, and much-worn brown shoes) on to
herself in the space of about three minutes. She had got to 'do
out' the dining-room and her father's study before church, besides
saying her prayers in preparation for Holy Communion, which took
her not less than twenty minutes.

When she wheeled her bicycle out of the front gate the morning was
still overcast, and the grass sodden with heavy dew. Through the
mist that wreathed the hillside St Athelstan's Church loomed dimly,
like a leaden sphinx, its single bell tolling funereally boom!
boom! boom! Only one of the bells was now in active use; the other
seven had been unswung from their cage and had lain silent these
three years past, slowly splintering the floor of the belfry
beneath their weight. In the distance, from the mists below, you
could hear the offensive clatter of the bell in the R.C. church--a
nasty, cheap, tinny little thing which the Rector of St Athelstan's
used to compare with a muffin-bell.

Dorothy mounted her bicycle and rode swiftly up the hill, leaning
over her handlebars. The bridge of her thin nose was pink in the
morning cold. A redshank whistled overhead, invisible against the
clouded sky. Early in the morning my song shall rise to Thee!
Dorothy propped her bicycle against the lychgate, and, finding her
hands still grey with coal-dust, knelt down and scrubbed them clean
in the long wet grass between the graves. Then the bell stopped
ringing, and she jumped up and hastened into church, just as
Proggett, the sexton, in ragged cassock and vast labourer's boots,
was clumping up the aisle to take his place at the side altar.

The church was very cold, with a scent of candle-wax and ancient
dust. It was a large church, much too large for its congregation,
and ruinous and more than half empty. The three narrow islands of
pews stretched barely half-way down the nave, and beyond them were
great wastes of bare stone floor in which a few worn inscriptions
marked the sites of ancient graves. The roof over the chancel was
sagging visibly; beside the Church Expenses box two fragments of
riddled beam explained mutely that this was due to that mortal foe
of Christendom, the death-watch beetle. The light filtered, pale-
coloured, through windows of anaemic glass. Through the open south
door you could see a ragged cypress and the boughs of a lime-tree,
greyish in the sunless air and swaying faintly.

As usual, there was only one other communicant--old Miss Mayfill,
of The Grange. The attendance at Holy Communion was so bad that
the Rector could not even get any boys to serve him, except on
Sunday mornings, when the boys liked showing off in front of the
congregation in their cassocks and surplices. Dorothy went into
the pew behind Miss Mayfill, and, in penance for some sin of
yesterday, pushed away the hassock and knelt on the bare stones.
The service was beginning. The Rector, in cassock and short linen
surplice, was reciting the prayers in a swift practised voice,
clear enough now that his teeth were in, and curiously ungenial.
In his fastidious, aged face, pale as a silver coin, there was an
expression of aloofness, almost of contempt. 'This is a valid
sacrament,' he seemed to be saying, 'and it is my duty to
administer it to you. But remember that I am only your priest, not
your friend. As a human being I dislike you and despise you.'
Proggett, the sexton, a man of forty with curly grey hair and a
red, harassed face, stood patiently by, uncomprehending but
reverent, fiddling with the little communion bell which was lost in
his huge red hands.

Dorothy pressed her fingers against her eyes. She had not yet
succeeded in concentrating her thoughts--indeed, the memory of
Cargill's bill was still worrying her intermittently. The prayers,
which she knew by heart, were flowing through her head unheeded.
She raised her eyes for a moment, and they began immediately to
stray. First upwards, to the headless roof-angels on whose necks
you could still see the sawcuts of the Puritan soldiers, then back
again, to Miss Mayfill's black, quasi-pork-pie hat and tremulous
jet ear-rings. Miss Mayfill wore a long musty black overcoat, with
a little collar of greasy-looking astrakhan, which had been the
same ever since Dorothy could remember. It was of some very
peculiar stuff, like watered silk but coarser, with rivulets of
black piping wandering all over it in no discoverable pattern. It
might even have been that legendary and proverbial substance, black
bombazine. Miss Mayfill was very old, so old that no one
remembered her as anything but an old woman. A faint scent
radiated from her--an ethereal scent, analysable as eau-de-Cologne,
mothballs, and a sub-flavour of gin.

Dorothy drew a long glass-headed pin from the lapel of her coat,
and furtively, under cover of Miss Mayfill's back, pressed the
point against her forearm. Her flesh tingled apprehensively. She
made it a rule, whenever she caught herself not attending to her
prayers, to prick her arm hard enough to make blood come. It was
her chosen form of self-discipline, her guard against irreverence
and sacrilegious thoughts.

With the pin poised in readiness she managed for several moments
to pray more collectedly. Her father had turned one dark eye
disapprovingly upon Miss Mayfill, who was crossing herself at
intervals, a practice he disliked. A starling chattered outside.
With a shock Dorothy discovered that she was looking vaingloriously
at the pleats of her father's surplice, which she herself had sewn
two years ago. She set her teeth and drove the pin an eighth of an
inch into her arm.

They were kneeling again. It was the General Confession. Dorothy
recalled her eyes--wandering, alas! yet again, this time to the
stained-glass window on her right, designed by Sir Warde Tooke,
A.R.A., in 1851 and representing St Athelstan's welcome at the gate
of heaven by Gabriel and a legion of angels all remarkably like one
another and the Prince Consort--and pressed the pinpoint against a
different part of her arm. She began to meditate conscientiously
upon the meaning of each phrase of the prayer, and so brought her
mind back to a more attentive state. But even so she was all but
obliged to use the pin again when Proggett tinkled the bell in the
middle of 'Therefore with Angels and Archangels'--being visited, as
always, by a dreadful temptation to begin laughing at that passage.
It was because of a story her father had told her once, of how when
he was a little boy, and serving the priest at the altar, the
communion bell had a screw-on clapper, which had come loose; and so
the priest had said: 'Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and
with all the company of Heaven, we laud and magnify Thy glorious
name; evermore praising Thee, and saying, Screw it up, you little
fat-head, screw it up!'

As the Rector finished the consecration Miss Mayfill began to
struggle to her feet with extreme difficulty and slowness, like
some disjointed wooden creature picking itself up by sections, and
disengaging at each movement a powerful whiff of mothballs. There
was an extraordinary creaking sound--from her stays, presumably,
but it was a noise as of bones grating against one another. You
could have imagined that there was only a dry skeleton inside that
black overcoat.

Dorothy remained on her feet a moment longer. Miss Mayfill was
creeping towards the altar with slow, tottering steps. She could
barely walk, but she took bitter offence if you offered to help
her. In her ancient, bloodless face her mouth was surprisingly
large, loose, and wet. The underlip, pendulous with age, slobbered
forward, exposing a strip of gum and a row of false teeth as yellow
as the keys of an old piano. On the upper lip was a fringe of
dark, dewy moustache. It was not an appetizing mouth; not the kind
of mouth that you would like to see drinking out of your cup.
Suddenly, spontaneously, as though the Devil himself had put it
there, the prayer slipped from Dorothy'Beasts of England's lips: O God, let me not
have to take the chalice after Miss Mayfill!

The next moment, in self-horror, she grasped the meaning of what
she had said, and wished that she had bitten her tongue in two
rather than utter that deadly blasphemy upon the altar steps. She
drew the pin again from her lapel and drove it into her arm so hard
that it was all she could do to suppress a cry of pain. Then she
stepped to the altar and knelt down meekly on Miss Mayfill's left,
so as to make quite sure of taking the chalice after her.

Kneeling, with head bent and hands clasped against her knees, she
set herself swiftly to pray for forgiveness before her father
should reach her with the wafer. But the current of her thoughts
had been broken. Suddenly it was quite useless attempting to pray;
her lips moved, but there was neither heart nor meaning in her
prayers. She could hear Proggett's boots shuffling and her
father'Beasts of England's clear low voice murmuring 'Take and eat', she could see
the worn strip of red carpet beneath her knees, she could smell
dust and eau-de-Cologne and mothballs; but of the Body and Blood of
Christ, of the purpose for which she had come here, she was as
though deprived of the power to think. A deadly blankness had
descended upon her mind. It seemed to her that actually she COULD
not pray. She struggled, collected her thoughts, uttered
mechanically the opening phrases of a prayer; but they were
useless, meaningless--nothing but the dead shells of words. Her
father was holding the wafer before her in his shapely, aged hand.
He held it between finger and thumb, fastidiously, somehow
distastefully, as though it had been a spoon of medicine. His eye
was upon Miss Mayfill, who was doubling herself up like a geometrid
caterpillar, with many creakings and crossing herself so
elaborately that one might have imagined that she was sketching a
series of braid frogs on the front of her coat. For several
seconds Dorothy hesitated and did not take the wafer. She dared
not take it. Better, far better to step down from the altar than
to accept the sacrament with such chaos in her heart!

Then it happened that she glanced sidelong, through the open south
door. A momentary spear of sunlight had pierced the clouds. It
struck downwards through the leaves of the limes, and a spray of
leaves in the doorway gleamed with a transient, matchless green,
greener than jade or emerald or Atlantic waters. It was as though
some jewel of unimaginable splendour had flashed for an instant,
filling the doorway with green light, and then faded. A flood of
joy ran through Dorothy'Beasts of England's heart. The flash of living colour had
brought back to her, by a process deeper than reason, her peace of
mind, her love of God, her power to worship. Somehow, because of
the greenness of the leaves, it was again possible to pray. O all
ye green things upon the earth, praise ye the Lord! She began to
pray, ardently, joyfully, thankfully. The wafer melted upon her
tongue. She took the chalice from her father, and tasted with
repulsion, even with an added joy in this small act of self-
abasement, the wet imprint of Miss Mayfill's lips on its silver
rim.

2

St Athelstan's Church stood at the highest point of Knype Hill, and
if you chose to climb the tower you could see ten miles or so
across the surrounding country. Not that there was anything worth
looking at--only the low, barely undulating East Anglian landscape,
intolerably dull in summer, but redeemed in winter by the recurring
patterns of the elms, naked and fanshaped against leaden skies.

Immediately below you lay the town, with the High Street running
east and west and dividing unequally. The southern section of the
town was the ancient, agricultural, and respectable section. On
the northern side were the buildings of the Blifil-Gordon sugar-
beet refinery, and all round and leading up to them were higgledy-
piggledly rows of vile yellow brick cottages, mostly inhabited by
the employees of the factory. The factory employees, who made up
more than half of the town's two thousand inhabitants, were
newcomers, townfolk, and godless almost to a man.

The two pivots, or foci, about which the social life of the town
moved were Knype Hill Conservative Club (fully licensed), from
whose bow window, any time after the bar was open, the large, rosy-
gilled faces of the town's elite were to be seen gazing like chubby
goldfish from an aquarium pane; and Ye Olde Tea Shoppe, a little
farther down the High Street, the principal rendezvous of the Knype
Hill ladies. Not to be present at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe between ten
and eleven every morning, to drink your 'morning coffee' and spend
your half-hour or so in that agreeable twitter of upper-middle-
class voices ('My dear, he had NINE spades to the ace-queen and he
went one no trump, if you please. What, my dear, you don't mean to
say you're paying for my coffee AGAIN? Oh, but my dear, it is
simply TOO sweet of you! Now tomorrow I shall SIMPLY INSIST upon
paying for yours. And just LOOK at dear little Toto sitting up and
looking such a CLEVER little man with his little black nose
wiggling, and he would, would he, the darling duck, he would, he
would, and his mother would give him a lump of sugar, she would,
she would. THERE, Toto!'), was to be definitely out of Knype Hill
society. The Rector in his acid way nicknamed these ladies 'the
coffee brigade'. Close to the colony of sham-picturesque villas
inhabited by the coffee brigade, but cut off from them by its
larger grounds, was The Grange, Miss Mayfill's house. It was a
curious, machicolated, imitation castle of dark red brick--
somebody's Folly, built about 1870--and fortunately almost hidden
among dense shrubberies.

The Rectory stood half way up the hill, with its face to the church
and its back to the High Street. It was a house of the wrong age,
inconveniently large, and faced with chronically peeling yellow
plaster. Some earlier Rector had added, at one side, a large
greenhouse which Dorothy used as a workroom, but which was
constantly out of repair. The front garden was choked with ragged
fir-trees and a great spreading ash which shadowed the front rooms
and made it impossible to grow any flowers. There was a large
vegetable garden at the back. Proggett did the heavy digging of
the garden in the spring and autumn, and Dorothy did the sowing,
planting, and weeding in such spare time as she could command; in
spite of which the vegetable garden was usually an impenetrable
jungle of weeds.

Dorothy jumped off her bicycle at the front gate, upon which some
officious person had stuck a poster inscribed 'Vote for Blifil-
Gordon and Higher Wages!' (There was a by-election going on, and
Mr Blifil-Gordon was standing in the Conservative interest.) As
Dorothy opened the front door she saw two letters lying on the worn
coconut mat. One was from the Rural Dean, and the other was a
nasty, thin-looking letter from Catkin & Palm, her father's
clerical tailors. It was a bill undoubtedly. The Rector had
followed his usual practice of collecting the letters that
interested him and leaving the others. Dorothy was just bending
down to pick up the letters, when she saw, with a horrid shock of
dismay, an unstamped envelope sticking to the letter flap.

