VIII

Mr. Beal received his guest with an agitation in which natural timidity

warred with professional pride. He laboured under the conviction that he

was called upon at all times and in all places to maintain the dignity

of the Anglican Church. He believed she was very much in the midst of

foes, Rome and Non-conformity alike perpetually plotting her downfall;

while Atheism cruised about in the offing ever ready to seize any who

escaped the machinations of these more declared enemies. And,

unfortunately, the young man, neither in appearance nor constitution,

was a born fighter, or even a born diplomatist. In appearance he was

mild, with sandy, down-like hair, a high narrow forehead and freckled

skin, pale, anxious eyes behind spectacles, and a moist white hand. He

opened the front door to Laurence himself; and it occurred to the latter

that his clothes were very black, and that he wore a great many of them.

"Mr. Laurence Rivers, I presume?" he said, looking up nervously into

his guest's face.

"Yes; I thought it would be simplest to answer your letter in person,"

the other replied. He felt a certain kindly pity for the young

clergyman, whose existence he divined to be of a somewhat limited and

unproductive sort.--"I should have given myself the pleasure of calling

on you in any case in a day or two. But your letter seemed to require

attention at once. I am sorry you are having any bother about--"

"Will you not come in?" Mr. Beal asked hurriedly. "Our conversation

might be overheard and commented upon. This way, please. You will excuse

the dining-room? I always occupy this room during the winter months. It

is both necessary and right that I should practise economy, and to

occupy this room exclusively saves a fire."

In his nervousness Mr. Beal talked continuously.

"Pray take a seat," he said, pushing forward an armchair, the leather

cover and springs of which were decidedly tired. "I at once begged you

to come in here, because in speaking of personal and parochial matters

one cannot, I feel, be too careful. Mr. Wingate--the rector of Stoke

Rivers, you know--wished, I am sure, to treat me with generosity when I

undertook the duty here. He not only placed the whole of this house at

my disposal, but he left two female servants--not on board wages--an

elderly woman and a younger person as her assistant. The intention was

generous, I feel sure; but I grieve to say they are not such staunch

church-women as I could desire, and this has led to difficulties between

us. I thought it my duty to admonish them, separately, of course,

suiting my remonstrances to their respective ages and dispositions. But

they did not receive my admonitions in a submissive spirit. Since then I

have found it necessary to exercise great caution. There has been much

gossip. Remarks of mine have been repeated, and that not in a manner

calculated to improve my position with the parishioners. My actions are

spied upon. There is a small, but bigoted, dissenting element in the

village, and----"

"Ah! yes, they're a nuisance, I dare say," Laurence put in, smiling.

"Still, it's a charming place, all the same. I have just been poking

round the church. There are some wonderfully quaint bits about it. And I

like the churchyard."

"I could wish to have the graves levelled, and the head and foot stones

placed neatly in line on the confines of the enclosure."

"Oh! no, no; that would destroy the character of the place. We can't

carry anything away with us--granted--when we go. And so there's a

certain subjective comfort in knowing we leave a little mound of earth

and turf behind to mark our resting-place. That's hardly ostentatious,

considering our pretensions during life--do you think so?"

Mr. Beal shifted the position of his spectacles. He braced himself.

"The churchyard has been levelled at Bishop's Pudbury," he said. "I had

the privilege of being assistant priest there for five years. The

archdeacon is considered a man of great taste."

"I should have thought the parishioners would have objected now,"

Laurence remarked.

"So they did," Mr. Beal replied. "I grieve to say some persons

displayed a most illiberal spirit. They called meetings, and behaved in

a really seditious manner. Many even became guilty of the sin of schism.

They ceased to attend the church services, and frequented dissenting

places of worship. The archdeacon was pained; but he felt a principle

was at stake. He has long contended that the churchyard is legally the

rector's freehold. He therefore felt it a duty to the Church to be

firm."

Laurence contemplated the young clergyman with a touch of good-natured

amusement, wondering if, with that anaemic physique, he was capable of

emulating the militant virtues of the archdeacon-rector of Bishop's

Pudbury.

"But about this letter of yours, Mr. Beal," he said. "That's what I came

to talk to you about."

"I am afraid my conversation has been a little irrelevant. But--but--"

the young man sat opposite to Laurence, shifting his spectacles, and

washing his hands in an access of nervousness. "I confess I am not quite

myself this morning, Mr. Rivers. I was made an object of public ridicule

last night."

"I am very sorry to hear it. How was that?"

"I think I am at liberty to tell you, because the incident took its rise

in your uncle, the elder Mr. Rivers', refusal to receive me. You see it

is known how often I have been repulsed. Last night we had the weekly

choir practice at the school. While it was in progress, I was called and

informed by the pupil-teacher--whom I excuse of participation in the

unseemly jest--that Mr. Rivers had sent for me, and that his carriage

was waiting at the gate. This surprised me; but I supposed you might

have received, and immediately responded to, the request contained in my

note. I excused myself to the organist and choir, and hastily put on my

hat and coat. I hurried out, but some ill-disposed youths had placed

strings across the school door. I fell. The ground was exceedingly

muddy. My reappearance was greeted with hardly concealed derision. I

discovered the whole matter was a vulgar hoax."

"Ah! that's very much too bad," Laurence said kindly, though the

picture suggested by the young clergyman's story provoked him to

internal mirth. "We must straighten this out somehow. And yet I tell you

frankly your letter placed me in a difficulty. Even when in good health

my uncle was not an easy person to approach, and now, as you know, he is

fatally ill----"

"I would deal with him very gently," Mr. Beal remarked, bracing himself.

"I am sure of that. But I am afraid he might deal anything but gently

with you."

"I think--I believe--I am prepared to suffer for my faith."

