Songs and recitations followed. All were well received by an audience which was determined to enjoy itself, but it was obvious that the real event of the gathering was eagerly awaited.
At last the eventful moment arrived. A table covered with green baize and bearing some objects concealed by a cloth was carried on the platform, and a row of chairs placed on either side of it.
The vicar, Basil, a strange clergyman, and a little group of black-coated churchwardens and sidesmen filed upon the platform amid tumultuous cheering and clapping of hands.
Mr. Pryde, the solicitor, rose first, and p.r.o.nounced a somewhat pompous but sincere eulogy upon Basil"s work and life at Walktown, which was heard in an absolute and appreciative silence, only broken by the scratching pencil of the reporter from a local paper.
Then he called upon the vicar to make the presentation.
Basil advanced to the table.
"My dear friends and fellow-workers," said Mr. Byars, "I am not going to add much to what Mr. Pryde has said. As most of you know, Mr. Gortre stands and is about to stand to me in even a nearer and more intimate relation than that of a.s.sistant priest to his parish priest. But before giving Mr. Gortre the beautiful presents which your unbounded generosity has provided, and in order that you may have as little speech-making from me as possible, I want to take this opportunity of introducing the Reverend Henry Nuttall to you to-night."
He bowed towards the stranger clergyman, a pleasant, burly, clean-shaven man.
"I am going from among you for a couple of months, as I believe you have been told, and Mr. Nuttall is to take my place as your temporary pastor for that time. My doctor has ordered me rest for a time. So my daughter and myself, together with Mr. Gortre, who sadly needs change after his illness, and who is not to take up his duties in London for several weeks, are going away together for a holiday. And now I will simply ask Mr. Gortre to accept this tea-service and watch in the name of the congregation of St. Thomas as a token of their esteem and good-will."
He pulled the cloth away and displayed some glittering silver vessels.
Then he handed the agitated young man a gold watch in a leather case.
Basil faced the shouting, enthusiastic crowd, staring through dimmed eyes at the long rows of animated faces.
When there was a little silence he began to speak in a voice of great emotion.
Very simply and earnestly he thanked them for their good-will and kindness.
"This may be," he said, "the last time I shall ever have the privilege and pleasure of speaking to you. I want to give you one last message. I want to urge one and all here to-night to do one thing. Keep your faith unspotted, unstained by doubts, uninfluenced by fears. Do that and all will be well with you here and hereafter." His voice sank a full tone and he spoke with marked emphasis. "I have sometimes thought and felt of late that possibly the time may be at hand, we who are here to-night may witness a time, when the Powers and Princ.i.p.alities of evil will make a great and determined onslaught upon the Christian Faith. I may not read the signs of the times aright, my premonitions--for they have sometimes amounted even to that--may be unfounded or imaginary. But if such a time shall come, if the "horror of great darkness," a spiritual horror, that we read of in Genesis, descend upon the world and envelop it in its gloom and terror, oh! let us have faith. Keep the light burning steadily. "Let nothing disturb thee; let nothing affright thee. All pa.s.seth: G.o.d only remaineth." And now, dear brothers and sisters in the Holy Faith, thank you, G.o.d bless you, and farewell."
There was a tense silence as his voice dropped to a close.
Here and there a woman sobbed.
There was something peculiar about his warning. He spoke almost in prophecy, as if he _knew_ of some terror coming, and saw its advance from afar. His face, pale and thin from fever, his bright, earnest eyes, not the glittering eyes of a fanatic, but the saner, wiser ones of the earnest single-minded man, had an immense influence with them there.
And that night, as they trudged home to mean dwellings, or suburban villas, or rolled away in carriages, each person heard the intense, quiet voice warning them of the future, exhorting them to be steadfast in the Faith.
Seed which bore most fragrant blossom in the time which, though they knew it not, was close at hand was sown that night.
CHAPTER VIII
A DINNER AT THE PANNIER D"OR
Helena stood with her hand raised to her eyes, close by the port paddle-box, staring straight in front of her at a faint grey line upon the horizon.
A stiff breeze was blowing in the Channel, though the sun was shining brightly on the tossing waters, all yellow-green with pearl lights, like a picture by Henry Moore.
