Vicars' walk

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 17, 21 January 1933, Page 11 (Supplement)

Vicars' walk

.' ,By ' HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL — 7 (Author of "Quinney's")—■—— ;

PROLOGUE. In Fountains—that medieval Wessex town Ti-.liicli takes its name from- the splendid springs (Pontes) to tlie -soutli-. east of the cathedral church—you -will fluid, Vicars' Walk, which, is. :indeed Vicars' Closp, or college, linked by an eS quisito bridge to the .magnificent Chapter House, but not ,tlie property of. Dean and Chapter. ■ The history of this enchanting little backwater, set fat from the ordinary traflics and excursions of life, is well known in Fountains. It was founded, towards the end of the fourteenth Century, by a great ana kindly bishop, whose alabaster effigy lies upon the top of his tomb in the cathedral church. It had 1 come to this prelate's ears that his Vicars Choral had no plac° of fixed There were in all about forty singing men (as they ■were called subsequently),, and in the walk you will see forty chimneys standin" above the houses.' The actual chimneys may • lwvc been restored "or replaced, but the original bases remain embellished by escutcheons. After the Reformation, Good Queen Bess granted a fresh charter to,.the viears which may be seen ' (by those interested in such ancient documents) in what used to be the refectory of the college, now serving as a library. This fine room is situate ja a Gate House; and through a noble arc h a visitor will espy delightedly an avenue of stone-built, miniature houses on a slight, upward incline, .with a chapel at the north end, making of the street a cul de sac.

Each house has its beautifully kept little garden in front of it. Originally, the Vicars Choral; being celibates, lived a Communal' life,' and ■ you can think of these tiny hoiises as :bed .chambers; After the Beformation the vicars took unto themselves wives, and -the houses were remodelled inside, - although outwardly the walk, looks much as it did if you have imagination to envisage; it without the present windows, many of which are Georgian. " r " : J

Dr. Dyson, the dean, spoke of-Vicars' Walk as Levitea Row, because 00'se -who live in it.are Concerned with service in and about the cathedral church.

Certain 1 families in the walk Have been there for three or even four, generations. Abel Saint, the 6enior verger (or Dean's verger), was the son of another Abel Saint*'also a.-verger. The Vyes, ■who occupy tile house next to the Saints, established themselves in the "Walk after the Napoleonic Wars. The Sumshions, cathedral stonemasons and also singing men, cantata the Walk when the First Gentleman ," of i Europe was building the Pavilion, ai, Brighton. The Hiles, singing men," carpenters, and what 'not, claim pride of place as the oldest family, being lineally, descended.frgm one.Peter Hiles, who had .been, fe toward to the Lord Bishop of" Fountains yhen Queen Aime sat on hep tfirorie: : > '■ '• - ' J ■ ■■■ sens?L of humour)the Dean's it'is-iiecessaxy to indicate the I<evitical liaw, whether Written or hnwritten, which governed alike' the. passivities SaidK activities of 4he Levites in< Vicars' Walk,,; before and up to'the advent of the motor ear_ , They were, expected to lead decent, God-fearing livda With Tarest exceptions they did so. Even today there lingers in the Walk an atmosphere of tranquil content which defies loud speakers and motor horns;. Before the war the change in conditions was hardly perceptible to the unpbservant eye; but it might be felt. For example, youth had begun to question sotto voce the wisdom of age. Youth dared not say all that it thought in the presence of age, but in secret it' rebelled against too strict a discipline. The matrons perhaps were a thought'more austere than the men, having a keener sense of possession. Observance of the law spelled for them security. When a girl married ' a Levite she knew that humanly speaking she became immune from bad lan- : guage and bad treatment. And, so far as her oVn conduct was concerned, she realised.that it paid to be good. "Lead us not into temptation" was no empty phrase in Vicars* Walk. Mothers protected their daughters' against the lusts of the flesh; fathers took Jthe rod to their sons if they , kept loose company. To be sure the townspeople, the lesser breeds without the' Law, scoffed at much which they were unable to understand. Bnt the Levites,.- in the shadow of their splendid temple, standing shoulder to , shoulder, kept themselves to themselves because all would be well within the sanctuary if the danger without was made plain to children not" old enough to appreciate the amenities that would, be theirs if—if they behave themselves.

