The Revellers

“May I come, too?”

Instantly a rustle of surprise swept through her hearers. Even John Bolland was so taken aback that he hesitated to reply. But the lady seemed to be in earnest.

“I really mean it,” she went on. “I have a spare hour, and, as I don’t care for dinner to-night, I’ll be most pleased to attend – that is, if I may?”

The farmer came nearer. He looked at the bulbous eyelids, the too-evenly tinted skin, the turgid veins in the brilliant eyes, and perhaps saw more than Mrs. Saumarez dreamed.

“Happen it’ll be an hour well spent, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Admission is by membership ticket, but t’ minister gev’ me a few ‘permits’ for outside friends, an’ I’ll fill yan in for ye wi’ pleasure.”

He produced some slips of paper bearing the written words, “Admit Brother” or “Sister – ,” and signed, “Eli Todd.” With a stubby pencil he scrawled “Saumarez” in a blank space. The lady thanked him, and gave some instructions in French to Françoise. Five minutes later “Sister Saumarez,” escorted by “Brother” and “Sister” Bolland, entered the village meetinghouse.

The appearance of a fashionable dame in their midst created a mild sensation among the small congregation already collected. They were mostly old or middle-aged people; youngsters were conspicuous by their absence. There was a dance that night in a tent erected in a field close to the chapel; in the boxing booth the semi-final round would be fought for the Elmsdale championship. Against these rival attractions the Gospel was not a “draw.”

Gradually the spacious but bare room – so unlike all that Mrs. Saumarez knew of churches – became fairly well filled. As the church clock chimed the half-hour after six the Rev. Eli Todd came in from a neighboring classroom. This was the preacher with the powerful voice, but his bell-like tones were subdued and reverent enough in the opening prayer. He uttered a few earnest sentences and quickly evoked responses from the people. The first time John Bolland cried “Amen!” Mrs. Saumarez started. She thought her friend had made a mistake, and her nerves were on edge. But the next period produced a hearty “Hallelujah!” and others joined in with “Glory be!” “Thy will, O Lord!” and kindred ejaculations.

One incident absolutely amazed her. The minister was reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

“Give us this day our daily bread,” he said.

“And no baccy, Lord!” growled a voice from the rear of the chapel.

The minister had a momentary difficulty in concluding the petition, and a broad grin ran through the congregation. Mrs. Saumarez learned subsequently that the interrupter was a converted poacher, who abandoned his pipe, together with gun and beer jug, “when he found Christ.” Eli Todd was a confirmed smoker, and the two were ever at variance on the point.

All stood up when their pastor gave out the opening verses of a hymn:

O what a joyful meeting there,
In robes of white arrayed;
Palms in our hands we all shall bear
And crowns upon our heads.

The joyous energy of his declamation, the no less eager volume of sound that arose from the congregation, atoned for any deficiencies of meter or rhyme. The village worshipers lost themselves in the influence of the moment. With spiritual vision they saw the last great meeting, and thundered vociferously the closing lines of the chorus:

And then we shall in Heaven reign,
And never, never part again.

“Grace before meat” was sung, and, to Mrs. Saumarez’s great discomfiture, bread and water were passed round. Each one partook save herself; Bolland, with real tact, missed her in handing the tray and pitcher to the other occupants of their pew.

“Grace after meat” followed, and forthwith Eli Todd began to deliver an address. His discourse was simple and well reasoned, dealing wholly with the sustenance derived from God’s saving spirit. It may be that the unexpected presence of a stranger like Mrs. Saumarez exercised a slightly unnerving influence, as he spoke more seriously and with less dramatic intensity than was his wont.

Suddenly he rebelled against this sensation of restraint. Changing, with the skill of a born revivalist, from the rounded periods of ordinary English to the homely vernacular of the district, he thundered out:

“There’s noa cittidell o’ sin ’at God cannot destroy. Ay, friends, t’ sword o’ t’ Spirit s’all oppen a way through walls o’ brass an’ iron yats (gates). Weän’t ye jine His conquerin’ army? He’s willin’ te list ye noo. There’s none o’ yer short service whilst ye deä t’ Lord’s work – it’s for ivver an’ ivver, an’ yer pension is life ivverlastin’.”

And so the curious service went to its end, which came not until various members of the congregation made public confession of faith, personal statements which often consisted of question and answer between pastor and penitent. It was a strange interrogatory. Eli Todd had a ready quip, a quick appreciation, an emphatic or amusing disclaimer, for each and every avowal of broad-minded Christianity or intolerant views. For these dalesfolk did not all think alike. Some were inclined to damn others who did not see through the myopic lenses of their own spiritual spectacles.

