—Vicars' Walk

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 29, 4 February 1933, Page 13 (Supplement)

—Vicars' Walk

By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL . . (Author of "Quinney's") 1 — —J

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued.)

He could not have told you whether or not he prayed for help, although help came. As he calmcd down, he knew that he had been far too outspoken, and that his championship of Bessie might prove to her a disservice. That distressed him. He had also affronted three good friends, who might refuse to accept a qualified apology. No other apology was possible. He could say honestly enough: "In the heat of the moment I spoke intemperately; forgive me." He could not say: "I withdraw what I said; I didn't mean it." He had meant .every word of it. What he had said was the truth; but he might have expressed it with morp consideration for the feelings of friends and neighbours incapable of getting outside their own vicious circle of moth-eaten conventions and shibboleths. Sitting here, perfectly still, curiously aware that he was away from his own petty world, he realised the essential difference between himself and all, yes, all these Eevites. If Mrs. Vye repeated to Mrs. Saint what had passed, if she were able to report the talk verbatim, his mother would sigh and express regret. She would not understand. Even Arthur Kerridge, feeling as he did about Bessie, would side with the moon-faced Vye. Heavens! What a dyed-in-the-wool Levite was Joseph Vye! The letter of the law was everything to him, the spirit—nothing. Was his own father tarred with the same brush? Yes, he too had become the slave of his environment, confounding what the Dean called "values." Service and lip-service in the temple ranked first. Enoch was incapable of true prayer. He wished to pray, but he felt unfit to pray. He could think at the moment of nothing but Felicity's kisses, which eooner or later—so some horrible premonition assured him —would be bc- ; stowed on Young Alf. The next day, Saturday, passed miserably; a letter from his sister, which Enoch passed on to his parents, provoked argument at breakfast. Judith, repeating what her husband had said to her, wrote that war was imminent. Enoch mentioned this letter to the Dean, who made a significant gesture. Nevertheless, for reasons of his own, lie declined to discuss a question put to him by his young friend. If war came, if John Wintle joined up, what ought Enoch Saint to do? Enoch Saint decided that it was his manifest destiny to stop a bullet. Probably that was the beet thing that could happen to him. All in all the blackest Saturday of his life. When he met Bessie there was an air of constraint on both sides. She was awaiting him, and he guessed that she might have approached the glade by another route. She looked cool, pale and prettier than ever as they shook hands and sat down side by side; but ha marked a troubled expression in her umber eyes. She may have read distress upon his sensitive face. Still Ins smile was reassuring. "You are glad to see me?" she asked. "Why, Bessie, of course I am." "You don't think I'm a bad girl?" "I'm sure you aren't." "But I might be. And if—if I were, I should have to pretend to a nice boy like you that I was good as gold, wouldn't I?" "Why do you say this to me?" "Because I know something, because I think you're wonderful, much too good to be my friend, and because, lastly, I'm going to tell you what a little beast I am." She took his arm and pressed it gently. "I'll begin at the beginning." But her first words were tentative. "Do you think, Enie, that girls ought to be better, than boys?" , Enoch, taken by surprise, replied that he hadn't considered the question. Perhaps, on the whole —yes. For instance., one expected more from one's mother than one's father. "But if you haven't either?" Enoch said that men liked to think that their own womenkind were good, which provoked an ironical smile from Bessie. "That's vanity." "Maybe it is." "Anyway, I'm not good just because I live in the Walk." "Because I was a jolly, pleasure-loving girl before I was 16, the old cats of our Walk began to call me names. They enjoyed thinking the worst of me. And I—l didn't care what they thought, or what they said. When I did begin to care it was a bit late to mend my manners, nnless I was ready to eat humble pie. So I just went on shocking them. Enie, I'm going to talk to you as I might to my mother. I'm going to tell you things which I might tell to a girl friend, if I had one. Why? Because I trust you. And if we're to be friends, I want you to know me as I am. I asked you why you were friends with Alf, and you replied why are you ? Tell me why you are friends with him. I have a reason in asking." "He stood up for me, Bessie, when I couldn't stand up. for myself. I suppose I admire in him what is missing in me, his devil-may-care joy in life, and all that. He makes me laugh, the rascal. And—and, to be perfectly honest, I suppose I -was flattered when he made a friend of me." "Yes; and that's why I went about with him. He made me laugh, but I didn't laugh when he asked me to marry him." "Alf Kerridge asked you to marry him?" "Yes, he did, and you can guess why. And because I guessed I refused him. So he dropped me like a hot potato. I can read your thought. You are wondering if Willie paid me the same honour. He didn't. Willie can't support a wife, but he hopes to find a wife who will support him." "Have you dropped Willie?" "Yes." "And there's nobody else." "Only you," she whispered. This was very flattering. Enoch experienced a warm glow permeating all tissues of mind and body. He laid an appreciative hand on Bessie's arm, and pressed it gently. A breeze from Severn's sea cooled Enoch's cheeks but not his thoughts. He had the feeling that some fairy godmother was hovering overhead pronouncing a benediction, whispering: "My dear children, be happy. Put worries from you." Presently he asked: "Is your na.me Elizabeth?" She laughed. "Of course it is. What a funny boy you arel,"

