“Half-way houses?” repeated Howard, “For what purpose?”
“For the supply of proper food to the tillers of the soil,” — said Everton; “Where they might for a penny get a proper breakfast, — and for twopence or threepence a proper dinner, with one glass of pure beer to wash it down! These men are unconscious sufferers from their ignorance of the laws of health, and they cannot be taught all at once; besides they have no time to learn. Their wives, for the most part, are unpractical; one woman with three or four young children is more often in a ‘muddle’ in the early morning than not, and the husband’s breakfast is a secondary matter to that of the babies, so that the actual breadwinner frequently goes to his work in a semi-starved condition, while his little ones get the best of whatever there is to eat. I’ve seen it all, I tell you! And I say that the British workingman is not to be set down as a chronic drunkard. He would be as sober and straight as any man under the sun, if he could get the proper food to work on. And the proper drink!
We have no right to condemn him for insobriety; it is the makers of the stuff he swallows that are the real sinners! If you feed a man on absinthe, he ends in a lunatic asylum; in the same way if you feed a man on doctored beer and adulterated whisky, you make him a criminal and the father of criminals. Yet the Government, in their efforts for Temperance Reform, try to lop off the branches of the deadly upas-tree of Drink, and never strike at the root. The root is the Trade adulteration of what should be pure and wholesome.”
“But there are penalties under the law —— —— —— —— — “began Howard.
“Penalties that are never enacted,” — rejoined Everton, quickly; “because brewers and distillers are all in league with publicans, wine-merchants and grocers; we mustn’t forget this latter branch of the Drink trade! — to throw dust in the eyes of the officers of the Excise. These men no doubt do their duty, and are possibly above bribery; but they can be cheated in ‘sampling’ as well as other folks in other trades. The well-known existence of ‘brewers’ druggists’ ought to be sufficient to show that drugging goes on. To me the idea that men should build up huge fortunes out of the sale of liquor that ruins the bodies and souls of their fellow-men, is the most horrible and appalling thing in the world!”
“And what of the upper classes?” asked Howard, presently, “In your zeal for the working-men of Great Britain, you have forgotten the drones! What kind of reform would you suggest in that direction?”
A sudden sternness came into Everton’s eyes.
“The upper classes?” he echoed, “The upper classes—”
“Yes; the upper classes,” — repeated Howard, with emphasis— “They lead! They drink like fish in the sea, without the fish necessity. The men swill whisky, — the women do the same, except when they prefer morphia. The extent of the evil is almost measureless, — because half of it is secret. Men drink in secret; women drink in secret. Only the eye that is trained like a physician’s to note the unsteadiness of lip-lines, the nervous contraction of hands, the restlessness of movement and the wandering of attention, can detect the working of the vice on the apparently sober ‘lady of fashion’ or ‘man about town,’ but Drink is as much the curse of the ‘Upper Ten’ as it is of the Lowest Million. How would you set about reforming ‘Court and Society’? Tell me! For if ever Court and Society were in a bad way they are at this present day!”
Everton was silent for a little space. His thoughts returned to Jacynth; again he seemed to see the exquisite face fading away into the sunset, beside the heavy sensual countenance of Claude Ferrers, — again his inner consciousness told him that for the sins these two were sinning they had no regret and no repentance; and that for hundreds of other men and women like them there was no hope, because there was no faith.
“I am afraid,” — he said, at last, “that for Court and Society I can suggest nothing save that remedy which God enforces at given times, — Change! What change it may be, or how it will be brought about, I cannot even picture. But it is easier to raise the poor to a higher level of thought and feeling than it is to bring so-called ‘cultured’ persons down from the summit of supreme Egotism which they appear to have reached at this present time. My work will never lead me into ‘society’ surroundings,’’ — he paused, and his pale face flushed a little — then he added— “I should perhaps tell you that you were right when you said that I was being helped along by a ‘boom’ in the press. I found it all out, — yesterday. And I have put a stop to it.”
Howard opened his eyes in astonishment.
“You have put a stop to it?” he exclaimed.