. It is • certain th&t the cathedral church exercised a, tremendous influence over the Walk/ It emphasised the doctrine of the'survival of ther fittest.' it ivae the business of the Levites to know their temple, and to pass on that knowledge to others. Its beauty was continually on their lips. The Sumshions, ■being stonemasons, were at work on it or in it all the year round. Abel Saint and Joseph Vye were vergers; Arthur Kerridge was the organist. During more than 2tt years Ambrose Custard, the scrivener, had eung bass in the cathedral choir. But lib was something" of a note of interrogation, inasmuch as he had introduced to the Walk, his granddaughter, Bessie, when she was 10 years old. Nobody' knew anything about Bessie's mother. The only son of Ambrose had left Fountains ostensibly to better him. self; He had been accounted a bright lad, hut not cut to pattern. Fountains never saw. him again. Fountains forgot him. Old Ambrose must have been past 60 when he vanished;-most mysteriously, and was absent for some three weeks. He caine back with Bessie. Apparently he had undertaken the sole charge of a pretty little maid. The dean cited Silas Manner aptly enough. Old Ambrose had turned, eince the death of his wife, into a recluse, and really,, since the general use of the typewriting machine;, his occupation was almost gone; he was the last °f the scriveners in Fountains. In answer to questions, lie said curtly that Bessie's sparents were dead. However, the good gossips gleaned more information from the child. She prattled about her father, who apparently had not been too successful as an actor. Nevertheless, Bessie had the wardrobe of a gentleman's child; and she spoke as the quality speak. She couldn't remember her mother. Vicars' Walk was upset and baffled. Old, Ambrose refused to enlighten curiosity which exhausted itself in-idle speculation. There been one titling if.ypuica.ri call it that. Sirs. Vye, the mother of four daughters, would iave mothered Bessie had she received any encouragement from Old Ambrose.

