No More Learning

CHAPTER I


I


As the alarm clock on the chest of drawers exploded like a horrid little bomb of
bell metal, Dorothy, wrenched from the depths of some complex, troubling
dream, awoke with a start and lay on her back looking mto the darkness m
extreme exhaustion

The alarm clock continued its nagging, feminine clamour, which would go
on for five minutes or thereabouts if you did not stop it Dorothy was aching
from head to foot, and an insidious and contemptible self-pity, which usually
seized upon her when it was time to get up m the morning, caused her to bury
her head under the bedclothes and try to shut the hateful noise out of her ears
She struggled against her fatigue, however, and, according to her custom,
exhorted herself sharply in the second person plural Come on, Dorothy, up
you get 1 No snoozing, please 1 Proverbs vi, 9 Then she remembered that if the
noise went on any longer it would wake her father, and with a hurried
movement she bounded out of bed, seized the clock from the chest of drawers,
and turned off the alarm It was kept on the chest of drawers precisely in order
that she should have to get out of bed to . silence it Still m darkness, she knelt
down at her bedside and repeated the Lord’s Prayer, but rather distractedly,
her feet being troubled by the cold

It was just half past five, and coldish for an August morning Dorothy (her
name was Dorothy Hare, and she was the only child of the Reverend Charles
Hare, Rector of St Athelstan’s, Knype Hill, Suffolk) put on her aged
flannelette dressing-gown and felt her way downstairs There was a chill
morning smell of dust, damp plaster, and the fried dabs from yesterday’s
supper, and from either side of the passage on the second floor she could hear
the antiphonal snoring of her father and of Ellen, the maid of all work With
care-for the kitchen table had a nasty trick of reaching out of the darkness and
banging you on the hip-bone-Dorothy felt her way into the kitchen, lighted
the candle on the mantelpiece, and, still aching with fatigue, knelt down and
raked the ashes out of the range

The kitchen fire was a ‘beast’ to light The chimney was crooked and there-
fore perpetually half choked, and the fire, before it would light, expected to be
dosed with a cupful of kerosene, like a drunkard’s morning nip of gin Having
set the kettle to boil for her father’s shaving-water, Dorothy went upstairs and
turned on her bath. Ellen was still snoring, with heavy youthful snores She
was a good hard-working servant once she was awake, but she was one of
those girls whom the Devil and all his angels cannot get out of bed before



A Clergyman’ s Daughter


256

seven in the morning
Dorothy filled the bath as slowly as possible-the splashing always woke her
father if she turned on the tap too fast- and stood for a moment regarding the
pale, unappetizing pool of water Her body had gone goose-flesh all over She
detested cold baths, it was for that very reason that she made it a rule to take all
her baths cold from April to November Putting a tentative hand into the
water-and it was horribly cold- she drove herself forward with her usual
exhortations Come on, Dorothy! i n you go' No funking, please' Then she
stepped resolutely into the bath, sat down and let the icy girdle of water
slide up her body and immerse her all except her hair, which she had twisted
up behind her head The next moment she came to the surface gasping and
wriggling, and had no sooner got her breath back than she remembered her
‘memo list 5 , which she had brought down in her dressing-gown pocket and
intended to read She reached out for it, and, leaning over the side of the bath,
waist deep m icy water, read through the ‘memo list 5 by the light of the candle
on the chair
It ran

70c HC

Mrs T baby? Must visit

Breakfast Bacon Must ask father money (P)

Ask Ellen what stuff kitchen father’s tonic nb to ask about stuff for curtains
at Solepipe’s

Visiting call on Mrs P cutting from Daily M angelica tea good for
rheumatism Mrs L’s cornplaster

12 oc Rehearsal Charles I nb to order £lb glue 1 pot aluminium paint
Dinner (crossed out) Luncheon ?

Take round Parish Mag nb Mrs F owes 3/6d
4 30 pm Mothers 5 TJ tea don’t forget 2\ yards casement cloth
Flowers for church nb i tm Brasso
Supper Scrambled eggs

Type Father’s sermon what about new ribbon typewriter?
nb to fork between peas bindweed awful

Dorothy got out of her bath, and as she dried herself with a towel hardly
bigger than a table napkm-they could never afford decent-sized towels at the
Rectory-her hair came unpinned and fell down over her collar-bones in two
heavy strands It was thick, fine, exceedingly pale hair, and it was perhaps as
well that her father had forbidden her to bob it, for it was her only positive
beauty. For the rest, she was a girl of middle height, rather thin, but strong and
shapely, and her face was her weak point It was a thin, blonde, unremarkable
kind of face, with pale eyes and a nose just a shade too long, if you looked
closely you could see crow’s feet round the eyes, and the mouth, when it was in
repose, looked tired. Not definitely a spmstensh face as yet, but it certainly
would be so in a few years’ time Nevertheless, strangers commonly took her to
be several years younger than her real age (she was not quite twenty-eight)



A Clergymans Daughter 257

because of the expression of almost childish earnestness in her eyes Her left
forearm was spotted with tiny red marks like insect bites

Dorothy put on her nightdress again and cleaned her teeth-plam water, of
course, better not to use toothpaste before H C After all, either you are fasting
or you aren’t The R C s are quite right there-and, even as she did so,
suddenly faltered and stopped She put her toothbrush down A deadly pang,
an actual physical pang, had gone through her viscera

She had remembered, with the ugly shock with which one remembers
something disagreeable for the first time m the morning, the bill at Cargill’s,
the butcher’s, which had been owing for seven months That dreadful bill— it
might be nineteen pounds or even twenty, and there was hardly the remotest
hope of paying it- was one of the chief torments of her life At all hours of the
night or day it was waiting just round the corner of her consciousness, ready to
spring upon her and agonize her, and with it came the memory of a score of
lesser bills, mounting up to a figure of which she dared not even think Almost
involuntarily she began to pray, ‘Please God, let not Cargill send in his bill
again today 1 ’ but the next moment she decided that this prayer was worldly
and blasphemous, and she asked forgiveness for it Then she put on her
dressing-gown and ran down to the kitchen in hopes of putting the bill out of
mind

The fire had gone out, as usual Dorothy relaid it, dirtying her hands with
coal-dust, dosed it afresh with kerosene and hung about anxiously until the
kettle boiled Father expected his shaving-water to be ready at a quarter past
six Just seven minutes late, Dorothy took the can upstairs and knocked at her
father’s door

‘Come m, come in 1 ’ said a muffled, irritable voice

The room, heavily curtained, was stuffy, with a masculine smell The Rector
had lighted the candle on his bed-table, and was lying on his side, looking at his
gold watch, which he had just drawn from beneath his pillow His hair was as
white and thick as thistledown One dark bright eye glanced irritably over his
shoulder at Dorothy

‘Good morning, father ’

‘I do wish, Dorothy,’ said the Rector mdistinctly-his voice always sounded
muffled and senile until he put his false teeth m-‘yau would make some effort
to get Ellen out of bed m the mornings Or else be a little more punctual
yourself ’

‘I’m so sorry. Father The kitchen fire kept going out ’

‘Very well 1 Put it down on the dressing-table Put it down and draw those
curtains ’

It was daylight now, but a dull, clouded morning Dorothy hastened up to
her room and dressed herself with the lightning speed which she found neces-
sary six mornings out of seven There was only a tiny square of mirror m the
room, and even that she did not use She simply hung her gold cross about her
neck-plain gold cross, no crucifixes, please'-twisted her hair into a knot
behind, stuck a number of hairpins rather sketchily into it, and threw her
clothes (grey jersey, threadbare Irish tweed epat and skirt, stockings not quite



2 $8 A Clergyman's Daughter

matching the coat and skirt, and much- worn brown shoes) on to herself in the
space of about three minutes She had got to e do out’ the dmmg-room and her
father’s study before church, besides saying her prayers m preparation for
Holy Communion, which took her not less than twenty minutes

When she wheeled her bicycle out of the front gate the morning was still
overcast, and the grass sodden with heavy dew Through the mist that
wreathed the hillside St Athelstan’s Church loomed dimly, like a leaden
sphinx, its single bell tolling funereally boom! boom' boom' Only one of the
bells was now m active use, the other seven had been unswung from their cage
and had lam silent these three years past, slowly splintering the floor of the
belfry beneath their weight In the distance, from the mists below, you could
hear the offensive clatter of the bell in the R C church -a nasty, cheap, tinny
little thing which the Rector of St Athelstan’s used to compare with a muffin-
bell

Dorothy mounted her bicycle and rode swiftly up the hill, leaning over her
handlebars The bridge of her thin nose was pink in the morning cold A
redshank whistled overhead, invisible against the clouded sky Early in the
morning my song shall rise to Thee' Dorothy propped her bicycle against the
lychgate, and, finding her hands still grey with coal-dust, knelt down and
scrubbed them clean m the long wet grass between the graves Then the bell
stopped ringing, and she jumped up and hastened into church, just as
Proggett, the sexton, in ragged cassock and vast labourer’s boots, was
clumping up the aisle to take his place at the side altar

The church was very cold, with a scent of candle-wax and ancient dust It
was a large church, much too large for its congregation, and ruinous and more
than half empty The three narrow islands of pews stretched barely half-way
down the nave, and beyond them were great wastes of bare stone floor in which
a few worn inscriptions marked the sites of ancient graves The roof over the
chancel was sagging visibly, beside the Church Expenses box two fragments of
riddled beam explained mutely that this was due to that mortal foe of
Christendom, the death-watch beetle The light filtered, pale-coloured,
through windows of anaemic glass Through the open south door you could
see a ragged cypress and the boughs of a lime-tree, greyish m the sunless air
and swaying faintly

As usual, there was only one other communicant-old Miss Mayfill, of The
Grange The attendance at Holy Communion was so bad that the Rector could
not even get any boys to serve him, except on Sunday mornings, when the boys
liked showmg off m front of the congregation m their cassocks and surplices
Dorothy went into the pew behind Miss Mayfill, and, m penance for some sm
of yesterday, pushed away the hassock and knelt on the bare stones The
service was beginning The Rector, m cassock and short linen surplice, was
reciting the prayers in a swift practised voice, clear enough now that his teeth
were in, and curiously ungemal In his fastidious, aged face, pale as a silver
com, there was an expression of aloofness, almost of contempt ‘This is a valid
sacrament,’ he seemed to be saying, ‘and it is my duty to administer it to you
But remember that I am only your priest, not your friend As a human being I



A Clergyman's Daughter 259

dislike you and despise you ’ Proggett, the sexton, a man of forty with curly
grey hair and a red, harassed face, stood patiently by, uncomprehending but
reverent, fiddling with the little communion bell which was lost m his huge red
hands

Dorothy pressed her fingers against her eyes She had not yet succeeded m
concentrating her thoughts-mdeed, the memory of Cargill’s bill was still
worrying her intermittently The prayers, which she knew by heart, were
flowing through her head unheeded She raised her eyes for a moment, and
they began immediately to stray First upwards, to the headless roof-angels on
whose necks you could still see the sawcuts of the Puritan soldiers, then back
again, to Miss Mayfill’s black, quasi-pork-pie hat and tremulous jet ear-rings
Miss Mayfill wore a long musty black overcoat, with a little collar of greasy-
lookmg astrakhan, which had been the same ever since Dorothy could
remember It was of some very peculiar stuff, like watered silk but coarser,
with rivulets of black piping wandering all over it in no discoverable pattern It
might even have been that legendary and proverbial substance, black
bombazine Miss Mayfill was very old, so old that no one remembered her as
anything but an old woman A faint scent radiated from her-an ethereal scent,
analysable as eau-de-Cologne, mothballs, and a sub-flavour of gin

Dorothy drew a long glass-headed pm from the lapel of her coat, and
furtively, under cover of Miss Mayfill’s back, pressed the point against her
forearm Her flesh tingled apprehensively She made it a rule, whenever she
caught herself not attending to her prayers, to prick her arm hard enough to
make blood come It was her chosen form of self-discipline, her guard against
irreverence and sacrilegious thoughts

With the pm poised in readiness she managed for several moments to pray
more collectedly Her father had turned one dark eye disapprovingly upon
Miss Mayfill, who was crossing herself at intervals, a practice he disliked A
starling chattered outside With a shock Dorothy discovered that she was
looking vamgloriously at the pleats of her father’s surplice, which she herself
had sewn two years ago She set her teeth and drove the pm an eighth of an
inch into her arm

They were kneeling again It was the General Confession Dorothy recalled
her eyfes-- wandering, alasl yet again, this time to the stained-glass window on
her right, designed by Sir Warde Tooke, ar a, in 1851 and representing St
Athelstan’s welcome at the gate of Heaven by Gabriel and a legion of angels all
remarkably like one another and the Prince Consort-and pressed the pinpoint
against a different part of her arm She began to meditate conscientiously upon
the meaning of each phrase of the prayer, and so brought her mind back to a
more attentive state But even so she was all but obliged to use the pm again
when Proggett tinkled the bell m the middle of ‘Therefore with Angels and
Archangels’ -being visited, as always, by a dreadful temptation to begin
laughing at that passage. It was because of a story her father had told her once,
of how when he was a little boy, and serving the priest at the altar, the
communion bell had a screw-on dapper, which had come loose; and so the
priest had said ‘Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and with aU the



260 A Clergyman' s Daughter

company of Heaven, we laud and magnify Thy glorious name, evermore
praising Thee, and saying. Screw it up, you little fat-head, screw it up'*

As the Rector finished the consecration Miss Mayfill began to struggle to her
feet with extreme difficulty and slowness, like some disjointed wooden
creature picking itself up by sections, and disengaging at each movement a
powerful whiff of mothballs There was an extraordinary creaking sound-
from her stays, presumably, but it was a noise as of bones grating against one
another You could have imagined that there was only a dry skeleton inside
that black overcoat

Dorothy remained on her feet a moment longer Miss Mayfill was creeping
towards the altar with slow, tottering steps She could barely walk, but she
took bitter offence if you offered to help her In her ancient, bloodless face her
mouth was surprisingly large, loose, and wet The underlip, pendulous with
age, slobbered forward, exposing a strip of gum and a row of false teeth as
yellow as the keys of an old piano On the upper lip was a fringe of dark, dewy
moustache It was not an appetizing mouth, not the kind of mouth that you
would like to see drinking out of your cup Suddenly, spontaneously, as
though the Devil himself had put it there, the prayer slipped from Dorothy’s
lips O God, let me not have to take the chalice after Miss Mayfill 1

The next moment, in self-horror, she grasped the meaning of what she had
said, and wished that she had bitten her tongue m two rather than utter that
deadly blasphemy upon the altar steps She drew the pm again from her lapel
and drove it into her arm so hard that it was all she could do to suppress a cry of
pam Then she stepped to the altar and knelt down meekly on Miss Mayfill’ s
left, so as to make quite sure of taking the chalice after her

Kneeling, with head bent and hands clasped against her knees, she set
herself swiftly to pray for forgiveness before her father should reach her with
the wafer But the current of her thoughts had been broken Suddenly it was
quite useless attempting to pray, her lips moved, but there was neither heart
nor meaning in her prayers She could hear Proggett’s boots shuffling and her
father’s clear low voice murmuring ‘Take and eat’, she could see the worn strip
of red carpet beneath her knees, she could smell dust and eau-de-Cologne and
mothballs, but of the Body and Blood of Christ, of the purpose for which she
had come here, she was as though deprived of the power to think A deadly
blankness had descended upon her mind It seemed to her that actually she
could not pray She struggled, collected her thoughts, uttered mechanically the
opening phrases of a prayer, but they were useless, meaningless-nothing but
the dead shells of words Her father was holding the wafer before her in his
shapely, aged hand He held it between finger and thumb, fastidiously,
somehow distastefully, as though it had been a spoon of medicine His eye was
upon Miss Mayfill, who was doubling herself up like a geometrid caterpillar,
with many creakmgs and crossing herself so elaborately that one might have
imagined that she was sketching a series of braid frogs on the front of her coat
For several seconds Dorothy hesitated and did not take the wafer She dared
not take it Better, far better to step down from the altar than to accept the
sacrament with such chaos m her heart*



A Clergyman’s Daughter 261

Then it happened that she glanced sidelong, through the open south door A
momentary spear of sunlight had pierced the clouds It struck downwards
through the leaves of the limes, and a spray of leaves m the doorway gleamed
with a transient, matchless green, greener than jade or emerald or Atlantic
waters It was as though some jewel of unimaginable splendour had flashed for
an instant, filling the doorway with green light, and then faded A flood of joy
ran through Dorothy’s heart The flash of living colour had brought back to
her, by a process deeper than reason, her peace of mmd, her love of God, her
power to worship Somehow, because of the greenness of the leaves, it was
again possible to pray O all ye green things upon the earth, praise ye the Lord'
She began to pray, ardently, joyfully, thankfully The wafer melted upon her
tongue She took the chalice from her father, and tasted with repulsion, even
with an added joy in this small act of self-abasement, the wet imprint of Miss
Mayfill’s lips on its silver rim


2


St Athelstan’s Church stood at the highest point of Knype Hill, and if you
chose to climb the tower you could see ten miles or so across the surrounding
country Not that there was anything worth looking at-only the low, barely
undulating East Anglian landscape, intolerably dull in summer, but re-
deemed m winter by the recurring patterns of the elms, naked and fanshaped
against leaden skies

Immediately below you lay the town, with the High Street running east and
west and dividing unequally The southern section of the town was the
ancient, agricultural, and respectable section On the northern side were the
buildings of the Blifil-Gordon sugar-beet refinery, and all round and leading
up to them were higgledy-piggledly rows of vile yellow brick cottages, mostly
inhabited by the employees of the factory The factory employees, who made
up more than half of the town’s two thousand inhabitants, were newcomers,
townfolk, and godless almost to a man

The two pivots, or foci, about which the social life of the town moved were
Knype Hill Conservative Club (fully licensed), from whose bow window, any
time after the bar was open, the large, rosy-gilled faces of the town’s 61ite were
to be seen gazing like chubby goldfish from an aquarium pane, and Ye Olde
Tea Shoppe, a little farther down the High Street, the principal rendezvous of
the Knype Hill ladies Not to be present at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe between ten
and eleven every morning, to drink your ‘morning coffee 5 and spend your half-
hour or so in that agreeable twitter of upper-middle-class voices (‘My dear, he
had nine spades to the ace-queen and he went one no trump, if you please
What, my dear, you don’t mean to say you’re paying for my coffee agamt Oh,



262 A Clergyman’ s Daughter

but my dear, it is simply too sweet of you 1 Now tomorrow I shall simply insist
upon paying for yours And just look at dear little Toto sitting up and looking
such a clever little man with his little black nose wiggling, and he would, would
he, the darling duck, he would, he would, and his mother would give him a
lump of sugar, she would, she would There , Toto' 5 ), was to be definitely out of
Knype Hill society The Rector in his acid way nicknamed these ladies ‘the
coffee brigade* Close to the colony of sham-picturesque villas inhabited by
the coffee brigade, but cut off from them by its larger grounds, was The
Grange, Miss Mayfill’s house It was a curious, machicolated, imitation castle
of dark red brick- somebody’s Folly, built about 1870-and fortunately almost
hidden among dense shrubberies

The Rectory stood half way up the hill, with its face to the church and its
back to the High Street It was a house of the wrong age, inconveniently large,
and faced with chronically peeling yellow plaster Some earlier Rector had
added, at one side, a large greenhouse which Dorothy used as a workroom, but
which was constantly out of repair The front garden was choked with ragged
fir-trees and a great spreading ash which shadowed the front rooms and made
it impossible to grow any flowers There was a large vegetable garden at the
back Proggett did the heavy digging of the garden in the spring and autumn,
and Dorothy did the sowing, planting, and weeding in such spare time as she
could command, in spite of which the vegetable garden was usually an
impenetrable jungle of weeds

Dorothy jumped off her bicycle at the front gate, upon which some officious
person had stuck a poster inscribed ‘Vote for Bhfil-Gordon and Higher
Wages 1 ’ (There was a by-election going on, and Mr Blifil-Gordon was
standing in the Conservative interest ) As Dorothy opened the front door she
saw two letters lying on the worn coconut mat One was from the Rural Dean,
and the other was a nasty, thm-looking letter from Catkin & Palm, her father’s
clerical tailors It was a bill undoubtedly The Rector had followed his usual
practice of collecting the letters that interested him and leaving the others
Dorothy was just bending down to pick up the letters, when she saw, with a
horrid shock of dismay, an unstamped envelope sticking to the letter-flap

It was a bill-for certain it was a bill 1 Moreover, as soon as she set eyes on it
she ‘knew’ that it was that horrible bill from Cargill’s, the butcher’s A sinking
feeling passed through her entrails For a moment she actually began to pray
that it might not be Cargill’s bill-that it might only be the bill for three and
nine from Solepipe’s, the draper’s, or the bill from the International or the
baker’s or the dairy-anythmg except Cargill’s bill 1 Then, mastering her pamc,
she took the envelope from the letter-flap and tore it open with a convulsive
movement

‘To account rendered. £ 21 7s 9d ’

This was written m the innocuous handwriting of Mr Cargill’s accountant-
But underneath, in thick, accusing-looking letters, was added and heavily
underlined ‘Shd like to bring to your notice that this bill has been owing a
very long time The earliest possible settlement will oblige, S Cargill ’

Dorothy had turned a shade paler, and was conscious of not wanting any



A Clergyman’s Daughter 26 3

breakfast She thrust the bill into her pocket and went into the dining-room It
was a smallish, dark room, badly m need of repapering, and, like every other
room m the Rectory, it had the air of having been furnished from the
sweepings of an antique shop The furniture was ‘good 5 , but battered beyond
repair, and the chairs were so worm-eaten that you could only sit on them in
safety if you knew their individual foibles There were old, dark, defaced steel
engravings hanging on the walls, one of them-an engraving of Van Dyck’s
portrait of Charles I -probably of some value if it had not been ruined by
damp

The Rector was standing before the empty grate, warming himself at an
imaginary fire and reading a letter that came from a long blue envelope He was
still wearing his cassock of black watered silk, which set off to perfection his
thick white hair and his pale, fine, none too amiable face As Dorothy came m
he laid the letter aside, drew out his gold watch and scrutinized it significantly
Tm afraid I’m a bit late, Father ’

‘Yes, Dorothy, you are a bit late,’ said the Rector, repeating her words with
delicate but marked emphasis ‘You are twelve minutes late, to be exact Don’t
you think, Dorothy, that when I have to get up at a quarter past six to celebrate
Holy Communion, and come home exceedingly tired and hungry, it would be
better if you could manage to come to breakfast without being a bit late ? ’

It was clear that the Rector was m what Dorothy called, euphemistically, his
‘uncomfortable mood’ He had one of those weary, cultivated voices which are
never definitely angry and never anywhere near good humour-one of those
voices which seem all the while to be saying, ‘I really cannot see what you are
making all this fuss about 1 ’ The impression he gave was of suffering
perpetually from other people’s stupidity and tiresomeness

‘I’m so sorry, Father 1 I simply had to go and ask after Mrs Tawney ’ (Mrs
Tawney was the ‘Mrs T’ of the ‘memo list’ ) ‘Her baby was born last night, and
you know she promised me she’d come and be churched after it was born But
of course she won’t if she thinks we aren’t taking any interest m her You know
what these women are-they seem so to hate bemg churched They’ll never
come unless I coax them into it ’

The Rector did not actually grunt, but he uttered a small dissatisfied sound
as he moved towards the breakfast table, It was intended to mean, first, that it
was Mr£ Tawney’s duty to come and be churched without Dorothy’s coaxing,
secondly, that Dorothy had no business to waste her time visiting all the riff-
raff of the town, especially before breakfast Mrs T awney was a labourer’s wife
and lived in partibus mfidelium, north of the High Street The Rector laid his
hand on the back of his chair, and, without speaking, cast Dorothy a glance
which meant ‘Are we ready now ? Or are there to be any more delays? ’

‘I think everything’s here, Father,’ said Dorothy ‘Perhaps if you’d just say
grace-’

‘Benedictus benedicat/ said the Rector, lifting the worn silver coverlet oft the
breakfast dish The silver coverlet, like the silver-gilt marmalade spoon, was a
family heirloom, the knives and forks, and most of the crockery, came from
Woolworths ‘Bacon again, I see,’ the Rector added, eyeing the three minute



264 A Clergyman’s Daughter

rashers that lay curled up on squares of fried bread

‘It’s all we’ve got m the house, I’m afraid,’ Dorothy said
The Rector picked up his fork between finger and thumb, and with a very
delicate movement, as though playing at spillikins, turned one of the rashers
over

‘I know, of course, 5 he said, ‘that bacon for breakfast is an English
institution almost as old as parliamentary government But still, don’t you
think we might occasionally have a change, Dorothy? ’

‘Bacon’s so cheap now,’ said Dorothy regretfully ‘It seems a sin not to buy
it This was only fivepence a pound, and I saw some quite decent-looking
bacon as low as threepence ’

‘Ah, Danish, I suppose? What a variety of Danish invasions we have had m
this country! First with fire and sword, and now with their abominable cheap
bacon Which has been responsible for the more deaths, I wonder? ’

Feeling a little better after this witticism, the Rector settled himself m his
chair and made a fairly good breakfast off the despised bacon, while Dorothy
(she was not having any bacon this mornmg-a penance she had set herself
yesterday for saying ‘Damn’ and idling for half an hour after lunch) meditated
upon a good conversational opening

There was an unspeakably hateful job in front of her-a demand for money
At the very best of times getting money out of her father was next door to
impossible, and it was obvious that this morning he was going to be even more
‘difficult’ than usual ‘Difficult’ was another of her euphemisms He’s had bad
news, I suppose, she thought despondently, looking at the blue envelope
Probably no one who had ever spoken to the Rector for as long as ten
minutes would have denied that he was a ‘difficult’ kind of man The secret of
his almost unfailing ill humour really lay in the fact that he was an
anachronism He ought never to have been born into the modern world, its
whole atmosphere disgusted and infuriated him A couple of centuries earlier,
a happy pluralist writing poems or collecting fossils while curates at £40 a year
administered his parishes, he would have been perfectly at home Even now, if
he had been a richer man, he might have consoled himself by shutting the
twentieth century out of his consciousness But to live m past ages is very
expensive, you can’t do it on less than two thousand a year The Rector,
tethered by his poverty to the age of Lenin and the Daily Mail , was kept in a
state of chrome exasperation which it was only natural that he should work off
on the person nearest to him-usually, that is, on Dorothy
He had been born m 1871, the younger son of the younger son of a baronet,
and had gone into the Church for the outmoded reason that the Church is the
traditional profession for younger sons His first cure had been in a large,
slummy parish m East London-a nasty, hoohgamsh place it had been, and he
looked back on it with loathing Even m those days the lower class (as he
made a point of calling them) were getting decidedly out of hand It was a little
better when he was curate-m-charge at some remote place m Kent (Dorothy
had been born m Kent), where the decently down-trodden villagers still
touched their hats to ‘parson’ But by that time he had married, and his



A Clergyman’ s Daughter 265

marriage had been diabolically unhappy, moreover, because clergymen must
not quarrel with their wives, its unhappiness had been secret and therefore ten
times worse He had come to Knype Hill m 1908, aged thirty-seven and with a
temper incurably soured-a temper which had ended by alienating every man,
woman, and child m the parish

It was not that he was a bad priest, merely as a priest In his purely clerical
duties he was scrupulously 'correct-perhaps a little too correct for a Low
Church East Anglian parish He conducted his services with perfect taste,
preached admirable sermons, and got up at uncomfortable hours of the
morning to celebrate Holy Communion every Wednesday and Friday But
that a clergyman has any duties outside the four walls of the church was a thing
that had never seriously occurred to him Unable to afford a curate, he left the
dirty work of the parish entirely to his wife, and after her death (she died in
1921) to Dorothy People used to say, spitefully and untruly, that he would
have let Dorothy preach his sermons for him if it had been possible The ‘lower
classes’ had grasped from the first what was his attitude towards them, and if
he had been a rich man they would probably have licked his boots, according to
their custom, as it was, they merely hated him Not that he cared whether they
hated him or not, for he was largely unaware of their existence But even with
the upper classes he had got on no better With the County he had quarrelled
one by one, and as for the petty gentry of the town, as the grandson of a baronet
he despised them, and was at no pains to hide it In twenty-three years he had
succeeded in reducmg the congregation of St Athelstan’s from six hundred to
something under two hundred

This was not solely due to personal reasons It was also because the old-
fashioned High Anglicanism to which the Rector obstinately clung was of a
kind to annoy all parties in the parish about equally Nowadays, a clergyman
who wants to keep his congregation has only two courses open to him Either it
must be Anglo-Catholicism pure and simple-or rather, pure and not simple,
or he must be daringly modern and broad-minded and preach comforting
sermons proving that there is no Hell and all good religions are the same The
Rector did neither On the one hand, he had the deepest contempt for the
Anglo-Catholic movement It had passed over his head, leaving him absolutely
untouched, ‘Roman Fever’ was his name for it On the other hand, he was too
‘High’ for the older members of his congregation From time to time he scared
them almost out of their wits by the use of the fatal word ‘Catholic’, not only in
its sanctified place in the Creeds, but also from the pulpit Naturally the
congregation dwindled year by year, and it was the Best People who were the
first to go Lord Pockthorne of Pockthome Court, who owned a fifth of the
county, Mr Leavis, the retired leather merchant, Sir Edward Huson of
Crabtree Hall, and such of the petty gentry as owned motor-cars, had all
deserted St Athelstan’s Most of them drove over on Sunday mornings to
Millborough, five miles away Millborough was a town of five thousand
inhabitants, and you had your choice of two churches, St Edmund’s and St
Wedekind’s. St Edmund’s was Modernist— text from Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’
blazoned over the altar, and communion wme out of liqueur glasses-and St



266 A Clergyman’s Daughter

Wedekind’s was Anglo-Catholic and m a state of perpetual guerrilla warfare
with the Bishop But Mr Cameron, the secretary of the Knype Hill
Conservative Club, was a Roman Catholic convert, and his children were in
the thick of the Roman Catholic literary movement They were said to have a
parrot which they were teaching to say ‘Extra ecclesiam nulla sains' In effect,
no one of any standing remained true to St Athelstan’s, except Miss Mayfill, of
The Grange Most of Miss Mayfill’ s money was bequeathed to the Church-so
she said, meanwhile, she had never been known to put more than sixpence m
the collection bag, and she seemed likely to go on living for ever

The first ten minutes of breakfast passed in complete silence Dorothy was
trying to summon up courage to speak-obviously she had got to start some
kind of conversation before raising the money-question-but her father was
not an easy man with whom to make small talk At times he would fall into such
deep fits of abstraction that you could hardly get him to listen to you, at other
times he was all too attentive, listened carefully to what you said and then
pointed out, rather wearily, that it was not worth saying Polite platitudes-the
weather, and so forth-generally moved him to sarcasm Nevertheless,
Dorothy decided to try the weather first

c It’s a funny kind of day, isn’t it’’ she said-aware, even as she made it, of the
inanity of this remark

‘What is funny’’ inquired the Rector

‘Well, I mean, it was so cold and misty this morning, and now the sun’s
come out and it’s turned quite fine ’

‘Is there anything particularly funny about that’’

That was no good, obviously He must have had bad news, she thought She
tried again

‘I do wish you’d come out and have a look at the things in the back garden
some time. Father The runner beans are doing so splendidly' The pods are
going to be over a foot long I’m going to keep all the best of them for the
Harvest Festival, of course I thought it would look so nice if we decorated the
pulpit with festoons of runner beans and a few tomatoes hanging m among
them ’

This was a faux pas The Rector looked up from his plate with an expression
of profound distaste

‘My dear Dorothy,’ he said sharply, ‘is it necessary to begin worrying me
about the Harvest Festival already’’

‘I’m sorry, Father' 5 said Dorothy, disconcerted ‘I didn’t mean to worry
you I just thought-’

‘Do you suppose’, proceeded the Rector, ‘it is any pleasure to me to have to
preach my sermon among festoons of runner beans’ I am not a greengrocer It
quite puts me off my breakfast to think of it When is the wretched thing due to
happen’’

‘It’s September the sixteenth, Father ’

‘That’s nearly a month hence For Heaven’s sake let me forget it a little
longer' I suppose we must have this ridiculous business once a year to tickle the
vanity of every amateur gardener m the parish But don’t let’s think of it more



A Clergyman’s Daughter 267

than is absolutely necessary *

The Rector had, as Dorothy ought to have remembered, a perfect
abhorrence of Harvest Festivals He had even lost a valuable parishioner- a Mr
Toagis, a surly retired market gardener-through his dislike, as he said, of
seeing his church dressed up to imitate a coster’s stall Mr Toagis, amma
naturaliter Nonconformistica , had been kept ‘Church’ solely by the privilege, at
Harvest Festival time, of decorating the side altar with a sort of Stonehenge
composed of gigantic vegetable marrows The previous summer he had
succeeded in growing a perfect leviathan of a pumpkin, a fiery red thing so
enormous that it took two men to lift it This monstrous object had been placed
in the chancel, where it dwarfed the altar and took all the colour out of the east
window In no matter what part of the church you were standing, the
pumpkin, as the saying goes, hit you in the eye Mr Toagis was m raptures He
hung about the church at all hours, unable to tear himself away from his
adored pumpkin, and even bringing relays of friends in to admire it From the
expression of his face you would have thought that he was quoting
Wordsworth on Westminster Bridge

Earth has not any thing to show more fair
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty 1

Dorothy even had hopes, after this, of getting him to come to Holy
Communion But when the Rector saw the pumpkin he was seriously angry,
and ordered ‘that revolting thing’ to be removed at once Mr Toagis had
instantly ‘gone chapel’, and he and his heirs were lost to the Church for ever
Dorothy decided to make one final attempt at conversation
‘We’re getting on with the costumes for Charles /,’ she said (The Church
School children were rehearsing a play entitled Charles I in aid of the organ
fund ) ‘But I do wish we’d chosen something a bit easier The armour is a
dreadful job to make, and I’m afraid the jackboots are going to be worse I
think next time we must really have a Roman or Greek play Something where
they only have to wear togas ’

This elicited only another muted grunt from the Rector School plays,
pageants, bazaars, jumble sales, and concerts in aid of were not quite so bad in
his eyes as Harvest Festivals, but he did not pretend to be interested m them
They were necessary evils, he used to say At this moment Ellen, the
maidservant, pushed open the door and came gauchely into the room with one
large, scaly hand holding her sacking apron against her belly She was a tall,
round-shouldered girl with mouse-coloured hair, a plaintive voice, and a bad
complexion, and she suffered chronically from eczema Her eyes flitted
apprehensively towards the Rector, but she addressed herself to Dorothy, for
she was too much afraid of the Rector to speak to him directly
‘Please, Miss-’ she began,

‘Yes, Ellen? ’

‘Please, Miss,’ went on Ellen plaintively, ‘Mr Porter’s m the kitchen, and he
says, please could the Rector come round and baptize Mrs Porter’s baby?



