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In Southfleet it was considered unseemly to be known as a Radical in politics, though, to more modern ears it would sound very mild music. Mr. Slade was reported to be a Radical, but then Mr. Slade was a somewhat exceptional person, and his social heresy was tolerated, for he was not bitter, and he did not proselytize. To be a Tory suggested beer and good old port. Your Radical was apt to be a gingery person, though he drank lemonade or barleywater. Mr. Simmins, the local tax-collector, was a Radical, and unpopular. Mr. Gavin who edited the progressive paper, was also a Radical, and if not liked, respected. Southfleet believed in labelling people, and so it became necessary to label Gurney, though the Church should be considered superior to politics.

Had Gurney been asked to label himself, he would have been puzzled.

“What are my political views? Well, really—I don’t know.”

Lovely innocence, for the world was becoming more and more political in a rather unpleasant and snarling fashion.

Mr. Robert Smiles had started a Socialist Club for fellow workmen. Its membership was infinitesimal, but the very existence of so acrid a society caused conventional Southfleet to see red. One of Mr. Smiles’s public snarls was reported in Mr. Gavin’s paper, and it shocked Southfleet very seriously. This ranting little demagogue talked revolution. Down with the King, down with the House of Lords, and the Episcopate. Some of Southfleet’s old women were frightened. Surely, the Police ought to do something about it?

The local Inspector smiled all over his large, good-humoured face when official interference was suggested.

“What, sir, bother about—that? If there were trouble at any time Bob Smiles would be the first to get under the bed.”

Robert Smiles had not read the book written by his distinguished namesake. “Self Help”—indeed! Mr. Smiles’s vision of the future state was that of a large sow giving suck to all her progeny, but Mr. Smiles did not pass on to reflect that what might be good for swine might be disastrous for man. Gurney was out to prove that man had a soul, and that it was not his fate to be a mere sucking parasite, and it was upon this question of God, Man and Soul that the Rev. John Gurney caused a part of Southfleet to look askance at him.

Mr. Robert Smiles, up and working, and having accumulated during his illness an additional reserve of venom, challenged Gurney to appear at his club and debate God and the dope scandal. Gurney took up the challenge. He and Mr. Smiles stood up and confronted each other before a dozen or so rather silent and embarrassed working-men, for your working-man may have a sense of courtesy, and Bob Smiles was a cad when his tongue got going.

“Now, Gurney, have you ever seen your God? Have you ever heard him? Have you ever witnessed a miracle? Give me one pinch of proof——”

Gurney sat and smiled, quite unangered by his adversary’s rude arrogance.

“What are eyes and ears, Mr. Smiles, but of the flesh?”

“Well, what’s man but flesh?”

“Spirit,” said Gurney, promptly.

“Like the stuff in a bottle, eh! Show me an ounce of your spirit.”

“I am afraid I could not. The inward eye is necessary.”

“Inward eye be blowed! Walk out your God, Gurney.”

“I cannot do that, for He is within me.”

“Feel him inside you, do you?”

“Yes, Mr. Smiles, I do. God is present in me. I feel Him. I know.”

Mr. Smiles became even more sarcastic, but, for some reason or other the audience was in sympathy with Mr. Gurney. It was more taken with his luminous smile than with Bob Smiles’s venomous mouth. It began to murmur and shuffle its feet, till, at last, a florid man with a large moustache let fly in the vernacular.

“Stow it, Bob! Maybe the gentleman’s got somethin’ you ‘aven’t.”

“Yes, superstition, humbug,” said Mr. Smiles.

“Stow it! We ‘aven’t asked ‘im ‘ere to be insulted.”

The report that Gurney had attended a meeting of the Socialist Club spread through the town, and provoked considerable comment. It came to the ears of the Rev. Egbert Jones, and Gurney’s vicar felt it his duty to catechize his curate.

“Is it true, Gurney, that you joined in a debate at a particular place?”

“Quite true, sir.”

“But, my dear friend, I must say that I deplore any political adventures.”

“It was not a question of politics, sir.”

“Then, what——?”

“The discussion was on the existence of—God. Robert Smiles calls himself an atheist.”

Mr. Jones raised his hand. “What have we to do with a vulgar and ignorant little demagogue like Smiles? Such people are best ignored.”

“You may be right, sir—but I did feel that——”

“Yes, yes, I know. The urge to testify. But, I think, Gurney, that your presence there was—ill-judged. One should not flatter a—whippersnapper—by arguing with him. And—gossip has been busy. I deplore gossip. It is so prone to become garbled.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“Well, well, just an error in—tactics. But, please, Gurney, in future consider the cloth.”