It was a bill--for certain it was a bill! Moreover, as soon as she
set eyes on it she 'knew' that it was that horrible bill from
Cargill's, the butcher's. A sinking feeling passed through her
entrails. For a moment she actually began to pray that it might
not be Cargill's bill--that it might only be the bill for three
and nine from Solepipe's, the draper's, or the bill from the
International or the baker's or the dairy--anything except
Cargill's bill! Then, mastering her panic, she took the envelope
from the letter-flap and tore it open with a convulsive movement.

'To account rendered: L21 7S. 9d.'

This was written in the innocuous handwriting of Mr Cargill's
accountant. But underneath, in thick, accusing-looking letters,
was added and heavily underlined: 'Shd. like to bring to your
notice that this bill has been owing a VERY LONG TIME. The
EARLIEST POSSIBLE settlement will oblige, S. Cargill.'

Dorothy had turned a shade paler, and was conscious of not wanting
any breakfast. She thrust the bill into her pocket and went into
the dining-room. It was a smallish, dark room, badly in need of
repapering, and, like every other room in the Rectory, it had the
air of having been furnished from the sweepings of an antique shop.
The furniture was 'good', but battered beyond repair, and the
chairs were so worm-eaten that you could only sit on them in safety
if you knew their individual foibles. There were old, dark,
defaced steel engravings hanging on the walls, one of them--an
engraving of Van Dyck's portrait of Charles I--probably of some
value if it had not been ruined by damp.

The Rector was standing before the empty grate, warming himself at
an imaginary fire and reading a letter that came from a long blue
envelope. He was still wearing his cassock of black watered silk,
which set off to perfection his thick white hair and his pale,
fine, none too amiable face. As Dorothy came in he laid the letter
aside, drew out his gold watch and scrutinized it significantly.

'I'm afraid I'm a bit late, Father.'

'Yes, Dorothy, you are A BIT LATE,' said the Rector, repeating her
words with delicate but marked emphasis. 'You are twelve minutes
late, to be exact. Don't you think, Dorothy, that when I have to
get up at a quarter past six to celebrate Holy Communion, and come
home exceedingly tired and hungry, it would be better if you could
manage to come to breakfast without being A BIT LATE?'

It was clear that the Rector was in what Dorothy called,
euphemistically, his 'uncomfortable mood'. He had one of those
weary, cultivated voices which are never definitely angry and never
anywhere near good humour--one of those voices which seem all the
while to be saying, 'I really CANNOT see what you are making all
this fuss about!' The impression he gave was of suffering
perpetually from other people's stupidity and tiresomeness.

'I'm so sorry, Father! I simply had to go and ask after Mrs
Tawney.' (Mrs Tawney was the 'Mrs T' of the 'memo list'.) 'Her
baby was born last night, and you know she promised me she'd come
and be churched after it was born. But of course she won't if she
thinks we aren't taking any interest in her. You know what these
women are--they seem so to hate being churched. They'll never come
unless I coax them into it.'

The Rector did not actually grunt, but he uttered a small
dissatisfied sound as he moved towards the breakfast table. It was
intended to mean, first, that it was Mrs Tawney's duty to come and
be churched without Dorothy's coaxing; secondly, that Dorothy had
no business to waste her time visiting all the riffraff of the
town, especially before breakfast. Mrs Tawney was a labourer's
wife and lived in partibus infidelium, north of the High Street.
The Rector laid his hand on the back of his chair, and, without
speaking, cast Dorothy a glance which meant: 'Are we ready NOW?
Or are there to be any MORE delays?'

'I think everything's here, Father,' said Dorothy. 'Perhaps if
you'd just say grace--'

'Benedictus benedicat,' said the Rector, lifting the worn silver
coverlet off the breakfast dish. The silver coverlet, like the
silver-gilt marmalade spoon, was a family heirloom; the knives and
forks, and most of the crockery, came from Woolworths. 'Bacon
again, I see,' the Rector added, eyeing the three minute rashers
that lay curled up on squares of fried bread.

'It's all we've got in the house, I'm afraid,' Dorothy said.

The Rector picked up his fork between finger and thumb, and with a
very delicate movement, as though playing at spillikins, turned one
of the rashers over.

'I know, of course,' he said, 'that bacon for breakfast is an
English institution almost as old as parliamentary government. But
still, don't you think we might OCCASIONALLY have a change,
Dorothy?'

'Bacon's so cheap now,' said Dorothy regretfully. 'It seems a sin
not to buy it. This was only fivepence a pound, and I saw some
quite decent-looking bacon as low as threepence.'

'Ah, Danish, I suppose? What a variety of Danish invasions we have
had in this country! First with fire and sword, and now with their
abominable cheap bacon. Which has been responsible for the more
deaths, I wonder?'

Feeling a little better after this witticism, the Rector settled
himself in his chair and made a fairly good breakfast off the
despised bacon, while Dorothy (she was not having any bacon this
morning--a penance she had set herself yesterday for saying 'Damn'
and idling for half an hour after lunch) meditated upon a good
conversational opening.

There was an unspeakably hateful job in front of her--a demand for
money. At the very best of times getting money out of her father
was next door to impossible, and it was obvious that this morning
he was going to be even more 'difficult' than usual. 'Difficult'
was another of her euphemisms. He's had bad news, I suppose, she
thought despondently, looking at the blue envelope.

Probably no one who had ever spoken to the Rector for as long as
ten minutes would have denied that he was a 'difficult' kind of
man. The secret of his almost unfailing ill humour really lay in
the fact that he was an anachronism. He ought never to have been
born into the modern world; its whole atmosphere disgusted and
infuriated him. A couple of centuries earlier, a happy pluralist
writing poems or collecting fossils while curates at 40 pounds a
year administered his parishes, he would have been perfectly at
home. Even now, if he had been a richer man, he might have consoled
himself by shutting the twentieth century out of his consciousness.
But to live in past ages is very expensive; you can't do it on less
than two thousand a year. The Rector, tethered by his poverty to
the age of Lenin and the Daily Mail, was kept in a state of chronic
exasperation which it was only natural that he should work off on
the person nearest to him--usually, that is, on Dorothy.

He had been born in 1871, the younger son of the younger son of a
baronet, and had gone into the Church for the outmoded reason that
the Church is the traditional profession for younger sons. His
first cure had been in a large, slummy parish in East London--a
nasty, hooliganish place it had been, and he looked back on it with
loathing. Even in those days the lower class (as he made a point
of calling them) were getting decidedly out of hand. It was a
little better when he was curate-in-charge at some remote place in
Kent (Dorothy had been born in Kent), where the decently down-
trodden villagers still touched their hats to 'parson'. But by
that time he had married, and his marriage had been diabolically
unhappy; moreover, because clergymen must not quarrel with their
wives, its unhappiness had been secret and therefore ten times
worse. He had come to Knype Hill in 1908, aged thirty-seven and
with a temper incurably soured--a temper which had ended by
alienating every man, woman, and child in the parish.

It was not that he was a bad priest, merely AS a priest. In his
purely clerical duties he was scrupulously correct--perhaps a
little too correct for a Low Church East Anglian parish. He
conducted his services with perfect taste, preached admirable
sermons, and got up at uncomfortable hours of the morning to
celebrate Holy Communion every Wednesday and Friday. But that a
clergyman has any duties outside the four walls of the church was a
thing that had never seriously occurred to him. Unable to afford a
curate, he left the dirty work of the parish entirely to his wife,
and after her death (she died in 1921) to Dorothy. People used to
say, spitefully and untruly, that he would have let Dorothy preach
his sermons for him if it had been possible. The 'lower classes'
had grasped from the first what was his attitude towards them, and
if he had been a rich man they would probably have licked his
boots, according to their custom; as it was, they merely hated him.
Not that he cared whether they hated him or not, for he was largely
unaware of their existence. But even with the upper classes he had
got on no better. With the County he had quarrelled one by one,
and as for the petty gentry of the town, as the grandson of a
baronet he despised them, and was at no pains to hide it. In
twenty-three years he had succeeded in reducing the congregation of
St Athelstan's from six hundred to something under two hundred.

This was not solely due to personal reasons. It was also because
the old-fashioned High Anglicanism to which the Rector obstinately
clung was of a kind to annoy all parties in the parish about
equally. Nowadays, a clergyman who wants to keep his congregation
has only two courses open to him. Either it must be Anglo-
Catholicism pure and simple--or rather, pure and not simple; or he
must be daringly modern and broad-minded and preach comforting
sermons proving that there is no Hell and all good religions are
the same. The Rector did neither. On the one hand, he had the
deepest contempt for the Anglo-Catholic movement. It had passed
over his head, leaving him absolutely untouched; 'Roman Fever' was
his name for it. On the other hand, he was too 'high' for the
older members of his congregation. From time to time he scared
them almost out of their wits by the use of the fatal word
'Catholic', not only in its sanctified place in the Creeds, but
also from the pulpit. Naturally the congregation dwindled year by
year, and it was the Best People who were the first to go. Lord
Pockthorne of Pockthorne Court, who owned a fifth of the county, Mr
Leavis, the retired leather merchant, Sir Edward Huson of Crabtree
Hall, and such of the petty gentry as owned motor-cars, had all
deserted St Athelstan's. Most of them drove over on Sunday
mornings to Millborough, five miles away. Millborough was a town
of five thousand inhabitants, and you had your choice of two
churches, St Edmund's and St Wedekind's. St Edmund's was
Modernist--text from Blake's 'Jerusalem' blazoned over the altar,
and communion wine out of liqueur glasses--and St Wedekind's was
Anglo-Catholic and in a state of perpetual guerrilla warfare with
the Bishop. But Mr Cameron, the secretary of the Knype Hill
Conservative Club, was a Roman Catholic convert, and his children
were in the thick of the Roman Catholic literary movement. They
were said to have a parrot which they were teaching to say 'Extra
ecclesiam nulla salus'. In effect, no one of any standing remained
true to St Athelstan's, except Miss Mayfill, of The Grange. Most
of Miss Mayfill's money was bequeathed to the Church--so she said;
meanwhile, she had never been known to put more than sixpence in
the collection bag, and she seemed likely to go on living for ever.

The first ten minutes of breakfast passed in complete silence.
Dorothy was trying to summon up courage to speak--obviously she had
got to start SOME kind of conversation before raising the money-
question--but her father was not an easy man with whom to make
small talk. At times he would fall into such deep fits of
abstraction that you could hardly get him to listen to you; at
other times he was all too attentive, listened carefully to what
you said and then pointed out, rather wearily, that it was not
worth saying. Polite platitudes--the weather, and so forth--
generally moved him to sarcasm. Nevertheless, Dorothy decided to
try the weather first.

'It's a funny kind of day, isn't it?' she said--aware, even as she
made it, of the inanity of this remark.

'WHAT is funny?' inquired the Rector.

'Well, I mean, it was so cold and misty this morning, and now the
sun's come out and it's turned quite fine.'

'IS there anything particularly funny about that?'

That was no good, obviously. He MUST have had bad news, she
thought. She tried again.

'I do wish you'd come out and have a look at the things in the back
garden some time, Father. The runner beans are doing so splendidly!
The pods are going to be over a foot long. I'm going to keep all
the best of them for the Harvest Festival, of course. I thought it
would look so nice if we decorated the pulpit with festoons of
runner beans and a few tomatoes hanging in among them.'

This was a faux pas. The Rector looked up from his plate with an
expression of profound distaste.

'My dear Dorothy,' he said sharply, 'IS it necessary to begin
worrying me about the Harvest Festival already?'

'I'm sorry, Father!' said Dorothy, disconcerted. 'I didn't mean to
worry you. I just thought--'

'Do you suppose', proceeded the Rector, 'it is any pleasure to me
to have to preach my sermon among festoons of runner beans? I am
not a greengrocer. It quite puts me off my breakfast to think of
it. When is the wretched thing due to happen?'

'It's September the sixteenth, Father.'

'That's nearly a month hence. For Heaven's sake let me forget it
a little longer! I suppose we must have this ridiculous business
once a year to tickle the vanity of every amateur gardener in the
parish. But don't let's think of it more than is absolutely
necessary.'

The Rector had, as Dorothy ought to have remembered, a perfect
abhorrence of Harvest Festivals. He had even lost a valuable
parishioner--a Mr Toagis, a surly retired market gardener--through
his dislike, as he said, of seeing his church dressed up to imitate
a coster's stall. Mr Toagis, anima naturaliter Nonconformistica,
had been kept 'Church' solely by the privilege, at Harvest Festival
time, of decorating the side altar with a sort of Stonehenge
composed of gigantic vegetable marrows. The previous summer he had
succeeded in growing a perfect leviathan of a pumpkin, a fiery red
thing so enormous that it took two men to lift it. This monstrous
object had been placed in the chancel, where it dwarfed the altar
and took all the colour out of the east window. In no matter what
part of the church you were standing, the pumpkin, as the saying
goes, hit you in the eye. Mr Toagis was in raptures. He hung
about the church at all hours, unable to tear himself away from his
adored pumpkin, and even bringing relays of friends in to admire
it. From the expression of his face you would have thought that he
was quoting Wordsworth on Westminster Bridge:

Earth has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty!

