Читать книгу A Man Under Authority - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 6

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From Rickaby to Hatchstead was a distance of three miles, and the road was a pleasant one with wide stretches of grass on each side. The day was soft and sunny, and the Reverend Bill whistled cheerily as he rode. His horse Paddy was a good-hearted animal, seldom brilliant but always willing. He resembled his master in some respects, and they were the best of friends. It was enough for the Vicar to suggest a canter, and it was at once accorded him; enough also for Paddy to drop finally into an easy trot, and his rider found no fault. It was too good a day to hurry. A veil of green was on the trees, and the whole world was waking to the touch of summer. The wood-pigeons were cooing in the depths of the woods, and once from some hidden corner there thrilled the liquid notes of a nightingale. When this happened, it was no surprise to Paddy to be reined in and made to listen while the Vicar stealthily lit a cigarette.

They had turned aside from the high-road, and were standing in a narrow winding lane with steep banks starred with primroses, and the perfect song floated over their heads like music from another world.

Paddy lowered his head and took a mouthful of grass. Then very suddenly he jumped violently, so violently that he nearly threw his rider, and made an absurd and wholly fruitless effort to clamber up the bank. Such behaviour was so completely unusual that the Vicar was taken unawares, but in a moment the cause of the disturbance was upon them. A small, two-seated car whizzed round the bend above at a terrific pace, swerved to avoid them and, barely doing so, crushed into the opposite bank.

The force of the impact was considerable, but by a miracle the car did not overturn. Its front wheels sank into mud, and it came to a standstill not more than twelve feet from the now prancing Paddy.

The Vicar quieted him with voice and hand, but it was some seconds before he could safely dismount. When at length he succeeded in doing so he found the driver of the car on his feet and already struggling to free his machine from the bank in which it was firmly embedded. Paddy being now in a calmer frame of mind he fastened the bridle to a projecting tree-root and went to help him.

To his astonishment the stranger turned upon him, revealing a face distorted with rage. “You fool! You fool!” he cried. “To stand in such a place!”

He was a lad of seventeen or eighteen, but his fury was so ungoverned that it gave him almost a childish look. His hands were clenched as though he were on the verge of violence.

It was that hint of childishness that preserved the Reverend Bill from a corresponding display of indignation. If the boy had actually struck him, he would have been more amused than resentful. As it was, he suppressed a desire to laugh.

“There’s a pair of us then,” he said good-humouredly. “But I am inclined to think I am not the bigger of the two. Let’s get this thing out! Think she’s damaged?”

“Of course she’s damaged!” The youth almost spat his reply. His face was quite colourless and twitching nervously. “You—you—you must be mad to—to stand in the road like that!”

“Well, let’s be thankful it’s no worse!” said Bill Quentin philosophically. “Perhaps you won’t take the corner quite so fast next time and will give us lunatics a chance to get out of the way.”

“You say it was my fault?” stormed the boy.

“I didn’t say so, but I will if you like.” The humour that he had stifled began to sound in the Vicar’s voice. “I’ll also punch your head for you if you think it will teach you to drive more carefully in future.”

“Mon Dieu!” gasped the boy.

“Oh, now I know who you are!” With amused enlightenment came the rejoinder. “Mrs. Rivers’s son, I think? My name is Quentin—Bill Quentin, parson of Rickaby. No, I won’t punch your head this time, but not because you don’t deserve it. Come along! Let’s get this car on the road again!”

He turned with unassailable good humour and bent himself to the task. His companion stared at him for a moment or two, then gulped hard and went to his assistance.

Between them, by the exercise of a good deal of strength on the man’s part and spasmodic effort on that of the boy, they succeeded at length in releasing the car and getting it straight upon the road again. Examination showed but little damage beyond a bent mud-guard and a cracked lamp.

“Pretty lucky!” commented the Reverend Bill. “How are you feeling yourself? A bit shaky?”

He asked the question because the lad was obviously in a state of extreme nervous agitation though he made desperate efforts to conceal it. He received the Reverend Bill’s enquiry with open rudeness.

“I’m all right, I tell you. Can’t you go on and leave me alone?”

“I can certainly,” said the Vicar, “if you think that would be a good idea. But if you’re going to faint or do anything of that kind it strikes me that I’d better stand by.”

“Faint!” Furiously the word came back at him. “Me—faint! Oh, don’t be funny, please! Get on to your horse, I tell you, and go!”

Nevertheless, though he spoke with such energy he was deathly white and could scarcely keep his teeth from chattering.

Bill Quentin looked at him, considered him, and finally decided to remain. He turned away, however, in deference to his feverishly insistent desire, and took out another cigarette with intentional deliberation.

When this was alight he glanced over his shoulder, and discovered his young friend leaning on the side of the car as though the power to stand had deserted him. It was enough for the Reverend Bill. He threw away his second cigarette and went back to him.

