been bought and paid for--horribly dear, too!--so you must lump it.
Try wearing them inside out for a time. That takes the edge off a
bit."
And thus, with sage counsel and practical suggestion (together with a
brief whistle to Mr Dawks, who was moistening his internal clay at the
water-jug), our young Minerva passed on to the sleeping-place of her
beloved Ally.
Rather to her surprise, Mr Aloysius Vereker was awake and out of
bed. The reason was plain. Before him upon the dressing-table
lay a pot of shaving-soap of a widely advertised brand, a new
shaving-brush, a sixpenny bottle of bay rum, and a lather dish of
red indiarubber,--youthful extravagances to which the hardened
shaver of twenty years' standing, who smears himself with ordinary
Brown Windsor out of the soap-dish and wipes his razor on a piece
of newspaper or the window-curtain, looks back with mingled
amusement and regret. In his hand gleamed a new razor.
"Careful!" he gasped through a sea of lather. "Don't shake the room,
kid!"
Daphne sat cautiously down upon the bed, and surveyed the operator
with unfeigned pride and enthusiasm. She clasped her hands.
"Ally, how splendid! When did you begin doing it?"
Ally, weathering a hairless and slippery corner, replied--
"Third time. I'm doing it chiefly to make something _grow_. A man
simply _has_ to shave after he gets into the Fifteen: you look such a
fool on Saturday nights if you don't. A chap in our house called
Mallock, who has had his colours four years, has a beard about
half-an-inch long by Friday. He's a gorgeous sight."
Daphne shuddered slightly.
Ally continued.
"I don't expect to rival him, of course, but I should like to have
something to scrape off in the dormitory. My fag always grins so when
he brings me my shaving-water--little tick!"
Daphne was too well versed in the eccentricities of the young of the
male species to experience the slightest feeling of surprise at her
brother's singular ambition. She merely wrapped a blanket round her
shoulders and settled herself against the head of the bed, anxiously
contemplating the progress of a sanguinary campaign in the region
surrounding Ally's jugular vein.
Presently operations came to a conclusion; the traces of battle were
obliterated with much sponging and spraying; and the pair sat and
gossiped amicably while Ally stropped his razor and put studs in his
Sunday shirt.
It was a full quarter of an hour before Daphne returned to her room,
for her Sunday morning call upon Ally was always a protracted affair.
But before she left she had, after the usual blandishments, exacted
from him a promise that he would come to church. Their father never
exercised any compulsion in this matter; but if any member of the
family did stay at home on Sunday morning, the Rector's mute distress
was such as to blight the spirits of the household for the rest of the
day; and Daphne always exerted herself to the full to round up her
entire flock in the Rectory pew at the appointed hour. The most
recalcitrant members thereof were Ally and Nicky, but the former could
usually be cajoled and the latter coerced.
After breakfast the Rector retired to his study to con his sermon; and
not long afterwards was to be seen, key in hand, passing through the
wicket-gate which led from the garden into the churchyard. Having
tolled the church bell for five minutes, he busied himself at the
altar, and then turned up the lessons at the lectern, marking these
same in plain figures; for the Squire, who fulfilled the office of
reader, required careful guidance in this respect. (He had been known
to read the same lesson twice; also the Second Lesson before the
First; and once he had turned over two pages together towards the end
of a long chapter, and embarked with growing huskiness and visible
indignation upon a supplementary voyage of forty-seven verses.)
Presently the Rector returned to the house for his surplice; and ten
minutes later, a tall and saintly figure, followed his hobnailed and
bullet-headed choristers into the chancel.
Snayling Church, though a diminutive building, was one of the oldest
of its kind in England. The tower was square and stumpy, and had
served as a haven of refuge more than once. A later generation,
following the pious but unnecessary fashion of the day, had erected
upon its summit a steeple of homely design, which indicated the route
to heaven in an officious and altogether gratuitous manner. Inside the
building itself the roof was supported by massive stone pillars and
Norman arches. Beneath the floor lay folk long dead, their names,
virtues, and destination set forth in many curious inscriptions in
stone and brass, all greatly prized by the tourist with his
tracing-paper and heel-ball. The chancel contained a real Crusader,
who reclined, sword in hand and feet crossed, upon a massive
sarcophagus, his good lady by his side. Tony Vereker had woven many a
legend about _him_, you may be sure.
