Читать книгу Short Stories Volume 1 - John Arthur Barry - Страница 11

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The small up-country pastoral township of Gummim Gummin (with the accent on the last syllable) was, as regarded the majority of its religion, most distinctly Presbyterian. Not Presbyterian, however, in the strict sense of the term as understood still in some old world communities, where to "whustle" on the Sabbath is a heinous crime; but a cheery, liberal, jolly Presbyterianism that made allowances, that gave and took, and trod on no man's corns, and never by reason of numbers, or a fuller treasury, professed itself better than the surrounding religions. Its members, too, were always ready to fraternise and lend a helping hand at R.C. bazaars, Wesleyan tea-meetings, conversaziones of the Established Church, or what not. In fact the religions of Gummin Gummin were a very happy family.

But, when the Rev. John Crawford, in answer to a mysterious "call" from somewhere, appeared on the scene, straight from a little Scotch manufacturing town where, of all the sad seven days of the week, Sunday was the saddest and gloomiest in its aspect of hideous desolation, things began to change at Gummin Gummin.

The new parson was a dour, earnest man, who, arriving with the fixed notion that his far inland gospel-field grew nought but long-neglected, sturdy stubble, girded up his loins and set his hand to the ploughs and started his horses without a moment's delay, helped in his congenial task by his sister and housekeeper—a grim, gaunt spinster of some forty odd summers.

And, all too soon, the Calvinistic soul of the Rev. John was shocked within him—also confirmed beyond a doubt in its previously formed ideas of the new sphere by, on the very first Sabbath, seeing old Jim Brown, the blacksmith, sitting calmly fishing on the bank of the river. That he had been to the morning service at the kirk was an aggravation of the sin. But worse was to come; for, later, one of the most influential of his flock, accompanied by three or four other brither Scots, all church members, passed him in a buggy laden with spoils of rod and gun.

And the minister pursed up his thin lips, and in stern features grew harsher and more forbidding than ever as he fully realised the magnitude of the task that awaited him in the stony, weed-overgrown field of Gummin Gummin.

That same Sabbath evening he preached a sermon that rather astonished his hearers, and gave them a foretaste of what was to come.

The annual Presbyterian bazaar was near at hand, an event long looked forward to, not only as a pleasant- gathering of friends and neighbours, but as one by which the church funds benefited considerably. Against anything of the kind, however, the Rev. John set his face most determinedly. Gambling of the worst description he called it—religious gambling. Would money gained in such fashion by cheatings and cajoleries; lascivious eyeings and oglings, or abject entreatings to buy trumpery, prove acceptable to the Lord did they imagine? And without the minister's consent there could be no bazaar. It was terrible to think on. But the iron will and grim personality of the man prevailed over all obstacles; and the maidens, with a tear, put away their macrame work, and poonah painting, and all the pretty trifles made and set aside for the occasion; no beaux, no raffles, no nothing this year, if the Rev. John could help it, for one of the daughters in Israel. And the matrons no more fortunate, sighed as they gave up all hopes of that pleasant stall-keeping, tea drinking, profit-making time so dear to their hearts and so valuable to their church. Sourly elated at his victory, the new minister, with his great bony jaw, clean shaved upper lip, and saturnine face fringed with grey whisker that met under the chin, marched to and fro, denouncing as deadly sins and vanities, leading only to damnation eternal, little every-day matters hitherto looked upon as simplest relaxations from the tedious monotony of life in a bush town.

Nor, strange to say, was he altogether without support. A few kindred spirits there were, reminiscent perhaps of early up-bringing, but, all the same, the last men in the community to be suspected of a longing toward a stricter life, who now rallied to the standard of intolerance. Mostly old people and free-livers, they saw in the Rev. John a leader who would ensure their salvation by works within a limited and reasonable period.

Miss Johanna Crawford, too, in the brief intervals spared from domestic and economic duties, was an able seconder of her brothers efforts; and her gaunt hard presence made itself felt as well as his in the households of Gummin Gummin.