“Look here! This won’t do,” he said kindly, and put his arm round the boy’s narrow shoulders. “You’ve had a bit of a knock-out. Sit down!”

He guided him down on to the step, still supporting him. “What is it? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No—no! I’m not hurt.” Panting, he made answer. “It was just—the jar—the shake-up. I’m all right—I’m all right.”

“Take it easy!” advised the Vicar. “There’s no hurry. Lean against me, old chap! You’ll be yourself in a minute. That’s better,” as almost in spite of himself the boy relaxed. “You’ve had a shock. I know. I quite understand. Let’s see! What’s your name? Gaspard, isn’t it? Your mother was telling me about you this morning.”

“What—about me?” gasped Gaspard, shutting his eyes as if the whole world were rocking.

“Oh, not much. I gathered she thought something of you. I was coming round to see you in fact if chance hadn’t introduced us.”

“What for?” The deadly look was passing from the lad’s thin face, but he still quivered uncontrollably.

“Oh, it’s my job to look people up,” explained the Vicar. “I don’t do it more than once a year if they chase me off the premises with brickbats. Otherwise, I drop in fairly often. How’s that? Better now?”

“Yes, yes. I’m all right. But—why do you go to see people? Just to preach to them?” The questions came with a sort of fevered curiosity.

Bill laughed. “Heaven forbid! I loathe preaching.”

“Why then? To find out all about them?”

“Not much!” said Bill. “I never poke into other people’s concerns. And I never find out things—even if they stick out a yard long.”

“What’s the good of you then?” growled the boy, quitting his support and lodging his chin moodily on his fists as he sat.

“On my soul I don’t know,” cheerily said the Vicar. “But I suppose I have a place in the general scheme of things or I shouldn’t be here.”

“Are you a good man?” The words had an ironical sound, but there was something besides to which the Vicar made reply.

“Not in the least, but I’m a trier. That’s as far as I’ve got.”

“Is that all? And I suppose you’ve been at it for years and years?”

“Some years,” admitted the Vicar.

“You ought to be a saint by this time,” scoffed Gaspard.

“Some people take longer than others,” said the Vicar, extracting his third cigarette.

“But you think you’ll get there in time?” said Gaspard.

“Where?” said the Vicar.

“The place you’re making for—heaven, or whatever you call it.”

“Oh, that! That’s rather a different proposition, isn’t it?” said Bill. “I say, have a cigarette!”

Gaspard shook his head. “No, thanks. Look here! I’m an agnostic. Do you think it matters?”

“More to you than to anyone else, I should imagine,” said the Vicar.

“Why?” The question had a fierce note.

The Reverend Bill began to smoke. “Well, if you’re a blind man, surely it’s more your funeral than anyone else’s?”

“Pah!” The boy’s sneer somehow sounded unutterably dreary. “I suppose all you virtuous godly people call it that.”

“What?”

“Blindness.”

“Well, what do you call it?”

“I call it common sense—the only sane attitude. What you call religion is all legend, nothing else, fabulous nonsense, day-dreams. You have no proof anywhere. We live, we die, and that is literally all we know. Some of us are honest enough to admit it. Most are not.”

He raised himself with a jerky movement and flung a look of glaring defiance out of eyes that shone almost black into the perfectly serene countenance above him.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” said the Vicar.

“What other way is there?” demanded Gaspard.

“Well,” the Vicar smiled faintly, “if one man has longer sight than another, you would hardly call him dishonest for seeing things which are beyond the range of that other’s vision.”

The boy moved restlessly. “But you’re all such fools. You all say you see things that are not there.”

“Do you only believe in the things you can see then?” questioned Bill Quentin.

“Things I have proof of,” corrected Gaspard.

“I see.” The Vicar’s hand patted his shoulder with a careless friendliness. “I don’t think you’ll be an agnostic all your life,” he said. “You’re too human. How goes it now? Heart ticking all right again?”

He bent and helped him to his feet with the words.

Gaspard faced him. “How did you know about my heart?”

“I’m not such a fool as I look,” said the Vicar.

“You don’t look a fool,” said Gaspard, “but you must be one, or you wouldn’t be a parson.”

“Oh, thanks awfully.” Bill Quentin’s laugh was whole-hearted. “Well, you may be right, but not for the reason you think you are. Get in, and I’ll give her a swing!”

But Gaspard hesitated with sudden awkwardness. “I say!”

“Well?” said Bill.

The boy made an impulsive gesture towards him. “I say, have I—have I been damned rude to you?”

Bill’s hand gripped his before the words were well uttered. “I really don’t remember,” he said.

Gaspard’s face was burning. “You—you might come round and see me sometimes,” he said. “I shan’t—I shan’t—throw brickbats at you.”

“Right ho!” said the Vicar.

Gaspard extricated his hand hurriedly and got into the car. “Not—of course not if you don’t want to,” he said.

“Oh, rather not!” said the Reverend Bill as he stooped to crank up the engine.