Dorothy even had hopes, after this, of getting him to come to Holy
Communion. But when the Rector saw the pumpkin he was seriously
angry, and ordered 'that revolting thing' to be removed at once.
Mr Toagis had instantly 'gone chapel', and he and his heirs were
lost to the Church for ever.

Dorothy decided to make one final attempt at conversation.

'We're getting on with the costumes for Charles I,' she said. (The
Church School children were rehearsing a play entitled Charles I in
aid of the organ fund.) 'But I do wish we'd chosen something a bit
easier. The armour is a dreadful job to make, and I'm afraid the
jackboots are going to be worse. I think next time we must really
have a Roman or Greek play. Something where they only have to wear
togas.'

This elicited only another muted grunt from the Rector. School
plays, pageants, bazaars, jumble sales, and concerts in aid of were
not quite so bad in his eyes as Harvest Festivals, but he did not
pretend to be interested in them. They were necessary evils, he
used to say. At this moment Ellen, the maidservant, pushed open
the door and came gauchely into the room with one large, scaly hand
holding her sacking apron against her belly. She was a tall,
round-shouldered girl with mouse-coloured hair, a plaintive voice,
and a bad complexion, and she suffered chronically from eczema.
Her eyes flitted apprehensively towards the Rector, but she
addressed herself to Dorothy, for she was too much afraid of the
Rector to speak to him directly.

'Please, Miss--' she began.

'Yes, Ellen?'

'Please, Miss,' went on Ellen plaintively, 'Mr Porter's in the
kitchen, and he says, please could the Rector come round and
baptize Mrs Porter's baby? Because they don't think as it's going
to live the day out, and it ain't been baptized yet, Miss.'

Dorothy stood up. 'Sit down,' said the Rector promptly, with his
mouth full.

'What do they think is the matter with the baby?' said Dorothy.

'Well, Miss, it's turning quite black. And it's had diarrhoea
something cruel.'

The Rector emptied his mouth with an effort. 'Must I have these
disgusting details while I am eating my breakfast?' he exclaimed.
He turned on Ellen: 'Send Porter about his business and tell him
I'll be round at his house at twelve o'clock. I really cannot
think why it is that the lower classes always seem to choose
mealtimes to come pestering one,' he added, casting another
irritated glance at Dorothy as she sat down.

Mr Porter was a labouring man--a bricklayer, to be exact. The
Rector's views on baptism were entirely sound. If it had been
urgently necessary he would have walked twenty miles through snow
to baptize a dying baby. But he did not like to see Dorothy
proposing to leave the breakfast table at the call of a common
bricklayer.

There was no further conversation during breakfast. Dorothy's
heart was sinking lower and lower. The demand for money had got to
be made, and yet it was perfectly obvious that it was foredoomed to
failure. His breakfast finished, the Rector got up from the table
and began to fill his pipe from the tobacco-jar on the mantelpiece.
Dorothy uttered a short prayer for courage, and then pinched
herself. Go on, Dorothy! Out with it! No funking, please! With
an effort she mastered her voice and said:

'Father--'

'What is it?' said the Rector, pausing with the match in his hand.

'Father, I've something I want to ask you. Something important.'

The expression of the Rector's face changed. He had divined
instantly what she was going to say; and, curiously enough, he now
looked less irritable than before. A stony calm had settled upon
his face. He looked like a rather exceptionally aloof and
unhelpful sphinx.

'Now, my dear Dorothy, I know very well what you are going to say.
I suppose you are going to ask me for money again. Is that it?'

'Yes, Father. Because--'

'Well, I may as well save you the trouble. I have no money at all--
absolutely no money at all until next quarter. You have had your
allowance, and I can't give you a halfpenny more. It's quite
useless to come worrying me now.'

'But, Father--'

Dorothy's heart sank yet lower. What was worst of all when she
came to him for money was the terrible, unhelpful calmness of his
attitude. He was never so unmoved as when you were reminding him
that he was up to his eyes in debt. Apparently he could not
understand that tradesmen occasionally want to be paid, and that no
house can be kept going without an adequate supply of money. He
allowed Dorothy eighteen pounds a month for all the household
expenses, including Ellen's wages, and at the same time he was
'dainty' about his food and instantly detected any falling off in
its quality. The result was, of course, that the household was
perennially in debt. But the Rector paid not the smallest
attention to his debts--indeed, he was hardly even aware of them.
When he lost money over an investment, he was deeply agitated; but
as for a debt to a mere tradesman--well, it was the kind of thing
that he simply could not bother his head about.

A peaceful plume of smoke floated upwards from the Rector's pipe.
He was gazing with a meditative eye at the steel engraving of
Charles I and had probably forgotten already about Dorothy's demand
for money. Seeing him so unconcerned, a pang of desperation went
through Dorothy, and her courage came back to her. She said more
sharply than before:

'Father, please listen to me! I MUST have some money soon! I
simply MUST! We can't go on as we're doing. We owe money to
nearly every tradesman in the town. It's got so that some mornings
I can hardly bear to go down the street and think of all the bills
that are owing. Do you know that we owe Cargill nearly twenty-two
pounds?'

'What of it?' said the Rector between puffs of smoke.

'But the bill's been mounting up for over seven months! He's sent
it in over and over again. We MUST pay it! It's so unfair to him
to keep him waiting for his money like that!'

'Nonsense, my dear child! These people expect to be kept waiting
for their money. They like it. It brings them more in the end.
Goodness knows how much I owe to Catkin & Palm--I should hardly
care to inquire. They are dunning me by every post. But you don't
hear ME complaining, do you?'

'But, Father, I can't look at it as you do, I can't! It's so
dreadful to be always in debt! Even if it isn't actually wrong,
it's so HATEFUL. It makes me so ashamed! When I go into Cargill's
shop to order the joint, he speaks to me so shortly and makes me
wait after the other customers, all because our bill's mounting up
the whole time. And yet I daren't stop ordering from him. I
believe he'd run us in if I did.'

The Rector frowned. 'What! Do you mean to say the fellow has been
impertinent to you?'

'I didn't say he'd been impertinent, Father. But you can't blame
him if he's angry when his bill's not paid.'

'I most certainly can blame him! It is simply abominable how these
people take it upon themselves to behave nowadays--abominable! But
there you are, you see. That is the kind of thing that we are
exposed to in this delightful century. That is democracy--
PROGRESS, as they are pleased to call it. Don't order from the
fellow again. Tell him at once that you are taking your account
elsewhere. That's the only way to treat these people.'

'But, Father, that doesn't settle anything. Really and truly,
don't you think we ought to pay him? Surely we can get hold of the
money somehow? Couldn't you sell out some shares, or something?'

'My dear child, don't talk to me about selling out shares! I have
just had the most disagreeable news from my broker. He tells me
that my Sumatra Tin shares have dropped from seven and fourpence to
six and a penny. It means a loss of nearly sixty pounds. I am
telling him to sell out at once before they drop any further.'

'Then if you sell out you'll have some ready money, won't you?
Don't you think it would be better to get out of debt once and for
all?'

'Nonsense, nonsense,' said the Rector more calmly, putting his pipe
back in his mouth. 'You know nothing whatever about these matters.
I shall have to reinvest at once in something more hopeful--it's
the only way of getting my money back.'

With one thumb in the belt of his cassock he frowned abstractedly
at the steel engraving. His broker had advised United Celanese.
Here--in Sumatra Tin, United Celanese, and numberless other remote
and dimly imagined companies--was the central cause of the Rector's
money troubles. He was an inveterate gambler. Not, of course,
that he thought of it as gambling; it was merely a lifelong search
for a 'good investment'. On coming of age he had inherited four
thousand pounds, which had gradually dwindled, thanks to his
'investments', to about twelve hundred. What was worse, every year
he managed to scrape together, out of his miserable income, another
fifty pounds which vanished by the same road. It is a curious fact
that the lure of a 'good investment' seems to haunt clergymen more
persistently than any other class of man. Perhaps it is the modern
equivalent of the demons in female shape who used to haunt the
anchorites of the Dark Ages.

'I shall buy five hundred United Celanese,' said the Rector finally.

Dorothy began to give up hope. Her father was now thinking of his
'investments' (she new nothing whatever about these 'investments',
except that they went wrong with phenomenal regularity), and in
another moment the question of the shop-debts would have slipped
entirely out of his mind. She made a final effort.

'Father, let's get this settled, please. Do you think you'll be
able to let me have some extra money fairly soon? Not this moment,
perhaps--but in the next month or two?'

'No, my dear, I don't. About Christmas time, possibly--it's very
unlikely even then. But for the present, certainly not. I haven't
a halfpenny I can spare.'

'But, Father, it's so horrible to feel we can't pay our debts! It
disgraces us so! Last time Mr Welwyn-Foster was here' (Mr Welwyn-
Foster was the Rural Dean) 'Mrs Welwyn-Foster was going all round
the town asking everyone the most personal questions about us--
asking how we spent our time, and how much money we had, and how
many tons of coal we used in a year, and everything. She's always
trying to pry into our affairs. Suppose she found out that we were
badly in debt!'

'Surely it is our own business? I fail entirely to see what it has
to do with Mrs Welwyn-Foster or anyone else.'

'But she'd repeat it all over the place--and she'd exaggerate it
too! You know what Mrs Welwyn-Foster is. In every parish she goes
to she tries to find out something disgraceful about the clergyman,
and then she repeats every word of it to the Bishop. I don't want
to be uncharitable about her, but really she--'

Realizing that she DID want to be uncharitable, Dorothy was silent.

'She is a detestable woman,' said the Rector evenly. 'What of it?
Who ever heard of a Rural Dean's wife who wasn't detestable?'

'But, Father, I don't seem to be able to get you to see how serious
things are! We've simply nothing to live on for the next month. I
don't even know where the meat's coming from for today's dinner.'

'Luncheon, Dorothy, luncheon!' said the Rector with a touch of
irritation. 'I do wish you would drop that abominable lower-class
habit of calling the midday meal DINNER!'

'For luncheon, then. Where are we to get the meat from? I daren't
ask Cargill for another joint.'

'Go to the other butcher--what's his name? Salter--and take no
notice of Cargill. He knows he'll be paid sooner or later. Good
gracious, I don't know what all this fuss is about! Doesn't
everyone owe money to his tradesmen? I distinctly remember'--the
Rector straightened his shoulders a little, and, putting his pipe
back into his mouth, looked into the distance; his voice became
reminiscent and perceptibly more agreeable--'I distinctly remember
that when I was up at Oxford, my father had still not paid some of
his own Oxford bills of thirty years earlier. Tom' (Tom was the
Rector's cousin, the Baronet) 'owed seven thousand before he came
into his money. He told me so himself.'

At that, Dorothy's last hope vanished. When her father began to
talk about his cousin Tom, and about things that had happened 'when
I was up at Oxford', there was nothing more to be done with him.
It meant that he had slipped into an imaginary golden past in which
such vulgar things as butchers' bills simply did not exist. There
were long periods together when he seemed actually to forget that
he was only a poverty-stricken country Rector--that he was not a
young man of family with estates and reversions at his back. The
aristocratic, the expensive attitude was the one that in all
circumstances came the most naturally to him. And of course while
he lived, not uncomfortably, in the world of his imagination, it
was Dorothy who had to fight the tradesmen and make a leg of mutton
last from Sunday to Wednesday. But she knew the complete
uselessness of arguing with him any longer. It would only end in
making him angry. She got up from the table and began to pile the
breakfast things on to the tray.

'You're absolutely certain you can't let me have any money,
Father?' she said for the last time, at the door; with the tray in
her arms.

The Rector, gazing into the middle distance, amid comfortable
wreaths of smoke, did not hear her. He was thinking, perhaps, of
his golden Oxford days. Dorothy went out of the room distressed
almost to the point of tears. The miserable question of the debts
was once more shelved, as it had been shelved a thousand times
before, with no prospect of final solution.

3

On her elderly bicycle with the basketwork carrier on the handle-
bars, Dorothy free-wheeled down the hill, doing mental arithmetic
with three pounds nineteen and fourpence--her entire stock of money
until next quarter-day.

She had been through the list of things that were needed in the
kitchen. But indeed, was there anything that was NOT needed in the
kitchen? Tea, coffee, soap, matches, candles, sugar, lentils,
firewood, soda, lamp oil, boot polish, margarine, baking powder--
there seemed to be practically nothing that they were not running
short of. And at every moment some fresh item that she had
forgotten popped up and dismayed her. The laundry bill, for
example, and the fact that the coal was running short, and the
question of the fish for Friday. The Rector was 'difficult' about
fish. Roughly speaking, he would only eat the more expensive
kinds; cod, whiting, sprats, skate, herrings, and kippers he
refused.

Meanwhile, she had got to settle about the meat for today's dinner--
luncheon. (Dorothy was careful to obey her father and call it
LUNCHEON, when she remembered it. On the other hand, you could not
in honesty call the evening meal anything but 'supper'; so there
was no such meal as 'dinner' at the Rectory.) Better make an
omelette for luncheon today, Dorothy decided. She dared not go to
Cargill again. Though, of course, if they had an omelette for
luncheon and then scrambled eggs for supper, her father would
probably be sarcastic about it. Last time they had eggs twice in
one day, he had inquired coldly, 'Have you started a chicken farm,
Dorothy?' And perhaps tomorrow she would get two pounds of
sausages at the International, and that staved off the meat-
question for one day more.

