Vicars' Walk

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 30, 6 February 1933, Page 15

Vicars' Walk

By HORACE ANNESLEX YACHELL

I— 1 —£—(Author of "Qulnney's") —J

CHAPTER VIII. A Vanishing Lady. So much has been written about the war from every point of view that no attempt will be made here to add to the congested mass of details. Long before Enoch returned to civil life, he was aware of a most enormous change in himself, but he could not say either then or thereafter how it came about. Meanwhile, certain incidents must be" set down, and one question must be askfed and answered. Why had he joined up so swiftly? Nearly all his friends in Fountains, including his parents, thought that they could answer this. He had set a muchneeded example to other less intrepid youths. For three days he was the talk of the town. The Dean struck the right note when he said to his verger, "We can congratulate each other, old friend. Your son and- my nephew have shown the way, and, alas, it is the only way." Abel Saint repeated these words, which passed from mouth to mouth. Fond mothers observed that only sons ought to be the, last to go. Vicars' Walk acclaimed Enoch as a man. But what did the boy say to the giri who loved him? He had reason to know that she did love him with a passion which had swept both of them far, very far, from the Walk and the Precincts. But he dared not tell her that he was frightened; he could not bring himself to say, "Bess, our souls' salvation is at stake." He had the feeling that if he tried to put what was best in him- into words she might laugh and think him a prig. He knew, too, that she accepted as true the considered judgment of Fountains. Enoch Saint had done his duty. Accordingly he said little, thankful that a clever girl took what he, had done for granted. Her pride in him was intoxicating. Enoch, when he joined up, supposed that he would find himself in a Wessex regiment, at a depot not too far from Fountains. He was dispatched to a big West Country town. Thence he was whirled to the Isle of Wight and attached to a regiment short of men. Here intensive training began; here, for the first time in his life, he became physically fit. His medical examination had been perfunctory. But he came within an ace of breaking down before he put cm khaki. Fortunately for him, both the doctor and his own sergeant treated him with consideration. What the poor boy dreaded came to pass before he went to the Isle of Wight. He was given two days' leave; and he knew,' just as Bessie knew, that out of this only about two hours could be spent with her. The Walk accorded him an enthusiastic reception; every girl in the town smiled at him. He met Bessie in their old nook after nightfall. Each, of course, was conscious that this might be their last meeting but one on earth. Afterwards, Enoch could recall no word of act of his which could be stigmatised as seduction, no cajolery, no beguilemente. Bessie and he came together inevitably, two leaves upon a l ushing torrent. Next night they met again in Ambrose Custard's house. Woman's wit suggested this. The Walk was • ill-lit. Old Ambrose went early to bed. The Custard garden was encircled by a thick yew hedge. Any man, watching his opportunity, could pass through the handgate and be lost to sight. Enoch, dismayed at first, had to admit that the risk of discovery was negligible on a dark night. He could leave his father s house after supper on the understanding that he would not return till the old people had gone to bed. _ This simple plan worked admirably. Enoch wondered whether Bessie would feel, show or express regret. He was prepared for anything—a secret marriage, for instance. But, as on the previous night, she refused to discuss the future.. The present was theirs; nothing else mattered. Whea he suggested marriage, she laughed, as she pressed her lips to his. Pluck sustained her to the end. When ha bade her farewell, he feared tears. She pinched .his cheek as she whispered: "Plenty of time to cry after you've gone." Then she crept to the door, opened it, and peered out into the soft, kindly darkness. No moon, no stars, a drizzle of rain. ~ , . In the garden they kissed for the last time. , , . , , , As he passed through the wicket gate Enoch glanced up and down the Walk before returning to his father's house. The little street seemed to be deserted, but, descending the incline he thought that he heard a step behind him. He turned. Seeing nothing, it occurred to him that he had heard an echo._ And then, once more, as he reached his father's gate, was a sound as if another man was afoot. Turning again, with eyes more attuned to the darkness, he detected a sort of blur upon the opposite side. That was all, an incident to bo dismissed as negligible. . In the narrow bed where he had passed so many hours of suffering as a boy, he lay awake and compared Enoch the consecrated, with Bessie's Enie. A moral Atlantic tossed between the two. It was difficult to realise that the ardent lover of Bessie had been the shy, reverential sweetheart of Felicity. Bessie had told him that Young Alf, who had not joined up, was a constant visitor at the Vyes, and regarded by the Walk as a reformed character. Enoch, not too confident of Alf's reformation, suffered no pangs of jealousy." If Felicity married Alf she might work a miracle. Alf,'at any rate, would secure a sweet little wife. Lying awake, Enoch decided that he would marry Bessie before he left England. If it couldn't be done secrctly it must be done openly,-with or without the approval of the Walk. Having a - strong will (and a conscience) it is likely that a marriage might have taken place. But, next morning, before he went on duty, Abel Saint had a talk alone with his son. Enoch was prepared for his father's opening sentences. He knew that the old man's grip on life was weakening day by day. But the grip was there, the will to live, and the will to do his work till | the end. "I may not see you again, my son." "I shall get last leave before we go to France." "That's as may be. This war, my boy, has taken from me my savings. There will be enough to provide for your mother; hardly anything for you." "I—l can support myself." "That is a comfort. I must tell you something which I have kept .from your mother—and everybody else in this town. My commonsense told me to invest my money in wbafc-ie- called gilt-edged

