Old Gloomster Goodheart, of Ballyhack, left the Palace of the Bishop of
Man broken-hearted. The Bishop had summoned him a week previous to show
cause why he should not be removed from his office of Gloomster, a
position that had been held by members of his family for ten
generations, aye, since the days of that ancient founder of the family,
Cronky Gudehart, of whom tradition states that his mere presence at a
wedding turned the marriage feast into a seeming funeral ceremony,
making men and women weep, and on two occasions driving the bride to
suicide and the groom into the Church. Indeed, Cronky Gudehart was
himself the first to occupy the office of Gloomster. The office was
created for his especial benefit, as you will see, for it was the mere
fact that the two grooms bereft at the altar sought out the consolation
of the monastery that called the attention of the ecclesiastical
authorities to the desirability of establishing such a functionary. The
two grooms were men of wealth, and, had it not been for Cronky
Gudehart's malign influence, neither they nor their wealth would have
passed into the control of the Church, a fact which Ramsay Ballawhaine,
then Bishop of Man, was quick to note and act upon.
"The gloomier the world," said he, "the more transcendently bright will
Heaven seem; and if we can make Heaven seem bright, the Church will be
able to declare dividends. Let us spread misery and sorrow. Let us
destroy the sunshine of life that so gilds with glory the flesh and the
devil. Let all that is worldly be made to appear mean and vile and
sordid."
"But how?" Ramsay Ballawhaine was asked. "That is a hard thing to do."
"For some 'twill doubtless so appear, but I have a plan," the Bishop had
answered. "We have here living, not far from Jellimacksquizzle, the
veriest spoil-sport in the person of Cronky Gudehart. He has a face that
would change the August beauties of a sylvan forest into a bleak scene
of wintry devastation. I am told that when Cronky Gudehart gazes upon a
rose it withers, and children passing him in the highways run shrieking
to their mothers, as though escaping from the bogie man of Caine
Hall--which castle, as you know, has latterly been haunted by horrors
that surpass the imagination. His voice is like the strident cry of
doom. Hearing his footsteps, strong men quail and women swoon; and I am
told that, dressed as Santa Claus, on last Christmas eve he waked up his
sixteen children, and with a hickory stick belabored one and all until
they said that mercy was all they wanted for their Yule-tide gifts."
"'Tis true," said the assistant vicar. "'Tis very true; and I happen to
know, through my own ministrations, that when a beggar-woman from Sodor
applied to Cronky Gudehart for relief from the sorrows of the world, he
gave her a bottle of carbolic acid, saying that therein lay the cure of
all her woes. But what of Cronky and your scheme?"
"Let us establish the office of Gloomster," returned the Bishop. "Set
apart Nightmare Abbey as his official residence, and pay him a salary to
go about among the people spreading grief and woe among them until they
fly in desperation to us who alone can console."
"It's out of sight!" ejaculated the assistant vicar, "and Cronky's just
the man for the place."
It was thus that the office of Gloomster was instituted. As will be
seen, the duties of the Gloomster were simple. He was given liberty of
entrance to all joyous functions in the life of the Isle of Man, social
or otherwise, and his duties were to ruin pleasure wherever he might
find it. Cronky Gudehart was installed in the office, and Nightmare
Abbey was set apart as his official residence. He attended all
weddings, and spoiled them in so far as he was able. It was his custom,
when the vicar asked if there was any just reason why these two should
not be joined together in holy wedlock, to rise up and say that, while
he had no evidence at hand, he had no doubt there was just cause in
great plenty, and to suggest that the ceremony should be put off a week
or ten days while he and his assistants looked into the past records of
the principals. At funerals he took the other tack, and laughed joyously
at every manifestation of grief. At hangings he would appear, and dilate
humorously upon the horrid features thereof; and at afternoon teas he
would appear clad in black garments from head to foot, and exhort all
present to beware of the future, and to give up the hollowness and
vanities of tea and macaroons.
Results were not long in their manifestation. In place of open marriage
the young people of the isle, to escape the malignant persecution of the
Gloomster, took up the habit of elopement, and as elopements always end
in sorrow and regret, the monasteries and nunneries waxed great in the
land. To avoid funerals, at which the Gloomster's wit was so fearsome a
thing, the sick or the maimed and the halt fled out into the open sea
and drowned themselves, and all sociability save that which came from
book sales and cake auctions--in their very nature destructive of a love
of life--faded out of the land.