Each of the tiny transepts contained two square pews, decently veiled
from the public gaze by red curtains. Those on the north side belonged
respectively to the Squire, whose arrival in church with his wife and
four daughters always served as an intimation to the organist--Mr
Pack, the schoolmaster--that it was eleven o'clock and time to wind up
the voluntary; and old Lady Curlew of Hainings, who invariably arrived
five minutes before the hour, accompanied by her maid; who, having
packed her mistress into a corner of the pew with cushions and
hassocks, retired discreetly to the free seats by the door.
Of the pews in the south transept one was the property of the Lord of
the Manor, the Marquis of Kirkley. It was seldom occupied, for his
lordship suffered from the misfortune (which modern legislation is
doing so much to alleviate) of possessing more residences than he
could comfortably live in. His adjacent seat, Kirkley Abbey, was
seldom open except for a few weeks during the pheasant season; and
even the recurrence of that momentous period did not postulate undue
congestion in the family pew.
The other pew was the Rector's, and here Daphne succeeded on this
particular Sabbath morning in corralling the full strength of her
troupe.
_Non sine pulvere_, however. Ally, as already related, had proved
fairly tractable, but Nicky (who just at present stood badly in
need of the services of a competent exorcist) had almost evaded
ecclesiastical conscription by a new and ingenious device. At
ten-fifteen precisely she had fallen heavily down a flight of two
steps and sprained her ankle. Unsympathetic Daphne, experienced in the
detection of every form of malingering, had despatched her upstairs
with a bottle of Mr Elliman's strongest embrocation--the property of
Ally--with instructions to anoint the injured member and report
herself for duty at ten-forty-five prompt. At the appointed hour
Nicky, limping painfully and smiling heroically, had joined the rest
of the family in the hall.
Presently Ally remarked casually--
"Rotten stink here. Furniture polish, or something."
"Yes--filthy reek!" agreed Stiffy.
"It's turpentine," cried Cilly, crinkling her nose.
"It's Elliman," said Tony.
"It's _you_, Nicky!" said everybody at once.
Daphne, who was drawing on her gloves, peeled them off again with some
deliberation, and took her youngest sister by the shoulders.
"Nicky," she inquired, "how much Elliman did you use?"
That infant martyr, wincing ostentatiously, delicately protruded a
foot, and exhibited a long black leg heavily swathed from knee to
instep under her stocking with a bandage of colossal dimensions.
"Not more than I could help, Daph," she said. "I found one or two
other bruises on my--all over me, in fact: so I--I just put a little
Elliman on each. I didn't want to be a trouble to any one, so----"
"Run upstairs, Stiffy," Daphne interpolated swiftly, "and see how much
Elliman is left in the bottle."
By this time Cilly had thrown open the front door and staircase
windows, and the remainder of the Vereker family were fanning
themselves with their Sunday hats and ostentatiously fighting for
breath--an exercise in which they persevered until Stiffy reappeared
carrying an empty bottle.
"Two bobs' worth!" shouted Ally. "And I meant it to last for months!
Nicky, you little _sweep_!"
Daphne glanced at the hall clock.
"Fourteen minutes!" she calculated frantically. "Yes, it can just be
done. Nicky, my cherub, you shall come to church this morning if I
have to _scrape_ you. Go on, you others! I'll follow myself as quickly
as I can."
The last sentence was delivered far up the staircase, which Miss
Vereker was ascending with flying feet, a tearful and unwilling
appendage trailing behind her. Next moment the bathroom door banged,
and the departing worshippers heard both taps turned on.
* * * * *
At two minutes past eleven precisely Daphne and Nicky, the former
cool, collected, and as prettily dressed as any woman in the
congregation, the latter scarlet as if from recent parboiling, walked
demurely down the aisle just as the choir entered the chancel, lustily
bellowing a hymn which drew attention to the advantages accruing in
the next world to that Servant of the Lord who should be found Waiting
in his Office, in a Posture not specified--Tony used often to wonder
what would happen if the Day of Judgment should fall upon a Bank
holiday or Saturday afternoon--and joined the rest of the family in
the Rectory pew.
* * * * *
A sermon, we all know, offers unique facilities for quiet reflection.
