Читать книгу Mr. Gurney and Mr. Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 5

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It is probable that the Agags of this world find it difficult to understand those exceptional creatures who are without guile. Not that the Rev. John Gurney was completely guileless in his knowledge of human nature. Some ten years of association with the Berts and Bills of this world, and their wives, had steeped him in benign tolerance. The genus Homo Sapiens was very much out of Eden, but in this imperfect world Gurney had discovered in himself and others a virtue that transcends the frailties of the flesh. He was no metaphysician. Like Saul of Tarsus he had been smitten by the hand of God, and endowed with that consciousness of a mysterious presence which cannot be known save by the very wise and the very simple. Gurney’s smile could be the sign and symptom of his inward illumination. Maybe, he was not guileless by nature, but had been exalted to that state of serenity and compassion by the faith that was in him. He could do and say shockingly simple things, just because his vision showed them to him so vividly.

But, Gurney, kneeling beside his bed, had other things to haunt him, the secret that he concealed, the failures that had pursued him. Did he not realize that a man can be too frank and fervid? Assuredly he had been made to realize it. Truth could prove a potent purge, and in the process truth and its propagator may pass out into the pit. Gurney struggled with himself. He could cry; “God give me patience. Have I not to learn that poor, lame humanity must be taught to walk before it can run?”

So, came the Sabbath and his superior’s very superior sermon. Gurney had conducted part of the morning service, and now he sat in his seat with a hand to his forehead, and under it he looked and listened. All those strange faces, row upon row of them, demure, complacent, bored, quite expressionless. Well, after all, you could not expect Mr. Jones’s words to stir his congregation to enthusiasm. He was sententious and soporific, droning like some big bumble-bee on this hot summer day. It was a dull and a comfortable address, like most of the people who listened to it. And why should it not be dull and comfortable, for was not all well with the Southfleet world, and a nicely barbered God looking down complacently upon all these respectable servants? Change and decay? Oh, nonsense! This was a very prosperous and self-satisfied world, so why disturb it?

The oration lasted twenty minutes, and it left Gurney feeling tired and a little irritated.

“And now—to Gud the Father, Gud—the Son——”

The congregation rose with a rustle of relief. Mr. Jones was kneeling in the pulpit, a piece of pious exhibitionism which he practised and thought impressive. Gurney announced the closing hymn. The organ pealed—“Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Gurney sang it with the choir, and his feeling was one of discontent. “Onward, Christian Soldiers, on to Sunday dinner!” He looked at all those static faces. How should such a service end? “Good appetite, good digestion, good sleeping. Amen.”

The Rev. Egbert Jones came down the pulpit steps, and the choir and clergymen filed in procession to the vestry. Gurney disrobed himself in some haste. It was probable that Mr. Jones might ask him how he had liked the sermon, and he was in no mood for prevarications. It was an embarrassing occasion, saved by the appearance of the vicar’s warden, Mr. Horatio Manning. Mr. Manning had some point to discuss with the vicar, and Gurney, seizing the chance to exercise tact, slipped away.

Said Mr. Manning: “What do you think of him?”

Mr. Jones was hanging up his surplice. “Rather a shy little person, but I think he will suit us.”

“Seems harmless. Now—about that estimate for repairs to the choir roof.”

The church had emptied itself and Gurney, passing Mr. Kemp, the verger, smiled at him, and went forth into the sunlight. It would seem that no member of the congregation was interested in the new curate, or had waited to welcome him on his first appearance. But that was not quite so. Gurney found two people waiting outside the porch, Mrs. Richmond and Mr. Slade.

Mr. Slade was bare-headed, and holding his black bowler in one hand. Somehow he had never taken to silk. Gurney was also hatless, and carrying his headgear pressed against his chest. He and Mr. Slade looked into each other’s eyes and smiled.

“Oh, Mr. Gurney, this is Mrs. Richmond, our dear doctor’s wife.”

Gurney gave Mrs. Richmond a little, boyish bow, and looked and continued to look. What a lovely face was this, so serene, so happy, so kind! How was it that he had not discovered it, floating like a live flower amid all those other faces? His gaze was like that of a child who has been present at an unhappy party, and has at last discovered someone who is no stranger.

