Vicars' Waik

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 18, 23 January 1933, Page 15

Vicars' Waik

By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL (Author of "Quinney'B")—— —' iL ' ' ■ - '

CHAPTER I—Continued.) V. As soon as he was alone Enoch thanked God for this great gift of a good girl. He didn't fall on his knees, because the Dean had spoken disdainfully of lip service. Enoch could recall an injunction frequently repeated: "I would sooner yon thought your prayers rather than said them," or, with a reassuring twinkle in his eyes, " Try to invent new prayers. Don't you think that God must get rather tired of hearing the same thing said over and over again ? " Having thanked God after a fashion which Mr. Dean would have commended, Enoch went on with his work, attempting not very successfully to forget Felicity's clinging arms and lips and to concentrate upon what she had said. He couldn't escape the conclusion that a good girl who had known him all her life, and who was now part and parcel of his life, regarded him as a drudge !. With sudden illumination he linked Judy with Felicity. Till that moment it" had never occurred to him that his own sister, who had responded so swiftly and ardently to the enterprising John Wintle, might have seen in John, apart from his attractive personality, the first and perhaps the only opportunity to escape from Fountains. Ten minutes after Felicity left him, Enoch was quite certain. that Judy had been dull in Fountains. The Vyes and the Saints, for generations, had lived and died in this wonderful old town. They loved it, even if they were unable to express love in words; they deemed themselves blest because they did not live in Bristol. Suddenly, Enoch experienced an odd wish to survey Fountains, to—to take stock of it, so to speak, as a panoramic whole. At seven Enoch descended the stone stairs and passed into the Close. He'stood still for a moment conscious of the overwhelming dominance of the cathedral. It dwarfed everything else save the Bishop's Palace, really a feudal castle encircled by a moat upon which swans glided hither and thither, pausing to ring a bell if they felt in need of refreshment. Enoch was on the friendliest terms with the swans. Now and again a swan flew away. Why? The moat was a sanctuary to coots, ducks, and other water birds seemingly content with Fountains. Overhead the rooks cawed in the' elms.- A robber rook, pilfering twigs from another's ne6t, was expelled from tho community. But did rooks of their own free will leave Fountains? He was not knowledgable enough about the habits of birds to answer this question. Thinking about rooks suggested the black-coated clergy. He remembered that the Dean had refused a bishopric. Fountains, and in particular the Walk, had expressed satisfaction, not surprise. Enoch strolled as far as the bowling green, which would be open to bowlers on the first of May. It was now in applepie order, absolutely level, a sheet of richest emerald. The most famous bowler was over 70 years of age; he had bowled for half a century! And then —was it sheer coincidence or not? —Enoch espied this patriarch jgazing lovingly and critically at the green.' Salutations were exchanged. "Have you ever left Fountains?" asked Enoch. Tho oldest bowler answered querulously, as if rebuking a thoughtless youth for asking a silly question. "Leave Fountains? I've lived herealong, man and boy, for niore'n seventy year. I have been to London "town once —and never wanted to go again. Leave Fountains—? God A'miglity—whatever for?" CHAPTER 11. Miss, Mrs. and Mr. Vye. I. Taking courteous leave of the oldest bowler in Fountains, Enoch pulled from his pockct a pipe and filled it. He rationed himself with tobacco, fearing abuse of one of the best of God's good creatures. • Lighting his pipe, Enoch turned his back 011 the Close, and began to ascend the wooded hill to the cast of the town. From the top of this Fountains and the vale stretching towards Severn's silver sea could be seen to perfection. Enoch was sure that Saint Joseph of Arimathea would have planted the Holy Thorn 011 this hill had he known of it. King Ina, who built a Saxon church in honour of Saint Andrew, must have stood where Enoch stood surveying the champaign beneath. His church was of wood. The Normans introduced stone. But, during eight centuries, the cathedral had been slowly built by many hands. Abel Saint talked about it .to Enoch as soon as the boy was old enough to listen. Abel Saint, a hard, narrow-minded, narrow-headed disciplinarian, a stickler for the letter of the law, something too of a pincher, a reactionary, of course, a bit of a snob, was a true lover of the beauty that endures in stone. That love he transmitted to his son. Enoch wished to behold Fountains panoramieally; but the Dean could have told him that here was one of those exceptional towns where a part is incomparably greater than the whole. Enoch's thoughts lingered on and in the cath- , edral. He remembered that one bishop • had left it. Another bishop, living elsewhere, had died leaving instructions that , his body was to bo buried beneath the , high altar. And that,-according to the ■ Dean, had led to the rehabilitation- of Fountains. : Having climbed a hill to survey his , birthplace, Enoch, for at least a quarter of an hour, could not take his eyes off , the cathedral. When he did they rested upon' Vicar' 6 Walk. He let his pipe go out thinking of Felicity. ' . H. ' J She had. imposed, secrecy upon him. J Nevertheless, before his. kisses were cold 1 on her lips, she was seized with an £ irresistible desire to put into words 1 thoughts jostling each other in her s small pate. In the Walk there flourished 5 an unwritten law among young girls, J observed by the majority of marriage- 1 able maids who live in that genteel suburb which, socially speaking, lies between domestic service and the independence of the well-to-do. It was a stigma, in Felicity's judgment, to 1 marry any man—regardless of physical < attributes —who could not offer (and 1 provide) a position at least equal to that 1 of her own parents. The right man "went one better." 1 Felicity, slightly flushed? scampered s home, to find her mother alone. Mrs. a Vye was always'-''gUJ to welcome old 1 friends. Invariably «he entreated them v to stay_on. "Why hurry?" fell plain- c tively from her pleasant lips. She was a of kin to dozens of persons in and about 1

