The Canon in Residence - ebook

CHAPTER I

The Reverend John Smith, Vicar of Market Shapborough, got out of the little narrow gauge train at Thusis, gave his Gladstone bag into the hands of a porter, and strolled up the steep ascent from the station to the “Hotel des Postes,” pausing now and again to admire the ruby glow of the sunset on the snowy peaks of mountains that towered above the valley through which he had just been journeying.

There was nothing particularly striking about the Reverend John Smith, any more than his name. He was a middle-aged man of medium height, dressed very correctly as an English clergyman. His hair was just a little tinged with grey, as were also his short side-whiskers. The rest of his face was clean shaven and of rather an ecclesiastical cast, but there was that half-apparent upward turn in the corners of his mouth that told he was by no means devoid of humour, while his eyes were distinctly of a kindly type.

He was not unknown in the Clerical world. There are pages of “Smith” in Crockford, but this particular one, who was Vicar of Market Shapborough, a small town on the outskirts of the Diocese of Frattenbury, had a list of books of which he as the author after his name, and by the titles of them, it was easy to see that Ecclesiastical History was his hobby. In fact, Smith’s “Frankfort Controversies” was well known as a text-book, and his treatise on “Some Aspects of the Reformation in Switzerland” had been described by a certain learned bishop as being “the work of one who had a thorough grasp of the Continental ecclesiastical intrigues of the sixteenth century.”

It was this literary hobby of his that had brought him to Switzerland. He had taken a few weeks’ holiday in the slack period between Epiphany and Lent, leaving his parish in charge of his curate, and had run over to Zürich for the purpose of consulting certain dry old tomes in the library of that city, to get information for the book he was now engaged in writing. Here he found, to his no small satisfaction, that his reputation had preceded him; and so courteous and kindly were the authorities, that his notebook was full of the information he required long before his time was up.

So, having about ten days to spare, he had determined to put in some of them at St Moritz, and having got as far on the road as Thusis, was looking forward to the wintry drive over the Julier Pass the following day.

At this particular time of the year the hotels at Thusis can boast of but few guests, and those only passing travellers staying for just the night on their way. There were one or two other passengers besides Mr Smith, but they evidently were not bound for the “Hotel des Postes,” and when he walked up the steps he saw that he was the only arrival.

There was a solitary individual seated in the hall smoking a cigar, with a cup of coffee by his side. He was a man of about the same build and height as the clergyman, but of a very different type. He was dressed in a suit of a loud check pattern, he had brilliant, turnover stockings beneath his knickerbockers, and a large gold pin flashed out from a gaudy-coloured tie. He wore a heavy, dark moustache, and was, in all respects, the sort of man that at a glance one would have put down as a typical British tourist of a class to be met with all over the Continent. One cannot go up the Rhine on a summer’s day, one cannot take a trip on the Italian Lakes in spring, one cannot go inside a cathedral without meeting such men, similarly dressed. The foreign hotel keeper knows them well, and invariably charges them a couple of francs or so per day above his usual pension price, because he knows he will get it–these men being Britishers abroad with purses.

He looked up quickly at the entry of the clergyman, taking stock of him with eyes that were sharp and alert. He surveyed him narrowly from head to foot, with a restless, apprehensive expression, which only passed from his face when Mr Smith addressed the proprietor, who bustled up to him, welcoming him in very fair English.

Mr Smith said: “Er–can I have a bed?”

He said it in the tone of voice of an English clergyman, a tone that no other profession ever adopts. An expert in human nature can sit with his back to an hotel entrance when a host of tourists comes rushing for rooms from an incoming train, and he will pick out the English parson abroad nine times out of ten by the simple intonation of his voice as he asks for a bed.

Perhaps it reminds one of the Litany monotoned.

Anyhow the stranger smiled slightly as he heard the question put, and went on sipping his coffee tranquilly. The Reverend John Smith was immediately taken upstairs by mine host, and shown room Number 9, which he was assured was the best in the house.

It was not; but room Number 10 had already been ascribed to the individual in the hall. Both rooms were warmed by the same stove, and mine host charged each guest for warming.

They are hotel keepers by instinct in Switzerland.

The Reverend John Smith made up his mind not to dress for dinner. Enough that he was in black. He turned on the electric light, undid his bag–which the hotel porter brought up–and took out a few requisites. After a leisurely toilet he produced a large manuscript book from the bag and perused it with much satisfaction until the bell rang for dinner. It was his book of Zürich notes.

At table he met the other man. He, too, had not troubled to dress. The two sat face to face; they were the only guests. Being English, they ate in silence half through the meal. Then Mr Smith had to ask the other to pass the salt. He hesitated, but the waiter had left the room for something–and he wanted salt. Having asked for it, and thanked his companion for passing it, he felt the silence ought no longer to be maintained. Etiquette had been satisfied without formal introduction. Of course, for the next ten minutes the conversation was confined strictly to the weather–its present state, its biography in past years and seasons, and its probabilities on the morrow. Then Mr Smith grumbled at Swiss railways, and the stranger abused the hotel wine. This put them on a more friendly footing, and the conversation became general.

