Читать книгу Slade - Warwick Deeping - Страница 19

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On Sunday evenings Mr. James Slade attended at St. John’s Church, and there could survey all the people who mattered and all those who did not matter. St. John’s Church was a rambling old building, pleasantly irregular, and built before those dreadful products of the Gothic revival. It was individual, just as the new incumbent—Mr. Chatterway—was individual. James Slade soon grew to love it, the walk along the path between the hollies while the bell sang “God, God, God,” the slipping into a back pew near the door, Mr. Bellinger at the organ, old Robinson’s white head in the choir. He felt at peace here. He was a person, a person kneeling before God.

From his corner seat in an obscure pew near the door he could observe and study all the hierarchies of Southfleet. There were square, oaken pews with doors, newer deal benches without them. The elect gathered in the more protected pews, the private sittings, the humbler folk in the public ones. First came the gentry, such as the Gages, the Rawdons, the Hallards. Next in order were the professional gentlemen, such as the Richmonds and the Grigsons, and those citizens and their families who had retired to Southfleet and become privileged residents. Mr. Blossom the brewer was included in this group. Trade followed after, Mr. Golightly, Mr. Chignell, Mr. Murrell, Mr. Frost, the principal butcher. Mrs. Pomeroy had been admitted to a private pew which could claim attachment to the professional group. She was almost a gentlewoman, and becoming more so, and a step removed from mere commerce. She looked distinguished in her black or purple velvets and her handsome bonnets. She sang in a deep contralto, confidently and with emphasis. Rose sat beside her, and to James Slade the child’s hat was like a flower, shining in some rather dim garden. He loved the hymns, especially “Rock of Ages”, and “Abide with Me”, and sang them in a gentle and slightly apologetic tenor. He even liked Mr. Chatterway’s jerky and conversational sermons, and the queer way he threw his arms about and would bend and peer impressively at his congregation. Sometimes he would wag an admonitory first finger. Mr. Chatterway could be quite an original in the pulpit.

When the last Amen had sounded, and the congregation rustled to its feet, Mr. Slade would stand erect while Mr. Bellinger played the congregation out. Mr. Slade, as one of its most obscure members, waited respectfully for the gentry to pass down the central aisle, and out under the gallery with its Royal Arms in red and blue, and white and gold. Mrs. Pomeroy would walk down the aisle, head up, eyes front, holding her daughter by the hand. She never so much as glanced at James Slade, but she knew that he was there.