By the tall, graceful figure of the girl, swaying with the motion of the steamer and bending gracefully to the sudden onslaughts of the wind, stood a thick-set man of middle height, dressed in a tweed suit. His face was a strong one. Heavy reddish eyebrows hung over a pair of clear grey eyes, intellectual and kindly. The nose was beak-like and the large, rugged, red moustache hid the mouth.
This was Harold Spence, the journalist with whom Gortre was to live after the holiday was over and he began his work in Bloomsbury. Spence was s.n.a.t.c.hing a few days from his work in Fleet Street, in order to accompany Gortre and Mr. and Miss Byars to Dieppe. It had been his first introduction to the vicar and his daughter.
"So that is really France, Mr. Spence!" said Helena; "the very first view of a foreign country I"ve ever had. I don"t suppose you"ve an idea of what I"m feeling now? It seems so wonderful, something I"ve been waiting for all my life."
Spence smiled kindly, irradiating his face with good humour as he did so.
"Well, _my_ sensations or emotions at present, Miss Byars, are entirely confined to wondering whether I am going to be seasick or not."
"Don"t speak of it!" said a thin voice, a voice from which all the blood seemed to be drained, and, turning, they saw the vicar at their elbow.
His face was livid, his beard hung in lank dejection, a sincere misery poured from his pathetic eyes.
"Basil," he said, "Basil is down in the saloon eating greasy cold chicken and ham and drinking pale ale! I told him it was an outrage--"
His feelings overcame him and he staggered away towards the stern.
"Poor father," said the girl. "He never could stand the sea, you know.
But he very soon gets all right when he is on dry land again. Oh, look!
that must be a church tower! I can see it quite distinctly, and the sun on the roofs of the houses!"
"That is St. Jacques," said Spence, "and that dome some way to the right, is St. Remy. Farthest of all to the right, on the cliffs, you can just see the chateau where the garrison is."
Helena gazed eagerly and became silent in her excitement. Basil, who came up from the saloon and joined them, the healthy colour beginning to glow out on his cheeks once more, watched her tenderly. There was something childishly sweet in her delight as the broad, tub-like boat kicked its way rapidly towards the quaint old foreign town.
In smoky Walktown he had not often seen her thus. Life was a more sober thing there, and her nature was graver than that of many girls, attuned to her environment. But, at the beginning of this holiday time, under a brilliant spring sun, which she was already beginning to imagine had a foreign charm about it, she too was happy and in a holiday mood.
Basil pulled out his new and glorious gold watch, which had replaced the battered old gun-metal one he usually wore. Though not a poor man, he was simple in all his tastes, and the new toy gave him a recurring and childish pleasure whenever he looked at it.
"We ought to be in in about twenty minutes," he said. "Have you noticed that the tossing of the ship has almost stopped? The land protects us.
How clear the town is growing! I wonder if you will remember any of your French, Helena? I almost wish I was like you, seeing a foreign country for the first time. Spence is the real _voyageur_ though. He"s been all over the world for his paper."
The vicar came up to them again, just as there was a general movement of the pa.s.sengers towards the deck. A hooting cry from the steam whistle wailed over the water and the boat began to move slowly.
In a few more minutes they had pa.s.sed the breakwater and were gliding slowly past the wharves towards the landing-stage.
Suddenly Helena clutched hold of Basil"s arm.
"O Basil," she whispered, "how beautiful--look! Guarding the harbour!"
He turned and followed the direction of her glance.
An enormous crucifix, more than life size, planted in the ground, rose from the low cliffs on the right for all entering the harbour to see.
They watched the symbol in silence as the pa.s.sengers chattered on every side and gathered up their rugs and hand-bags.
Gortre slipped his arm through Helena"s.
The reminder was so vivid and sudden it affected them powerfully. They were both people of the world, living in it and enjoying the pleasures of life that came in their way. Gortre was not one of those narrow, and even ill-bred, young priests with a text for ever on his lips, a sort of inopportune concordance, with an unpleasant flavour of omniscience. His religion and Helena"s was too deep and fibrous a thing for commonplaces about it. It did not continually effervesce within and break forth in minute and constant bubbles, losing all its sincerity and beauty by the vulgar wear and tear of a verbal trick.