The preacher would have none of this exclusive righteousness. As he said, in his own strenuous way:

“The Lord is ivverywhere. He isn’t a prisoner i’ this little room te-night. He’s yonder i’ t’ street amang t’ organs an’ shows. He’s yonder i’ t’ tent where foolish youths an’ maidens cannot see Him. If ye seek Him ye’ll find Him, ay, in the abodes of sin and the palaces of wantonness. No door can be closed to His saving mercy, no heart too hardened to resist His love.”

As it happened, his glance fell on Mrs. Saumarez as he uttered the concluding words, and his voice unconsciously tuned itself to suit her understanding. She dropped her eyes, and the observant minister thought that she was reading a personal meaning into his address.

At once he began the “Doxology,” which was sung with great fervor, and the love feast broke up after a brief prayer. Mr. Todd overtook Mrs. Saumarez on the green. Bolland and his wife were escorting her to The Elms.

“I hope you liked the service, madam,” he said politely.

“I thought it most interesting,” she answered slowly. “I think I shall come again.”

He took off his hat and assured her that she would always be welcome at Bethel Chapel. He, worthy man, no less than the Bollands, could little guess this woman’s motives in thus currying favor with the villagers. Had an angel from Heaven laid bare her intent, they would scarce have believed, or, if conviction came, they would only have deemed her mad.

A breathless Françoise met her mistress at the gate. Angèle was not to be found anywhere, and it was so late, nearly eight o’clock. Nor was Martin to be seen. Madam would remember, they had gone off together.

Mrs. Saumarez explained what all the gesticulation was about.

“If she’s wi’ Martin, she’ll be all right,” said Bolland. “He’ll bring her yam afore ye git yer things off, ma’am.”

He was right. Angèle had discovered that Elsie Herbert would be at the church bazaar that evening, and planned the ramble with Martin so that the vicar’s daughter might meet them together on the high road.

It delighted her to see the only rival she feared flash a quick side glance as she bowed smilingly and passed on, for Mr. Herbert did not wholly approve of Angèle, so Elsie thought it best not to stop for a chat. Martin, too, was annoyed as he doffed his cap. He thought Elsie would surely ask how he was. Moreover, those hot kisses were burning yet on his lips; the memory made him profoundly uncomfortable.

That was all. When he left Angèle at the gate she did not suggest a rendezvous at a later hour. Not only would it be useless, but she had seen Frank Beckett-Smythe earlier in the day, and he said there was a dinner party at the Hall.

Perhaps he might be able to slip away unnoticed about nine.

CHAPTER XIII

A DYING DEPOSITION

Before Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down to dinner that evening a very unpleasant duty had been thrust on him.

The superintendent of police drove over from Nottonby to show him the county analyst’s report. Divested of technicalities, this document proved that George Pickering’s dangerous condition arose from blood poisoning caused by a stab from a contaminated knife. It was admitted that a wound inflicted by a rusty pitchfork might have had equally serious results, but the analysis of matter obtained from both instruments proved conclusively that the knife alone was impregnated with the putrid germs found in the blood corpuscles, which also contained an undue proportion of alcohol.

Moreover, Dr. MacGregor’s statement on the one vital point was unanswerable. Pickering was suffering from an incised wound which could not have been inflicted by the rounded prongs of a fork. The doctor was equally emphatic in his belief that the injured man would succumb speedily.

In the face of these documents it was necessary that George Pickering’s depositions should be taken by a magistrate. Most unwillingly, Mr. Beckett-Smythe accompanied the superintendent to the “Black Lion Hotel” for the purpose.

They entered the sick room about the time that Mrs. Saumarez was crossing the green on her way to the Methodist Chapel. A glance at Pickering’s face showed that the doctor had not exaggerated the gravity of the affair. He was deathly pale, save for a number of vivid red spots on his skin. His eyes shone with fever. Were not his malady identified, the unskilled observer might conclude that he was suffering from a severe attack of German measles.

Betsy was there, and the prim nurse. The contrast between the two women was almost as startling as the change for the worse in Pickering’s appearance. The nurse, strictly professional in deportment, paid heed to naught save the rules of treatment. The word “hospital,” “certificate,” “method,” shrieked silently from her flowing coif and list slippers, from the clinical thermometer on the table, and the temperature chart on the mantelpiece.

Poor Betsy was sitting by the bedside, holding her lover’s hand. She was smiling wistfully, striving to chatter in cheerful strain, yet all the time she wanted to wail her despair, to petition on her knees that her crime might be avenged on herself, not on its victim.

When the magistrate stepped gingerly forward, Pickering turned querulously to see who the visitor was, for the nurse had nodded permission to enter when the two men looked through the half-open door.

“Oh, it’s you, squire,” he said in a low voice. “I thought it might be MacGregor.”

“How are you feeling now, George?”

“Pretty sick. I suppose you’ve heard the verdict?”