Chapter IV

In the afternoon Laurence drove over to Bishop's Pudbury, some eight miles distant from Stoke Rivers. An English soldier--by name Bellingham--whom he had known in New York, and who had married a Miss Van Renan, a cousin of Virginia--had taken a house there for the hunting season. His wife had impressed upon Laurence the duty of making an early call on these connections--he being the bearer of certain gifts to a small daughter of the family, Virginia's godchild. A revulsion in favour of the ordinary ways of ordinary modern life, in favour, indeed, of that very Commonplace of which last evening he had supposed himself so unwilling an exponent, was upon him. He wanted to get in with his accustomed habits, his accustomed outlook, again. The last twenty-four hours had been somewhat of a strain, and Laurence was as lazy as are most healthy Englishmen. He hated energising, specially of the super-induced, involuntary sort. And Mrs. Bellingham's society would be helpful. She was an agreeable woman, of this world worldly. He could have a good, square gossip with her. She was possessed, moreover, of a cult for Virginia--for her beauty, her clothes, her social ability. And in the back of his mind, somehow, Laurence was conscious that it would be an excellent thing for him to hear Virginia's praises sounded loudly. Mrs. Bellingham would count his blessings to him. That recital would be at once humbling and bracing--altogether salutary. But, unfortunately, neither the lady nor her husband were at home; so he could but deposit Virginia's immaculate parcels, tied with flaring bows of amber ribbon, and drive homeward through the rolling Sussex country--now engulfed in its deep, narrow lanes, now climbing its breezy, wooded hills, catching glimpses of the smooth, open downs ranging away to Beachy Head, and of the grey turmoil of the dirty Channel sea.

All this was not very exciting, it must be owned, but it afforded him relief from the singular sensations he had experienced during the morning. He came into the house in excellent spirits, bringing the clean chill of the March evening along with him--came in to meet the same dry, dead atmosphere, the same dark, glossy walls, and rich, sombre colours, the same at once unemotional yet almost voluptuous suggestion from objects of art. A lonely dinner followed, admirably served by two silent, middle-aged men-servants. Their faces were sallow and without expression, their manner was correct to the point of absolute nullity of character, they moved as automata. The dinner itself was a little _chef-d'oeuvre_, and was served on remarkably handsome silver plate. As centre-piece, three dancing female figures in silver-gilt--copied apparently from those on some Etruscan vase--supported a cut-glass bowl, in which floated fantastic orchids, some mottled, dull, brown-green, toad-like, some in long sprays of mauve, or tiger-colour, striped with glossy black. These last gave off a thick musky scent.

Towards the end of the meal Renshaw, the butler, delivered a note to him, which Laurence read not without kindly amusement. It was from the curate-in-charge--the Rector of Stoke Rivers preferring to dwell amid the social excitements of Cheltenham, and but rarely, on the plea of bad health, visiting the parish. Laurence judged the curate-in-charge to be a very young man. His letter ran thus:--

"DEAR SIR,--I trust I am not presuming upon my official
connection with this parish by hastening to express to you the
great relief which I feel in learning that you have arrived at
the Courthouse. As representative of the incumbent of this
parish, I hold myself responsible for the spiritual welfare of
all persons resident in it, whether of exalted or humble
station. I have, therefore, suffered much anxiety regarding
your uncle's, Mr. Rivers, spiritual condition, in his present
very serious state of health. I know that his views are
regrettably latitudinarian, and that his attitude is far from
conciliatory towards the Church. These sad facts, however, far
from relieving me of responsibility, only increase it. I would
so gladly read and pray with him, and reason with him of those
things necessary to salvation. The time permitted him may, I
understand, be short. It is my duty first to warn, and then to
console. I cannot reproach myself with negligence in calling at
the Courthouse. I do so regularly three times a week.
Unhappily, Mr. Rivers is persistent in his refusal to receive
me. This is not only very shocking, as precluding the
possibility of my offering either the warnings or consolations
of religion to the invalid; but it injuriously affects my
position with my parishioners, who, seeing me thus slighted by
the principal landowner in the parish, show a painful
disposition to treat my ministrations with levity, and my
person with disrespect. I trust to your sense of justice to
obtain my admittance to the sickroom, both in the interests of
your uncle's eternal welfare and in those of the Church, of
which I am a humble, but, I trust, efficient minister.--I have
the honour to remain, dear Sir, yours obediently,

"WALTER SAMUEL BEAL."

Laurence finished his glass of claret and his cigarette with a smile. He sat a minute or two, gazing at the dancing, golden figures and at the rather malign loveliness of the orchids.

"Poor little Padre Sahib!" he said to himself. "I'll go and see him to-morrow and do my best to quiet his worthy conscience. Funny mixture of soul and of self in that letter! But he's very much too mild a Daniel to fling into the lion's den upstairs. He little imagines what he's asking. Well, he won't get it anyhow, so that doesn't much matter. Pah!--how hot this room is!"

Laurence rose from the table, folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket.

"Now for processes of vivisection. It's the most original fashion of paying succession duty I ever heard of. My word, if I ever do come into possession, won't I just open the windows in this house!"