THE RITUAL, THE STREET CORNER, THE DEATH-BED, AND THE BELLS
Towards evening of the same day I was sitting with Langler in a little
dingle not far from the water, while down by the water's edge idled Miss
Emily, feeding swans. I did not think that she was listening to our
talk, or might divine it; but her lightness of ear was always very
decided.
I had been telling Langler of the spectacle at Canterbury during Holy
Week of that year. For the first time, I believe, since 1870 a Bishop of
Rome had been permitted to leave the Vatican, and to pledge, as it were,
the return of a prodigal, had pontificated High Mass in the metropolitan
cathedral of England.
At that ritual I had been present, and Langler had been questioning me
as to the conditions under which Tenebræ had been sung on the Wednesday
night, and as to certain minutiæ of the vestments worn by the orders
during the liturgical drama of the Thursday. The rite was fresh in my
memory, and he listened, I could see, keenly, as I went on to tell of
the conveyance of the Pontiff from the dean's house; of the trumpets of
the Noble Guard; of the reception of his Holiness by a procession of
clergy, headed by the Bishop of Emmaus; of the last sound of the bell
during the Gloria, and the clapper of the Sanctus and Canon; of the
consecration of the holy oils, vase, oil-sticks, and chrism; of the
twelve trumpets during Elevation; of the Communion, of which twelve
bishops partook; of the conveyance of the wafer to an Altar of Repose;
then of Vespers; of the antiphon "Diviserunt"; of "Deus, Deus meus"
during the stripping of the altar; and of the ceremony of the night--the
cope of violet, the washing and the wiping and the kissing of the right
feet of the thirteen....
And as I spoke Miss Emily spun round from over her swans, and flung at
us across the distance the words: "thus have they crucified to
themselves afresh the son of man, and put him to an open shame."
"Ah? Is that so?" asked Langler, with his smile.
"Happily," I said, "nobody any longer cares, Emily."
"Unhappily," sighed Langler.
And, like an echo, there came from Miss Emily, who had not heard him:
"unhappily!"
"But observe," I said, "that this whole Canterbury gaudery remains
illegal, for I have yet to hear that the Act of Uniformity has been
repealed. Wouldn't the civil power be competent, if it chose, to take
action against someone?"
"I think so," replied Langler, "if the civil power were not far too
deeply indifferent to what takes place in Canterbury to rake up against
it old laws which have become academic. Even thirty, twenty years ago
what a howl of 'popery!' Now--nothing...."
"Yet," I said, "I can't think that indifference was quite the feeling of
the nation with regard to the Pope's visit; on the contrary, people
seemed interested and pleased. With our much of numbness about the
Church is there not, really, mixed a sort of interest?"
"In one class," replied Langler--"in the class which has acquired a
liking for charming rites and vestments in good taste. Hence the
corporate reunion that has been growing up since the last century, till
now it culminates, for the English Church got to see that it must more
and more imitate its great old Mother and her graces if it was to retain
any of the interest of the nation. It has, in fact, by this imitation
retained _some_ of the interest of one class, but we know that it is
none of it a religious interest, but an æsthetic one; and as to the
lower classes, no sort of interest has survived. In other words, while
the dogmas of the Church have become mawkish to all, her dear
altar-cloths and subcingula have continued pleasing to some--to you and
me, for example."
"But the end!" I said.
"Ah, the end," he sighed, and we were silent for a while till he added:
"ah, but talking of all that, I have not told you, have I, of our new
rector? You shall hear! He is a man with a tragedy in his future, a
brilliance in his past, and, to my mind, much lovableness in his
present--though _you_ may not say so. His name is Burton--a Harrow and
King's College man, the son of a successful undertaker of Belfast. He
became a Bell Scholar and Browne's Medallist before he was twenty-one,
and was Senior Classic and Senior Chancellor's Medallist very shortly
after. Later on he was appointed lecturer, and got a tutorship. I don't
know what he did for some years, but I am told that he was offered the
headmastership of Ardingly, which he refused: he said, mark you, that he
wished to devote himself to _pastoral work_! Think of that for a modern
person of that sort! Then the Prime Minister, hearing of his parts,
offered him Ritching, which, you know, is in his gift, and at Ritching
Burton now is, so you will not fail to come across him somewhere soon.
But it is my belief that, if ever Edwards regretted a thing, it is this
of grafting Burton under his nose here into Ritching. He has caught a
Tartar in Burton, I can tell you. Burton _believes_! He is the last of
the, let us say the--Barons. And he has quite the tone of the old-world
type of priest and arch-priest--more lofty than Lucifer himself, in his
quality of churchman, you understand, though underneath I believe him to
be a dear, humble fellow. The living is worth three hundred pounds, and
of that let us say thirty pounds is spent upon Dr Burton. The rest goes
in needless 'works' among his flock--really his _flock_ I mean, for
Burton's intellect still divides the world into Church and Sheep: he
actually says 'sheep.' He breaks his fast at noon, in Advent and Lent
not till five, and I hear of hair-cloths, and of midnight risings to
recite the breviary office. Add to what I have said that the sermons
which he preaches weekly to empty pews are undoubtedly the most
brilliant, impassioned, inspired now anywhere uttered in the English
tongue--I have been to hear two of them, and you may believe me--and you
get a figure rather incongruously ranged with regard to his age. He, by
the way, bans me even more than I love him, pronouncing at my shadow a
'Retro, Satanas.' He knows that I am hardly quite 'of the light,' and my
love of the Church is an added fault in his eyes. However, to his
smitings I find no difficulty in turning always my other cheek. On the
whole, I assure you, the world will hear of Dr Burton, or Dr Burton will
break himself up against the world----But who is this?"
