A Clergyman's Daughter Page 3

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 breakfa
st 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. S
he 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