Читать книгу Mr. Gurney and Mr. Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 9

Table of Contents

Miss Godbold was moved to turn the sour milk sweet in herself, and she did it by starting a malicious rumour. Did Miss So and So know that the Rev. John Gurney had designs upon a lady with money? Yes, Mr. Gurney was not quite so simple and ingenuous as he seemed. No, really? Miss So and So was shocked and peeved. She was a Gurneyite in her secret romancings. Who could it be? Miss Godbold shook her large head and looked smug and sly. No, she felt that she ought not to tell. How disappointing! Well, if Miss So and So would promise not to repeat the news? Miss So and So did so promise, and promptly passed the rumour on to Mrs. Everybody. It went from ear to ear, after each receiver had given a solemn promise that it would not be repeated.

“But” said one lady, “Mr. Gurney does not approve of divorced persons remarrying. The sanctity of marriage—and all that.”

“But how——?”

“I just happen to know. A friend told me. I rather suspect Mr. Gurney of being a ritualist.”

“Well, Mrs. Hallard’s money might cause him to change his—principles. But how very—cynical.”

Apparently, it did not occur to any of the ladies that the report might be untrue.

Nor, “God forgive me”, as Gurney put it to his secret self, was it untrue in its deeper meaning, for, to Mr. Egbert Jones’s curate Mr. Slade’s daughter had suddenly become a figure of mysterious and poignant significance. She was so different from—— And Gurney got down on his knees, and asked to be forgiven for feeling what he should not feel. But how could he help feeling that Rose Hallard was a wonderful and a lovely person. You had but to look at her mouth and eyes. Gurney wanted to look at her mouth and eyes, and listen to her voice, and watch her hands, and know that the thing that had been born in him was good. Well, why should he not cherish this strange new love, hide it in a chalice, and let his adoration shine in some silent sanctuary of its own? Was there sin or shame in such a lovely tenderness? How could there be, provided that he did not betray it.

Gurney was troubled. What of those morning walks with Mr. Slade? Ought he to continue them if he cherished a guilty passion for Mr. Slade’s daughter? Oh, dear, how old phrases did turn up, like poor relations! Guilty passion? Could what he felt for Mrs. Hallard be described as such?

Moreover, Gurney was not very comfortable at No. 7, Cashiobury Terrace. It seemed that the Misses Plimsoll, the furniture and the bed had gone hard on him. The little prim house had developed an atmosphere of austere disapproval. Nettles, nettles everywhere, and not a smile on a face! The Misses Plimsoll had heard of Gurney’s various activities, actual and otherwise. He could feed a tramp in their front garden. He wore deplorable clothes. He was a revolutionary in his social credo, and yet he could pay court to Mammon.

Said Miss Caroline to Miss Euphemia: “I have doubts about Mr. Gurney’s—sincerity. Are we harbouring a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

Poor sheep! Miss Caroline should have said ram. And the fleece that clothed the little opportunist was so very thin.

But the Misses Plimsoll did not approve. They were less sedulous in considering Gurney’s comfort. His socks ceased to be mended, and eggs were hard-boiled or premature. Gurney’s world was very much the curate’s egg.

The Rev. John’s passion for the truth led him to do a very significant thing. He could not take his morning walk with Mr. Slade on false pretences, or he might feel that he had sand in his shoes. Why not tell Mr. Slade the truth, not as it concerned his daughter, but in its implications—past and present? Surely, Mr. Slade would be the one person who could understand him, for Mr. Slade had suffered in his own life. So, Gurney took his courage in his hands and displayed his dreadful secret to his friend.

“You have been so kind to me, sir, that I don’t wish our friendship to rest—on false foundations.”

“Something worrying you, John?”

Mr. Slade spoke the name lovingly, for was it not the name of the friend who had set him free.

“Thank you, for that, sir. I should like to make a confession to you, and to you alone.”

Mr. Slade paused. They had reached the western gate of Caroline Gardens, and Mr. Slade turned towards it.

“Come in here. Trees and shrubs don’t prick up ears. I think you can trust me.”

“I know I can.”

Mr. Slade led Gurney to a particular seat, a seat that was secure and associated with many memories, happy and otherwise. He took off his hat, and nursed it, and Gurney sat with his hands clasped between his knees.

“When I was a very young man, sir, I did a most reckless thing. It has haunted me.”

So, Gurney told Mr. Slade his secret, and Mr. Slade smiled inwardly as he listened. Was this the dreadful thing that oppressed John Gurney’s conscience? How very innocent of him! But Mr. Slade did understand its implications, and more so than Gurney realized. Gurney, as lover and man, had a golden cannon-ball chained to one ankle.

“Well, that’s all, sir. I know you will respect my secret. I feel relieved to have told you. I hope you don’t think——”

Mr. Slade laid a hand on Gurney’s knee. “Thank you, John. I too had a secret. Probably you know it.”

Gurney nodded.

“A much more dreadful one than yours, John. Well, I lived it down. I have a feeling that if one lives to the best in one—things somehow come right. Besides, one can’t do more.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, go on being Gurney. And come to supper to-night.”