In truth he appeared almost as a child to Lucy Richmond, a child upon whom you could smile and to whom you need say nothing, and the muteness would not matter. Mr. Slade was looking from one to the other, and discovering in their silent scrutiny a mutual understanding. Mr. Slade put on his hat, and wondered whether he ought to leave them. But he had an invitation for Gurney.

“I hope you will be happy here, Mr. Gurney.”

How simple the words sounded, and yet Mr. Slade believed that no one could utter words as did the dear doctor’s lady, or the doctor’s dear lady. Whenever she spoke it was, to Mr. Slade, like a bird singing.

Gurney’s reply was like an echo. “I hope to be happy here, Mrs. Richmond.”

And that was all they could find to say to each other, but it was utterly sufficient. Besides, as Mr. Slade saw it, what more was there to be said. It was Mrs. Richmond who turned and walked between the great holly hedges with an air that was not one of dismissal. These men were to walk with her, and had she been a court lady with a train Mr. Slade would gladly have toddled behind her, carrying that train. They crossed the Pier Hill, passing through and between the groups of holiday figures. The cockney Sabbath paddled in the sea, and Saints and Kings might wash the feet of beggars.

Said Mrs. Richmond: “How good it must be to escape from the East End.”

Gurney pondered that saying, and replied to it: “It is sometimes good to be in the East End.”

Mrs. Richmond glanced at him. “You know it?”

“I did.”

“And—perhaps——?”

“I found it full of grown-up children.”

Mr. Slade was walking with his hands under the tail of his Sunday coat. He waggled them. “Some of us never grow up, hey what! Rather—refreshing.”

“Very,” said Lucy Richmond.

She paused in the porch of No. 19, as though posing, but quite unconsciously so, for her picture, while the two men raised their hats to her.

“A doctor’s house, Gurney, is never quite sure of its time-table, but Sunday supper is our safest meal. Will you join us next Sunday?”

“With pleasure, and thank you.”

Mr. Slade and the Rev. John Gurney passed on towards the Cliff Parade and their Sunday dinner.

“I am taking you back with me, Gurney. My daughter expects you.”

Gurney looked embarrassed. “How very kind of you—but my good ladies——”

“Afraid of hurting their roast beef?”

“Well, if you like to put it that way, sir.”

“Supposing we call and leave word. There will be more for the Misses Plimsoll, and they can draw the line higher.”

Gurney glanced at Mr. Slade as though he understood such waggery and enjoyed it. This old gentleman was a pearl whom any cockney would have been proud to pin on a coster’s jacket.

“Under welcome pressure—I submit, Mr. Slade.”

“You do. Good. I have a better cook than your good ladies, and I draw the line higher, as high as a glass of sherry. But perhaps you are Blue Ribbon.”

“Not quite, sir. I have been stood a drink in a Stepney pub.”

“How sensible and human. Tell me, Mr. Gurney, what did you think of the sermon?”

Gurney looked startled. So sudden and direct a challenge made him catch his inward breath.

“A very—comfortable—sermon.”

“Treacle tart, sir.”

For some strange reason known only to himself, Gurney winced. Golden treacle—and a tart! How the simple association of ideas could get you!

“Well, sir, it was quite—good in its way.”

“Quite,” said Mr. Slade tartly.

“I gather that Mr. Jones does not wish to——”

“Stir up—we beseech thee, but gently and with a silver spoon. How would the East End have listened to our Rev. Egbert?”

“I’m afraid it—wouldn’t, sir.”

“No. Throw eggs, and addled ones. Here we are at No. 7. Shall I go up and break the news?”

“Do you suggest that I am a moral coward, Mr. Slade?”

James Slade chuckled. “No, I don’t.”

He was thinking that the Rev. John Gurney might be good for Southfleet, but would Southfleet accept such goodness?

The face of Mrs. Hallard was yet another face that Gurney had failed to see in church. She had left before her father, to warn Eliza that there might be three for Sunday dinner. She had gone to church in black, but she was in white when her father and Gurney appeared at the Sea View gate. The little white house with its green veranda and jalousies might have ceased to be Mon Repos, but it was more so than in the old days. Mr. Slade and his daughter were rich in the world’s goods, and Mr. Slade had purchased an acre of land that lay at the back of the cliff houses. He had been offered a large sum for it by a speculative builder, and had refused the offer, for Mr. Slade had become a gardener.

