Vicars' Walk

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 42, 20 February 1933, Page 13

Vicars' Walk

By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL L—_______ (Author of "Quinn»y'»") — V - ■ ' - -»

CHAPTER XlV.—(continued.) Enoch dismissed Willie from his mind: he had come; he had gone; and life drifted on as before. The Dean sent for him after Mr. Hilea had left Fountains, and it was on this occasion that Enoch made a remark which puzzled Dr. Marsack and forced him. to look at his verger from a new angle. "You dished the rascal," said the Dean. Enoch laughed, because "dished" expressed so happily what had taken place. Enoch said indiscreetly: — "It was great fun—" "Fun?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I have used the wrong word.' The Dean was not quite satisfied. "If—if you meant it, Saint—" Thus challenged, Enoch had to explain himself. Fun, of course, lay on the surface of things, froth and bubble. He expressed himself so well that the Doan encouraged him to go on: — "Yes, yes; I understand: the ludicrous is on the surface, ae Aristotle observed." "It kept us going in the trenches." The Dean, who had dipped rather disgustedly into post-war literature, said: "You found fun in the trenches, Saint 1" "Any amount of it." "Strange." "Better to cut jokes than to cut and run, sir." "You are eurprising me, Saint. ,, "I—l surprised myself then." "Perhaps—perhaps. I have to turn to the serious side. We have escaped an abominable scandal. I need hardly point out to you, a churchman, that conditions even here in Fountains are in the melting pot. We, all of us in these precincte, are a target for shafts bitterly envenomed; we are assailed from without and from within. Offensive tactics force Uβ to act defensively. There must be no chink in our armour. I speak to you as man to man." This wae handsomely said, but Enoch left the Presence disconcertingly aware that the Dean had his eye on him. "I must mind my etep," reflected Enoch. He did mind his etep with Felicity, because the Dean had said without mincing of speech that marked attentions to a young married woman were inexpedient. And then, drifting away from her, Enoch became conscious of how much he miesed her. He could not determine to his own satisfaction whether or not ehe missed him. Mrs. Vye, to be eure, had a word to say. "Fee tells me that you're becoming a reg'lar old hermit crab; and I couldn't break her pore heart by speaking out to her same as I do to you, Enie. Father an' me knows why you're giving The Open Arms a mise. Too many godless scallywags in the bar parlour. But Fee needs you more than ever she did."

"She told you eo, Auntie?" "She did." "I wonder what you said to her—" "You needn't, 'coe I'll tell. you. To make things easier for you and her I hinted that there had been a bit o' nasty talk. Come to think of it, it was nastiest when that there William Hiles wae here. Anyways, I gave Fee to understand that her own mother was ever so pleased at you keeping away till the talk stopped." "Wae she upset ?" "In a manner o' speakin' she was and she wasn't. She shocked me a bit. I wouldn't for the world repeat what she, or anyone else eaid, but—" Mrs. Vye paused for the encouraging word. "I can't offer you the world, Auntie, but I'll give you a kiss if you repeat what Fee said, and I promise you that I won't be shocked." "Oh, yee, you will," declared Mrs. Vye maternally. "As for me, I'm past shocking these days. Fee was upect at your keeping away, not at the nasty talk; she laughed at that." "I see you don't want to tell me, so let's talk of something else—" Mre. Vye replied promptly: "Alf is paying a lot of attention to a young woman in this town." Enoch made a gesture of impatience. "I know what you're thinking, Enie; he's done that before, and—and, Fee, pore dear, having taken Alf for better or worse, makes the best o' the worse." "True enough." "Well, dear, this last caee is different. Fee tells m«s —it's deathly secret—that Alf ie eo dotty about the hueey that he might go off with her.** "Take it from me, he -won't." "That's what I told her. But—lf Iβ did."

I "You are borrowing trouble," said Enoch firmly. Mrs. Vye, as the devil's advocate, provoked a smile from Enoch. Dominating such reflections was his sense of intimacy with Fee's mother. The' long years had brought them together, and—a greater link : —their common interest in and love for Felicity. Mrs. Vye'e other daughters were dear to her, but uninteresting. Had Fee married the ordinary tradesman she would Jiave become like her sister?. She had married Alf, the most genial ecamp in the county; ami, being a plastte creature she had acquired some of his geniality. He had been borne with that Gallic gaiety which is at once natural and yet artful. Alf knew that his smile disarmed wrath. He had taught hie wife to smile at nearly everything , , even his lapses. Now, ae was inevitable, he had gone too far, outstripped patience and forbearance. She had ceased to love him ... .

Enoch went to the window. Uncle Joe, as he was now called by his adopted son, might come in at any moment. He had retired from the vergership because he suffered from sore feet; but he did odd jobs for the Dean and Chapter, and had taken on Enoeh'e former office of librarian. Mre. Vye remained in her chair, knitting furiously, end aware of mental inetonation. "Are you angry with me?" ehe asked. "Why ehould I be angry?" demanded Enoch. He stood fitill. etaring at the Walk, with its prim pretty little gardens, its houses so alike, its tall chimneys. Men and women had peered through the same pane of uneven discoloured fflaes for more than two centuries. He heard his old friend's voice with a quaver in it. "Perhape I am borrowing trouble." Enoch came back, bent down, and kissed hor wrinkled forehead. Nothing happened after this ebullition of feeling. But life subtly changed for Enoch. He kept away from Felicity; he tried to persuade himself that his duties sufficed, that he was lucky'-- in bring spared the trials and tribulation? of «o many married "men of his acauaintanoe who'complained bitterly of rising prices,