268 A Clergyman's Daughter

Because they don’t think as it’s going to live the day out, and it ain’t been
baptized yet, Miss ’

Dorothy stood up ‘Sit down,’ said the Rector promptly, with his mouth
full

‘What do they think is the matter with the baby? ’ said Dorothy
‘Well, Miss, it’s turning quite black And it’s had diarrhoea something
cruel ’

The Rector emptied his mouth with an effort ‘Must I have these disgusting
details while I am eating my breakfast? ’ he exclaimed He turned on Ellen
‘Send Porter about his business and tell him I’ll be round at his house at twelve
o’clock I really cannot think why it is that the lower classes always seem to
choose mealtimes to come pestering one,’ he added, casting another irritated
glance at Dorothy as she sat down

Mr Porter was a labouring man-a bricklayer, to be exact The Rector’s
views on baptism were entirely sound If it had been urgently necessary he
would have walked twenty miles through snow to baptize a dying baby But he
did not like to see Dorothy proposing to leave the breakfast table at the call of a
common bricklayer

There was no further conversation during breakfast Dorothy’s heart was
sinking lower and lower The demand for money had got to be made, and yet it
was perfectly obvious that it was foredoomed to failure His breakfast finished,
the Rector got up from the table and began to fill his pipe from the tobacco-jar
on the mantelpiece Dorothy uttered a short prayer for courage, and then
pinched herself Go on, Dorothy' Out with it' No funking, please' With an
effort she mastered her voice and said
‘Father-’

‘What is it’’ said the Rector, pausing with the match m his hand
‘Father, I’ve something I want to ask you Something important ’

The expression of the Rector’s face changed He had divined instantly what
she was gomg to say, and, curiously enough, he now looked less irritable than
before A stony calm had settled upon his face He looked like a rather
exceptionally aloof and unhelpful sphinx

‘Now, my dear Dorothy, I know very well what you are gomg to say I
suppose you are gomg to ask me for money again Is that it? ’

‘Yes, Father Because-’

‘Well, I may as well save you the trouble I have no money at all-absolutely
no money at all until next quarter You have had your allowance, and I can’t
give you a halfpenny more It’s quite useless to come worrying me now ’

‘But, Father-’

Dorothy’s heart sank yet lower. What was worst of all when she came to him
for money was the terrible, unhelpful calmness of his attitude He was never so
unmoved as when you were reminding him that he was up to his eyes in debt
Apparently he could not understand that tradesmen occasionally want to be
paid, and that no house can be kept going without an adequate supply of
money He allowed Dorothy eighteen pounds a month for all the household
expenses, including Ellen’s wages, and at the same time he was ‘dainty’ about



A Clergyman’s Daughter 269

his food and instantly detected any falling off in its quality The result was, of
course, that the household was perennially m debt But the Rector paid not the
smallest attention to his debts-indeed, he was hardly even aware of them
When he lost money over an investment, he was deeply agitated, but as for a
debt to a mere tradesman-well, it was the kind of thing that he simply could
not bother his head about

A peaceful plume of smoke floated upwards from the Rector’s pipe He was
gazing with a meditative eye at the steel engraving of Charles I and had
probably forgotten already about Dorothy’s demand for money Seeing him so
unconcerned, a pang of desperation went through Dorothy, and her courage
came back to her She said more sharply than before
‘Father, please listen to me 1 I must have some money soon 1 I simply must ]
We can’t go on as we’re doing We owe money to nearly every tradesman mthe
town It’s got so that some mornings I can hardly bear to go down the street
and think of all the bills that are owing Do you know that we owe Cargill
nearly twenty-two pounds? ’

‘What of it? ’ said the Rector between puffs of smoke
‘But the bill’s been mounting up for over seven months' He’s sent it m over
and over again We must pay it' It’s so unfair to him to keep him waiting for his
money like that'’

‘Nonsense, my dear child' These people expect to be kept waiting for their
money They like it It brings them more in the end Goodness knows how
much I owe to Catkin & Palm - 1 should hardly care to inquire They are
dunning me by every post But you don’t hear me complaining, do you 7 *’

‘But, Father, I can’t look at it as you do, I can’t' It’s so dreadful to be always
m debt' Even if it isn’t actually wrong, it’s so hateful It makes me so ashamed'
When I go into Cargill’s shop to order the joint, he speaks to me so shortly and
makes me wait after the other customers, all because our bill’s mounting up the
whole time And yet I daren’t stop ordering from him I believe he’d run us in
if I did ’

The Rector frowned ‘What' Do you mean to say the fellow has been
impertinent to you? ’

‘I didn’t say he’d been impertinent, Father But you can’t blame him if he’s
angry when his bill’s not paid ’

‘I most certainly can blame him' It is simply abominable how these people
take it upon themselves to behave nowadays-abominable' But there you are,
you see That is the kind of thing that we are exposed to m this delightful
century That is democracy -progress, as they are pleased to call it Don’t order
from the fellow again Tell him at once that you are taking your account
elsewhere That’s the only way to treat these people ’

‘But, Father, that doesn’t settle anything Really and truly, don’t you think
we ought to pay him ? Surely we can get hold of the money somehow? Couldn’t
you sell out some shares, or something? ’

‘My dear child, don’t talk to me about selling out shares! I have just had the
most disagreeable news from my broker He tells me that my Sumatra Tin
shares have dropped from seven and fourpence to six and a penny It means a



2jo A Clergyman's Daughter

loss of nearly sixty pounds I am telling him to sell out at once before they drop
any further ’

‘Then if you sell out you’ll have some ready money, won’t you? Don’t you
think it would be better to get out of debt once and for alP’

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said the Rector more calmly, putting his pipe back m
his mouth ‘You know nothing whatever about these matters I shall have to
reinvest at once m something more hopeful-it’s the only way of getting my
money back ’

With one thumb m the belt of his cassock he frowned abstractedly at the
steel engraving His broker had advised United Celanese Here— m Sumatra
Tin, United Celanese, and numberless other remote and dimly imagined
companies- was the central cause of the Rector’s money troubles He was an
inveterate gambler Not, of course, that he thought of it as gambling, it was
merely a lifelong search for a ‘good investment’ On coming of age he had
inherited four thousand pounds, which had gradually dwindled, thanks to his
‘investments’, to about twelve hundred What was worse, every year he
managed to scrape together, out of his miserable income, another fifty pounds
which vanished by the same road It is a curious fact that the lure of a ‘good
investment’ seems to haunt clergymen more persistently than any other class
of man Perhaps it is the modern equivalent of the demons in female shape who
used to haunt the anchorites of the Dark Ages

‘I shall buy five hundred United Celanese,’ said the Rector finally

Dorothy began to give up hope Her father was now thinking of his
‘investments’ (she new nothing whatever about these ‘investments’, except
that they went wrong with phenomenal regularity), and in another moment the
question of the shop-debts would have slipped entirely out of his mind She
made a final effort

‘Father, let’s get this settled, please Do you think you’ll be able to let me
have some extra money fairly soon? Not this moment, perhaps-but m the next
month or two? ’

‘No, my dear, I don’t About Christmas time, possibly-it’s very unlikely
even then. But for the present, certainly not I haven’t a halfpenny I can spare ’

‘But, Father, it’s so horrible to feel we can’t pay our debts* It disgraces us so*
Last time Mr Welwyn-Foster was here’ (Mr Welwyn-Foster was the Rural
Dean) ‘Mrs Welwyn-Foster was going all round the town asking everyone the
most personal questions about us- asking how we spent our time, and how
much money we had, and how many tons of coal we used in a year, and
everything She’s always trying to pry into our affairs Suppose she found out
that we were badly in debt 1 ’

‘Surely it is our own business? I fail entirely to see what it has to do with Mrs
Welwyn-Foster or anyone else ’

‘But she’d repeat it all over the place-and she’d exaggerate it too* You know
what Mrs Welwyn-Foster is. In every parish she goes to she tries to find out
something disgraceful about the clergyman, and then she repeats every word
of it to the Bishop I don’t want to be uncharitable about her, but really she-’

Realizing that she did want to be uncharitable, Dorothy was silent



A Clergyman' s Daughter 271

‘She is a detestable woman/ said the Rector evenly ‘What of 1 t? Who ever
heard of a Rural Dean’s wife who wasn’t detestable? ’

‘But, Father, I don’t seem to be able to get you to see how serious things are 1
We’ve simply nothing to live on for the next month I don’t even know where
the meat’s coming from for today’s dinner ’

‘Luncheon, Dorothy, luncheon 1 ’ said the Rector with a touch of irritation ‘I
do wish you would drop that abominable lower-class habit of calling the
midday meal dinner >’

‘For luncheon, then Where are we to get the meat from? I daren’t ask
Cargill for another joint ’

‘Go to the other butcher-what’s his name? Salter-and take no notice of
Cargill He knows he’ll be paid sooner or later Good gracious, I don’t know
what all this fuss is about 1 Doesn’t everyone owe money to his tradesmen? I
distinctly remember’ -the Rector straightened his shoulders a little, and,
putting his pipe back into his mouth, looked into the distance, his voice
became reminiscent and perceptibly more agreeable- ‘I distinctly remember
that when I was up at Oxford, my father had still not paid some of his own
Oxford bills of thirty years earlier Tom’ (Tom was the Rector’s cousin, the
Baronet) ‘owed seven thousand before he came into his money He told me so
himself ’

At that, Dorothy’s last hope vanished When her father began to talk about
his cousin Tom, and about things that had happened ‘when I was up at
Oxford’, there was nothing more to be done with him It meant that he had
slipped into an imaginary golden past in which such vulgar things as butchers’
bills simply did not exist There were long periods together when he seemed
actually to forget that he was only a poverty-stricken country Rector-that he
was not a young man of family with estates and reversions at his back. The
aristocratic, the expensive attitude was the one that m all circumstances came
the most naturally to him And of course while he lived, not uncomfortably, in
the world of his imagination, it was Dorothy who had to fight the tradesmen
and make a leg of mutton last from Sunday to Wednesday But she knew the
complete uselessness of arguing with him any longer It would only end m
making him angry She got up from the table and began to pile the breakfast
things on to the tray

‘You’re absolutely certain you can’t let me have any money, Father? ’ she
said for the last time, at the door, with the tray m her arms

The Rector, gazing into the middle distance, amid comfortable wreaths of
smoke, did not hear her He was thinking, perhaps, of his golden Oxford days
Dorothy went out of the room distressed almost to the point of tears The
miserable question of the debts was once more shelved, as it had been shelved a
thousand times before, with no prospect of final solution.



3


On her elderly bicycle with the basketwork carrier on the handle-bars,
Dorothy free-wheeled down the hill, doing mental arithmetic with three
pounds nineteen and fourpence-her entire stock of money until next quarter-
day

She had been through the list of things that were needed m the kitchen But
indeed, was there anything that was not needed m the kitchen? Tea, coffee,
soap, matches, candles, sugar, lentils, firewood, soda, lamp oil, boot polish,
margarine, baking powder-there seemed to be practically nothing that they
were not running short of And at every moment some fresh item that she had
forgotten popped up and dismayed her The laundry bill, for example, and the
fact that the coal was running short, and the question of the fish for Friday
The Rector was ‘difficult’ about fish Roughly speaking, he would only eat the
more expensive kinds, cod, whiting, sprats, skate, herrings, and kippers he
refused

Meanwhile, she had got to settle about the meat for today’s
dmner-luncheon (Dorothy was careful to obey her father and call it luncheon ,
when she remembered it On the other hand, you could not m honesty call the
evening meal anything but ‘supper’, so there was no such meal as ‘dinner’ at
the Rectory ) Better make an omelette for luncheon today, Dorothy decided
She dared not go to Cargill again Though, of course, if they had an omelette
for luncheon and then scrambled eggs for supper, her father would probably
be sarcastic about it Last time they had eggs twice m one day, he had inquired
coldly, ‘Have you started a chicken farm, Dorothy? ’And perhaps tomorrow
she would get two pounds of sausages at the International, and that staved off
the meat-question for one day more

Thirty-nine further days, with only three pounds mneteen and fburpence to
provide for them, loomed up in Dorothy’s imagination, sending through her a
wave of self-pity which she checked almost instantly. Now then, Dorothy 1 No
snivelling, please' It all comes right somehow if you trust in God Matthew vi,
25 The Lord will provide Will He? Dorothy removed her right hand from
the handle-bars and felt for the glass-headed pm, but the blasphemous
thought faded. At this moment she became aware of the gloomy red face
of Proggett, who was hailing her respectfully but urgently from the side of the
road

Dorothy stopped and got off her bicycle.

‘Beg pardon, Miss,’ said Proggett ‘I been wanting to speak to you,



A Clergyman’s Daughter


273


Miss-partic’lar ’

Dorothy sighed inwardly When Proggett wanted to speak to you partic’lar ,
you could be perfectly certain what was coming, it was some piece of alarming
news about the condition of the church Proggett was a pessimistic,
conscientious man, and very loyal churchman, after his fashion Too dim of
intellect to have any definite religious beliefs, he showed his piety by an intense
solicitude about the state of the church buildings He had decided long ago that
the Church of Christ meant the actual walls, roof, and tower of St Athelstan’s,
Knype Hill, and he would poke round the church at all hours of the day,
gloomily noting a cracked stone here, a worm-eaten beam there-and
afterwards, of course, coming to harass Dorothy with demands for repairs
which would cost impossible sums of money

‘What is it, Proggett ? 5 said Dorothy

‘Well, Miss, it’s they- 5 -here a peculiar, imperfect sound, not a word
exactly, but the ghost of a word, all but formed itself on Proggett’s lips It
seemed to begin with a B Proggett was one of those men who are for ever on
the verge of swearing, but who always recapture the oath as it is escaping
between their teeth Tt 5 s they bells, Miss,’ he said, getting rid of the B sound
with an effort ‘They bells up in the church tower They’re a-splmtermg
through that there belfry floor in a way as it makes you fair shudder to look at
’em We’ll have ’em down atop of us before we know where we are I was up
the belfry ’smormng, and I tell you I come down faster’n I went up, when I
saw how that there floor’s a-bustmg underneath ’em

Proggett came to complain about the condition of the bells not less than once
a fortnight It was now three years that they had been lying on the floor of the
belfry, because the cost of either reswmgmg or removing them was estimated
at twenty-five pounds, which might as well have been twenty-five thousand for
all the chance there was of paying for it They were really almost as dangerous
as Proggett made out It was quite certain that, if not this year or next year, at
any rate at some time m the near future, they would fall through the belfry
floor into the church porch And, as Proggett was fond of pointing out, it
would probably happen on a Sunday morning just as the congregation were
coming into church

Dorothy sighed again Those wretched bells were never out of mind for
long, there were times when the thought of their falling even got into her
dreams There was always some trouble or other at the church Ifitwasnotthe
belfry, then it was the roof or the walls, or it was a broken pew which the
carpenter wanted ten shillings to mend, or it was seven hymn-books needed at
one and sixpence each, or the flue of the stove choked up-and the sweep’s fee
was half a crown-or a smashed window-pane or the choir-boys’ cassocks m
rags There was never enough money for anything The new organ which the
Rector had insisted on buying five years earlier- the old one, he said, reminded
him of a cow with the asthma-was a burden under which the Church Expenses
fund had been staggering ever since

T don’t know what we can do,’ said Dorothy finally; ‘I really don’t. We’ve
simply no money at all And even if we do make anything out of the school-



2j4 A Clergyman' s Daughter

children’s play, it’s all got to go to the organ fund The organ people are really
getting quite nasty about their bill Have you spoken to my father^’

‘Yes, Miss He don’t make nothing of it “Belfry’s held up five hundred
years,” he says, “we can trust it to hold up a few years longer ’”

This was quite according to precedent The fact that the church was visibly
collapsing over his head made no impression on the Rector, he simply ignored
it, as he ignored anything else that he did not wish to be worried about
‘Well, I don’t know what we can do,’ Dorothy repeated ‘Of course there’s
the jumble sale coming off the week after next I’m counting on Miss Mayfill to
give us something really nice for the jumble sale I know she could afford to
She’s got such lots of furniture and things that she never uses I was in her
house the other day, and I saw a most beautiful Lowestoft chma tea service
which was put away in a cupboard, and she told me it hadn’t been used for over
twenty years Just suppose she gave us that tea service 1 It would fetch pounds
and pounds We must just pray that the jumble sale will be a success, Proggett
Pray that it’ll bring us five pounds at least I’m sure we shall get the money
somehow if we really and truly pray for it ’

‘Yes, Miss,’ said Proggett respectfully, and shifted his gaze to the far
distance

At this moment a horn hooted and a vast, gleaming blue car came very
slowly down the road, making for the High Street Out of one window Mr
Blifil-Gordon, the Proprietor of the sugar-beet refinery, was thrusting a sleek
black head which went remarkably ill with his suit of sandy-coloured Harris
tweed As he passed, instead of ignoring Dorothy as usual, he flashed upon her
a smile so warm that it was almost amorous With him were his eldest son
Ralph-or, as he and the rest of the family pronounced it, Walph-an epicene
youth of twenty, given to the writing of sub-Eliot vers libre poems, and Lord
Pockthorne’s two daughters They were all smiling, even Lord Pockthorne’s
daughters Dorothy was astomshed, for it was several years since any of these
people had deigned to recognize her in the street

‘Mr Blifil-Gordon is very friendly this morning,’ she said
‘Aye, Miss I’ll be bound he is It’s the election coming on next week, that’s
what ’tis All honey and butter they are till they’ve made sure as you’ll vote for
them, and then they’ve forgot your very face the day afterwards ’

‘Oh, the election'’ said Dorothy vaguely So remote were such things as
parliamentary elections from the daily round of parish work that she was
virtually unaware of them-hardly, indeed, even knowing the difference
between Liberal and Conservative or Socialist and Communist ‘Well,
Proggett,’ she said, immediately forgetting the election in favour of something
more important, Til speak to Father and tell him how serious it is about the
bells, I think perhaps the best thing we can do will be to get up a special
subscription, just for the bells alone There’s no knowing, we might make five
pounds We might even make ten pounds' Don’t you think if I went to Miss
Mayfill and asked her to start the subscription with five pounds, she might give
it to us? ’

‘You take my word, Miss, and don’t you let Miss Mayfill hear nothing about



A Clergyman’s Daughter 27 s

it It’d scare the life out of her If she thought as that tower wasn’t safe, we’d
never get her inside that church again ’

‘Oh dear 1 1 suppose not ’

‘No, Miss We shan’t get nothing out of her, the old-’

A ghostly B floated once more across Proggett’s lips His mind a little more
at rest now that he had delivered his fortnightly report upon the bells, he
touched his cap and departed, while Dorothy rode on into the High Street,
with the twin problems of the shop-debts and the Church Expenses pursuing
one another through her mind like the twin refrains of a villanelle
The still watery sun, now playing hide-and-seek. April-wise, among woolly
islets of cloud, sent an oblique beam down the High Street, gilding the house-
fronts of the northern side It was one of those sleepy, old-fashioned streets
that look so ideally peaceful on a casual visit and so very different when you live
in them and have an enemy or a creditor behind every window The only
definitely offensive buildings were Ye Olde Tea Shoppe (plaster front with
sham beams nailed on to it, bottle-glass windows and revolting curly roof like
that of a Chinese joss-house), and the new. Doric-pillared post office After
about two hundred yards the High Street forked, forming a tiny market-place,
adorned with a pump, now defunct, and a worm-eaten pair of stocks On either
side of the pump stood the Dog and Bottle, the principal inn of the town, and
the Knype Hill Conservative Club At the end, commanding the street, stood
Cargill’s dreaded shop

Dorothy came round the corner to a terrific dm of cheering, mingled with
the strains of ‘Rule Britannia’ played on the trombone The normally sleepy
street was black with people, and more people were hurrying from all the side-
streets Evidently a sort of triumphal procession was taking place Right across
the street, from the roof of the Dog and Bottle to the roof of the Conservative
Club, hung a line with innumerable blue streamers, and m the middle a vast
banner inscribed ‘Blifil-Gordon and the Empire 1 ’ Towards this, between the
lanes of people, the Blifil-Gordon car was moving at a foot-pace, with Mr
Blifil-Gordon smiling richly, first to one side, then to the other In front of the
car marched a detachment of the Buffaloes, headed by an earnest-looking little
man playing the trombone, and carrying among them another banner
inscribed


Who’ll save Britain from the Reds’

BLIFIL-GORDON

Who’ll put the Beer back into your Pot’

BLIFIL-GORDON

Blifil-Gordon for ever 1

From the window of the Conservative Club floated an enormous Union
Jack, above which six scarlet faces were beaming enthusiastically
Dorothy wheeled her bicycle slowly down the street, too much agitated by
the prospect of passing Cargill’s shop (she had got to pass it, to get to
Solepipe’s) to take much notice of the procession The Blifil-Gordon car had



2j6 A Clergyman 3 s Daughter

halted for a moment outside Ye Olde Tea Shoppe Forward, the coffee
brigade 1 Half the ladies of the town seemed to be hurrying forth, with lapdogs
or shopping baskets on their arms, to cluster about the car like Bacchantes
about the car of the vme-god After all, an election is practically the only time
when you get a chance of exchanging smiles with the County There were
eager feminine cries of ‘Good luck, Mr Blifil- Gordon' Dear Mr Blifil-Gordon'
We do hope you’ll get in, Mr Blifil-Gordon 1 ’ Mr Blifil-Gordon’s largesse of
smiles was unceasing, but carefully graded To the populace he gave a
diffused, general smile, not resting on individuals, to the coffee ladies and the
six scarlet patriots of the Conservative Club he gave one smile each, to the most
favoured of all, young Walph gave an occasional wave of the hand and a
squeaky ‘Cheewio 1 ’

Dorothy’s heart tightened She had seen that Mr Cargill, like the rest of the
shopkeepers, was standing on his doorstep He was a tall, evil-looking man, in
blue-striped apron, with a lean, scraped face as purple as one of his own joints
of meat that had lain a little too long in the window So fascinated were
Dorothy’s eyes by that ominous figure that she did not look where she was
going, and bumped into a very large, stout man who was stepping off the
pavement backwards

The stout man turned round ‘Good Heavens 1 It’s Dorothy 1 ’ he exclaimed

‘Why, Mr Warburton' How extraordinary' Do you know, I had a feeling I
was going to meet you today ’

‘By the pricking of your thumbs, I presume ? 3 said Mr Warburton, beaming
all over a large, pink, Micawberish face ‘And how are you? But by Jove 1 ’ he
added, ‘What need is there to ask? You look more bewitching than ever ’

He pinched Dorothy’s bare elbow-she had changed, after breakfast, into a
sleeveless gingham frock Dorothy stepped hurriedly backwards to get out of
his reach-she hated being pinched or otherwise ‘mauled about’-and said
rather severely

‘ Please don’t pinch my elbow I don’t like it 3

‘My dear Dorothy, who could resist an elbow like yours? It’s the sort of
elbow one pinches automatically A reflex action, if you understand me ’

‘When did you get back to Knype Hill ? 3 said Dorothy, who had put her
bicycle between Mr Warburton and herself ‘It’s over two months since I’ve
seen you 3

‘I got back the day before yesterday But this is only a flying visit I’m off
again tomorrow I’m taking the kids to Brittany The bastards, you know 3

Mr Warburton pronounced the word bastards, at which Dorothy looked
away in discomfort, with a touch of naive pride He and his ‘bastards’ (he had
three of them) were one of the chief scandals of Knype Hill He was a man of
independent income, calling himself a painter-he produced about half a dozen
mediocre landscapes every year-and he had come to Knype Hill two years
earlier and bought one of the new villas behind the Rectory There he lived, or
rather stayed periodically, m open concubinage with a woman whom he called
his housekeeper Four months ago this woman-she was a foreigner, a
Spaniard it was said-had created a fresh and worse scandal by abruptly



A Clergyman 3 s Daughter 277

deserting him, and his three children were now parked with some long-
suffering relative m London In appearance he was a fine, imposing-looking
man, though entirely bald (he was at great pains to conceal this), and he carried
himself with such a rakish air as to give the impression that his fairly sizeable
belly was merely a kind of annexe to his chest His age was forty-eight, and he
owned to forty-four People in the town said that he was a ‘proper old rascal’,
young girls were afraid of him, not without reason
Mr Warburton had laid his hand pseudo-paternally on Dorothy’s shoulder
and was shepherding her through the crowd, talking all the while almost
without a pause The Blifil- Gordon car, having rounded the pump, was now
wending its way back, still accompanied by its troupe of middle-aged
Bacchantes Mr Warburton, his attention caught, paused to scrutinize it
‘What is the meaning of these disgusting antics’’ he asked
‘Oh, they’re- what is it they call lt’-electioneering Trying to get us to vote
for them, I suppose ’

‘Trying to get us to vote for them' Good God 1 ’ murmured Mr Warburton,
as he eyed the triumphal cortege He raised the large, silver-headed cane that
he always carried, and pointed, rather expressively, first at one figure in the
procession and then at another ‘Look at it 1 Just look at it 1 Look at those
fawning hags, and that half-witted oaf grinning at us like a monkey that sees a
bag of nuts Did you ever see such a disgusting spectacle’’

‘Do be careful 1 ’ Dorothy murmured ‘Somebody’s sure to hear you ’
‘Good 1 ’ said Mr Warburton, immediately raising his voice ‘And to think
that low-born hound actually has the impertinence to think that he’s pleasing
us with the sight of his false teeth 1 And that suit he’s wearing is an offence m
itself Is there a Socialist candidate’ If so, I shall certainly vote for him ’
Several people on the pavement turned and stared Dorothy saw little Mr
Twiss, the ironmonger, a weazened, leather-coloured old man, peering with
veiled malevolence round the corner of the rush baskets that hung m his
doorway He had caught the word Socialist, and was mentally registering Mr
Warburton as a Socialist and Dorothy as the friend of Socialists

‘I really must be getting on,’ said Dorothy hastily, feeling that she had better
escape before Mr Warburton said something even more tactless ‘I’ve got ever
such a lot of shopping to do I’ll say good-bye for the present, then ’

‘Oh, no, you won’t 1 ’ said Mr Warburton cheerfully ‘Not a bit of it* I’ll come
with you ’

As she wheeled her bicycle down the street he marched at her side, still
talking, with his large chest well forward and his stick tucked under his arm.
He was a difficult man to shake off, and though Dorothy counted him as a
friend, she did sometimes wish, he being the town scandal and she the Rector’s
daughter, that he would not always choose the most public places to talk to her
in At this moment, however, she was rather grateful for his company, which
made it appreciably easier to pass Cargill’s shop-for Cargill was still on his
doorstep and was regarding her with a sidelong, meaning gaze

‘It was a bit of luck my meeting you this morning,’ Mr Warburton went on.
‘In fact, I was looking for yoti , Who do you think I’ve got coming to dinner



27 8 A Clergyman's Daughter

with me tonight? Bewley- Ronald Bewley You’ve heard of him, of course? ’
‘Ronald Bewley? No, I don’t think so Who is he? ’

‘Why, dash it' Ronald Bewley, the novelist Author of Fishpools and
Concubines Surely you’ve read Fishpools and Concubines ? ’

‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t In fact, I’d never even heard of it ’

‘My dear Dorothy 1 You have been neglecting yourself You certainly ought
to read Fishpools and Concubines It’s hot stuff, I assure you-real high-class
pornography Just the kind of thing you need to take the taste of the Girl
Guides out of your mouth ’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t say such things 1 ’ said Dorothy, looking away
uncomfortably, and then immediately looking back again because she had all
but caught Cargill’s eye ‘Where does this Mr Bewley live? ’ she added ‘Not
here, surely, does he? ’

‘No He’s coming over from Ipswich for dinner, and perhaps to stay the
night That’s why I was looking for you I thought you might like to meet him
How about your coming to dinner tonight? ’

‘I can’t possibly come to dinner,’ said Dorothy ‘I’ve got Father’s supper to
see to, and thousands of other things I shan’t be free till eight o’clock or after ’
‘Well, come along after dinner, then I’d like you to know Bewley He’s an
interesting fellow- very au fait with all the Bloomsbury scandal, and all that
You’ll enjoy meeting him. It’ll do you good to escape from the church hen-
coop for a few hours ’

Dorothy hesitated She was tempted To tell the truth, she enjoyed her
occasional visits to Mr Warburton’s house extremely But of course they were
very occasional-once m three or four months at the oftenest, it so obviously
didn't do to associate too freely with such a man And even when she did go to
his house she was careful to make sure beforehand that there was going to be at
least one other visitor

Two years earlier, when Mr Warburton had first come to Knype Hill (at that
time he was posing as a widower with two children, a little later, however, the
housekeeper suddenly gave birth to a third child in the middle of the night),
Dorothy had met him at a tea-party and afterwards called on him Mr
Warburton had given her a delightful tea, talked amusingly about books, and
then, immediately after tea, sat down beside her on the sofa and begun making
love to her, violently, outrageously, even brutally It was practically an assault
Dorothy was horrified almost out of her wits, though not too horrified to resist
She escaped from him and took refuge on the other side of the sofa, white,
shaking, and almost m tears Mr Warburton, on the other hand, was quite
unashamed and even seemed rather amused
‘Oh, how could you, how could you? ’ she sobbed
‘But it appears that I couldn’t,’ said Mr Warburton
‘Oh, but how could you be such a brute? ’

‘Oh, that> Easily, my child, easily You will understand that when you get to
my age,’

In spite of this bad beginning, a sort of friendship had grown up between the
two, oven to the extent of Dorothy being ‘talked about’ in connexion with Mr



A Clergyman 1 s Daughter 279

Warburton It did not take much to get you ‘talked about’ m Knype Hill She
only saw him at long intervals and took the greatest care never to be alone with
him, but even so he found opportunities of making casual love to her But it
was done m a gentlemanly fashion, the previous disagreeable incident was not
repeated Afterwards, when he was forgiven, Mr Warburton had explained
that he ‘always tried it on’ with every presentable woman he met

‘Don’t you get rather a lot of snubs? ’ Dorothy could not help asking him
‘Oh, certainly But I get quite a number of successes as well, you know ’
People wondered sometimes how such a girl as Dorothy could consort, even
occasionally, with such a man as Mr Warburton, but the hold that he had over
her was the hold that the blasphemer and evil-liver always has over the pious
It is a fact-you have only to look about you to verify it-that the pious and the
immoral drift naturally together The best brothel-scenes in literature have
been written, without exception, by pious believers or pious unbelievers And
of course Dorothy, born into the twentieth century, made a point of listening
to Mr Warburton’s blasphemies as calmly as possible, it is fatal to flatter the
wicked by letting them see that you are shocked by them Besides, she was
genuinely fond of him He teased her and distressed her, and yet she got from
him, without being fully aware of it, a species of sympathy and understanding
which she could not get elsewhere For all his vices he was distinctly likeable,
and the shoddy brilliance of his conversation-Oscar Wilde seven times
watered-which she was too inexperienced to see through, fascinated while it
shocked her Perhaps, too, m this instance, the prospect of meeting the
celebrated Mr Bewley had its effect upon her, though certamly Fishponds and
Concubines sounded like the kind of book that she either didn’t read or else set
herself heavy penances for reading In London, no doubt, one would hardly
cross the road to see fifty novelists, but these things appeared differently in
places like Knype Hill

‘Are you sure Mr Bewley is coming? ’ she said

‘Quite sure And his wife’s coming as well, I believe Full chaperonage No
Tarqum and Lucrece business this evening ?

‘All right,’ said Dorothy finally, ‘thanks very much I’ll come round-
about half past eight, I expect ’

‘Good If you can manage to come while it is still daylight, so much the
better Remember that Mrs Sempnll is my next-door neighbour We can
count on her to be on the qm vive any time after sundown ’

Mrs Semprill was the town scandalmonger-the most eminent, that is, of the
town’s many scandalmongers Having got what he wanted (he was constantly
pestering Dorothy to come to his house more often), Mr Warburton said au
revoir and left Dorothy to do the remainder of her shopping

In the semi-gloom of Solepipe’s shop, she was just moving away from the
counter with her two and a half yards of casement cloth, when she was aware of
a low, mournful voice at her ear It was Mrs Semprill She was a slender
woman of forty, with a lank, sallow, distinguished face, which, with her glossy
dark hair and air of settled melancholy, gave her something the appearance of a
Van Dyck portrait Entrenched behind a pile of cretonnes near the window.



280 A Clergyman's Daughter

she had been watching Dorothy’s conversation with Mr Warburton
Whenever you were doing something that you did not particularly want Mrs
Semprill to see you doing, you could trust her to be somewhere in the
neighbourhood She seemed to have the power of materializing like an Arabian
jmneeyeh at any place where she was not wanted No indiscretion, however
small, escaped her vigilance Mr Warburton used to say that she was like the
four beasts of the Apocalypse- ‘They are full of eyes, you remember, and they
rest not night nor day ’

‘Dorothy dearest ,’ murmured Mrs Semprill in the sorrowful, affectionate
voice of someone breaking a piece of bad news as gently as possible ‘I’ve been
so wanting to speak io you I’ve something simply dreadful to tell you-some-
thing that will really horrify you 1 ’

‘What is it? ’ said Dorothy resignedly, well knowing what was coming-for
Mrs Semprill had only one subject of conversation

They moved out of the shop and began to walk down the street, Dorothy
wheeling her bicycle, Mrs Semprill mmcing at her side with a delicate birdlike
step and bringing her mouth closer and closer to Dorothy’s ear as her remarks
grew more and more intimate

‘Do you happen to have noticed,’ she began, ‘that girl who sits at the end of
the pew nearest the organ in church? A rather pretty girl, with red hair I’ve no
idea what her name is,’ added Mrs Semprill, who knew the surname and all the
Christian names of every man, woman, and child in Knype Hill

‘Molly Freeman,’ said Dorothy ‘She’s the niece of Freeman the
greengrocer ’

‘Oh, Molly Freeman? Is that her name? I’d often wondered Well-’

The delicate red mouth came closer, the mournful voice sank to a shocked
whisper Mrs Semprill began to pour forth a stream of purulent libel involving
Molly Freeman and six young men who worked at the sugar-beet refinery
After a few moments the story became so outrageous that Dorothy, who had
turned very pink, hurriedly withdrew her ear from Mrs SemprilFs whispering
lips. She stopped her bicycle

‘I won’t listen to such things! ’ she said abruptly ‘I know that isn’t true about
Molly Freeman It can't be true 1 She’s such a nice quiet girl-she was one of my
very best Girl Guides, and she’s always been so good about helping with the
church bazaars and everything I’m perfectly certain she wouldn’t do such
things as you’re saying ’

‘But, Dorothy dearest' When, as I told you, I actually saw with my own
eyes ’

‘I don’t care ! It’s not fair to say such things about people Even if they were
true it wouldn’t be right to repeat them There’s quite enough evil in the world
without going about looking for it ’

* Looking for it! ’ sighed Mrs Semprill ‘But, my dear Dorothy, as though one
ever wanted or needed to look 1 The trouble is that one can’t help seeing all the
dreadful wickedness that goes on m this town ’

Mrs Semprill was always genuinely astonished if you accused her of looking
for subjects for scandal Nothing, she would protest, pained her more than the



A Clergyman's Daughter 281

spectacle of human wickedness, but it was constantly forced upon her
unwilling eyes, and only a stern sense of duty impelled her to make it public
Dorothy’s remarks, so far from silencing her, merely set her talking about the
general corruption of Knype Hill, of which Molly Freeman’s misbehaviour
was only one example And so from Molly Freeman and her six young men she
proceeded to Dr Gaythorne, the town medical officer, who had got two of the
nurses at the Cottage Hospital with child, and then to Mrs Corn, the Town
Clerk’s wife, found lymg m a field dead drunk on eau-de-Cologne, and then to
the curate at St Wedekind’s m Millborough, who had involved himself m a
grave scandal with a choirboy, and so it went on, one thing leading to another
For there was hardly a soul m the town or the surrounding country about
whom Mrs Sempnll could not disclose some festering secret if you listened to
her long enough

It was noticeable that her stories were not only dirty and libellous, but they
had nearly always some monstrous tinge of perversion about them Compared
with the ordinary scandalmongers of a country town, she was Freud to
Boccaccio From hearing her talk you would have gathered the impression that
Knype Hill with its thousand inhabitants held more of the refinements of evil
than Sodom, Gomorrah, and Buenos Aires put together Indeed, when you
reflected upon the lives led by the inhabitants of this latter-day City of the
Plam-from the manager of the local bank squandering his clients’ money on
the children of his second and bigamous marriage, to the barmaid of the Dog
and Bottle serving drinks in the taproom dressed only in high-heeled satin
slippers, and from old Miss Channon, the music-teacher, with her secret gm
bottle and her anonymous letters, to Maggie White, the baker’s daughter, who
had borne three children to her own brother-when you considered these
people, all, young and old, rich and poor, sunken in monstrous and Babylonian
vices, you wondered that fire did not come down from Heaven and consume
the town forthwith But if you listened just a little longer, the catalogue of
obscenities became first monstrous and then unbearably dull For in a town m
which everyone is either a bigamist, a pederast, or a drug-taker, the worst
scandal loses its sting In fact, Mrs Sempnll was something worse than a
slanderer, she was a bore

As to the extent to which her stories were believed, it varied At times the
word would go round that she was a foul-mouthed old cat and everything she
said was a pack of lies, at other times one of her accusations would take effect
on some unfortunate person, who would need months or even years to live it
down She had certainly been instrumental m breaking off not less than half a
dozen engagements and starting innumerable quarrels between husbands and
wives

All this while Dorothy had been making abortive efforts to shake Mrs
Semprill off. She had edged her way gradually across the street until she was
wheeling her bicycle along the right-hand kerb> but Mrs Semprill had
followed, whispering without cease It was not until they reached the end of
the High Street that Dorothy summoned up enough firmness to escape She
halted and put her right foot on the pedal of her bicycle



282 A Clergyman’s Daughter

‘I really can’t stop a moment longer , 9 she said ‘I’ve got a thousand things to
do, and I’m late already ’

‘Oh, but, Dorothy dear 1 I’ve something else I simply must tell you-
something most important

‘I’m sorry-I’m in such a terrible hurry Another time, perhaps ’

‘It’s about that dreadful Mr Warburton,’ said Mrs Sempnll hastily, lest
Dorothy should escape without hearing it ‘He’s just come back From London,
and do you know— I most particularly wanted to tell you this-do you know, he
actually-’

But here Dorothy saw that she must make off instantly, at no matter what
cost She could imagine nothing more uncomfortable than to have to discuss
Mr Warburton with Mrs Semprill She mounted her bicycle, and with only a
very brief ‘Sorry - 1 really can’t stop 1 ’ began to ride hurriedly away

‘I wanted to tell you-he’s taken up with a new woman 1 ’ Mrs Semprill cried
after her, even forgetting to whisper in her eagerness to pass on this juicy titbit
But Dorothy rode swiftly round the corner, not looking back, and
pretending not to have heard An unwise thing to do, for it did not pay to cut
Mrs Semprill too short Any unwillingness to listen to her scandals was taken
as a sign of depravity, and led to fresh and worse scandals being published
about yourself the moment you had left her
As Dorothy rode homewards she had uncharitable thoughts about Mrs
Semprill, for which she duly pinched herself Also, there was another, rather
disturbing idea which had not occurred to her till this moment-that Mrs
Semprill would certainly learn of her visit to Mr Warburton’s house this
evening, and would probably have magnified it into something scandalous by
tomorrow The thought sent a vague premonition of evil through Dorothy’s
mind as she jumped off her bicycle at the Rectory gate, where Silly Jack, the
town idiot, a third-grade moron with a triangular scarlet face like a strawberry,
was loitering, vacantly flogging the gatepost with a hazel switch.