They went into the hall together, lit cigars–for Mr Smith was fond of a smoke–and chatted quite familiarly. The stranger was a well-informed man, and was able to tell his companion much about St Moritz and the winter season there. Then the conversation took a slightly ecclesiastical turn. Something was said about the clergy, and the stranger made the remark:

“It’s a pity so many of them are not men of the world: excuse my saying so.”

Mr Smith smiled.

“I don’t think you laymen do us justice,” he said. “There isn’t a class of men with such opportunities of getting a knowledge of human nature as the clergy.”

“And there isn’t a class of men who use their opportunities less–at least I think so.”

“Oh, come now. Just think a little. We are always mixing with all sorts and conditions of men, from the highest,” and here he drew himself up a little when he thought of his yearly dinner with an Earl who lived in his parish, “down to the very lowest,” and he blew the smoke complacently from his mouth as he pictured himself visiting the one “slummy” street of Market Shapborough.

“I know, and I give you full credit for it. Don’t think I’m running the parsons down, though,” and his eyes twinkled, “I can’t say I see very much of them myself. But although you may be mixing with all sorts and conditions of men, between you and the laity there is a great gulf fixed. I don’t want to draw invidious distinctions from Scripture as to the different sides of the gulf.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” replied Mr Smith with slight acerbity.

“No? Well, frankly, I mean this. By virtue of your office and your uniform–that collar of yours, for instance–you create, shall we say, a halo around you. That’s the gulf.”

“Well, but it is only right that we should do this. Whatever we may be ourselves,” and he dropped unconsciously into his sermon tones, “our office ought to be respected.”

“But you can’t fathom human nature unless you occasionally get outside that office. Let me put it to you. Suppose you go suddenly into a group of laymen who are talking, say, of perfectly innocent subjects. The feeling comes over them at once, “Hullo, here’s a parson–we must be careful what we say,’ and their conversation changes from a natural one to a more or less forced one. You may think you’re getting at their human nature by listening, but you’re not. They are on their best behaviour. Best behaviour is not generally human nature; come now!”

Mr Smith was bound to laugh.

“Oh, there’s something in what you say,” he admitted; “but then, as I remarked, our office ought to be respected. Suppose I entered a railway carriage where half-a-dozen men were using bad language. You wouldn’t have them go on swearing in my presence, would you?”

“It wouldn’t do you any harm if they did. Of course they wouldn’t swear–more’s the pity!”

“More’s the pity?”

“Certainly. They’d either be silent or make remarks calculated to deceive you. And you’d be impressed with the guilelessness of the working class, and sum up human nature accordingly, bringing it into your next Sunday sermon. Whereas if they went on swearing you’d be able to form a better estimate of humanity, and preach them a better sermon on the spot–if you dared.”

Mr Smith took it good-naturedly, but was on his defence.

“I still maintain,” said he, “that my presence in the railway carriage would be a salutary check on those men.”

“Yes–for half an hour. And then, when you were gone, there would be an exhibition of human nature–at your expense. That’s what I complain of–a salutary check! My dear sir, it isn’t simply a matter of half-a-dozen louts stopping their tongues. It’s more than this. Your office, and the artificial respect for it, prevent you from ever getting hold of thousands of opinions and thoughts, speculations and convictions. You churchmen are in a fool’s paradise, and the hedge round it is the “respect for your office.’ Some day that hedge will be cut down–from outside. And then you’ll see.”

“You are candid–very candid,” said the clergyman slowly. For a minute or two he smoked in silence and with contracted brows. He was not accustomed to have things thrust upon him thus. It was unlike the speeches of laymen at church conferences and opinions expressed in the correspondence of the Guardian. The other watched him with an amused smile, much enjoying the situation.

Presently Mr Smith remarked:

“Most people are able to pull down prevailing systems, but few can suggest remedies of any consequence. You say that we clergy do not sufficiently understand men. Perhaps you can tell me how to do it.”

“Easily.”

“How?”

The stranger leaned forward and touched the other’s coat.

“Take off this,” he said, “and that,” he went on, pointing to Mr Smith’s collar; “put on ordinary clothes and drop the parson. Then go and mix with men–and you’ll see I’m right.”

Mr Smith coloured slightly.

“Really,” he said, “you would not have me go about my parish of Market Shapborough dressed–er–well, like yourself?”

And he smiled, in spite of himself, at such an idea as his eyes fell on the loud check suit.

The other laughed heartily.