"I didn't know. Elizabeth is a fine name. It means goddess of the oath. Enoch, means consecrated." Their eyes met. ' "I don't like your name, Enie." "Nor do I; hut it's a family name. The dean is great on names. Of course you know that surnames are more or less modern?" "Modern ?" "A few hundred years old—that's all." "I -wonder how we got the name of Custard." "The dean says that Custard is a natural corruption of croustade, which means a pie or a tart." "Enie—!" "What is it?" "How perfectly awful! A tart—! That is what some of the old cats think I am." To his dismay she seemed to be terribly upset. Before he could think of something solacing, she burst out: "Did you guess why I called you wonderful just now ? I'm sure you didn't. This morning I heard what you said on Friday night to those Vyes. Mrs. Vye can't keep anything to herself. She told old Mrs. Sumshion; Mrs. Sumshion told Mrs. Hiles; Mrs. Hiles told Willie—" "Told Willie?" "Who told me. He jeered at me. We had a row. Willie wouldn't stick up for me, or anybody else. He was beastly; I hate him; and I told him so. If I had my way I'd never speak to him again. Yes; I know what you said to old Moonface, and I wonder he didn't drop dead. You told him that the angel mothers of our Walk rejoiced over Alf Kerridge and stoned me—" She burst into tears. / Where were the good resolutions of Enoch Saint? Where was the fairy godmother ? He put his arm round her neck. She lifted her face to his and kissed him and went on kissing him, saying between her sobs: "You are sweet—a darling boy—and I used to be hateful to you—and now, to-day, I'd die for you." "Bessie—Bessie!" "Call me Elizabeth. If I'm goddess of the oath. I'll make an oath. I—l swear that I'd do something big for you, Enie, some day. If—if I live to be an old woman I'll never forget that you were the first to stick up for me, when I hadn't one true friend in Fountains." He returned her kisses, eo moved and excited that speech failed him. It is impossible to make even a guess at what might have happened if conditions had been other than what they were. Upon Monday morning the world woke up with a srart to full realisation of the impending horror of a war certain to change the map of Europe and to affect millions of human beings. The Dean made that plain to Fountains. This was the fateful octave preceding the week in which Germany declared war on England. During that week Enoch and Bessie met twice. The library in the Gate Houee was closed; so they met in the nook on the hill, clutching at each other, clinging to each other, miserably sensible that they were on the edge of a volcano about to burst into eruption. Nevertheless they plighted troth after a fashion. Whatever happened they would be true to each other. All talk of the future seemed futile when there might be no future. Enoch echoing the Dean, made it only too plain that an earthquake which might shatter the very foundations of civilisation had begun. "It can't last long." "A childish assertion. It comes to this—nobody knows anything; nobody can guess at what may happen." "Oh, Enie, kiss me while you can." Enoch, as soon as he realised' what he was to Bessie, wished to make public their engagement. But Bessie, like Felicity, although driven by different motives, entreated him to do nothing so strife-provoking. Felicity, when she imposed secrecy, was thinking of herself and her freedom; Bessie had no thought for herself; ehe knew from experience that Enoch, the consecrated, the pattern of what a son of the Walk should be, would become the target of a thousand barbed shafts. He would lose caste. Had it not been for the outbreak of war, Enoch would have had his way. The big thing was so tremendously big that it dwarfed all private and intimate affairs. During the fortnight that succeeded the declaration of war, the lovers met for a few blissful minutes when and where they could, thankfully aware that none paid attention to them. The young men of Fountains were busy discussing their excellent reasons for not joining up. The Dean, stalking up and down his library, deplored the apathy of the youHg men; and he predicted that nothing short of a serious reverse to our army of Contemptibles would awaken Fountains. Probably he spoke as frankly to a nephew, who was reading for the Bar. That young gentleman had a word with Enoch. "I'm going to join up here, Saint. Not a word, to a soul! I want to be the first. I shall take the shilling and trust to luck." "To luck, Mr. Dyson?" "I mean my chance of a commission. First come, first served. I think it will please my dear old uncle; but I don't know. He must have jawed to you as he has to me about the -wethers of his flock. They are huddled together. I might stampede them in the right direction. Anyway, I shall have a shot at it." Enoch said quietly: "When?" "As soon »s a recruiting sergeant comes to Sleepy Hollow. He may come at any moment. If he got the tip, he misrht come to-morrow." "I want to join up with you," said Enoch. "You —vou mean that?" "T do."" "Splendid! We may practise the goosestep together." "Yes," said Enoch. (To be continued daily.) /