War in Heaven by Charles Williams (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

and he was asking himself whether this was the voice that had been offering advice on how to train children. There was something about this last sentence also that offended him.

“I know a priest,” Persimmons proceeded, “who is in bad need of some altar furniture, especially the sacred vessels, for a new mission church he’s starting. Now, I was talking to one and another down here—the grocer’s an ardent churchman, I find. And one of your choir-boys, and so on—as one does. And I gathered—you’ll tell me if I’m wrong—that you had an extra chalice here which you didn’t often use. So I wondered, as you have the set that Lady Sykes-Martindale gave, whether you’d consider letting me have it at a reasonable price, for my friend.”

“I see,” the Archdeacon said. “Yes, quite. I see what you mean. But, if you’ll forgive me asking, Mr. Persimmons, surely a new chalice would be better than a—shall I say, second-hand one?” He threw a deprecating smile at Gregory and loosed an inner secret smile to Christ at the epithet.

“My friend,” Persimmons said, leaning comfortably back and lazily smoking, “my friend hates new furniture for an altar. He has some kind of theory about stored power and concentrated sanctity which I, not being a theologian, don’t profess to understand. But the result of it is that he infinitely prefers things that have been used for many years in the past. Perhaps you know the feeling?”

“Yes, I know the feeling,” the Archdeacon said. “But in this instance I’m afraid it can’t be rewarded. I’m afraid the chalice is not to be parted with.”

“It’s natural you should say that,” the other answered, “for I expect I’ve put it clumsily, Mr. Archdeacon. But I hope you’ll think it over. Of course, I know I’m a stranger, but I want to feel part of the life here, and I thought if I could send out a—a sort of magnetic thrill by buying that chalice for my friend… and I’d be glad to buy another for you if you wanted it replaced… I thought… I don’t know… I thought… “

His voice died away, and he sat looking half-wistfully out over the garden, the portrait of a retired townsman trying to find a niche for himself in new surroundings, shy but good-hearted, earnest if a little clumsy, and trying not to touch too roughly upon subjects which he seemed to regard with a certain ignorant alarm. The Archdeacon shot a glance at him, and after a minute’s silence shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Persimmons, but that chalice is not for sale. But perhaps I can do something for you. Over in your direction, some eight miles beyond you, there’s a church which I think has exactly the kind of thing you want. I know that recently they had an altar set up in their Lady Chapel, replaced the vessels at the High Altar, and bought fresh ones for the other two. If the Vicar hasn’t given his old ones away yet, he’s the very man for you—and he hadn’t a week ago, because I was over there. I’ll give you a note of introduction to him if you like—he’s a nice fellow; he’s one of the old Rushforths, you know: they’re a side branch of the Herberts. A good old Anglican family, one might say. His Christian name’s Herbert—a very pleasant fellow. Devoted to the Church, too. Fasts in Lent and all that kind of thing, I believe; and they do say he hears confessions—but I don’t want to take any notice of that unless I’m driven to. It wouldn’t matter, of course, I couldn’t do anything—that’s the great charm of being an Archdeacon, one never can. But there’s a certain prestige and so on, and I don’t want to throw that, for what it’s worth, against him. Herbert Rushforth, yes, I’ll certainly give you a note. Or, even better—I have to go out that way? probably? possibly—this evening, and I’ll call on him and ask him myself. And, if he has them still, he’ll be delighted for you to have them; you needn’t mind in the least—he’s extremely well-to-do. He’ll want to leave them at Cully to-morrow, and perhaps he will. Even if you don’t want to take them over personally, as, of course, you may, he could have them sent to your friend. Where did you say his church was?” The Archdeacon, a fountain-pen in his hand, a slip of paper on his knee, looked pleasantly and inquiringly at Mr. Persimmons, and all round them the flowers gently stirred.

Mr. Persimmons was a little taken back. There had not appeared to him to be any conceivable reason why the Archdeacon should refuse to part with the old chalice, and if by any chance there had been any difficulty he had still expected to be able to obtain sight of it, to see what it looked like and where it was kept. He found himself at the moment almost, it seemed, on the other side of the county from Fardles, and he did not immediately see any way of getting back. He thought for a moment of making his imaginary clerical friend a native of Fardles, in order to give him a special delight in things that came from there, but that was too risky.