“No, not even this,” and he indicated his jacket “would disguise you in your own parish. But I didn’t mean that. I referred to the times you are out of your parish. For instance, you are going to spend a week at St Moritz just at the height of the winter season. There would have been a glorious opportunity for you to become a layman for the time being. You’ll meet all sorts there–snobs, scientists, opinions of the brainy and opinions of the brainless. It’s a little world in itself. You lose your chance of making the best of it by going there as a parson.”

Mr Smith was silent, remembering the stern rebuke he had once administered to his curate when he had discovered that the latter had donned “mufti” for his Continental holiday. There was something in what the stranger said, after all. Deep down in Mr Smith’s heart, almost smothered by years of ecclesiasticism and respectability, there still lurked a few grains of that spirit of adventurous enquiry that is the heritage of those of northern climes.

And, really, now he came to think of it, he could recall more than one instance of the truth of the stranger’s words, instances when he had actually employed a layman to investigate certain parochial matters which he had felt that he could not quite grasp; simple things, but telling arguments at this moment.

How long he would have mused over the matter one cannot undertake to say, for at this moment the waiter appeared, bringing an English newspaper and requesting orders for the morrow.

“Get me a seat in the coupé for St Moritz,” said Mr Smith, “and call me in time to get some breakfast before starting. My room is Number 9.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” said the waiter, who spoke a jargon of many languages. “And Monsieur?” he questioned, turning to the other.

“All right, I’ll give you my orders before I go to bed.”

With a polite gesture, the stranger in check motioned his companion to make first use of the newspaper. It was two or three days old, but the first he had seen for a week, so occupied had he been at Zürich. He opened it, half read the leading article, glanced through a column or two of general news, and then his eyes fell on the words,

“ECCLESIASTICAL INTELLIGENCE.”

The very first paragraph under this heading was the following:–

“We are authorised to state that the vacant Canonry of Frattenbury Cathedral has been offered to the Rev. John Smith, Vicar of Market Shapborough, and author of “Frankfort Controversies,’ and other historical works. Mr Smith is at present on the Continent, and no reply has been received from him as yet, but there is no doubt that he will accept this recognition of his merits.”

He read it slowly once, twice, and then he laid the paper down on the table, took a long draw at his cigar, and threw himself back in his chair with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Perhaps it was the most delicious moment of his life; the more delicious because the news came in the way that it did. The man had a pardonable sense of pride, and this “recognition of his merits” was sweet to his soul.

“Canon Smith!” For a few minutes he revelled in the thought, silently; and who would not forgive him? True, he had had some hopes of it. He knew, just as he left England, of the vacancy; but he had scarcely dared to think of it. Though known by his books, he had never taken any important part in the affairs of the Diocese, and his living was not a very prominent one–and poor enough! The Canonry was worth five hundred a year–riches to him. The smoke which he puffed upward seemed to take the shape of a white-robed figure preceded by a solemn verger carrying a silver wand, marching to his stall in Frattenbury Cathedral. All thoughts of the stranger by his side and the suggestion he had made faded away from him. He was more ecclesiastical than ever. He had entered the hotel as the Reverend John Smith–he would leave it as the Reverend Canon-elect. It was a position of dignity; the “recognition of his merit.”

Meanwhile the stranger had taken the newspaper from the table and was perusing it in his turn. Presently his eyes assumed the intent look of a man who is deeply interested; there was a pause between the puffs of his cigar, and he put down the sheet, muttering in a half-abstracted tone:

“Heaven be praised for the newspapers!”

Mr Smith, in his reverie, caught the words and echoed them perfectly unconsciously.

“Heaven be praised for the newspapers!” he murmured.

There was a very long silence. Mr Smith became more and more wrapped up in his dreams of Frattenbury Cathedral and Frattenbury Close, and the other man became more and more alert in his thoughts. Mr Smith’s cigar had gone out. The stranger was smoking his voluminously. Gradually an idea seemed to take possession of him, and a smile displaced his frown. His eyes looked the clergyman up and down narrowly; then, as if he had quite made up his mind, he drew out his cigar-case, carefully looked over the contents, swiftly transferred all but one conspicuously dark one loose into his pocket, and then, bending forward, said:

“Your cigar has gone out, sir. Allow me to offer you another.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” said the clergyman, starting from his visions. “It’s very good of you. Dear me, but it’s your last,” he added, as he drew it from the case.

“I’ve plenty more upstairs,” replied the stranger. “I’ll go and get some.”

The next minute he was on the first-floor landing. Carefully looking round to see that he was not observed, he entered room Number 9, and turned on the electric light.

As is customary in Continental hotels there was a double door leading from Number 9 to Number 10, in case they were both taken by members of the same family. Each door had its own key, on the inside. In three seconds the stranger had taken out Mr Smith’s key, first unlocking the door, and put it in his pocket. He could now enter the room from his own if he liked. In another two minutes he was down once more, smoking a cigar with the clergyman.

Presently the latter said:

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