The Doll (4 page)

And he would be returned, of this the Vicar was certain. He was feeling very pleased with himself. ‘There’s not the slightest doubt about it,’ he said warmly, ‘the majority of voters in West Storeford are intelligent men and women. They know when they see a leader, and that’s what they’re after. Never mind if he’s a Conservative, a Liberal, or a Socialist. Luckily for them you’re a Conservative. My dear Colonel, I’ve heard you speak, and I know what I’m talking about. When you’re in the House you’re going to make those lazy fellows sit up. Lively times, eh! Wait till you are a Cabinet Minister!’ He lowered his tone, and winked significantly.

The Colonel flushed all over his face with pleasure.

This parson was an amazingly good fellow, and when he was in Parliament he would remember to show his gratitude. He called for his bill, and the waiter brought the white slip of paper on a plate. The Vicar turned his head away discreetly, and bowed gallantly to a revue artiste who was just leaving the room. ‘Pretty as ever, aren’t you?’ his eyes seemed to say. Then he rose from the table. ‘My dear Colonel, I must leave you; I had no idea it was so late. This has been very delightful, and I shall be the first to congratulate you Monday night. No, don’t bother to come out.’

He walked slowly across the room, his head a little to one side, his chin in the air.

Many people turned to watch him as he walked past.

The Vicar was aware of the disturbance he had caused. At the opening of the Royal Academy he had been taken for a distinguished actor.

He handed half-a-crown to the cloakroom attendant, and then stepped out into the street, where his Wolseley car was waiting. ‘Drive to the East London Home for Disabled and Paralysed Men, and be quick about it,’ he said to the chauffeur.

He leaned back, and let himself relax, as the car sped through the City. These weekly talks were rather a strain on the mind. The men were often surly and disinclined to listen, but he flattered himself he generally made an impression. He remembered last year at Pentonville, when a boy had taken a fancy to him. The whole thing had really been rather amusing, not only did he— but his car drew up in front of the Home, and his train of thought was interrupted.

He was greeted by a smiling nurse. ‘We were afraid you were not coming, Mr Hollaway.’

‘I had great difficulty in getting away at all, Sister. I was obliged to break up a very important political lunch, much to everyone’s annoyance.’

There was no need to mention he had been the only guest, these nurses took everything so much for granted.

‘We’ve got twenty-five of them up in the big ward, Mr Hollaway, and I must say I’m very glad you can spare them an hour. They get so dull and lifeless, I know you will cheer them up.’

The Vicar felt a little doubtful as he entered the ward. A quarter of the men were in bed, lying prone upon their backs, while the rest were in invalid-chairs, propped up with cushions.

A little doctor came forward hurriedly.

‘My dear Vicar, this is too good of you. The men have been looking forward to your visit with the greatest pleasure. You’ve no idea,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘of the amount of good these talks can do. It puts new life into them, and it helps us more than I can say. They are very difficult sometimes, aren’t they, Sister?’

He turned to the nurse, who nodded her agreement. The Vicar took her hand. ‘I know so well what you must go through,’ he murmured.

Then they left him alone with the men, and he plunged into his rôle of humorist and consoler. His cheerful voice and his delightful personality soon won the attention of the little group of men, doomed for the rest of their lives to lie on their backs, and to gaze at the ceiling.

‘Because I’m a parson, there’s no need for you to be shy of me, my lads,’ he said, with his well-known infectious laugh. ‘I’ve gone through a lot in my time, and I’ve talked and lived with every kind of fellow under the sun. Why, bless you, I feel exactly the same as all you men here, and I know and understand everything you don’t tell your nurse and doctor.

‘You don’t know what a joy it is to me to come and talk to you this afternoon. It reminds me of the old days in France.’ (Oh, shades of Paris!) Soon he had them all laughing at his stories, gleaned from every corner of the globe.

Good healthy humour, he told himself, and he warmed to his subject. Even the old chestnuts of four or five years ago were new here, he discovered. From these he went on to contemporary events. He discussed racing, boxing, cricket, and even politics with the more serious.

