“You see, Friar Tuck, as you call him, was a good deal of a fanatic,
those days,” sez Horace, after he’d thrown a stone at me. “He took his
religion serious, an’ wanted to transform the world into what it would
be if all people tried their best to live actual Christ-like lives. He
was a big country boy, fresh from college, an’ full of ideals, an’
feelin’ strong enough to hammer things out accordin’ to the pattern he
had chose.
“It was his voice which got him his place. He had a perfectly
marvelous voice, an’ I never heard any one else read the service like
he did. This was what took me to church, and I’d have gone as long as
he stayed. You see, Happy, life is really made up of sensations an’
emotions; and it used to lift me into the clouds to see his shinin’
youth robed in white, an’ hear that wonderful voice of his fillin’ the
great, soft-lighted church with melody an’ mystery. It was all I asked
of religion an’ it filled me with peace an’ inspiration. Of course,
from a philosophical standpoint, the Greek religion—”
“Did the girl believe in the Greek religion?” I asked to switch him
back.
“No, no,” he snapped. “This Greek religion that I’m speakin’ of died
out two thousand years ago.”
“Then let’s let it rest in peace,” sez I, “an’ go on with your story.”
“You understand that this was a fashionable church,” sez Horace. “They
was willin’ to pay any sum for music an’ fine readin’ an’ all that;
but they wasn’t minded to carry out young Carmichaels plan in the
matter of Christianizin’ the world. They was respectable, an’ they
insisted that all who joined in with ’em must be respectable, too;
while he discovered that a lot o’ the most persistent sinners wasn’t
respectable at all. His theory was, that religion was for the vulgar
sinners, full as much as for the respectable ones; so he made a
round-up an’ wrangled in as choice a lot o’ sinners as a body ever
saw; but his bosses wouldn’t stand for his corralin’ ’em up in that
fashionable church.
“He stood out for the sinners; an’ finally they compromised by gettin’
him a little chapel in the slums, an’ lettin’ him go as far as he
liked with the tough sinners down there through the week; but readin’
the service on Sundays to the respectable sinners in the big church.
This plan worked smooth as ice, until they felt the need of a soprano
singer who could scrape a little harder again’ the ceilin’ than the
one they already had. Then Carmichael told ’em that he had discovered
a girl with a phe-nominal voice, an’ had been teachin’ her music for
some time. He brought her up an’ gave her a trial—”
“An’ she was the girl, huh?” I interrupted.
“She had a wonderful voice, all right,” sez Horace, not heedin’ me;
“but she wasn’t as well trained as that church demanded; so they hired
her for twenty-five dollars a Sunday on the condition that she take
lessons from a professor who charged ten dollars an hour. She was
game, though, an’ took the job, an’ made good with it, too, improvin’
right along until it was discovered that she was singin’ weeknights in
a café, from six to eight in the evenin’, an’ from ten to twelve at
night.
“The girl had been singin’ with a screen o’ flowers in front of her;
and some o’ the fashionable male sinners from the big church had been
goin’ there right along to hear her sing; but they couldn’t work any
plan to get acquainted with her, and this made her a mystery, and drew
’em in crowds. Finally, as her voice got better with the trainin’,
critics admitted ’at she could make an agreeable noise; and the common
sinners was tickled to have their judgement backed up, so they began
to brag about it. The result o’ this was, that one ol’ weasel had to
swaller his extra-work-at-the-office excuse, and take his own wife to
hear the singer. Then the jig was up. The woman recognized the voice
first pop; and within a week it was known that Carmichael had been
goin’ home with her every night.
“Now, you may be so simple-minded that you don’t know it; but really,
this was a perfectly scandalous state of affairs, and the whole
congregation began to buzz like a swarm of angry bees. Carmichael was
as handsome a young feller as was ever seen; but he had never taken
kindly to afternoon teas and such-like functions, which is supposed to
be part of a curate’s duties; so now, when they found he had been
goin’ home nights with a girl ’at sang in a café it like to have
started an epidemic of hysteria.
“They found that the girl lived in a poor part o’ the town, and
supported her mother who was sickly, that they were strangers to the
city, and also not minded to furnish much in the way o’ past history.
They insisted upon her givin’ up the café-singin’ at once; and from
what I’ve heard, they turned up their noses when they said it.
“Carmichael pointed out that she was givin’ up twenty a week for
lessons which they had insisted upon; and asked ’em if they were sure
a girl could be any more, respectable, supportin’ a sickly mother on
five a week, than if she added fifteen to it by singin’ in a café. He
got right uppish about it and said right out that he couldn’t see
where it was one bit more hellish for her to sing at the café than for
other Christians to pay for a chance to listen to her.
“This tangled ’em up in their own ropes consid’able; but what finally
settled it was, ’at their richest member up and died, and they simply
had to have a sky-scrapin’ soprano to start him off in good style; so
they gave her twenty a week and paid for her lessons. The café people
soon found what a card she’d been and they offered her fifty a week;
but she was game and stuck to the agreement.”
“How did you find out all this, Horace?” I asked.
“A friend o’ mine belonged to the vestry,” sez Horace; “and he kept me
posted to the minute. This was his first term at it, and it was his
last; but he was a lucky cuss to get the chance just when he did. I
have since won him over to see the beauty o’ the Greek religion.”
“What became o’ the girl?” sez I with some impatience, for I didn’t
care as much as a single cuss-word for the Greek religion.
“Carmichael was a gentle spoken young feller,” sez Horace, “but for
all that, he wasn’t a doormat by inheritance nor choice, and he kept
on payin’ attention to the girl, and got her to sing at his annex in
the slums. Night after night he filled the place with the best
assortment o’ last-chance sinners ’at that locality could furnish; and
he an’ the girl an’ the sinners all pitched in and offered up song
music to make the stars rock; but St. Holiernthou wasn’t the sort of a
parish to sit back and let a slum outfit put over as swell a line o’
melody as they were servin’, themselves; so they ordered Carmichael to
cut her off his list. He tried to get ’em to hire another curate, and
let him have full swing at the annex; but they told him they’d close
it up first.
“Next, a delegation o’ brave an’ inspired women took it upon ’emselves
to call on the girl. They pointed out that she was standin’ in the way
o’ Carmichael’s career, that, under good conditions, his advance was
certain; but that a false step at the start would ruin it all. They
went on and hinted that if it wasn’t for her, he might have married an
heiress, and grow up to be one o’ the leadin’ ministers o’ the whole
country.”
“What did she do, Horace?” sez I.
“The girl was proud; she thanked the delegation for takin’ so much
interest in her—and said that she would not detain ’em any longer;
but would think it over as careful as she could. Then she walked out
o’ the room; and the delegation strutted off with their faces shinin’
like a cavey o’ prosperous cats. The girl vanished, just simply
vanished. She wrote Carmichael a letter, and that was the end of it.
Some say she committed suicide, and some say she went to Europe and
became a preemie donner—a star singer—but anyway, that was the end
of her, as far as that region was concerned.”
“She was a fine girl,” sez I; “though I wish that instead of slippin’
off that way, she had asked me to drown the members o’ that delegation
as inconspicuous as possible. I wouldn’t put on mournin’, if the whole
outfit of ’em was in the same fix your confounded Greek Religion is.
What was her name, Horace?”
“Janet Morris,” sez he.
I said it over a time or two to myself; and it seemed to fit her. “I
like that name,” sez I. “Now tell me the way ’at the Friar cut loose
and tied into that vestry. I bet he made trade boom for hospitals and
undertakers.”