4


It was a little after eleven The day, which, like some overripe but hopeful
widow playing at seventeen, had been putting on unseasonable April airs, had
now remembered that it was August and settled down to be boiling hot
Dorothy rode into the hamlet of Fennelwick, a mile out of Knype Hill She
had delivered Mrs Lewm’s corn-plaster, and was dropping in to give old Mrs
Ptther that cutting from the Daily Mail about angelica tea for rheumatism
The sun, burning in the cloudless sky, scorched her back through her
gingham frock, and the dusty road quivered m the heat, and the hot, flat
meadows, over which even at this time of year numberless larks chirruped



A Clergyman 1 s Daughter 283

tiresomely, were so green that it hurt your eyes to look at them It was the kind
of day that is called ‘glorious’ by people who don’t have to work

Dorothy leaned her bicycle against the gate of the Pithers’cottage, and took
her handkerchief out of her bag and wiped her hands, which were sweating
from the handle-bars In the harsh sunlight her face looked pinched and
colourless She looked her age, and something over, at that hour of the
morning Throughout her day-and in general it was a seventeen-hour
day- she had regular, alternating periods of tiredness and energy, the middle of
the morning, when she was doing the first instalment of the day’s ‘visiting’,
was one of the tired periods

‘Visiting’, because of the distances she had to bicycle from house to house,
took up nearly half of Dorothy’s day Every day of her life, except on Sundays,
she made from half a dozen to a dozen visits at parishioners’ cottages She
penetrated into cramped interiors and sat on lumpy, dust-diffusmg chairs
gossiping with overworked, blowsy housewives, she spent hurried half-hours
giving a hand with the mending and the ironing, and read chapters from the
Gospels, and readjusted bandages on ‘bad legs’, and condoled with sufferers
from mornmg-sickness, she played nde-a-cock-horse with sour-smellmg
children who grimed the bosom of her dress with their sticky little fingers, she
gave advice about ailing aspidistras, and suggested names for babies, and
drank ‘nice cups of tea’ mnumerable-for the working women always wanted
her to have a ‘nice cup of tea’, out of the teapot endlessly stewing

Much of it was profoundly discouraging work Few, very few, of the women
seemed to have even a conception of the Christian life that she was trying to
help them to lead Some of them were shy and suspicious, stood on the
defensive, and made excuses when urged to come to Holy Communion, some
shammed piety for the sake of the tiny sums they could wheedle out of the
church alms box, those who welcomed her coming were for the most part the
talkative ones, who wanted an audience for complaints about the ‘goings on’ of
their husbands, or for endless mortuary tales (‘And he had to have glass chubes
let into his veins,’ etc , etc ) about the revolting diseases their relatives had died
of Quite half the women on her list, Dorothy knew, were at heart atheistical in
a vague unreasoning way She came up against it all day long-that vague,
blank disbelief so common in illiterate people, against which all argument is
powerless Do what she would, she could never raise the number of regular
communicants to more than a dozen or thereabouts Women would promise to
communicate, keep their promise for a month or two, and then fall away With
the younger women it was especially hopeless They would not even join the
local branches of the church leagues that were run for their benefit-Dorothy
was honorary secretary of three such leagues, besides being captain of the Girl
Guides, The Band of Hope and the Companionship of Marriage languished
almost memberless, and the Mothers’ Union only kept going because gossip
and unlimited strong tea made the weekly sewing-parties acceptable. Yes> it
was discouraging work, so discouraging that at times it would have seemed
altogether futile if she had not known the sense of futility for what it ls-the
subtlest weapon of the Devil*



284 A Clergyman’s Daughter

Dorothy knocked at the Pither s’ badly fitting door, from beneath which a
melancholy smell of boiled cabbage and dish-water was oozing From long
experience she knew and could taste in advance the individual smell of every
cottage on her rounds Some of their smells were peculiar in the extreme For
instance, there was the salty, feral smell that haunted the cottage of old Mr
Tombs, an aged retired bookseller who lay in bed all day m a darkened room,
with his long, dusty nose and pebble spectacles protruding from what
appeared to be a fur rug of vast size and richness

But if you put your hand on the fur rug it disintegrated, burst and fled in all
directions It was composed entirely of cats -twenty-four cats, to be exact Mr
Tombs ‘found they kept him warm 5 , he used to explain In nearly all the
cottages there was a basic smell of old overcoats and dish-water upon which
the other, individual smells were superimposed, the cesspool smell, the
cabbage smell, the smell of children, the strong, bacon-like reek of corduroys
impregnated with the sweat of a decade
Mrs Pither opened the door, which invariably stuck to the jamb, and then,
when you wrenched it open, shook the whole cottage She was a large,
stooping, grey woman with wispy grey hair, a sacking apron, and shuffling
carpet slippers

‘Why, if it isn’t Miss Dorothy' 5 she exclaimed in a dreary, lifeless but not
unaffectionate voice

She took Dorothy between her large, gnarled hands, whose knuckles were as
shmy as skinned onions from age and ceaseless washing up, and gave her a wet
kiss Then she drew her into the unclean interior of the cottage

‘Pither’s away at work. Miss,’ she announced as they got inside ‘Up to Dr
Gaythorne’s he is, a-diggmg over the doctor’s flower-beds for him ’

Mr Pither was a jobbing gardener He and his wife, both of them over
seventy, were one of the few genuinely pious couples on Dorothy’s visiting
list Mrs Pither led a dreary, wormlike life of shuffling to and fro, with a per-
petual crick m her neck because the door lintels were too low for her, between
the well, the sink, the fireplace, and the tiny plot of kitchen garden The
kitchen was decently tidy, but oppressively hot, evil-smellmg and saturated
with ancient dust At the end opposite the fireplace Mrs Pither had made a
kind of prie-dieu out of a greasy rag mat laid m front of a tiny, defunct
harmonium, on top of which were an oleographed crucifixion, ‘Watch and
Pray’ done m beadwork, and a photograph of Mr and Mrs Pither on their
wedding day in 1882

‘Poor Pither 1 ’ went on Mrs Pither in her depressing voice, ‘him a-diggmg at
his age, with his rheumatism that bad 1 Ain’t it cruel hard, Miss? And he’s had a
kind of a pam between his legs, Miss, as he can’t seem to account for -terrible
bad he’s been with it, these last few mornings Ain’t it bitter hard. Miss, the
lives us poor working folks has to lead? ’

‘It’s a shame,’ said Dorothy ‘But I hope you’ve been keeping a little better
yourself, Mrs Pither? ’

‘Ah, Miss, there’s nothmg don’t make me better I ain’t a case for curing,
not m this world, I ain’t I shan’t never get no better, not m this wicked



A Clergyman's Daughter


285


world down here ’

‘Oh, you mustn’t say that, Mrs Pither 1 1 hope we shall have you with us for a
long time yet ’

‘Ah, Miss, you don’t know how poorly I’ve been this last week 1 I’ve had the
rheumatism a-commg and a-going all down the backs of my poor old legs, till
there’s some mornings when I don’t feel as I can’t walk so far as to pull a
handful of onions m the garden Ah, Miss, it’s a weary world we lives in, ain’t
it, Miss? A weary, sinful world ’

‘But of course we must never forget, Mrs Pither, that there’s a better world
coming This life is only a time of trial-just to strengthen us and teach us to be
patient, so that we’ll be ready for Heaven when the time comes ’

At this a sudden and remarkable change came over Mrs Pither It was
produced by the word ‘Heaven’ Mrs Pither had only two subjects of
conversation, one of them was the joys of Heaven, and the other the miseries of
her present state Dorothy’s remark seemed to act upon her like a charm Her
dull grey eye was not capable of brightening, but her voice quickened with an
almost joyful enthusiasm

‘Ah, Miss, there you said it 1 That’s a true word. Miss' That’s what Pither
and me keeps a-saying to ourselves And that’s just the one thing as keeps us a-
gomg-just the thought of Heaven and the long, long rest we’ll have there
Whatever we’ve suffered, we gets it all back in Heaven, don’t we. Miss? Every
little bit of suffering, you gets it back a hundredfold and a thousandfold That
is true, ain’t it. Miss? There’s rest for us all m Heaven-rest and peace and no
more rheumatism nor digging nor cooking nor laundering nor nothing You do
believe that, don’t you. Miss Dorothy? ’

‘Of course,’ said Dorothy

‘Ah, Miss, if you knew how it comforts us-just the thoughts of Heaven'
Pither he says to me, when he comes home tired of a night and our
rheumatism’s bad, “Never you mind, my dear,” he says, “we ain’t far off
Heaven now,” he says “Heaven was made for the likes of us,” he says, “just
for poor working folks like us, that have been sober and godly and kept our
Communions regular ” That’s the best way, ain’t it, Miss Dorothy-poor m
this life and rich m the next? Not like some of them rich folks as all their motor-
cars and their beautiful houses won’t save from the worm that dieth not and
the fire that’s not quenched Such a beautiful text, that is Do you think you
could say a little prayer with me, Miss Dorothy? I been looking forward all the
morning to a little prayer ’

Mrs Pither was always ready for a ‘little prayer’ at any hour of the night or
day. It was her equivalent to a ‘nice cup of tea’ They knelt down on the rag
mat and said the Lord’s Prayer and the Collect for the week, and then
Dorothy, at Mrs Pither’s request, read the parable of Dives and Lazarus, Mrs
Pither coming m from time to time with ‘Amen' That’s a true word, ain’t it.
Miss Dorothy? “And he was carried by angels into Abraham’s bosom. ”
Beautiful' Dh, I do call that just too beautiful' Amen, Miss Dorothy- Amen! ’

Dorothy gave Mrs Pither the cutting from the Daily Mail about angelica tea
for rheumatism, and then, finding that Mrs Pither had been too ‘poorly’ to



286 A Clergyman’ s Daughter

draw the day’s supply of water, she drew three bucketfuls for her from the
well It was a very deep well, with such a low parapet that Mrs Pither’s final
doom would almost certainly be to fall into it and get drowned, and it had not
even a winch- you had to haul the bucket up hand over hand And then they
sat down for a few minutes, and Mrs Pither talked some more about Heaven It
was extraordinary how constantly Heaven reigned m her thoughts, and more
extraordinary yet was the actuality, the vividness with which she could see it
The golden streets and the gates of orient pearl were as real to her as though
they had been actually before her eyes And her vision extended to the most
concrete, the most earthly details The softness of the beds up there! The
deliciousness of the food' The lovely silk clothes that you would put on clean
every morning! The surcease from everlasting to everlasting from work of any
description' In almost every moment of her life the vision of Heaven supported
and consoled her, and her abject complaints about the lives of ‘poor working
folks’ were curiously tempered by a satisfaction m the thought that, after all, it
is ‘poor working folks’ who are the principal inhabitants of Heaven It was a
sort of bargain that she had struck, setting her lifetime of dreary labour against
an eternity of bliss Her faith was almost too great, if that is possible For it was
a curious fact, but the certitude with which Mrs Pither looked forward to
Heaven-as to some kind of glorified home for mcurables-affected Dorothy
with strange uneasiness

Dorothy prepared to depart, while Mrs Pither thanked her, rather too
effusively, for her visit, winding up, as usual, with fresh complaints about her
rheumatism

‘I’ll be sure and take the angelica tea,’ she concluded, ‘and thank you kindly
for telling me of it. Miss Not as I don’t expect as it’ll do me much good Ah,
Miss, if you knew how cruel bad my rheumatism’s been this last week' All
down the backs of my legs, it is, like a regular shooting red-hot poker, and I
don’t seem to be able to get at them to rub them properly Would it be asking
too much of you. Miss, to give me a bit of a rub-down before you go? I got a
bottle of Elliman’s under the sink ’

Unseen by Mrs Pither, Dorothy gave herself a severe pinch She had been
expecting this, and-she had done it so many times before-she really did not
enjoy rubbing Mrs Pither down She exhorted herself angrily Come on,
Dorothy' No smffishness, please' John xrn, 14 ‘Of course I will, Mrs Pither 1 ’
she said instantly

They went up the narrow, rickety staircase, in which you had to bend almost
double at one place to avoid the overhanging ceiling The bedroom was lighted
by a tiny square of window that was jammed in its socket by the creeper
outside, and had not been opened in twenty years There was an enormous
double bed that almost filled the room, with sheets perennially damp and a
flock mattress as full of hills and valleys as a contour map of Switzerland With
many groans the old woman crept on to the bed and laid herself face down
The room reeked of urine and paregoric Dorothy took the bottle of Elliman’s
embrocation and carefully anointed Mrs Pither’s large, grey-vemed, flaccid
legs.



A Clergyman’s Daughter 287

Outside, m the swimming heat, she mounted her bicycle and began to ride
swiftly homewards The sun burned m her face, but the air now seemed sweet
and fresh She was happy, happy 1 She was always extravagantly happy when
her morning’s ‘visiting’ was over, and, curiously enough, she was not aware of
the reason for this In Borlase the dairy-farmer’s meadow the red cows were
grazing, knee-deep in shining seas of grass The scent of cows, like a
distillation of vanilla and fresh hay, floated into Dorothy’s nostrils Though
she had still a morning’s work m front of her she could not resist the
temptation to loiter for a moment, steadying her bicycle with one hand against
the gate of Borlase’s meadow, while a cow, with moist shell-pink nose,
scratched its chin upon the gatepost and dreamily regarded her

Dorothy caught sight of a wild rose, flowerless of course, growing beyond
the hedge, and climbed over the gate with the intention of discovering whether
it were not sweetbriar She knelt down among the tall weeds beneath the
hedge It was very hot down there, close to the ground The humming of many
unseen insects sounded m her ears, and the hot summery fume from the
tangled swathes of vegetation flowed up and enveloped her Near by, tall stalks
of fennel were growing, with trailing fronds of foliage like the tails of sea-green
horses Dorothy pulled a frond of the fennel against her face and breathed m
the strong sweet scent Its richness overwhelmed her, almost dizzied her for a
moment She drank it in, filling her lungs with it Lovely, lovely scent-scent of
summer days, scent of childhood joys, scent of spice-drenched islands m the
warm foam of Oriental seas'

Her heart swelled with sudden joy It was that mystical joy m the beauty of
the earth and the very nature of things that she recognized, perhaps
mistakenly, as the love of God As she knelt there in the heat, the sweet odour
and the drowsy hum of insects, it seemed to her that she could momentarily
hear the mighty anthem of praise that the earth and all created things send up
everlastingly to their maker All vegetation, leaves, flowers, grass, shining,
vibrating, crying out in their joy Larks also chanting, choirs of larks invisible,
dripping music from the sky All the riches of summer, the warmth of the
earth, the song of birds, the fume of cows, the droning of countless bees,
mingling and ascending like the smoke of ever-burning altars Therefore with
Angels and Archangels' She began to pray, and for a moment she prayed
ardently, blissfully, forgetting herself m the joy of her worship Then, less
than a minute later, she discovered that she was kissing the frond of the fennel
that was still against her face

She checked herself instantly, and drew back What was she doing 5 Was it
God that she was worshipping, or was it only the earth 5 The joy ebbed out of
her heart, to be succeeded by the cold, uncomfortable feeling that she had been
betrayed into a half-pagan ecstasy. She admonished herself None of that ,
Dorothy! No Nature-worship, please 1 Her father had warned her against
Nature-worship She had heard him preach more than one sermon against it; it
was, he said, mere pantheism, and, what seemed to offend him even more, a
disgusting modem fad Dorothy took a thorn of the wild rose, and pricked her
arm three times, to remind herself of the Three Persons of the Trinity, before



288 A Clergyman's Daughter

climbing over the gate and remounting her bicycle

A black, very dusty shovel hat was approaching round the corner of the
hedge It was Father McGuire, the Roman Catholic priest, also bicycling his
rounds He was a very large, rotund man, so large that he dwarfed the bicycle
beneath him and seemed to be balanced on top of it like a golf-ball on a tee His
face was rosy, humorous, and a little sly

Dorothy looked suddenly unhappy She turned pink, and her hand moved
instinctively to the neighbourhood of the gold cross beneath her dress Father
McGuire was riding towards her with an untroubled, faintly amused air She
made an endeavour to smile, and murmured unhappily, ‘Good morning 1 But
he rode on without a sign, his eyes swept easily over her face and then beyond
her into vacancy, with an admirable pretence of not having noticed her
existence It was the Cut Direct Dorothy-by nature, alas' unequal to
delivering the Cut Direct- got on to her bicycle and rode away, struggling with
the uncharitable thoughts which a meeting with Father McGuire never failed
to arouse m her

Five or six years earlier, when Father McGuire was holding a funeral in St
Athelstan’s churchyard (there was no Roman Catholic cemetery at Knype
Hill), there had been some dispute with the Rector about the propriety of
Father McGuire robing in the church, or not robing in the church, and the two
priests had wrangled disgracefully over the open grave Since then they had
not been on speaking terms It was better so, the Rector said

As to the other ministers of religion m Knype Hill-Mr Ward the
Congregationalist minister, Mr Foley the Wesleyan pastor, and the braying
bald-headed elder who conducted the orgies at Ebenezer Chapel-the Rector
called them a pack of vulgar Dissenters and had forbidden Dorothy on pain of
his displeasure to have anything to do with them


5


It was twelve o’clock In the large, dilapidated conservatory, whose roof-
panes, from the action of time and dirt, were dim, green, and iridescent like old
Roman glass, they were having a hurried and noisy rehearsal of Charles I
Dorothy was not actually taking part in the rehearsal, but was busy making
costumes She made the costumes, or most of them, for all the plays the
schoolchildren acted- The production and stage management were m the
hands of Victor Stone-Victor, Dorothy called him-the Church school-
master He was a small-boned, excitable, black-haired youth of twenty-seven,
dressed in dark sub-clerical clothes, and at this moment he was gesturing
fiercely with a roll of manuscript at six dense-lookmg children On a long
bench against the wall four more children were alternately practising ‘noises



A Clergyman’s Daughter 289

off’ by clashing fire-irons together, and squabbling over a grimy little bag of
Spearmint Bouncers, forty a penny

It was horribly hot in the conservatory, and there was a powerful smell of
glue and the sour sweat of children Dorothy was kneeling on the floor, with
her mouth full of pms and a pair of shears in her hand, rapidly slicing sheets of
brown paper into long narrow strips The glue-pot was bubbling on an oil-
stove beside her, behind her, on the rickety, ink-stained work-table, were a
tangle of half-finished costumes, more sheets of brown paper, her sewing-
machine, bundles of tow, shards of dry glue, wooden swords, and open pots of
paint With half her mmd Dorothy was meditating upon the two pairs of
seventeenth-century jackboots that had got to be made for Charles I and
Oliver Cromwell, and with the other half listening to the angry shouts of
Victor, who was working himself up into a rage, as he invariably did at
rehearsals He was a natural actor, and withal thoroughly bored by the
drudgery of rehearsing half-witted children He strode up and down,
haranguing the children m a vehement slangy style, and every now and then
breaking off to lunge at one or other of them with a wooden sword that he had
grabbed from the table

Tut a bit of life into it, can’t you 5 ’ he cried, plodding an ox-faced boy of
eleven in the belly ‘Don’t drone 1 Say it as if it meant something' You look like
a corpse that’s been buried and dug up again What’s the good of gurgling it
down m your inside like that 5 Stand up and shout at him Take off that second
murderer expression' 5

‘Come here, Percy' 5 cried Dorothy through her pins ‘Quick 1 ’

She was making the armour-the worst job of the lot, except those wretched
jackboots-out of glue and brown paper From long practice Dorothy could
make very nearly anything out of glue and brown paper, she could even make a
passably good periwig, with a brown paper skull-cap and dyed tow for the hair
Taking the year through, the amount of time she spent m struggling with glue,
brown paper, butter muslin, and all the other paraphernalia of amateur
theatricals was enormous So chronic was the need of money for all the church
funds that hardly a month ever passed when there was not a school play or a
pageant or an exhibition of tableaux vivants on hand-not to mention the
bazaars and jumble sales

As Percy-Percy Jowett, the blacksmith’s son, a small curly-headed boy-got
down from the bench and stood wriggling unhappily before her, Dorothy
seized a sheet of brown paper, measured it against him, snipped out the
neckhole and armholes, draped it round his middle and rapidly pinned it into
the shape of a rough breastplate There was a confused dm of voices.

victor Come on, now, come on! Enter Oliver Cromwell-that’s you! No, not
like that' Do you think Oliver Cromwell would come slinking on like a dog
that’s just had a hiding? Stand up. Stick your chest out. Scowl. That’s
better Now go on, Cromwell : ‘Halt! I hold a pistol m my hand! ’ Go on
a girl’ Please, Miss, Mother said as I was to tell you, Miss-
dorothy Keep still, Percy' For goodness’ sake keep still'



290 A Clergyman's Daughter

cromwell ’Alt' I ’old a pistol in my ’and 1

a small girl on the bench Mister' I’ve dropped my sweetie' [Snivelling] I’ve
dropped by swee-e-e-etie'
victor No, no, no, Tommie' No, no, no'

the girl Please, Miss, Mother said as I was to tell you as she couldn’t make
my knickers like she promised, Miss, because-
dorothy You’ll make me swallow a pin if you do that again
cromwell i/alt' I hold a pistol -
the small girl [in tears] My swee-e-e-e-eetie'

Dorothy seized the glue-brush, and with feverish speed pasted strips of
brown paper all over Percy’s thorax, up and down, backwards and forwards,
one on top of another, pausing only when the paper stuck to her fingers In five
minutes she had made a cuirass of glue and brown paper stout enough, when it
was dry, to have defied a real sword-blade Percy, ‘locked up in complete steel’
and with the sharp paper edge cutting his chin, looked down at himself with
the miserable resigned expression of a dog having its bath Dorothy took the
shears, slit the breastplate up one side, set it on end to dry and started
immediately on another child A fearful clatter broke out as the ‘noises off
began practising the sound of pistol-shots and horses galloping Dorothy’s
fingers were getting stickier and stickier, but from time to time she washed
some of the glue off them in a bucket of hot water that was kept- in readiness In
twenty minutes she had partially completed three breastplates Later on they
would have to be finished off, painted over with aluminium paint and laced up
the sides, and after that there was the job of making the thigh-pieces, and,
worst of all, the helmets to go with them Victor, gesticulating with his sword
and shouting to overcome the dm of galloping horses, was personating m turn
Oliver Cromwell, Charles I, Roundheads, Cavaliers, peasants, and Court
ladies The children were now growing restive and beginning to yawn, whine,
and exchange furtive kicks and pinches The breastplates finished for the
moment, Dorothy swept some of the litter off the table, pulled her sewing-
machine into position and set to work on a Cavalier’s green velvet doublet-it
was butter muslin Twmked green, but it looked all right at a distance
There was another ten minutes of feverish work Dorothy broke her thread,
all but said ‘Damn 1 ’ checked herself and hurriedly re-threaded the needle She
was working against time The play was now a fortnight distant, and there was
such a multitude of things yet to be made-helmets, doublets, swords,
jackboots (those miserable jackboots had been haunting her like a nightmare
for days past), scabbards, ruffles, wigs, spurs, scenery-that her heart sank
when she thought of them The children’s parents never helped with the
costumes for the school plays, more exactly, they always promised to help and
then backed out afterwards, Dorothy’s head was aching diabolically, partly
from the heat of the conservatory, partly from the strain of simultaneously
sewing and trying to visualize patterns for brown paper jackboots For the
moment she had even forgotten the bill for twenty-one pounds seven and
nmepence at Cargill’s She could think of nothing save that fearful mountain



A Clergyman’s Daughter 291

of unmade clothes that lay ahead of her It was so throughout the day One
thing loomed up after another- whether it was the costumes for the school play
or the collapsing floor of the belfry, or the shop -debts or the bindweed in the
peas-and each in its turn so urgent and so harassing that it blotted all the
others out of existence

Victor threw down his wooden sword, took out his watch and looked at it
‘That’ll do 1 ’ he said m the abrupt, ruthless tone from which he never
departed when he was dealing with children ‘We’ll go on on Friday Clear out,
the lot of you 1 I’m sick of the sight of you ’

He watched the children out, and then, having forgotten their existence as
soon as they were out of his sight, produced a page of music from his pocket
and began to fidget up and down, cocking his eye at two forlorn plants m the
corner which trailed their dead brown tendrils over the edges of their pots
Dorothy was still bending over her machine, stitching up the seams of the
green velvet doublet

Victor was a restless, intelligent little creature, and only happy when he was
quarrelling with somebody or something His pale, fine-featured face wore an
expression that appeared to be discontent and was really boyish eagerness
People meeting him for the first time usually said that he was wasting his
talents in his obscure job as a village schoolmaster, but the truth was that
Victor had no very marketable talents except a slight gift for music and a much
more pronounced gift for dealing with children Ineffectual m other ways, he
was excellent with children, he had the proper, ruthless attitude towards them
But of course, like everyone else, he despised his own especial talent His
interests were almost purely ecclesiastical He was what people call a churchy
young man It had always been his ambition to enter the Church, and he would
actually have done so if he had possessed the kind of brain that is capable of
learning Greek and Hebrew Debarred from the priesthood, he had drifted
quite naturally into his position as a Church schoolmaster and organist It kept
him, so to speak, within the Church precincts Needless to say, he was an
Anglo-Catholic of the most truculent Church Times breed-more clerical than
the clerics, knowledgeable about Church history, expert on vestments, and
ready at any moment with a furious tirade against Modernists, Protestants,
scientists, Bolshevists, and atheists

‘I was thinking,’ said Dorothy as she stopped her machine and snipped off
the thread, ‘we might make those helmets out of old bowler hats, if we can get
hold of enough of them Cut the brims off, put on paper brims of the right
shape and silver them over ’

‘Oh Lord, why worry your head about such things? ’ said Victor, who had
lost interest m the play the moment the rehearsal was over

‘It’s those wretched jackboots that are worrying me the most,’ said Dorothy,
taking the doublet on to her knee and looking at it
‘Oh, bother the jackboots 1 Let’s stop thinking about the play for a moment.
Look here,’ said Victor, unrolling his page of music, ‘I want you to speak to
your father for me I wish you’d ask him whether we can’t have a procession
some time next month ’



292 A Clergyman ’s Daughter

‘Another procession? What for? ’

‘Oh, I don’t know You can always find an excuse for a procession There’s
the Nativity of the B V M coming off on the eighth-that’s good enough for a
procession, I should think We’ll do it in style I’ve got hold of a splendid
rousing hymn that they can all bellow, and perhaps we could borrow their blue
banner with the Virgin Mary on it from St Wedekind’s in Millborough If he’ll
say the word I’ll start practising the choir at once ’

‘You know he’ll only say no,’ said Dorothy, threading a needle to sew
buttons on the doublet ‘He doesn’t really approve of processions It’s much
better not to ask him and make him angry ’

‘Oh, but dash it all'’ protested Victor ‘It’s simply months since we’ve had a
procession I never saw such dead-alive services as we have here You’d think
we were a Baptist chapel or something, from the way we go on ’

Victor chafed ceaselessly against the dull correctness of the Rector’s
services His ideal was what he called ‘the real Catholic worship ’-meaning
unlimited incense, gilded images, and more Roman vestments In his capacity
of organist he was for ever pressing for more processions, more voluptuous
music, more elaborate chanting in the liturgy, so that it was a continuous pull
devil, pull baker between him and the Rector And on this point Dorothy sided
with her father Having been brought up in the peculiar, frigid via media of
Anglicanism, she was by nature averse to and half-afraid of anything
‘ritualistic’

‘But dash it all*’ went on Victor, ‘a procession is such fun' Down the aisle,
out through the west door and back through the south door, with the choir
carrying candles behind and the Boy Scouts in front with the banner It would
look fine ’ He sang a stave in a thin but tuneful tenor
‘Hail thee. Festival Day, blest day that art hallowed for ever 1 ’

‘If I had my way,’ he added, ‘I’d have a couple of boys swinging jolly good
censers of incense at the same time ’

‘Yes, but you know how much Father dislikes that kind of thing Especially
when it’s anything to do with the Virgin Mary He says it’s all Roman Fever
and leads to people crossing themselves and genuflecting at the wrong times
and goodness knows what You remember what happened at Advent ’

The previous year, on his own responsibility, Victor had chosen as one of
the hymns for Advent, Number 642, with the refrain ‘Hail Mary, hail Mary,
hail Mary full of grace*’ This piece of popishness had annoyed the Rector
extremely At the close of the first verse he had pointedly laid down his hymn
book, turned round in his stall and stood regarding the congregation with an
air so stony that some of the choirboys faltered and almost broke down
Afterwards he had said that to hear the rustics bawling ‘’Ail Mary' ’Ail Mary*’
made him think he was m the four-ale bar of the Dog and Bottle

‘But dash it'’ said Victor m his aggrieved way, ‘your father always puts his
foot down when I try and get a bit of life into the service He won’t allow us
mcense, or decent music, or proper vestments, or anything And what’s the
result? We can’t get enough people to fill the church a quarter full, even on
Easter Sunday You look round the church on Sunday morning, and it’s



A Clei gyman’ s Daughter 293

nothing but the Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides and a few old women ’

‘I know It’s dreadful,’ admitted Dorothy, sewing on her button ‘It doesn’t
seem to make any difference what we do- we simply can’t get the people to
come to church Still,’ she added, ‘they do come to us to be married and
buried And I don’t think the congregation’s actually gone down this year
There were nearly two hundred people at Easter Communion ’

‘Two hundred* It ought to be two thousand That’s the population of this
town The fact is that three quarters of the people in this place never go near a
church in their lives The Church has absolutely lost its hold over them They
don’t know that it exists And why’ That’s what I’m getting at Why’’

‘I suppose it’s all this Science and Free Thought and all that,’ said Dorothy
rather sententiously, quoting her father
This remark deflected Victor from what he had been about to say He had
been on the very point of saying that St Athelstan’s congregation had dwindled
because of the dullness of the services, but the hated words of Science and Free
Thought set him off in another and even more familiar channel
‘Of course it’s this so-called Free Thought*’ he exclaimed, immediately
beginning to fidget up and down again ‘It’s these swine of atheists like
Bertrand Russell and Julian Huxley and all that crowd And what’s ruined the
Church is that instead of jolly well answering them and showing them up for
the fools and liars they are, we just sit tight and let them spread their beastly
atheist propaganda wherever they choose It’s all the fault of the bishops, of
course ’ (Like every Anglo-Catholic, Victor had an abysmal contempt for
bishops ) ‘They’re all Modernists and time-servers By Jove*’ he added more
cheerfully, halting, ‘did you see my letter m the Church Times last week’’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t,’ said Dorothy, holding another button m position
with her thumb ‘What was it about’’

‘Oh, Modernist bishops and all that I got m a good swipe at old Barnes ’

It was very rarely that a week passed when Victor did not write a letter to the
Church Times He was m the thick of every controversy and in the forefront of
every assault qpon Modernists and atheists He had twice been in combat with
Dr Major, had written letters of withering irony about Dean Inge and the
Bishop of Birmingham, and had not hesitated to attack even the fiendish
Russell himself-but Russell, of course, had not dared to reply Dorothy, to tell
the truth, very seldom read the Church Times, and the Rector grew angry if he
so much as saw a copy of it m the house The weekly paper they took in the
Rectory was the High Churchman’s Gazette -a fine old High Tory anachronism
with a small and select circulation

‘That swine Russell*’ said Victor reminiscently, with his hands deep m his
pockets ‘How he does make my blood boil*’

‘Isn’t that the man who’s such a clever mathematician, or something’’ said
Dorothy, biting off her thread

‘Oh, I dare say he’s clever enough in his own line, of course,’ admitted
Victor grudgingly ‘But what’s that got to do with it’ Just because a man’s
clever at figures it doesn’t mean to say that- well, anyway* Let’s come back to
what I was saying. Why is it that we can’t get people to come to church in this



294 A Clergyman’s Daughter

placed It’s because our services are so dreary and godless, that’s what it is
People want worship that is worship-they want the real Catholic worship of
the real Catholic Church we belong to And they don’t get if from us All they
get is the old Protestant mumbo-jumbo, and Protestantism’s as dead as a
doornail, and everyone knows it ’

‘That’s not true 1 ’ said Dorothy rather sharply as she pressed the third
button into place ‘You know we’re not Protestants Father’s always saying
that the Church of England is the Catholic Church-he’s preached I don’t
know how many sermons about the Apostolic Succession That’s why Lord
Pockthorne and the others won’t come to church here Only he won’t join m
the Anglo-Catholic movement because he thinks they’re too fond of ritualism
for its own sake And so do I ’

‘Oh, I don’t say your father isn’t absolutely sound on doctrme-absolutely
sound But if he thinks we’re the Catholic Church, why doesn’t he hold the
service in a proper Catholic way? It’s a shame we can’t have incense
occasionally And his ideas about vestments-if you don’t mmd my saying
lt-are simply awful On Easter Sunday he was wearing a Gothic cope with a
modern Italian lace alb Dash it, it’s like wearing a top hat with brown boots ’

‘Well, I don’t think vestments are so important as you do,’ said Dorothy ‘I
think it’s the spirit of the priest that matters, not the clothes he wears ’

‘That’s the kind of thing a Primitive Methodist would say 1 ’ exclaimed
Victor disgustedly ‘Of course vestments are important 1 Where’s the sense of
worshipping at all if we can’t make a proper job of it? Now, if you want to see
what real Catholic worship can be like, look at St Wedekind’s m Millborough'
By Jove, they do things in style there 1 Images of the Virgin, reservation of the
Sacrament-everythmg They’ve had the Kensitites on to them three times,
and they simply defy the Bishop ’

‘Oh, I hate the way they go on at St Wedekind’s 1 ’ said Dorothy ‘They’re
absolutely spiky You can hardly see what’s happening at the altar, there are
such clouds of incense I think people like that ought to turn Roman Catholic
and have done with it ’

‘My dear Dorothy, you ought to have been a Nonconformist You really
ought A Plymouth Brother-or a Plymouth Sister or whatever it’s called I
think your favourite hymn must be Number 567, “O my God I fear Thee,
Thou art very High 1 ” ’

‘Yours is Number 231, “I nightly pitch my moving tent a day’s march
nearer Rome*’” retorted Dorothy, winding the thread round the last button

The argument continued for several minutes while Dorothy adorned a
Cavalier’s beaver hat (it was an old black felt school hat of her own) with plume
and ribbons She and Victor were never long together without being involved
in an argument upon the question of ‘ritualism’ In Dorothy’s opinion Victor
was a kind to ‘go over to Rome’ if not prevented, and she was very likely right
But Victor was not yet aware of his probable destiny At present the fevers of
the Anglo-Catholic movement, with its ceaseless exciting warfare on three
fronts at once-Protestants to right of you, Modernists to the left of you, and,
unfortunately, Roman Catholics to rear of you and always ready for a sly kick



A Clergyman’s Daughter 293

in the pants-filled his mental horizon Scoring off Dr Major m the Church
Times meant more to him than any of the serious business of life But for all his
churchmess he had not an atom of real piety m his constitution It was
essentially as a game that religious controversy appealed to him-the most
absorbing game ever invented, because it goes on for ever and because just a
little cheating is allowed

‘Thank goodness, that’s done 1 ’ said Dorothy, twiddling the Cavalier’s
beaver hat round on her hand and then putting it down ‘Oh dear, what piles of
things there are still to do, though' I wish I could get those wretched jackboots
off my mind What’s the time, Victor’’

‘It’s nearly five to one ’

‘Oh, good gracious 1 I must run I’ve got three omelettes to make I daren’t
trust them to Ellen And, oh, Victor' Have you got anything you can give us for
the jumble sale’ If you had an old pair of trousers you could give us, that would
be best of all, because we can always sell trousers ’