“Yes. I shall not be heard of in the newspapers any more!” And Everton’s smile was very happy as he said this:— “I hope you understand that nothing would more offend my sense of right than a fictitious renown? — to feel that I was being ‘backed up’ like a race-horse, by some influence of which I did not approve, and for which I could never be grateful? I am merely the Vicar of Shadbrook; and my preaching is for the people of my parish. The wider world has no need of me.”
Howard looked at him fixedly as though he were some curious natural phenomenon.
“That’s your opinion, is it?” he said, cheerily, and a broad smile lightened his visage— “Well! We’ll see how far you’re proved correct! Meantime, look here — if you’ll ask me down to this Shadbrook of yours some day, I’ll come! I guess I’ll find business there to suit me! Let me know how you find things when you get back, and if this brewery is really burnt out, tell me when the land’s for sale!” Everton laughed and promised, treating his words as a joke. They had some further talk, and then parted on terms of mutual liking, arranging to see each other soon again. Once or twice Everton was half-inclined to tell so genial an acquaintance of his yesterday’s experience, but as it would have involved an explanation of his former knowledge of Jacynth, he decided on the wiser course of silence.
He left London for Shadbrook that morning before noon, thinking all the way in the train of the unexpected news that was fraught with such important changes to him and to his parish — the burning down of Minchin’s Brewery. When he arrived at the station where his old mare with the high dog-cart awaited him, he was addressed at once by the porter who took his luggage.
“’Twas a big blaze at Minchin’s last night, sir!”
“Yes — I’ve seen an account of it in the papers,” — he said; “Is the place quite destroyed?”
“To the very ground, sir! The fire broke out about halfpast seven in the evening, and what was a queer thing, it seemed to come not only from one but from all sides of the brewery buildings! We telegraphed all over the place for fire-engines, which as you know, sir, are a terrible time coming when they’re wanted in outlying country districts, and when they did come, the fire had got it all its own way. The flames were seen for miles and miles around!”
Everton could not look very concerned; there was too much joy and thankfulness in his eyes.
“Any cause assigned?” he asked.
“Well, sir, they do say that Mr. Minchin, being so hard up, set fire to it himself, hoping to get the insurance money! But you know what a rare place this is for talk, and it’s only a tale!”
Everton smiled, nodded kindly, and drove off through the scented dewy lanes with a wonderful lightness of heart. Only one saddened thought crossed his mind, — that Azalea was not alive to rejoice with him at the unexpected deliverance now granted to the neighborhood. And why could not such deliverance have come earlier, before all the trouble and disaster and tragedy had occurred of which the brewery was the latent cause. Surely the ways of destiny were hard and past finding out! As the mare trotted across the bridge between ‘old’ Shadbrook and ‘new,’ a sudden flashing recollection of Jacynth came before him, and he saw, as it were, three pictures of her — one as the village girl, in her simple blue cotton frock with the bunch of spring flowers at her throat, another as the ‘society’ beauty in her wonderful gown of clinging lace with the sparkle of jewels abou
t her — and last of all, as a face only, a face of exquisite human perfection, vanishing, vanishing into thin air!
“So must she vanish from my life!” he said to his inward self; “She, to whom my senses might have yielded had not my soul repelled her, must disappear — out of my sight for ever!”
He turned into the Vicarage gate. His heart thrilled with a quick pang as he thought what a different home-coming his would have been could he have seen Azalea’s sweet presence smiling at him from the doorway as he approached the house. But he was not allowed to feel utterly lonely, for half-way along the drive he was met by a little flying figure with curly hair shining like a mop of gold in the sun.
“Dad! Dad! Home again! Hurra!”
And Laurence, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, with restless feet that danced to and fro for sheer delight at sight of his father, ran alongside the old mare in a state of the wildest excitement.
Brewery’s all burnt!” he shouted, breathlessly; “Nursie and I could see all the fire from the windows! The sky was red — ever so red! — and such lots of smoke!”
Everton drew up at his own house door, and springing down from the dog-cart caught his little son in his arms and kissed him fondly, then lifted him and set him on his shoulder.
“Brewery burnt, eh?” — he said, “A nice big bonfire for you, wasn’t it! Bigger than any bonfire you’ve ever seen!”
“Oh, much, much bigger!” exclaimed Laurence, enthusiastically; “But nobody was hurted! It was the beer that was burnt — and the barley, and the hops — and the malt—”
“And the poison!” finished Everton; “Well, that’s not much loss, my boy! And how have you got on with the lessons I left you to do?”
