THERE was a knock on the study door.
“Come in,” called the vicar rather sharply.
The whole household knew that on Sunday morning those precincts were
inviolable.
His daughter Edith came hurriedly into the room. A tall, thin,
eager-looking girl, her large features and hook nose were absurdly like
her father’s. Nobody called her handsome, yet in bearing and movement
was the lithe grace the world looks for in a clean-run strain. But
lines of ill-health were in the sensitive face, and the honest, rather
near-sighted eyes had a look of tension and perplexity. An only girl,
in a country parsonage, thrown much upon herself, the war had begun to
tell its tale. Intensely proud that her brothers were in it, she could
think of nothing else. Their deeds, hazards, sacrifices were taken for
granted as far as others could guess, but they filled her with secret
disgust for her own limited activities. Limited they must remain for
some little time to come. It had been Edith’s wish to go to Serbia with
her cousin’s Red Cross unit. And in spite of the strong views of her
doctor she would have done so but for a sharp attack of illness. That
had been three months ago. She was not yet strong enough for regular
work in a hospital or a munition factory, but as an active member of
a woman’s volunteer training corps, she faithfully performed certain
local and promiscuous duties.
There was one duty, however, which Edith in her zeal had lately imposed
upon herself. Or it may have been imposed upon her by that section
of the English press from which she took her opinions. For the past
three Saturday mornings it had been carried out religiously. Known
as “rounding up the shirkers,” it consisted in making a tour of the
neighboring villages on a bicycle, and in presenting a white feather to
male members of the population of military age who were not in khaki.
The girl had just returned from the fulfillment of the weekly task. She
was in a state of excitement slightly tinged with hysteria, and that
alone was her excuse for entering that room at such a time.
At first the vicar was more concerned by her actual presence than for
the state of her feelings.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded impatiently, without looking up from
his sermon.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, father”--the high-pitched voice had
a curious quiver in it--“but something _rather_ disagreeable has
happened. I felt that I must come and tell you.”
The vicar swung slowly round in his chair. He was an obtuse man,
therefore the girl’s excitement was still lost upon him, but he had
a fixed habit of duty. If the matter was really disagreeable he was
prepared to deal with it at once; if it admitted of qualification it
must wait until after luncheon.
There was no doubt, however, in Edith’s mind that it called for her
father’s immediate attention. Moreover, the fact was at last made clear
to him by a mounting color, and an air of growing agitation.
“Well, what’s the matter?” A certain rough kindness came into the
vicar’s tone as soon as these facts were borne in upon him. “I hope
you’ve not been overtaxing yourself. Joliffe said you would have to be
very careful for some time.”
The attempt of a somewhat emotional voice to reassure him on that point
was not altogether a success.
“Then what is the matter?” The vicar peered at her solemnly over his
spectacles.
Edith hesitated.
The vicar mobilized an impatient eyebrow.
“It’s--it’s only that wretched man, John Smith.”
Mr. Perry-Hennington gave a little start of annoyance at the mention of
the name.
“He’s quite upset me.”
“What’s he been doing now?” The vicar’s tone was an odd mingling of
scorn and curiosity.
“It’s foolish to let a man of that kind upset one,” said Edith rather
evasively.
“I agree. But tell me----?”
“It will only annoy you.” Filial regard and outraged feelings had begun
a pitched battle. “It’s merely weak to be worried by that kind of
creature.”
“My dear girl”--the tone was very stern--“tell me in just two words
what has happened.” And the vicar laid down his pen and sat back in his
chair.
“I have been insulted.” Edith made heroic fight but the sense of
outrage was too much for her.
“How? In what way?” The county magistrate had begun to take a hand in
the proceedings.
A little alarmed, Edith plunged into a narrative of events. “I had
just one feather left on my return from Heathfield,” she said, “and
as I came across the Common there was John Smith loafing about as he
so often is. So I went up to him and said: ‘I should like to give you
this.’”
A look of pained annoyance came into the vicar’s face. “It may be right
in principle,” he said, “but the method doesn’t appeal to me. And I
warned you that something of this kind might happen.”
“But he ought to be in the army. Or working at munitions.”
“Maybe. Well, you gave him the feather. And what happened?”
“First of all he kissed it. Then he put it in his buttonhole, and
struck a sort of attitude and said--let me give you his exact
words--‘And lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit
of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him.’”
The vicar jumped up as if he had been stung. “The fellow said that! But
that’s blasphemy!”
“Exactly what I thought, father,” said Edith in an extremely emotional
voice. “I was simply horrified.”
“Atrocious blasphemy!” Seething with indignation the vicar began to
stride about the room. “This must be carried further,” he said.
To the lay mind such an incident hardly called for serious notice,
even on the part of the vicar of the parish whose function it was to
notice all things seriously. But with a subtlety of malice that Mr.
Perry-Hennington deeply resented it had searched out his weakness.
For some little time now, John Smith had been a thorn in the pastoral
cushion. Week by week this village wastrel was becoming a sorer
problem. Although the man’s outrageous speech was of a piece with the
rest of his conduct, the vicar immediately felt that it had brought
matters to a head. He had already foreseen that the mere presence in
his parish of this young man would sooner or later force certain issues
upon him. Let them now be raised. Mr. Perry-Hennington felt that he
must now face them frankly and fearlessly, once and for all, in a
severely practical way.
His imperious stridings added to Edith’s alarm.
“Somehow, father,” she ventured, “I don’t _quite_ think he meant it for
blasphemy. After all he’s hardly that kind of person.”
“Then what do you suppose the fellow did mean?” barked the vicar.
“Well, you know that half crazy way of his. After all, he may not have
meant anything in particular.”
“Whatever his intention he had no right to use such words in such a
connection. I am going to follow this matter up.”
Edith made a second rather distressed attempt to clear John Smith; the
look in her father’s face was quite alarming.
But Mr. Perry-Hennington was not to be appeased. “Sooner or later
there’s bound to be serious trouble with the fellow. And this is an
opportunity to come to grips with him. I will go now and hear what
he has to say for himself and then I must very carefully consider the
steps to be taken in a highly disagreeable matter.”
Thereupon, with the resolution of one proud of the fact that action is
his true sphere the vicar strode boldly to the hatstand in the hall.