“I don’t know, sir—whether—I——”

“Feeling sensitive?”

“False pretences, sir. Well, you see——”

Mr. Slade did see, but he did not say so. The poor lad was in love with his daughter, and was terrified of betraying the secret.

“Well, we’ll leave it open, John. Do what you feel like doing. I shall understand.”

For a month Gurney did not enter the doorway of Sea View, though he picked up Mr. Slade on most mornings, and walked with him to his shop. Sometimes, they were joined by Mr. Golightly, a Golightly going grey, but as polished and resilient as of old. Mr. Golightly was one of those parishioners who liked the little curate, for, though Mr. Golightly was the people’s warden at St. Jude’s, he had discovered in the Rev. Egbert Jones certain prejudices. Mr. Jones was affable to Mr. Golightly in the vestry, but under God’s own sky he seemed to remember that Mr. Golightly was a draper.

“And so I am, and be dashed to them,” said Mr. Golightly to his wife. “It’s men like me who keep the Church and the Country going, and I’m not good enough to dine with him. Damn it, if that’s Christianity, I’d have done better under Nero.”

Mrs. Golightly was a very comfortable woman. She praised her husband and did not reprove him. After all, she had been very happy with Mr. Golightly.

“Mr. Chatterway was different. And after all, my dear, you have done much more for Southfleet than Mr. Jones has.”

Mr. Golightly shot his cuffs. “Well, that’s true, Mabel, old girl. Didn’t I give a ward to the cottage hospital, and get the new sports ground going? Old Jones is a snob. Damn it, I prefer the curate.”

For, Gurney was quite happy to sit at Mr. Golightly’s supper table, and be smiled upon and pressed to take second helpings by that motherly person Mr. Golightly’s wife. Gurney might have the reputation of being a little advanced in his views upon sociology, but he wasn’t a snob, and he listened with grave interest to Mr. Golightly’s conversation. For, was not Mr. Golightly a self-made man, a study in worldly success, and yet generous and kindly, if somewhat full of reminiscences.

Gurney was sensitive, and the sensitive suffer from feelings about their fellows, especially so about those obtuse souls who go bumping along life’s pathways and with innocent egoism edge the less stupid into the gutter. Gurney worried about problems that would have been mere swan’s-down or gossamer to the vulgar. If, as the mystics say, each soul and body has its aura and that with the “sensitive” that mysterious, spiritual nimbus is of much greater compass in those of fine and delicate texture, then Gurney’s aura might be measured in yards in contrast to the coarser mortal’s inches. Also, it was blue, and a very delicate blue.

Said Mrs. Hallard to her father: “Have we—offended Mr. Gurney in any way?”

Mr. Slade was peeling an apple. “No my dear, I think not. Gurney is a man of rather fine feelings.”

“I’m glad. He hasn’t been here for a long time.”

“Reasons, Rose, known only to Gurney.”

“And—you?”

“And me, but that is a trust.”

Mrs. Hallard watched her father’s clean and deliberate old hands dealing with the apple. How few people had a touch like his.

“I’m glad. I have a feeling that Mr. Gurney has had some unhappy——”

Mr. Slade smiled at the apple. “Eve in the garden, what!—I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t want you to. I suppose that if one has suffered in one’s own life——”

“Yes, my dear. One is blessed with compassion and understanding, or should be. What foul nonsense——!”

“Nonsense?”

“Yes, that everything should be made safe and easy and luscious for humanity. By Jove, this is about the best apple I have grown! Without struggle and suffering and those poignant things that stir the soul, man is no more than an unlicked cub.”

Mr. Slade was munching his apple with evident relish.

“Poor Mr. Gurney’s apple was sour.”

“Oh, Eve, Eve! If all apples were sweet, my dear, where would the contrasts be? Sour apples and tummy pains are educative to youth.”

Did Gurney in his stall on Sundays turn his eyes towards the Slade pew? He did so turn them. And in the pulpit he was conscious of a particular face, a serene and listening face that seemed more luminous than any other. Gurney, when he preached, tried to become unconscious of individual faces, for a collection of normal English faces does not encourage inspiration. As a well-known humorist has confessed, his urge often was to shout: “Smile, damn you, smile! Don’t sit there like a lot of supercilious corpses!” But there were certain faces to whom Gurney could speak, for his preaching was more conversational than rhetorical, and his vicar thought it poor stuff. There was no erudition in Gurney’s sermons. He was rather like a child talking to children.

Yes, he could talk to those faces, Mrs. Richmond’s, and Dr. Richmond’s, and Mr. Slade’s and Mrs. Hallard’s, and even to Mr. Golightly’s. They were live, sincere, comprehending faces. Then, of course, there was Mr. Sawkins’s face, rather like a mangy old dog’s, suspicious and watchful, as though Gurney was proposing to give away his bone. And Miss Godbold’s, like a bladder of lard, and Mr. Egbert Jones’s critical and patronizing. There were certain faces which Gurney did not wish to see. But those other faces. That particular face, so exquisite and gentle.