Thirty-nine further days, with only three pounds nineteen and
fourpence to provide for them, loomed up in Dorothy's imagination,
sending through her a wave of self-pity which she checked almost
instantly. Now then, Dorothy! No snivelling, please! It all
comes right somehow if you trust in God. Matthew vi, 25. The Lord
will provide. Will He? Dorothy removed her right hand from the
handle-bars and felt for the glass-headed pin, but the blasphemous
thought faded. At this moment she became aware of the gloomy red
face of Proggett, who was hailing her respectfully but urgently
from the side of the road.

Dorothy stopped and got off her bicycle.

'Beg pardon, Miss,' said Proggett. 'I been wanting to speak to
you, Miss--PARTIC'LAR.'

Dorothy sighed inwardly. When Proggett wanted to speak to you
PARTIC'LAR, you could be perfectly certain what was coming; it was
some piece of alarming news about the condition of the church.
Proggett was a pessimistic, conscientious man, and very loyal
churchman, after his fashion. Too dim of intellect to have any
definite religious beliefs, he showed his piety by an intense
solicitude about the state of the church buildings. He had decided
long ago that the Church of Christ meant the actual walls, roof,
and tower of St Athelstan's, Knype Hill, and he would poke round
the church at all hours of the day, gloomily noting a cracked stone
here, a worm-eaten beam there--and afterwards, of course, coming to
harass Dorothy with demands for repairs which would cost impossible
sums of money.

'What is it, Proggett?' said Dorothy.

'Well, Miss, it's they --'--here a peculiar, imperfect sound, not a
word exactly, but the ghost of a word, all but formed itself on
Proggett's lips. It seemed to begin with a B. Proggett was one of
those men who are for ever on the verge of swearing, but who always
recapture the oath as it is escaping between their teeth. 'It's
they BELLS, Miss,' he said, getting rid of the B sound with an
effort. 'They bells up in the church tower. They're a-splintering
through that there belfry floor in a way as it makes you fair
shudder to look at 'em. We'll have 'em down atop of us before we
know where we are. I was up the belfry 'smorning, and I tell you I
come down faster'n I went up, when I saw how that there floor's a-
busting underneath 'em.'

Proggett came to complain about the condition of the bells not less
than once a fortnight. It was now three years that they had been
lying on the floor of the belfry, because the cost of either
reswinging or removing them was estimated at twenty-five pounds,
which might as well have been twenty-five thousand for all the
chance there was of paying for it. They were really almost as
dangerous as Proggett made out. It was quite certain that, if not
this year or next year, at any rate at some time in the near
future, they would fall through the belfry floor into the church
porch. And, as Proggett was fond of pointing out, it would
probably happen on a Sunday morning just as the congregation were
coming into church.

Dorothy sighed again. Those wretched bells were never out of mind
for long; there were times when the thought of their falling even
got into her dreams. There was always some trouble or other at the
church. If it was not the belfry, then it was the roof or the
walls; or it was a broken pew which the carpenter wanted ten
shillings to mend; or it was seven hymn-books needed at one and
sixpence each, or the flue of the stove choked up--and the sweep's
fee was half a crown--or a smashed window-pane or the choir-boys'
cassocks in rags. There was never enough money for anything. The
new organ which the rector had insisted on buying five years
earlier--the old one, he said, reminded him of a cow with the
asthma--was a burden under which the Church Expenses fund had been
staggering ever since.

'I don't know WHAT we can do,' said Dorothy finally; 'I really
don't. We've simply no money at all. And even if we do make
anything out of the school-children's play, it's all got to go to
the organ fund. The organ people are really getting quite nasty
about their bill. Have you spoken to my father?'

'Yes, Miss. He don't make nothing of it. "Belfry's held up five
hundred years," he says; "we can trust it to hold up a few years
longer."'

This was quite according to precedent. The fact that the church
was visibly collapsing over his head made no impression on the
Rector; he simply ignored it, as he ignored anything else that he
did not wish to be worried about.

'Well, I don't know WHAT we can do,' Dorothy repeated. 'Of course
there's the jumble sale coming off the week after next. I'm
counting on Miss Mayfill to give us something really NICE for the
jumble sale. I know she could afford to. She's got such lots of
furniture and things that she never uses. I was in her house the
other day, and I saw a most beautiful Lowestoft china tea service
which was put away in a cupboard, and she told me it hadn't been
used for over twenty years. Just suppose she gave us that tea
service! It would fetch pounds and pounds. We must just pray that
the jumble sale will be a success, Proggett. Pray that it'll bring
us five pounds at least. I'm sure we shall get the money somehow
if we really and truly pray for it.'

'Yes, Miss,' said Proggett respectfully, and shifted his gaze to
the far distance.

At this moment a horn hooted and a vast, gleaming blue car came
very slowly down the road, making for the High Street. Out of one
window Mr Blifil-Gordon, the Proprietor of the sugar-beet refinery,
was thrusting a sleek black head which went remarkably ill with his
suit of sandy-coloured Harris tweed. As he passed, instead of
ignoring Dorothy as usual, he flashed upon her a smile so warm that
it was almost amorous. With him were his eldest son Ralph--or, as
he and the rest of the family pronounced it, Walph--an epicene
youth of twenty, given to the writing of sub-Eliot vers libre
poems, and Lord Pockthorne's two daughters. They were all smiling,
even Lord Pockthorne's daughters. Dorothy was astonished, for it
was several years since any of these people had deigned to
recognize her in the street.

'Mr Blifil-Gordon is very friendly this morning,' she said.

'Aye, Miss. I'll be bound he is. It's the election coming on next
week, that's what 'tis. All honey and butter they are till they've
made sure as you'll vote for them; and then they've forgot your
very face the day afterwards.'

'Oh, the election!' said Dorothy vaguely. So remote were such
things as parliamentary elections from the daily round of parish
work that she was virtually unaware of them--hardly, indeed, even
knowing the difference between Liberal and Conservative or
Socialist and Communist. 'Well, Proggett,' she said, immediately
forgetting the election in favour of something more important,
'I'll speak to Father and tell him how serious it is about the
bells. I think perhaps the best thing we can do will be to get up
a special subscription, just for the bells alone. There's no
knowing, we might make five pounds. We might even make ten pounds!
Don't you think if I went to Miss Mayfill and asked her to start
the subscription with five pounds, she might give it to us?'

'You take my word, Miss, and don't you let Miss Mayfill hear
nothing about it. It'd scare the life out of her. If she thought
as that tower wasn't safe, we'd never get her inside that church
again.'

'Oh dear! I suppose not.'

'No, Miss. We shan't get nothing out of HER; the old--'

A ghostly B floated once more across Proggett's lips. His mind a
little more at rest now that he had delivered his fortnightly
report upon the bells, he touched his cap and departed, while
Dorothy rode on into the High Street, with the twin problems of the
shop-debts and the Church Expenses pursuing one another through her
mind like the twin refrains of a villanelle.

The still watery sun, now playing hide-and-seek, April-wise, among
woolly islets of cloud, sent an oblique beam down the High Street,
gilding the house-fronts of the northern side. It was one of those
sleepy, old-fashioned streets that look so ideally peaceful on a
casual visit and so very different when you live in them and have
an enemy or a creditor behind every window. The only definitely
offensive buildings were Ye Olde Tea Shoppe (plaster front with
sham beams nailed on to it, bottle-glass windows and revolting
curly roof like that of a Chinese joss-house), and the new, Doric-
pillared post office. After about two hundred yards the High
Street forked, forming a tiny market-place, adorned with a pump,
now defunct, and a worm-eaten pair of stocks. On either side of
the pump stood the Dog and Bottle, the principal inn of the town,
and the Knype Hill Conservative Club. At the end, commanding the
street, stood Cargill's dreaded shop.

Dorothy came round the corner to a terrific din of cheering,
mingled with the strains of 'Rule Britannia' played on the
trombone. The normally sleepy street was black with people, and
more people were hurrying from all the sidestreets. Evidently a
sort of triumphal procession was taking place. Right across the
street, from the roof of the Dog and Bottle to the roof of the
Conservative Club, hung a line with innumerable blue streamers, and
in the middle a vast banner inscribed 'Blifil-Gordon and the
Empire!' Towards this, between the lanes of people, the Blifil-
Gordon car was moving at a foot-pace, with Mr Blifil-Gordon smiling
richly, first to one side, then to the other. In front of the car
marched a detachment of the Buffaloes, headed by an earnest-looking
little man playing the trombone, and carrying among them another
banner inscribed:

Who'll save Britain from the Reds?

BLIFIL-GORDON

Who'll put the Beer back into your Pot?

BLIFIL-GORDON

Blifil-Gordon for ever!

From the window of the Conservative Club floated an enormous Union
Jack, above which six scarlet faces were beaming enthusiastically.

Dorothy wheeled her bicycle slowly down the street, too much
agitated by the prospect of passing Cargill's shop (she had got to
pass, it, to get to Solepipe's) to take much notice of the
procession. The Blifil-Gordon car had halted for a moment outside
Ye Olde Tea Shoppe. Forward, the coffee brigade! Half the ladies
of the town seemed to be hurrying forth, with lapdogs or shopping
baskets on their arms, to cluster about the car like Bacchantes
about the car of the vine-god. After all, an election is
practically the only time when you get a chance of exchanging
smiles with the County. There were eager feminine cries of 'Good
luck, Mr Blifil-Gordon! DEAR Mr Blifil-Gordon! We DO hope you'll
get in, Mr Blifil-Gordon!' Mr Blifil-Gordon's largesse of smiles
was unceasing, but carefully graded. To the populace he gave a
diffused, general smile, not resting on individuals; to the coffee
ladies and the six scarlet patriots of the Conservative Club he
gave one smile each; to the most favoured of all, young Walph gave
an occasional wave of the hand and a squeaky 'Cheewio!'

Dorothy's heart tightened. She had seen that Mr Cargill, like the
rest of the shopkeepers, was standing on his doorstep. He was a
tall, evil-looking man, in blue-striped apron, with a lean, scraped
face as purple as one of his own joints of meat that had lain a
little too long in the window. So fascinated were Dorothy's eyes
by that ominous figure that she did not look where she was going,
and bumped into a very large, stout man who was stepping off the
pavement backwards.

The stout man turned round. 'Good Heavens! It's Dorothy!' he
exclaimed.

'Why, Mr Warburton! How extraordinary! Do you know, I had a
feeling I was going to meet you today.'

'By the pricking of your thumbs, I presume?' said Mr Warburton,
beaming all over a large, pink, Micawberish face. 'And how are
you? But by Jove!' he added, 'What need is there to ask? You look
more bewitching than ever.'

He pinched Dorothy's bare elbow--she had changed, after breakfast,
into a sleeveless gingham frock. Dorothy stepped hurriedly
backwards to get out of his reach--she hated being pinched or
otherwise 'mauled about'--and said rather severely:

'PLEASE don't pinch my elbow. I don't like it.'

'My dear Dorothy, who could resist an elbow like yours? It's the
sort of elbow one pinches automatically. A reflex action, if you
understand me.'

'When did you get back to Knype Hill?' said Dorothy, who had put
her bicycle between Mr Warburton and herself. It's over two months
since I've seen you.'

'I got back the day before yesterday. But this is only a flying
visit. I'm off again tomorrow. I'm taking the kids to Brittany.
The BASTARDS, you know.'

Mr Warburton pronounced the word BASTARDS, at which Dorothy looked
away in discomfort, with a touch of naive pride. He and his
'bastards' (he had three of them) were one of the chief scandals of
Knype Hill. He was a man of independent income, calling himself a
painter--he produced about half a dozen mediocre landscapes every
year--and he had come to Knype Hill two years earlier and bought
one of the new villas behind the Rectory. There he lived, or
rather stayed periodically, in open concubinage with a woman whom
he called his housekeeper. Four months ago this woman--she was a
foreigner, a Spaniard it was said--had created a fresh and worse
scandal by abruptly deserting him, and his three children were now
parked with some long-suffering relative in London. In appearance
he was a fine, imposing-looking man, though entirely bald (he was
at great pains to conceal this), and he carried himself with such a
rakish air as to give the impression that his fairly sizeable belly
was merely a kind of annexe to his chest. His age was forty-eight,
and he owned to forty-four. People in the town said that he was a
'proper old rascal'; young girls were afraid of him, not without
reason.

Mr Warburton had laid his hand pseudo-paternally on Dorothy's
shoulder and was shepherding her through the crowd, talking all the
while almost without a pause. The Blifil-Gordon car, having
rounded the pump, was now wending its way back, still accompanied
by its troupe of middle-aged Bacchantes. Mr Warburton, his
attention caught, paused to scrutinize it.

'What is the meaning of these disgusting antics?' he asked.

'Oh, they're--what is it they call it?--electioneering. Trying to
get us to vote for them, I suppose.'