Forthwith Laurence began to chatter, — and by tea-time the Vicar had well-nigh forgotten there was such a place as London on the earth, or that he had ever been to it. Sitting peacefully in his own garden, amid a wealth of roses and other summer blossoms, he listened, enchanted, to the child’s vivacious and eager talk about the way the time had passed during his absence; the little voice, with a sweet ring in it like that of Azalea’s, was music to his soul.
“On Sunday it was a bit slow,” said the boy, with a comical expression of solemnity; “I don’t know what you were doing, but we weren’t doing much. The man who preached the sermon in church was all right, but of course he wasn’t you. And a lot of old women waited about in the churchyard to grumble — and one of them said to me: ‘Goodmorning, Master Laurence, I hope your good papa won’t be very long away,’ — and I said: ‘No, ma’am, don’t worry, please; Dad’s coming home directly!’ — and she said: ‘Thank goodness to the Lord, for we misses him badly.’” Here Laurence laughed merrily. “And after dinner Nursie said I was to sit in the garden with a book, so I got Andersen’s Tales and read about ‘What the Moon Saw.’ I like that. But I think I like ‘The Shadow’ better. You see the Shadow got all the good things instead of the Learned Man, and I suppose that’s likely to be true. Then I read some poetry, and wrote some.”
Everton smiled.
“You wrote some, did you?”
“Oh yes, I often do. Things I think about go into rhyme by themselves. I’ll show you how some day. But I’ve got all my lessons ready for you. Oh, and Dad! Father Douay came over yesterday afternoon to know when you’d be back, and he said he’d come again to-day. But the brewery wasn’t burnt then, — perhaps he won’t come now.”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“Well, Nursie says there are some cottages just by the brewery that caught fire too, and Father Douay helped to get all the furniture out. They were awful poor people that had the furniture. They weren’t hurted themselves, but they’d have lost all their beds and chairs and tables if it hadn’t been for Father Douay. So I expect lie’s still pretty busy, for the fire isn’t all out yet, and the engines are pumping, and the gardener says everything is ‘all of a smoke.’ Mr. Minchin’s there, but Mrs. Minchin’s runned away.”
“Not runned away, boy!” expostulated his father mildly; “It should be ‘run away.’”
“Run away,” repeated Laurence, obediently, “I know how it should be, but old Peter always says runned.”
‘Old Peter’ was the gardener, with whom Laurence was on terms of the friendliest confidence.
Everton smiled.
“And,” the boy added as an after-thought, “Mr. Mortar Pike in the village says the same. Is Mr. Pike a hundred years old, Dad?”
“He’s going on that way,” answered Everton, laughing a little; “He will be, if he holds on a bit longer.”
“And what will he do then?”
“Why, what can he do?” queried Everton, lightly, looking at Laurence’s earnest eyes and changeful expression, and thinking how much he just then resembled his mother— “Except make the best of it!”
“I expect he’ll have a bonfire,” — said Laurence, thoughtfully, “It’s the only thing for a man of that age!”
“You think so?” said Everton, amused.
“Why, yes! Birthday presents are no use, — he wouldn’t know what to do with them. And it’s no good saying: ‘Many happy returns of the day!’ A bonfire would be just right.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, the fire would be like the burning up of everything, all his life, and whatever he had done in it. Then there would be a heap of ashes — like his poor old body when the soul had gone away. And the soul would be the flame of the fire, rising into heaven. Oh yes, a bonfire is the only thing for an old man’s birthday!”
Just then a bell rang, summoning the small philosopher to his tea, and he ran off, promising to return directly the meal was over. His father smiled, watching him scamper into the house, and anon sighed, — wondering for the thousandth time what this child would be when a public school had, as a well-known tutor of the day had remarked—’ knocked the nonsense out of him.’ The ‘nonsense’ was very sweet just now. The teasing memory of Jacynth came back to him, — he thought of her yesterday’s shameless confession — of her heartless remark concerning the death of her child, — he recalled the lines of Elizabeth Barrett Browning in ‘Aurora Leigh’: —
‘ I thought a child was given to sanctify
A woman, — set her in the sight of all
The clear-eyed Heavens, a chosen minister
To do their business and lead spirits up
The difficult blue heights!’