One Sunday Gurney found himself preaching upon Love, Divine Love. He was being quite eloquent, until his eyes happened upon that particular face. Dear God, was he speaking to her? And would she suspect? Gurney became suddenly self-conscious and face-shy. Everybody seemed to be staring at him. He began to fumble with his words, even to stutter. He paused, looked at the roof, recovered himself, and continued, but with a more sacerdotal formality. He was conscious of flurry. He wanted to get out of the pulpit. In fact he brought the discourse to a somewhat abrupt conclusion.

“And now—to God the Father——”

Mr. Slade and his daughter walked home together, alone.

“Did you notice?” said she.

“What, my dear?”

“Mr. Gurney nearly broke down.”

“Did he?”

“Didn’t you——?”

Mr. Slade prevaricated. In fact, he had put two and two together, Gurney’s eyes fixed upon a particular point, and then—that sudden embarrassment. And Mr. Slade had wondered.

“Perhaps he saw Medusa.”

“Who?”

“Oh, Miss Godbold, or Mr. Sawkins. There are faces, my dear, that almost make one want to spit.”

Master George Hallard was home for the holidays, and Master George had discovered a thing of which Southfleet was ignorant. George was a cricket enthusiast; he kept the cards of all the county fixtures and filled in the results, and knew the names of all the celebrities. Mr. Slade, gently consenting, allowed George to possess a cricket-pitch on one of the lawns, with a practice net to give some protection to the vegetation. George, aged ten, was not yet much of a swiper, but he was dreaming of the days when he might hit a ball over the old school cloisters.

The business was to find a bowler, for Mr. Slade could only trundle balls underhand, and that was how George and Gurney had become such cronies. It had begun on the cliff, with George defending a poplar tree with a new birthday bat, and Gurney trundling a compo ball to him. Gurney could bowl breaks from the on and from the off, and cunning sneakers that looked innocent and were sly. He had put George out twice in an over, though George was learning to hold a straight bat.

“I say, sir, you do send them in.”

“I used to play a bit at one time.”

“Your turn now, sir.”

Gurney had taken the bat, and George’s first ball had tempted him. He had caught it full and fair, and seen it bounce on the roadway, and just miss a couple of old ladies on the further path.

“Gosh,” said George, “that was a snorter,” and he had set off to recover the ball. But Gurney had been shocked and contrite. He had dropped the bat, and trotted off to apologize to the ladies.

“I am so very sorry. I am afraid I startled you. I did not mean to hit so hard.”

The old ladies had appeared to enjoy the incident.

“Why, Mr. Gurney, you are quite a cricketer.”

He was, or had been. J. Gurney had been his school’s star-turn, and he had played on occasions for the Surrey Colts. There was more wiriness and wiliness in Gurney than appeared.

Now, Master George was at home again, and stumps and net were up, and Mr. Slade had given his grandson a real leather ball. “Now, don’t hit it too hard, George. Balls cost money.” “But they are made to be hit, Grandpa.” George was ambitious. He might be in a very lowly position at school, but there was no reason why he should not play for the third eleven, especially with coaching from Mr. Gurney. George went in pursuit of his friend, only to find Mr. Gurney very elusive.

“Hallo, George. Had a good term?”

Gurney always appeared to be in a hurry, and busy about something, and George was baulked and puzzled. Gurney smiled at you just as of old, but he had an awful lot of duties to perform, and wretched people to visit, and every evening he seemed to be preparing a sermon. George did not attach much importance to Mr. Gurney’s sermons, but he had great respect for Mr. Gurney’s bowling arm.

George complained to his grandfather. “Mr. Gurney seems awful busy.”

“He is, my dear.”

“He doesn’t seem to have time to play cricket.”

Gurney had deprived himself during the holidays of his morning parade with Mr. Slade. In cherishing his secret, though he was compelled to avoid the boy, such seeming churlishness hurt him. But a solution offered itself. Gurney had started a Men and Boys’ Cricket Club, and the new Sports Ground was available, and Gurney smote his forehead. “You silly ass, why didn’t you think of that before?”

Gurney turned up one morning in time to catch Mr. Slade.

“George in, sir?”

“Yes, still busy with the jam jar, I think.”

“Could I speak to him?”

Mr. Slade turned back, and hailed his grandson through the window.

“George, Mr. Gurney wants you.”

George abandoned the jam pot, and was out like a flash. Gurney was waiting at the gate.

“Hallo, George. I’m not quite so busy now. If you come up to the new Sports Ground after tea, we’ll have a little practice.”

George’s face was that of a cherub. “I say, sir, it’s awfully—— Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Good. I’ll bowl you leg-breaks.”

So, George and Gurney enjoyed themselves, with others, for Gurney had other lads to coach, and was putting in practice himself as a new member of the Southfleet eleven. George would go home to his mother, with his little freckled face aglow.

“He only bowled me once in three overs.”

What an innocent business, yet certain of the Southfleet snoopers asserted that Mr. Gurney was courting the mother through the son.