The Doll Part 2

The Reverend James Hollaway, Vicar of St Swithin's, Upper Chesham Street, was looking at his profile in the gla.s.s. The sight was pleasing to him, so much so that he lingered a considerable time before he laid the mirror back upon the dressing-table.

He saw a man of about fifty-five years of age, who looked younger, with a high forehead and magnificent iron-grey hair, that was apt to curl slightly at the temples.

The nose was straight, the mouth narrow and sensitive, and he had been told that his deep-set eyes could be in turn humorous, dangerous, and inspired. He was tall and broad-shouldered; he carried his head a little to one side, and his powerful chin was tilted in the air.

To some this was his fascination, this inquiring, conceited angle of the head; to others it was the rich tones of his ever-changing voice, the strong capable hands, the slow lilting walk that was the secret of his tremendous attraction.

Yet all these were as nothing compared to his charm of manner, his wit, his talent for making the shyest person feel at ease.

Women adored him; he was so broad-minded, so tolerant, and he always gave the impression that he understood them far better than they did themselves. Besides, he was always so delightfully intimate. Men found him a surprisingly good companion; his wine was excellent; he never talked about religion, and he ever had a fund of d.a.m.ned amusing stories. It was all these qualities combined that made him the most popular preacher in London.

He was bound in time to become a bishop. St Swithin's was frequented by the very best people. The fas.h.i.+onable thing to do was to attend Ma.s.s on Sunday mornings, and if possible to get an invitation back to lunch at the Vicar's exquisitely furnished Georgian house that adjoined the church.

Here one was sure to find a crowd of well-known people: a leading politician, a couple of famous actresses, a rising young painter, and of course a sprinkling of t.i.tles.

Everyone agreed that 'Jim' Hollaway was a perfect host, and his conversation was as clever as his sermons. He was careful never to speak about G.o.d, or anything embarra.s.sing, but was ever willing to discuss last night's new play, the latest book, the newest fas.h.i.+on, and even the most recent scandal. He made a show of his excessive modernity, and besides being a keen poker-player, and an enthusiastic dancer, he delighted the younger generation by the freedom of his expressions. There was something so very original in the idea of being shocked by a clergyman. In church of course he was different, and this they appreciated.

With his tall figure, his striking voice and eyes, his eloquent gestures, the whole effect was rather wonderful. People soon forgave him his High Church tendencies, and the celebration of Ma.s.s instead of the usual eleven-o' clock Matins. Also there was more to watch.

Men went to listen to the singing and because it was the thing to do; women went for the flowers and the lighted candles, for the agreeable emotional sensation that was produced by the smell of incense, and above all because they were half in love with the Vicar.

When they had summoned up enough courage to go to confession they were overwhelmed by his gentleness, his discretion, and above all by his apparent understanding. Some of the more intense of his congregation went to his Thursday-afternoon teas.

Here at last religion was discussed, but the Vicar made his gatherings so free from awkwardness that there was never the slightest feeling of restraint. He was a great comforter of uneasy souls, and portrayed G.o.d in a very gentle light, insisting upon His immense humanity.

They learnt with relief that G.o.d not only pardoned but was fond of sinners, in fact it seemed that He preferred them to the ninety-and-nine just men. Of course the Vicar implied that they were all as yet but seeds in the mighty growth of evolution, and that some time, very far hence, they would know perfection and look upon beauty in its greatest form, but in the meanwhile well, in the meanwhile one lived and one naturally sinned, and received absolution and sinned again, and one lived according to one's merits and station-in-the-world.

One must also bear in mind that conditions were very different from what they were nearly two thousand years ago. All of which was a very consoling philosophy. It was rendered so sacred, too, when spoken in the Vicar's soft melodious voice; and when he turned his beautiful sympathetic eyes upon each member of the party in turn they thought he was addressing them especially, and could read the secrets of their hearts.

Later, when he met them casually at the d.u.c.h.ess of Attleborough's The Dansant, or in the front row of the stalls at a first night, he would smile his wonderful sense-disturbing smile, and whisper some amusing description in their ears, but they felt that his eyes were saying 'I know, I understand.'

He was unmarried, of course, and yet there was always the hopeless terrible longing that perhaps one day however, he had fallen for no one yet, though rumour, forgetting the sanct.i.ty of the cloth, had linked his name with those of many beautiful and always n.o.ble ladies.

