Breakfast finds us calm but grave. My mother is allowed to accompany us
to church. My father’s clothing and general demeanour. Remark of
Simeon Whey on my father’s hat. First impressions of the new
lectern. Unmistakable evidences of guilt. The vicar’s feeble
apologia. A devilish device and its disastrous results. I race with
Corkran for half-a-crown. My poor father is three times dropped.
IMPECCABLE in logic, as I have already said, succinct in argument, and
perfect in phrasing, it is with the profoundest regret that I have been
obliged to omit from these pages the actual words of my father’s
denunciation; and I should like to make it quite clear that for the
inevitable disappointment my publishers alone must bear the blame.
Bitterly as I have protested, however, they have replied to every
argument with sordid references to the cost of production, and this
volume has in consequence been rushed through the press deprived of my
poor father’s terrible indictment.[8] Nor is this the less deplorable
because at the last moment my father himself was prohibited from
uttering it, owing to an intervention of Providence as little to have
been expected as it has always appeared to me inexplicable. Indeed, had
we foreseen it, I doubt if either my father or myself would have been
able to retain his sanity, and we should certainly not have met, as we
did the next morning, in a comparatively cheerful frame of mind.
Footnote 8:
It is my full intention, however, to pursue this matter further, and
any reader desirous of signing an appeal should instantly communicate
with me at Wilhelmina, Nassington Park Gardens, Hornsey.
Yet this was the case, and although, as each of us remarked, the
expression of the other was unwontedly grave, it was a relief to us both
to learn that neither of us had spent a bad, or even indifferent, night.
Considering the circumstances, indeed, we had slept remarkably well, and
in view of the tremendous task that now certainly awaited us, each of us
was scrupulous to fortify his person with as large and nourishing a meal
as possible. As we sang the morning hymn, too, I was glad to perceive
that my father’s voice was in exceptional condition, while the sunshine
and soft air augured well for a particularly large congregation.
“The more, the better,” said my father, and he even went so far as to
permit the attendance of my mother, thereby excusing her from her usual
task of preparing our midday meal or dinner.
“We’ll have something cold,” he said, “middle day, and she shall give us
a good hot meal after evening service.”
With myself on his right, then, and my mother on his left, we left the
house at 10.45, and I have never, I think, seen my father so
meticulously dressed as on this stern but necessary occasion. Wearing
his longest frock-coat, a double-breasted gentian waistcoat, faultlessly
creased trousers, and the glossiest of brown boots, his collar was
encircled with a cream-coloured velvet tie, held in position by a single
Cape garnet. By a happy circumstance, too, his bowler hat had only been
purchased the week before; and indeed, as Simeon whispered to me, it
might rather have been that of some French aristocrat mounting the
tumbril than of a Xtian sidesman of the United Kingdom on his way to
denounce a lectern. Nor did he hesitate to lift it when we met Mr. and
Mrs. Carkeek, accompanied by Cosmo and Corkran, although I have seen
nothing more distant than the inclination of the head with which he
signified consciousness of their presence. As Simeon said to me, “Your
father may be a Xtian, but he never forgets that he’s a gentleman.”
We were now on the brink, however, of the church porch—a couple of steps
and the effigy would be in sight—and deeply as we had impressed upon
each other the necessity for self-command, I could not help staggering a
little and leaning against Simeon. My father staggered too, leaning
against Mr. Balfour Whey, while my mother staggered against Mrs.
Meatson, the obliging wife of Mr. Meatson, the editor of the parish
magazine. Then with a supreme effort we recovered our equilibria, and in
the next moment—albeit at a distance—we were facing an image that, for
malignant effrontery, was surely unparalleled in Church history.
I say facing, for although its actual countenance was turned, as I have
said, towards the left, its malevolent bosom as well as its right eye
were directly focussed upon our persons. Nor can I trust myself, even
now, to describe its effect upon us as we moved up the aisle, although
every detail of its repulsive appearance was indelibly graved upon my
memory. Suffice it to say, therefore, that it gave the general
impression of a vulture rather than an eagle; that it appeared to have
robbed an arsenal of a medium-sized cannon-ball, upon which it now stood
poised on the summit of a mast; and that its outspread wings had been
blasphemously converted into a support for the Holy Scriptures. Nor was
that all, for at each corner of the pedestal, in which the mast had been
embedded, was an additional claw with projecting talons of undisguised
ferocity—the total effect from the bottom of the aisle being that of a
six-clawed monster about to expectorate.
Repellent as was its appearance, however, even at a distance, it was not
until we drew nearer to it up the central aisle that I suddenly became
aware in it of a quite unforeseen and infinitely sinister significance.
For now, as we approached our pew, which was the front one on the right,
it was perfectly clear that its eyes had been so fashioned as to be
capable of regarding us, either separately or in unison, with an almost
unbelievable degree of venom. But they could do more, for what was my
horror, just as we were about to turn into our pew, to perceive that my
father, whose colour had visibly deepened, was still holding on towards
the chancel. Nay, to be exact, he was still holding on towards the very
image that he had come to condemn, with his two eyes fixed and slowly
converging upon the baleful eyeball of the bird itself. For a moment I
stood spellbound. What was he about to do? And then, as the pew rocked
beneath my feet, I suddenly realized that my poor father had been foully
and deliberately hypnotized.