"Cronky Gudehart was an ideal Gloomster," said the Bishop of Man, with a
sigh, when that worthy spoil-sport, having gone to Africa for a
vacation, was eaten by cannibals. "We shall not look upon his like
again."
"I've no doubt he disagreed with the cannibals," sobbed the vicar, as he
thought over the virtues of the deceased.
[Illustration: THE END OF THE GLOOMSTER]
"None who ate him could escape appendicitis," commented the Bishop,
wiping a tear from his eye; "and, thank Heaven, the operation for that
has yet to be invented. Those cannibals have been taken by this time
from their wicked life."
So it had gone on for ten generations. Cronky had been succeeded by his
son and by his son's son, and so on. To be Gloomster of the Isle of Man
had by habit become the prerogative of the Gudehart family until the
present, when Christian Goodheart found himself summoned before the
Bishop to show cause why he should not be removed. Hitherto the
Gloomster had given satisfaction. It would be hard to point to one of
them--unless we except Eric Goodheart, the one who changed the name from
Gudehart to Goodheart--who had not filled the island with that kind of
sorrow that makes life seem hardly worth living. Eric Goodheart had once
caught his father, "Bully Gudehart," as he was called, in a moment of
forgetfulness, doing a kindly act to a beggar at the door. A wanderer
had appeared at the door of Nightmare Abbey in a starving condition, and
Eric had surprised the Gloomster in the very act of giving the beggar a
piece of apple-pie. The father found himself suddenly confronted by the
round, staring eyes of his son, and he was frightened. If it were ever
known that the Gloomster had done a kindly thing for anybody, he might
be removed, and Bully Gudehart recognized the fact.
"Come here!" he cried brutally, to Eric, as the beggar marched away
munching hungrily on the pie. "Come here, you brat! Do you hear? Come
_here_!" The boy was coming all the while. "You saw?"
"Yes, your Honor," he replied, "I saw. The man said he was nearly dead
with hunger, and you gave him food."
"No," roared the Gloomster, full of fear, for he knew how small boys
prattle, "I did not give him food! _I gave him pie!_"
"All right, your Majesty," the boy answered. "You gave him pie. And I
see now why they call you Bully. For pie is bully, and nothing less."
"My son," the Gloomster responded, seizing a trunk-strap and whacking
the lad with it forcefully, "you don't understand. Do you know why I
fed that man?"
"Because he was dying of hunger," replied the lad, ruefully, rubbing his
back where the trunk-strap had hit him.
"Precisely," said the Gloomster. "If I hadn't given him that pie he'd
have died on the premises, and I can't afford the expense of having a
tramp die here. As it is, he will enjoy a lingering death. _That was one
of your mother's pies._"
Eric ran sobbing to his room, but in his heart he believed that he had
detected his father in a kindly act, and conceived that a Gloomster
might occasionally relax. Nevertheless, when he succeeded to the office
he was stern and unrelenting, in spite of the fact that occasionally
there was to be detected in his eye a glance of geniality. This was
doubtless due to the fact that from the time of his intrusion upon his
father's moment of weakness he was soundly thrashed every morning before
breakfast, and spanked before retiring at night, as a preliminary to his
prayers.
But Christian Goodheart, the present incumbent, had not given
satisfaction, and his Bishop had summoned him to show cause why he
should not be removed, and, as we have seen, the Gloomster had gone away
broken-hearted. Shortly after having arrived at Nightmare Abbey he was
greeted by his wife.
"Well, Christian," she said, "what did the Bishop say?"
"He wants my resignation," sighed Christian. "He says I have shown
myself unworthy, and I fear he has evidence."
"Evidence? Against you, my husband, the most disagreeable man in the
isle?" cried his wife, fondly.
"Yes," sighed Christian. "Do you remember, you old termagant, how,
forgetting myself and my position, last Tuesday I laughed when Peter
Skelly told us what his baby said to his nurse?"
"I do, Christian," the good woman answered. "You laughed heartily, and I
warned you to be careful. It is not the Gloomster's place to laugh, and
I feared it might reach the Bishop's ears."
"It has done so," sighed Christian, shaking his head sadly and wringing
his hands in his agony. "It has reached the Bishop's ears. Little Glory
Grouse was passing by the door at the moment and saw me. Astonished, the
child ran home and told her mother. 'Mommer!' she cried, 'I have seen
the Gloomster laugh! I have seen the Gloomster laugh!' The child was
cross-questioned, but stuck to her story until Mrs. Grouse was
convinced, and told her neighbors, and these neighbors told other
neighbors, until the story came to the ears of Canon Cashman, by whom it
was conveyed to the Bishop himself."