Fountains, with "ever so pleased to see you" inscribed upon her comely, goodnatured face. Being a lady with a facade, a sprightly Gaul might have said of her: "Trop de balcon." Still, Mrs. Vye carried her embonpoint with an air—the personal diety whom she saw as "taking a paternal and proprietary interest in Vicar's Walk had denied to Mrs. Vye male off-spring. She had brought into this world four girls. Three had married tradesmen. Felicity remained her ewe lamb. A' voluble talker, too voluble ' (so' her neighbours thought), she resented interruptions. She loved irrelevancies; she couldn't tell a straight story without divagations. Mr. Vye and her daughters. would then ruthlessly "cut ( in," damning the babbling rivulet. "Where have you been, child?" "Cleaning up in Gate House." Felicity sat down, aware that her cheeks betrayed a too warm damask, which might provoke questions. Happily, mum seldom waited for questions to be answered. She preferred to answer them herself. "I don't hold with p.m. cleanings-up. It was never done in my time. Except on Sundays I used to get your grandfather a cup o' tea at seven a.m. and take it to him in bed. He fancied feather beds, which I never could abide. My mother made her own feather beds. We collected feathers, made a nice useful hobby of it. I don't deny that a real, old-fashioned feather bed is a comfort on cold winter nights. But in summertime .. . ! And, even in them anpient days, when I was just such a slip of a girl as you are, and bathed my cheeks in morning dew, and believed in fairies and what not, I used to perspire that easily that . . . "Mum?" "Yes?" "Any visitors this afternoon?" "Only your sister, Unity. Popped in and popped out again. I don't hold with that. So flickety-flaekety. My mother used to say: 'If you can't bide a bit, why sit down at all?' Very quick with her tongue, mother was, and . . . ." "Did Unity have any news?" "That she did. I may as well tell you. She's expecting next September. Well, they can afford one more. As she seemed to be asking for a word o' cheer, I told her that she might be worse employed, particularly now Eustace can afford extra help, and I added that she could count 011 you."

Felicity frowned and fidgeted. It was humanly certain that Unity would send for her. Then history would repeat itself; she would play nursemaid and maid of all work. "I call it chronic," she murmured. "What do you say? And what do you mean ?" "This baby business makes me so cross. I'm fed up with it. As usual, I shall be asked to step round and oblige. Enough —and more than enough, but Unity and you and father think that I like helping, and I loathe it." w Mrs.. -Vye- was inexpressibly shocked. How could she cope with this outburst, so—so unmaidenly, so unfeeling and so unexpected? Never, never had a young girl thus delivered herself in Vicars' Walk. One might expect something of the sort from acidulous, cantankerous old maids, yes, but where had a mere child picked up such ideas? She held up a plump hand. "It's a mercy your dear father isn't here. . . ." "I wouldn't speak about babies before any man. Mayn't I say what I think to my own mother?" "It's so dreadful that you should think such things. Keely I don't know what to say to you. Your dear sisters are good Christian wives and mothers, doing their duty. I'm- proud of them; so is your father. It's blasphemious to talk about babies the way you do." "All right; all right. You said that Unity wanted a word of cheer. If it's such a blessed privilege to have a baby once a year, why should she be down in the dumps about it ?"