To Mrs. Vye Bessie had made this startling announcement: "My mum was a real lady." _ That —and no mow, act one corroborative detail.- , Vicars' Walk discussed this from every point of View. In 1904 Fountains was still far from the beaten track, not easily accessible either by road or rail. There wasn't a woman, old or young, in the Walk who would have spoken of herself as a lady. Mrs. Vye, being a sensible 'woman, had taken upon herself to warn the child. "Yes, dear, but I wouldn't say so here, if I were you. Sounds like bragging, don't it? If you look and behave Ske a little "lady, your dear mother, if she were alive, would be ever so pleased." Bessie had nodded and smiled intelligently. • Under the firm conviction that strolling .actors were rogues and vagabonds, the Walk agreed that the less said about Bessie's parents the better. It was further agreed that the reticencies of Am- . bfose Custard must be respected. •CHAPTER! ■ Concerning Enoch Saint. Enoch Saint, when he was a chorister in Fountains Cathedral, spoke of Dean Dyson as his friend. This amused many j persoiK, became Mr_. Dean, both to tlje observant and unobs'ervant, appeared to j be a formidable personage, tall, thin, pale and austere, a sometime famous scholar, but without the scholar's stoop. The Lord Bishop of Fountains, round and rosy, cut no figure in the presence of Mr. Dean; and it was said by the townspeople, good West Country gossips, that the autocrat of the Close had the last word upon everything affecting the diocese, even aa he reigned supreme over the Chapter. . Enoch, being the only son of the senior verger,'could talk of bishops, deans, abbots and cardinals -without being kicked. He could also' talk i (and did) about Gothic architecture, when other boys, were discussing batting averages. It is significant* although hardly credible, • that Enoch, regarded as "hopeless" at games, had achieved a sort of leadership by-exercise of his'-wits. Perhaps his voice had established him at a pre-kickable age as one of the wonders of Fountains. When this voix celeste was first heard, strangers stared with troubled- eyes at a , diminutive figure as savages might stare at a gramophone. They expected to see an' angel boy; they beheld instead a pallid imp, all eyes and inouth, who surely would never live to. be a man. And that —if the gossips could be believed — had excited the interest of the_ dean and whetted, possibly, a determination on his part to .defeat the gentleman with the scythe. Anyway, Enoch to London Iby the dean (who paid, expenses) and was by half a dozen doctors, who found serious glandular trouble whicli, in due tune, yielded to. treatment, Six months later he was not v to'o noticeably different from other •boys of ids age. ' In :i9l4s Enoch was functioning an "odd 'man? 'in aiid about the cathedral. He did wort "for the "diea'n;''he"-labelled •himself "typist "and stenographer; he •could repair, ancient tomes; he had acquired an out-of-the-way knowledge of the cathedral j and fie was regarded by all. and siihdry as an obliging, industrious and accomplished person who, had he been the son of a county magnate, might have gone far on- any road. Some three'or four months before, the declaration of-war, he fell in love with Felicity Vye, the daughter of Joseph Vye, second-in-commr-nd .to Abel Saint, Enoch's father. The two families were on the best of terms and minded their manners as carefully as they tended their small gardens, which were the prettiest in the Walk. The Sumshions lived on the other side of the street next . door to Ambrose Custard, the scrivener. Higher up, to the left of the chapel, was the biggest house, tenanted by Arthur Kerridge, the organist. Kerridge might have been a prosperous publican. His father owned a famous tavern, the Open Arms, which he proposed to bequeath to his elder son, the organist. However, nobody connected with the Close was surprised when Arthur Kerridge, after his father's death, refused to leave Vicars* Walk. His younger brother Alfred stepped nimbly into the business, and doubled "takings" by methods not altogether approved by Arthur. The inn became a popular house of call, because a huge sign—two huge signs fore and aft— advertised "Omelettes." Throughout the West Country these omelettes became as alluring as those of Madame Poulard at Mont Saint Michel. Credit for no mean achievement must be given to Alfred's wife, half a Frenchwoman. ' She made the buttery omelettes and ruled well and wisely over the kitchen. Felicity Vye was a simple maid, likely to become as' plump as her mother, pretty enough, but very prim, and properly under the thumb of her father. She regarded Enoch with affection, bavin" known him all her life. He had taught her to spin a top .in top-time, and to play marbles. Nobody in Fountains, except Felicity, knew that Enoch had taken interest in her dolls, weaving blood-curdling stories about, them. This was long before the wonderful visit to London. But afterwards, when the boy shot up into a thin, lanky, sallow-faced youth, he went on making up thrilling tales which had. a regional tang to them. Enoch by this time had acquired what the Dean called a diction. was nice in his use of English, disdaining the dialect used by town boys. It was understood in Vicars' AValk that Enoch would be a verger and carry a verge. Felicity's mother, the >mos£ voluble woman in Fountains, said so in. no uncertain tones. Before he was sixteen 'Enoch' had begun to understudy, his father, and, on one notable occasion (to the indignation of Mr. Vye), had taken round a party of Americans, who tipped _ him handsomely. Secretly Abel Saint chuckled over this, but Mr. Vye spoke of Enoch as a "scab," a snapper-up of sixpences earmarked for his elders and betters. " 11. Falling in love with Felicity was a great, and alarming for a young man painfully shy and miserably aware of his physical disabilities. Girls giggled at sight of Enoch, making fun of his patronymic. They knew him as "young Saint/' who had lost his aweinspiring voice, who had ceased to be a wonder child, and was girlish in his ways and tastes. .- But, oddly enough, Enoch retained his ascendancy over boys. They werte dimly but dumbly aware that.he was.different from them. Possibly, another reason can be assigned. Alf. Kerridge, the sou of the publican, and nephew of the organist, two or three years older than

Enoch, was known to be Enoch's friend and protector. Alf was a big, hulking, red-faced youth... redeemed from the commonplace by the tincture of Gallic blood in his veins. He strutted about, a young Johnnie Bull .in appearance. In his head and heart lurked Jacques Bonkomme. v

Enoch admired Alf enormously; the more so because the Walk predicted that Alf would come to no good end. Alf now | and again disturbed the peace of his uncle, the organist, another friend of Enoch's, :who had crushed Alf for at least five minutes by saying acidulously: "Enoch Saint is worth a baker's dozen of such louts as you." The ordinary lout of fifteen would have resented this, but Alf was intermittently intelligent. He had" never ceased wondering why Uncle Artie had remained an ill-paid organist ..when ho might have been a prosperous. licensed victualler. Alf's father said that Uncle Artie was brainy, with a dash of "the quality" about him. In the Kerridge family Uncle Artie was held to be a sound adviser in time of trouble.

Unhappily, as events turned out, Enoch was far too sliy to speak of Felicity to Alf, or anybody else. He might have confided in his sister Judith, who made a tremendous fuss over him; but she was five years older than himself and most astonishingly married to a London tailor, John Wintle. Her_ swift courtship and marriage had delighted Enoch. So romantic! Between Romeo and Juliet Enoch played go-between. .How he had loved his part!