a higher standard of living, and steadily increasing rates and taxes. Hβ left Fountains to spend bis semiannual holiday in London. In London Ihe met Bessie. He ■was alone at the time, glancing distastefully at some caricatures of famous people whose faces were familiar to ihim in the picture papers. Judith had told him that he must visit this particular gallery about to foe closed. She had insisted, too, that he should take time over it. Despite this injunction Enoch was late, and when he paid his shilling noticed that other visitors were leaving. He bought a catalogue and glanced about him to find the big room nearly empty. This pleased him; and yet he resented being pleased. It had come to thie—he :iked to he alone; he was losing touch with his fellowe. Irritation assailed him as he began to study the caricatures drawn by a clever and malicious man. Most of these drawings were grotesque and indecently so. Judith had said: "All London is laughing at them." If this was true all London laughed at deliberate cruelty. But all London was such a silly expression. He was contemplating retreat when a lady entered. Enoch at first was not quite sure that this could be Bessie. Then he decided that it could be nobody else. Would she recognise him ? And, if she did, would she speak to him or pass him by? Her appearance was staggering. She looked a lady of quality. At the moment she had her back to him. Enoch moved nearer to Bessie, taking up a position in front of a drawing which she must pass in a minute or two. He would give her time to recognise him whilst he was looking at the drawing, ... As she approached, knowing that she must have noticed his profile, he turned his face to her. She gave a little gasp and held out her hand. "Enie !" "Yes, Bessie. I—l knew you at once." "After all these years " "They have not treated you ungenerously," he observed. For an instant there was silence, as each surveyed the other. He went on: "Am I to ask you any questions? He read distress in her umber "Perhaps," he continued, "you would let me call on you, or, if you prefer it, lunch with me at some quiet restaurant?" "We can talk here," she replied, indicating a divan at the farther end of the room. They sat down. The woman asked the first question. "Are you living in London?" "I'm visiting my sister Judith. I'm the Dean's verger. I live alone in the house where I was born." She sighed. "You have not changed much," she murmured. "But you have —enormously." "Oh, yes." He attempted to compute the change. She had lost her girlish bloom; she had gained distinction and poise; her voice had softened. She looked neither happy nor unhappy. Any discriminating observer, meeting her for the first time, would have said: "This woman is intelligent and sensitive." Her silence was interpreted aright by Enoch. He had little to tell her; she had much to tell him. • Her first words recalled the defiant Bessie of the Walk. She indicated with a mocking gesture the drawings on the walls.

"They are jeering at us, .njnie. "Bessie," he said. "I don't know what you believe or disbelieve. There are moments when we seem to oe tossed here and there by circumstance. The man who made those drawings must feel that. There are other moments when we see purpose and design. Is it coincidence that you and I have met again? I don't believe that. If I did " "Yes ?" "I should ask you to Bay nothing. Why should you break the silence of the yea.rs? To gratify my curiosity? No. But if you want to speak, to— explain, why then I ask you to explain fully. Something has happened within the past few weeks, a very hateful experience, which is linked up with this meeting to-day." "Tell me " He told her about Willie Hiles. At the first mention of his name she winced; her face hardened. Not till the end of the story did he mention the stealing of the letter. "Hβ lied about that—•

"What?" _ i "He stole the letter from me. I got

it-" "Why didn't you answer it? She glanced about her. Two oid ladies were making the round of the gallery, laughing and chattering. Within twenty minutes the exhibition would be closed. ■ . «I__l .intended to answer it—later. From what she said he gathered that she was married and had two children, and was living prosperously in Hampstead, but she gave no address and withheld her name. Enoch accused himseJi of being ultra-sensitive, but she seemed to be trying to impress him with her good fortune, and she spoke in low hurried tones as if dreading interruptions. Enoch held his tongue With every word ehe uttered, he felt himself to be drifting farther and 'farther away from her Did she want him to feel that? Suddenly, leaving the inglorious ease of the present, she plunged back to the Pa "When Granfer was dying, he told me that I had an uncle, my mothers brother, a doctor in London, who might help me if I went to him. ' [ "You wanted to go to a doctor? What I hinted at in my letter, the letter Hilcs etole, was true?" "It wasn't." "Oh-h-h!" "If—if it had been — "Yes? iJ "I should have begged you to marry m She went on to tell him that her grandfather had explained, before he died, the absence of her name from the family Bible. Her mother had left a hateful husband with Ambrose Custard's son, whom . sho had never married because the husband refused to divorce his wife. All the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune had assailed the eloping couple. This was enlightening so far as it went. But it did not explain Bessie's last despairing letter. "Are you," he asked, with a tinge of irritation, "trying to nuike me understand that things have turned out for the best?" . ■■

Yes; I am. j "You have no regrets?" She shrugged her shoulders. In a different voice almost pleadingly, she, continued:— "You are a man; you can't understand how I felt •when, granfer died. Willie Hiles had found out about us. Hβ must have seen the postman deliver that letter. I read it and put it into granfer's desk. Next day I missed it. Only Willie conld have taken it. I taxed him with taking it. He owned np and said that he'd burnt it. Wβ parted, after a terrible row—" "At your gate?" "How do you know?" "Arthur Kerridge saw you." "Did he? He hated me. I—l wanted to escape from the Walk for ever and ever. I had money to do it." "So you rushed to your uncle." "Ye—es." "And he behaved like a human being." "I—l found him hard at first, but he got me work. I had to work. I liked my work- And —and I loathed more and more the idea of going back to Fountaine —" "I suppose that I, if I were not killed, meant Fountains to you?" "Ye—es." "I—l see." 'TVillie told me that really you loved Felicity Vye, and I believed him because I had suspected as much; and I had flung myself at your head. I made sure that you would marry Felicity. Why didn't you?" "Because she married Alfred Kerridge." (To be continued daily.)