Hungry Hill (38 page)

The young curate turned, and smiled. He was a great big fellow, with a fine handsome face and a brown beard.

“The morning was so lovely,” he protested, “and Prince wanting a shoe, so I promised myself the treat of a walk. The first few miles were delightful, but I was just beginning to think myself a martyour.”

“You can make the sermon shorter in consequence,” said Henry, “Come, jump in and bury your pride.

Katherine is quite disgusted with you.”

“I have never known Katherine disgusted with anyone,” said the curate.

Tom Callaghan was an Oxford friend of Henry’s who, with a very small amount of persuasion, had accepted the appointment of curate to the living at Doonhaven, and whose weekly duty was to take the service at the furthermost church in the parish, the little church by the sea at Ardmore. He could have done much better for himself across the water, but his affection for Henry was such that he preferred to bury himself in isolation, to be near his friend, rather than win esteem and prosperity in a large town.

“What do you think is her latest whim?” said Henry. “Nothing more than that I should pull down the miners’ huts and build them brick cottages instead. I shall be ruined.”

“An excellent plan,” said Tom decisively. “First, because those huts are a disgrace. And secondly, because you have more money than you know what to do with.”

“That,” agreed Katherine, “is what I am always telling him.”

“The trouble is,” said Henry, “that you both have Noncomformist consciences. And you try to give me one too. My grandfather would not have listened to you.”

“From what I hear of your grandfather,” said Tom, “he was a godless man. At least you do not work the mines on Sundays, as he used to do.”

“And that also was Katherine’s doing,” smiled Henry. “I tell you, Tom, I have married into a family which has so many principles that they quite bewilder a fellow. Take my advice, and avoid ‘em like the plague.”

“I would rather be good like the Eyres than clever like you Brodricks,” said Tom Callaghan. “The only reason you are not as hard a man as your grandfather is because you had the sense to marry Katherine. Here we are at church, and there will be three other people in the congregation besides yourselves, I have no doubt.”

The little church stood quite alone, windswept and solitary, looking out over the wide waters of Mundy Bay. But for all its stark position, exposed to the four winds and the rains of winter, there was something comforting and strong in its grey solidity, something ageless in the lichen that clung about its walls.

Inside all was peaceful, all was quiet, as though no evil thought, no hard memory, could penetrate the still serenity. The gales might blow, the floods might come, but the church of Ardmore would withstand them all, a small bastion in eternity.

Henry, kneeling beside Katherine, watched her calm profile, her dark eyes turned to the altar, and he thought how no man but himself would ever know how beautiful she was, how true, how tender. Was Tom Callaghan right? Would he be as hard a man as his grandfather but for Katherine? The thought was an uncomfortable one, and, like all uncomfortable thoughts, he dismissed it as absurd. He was not hard. Tom must have been joking. He had always, as far back as he could remember, thought about other people before himself. Put duty before pleasure, right before wrong. He could say, in all good conscience, that he had never done a low, foul, or evil thing. True, he had been lucky, successful and happy in his work and his friends; but luck, after all, was a gift from the Almighty, and anyway he was grateful for it. No, Johnnie had been the hard member of the family. Johnnie had been the selfish, ruthless one, spreading misery, poor devil, wherever he went. Tom Callaghan ought to have known him.

And Henry, making the General Confession in a loud, clear voice as was his custom, “We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep,” thought, as he always did, that really the words did not apply to him, or any other normal law-abiding fellow who lived an honest life and did his duty to God and the Queen. They applied to the thieves, and the adulterers, and the drunkards, who never even bothered to come inside a church.

When the service was over, and Tom Callaghan was changing in the vestry, Henry and Katherine went and stood in the churchyard and looked down upon the sea.

The long rollers from the Atlantic swept past them up the bay. A robin was singing from a gorse bush beneath them, his song plaintive yet sweet, strangely nostalgic in the cold, clean winter air.

“I am glad we had Molly christened here,” said Katherine. “We will do the same with the next baby, and with all our children. And when the time comes for us to go, I should like you and me to lie here, dearest, together.”

“Don’t be morbid,” said Henry, drawing her to him. “I hate discussions about death. Kiss me instead. There goes the Emma Mary, bound for Bronsea. They must be taking advantage of this weather, otherwise they would not have sailed on a Sunday. She’s well laden, isn’t she?