As their father's silvery voice rose and fell in the cadences of his
discourse--he had soared far above the heads of his bucolic audience,
and was now disporting himself in a delectable but quite inaccessible
aether of his own, where the worshippers (such of them as had not
yielded to slothful repose) followed his evolutions with mystified and
respectful awe, much as a crowd of citizens in a busy street gape
upwards at the gambols of an aeroplane--the Rectory children wedged
themselves into their own particular nooks of the pew, and prepared to
get through the next twenty minutes in characteristic fashion.
Ally closed his eyes and assumed an attitude of slumber, as befitted
his years and dignity. But he was not asleep. He did not look
comfortable. Perhaps his breakfast had disagreed with him, or possibly
he was contemplating within himself the vision of a receding
University and an all-too-adjacent office-stool. Daphne, with her eyes
fixed on the wall opposite and her brow puckered, was pondering some
domestic problem--her own extravagantly small feet, mayhap, or
Wednesday's hypothetical leg of mutton. Despite her burden of care,
her face looked absurdly round and childish under her big beaver hat.
One hand supported her chin in a characteristic pose, the other
controlled the movements of the restless Anthony, who was
impersonating something of a vibratory nature. Cilly, with glowing
eyes and parted lips, was reading the Marriage Service in her
Prayerbook. Nicky, whose recent ablutions had apparently purged her of
outward sin only, had pulled forward two long wisps of black hair from
behind her ears, and by crossing these under her nose had provided
herself with a very realistic and terrifying pair of moustaches, by
portentous twistings of which, assisted by the rolling of a frenzied
eye, she was endeavouring to make poor Stiffy laugh. That right-minded
youth, though hard pressed, had so far withstood temptation by
resolutely reciting to himself a favourite excerpt from Bradshaw's
Railway Guide, beginning "Brighton (Central), Preston Park, Burgess
Hill, Hassocks" ... and ending with ... "Grosvenor Road, Victoria,"--a
sedative exercise to which he was much addicted at moments of bodily
anguish or mental stress; but it was plain that his defence was
weakening.
Fortunately, the approaching explosion, which would have been of a
cataclysmal nature,--Stiffy was not a boy to do things by halves,--was
averted by a change of demeanour on the part of the temptress. Her
quick ear had caught some unaccustomed sound behind her. Letting go
her moustaches, which immediately assumed a more usual position, she
squirmed round in her seat and gently parted the red rep curtains
which separated the Rectory pew from that of Kirkley Abbey. An excited
gurgle apprised her fellow-worshippers of the fact that some unusual
sight had met her eyes.
What Nicky saw was this.
Immediately opposite to her improvised peep-hole sat a man--a large
man with square shoulders and an immobile face. He was clean-shaven,
with two strong lines running from his nostrils to the corners of his
mouth--a mouth which even in repose looked determined and grim. He
possessed a square jaw and rather craggy brows. It was difficult to
decide if he were sleeping or no, for though his eyes were closed
there was none of the abandon of slumber about his pose. His most
noticeable feature was the set of his eyebrows, which, instead of
being arched or level, ran upwards and outwards in a diagonal
direction, and gave him a distinctly Satanic appearance--a
circumstance which Nicky noted with sympathetic approval. He was
dressed in the somewhat _degage_ Sabbath attire affected by Englishmen
spending the week-end in the country, and his feet were perched upon
the seat opposite to him.
Presently, for some cause unknown--possibly Nicky's hard breathing--he
opened his eyes.
Immediately in front of him the stranger beheld a small excited face,
a pair of saucer-like blue eyes, and a wide but attractive mouth--the
whole vision framed in dusty red rep. The face was flushed, the eyes
glowed, and the mouth was wide open.
The picture, suddenly surprised in its inspection by a pair of the
shrewdest and most penetrating eyes it had ever beheld, dropped
hurriedly out of its frame and disappeared. If Nicky had waited a
moment longer she would have received a less one-sided impression of
the stranger, for almost simultaneously with the discovery of the
apparition in the peep-hole the man smiled. Instantly his whole face
changed. The outer corners of his eyebrows descended, the crease
between them disappeared, and magnificent teeth gleamed for a moment
in the dim religious light of the pew.
Nicky leaned across to her eldest sister and whispered huskily:--
"There's somebody in the other pew. I think it's the Devil. Look
yourself!"