"I am sure of that," Laurence repeated consolingly. "But it appears to

me this would be both a superfluous and inglorious martyrdom. My uncle

is perfectly secure of his own position and opinions. The latter are

peculiar, and he has a very trenchant way of stating them."

"You would convey to me that I should be worsted in argument?" Mr. Beal

inquired.

"Yes, I really am more than half afraid you would. And so, you see, no

end would be gained. You would be pained, and possibly humiliated; while

my uncle's victory would render him more stubborn in the maintenance of

his own views. He would be irritated too, and that might accelerate the

action of the disease from which he suffers. Remember, he's both old and

ill. I own I think he must just go his own way. I hesitate to coerce

him."

During this address Walter Beal had washed his moist hands in a very

agony of agitation. This handsome stranger impressed him greatly. He was

sympathetic, moreover, a patient and kindly listener. The young

clergyman could have found it in his heart to adore him with a humble

and dog-like devotion. But then his own professional dignity must be

asserted. So he whipped down his natural and wholesome inclination to

hero-worship, and whipped up his rather spavined, ecclesiastical valour;

and said, with all the sternness his tremulous voice could command--

"I fear you are not a true Christian, Mr. Rivers, or you would find no

room for hesitation where the salvation of a soul is involved."

Laurence turned his chair sideways to the dinner-table, crossed his

legs, and rested his elbow on the bare, white cloth. Some crumbs

remained on it, left over from Walter Beal's breakfast; but happily they

were at the far corner. The young man deserved a snub, but he was an

innocent creature, a great sincerity in his foolishness. Laurence looked

out of window, across to the sunny peaceful churchyard. After all, why

be harsh? Why snub anybody? So he smiled again genially enough upon the

distracted Beal.

"Oh! we must discuss the heights and depths of my Christianity some

other time," he said. "The point is to stop this impertinence of which

you are the victim. Look here, honestly I don't see my way to making a

meeting between you and my uncle at present. But as you can't get the

uncle, let me beg you to put up with the nephew. Let it be known that

you and I are on excellent terms. Come and see me. Let's see--to-morrow

evening I shall be free till half-past nine or ten. Come and dine with

me."

But Mr. Beal shrunk back and raised his moist, white hands in protest.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "That is, I am sure your intentions are most

kind, most kind--indeed, indeed, really, I am sure of that. But except

professionally, except at the urgent call of duty--and then grace would

be given me--I felt that yesterday when I received the summons during

the choir practice--I prayed--I was praying when those strings

intercepted my passage and caused me to fall--I knew I should be

supported--but, except professionally, I could not make up my mind to

enter that house--Stoke Rivers. And after dark too! I could not. It

would be too dreadful."

Laurence stared at him blankly. "Why, my good man," he said, laughing a

little, "what on earth is the matter with the house?"

"I understand that it contains pictures and statues of an immoral

character. It is very frightful to think of a soul, the soul of a

scoffer, of one who speaks lightly of holy things, going forth to meet

its doom from among such heathenish surroundings.--But it is not that so

much which deters me. I ought to cope with that, strong in faith. But

from a child, I own it, I have suffered from the fear of the

supernatural."

Laurence's eyebrows drew together. "The supernatural," he said.

"Yes--yes--the supernatural."

Laurence paused a moment, gazing down at the worn drugget between his

feet.

"Look here," he said, "either you are talking great nonsense, or there

is something uncommonly serious at the bottom of all this, of which I

ought to be informed. Tell me plainly, what are you afraid of?"

"There, there are lights all night."

"Certainly there are. The electric light is left on. It is a fancy of my

uncle's--and not an unreasonable one in time of illness. If your fears

take their rise in nothing worse than that, why--" Laurence shrugged his

shoulders.

"Oh! but--but--" Mr. Beal's voice sunk to a whisper, and his pale eyes

looked piteously upon his guest from behind his spectacles. "It is

commonly reported there is a female in the house----"

Laurence shook his head.--"Oh, no, pardon me," he said. "That is a

mistake. There are only men-servants in the house. That I know. No lady

has stayed at Stoke Rivers--so my uncle informed me--since my mother

stayed there with me when I was quite a small boy."

"But--but," poor Walter Beal almost wailed, "I don't mean any lady

visitor. The--the Scarlet Woman--you know. I understand the keepers have

frequently seen her at night at the windows downstairs. And I believe I

saw her once this winter myself----"

"Saw her yourself?"

"Yes; I had been to call and inquire for Mr. Rivers. It was dusk, and I

was much alarmed at going; but I would not permit myself to neglect a

duty. I was going back up the avenue, when I saw a person in a red dress

coming out from the bow-window. I--I--I--I--did not wait--"

Laurence had risen. He stood for a moment speechless. Then a sudden

gladness took him. The sun was bright outside there, but the yew-trees

waved their dusky arms quaintly, making little shadows dance and flit

upon the churchyard grass.

"No--I see. You ran away," he said. "Well, Mr. Beal, perhaps that was

the very best thing under the circumstances that you could have

done.--You can't make up your mind to dine with me? All right, I'll come

and see you then. We'll let the parish know you and I are on excellent

terms anyhow. I should be glad to have a talk with you about the schools

and charities. And, of course, if Mr. Rivers should soften and express

any willingness to receive your ministrations I'll not fail to let you

know."

On reaching the house, Laurence went straight down the corridor, pulled

aside the tapestry curtain, and entered the room beyond. As yesterday,

it was fresher in atmosphere than the rest of the interior. The

furniture, the knick-knacks, even the little frill in the open work-box

were stationary, untouched, precisely in the same position as last

night. Again Laurence examined the room carefully. Very certainly there

was no exit from it save the door or the bay-window, and no human being

in it save himself.