"There are reasons," rejoined Mrs. Vye austerely, "which I'm not going to discuss with a chit like .you. You'll know more about it in God's good time. You have upset me. I'm wondering what young girls are coining to and what they'll say next. Your sisters are happy. Do you deny that, miss?" Felicity said simply: "Perhaps they are, mum. I don't know; nobody knows. What I say is that their lives seem dreadfully dull to me, but then to my notions this funny old town is dull. You can't get away from it." Whether it was impossible to escape from Fountains or from a silly child's conclusion about it, Mrs. Vye was unable to determine. She was quivering like a jelly and wondering whether or not Felicity needed a dose of castor oil. Her liver must bo out of order. But critical inspection of the girl's blooming cheeks and clear bright eyes put this conjecture out of court. "Show me your tongue." Felicity displayed a dimple, as she thrust out a little tongue in the pink of condition. Baffled but not beaten Mrs. •Vye hazarded another guess. "My daughter , never got such ideas out of her own head. Don't you try to deceive me. You own up where you picked up these ideas." Felicity did so, having a card up her sleeve which slie proposed to play immediately. "Enoch Saint put these ideas, as you call 'em, into my head," Mrs. Vye gasped. "I don't believe it;, I can't believe it." The artful Felicity played her card. "Enoch thinks as you do, mum. We had a talk about it. I got the idea that Fountains was a dull old place, because Enoch is so sure it isn't. I shocked him as I've shocked you, 'cos I sort of hinted that Judith had snapped up Mr. Wintle in a hurry feeling, may be, that she couldn't miss a grand chance to see a bit of life in London." "You said that to Enoch Saint?" "That, or something like it." "Go on. 'What happened next?" "Enoch was quite nice, but you see he's clever. I daresay he didn't want to be unkind to me, 'cos we've always been friends. What do you think of Enoch, mum ?" Mrs. Vye, completely hoodwinked, much relieved to find that Enoch stood shoulder to shoulder with herself, spoke as Felicity wished her to speak—most handsomely of young Saint. He was wise beyond his years; he had never caused his dear mother a moment's anxiety apart from his health; he might be a person of importance somel

day, if it was true that old Saint had saved a nice bit" of money; he was a churchman; he hadn't an idle bone in his body; and she, the speaker, said that had God Almighty seen fit to send her such a son, she would have accounted herself blessed. ' Felicity listened, dimpling with pleasure. She had wanted this, craved for this as Enoch craved for a soothing pipe. Father would see eye to eye with mum. All the same, both father and mum would be concerned if they heard of any love-making. Judith had been ever so wise about that; But how refreshing and reassuring to hear mum praising Enoch so sincerely! "If lie was your son, mum, would you want him to be a verger?" "Dear, dear I What questions you do ask! I've never been one to put beggars on horseback. I mean to say, dear, that I am and always have been content in my station of life. Vergers are so respectable." ' "Are they respectable because they'd lose their job if they weren't?" "You mustn't talk like this except with me. When your father became a verger, I accepted him ..." "'Cos he was a verger?" "Felicity . . . ! " "Pardon! But maybe you felt it was safe to marry a verger. Has a verger ever beaten his wife and taken to drink?" "Never in our cathedral—so far as I know. I kept company with your father before he was a verger, but we weren't properly engaged. My mother thought it was a big thing for me to .marry a verger; so did I. But, as you know, I'd been in service; and I walked out with a second footman, a very nice, respectable young fellow with curly hair. My mother was against my marrying any man in service. . . . And then, dear, there was another'thing which counted. I knew that I should remain here, near my own family and friends. I don't, really and truly, feel that I could wish [ a son of mine, if I had one, to try to be bigger or better than your dear father. For why? He might fail, mightn't he? Pride goes before a fall." "Enoch is clever." '.'That's as may be, child. He has a position here, the respect of everybody in the Close, but he doesn't look a winner, dear. That old pincher, his father, did ought to give the poor lad a better suit of clothes." Felicity winced, almost betraying herself. At her high school, it was generally agread that a self-respecting girl couldn't be seen in the company of a shabbily-dressed youth. Alf Kerridge, for example, could pick and choose among the beauties because he was so smart, so spick and span. He refused to patronise the local tailors and bought his natty suits (and all the adjuncts) in Bath. It was known that Alf, for his part, disdained ill-dressed young women. Felicity decided, there and then, that she must coax Enoch to buy a blue serge suit and a trilby hat. To throw a little harmless dust into her mother's eyes, she observed prettily: "Perhaps Enoch aggravated me. He is so set in liis ways. Perhaps I did want to stir him up a bit. He's a regular bookworm, but rather a dear, quite the gentleman, and if we both went to work .

on him, mum,- we might persuade him to dress more like one." "We must set about getting tea first," said Mrs. Vye. (To be continued daily.)