'Trying to get us to vote for them! Good God!' murmured Mr
Warburton, as he eyed the triumphal cortege. He raised the large,
silver-headed cane that he always carried, and pointed, rather
expressively, first at one figure in the procession and then at
another. 'Look at it! Just look at it! Look at those fawning
hags, and that half-witted oaf grinning at us like a monkey that
sees a bag of nuts. Did you ever see such a disgusting spectacle?'

'Do be careful!' Dorothy murmured. 'Somebody's sure to hear you.'

'Good!' said Mr Warburton, immediately raising his voice. 'And to
think that low-born hound actually has the impertinence to think
that he's pleasing us with the sight of his false teeth! And that
suit he's wearing is an offence in itself. Is there a Socialist
candidate? If so, I shall certainly vote for him.'

Several people on the pavement turned and stared. Dorothy saw
little Mr Twiss, the ironmonger, a weazened, leather-coloured old
man, peering with veiled malevolence round the corner of the rush
baskets that hung in his doorway. He had caught the word
Socialist, and was mentally registering Mr Warburton as a Socialist
and Dorothy as the friend of Socialists.

'I really MUST be getting on,' said Dorothy hastily, feeling that
she had better escape before Mr Warburton said something even more
tactless. 'I've got ever such a lot of shopping to do. I'll say
good-bye for the present, then.'

'Oh, no, you won't!' said Mr Warburton cheerfully. 'Not a bit of
it! I'll come with you.'

As she wheeled her bicycle down the street he marched at her side,
still talking, with his large chest well forward and his stick
tucked under his arm. He was a difficult man to shake off, and
though Dorothy counted him as a friend, she did sometimes wish, he
being the town scandal and she the Rector's daughter, that he would
not always choose the most public places to talk to her in. At
this moment, however, she was rather grateful for his company,
which made it appreciably easier to pass Cargill's shop--for
Cargill was still on his doorstep and was regarding her with a
sidelong, meaning gaze.

'It was a bit of luck my meeting you this morning,' Mr Warburton
went on. 'In fact, I was looking for you. Who do you think I've
got coming to dinner with me tonight? Bewley--Ronald Bewley.
You've heard of him, of course?'

'Ronald Bewley? No, I don't think so. Who is he?'

'Why, dash it! Ronald Bewley, the novelist. Author of Fishpools
and Concubines. Surely you've read Fishpools and Concubines?'

'No, I'm afraid I haven't. In fact, I'd never even heard of it.'

'My dear Dorothy! You HAVE been neglecting yourself. You
certainly ought to read Fishpools and Concubines. It's hot stuff,
I assure you--real high-class pornography. Just the kind of thing
you need to take the taste of the Girl Guides out of your mouth.'

'I do wish you wouldn't say such things!' said Dorothy, looking
away uncomfortably, and then immediately looking back again because
she had all but caught Cargill's eye. 'Where does this Mr Bewley
live?' she added. 'Not here, surely, does he?'

'No. He's coming over from Ipswich for dinner, and perhaps to stay
the night. That's why I was looking for you. I thought you might
like to meet him. How about your coming to dinner tonight?'

'I can't possibly come to dinner,' said Dorothy. 'I've got
Father's supper to see to, and thousands of other things. I shan't
be free till eight o'clock or after.'

'Well, come along after dinner, then. I'd like you to know Bewley.
He's an interesting fellow--very au fait with all the Bloomsbury
scandal, and all that. You'll enjoy meeting him. It'll do you
good to escape from the church hen-coop for a few hours.'

Dorothy hesitated. She was tempted. To tell the truth, she
enjoyed her occasional visits to Mr Warburton's house extremely.
But of course they were VERY occasional--once in three or four
months at the oftenest; it so obviously DIDN'T DO to associate too
freely with such a man. And even when she did go to his house she
was careful to make sure beforehand that there was going to be at
least one other visitor.

Two years earlier, when Mr Warburton had first come to Knype Hill
(at that time he was posing as a widower with two children; a
little later, however, the housekeeper suddenly gave birth to a
third child in the middle of the night), Dorothy had met him at a
tea-party and afterwards called on him. Mr Warburton had given
her a delightful tea, talked amusingly about books, and then,
immediately after tea, sat down beside her on the sofa and begun
making love to her, violently, outrageously, even brutally. It was
practically an assault. Dorothy was horrified almost out of her
wits, though not too horrified to resist. She escaped from him and
took refuge on the other side of the sofa, white, shaking, and
almost in tears. Mr Warburton, on the other hand, was quite
unashamed and even seemed rather amused.

'Oh, how could you, how could you?' she sobbed.

'But it appears that I couldn't,' said Mr Warburton.

'Oh, but how could you be such a brute?'

'Oh, THAT? Easily, my child, easily. You will understand that
when you get to my age.'

In spite of this bad beginning, a sort of friendship had grown up
between the two, even to the extent of Dorothy being 'talked about'
in connexion with Mr Warburton. It did not take much to get you
'talked about' in Knype Hill. She only saw him at long intervals
and took the greatest care never to be alone with him, but even so
he found opportunities of making casual love to her. But it was
done in a gentlemanly fashion; the previous disagreeable incident
was not repeated. Afterwards, when he was forgiven, Mr Warburton
had explained that he 'always tried it on' with every presentable
woman he met.

'Don't you get rather a lot of snubs?' Dorothy could not help
asking him.

'Oh, certainly. But I get quite a number of successes as well, you
know.'

People wondered sometimes how such a girl as Dorothy could consort,
even occasionally, with such a man as Mr Warburton; but the hold
that he had over her was the hold that the blasphemer and evil-
liver always has over the pious. It is a fact--you have only to
look about you to verify it--that the pious and the immoral drift
naturally together. The best brothel-scenes in literature have
been written, without exception, by pious believers or pious
unbelievers. And of course Dorothy, born into the twentieth
century, made a point of listening to Mr Warburton's blasphemies as
calmly as possible; it is fatal to flatter the wicked by letting
them see that you are shocked by them. Besides, she was genuinely
fond of him. He teased her and distressed her, and yet she got
from him, without being fully aware of it, a species of sympathy
and understanding which she could not get elsewhere. For all his
vices he was distinctly likeable, and the shoddy brilliance of his
conversation--Oscar Wilde seven times watered--which she was too
inexperienced to see through, fascinated while it shocked her.
Perhaps, too, in this instance, the prospect of meeting the
celebrated Mr Bewley had its effect upon her; though certainly
Fishponds and Concubines sounded like the kind of book that she
either didn't read or else set herself heavy penances for reading.
In London, no doubt, one would hardly cross the road to see fifty
novelists; but these things appeared differently in places like
Knype Hill.

'Are you SURE Mr Bewley is coming?' she said.

'Quite sure. And his wife's coming as well, I believe. Full
chaperonage. No Tarquin and Lucrece business this evening.'

'All right,' said Dorothy finally; 'thanks very much. I'll come
round--about half past eight, I expect.'

'Good. If you can manage to come while it is still daylight, so
much the better. Remember that Mrs Semprill is my next-door
neighbour. We can count on her to be on the qui vive any time
after sundown.'

Mrs Semprill was the town scandalmonger--the most eminent, that is,
of the town's many scandalmongers. Having got what he wanted (he
was constantly pestering Dorothy to come to his house more often),
Mr Warburton said au revoir and left Dorothy to do the remainder of
her shopping.

In the semi-gloom of Solepipe's shop, she was just moving away from
the counter with her two and a half yards of casement cloth, when
she was aware of a low, mournful voice at her ear. It was Mrs
Semprill. She was a slender woman of forty, with a lank, sallow,
distinguished face, which, with her glossy dark hair and air of
settled melancholy, gave her something the appearance of a Van Dyck
portrait. Entrenched behind a pile of cretonnes near the window,
she had been watching Dorothy's conversation with Mr Warburton.
Whenever you were doing something that you did not particularly
want Mrs Semprill to see you doing, you could trust her to be
somewhere in the neighbourhood. She seemed to have the power of
materializing like an Arabian jinneeyeh at any place where she was
not wanted. No indiscretion, however small, escaped her vigilance.
Mr Warburton used to say that she was like the four beasts of the
Apocalypse--'They are full of eyes, you remember, and they rest not
night nor day.'

'Dorothy DEAREST,' murmured Mrs Semprill in the sorrowful,
affectionate voice of someone breaking a piece of bad news as
gently as possible. 'I've been so WANTING to speak to you. I've
something simply DREADFUL to tell you--something that will really
HORRIFY you!'

'What is it?' said Dorothy resignedly, well knowing what was
coming--for Mrs Semprill had only one subject of conversation.

They moved out of the shop and began to walk down the street,
Dorothy wheeling her bicycle, Mrs Semprill mincing at her side with
a delicate birdlike step and bringing her mouth closer and closer
to Dorothy's ear as her remarks grew more and more intimate.

'Do you happen to have noticed,' she began, 'that girl who sits at
the end of the pew nearest the organ in church? A rather PRETTY
girl, with red hair. I've no idea what her name is,' added Mrs
Semprill, who knew the surname and all the Christian names of every
man, woman, and child in Knype Hill.

'Molly Freeman,' said Dorothy. 'She's the niece of Freeman the
greengrocer.'

'Oh, Molly Freeman? Is THAT her name? I'd often wondered. Well--'

The delicate red mouth came closer, the mournful voice sank to a
shocked whisper. Mrs Semprill began to pour forth a stream of
purulent libel involving Molly Freeman and six young men who worked
at the sugar-beet refinery. After a few moments the story became
so outrageous that Dorothy, who had turned very pink, hurriedly
withdrew her ear from Mrs Semprill's whispering lips. She stopped
her bicycle.

'I won't listen to such things!' she said abruptly. 'I KNOW that
isn't true about Molly Freeman. It CAN'T be true! She's such a
nice quiet girl--she was one of my very best Girl Guides, and she's
always been so good about helping with the church bazaars and
everything. I'm perfectly certain she wouldn't do such things as
you're saying.'

'But, Dorothy DEAREST! When, as I told you, I actually saw with my
own eyes . . .'

'I don't care! It's not fair to say such things about people.
Even if they were true it wouldn't be right to repeat them.
There's quite enough evil in the world without going about looking
for it.'

'LOOKING for it!' sighed Mrs Semprill. 'But, my dear Dorothy, as
though one ever wanted or NEEDED to look! The trouble is that one
can't HELP seeing all the dreadful wickedness that goes on in this
town.'

Mrs Semprill was always genuinely astonished if you accused her of
LOOKING for subjects for scandal. Nothing, she would protest,
pained her more than the spectacle of human wickedness; but it was
constantly forced upon her unwilling eyes, and only a stern sense
of duty impelled her to make it public. Dorothy's remarks, so far
from silencing her, merely set her talking about the general
corruption of Knype Hill, of which Molly Freeman's misbehaviour was
only one example. And so from Molly Freeman and her six young men
she proceeded to Dr Gaythorne, the town medical officer, who had
got two of the nurses at the Cottage Hospital with child, and then
to Mrs Corn, the Town Clerk's wife, found lying in a field dead
drunk on eau-de-Cologne, and then to the curate at St Wedekind's in
Millborough, who had involved himself in a grave scandal with a
choirboy; and so it went on, one thing leading to another. For
there was hardly a soul in the town or the surrounding country
about whom Mrs Semprill could not disclose some festering secret if
you listened to her long enough.

It was noticeable that her stories were not only dirty and
libellous, but they had nearly always some monstrous tinge of
perversion about them. Compared with the ordinary scandalmongers
of a country town, she was Freud to Boccaccio. From hearing her
talk you would have gathered the impression that Knype Hill with
its thousand inhabitants held more of the refinements of evil than
Sodom, Gomorrah, and Buenos Aires put together. Indeed, when you
reflected upon the lives led by the inhabitants of this latter-day
City of the Plain--from the manager of the local bank squandering
his clients' money on the children of his second and bigamous
marriage, to the barmaid of the Dog and Bottle serving drinks in
the taproom dressed only in high-heeled satin slippers, and from
old Miss Channon, the music-teacher, with her secret gin bottle and
her anonymous letters, to Maggie White, the baker's daughter, who
had borne three children to her own brother--when you considered
these people, all, young and old, rich and poor, sunken in
monstrous and Babylonian vices, you wondered that fire did not come
down from Heaven and consume the town forthwith. But if you
listened just a little longer, the catalogue of obscenities became
first monstrous and then unbearably dull. For in a town in which
EVERYONE is either a bigamist, a pederast, or a drug-taker, the
worst scandal loses its sting. In fact, Mrs Semprill was something
worse than a slanderer; she was a bore.

As to the extent to which her stories were believed, it varied. At
times the word would go round that she was a foul-mouthed old cat
and everything she said was a pack of lies; at other times one of
her accusations would take effect on some unfortunate person, who
would need months or even years to live it down. She had certainly
been instrumental in breaking off not less than half a dozen
engagements and starting innumerable quarrels between husbands and
wives.

All this while Dorothy had been making abortive efforts to shake
Mrs Semprill off. She had edged her way gradually across the
street until she was wheeling her bicycle along the right-hand
kerb; but Mrs Semprill had followed, whispering without cease. It
was not until they reached the end of the High Street that Dorothy
summoned up enough firmness to escape. She halted and put her
right foot on the pedal of her bicycle.