Nearly one hundred tons of copper there, my girl.”

“Never mind the copper,” said Katherine. “Will you remember my wish about this little churchyard?”

“I refuse to commit myself about anything so damnable,” said Henry, “and don’t let’s stand about any longer, you will catch cold. Look, there is old Tom waiting for us by the carriage. What a dear fellow he is, and how glad I am he has come to live down here. In fact,” he continued happily, drawing Katherine’s arm through his, “I can think of nothing more delightful than to have all one’s best friends in the neighbourhood. Tom, old boy, you preached a capital sermon, just what I might have said myself if I were in Orders, and to show my appreciation I propose to build you a house. You can’t possibly go on living in that miserable cottage in the village.”

“Indeed I can.”

“Indeed you can do nothing of the sort. Don’t argue, I dislike argument before lunch. And to convince you that I mean business I will show you the site I have in mind. It came to me when we were singing “Rock of Ages.” Just after you turn out of Doonhaven, before you come to the rise in the road and the Oakmount cottages, there is a fine piece of ground nearly level that will make an excellent foundation. We will call it Heathmount, and as soon as the old rector dies you shall have the living, and make Heathmount the Rectory.”

“And Tom shall marry, and settle down, and his children will be able to play with ours,” said Katherine.

“It certainly saves a lot of trouble when one’s friends arrange the future,” said Tom Callaghan.

“Why not go to even greater lengths and write my sermons for me too?”

“I will do so,” said Henry, “on condition that I preach them as well.

It would give me great pleasure to use the text “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” with reference, of course, to the usual arrears of rent.”

The site of Tom’s future home was duly pointed out and appreciated, and then the carriage turned in at the gates and down the drive to Clonmere, with hot luncheon awaiting them in the dining-room, the setters barking a chorus from the steps, the smoky tang of the piled turf fire filling the hall, the warm, familiar atmosphere of home, dearly loved, rising to greet them.

Little Molly, beribboned and in white, was brought down to dessert to sit upon her mother’s knee, and Henry, pushing back his chair and stretching his legs, cracked walnuts to make her laugh. And, himself well filled with roast mutton and apple tart, he felt all the pleasing, drowsy contentment of a man whose idle afternoon stretches before him, to make it what he will.

“I think,” said Tom, watching his friend with a smile, “that you ought to consider yourself the luckiest of men. You have a fine property, a vast fortune, a flourishing business, a distinguished career up to date, an angel of a wife, a delightful baby daughter, and, in fact- nothing in the world you lack.

If I were not a parson I should envy you.”

“But because you are a parson you take care to preach at me instead,” laughed Henry, “and no doubt wish to warn me not to lay up treasures upon earth, where moth and rust corrupt. It’s no use, Tom, old fellow. I live in the world, and although I don’t count myself a materialist I believe in using to advantage, and in enjoying too, what the world provides. There is no sin in that, as far as I can see.”

“I think I know what Tom had in his mind,” said Katherine. “When a man is happy and contented, with nothing going wrong, he is in danger of the deadliest of sins, which is complacency. No, Molly dear, no more sugar, you have had plenty. Any more will give you a pain. You may play with mamma’s locket instead.”

The child, who had puckered up her face, was soon distracted by the dangling chain and the little case that opened and then closed with a snap.

“Training starts, you see, Tom?” winked Henry. “Molly wants sugar, but is fobbed off with something else! No complacency there. I would let her eat all the sugar her small stomach could hold, and then wait for the inevitable pain. That would teach her a lesson, and she would not eat sugar again.”

“That’s where you are wrong,” said Katherine.

“Molly is too small to connect cause and effect. The pain, to her, would have nothing to do with the sugar. A baby must be distracted, then when reason dawns she must learn obedience, and the necessity of obedience.”

“She has it all arranged,” said Henry, “from the first lessons in A. b. c. down to the final examinations. I never knew anyone take the upbringing of children so seriously. I cannot remember my mother ever teaching us a thing. She certainly never corrected us.”

“It’s a wonder to me that you are fit for society at all,” said Tom. “You take my advice, and leave the education of your offspring to Katherine.”