As Mr. Jones had hinted, garbled accounts had got about, and what Gurney gained on the swings, he lost on the roundabouts. Working-class Southfleet might think him something of a saint, but there were other people who saw him as a sinister shadow. Mr. Sawkins, who owned the Caroline Hotel, and was on the committee of the Conservative Club, raised the point in public. What sort of little parson was this who talked red revolution, and got himself mixed up with scallywags like Smiles? Mr. Sawkins was very candid upon the scandal. He thought that the question ought to be taken up with the Rev. Egbert Jones. If Mr. Jones could not keep his pup from lamp-posts, the creature had better be found another kennel.

Gurney liked to be out and about early, and knowing that Mr. Slade was an old gentleman of regular habits, he would stroll up to Sea View and join Mr. Slade in his progress along the Cliff Parade and Caroline Terrace to the High Street. Mr. Slade was a comforting person when a proportion of the population was beginning to give you unfriendly looks. The windows of Caroline Terrace watched them pass, and the comments were various and characteristic. Mrs. Richmond said that Mr. Slade and Mr. Gurney might have been father and son. Mr. Sawkins snarled in his beard. A fellow who had been in gaol was just the partner for a clerical agitator like Gurney.

Said Gurney to Mr. Slade: “I hope you do not feel—embarrassed—by walking with me?”

Mr. Slade glanced up and caught Mr. Sawkins playing Nosy Parker at a window.

“Ha, it’s a dirty bird that fouls its own beard! No, sir, and I feel flattered to have your company.”

“I’m afraid I’m a disgrace, Mr. Slade, with a part of my congregation.”

“So was—Christ, sir.”

“You see, I did not think I should be blamed for defending my faith.”

“Did you really attend a meeting of Mr. Smiles’s Venom Club?”

“I did. But, all men are not venomous, and strange though it may sound—I did not lack for sympathy.”

“You wouldn’t. The hyena and the dog are different creatures.”

“But it makes one rather sad, to be misjudged and misrepresented.”

“In a very prejudicial world, Gurney?”

“I suppose it is—so.”

“Our opinions—so called—are three parts prejudice and one part honest conviction. I shouldn’t worry, Mr. Gurney. Just go on being what you are.”

“Thank you, sir. I have had troubles and trials of my own to chasten me.”

“Same here,” said Mr. Slade. “Come and have some supper with us to-night.”

But one morning Mr. Slade walked solus along Caroline Terrace, and Mr. Sawkins waylaid him. Old age was making Mr. Sawkins very crusty, and more and more of a curmudgeon. He called a spade a spade, and it was a very unpolished tool.

“Morning, Slade.”

“Morning, Sawkins.”

Mr. Slade became naughty when Mr. Sawkins fouled the sweet face of a sunny morning. Egg and bacon in beards, and gravy stains upon waistcoats! Mr. Sawkins was septic to Mr. Slade’s soul.

“If I were you, Slade, I wouldn’t encourage that little parson fellow.”

“But you’re not me,” said Mr. Slade.

“No, I haven’t had the privilege——”

“I shouldn’t say what you thought of saying, Sawkins.”

“Ha, thought-reading, eh! If you want to encourage a fellow to preach your property away——”

“And yours? Supposing you mind your own business. It may need it.”

Which was a nasty cut, for the Caroline Hotel was not prospering under Mr. Sawkins’s skinny management. Mr. Slade would like to have added: “And go in and comb and wash your beard, and don’t suck your false teeth.” Mr. Slade was a very clean old gentleman.

The Rev. John Gurney was shy with women, or rather—with the ladies. He had been a romantic soul, and romance had served him an unkind trick, but that was his particular secret. His reputation was that of a celibate, but there were ladies in Southfleet who had hopes of seducing him from the high level of his austerity. Miss Godbold was one of them, a stout and vigorous gentlewoman who walked with a stick, and competed with Mrs. Jones in the running of the parish. Miss Godbold was mannish, even in her make-up. She wore a hard collar, and an expression of soapy and saintly determination. She had views upon most subjects, and aired them. If you were the creature of a certain habit, Miss Godbold would try to convince you that you should change that habit. If you took sugar in your tea she spoke earnestly upon the virtues of tea without sugar. She had a very cold blue eye, and she smiled much like a pale sun on a frosty morning. She did not know that to the vulgar she was known as “Old Guy-face”. She district-visited with great assiduity, and with serene impertinence. Working women would say: “Look out—here’s Old Guy-face,” and they would lock the door on her, for nothing but a locked door would keep Miss Godbold from doing what she conceived to be her duty.