'I really can't stop a moment longer,' she said. 'I've got a
thousand things to do, and I'm late already.'

'Oh, but, Dorothy dear! I've something else I simply MUST tell
you--something most IMPORTANT!'

'I'm sorry--I'm in such a terrible hurry. Another time, perhaps.'

'It's about that DREADFUL Mr Warburton,' said Mrs Semprill hastily,
lest Dorothy should escape without hearing it. 'He's just come
back from London, and do you know--I most PARTICULARLY wanted to
tell you this--do you know, he actually--'

But here Dorothy saw that she must make off instantly, at no matter
what cost. She could imagine nothing more uncomfortable than to
have to discuss Mr Warburton with Mrs Semprill. She mounted her
bicycle, and with only a very brief 'Sorry--I really CAN'T stop!'
began to ride hurriedly away.

'I wanted to tell you--he's taken up with a new woman!' Mrs
Semprill cried after her, even forgetting to whisper in her
eagerness to pass on this juicy titbit.

But Dorothy rode swiftly round the corner, not looking back, and
pretending not to have heard. An unwise thing to do, for it did
not pay to cut Mrs Semprill too short. Any unwillingness to listen
to her scandals was taken as a sign of depravity, and led to fresh
and worse scandals being published about yourself the moment you
had left her.

As Dorothy rode homewards she had uncharitable thoughts about Mrs
Semprill, for which she duly pinched herself. Also, there was
another, rather disturbing idea which had not occurred to her till
this moment--that Mrs Semprill would certainly learn of her visit
to Mr Warburton's house this evening, and would probably have
magnified it into something scandalous by tomorrow. The thought
sent a vague premonition of evil through Dorothy's mind as she
jumped off her bicycle at the Rectory gate, where Silly Jack, the
town idiot, a third-grade moron with a triangular scarlet face like
a strawberry, was loitering, vacantly flogging the gatepost with a
hazel switch.

4

It was a little after eleven. The day, which, like some overripe
but hopeful widow playing at seventeen, had been putting on
unseasonable April airs, had now remembered that it was August and
settled down to be boiling hot.

Dorothy rode into the hamlet of Fennelwick, a mile out of Knype
Hill. She had delivered Mrs Lewin's corn-plaster, and was dropping
in to give old Mrs Pither that cutting from the Daily Mail about
angelica tea for rheumatism. The sun, burning in the cloudless
sky, scorched her back through her gingham frock, and the dusty
road quivered in the heat, and the hot, flat meadows, over which
even at this time of year numberless larks chirruped tiresomely,
were so green that it hurt your eyes to look at them. It was the
kind of day that is called 'glorious' by people who don't have to
work.

Dorothy leaned her bicycle against the gate of the Pithers'
cottage, and took her handkerchief out of her bag and wiped her
hands, which were sweating from the handle-bars. In the harsh
sunlight her face looked pinched and colourless. She looked her
age, and something over, at that hour of the morning. Throughout
her day--and in general it was a seventeen-hour day--she had
regular, alternating periods of tiredness and energy; the middle of
the morning, when she was doing the first instalment of the day's
'visiting', was one of the tired periods.

'Visiting', because of the distances she had to bicycle from house
to house, took up nearly half of Dorothy's day. Every day of her
life, except on Sundays, she made from half a dozen to a dozen
visits at parishioners' cottages. She penetrated into cramped
interiors and sat on lumpy, dust-diffusing chairs gossiping with
overworked, blowsy housewives; she spent hurried half-hours giving
a hand with the mending and the ironing, and read chapters from the
Gospels, and readjusted bandages on 'bad legs', and condoled with
sufferers from morning-sickness; she played ride-a-cock-horse with
sour-smelling children who grimed the bosom of her dress with their
sticky little fingers; she gave advice about ailing aspidistras,
and suggested names for babies, and drank 'nice cups of tea'
innumerable--for the working women always wanted her to have a
'nice cup of tea', out of the teapot endlessly stewing.

Much of it was profoundly discouraging work. Few, very few, of the
women seemed to have even a conception of the Christian life that
she was trying to help them to lead. Some of them were shy and
suspicious, stood on the defensive, and made excuses when urged to
come to Holy Communion; some shammed piety for the sake of the tiny
sums they could wheedle out of the church alms box; those who
welcomed her coming were for the most part the talkative ones, who
wanted an audience for complaints about the 'goings on' of their
husbands, or for endless mortuary tales ('And he had to have glass
chubes let into his veins,' etc., etc.) about the revolting
diseases their relatives had died of. Quite half the women on her
list, Dorothy knew, were at heart atheistical in a vague
unreasoning way. She came up against it all day long--that vague,
blank disbelief so common in illiterate people, against which all
argument is powerless. Do what she would, she could never raise
the number of regular communicants to more than a dozen or
thereabouts. Women would promise to communicate, keep their
promise for a month or two, and then fall away. With the younger
women it was especially hopeless. They would not even join the
local branches of the church leagues that were run for their
benefit--Dorothy was honorary secretary of three such leagues,
besides being captain of the Girl Guides. The Band of Hope and the
Companionship of Marriage languished almost memberless, and the
Mothers' Union only kept going because gossip and unlimited strong
tea made the weekly sewing-parties acceptable. Yes, it was
discouraging work; so discouraging that at times it would have
seemed altogether futile if she had not known the sense of futility
for what it is--the subtlest weapon of the Devil.

Dorothy knocked at the Pithers' badly fitting door, from beneath
which a melancholy smell of boiled cabbage and dish-water was
oozing. From long experience she knew and could taste in advance
the individual smell of every cottage on her rounds. Some of their
smells were peculiar in the extreme. For instance, there was the
salty, feral smell that haunted the cottage of old Mr Tombs, an
aged retired bookseller who lay in bed all day in a darkened room,
with his long, dusty nose and pebble spectacles protruding from
what appeared to be a fur rug of vast size and richness.

But if you put your hand on the fur rug it disintegrated, burst and
fled in all directions. It was composed entirely of cats--twenty-
four cats, to be exact. Mr Tombs 'found they kept him warm', he
used to explain. In nearly all the cottages there was a basic
smell of old overcoats and dish-water upon which the other,
individual smells were superimposed; the cesspool smell, the
cabbage smell, the smell of children, the strong, bacon-like reek
of corduroys impregnated with the sweat of a decade.

Mrs Pither opened the door, which invariably stuck to the jamb, and
then, when you wrenched it open, shook the whole cottage. She was
a large, stooping, grey woman with wispy grey hair, a sacking
apron, and shuffling carpet slippers.

'Why, if it isn't Miss Dorothy!' she exclaimed in a dreary,
lifeless but not unaffectionate voice.

She took Dorothy between her large, gnarled hands, whose knuckles
were as shiny as skinned onions from age and ceaseless washing up,
and gave her a wet kiss. Then she drew her into the unclean
interior of the cottage.

'Pither's away at work, Miss,' she announced as they got inside.
'Up to Dr Gaythorne's he is, a-digging over the doctor's flower-
beds for him.'

Mr Pither was a jobbing gardener. He and his wife, both of them
over seventy, were one of the few genuinely pious couples on
Dorothy's visiting list. Mrs Pither led a dreary, wormlike life of
shuffling to and fro, with a perpetual crick in her neck because
the door lintels were too low for her, between the well, the sink,
the fireplace, and the tiny plot of kitchen garden. The kitchen
was decently tidy, but oppressively hot, evil-smelling and
saturated with ancient dust. At the end opposite the fireplace Mrs
Pither had made a kind of prie-dieu out of a greasy rag mat laid in
front of a tiny, defunct harmonium, on top of which were an
oleographed crucifixion, 'Watch and Pray' done in beadwork, and a
photograph of Mr and Mrs Pither on their wedding day in 1882.

'Poor Pither!' went on Mrs Pither in her depressing voice, 'him a-
digging at his age, with his rheumatism THAT bad! Ain't it cruel
hard, Miss? And he's had a kind of a pain between his legs, Miss,
as he can't seem to account for--terrible bad he's been with it,
these last few mornings. Ain't it bitter hard, Miss, the lives us
poor working folks has to lead?'

'It's a shame,' said Dorothy. 'But I hope you've been keeping a
little better yourself, Mrs Pither?'

'Ah, Miss, there's nothing don't make ME better. I ain't a case
for curing, not in THIS world, I ain't. I shan't never get no
better, not in this wicked world down here.'

'Oh, you mustn't say that, Mrs Pither! I hope we shall have you
with us for a long time yet.'

'Ah, Miss, you don't know how poorly I've been this last week!
I've had the rheumatism a-coming and a-going all down the backs of
my poor old legs, till there's some mornings when I don't feel as I
can't walk so far as to pull a handful of onions in the garden.
Ah, Miss, it's a weary world we lives in, ain't it, Miss? A weary,
sinful world.'

'But of course we must never forget, Mrs Pither, that there's a
better world coming. This life is only a time of trial--just to
strengthen us and teach us to be patient, so that we'll be ready
for Heaven when the time comes.'

At this a sudden and remarkable change came over Mrs Pither. It
was produced by the word 'Heaven'. Mrs Pither had only two
subjects of conversation; one of them was the joys of Heaven, and
the other the miseries of her present state. Dorothy's remark
seemed to act upon her like a charm. Her dull grey eye was not
capable of brightening, but her voice quickened with an almost
joyful enthusiasm.

'Ah, Miss, there you said it! That's a true word, Miss! That's
what Pither and me keeps a-saying to ourselves. And that's just
the one thing as keeps us a-going--just the thought of Heaven and
the long, long rest we'll have there. Whatever we've suffered, we
gets it all back in Heaven, don't we, Miss? Every little bit of
suffering, you gets it back a hundredfold and a thousandfold. That
IS true, ain't it, Miss? There's rest for us all in Heaven--rest
and peace and no more rheumatism nor digging nor cooking nor
laundering nor nothing. You DO believe that, don't you, Miss
Dorothy?'

'Of course,' said Dorothy.

'Ah, Miss, if you knew how it comforts us--just the thoughts of
Heaven! Pither he says to me, when he comes home tired of a night
and our rheumatism's bad, "Never you mind, my dear," he says, "we
ain't far off Heaven now," he says. "Heaven was made for the likes
of us," he says; "just for poor working folks like us, that have
been sober and godly and kept our Communions regular." That's the
best way, ain't it, Miss Dorothy--poor in this life and rich in the
next? Not like some of them rich folks as all their motorcars and
their beautiful houses won't save from the worm that dieth not and
the fire that's not quenched. Such a beautiful text, that is. Do
you think you could say a little prayer with me, Miss Dorothy? I
been looking forward all the morning to a little prayer.

Mrs Pither was always ready for a 'little prayer' at any hour of
the night or day. It was her equivalent to a 'nice cup of tea'.
They knelt down on the rag mat and said the Lord's Prayer and the
Collect for the week; and then Dorothy, at Mrs Pither's request,
read the parable of Dives and Lazarus, Mrs Pither coming in from
time to time with 'Amen! That's a true word, ain't it, Miss
Dorothy? "And he was carried by angels into Abraham's bosom."
Beautiful! Oh, I do call that just too beautiful! Amen, Miss
Dorothy--Amen!'

Dorothy gave Mrs Pither the cutting from the Daily Mail about
angelica tea for rheumatism, and then, finding that Mrs Pither had
been too 'poorly' to draw the day's supply of water, she drew three
bucketfuls for her from the well. It was a very deep well, with
such a low parapet that Mrs Pither's final doom would almost
certainly be to fall into it and get drowned, and it had not even a
winch--you had to haul the bucket up hand over hand. And then they
sat down for a few minutes, and Mrs Pither talked some more about
Heaven. It was extraordinary how constantly Heaven reigned in her
thoughts; and more extraordinary yet was the actuality, the
vividness with which she could see it. The golden streets and the
gates of orient pearl were as real to her as though they had been
actually before her eyes. And her vision extended to the most
concrete, the most earthly details. The softness of the beds up
there! The deliciousness of the food! The lovely silk clothes
that you would put on clean every morning! The surcease from
everlasting to everlasting from work of any description! In almost
every moment of her life the vision of Heaven supported and
consoled her, and her abject complaints about the lives of 'poor
working folks' were curiously tempered by a satisfaction in the
thought that, after all, it is 'poor working folks' who are the
principal inhabitants of Heaven. It was a sort of bargain that she
had struck, setting her lifetime of dreary labour against an
eternity of bliss. Her faith was almost TOO great, if that is
possible. For it was a curious fact, but the certitude with which
Mrs Pither looked forward to Heaven--as to some kind of glorified
home for incurables--affected Dorothy with strange uneasiness.

Dorothy prepared to depart, while Mrs Pither thanked her, rather
too effusively, for her visit, winding up, as usual, with fresh
complaints about her rheumatism.

'I'll be sure and take the angelica tea,' she concluded, 'and thank
you kindly for telling me of it, Miss. Not as I don't expect as
it'll do me much good. Ah, Miss, if you knew how cruel bad my
rheumatism's been this last week! All down the backs of my legs,
it is, like a regular shooting red-hot poker, and I don't seem to
be able to get at them to rub them properly. Would it be asking
too much of you, Miss, to give me a bit of a rub-down before you
go? I got a bottle of Elliman's under the sink.'

