BROTHER JOHN

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 46, 24 February 1937, Page 19

BROTHER JOHN

—By P. Hoole-Jackson.

MRS. TONKS, known variously as '•The Parish Angel," "Old looter' an<l "Mother's Blessing," may be consulted first. Of the vicar's wife she said, "You know, my dear, really she ought to be called the Mrs. Reverend Sturgins. She's so absolutely parish, and so perfectly austere, and how the poor man manages to keep her iu the expensive clothes she wears on his stipend, I'm sure I can't make out. "Always from the very best houses, you know. Perhaps she has an income, but one never hears about her people, and they can't have been anybody or she would talk about them. Quite a mystery, quite." And Mrs. Tonks would shake her head and pucker up her lips under her thin, pointed nose. George Sturgins —Reverend, of course —was rather pale, slightly grey-faced, grey-haired man of 47. His shoes were always a little down at heel, and his trousers frayed; his hands fluttered from place to place when he talked with anyone, disappearing ill pockets, coming out again, hovering about his clerical collar like nervous butterflies, fingering his chin, playing with the brim of his hat. He preached a passable nermon, visited the sick regularly, but still nervously, and was eternally submerged in all the ramifications of Lady ChallingtreeV charities, pamphlets, accounts, money distribution, aiid administration. • » » • This was due to his wife. She oscillated between Broome Hall and the vicarage. When she stooped from the pleasant duties, of calling on the higher social circle of Little Codlington she scared the poorer parishioners out of their wits bv examining their babies down to the skin, sniffing at the drains, interrupting their morning housework, and troubling old Joe with lectures (her own) and pamphlets (Government) on hygiene, the wickedness of using the grate as a spittoon, and the frightful sin of keeping a manure-heap within five feet of his back door. Old Joe liked the manure-heap; from it he dug out pungent masses that made his sweet peas bloom better than those of anyone else in t Little Codlington. His fowls foraged in it; the cock crowed from it in the early hours under Joe's window, and Joe fought for his "rights" with all the cunning of an old countryman, and the dung-heap remained.

"When this 'ere country did away with duckin'-stools," said old .Toe, "it made a mighty mistake. There's been no doin' any good wi' women like 'er since." Perhaps George Sturgins would have endorsed this dictum. Many times he had almost revolted, but his wife had gradually increased the pressure of her marital thumb and George's subjection had been gradual and so the more sure. •,I * * * On a Anny morning he ate his breakfast and opened his mail. His wife's eyes noted each envelope and contents. "I don't know that writing, George," she said, raising her thin eyebrows. "It's from John," said her husband. "He's back from the States, and he's coming here to-morrow." His wife's lips tightened. George knew the sijrn and hastened to say: "I'm sure he's redeemed the past, my dear and we can't be unkind. He may even have 'made good,' you know, but wc can't refuse him shelter." For half an hour George repented tlx folly of that defence of his brother Suppose Lady C'hallingtree discnvere.l John's past? Knew that GeorpeV brother had seen the inside of a iruol. and been forced to go abroad to begin life again? Suppose the parishioners found out? Brother John ought to haVe known better. Had the man no sense of his own wickedness? Hadn't they suffered enough by having such a family skeleton to hide? It would be the end of their social life in Little Codlington. Just as she was becoming a favourite with everyone, especially Lady Challingtrce. George's hands fluttered with the toast: his tea-cup shook in liis : he tried to make several protests, but they were submerged under the tirade. Marcia Sturgins surpassed herself. The thing might come to the ears of the Bishop. "I shall not be at home," she said coldly. "You must get rid of him immediately . . . immediately, you hear. George, and don't quote Scripture to me. Sin is sin. Wickedness is wickedness. You may be the keeper of a good brother, but not of a criminal. Make what arrangements you like, but on no account is he to have any money." A faint smile crossed Georgp's grevish face. "I shall not need to worrv about that point, niv dear." he said, and she rose hastily. She never argued about money.

