Part 31 (1/2)
”I d-d-don't attend any place of wors.h.i.+p at all, morning, afternoon, or evening. I've long given up going to church altogether. I can only be frank with you; I'll tell you why....”
And as they walked along the talk drifted on to very momentous subjects indeed, and led, unfortunately, to a serious falling out--for which probably both were to blame--and closed in a distressful way at the other end of the little wooded hollow--a way most sudden and unexpected, and quite grievous to relate. When they emerged into the open the parson was quite white, and the painter crimson.
”Sir,” said the parson, squaring himself up to more than his full height and breadth and dignity, his face big with righteous wrath, his voice full of strong menace--”sir, you're--you're a--you're a _thief_, sir, a _thief_! You're trying to _rob me of my Saviour_! Never you dare to darken _my_ door-step again!”
”Sir,” said Little Billee, with a bow, ”if it comes to calling names, you're--you're a--no; you're Alice's father; and whatever else you are besides, I'm another for trying to be honest with a parson; so good-morning to you.”
And each walked off in an opposite direction, stiff as pokers; and Tray stood between, looking first at one receding figure, then at the other, disconsolate.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'YOU'RE A _THIEF_, SIR!'”]
And thus Little Billee found out that he could no more lie than he could fly. And so he did not marry sweet Alice after all, and no doubt it was ordered for her good and his. But there was tribulation for many days in the house of Bagot, and for many months in one tender, pure, and pious bosom.
And the best and the worst of it all is that, not very many years after, the good vicar--more fortunate than most clergymen who dabble in stocks and shares--grew suddenly very rich through a lucky speculation in Irish beer, and suddenly, also, took to thinking seriously about things (as a man of business should)--more seriously than he had ever thought before.
So at least the story goes in North Devon, and it is not so new as to be incredible. Little doubts grew into big ones--big doubts resolved themselves into downright negations. He quarrelled with his bishop; he quarrelled with his dean; he even quarrelled with his ”poor dear old marquis,” who died before there was time to make it up again. And finally he felt it his duty, in conscience, to secede from a Church which had become too narrow to hold him, and took himself and his belongings to London, where at least he could breathe. But there he fell into a great disquiet, for the long habit of feeling himself always _en evidence_--of being looked up to and listened to without contradiction; of exercising influence and authority in spiritual matters (and even temporal); of impressing women, especially, with his commanding presence, his fine sonorous voice, his lofty brow, so serious and smooth, his soft, big, waving hands, which soon lost their country tan--all this had grown as a second nature to him, the breath of his nostrils, a necessity of his life. So he rose to be the most popular Unitarian preacher of his day, and pretty broad at that.
But his dear daughter Alice, she stuck to the old faith, and married a venerable High-Church archdeacon, who very cleverly clutched at and caught her and saved her for himself just as she stood s.h.i.+vering on the very brink of Rome; and they were neither happy nor unhappy together--_un menage bourgeois, ni beau ni laid, ni bon ni mauvais_. And thus, alas! the bond of religious sympathy, that counts for so much in united families, no longer existed between father and daughter, and the heart's division divided them. _Ce que c'est que de nous!_ ... The pity of it!
And so no more of sweet Alice with hair so brown.
Part Sixth
'”Vraiment, la reine aupres d'elle etait laide Quand, vers le soir, Elle pa.s.sait sur le pont de Tolede En corset noir!
Un chapelet du temps de Charlemagne Ornait son cou....
_La vent qui vient a travers la montagne Me rendra fou!_
”'Dansez, chantez, villageois! la nuit tombe....
Sabine, un jour, A tout donne--sa beaute de colombe, Et son amour-- Pour l'anneau d'or du Comte de Soldagne, Pour un bijou....
_La vent qui vient a travers la montagne M'a rendu fou!_'”
Behold our three musketeers of the brush once more reunited in Paris, famous, after long years.
In emulation of the good Dumas, we will call it ”cinq ans apres.” It was a little more.
Taffy stands for Porthos and Athos rolled into one, since he is big and good-natured, and strong enough to ”a.s.sommer un homme d'un coup de poing,” and also stately and solemn, of aristocratic and romantic appearance, and not too fat--not too much ongbong-pw.a.n.g, as the Laird called it--and also he does not dislike a bottle of wine, or even two, and looks as if he had a history.
The Laird, of course, is d'Artagnan, since he sells his pictures well, and by the time we are writing of has already become an a.s.sociate of the Royal Academy; like Quentin Durward, this d'Artagnan was a Scotsman:
”Ah, was na he a Roguy, this piper of Dundee!”
And Little Billee, the dainty friend of d.u.c.h.esses, must stand for Aramis, I fear! It will not do to push the simile too far; besides, unlike the good Dumas, one has a conscience. One does not play ducks and drakes with historical facts, or tamper with historical personages. And if Athos, Porthos & Co. are not historical by this time, I should like to know who are!
Well, so are Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee--_tout ce qu'il y a de plus historiques_!
Our three friends, well groomed, frock-coated, s.h.i.+rt-collared within an inch of their lives, duly scarfed and scarf-pinned, chimney-pot-hatted, and most beautifully trousered, and balmorally booted, or neatly spatted (or whatever was most correct at the time), are breakfasting together on coffee, rolls, and b.u.t.ter at a little round table in the huge court-yard of an immense caravanserai, paved with asphalt, and covered in at the top with a glazed roof that admits the sun and keeps out the rain--and the air.