Unseen by Mrs Pither, Dorothy gave herself a severe pinch. She had
been expecting this, and--she had done it so many times before--she
really did NOT enjoy rubbing Mrs Pither down. She exhorted herself
angrily. Come on, Dorothy! No sniffishness, please! John xiii,
14. 'Of course I will, Mrs Pither!' she said instantly.

They went up the narrow, rickety staircase, in which you had to
bend almost double at one place to avoid the overhanging ceiling.
The bedroom was lighted by a tiny square of window that was jammed
in its socket by the creeper outside, and had not been opened in
twenty years. There was an enormous double bed that almost filled
the room, with sheets perennially damp and a flock mattress as full
of hills and valleys as a contour map of Switzerland. With many
groans the old woman crept on to the bed and laid herself face
down. The room reeked of urine and paregoric. Dorothy took the
bottle of Elliman's embrocation and carefully anointed Mrs Pither's
large, grey-veined, flaccid legs.

Outside, in the swimming heat, she mounted her bicycle and began to
ride swiftly homewards. The sun burned in her face, but the air
now seemed sweet and fresh. She was happy, happy! She was always
extravagantly happy when her morning's 'visiting' was over; and,
curiously enough, she was not aware of the reason for this. In
Borlase the dairy-farmer's meadow the red cows were grazing, knee-
deep in shining seas of grass. The scent of cows, like a
distillation of vanilla and fresh hay, floated into Dorothy's
nostrils. Though she had still a morning's work in front of her
she could not resist the temptation to loiter for a moment,
steadying her bicycle with one hand against the gate of Borlase's
meadow, while a cow, with moist shell-pink nose, scratched its chin
upon the gatepost and dreamily regarded her.

Dorothy caught sight of a wild rose, flowerless of course, growing
beyond the hedge, and climbed over the gate with the intention of
discovering whether it were not sweetbriar. She knelt down among
the tall weeds beneath the hedge. It was very hot down there,
close to the ground. The humming of many unseen insects sounded in
her ears, and the hot summery fume from the tangled swathes of
vegetation flowed up and enveloped her. Near by, tall stalks of
fennel were growing, with trailing fronds of foliage like the tails
of sea-green horses. Dorothy pulled a frond of the fennel against
her face and breathed in the strong sweet scent. Its richness
overwhelmed her, almost dizzied her for a moment. She drank it in,
filling her lungs with it. Lovely, lovely scent--scent of summer
days, scent of childhood joys, scent of spice-drenched islands in
the warm foam of Oriental seas!

Her heart swelled with sudden joy. It was that mystical joy in
the beauty of the earth and the very nature of things that she
recognized, perhaps mistakenly, as the love of God. As she knelt
there in the heat, the sweet odour and the drowsy hum of insects,
it seemed to her that she could momentarily hear the mighty anthem
of praise that the earth and all created things send up
everlastingly to their maker. All vegetation, leaves, flowers,
grass, shining, vibrating, crying out in their joy. Larks also
chanting, choirs of larks invisible, dripping music from the sky.
All the riches of summer, the warmth of the earth, the song of
birds, the fume of cows, the droning of countless bees, mingling
and ascending like the smoke of ever-burning altars. Therefore
with Angels and Archangels! She began to pray, and for a moment
she prayed ardently, blissfully, forgetting herself in the joy of
her worship. Then, less than a minute later, she discovered that
she was kissing the frond of the fennel that was still against her
face.

She checked herself instantly, and drew back. What was she doing?
Was it God that she was worshipping, or was it only the earth?
The joy ebbed out of her heart, to be succeeded by the cold,
uncomfortable feeling that she had been betrayed into a half-pagan
ecstasy. She admonished herself. None of THAT, Dorothy! No
Nature-worship, please! Her father had warned her against Nature-
worship. She had heard him preach more than one sermon against it;
it was, he said, mere pantheism, and, what seemed to offend him
even more, a disgusting modern fad. Dorothy took a thorn of the
wild rose, and pricked her arm three times, to remind herself of
the Three Persons of the Trinity, before climbing over the gate and
remounting her bicycle.

A black, very dusty shovel hat was approaching round the corner of
the hedge. It was Father McGuire, the Roman Catholic priest, also
bicycling his rounds. He was a very large, rotund man, so large
that he dwarfed the bicycle beneath him and seemed to be balanced
on top of it like a golf-ball on a tee. His face was rosy,
humorous, and a little sly.

Dorothy looked suddenly unhappy. She turned pink, and her hand
moved instinctively to the neighbourhood of the gold cross beneath
her dress. Father McGuire was riding towards her with an
untroubled, faintly amused air. She made an endeavour to smile,
and murmured unhappily, 'Good morning.' But he rode on without a
sign; his eyes swept easily over her face and then beyond her into
vacancy, with an admirable pretence of not having noticed her
existence. It was the Cut Direct. Dorothy--by nature, alas!
unequal to delivering the Cut Direct--got on to her bicycle and
rode away, struggling with the uncharitable thoughts which a
meeting with Father McGuire never failed to arouse in her.

Five or six years earlier, when Father McGuire was holding a
funeral in St Athelstan's churchyard (there was no Roman Catholic
cemetery at Knype Hill), there had been some dispute with the
Rector about the propriety of Father McGuire robing in the church,
or not robing in the church, and the two priests had wrangled
disgracefully over the open grave. Since then they had not been on
speaking terms. It was better so, the Rector said.

As to the other ministers of religion in Knype Hill--Mr Ward the
Congregationalist minister, Mr Foley the Wesleyan pastor, and the
braying bald-headed elder who conducted the orgies at Ebenezer
Chapel--the Rector called them a pack of vulgar Dissenters and had
forbidden Dorothy on pain of his displeasure to have anything to do
with them.

5

It was twelve o'clock. In the large, dilapidated conservatory,
whose roof-panes, from the action of time and dirt, were dim,
green, and iridescent like old Roman glass, they were having a
hurried and noisy rehearsal of Charles I.

Dorothy was not actually taking part in the rehearsal, but was busy
making costumes. She made the costumes, or most of them, for all
the plays the schoolchildren acted. The production and stage
management were in the hands of Victor Stone--Victor, Dorothy
called him--the Church schoolmaster. He was a small-boned,
excitable, black-haired youth of twenty-seven, dressed in dark sub-
clerical clothes, and at this moment he was gesturing fiercely with
a roll of manuscript at six dense-looking children. On a long
bench against the wall four more children were alternately
practising 'noises off' by clashing fire-irons together, and
squabbling over a grimy little bag of Spearmint Bouncers, forty a
penny.

It was horribly hot in the conservatory, and there was a powerful
smell of glue and the sour sweat of children. Dorothy was kneeling
on the floor, with her mouth full of pins and a pair of shears in
her hand, rapidly slicing sheets of brown paper into long narrow
strips. The glue-pot was bubbling on an oil-stove beside her;
behind her, on the rickety, ink-stained work-table, were a tangle
of half-finished costumes, more sheets of brown paper, her sewing-
machine, bundles of tow, shards of dry glue, wooden swords, and
open pots of paint. With half her mind Dorothy was meditating upon
the two pairs of seventeenth-century jackboots that had got to be
made for Charles I and Oliver Cromwell, and with the other half
listening to the angry shouts of Victor, who was working himself up
into a rage, as he invariably did at rehearsals. He was a natural
actor, and withal thoroughly bored by the drudgery of rehearsing
half-witted children. He strode up and down, haranguing the
children in a vehement slangy style, and every now and then
breaking off to lunge at one or other of them with a wooden sword
that he had grabbed from the table.

'Put a bit of life into it, can't you?' he cried, prodding an ox-
faced boy of eleven in the belly. 'Don't drone! Say it as if it
meant something! You look like a corpse that's been buried and dug
up again. What's the good of gurgling it down in your inside like
that? Stand up and shout at him. Take off that second murderer
expression!'

'Come here, Percy!' cried Dorothy through her pins. 'Quick!'

She was making the armour--the worst job of the lot, except those
wretched jackboots--out of glue and brown paper. From long
practice Dorothy could make very nearly anything out of glue and
brown paper; she could even make a passably good periwig, with a
brown paper skull-cap and dyed tow for the hair. Taking the year
through, the amount of time she spent in struggling with glue,
brown paper, butter muslin, and all the other paraphernalia of
amateur theatricals was enormous. So chronic was the need of money
for all the church funds that hardly a month ever passed when there
was not a school play or a pageant or an exhibition of tableaux
vivants on hand--not to mention the bazaars and jumble sales.

As Percy--Percy Jowett, the blacksmith's son, a small curly-headed
boy--got down from the bench and stood wriggling unhappily before
her, Dorothy seized a sheet of brown paper, measured it against
him, snipped out the neckhole and armholes, draped it round his
middle and rapidly pinned it into the shape of a rough breastplate.
There was a confused din of voices.

VICTOR: Come on, now, come on! Enter Oliver Cromwell--that's you!
NO, not like that! Do you think Oliver Cromwell would come
slinking on like a dog that's just had a hiding? Stand up. Stick
your chest out. Scowl. That's better. Now go on, CROMWELL:
'Halt! I hold a pistol in my hand!' Go on.

A GIRL: Please, Miss, Mother said as I was to tell you, Miss--

DOROTHY: Keep still, Percy! For goodness' SAKE keep still!

CROMWELL: 'Alt! I 'old a pistol in my 'and!

A SMALL GIRL ON THE BENCH: Mister! I've dropped my sweetie!
[Snivelling] I've dropped by swee-e-e-etie!

VICTOR: No, no, NO, Tommie! No, no, NO!

THE GIRL: Please, Miss, Mother said as I was to tell you as she
couldn't make my knickers like she promised, Miss, because--

DOROTHY: You'll make me swallow a pin if you do that again.

CROMWELL: Halt! I Hold a pistol--

THE SMALL GIRL [in tears]: My swee-e-e-e-eetie!

Dorothy seized the glue-brush, and with feverish speed pasted
strips of brown paper all over Percy's thorax, up and down,
backwards and forwards, one on top of another, pausing only when
the paper stuck to her fingers. In five minutes she had made a
cuirass of glue and brown paper stout enough, when it was dry, to
have defied a real sword-blade. Percy, 'locked up in complete
steel' and with the sharp paper edge cutting his chin, looked down
at himself with the miserable resigned expression of a dog having
its bath. Dorothy took the shears, slit the breastplate up one
side, set it on end to dry and started immediately on another
child. A fearful clatter broke out as the 'noises off' began
practising the sound of pistol-shots and horses galloping.
Dorothy's fingers were getting stickier and stickier, but from time
to time she washed some of the glue off them in a bucket of hot
water that was kept in readiness. In twenty minutes she had
partially completed three breastplates. Later on they would have
to be finished off, painted over with aluminium paint and laced up
the sides; and after that there was the job of making the thigh-
pieces, and, worst of all, the helmets to go with them. Victor,
gesticulating with his sword and shouting to overcome the din of
galloping horses, was personating in turn Oliver Cromwell, Charles
I, Roundheads, Cavaliers, peasants, and Court ladies. The children
were now growing restive and beginning to yawn, whine, and exchange
furtive kicks and pinches. The breastplates finished for the
moment, Dorothy swept some of the litter off the table, pulled her
sewing-machine into position and set to work on a Cavalier's green
velvet doublet--it was butter muslin Twinked green, but it looked
all right at a distance.

There was another ten minutes of feverish work. Dorothy broke her
thread, all but said 'Damn!' checked herself and hurriedly re-
threaded the needle. She was working against time. The play was
now a fortnight distant, and there was such a multitude of things
yet to be made--helmets, doublets, swords, jackboots (those
miserable jackboots had been haunting her like a nightmare for days
past), scabbards, ruffles, wigs, spurs, scenery--that her heart
sank when she thought of them. The children's parents never helped
with the costumes for the school plays; more exactly, they always
promised to help and then backed out afterwards. Dorothy's head
was aching diabolically, partly from the heat of the conservatory,
partly from the strain of simultaneously sewing and trying to
visualize patterns for brown paper jackboots. For the moment she
had even forgotten the bill for twenty-one pounds seven and
ninepence at Cargill's. She could think of nothing save that
fearful mountain of unmade clothes that lay ahead of her. It was
so throughout the day. One thing loomed up after another--whether
it was the costumes for the school play or the collapsing floor of
the belfry, or the shop-debts or the bindweed in the peas--and each
in its turn so urgent and so harassing that it blotted all the
others out of existence.

Victor threw down his wooden sword, took out his watch and looked
at it.

'That'll do!' he said in the abrupt, ruthless tone from which he
never departed when he was dealing with children. 'We'll go on on
Friday. Clear out, the lot of you! I'm sick of the sight of you.'

He watched the children out, and then, having forgotten their
existence as soon as they were out of his sight, produced a page of
music from his pocket and began to fidget up and down, cocking his
eye at two forlorn plants in the corner which trailed their dead
brown tendrils over the edges of their pots. Dorothy was still
bending over her machine, stitching up the seams of the green
velvet doublet.