‘Trousers’ No But I tell you what I have got, though I’ve got a copy of The
Pilgrim’s Progress and another of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs that I’ve been
wanting to get rid of for years Beastly Protestant trash' An old Dissenting aunt
of mine gave them to me -Doesn’t it make you sick, all this cadging for
pennies’ Now, if we only held our services m a proper Catholic way, so that we
could get up a proper congregation, don’t you see, we shouldn’t need-’

‘That’ll be splendid,’ said Dorothy ‘We always have a stall for books-we
charge a penny for each book, and nearly all of them get sold We simply must
make that jumble sale a success, Victor' I’m countmg on Miss Mayfill to give
us something really nice What I’m specially hoping is that she might give us
that beautiful old Lowestoft china tea service of hers, and we could sell it for
five pounds at least I’ve been making special prayers all the morning that
she’ll give it to us ’

‘Oh’’ said Victor, less enthusiastically than usual Like Proggett earlier m
the morning, he was embarrassed by the word ‘prayer’ He was ready to talk all
day long about a point of ritual, but the mention of private devotions struck
him as slightly indecent ‘Don’t forget to ask your father about the procession,’
he said, getting back to a more congenial topic

‘All right. I’ll ask him But you know how it’ll be He’ll only get annoyed and
say it’s Roman Fever ’

‘Oh, damn Roman Fever' 5 said Victor, who, unlike Dorothy, did not set
himself penances for swearing

Dorothy hurried to the kitchen, discovered that there were only five eggs to
make the omelettes for three people, and decided to make one large omelette and
swell it out a bit with the cold boiled potatoes left over from yesterday. With a
short prayer for the success of the omelette (for omelettes are so dreadfully apt
to get broken when you take them out of the pan), she whipped up the eggs,
while Victor made off down the drive, half wistfully and half sulkily humming
‘Hail thee, Festival Day’, and passing on his way a disgusted-lookmg
manservant carrying the two handleless chamber-pots which were Miss
May fill’s contribution to the jumble sale



6


It was a little after ten o’clock Various things had happened-nothmg,
however, of any particular importance, only the usual round of parish jobs that
filled up Dorothy’s afternoon and evening Now, as she had arranged earlier in
the day, she was at Mr Warburton’s house, and was trying to hold her own in
one of those meandering arguments in which he delighted to entangle her
They were talking-but indeed, Mr Warburton never failed to manoeuvre
the conversation towards this subject-about the question of religious belief
‘My dear Dorothy,’ he was saying argumentatively, as he walked up and
down with one hand in his coat pocket and the other manipulating a Brazilian
cigar ‘My dear Dorothy, you don’t seriously mean to tell me that at your
age-twenty-seven, I believe-and with your intelligence, you will retain your
religious beliefs more or less in toto > ’

‘Of course I do You know I do ’

‘Oh, come, now 1 The whole bag of tricks? All that nonsense that you learned
at your mother’s knee-surely you’re not going to pretend to me that you still
believe m it? But of course you don’t 1 You can’t 1 You’re afraid to own up,
that’s all it is No need to worry about that here, you know The Rural Dean’s
wife isn’t listening, and / won’t give the show away ’

‘I don’t know what you mean by “all that nonsense”/ began Dorothy, sitting
up straighter m her chair, a little offended

‘Well, let’s take an instance Something particularly hard to swallow-Hell,
for instance Do you believe in Hell? When I say believe , mind you. I’m not
asking whether you believe it m some milk and water metaphorical way like
these Modernist bishops young Victor Stone gets so excited about I mean do
you believe in it literally? Do you believe m Hell as you believe m Australia? ’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ said Dorothy, and she endeavoured to explain to him
that the existence of Hell is much more real and permanent than the existence
of Australia

‘Hm,’ said Mr Warburton, unimpressed ‘Very sound in its way, of course
But what always makes me so suspicious of you religious people is that you’re
so deucedly cold-blooded about your beliefs It shows a very poor imagination,
to say the least of it Here am I an mfidel and blasphemer and neck deep m at
least six out of the Seven Deadly, and obviously doomed to eternal torment
There’s no knowing that in an hour’s time I mayn’t be roasting in the hottest
part of Hell And yet you can sit there talking to me as calmly as though I’d
nothing the matter with me Now, if I’d merely got cancer or leprosy or some



A Clergyman's Daughter 297

other bodily ailment, you’d be quite distressed about lt-at least, I like to flatter
myself that you would Whereas, when I’m going to sizzle on the grid
throughout eternity, you seem positively unconcerned about it ’

‘I never said you were going to Hell,’ said Dorothy somewhat
uncomfortably, and wishing that the conversation would take a different turn
For the truth was, though she was not gomg to tell him so, that the point Mr
Warburton had raised was one with which she herself had had certain
difficulties She did indeed believe in Hell, but she had never been able to
persuade herself that anyone actually went there She believed that Hell
existed, but that it was empty Uncertain of the orthodoxy of this belief, she
preferred to keep it to herself ‘It’s never certain that anyone is gomg to Hell,’
she said more firmly, feeling that here at least she was on sure ground
‘What 1 ’ said Mr Warburton, halting m mock surprise ‘Surely you don’t
mean to say that there’s hope for me yet’’

‘Of course there is It’s only those horrid Predestination people who pretend
that you go to Hell whether you repent or not You don’t think the Church of
England are Calvinists, do you’’

‘I suppose there’s always the chance of getting off on a plea of Invincible
Ignorance,’ said Mr Warburton reflectively, and then, more confidently ‘Do
you know, Dorothy, I’ve a sort of feeling that even now, after knowing me two
years, you’ve still half an idea you can make a convert of me A lost
sheep-brand plucked from the burning, and all that I believe you still hope
against hope that one of these days my eyes will be opened and you’ll meet me
at Holy Communion at seven o’clock on some damned cold winter morning
Don’t you’’

‘Well-’ said Dorothy, again uncomfortably She did, m fact, entertain some
such hope about Mr Warburton, though he was not exactly a promising case
for conversion It was not in her nature to see a fellow being m a state of
unbelief without making some effort to reclaim him What hours she had
spent, at different times, earnestly debating with vague village atheists who
could not produce a single intelligible reason for their unbelief 1 ‘Yes,’ she
admitted finally, not particularly wanting to make the admission, but not
wanting to prevaricate
Mr Warburton laughed delightedly.

‘You’ve a hopeful nature,’ he said ‘But you aren’t afraid, by any chance, that
I might convert you? “The dog it was that died”, you may remember ’

At this Dorothy merely smiled ‘Don’t let him see he’s shocking you’-that
was always her maxim when she was talking to Mr Warburton. They had been
arguing m this manner, without coming to any kmd of conclusion, for the past
hour, and might have gone on for the rest of the night if Dorothy had been
willing to stay, for Mr Warburton delighted in teasing her about her religious
beliefs He had that fatal cleverness that so often goes with unbelief, and in
their arguments, though Dorothy was always right, she was not Sways
victorious They were sitting, or rather Dorothy was sitting and Mr
Warburton was standing, m a large agreeable room, giving on a moonlit lawn,
that Mr Warburton called his ‘studio’ -not that there was any sign of work ever



2^8 A Clergyman's Daughter

having been done in it To Dorothy’s great disappointment, the celebrated Mr
Bewley had not turned up (As a matter of fact, neither Mr Bewley, nor his
wife, nor his novel entitled Fishpools and Concubines , actually existed Mr
Warburton had invented all three of them on the spur of the moment, as a
pretext for inviting Dorothy to his house, well knowing that she would never
come unchaperoned ) Dorothy had felt rather uneasy on finding that Mr
Warburton was alone It had occurred to her, indeed she had felt perfectly
certain, that it would be wiser to go home at once, but she had stayed, chiefly
because she was horribly tired and the leather armchair into which Mr
Warburton had thrust her the moment she entered the house was too
comfortable to leave Now, however, her conscience was pricking her It didn't
do to stay too late at his house-people would talk if they heard of it Besides,
there was a multitude of jobs that she ought to be doing and that she had
neglected in order to come here She was so little used to idleness that even an
hour spent m mere talking seemed to her vaguely sinful

She made an effort, and straightened herself in the too-comfortable chair C I
think, if you don’t mind, it’s really time I was getting home,’ she said

‘Talking of Invincible Ignorance,’ went on Mr Warburton, taking no notice
of Dorothy’s remark, ‘I forget whether I ever told you that once when I was
standing outside the World’s End pub m Chelsea, waiting for a taxi, a damned
ugly little Salvation Army lassie came up to me and said-without any kind of
introduction, you know-“What will you say at the Judgement Seat? ” I said,
“I am reserving my defence ” Rather neat, I think, don’t you? ’

Dorothy did not answer Her conscience had given her another and harder
jab-she had remembered those wretched, unmade jackboots, and the fact that
at least one of them had got to be made tonight She was, however, unbearably
tired She had had an exhausting afternoon, starting off with ten miles or so
bicycling to and fro in the sun, delivering the parish magazine, and continuing
with the Mothers’ Union tea in the hot little wooden-walled room behind the
parish hall The Mothers met every Wednesday afternoon to have tea and do
some charitable sewing while Dorothy read aloud to them (At present she was
reading Gene Stratton Porter’s A Girl of the Limberlosl ) It was nearly always
upon Dorothy that jobs of that kind devolved, because the phalanx of devoted
women (the church fowls, they are called) who do the dirty work of most
parishes had dwindled at Knype Hill to four or five at most The only helper on
whom Dorothy ^ould count at all regularly was Miss Foote, a tall, rabbit-
faced, dithering virgin of thirty-five, who meant well but made a mess of
everything and was in a perpetual state of flurry Mr Warburton used to say
that she reminded him of a comet- ‘a ridiculous blunt-nosed creature rushing
round on an eccentric orbit and always a little behind time’ You could trust
Miss Foote with the church decorations, but not with the Mothers or the
Sunday School, because, though a regular churchgoer, her orthodoxy was
suspect She had confided to Dorothy that she could worship God best under
the blue dome of the sky After tea Dorothy had dashed up to the church to put
fresh flowers on the altar, and then she had typed out her father’s sermon-her
typewriter was a rickety pre-Boer War ‘invisible’, on which you couldn’t



A Clergyman’s Daughter 299

average eight hundred words an hour-and after supper she had weeded the
pea rows until the light failed and her back seemed to be breaking With one
thing and another, she was even more tired than usual
‘I really must be getting home,’ she repeated more firmly ‘I’m sure it’s
getting fearfully late ’

‘Home? ’ said Mr Warburton ‘Nonsense' The evening’s hardly begun ’

He was walking up and down the room again, with his hands in his coat
pockets, having thrown away his cigar The spectre of the unmade jackboots
stalked back into Dorothy’s mind She would, she suddenly decided, make two
jackboots tonight instead of only one, as a penance for the hour she had wasted
She was just beginning to make a mental sketch of the way she would cut out
the pieces of brown paper for the msteps, when she noticed that Mr
Warburton had halted behind her chair
‘What time is it, do you know? ’ she said

‘I dare say it might be half past ten But people like you and me don’t talk of
such vulgar subjects as the time ’

‘If it’s half past ten, then I really must be going,’ said Dorothy I’ve got a
whole lot of work to do before I go to bed ’

‘Work' At this time of night? Impossible'’

‘Yes, I have I’ve got to make a pair of jackboots ’

‘You’ve got to make a pair of what? said Mr Warburton
‘Of jackboots For the play the schoolchildren are acting We make them out
of glue and brown paper ’

‘Glue and brown paper' Good God 1 ’ murmured Mr Warburton He went
on, chiefly to cover the fact that he was drawing nearer to Dorothy’s chair
‘What a life you lead' Messing about with glue and brown paper m the middle
of the night' I must say, there are times when I feel just a little glad that I’m not
a clergyman’s daughter ’

‘I think-’ began Dorothy

But at the same moment Mr Warburton, invisible behind her chair, had
lowered his hands and taken her gently by the shoulders Dorothy immediately
wriggled herself m an effort to get free of him, but Mr Warburton pressed her
back into her place
‘Keep still,’ he said peaceably
‘Let me go'’ exclaimed Dorothy

Mr Warburton ran his right hand caressingly down her upper arm There
was something very revealing, very characteristic in the way he did it, it was
the lingering, appraising touch of a man to whom a woman’s body is valuable
precisely m the same way as though it were something to eat

‘You really have extraordinary nice arms,’ he said ‘How on earth have you
managed to remain unmarried all these years? ’

‘Let me go at once'’ repeated Dorothy, beginning to struggle again
‘But I don’t particularly want to let you go,’ objected Mr Warburton
* Please don’t stroke my arm like that' I don’t like it' 5
‘What a curious child you are' Why don’t you like it? 5
‘I tell you I don’t like it' 5



yoo A Clergyman ’ ? Daughtei

‘Now don’t go and turn round,’ said Mr Warburton mildly ‘ Y ou don’t seem
to realize how tactful it was on my part to approach you from behind your
back If you turn round you’ll see that I’m old enough to be your father, and
hideously bald into the bargain But if you’ll only keep still and not look at me
you can imagine I’m Ivor Novello ’

Dorothy caught sight of the hand that was caressing her- a large, pink, ver>
masculine hand, with thick fingers and a fleece of gold hairs upon the back She
turned very pale, the expression of her face altered from mere annoyance to
aversion and dread She made a violent effort, wrenched herself free, and stood
up, facing him

‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that 1 ’ she said, half in anger and half in distress
‘What is the matter with you’’ said Mr Warburton

He had stood upright, in his normal pose, entirely unconcerned, and he
looked at her with a touch of curiosity Her face had changed It was not only
that she had turned pale, there was a withdrawn, half-frightened look in her
eyes-almost as though, for the moment, she were looking at him with the eyes
of a stranger He perceived that he had wounded her m some way which he did
not understand, and which perhaps she did not want him to understand
‘What is the matter with you’’ he repeated
'Why must you do that every time you meet me’’

“‘Every time I meet you” is an exaggeration,’ said Mr Warburton ‘It’s
really very seldom that I get the opportunity But if you really and truly don’t
like it-’

‘Of course I don’t like it' You know I don’t like it 1 ’

‘Well, well 1 Then let’s say no more about it,’ said Mr Warburton
generously ‘Sit down, and we’ll change the subject ’

He was totally devoid of shame It was perhaps his most outstanding
characteristic Having attempted to seduce her, and failed, he was quite willing
to go on with the conversation as though nothing whatever had happened
‘I’m going home at once,’ said Dorothy ‘I can’t stay here any longer ’

‘Oh nonsense 1 Sit down and forget about it We’ll talk of moral theology, or
cathedral architecture, or the Girl Guides’ cooking classes, or anything you
choose Think how bored I shall be all alone if you go home at this hour ’

But Dorothy persisted, and there was an argument Even if it had not been
his intention to make love to her-and whatever he might promise he would
certainly begin again m a few minutes if she did not go-Mr Warburton would
have pressed her to stay, for, like all thoroughly idle people, he had a horror of
going to bed and no conception of the value of time He would, if you let him,
keep you talking till three or four m the morning Even when Dorothy finally
escaped, he walked beside her down the moonlit drive, still talking
voluminously and with such perfect good humour that she found it impossible
to be angry with him any longer

‘I’m leaving first thing tomorrow,’ he told her as they reached the gate ‘I’m
going to take the car to town and pick up the kids- the bastards, , you know- and
we’re leaving for France the next day I’m not certain where we shall go after
that, eastern Europe, perhaps Prague, Vienna, Bucharest ’



A Clergyman" s Daughter 301

‘How nice,’ said Dorothy

Mr Warburton, with an adroitness surprising m so large and stout a man,
had manoeuvred himself between Dorothy and the gate
‘I shall be away six months or more,’ he said ‘And of course I needn’t ask,
before so long a parting, whether you want to kiss me good-bye ? ’

Before she knew what he was doing he had put his arm about her and drawn
her against him She drew back-too late, he kissed her on the cheek-would
have kissed her on the mouth if she had not turned her head away in time She
struggled in his arms, violently and for a moment helplessly
‘Oh, let me go'’ she cried ‘ Do let me go! ’

‘I believe I pointed out before,’ said Mr Warburton, holding her easily
against him, ‘that I don’t want to let you go ’

‘But we’re standing right m front of Mrs SemprilPs window' She’ll see us
absolutely for certain'’

‘Oh, good God' So she will 1 ’ said Mr Warburton ‘I was forgetting ’
Impressed by this argument, as he would not have been by any other, he let
Dorothy go She promptly put the gate between Mr Warburton and herself
He, meanwhile, was scrutinizing Mrs Sempnll’s windows

‘I can’t see a light anywhere,’ he said finally ‘With any luck the blasted hag
hasn’t seen us ’

‘Good-bye,’ said Dorothy briefly ‘This time I really must go Remember me
to the children ’

With this she made off as fast as she could go without actually running, to get
out of his reach before he should attempt to kiss her again

Even as she did so a sound checked her for an mstant-the unmistakable
bang of a window shutting, somewhere in Mrs Semprill’s house Could Mrs
Semprill have been watching them after alP But (reflected Dorothy) of course
she had been watching them' What else could you expect^ You could hardly
imagine Mrs Semprill missing such a scene as that And if she had been
watching them, undoubtedly the story would be all over the town tomorrow
morning, and it would lose nothing in the telling But this thought, sinister
though it was, did no more than flight momentarily through Dorothy’s mind as
she hurried down the road

When she was well out of sight of Mr Warburton’s house she stopped, took
out her handkerchief and scrubbed the place on her cheek where he had kissed
her She scrubbed it vigorously enough to bring the blood into her cheek It
was not until she had quite rubbed out the imaginary stam which his bps had
left there that she walked on again

What he had done had upset her Even now her heart was knocking and
fluttering uncomfortably I can’t hear that kind of thing' she repeated to herself
several times over And unfortunately this was no more than the literal truth,
she really could not bear it To be kissed or fondled by a man- to feel heavy
male arms about her and thick male lips bearing down upon her own-was
terrifying and repulsive to her Even m memory or imagination it made her
wmce It was her especial secret, the especial, incurable disability that she
carried through life



go 2 A Clergyman 3 s Daughter

If only they would leave you alone ] she thought as she walked onwards a
little more slowly That was how she put it to herself habitually- ‘If only they
would leave you alone '’ For it was not that m other ways she disliked men On
the contrary, she liked them better than women Part of Mr Warburton’s hold
over her was m the fact that he was a man and had the careless good humour
and the intellectual largeness that women so seldom have But why couldn’t
they leave you alone > Why did they always have to kiss you and maul you
about’ They were dreadful when they kissed you-dreadful and a little
disgusting, like some large, furry beast that rubs itself against you, all too
friendly and yet liable to turn dangerous at any moment And beyond their
kissing and mauling there lay always the suggestion of those other, monstrous
things (‘all that 3 was her name for them) of which she could hardly even bear to
think

Of course, she had had her share, and rather more than her share, of casual
attention from men She was just pretty enough, and just plain enough, to be
the kind of girl that men habitually pester For when a man wants a little casual
amusement, he usually picks out a girl who is not too pretty Pretty girls (so he
reasons) are spoilt and therefore capricious, but plain girls are easy game And
even if you are a clergyman’s daughter, even if you live m a town like Knype
Hill and spend almost your entire life in parish work, you don’t altogether
escape pursuit Dorothy was all too used to it— all too used to the fattish
middle-aged men, with their fishily hopeful eyes, who slowed down their cars
when you passed them on the road, or who manoeuvred an introduction and
then began pinching your elbow about ten minutes afterwards Men of all
descriptions Even a clergyman, on one occasion-a bishop’s chaplain, he
was

But the trouble was that it was not better, but oh* infinitely worse when they
were the right kind of man and the advances they made you were honourable
Her mind slipped backwards five years, to Francis Moon, curate m those days
at St Wedekind’s in Millborough Dear Francis 1 How gladly would she have
married him if only it had not been for all that ' Over and over again he had
asked her to marry him, and of course she had had to say No, and, equally of
course, he had never known why Impossible to tell him why And then he had
gone away, and only a year later had died so irrelevantly of pneumonia She
whispered a prayer for his soul, momentarily forgetting that her father did not
really approve of prayers for the dead, and then, with an effort, pushed the
memory aside Ah, better not to think of it again' It hurt her in her breast to
think of it.

She could never marry, she had decided long ago upon that Even when she
was a child she had known it Nothing would ever overcome her horror of all
that-st the very thought of it something within her seemed to shrink and
freeze. And of course, in a sense she did not want to overcome it For, like all
abnormal people, she was not fully aware that she was abnormal

And yet, though her sexual coldness seemed to her natural and inevitable,
she knew well enough how it was that it had begun She could remember, as
clearly as though it were yesterday, certain dreadful scenes between her father



A Clergyman's Daughter 303

and her mother- scenes that she had witnessed when she was no more than
nine years old They had left a deep, secret wound m her mind And then a
little later she had been frightened by some old steel engravings of nymphs
pursued by satyrs To her childish mind there was something inexplicably,
horribly sinister in those horned, semi-human creatures that lurked m thickets
and behind large trees, ready to come bounding forth in sudden swift pursuit
For a whole year of her childhood she had actually been afraid to walk through
woods alone, for fear of satyrs She had grown out of the fear, of course, but not
out of the feeling that was associated with it The satyr had remained with her
as a symbol Perhaps she would never grow out of it, that special feeling of
dread, of hopeless flight from something more than rationally dreadful-the
stamp of hooves in the lonely wood, the lean, furry thighs of the satyr It was a
thing not to be altered, not to be argued away It is, moreover, a thing too
common nowadays, among educated women, to occasion any kind of surprise

Most of Dorothy’s agitation had disappeared by the time she reached the
Rectory The thoughts of satyrs and Mr Warburton, of Francis Moon and her
foredoomed sterility, which had been going to and fro in her mind, faded out of
it and were replaced by the accusing image of a jackboot She remembered that
she had the best part of two hours’ work to do before going to bed tonight The
house was m darkness She went round to the back and slipped m on tiptoe by
the scullery door, for fear of waking her father, who was probably asleep
already

As she felt her way through the dark passage to the conservatory, she
suddenly decided that she had gone wrong m going to Mr Warburton’s house
tonight She would, she resolved, never go there again, even when she was
certain that somebody else would be there as well Moreover, she would do
penance tomorrow for having gone there tonight Having lighted the lamp,
before doing anything else she found her ‘memo list’, which was already
written out for tomorrow, and pencilled a capital P against ‘breakfast’, P stood
for penance-no bacon again for breakfast tomorrow Then she lighted the
oilstove under the glue-pot

The light of the lamp fell yellow upon her sewing-machine and upon the pile
of half-finished clothes on the table, reminding her of the yet greater pile of
clothes that were not even begun, reminding her, also, that she was dreadfully,
overwhelmingly tired She had forgotten her tiredness at the moment when
Mr Warburton laid his hands on her shoulders, but now it had come back upon
her with double force Moreover, there was a somehow exceptional quality
about her tiredness tonight She felt, m an almost literal sense of the words,
washed out As she stood beside the table she had a sudden, very strange
feeling as though her mind had been entirely emptied, so that for several
seconds she actually forgot what it was that she had come into the conservatory
to do

Then she remembered-the jackboots, of course 1 Some contemptible little
demon whispered m her ear, ‘Why not go straight to bed and leave the
jackboots till tomorrow? ’ She uttered a prayer for strength, and pinched
herself Come on, Dorothy 1 No slacking please 1 Luke ix, 62 Then, clearing



204 A Clergyman’ s Daughter

some of the litter off the table, she got out her scissors, a pencil, and four sheets
of brown paper, and sat down to cut out those troublesome insteps for the
jackboots while the glue was boiling

When the grandfather clock in her father’s study struck midnight she was
still at work She had shaped both jackboots by this time, and was reinforcing
them by pasting narrow strips of paper all over them-a long, messy job Every
bone in her body was aching, and her eyes were sticky with sleep Indeed, it
was only rather dimly that she remembered what she was doing But she
worked on, mechanically pasting strip after strip of paper into place, and
pinching herself every two minutes to counteract the hypnotic sound of the
oilstove singing beneath the glue-pot


CHAPTER 2

I


Out of a black, dreamless sleep, with the sense of being drawn upwards
through enormous and gradually lightening abysses, Dorothy awoke to a
species of consciousness

Her eyes were still closed By degrees, however, their lids became less
opaque to the light, and then flickered open of their own accord She was
looking out upon a street-a shabby, lively street of small shops and narrow-
faced houses, with streams of men, trams, and cars passing in either direction

But as yet it could not properly be said that she was looking For the things
she saw were not apprehended as men, trams, and cars, nor as anything m
particular, they were not even apprehended as things moving, not even as
things „ She merely sazo } as an animal sees, without speculation and almost
without consciousness. The noises of the street- the confused din of voices, the
hooting of horns and the scream of the trams grinding on their gritty
rails-flowed through her head provoking purely physical responses She had
no words, nor any conception of the purpose of such things as words, nor any
consciousness of time or place, or of her own body or even of her own
existence

Nevertheless, by degrees her perceptions became sharper The stream of
moving things began to penetrate beyond her eyes and sort themselves out into
separate images in her brain She began, still wordlessly, to observe the shapes
of things A long-shaped thing swam past, supported on four other, narrower
long-shaped things, and drawing after it a square-shaped thmg balanced on
two circles, Dorothy watched it pass, and suddenly, as though spontaneously,
a word flashed into her mind The word was ‘horse’ It faded, but returned
presently in the more complex form ‘ That is a horse*’ Other words
followed- ‘house’, ‘street’, ‘tram’, ‘car’, ‘bicycle’-until m a few minutes she
had found a name for almost everything within sight She discovered the



A Clergyman’ s Daughter 305

words ‘man’ and ‘woman’, and, speculating upon these words, discovered that
she knew the difference between living and inanimate things, and between
human beings and horses, and between men and women

It was only now, after becoming aware of most of the things about her, that
she became aware of herself Hitherto she had been as it were a pair of eyes with
a receptive but purely impersonal brain behind them But now, with a curious
little shock, she discovered her separate and umque existence, she could feel
herself existing, it was as though something within her were exclaiming ‘I am
I 1 ’ Also, in some way she knew that this ‘I’ had existed and been the same from
remote periods in the past, though it was a past of which she had no
remembrance

But it was only for a moment that this discovery occupied her From the first
there was a sense of incompleteness m it, of something vaguely unsatisfactory
And it was this the ‘I am I’ which had seemed an answer had itself become a
question It was no longer ‘I am I’, but ‘who ami’ 5

Who was she ? She turned the question over m her mmd, and found that she
had not the dimmest notion of who she was, except that, watching the people
and horses passing, she grasped that she was a human being and not a horse
And that the question altered itself and took this form ‘Am I a man or a
woman 55 ’ Again neither feeling nor memory gave any clue to the answer But at
that moment, by accident possibly, her finger-tips brushed against her body
She realized more clearly than before that her body existed, and that it was her
own-that it was, m fact, herself She began to explore it with her hands, and
her hands encountered breasts She was a woman, therefore Only women had
breasts In some way she knew, without knowing how she knew, that all those
women who passed had breasts beneath their clothes, though she could not see
them

She now grasped that in order to identify herself she must examine her own
body, beginning with her face, and for some moments she actually attempted
to look at her own face, before realizing that this was impossible She looked
down, and saw a shabby black satin dress, rather long, a pair of flesh-coloured
artificial silk stockings, laddered and dirty, and a pair of very shabby black
satin shoes with high heels None of them was in the least familiar to her She
examined her hands, and they were both strange and unstrange. They were
smallish hands, with hard palms, and very dirty. After a moment she realized
that it was their dirtiness that made them strange to her The hands themselves
seemed natural and appropriate, though she did not recognize them

After hesitating a few moments longer, she turned to her left and began to
walk slowly along the pavement A fragment of knowledge had come to her,
mysteriously, out of the blank past the existence of mirrors, their purpose, and
the fact that there are often mirrors m shop windows After a moment she came
to a cheap little jeweller’s shop in which a strip of mirror, set at an angle,
reflected the faces of people passing Dorothy picked her reflection out from
among a dozen others, immediately realizing it to be her own Yet it could not
be said that she had recognized it, she had no memory of ever havmg seen it till
this moment It showed her a woman’s youngish face, thin, very blonde, with



306 A Clergyman's Daughter

crow’s-feet round the eyes, and faintly smudged with dirt A vulgar black
cloche hat was stuck carelessly on the head, concealing most of the hair The
face was quite unfamiliar to her, and yet not strange She had not known till
this moment what face to expect, but now that she had seen it she realized that
it was the face she might have expected It was appropriate It corresponded to
something within her

As she turned away from the jeweller’s mirror, she caught sight of the words
‘Fry’s Chocolate’ on a shop window opposite, and discovered that she
understood the purpose of writing, and also, after a momentary effort, that she
was able to read Her eyes flitted across the street, taking m and deciphering
odd scraps of print, the names of shops, advertisements, newspaper posters
She spelled out the letters of two red and white posters outside a tobacconist’s
shop One of them read, ‘Fresh Rumours about Rector’s Daughter’, and the
other, ‘Rector’s Daughter Now believed in Paris’ Then she looked upwards,
and saw in white lettering on the corner of a house ‘New Kent Road’ The
words arrested her She grasped that she was standing in the New Kent Road,
and-another fragment of her mysterious knowledge-the New Kent Road was
somewhere in London So she was m London

As she made this discovery a peculiar tremor ran through her Her mind was
now fully awakened, she grasped, as she had not grasped before, the
strangeness of her situation, and it bewildered and frightened her What could
it all mean> What was she doing here? How had she got here? What had
happened to her?

The answer was not long in coming She thought-and it seemed to her that
she understood perfectly well what the words meant ‘Of course 1 I’ve lost my
memory 1 ’

At this moment two youths and a girl who were trudging past, the youths
with clumsy sacking bundles on their backs, stopped and looked curiously at
Dorothy They hesitated for a moment, then walked on, but halted again by a
lamp-post five yards away Dorothy saw them looking back at her and talking
among themselves One of the youths was about twenty, narrow-chested,
black-haired, ruddy-cheeked, good-looking m a nosy cockney way, and
dressed in the wreck of a raffishly smart blue suit and a check cap The other
was about twenty-six, squat, nimble, and powerful, with a snub nose, a clear
pink skin and huge lips as coarse as sausages, exposing strong yellow teeth He
was frankly ragged, and he had a mat of orange-coloured hair cropped short
and growing low on his head, which gave him a startling resemblance to an
orang-outang. The girl was a silly-looking, plump creature, dressed in clothes
very like Dorothy’s own Dorothy could hear some of what they were saying

‘That tart looks ill,’ said the girl

The orange-headed one, who was singing ‘Sonny Boy’ m a good baritone
voice, stopped singing to answer ‘She ain’t ill,’ he said ‘She’s on the beach all
right, though Same as us ’

‘She’d do jest nicely for Nobby, wouldn’t she? ’ said the dark-haired one

‘Oh, you v exclaimed the girl with a shocked-amorous air, pretending to
smack the dark one over the head



A Clergyman’ s Daughter 307

The youths had lowered their bundles and leaned them against the lamp-
post All three of them now came rather hesitantly towards Dorothy, the
orange-headed one, whose name seemed to be Nobby, leading the way as their
ambassador He moved with a gambolling, apelike gait, and his grm was so
frank and wide that it was impossible not to smile back at him He addressed
Dorothy m a friendly way
‘Hullo, kid 1 ’

‘Hullo 1 ’

‘You on the beach, kid? ’

‘On the beach? ’

‘Well, on the bum? ’

‘On the bum? ’

‘Christ! she’s batty,’ murmured the girl, twitching at the black-haired one’s
arm as though to pull him away

‘Well, what I mean to say, kid-have you got any money? ’

‘I don’t know ’

At this all three looked at one another in stupefaction For a moment they
probably thought that Dorothy really was batty But simultaneously Dorothy,
who had earlier discovered a small pocket in the side of her dress, put her hand
into it and felt the outline of a large com
‘I believe I’ve got a penny,’ she said

‘A penny' 5 said the dark youth disgustedly, ‘-lot of good that is to us 1 ’
Dorothy drew it out It was a half-crown An astonishing change came over
the faces of the three others Nobby’s mouth split open with delight, he
gambolled several steps to and fro like some great jubilant ape, and then,
halting, took Dorothy confidentially by the arm

‘That’s the mulligatawny'’ he said ‘We’ve struck it lucky-and so’ve you,
kid, believe me You’re going to bless the day you set eyes on us lot We’re
going to make your fortune for you, we are Now, see here, kid-are you on to
go into cahoots with us three? ’

‘What? ’ said Dorothy

‘What I mean to say-how about you chumming in with Flo and Charlie and
me? Partners, see? Comrades all, shoulder to shoulder United we stand,
divided we fall. We put up the brains, you put up the money How about it,
kid? Are you on, or are you off? ’

‘Shut up, Nobby 1 ’ interrupted the girl ‘She don’t understand a word of
what you’re saying Talk to her proper, can’t you? ’

‘That’ll do, Flo,’ said Nobby equably ‘You keep it shut and leave the
talking to me I got a way with the tarts, I have Now, you listen to me,
kid-what might your name happen to be, kid? ’

Dorothy was within an ace of saying ‘I don’t know,’ but she was sufficiently
on the alert to stop herself in time Choosing a feminine name from the half-
dozen that sprang immediately into her mind, she answered, ‘Ellen ’

‘Ellen That’s the mulligatawny No surnames when you’re on the bum
Well now, Ellen dear, you listen to me. Us three are going down hopping,
see-*



A Clergyman’ s Daughter


308

‘Hopping? ’

‘’Oppmg’’ put m the dark youth impatiently, as though disgusted by
Dorothy’s ignorance His voice and manner were rather sullen, and his accent
much baser than Nobby’s ‘Pickin’ ’ops-dahn in Kent 1 C’n understand that,
can’t yer? ’

‘Oh, hops' For beer? ’

‘That’s the mulligatawny’ Coming on fine, she is Well, kid, ’z I was saying,
here’s us three going down hopping, and got a job promised us and
all-Blessington’s farm, Lower Molesworth Only we’re just a bit m the
mulligatawny, see? Because we ain’t got a brown between us, and we got to do
it on the toby- thirty-five miles it is -and got to tap for our tommy and skipper
at night as well And that’s a bit of a mulligatawny, with ladies m the party But
now s’pose f rmstance you was to come along with us, see? We c’d take the
twopenny tram far as Bromley, and that’s fifteen miles done, and we won’t
need skipper more’n one night on the way And you can chum in at our
bm-four to a bin’s the best pickmg-and if Blessington’s paying twopence a
bushel you’ll turn your ten bob a week easy What do you say to it, kid? Your
two and a tanner won’t do you much good here in Smoke But you go into
partnership with us, and you’ll get your kip for a month and something
over-and we’ll get a lift to Bromley and a bit of scran as well ’

About a quarter of his speech was intelligible to Dorothy She asked rather at
random

‘What is scran * ’

‘Scran? Tommy-food I can see you ain’t been long on the beach, kid ’

‘Oh Well, you want me to come down hop-picking with you, is that it? ’
‘That’s it, Ellen my dear Are you on, or are you off? ’

‘AH right,’ said Dorothy promptly ‘I’ll come ’

She made this decision without any misgiving whatever It is true that if she
had had time to think over her position, she would probably have acted
differently, in all probability she would have gone to a police station and asked
for assistance That would have been the sensible course to take But Nobby
and the others had appeared just at the critical moment, and, helpless as she
was, it seemed quite natural to throw m her lot with the first human being who
presented himself. Moreover, for some reason which she did not understand, it
reassured her to hear that they were making for Kent Kent, it seemed to her,
was the very place to which she wanted to go The others showed no further
curiosity, and asked no uncomfortable questions Nobby simply said, ‘O K
That’s the mulligatawny’’ and then gently took Dorothy’s half-crown out of
her hand and slid it into his pocket-in case she should lose it, he explained
The dark youth-apparently his name was Charlie- said m his surly,
disagreeable way

‘Come on, less get movin’’ It’s ’ar-parse two already We don’t want to miss
that there — tram.
Must visit

Breakfast Bacon Must ask father money (P)

Ask Ellen what stuff kitchen father’s tonic nb to ask about stuff for curtains
at Solepipe’s

Visiting call on Mrs P cutting from Daily M angelica tea good for
rheumatism Mrs L’s cornplaster

12 oc Rehearsal Charles I nb to order £lb glue 1 pot aluminium paint
Dinner (crossed out) Luncheon ?