securities. I began by doing that. And then, unhappily for me, I was tempted to—to gamble. . ." "Yes; the Devil must have chuckled because the temptation came to me in our Chapter House. I was showing it to a South African millionaire at the time of the great boom in Kaffirs." "Kaffirs?" Abel Saint, looking apostolic, had to explain to his son what he meant t>y "Kaffirs." Enoch, wanting to spare him, said quickly: "I understand. You were given a tip—and you lost." "No; I won. I was astonishingly lucky.. The Devil saw to that." "Why shouldn't you gamble?" Enoch asked defiantly. As he spoke he took the old man's hand and pressed it. Abel smiled faintly, returning the pressure. "You know why; juat as I do. We are, as the Dean says, Levites; we cannot do what others do. Had the Dean known of my dealings, he would have asked me to resign. I gambled secretly. It was the only excitemcnt in my life." "I—l understand, father. Don't say any more." "I must; it's my duty. I was successful, partly because I have a good headpiece, and partly because I took the advice of an able broker. Five years ago, Enoch, I was worth about seven thousand pounds." "Seven thousand pounds?" "At least. And then " "Yes?" "Against my better judgment I invested my capital geographically?" • "Geographically." "Yes; my broker refused to believe in the possibility of war. He persuaded me that Germany was going ahead industrially. I put nearly all I had, Enoch, into German, Russian, and Roumanian securities. The money is still there. But will it be there at the end of this war? Now listen. I bought for your mother an annuity. She cannot survive me long. You will inherit a few hundreds and my foreign certificates, which to-day are waste paper. One more word. Some three months ago I thought that you and little Felicity Vye might make a match of it. But you seemed quite indifferent. Now, you will be in no position to marry if you are spared. You can't earn or save money till the war is over. If you come back here, the Dean will see to it that you are offered Joseph Vye's position when he steps into my shoes. But this is between us two. You will live in this house and look after your mother. I shall go the more quietly, if I have some assurance from you, my son, that you wish, as I hope and believe you do, to take my place here." "I—l love Fountains," said Enoch. "I know you do. And before you joined up both your mother and I thought that a quiet life here would suffice you. Now I am not so sure." This talk impressed Enoch cumulatively. He never forgot it. Again and again during the months that followed he could summon up, as if from the vasty deep, a vivid presentment of his father's fine head with the tired eyes looking out of the yellow face and the tired voice issuing from the apostolic beard. Henceforward he saw his father as a human being, subject to the weaknesses of the flesh. A gambler —! It seemed incredible. Nevertheless the Dean might reckon that to be an infirmity of a noble mind not comparable with the lusts of the flesh. In the Isle of Wight the boy had no time to think. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow; he became a valiant trencher-man; he enjoyed the good->fellowship of the camp. Bessie and he exchanged long letters once a week. Enoch, a trained penman, set down, whimsically enough, the events of each day. Bessie's letters were love letters, joyous at first, a frank outpouring of her feelings, but less joyous as it became more certain that no leave would be accorded to her lover till the eve of his departure for France. Enoch read and reread these letters with increasing bewilderment. Was she temperamental, a creature of moods and tenses, blowing now hot, now cold? Unable to go to her, he would have suggested that she should come to him, had she been footloose. She was working hard in the shop and out of it in attendance upon her grandfather. He knew that her life must be devastatingly dull. About the middle of October he learned that old .Ambrose was confined to his bed with a severe chill. In her next letter she said that she had left the shop. A week later Ambrose Custard died — What followed drove Enoch mad with impotence, fear, suspense, and humiliation. Bessie wrote a letter which quite obviously was blotted with tears, and, as obviously, the result of some overwhelming, cataclysmic emotion. "My own Enie,—l am so unhappy, so miserable, and I wish that I were dead. Before poor granfer died, he told me something about my mother. Not much, I was right, Enie. Father never married her; and she died when I was a baby ... Granfer has left me a little money. He had it in the house, all in gold. It is far more than I expected. Please remember that ' it's enough to last me for two or even three' years ... And now, oh, deap, how can I go on? I must go away—lit once. I shall go as soon as I can af'iter the funeral is over. Enie, I can't tejll you where I am going or why I am jgoLng. Believe this that I shall be safei I can look after myself. I will write when I'm less miserable, when I'm away from here. . . I love you more tlwln ever, far more than you love me. I lam doing what I believe to be best. I sfhall think of you always as the dearest/ and sweetest boy that ever lived. Yoifir heart-broken, Elizabeth." That wajj her last letter to him. <&o be continued daily.) / : =