The other religions looked on, at first in wonder, then in dismay, at the ordeal through which their one-time friend and ally was passing. But, undeterred by the fulminations of the Rev. John, who, not content to sweep his own house, must needs, after the manner of his kind, carry his broom into his neighbour's, they continued to hold their little festivals as of old. And, presently, as at long intervals had been their custom, the Roman Catholics announced a lottery, to be held for the benefit of the convent funds. Posters on walls and fences extensively advertised the thing. But this was the crowning glory; and the Rev. John grew nearly frantic, and, with his own hands, tore down the placards—blue, white, yellow, and green. This, together with a fiery denunciation of the good P.P., Father Mahony, as an arch-priest of the "Scarlet Woman," cost him money. An apology was demanded. But the Rev. John swore he would go to gaol first. The church militant may be made to pay, but not to apologise. Then the two bi-weekly newspapers, glad of the chance, threw open their columns to the combatants; and the fun grew fast and furious between the "Children of Light" and the "Children of the Devil."

The Salvation Army, too, was an object of the new minister's bitterest displeasure: and it retorted with drum and symbal, at every opportunity, until late into the night.

Gummin Gummin was stirred to its uttermost depths by a turmoil of fierce religious controversy respecting the One Way to Salvation, mingled with irreligious personalities supplied by the more un-regenerate of the different flocks, amidst which hurly-burly the Rev. John and his little band moved with the stern joy of fighting reformers.

Of those, perhaps the most prominent was old "Jock" McGrigor, the post and telegraph master of Gummin Gummin, whose eye and rubicund nose formed such a standing contrast to his lately-developed zeal that, at first, his pastor had been rendered a little suspicious of hasty and unprepared reformation. But Jock cast himself into the fray with such fervour and determination, and showed himself so strict and so vigilant in exposing backsliders that, at length he took high rank amongst the "unco guid"—those assured of their places in the hereafter by reason of their abstention from newspapers on the Sabbath, or writing of letters on the same holy day, or, in fact, doing anything whatever except praising God either at home or at kirk.

And, gradually, Jock became looked upon as one of the shining lights of his set, rising at six for family worship, winter and summer; never stirring out on the Sabbath, except to the kirk, and throughout the week striving with the unregenerate in faith, or reproving the peccant in deed.

If Miss Johanna Crawford had one failing more than another, it was love of money. Every penny spent was a penny grudged; and the storekeepers of the town dreaded her custom.

Her brother's stipend was a fair one; but, in addition, Miss Johanna not only sold the milk from a couple of cows that grazed in the manse paddock, but also all the butter she could make, all the eggs her hens could lay, all the fruit and vegetables her garden could produce, whilst her brother's diet consisted almost solely of oatmeal porridge, with an occasional slice of carraway seed cake as a treat.

Not that he cared much. Mortification of the body, so far as the luxuries of this world went, might possibly count for righteousness. And, as to porridge, well, he had always been accustomed to them, and to little else.

One day. Miss Johanna happened to pick up a slip of pink-tinted printed paper that some wanton breeze had blown into her garden. Reading, she saw that it was a sort of prospectus, issued by one of the ungodly, who signed himself "Ophir," and who, in seductive fashion, showed how, for the comparatively small sum of £1, might be gained the enormous one of £20,000, "a cheque for which amount, less the usual percentage, will be at once, on presentation of the winning number, placed to your credit in any bank you may name."

With a frown and a look of disgust, Miss Johanna cast the thing from her as if its very touch were contamination, and went on with her work of picking choice quinces for a customer in the township.

But all that day, and throughout the evening too, whilst a favoured few dropped in and wrestled in prayer for the sinners of their own and other flocks, and especially for Father Mahony, there ran through her brain in a kind of weird rhythm—"Twenty thousand for one; one for twenty thousand."

