Part 5 (1/2)

CHAPTER V

That incident in itself is sufficient. There is no need to lead a way down the steps that brought the Rev. Samuel Bishop to his final degradation and ultimate death. The generous offer of the chaplaincy of a small union, the withdrawal of his son from Oxford, the dismissal of the tutelary services of the lady who had charge of his daughter's education, the replacing of a better man in the rectory at Cailsham--all these stages of the little tragedy have no intimate importance in themselves, except that they formed the first evolutionary periods of the development of Sally's life. These were the press-gang of circ.u.mstances that forced her into the service of her s.e.x; these, the shrilling calls of the bugle that bid her strap the haversack to her slender shoulders and march out to war against the sea of trouble.

In a living and moving inst.i.tution such as the Christian Church, you cannot afford to be lenient to incompetency. And the Rev. Samuel was incompetent. There is no doubt about that.

In such circ.u.mstances as these, a.s.suming them up to the point where the obliging chauffeur had found the door closed in his face, a competent man would have lifted reason above his faith. Calmly, he would have told himself, as did the chauffeur, ”This is the juice of the grape; it is in nowise altered in composition because these hands of mine--which have done many things--have been laid upon it.

It is better to mix it again with unconsecrated wine, than pour it down the sacrilegious throat of an unbelieving chauffeur; I will put it back in the bottle.”

So a competent man would have acted, presuming that he had ever allowed himself to be so far caught in such a predicament. But the Rev. Samuel was too fully possessed of that first characteristic of faith, which the Christian Church demands. It only argues that you must take no man absolutely at his word, even when he presumes to speak, inspired with the voice of G.o.d. Nothing has yet been written, nothing has yet been said, which can be made to apply without deviation to the law of change, and also indiscriminately of persons.

And so, for this unswerving faith of the Rev. Samuel, Sally Bishop is made to suffer. Very shortly after the removal from Cailsham, she made her declaration of independence.

”Mother,” she said, one morning at breakfast, ”I'm going to earn my own living.” The baby lines of her mouth set tight, and her chin puckered.

Mrs. Bishop laid down her piece of toast. ”I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, Sally,” she said.

The young man down from Oxford e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed--

”Rot!”

”It's not rot--it's not nonsense!”

Her voice was petulant; there were tears in it. It was not a decision of strength. Here the press-gang was at work driving the unwilling conscript. She was going; there was no doubt about her going; but it was a hard struggle to feel resigned.

”But it _is_ nonsense,” said Mrs. Bishop.

”How do you think _you_ could earn your living?” said the young man.

He knew something about the matter; he was trying to find employment himself--he, a 'Varsity man--and as yet nothing had offered itself.

”If I can't get anything to do,” he added sententiously, ”how on earth do you think you're going to?”

”She doesn't mean it,” said Sally's eldest sister. ”She only thinks it sounds self-sacrificing.”

”Is that the kindest thing you can think of?” asked Sally. ”I do mean it. I've written to London and I've got the prospectus here of one of the schools for teaching shorthand and typewriting. For eight pounds they guarantee to make any one proficient in both--suitable to take a secretarys.h.i.+p. Doesn't matter how long you'll stay; they agree for that sum to make you proficient, and they also half promise to get you a situation.”

”And where are you going to get the eight pounds from?” said her little sister.

”And where are you going to get the cost of your living up in Town?”

asked the wise young man, who knew how London could dissolve the money in one's pocket.

”Oh, she's all right there,” said the eldest sister bitterly. ”I know what she's thinking about. She's going to draw that money that grandmama left her--that fifty pounds. I guessed she'd spend that on herself one of these days.”

”And who else was it left to?” asked Sally.

”Yes, my dear child,” said her mother; ”we know it was left to you, of course; but since we came away from Cailsham”--her mouth pursed; she admirably conveyed the effort of controlling her emotions--the lump in the throat, the hasty swallowing and the blinking eyes--”since we left Cailsham, I'd sometimes hoped--”

”Of course you had, mater,” said the young man sympathetically.

”But I'm going to relieve you of all responsibility,” said Sally.