As the Vicar replaced the gla.s.s upon the dressing-table, and ran his hand carelessly, boyishly he considered, through his sleek grey hair, he smiled a little to himself. Yes, he had worn well, he was still a very good-looking man.

He went downstairs, and into his study. The room was large and furnished in remarkable taste. On his desk was a large portrait of one of England's most beautiful actresses; on it was written 'Jim, with my love, Mona,' and the date of a summer two years ago.

The mantelpiece was adorned with Her Grace of Attleborough, 'Your very affectionate Norah,' and on a little table by the window was a striking study of Lady Eustace Carey-Slater, and her das.h.i.+ng signature 'Attaboy! from Jane.' The Vicar ran through his letters, and then rang the bell for his butler.

'Any message for me, Wells?' he asked.

'Yes, sir; two ladies called who said they were in terrible circ.u.mstances, and would very much like to have a few words with you. I told them you were very busy and would they see the Curate.'

The Vicar nodded his approval some of these women were a pest.

'Then Lord Cranleigh rang up, and asked to see you some time this morning. I told him to come over at once, as you were not engaged.'

'Quite right, Wells. That's all, thank you. Bring in the paper, will you?' The man was an admirable servant.

While he was waiting for his visitor he let his eye run over the list of births, marriages, and deaths. By Jove, Kitty Durand was going to be married, and she had never told him. He must send her a present, he supposed, and a letter of congratulation. 'Kitty, you wicked child, what's the meaning of this? You deserve to be spanked. Only eighteen! Your fiance is a lucky fellow, and I'm going to tell him so. Bless you both.'

Something like that would do, and a c.o.c.ktail set from Goodes.

'Yes, Wells, what is it?'

'Lord Cranleigh,' said the butler, and closed the door behind a boy of about twenty-two, with fair hair and a pleasantly weak face.

'I say, sir, this is most awfully decent of you; can you really spare me a few moments?'

'Come and sit down, young fellow, and take your time,' said the Vicar, at once a.s.suming his manner of easy comrades.h.i.+p, and pus.h.i.+ng forward a box of cigarettes. He sat down in front of his desk, crossed his legs, and prepared to listen, while the boy flung himself into an easy-chair.

'The fact is, sir, I'm in the devil of a mess,' he began awkwardly. 'I hadn't the slightest idea who to turn to, and then I remembered you. Of course in the ordinary way I should never dare to ask the advice of a parson, but you're different. You're so, excuse my cheek, you're so, well, d.a.m.n broad-minded!'

The Vicar's heart warmed to the usual praise. 'I've been young myself once,' he nodded sympathetically, and he let his eyes wander vaguely towards the various photographs in the room. This boy must be made to understand that he was talking to no raw hand, in fact- 'It's about a girl,' Cranleigh went on. 'A girl I met at Oxford last term, just before the long vac. She was n.o.body, you know, just acted as companion to some old lady, and I met her first of all when I was fooling about on the river. She was with a friend, and I was with another fellow, so we all sort of chummed up. Well, after that I began to see her pretty often, and got desperately keen on her. Of course I dare say I wouldn't have looked at her if I'd been in London, but up there it's different. She was mad about me too, though I say it myself, and then oh, Lord, I'm afraid I made a colossal a.s.s of myself. Well, sir, I lost my head one night. I don't know how it happened, but it did we were in a boat, and it was a glorious evening, and-'

'I know,' said the Vicar, his voice full of meaning; 'I was at Oxford too, over twenty years ago.'

The boy smiled, it was being easier than he expected. 'Well, you understand me, sir, I kind of couldn't help myself. Then very soon afterwards we came down, and I didn't see her again. Last week I got a letter from her; it was pretty awful, and she said she was going to have a baby.'

The Vicar sighed gently. 'Yes?' he asked.

'Of course I arranged to meet her, last Tuesday evening, and it's absolutely true, sir; she'd been to a doctor and everything. I was in a terrible state, and said I'd give her money and help her to get away somewhere; but this is the awful part she doesn't want money, she wants me to marry her.'

The Vicar raised his eyebrows. 'And what did you say to her?' he inquired.

