Poor Caroline (29 page)

So he handed Miss Denton-Smyth his pound note with
matter-of-fact indifference as though it were the most natural
thing in the world that he should lend her money, and
decided to return within a day or two to complete his
rescue of Eleanor. Meanwhile he made his excuses to his
hostess.

'Well, if you must go, of course you must, but I can't
tell
you what your coming has meant to me. A light in a dark
hour - a
wonderful
privilege to pray for help and
find
it. It's this kind of sympathy that makes us
know
that God is good. I shall never, never forget it. Never, And I won't keep you because I know that you must go. But before you go, won't
you say just one prayer? It would be such a
help
to me. I
should always have it, as a sort of memory - blessing this
room.'

Mrs. Rawlins, Beattie Laver and the Romney girls must
wait. Roger had prayed in too many similar rooms to feel
any self-consciousness now as he cleared a little space among
the discarded tea-things and knelt beside the table. Caro
line got stiffly to her knees, her head pillowed among the
broken springs of the armchair. Father Mortimer's quiet
voice was music in her ears. It was enchantment. It was wonder. She did not hear the soft tap on the door, nor the
faint sound of its opening.

But Roger saw.

'Lighten our darkness,' he prayed, and raising his eyes saw
the figure of Eleanor in the doorway. She stood against the
darkness of the passage, buttoned up in her trim leather
coat, her eyes shining, her cheeks glowing from the cold
wind. For one instant she paused there, seeing Roger on his
knees, his hands clasped among the egg-cups, and the
broken leather of Caroline's upturned shoes. A flicker
crossed her face - a faint ripple of amusement, embarrass
ment and something that might have been contempt. Then
the door closed.

'. . . and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night,' Roger repeated. Then he pronounced
the blessing and remained for a moment quiet.

When he rose, Caroline lumbered up after him, her joints
creaking.

'It's been too wonderful - too lovely,' she cried, her voice trembling, 'the tea, the flowers - your coming, everything. Do you know who you remind me of? Barnabas, the Son of Consolation.'

He bade her good-bye, escaped from her clinging knotted hands, and ran down the stairs. At the front door he paused.
He had come just in time to see Eleanor's motor-car dis
appear round the street corner. He heard the arrogant
scream of her syren as she turned into the Richmond Road.
Then she was gone.

He stood, his hand unconsciously crumbling the damp plaster of the pillar, his face livid with pain. For he had
thought that he had cured himself of his folly and now he
knew that the cure was an illusion. He had lashed himself
with the whips of his ridicule, but Eleanor's smile lashed
him with scorpions. He saw himself as she saw him, a comic
curate, praying among the buns. 'Not quite a real man.'
Just so; just so. And she had not even troubled to wait to
see her cousin. But he had seen, in that swift vision, all that
she meant to him. He knew that her scorn could wither the
universe. What did he care for his soul's safety or the honour of the Church (which Church in any case?) if she could look
like that at him? He needed her respect. Yes, and by God,
much more than her respect. He wanted her, loved her,
lusted for her. 'Think straight, then, think straight,' he
gibed at himself. 'Call things by their proper names. Face
up to this, you fool. You are a priest, and to an intelligent
modern young agnostic like Eleanor de la Roux a priest is
slightly comic, and entirely despicable. If your prayers
amuse her, the knowledge of your love would afford her
delicious entertainment. This is not the place for heroics.
In ten minutes you are due at a meeting of the Church
Bazaar Committee, to adjudicate between the rights of Fancywork and Home Produce to hold the place of honour
just before the platform. This is the life you have chosen.
Down these steps, hurry along the road, catch your bus,
stand to allow the fat woman with the parcels to sit down.
Pass right along the car, please. One penny fare, please.
Now shall I back the Romney girls or Mrs. Masters? Ah,
God, God, God. How can a man live in this agony of
frustration? That's right. Call upon God. You chose Him
as your consoler — the illusion conjured up by generations
of chained and frustrated men - the protest of the human
soul against the limitations of experience. This is reality,
this blinding pain, this shame, this agony — Eleanor de la
Roux is reality. And you have chosen - Church bazaars.
God. I can't stand this bus - these hideous drivelling stupid
people - no - there's no time to walk. Five more minutes
now before the committee meeting. That's what? I beg
your pardon. My ticket? Oh, Hell - a comic curate never
is able to produce his ticket for inspection - ah - here it is.
But this isn't tolerable. This is not to be borne.'

He swung himself down from the bus, crossed the pave
ment, entered a building and took his place at the committee
table just as a timid secretary polished her pince-nez and
began to read the minutes of the last meeting.