Take round Parish Mag nb Mrs F owes 3/6d
4 30 pm Mothers 5 TJ tea don’t forget 2\ yards casement cloth
Flowers for church nb i tm Brasso
Supper Scrambled eggs

Type Father’s sermon what about new ribbon typewriter?
nb to fork between peas bindweed awful

Dorothy got out of her bath, and as she dried herself with a towel hardly
bigger than a table napkm-they could never afford decent-sized towels at the
Rectory-her hair came unpinned and fell down over her collar-bones in two
heavy strands It was thick, fine, exceedingly pale hair, and it was perhaps as
well that her father had forbidden her to bob it, for it was her only positive
beauty. For the rest, she was a girl of middle height, rather thin, but strong and
shapely, and her face was her weak point It was a thin, blonde, unremarkable
kind of face, with pale eyes and a nose just a shade too long, if you looked
closely you could see crow’s feet round the eyes, and the mouth, when it was in
repose, looked tired. Not definitely a spmstensh face as yet, but it certainly
would be so in a few years’ time Nevertheless, strangers commonly took her to
be several years younger than her real age (she was not quite twenty-eight)



A Clergymans Daughter 257

because of the expression of almost childish earnestness in her eyes Her left
forearm was spotted with tiny red marks like insect bites

Dorothy put on her nightdress again and cleaned her teeth-plam water, of
course, better not to use toothpaste before H C After all, either you are fasting
or you aren’t The R C s are quite right there-and, even as she did so,
suddenly faltered and stopped She put her toothbrush down A deadly pang,
an actual physical pang, had gone through her viscera

She had remembered, with the ugly shock with which one remembers
something disagreeable for the first time m the morning, the bill at Cargill’s,
the butcher’s, which had been owing for seven months That dreadful bill— it
might be nineteen pounds or even twenty, and there was hardly the remotest
hope of paying it- was one of the chief torments of her life At all hours of the
night or day it was waiting just round the corner of her consciousness, ready to
spring upon her and agonize her, and with it came the memory of a score of
lesser bills, mounting up to a figure of which she dared not even think Almost
involuntarily she began to pray, ‘Please God, let not Cargill send in his bill
again today 1 ’ but the next moment she decided that this prayer was worldly
and blasphemous, and she asked forgiveness for it Then she put on her
dressing-gown and ran down to the kitchen in hopes of putting the bill out of
mind

The fire had gone out, as usual Dorothy relaid it, dirtying her hands with
coal-dust, dosed it afresh with kerosene and hung about anxiously until the
kettle boiled Father expected his shaving-water to be ready at a quarter past
six Just seven minutes late, Dorothy took the can upstairs and knocked at her
father’s door

‘Come m, come in 1 ’ said a muffled, irritable voice

The room, heavily curtained, was stuffy, with a masculine smell The Rector
had lighted the candle on his bed-table, and was lying on his side, looking at his
gold watch, which he had just drawn from beneath his pillow His hair was as
white and thick as thistledown One dark bright eye glanced irritably over his
shoulder at Dorothy

‘Good morning, father ’

‘I do wish, Dorothy,’ said the Rector mdistinctly-his voice always sounded
muffled and senile until he put his false teeth m-‘yau would make some effort
to get Ellen out of bed m the mornings Or else be a little more punctual
yourself ’

‘I’m so sorry. Father The kitchen fire kept going out ’

‘Very well 1 Put it down on the dressing-table Put it down and draw those
curtains ’

It was daylight now, but a dull, clouded morning Dorothy hastened up to
her room and dressed herself with the lightning speed which she found neces-
sary six mornings out of seven There was only a tiny square of mirror m the
room, and even that she did not use She simply hung her gold cross about her
neck-plain gold cross, no crucifixes, please'-twisted her hair into a knot
behind, stuck a number of hairpins rather sketchily into it, and threw her
clothes (grey jersey, threadbare Irish tweed epat and skirt, stockings not quite



2 $8 A Clergyman's Daughter

matching the coat and skirt, and much- worn brown shoes) on to herself in the
space of about three minutes She had got to e do out’ the dmmg-room and her
father’s study before church, besides saying her prayers m preparation for
Holy Communion, which took her not less than twenty minutes

When she wheeled her bicycle out of the front gate the morning was still
overcast, and the grass sodden with heavy dew Through the mist that
wreathed the hillside St Athelstan’s Church loomed dimly, like a leaden
sphinx, its single bell tolling funereally boom! boom' boom' Only one of the
bells was now m active use, the other seven had been unswung from their cage
and had lam silent these three years past, slowly splintering the floor of the
belfry beneath their weight In the distance, from the mists below, you could
hear the offensive clatter of the bell in the R C church -a nasty, cheap, tinny
little thing which the Rector of St Athelstan’s used to compare with a muffin-
bell

Dorothy mounted her bicycle and rode swiftly up the hill, leaning over her
handlebars The bridge of her thin nose was pink in the morning cold A
redshank whistled overhead, invisible against the clouded sky Early in the
morning my song shall rise to Thee' Dorothy propped her bicycle against the
lychgate, and, finding her hands still grey with coal-dust, knelt down and
scrubbed them clean m the long wet grass between the graves Then the bell
stopped ringing, and she jumped up and hastened into church, just as
Proggett, the sexton, in ragged cassock and vast labourer’s boots, was
clumping up the aisle to take his place at the side altar

The church was very cold, with a scent of candle-wax and ancient dust It
was a large church, much too large for its congregation, and ruinous and more
than half empty The three narrow islands of pews stretched barely half-way
down the nave, and beyond them were great wastes of bare stone floor in which
a few worn inscriptions marked the sites of ancient graves The roof over the
chancel was sagging visibly, beside the Church Expenses box two fragments of
riddled beam explained mutely that this was due to that mortal foe of
Christendom, the death-watch beetle The light filtered, pale-coloured,
through windows of anaemic glass Through the open south door you could
see a ragged cypress and the boughs of a lime-tree, greyish m the sunless air
and swaying faintly

As usual, there was only one other communicant-old Miss Mayfill, of The
Grange The attendance at Holy Communion was so bad that the Rector could
not even get any boys to serve him, except on Sunday mornings, when the boys
liked showmg off m front of the congregation m their cassocks and surplices
Dorothy went into the pew behind Miss Mayfill, and, m penance for some sm
of yesterday, pushed away the hassock and knelt on the bare stones The
service was beginning The Rector, m cassock and short linen surplice, was
reciting the prayers in a swift practised voice, clear enough now that his teeth
were in, and curiously ungemal In his fastidious, aged face, pale as a silver
com, there was an expression of aloofness, almost of contempt ‘This is a valid
sacrament,’ he seemed to be saying, ‘and it is my duty to administer it to you
But remember that I am only your priest, not your friend As a human being I



A Clergyman's Daughter 259

dislike you and despise you ’ Proggett, the sexton, a man of forty with curly
grey hair and a red, harassed face, stood patiently by, uncomprehending but
reverent, fiddling with the little communion bell which was lost m his huge red
hands

Dorothy pressed her fingers against her eyes She had not yet succeeded m
concentrating her thoughts-mdeed, the memory of Cargill’s bill was still
worrying her intermittently The prayers, which she knew by heart, were
flowing through her head unheeded She raised her eyes for a moment, and
they began immediately to stray First upwards, to the headless roof-angels on
whose necks you could still see the sawcuts of the Puritan soldiers, then back
again, to Miss Mayfill’s black, quasi-pork-pie hat and tremulous jet ear-rings
Miss Mayfill wore a long musty black overcoat, with a little collar of greasy-
lookmg astrakhan, which had been the same ever since Dorothy could
remember It was of some very peculiar stuff, like watered silk but coarser,
with rivulets of black piping wandering all over it in no discoverable pattern It
might even have been that legendary and proverbial substance, black
bombazine Miss Mayfill was very old, so old that no one remembered her as
anything but an old woman A faint scent radiated from her-an ethereal scent,
analysable as eau-de-Cologne, mothballs, and a sub-flavour of gin

Dorothy drew a long glass-headed pm from the lapel of her coat, and
furtively, under cover of Miss Mayfill’s back, pressed the point against her
forearm Her flesh tingled apprehensively She made it a rule, whenever she
caught herself not attending to her prayers, to prick her arm hard enough to
make blood come It was her chosen form of self-discipline, her guard against
irreverence and sacrilegious thoughts

With the pm poised in readiness she managed for several moments to pray
more collectedly Her father had turned one dark eye disapprovingly upon
Miss Mayfill, who was crossing herself at intervals, a practice he disliked A
starling chattered outside With a shock Dorothy discovered that she was
looking vamgloriously at the pleats of her father’s surplice, which she herself
had sewn two years ago She set her teeth and drove the pm an eighth of an
inch into her arm

They were kneeling again It was the General Confession Dorothy recalled
her eyfes-- wandering, alasl yet again, this time to the stained-glass window on
her right, designed by Sir Warde Tooke, ar a, in 1851 and representing St
Athelstan’s welcome at the gate of Heaven by Gabriel and a legion of angels all
remarkably like one another and the Prince Consort-and pressed the pinpoint
against a different part of her arm She began to meditate conscientiously upon
the meaning of each phrase of the prayer, and so brought her mind back to a
more attentive state But even so she was all but obliged to use the pm again
when Proggett tinkled the bell m the middle of ‘Therefore with Angels and
Archangels’ -being visited, as always, by a dreadful temptation to begin
laughing at that passage. It was because of a story her father had told her once,
of how when he was a little boy, and serving the priest at the altar, the
communion bell had a screw-on dapper, which had come loose; and so the
priest had said ‘Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and with aU the



260 A Clergyman' s Daughter

company of Heaven, we laud and magnify Thy glorious name, evermore
praising Thee, and saying. Screw it up, you little fat-head, screw it up'*

As the Rector finished the consecration Miss Mayfill began to struggle to her
feet with extreme difficulty and slowness, like some disjointed wooden
creature picking itself up by sections, and disengaging at each movement a
powerful whiff of mothballs There was an extraordinary creaking sound-
from her stays, presumably, but it was a noise as of bones grating against one
another You could have imagined that there was only a dry skeleton inside
that black overcoat

Dorothy remained on her feet a moment longer Miss Mayfill was creeping
towards the altar with slow, tottering steps She could barely walk, but she
took bitter offence if you offered to help her In her ancient, bloodless face her
mouth was surprisingly large, loose, and wet The underlip, pendulous with
age, slobbered forward, exposing a strip of gum and a row of false teeth as
yellow as the keys of an old piano On the upper lip was a fringe of dark, dewy
moustache It was not an appetizing mouth, not the kind of mouth that you
would like to see drinking out of your cup Suddenly, spontaneously, as
though the Devil himself had put it there, the prayer slipped from Dorothy’s
lips O God, let me not have to take the chalice after Miss Mayfill 1

The next moment, in self-horror, she grasped the meaning of what she had
said, and wished that she had bitten her tongue m two rather than utter that
deadly blasphemy upon the altar steps She drew the pm again from her lapel
and drove it into her arm so hard that it was all she could do to suppress a cry of
pam Then she stepped to the altar and knelt down meekly on Miss Mayfill’ s
left, so as to make quite sure of taking the chalice after her

Kneeling, with head bent and hands clasped against her knees, she set
herself swiftly to pray for forgiveness before her father should reach her with
the wafer But the current of her thoughts had been broken Suddenly it was
quite useless attempting to pray, her lips moved, but there was neither heart
nor meaning in her prayers She could hear Proggett’s boots shuffling and her
father’s clear low voice murmuring ‘Take and eat’, she could see the worn strip
of red carpet beneath her knees, she could smell dust and eau-de-Cologne and
mothballs, but of the Body and Blood of Christ, of the purpose for which she
had come here, she was as though deprived of the power to think A deadly
blankness had descended upon her mind It seemed to her that actually she
could not pray She struggled, collected her thoughts, uttered mechanically the
opening phrases of a prayer, but they were useless, meaningless-nothing but
the dead shells of words Her father was holding the wafer before her in his
shapely, aged hand He held it between finger and thumb, fastidiously,
somehow distastefully, as though it had been a spoon of medicine His eye was
upon Miss Mayfill, who was doubling herself up like a geometrid caterpillar,
with many creakmgs and crossing herself so elaborately that one might have
imagined that she was sketching a series of braid frogs on the front of her coat
For several seconds Dorothy hesitated and did not take the wafer She dared
not take it Better, far better to step down from the altar than to accept the
sacrament with such chaos m her heart*



A Clergyman’s Daughter 261

Then it happened that she glanced sidelong, through the open south door A
momentary spear of sunlight had pierced the clouds It struck downwards
through the leaves of the limes, and a spray of leaves m the doorway gleamed
with a transient, matchless green, greener than jade or emerald or Atlantic
waters It was as though some jewel of unimaginable splendour had flashed for
an instant, filling the doorway with green light, and then faded A flood of joy
ran through Dorothy’s heart The flash of living colour had brought back to
her, by a process deeper than reason, her peace of mmd, her love of God, her
power to worship Somehow, because of the greenness of the leaves, it was
again possible to pray O all ye green things upon the earth, praise ye the Lord'
She began to pray, ardently, joyfully, thankfully The wafer melted upon her
tongue She took the chalice from her father, and tasted with repulsion, even
with an added joy in this small act of self-abasement, the wet imprint of Miss
Mayfill’s lips on its silver rim


2


St Athelstan’s Church stood at the highest point of Knype Hill, and if you
chose to climb the tower you could see ten miles or so across the surrounding
country Not that there was anything worth looking at-only the low, barely
undulating East Anglian landscape, intolerably dull in summer, but re-
deemed m winter by the recurring patterns of the elms, naked and fanshaped
against leaden skies

Immediately below you lay the town, with the High Street running east and
west and dividing unequally The southern section of the town was the
ancient, agricultural, and respectable section On the northern side were the
buildings of the Blifil-Gordon sugar-beet refinery, and all round and leading
up to them were higgledy-piggledly rows of vile yellow brick cottages, mostly
inhabited by the employees of the factory The factory employees, who made
up more than half of the town’s two thousand inhabitants, were newcomers,
townfolk, and godless almost to a man

The two pivots, or foci, about which the social life of the town moved were
Knype Hill Conservative Club (fully licensed), from whose bow window, any
time after the bar was open, the large, rosy-gilled faces of the town’s 61ite were
to be seen gazing like chubby goldfish from an aquarium pane, and Ye Olde
Tea Shoppe, a little farther down the High Street, the principal rendezvous of
the Knype Hill ladies Not to be present at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe between ten
and eleven every morning, to drink your ‘morning coffee 5 and spend your half-
hour or so in that agreeable twitter of upper-middle-class voices (‘My dear, he
had nine spades to the ace-queen and he went one no trump, if you please
What, my dear, you don’t mean to say you’re paying for my coffee agamt Oh,



262 A Clergyman’ s Daughter

but my dear, it is simply too sweet of you 1 Now tomorrow I shall simply insist
upon paying for yours And just look at dear little Toto sitting up and looking
such a clever little man with his little black nose wiggling, and he would, would
he, the darling duck, he would, he would, and his mother would give him a
lump of sugar, she would, she would There , Toto' 5 ), was to be definitely out of
Knype Hill society The Rector in his acid way nicknamed these ladies ‘the
coffee brigade* Close to the colony of sham-picturesque villas inhabited by
the coffee brigade, but cut off from them by its larger grounds, was The
Grange, Miss Mayfill’s house It was a curious, machicolated, imitation castle
of dark red brick- somebody’s Folly, built about 1870-and fortunately almost
hidden among dense shrubberies

The Rectory stood half way up the hill, with its face to the church and its
back to the High Street It was a house of the wrong age, inconveniently large,
and faced with chronically peeling yellow plaster Some earlier Rector had
added, at one side, a large greenhouse which Dorothy used as a workroom, but
which was constantly out of repair The front garden was choked with ragged
fir-trees and a great spreading ash which shadowed the front rooms and made
it impossible to grow any flowers There was a large vegetable garden at the
back Proggett did the heavy digging of the garden in the spring and autumn,
and Dorothy did the sowing, planting, and weeding in such spare time as she
could command, in spite of which the vegetable garden was usually an
impenetrable jungle of weeds

Dorothy jumped off her bicycle at the front gate, upon which some officious
person had stuck a poster inscribed ‘Vote for Bhfil-Gordon and Higher
Wages 1 ’ (There was a by-election going on, and Mr Blifil-Gordon was
standing in the Conservative interest ) As Dorothy opened the front door she
saw two letters lying on the worn coconut mat One was from the Rural Dean,
and the other was a nasty, thm-looking letter from Catkin & Palm, her father’s
clerical tailors It was a bill undoubtedly The Rector had followed his usual
practice of collecting the letters that interested him and leaving the others
Dorothy was just bending down to pick up the letters, when she saw, with a
horrid shock of dismay, an unstamped envelope sticking to the letter-flap

It was a bill-for certain it was a bill 1 Moreover, as soon as she set eyes on it
she ‘knew’ that it was that horrible bill from Cargill’s, the butcher’s A sinking
feeling passed through her entrails For a moment she actually began to pray
that it might not be Cargill’s bill-that it might only be the bill for three and
nine from Solepipe’s, the draper’s, or the bill from the International or the
baker’s or the dairy-anythmg except Cargill’s bill 1 Then, mastering her pamc,
she took the envelope from the letter-flap and tore it open with a convulsive
movement

‘To account rendered. £ 21 7s 9d ’

This was written m the innocuous handwriting of Mr Cargill’s accountant-
But underneath, in thick, accusing-looking letters, was added and heavily
underlined ‘Shd like to bring to your notice that this bill has been owing a
very long time The earliest possible settlement will oblige, S Cargill ’

Dorothy had turned a shade paler, and was conscious of not wanting any



A Clergyman’s Daughter 26 3

breakfast She thrust the bill into her pocket and went into the dining-room It
was a smallish, dark room, badly m need of repapering, and, like every other
room m the Rectory, it had the air of having been furnished from the
sweepings of an antique shop The furniture was ‘good 5 , but battered beyond
repair, and the chairs were so worm-eaten that you could only sit on them in
safety if you knew their individual foibles There were old, dark, defaced steel
engravings hanging on the walls, one of them-an engraving of Van Dyck’s
portrait of Charles I -probably of some value if it had not been ruined by
damp

The Rector was standing before the empty grate, warming himself at an
imaginary fire and reading a letter that came from a long blue envelope He was
still wearing his cassock of black watered silk, which set off to perfection his
thick white hair and his pale, fine, none too amiable face As Dorothy came m
he laid the letter aside, drew out his gold watch and scrutinized it significantly
Tm afraid I’m a bit late, Father ’

‘Yes, Dorothy, you are a bit late,’ said the Rector, repeating her words with
delicate but marked emphasis ‘You are twelve minutes late, to be exact Don’t
you think, Dorothy, that when I have to get up at a quarter past six to celebrate
Holy Communion, and come home exceedingly tired and hungry, it would be
better if you could manage to come to breakfast without being a bit late ? ’

It was clear that the Rector was m what Dorothy called, euphemistically, his
‘uncomfortable mood’ He had one of those weary, cultivated voices which are
never definitely angry and never anywhere near good humour-one of those
voices which seem all the while to be saying, ‘I really cannot see what you are
making all this fuss about 1 ’ The impression he gave was of suffering
perpetually from other people’s stupidity and tiresomeness

‘I’m so sorry, Father 1 I simply had to go and ask after Mrs Tawney ’ (Mrs
Tawney was the ‘Mrs T’ of the ‘memo list’ ) ‘Her baby was born last night, and
you know she promised me she’d come and be churched after it was born But
of course she won’t if she thinks we aren’t taking any interest m her You know
what these women are-they seem so to hate bemg churched They’ll never
come unless I coax them into it ’

The Rector did not actually grunt, but he uttered a small dissatisfied sound
as he moved towards the breakfast table, It was intended to mean, first, that it
was Mr£ Tawney’s duty to come and be churched without Dorothy’s coaxing,
secondly, that Dorothy had no business to waste her time visiting all the riff-
raff of the town, especially before breakfast Mrs T awney was a labourer’s wife
and lived in partibus mfidelium, north of the High Street The Rector laid his
hand on the back of his chair, and, without speaking, cast Dorothy a glance
which meant ‘Are we ready now ? Or are there to be any more delays? ’

‘I think everything’s here, Father,’ said Dorothy ‘Perhaps if you’d just say
grace-’

‘Benedictus benedicat/ said the Rector, lifting the worn silver coverlet oft the
breakfast dish The silver coverlet, like the silver-gilt marmalade spoon, was a
family heirloom, the knives and forks, and most of the crockery, came from
Woolworths ‘Bacon again, I see,’ the Rector added, eyeing the three minute



264 A Clergyman’s Daughter

rashers that lay curled up on squares of fried bread

‘It’s all we’ve got m the house, I’m afraid,’ Dorothy said
The Rector picked up his fork between finger and thumb, and with a very
delicate movement, as though playing at spillikins, turned one of the rashers
over

‘I know, of course, 5 he said, ‘that bacon for breakfast is an English
institution almost as old as parliamentary government But still, don’t you
think we might occasionally have a change, Dorothy? ’

‘Bacon’s so cheap now,’ said Dorothy regretfully ‘It seems a sin not to buy
it This was only fivepence a pound, and I saw some quite decent-looking
bacon as low as threepence ’

‘Ah, Danish, I suppose? What a variety of Danish invasions we have had m
this country! First with fire and sword, and now with their abominable cheap
bacon Which has been responsible for the more deaths, I wonder? ’

Feeling a little better after this witticism, the Rector settled himself m his
chair and made a fairly good breakfast off the despised bacon, while Dorothy
(she was not having any bacon this mornmg-a penance she had set herself
yesterday for saying ‘Damn’ and idling for half an hour after lunch) meditated
upon a good conversational opening

There was an unspeakably hateful job in front of her-a demand for money
At the very best of times getting money out of her father was next door to
impossible, and it was obvious that this morning he was going to be even more
‘difficult’ than usual ‘Difficult’ was another of her euphemisms He’s had bad
news, I suppose, she thought despondently, looking at the blue envelope
Probably no one who had ever spoken to the Rector for as long as ten
minutes would have denied that he was a ‘difficult’ kind of man The secret of
his almost unfailing ill humour really lay in the fact that he was an
anachronism He ought never to have been born into the modern world, its
whole atmosphere disgusted and infuriated him A couple of centuries earlier,
a happy pluralist writing poems or collecting fossils while curates at £40 a year
administered his parishes, he would have been perfectly at home Even now, if
he had been a richer man, he might have consoled himself by shutting the
twentieth century out of his consciousness But to live m past ages is very
expensive, you can’t do it on less than two thousand a year The Rector,
tethered by his poverty to the age of Lenin and the Daily Mail , was kept in a
state of chrome exasperation which it was only natural that he should work off
on the person nearest to him-usually, that is, on Dorothy
He had been born m 1871, the younger son of the younger son of a baronet,
and had gone into the Church for the outmoded reason that the Church is the
traditional profession for younger sons His first cure had been in a large,
slummy parish m East London-a nasty, hoohgamsh place it had been, and he
looked back on it with loathing Even m those days the lower class (as he
made a point of calling them) were getting decidedly out of hand It was a little
better when he was curate-m-charge at some remote place m Kent (Dorothy
had been born m Kent), where the decently down-trodden villagers still
touched their hats to ‘parson’ But by that time he had married, and his



A Clergyman’ s Daughter 265

marriage had been diabolically unhappy, moreover, because clergymen must
not quarrel with their wives, its unhappiness had been secret and therefore ten
times worse He had come to Knype Hill m 1908, aged thirty-seven and with a
temper incurably soured-a temper which had ended by alienating every man,
woman, and child m the parish

It was not that he was a bad priest, merely as a priest In his purely clerical
duties he was scrupulously 'correct-perhaps a little too correct for a Low
Church East Anglian parish He conducted his services with perfect taste,
preached admirable sermons, and got up at uncomfortable hours of the
morning to celebrate Holy Communion every Wednesday and Friday But
that a clergyman has any duties outside the four walls of the church was a thing
that had never seriously occurred to him Unable to afford a curate, he left the
dirty work of the parish entirely to his wife, and after her death (she died in
1921) to Dorothy People used to say, spitefully and untruly, that he would
have let Dorothy preach his sermons for him if it had been possible The ‘lower
classes’ had grasped from the first what was his attitude towards them, and if
he had been a rich man they would probably have licked his boots, according to
their custom, as it was, they merely hated him Not that he cared whether they
hated him or not, for he was largely unaware of their existence But even with
the upper classes he had got on no better With the County he had quarrelled
one by one, and as for the petty gentry of the town, as the grandson of a baronet
he despised them, and was at no pains to hide it In twenty-three years he had
succeeded in reducmg the congregation of St Athelstan’s from six hundred to
something under two hundred

This was not solely due to personal reasons It was also because the old-
fashioned High Anglicanism to which the Rector obstinately clung was of a
kind to annoy all parties in the parish about equally Nowadays, a clergyman
who wants to keep his congregation has only two courses open to him Either it
must be Anglo-Catholicism pure and simple-or rather, pure and not simple,
or he must be daringly modern and broad-minded and preach comforting
sermons proving that there is no Hell and all good religions are the same The
Rector did neither On the one hand, he had the deepest contempt for the
Anglo-Catholic movement It had passed over his head, leaving him absolutely
untouched, ‘Roman Fever’ was his name for it On the other hand, he was too
‘High’ for the older members of his congregation From time to time he scared
them almost out of their wits by the use of the fatal word ‘Catholic’, not only in
its sanctified place in the Creeds, but also from the pulpit Naturally the
congregation dwindled year by year, and it was the Best People who were the
first to go Lord Pockthorne of Pockthome Court, who owned a fifth of the
county, Mr Leavis, the retired leather merchant, Sir Edward Huson of
Crabtree Hall, and such of the petty gentry as owned motor-cars, had all
deserted St Athelstan’s Most of them drove over on Sunday mornings to
Millborough, five miles away Millborough was a town of five thousand
inhabitants, and you had your choice of two churches, St Edmund’s and St
Wedekind’s. St Edmund’s was Modernist— text from Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’
blazoned over the altar, and communion wme out of liqueur glasses-and St



266 A Clergyman’s Daughter

Wedekind’s was Anglo-Catholic and m a state of perpetual guerrilla warfare
with the Bishop But Mr Cameron, the secretary of the Knype Hill
Conservative Club, was a Roman Catholic convert, and his children were in
the thick of the Roman Catholic literary movement They were said to have a
parrot which they were teaching to say ‘Extra ecclesiam nulla sains' In effect,
no one of any standing remained true to St Athelstan’s, except Miss Mayfill, of
The Grange Most of Miss Mayfill’ s money was bequeathed to the Church-so
she said, meanwhile, she had never been known to put more than sixpence m
the collection bag, and she seemed likely to go on living for ever

The first ten minutes of breakfast passed in complete silence Dorothy was
trying to summon up courage to speak-obviously she had got to start some
kind of conversation before raising the money-question-but her father was
not an easy man with whom to make small talk At times he would fall into such
deep fits of abstraction that you could hardly get him to listen to you, at other
times he was all too attentive, listened carefully to what you said and then
pointed out, rather wearily, that it was not worth saying Polite platitudes-the
weather, and so forth-generally moved him to sarcasm Nevertheless,
Dorothy decided to try the weather first

c It’s a funny kind of day, isn’t it’’ she said-aware, even as she made it, of the
inanity of this remark

‘What is funny’’ inquired the Rector

‘Well, I mean, it was so cold and misty this morning, and now the sun’s
come out and it’s turned quite fine ’

‘Is there anything particularly funny about that’’

That was no good, obviously He must have had bad news, she thought She
tried again

‘I do wish you’d come out and have a look at the things in the back garden
some time. Father The runner beans are doing so splendidly' The pods are
going to be over a foot long I’m going to keep all the best of them for the
Harvest Festival, of course I thought it would look so nice if we decorated the
pulpit with festoons of runner beans and a few tomatoes hanging m among
them ’

This was a faux pas The Rector looked up from his plate with an expression
of profound distaste

‘My dear Dorothy,’ he said sharply, ‘is it necessary to begin worrying me
about the Harvest Festival already’’

‘I’m sorry, Father' 5 said Dorothy, disconcerted ‘I didn’t mean to worry
you I just thought-’

‘Do you suppose’, proceeded the Rector, ‘it is any pleasure to me to have to
preach my sermon among festoons of runner beans’ I am not a greengrocer It
quite puts me off my breakfast to think of it When is the wretched thing due to
happen’’

‘It’s September the sixteenth, Father ’

‘That’s nearly a month hence For Heaven’s sake let me forget it a little
longer' I suppose we must have this ridiculous business once a year to tickle the
vanity of every amateur gardener m the parish But don’t let’s think of it more



A Clergyman’s Daughter 267

than is absolutely necessary *

The Rector had, as Dorothy ought to have remembered, a perfect
abhorrence of Harvest Festivals He had even lost a valuable parishioner- a Mr
Toagis, a surly retired market gardener-through his dislike, as he said, of
seeing his church dressed up to imitate a coster’s stall Mr Toagis, amma
naturaliter Nonconformistica , had been kept ‘Church’ solely by the privilege, at
Harvest Festival time, of decorating the side altar with a sort of Stonehenge
composed of gigantic vegetable marrows The previous summer he had
succeeded in growing a perfect leviathan of a pumpkin, a fiery red thing so
enormous that it took two men to lift it This monstrous object had been placed
in the chancel, where it dwarfed the altar and took all the colour out of the east
window In no matter what part of the church you were standing, the
pumpkin, as the saying goes, hit you in the eye Mr Toagis was m raptures He
hung about the church at all hours, unable to tear himself away from his
adored pumpkin, and even bringing relays of friends in to admire it From the
expression of his face you would have thought that he was quoting
Wordsworth on Westminster Bridge

Earth has not any thing to show more fair
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty 1

Dorothy even had hopes, after this, of getting him to come to Holy
Communion But when the Rector saw the pumpkin he was seriously angry,
and ordered ‘that revolting thing’ to be removed at once Mr Toagis had
instantly ‘gone chapel’, and he and his heirs were lost to the Church for ever
Dorothy decided to make one final attempt at conversation
‘We’re getting on with the costumes for Charles /,’ she said (The Church
School children were rehearsing a play entitled Charles I in aid of the organ
fund ) ‘But I do wish we’d chosen something a bit easier The armour is a
dreadful job to make, and I’m afraid the jackboots are going to be worse I
think next time we must really have a Roman or Greek play Something where
they only have to wear togas ’

This elicited only another muted grunt from the Rector School plays,
pageants, bazaars, jumble sales, and concerts in aid of were not quite so bad in
his eyes as Harvest Festivals, but he did not pretend to be interested m them
They were necessary evils, he used to say At this moment Ellen, the
maidservant, pushed open the door and came gauchely into the room with one
large, scaly hand holding her sacking apron against her belly She was a tall,
round-shouldered girl with mouse-coloured hair, a plaintive voice, and a bad
complexion, and she suffered chronically from eczema Her eyes flitted
apprehensively towards the Rector, but she addressed herself to Dorothy, for
she was too much afraid of the Rector to speak to him directly
‘Please, Miss-’ she began,

‘Yes, Ellen? ’

‘Please, Miss,’ went on Ellen plaintively, ‘Mr Porter’s m the kitchen, and he
says, please could the Rector come round and baptize Mrs Porter’s baby?



268 A Clergyman's Daughter

Because they don’t think as it’s going to live the day out, and it ain’t been
baptized yet, Miss ’

Dorothy stood up ‘Sit down,’ said the Rector promptly, with his mouth
full

‘What do they think is the matter with the baby? ’ said Dorothy
‘Well, Miss, it’s turning quite black And it’s had diarrhoea something
cruel ’

The Rector emptied his mouth with an effort ‘Must I have these disgusting
details while I am eating my breakfast? ’ he exclaimed He turned on Ellen
‘Send Porter about his business and tell him I’ll be round at his house at twelve
o’clock I really cannot think why it is that the lower classes always seem to
choose mealtimes to come pestering one,’ he added, casting another irritated
glance at Dorothy as she sat down

Mr Porter was a labouring man-a bricklayer, to be exact The Rector’s
views on baptism were entirely sound If it had been urgently necessary he
would have walked twenty miles through snow to baptize a dying baby But he
did not like to see Dorothy proposing to leave the breakfast table at the call of a
common bricklayer

There was no further conversation during breakfast Dorothy’s heart was
sinking lower and lower The demand for money had got to be made, and yet it
was perfectly obvious that it was foredoomed to failure His breakfast finished,
the Rector got up from the table and began to fill his pipe from the tobacco-jar
on the mantelpiece Dorothy uttered a short prayer for courage, and then
pinched herself Go on, Dorothy' Out with it' No funking, please' With an
effort she mastered her voice and said
‘Father-’

‘What is it’’ said the Rector, pausing with the match m his hand
‘Father, I’ve something I want to ask you Something important ’

The expression of the Rector’s face changed He had divined instantly what
she was gomg to say, and, curiously enough, he now looked less irritable than
before A stony calm had settled upon his face He looked like a rather
exceptionally aloof and unhelpful sphinx

‘Now, my dear Dorothy, I know very well what you are gomg to say I
suppose you are gomg to ask me for money again Is that it? ’

‘Yes, Father Because-’

‘Well, I may as well save you the trouble I have no money at all-absolutely
no money at all until next quarter You have had your allowance, and I can’t
give you a halfpenny more It’s quite useless to come worrying me now ’

‘But, Father-’

Dorothy’s heart sank yet lower. What was worst of all when she came to him
for money was the terrible, unhelpful calmness of his attitude He was never so
unmoved as when you were reminding him that he was up to his eyes in debt
Apparently he could not understand that tradesmen occasionally want to be
paid, and that no house can be kept going without an adequate supply of
money He allowed Dorothy eighteen pounds a month for all the household
expenses, including Ellen’s wages, and at the same time he was ‘dainty’ about



A Clergyman’s Daughter 269

his food and instantly detected any falling off in its quality The result was, of
course, that the household was perennially m debt But the Rector paid not the
smallest attention to his debts-indeed, he was hardly even aware of them
When he lost money over an investment, he was deeply agitated, but as for a
debt to a mere tradesman-well, it was the kind of thing that he simply could
not bother his head about

A peaceful plume of smoke floated upwards from the Rector’s pipe He was
gazing with a meditative eye at the steel engraving of Charles I and had
probably forgotten already about Dorothy’s demand for money Seeing him so
unconcerned, a pang of desperation went through Dorothy, and her courage
came back to her She said more sharply than before
‘Father, please listen to me 1 I must have some money soon 1 I simply must ]
We can’t go on as we’re doing We owe money to nearly every tradesman mthe
town It’s got so that some mornings I can hardly bear to go down the street
and think of all the bills that are owing Do you know that we owe Cargill
nearly twenty-two pounds? ’

‘What of it? ’ said the Rector between puffs of smoke
‘But the bill’s been mounting up for over seven months' He’s sent it m over
and over again We must pay it' It’s so unfair to him to keep him waiting for his
money like that'’

‘Nonsense, my dear child' These people expect to be kept waiting for their
money They like it It brings them more in the end Goodness knows how
much I owe to Catkin & Palm - 1 should hardly care to inquire They are
dunning me by every post But you don’t hear me complaining, do you 7 *’

‘But, Father, I can’t look at it as you do, I can’t' It’s so dreadful to be always
m debt' Even if it isn’t actually wrong, it’s so hateful It makes me so ashamed'
When I go into Cargill’s shop to order the joint, he speaks to me so shortly and
makes me wait after the other customers, all because our bill’s mounting up the
whole time And yet I daren’t stop ordering from him I believe he’d run us in
if I did ’

The Rector frowned ‘What' Do you mean to say the fellow has been
impertinent to you? ’

‘I didn’t say he’d been impertinent, Father But you can’t blame him if he’s
angry when his bill’s not paid ’

‘I most certainly can blame him' It is simply abominable how these people
take it upon themselves to behave nowadays-abominable' But there you are,
you see That is the kind of thing that we are exposed to m this delightful
century That is democracy -progress, as they are pleased to call it Don’t order
from the fellow again Tell him at once that you are taking your account
elsewhere That’s the only way to treat these people ’

‘But, Father, that doesn’t settle anything Really and truly, don’t you think
we ought to pay him ? Surely we can get hold of the money somehow? Couldn’t
you sell out some shares, or something? ’

‘My dear child, don’t talk to me about selling out shares! I have just had the
most disagreeable news from my broker He tells me that my Sumatra Tin
shares have dropped from seven and fourpence to six and a penny It means a



2jo A Clergyman's Daughter

loss of nearly sixty pounds I am telling him to sell out at once before they drop
any further ’

‘Then if you sell out you’ll have some ready money, won’t you? Don’t you
think it would be better to get out of debt once and for alP’

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said the Rector more calmly, putting his pipe back m
his mouth ‘You know nothing whatever about these matters I shall have to
reinvest at once m something more hopeful-it’s the only way of getting my
money back ’

With one thumb m the belt of his cassock he frowned abstractedly at the
steel engraving His broker had advised United Celanese Here— m Sumatra
Tin, United Celanese, and numberless other remote and dimly imagined
companies- was the central cause of the Rector’s money troubles He was an
inveterate gambler Not, of course, that he thought of it as gambling, it was
merely a lifelong search for a ‘good investment’ On coming of age he had
inherited four thousand pounds, which had gradually dwindled, thanks to his
‘investments’, to about twelve hundred What was worse, every year he
managed to scrape together, out of his miserable income, another fifty pounds
which vanished by the same road It is a curious fact that the lure of a ‘good
investment’ seems to haunt clergymen more persistently than any other class
of man Perhaps it is the modern equivalent of the demons in female shape who
used to haunt the anchorites of the Dark Ages

‘I shall buy five hundred United Celanese,’ said the Rector finally

Dorothy began to give up hope Her father was now thinking of his
‘investments’ (she new nothing whatever about these ‘investments’, except
that they went wrong with phenomenal regularity), and in another moment the
question of the shop-debts would have slipped entirely out of his mind She
made a final effort

‘Father, let’s get this settled, please Do you think you’ll be able to let me
have some extra money fairly soon? Not this moment, perhaps-but m the next
month or two? ’

‘No, my dear, I don’t About Christmas time, possibly-it’s very unlikely
even then. But for the present, certainly not I haven’t a halfpenny I can spare ’

‘But, Father, it’s so horrible to feel we can’t pay our debts* It disgraces us so*
Last time Mr Welwyn-Foster was here’ (Mr Welwyn-Foster was the Rural
Dean) ‘Mrs Welwyn-Foster was going all round the town asking everyone the
most personal questions about us- asking how we spent our time, and how
much money we had, and how many tons of coal we used in a year, and
everything She’s always trying to pry into our affairs Suppose she found out
that we were badly in debt 1 ’

‘Surely it is our own business? I fail entirely to see what it has to do with Mrs
Welwyn-Foster or anyone else ’

‘But she’d repeat it all over the place-and she’d exaggerate it too* You know
what Mrs Welwyn-Foster is. In every parish she goes to she tries to find out
something disgraceful about the clergyman, and then she repeats every word
of it to the Bishop I don’t want to be uncharitable about her, but really she-’

Realizing that she did want to be uncharitable, Dorothy was silent



A Clergyman' s Daughter 271

‘She is a detestable woman/ said the Rector evenly ‘What of 1 t? Who ever
heard of a Rural Dean’s wife who wasn’t detestable? ’

‘But, Father, I don’t seem to be able to get you to see how serious things are 1
We’ve simply nothing to live on for the next month I don’t even know where
the meat’s coming from for today’s dinner ’

‘Luncheon, Dorothy, luncheon 1 ’ said the Rector with a touch of irritation ‘I
do wish you would drop that abominable lower-class habit of calling the
midday meal dinner >’

‘For luncheon, then Where are we to get the meat from? I daren’t ask
Cargill for another joint ’

‘Go to the other butcher-what’s his name? Salter-and take no notice of
Cargill He knows he’ll be paid sooner or later Good gracious, I don’t know
what all this fuss is about 1 Doesn’t everyone owe money to his tradesmen? I
distinctly remember’ -the Rector straightened his shoulders a little, and,
putting his pipe back into his mouth, looked into the distance, his voice
became reminiscent and perceptibly more agreeable- ‘I distinctly remember
that when I was up at Oxford, my father had still not paid some of his own
Oxford bills of thirty years earlier Tom’ (Tom was the Rector’s cousin, the
Baronet) ‘owed seven thousand before he came into his money He told me so
himself ’

At that, Dorothy’s last hope vanished When her father began to talk about
his cousin Tom, and about things that had happened ‘when I was up at
Oxford’, there was nothing more to be done with him It meant that he had
slipped into an imaginary golden past in which such vulgar things as butchers’
bills simply did not exist There were long periods together when he seemed
actually to forget that he was only a poverty-stricken country Rector-that he
was not a young man of family with estates and reversions at his back. The
aristocratic, the expensive attitude was the one that m all circumstances came
the most naturally to him And of course while he lived, not uncomfortably, in
the world of his imagination, it was Dorothy who had to fight the tradesmen
and make a leg of mutton last from Sunday to Wednesday But she knew the
complete uselessness of arguing with him any longer It would only end m
making him angry She got up from the table and began to pile the breakfast
things on to the tray

‘You’re absolutely certain you can’t let me have any money, Father? ’ she
said for the last time, at the door, with the tray m her arms

The Rector, gazing into the middle distance, amid comfortable wreaths of
smoke, did not hear her He was thinking, perhaps, of his golden Oxford days
Dorothy went out of the room distressed almost to the point of tears The
miserable question of the debts was once more shelved, as it had been shelved a
thousand times before, with no prospect of final solution.