From politics it was an easy step to the apparent powerlessness of the Church to-day in State affairs, and from thence to religion, which he had really come to talk about.

The men of course had expected this; he was a parson, and now that they had heard his opinions on other subjects they were willing to listen to him in silence for the last half-hour that remained.

This afternoon the Vicar surpassed himself in eloquence, never had the life of the virtuous sounded more full of possibilities, never had the life of the sinner shone so dull in comparison.

‘The world is so full of glorious opportunities to-day,’ he said, in rich persuasive tones; ‘we have every chance to better ourselves, to improve our minds, to give the best in exchange for the best.

‘In enjoying the great facilities that are now open to us, I think we are apt to forget the Creator of it all.’ The men blushed awkwardly, they were not quite sure what he was talking about. The Vicar felt he was swimming slightly out of their depth, so he returned to safer channels.

‘What we forget,’ he said, smiling his brilliant smile, ‘is that Our Lord came to earth a man like ourselves. He felt all the pains and miseries that we feel. He underwent the troubles and vexations that we undergo. It is because we no longer remember this that we do not take our burdens to be lifted from us by One Who above all others can understand and help us. There has never been anyone so human as Christ. For well over thirty years He was a man amongst other men, a poor working man, the son of a carpenter. What do we know of that early life? Practically nothing. But we are sure it was a mixture of joy and sorrow such as falls to the lot of each of us. And in that part of His life that has been revealed to us through the medium of the Blessed Gospels (he lowered his voice suitably) there is full, unbounded proof that His feelings were those of a man.

‘His adoration for Our Lady, the affection for Lazarus, the friendship for His disciples, the understanding of poor Magdalene – are these not all signs of His glorious Humanity? He was fond of animals and children; He talked with sinners.

‘Remember the anger in the Temple and the distrust of the Pharisees; these all show those human qualities so dear to us. And lastly, in the Agony and Death on the Cross, were not His last cries those of a man?’ The Vicar paused, a little out of breath. The men were obviously impressed, he had been victorious again.

Then a voice spoke from the far corner of the room. It came from a grumpy old man who had taken no part in the conversation.

‘I thought Christ was the Son of God,’ he said. There was an awkward silence, and for the moment the Vicar was a little taken aback.

Then ‘He was,’ he said gently; ‘He was.’ But it was too late: the spell had been broken. He left the room sensing defeat.

‘Will you see a Miss Williams, sir?’ said the butler, coming into the study shortly after six.

‘Oh! yes, Wells, show her in. I was expecting her, but I forgot to tell you.’

The Vicar finished a much-needed whisky-and-soda, and placed the empty glass in a small cupboard built especially for that purpose.

Mary Williams came into the room.

She was small and dark, and though she was not looking her best he could see that she was very pretty. She was neatly and simply dressed, and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

‘Will you sit down?’ he said courteously.

The girl obeyed silently, and waited for him to speak. He cleared his throat, the situation intrigued him.

‘My dear child,’ he began gently, ‘I want you to look upon me as an elder brother, as one who knows the world far better than you do, and who every day tries to do his best, alas a very poor best, to lighten the responsibilities of those around him. And besides thinking of me as a brother, you must remember that I am a priest, and in that capacity I am capable of guarding over your spiritual as well as your earthly welfare.’

He paused. The girl made no reply, but stared at him with scared eyes.

‘And thus,’ he continued, ‘I want you to tell me in your own way the story that Lord Cranleigh told me this morning; and spare no detail, however irksome it may be to you,’ he added.

The girl blushed and lowered her eyes. ‘I met Tommy first one day last term,’ she began in a low tone. ‘I was with a friend, we had hired a boat. He must have told you all this already. I was a companion to a Mrs Grey at the time, who lived in Oxford, and she went abroad alone as soon as the University went down for vacation.

‘Tommy and the other man spoke to us that day because we were all sheltering under a tree during a heavy shower, and we soon got friendly, and laughed and joked together. We all had tea I remember.