And all that night she tossed restlessly, struggling to keep her ears closed against the same tune.

In the morning, after her brother had gone to preside at a meeting in the school-house, having for its object the total abolition in Gummin Gummin of all lotteries and games of chance, whether held, or played, for goods, lucre, or mere pastime, Miss Johanna walked down the garden and picked up the piece of paper, all wet with dew as it was.

During those weary night watches, she had made up her mind, and the demon of avarice and gain, hitherto obliged to work in small and petty ways, now, with such a noble prize in view, took irresistible and full possession, and kept whispering in her ear the same old words—"Twenty thousand for one; one for twenty thousand."

Withdrawing a one-pound note from her hoard, she sat at her desk and complied with the conditions laid down respecting addressed and stamped envelopes, &c. As much as possible she disguised her hand, naturally a large and masculine one. And she realised to the full the enormity of the sin she was committing. But the last of the twenty thousand pounds sterling had gotten hold on her and swept away all scruples; albeit she sighed as she finished, and believed herself henceforth a lost woman. Still, either for good or ill, she possessed her brother's resolute will, and she posted her letters, never dreaming of turning back. Only she kept a sharp look-out for the postman.

Soon she received a numbered list of horses, whose names held no meaning for her. She had signed her application and enclosed envelopes with her initial only. Hence the letter was addressed "Mr J. Crawford."

Supposing that she had been out, and that John had received it, there was no clue to the writer afforded. Thus, so far as detection went, she felt comparatively safe. But to her horror and mystification, there presently arrived a telegram—"You have drawn 'Saturn.' Hot, favourite! Would advise you to lay off."

Then came another letter containing a ticket whose number, as she soon found, corresponded to that of Saturn, one of the horses on her list.

But this dreadful publicity exasperated and frightened her. And, suddenly, she gave a great gasp at the thought that, possibly, M'Grigor had seen and noted the wire. Evidently, however, she had won, or was about to win something. If she could only find out the meaning of those mysterious words!

Just then to the door came a small urchin, bearing a basket. His business was to purchase eggs. Help from this quarter appeared hopeless. But, in her present strait, Johanna would have appealed to a blackfellow for aid. So, cutting a small, a very small morsel of seed cake and giving it to the boy, she asked wheedlingly—"D'ye ken anything about horse-racing, laddie?"

"Naw, marm, not much,' replied the boy with a grin, as he half choked on the cake, which was old and dry.

"I thought ye might," continued Johanna, "because a friend of mine—a puir sinfu' woman—has written, saying that she's drawn a horse called 'Saturn' in ane o' they sweeps—Ophir's, I think the name'll be."

In a second the boy, dropping his cake, was a transformed excited creature.

"Why," he exclaimed, "'Saturn's Robison's horse! Nine stun six—hot weight, ain't it? But I'll lay he gits 'ome on 'em for the big money. You bet! My word she's a lucky un to dror 'im! Dad drawed him yestiddy in a sweep up the street. But, I think, if 'twere me," concluded the child reflectively, "as I'd lay orf a couple o' thou'. You see, a chap can't trust nobody to run straight these times."

"What do you mean by 'lay off'?" asked Miss Johanna eagerly.

"'Don'tcher know?" replied the infant contemptuously. "Well, if that don't beat all! Why, lay orf part o' the 'oof o' course, with the bookies—the fly blokes, down below—so, no matter how things goes, whether 'Saturn' wins or not, you'll git a whack, anyhow. Well, you are a chump for a parson's sister, an' no kid!"

Just then, catching a baleful glance out of Johanna's round green eyes, and fearful that he had allowed his contempt of her ignorance to appear more plainly than was permissible to good manners, he snatched up his basket of eggs and fled, leaving Johanna in a more mystified state of mind than ever.

Meanwhile, at the meeting, things were going all awry. M'Grigor, usually the minister's right-hand supporter, appeared to have completely changed sides; and, by every means in his power, was obstructing business, and throwing out veiled sneers and innuendoes connected, certainly, with gambling and betting, but not as regarded the purpose of that convention.