3


On her elderly bicycle with the basketwork carrier on the handle-bars,
Dorothy free-wheeled down the hill, doing mental arithmetic with three
pounds nineteen and fourpence-her entire stock of money until next quarter-
day

She had been through the list of things that were needed m the kitchen But
indeed, was there anything that was not needed m the kitchen? Tea, coffee,
soap, matches, candles, sugar, lentils, firewood, soda, lamp oil, boot polish,
margarine, baking powder-there seemed to be practically nothing that they
were not running short of And at every moment some fresh item that she had
forgotten popped up and dismayed her The laundry bill, for example, and the
fact that the coal was running short, and the question of the fish for Friday
The Rector was ‘difficult’ about fish Roughly speaking, he would only eat the
more expensive kinds, cod, whiting, sprats, skate, herrings, and kippers he
refused

Meanwhile, she had got to settle about the meat for today’s
dmner-luncheon (Dorothy was careful to obey her father and call it luncheon ,
when she remembered it On the other hand, you could not m honesty call the
evening meal anything but ‘supper’, so there was no such meal as ‘dinner’ at
the Rectory ) Better make an omelette for luncheon today, Dorothy decided
She dared not go to Cargill again Though, of course, if they had an omelette
for luncheon and then scrambled eggs for supper, her father would probably
be sarcastic about it Last time they had eggs twice m one day, he had inquired
coldly, ‘Have you started a chicken farm, Dorothy? ’And perhaps tomorrow
she would get two pounds of sausages at the International, and that staved off
the meat-question for one day more

Thirty-nine further days, with only three pounds mneteen and fburpence to
provide for them, loomed up in Dorothy’s imagination, sending through her a
wave of self-pity which she checked almost instantly. Now then, Dorothy 1 No
snivelling, please' It all comes right somehow if you trust in God Matthew vi,
25 The Lord will provide Will He? Dorothy removed her right hand from
the handle-bars and felt for the glass-headed pm, but the blasphemous
thought faded. At this moment she became aware of the gloomy red face
of Proggett, who was hailing her respectfully but urgently from the side of the
road

Dorothy stopped and got off her bicycle.

‘Beg pardon, Miss,’ said Proggett ‘I been wanting to speak to you,



A Clergyman’s Daughter


273


Miss-partic’lar ’

Dorothy sighed inwardly When Proggett wanted to speak to you partic’lar ,
you could be perfectly certain what was coming, it was some piece of alarming
news about the condition of the church Proggett was a pessimistic,
conscientious man, and very loyal churchman, after his fashion Too dim of
intellect to have any definite religious beliefs, he showed his piety by an intense
solicitude about the state of the church buildings He had decided long ago that
the Church of Christ meant the actual walls, roof, and tower of St Athelstan’s,
Knype Hill, and he would poke round the church at all hours of the day,
gloomily noting a cracked stone here, a worm-eaten beam there-and
afterwards, of course, coming to harass Dorothy with demands for repairs
which would cost impossible sums of money

‘What is it, Proggett ? 5 said Dorothy

‘Well, Miss, it’s they- 5 -here a peculiar, imperfect sound, not a word
exactly, but the ghost of a word, all but formed itself on Proggett’s lips It
seemed to begin with a B Proggett was one of those men who are for ever on
the verge of swearing, but who always recapture the oath as it is escaping
between their teeth Tt 5 s they bells, Miss,’ he said, getting rid of the B sound
with an effort ‘They bells up in the church tower They’re a-splmtermg
through that there belfry floor in a way as it makes you fair shudder to look at
’em We’ll have ’em down atop of us before we know where we are I was up
the belfry ’smormng, and I tell you I come down faster’n I went up, when I
saw how that there floor’s a-bustmg underneath ’em

Proggett came to complain about the condition of the bells not less than once
a fortnight It was now three years that they had been lying on the floor of the
belfry, because the cost of either reswmgmg or removing them was estimated
at twenty-five pounds, which might as well have been twenty-five thousand for
all the chance there was of paying for it They were really almost as dangerous
as Proggett made out It was quite certain that, if not this year or next year, at
any rate at some time m the near future, they would fall through the belfry
floor into the church porch And, as Proggett was fond of pointing out, it
would probably happen on a Sunday morning just as the congregation were
coming into church

Dorothy sighed again Those wretched bells were never out of mind for
long, there were times when the thought of their falling even got into her
dreams There was always some trouble or other at the church Ifitwasnotthe
belfry, then it was the roof or the walls, or it was a broken pew which the
carpenter wanted ten shillings to mend, or it was seven hymn-books needed at
one and sixpence each, or the flue of the stove choked up-and the sweep’s fee
was half a crown-or a smashed window-pane or the choir-boys’ cassocks m
rags There was never enough money for anything The new organ which the
Rector had insisted on buying five years earlier- the old one, he said, reminded
him of a cow with the asthma-was a burden under which the Church Expenses
fund had been staggering ever since

T don’t know what we can do,’ said Dorothy finally; ‘I really don’t. We’ve
simply no money at all And even if we do make anything out of the school-



2j4 A Clergyman' s Daughter

children’s play, it’s all got to go to the organ fund The organ people are really
getting quite nasty about their bill Have you spoken to my father^’

‘Yes, Miss He don’t make nothing of it “Belfry’s held up five hundred
years,” he says, “we can trust it to hold up a few years longer ’”

This was quite according to precedent The fact that the church was visibly
collapsing over his head made no impression on the Rector, he simply ignored
it, as he ignored anything else that he did not wish to be worried about
‘Well, I don’t know what we can do,’ Dorothy repeated ‘Of course there’s
the jumble sale coming off the week after next I’m counting on Miss Mayfill to
give us something really nice for the jumble sale I know she could afford to
She’s got such lots of furniture and things that she never uses I was in her
house the other day, and I saw a most beautiful Lowestoft chma tea service
which was put away in a cupboard, and she told me it hadn’t been used for over
twenty years Just suppose she gave us that tea service 1 It would fetch pounds
and pounds We must just pray that the jumble sale will be a success, Proggett
Pray that it’ll bring us five pounds at least I’m sure we shall get the money
somehow if we really and truly pray for it ’

‘Yes, Miss,’ said Proggett respectfully, and shifted his gaze to the far
distance

At this moment a horn hooted and a vast, gleaming blue car came very
slowly down the road, making for the High Street Out of one window Mr
Blifil-Gordon, the Proprietor of the sugar-beet refinery, was thrusting a sleek
black head which went remarkably ill with his suit of sandy-coloured Harris
tweed As he passed, instead of ignoring Dorothy as usual, he flashed upon her
a smile so warm that it was almost amorous With him were his eldest son
Ralph-or, as he and the rest of the family pronounced it, Walph-an epicene
youth of twenty, given to the writing of sub-Eliot vers libre poems, and Lord
Pockthorne’s two daughters They were all smiling, even Lord Pockthorne’s
daughters Dorothy was astomshed, for it was several years since any of these
people had deigned to recognize her in the street

‘Mr Blifil-Gordon is very friendly this morning,’ she said
‘Aye, Miss I’ll be bound he is It’s the election coming on next week, that’s
what ’tis All honey and butter they are till they’ve made sure as you’ll vote for
them, and then they’ve forgot your very face the day afterwards ’

‘Oh, the election'’ said Dorothy vaguely So remote were such things as
parliamentary elections from the daily round of parish work that she was
virtually unaware of them-hardly, indeed, even knowing the difference
between Liberal and Conservative or Socialist and Communist ‘Well,
Proggett,’ she said, immediately forgetting the election in favour of something
more important, Til speak to Father and tell him how serious it is about the
bells, I think perhaps the best thing we can do will be to get up a special
subscription, just for the bells alone There’s no knowing, we might make five
pounds We might even make ten pounds' Don’t you think if I went to Miss
Mayfill and asked her to start the subscription with five pounds, she might give
it to us? ’

‘You take my word, Miss, and don’t you let Miss Mayfill hear nothing about



A Clergyman’s Daughter 27 s

it It’d scare the life out of her If she thought as that tower wasn’t safe, we’d
never get her inside that church again ’

‘Oh dear 1 1 suppose not ’

‘No, Miss We shan’t get nothing out of her, the old-’

A ghostly B floated once more across Proggett’s lips His mind a little more
at rest now that he had delivered his fortnightly report upon the bells, he
touched his cap and departed, while Dorothy rode on into the High Street,
with the twin problems of the shop-debts and the Church Expenses pursuing
one another through her mind like the twin refrains of a villanelle
The still watery sun, now playing hide-and-seek. April-wise, among woolly
islets of cloud, sent an oblique beam down the High Street, gilding the house-
fronts of the northern side It was one of those sleepy, old-fashioned streets
that look so ideally peaceful on a casual visit and so very different when you live
in them and have an enemy or a creditor behind every window The only
definitely offensive buildings were Ye Olde Tea Shoppe (plaster front with
sham beams nailed on to it, bottle-glass windows and revolting curly roof like
that of a Chinese joss-house), and the new. Doric-pillared post office After
about two hundred yards the High Street forked, forming a tiny market-place,
adorned with a pump, now defunct, and a worm-eaten pair of stocks On either
side of the pump stood the Dog and Bottle, the principal inn of the town, and
the Knype Hill Conservative Club At the end, commanding the street, stood
Cargill’s dreaded shop

Dorothy came round the corner to a terrific dm of cheering, mingled with
the strains of ‘Rule Britannia’ played on the trombone The normally sleepy
street was black with people, and more people were hurrying from all the side-
streets Evidently a sort of triumphal procession was taking place Right across
the street, from the roof of the Dog and Bottle to the roof of the Conservative
Club, hung a line with innumerable blue streamers, and m the middle a vast
banner inscribed ‘Blifil-Gordon and the Empire 1 ’ Towards this, between the
lanes of people, the Blifil-Gordon car was moving at a foot-pace, with Mr
Blifil-Gordon smiling richly, first to one side, then to the other In front of the
car marched a detachment of the Buffaloes, headed by an earnest-looking little
man playing the trombone, and carrying among them another banner
inscribed


Who’ll save Britain from the Reds’

BLIFIL-GORDON

Who’ll put the Beer back into your Pot’

BLIFIL-GORDON

Blifil-Gordon for ever 1

From the window of the Conservative Club floated an enormous Union
Jack, above which six scarlet faces were beaming enthusiastically
Dorothy wheeled her bicycle slowly down the street, too much agitated by
the prospect of passing Cargill’s shop (she had got to pass it, to get to
Solepipe’s) to take much notice of the procession The Blifil-Gordon car had



2j6 A Clergyman 3 s Daughter

halted for a moment outside Ye Olde Tea Shoppe Forward, the coffee
brigade 1 Half the ladies of the town seemed to be hurrying forth, with lapdogs
or shopping baskets on their arms, to cluster about the car like Bacchantes
about the car of the vme-god After all, an election is practically the only time
when you get a chance of exchanging smiles with the County There were
eager feminine cries of ‘Good luck, Mr Blifil- Gordon' Dear Mr Blifil-Gordon'
We do hope you’ll get in, Mr Blifil-Gordon 1 ’ Mr Blifil-Gordon’s largesse of
smiles was unceasing, but carefully graded To the populace he gave a
diffused, general smile, not resting on individuals, to the coffee ladies and the
six scarlet patriots of the Conservative Club he gave one smile each, to the most
favoured of all, young Walph gave an occasional wave of the hand and a
squeaky ‘Cheewio 1 ’

Dorothy’s heart tightened She had seen that Mr Cargill, like the rest of the
shopkeepers, was standing on his doorstep He was a tall, evil-looking man, in
blue-striped apron, with a lean, scraped face as purple as one of his own joints
of meat that had lain a little too long in the window So fascinated were
Dorothy’s eyes by that ominous figure that she did not look where she was
going, and bumped into a very large, stout man who was stepping off the
pavement backwards

The stout man turned round ‘Good Heavens 1 It’s Dorothy 1 ’ he exclaimed

‘Why, Mr Warburton' How extraordinary' Do you know, I had a feeling I
was going to meet you today ’

‘By the pricking of your thumbs, I presume ? 3 said Mr Warburton, beaming
all over a large, pink, Micawberish face ‘And how are you? But by Jove 1 ’ he
added, ‘What need is there to ask? You look more bewitching than ever ’

He pinched Dorothy’s bare elbow-she had changed, after breakfast, into a
sleeveless gingham frock Dorothy stepped hurriedly backwards to get out of
his reach-she hated being pinched or otherwise ‘mauled about’-and said
rather severely

‘ Please don’t pinch my elbow I don’t like it 3

‘My dear Dorothy, who could resist an elbow like yours? It’s the sort of
elbow one pinches automatically A reflex action, if you understand me ’

‘When did you get back to Knype Hill ? 3 said Dorothy, who had put her
bicycle between Mr Warburton and herself ‘It’s over two months since I’ve
seen you 3

‘I got back the day before yesterday But this is only a flying visit I’m off
again tomorrow I’m taking the kids to Brittany The bastards, you know 3

Mr Warburton pronounced the word bastards, at which Dorothy looked
away in discomfort, with a touch of naive pride He and his ‘bastards’ (he had
three of them) were one of the chief scandals of Knype Hill He was a man of
independent income, calling himself a painter-he produced about half a dozen
mediocre landscapes every year-and he had come to Knype Hill two years
earlier and bought one of the new villas behind the Rectory There he lived, or
rather stayed periodically, m open concubinage with a woman whom he called
his housekeeper Four months ago this woman-she was a foreigner, a
Spaniard it was said-had created a fresh and worse scandal by abruptly



A Clergyman 3 s Daughter 277

deserting him, and his three children were now parked with some long-
suffering relative m London In appearance he was a fine, imposing-looking
man, though entirely bald (he was at great pains to conceal this), and he carried
himself with such a rakish air as to give the impression that his fairly sizeable
belly was merely a kind of annexe to his chest His age was forty-eight, and he
owned to forty-four People in the town said that he was a ‘proper old rascal’,
young girls were afraid of him, not without reason
Mr Warburton had laid his hand pseudo-paternally on Dorothy’s shoulder
and was shepherding her through the crowd, talking all the while almost
without a pause The Blifil- Gordon car, having rounded the pump, was now
wending its way back, still accompanied by its troupe of middle-aged
Bacchantes Mr Warburton, his attention caught, paused to scrutinize it
‘What is the meaning of these disgusting antics’’ he asked
‘Oh, they’re- what is it they call lt’-electioneering Trying to get us to vote
for them, I suppose ’

‘Trying to get us to vote for them' Good God 1 ’ murmured Mr Warburton,
as he eyed the triumphal cortege He raised the large, silver-headed cane that
he always carried, and pointed, rather expressively, first at one figure in the
procession and then at another ‘Look at it 1 Just look at it 1 Look at those
fawning hags, and that half-witted oaf grinning at us like a monkey that sees a
bag of nuts Did you ever see such a disgusting spectacle’’

‘Do be careful 1 ’ Dorothy murmured ‘Somebody’s sure to hear you ’
‘Good 1 ’ said Mr Warburton, immediately raising his voice ‘And to think
that low-born hound actually has the impertinence to think that he’s pleasing
us with the sight of his false teeth 1 And that suit he’s wearing is an offence m
itself Is there a Socialist candidate’ If so, I shall certainly vote for him ’
Several people on the pavement turned and stared Dorothy saw little Mr
Twiss, the ironmonger, a weazened, leather-coloured old man, peering with
veiled malevolence round the corner of the rush baskets that hung m his
doorway He had caught the word Socialist, and was mentally registering Mr
Warburton as a Socialist and Dorothy as the friend of Socialists

‘I really must be getting on,’ said Dorothy hastily, feeling that she had better
escape before Mr Warburton said something even more tactless ‘I’ve got ever
such a lot of shopping to do I’ll say good-bye for the present, then ’

‘Oh, no, you won’t 1 ’ said Mr Warburton cheerfully ‘Not a bit of it* I’ll come
with you ’

As she wheeled her bicycle down the street he marched at her side, still
talking, with his large chest well forward and his stick tucked under his arm.
He was a difficult man to shake off, and though Dorothy counted him as a
friend, she did sometimes wish, he being the town scandal and she the Rector’s
daughter, that he would not always choose the most public places to talk to her
in At this moment, however, she was rather grateful for his company, which
made it appreciably easier to pass Cargill’s shop-for Cargill was still on his
doorstep and was regarding her with a sidelong, meaning gaze

‘It was a bit of luck my meeting you this morning,’ Mr Warburton went on.
‘In fact, I was looking for yoti , Who do you think I’ve got coming to dinner



27 8 A Clergyman's Daughter

with me tonight? Bewley- Ronald Bewley You’ve heard of him, of course? ’
‘Ronald Bewley? No, I don’t think so Who is he? ’

‘Why, dash it' Ronald Bewley, the novelist Author of Fishpools and
Concubines Surely you’ve read Fishpools and Concubines ? ’

‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t In fact, I’d never even heard of it ’

‘My dear Dorothy 1 You have been neglecting yourself You certainly ought
to read Fishpools and Concubines It’s hot stuff, I assure you-real high-class
pornography Just the kind of thing you need to take the taste of the Girl
Guides out of your mouth ’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t say such things 1 ’ said Dorothy, looking away
uncomfortably, and then immediately looking back again because she had all
but caught Cargill’s eye ‘Where does this Mr Bewley live? ’ she added ‘Not
here, surely, does he? ’

‘No He’s coming over from Ipswich for dinner, and perhaps to stay the
night That’s why I was looking for you I thought you might like to meet him
How about your coming to dinner tonight? ’

‘I can’t possibly come to dinner,’ said Dorothy ‘I’ve got Father’s supper to
see to, and thousands of other things I shan’t be free till eight o’clock or after ’
‘Well, come along after dinner, then I’d like you to know Bewley He’s an
interesting fellow- very au fait with all the Bloomsbury scandal, and all that
You’ll enjoy meeting him. It’ll do you good to escape from the church hen-
coop for a few hours ’

Dorothy hesitated She was tempted To tell the truth, she enjoyed her
occasional visits to Mr Warburton’s house extremely But of course they were
very occasional-once m three or four months at the oftenest, it so obviously
didn't do to associate too freely with such a man And even when she did go to
his house she was careful to make sure beforehand that there was going to be at
least one other visitor

Two years earlier, when Mr Warburton had first come to Knype Hill (at that
time he was posing as a widower with two children, a little later, however, the
housekeeper suddenly gave birth to a third child in the middle of the night),
Dorothy had met him at a tea-party and afterwards called on him Mr
Warburton had given her a delightful tea, talked amusingly about books, and
then, immediately after tea, sat down beside her on the sofa and begun making
love to her, violently, outrageously, even brutally It was practically an assault
Dorothy was horrified almost out of her wits, though not too horrified to resist
She escaped from him and took refuge on the other side of the sofa, white,
shaking, and almost m tears Mr Warburton, on the other hand, was quite
unashamed and even seemed rather amused
‘Oh, how could you, how could you? ’ she sobbed
‘But it appears that I couldn’t,’ said Mr Warburton
‘Oh, but how could you be such a brute? ’

‘Oh, that> Easily, my child, easily You will understand that when you get to
my age,’

In spite of this bad beginning, a sort of friendship had grown up between the
two, oven to the extent of Dorothy being ‘talked about’ in connexion with Mr



A Clergyman 1 s Daughter 279

Warburton It did not take much to get you ‘talked about’ m Knype Hill She
only saw him at long intervals and took the greatest care never to be alone with
him, but even so he found opportunities of making casual love to her But it
was done m a gentlemanly fashion, the previous disagreeable incident was not
repeated Afterwards, when he was forgiven, Mr Warburton had explained
that he ‘always tried it on’ with every presentable woman he met

‘Don’t you get rather a lot of snubs? ’ Dorothy could not help asking him
‘Oh, certainly But I get quite a number of successes as well, you know ’
People wondered sometimes how such a girl as Dorothy could consort, even
occasionally, with such a man as Mr Warburton, but the hold that he had over
her was the hold that the blasphemer and evil-liver always has over the pious
It is a fact-you have only to look about you to verify it-that the pious and the
immoral drift naturally together The best brothel-scenes in literature have
been written, without exception, by pious believers or pious unbelievers And
of course Dorothy, born into the twentieth century, made a point of listening
to Mr Warburton’s blasphemies as calmly as possible, it is fatal to flatter the
wicked by letting them see that you are shocked by them Besides, she was
genuinely fond of him He teased her and distressed her, and yet she got from
him, without being fully aware of it, a species of sympathy and understanding
which she could not get elsewhere For all his vices he was distinctly likeable,
and the shoddy brilliance of his conversation-Oscar Wilde seven times
watered-which she was too inexperienced to see through, fascinated while it
shocked her Perhaps, too, m this instance, the prospect of meeting the
celebrated Mr Bewley had its effect upon her, though certamly Fishponds and
Concubines sounded like the kind of book that she either didn’t read or else set
herself heavy penances for reading In London, no doubt, one would hardly
cross the road to see fifty novelists, but these things appeared differently in
places like Knype Hill

‘Are you sure Mr Bewley is coming? ’ she said

‘Quite sure And his wife’s coming as well, I believe Full chaperonage No
Tarqum and Lucrece business this evening ?

‘All right,’ said Dorothy finally, ‘thanks very much I’ll come round-
about half past eight, I expect ’

‘Good If you can manage to come while it is still daylight, so much the
better Remember that Mrs Sempnll is my next-door neighbour We can
count on her to be on the qm vive any time after sundown ’

Mrs Semprill was the town scandalmonger-the most eminent, that is, of the
town’s many scandalmongers Having got what he wanted (he was constantly
pestering Dorothy to come to his house more often), Mr Warburton said au
revoir and left Dorothy to do the remainder of her shopping

In the semi-gloom of Solepipe’s shop, she was just moving away from the
counter with her two and a half yards of casement cloth, when she was aware of
a low, mournful voice at her ear It was Mrs Semprill She was a slender
woman of forty, with a lank, sallow, distinguished face, which, with her glossy
dark hair and air of settled melancholy, gave her something the appearance of a
Van Dyck portrait Entrenched behind a pile of cretonnes near the window.



280 A Clergyman's Daughter

she had been watching Dorothy’s conversation with Mr Warburton
Whenever you were doing something that you did not particularly want Mrs
Semprill to see you doing, you could trust her to be somewhere in the
neighbourhood She seemed to have the power of materializing like an Arabian
jmneeyeh at any place where she was not wanted No indiscretion, however
small, escaped her vigilance Mr Warburton used to say that she was like the
four beasts of the Apocalypse- ‘They are full of eyes, you remember, and they
rest not night nor day ’

‘Dorothy dearest ,’ murmured Mrs Semprill in the sorrowful, affectionate
voice of someone breaking a piece of bad news as gently as possible ‘I’ve been
so wanting to speak io you I’ve something simply dreadful to tell you-some-
thing that will really horrify you 1 ’

‘What is it? ’ said Dorothy resignedly, well knowing what was coming-for
Mrs Semprill had only one subject of conversation

They moved out of the shop and began to walk down the street, Dorothy
wheeling her bicycle, Mrs Semprill mmcing at her side with a delicate birdlike
step and bringing her mouth closer and closer to Dorothy’s ear as her remarks
grew more and more intimate

‘Do you happen to have noticed,’ she began, ‘that girl who sits at the end of
the pew nearest the organ in church? A rather pretty girl, with red hair I’ve no
idea what her name is,’ added Mrs Semprill, who knew the surname and all the
Christian names of every man, woman, and child in Knype Hill

‘Molly Freeman,’ said Dorothy ‘She’s the niece of Freeman the
greengrocer ’

‘Oh, Molly Freeman? Is that her name? I’d often wondered Well-’

The delicate red mouth came closer, the mournful voice sank to a shocked
whisper Mrs Semprill began to pour forth a stream of purulent libel involving
Molly Freeman and six young men who worked at the sugar-beet refinery
After a few moments the story became so outrageous that Dorothy, who had
turned very pink, hurriedly withdrew her ear from Mrs SemprilFs whispering
lips. She stopped her bicycle

‘I won’t listen to such things! ’ she said abruptly ‘I know that isn’t true about
Molly Freeman It can't be true 1 She’s such a nice quiet girl-she was one of my
very best Girl Guides, and she’s always been so good about helping with the
church bazaars and everything I’m perfectly certain she wouldn’t do such
things as you’re saying ’

‘But, Dorothy dearest' When, as I told you, I actually saw with my own
eyes ’

‘I don’t care ! It’s not fair to say such things about people Even if they were
true it wouldn’t be right to repeat them There’s quite enough evil in the world
without going about looking for it ’

* Looking for it! ’ sighed Mrs Semprill ‘But, my dear Dorothy, as though one
ever wanted or needed to look 1 The trouble is that one can’t help seeing all the
dreadful wickedness that goes on m this town ’

Mrs Semprill was always genuinely astonished if you accused her of looking
for subjects for scandal Nothing, she would protest, pained her more than the



A Clergyman's Daughter 281

spectacle of human wickedness, but it was constantly forced upon her
unwilling eyes, and only a stern sense of duty impelled her to make it public
Dorothy’s remarks, so far from silencing her, merely set her talking about the
general corruption of Knype Hill, of which Molly Freeman’s misbehaviour
was only one example And so from Molly Freeman and her six young men she
proceeded to Dr Gaythorne, the town medical officer, who had got two of the
nurses at the Cottage Hospital with child, and then to Mrs Corn, the Town
Clerk’s wife, found lymg m a field dead drunk on eau-de-Cologne, and then to
the curate at St Wedekind’s m Millborough, who had involved himself m a
grave scandal with a choirboy, and so it went on, one thing leading to another
For there was hardly a soul m the town or the surrounding country about
whom Mrs Sempnll could not disclose some festering secret if you listened to
her long enough

It was noticeable that her stories were not only dirty and libellous, but they
had nearly always some monstrous tinge of perversion about them Compared
with the ordinary scandalmongers of a country town, she was Freud to
Boccaccio From hearing her talk you would have gathered the impression that
Knype Hill with its thousand inhabitants held more of the refinements of evil
than Sodom, Gomorrah, and Buenos Aires put together Indeed, when you
reflected upon the lives led by the inhabitants of this latter-day City of the
Plam-from the manager of the local bank squandering his clients’ money on
the children of his second and bigamous marriage, to the barmaid of the Dog
and Bottle serving drinks in the taproom dressed only in high-heeled satin
slippers, and from old Miss Channon, the music-teacher, with her secret gm
bottle and her anonymous letters, to Maggie White, the baker’s daughter, who
had borne three children to her own brother-when you considered these
people, all, young and old, rich and poor, sunken in monstrous and Babylonian
vices, you wondered that fire did not come down from Heaven and consume
the town forthwith But if you listened just a little longer, the catalogue of
obscenities became first monstrous and then unbearably dull For in a town m
which everyone is either a bigamist, a pederast, or a drug-taker, the worst
scandal loses its sting In fact, Mrs Sempnll was something worse than a
slanderer, she was a bore

As to the extent to which her stories were believed, it varied At times the
word would go round that she was a foul-mouthed old cat and everything she
said was a pack of lies, at other times one of her accusations would take effect
on some unfortunate person, who would need months or even years to live it
down She had certainly been instrumental m breaking off not less than half a
dozen engagements and starting innumerable quarrels between husbands and
wives

All this while Dorothy had been making abortive efforts to shake Mrs
Semprill off. She had edged her way gradually across the street until she was
wheeling her bicycle along the right-hand kerb> but Mrs Semprill had
followed, whispering without cease It was not until they reached the end of
the High Street that Dorothy summoned up enough firmness to escape She
halted and put her right foot on the pedal of her bicycle



282 A Clergyman’s Daughter

‘I really can’t stop a moment longer , 9 she said ‘I’ve got a thousand things to
do, and I’m late already ’

‘Oh, but, Dorothy dear 1 I’ve something else I simply must tell you-
something most important

‘I’m sorry-I’m in such a terrible hurry Another time, perhaps ’

‘It’s about that dreadful Mr Warburton,’ said Mrs Sempnll hastily, lest
Dorothy should escape without hearing it ‘He’s just come back From London,
and do you know— I most particularly wanted to tell you this-do you know, he
actually-’

But here Dorothy saw that she must make off instantly, at no matter what
cost She could imagine nothing more uncomfortable than to have to discuss
Mr Warburton with Mrs Semprill She mounted her bicycle, and with only a
very brief ‘Sorry - 1 really can’t stop 1 ’ began to ride hurriedly away

‘I wanted to tell you-he’s taken up with a new woman 1 ’ Mrs Semprill cried
after her, even forgetting to whisper in her eagerness to pass on this juicy titbit
But Dorothy rode swiftly round the corner, not looking back, and
pretending not to have heard An unwise thing to do, for it did not pay to cut
Mrs Semprill too short Any unwillingness to listen to her scandals was taken
as a sign of depravity, and led to fresh and worse scandals being published
about yourself the moment you had left her
As Dorothy rode homewards she had uncharitable thoughts about Mrs
Semprill, for which she duly pinched herself Also, there was another, rather
disturbing idea which had not occurred to her till this moment-that Mrs
Semprill would certainly learn of her visit to Mr Warburton’s house this
evening, and would probably have magnified it into something scandalous by
tomorrow The thought sent a vague premonition of evil through Dorothy’s
mind as she jumped off her bicycle at the Rectory gate, where Silly Jack, the
town idiot, a third-grade moron with a triangular scarlet face like a strawberry,
was loitering, vacantly flogging the gatepost with a hazel switch.