‘Then we arranged to meet again, and afterwards I always went out with Tommy whenever I could get away. Very soon he told me that he loved me. I should not have listened to him, I suppose, but I could not help it; and when he kissed me for the first time I knew I loved him better than anything in the world. We used to make plans about all the wonderful things we would do in the vacation, and I thought – I didn’t understand – I thought he meant he wanted to marry me.

‘Every day I think I loved him a little more, and then – the night on the river – I forgot everything when he began to kiss me.

‘He told you, I expect – I was so ashamed – I don’t know how it happened,’ she faltered.

The Vicar passed his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Tame excuse – didn’t know how it happened! Apparently not, or she would not be sitting there in front of him now.

‘Yes,’ he murmured, closing his eyes and sighing. ‘Yes?’

‘A day or two after that Tommy went down. Mrs Grey went abroad, and I stayed with friends in the country. I wrote to him nearly every day, but I never had a reply. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t write, I was so certain that he meant to marry me. I began to feel wretched and unhappy at the same time, my friends told me I was looking pale.

‘Still no news from Tommy, though I knew he was in London, I saw something about his having been to a dance somewhere. Then one day I fainted – luckily no one was about – but I was frightened at once, and I went up to London in secret and saw a doctor.

‘He – he told me what was the matter. I know it was wicked of me, but somehow I didn’t seem to mind. I knew that Tommy would marry me now. I wrote to him, and went to stay with my sister in St John’s Wood. When I saw Tommy he told me that he couldn’t possibly marry me.

‘I don’t understand even now, my mind refuses to take it in. Please, Mr Hollaway, will you tell me what he said to you this morning? You see, I love him so terribly, and I can’t do without him – now.’

The Vicar saw that she was ready to burst into a flood of helpless tears.

‘Now, my dear, don’t worry, but try and console yourself. I want you to sit quite quietly while I explain everything to you. I am going to help you, and I understand more than anyone just exactly what you have been through. But, at the same time, you must realise that God put us into the world so that we should know both joy and sorrow. If our joy has been sinful, then we must pay for it with tears and suffering.

‘As we sow, so shall we reap.

‘You are paying now for that night in the boat, and even for what occurred before.

‘Has it ever struck you that you were guilty in the first place by being so friendly with a young man of whom you knew nothing?’

‘I never thought,’ stammered the girl.

‘Of course not, and you must pay for that forgetfulness. You may not be aware of it, but if the world knew it would say that you had run after Lord Cranleigh, that you had visions of wealth, titles, and many other things besides.’

‘It isn’t true, it isn’t true!’ she gasped.

‘Perhaps not, but if you told your story to anyone but me – to the boy’s family, for instance – that’s what they would say. They might even suspect that you are a girl of loose morals, and that to save yourself from prostitution you accuse a generous, impulsive young man of being the father of a child that is not really his.’

‘No, no! How can you say that?’

‘I am only saying what the world would say, who, I am afraid, is a very harsh critic.

‘I want you to understand the position in which you will place yourself if you ask for justice at the hands of your lover’s family. And then you must remember that Lord Cranleigh will very shortly become the Earl of Haversham. He will be a leading figure in society, he will have many duties and responsibilities, one of which will be to marry into some family as illustrious as his own. You say that you love him. Do you wish to wreck his career? Can you not see that the greatest proof of your love will be to go straight out of his life at once, before you can damage it any further?’

The girl was deathly pale now, the Vicar was afraid that she might faint.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I understand that I must give him up. What am I going to do?’ She seemed quite stunned, and unable to think.

‘I will see that you are amply provided for,’ replied the Vicar, in deep generous tones. ‘I know of two ladies who live in Wimbledon, they are gentle humane creatures, and they will look after you until the trouble is over.

‘Your sister need know nothing about it, you can easily tell her you are with friends.

‘When you are well again it would be better perhaps if you went abroad. I know of a missionary’s wife in India, a charming, sympathetic woman, who will take you as a companion.’

‘What about my baby?’ asked the girl, with a queer frightened gleam in her eyes.

‘That, of course, you must be prepared to give up also. The child shall be brought up in a beautiful Home in Surrey, of which I am one of the governors. Surely you must see the need of this?’