"What a little gossip that Glory Grouse is! She'll come to a bad end,
mark my words!" cried Mrs. Goodheart, angrily. "She'll have her honored
father's name on the circus posters yet."
"Do not blame the child," said Christian, sadly. "She was right. Who
had ever seen a Gloomster smile before? As well expect a ray of
sunshine or a glimpse of humor in a Manx novel--"
"But the Bishop is not going to remove you for one false step, is he,
Christian? He cannot do that, can he?" pleaded the woman.
"That is what I asked him," Christian answered. "And he handed me a
type-written memorandum of what he called my record. It seems that for
six months they have been spying upon me. Read it for yourself."
Mrs. Goodheart took the paper and read, with trembling hands:
"'January 1, 1898--wished Peggy Meguire a happy New Year.' Did you
really, Christian?"
"I don't remember doing so," sighed the Gloomster. "If I did, it must
have been in sarcasm, for I hate Peggy Meguire, and I am sure I wish her
nothing of the sort. I told the Bishop so, but all he would say was,
'Read on.'"
[Illustration: WISHED HER A HAPPY NEW-YEAR]
"'February 23, 1898,'" Mrs. Goodheart continued, reading from the
paper--"'took off his coat and wrapped it about the shivering form of a
freezing woman.'
"How very imprudent of you, Christian!" said his wife.
"But the Bishop didn't know the circumstances," said Christian. "It was
the subtlest kind of deviltry, not humanity, that prompted the act. If I
hadn't given her my coat, the old lady would have frozen to death and
been soon out of her misery. As it was, my wet coat saved her from an
immediate surcease of sorrow, and, as I had foreseen, gave her muscular
rheumatism of the most painful sort, from which she has suffered ever
since."
"You should have explained to the Bishop."
"I did."
"And what did he say?"
"He said my methods were too damned artistic."
"What?" cried Mrs. Goodheart. "The Bishop?"
"Oh, well," said Christian, "words to that effect. He doesn't
appreciate the subtleties of gloom distinction. What he looks for is
sheer brutality. Might as well employ an out-and-out desperado for the
work. I like to infuse a little art into my work. I've tried to bring
Gloomsterism up to the level of an art, a science. Slapping a man in the
face doesn't make him gloomy; it makes him mad. But subtlely infusing
woe into his daily life, so that he doesn't know whence all his trouble
comes--ah! that is the perfect flower of the Gloomster's work!"
"H'm!" said Mrs. Goodheart. "That's well enough, Christian. If you are
rich enough to consume your own product with profit, it's all right to
be artistic; but if you are dependent on a salary, don't forget your
consumer. What else have they against you?"
"Read on, woman," said the Gloomster.
"'April 1, 1898,'" the lady read. "'Gave a half-crown to a starving
beggar.'"
"That was another highly artistic act," said Christian. "I told the
Bishop that I had given the coin to the beggar knowing it to be
counterfeit, and hoping that he would be arrested for trying to pass it.
The Bishop cut me short by saying that my hope had not been fulfilled.
It seems that that ass of a beggar bought some food with the half-crown,
and the grocer who sold him the food put the counterfeit half-crown in
the contribution-box the next Sunday, and the Church was stuck. That's
what I call hard luck."
"Oh, well," returned Mrs. Goodheart, putting the paper down in despair.
"There's no need to read further. That alone is sufficient to cause your
downfall. When do you resign?"
"At once," sighed Christian. "In fact, the Bishop had already written my
resignation--which I signed."
"And the land is without a Gloomster for the first time in five hundred
years?" demanded Mrs. Goodheart.
"No," said Christian, the tears coursing down his nose. "The place is
filled already, and by one who knows gloom only theoretically--a mere
summer resident of the Isle of Man. In short, a famous London author has
succeeded me."
"His name!" cried Mrs. Goodheart.
* * * * *
"Just then," said Snobbe, "I awoke, and did not catch the author's name.
It is a curious thing about dreams that just when you get to the crucial
point you wake up."
"I wonder who the deuce the chap could have been?" murmured the other
diners. "Has any London author with a residence on the Isle of Man ever
shown any acquaintance with gloom?"
"I don't know for sure," said Billy Jones. "But my impression is that it
must be the editor of _Punch_. What I am uncertain about is his
residence on the Isle of Man. Otherwise I think he fills the bill."