§ 16

He and Luce walked out of the church together and through the farmyard without speaking a word. The silence oppressed George and he made a remark about the weather.

“Oh, yes, I expect it will,” said Luce vaguely.

He was a tall, white-faced, red-headed young man, who spoke with a slight stutter, and altogether, in his seedy cassock which the unkind sun showed less black than green, seemed to George an uninspiring figure, whose power it was difficult to account for. How was it that Luce could make his church a house of prayer and George could not? How was it that people thought and talked of Luce as a priest, consulted him in the affairs of their souls and resorted to him for the sacraments—whereas they thought of George only as a parson, paid him subscriptions and asked him to tea?

He was still wondering when they came to the cottage where the Rector lived—instead of in the twenty-five-roomed Rectory which the Parish provided, with an endowment of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. They paused awkwardly at the door, and the awkwardness was increased rather than diminished by Luce inviting him to come in. George’s first impulse was to decline—he felt he would rather not have any more of the other’s constraining company—but the next minute he realised that he now had the chance of a rest and tea without the preliminary endurance of a long and dusty walk. So he followed him in at the door, which opened disconcertingly into the kitchen, and through the kitchen into the little study-living-room beyond it.

It was not at all like George’s study at Leasan—the floor had many more books on it than the wall, the little leaded window looked out into a kitchen garden, and the two armchairs both appeared so doubtful as possible supports for George’s substantial figure that he preferred, in spite of his fatigue, to sit down on the kitchen chair that stood by the writing-table. He realised for the first time what he had always known—that Luce was desperately poor, having nothing but what he could get out of the living. Probably the whole did not amount to two hundred pounds ... and with post-war prices ... George decided to double his subscription to the Diocesan Fund.

Meantime he accepted a cigarette which was only just not a Woodbine, and tried to look as if he saw nothing extraordinary in the poverty-stricken room. He thought it would be only charitable to put the other at his ease.

“Convenient little place you’ve got here,” he remarked—“better for a single man than that barrack of a Rectory.”

“Oh, I could never have lived in the Rectory. I wonder you manage to live in yours.”

George muttered something indistinct about private means.

“It’s difficult enough to live here,” continued Luce—“I couldn’t do it if it wasn’t for what people give me.”

“Are your parishioners generous?”

“I think they are, considering they’re mostly poor people. The Pannells across the road often send me over some of their Sunday dinner in a covered dish.”

George was speechless.

“And I once found a hamper in the road outside the gate. But after I’d thanked God and eaten half a fowl and drunk a bottle of claret, I found it had dropped off the carrier’s cart and there was no end of a fuss.”

“Er—er—hum.”

There was a knock at the outer door, and before Luce could say “Come in,” the door of the study opened and a small boy stuck his head in.

“Please, Father, could you lend us your ink?—Mother wants to write a letter.”

“Oh, certainly, Tom—take it—there it is; but don’t forget to bring it back.”

The small boy said nothing, but snatched his booty and went out.

“Are your people—er—responsive?” asked George.

“Responsive to what?”

“Well—er—to you.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“Then how do you get them to come to church?”

“I don’t—Our Lord does.”

George coughed.

“They come to church because they know they’ll always find Him there—in spite of me.”

George could not keep back the remark that Reservation was theologically indefensible.

“Is it?” Luce did not seem much interested. “But I don’t keep the Blessed Sacrament in my church for purposes of theology, but for practical use. Suppose you were to die tonight—where would you get your last Communion from if not from my tabernacle?”

George winced.

“This is the only church in the rural deanery where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved and the holy oils are kept. The number of people who die without the sacraments must be appalling.”

George had never been appalled by it.

“But why do you reserve publicly?” he asked—“that’s not primitive or catholic—to reserve for purposes of worship.”

“I don’t reserve for purposes of worship—I reserve for Communion. But I can’t prevent people from worshipping Our Lord. Nobody could—not all the Deans of all the cathedrals in England. Oh, I know you think my church dreadful—everybody does. Those statues ... well, I own they’re hideous. But so are all the best parlours in Vinehall. And I want the people to feel that the church is their Best Parlour—which they’ll never do if I decorate it in Anglican good taste, supposing always I could afford to do so. I want them to feel at home.”

“Do you find all this helps to make them regular communicants?”

“Not as I’d like, of course; but we’re only beginning. Most of them come once a month—though a few come every week. I’ve only one daily communicant—a boy who works on Ellenwhorne Farm and comes here every evening to cook my supper and have it with me.”

George was beginning to feel uncomfortable in this strange atmosphere—also he was most horribly wanting his tea. Possibly, as Luce had supper instead of dinner, he took tea later than usual.

“Of course,” continued the Rector, “some people in this place don’t like our ways, and don’t come to church here at all. Some of my parishioners go to you, just as some of yours come to me.”

“You mean my brother Gervase?”

“I wasn’t thinking of him particularly, but he certainly does come.”

“The Mounts brought him.”

“In the first instance, I believe. I hope you don’t feel hurt at his coming here—but he told me he hadn’t been to church for over a year, so I thought....”

Not a sign of triumph, not a sign of shame—and not a sign of tea. It suddenly struck George as a hitherto undreamed-of possibility that Luce did not take tea. His whole life seemed so different from anything George had known that it was quite conceivable that he did not. Anyhow the Vicar of Leasan must be going—the long shadows of some poplars lay over the garden and were darkening the little room into an early twilight. He rose to depart.

“Well, I must be off, I suppose. Glad to have had a chat. Come and preach for me one day,” he added rashly.

“With pleasure—but I warn you, I’m simply hopeless as a preacher.”

“Oh, never mind, never mind,” said George—“all the better—I mean my people will enjoy the change—at least I mean——”

He grabbed desperately at his hat, and followed his host through the kitchen to the cottage door.

“Here’s Noakes coming up the street to cook supper,” said Luce—“I didn’t know it was so late.”

George stared rather hard at the Daily Communicant—having never to his knowledge seen such a thing. He was surprised and a little disappointed to find only a heavy, fair-haired young lout, whose face was the face of the district—like a freckled moon.

“I’m a bit early tonight, Father; but Maaster sent me over to Dixter wud their roots, and he said it wun’t worth me coming back and I’d better go straight on here. I thought maybe I could paint up the shed while the stuff’s boiling.”

“That’s a good idea—thanks, Noaky.”

“Father, there’s a couple of thrushes nesting again by the Mocksteeple. It’s the first time I’ve seen them nest in the fall.”

“It’s the warm weather we’ve been having.”

“Surelye, but I’m sorry for them when it turns cold.... Father, have you heard?—the Rangers beat the Hastings United by four goals to one....”