Enoch was a party to and often a witness of the love-making, ihe paients knew nothing of what was going on under their nosos till Judith displayed an engagement ring. She had what is termed to-day a "hunch" that father, always the man with the verge, might spoil the fun of the fair. Mother, of course, would side with him. Eventually ; youth 'triumphed. Abel Saint (and Vicars' Walk) surrendered conditionally. What would Mr. Wintle, sen., say? Mr. Wintle—at first sight of Judy —pronounced a benediction. lIL Whether or not July would have acclaimed little Felicity Vye as a future sister-in-law is not worth considering. Enoch had a distressing conviction that Judy might scoff at calf love. That was what his father would call it. And Mrs. Vye would exclaim: "Stuff and nonsense." Had the Dean been a thought Jess austere Enoch would have gone to him. Considering such a visit with what detachment he could compass, it seemed certain' that Mr. Dean would say, with a dry chuckle: "Yes, yes, my boy, but does Felicity caro for you?'

Did she? That corroding question obtruded itself. Felicity had been sweet to him always. She was now barely seventeen, blushingly conscious, that young men turned their heads to glance at her as she tripped by. The more •Enoch considered John .Wintle's dashing methods, the more miserably conscious he became of his own inhibitions and hesitations. Judith had never been prim; Judith knew what she wanted. B\it Felicity had the air' of repeating piously: "Whatever I am about to receive may the Lord make me truly thankful." That, more or less, was a tradition in Vicars'; Walk, and an emanation from the Close, where wives of canons and minor canons laid down the law to women of lesser degree.

Long afterwards Enoch attempted to . measure his passion for Felicity. Passion it was, a mad ungovernable urge to have and to hold her. But it was difficult to imagine her sharing this. passion.'Surely she would shxink from it. ashamed and abashed as became a modest maid. And if he tried to ape John Wintle, he would make himself ridiculous. Finally he embalmed some of his emotions in a sonnet, which Felicity described as "sweetly pretty." -She suggested that it might be printed, that it might even be paid | for. Enoch said hastily:

"It's for you; I -wrote it for you. Don't shew it to anybody."

"You are a oner to think of such things." _ .|_ This was non-committal, uttered without a blush. Desperately Enoch plunged. "Alf Kerridge said the other day that a woman always knew when a man was in love with her."

"Alf said that?" "Yes " "I—l suppose Alf plays about with half a dozen girls." , . . . "When boys like Alf talk about girls I hate to listen. It just cheapens everything." Felicity nodded. "Does it? I suppose Alf is—well, you know. Does he talk to you about his conquests?" . "I should be sick if he did. ...„ "Mother has warned me against All, continued Felicity. "All the same, I should like to hear his lordship talkin D about women." "No, you wouldn't." 'SI know I should die of laughing. Course he knows more than you do, Enie; he's such a naughty boy, and certain, so Mum says, to turn into a bold bad man. Even now he kisses and tells—! Perfectly hateful! As were talking about Alf I do think that if you think anything of me you mignt sea less of him." ~ , "All right. But Alf would say that you know what I feel about you. "P'rhaps I do, and p'rhaps I dont. Are you in love me, dear?" "Yes, I am —madly." She shot an appraising glance at him, half-smiling. "You want to—to marry me? "Fee, I'm crazy for you. Look here, if jf you don't love me as I love you, it will come. May I give you a true lover's kiss?" Felicity glanced about her. As children she and Enoch had kissed coram publico. As yet no lover had kissed her. "You mustn't be rough," she warned k Tenderly, reverentially, Enoch laid hi 3 lips upon hers, surprised and touched because she yielded so easily. Perhaps she had always cared—as he cared. Presently, she hid her face on his .shoulder, still clinging to him, but say-rng-nothing. He hoped that she was blushing, but she wasn't. To his surprise she said calmly: - __ "Enie, let's talk everything over, lou 'are the dearest boy in the world, and I'm sure I love you to distraction, but, oh, my! where are we?" They were in a coign of great vantage, reasonably secure from haphazard interruption, screened from pryiifg eyes of Tom or Tabby, encompassed by wallsseven feet thick, iri. a, room lighted by i two lancet windows, tjie top room of the . ancient Gatehouse. Stone stairs led to this oak-panelled, parlour where both Felicity and Enoch -worked very _ much when and how they pleased; for this was the library of the Close. Felicity earned a little extra pin-money by keeping it in order; Enoch was the librarian. Had Mrs Vye or Mrs. Saint mounted t-ie stone stairs, the' otherwise rather startling fact of finding their children alone and together would have excited no comment. Nevertheless, till quite recently, Felicity ', - done her work early in the morning, whereas Enoch, who was on duty elsewhere from ten to one, did his work early in the afternoon. After five the library was open 1 to the privileged lev.

