Part 23 (2/2)
Always your most affectionate
Mark.
Father Rowley had been at St. Agnes' seven or eight years when Mark found himself attached to the Mission, in which time he had transformed the district completely. It was a small parish (actually of course it was not a parish at all, although it was fast qualifying to become one) of something over a thousand small houses, few of which were less than a century old. The streets were narrow and crooked, mostly named after bygone admirals or forgotten sea-fights; the romantic and picturesque quarter of a great naval port to the casual glance of a pa.s.ser-by, but heartbreaking to any except the most courageous resident on account of its overcrowded and tumbledown condition. Yet it lacked the dreariness of an East End slum, for the sea winds blew down the narrowest streets and alleys, sailors and soldiers were always in view, and the windows of the p.a.w.nbrokers were filled with the relics of long voyages, with idols and large sh.e.l.ls, with savage weapons and the handiwork of remote islands.
When Mark came to live in Keppel Street, most of the brothels and many of the public houses had been eliminated from the district, and in their place flourished various clubs and guilds. The services in the church were crowded: there was a long roll of communicants; the civilization of the city of G.o.d was visible in this Chatsea slum. One or two of the lay helpers used to horrify Mark with stories of early days there, and when he seemed inclined to regret that he had arrived so late upon the scene, they used to tease him about his missionary spirit.
”If he can't reform the people,” said Cartwright, one of the lay helpers, a tall thin young man with a long nose and a pleasant smile, ”he still has us to reform.”
”Come along, Mark Anthony,” said Warrender, another lay helper, who after working for seven years among the poor had at last been charily accepted by the Bishop for ordination. ”Come along. Why don't you try your hand on us?”
”You people seem to think,” said Mark, ”that I've got a mania for reforming. I don't mean that I should like to see St. Agnes' where it was merely for my own personal amus.e.m.e.nt. The only thing I'm sorry about is that I didn't actually see the work being done.”
Father Rowley came in at this moment, and everybody shouted that Mark was going to preach a sermon.
”Splendid,” said the Missioner whose voice when not moved by emotion was rich in a natural unction that encouraged everyone round to suppose he was being successfully humorous, such a savour did it add to the most innutritious chaff. Those who were privileged to share his ordinary life never ceased to wonder how in the pulpit or in the confessional or at prayer this unction was replaced by a remote beauty of tone, a plangent and thrilling compa.s.sion that played upon the hearts of all who heard him.
”Now really, Father Rowley,” Mark protested. ”Do I preach a great deal?
I'm always being chaffed by Cartwright and Warrender about an alleged mania for reforming people, which only exists in their imagination.”
Indeed Mark had long ago grown out of the desire to reform or to convert anybody, although had he wished to keep his hand in, he could have had plenty of practice among the guests of the Mission House. n.o.body had ever succeeded in laying down the exact number of casual visitors that could be accommodated therein. However full it appeared, there was always room for one more. Taking an average, day in, day out through the year, one might fairly say that there were always eight or nine casual guests in addition to the eight or nine permanent residents, of whom Mark was soon glad to be able to count himself one. The company was sufficiently mixed to have been offered as a proof to the sceptical that there was something after all in simple Christianity. There would usually be a couple of prefects from Silchester, one or two 'Varsity men, two or three bluejackets or marines, an odd soldier or so, a naval officer perhaps, a stray priest sometimes, an earnest seeker after Christian example often, and often a drunkard who had been dumped down at the door of St. Agnes' Mission House in the hope that where everybody else had failed Father Rowley might succeed. Then there were the tramps, some who had heard of a comfortable night's lodging, some who came whining and cringing with a pretence of religion. This last cla.s.s was discouraged as much as possible, for one of the first rules of the Mission House was to show no favour to any man who claimed to be religious, it being Father Rowley's chief dread to make anybody's religion a paying concern. Sometimes a jailbird just released from prison would find in the Mission House an opportunity to recover his self-respect. But whoever the guest was, soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, apothecary, ploughboy, or thief, he was judged at the Mission House as a man. Some of the visitors repaid their host by theft or fraud; but when they did, n.o.body uttered proverbs or plat.i.tudes about mistaken kindness. If one lame dog bit the hand that was helping him over the stile, the next dog that came limping along was helped over just as freely.
”What right has one miserable mortal to be disillusioned by another miserable mortal?” Father Rowley demanded. ”Our dear Lord when he was nailed to the cross said 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' He did not say, 'I am fed up with these people I have come down from Heaven to save. I've had enough of it. Send an angel with a pair of pincers to pull out these nails.'”
If the Missioner's patience ever failed, it was when he had to deal with High Church young men who made pilgrimages to St. Agnes' because they had heard that this or that service was conducted there with a finer relish of Romanism than anywhere else at the moment in England. On one occasion a pietistic young creature, who brought with him his own lace cotta but forgot to bring his nights.h.i.+rt, begged to be allowed the joy of serving Father Rowley at early Ma.s.s next morning. When they came back and were sitting round the breakfast table, this young man simpered in a ladylike voice:
”Oh, Father, couldn't you keep your fingers closed when you give the _Dominus vobisc.u.m_?”
”Et c.u.m spiritu tuo,” shouted Father Rowley. ”I can keep my fingers closed when I box your ears.”
And he proved it.
It was a real box on the ears, so hard a blow that the ladylike young man burst into tears to the great indignation of a Chief Petty Officer staying in the Mission House, who declared that he was half in a mind to catch the young swab such a snitch on the conk as really would give him something to blubber about. Father Rowley evidently had no remorse for his violence, and the young man went away that afternoon saying how sorry he was that the legend of the good work being done at St. Agnes'
had been so much exaggerated.
Mark wrote an account of this incident, which had given him intense pleasure, to Mr. Ogilvie. Perhaps the Rector was afraid that Mark in his ambition to avoid ”churchiness” was inclining toward the opposite extreme; or perhaps, charitable and saintly man though he was, he felt a pang of jealousy at Mark's unbounded admiration of his new friend; or perhaps it was merely that the east wind was blowing more sharply than usual that morning over the wold into the Rectory garden. Whatever the cause, his answering letter made Mark feel that the Rector did not appreciate Father Rowley as thoroughly as he ought.
The Rectory,
Wych-on-the-Wold.
Oxon.
Dec. 1.
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