Victor was a restless, intelligent little creature, and only happy
when he was quarrelling with somebody or something. His pale,
fine-featured face wore an expression that appeared to be
discontent and was really boyish eagerness. People meeting him for
the first time usually said that he was wasting his talents in his
obscure job as a village schoolmaster; but the truth was that
Victor had no very marketable talents except a slight gift for
music and a much more pronounced gift for dealing with children.
Ineffectual in other ways, he was excellent with children; he had
the proper, ruthless attitude towards them. But of course, like
everyone else, he despised his own especial talent. His interests
were almost purely ecclesiastical. He was what people call a
CHURCHY young man. It had always been his ambition to enter the
Church, and he would actually have done so if he had possessed the
kind of brain that is capable of learning Greek and Hebrew.
Debarred from the priesthood, he had drifted quite naturally into
his position as a Church schoolmaster and organist. It kept him,
so to speak, within the Church precincts. Needless to say, he was
an Anglo-Catholic of the most truculent Church Times breed--more
clerical than the clerics, knowledgeable about Church history,
expert on vestments, and ready at any moment with a furious tirade
against Modernists, Protestants, scientists, Bolshevists, and
atheists.

'I was thinking,' said Dorothy as she stopped her machine and
snipped off the thread, 'we might make those helmets out of old
bowler hats, if we can get hold of enough of them. Cut the brims
off, put on paper brims of the right shape and silver them over.'

'Oh Lord, why worry your head about such things?' said Victor, who
had lost interest in the play the moment the rehearsal was over.

'It's those wretched jackboots that are worrying me the most,' said
Dorothy, taking the doublet on to her knee and looking at it.

'Oh, bother the jackboots! Let's stop thinking about the play for
a moment. Look here,' said Victor, unrolling his page of music, 'I
want you to speak to your father for me. I wish you'd ask him
whether we can't have a procession some time next month.'

'Another procession? What for?'

'Oh, I don't know. You can always find an excuse for a procession.
There's the Nativity of the B.V.M. coming off on the eighth--that's
good enough for a procession, I should think. We'll do it in
style. I've got hold of a splendid rousing hymn that they can all
bellow, and perhaps we could borrow their blue banner with the
Virgin Mary on it from St Wedekind's in Millborough. If he'll say
the word I'll start practising the choir at once.'

'You know he'll only say no,' said Dorothy, threading a needle to
sew buttons on the doublet. 'He doesn't really approve of
processions. It's much better not to ask him and make him angry.'

'Oh, but dash it all!' protested Victor. 'It's simply months since
we've had a procession. I never saw such dead-alive services as we
have here. You'd think we were a Baptist chapel or something, from
the way we go on.'

Victor chafed ceaselessly against the dull correctness of the
Rector's services. His ideal was what he called 'the real Catholic
worship'--meaning unlimited incense, gilded images, and more Roman
vestments. In his capacity of organist he was for ever pressing
for more processions, more voluptuous music, more elaborate
chanting in the liturgy, so that it was a continuous pull devil,
pull baker between him and the Rector. And on this point Dorothy
sided with her father. Having been brought up in the peculiar,
frigid via media of Anglicanism, she was by nature averse to and
half-afraid of anything 'ritualistic'.

'But dash it all!' went on Victor, 'a procession is such fun! Down
the aisle, out through the west door and back through the south
door, with the choir carrying candles behind and the Boy Scouts in
front with the banner. It would look fine.' He sang a stave in a
thin but tuneful tenor:

'Hail thee, Festival Day, blest day that art hallowed for ever!'

'If I had MY way,' he added, 'I'd have a couple of boys swinging
jolly good censers of incense at the same time.'

'Yes, but you know how much Father dislikes that kind of thing.
Especially when it's anything to do with the Virgin Mary. He says
it's all Roman Fever and leads to people crossing themselves and
genuflecting at the wrong times and goodness knows what. You
remember what happened at Advent.'

The previous year, on his own responsibility, Victor had chosen as
one of the hymns for Advent, Number 642, with the refrain 'Hail
Mary, hail Mary, hail Mary full of grace!' This piece of
popishness had annoyed the Rector extremely. At the close of the
first verse he had pointedly laid down his hymn book, turned round
in his stall and stood regarding the congregation with an air so
stony that some of the choirboys faltered and almost broke down.
Afterwards he had said that to hear the rustics bawling ''Ail Mary!
'Ail Mary!' made him think he was in the four-ale bar of the Dog
and Bottle.

'But dash it!' said Victor in his aggrieved way, 'your father
always puts his foot down when I try and get a bit of life into the
service. He won't allow us incense, or decent music, or proper
vestments, or anything. And what's the result? We can't get
enough people to fill the church a quarter full, even on Easter
Sunday. You look round the church on Sunday morning, and it's
nothing but the Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides and a few old
women.'

'I know. It's dreadful,' admitted Dorothy, sewing on her button.
'It doesn't seem to make any difference what we do--we simply CAN'T
get the people to come to church. Still,' she added, 'they do come
to us to be married and buried. And I don't think the congregation's
actually gone down this year. There were nearly two hundred people
at Easter Communion.'

'Two hundred! It ought to be two thousand. That's the population
of this town. The fact is that three quarters of the people in
this place never go near a church in their lives. The Church has
absolutely lost its hold over them. They don't know that it
exists. And why? That's what I'm getting at. Why?'

'I suppose it's all this Science and Free Thought and all that,'
said Dorothy rather sententiously, quoting her father.

This remark deflected Victor from what he had been about to say.
He had been on the very point of saying that St Athelstan's
congregation had dwindled because of the dullness of the services;
but the hated words of Science and Free Thought set him off in
another and even more familiar channel.

'Of course it's this so-called Free Thought!' he exclaimed,
immediately beginning to fidget up and down again. 'It's these
swine of atheists like Bertrand Russell and Julian Huxley and all
that crowd. And what's ruined the Church is that instead of jolly
well answering them and showing them up for the fools and liars
they are, we just sit tight and let them spread their beastly
atheist propaganda wherever they choose. It's all the fault of the
bishops, of course.' (Like every Anglo-Catholic, Victor had an
abysmal contempt for bishops.) 'They're all Modernists and time-
servers. By Jove!' he added more cheerfully, halting, 'did you see
my letter in the Church Times last week?'

'No, I'm afraid I didn't,' said Dorothy, holding another button in
position with her thumb. 'What was it about?'

'Oh, Modernist bishops and all that. I got in a good swipe at old
Barnes.'

It was very rarely that a week passed when Victor did not write a
letter to the Church Times. He was in the thick of every
controversy and in the forefront of every assault upon Modernists
and atheists. He had twice been in combat with Dr Major, had
written letters of withering irony about Dean Inge and the Bishop
of Birmingham, and had not hesitated to attack even the fiendish
Russell himself--but Russell, of course, had not dared to reply.
Dorothy, to tell the truth, very seldom read the Church Times, and
the Rector grew angry if he so much as saw a copy of it in the
house. The weekly paper they took in the Rectory was the High
Churchman's Gazette--a fine old High Tory anachronism with a small
and select circulation.

'That swine Russell!' said Victor reminiscently, with his hands
deep in his pockets. 'How he does make my blood boil!'

'Isn't that the man who's such a clever mathematician, or
something?' said Dorothy, biting off her thread.

'Oh, I dare say he's clever enough in his own line, of course,'
admitted Victor grudgingly. 'But what's that got to do with it?
Just because a man's clever at figures it doesn't mean to say
that-- well, anyway! Let's come back to what I was saying. Why is
it that we can't get people to come to church in this place? It's
because our services are so dreary and godless, that's what it is.
People want worship that IS worship--they want the real Catholic
worship of the real Catholic Church we belong to. And they don't
get if from us. All they get is the old Protestant mumbo-jumbo,
and Protestantism's as dead as a doornail, and everyone knows it.'

'That's not true!' said Dorothy rather sharply as she pressed the
third button into place. 'You know we're not Protestants.
Father's always saying that the Church of England is the Catholic
Church--he's preached I don't know how many sermons about the
Apostolic Succession. That's why Lord Pockthorne and the others
won't come to church here. Only he won't join in the Anglo-
Catholic movement because he thinks they're too fond of ritualism
for its own sake. And so do I.'

'Oh, I don't say your father isn't absolutely sound on doctrine--
absolutely sound. But if he thinks we're the Catholic Church, why
doesn't he hold the service in a proper Catholic way? It's a shame
we can't have incense OCCASIONALLY. And his ideas about vestments--
if you don't mind my saying it--are simply awful. On Easter
Sunday he was wearing a Gothic cope with a modern Italian lace alb.
Dash it, it's like wearing a top hat with brown boots.'

'Well, I don't think vestments are so important as you do,' said
Dorothy. 'I think it's the spirit of the priest that matters, not
the clothes he wears.'

'That's the kind of thing a Primitive Methodist would say!'
exclaimed Victor disgustedly. 'Of course vestments are important!
Where's the sense of worshipping at all if we can't make a proper
job of it? Now, if you want to see what real Catholic worship CAN
be like, look at St Wedekind's in Millborough! By Jove, they do
things in style there! Images of the Virgin, reservation of the
Sacrament--everything. They've had the Kensitites on to them three
times, and they simply defy the Bishop.'

'Oh, I hate the way they go on at St Wedekind's!' said Dorothy.
'They're absolutely spiky. You can hardly see what's happening at
the altar, there are such clouds of incense. I think people like
that ought to turn Roman Catholic and have done with it.'

'My dear Dorothy, you ought to have been a Nonconformist. You
really ought. A Plymouth Brother--or a Plymouth Sister or whatever
it's called. I think your favourite hymn must be Number 567, "O my
God I fear Thee, Thou art very High!"'

'Yours is Number 231, "I nightly pitch my moving tent a day's march
nearer Rome!"' retorted Dorothy, winding the thread round the last
button.

The argument continued for several minutes while Dorothy adorned a
Cavalier's beaver hat (it was an old black felt school hat of her
own) with plume and ribbons. She and Victor were never long
together without being involved in an argument upon the question of
'ritualism'. In Dorothy's opinion Victor was a kind to 'go over to
Rome' if not prevented, and she was very likely right. But Victor
was not yet aware of his probable destiny. At present the fevers
of the Anglo-Catholic movement, with its ceaseless exciting warfare
on three fronts at once--Protestants to right of you, Modernists to
the left of you, and, unfortunately, Roman Catholics to rear of you
and always ready for a sly kick in the pants--filled his mental
horizon. Scoring off Dr Major in the Church Times meant more to
him than any of the serious business of life. But for all his
churchiness he had not an atom of real piety in his constitution.
It was essentially as a game that religious controversy appealed to
him--the most absorbing game ever invented, because it goes on for
ever and because just a little cheating is allowed.

'Thank goodness, that's done!' said Dorothy, twiddling the
Cavalier's beaver hat round on her hand and then putting it down.
'Oh dear, what piles of things there are still to do, though! I
wish I could get those wretched jackboots off my mind. What's the
time, Victor?'

'It's nearly five to one.'

'Oh, good gracious! I must run. I've got three omelettes to make.
I daren't trust them to Ellen. And, oh, Victor! Have you got
anything you can give us for the jumble sale? If you had an old
pair of trousers you could give us, that would be best of all,
because we can always sell trousers.'

'Trousers? No. But I tell you what I have got, though. I've got
a copy of The Pilgrim's Progress and another of Foxe's Book of
Martyrs that I've been wanting to get rid of for years. Beastly
Protestant trash! An old Dissenting aunt of mine gave them to me.--
Doesn't it make you sick, all this cadging for pennies? Now, if
we only held our services in a proper Catholic way, so that we
could get up a proper congregation, don't you see, we shouldn't
need--'

'That'll be splendid,' said Dorothy. 'We always have a stall for
books--we charge a penny for each book, and nearly all of them get
sold. We simply MUST make that jumble sale a success, Victor! I'm
counting on Miss Mayfill to give us something really NICE. What
I'm specially hoping is that she might give us that beautiful old
Lowestoft china tea service of hers, and we could sell it for five
pounds at least. I've been making special prayers all the morning
that she'll give it to us.'

'Oh?' said Victor, less enthusiastically than usual. Like Proggett
earlier in the morning, he was embarrassed by the word 'prayer'.
He was ready to talk all day long about a point of ritual; but the
mention of private devotions struck him as slightly indecent.
'Don't forget to ask your father about the procession,' he said,
getting back to a more congenial topic.

'All right, I'll ask him. But you know how it'll be. He'll only
get annoyed and say it's Roman Fever.'

'Oh, damn Roman Fever!' said Victor, who, unlike Dorothy, did not
set himself penances for swearing.

Dorothy hurried to the kitchen, discovered that there were only
five eggs to make the omelettes for three people, and decided to
make one large omelette and swell it out a bit with the cold boiled
potatoes left over from yesterday. With a short prayer for the
success of the omelette (for omelettes are so dreadfully apt to get
broken when you take them out of the pan), she whipped up the eggs,
while Victor made off down the drive, half wistfully and half
sulkily humming 'Hail thee, Festival Day', and passing on his way a
disgusted-looking manservant carrying the two handleless chamber-
pots which were Miss Mayfill's contribution to the jumble sale.

Continue