It was one of the gardeners, named John, who came to say that someone
had run over from Ritching with the tidings that Mrs Robinson, the
mother of the vanished Robinson, was dying.
At this Miss Emily hurried up from the water, rushing into pinks and
whites, calling: "what, Mrs Robinson! not dying?... Oh, my forgetful
head! I intended the first thing this morning.... It is grief and
solitude that is killing the poor woman. Aubrey, I must go now to her."
"Well, and I too," said Langler; and to me: "Would you care to come?"
We hurried to the house, and soon set out--Langler with his broad hat
and thorn stick, Miss Emily with a basket, and old Bruno (a mastiff) at
our heels.
We wound the north way out of Swandale by a path where we had to walk in
single file through aftermath, Langler going first, Miss Emily behind,
and as I in the middle reached my hand backward to relieve her of the
basket my fingers happened to meet her palm, Langler then talking about
Robinson, though at the time I hardly heeded him; he said, however: "if
ever midnight darkened with sudden disaster upon the life of any man,
surely it was upon this poor fellow. He was an easy, good chap, this
Robinson. You knew him, Arthur. What a beauty of mild, large eye was
his, and dark-curling beard! Do you know, I often seemed to realise in
him my notion of the face of Jesus; certainly, he wasn't unlike the
later French conception of the Saviour. As to his disappearance, nothing
can be queerer. He left Swandale at noon on Thursday to walk to
Ritching, in order, they say, to bespeak Lang, the blacksmith. Now, a
little on this north side of Swandale there lay in a spinney a
ne'er-do-weel named Notter; Notter saw Robinson, but Robinson did not
see Notter: and what, according to Notter, was Robinson doing as he went
by?--looking up into the air, whistling! So that we may say that
Robinson was not then running away--had, in fact, no perverse purpose of
any kind in his mind. Yet Ritching is less than three miles from
Swandale! And he never entered Ritching! that we know. In that interval,
then, the poor fellow was whiffed from the ways of men by some injurious
magic: and the place which knew him knows him no more."
"And as to the police?" I said.
"No doubt they are at work," he answered; "but in a matter of just this
kind I believe you will find that nothing but a species of inspired
divining, hardly common in the _bureaux_, will accomplish much."
"Aubrey, there were three strangers in Ritching during the week," called
Miss Emily from behind.
"Ah? Is that so?" said Langler. "I didn't know."
"Jane heard it in Ritching last night, and told me."
"Friends?" asked Langler.
"No, apparently; they were people taking holiday. They put up for
several days at the Calf's Head. Two were foreigners."
We were now at a gate between two great masses of rock, and passed
through it to the path over which poor Robinson had lately gone to his
fate. Hence to the dale in which Ritching moons the way is mostly
downhill, and we were soon entering the south end of the old townlet.
At that south end of the street stood a group of people singing--a squad
of three Salvationists, from Alresford perhaps, and with them a few of
the villagers--singing as we drew near, with a certain rollicking swing,
and I well recall the lilt and the words:
"At the Cross, at the Cross, where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away,
It was there by faith I received my sight,
And now I am happy all the day."
Twice they encored this chorus, some laughing as they sang, others
standing silent, with dimples of amusement on that side of the lips
where the pipe was not. When this was chanted out sprang a captain, and,
himself smiling, began to cry aloud: "Well, friends, you may laugh,
but--but----" He got no further, for just then down the path ran
bounding a rat, a terrier, a lot of men and boys; I had to draw Miss
Emily aside, as, rushing by, they pelted among the Salvationists, who,
in their turn, scattered, and joined the chase. Only the captain and his
two mates were left.
I caught the captain's words: "well, here's a rum go, mates."
We, for our part, went on our way, I smiling, but on the face of either
of my friends not a smile. I could not help saying: "modern
Christianity in the modern village does not thrive"; but at once I was
sorry for having said anything, for neither the one nor the other
answered me.
Only after some time Langler said: "still, the martyrs, dying for it,
lifted up their eyes, and saw heaven open. But now, you see, it has come
to this." I heard him murmur to himself: "_And now I am happy all the
day_...."
Miss Emily, who had hurried on a little ahead, now vanished into a
cottage into which Langler and I presently followed her. On our entrance
she had just passed through into an inner room, and we heard someone in
there going "_Sh-h-h!_" to her in an angry fashion.