It was a critical instant. Another couple of steps, and one of two
things must inevitably have happened. He would either have dashed his
forehead against the bird’s bosom, or his abdomen would have collided
with the mast. Nor was the danger less real because it was as yet
unperceived either by my mother or the rest of the congregation. With an
enormous effort, however, I succeeded in rallying myself and seizing and
compressing my father’s right elbow, steering him half-conscious into
his usual place, where he immediately fell forward upon his knees. Then
I bent down. “It was the bird’s eye,” I said. “Whatever you do, avoid
the bird’s eye,” and ample was my reward in the immensely powerful
squeeze which was the only thanks he was able to bestow.
But the danger was not over, for, now that we were in our pew, we were
being permanently impinged upon by the bird’s full visage, and I saw at
once that we should be taxed to the uttermost to sustain its gaze until
the end of the service. Regarded from this aspect, however, in which its
competing tongue masked the malignity of its eyes, its expression was
less menacing than insolent, albeit to an almost intolerable extent. And
it was obviously in the exposed eye, solitary and unchallenged, with
which it had followed us up the aisle, that its concentrated malice had
found the weapon most effective for its purpose. Temporarily released,
therefore, from the acutest personal anxiety, I was at last in a
position to observe my fellow-worshippers, and I would that I could
record even some semblance of resentment at the loathsome object with
which they had been confronted. Upon no face, however, could I see
anything inscribed beyond an unintelligent curiosity, while upon many I
could not fail to observe an even more lamentable admiration.
Indeed I could hear actual whispers, indicative of approval, such as
“Did you ever, now?” or “Isn’t it handsome?” while some put such queries
to one another as, “What do you suppose it cost?” “Whoever could have
paid for it?” and “Hasn’t it got a polish?” Nor have I seen anything, I
think, quite so nauseating to a sensitive Xtian stomach as the
scarcely-concealed triumph so smugly discernible upon the faces of the
four Carkeeks. My only reassurance, in fact, lay in the reflection that
my father’s denunciation had yet to come; that in so large an assembly
there must surely be one or two to whom the bird’s true character must
have been obvious; and that the vicar and his curate, who were now
nervously entering, had not finally committed themselves. Then the organ
ceased playing, the vicar, who was plucking at his surplice, hastily
glanced at my father, and the curate, whom I had never seen paler,
tremblingly embarked upon the service.
Pale as was the curate, however, and staccato as was his utterance, he
was the very embodiment of self-confidence compared with the vicar when
the latter first approached the lectern under the steadfast gaze of my
dear father; and I have seldom seen the consciousness of guilt take such
visible toll of an alleged Xtian clergyman as when this weak prelate
staggered from his corner and clung tottering to Carkeek’s eagle. Nor
had I perceived until then—or not so fully—the profound wisdom that had
been my father’s in concealing from these men the exact moment at which
he intended to make his protest. For they were thus proceeding in the
devastating knowledge that at any syllable they might be cut short, and
publicly arraigned before the whole congregation for their base act of
betrayal.
In spite of my anxiety, therefore, I could scarcely suppress a smile,
and I was glad to observe, as I glanced at my father, that he was once
more in complete command both of himself and the situation. Indeed I had
never heard him in such stupendous voice as during the hymn that
preceded the sermon, and it was obvious that the vicar conceived this to
be the prelude to the actual deliverance of the indictment. It was at
any rate some moments before he was able to speak, and I have never, I
think, heard a more pitiable noise than the quavering tones in which he
uttered the words of Jeremiah, “Mine heritage is unto me as a speckled
bird.”[9]
Footnote 9:
Jeremiah xii. 9.
Spoken by the prophet, he said, under conditions of considerable
stress—and who had known more stress than the prophet Jeremiah?—it might
also be rendered, as the margin so beautifully reminded us, as a bird
having talons. Mine heritage is unto me as a bird having talons—here he
paused for a moment, avoiding my father’s eye—or might he not say,
perhaps, using the plural, _our_ heritage is a bird having talons? For
in this great gift, this unique gift, that few of us could have failed,
he thought, to have noticed, we were all participators, even the most
degraded of us, thanks to the generosity of Mr. Carkeek. Yes, it was
indeed _our_ heritage, _ours_, a speckled bird, a bird having talons.
And who could say that the care-stricken prophet had not foreseen this
beautiful lectern?
For it was a beautiful lectern—few, he thought, could deny this—this
speckled bird, this bird having talons. And yet it might well be that,
owing to its very unexpectedness, it should give rise to differing
opinions. Nay, he would go further. He would hope that it might, for
they were all there, he trowed, in a double capacity—as human beings,
overflowing with gratitude, but also as trustees for the church’s
furniture.