4


It was a little after eleven The day, which, like some overripe but hopeful
widow playing at seventeen, had been putting on unseasonable April airs, had
now remembered that it was August and settled down to be boiling hot
Dorothy rode into the hamlet of Fennelwick, a mile out of Knype Hill She
had delivered Mrs Lewm’s corn-plaster, and was dropping in to give old Mrs
Ptther that cutting from the Daily Mail about angelica tea for rheumatism
The sun, burning in the cloudless sky, scorched her back through her
gingham frock, and the dusty road quivered m the heat, and the hot, flat
meadows, over which even at this time of year numberless larks chirruped



A Clergyman 1 s Daughter 283

tiresomely, were so green that it hurt your eyes to look at them It was the kind
of day that is called ‘glorious’ by people who don’t have to work

Dorothy leaned her bicycle against the gate of the Pithers’cottage, and took
her handkerchief out of her bag and wiped her hands, which were sweating
from the handle-bars In the harsh sunlight her face looked pinched and
colourless She looked her age, and something over, at that hour of the
morning Throughout her day-and in general it was a seventeen-hour
day- she had regular, alternating periods of tiredness and energy, the middle of
the morning, when she was doing the first instalment of the day’s ‘visiting’,
was one of the tired periods

‘Visiting’, because of the distances she had to bicycle from house to house,
took up nearly half of Dorothy’s day Every day of her life, except on Sundays,
she made from half a dozen to a dozen visits at parishioners’ cottages She
penetrated into cramped interiors and sat on lumpy, dust-diffusmg chairs
gossiping with overworked, blowsy housewives, she spent hurried half-hours
giving a hand with the mending and the ironing, and read chapters from the
Gospels, and readjusted bandages on ‘bad legs’, and condoled with sufferers
from mornmg-sickness, she played nde-a-cock-horse with sour-smellmg
children who grimed the bosom of her dress with their sticky little fingers, she
gave advice about ailing aspidistras, and suggested names for babies, and
drank ‘nice cups of tea’ mnumerable-for the working women always wanted
her to have a ‘nice cup of tea’, out of the teapot endlessly stewing

Much of it was profoundly discouraging work Few, very few, of the women
seemed to have even a conception of the Christian life that she was trying to
help them to lead Some of them were shy and suspicious, stood on the
defensive, and made excuses when urged to come to Holy Communion, some
shammed piety for the sake of the tiny sums they could wheedle out of the
church alms box, those who welcomed her coming were for the most part the
talkative ones, who wanted an audience for complaints about the ‘goings on’ of
their husbands, or for endless mortuary tales (‘And he had to have glass chubes
let into his veins,’ etc , etc ) about the revolting diseases their relatives had died
of Quite half the women on her list, Dorothy knew, were at heart atheistical in
a vague unreasoning way She came up against it all day long-that vague,
blank disbelief so common in illiterate people, against which all argument is
powerless Do what she would, she could never raise the number of regular
communicants to more than a dozen or thereabouts Women would promise to
communicate, keep their promise for a month or two, and then fall away With
the younger women it was especially hopeless They would not even join the
local branches of the church leagues that were run for their benefit-Dorothy
was honorary secretary of three such leagues, besides being captain of the Girl
Guides, The Band of Hope and the Companionship of Marriage languished
almost memberless, and the Mothers’ Union only kept going because gossip
and unlimited strong tea made the weekly sewing-parties acceptable. Yes> it
was discouraging work, so discouraging that at times it would have seemed
altogether futile if she had not known the sense of futility for what it ls-the
subtlest weapon of the Devil*



284 A Clergyman’s Daughter

Dorothy knocked at the Pither s’ badly fitting door, from beneath which a
melancholy smell of boiled cabbage and dish-water was oozing From long
experience she knew and could taste in advance the individual smell of every
cottage on her rounds Some of their smells were peculiar in the extreme For
instance, there was the salty, feral smell that haunted the cottage of old Mr
Tombs, an aged retired bookseller who lay in bed all day m a darkened room,
with his long, dusty nose and pebble spectacles protruding from what
appeared to be a fur rug of vast size and richness

But if you put your hand on the fur rug it disintegrated, burst and fled in all
directions It was composed entirely of cats -twenty-four cats, to be exact Mr
Tombs ‘found they kept him warm 5 , he used to explain In nearly all the
cottages there was a basic smell of old overcoats and dish-water upon which
the other, individual smells were superimposed, the cesspool smell, the
cabbage smell, the smell of children, the strong, bacon-like reek of corduroys
impregnated with the sweat of a decade
Mrs Pither opened the door, which invariably stuck to the jamb, and then,
when you wrenched it open, shook the whole cottage She was a large,
stooping, grey woman with wispy grey hair, a sacking apron, and shuffling
carpet slippers

‘Why, if it isn’t Miss Dorothy' 5 she exclaimed in a dreary, lifeless but not
unaffectionate voice

She took Dorothy between her large, gnarled hands, whose knuckles were as
shmy as skinned onions from age and ceaseless washing up, and gave her a wet
kiss Then she drew her into the unclean interior of the cottage

‘Pither’s away at work. Miss,’ she announced as they got inside ‘Up to Dr
Gaythorne’s he is, a-diggmg over the doctor’s flower-beds for him ’

Mr Pither was a jobbing gardener He and his wife, both of them over
seventy, were one of the few genuinely pious couples on Dorothy’s visiting
list Mrs Pither led a dreary, wormlike life of shuffling to and fro, with a per-
petual crick m her neck because the door lintels were too low for her, between
the well, the sink, the fireplace, and the tiny plot of kitchen garden The
kitchen was decently tidy, but oppressively hot, evil-smellmg and saturated
with ancient dust At the end opposite the fireplace Mrs Pither had made a
kind of prie-dieu out of a greasy rag mat laid m front of a tiny, defunct
harmonium, on top of which were an oleographed crucifixion, ‘Watch and
Pray’ done m beadwork, and a photograph of Mr and Mrs Pither on their
wedding day in 1882

‘Poor Pither 1 ’ went on Mrs Pither in her depressing voice, ‘him a-diggmg at
his age, with his rheumatism that bad 1 Ain’t it cruel hard, Miss? And he’s had a
kind of a pam between his legs, Miss, as he can’t seem to account for -terrible
bad he’s been with it, these last few mornings Ain’t it bitter hard. Miss, the
lives us poor working folks has to lead? ’

‘It’s a shame,’ said Dorothy ‘But I hope you’ve been keeping a little better
yourself, Mrs Pither? ’

‘Ah, Miss, there’s nothmg don’t make me better I ain’t a case for curing,
not m this world, I ain’t I shan’t never get no better, not m this wicked



A Clergyman's Daughter


285


world down here ’

‘Oh, you mustn’t say that, Mrs Pither 1 1 hope we shall have you with us for a
long time yet ’

‘Ah, Miss, you don’t know how poorly I’ve been this last week 1 I’ve had the
rheumatism a-commg and a-going all down the backs of my poor old legs, till
there’s some mornings when I don’t feel as I can’t walk so far as to pull a
handful of onions m the garden Ah, Miss, it’s a weary world we lives in, ain’t
it, Miss? A weary, sinful world ’

‘But of course we must never forget, Mrs Pither, that there’s a better world
coming This life is only a time of trial-just to strengthen us and teach us to be
patient, so that we’ll be ready for Heaven when the time comes ’

At this a sudden and remarkable change came over Mrs Pither It was
produced by the word ‘Heaven’ Mrs Pither had only two subjects of
conversation, one of them was the joys of Heaven, and the other the miseries of
her present state Dorothy’s remark seemed to act upon her like a charm Her
dull grey eye was not capable of brightening, but her voice quickened with an
almost joyful enthusiasm

‘Ah, Miss, there you said it 1 That’s a true word. Miss' That’s what Pither
and me keeps a-saying to ourselves And that’s just the one thing as keeps us a-
gomg-just the thought of Heaven and the long, long rest we’ll have there
Whatever we’ve suffered, we gets it all back in Heaven, don’t we. Miss? Every
little bit of suffering, you gets it back a hundredfold and a thousandfold That
is true, ain’t it. Miss? There’s rest for us all m Heaven-rest and peace and no
more rheumatism nor digging nor cooking nor laundering nor nothing You do
believe that, don’t you. Miss Dorothy? ’

‘Of course,’ said Dorothy

‘Ah, Miss, if you knew how it comforts us-just the thoughts of Heaven'
Pither he says to me, when he comes home tired of a night and our
rheumatism’s bad, “Never you mind, my dear,” he says, “we ain’t far off
Heaven now,” he says “Heaven was made for the likes of us,” he says, “just
for poor working folks like us, that have been sober and godly and kept our
Communions regular ” That’s the best way, ain’t it, Miss Dorothy-poor m
this life and rich m the next? Not like some of them rich folks as all their motor-
cars and their beautiful houses won’t save from the worm that dieth not and
the fire that’s not quenched Such a beautiful text, that is Do you think you
could say a little prayer with me, Miss Dorothy? I been looking forward all the
morning to a little prayer ’

Mrs Pither was always ready for a ‘little prayer’ at any hour of the night or
day. It was her equivalent to a ‘nice cup of tea’ They knelt down on the rag
mat and said the Lord’s Prayer and the Collect for the week, and then
Dorothy, at Mrs Pither’s request, read the parable of Dives and Lazarus, Mrs
Pither coming m from time to time with ‘Amen' That’s a true word, ain’t it.
Miss Dorothy? “And he was carried by angels into Abraham’s bosom. ”
Beautiful' Dh, I do call that just too beautiful' Amen, Miss Dorothy- Amen! ’

Dorothy gave Mrs Pither the cutting from the Daily Mail about angelica tea
for rheumatism, and then, finding that Mrs Pither had been too ‘poorly’ to



286 A Clergyman’ s Daughter

draw the day’s supply of water, she drew three bucketfuls for her from the
well It was a very deep well, with such a low parapet that Mrs Pither’s final
doom would almost certainly be to fall into it and get drowned, and it had not
even a winch- you had to haul the bucket up hand over hand And then they
sat down for a few minutes, and Mrs Pither talked some more about Heaven It
was extraordinary how constantly Heaven reigned m her thoughts, and more
extraordinary yet was the actuality, the vividness with which she could see it
The golden streets and the gates of orient pearl were as real to her as though
they had been actually before her eyes And her vision extended to the most
concrete, the most earthly details The softness of the beds up there! The
deliciousness of the food' The lovely silk clothes that you would put on clean
every morning! The surcease from everlasting to everlasting from work of any
description' In almost every moment of her life the vision of Heaven supported
and consoled her, and her abject complaints about the lives of ‘poor working
folks’ were curiously tempered by a satisfaction m the thought that, after all, it
is ‘poor working folks’ who are the principal inhabitants of Heaven It was a
sort of bargain that she had struck, setting her lifetime of dreary labour against
an eternity of bliss Her faith was almost too great, if that is possible For it was
a curious fact, but the certitude with which Mrs Pither looked forward to
Heaven-as to some kind of glorified home for mcurables-affected Dorothy
with strange uneasiness

Dorothy prepared to depart, while Mrs Pither thanked her, rather too
effusively, for her visit, winding up, as usual, with fresh complaints about her
rheumatism

‘I’ll be sure and take the angelica tea,’ she concluded, ‘and thank you kindly
for telling me of it. Miss Not as I don’t expect as it’ll do me much good Ah,
Miss, if you knew how cruel bad my rheumatism’s been this last week' All
down the backs of my legs, it is, like a regular shooting red-hot poker, and I
don’t seem to be able to get at them to rub them properly Would it be asking
too much of you. Miss, to give me a bit of a rub-down before you go? I got a
bottle of Elliman’s under the sink ’

Unseen by Mrs Pither, Dorothy gave herself a severe pinch She had been
expecting this, and-she had done it so many times before-she really did not
enjoy rubbing Mrs Pither down She exhorted herself angrily Come on,
Dorothy' No smffishness, please' John xrn, 14 ‘Of course I will, Mrs Pither 1 ’
she said instantly

They went up the narrow, rickety staircase, in which you had to bend almost
double at one place to avoid the overhanging ceiling The bedroom was lighted
by a tiny square of window that was jammed in its socket by the creeper
outside, and had not been opened in twenty years There was an enormous
double bed that almost filled the room, with sheets perennially damp and a
flock mattress as full of hills and valleys as a contour map of Switzerland With
many groans the old woman crept on to the bed and laid herself face down
The room reeked of urine and paregoric Dorothy took the bottle of Elliman’s
embrocation and carefully anointed Mrs Pither’s large, grey-vemed, flaccid
legs.



A Clergyman’s Daughter 287

Outside, m the swimming heat, she mounted her bicycle and began to ride
swiftly homewards The sun burned m her face, but the air now seemed sweet
and fresh She was happy, happy 1 She was always extravagantly happy when
her morning’s ‘visiting’ was over, and, curiously enough, she was not aware of
the reason for this In Borlase the dairy-farmer’s meadow the red cows were
grazing, knee-deep in shining seas of grass The scent of cows, like a
distillation of vanilla and fresh hay, floated into Dorothy’s nostrils Though
she had still a morning’s work m front of her she could not resist the
temptation to loiter for a moment, steadying her bicycle with one hand against
the gate of Borlase’s meadow, while a cow, with moist shell-pink nose,
scratched its chin upon the gatepost and dreamily regarded her

Dorothy caught sight of a wild rose, flowerless of course, growing beyond
the hedge, and climbed over the gate with the intention of discovering whether
it were not sweetbriar She knelt down among the tall weeds beneath the
hedge It was very hot down there, close to the ground The humming of many
unseen insects sounded m her ears, and the hot summery fume from the
tangled swathes of vegetation flowed up and enveloped her Near by, tall stalks
of fennel were growing, with trailing fronds of foliage like the tails of sea-green
horses Dorothy pulled a frond of the fennel against her face and breathed m
the strong sweet scent Its richness overwhelmed her, almost dizzied her for a
moment She drank it in, filling her lungs with it Lovely, lovely scent-scent of
summer days, scent of childhood joys, scent of spice-drenched islands m the
warm foam of Oriental seas'

Her heart swelled with sudden joy It was that mystical joy m the beauty of
the earth and the very nature of things that she recognized, perhaps
mistakenly, as the love of God As she knelt there in the heat, the sweet odour
and the drowsy hum of insects, it seemed to her that she could momentarily
hear the mighty anthem of praise that the earth and all created things send up
everlastingly to their maker All vegetation, leaves, flowers, grass, shining,
vibrating, crying out in their joy Larks also chanting, choirs of larks invisible,
dripping music from the sky All the riches of summer, the warmth of the
earth, the song of birds, the fume of cows, the droning of countless bees,
mingling and ascending like the smoke of ever-burning altars Therefore with
Angels and Archangels' She began to pray, and for a moment she prayed
ardently, blissfully, forgetting herself m the joy of her worship Then, less
than a minute later, she discovered that she was kissing the frond of the fennel
that was still against her face

She checked herself instantly, and drew back What was she doing 5 Was it
God that she was worshipping, or was it only the earth 5 The joy ebbed out of
her heart, to be succeeded by the cold, uncomfortable feeling that she had been
betrayed into a half-pagan ecstasy. She admonished herself None of that ,
Dorothy! No Nature-worship, please 1 Her father had warned her against
Nature-worship She had heard him preach more than one sermon against it; it
was, he said, mere pantheism, and, what seemed to offend him even more, a
disgusting modem fad Dorothy took a thorn of the wild rose, and pricked her
arm three times, to remind herself of the Three Persons of the Trinity, before



288 A Clergyman's Daughter

climbing over the gate and remounting her bicycle

A black, very dusty shovel hat was approaching round the corner of the
hedge It was Father McGuire, the Roman Catholic priest, also bicycling his
rounds He was a very large, rotund man, so large that he dwarfed the bicycle
beneath him and seemed to be balanced on top of it like a golf-ball on a tee His
face was rosy, humorous, and a little sly

Dorothy looked suddenly unhappy She turned pink, and her hand moved
instinctively to the neighbourhood of the gold cross beneath her dress Father
McGuire was riding towards her with an untroubled, faintly amused air She
made an endeavour to smile, and murmured unhappily, ‘Good morning 1 But
he rode on without a sign, his eyes swept easily over her face and then beyond
her into vacancy, with an admirable pretence of not having noticed her
existence It was the Cut Direct Dorothy-by nature, alas' unequal to
delivering the Cut Direct- got on to her bicycle and rode away, struggling with
the uncharitable thoughts which a meeting with Father McGuire never failed
to arouse m her

Five or six years earlier, when Father McGuire was holding a funeral in St
Athelstan’s churchyard (there was no Roman Catholic cemetery at Knype
Hill), there had been some dispute with the Rector about the propriety of
Father McGuire robing in the church, or not robing in the church, and the two
priests had wrangled disgracefully over the open grave Since then they had
not been on speaking terms It was better so, the Rector said

As to the other ministers of religion m Knype Hill-Mr Ward the
Congregationalist minister, Mr Foley the Wesleyan pastor, and the braying
bald-headed elder who conducted the orgies at Ebenezer Chapel-the Rector
called them a pack of vulgar Dissenters and had forbidden Dorothy on pain of
his displeasure to have anything to do with them


5


It was twelve o’clock In the large, dilapidated conservatory, whose roof-
panes, from the action of time and dirt, were dim, green, and iridescent like old
Roman glass, they were having a hurried and noisy rehearsal of Charles I
Dorothy was not actually taking part in the rehearsal, but was busy making
costumes She made the costumes, or most of them, for all the plays the
schoolchildren acted- The production and stage management were m the
hands of Victor Stone-Victor, Dorothy called him-the Church school-
master He was a small-boned, excitable, black-haired youth of twenty-seven,
dressed in dark sub-clerical clothes, and at this moment he was gesturing
fiercely with a roll of manuscript at six dense-lookmg children On a long
bench against the wall four more children were alternately practising ‘noises



A Clergyman’s Daughter 289

off’ by clashing fire-irons together, and squabbling over a grimy little bag of
Spearmint Bouncers, forty a penny

It was horribly hot in the conservatory, and there was a powerful smell of
glue and the sour sweat of children Dorothy was kneeling on the floor, with
her mouth full of pms and a pair of shears in her hand, rapidly slicing sheets of
brown paper into long narrow strips The glue-pot was bubbling on an oil-
stove beside her, behind her, on the rickety, ink-stained work-table, were a
tangle of half-finished costumes, more sheets of brown paper, her sewing-
machine, bundles of tow, shards of dry glue, wooden swords, and open pots of
paint With half her mmd Dorothy was meditating upon the two pairs of
seventeenth-century jackboots that had got to be made for Charles I and
Oliver Cromwell, and with the other half listening to the angry shouts of
Victor, who was working himself up into a rage, as he invariably did at
rehearsals He was a natural actor, and withal thoroughly bored by the
drudgery of rehearsing half-witted children He strode up and down,
haranguing the children m a vehement slangy style, and every now and then
breaking off to lunge at one or other of them with a wooden sword that he had
grabbed from the table

Tut a bit of life into it, can’t you 5 ’ he cried, plodding an ox-faced boy of
eleven in the belly ‘Don’t drone 1 Say it as if it meant something' You look like
a corpse that’s been buried and dug up again What’s the good of gurgling it
down m your inside like that 5 Stand up and shout at him Take off that second
murderer expression' 5

‘Come here, Percy' 5 cried Dorothy through her pins ‘Quick 1 ’

She was making the armour-the worst job of the lot, except those wretched
jackboots-out of glue and brown paper From long practice Dorothy could
make very nearly anything out of glue and brown paper, she could even make a
passably good periwig, with a brown paper skull-cap and dyed tow for the hair
Taking the year through, the amount of time she spent m struggling with glue,
brown paper, butter muslin, and all the other paraphernalia of amateur
theatricals was enormous So chronic was the need of money for all the church
funds that hardly a month ever passed when there was not a school play or a
pageant or an exhibition of tableaux vivants on hand-not to mention the
bazaars and jumble sales

As Percy-Percy Jowett, the blacksmith’s son, a small curly-headed boy-got
down from the bench and stood wriggling unhappily before her, Dorothy
seized a sheet of brown paper, measured it against him, snipped out the
neckhole and armholes, draped it round his middle and rapidly pinned it into
the shape of a rough breastplate There was a confused dm of voices.

victor Come on, now, come on! Enter Oliver Cromwell-that’s you! No, not
like that' Do you think Oliver Cromwell would come slinking on like a dog
that’s just had a hiding? Stand up. Stick your chest out. Scowl. That’s
better Now go on, Cromwell : ‘Halt! I hold a pistol m my hand! ’ Go on
a girl’ Please, Miss, Mother said as I was to tell you, Miss-
dorothy Keep still, Percy' For goodness’ sake keep still'



290 A Clergyman's Daughter

cromwell ’Alt' I ’old a pistol in my ’and 1

a small girl on the bench Mister' I’ve dropped my sweetie' [Snivelling] I’ve
dropped by swee-e-e-etie'
victor No, no, no, Tommie' No, no, no'

the girl Please, Miss, Mother said as I was to tell you as she couldn’t make
my knickers like she promised, Miss, because-
dorothy You’ll make me swallow a pin if you do that again
cromwell i/alt' I hold a pistol -
the small girl [in tears] My swee-e-e-e-eetie'

Dorothy seized the glue-brush, and with feverish speed pasted strips of
brown paper all over Percy’s thorax, up and down, backwards and forwards,
one on top of another, pausing only when the paper stuck to her fingers In five
minutes she had made a cuirass of glue and brown paper stout enough, when it
was dry, to have defied a real sword-blade Percy, ‘locked up in complete steel’
and with the sharp paper edge cutting his chin, looked down at himself with
the miserable resigned expression of a dog having its bath Dorothy took the
shears, slit the breastplate up one side, set it on end to dry and started
immediately on another child A fearful clatter broke out as the ‘noises off
began practising the sound of pistol-shots and horses galloping Dorothy’s
fingers were getting stickier and stickier, but from time to time she washed
some of the glue off them in a bucket of hot water that was kept- in readiness In
twenty minutes she had partially completed three breastplates Later on they
would have to be finished off, painted over with aluminium paint and laced up
the sides, and after that there was the job of making the thigh-pieces, and,
worst of all, the helmets to go with them Victor, gesticulating with his sword
and shouting to overcome the dm of galloping horses, was personating m turn
Oliver Cromwell, Charles I, Roundheads, Cavaliers, peasants, and Court
ladies The children were now growing restive and beginning to yawn, whine,
and exchange furtive kicks and pinches The breastplates finished for the
moment, Dorothy swept some of the litter off the table, pulled her sewing-
machine into position and set to work on a Cavalier’s green velvet doublet-it
was butter muslin Twmked green, but it looked all right at a distance
There was another ten minutes of feverish work Dorothy broke her thread,
all but said ‘Damn 1 ’ checked herself and hurriedly re-threaded the needle She
was working against time The play was now a fortnight distant, and there was
such a multitude of things yet to be made-helmets, doublets, swords,
jackboots (those miserable jackboots had been haunting her like a nightmare
for days past), scabbards, ruffles, wigs, spurs, scenery-that her heart sank
when she thought of them The children’s parents never helped with the
costumes for the school plays, more exactly, they always promised to help and
then backed out afterwards, Dorothy’s head was aching diabolically, partly
from the heat of the conservatory, partly from the strain of simultaneously
sewing and trying to visualize patterns for brown paper jackboots For the
moment she had even forgotten the bill for twenty-one pounds seven and
nmepence at Cargill’s She could think of nothing save that fearful mountain



A Clergyman’s Daughter 291

of unmade clothes that lay ahead of her It was so throughout the day One
thing loomed up after another- whether it was the costumes for the school play
or the collapsing floor of the belfry, or the shop -debts or the bindweed in the
peas-and each in its turn so urgent and so harassing that it blotted all the
others out of existence

Victor threw down his wooden sword, took out his watch and looked at it
‘That’ll do 1 ’ he said m the abrupt, ruthless tone from which he never
departed when he was dealing with children ‘We’ll go on on Friday Clear out,
the lot of you 1 I’m sick of the sight of you ’

He watched the children out, and then, having forgotten their existence as
soon as they were out of his sight, produced a page of music from his pocket
and began to fidget up and down, cocking his eye at two forlorn plants m the
corner which trailed their dead brown tendrils over the edges of their pots
Dorothy was still bending over her machine, stitching up the seams of the
green velvet doublet

Victor was a restless, intelligent little creature, and only happy when he was
quarrelling with somebody or something His pale, fine-featured face wore an
expression that appeared to be discontent and was really boyish eagerness
People meeting him for the first time usually said that he was wasting his
talents in his obscure job as a village schoolmaster, but the truth was that
Victor had no very marketable talents except a slight gift for music and a much
more pronounced gift for dealing with children Ineffectual m other ways, he
was excellent with children, he had the proper, ruthless attitude towards them
But of course, like everyone else, he despised his own especial talent His
interests were almost purely ecclesiastical He was what people call a churchy
young man It had always been his ambition to enter the Church, and he would
actually have done so if he had possessed the kind of brain that is capable of
learning Greek and Hebrew Debarred from the priesthood, he had drifted
quite naturally into his position as a Church schoolmaster and organist It kept
him, so to speak, within the Church precincts Needless to say, he was an
Anglo-Catholic of the most truculent Church Times breed-more clerical than
the clerics, knowledgeable about Church history, expert on vestments, and
ready at any moment with a furious tirade against Modernists, Protestants,
scientists, Bolshevists, and atheists

‘I was thinking,’ said Dorothy as she stopped her machine and snipped off
the thread, ‘we might make those helmets out of old bowler hats, if we can get
hold of enough of them Cut the brims off, put on paper brims of the right
shape and silver them over ’

‘Oh Lord, why worry your head about such things? ’ said Victor, who had
lost interest m the play the moment the rehearsal was over

‘It’s those wretched jackboots that are worrying me the most,’ said Dorothy,
taking the doublet on to her knee and looking at it
‘Oh, bother the jackboots 1 Let’s stop thinking about the play for a moment.
Look here,’ said Victor, unrolling his page of music, ‘I want you to speak to
your father for me I wish you’d ask him whether we can’t have a procession
some time next month ’



292 A Clergyman ’s Daughter

‘Another procession? What for? ’

‘Oh, I don’t know You can always find an excuse for a procession There’s
the Nativity of the B V M coming off on the eighth-that’s good enough for a
procession, I should think We’ll do it in style I’ve got hold of a splendid
rousing hymn that they can all bellow, and perhaps we could borrow their blue
banner with the Virgin Mary on it from St Wedekind’s in Millborough If he’ll
say the word I’ll start practising the choir at once ’

‘You know he’ll only say no,’ said Dorothy, threading a needle to sew
buttons on the doublet ‘He doesn’t really approve of processions It’s much
better not to ask him and make him angry ’

‘Oh, but dash it all'’ protested Victor ‘It’s simply months since we’ve had a
procession I never saw such dead-alive services as we have here You’d think
we were a Baptist chapel or something, from the way we go on ’

Victor chafed ceaselessly against the dull correctness of the Rector’s
services His ideal was what he called ‘the real Catholic worship ’-meaning
unlimited incense, gilded images, and more Roman vestments In his capacity
of organist he was for ever pressing for more processions, more voluptuous
music, more elaborate chanting in the liturgy, so that it was a continuous pull
devil, pull baker between him and the Rector And on this point Dorothy sided
with her father Having been brought up in the peculiar, frigid via media of
Anglicanism, she was by nature averse to and half-afraid of anything
‘ritualistic’

‘But dash it all*’ went on Victor, ‘a procession is such fun' Down the aisle,
out through the west door and back through the south door, with the choir
carrying candles behind and the Boy Scouts in front with the banner It would
look fine ’ He sang a stave in a thin but tuneful tenor
‘Hail thee. Festival Day, blest day that art hallowed for ever 1 ’

‘If I had my way,’ he added, ‘I’d have a couple of boys swinging jolly good
censers of incense at the same time ’

‘Yes, but you know how much Father dislikes that kind of thing Especially
when it’s anything to do with the Virgin Mary He says it’s all Roman Fever
and leads to people crossing themselves and genuflecting at the wrong times
and goodness knows what You remember what happened at Advent ’

The previous year, on his own responsibility, Victor had chosen as one of
the hymns for Advent, Number 642, with the refrain ‘Hail Mary, hail Mary,
hail Mary full of grace*’ This piece of popishness had annoyed the Rector
extremely At the close of the first verse he had pointedly laid down his hymn
book, turned round in his stall and stood regarding the congregation with an
air so stony that some of the choirboys faltered and almost broke down
Afterwards he had said that to hear the rustics bawling ‘’Ail Mary' ’Ail Mary*’
made him think he was m the four-ale bar of the Dog and Bottle

‘But dash it'’ said Victor m his aggrieved way, ‘your father always puts his
foot down when I try and get a bit of life into the service He won’t allow us
mcense, or decent music, or proper vestments, or anything And what’s the
result? We can’t get enough people to fill the church a quarter full, even on
Easter Sunday You look round the church on Sunday morning, and it’s



A Clei gyman’ s Daughter 293

nothing but the Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides and a few old women ’

‘I know It’s dreadful,’ admitted Dorothy, sewing on her button ‘It doesn’t
seem to make any difference what we do- we simply can’t get the people to
come to church Still,’ she added, ‘they do come to us to be married and
buried And I don’t think the congregation’s actually gone down this year
There were nearly two hundred people at Easter Communion ’

‘Two hundred* It ought to be two thousand That’s the population of this
town The fact is that three quarters of the people in this place never go near a
church in their lives The Church has absolutely lost its hold over them They
don’t know that it exists And why’ That’s what I’m getting at Why’’

‘I suppose it’s all this Science and Free Thought and all that,’ said Dorothy
rather sententiously, quoting her father
This remark deflected Victor from what he had been about to say He had
been on the very point of saying that St Athelstan’s congregation had dwindled
because of the dullness of the services, but the hated words of Science and Free
Thought set him off in another and even more familiar channel
‘Of course it’s this so-called Free Thought*’ he exclaimed, immediately
beginning to fidget up and down again ‘It’s these swine of atheists like
Bertrand Russell and Julian Huxley and all that crowd And what’s ruined the
Church is that instead of jolly well answering them and showing them up for
the fools and liars they are, we just sit tight and let them spread their beastly
atheist propaganda wherever they choose It’s all the fault of the bishops, of
course ’ (Like every Anglo-Catholic, Victor had an abysmal contempt for
bishops ) ‘They’re all Modernists and time-servers By Jove*’ he added more
cheerfully, halting, ‘did you see my letter m the Church Times last week’’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t,’ said Dorothy, holding another button m position
with her thumb ‘What was it about’’

‘Oh, Modernist bishops and all that I got m a good swipe at old Barnes ’

It was very rarely that a week passed when Victor did not write a letter to the
Church Times He was m the thick of every controversy and in the forefront of
every assault qpon Modernists and atheists He had twice been in combat with
Dr Major, had written letters of withering irony about Dean Inge and the
Bishop of Birmingham, and had not hesitated to attack even the fiendish
Russell himself-but Russell, of course, had not dared to reply Dorothy, to tell
the truth, very seldom read the Church Times, and the Rector grew angry if he
so much as saw a copy of it m the house The weekly paper they took in the
Rectory was the High Churchman’s Gazette -a fine old High Tory anachronism
with a small and select circulation

‘That swine Russell*’ said Victor reminiscently, with his hands deep m his
pockets ‘How he does make my blood boil*’

‘Isn’t that the man who’s such a clever mathematician, or something’’ said
Dorothy, biting off her thread

‘Oh, I dare say he’s clever enough in his own line, of course,’ admitted
Victor grudgingly ‘But what’s that got to do with it’ Just because a man’s
clever at figures it doesn’t mean to say that- well, anyway* Let’s come back to
what I was saying. Why is it that we can’t get people to come to church in this



294 A Clergyman’s Daughter

placed It’s because our services are so dreary and godless, that’s what it is
People want worship that is worship-they want the real Catholic worship of
the real Catholic Church we belong to And they don’t get if from us All they
get is the old Protestant mumbo-jumbo, and Protestantism’s as dead as a
doornail, and everyone knows it ’

‘That’s not true 1 ’ said Dorothy rather sharply as she pressed the third
button into place ‘You know we’re not Protestants Father’s always saying
that the Church of England is the Catholic Church-he’s preached I don’t
know how many sermons about the Apostolic Succession That’s why Lord
Pockthorne and the others won’t come to church here Only he won’t join m
the Anglo-Catholic movement because he thinks they’re too fond of ritualism
for its own sake And so do I ’

‘Oh, I don’t say your father isn’t absolutely sound on doctrme-absolutely
sound But if he thinks we’re the Catholic Church, why doesn’t he hold the
service in a proper Catholic way? It’s a shame we can’t have incense
occasionally And his ideas about vestments-if you don’t mmd my saying
lt-are simply awful On Easter Sunday he was wearing a Gothic cope with a
modern Italian lace alb Dash it, it’s like wearing a top hat with brown boots ’

‘Well, I don’t think vestments are so important as you do,’ said Dorothy ‘I
think it’s the spirit of the priest that matters, not the clothes he wears ’

‘That’s the kind of thing a Primitive Methodist would say 1 ’ exclaimed
Victor disgustedly ‘Of course vestments are important 1 Where’s the sense of
worshipping at all if we can’t make a proper job of it? Now, if you want to see
what real Catholic worship can be like, look at St Wedekind’s m Millborough'
By Jove, they do things in style there 1 Images of the Virgin, reservation of the
Sacrament-everythmg They’ve had the Kensitites on to them three times,
and they simply defy the Bishop ’

‘Oh, I hate the way they go on at St Wedekind’s 1 ’ said Dorothy ‘They’re
absolutely spiky You can hardly see what’s happening at the altar, there are
such clouds of incense I think people like that ought to turn Roman Catholic
and have done with it ’

‘My dear Dorothy, you ought to have been a Nonconformist You really
ought A Plymouth Brother-or a Plymouth Sister or whatever it’s called I
think your favourite hymn must be Number 567, “O my God I fear Thee,
Thou art very High 1 ” ’

‘Yours is Number 231, “I nightly pitch my moving tent a day’s march
nearer Rome*’” retorted Dorothy, winding the thread round the last button

The argument continued for several minutes while Dorothy adorned a
Cavalier’s beaver hat (it was an old black felt school hat of her own) with plume
and ribbons She and Victor were never long together without being involved
in an argument upon the question of ‘ritualism’ In Dorothy’s opinion Victor
was a kind to ‘go over to Rome’ if not prevented, and she was very likely right
But Victor was not yet aware of his probable destiny At present the fevers of
the Anglo-Catholic movement, with its ceaseless exciting warfare on three
fronts at once-Protestants to right of you, Modernists to the left of you, and,
unfortunately, Roman Catholics to rear of you and always ready for a sly kick



A Clergyman’s Daughter 293

in the pants-filled his mental horizon Scoring off Dr Major m the Church
Times meant more to him than any of the serious business of life But for all his
churchmess he had not an atom of real piety m his constitution It was
essentially as a game that religious controversy appealed to him-the most
absorbing game ever invented, because it goes on for ever and because just a
little cheating is allowed

‘Thank goodness, that’s done 1 ’ said Dorothy, twiddling the Cavalier’s
beaver hat round on her hand and then putting it down ‘Oh dear, what piles of
things there are still to do, though' I wish I could get those wretched jackboots
off my mind What’s the time, Victor’’

‘It’s nearly five to one ’

‘Oh, good gracious 1 I must run I’ve got three omelettes to make I daren’t
trust them to Ellen And, oh, Victor' Have you got anything you can give us for
the jumble sale’ If you had an old pair of trousers you could give us, that would
be best of all, because we can always sell trousers ’

‘Trousers’ No But I tell you what I have got, though I’ve got a copy of The
Pilgrim’s Progress and another of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs that I’ve been
wanting to get rid of for years Beastly Protestant trash' An old Dissenting aunt
of mine gave them to me -Doesn’t it make you sick, all this cadging for
pennies’ Now, if we only held our services m a proper Catholic way, so that we
could get up a proper congregation, don’t you see, we shouldn’t need-’

‘That’ll be splendid,’ said Dorothy ‘We always have a stall for books-we
charge a penny for each book, and nearly all of them get sold We simply must
make that jumble sale a success, Victor' I’m countmg on Miss Mayfill to give
us something really nice What I’m specially hoping is that she might give us
that beautiful old Lowestoft china tea service of hers, and we could sell it for
five pounds at least I’ve been making special prayers all the morning that
she’ll give it to us ’

‘Oh’’ said Victor, less enthusiastically than usual Like Proggett earlier m
the morning, he was embarrassed by the word ‘prayer’ He was ready to talk all
day long about a point of ritual, but the mention of private devotions struck
him as slightly indecent ‘Don’t forget to ask your father about the procession,’
he said, getting back to a more congenial topic

‘All right. I’ll ask him But you know how it’ll be He’ll only get annoyed and
say it’s Roman Fever ’

‘Oh, damn Roman Fever' 5 said Victor, who, unlike Dorothy, did not set
himself penances for swearing

Dorothy hurried to the kitchen, discovered that there were only five eggs to
make the omelettes for three people, and decided to make one large omelette and
swell it out a bit with the cold boiled potatoes left over from yesterday. With a
short prayer for the success of the omelette (for omelettes are so dreadfully apt
to get broken when you take them out of the pan), she whipped up the eggs,
while Victor made off down the drive, half wistfully and half sulkily humming
‘Hail thee, Festival Day’, and passing on his way a disgusted-lookmg
manservant carrying the two handleless chamber-pots which were Miss
May fill’s contribution to the jumble sale



6


It was a little after ten o’clock Various things had happened-nothmg,
however, of any particular importance, only the usual round of parish jobs that
filled up Dorothy’s afternoon and evening Now, as she had arranged earlier in
the day, she was at Mr Warburton’s house, and was trying to hold her own in
one of those meandering arguments in which he delighted to entangle her
They were talking-but indeed, Mr Warburton never failed to manoeuvre
the conversation towards this subject-about the question of religious belief
‘My dear Dorothy,’ he was saying argumentatively, as he walked up and
down with one hand in his coat pocket and the other manipulating a Brazilian
cigar ‘My dear Dorothy, you don’t seriously mean to tell me that at your
age-twenty-seven, I believe-and with your intelligence, you will retain your
religious beliefs more or less in toto > ’

‘Of course I do You know I do ’

‘Oh, come, now 1 The whole bag of tricks? All that nonsense that you learned
at your mother’s knee-surely you’re not going to pretend to me that you still
believe m it? But of course you don’t 1 You can’t 1 You’re afraid to own up,
that’s all it is No need to worry about that here, you know The Rural Dean’s
wife isn’t listening, and / won’t give the show away ’

‘I don’t know what you mean by “all that nonsense”/ began Dorothy, sitting
up straighter m her chair, a little offended

‘Well, let’s take an instance Something particularly hard to swallow-Hell,
for instance Do you believe in Hell? When I say believe , mind you. I’m not
asking whether you believe it m some milk and water metaphorical way like
these Modernist bishops young Victor Stone gets so excited about I mean do
you believe in it literally? Do you believe m Hell as you believe m Australia? ’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ said Dorothy, and she endeavoured to explain to him
that the existence of Hell is much more real and permanent than the existence
of Australia

‘Hm,’ said Mr Warburton, unimpressed ‘Very sound in its way, of course
But what always makes me so suspicious of you religious people is that you’re
so deucedly cold-blooded about your beliefs It shows a very poor imagination,
to say the least of it Here am I an mfidel and blasphemer and neck deep m at
least six out of the Seven Deadly, and obviously doomed to eternal torment
There’s no knowing that in an hour’s time I mayn’t be roasting in the hottest
part of Hell And yet you can sit there talking to me as calmly as though I’d
nothing the matter with me Now, if I’d merely got cancer or leprosy or some



A Clergyman's Daughter 297

other bodily ailment, you’d be quite distressed about lt-at least, I like to flatter
myself that you would Whereas, when I’m going to sizzle on the grid
throughout eternity, you seem positively unconcerned about it ’

‘I never said you were going to Hell,’ said Dorothy somewhat
uncomfortably, and wishing that the conversation would take a different turn
For the truth was, though she was not gomg to tell him so, that the point Mr
Warburton had raised was one with which she herself had had certain
difficulties She did indeed believe in Hell, but she had never been able to
persuade herself that anyone actually went there She believed that Hell
existed, but that it was empty Uncertain of the orthodoxy of this belief, she
preferred to keep it to herself ‘It’s never certain that anyone is gomg to Hell,’
she said more firmly, feeling that here at least she was on sure ground
‘What 1 ’ said Mr Warburton, halting m mock surprise ‘Surely you don’t
mean to say that there’s hope for me yet’’

‘Of course there is It’s only those horrid Predestination people who pretend
that you go to Hell whether you repent or not You don’t think the Church of
England are Calvinists, do you’’

‘I suppose there’s always the chance of getting off on a plea of Invincible
Ignorance,’ said Mr Warburton reflectively, and then, more confidently ‘Do
you know, Dorothy, I’ve a sort of feeling that even now, after knowing me two
years, you’ve still half an idea you can make a convert of me A lost
sheep-brand plucked from the burning, and all that I believe you still hope
against hope that one of these days my eyes will be opened and you’ll meet me
at Holy Communion at seven o’clock on some damned cold winter morning
Don’t you’’

‘Well-’ said Dorothy, again uncomfortably She did, m fact, entertain some
such hope about Mr Warburton, though he was not exactly a promising case
for conversion It was not in her nature to see a fellow being m a state of
unbelief without making some effort to reclaim him What hours she had
spent, at different times, earnestly debating with vague village atheists who
could not produce a single intelligible reason for their unbelief 1 ‘Yes,’ she
admitted finally, not particularly wanting to make the admission, but not
wanting to prevaricate
Mr Warburton laughed delightedly.

