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: ?21. 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.