“Very well,” said Henry, “and if they don’t come to heel quickly I’ll flay the hides off ‘em.

One thing at least, they’ll never want for anything.”

“The next deadly sin,” murmured Tom-“too much money. Poor Katherine, you are going to be fully employed, I can see.”

Henry threw a nutshell at his friend.

“Supposing you leave my sins alone,” he said, “and give me a word of practical advice instead.

There’s to be a by-election at Bronsea, as you know. Old Sir Nicholas Venning has died.

I’m thinking of contesting the seat in the Conservative interest.”

“Are you indeed?”

“It would give me a lot of fun, if nothing else, and the Brodricks have had connections in that county ever since 1820.”

“And what does Katherine think?” said Tom.

“Katherine thinks that her husband’s energy is such,” smiled Henry’s wife, “that if he does not plunge into politics it might be something worse.

And it will keep him out of mischief.”

“A truly wifely remark,” said Henry.

“No high ambitions for me, you observe, Tom.

No hope or even suggestion that I might become Prime Minister. Just a kindly smile that it may “keep me out of mischief.” ?

“I agree with Katherine,” said his friend. “Go ahead by all means, make your speeches, give your dinners, kiss the Bronsea babies, and accept the rotten eggshells with a bow. I wish you all the luck in the world. And if you do succeed in finding your way to Westminster, I will cross the water too and listen to your maiden speech, and tell the people sitting next me that Henry Brodrick is my oldest friend. You might get me a bishopric in twenty years.”

“Seriously, though,” said Henry, “I might easily win the seat by a handsome majority, although it has been held by a Liberal for so long. The family will rally round me. Herbert at Lletharrog-I told you he had the living there, didn’t I, and is living at the old house?-and Aunt Eliza at Saunby. I can spin a good yarn about my Bronsea connections, although perhaps I won’t say much about my step-grandmother who lives in the village and curtseys whenever she sees Herbert.”

“I believe you are a snob after all,” laughed Tom.

“Indeed I am not, but it doesn’t do to produce the skeleton in the cupboard on a political platform. I tell you what, we’ll take a house in London for the season, whether I win or not, and you shall come and stay with us. It will look well to be seen about with you, and will show that I have a respect for the Church.”

“Can’t you damp his ardour, Tom?” said Katherine. “We were talking of complacency, and there he stands before you, more pleased with himself than anyone living. Come, Molly, we will leave your papa and your uncle to discuss the world, and go and play with your beads by the fire in the drawing-room.”

Later in the day, when Tom Callaghan had gone back to take Evensong in Doonhaven, and Molly had been put to bed, and the long curtains were drawn across the windows, Katherine lay on the sofa that had been Barbara’s and was now moved close to the fire, and Henry sat on the floor beside her, her hand against his lips.

“Am I really complacent?” he said anxiously.

“Are you getting tired of me?”

She smiled, and ran her fingers through his hair.

“To the first question “yes,” ? she answered, “to the second “no.” Oh, I don’t mean complacent, dear one. But when a person is very happy he is apt to become less sensitive, less aware. And I would not like you to become too worldly, too preoccupied with business, and money, and the success of Henry Brodrick.”

“I can’t help being happy,” he said, “married to you. Every day I love you a little more. And whatever I do, whatever I accomplish, is because of you; don’t you know that?”

“Yes, dearest, I do, and it makes me very proud, but a bit worried too. You put me first in life, before God, and that is not right.”

“God is not real to me as He is to you,” said Henry. “You I can touch, I can hold, I can kiss, I can love. God is something mysterious, intangible. And so, in a humble way, you take the place of God.”

“Yes, sweetheart, but people pass away, and God is eternal.”

“Damn eternity. I don’t want eternity.

I want you, and the present, forever and forever.” He leant across the sofa, and buried his head against her.

“I can’t help it,” he repeated, “I can’t help loving you. It’s in my blood. My father was just the same about my mother, and although I barely remember him-I was only four years old when he died-I can recollect him standing by the creek, watching her as she played with Johnnie, and Fanny, and myself, and I shall never forget the expression in His eyes. My aunt Jane was another. If she had not been killed in an accident she would have died of a broken heart, grieving over some fellow on Doon Island. It’s no use, Katherine, we Brodricks are made like this; you must accept it.”