‘You’ve a hopeful nature,’ he said ‘But you aren’t afraid, by any chance, that
I might convert you? “The dog it was that died”, you may remember ’

At this Dorothy merely smiled ‘Don’t let him see he’s shocking you’-that
was always her maxim when she was talking to Mr Warburton. They had been
arguing m this manner, without coming to any kmd of conclusion, for the past
hour, and might have gone on for the rest of the night if Dorothy had been
willing to stay, for Mr Warburton delighted in teasing her about her religious
beliefs He had that fatal cleverness that so often goes with unbelief, and in
their arguments, though Dorothy was always right, she was not Sways
victorious They were sitting, or rather Dorothy was sitting and Mr
Warburton was standing, m a large agreeable room, giving on a moonlit lawn,
that Mr Warburton called his ‘studio’ -not that there was any sign of work ever



2^8 A Clergyman's Daughter

having been done in it To Dorothy’s great disappointment, the celebrated Mr
Bewley had not turned up (As a matter of fact, neither Mr Bewley, nor his
wife, nor his novel entitled Fishpools and Concubines , actually existed Mr
Warburton had invented all three of them on the spur of the moment, as a
pretext for inviting Dorothy to his house, well knowing that she would never
come unchaperoned ) Dorothy had felt rather uneasy on finding that Mr
Warburton was alone It had occurred to her, indeed she had felt perfectly
certain, that it would be wiser to go home at once, but she had stayed, chiefly
because she was horribly tired and the leather armchair into which Mr
Warburton had thrust her the moment she entered the house was too
comfortable to leave Now, however, her conscience was pricking her It didn't
do to stay too late at his house-people would talk if they heard of it Besides,
there was a multitude of jobs that she ought to be doing and that she had
neglected in order to come here She was so little used to idleness that even an
hour spent m mere talking seemed to her vaguely sinful

She made an effort, and straightened herself in the too-comfortable chair C I
think, if you don’t mind, it’s really time I was getting home,’ she said

‘Talking of Invincible Ignorance,’ went on Mr Warburton, taking no notice
of Dorothy’s remark, ‘I forget whether I ever told you that once when I was
standing outside the World’s End pub m Chelsea, waiting for a taxi, a damned
ugly little Salvation Army lassie came up to me and said-without any kind of
introduction, you know-“What will you say at the Judgement Seat? ” I said,
“I am reserving my defence ” Rather neat, I think, don’t you? ’

Dorothy did not answer Her conscience had given her another and harder
jab-she had remembered those wretched, unmade jackboots, and the fact that
at least one of them had got to be made tonight She was, however, unbearably
tired She had had an exhausting afternoon, starting off with ten miles or so
bicycling to and fro in the sun, delivering the parish magazine, and continuing
with the Mothers’ Union tea in the hot little wooden-walled room behind the
parish hall The Mothers met every Wednesday afternoon to have tea and do
some charitable sewing while Dorothy read aloud to them (At present she was
reading Gene Stratton Porter’s A Girl of the Limberlosl ) It was nearly always
upon Dorothy that jobs of that kind devolved, because the phalanx of devoted
women (the church fowls, they are called) who do the dirty work of most
parishes had dwindled at Knype Hill to four or five at most The only helper on
whom Dorothy ^ould count at all regularly was Miss Foote, a tall, rabbit-
faced, dithering virgin of thirty-five, who meant well but made a mess of
everything and was in a perpetual state of flurry Mr Warburton used to say
that she reminded him of a comet- ‘a ridiculous blunt-nosed creature rushing
round on an eccentric orbit and always a little behind time’ You could trust
Miss Foote with the church decorations, but not with the Mothers or the
Sunday School, because, though a regular churchgoer, her orthodoxy was
suspect She had confided to Dorothy that she could worship God best under
the blue dome of the sky After tea Dorothy had dashed up to the church to put
fresh flowers on the altar, and then she had typed out her father’s sermon-her
typewriter was a rickety pre-Boer War ‘invisible’, on which you couldn’t



A Clergyman’s Daughter 299

average eight hundred words an hour-and after supper she had weeded the
pea rows until the light failed and her back seemed to be breaking With one
thing and another, she was even more tired than usual
‘I really must be getting home,’ she repeated more firmly ‘I’m sure it’s
getting fearfully late ’

‘Home? ’ said Mr Warburton ‘Nonsense' The evening’s hardly begun ’

He was walking up and down the room again, with his hands in his coat
pockets, having thrown away his cigar The spectre of the unmade jackboots
stalked back into Dorothy’s mind She would, she suddenly decided, make two
jackboots tonight instead of only one, as a penance for the hour she had wasted
She was just beginning to make a mental sketch of the way she would cut out
the pieces of brown paper for the msteps, when she noticed that Mr
Warburton had halted behind her chair
‘What time is it, do you know? ’ she said

‘I dare say it might be half past ten But people like you and me don’t talk of
such vulgar subjects as the time ’

‘If it’s half past ten, then I really must be going,’ said Dorothy I’ve got a
whole lot of work to do before I go to bed ’

‘Work' At this time of night? Impossible'’

‘Yes, I have I’ve got to make a pair of jackboots ’

‘You’ve got to make a pair of what? said Mr Warburton
‘Of jackboots For the play the schoolchildren are acting We make them out
of glue and brown paper ’

‘Glue and brown paper' Good God 1 ’ murmured Mr Warburton He went
on, chiefly to cover the fact that he was drawing nearer to Dorothy’s chair
‘What a life you lead' Messing about with glue and brown paper m the middle
of the night' I must say, there are times when I feel just a little glad that I’m not
a clergyman’s daughter ’

‘I think-’ began Dorothy

But at the same moment Mr Warburton, invisible behind her chair, had
lowered his hands and taken her gently by the shoulders Dorothy immediately
wriggled herself m an effort to get free of him, but Mr Warburton pressed her
back into her place
‘Keep still,’ he said peaceably
‘Let me go'’ exclaimed Dorothy

Mr Warburton ran his right hand caressingly down her upper arm There
was something very revealing, very characteristic in the way he did it, it was
the lingering, appraising touch of a man to whom a woman’s body is valuable
precisely m the same way as though it were something to eat

‘You really have extraordinary nice arms,’ he said ‘How on earth have you
managed to remain unmarried all these years? ’

‘Let me go at once'’ repeated Dorothy, beginning to struggle again
‘But I don’t particularly want to let you go,’ objected Mr Warburton
* Please don’t stroke my arm like that' I don’t like it' 5
‘What a curious child you are' Why don’t you like it? 5
‘I tell you I don’t like it' 5



yoo A Clergyman ’ ? Daughtei

‘Now don’t go and turn round,’ said Mr Warburton mildly ‘ Y ou don’t seem
to realize how tactful it was on my part to approach you from behind your
back If you turn round you’ll see that I’m old enough to be your father, and
hideously bald into the bargain But if you’ll only keep still and not look at me
you can imagine I’m Ivor Novello ’

Dorothy caught sight of the hand that was caressing her- a large, pink, ver>
masculine hand, with thick fingers and a fleece of gold hairs upon the back She
turned very pale, the expression of her face altered from mere annoyance to
aversion and dread She made a violent effort, wrenched herself free, and stood
up, facing him

‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that 1 ’ she said, half in anger and half in distress
‘What is the matter with you’’ said Mr Warburton

He had stood upright, in his normal pose, entirely unconcerned, and he
looked at her with a touch of curiosity Her face had changed It was not only
that she had turned pale, there was a withdrawn, half-frightened look in her
eyes-almost as though, for the moment, she were looking at him with the eyes
of a stranger He perceived that he had wounded her m some way which he did
not understand, and which perhaps she did not want him to understand
‘What is the matter with you’’ he repeated
'Why must you do that every time you meet me’’

“‘Every time I meet you” is an exaggeration,’ said Mr Warburton ‘It’s
really very seldom that I get the opportunity But if you really and truly don’t
like it-’

‘Of course I don’t like it' You know I don’t like it 1 ’

‘Well, well 1 Then let’s say no more about it,’ said Mr Warburton
generously ‘Sit down, and we’ll change the subject ’

He was totally devoid of shame It was perhaps his most outstanding
characteristic Having attempted to seduce her, and failed, he was quite willing
to go on with the conversation as though nothing whatever had happened
‘I’m going home at once,’ said Dorothy ‘I can’t stay here any longer ’

‘Oh nonsense 1 Sit down and forget about it We’ll talk of moral theology, or
cathedral architecture, or the Girl Guides’ cooking classes, or anything you
choose Think how bored I shall be all alone if you go home at this hour ’

But Dorothy persisted, and there was an argument Even if it had not been
his intention to make love to her-and whatever he might promise he would
certainly begin again m a few minutes if she did not go-Mr Warburton would
have pressed her to stay, for, like all thoroughly idle people, he had a horror of
going to bed and no conception of the value of time He would, if you let him,
keep you talking till three or four m the morning Even when Dorothy finally
escaped, he walked beside her down the moonlit drive, still talking
voluminously and with such perfect good humour that she found it impossible
to be angry with him any longer

‘I’m leaving first thing tomorrow,’ he told her as they reached the gate ‘I’m
going to take the car to town and pick up the kids- the bastards, , you know- and
we’re leaving for France the next day I’m not certain where we shall go after
that, eastern Europe, perhaps Prague, Vienna, Bucharest ’



A Clergyman" s Daughter 301

‘How nice,’ said Dorothy

Mr Warburton, with an adroitness surprising m so large and stout a man,
had manoeuvred himself between Dorothy and the gate
‘I shall be away six months or more,’ he said ‘And of course I needn’t ask,
before so long a parting, whether you want to kiss me good-bye ? ’

Before she knew what he was doing he had put his arm about her and drawn
her against him She drew back-too late, he kissed her on the cheek-would
have kissed her on the mouth if she had not turned her head away in time She
struggled in his arms, violently and for a moment helplessly
‘Oh, let me go'’ she cried ‘ Do let me go! ’

‘I believe I pointed out before,’ said Mr Warburton, holding her easily
against him, ‘that I don’t want to let you go ’

‘But we’re standing right m front of Mrs SemprilPs window' She’ll see us
absolutely for certain'’

‘Oh, good God' So she will 1 ’ said Mr Warburton ‘I was forgetting ’
Impressed by this argument, as he would not have been by any other, he let
Dorothy go She promptly put the gate between Mr Warburton and herself
He, meanwhile, was scrutinizing Mrs Sempnll’s windows

‘I can’t see a light anywhere,’ he said finally ‘With any luck the blasted hag
hasn’t seen us ’

‘Good-bye,’ said Dorothy briefly ‘This time I really must go Remember me
to the children ’

With this she made off as fast as she could go without actually running, to get
out of his reach before he should attempt to kiss her again

Even as she did so a sound checked her for an mstant-the unmistakable
bang of a window shutting, somewhere in Mrs Semprill’s house Could Mrs
Semprill have been watching them after alP But (reflected Dorothy) of course
she had been watching them' What else could you expect^ You could hardly
imagine Mrs Semprill missing such a scene as that And if she had been
watching them, undoubtedly the story would be all over the town tomorrow
morning, and it would lose nothing in the telling But this thought, sinister
though it was, did no more than flight momentarily through Dorothy’s mind as
she hurried down the road

When she was well out of sight of Mr Warburton’s house she stopped, took
out her handkerchief and scrubbed the place on her cheek where he had kissed
her She scrubbed it vigorously enough to bring the blood into her cheek It
was not until she had quite rubbed out the imaginary stam which his bps had
left there that she walked on again

What he had done had upset her Even now her heart was knocking and
fluttering uncomfortably I can’t hear that kind of thing' she repeated to herself
several times over And unfortunately this was no more than the literal truth,
she really could not bear it To be kissed or fondled by a man- to feel heavy
male arms about her and thick male lips bearing down upon her own-was
terrifying and repulsive to her Even m memory or imagination it made her
wmce It was her especial secret, the especial, incurable disability that she
carried through life



go 2 A Clergyman 3 s Daughter

If only they would leave you alone ] she thought as she walked onwards a
little more slowly That was how she put it to herself habitually- ‘If only they
would leave you alone '’ For it was not that m other ways she disliked men On
the contrary, she liked them better than women Part of Mr Warburton’s hold
over her was m the fact that he was a man and had the careless good humour
and the intellectual largeness that women so seldom have But why couldn’t
they leave you alone > Why did they always have to kiss you and maul you
about’ They were dreadful when they kissed you-dreadful and a little
disgusting, like some large, furry beast that rubs itself against you, all too
friendly and yet liable to turn dangerous at any moment And beyond their
kissing and mauling there lay always the suggestion of those other, monstrous
things (‘all that 3 was her name for them) of which she could hardly even bear to
think

Of course, she had had her share, and rather more than her share, of casual
attention from men She was just pretty enough, and just plain enough, to be
the kind of girl that men habitually pester For when a man wants a little casual
amusement, he usually picks out a girl who is not too pretty Pretty girls (so he
reasons) are spoilt and therefore capricious, but plain girls are easy game And
even if you are a clergyman’s daughter, even if you live m a town like Knype
Hill and spend almost your entire life in parish work, you don’t altogether
escape pursuit Dorothy was all too used to it— all too used to the fattish
middle-aged men, with their fishily hopeful eyes, who slowed down their cars
when you passed them on the road, or who manoeuvred an introduction and
then began pinching your elbow about ten minutes afterwards Men of all
descriptions Even a clergyman, on one occasion-a bishop’s chaplain, he
was

But the trouble was that it was not better, but oh* infinitely worse when they
were the right kind of man and the advances they made you were honourable
Her mind slipped backwards five years, to Francis Moon, curate m those days
at St Wedekind’s in Millborough Dear Francis 1 How gladly would she have
married him if only it had not been for all that ' Over and over again he had
asked her to marry him, and of course she had had to say No, and, equally of
course, he had never known why Impossible to tell him why And then he had
gone away, and only a year later had died so irrelevantly of pneumonia She
whispered a prayer for his soul, momentarily forgetting that her father did not
really approve of prayers for the dead, and then, with an effort, pushed the
memory aside Ah, better not to think of it again' It hurt her in her breast to
think of it.

She could never marry, she had decided long ago upon that Even when she
was a child she had known it Nothing would ever overcome her horror of all
that-st the very thought of it something within her seemed to shrink and
freeze. And of course, in a sense she did not want to overcome it For, like all
abnormal people, she was not fully aware that she was abnormal

And yet, though her sexual coldness seemed to her natural and inevitable,
she knew well enough how it was that it had begun She could remember, as
clearly as though it were yesterday, certain dreadful scenes between her father



A Clergyman's Daughter 303

and her mother- scenes that she had witnessed when she was no more than
nine years old They had left a deep, secret wound m her mind And then a
little later she had been frightened by some old steel engravings of nymphs
pursued by satyrs To her childish mind there was something inexplicably,
horribly sinister in those horned, semi-human creatures that lurked m thickets
and behind large trees, ready to come bounding forth in sudden swift pursuit
For a whole year of her childhood she had actually been afraid to walk through
woods alone, for fear of satyrs She had grown out of the fear, of course, but not
out of the feeling that was associated with it The satyr had remained with her
as a symbol Perhaps she would never grow out of it, that special feeling of
dread, of hopeless flight from something more than rationally dreadful-the
stamp of hooves in the lonely wood, the lean, furry thighs of the satyr It was a
thing not to be altered, not to be argued away It is, moreover, a thing too
common nowadays, among educated women, to occasion any kind of surprise

Most of Dorothy’s agitation had disappeared by the time she reached the
Rectory The thoughts of satyrs and Mr Warburton, of Francis Moon and her
foredoomed sterility, which had been going to and fro in her mind, faded out of
it and were replaced by the accusing image of a jackboot She remembered that
she had the best part of two hours’ work to do before going to bed tonight The
house was m darkness She went round to the back and slipped m on tiptoe by
the scullery door, for fear of waking her father, who was probably asleep
already

As she felt her way through the dark passage to the conservatory, she
suddenly decided that she had gone wrong m going to Mr Warburton’s house
tonight She would, she resolved, never go there again, even when she was
certain that somebody else would be there as well Moreover, she would do
penance tomorrow for having gone there tonight Having lighted the lamp,
before doing anything else she found her ‘memo list’, which was already
written out for tomorrow, and pencilled a capital P against ‘breakfast’, P stood
for penance-no bacon again for breakfast tomorrow Then she lighted the
oilstove under the glue-pot

The light of the lamp fell yellow upon her sewing-machine and upon the pile
of half-finished clothes on the table, reminding her of the yet greater pile of
clothes that were not even begun, reminding her, also, that she was dreadfully,
overwhelmingly tired She had forgotten her tiredness at the moment when
Mr Warburton laid his hands on her shoulders, but now it had come back upon
her with double force Moreover, there was a somehow exceptional quality
about her tiredness tonight She felt, m an almost literal sense of the words,
washed out As she stood beside the table she had a sudden, very strange
feeling as though her mind had been entirely emptied, so that for several
seconds she actually forgot what it was that she had come into the conservatory
to do

Then she remembered-the jackboots, of course 1 Some contemptible little
demon whispered m her ear, ‘Why not go straight to bed and leave the
jackboots till tomorrow? ’ She uttered a prayer for strength, and pinched
herself Come on, Dorothy 1 No slacking please 1 Luke ix, 62 Then, clearing



204 A Clergyman’ s Daughter

some of the litter off the table, she got out her scissors, a pencil, and four sheets
of brown paper, and sat down to cut out those troublesome insteps for the
jackboots while the glue was boiling

When the grandfather clock in her father’s study struck midnight she was
still at work She had shaped both jackboots by this time, and was reinforcing
them by pasting narrow strips of paper all over them-a long, messy job Every
bone in her body was aching, and her eyes were sticky with sleep Indeed, it
was only rather dimly that she remembered what she was doing But she
worked on, mechanically pasting strip after strip of paper into place, and
pinching herself every two minutes to counteract the hypnotic sound of the
oilstove singing beneath the glue-pot


CHAPTER 2

I


Out of a black, dreamless sleep, with the sense of being drawn upwards
through enormous and gradually lightening abysses, Dorothy awoke to a
species of consciousness

Her eyes were still closed By degrees, however, their lids became less
opaque to the light, and then flickered open of their own accord She was
looking out upon a street-a shabby, lively street of small shops and narrow-
faced houses, with streams of men, trams, and cars passing in either direction

But as yet it could not properly be said that she was looking For the things
she saw were not apprehended as men, trams, and cars, nor as anything m
particular, they were not even apprehended as things moving, not even as
things „ She merely sazo } as an animal sees, without speculation and almost
without consciousness. The noises of the street- the confused din of voices, the
hooting of horns and the scream of the trams grinding on their gritty
rails-flowed through her head provoking purely physical responses She had
no words, nor any conception of the purpose of such things as words, nor any
consciousness of time or place, or of her own body or even of her own
existence

Nevertheless, by degrees her perceptions became sharper The stream of
moving things began to penetrate beyond her eyes and sort themselves out into
separate images in her brain She began, still wordlessly, to observe the shapes
of things A long-shaped thing swam past, supported on four other, narrower
long-shaped things, and drawing after it a square-shaped thmg balanced on
two circles, Dorothy watched it pass, and suddenly, as though spontaneously,
a word flashed into her mind The word was ‘horse’ It faded, but returned
presently in the more complex form ‘ That is a horse*’ Other words
followed- ‘house’, ‘street’, ‘tram’, ‘car’, ‘bicycle’-until m a few minutes she
had found a name for almost everything within sight She discovered the



A Clergyman’ s Daughter 305

words ‘man’ and ‘woman’, and, speculating upon these words, discovered that
she knew the difference between living and inanimate things, and between
human beings and horses, and between men and women

It was only now, after becoming aware of most of the things about her, that
she became aware of herself Hitherto she had been as it were a pair of eyes with
a receptive but purely impersonal brain behind them But now, with a curious
little shock, she discovered her separate and umque existence, she could feel
herself existing, it was as though something within her were exclaiming ‘I am
I 1 ’ Also, in some way she knew that this ‘I’ had existed and been the same from
remote periods in the past, though it was a past of which she had no
remembrance

But it was only for a moment that this discovery occupied her From the first
there was a sense of incompleteness m it, of something vaguely unsatisfactory
And it was this the ‘I am I’ which had seemed an answer had itself become a
question It was no longer ‘I am I’, but ‘who ami’ 5

Who was she ? She turned the question over m her mmd, and found that she
had not the dimmest notion of who she was, except that, watching the people
and horses passing, she grasped that she was a human being and not a horse
And that the question altered itself and took this form ‘Am I a man or a
woman 55 ’ Again neither feeling nor memory gave any clue to the answer But at
that moment, by accident possibly, her finger-tips brushed against her body
She realized more clearly than before that her body existed, and that it was her
own-that it was, m fact, herself She began to explore it with her hands, and
her hands encountered breasts She was a woman, therefore Only women had
breasts In some way she knew, without knowing how she knew, that all those
women who passed had breasts beneath their clothes, though she could not see
them

She now grasped that in order to identify herself she must examine her own
body, beginning with her face, and for some moments she actually attempted
to look at her own face, before realizing that this was impossible She looked
down, and saw a shabby black satin dress, rather long, a pair of flesh-coloured
artificial silk stockings, laddered and dirty, and a pair of very shabby black
satin shoes with high heels None of them was in the least familiar to her She
examined her hands, and they were both strange and unstrange. They were
smallish hands, with hard palms, and very dirty. After a moment she realized
that it was their dirtiness that made them strange to her The hands themselves
seemed natural and appropriate, though she did not recognize them

After hesitating a few moments longer, she turned to her left and began to
walk slowly along the pavement A fragment of knowledge had come to her,
mysteriously, out of the blank past the existence of mirrors, their purpose, and
the fact that there are often mirrors m shop windows After a moment she came
to a cheap little jeweller’s shop in which a strip of mirror, set at an angle,
reflected the faces of people passing Dorothy picked her reflection out from
among a dozen others, immediately realizing it to be her own Yet it could not
be said that she had recognized it, she had no memory of ever havmg seen it till
this moment It showed her a woman’s youngish face, thin, very blonde, with



306 A Clergyman's Daughter

crow’s-feet round the eyes, and faintly smudged with dirt A vulgar black
cloche hat was stuck carelessly on the head, concealing most of the hair The
face was quite unfamiliar to her, and yet not strange She had not known till
this moment what face to expect, but now that she had seen it she realized that
it was the face she might have expected It was appropriate It corresponded to
something within her

As she turned away from the jeweller’s mirror, she caught sight of the words
‘Fry’s Chocolate’ on a shop window opposite, and discovered that she
understood the purpose of writing, and also, after a momentary effort, that she
was able to read Her eyes flitted across the street, taking m and deciphering
odd scraps of print, the names of shops, advertisements, newspaper posters
She spelled out the letters of two red and white posters outside a tobacconist’s
shop One of them read, ‘Fresh Rumours about Rector’s Daughter’, and the
other, ‘Rector’s Daughter Now believed in Paris’ Then she looked upwards,
and saw in white lettering on the corner of a house ‘New Kent Road’ The
words arrested her She grasped that she was standing in the New Kent Road,
and-another fragment of her mysterious knowledge-the New Kent Road was
somewhere in London So she was m London

As she made this discovery a peculiar tremor ran through her Her mind was
now fully awakened, she grasped, as she had not grasped before, the
strangeness of her situation, and it bewildered and frightened her What could
it all mean> What was she doing here? How had she got here? What had
happened to her?

The answer was not long in coming She thought-and it seemed to her that
she understood perfectly well what the words meant ‘Of course 1 I’ve lost my
memory 1 ’

At this moment two youths and a girl who were trudging past, the youths
with clumsy sacking bundles on their backs, stopped and looked curiously at
Dorothy They hesitated for a moment, then walked on, but halted again by a
lamp-post five yards away Dorothy saw them looking back at her and talking
among themselves One of the youths was about twenty, narrow-chested,
black-haired, ruddy-cheeked, good-looking m a nosy cockney way, and
dressed in the wreck of a raffishly smart blue suit and a check cap The other
was about twenty-six, squat, nimble, and powerful, with a snub nose, a clear
pink skin and huge lips as coarse as sausages, exposing strong yellow teeth He
was frankly ragged, and he had a mat of orange-coloured hair cropped short
and growing low on his head, which gave him a startling resemblance to an
orang-outang. The girl was a silly-looking, plump creature, dressed in clothes
very like Dorothy’s own Dorothy could hear some of what they were saying

‘That tart looks ill,’ said the girl

The orange-headed one, who was singing ‘Sonny Boy’ m a good baritone
voice, stopped singing to answer ‘She ain’t ill,’ he said ‘She’s on the beach all
right, though Same as us ’

‘She’d do jest nicely for Nobby, wouldn’t she? ’ said the dark-haired one

‘Oh, you v exclaimed the girl with a shocked-amorous air, pretending to
smack the dark one over the head



A Clergyman’ s Daughter 307

The youths had lowered their bundles and leaned them against the lamp-
post All three of them now came rather hesitantly towards Dorothy, the
orange-headed one, whose name seemed to be Nobby, leading the way as their
ambassador He moved with a gambolling, apelike gait, and his grm was so
frank and wide that it was impossible not to smile back at him He addressed
Dorothy m a friendly way
‘Hullo, kid 1 ’

‘Hullo 1 ’

‘You on the beach, kid? ’

‘On the beach? ’

‘Well, on the bum? ’

‘On the bum? ’

‘Christ! she’s batty,’ murmured the girl, twitching at the black-haired one’s
arm as though to pull him away

‘Well, what I mean to say, kid-have you got any money? ’

‘I don’t know ’

At this all three looked at one another in stupefaction For a moment they
probably thought that Dorothy really was batty But simultaneously Dorothy,
who had earlier discovered a small pocket in the side of her dress, put her hand
into it and felt the outline of a large com
‘I believe I’ve got a penny,’ she said

‘A penny' 5 said the dark youth disgustedly, ‘-lot of good that is to us 1 ’
Dorothy drew it out It was a half-crown An astonishing change came over
the faces of the three others Nobby’s mouth split open with delight, he
gambolled several steps to and fro like some great jubilant ape, and then,
halting, took Dorothy confidentially by the arm

‘That’s the mulligatawny'’ he said ‘We’ve struck it lucky-and so’ve you,
kid, believe me You’re going to bless the day you set eyes on us lot We’re
going to make your fortune for you, we are Now, see here, kid-are you on to
go into cahoots with us three? ’

‘What? ’ said Dorothy

‘What I mean to say-how about you chumming in with Flo and Charlie and
me? Partners, see? Comrades all, shoulder to shoulder United we stand,
divided we fall. We put up the brains, you put up the money How about it,
kid? Are you on, or are you off? ’

‘Shut up, Nobby 1 ’ interrupted the girl ‘She don’t understand a word of
what you’re saying Talk to her proper, can’t you? ’

‘That’ll do, Flo,’ said Nobby equably ‘You keep it shut and leave the
talking to me I got a way with the tarts, I have Now, you listen to me,
kid-what might your name happen to be, kid? ’

Dorothy was within an ace of saying ‘I don’t know,’ but she was sufficiently
on the alert to stop herself in time Choosing a feminine name from the half-
dozen that sprang immediately into her mind, she answered, ‘Ellen ’

‘Ellen That’s the mulligatawny No surnames when you’re on the bum
Well now, Ellen dear, you listen to me. Us three are going down hopping,
see-*



A Clergyman’ s Daughter


308

‘Hopping? ’

‘’Oppmg’’ put m the dark youth impatiently, as though disgusted by
Dorothy’s ignorance His voice and manner were rather sullen, and his accent
much baser than Nobby’s ‘Pickin’ ’ops-dahn in Kent 1 C’n understand that,
can’t yer? ’

‘Oh, hops' For beer? ’

‘That’s the mulligatawny’ Coming on fine, she is Well, kid, ’z I was saying,
here’s us three going down hopping, and got a job promised us and
all-Blessington’s farm, Lower Molesworth Only we’re just a bit m the
mulligatawny, see? Because we ain’t got a brown between us, and we got to do
it on the toby- thirty-five miles it is -and got to tap for our tommy and skipper
at night as well And that’s a bit of a mulligatawny, with ladies m the party But
now s’pose f rmstance you was to come along with us, see? We c’d take the
twopenny tram far as Bromley, and that’s fifteen miles done, and we won’t
need skipper more’n one night on the way And you can chum in at our
bm-four to a bin’s the best pickmg-and if Blessington’s paying twopence a
bushel you’ll turn your ten bob a week easy What do you say to it, kid? Your
two and a tanner won’t do you much good here in Smoke But you go into
partnership with us, and you’ll get your kip for a month and something
over-and we’ll get a lift to Bromley and a bit of scran as well ’

About a quarter of his speech was intelligible to Dorothy She asked rather at
random

‘What is scran * ’

‘Scran? Tommy-food I can see you ain’t been long on the beach, kid ’

‘Oh Well, you want me to come down hop-picking with you, is that it? ’
‘That’s it, Ellen my dear Are you on, or are you off? ’

‘AH right,’ said Dorothy promptly ‘I’ll come ’

She made this decision without any misgiving whatever It is true that if she
had had time to think over her position, she would probably have acted
differently, in all probability she would have gone to a police station and asked
for assistance That would have been the sensible course to take But Nobby
and the others had appeared just at the critical moment, and, helpless as she
was, it seemed quite natural to throw m her lot with the first human being who
presented himself. Moreover, for some reason which she did not understand, it
reassured her to hear that they were making for Kent Kent, it seemed to her,
was the very place to which she wanted to go The others showed no further
curiosity, and asked no uncomfortable questions Nobby simply said, ‘O K
That’s the mulligatawny’’ and then gently took Dorothy’s half-crown out of
her hand and slid it into his pocket-in case she should lose it, he explained
The dark youth-apparently his name was Charlie- said m his surly,
disagreeable way

‘Come on, less get movin’’ It’s ’ar-parse two already We don’t want to miss
that there — tram. Where d’they start from. Nobby? ’

‘The Elephant,’ said Nobby ‘and we got to catch it before four o’clock,
because they don’t give no free rides after four ’

‘Come on, then, don’t less waste no more time Nice job we’ll ’ave of it if we



A Clergyman 's Daughter 309

got to ’ike it down to Bromley and look for a place to skipper in the — dark
C’m on, Flo ’

‘Quick march 1 ’ said Nobby, swinging his bundle on to his shoulder
They set out, without more words said, Dorothy, still bewildered but feeling
much better than she had felt half an hour ago, walked beside Flo and Charlie,
who talked to one another and took no further notice of her From the very first
they seemed to hold themselves a little aloof from Dorothy- willing enough to
share her half-crown, but with no friendly feelings towards her Nobby
marched m front, stepping out briskly m spite of his burden, and singing, with
spirited imitations of military music, the well-known military song of which
the only recorded words seem to be

was all the band could play,

“ — 1 — And the same to you 1 ’


2


This was the twenty-ninth of August It was on the mght of the twenty-first
that Dorothy had fallen asleep in the conservatory, so that there had been an
interregnum in her life of not quite eight days

The thing that had happened to her was commonplace enough-almost
every week one reads m the newspapers of a similar case A man disappears
from home, is lost sight of for days or weeks, and presently fetches up at a
police station or m a hospital, with no notion of who he is or where he has come
from As a rule it is impossible to tell how he has spent the intervening time, he
has been wandering, presumably, m some hypnotic or somnambulistic state m
which he has nevertheless been able to pass for normal In Dorothy’s case only
one thing is certain, and that is that she had been robbed at some time durmg
her travels, for the clothes she was wearing were not her own, and her gold
cross was missing

At the moment when Nobby accosted her, she was already on the road to
recovery; and if she had been properly cared for, her memory might have come
back to her within a few days or even hours, A very small thing would have
been enough to accomplish it, a chance meeting with a friend, a photograph of
her home, a few questions skilfully put But as it was, the slight mental
stimulus that she needed was never given. She was left in the peculiar state m
which she had first found herself-a state m which her mind was potentially
normal, but not quite strung up to the effort of puzzling out her own identity.

For of course, once she had thrown in her lot with Nobby and the others, all
chance of reflection was gone There was no time to sit down and think the
matter over-no time to come to grips with her difficulty and reason her way to
its solution In the strange, dirty sub-world into which she was instantly



gio A Clergyman’ s Daughter

plunged, even five minutes of consecutive thought would have been
impossible The days passed m ceaseless nightmarish activity Indeed, it was
very like a nightmare, a nightmare not of urgent terrors, but of hunger,
squalor, and fatigue, and of alternating heat and cold Afterwards, when she
looked back upon that time, days and nights merged themselves together so
that she could never remember with perfect certainty how many of them there
had been She only knew that for some indefinite period she had been
perpetually footsore and almost perpetually hungry Hunger and the soreness
of her feet were her clearest memories of that time, and also the cold of the
nights, and a peculiar, blowsy, witless feeling that came of sleeplessness and
constant exposure to the air

After getting to Bromley they had ‘drummed up’ on a horrible, paper-
littered rubbish dump, reeking with the refuse of several slaughter-houses,
and then passed a shuddering night, with only sacks for cover, in long wet
grass on the edge of a recreation ground In the morning they had started out,
on foot, for the hopfields Even at this early date Dorothy had discovered that
the tale Nobby had told her, about the promise of a job, was totally untrue He
had invented it~he confessed this quite light-heartedly-to induce her to come
with them Their only chance of getting a job was to march down into the hop
country and apply at every farm till they found one where pickers were still
needed

They had perhaps thirty-five miles to go, as the crow flies, and yet at the end
of three days they had barely reached the fringe of the hopfields The need of
getting food, of course, was what slowed their progress They could have
marched the whole distance in two days or even in a day if they had not been
obliged to feed themselves As it was, they had hardly even time to think of
whether they were going m the direction of the hopfields or not, it was food
that dictated all their movements Dorothy’s half-crown had melted within a
few hours, and after that there was nothing for it except to beg But there came
the difficulty One person can beg his food easily enough on the road, and even
two can manage it, but it is a very different matter when there are four people
together In such circumstances one can only keep alive if one hunts for food as
persistently and single-mmdedly as a wild beast Food-that was their sole
preoccupation during those three days-just food, and the endless difficulty of
getting it

From morning to night they were begging They wandered enormous
distances, zigzagging right across the country, trailing from village to village
and from house to house, ‘tapping’ at every butcher’s and every baker’s and
every likely looking cottage, and hanging hopefully round picnic parties, and
wavmg-always vamly-at passing cars, and accosting old gentlemen with the
right kind of face and pitching hard-up stones Often they went five miles out
of their way to get a crust of bread or a handful of scraps of bacon.