Gurney fled from Miss Godbold as from a large, white maggot. Mrs. Hallard, sitting in the garden of Sea View, saw Gurney slip suddenly through the gate, cross the lawn, and greet her with an apologetic air.

“Excuse me, may I sit down, Miss Godbold——?”

Rose Hallard smiled at him. “Yes, do. Am I—sufficient protection?”

“I sincerely hope so. A most formidable lady. She picks you up by the scruff of the neck. Forgive me, but I am being almost—vulgar.”

Miss Godbold had sighted her prey, but by the time she reached the gate of Sea View, Rose, who had become very much the daughter of her father, had, with a delightful little giggle, staged her tableau. She had found a skein of wool, and there was Mr. Gurney sitting with the skein over his hands, while Mrs. Hallard wound her wool. Almost his attitude was that of homage and devotion.

Miss Godbold paused. So that was the game, was it? This saintly little person was paying court to a wealthy young woman. Strange, how mean are the motives which the devout and the good assign to each other! But Miss Godbold was not to be daunted. She opened the gate and walked in.

Rose Hallard’s eyes met Gurney’s, and a certain roguishness in them said: “Prepare to receive cavalry.”

She turned to smile at Miss Godbold. What a bouncing bundle of a woman was this, hard-boiled egg and soap! She waddled. The flounce of her mannish blue serge coat stuck out like a frill about her high hips.

“Good afternoon, dear Mrs. Hallard. How busy we are!”

Dear Mrs. Hallard indeed! Scrumptious old humbug. Gurney, the little gentleman, rose to his feet, his hands looped together by the swag of wool. He was mute. Much better leave the conversation to the ladies.

“And how are you, Miss Godbold?”

“I am always well, thank you.”

“How nice. Please sit down again, Mr. Gurney. We must go on with the good work. Socks, you know. My father likes me to make his socks.”

She did not ask Miss Godbold to sit down, nor was there a chair for the lady. Mr. Gurney gave Mrs. Hallard an appealing look. Ought he not to rise and offer his chair? Her firm counter-glance bade him stay put.

“I’m afraid my father is not at home, Miss Godbold. Did you wish to see him?”

Miss Godbold had no wish to see Mr. Slade. She thought him a rather irreverent old gentleman.

“No. Let me relieve you, Mr. Gurney. I’m sure you must feel—a little——”

“Thank you,” said Gurney quickly, “I really am quite—comfortable, thank you.”

There was silence, while Mrs. Hallard, with serene composure, wound her wool, drawing it from over Gurney’s thumbs. Miss Godbold prodded the grass with her stick. Could a woman, even a very self-assertive woman, be more obviously de trop?

“Well, I must not hinder the good work. You are making yourself quite useful, aren’t you, Mr. Gurney?”

Miss Godbold had a way of breaking out into sudden laughter. It was vulgar and unpleasant laughter, and supremely self-revealing.

“I hope so,” said Gurney, with a stiff face.

Mrs. Hallard looked up at the lady as though this neighing sound puzzled her. Trust a woman to let another woman know, without words, that she is behaving in a strange and unfinished way. Mrs. Hallard’s eyes said: “Why this unpleasant sound? My sense of humour must not be sufficiently vulgar.”

Miss Godbold might be a very complacent person, but she was not such a fool as to miss the meaning of that look. Her face became the jug, and there was sour milk in it.

“I will not trespass upon your——”

“Oh, must you go, Miss Godbold?”

“I have serious duties to perform.”

Her glance was at Gurney. Silly little squirrel squatting there nibbling nuts!

“How nice for you. Oh—good-bye.”

Miss Godbold waddled to the gate, and Gurney watched her go.

“What a very earnest lady!”

Mrs. Hallard relieved him of the last loop of wool.

“I wonder why good women are——”

She did not complete the question. She raised her eyes to find Gurney looking at her in a particular way. She surprised Mr. Gurney. Almost he blushed. His sudden self-consciousness was rather attractive.

“I can’t get the right word.”

Gurney appeared to be searching for it, while he gazed at her hands.

“Yes, let me see. Uncomfortable to the eye.”

Mrs. Hallard smiled as her father might have smiled. “I did not know you were a connoisseur, Mr. Gurney.”

“Of what?” said Gurney, innocently.

“Oh, well, never mind.”

Gurney rose slowly to his feet. “I—rather—believe that—the—the nature—of a—wo—person—shows in the face.”

“Do you?”

Gurney was looking very grave, as though he had found something very precious, and did not know whether to exhibit it or put it away quickly in his pocket.

“Yes, I do. But, forgive me, like Miss Godbold I have duties to perform.”