§4

Committee meetings do not drown sorrow, but they
can sometimes prevent sorrow from drowning its victims. Roger's pain was not mitigated by the state of his engagement book, but the necessity for constant action strength
ened his endurance. He could not think continually of
Eleanor when he was rushing from the church to care-com
mittees, from boys' classes to funerals, from baptisms
to swimming classes and bazaars. For nearly a month he drove himself forward on a self-imposed routine of work which
aroused Father Lasseter to faint protests.

'You need not think you have to bear the whole burden
of the shortage of clergymen on your own shoulders, my
dear boy.'

'I don't,' laughed Roger. But when he heard of the demand for an assistant at Saint Saviour's, Bermondsey, he
told Father Lasseter of his desire to make the transfer.

'Graves is a noted slave-driver.'

'I know. I think that just at the moment I want to be
slave-driven.'

'Well-go if you must. These phases pass. I suppose you
don't feel like telling me what's wrong.'

'There's nothing wrong that time and a little diversion of
interest won't put right.'

'You'll get diversion of interest in Bermondsey. But there's
no need to kill yourself.'

'I shan't. I'm extremely fit. Don't I look it?'

'You look as if you were heading for a nervous breakdown.'

'Nonsense, sir. I'm going to make my team win the Lon
don Junior Diving Cup. You can't associate that ambition with nervous breakdowns.'

They had both laughed, and Roger left the older man
somewhat comforted.

He did not, however, forget the business which had taken
him to Lucretia Road. He had gone twice to the offices of
the Christian Cinema Company, and after another inter
view with Caroline and one with Johnson had decided that
there was only one chance of salvaging Eleanor's money. If
the Tona Perfecta Film was all that Johnson and Macafee
claimed, it was just possible that somebody interested in the film business might think it worth financing. Then at least
Eleanor would perhaps get her capital back.

It was then that Roger rang up D'Aynecourt. D'Ayne
court had been at college with him and an erratic friendship survived between the two men on the basis of an amiable incompatibility of interests. D'Aynecourt lived in Paris and Chelsea, wrote intellectual film criticism and pursued as a
hobby the wholly disinterested amusement of deciphering
the more scandalous riddles of film finance. He always
knew whose money supported which film and why, and re
counted the reasons with sardonic amusement.

To D'Aynecourt's rooms in Cheyne Row Roger went with his tale of the Christian Cinema Company, and in a
spirit of malicious benevolence, D'Aynecourt at once pro
duced his Big Financier.

'Simon L. Brooks is the man you ought to see. He's behind God knows how many companies. But, mark you, my friend, he's no philanthropist. If, as you say, there's stuff in
this Scottish genius, he'll probably buy him out of your
crazy company, which will then be able to die peacefully,
which would be, I imagine, its happiest end. If not-'
D'Aynecourt shrugged his shoulders.

It appeared that the great man was in England at
the moment. It appeared that D'Aynecourt was to meet
him.

'I'll see what I can do. Well, well. How are you, when you're not attempting to reform the British Cinema? You
look slightly fatigued. Have you gone over to Rome yet?
Or are you still satisfied with the guidance of Sir William
Joynson-Hicks, Bart., Defender of the Faith?'

'God forbid,' said Roger.

But he went back to the clergy house elated and ex
pectant. It would really be rather exhilarating if he - the comic curate, the not-quite-real-man, could produce the
financial god from the machine and save the company. He wanted to show Eleanor that he was not wholly without
influence.

But the days passed and he heard no more from D'Ayne
court. Then, suddenly, that casual young man rang up to
say that he had seen Brooks, that Brooks was quite amused,
and that if he had time he might ring up on Monday night
and ask Mortimer to take him down to see Macafee and the
film.

Roger had a Boy Scouts' class at half-past eight on Monday evening, but he rang up and found a deputy. He refused to sacrifice the entertainment of escorting Simon L. Brooks
out to Macafee's laboratory. Johnson's casual remark, that Miss de la Roux spent most of her spare time down there
now, lit in him a faint hope that he might see her also. He
did not know if he wanted to see Eleanor, but an entirely human and rather disgraceful sentiment made him anxious
that she should see him visiting the laboratory as the escort
of Brooks and D'Aynecourt.

'I'll larn her. I'll larn her,' swore he to himself as he
fumbled among black clerical coats on the peg in the bleak
passage. The wind howled through the bare hall. It was a
wild evening.

Roger went out on to the steps and waited for the car
which was to convey them all out to Annerley. The wind
had torn the clouds to ribbons and scattered the earlier rain.
It caught Roger's coat and whipped his face as he stood
bare-headed, waiting.