But Daphne, deep in domestic mental arithmetic, smiled and shook her
head; and Nicky received little more encouragement from the rest of
the family. The profession of scare-monger and exploiter of mares'
nests, though enjoyable on the whole, has its drawbacks: if you get
hold of a genuine scare or an authentic mare's nest, nobody believes
you.
The sermon began to draw to a close, and a few minutes later the
Rector descended from the clouds and gave out the final hymn,
prefacing his announcement by an intimation that the offertory that
day would be devoted to the needs of the Children's Cottage Hospital
in the neighbouring county town. His appeal was characteristic.
"Money," he mused, "is the most hampering and perplexing thing in this
life. It is so artificial and unnecessary. I often sigh for a world
where all commerce will be in kind--where a cheque on the Bank of
Gratitude will settle the weekly bills, and 'I thank you!' be regarded
as legal tender up to any amount. But there is no give and take in
these days. Everything, from Life and Love down to the raiment we
wear, is duly appraised and ticketed, and if we stand in need of these
things we must render a material tale of pounds and pence or go
without. No wonder men call this the Iron Age! But, though money as a
rule brings nothing in its train but disappointment and regret (and
therefore it is better to have too little than too much), there are
times and seasons when it is permitted to us to purchase happiness
with it. To-day gives us one of these opportunities. Do not let that
opportunity slip. _Post est Occasio calva._" (Respectful intake of
breath on the part of the congregation.) "I do not urge you to give on
the plea put forward in a hymn that you will find in your books--a
hymn written by a man who should have known better--a hymn which shall
never, so long as I am Rector of this parish, emerge from the
obscurity of the printed page--advocating generosity in almsgiving on
the ground that contributions to the offertory on earth will be
refunded at the rate of a hundred thousand per cent in heaven. I do
not ask you to give either much or little. Very few of us here are
over-burdened with this world's goods. Still, we can each afford to
buy _some_ happiness to-day, at a very low rate. And it will not be
transitory or temporary happiness either; for every time hereafter
that your daily task or a country walk takes you past the Children's
Hospital at Tilney, that happiness will blossom again with
ever-reviving fragrance in your hearts. Let us sing Hymn number three
hundred and sixty-nine--
'Thine arm, O Lord, in days of old
Was strong to heal and save....'"
There was a general upheaval of the congregation and a clatter of
rustic boots; the little organ gave a premonitory rumble, and the hymn
began.
The hymn after the sermon is not, as a rule--to-day was an
exception--an impressive canticle. _Imprimis_, it is of abnormal
length and little coherence, having apparently been composed for the
sole purpose of lasting out the collection of the offertory; _item_,
the congregation is furtively engaged in retrieving umbrellas from
under seats and gliding into overcoats. Hence it was always a pleasant
diversion to the Rectory children to follow the movements of the two
churchwardens as they ran their godly race up the aisle in the pursuit
of alms and oblations. They even risked small sums on the result. When
the Squire and Mr Murgatroyd (Stationer and Dealer in Fancy Goods)
stepped majestically from their respective pews and set to work on
this particular morning, Daphne produced five sixpences and handed
them to her brothers and sisters. Nicky, in her anxiety to see what
sum the stranger in the Kirkley Abbey pew would contribute to the
total, received her own contribution with such nonchalance that the
coin slipped from her hand, and was being hunted for among hassocks
upon the floor at the moment when Mr Murgatroyd reached the stranger's
pew.
Nicky found her sixpence, and resumed an upright attitude just in time
to hear (in a pause between two verses) a faint papery rustle on the
other side of the curtain.
A moment later Mr Murgatroyd opened the door of the Rectory pew, with
his usual friendly air of dropping in for a cup of tea, and presented
the bag. The children put in their sixpences one by one. Nicky's turn
came last. She peered into the bag, and her sharp eyes caught sight of
something white protruding from amid the silver and copper.
Taking the bag from Mr Murgatroyd's hands--she controlled that
indulgent bachelor as she willed: he counted it a pleasure to turn his
stock inside out on a Saturday afternoon whenever Miss Veronica came
in with a penny to spend--Nicky deliberately drew out a piece of
folded crinkly white paper. This, laying the offertory bag upon the
baize-covered table in the middle of the pew, she carefully unfolded,
and perused the staring black legend inscribed upon the flimsy white
background. When she raised her eyes they were those of an owlet
suffering from mental shock.
