§ 17

When George had walked out of the village he felt better—he no longer breathed that choking atmosphere of a different world, in which lived daily communicants, devout children, and clergymen who hadn’t always enough to eat. It was not, of course, the first time that he had seen poverty among the clergy, but it was the first time he had not seen it decently covered up. Luce seemed totally unashamed of his ... had not made the slightest effort to conceal it ... his cottage was, except for the books, just the cottage of a working-man; indeed it was not so comfortable as the homes of many working men.

George began to wonder exactly how much difference it would have made if he had been poor instead of well-to-do—if he had been too poor to live in his comfortable vicarage, too poor to decorate his church in “Anglican good taste” ... not that he wouldn’t rather have left it bare than decorate it like Vinehall ... what nonsense Luce had talked to justify himself! The church wasn’t the village’s Best Parlour ... or was it?...

He felt quite tired when he reached Leasan, and Rose scolded him—“You’d much better have come with me to the Parishes.”... However, it was good to sit at his dinner-table and eat good food off good china, and drink his water out of eighteenth-century glass that he had picked up in Ashford.... Luce was not a total abstainer, judging by that story of the claret.... It is true that the creaking tread of the Raw Girl and the way she breathed down his neck when she handed the vegetables made him think less disparagingly of the domestic offices of the Daily Communicant; but somehow the Raw Girl fitted into the scheme of things—it was only fitting that local aspirants for “service” should be trained at the Vicarage—whereas farm-boys who came in to cook your supper and then sat down and ate it with you ... the idea was only a little less disturbing than the idea of farm-boys coming daily to the altar.... He wondered if Rose would say it was un-English.

“Oh, by the way, George”—Rose really was saying—“a message came down from Conster while you were out, asking you to go up there after dinner tonight.”

George’s illness had brought about a kind of artificial peace between the Manor and the Vicarage.

“What is it now? Have you been invited too?”

“No—I think Sir John wants to speak to you about something.”

“Whatever can it be?—Mary’s in Switzerland. It can’t be anything to do with her again.”

“No—I believe it’s something to do with Gervase. I saw Doris this evening and she tells me Sir John has found out that Gervase goes to confession.”

“Does he?—I didn’t know he’d got as far as that.”

“Yes—he goes to Mr. Luce. Mrs. Wade saw him waiting his turn last Saturday when she was in Vinehall church taking rubbings of the Oxenbridge brass. I suppose she must have mentioned it when she went to tea at Conster yesterday.”

“And my father wants me to interfere?”

“Of course—you’re a clergyman.”

“Well, I’m not going to.”

“George, don’t talk such nonsense. Why, you’ve been complaining about your father’s disrespect for your priesthood, and now when he’s showing you that he does respect it——”

“He’s showing it no respect if he thinks I’d interfere in a case like this.”

“But surely you’ve a right—Gervase is your brother and he doesn’t ever come to your church.”

“I think it would be unwise for me to be my brother’s confessor.”

“It would be ridiculous. Whoever thought of such a thing?”

“Then why shouldn’t he go to Luce?—and as for my church, he hasn’t been to any church for a year, so if Luce can get him to go to his ... or rather if Our Lord can get him to go to Luce’s church....”

“I do hope it won’t rain tomorrow, as I’d thought of going into Hastings by the ’bus.”

Rose had abrupt ways of changing the conversation when she thought it was becoming indelicate.