'Well, naturally, I said it was impossible. How could I marry her? She's pretty and sweet, but I'm not sure she's even a lady, and I don't really love her. Besides, what on earth would the family say? When the old man dies I come into the t.i.tle, and I've got to think of all that, although it sounds beastly sn.o.bbish. It would be madness to marry Mary, you must see my point?'

'My dear fellow, of course I do. There shall be no question of marriage as far as I'm concerned. And you say she refuses money?' His tone was brisk now, alert, that of a shrewd man of the world.

'Absolutely, sir; she went white when I suggested it. Apparently she doesn't seem to mind having the baby, she says she'll live for it, and she wants me to marry her so as to give it a name. She's still most awfully in love with me, and she doesn't seem to understand that I don't care any longer. If she goes to my people there will be the most colossal row. Thank heaven, she hasn't told a soul yet. Look here, sir, what on earth am I going to do?'

The Vicar was thinking rapidly. If he helped him out of this mess the boy would naturally be very grateful. He knew the family were rich, and the Earl was said to be in a wretched state of health. Cranleigh Castle was one of the beauty spots of England, he would be invited often: the Countess herself was an ardent politician yes, everything would be comparatively easy. He rose from his chair, and going over to the boy he laid his hand on his shoulder. 'My dear chap,' he said, 'if you will trust me I am certain I can manage the whole wretched business for you. There is no need for your family to know, we have your future position to think of; as for the girl, she will understand the whole situation when I have explained it tactfully to her. I will look after her. Don't worry any more about it; all I want you to do is to give me her address.'

'Mary Williams, sir. She's staying in a boarding-house in St John's Wood, it's on the telephone under the name of Datchett that's her sister, she keeps the place. Oh! good Lord, you are the greatest brick; I don't know how I'm ever going to thank you enough.'

The Vicar smiled and held out his hand. 'It's only because I understand so well what you have gone through,' he said gently.

The man must have been a bit of a dog in his day, thought the boy; odd for a clergyman. 'I think I'll try and get away for a bit, until it's all blown over; but don't forget you've got to come down to Cranleigh directly I come back we'll have a shot at the birds.'

When he had gone the Vicar went back into his study, and lifted the telephone receiver. He believed in doing things on the spot.

He looked up the number in the book.

'Is that Mrs Datchett's? Could I possibly speak to Miss Williams? Yes. Thank you . . . Hullo? Is that Miss Williams speaking? My name is Hollaway, James Hollaway. I'm the Vicar of St Swithin's, Chesham Street. I'm a great friend of Lord Cranleigh's. He has just left me . . . Yes. Would you be so good as to come and see me this evening at six o'clock? I should very much like a little talk with you, I wish to help you. Yes, he has told me everything. No, you have nothing to be frightened of. Then that is settled? Twenty-two Upper Chesham Street. Thank you. Good-bye.'

He hung up the receiver, and wandering to his desk he glanced at The Times.

Hallo, George Winnersly was dead at last. He must write to Lola. She was getting a bit pa.s.see now, of course, but she was still lovely. Funny the way she went religious all of a sudden. Must have come as a sort of anti-climax. She was always at St Swithin's at one time; he could remember once However, that was all over.

He began to run over in his mind conventional phrases of consolation: 'immeasurably grieved,' 'unspeakable loss,' and 'the consolation of G.o.d.'

He yawned a little as he took up his pen.

'My dear daughter-in-Christ,' he began.

'Hollaway, you're a regular mascot, and I don't mind telling you I feel a lot more sure of myself now I've had this talk with you. Have a cigar?'

The Vicar declined. 'Sorry, but I haven't the time. I'm a busy man, you know, and I'm shortly due at a hospital in the slums. I'm very glad to have been of use to you, my dear Colonel, I understand so well what you are going through.'

His voice was full of the deepest sympathy.

The lunch at the Carlton had been a great success. His host was Colonel Edward Tracey, the Conservative candidate in the West Storeford by-election, and as polling day was on the following Monday the Colonel was nervous and agitated.

West Storeford was an important seat and the Colonel a powerful man; if he was returned he would owe many of his votes to Hollaway, who had been one of his most ardent canva.s.sers.

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 grat.i.tude. 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 p.r.o.ne upon their backs, while the rest were in invalid-chairs, propped up with cus.h.i.+ons.

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 rle 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 surpa.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d,' 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 gla.s.s 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.