Overtaking the Rev. John that morning at the door of the schoolhouse, he had, first peering around to see that nobody was within hearing, said, with a knowing wink, "What price Saturn, old chap, eh? I s'pose I'm in for a bit. Good Lord, what luck to be sure! O! you sly old dog!"

"What d'ye mean, sir?" asked the minister, aghast after the first pause of astonishment. Then sternly, and with a look of disgust, and accent broadened by emotion—"I always suspectit sir, that ye drank. But hae ye nae mair common decency than to accost yer meenister in sic fashion? Gang awa hame, sir, an' pray the Lord to forgive ye the backslidin'."

"How well he carries it off!" exclaimed Jock, grinning admiringly. "Why, man don't ye see it's useless trying to gammon me? I suspicioned they Queenslan' letters frae the first; but the telegram was a clean bowl cut, so you needna be so highty-tighty about the matter. Give me a snack, an' I'll see it'll go no further; only don't put on frills. I can't abide frills, 'specially when I'm in the know.

Others arriving just then put an end to the argument. But M'Grigor was roused, and smarting under what he imagined to be the hypocritical dissimulation of the minister; and he seemed to take a delight in thwarting as much as possible every "motion" put by Crawford, until the latter's temper, never of the best, bade fair to boil over.

At this juncture the messenger boy from the post and telegraph office across the road entered with a telegram for the minister.

M'Grigor devoured it with his eyes, and as the Rev. John read it, and took off his glasses and wiped them and read it again, he grinned satanically; and moving closer, whispered, "Another wire frae Ophir, eh? Will ye let us in now? Are they wantin' ye to lay off? Come awa', mon; let bygones bide, and I'm wi' ye still."

Looking at him in a bewildered kind of way, the Rev. John handed him the message. It ran:—"Robinson wants £5000 to nothing or 'Saturn' won't start."

"Oh, the vagabones! the thunderin' blacklegs!" exclaimed M'Grigor below his breath. "Dinna give them a happenny! it's naught but a bit bounce! Just say I'm in it, an' leave it a' to me. I'll fix 'em for ye!"

"What's the mon talkin' about?" exclaimed the minister furiously and loudly. "Are ye daft, or are ye mair drunken than I believed outside a while gone?"

"No mair drunk than yoursel'," replied M'Grigor sulkily, whilst the others listened in wonder. Then seeing, as he thought, that the minister—as a man could afford to do with a fortune in view—meant to brazen the matter out, he turned to the committee, saying, with a laugh—

"Here, gentlemen! our minister's had a streak o' luck—drawn Saturn in Ophir's big sweep for the Melbourne Cup, an' he does na quite ken what to do about it. Wants us to advise him."

For a minute there was the dead silence of utter astonishment.

Then broke forth a unanimous din of—congratulation. And all present crowded around their horrified pastor—some shaking his hands vigorously; others clamouring for a sight of the telegram, or inveighing against the cupidity of owners.

In vain the Rev. John protested, and tried at the top of his voice to explain matters, and declare his innocence of this terrible thing that had come to him. His people were glad with a great gladness that at last he stood confessed mere flesh and blood like themselves, and that the tightly-drawn string of righteousness had snapped in twain.

Nor did one think of crying "fie! or "hypocrite!" on the near owner of £20,000, "less the usual percentage." Was not Saturn the greatest, surest, most perfect "cert." and "moral" ever heard of? And did they not—every man of them—know it, and have without an exception, their "little bit on?" At last, purple with passion and puzzlement, the minister broke away from them and made at top speed for his home.

* * * * * *

Next day Gummin Gummin was startled to hear that their pastor and his sister had left the town by the early morning coach.

And they never saw either of them again, Nor did Saturn even get a place for the Cup.—Australian Pastoralists' Review.