Yes, they were trustees. They must never forget that. That was a
distinction that he would have them remember. They were not only human
beings, but they were churchmen and trustees—church-beings, trustees and
human men—yea, and women also, churchees and trust-men; furniture-women,
church-trusts and humanees. They were all those things, and they would
remember the old saying, so many men, so many opinions. Thus it might be
argued—and very reasonably argued—that the present reading-desk was
sufficient, and that the very magnificence of this noble bird might a
little detract from its holy purpose. As for that, the congregation must
judge. He would welcome the opinion of each one of them. There was not
one of them whose opinion he would not welcome, even the lowliest and
most sinful. For though our heritage had come unto us as a speckled
bird, as a bird having talons, it did not necessarily follow that it was
our Xtian duty to take it up and enter into it. Many great men, as they
were doubtless aware, had given up heritages of considerable value, and
who should say that they had not been actuated by the highest and most
holy considerations? But others like Esau had lived to regret it. It was
a matter for the congregation to decide, united though they would be in
their undying appreciation of the splendid munificence of Mr. Carkeek. A
speckled bird, a bird having talons—let them not lightly discard their
heritage. But let them not, on the other hand, too lightly accept it as
a bird of no moment. Then, with obvious relief, and indeed a certain
amount of complacence, he hurriedly backed down the pulpit steps, just
as the curate, leaping to his feet, gave out the number of the closing
hymn.
But my father was not perturbed. Throughout the whole service, indeed,
he had sat there expressionless as a sphinx, but none the less terrible,
because his unwinking eyes had given no hint of their ultimate purpose.
Then he rose to his feet, carrying his offertory plate, and it was only
in the very deliberateness with which he did so that the most discerning
might have gathered a hint, perhaps, of the stupendous judgment about to
fall from him. Nor did he allow the task, which was now so imminent, to
interfere with his usual custom of joining in the hymn to his uttermost
capacity as he moved from pew to pew collecting the offertory.
But the great moment was now close at hand, and I could not forbear
turning for a moment in my place and glancing down the aisle at the
procession of sidesmen, already formed and waiting my father’s signal.
For from now onwards even I myself was a little uncertain of my father’s
intentions, although I did not apprehend that he would begin his
denunciation before the last of the sidesmen had yielded up his plate.
Then I glanced at the vicar, who had come to the chancel steps; at the
curate, who was plucking at his stole; and finally at the bird, with its
brazen eye fixed as before on my approaching father. For the hymn had
come to an end now and the procession was in motion, with my father in
the van carrying his plate, followed by Alexander Carkeek, Mr. Balfour
Whey, Mr. Meatson, Cosmo and Corkran. Slowly they proceeded, with Mr.
Carkeek, as usual, chafing at the necessity of having to march second,
but obviously intoxicated with pride and self-satisfaction as the people
in the pews craned their heads to look at him. So disgusting indeed did
I find the spectacle that I was obliged for some seconds to close my
eyes, and it was during this brief interval that there happened the
awful thing that was finally to shatter my father’s health. For when I
opened them again, pale and petrified, it was once more to behold my
father caught and transfixed and stertorously advancing into the same
ingenious and devilish trap.
But now it was too late, though I gave a great cry, and yet that cry,
perhaps, may have modified the disaster. For at the last instant, as
though he had half-regained consciousness, my father swerved a little to
the right, albeit only to stumble and fall at full length over the
south-west talons of the pedestal. And yet even then the sidesman in him
remained uppermost. For though a half-crown had been jerked from his
plate, he never let this go until he had safely grounded it at the very
feet of the vicar. Nay, he rose higher. For observing that the
half-crown was hurrying towards a grating at the end of the transept,
and perceiving that Corkran Carkeek, obeying his family’s instinct, had
suddenly leapt forward and was hastening after it, he bade me try and
secure it before the young Caledonian had succeeded in capturing it for
his own box.
“But your poor self?” I cried.
“Never mind me,” he said, “or he’ll get his foot on that half-crown.”
And it was then, and only then, that he yielded to Nature with shriek
after shriek of unutterable pain.
It was an astounding moment. For there were thus two spectacles
competing for the attention of the congregation, most of whom had now
risen and were standing on their seats in the natural desire to observe
events. For in the first place there was my father, writhing on his
abdomen at the foot of the lectern, and in the second there were Corkran
and myself engaged in the bitterest of races to save and recapture the
half-crown. Nor did I win. For though I managed to overtake him, he got
his boot upon it at the last moment, just as I had stooped and was about
to lift it up at the very brink of the grating. Choking as I was,
however, and in spite of his exceptional height, I was able to look him
full in the collar and assure him that from that moment I should cease
to number him amongst even the most distant of my acquaintances. Then,
dumb with wrath and blinded with tears, I managed to swing round upon my
heels just as the remaining sidesmen, assisted by the vicar and curate,
succeeded in raising my poor father.
But the ordeal was not over. Nay, it had hardly begun. For not only did
they drop him in the south transept, but they dropped him a second time
in the side aisle, and again upon the threshold of the vestry. Whether
this was intentional will never be known, or not until that Day when all
shall be made clear. But I cannot help mentioning that the Carkeeks were
among the bearers, and that I had never seen the curate looking so
cheerful.
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