We, too, after a little moved into that inner room. There the mother of
Robinson lay dying, and it was there that I first laid eyes on Dr
Burton.
He was standing, with a stole on, at the further side of the bed, and a
murmur of rapid words was coming from him.
At the near bedside were two of the villagers, with a lay sister from
the Poor Clares at Up Hatherley, and Miss Emily; the little place was
very dingy, but Dr Burton's face was towards us as we entered: I saw
Langler bow austerely, but the Doctor looked through him with a vacant
gaze.
The appearance of Dr Burton was impressive: his waistband circumferenced
a hemisphere of paunch, so that the hem of his frock stuck well out in
front of his toes, and he was also thick about the shoulders, chest, and
throat; his brow, invaded all round by close-cropped hair, had a scowl,
and his mouth a pout; his complexion was of a red brown. I heard him
mutter: "by this holy unction, and through His great mercy, Almighty God
forgive thee whatever thou hast sinned by sight...." And his right thumb
anointed the eyelids of the dying with oil.
And again he ran on in a rapid recitative: "by this holy unction, and
through His great mercy, Almighty God forgive thee whatever thou hast
sinned by hearing...." And his right thumb smeared the ear of the dying
with oil.
I saw Miss Emily bridle a little. In Dr Burton's left hand was an old
Sarum liturgical book in pigskin, and on he droned: "by this holy
unction, and through His great mercy, Almighty God forgive thee whatever
thou hast sinned by smelling...." And his thumb noted the nose of the
poor old woman with oil.
Except this cantering mutter and a death-ruckle on the bed all was still
in the darkling room. Miss Emily stood at the head, parted from Dr
Burton by the breadth of the bed, I with her. And once more the drone
was droning: "by this holy unction, and through His great mercy,
Almighty God forgive thee----"
But now there was an interruption: the little old woman for some half
minute had been making some effort--to speak or to move--and now she
lifted her head, opened her eyes, and whispered something to Miss Emily.
Her words, as I afterwards learned, were: "ah, Miss Emily, tell him to
stop ... dear, good soul he is ... my poor son...."
Her head fell back upon the pillow. It was clear that her strength had
already been well tried before our entrance, for on a table near the bed
were the bell, light, and cross of the Blessed Sacrament, with the pyx
wrapped in linen. But at the interruption Dr Burton stopped; his face
darkened, and forth went his arm, pointing to the door.
"All leave the room," cried he with a gruff brogue.
I saw Miss Emily's face go rosy, while Langler's eyes dwelt upon the
Doctor, and he asked, with a smile: "but why so, Dr Burton?"
"Do it, sir!" cried the doctor in a startling manner; whereupon for
perhaps thirty seconds it lasted, the doctor pointing, Langler smiling,
till Langler turned, and said "come" to Miss Emily and to me.
We went out, the two villagers following us, leaving the doctor and the
Franciscan alone with the dying woman. But in the outer room Miss Emily
sat on a chair, saying: "I mean to wait here till Dr Burton chooses to
go away. Send John to me, and don't expect me home until all is over."
"Well, then," said Langler; and he and I started off to go back to
Swandale, night now falling as we passed through Ritching and thence on
up the rising land towards Swandale, and half way up we halted, and
turned together, surveying the scene of the valley, veiled now in the
hazes of the Sabbath evening: Ritching church-spire could be seen
standing out of a garland of wood; so could a part of Goodford village
far in the north-west, and there, too, just vanishing out of sight, a
church-spire; and presently there was wafted up to us from the valley a
charming noise--church-bells chiming for Benediction of the Blessed
Sacrament. Langler said then to me in a low voice: "Arthur, to me it is
very touching, such a scene; that Goodford church always reminds me of
Bemerton, where George Herbert walked and talked with his Lord, and on
the whole, what a language do they speak, those spires, those bells, how
noble an expression of men's noblest thoughts of this world through
twenty ages! One knows that for the new phasis of the world the old
expression will not do; but for myself, though I tolerate the sun, give
me Iris and the Götterdämmerung. Certainly, she was rather lovely, this
old church of the Nazarene, with a loveliness that was so useful, too,
to lure and lever the world. Who could have foretold that just in sorrow
would have been born such a charm, that the moan alone of a saint could
more ravish the sense than the rose of Sharon? And through such a roll
of generations, Arthur! The beauty that could so long baffle the law
'they all shall change,' what a charm of life must have informed her! If
we who now see her mouthing her mumblings in her extreme age, garishly
rouged and dizened with trumperies, can still by an effort live again in
her youth, how vital a youth must that have been! But that extreme age
is really here apparently. Surely the rouge cracks now, and beneath
peers the very saffron of death and putrescence imminent. Look where you
like, from the event at Canterbury to our 'now I am happy all the day,'
and do not the signs bode the passing-bell and the sexton? Judging only
from our experiences of to-day, may we not say with some assurance that
we now listen to those chimes for about the last time?"