John arrived: it was unfortunate that he arrived as Marcia was cutting some choice roses for Lady Challinutrce. who stood by. Marcia's side, a tall, pretty, doll-like woman with a pleasant way. a kindlv heart, and a belief that the aristocracy were born to be a blessing and boon to the poorer classes. When the noble lady bad departed. John found himself frontincr a virago who had dropped all soeial pleasantness and revealed herself as a past-mistress of the art of sarcastic vituperation. John let her have her say. bowed his head, and hoped that bis brother would return swiftly. He had come hoping to find a rural welcome, to sink into the gentle life of an English villa,ere. to soak himself in an air of sweet piety, and to moon about under elms, admire the ehurebvard and the ivied tower, drop >n the village inn. and enioy all the quiet peace that he (with most people) associated with an old English hamlet. "Poor George." he muttered to h'mself as Marcia flung out of the room, her smart heels tapning a determined tattoo on the polished floor as she vent out, the door hanging behind her. "Poor old chan. T wonder what he's like. I might have known. She was always a cat. only she was a pleasant little cat in those days. 11l bet that frock cost a pretty penny." John knew something about frocks; he was owner of a great silk manufactovv business in the States. He was smart - in? a little under the insults. Jut a sense of humour saved him. No wrman bad spoken to him like that since bis mother used to lecture and slnn him as a child. PerhßPs if he hadn't turned up 4n a rather old. comfortable suit, which be honed would be more suitable for an English village than the smart Yankee clothes he usually wore, he might have sained a different welcome: but all thingrs are toys in the hand of fate.

(SHORT STORY.)

George entered hurriedly. John did not recognise the once brown-faced, lithe-muscled athlete of Cambridge days. ] He saw a shabby old man, a man who looked old enough to be his father, instead of a brother two years his junior. Hair almost white; face pinched; troubled eyes. A woman could make the deuce of a mess of a good fallow. They talked long and earnestly about ] old times; about the days when they , had been rivals in rowing, about the pony races they used to have in the ] paddock, about dreams they had made j i for the future, and John led the weary ' man on very gently. j "I made good, old man," he said. "You : know that other business wasn't all ! my fault. I got tied up with the wrong crowd in business. It happens to lots of fellows. I learned my lesson. I was a young fool, trying to live above ; my income, to mix with the smart Lon- : don crowd. We all do it in a way, ■ and of course, like every sinner, I meant ■ to pay the money back, and like most 1 never had time. You don't know what : that feels like. Why, George, George! What's the matter, old boy? .Steady. , It's that —woman is it?" * * * ♦ When Marcia returned that evening she found empty rooms. The maid, questioned, told what she knew. The master had packed about 5 o'clock. Called away with his brother, he had said. She did not know the gentleman with him in the study with his brother. They had gone carefully through a lot of papers in the desk together. TJie visitor had rung for her twice and sent out for beer (''Disgusting," commented Marcia) they had been talking about accounts and the bank the last time she was in, and she had been sent down to the local branch of the bank post-haste before it closed. Master had said there was a letter for mistress on the desk. Marcia dismissed the maid and hastened to her husband's room. She tore open the envelope. "Dear Marcia," she read. "I am going with John. There is no other way. We've been sinking for years, and only L»ady Challingtree's charity money saved ;w from disgrace. I thought I could pay it back, but I could never save anything. You ought to have niarried a wealthier man, you see. I'm not blaming you (John, who had read the letter, had snorted at this point, but had passed it under protest), but you might have known that my salary wouldn't expand to the mode we were living np to. "John has put matters right. You will find that a cheque has been paid into the bank to-day which covers all. He has also made provision for you. He is taking me into biasiness with him. I can't write much; you wouldn't understand. We were too saintly to help him in his hour of need. He is too much a sinner to refuse his brother help. Perhaps you may be happier if you try to remember that all your life. *#* > » "Please do not attempt to join me. That is the only stipulation John make*. ! ("As if I'd think of it," muttered Marcia.) As soon as I am established you will have an adequate allowance far in excess of that yon have been receiving. "I insisted on that because I am leaving you for life. Perhaps you will be happier without me. lam to have a holiday with John in California first. John says I have worn myself almost to the grave, but the burden is lifted now. I ought never to have been a parson. Many ought not. It is a calling, not a profession, not a means of earning daily bread and entering a social sphere ;by right of cloth. But this will bore | you. Forgive rue as well as you can."