Sherry on the Sabbath, and in public! Well, why not? Had not Christ created wine at Cana? They sat, the three of them, in the veranda, challenging the strictures of the censorious. It was very good old dark sherry, and Gurney enjoyed it, and did not hide his glass under his hat.

Moreover, his hostess’s hair was the colour of tawny wine. Another lovely person, but for some reason Gurney appeared shy of looking too closely at Mr. Slade’s daughter. Her hair was like some other person’s hair, and yet how different. How innocent he had been—! But now his innocence was of a different order. Gurney was playing with a kind of jig-saw puzzle, which was Southfleet, and preparing to put the picture together, as it was or should be.

They talked, or rather Mr. Slade talked about Southfleet and its history, and how, before the railway came, the town was served by packet-boats and coaches. The steam-boat and a mile of mud had produced the pier. Man’s ingenuity in the pursuit of profit! And now the petrol engine was on the road and proposing to turn the world upside down.

“Here’s a sample, I think.”

For, one of those primitive high cars, rather like a phaeton without a horse, rolled into view, and stopped beyond the euonymus hedge. A young man in a bowler hat raised that hat to the sherry party, descended, and appeared at the gate. Mr. Slade got up.

“Hullo, Mr. Charles.”

“May I join you, sir, for five minutes?”

“Come along. I want you to meet Mr. Gurney.”

Dr. Charles Richmond and Gurney looked at each other, shook hands and smiled, and there was mutual liking in the smile.

“A glass of sherry, Charles?”

“What a scandal, sir.”

“Will your diagnosis be the worse for it?”

“But my reputation, sir!”

“Ask Gurney. He has dared publicity.”

Charles looked at the little curate. “What do you say, Mr. Gurney?”

“The better the day, the better the deed.”

“Very broad-minded of you.”

“Broad-cloth, not sack-cloth,” said Mr. Slade.

They sat down, and Gurney noticed that Dr. Charles so placed himself that he could look at Mr. Slade’s daughter; also, that he looked at her in a particular way. Gurney did not blame him. It was good to look at particular people in a particular way, especially so when you were in love with them.

“How’s the car behaving, Charles?”

“Oh, rather like a woman. Getting old and temperamental.”

“Tut-tut! Why not call it experimental?”

“You are right, sir. I apologize.”

He held up his glass and looked at Rose Hallard. “Apology accepted?”

Her glance was on his tie but not upon his face. “I think so.”

“Amen,” said Mr. Gurney, and Mr. Slade chuckled.

Mr. Slade continued to enjoy a nap after Sunday dinner, and not only so on the Sabbath, and Gurney had been given to understand that he should deliver an inaugural address to the Sunday-school teachers and their classes, with Mrs. Egbert Jones presiding. Now, what kind of woman was Mrs. Egbert Jones? If she had any resemblance to Mrs. Richmond or Mrs. Hallard he might not fear the head of Medusa.

Mr. Slade, who was growing happily somnolent, strolled with Gurney to the gate, liking him the better for not over-staying his welcome.

“Might I ask you a question, or rather—two questions, sir?”

“Certainly, if they are not too profound. I find that digestion and philosophy——”

“No. They are somewhat personal. Would you tell me whether the vicaress has any——”

“Snags,” said Mr. Slade.

Gurney looked coy. “I did not—exactly—intend——”

“Mrs. Egbert Jones is—episcopal.”

“Oh, dear!”

“Remember the lawn sleeves, and the lady’s dignity.”

“I will.”

“And the other question?”

“I wonder—whether you would read my next Sunday’s sermon. Apparently—I am to be on trial.”

Mr. Slade stood with his hands on the gate.

“You mean—censor it?”

“Yes, in a sense, sir. I would value your opinion. I am afraid I am rather a candid person.”

Mr. Slade looked out to sea. “Whitechapel not Kensington. Personally, Gurney, I am prejudiced in favour of frankness. Balaam’s ass was a good beast.”

Gurney laughed. “Thank you, sir.”

“I do not class you with the quadruped. Yes, send me the sermon.”

“And you will be frank with me?”

“I will.”