"Golly!" she observed in bell-like tones. "The Devil has put in a
ten-pound note!"
CHAPTER FIVE.
A SABBATH-DAY'S JOURNEY.
The Rectory children, washed and combed for Sunday dinner, sat at ease
in the old nursery--promoted to schoolroom since Tony went into
knickerbockers--and discussed the munificent stranger of the morning.
Their interest in his movements and identity had been heightened by
the fact that after service was over he had proceeded to the right
instead of the left on leaving the Kirkley Abbey pew, and, turning his
broad back upon an undisguisedly interested congregation, had stalked
up the chancel and disappeared through the door leading to the vestry.
"I _wonder_ what he went for," said Cilly for the third time.
"Perhaps he was going to give Dad more banknotes," suggested the
optimistic Stiffy.
"More likely going to ask for change out of the first one," rejoined
Ally, the cynic.
"I expect he was going to complain about you making faces at him
through the curtain, Nicky," coldly observed Cilly, who had not yet
forgiven her small sister's innuendoes on the subject of Mr Robert
Gill.
"Rats!" demurred Nicky uneasily. "I didn't make faces. I expect he's
only some tourist who wants to rub brasses, or sniff a vault, or
something."
"He must be a friend of Lord Kirkley's," said Ally, "because----"
"_I'll_ show you who he is," shrilled a voice from the depth of a
cupboard under the window.
Tony, who had been grubbing among a heap of tattered and dusty
literature in the bottom shelf, now rose to his feet and staggered
across the room carrying an ancient but valuable copy of 'The
Pilgrim's Progress,' embellished with steel engravings.
Having deposited the volume upon the hearthrug he proceeded to hunt
through its pages. Presently, with a squeal of delight, he placed a
stumpy fore-finger upon a full-page illustration, and announced
triumphantly--
"That's him!"
The picture represented Christian's battle with Apollyon. Christian,
hard pressed, had been beaten to his knees, and over him towered the
figure of the Prince of Darkness, brandishing a sword and (in the most
unsportsmanlike manner) emitting metallic-looking flames from his
stomach. The children gathered round.
"You are right, Tony," said Cilly at length, "it _is_ like him."
Certainly Apollyon bore a sort of far-away resemblance to the late
occupant of the Kirkley Abbey pew.
"Look at his eyebrows," said Nicky, "they go straight up----"
The churchyard gate clicked, and voices were heard in conversation
outside. Daphne sped to the window.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed in an agonised whisper, "Dad is bringing him
in to lunch! Ally, take your boots off the mantelpiece! Nicky, pull up
your stockings! Cilly, knock Dawks off the sofa! I must fly. I wonder
if there's enough cream to make a trifle. Anyhow, the beef----"
And she sped away kitchenwards like an agitated butterfly.
A few minutes later the Rector appeared in the schoolroom, smiling
joyously, with his hand resting lightly on the shoulder of the
recently identified Apollyon. Tony was restoring 'The Pilgrim's
Progress' to its shelf with the complacency of a second Bertillon.
"These are my flock, Jack," said Brian Vereker. "I wonder if any of
you children can guess who this gentleman is? Would you think that he
and I were at school together? Tony, I have often told you of little
Jack Carr, who used to light my fire and cook my breakfast. And a
shocking mess he used to make of it, eh? Didn't you, Jack? Do you
remember the day you fried sausages in marmalade, because the label on
the pot said marmalade would be found an excellent substitute for
butter? Well, here he is, Tony. We have run together again after
twenty-five years. Come and shake hands. These are my two younger
girls, Jack, and these are my three boys. Where is Daphne, children?"
The Vereker family, drawn up in a self-conscious row, were understood
to intimate that Daphne was downstairs. A move was therefore made in
the direction of the dining-room, where Keziah, the little maid, was
heatedly laying an extra place. Daphne joined the party a moment
later, and welcomed Sir John Carr--such was his full title, it
appeared--with prettiness and composure. But Cilly and Nicky noted
that she had found time to rearrange her hair in honour of the
occasion, and adorn herself with most of her slender stock of
jewellery--two bangles and a thin gold chain.