IV. > .'. * Felicity, with virginal nods and smiles, endeavoured to explain where they were from another point of view. Enoch believed her to be a sensible little dearj-. he had never thought of her as worldlywise, having yet to learn' that even' flappers of the lower middle-class are confoundedly alert where their interests are at stake. In cool, temperate tones Felicity summed up their joint ages .as well under thirty-seven; she asked Enoch if he was in a position to support a wife in a tone suggesting (even to Enoch) that babies were a never-failing crop in Fountains; she indicated parental objections on both sides and her sad conviction that a long engagement would be frowned upon. None the less, when she had finished talking, she held up her lips to be kissed. Finally, the maid, not the man, imposed secrecy, and had her way. She was sharp enough to point out that John and Judy, with Enoch's whole-souled cooperation, had met and loved in secret. What a epice of Cupid's dish! Beguiled by Felicity's soft lips, Enoch dared not reply that John was old enough to marry and rich enough to support a wife. He suppressed, too, his knowledge that the parents on both sides trusted him. No other "young man in was allowed to be alone with Felicity. Before they parted Felicity said significantly: , „ "Enie, I'm going to b© most awfully ambitious for you." 'He smiled faintly., Felicity went on: "You're so clever. You might become a gentleman, if you took Orders." "Took Orders?" "Well, why shouldn't you 1 Enoch smiled at her. She spoke of taking Orders as if it were on all foil IS with taking a cup of tea or the King s shilling. ~ , "You might end up a bishop, and be called 'my lord.' How I'd love to be a bishop's wife." "Now, Fee, are you ambitious for ms or for yourself ?" ( "If you laugh at me," she pouted, i shall be very cross. I want to be proud of you. When I look at your mother and mine, I don't someway see myself as a verger's wife." Enoch was puzzled, but not offended. He had smiled inwardly at Felicity s use of that resilient word gentleman. It is significant that nobody in the Walk would have spoken of Felicity as a young lady. The bishop's butler, had she called, at the Palace, would have announced her as a young person. But the Walk, speaking collectively, would have been unanimous in declaring that any deacon in Holy Orders had the right to dub himself gentleman. More, if he married a young person, she would rise automatically to his social level. , "You don't see yourself as a vergers wife," he repeated. "Enie, it's so deadly dull here. I never dared say so before, not even to you, but it is. Aren'f you dull sometimes ? What have you looked forward to? Tell me. "You—" . "Me? Graciousf "I have thought of little else, Fee. Suppose I did take Orders? What would be my position? Here, at any rate, X should be looked down on as a ranker. I might begin and end. a curate, earning less than my father does. He has no position to keep up. Honestly, I uld sooner be a bricklaycr than a curate, unless —"

"Unless?" „ ~ ~ "Unless," he replied with aslignt constraint, "the call came to me." He stopped abruptly, because he could see that he was talking over a pretty little head. Calls meant nothing to sweet seventeen. m , -".Why shouldn't you become a great writer?" .. , „ ' Her belief in his cleverness was pathetic. , . "Well, sweetheart, I have spoken to the Dean about that. He writes, and he told me with that twisted smile ot hia how very little he made. Also lie warned me that I should have to serve a long apprenticeship, granting that had aptitudes—" "Enie, you, do talk so lovely. xou are wasted here in this dull old town. Why shouldn't you go to London? Your brother-in : law might give you a position. Hasn't your sister ever talked to you about that? She's quite the lady. | My! When she came down last Christmas she was the smartest thing in Fountains." . I / "If I left Fountains," said Enoch slowly, "I should leave you." "But if you were going ahead I shouldn't mind that, not a bit. wait, as other girls have waited." A minute later she had to leave him. It was hastily agreed that it would be too heavenly to meet secretly for the next few weeks or so. Obviously the sometime refrectory, high up, approached by stone stairs, had been divinely appointed for euch a purpose. ; When she kissed him good-bye, she whispered: "I'm a good girl, Enie. I've never thought of any . man but you. . I hate the rough town boys. Yes, I'm good; and you're clever. Between us we just ought to get somewhere." She flitted away with a backward glance, wafting a last kiss to him as she passed through the door. (To be continued daily.| **