There was no such ‘sanctification’ for Jacynth; she was probably one of the many who nowadays resent motherhood as an inconvenience.
“I wish,” — he said, half-aloud— “the Church could get rid of that foolish curse on Eve in Genesis—’ In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children, and thy desire shall be to thy husband and he shall rule over thee.’ Moses was ill-advised when he set that down, if he did set it down. It should have read:—’ In gladness shalt thou bring forth children, and thy safety shall be thy husband and he shall cherish thee.’”
Here an approaching step interrupted his meditations, and looking up he saw Sebastien Douay crossing the gravel path from the Vicarage and coming towards him. He hastened to meet him, and at once perceived that the little priest was not so cheery as usual, despite his genial smile.
“So! You are back again from town, my good Richard!” he said, “And such news to greet your arrival! The devil has destroyed his own in his native element!”
“It is amazing news indeed!” rejoined Everton, “I saw the first account of it in a London newspaper this morning. I could hardly believe it!”
“Nor I at first,” and Douay sat down rather wearily in a garden chair beside his friend— “Excuse me if I am lazy! I have been up all night. No, not even when I saw the flames, could I believe it! It seemed too good to be true! The fire broke out at half-past seven. It was half-past eight before the first engine arrived — and then — too late! The whole place was in a blaze! Roofs fell in, chimneys toppled and crashed! — mon Dieu! — it was a wonderful sight! No lives lost — and yo
u know what is said?”
“That Minchin himself kindled the flames?”
“Exactly. And,” — here Douay rubbed his nose very hard as was his habit in perplexity— “I am not so sure the story isn’t true. Now I, — par exemple — if the insurance company should seek evidence, could be a most awkward witness. For I saw, — shall I tell you what I saw? Or shall I involve you — my friend — by hazard in legal trouble? Will they come to you and say:— ‘Were you told by the Reverend Father Douay so-and-so?’ Or ‘What was your impression when the Reverend Father Douay said so-and-so?”’
“It won’t matter if they do,” — laughed Everton. “I wasn’t on the scene of action.”
“Ah, you can prove an alibi! — that is true!” And Douay’s eyes twinkled whimsically— “well then, I will risk all danger! And what I can say is this. That the men, most of them casual hands, all left the brewery at six o’clock as is usual. There is a fair, with merry-go-rounds for the children put up about a mile from the village — and many of them went there after work to spend the evening. Everything was quite quiet in the place. I sit by myself in my cottage reading. I look out of the window. I see Mistaire Minchin stroll by. You know the large gateway of the brewery is very nearly opposite to me — and the vans and carts come in and go out there every morning. Mistaire Minchin is not a van or a cart — he is a sly fox, and though he walks on two legs he does it in a way that reminds you of something secret, creeping on all fours. So he, with that creeping step, goes in at the big gate. I stand by my window and wait for him to come out again. But he does not come. And as I watch, I see his face for one moment at an opening up in one of the store-houses. Then it vanish! I see it no more. All is very still and at peace. I take up my book and read again. All at once I hear a step walking fast, very fast, along the road outside my cottage. I look out — Mistaire Minchin! His creep has become a run. He goes straight for his own house, and he disappears. Ten minutes after that I see a red flash on my wall! Another — yet another! I go to my window and open it. People open more windows — for there are more red flashes. Suddenly some one calls ‘Fire! Fire!’ and then everyone is in the street all at once. A boy rushes off crying: ‘Fire! Fire! The brewery is on fire!’ Other persons shout ‘Minchin! Fetch Mistaire Minchin!’ and then — please consider this, my friend! — then it turns out that Mistaire Minchin is not at home! He has been away motoring all the afternoon and has not yet returned! Now is not that a strange thing?” And Douay leaned forward in an argumentative manner— “I am not mad — I do not drink — how was it then, that I saw him go into the brewery? — and afterwards return to his own house ten minutes before the fire broke out? Yet — he was not at home! He had not returned! No one had seen him — no one but this poor little priest, myself! But there is one thing — I shall not offer to give evidence. If he has burnt down his brewery, it’s the best thing he has ever done in his life! He shall not get into trouble about it through me!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 748