“Oh, well,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I think I won’t give you his name. He might be rather ashamed of not being able to buy the necessary things. That was why, I thought, if you and I could just quietly settle it together, without bringing other people in, it would be so much better. A clergyman doesn’t like to admit that he’s poor, does he? And that was why—”

Damnation! he thought, he was repeating himself. But the Archdeacon’s fantastic round face and gold glasses were watching him with a grave attention, and where but now had been a steady flow of words there was an awful silence. “Well,” he said, with an effort at a leap across the void, “I’m sorry you can’t let me have it.”

“But I’m offering it to you,” the Archdeacon said. “You didn’t want the Fardles chalice particularly, did you?”

“Only as coming from the place where I was going to live,” Persimmons said, and added suddenly: “It just seemed to me as if, as I was leaving my friend myself, I was sending him something better instead, something greater and stronger and more friendly.”

“But you were talking about a chalice,” the Archdeacon objected perplexedly. “How do you mean, Mr. Persimmons—finer and stronger and so on?”

“I meant the chalice,” Gregory answered. “Surely that—”

The Archdeacon laughed good-naturedly and shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said, “no. Not the chalice alone. Why, if it were the Holy Graal itself,” he added thoughtfully, replacing the cap on his fountain-pen and putting it away, “you could hardly say that about it.” He stood up, a little disappointed at not having noticed any self-consciousness about the other when he had mentioned the Graal. “Well,” he said, “I must apologise, but you will understand I have some work to do; I’m going to-morrow, as you say. Will you forgive me? And shall I speak to Rushforth?”

“If you will be so good,” Persimmons answered. “Or, no, don’t let me take up your time. I will go and see him, if I may mention you name? Yes, I assure you I would rather. Good afternoon, Mr. Archdeacon.”

“Good afternoon,” the Archdeacon said. “I shall see you often when I return, I hope.”

He accompanied his visitor to the gate, chatting amicably. But when Persimmons had gone he walked slowly back towards the house, considering the discussion thoughtfully. Was there a needy mission church? and was his visitor to be its benefactor? And the chalice? It seemed possible, and even likely, in this fantastic dream of a ridiculous antiquary, that the Graal of so many romances and so long a quest, of Lancelot and Galahad and dim maidens moving in antique pageants of heraldry and symbolism and religion, the desire of Camelot, the messenger of Sarras, the relic of Jerusalem, should be resting neglected in an English village. “Fardles,” he thought, “Castra Parvulorum, the camp of the children: where else should the Child Himself rest?” He re-entered the Rectory, singing again to himself: “Who alone doeth marvellous things; for his mercy endureth for ever.”

It was the custom of the parish that there should be a daily celebration at seven, at which occasionally in summer a small congregation assembled. Before this, at about a quarter to seven, the Archdeacon was in the habit of saying Morning Prayer publicly, as he was required to do by the rubrics. Once a week, on Thursday mornings, he was assisted by the sexton; on the other mornings he assisted himself. As, however, the sexton with growing frequency overslept himself, the Archdeacon preferred to keep the key of the church himself, and it was with this in his hand that he came to the west door about half-past six the next morning. At the door, however, he stopped, astonished. For it hung open and wrenched from the lock, wrenched and broken and pushed back against the other wall. The Archdeacon stared at it, went closer and surveyed it, and then hastened into the church. A few minutes gave him the extent of the damage. The two boxes, for the Poor and for the Church, that were fixed not far from the font, had also been opened, and their contents, if they had any, looted; the candlesticks on the altar had been thrown over, the candles in them broken and smashed, and the frontal pulled away and torn. In the sacristy the lock of the cabinet had been forced and the gold chalice which commemorated the late Sir John had disappeared, together with the gold paten. On the white-washed wall had been scrawled a few markings—“Phallic,” the Archdeacon murmured, with a faint smile. He came back to the front door in time to see the sexton at the gate of the churchyard, and, judiciously lingering on the footpath beyond, two spasmodically devout ladies of the parish. He waved to them all to hurry, and when they arrived informed them equably of the situation.

“But, Mr. Archdeacon—” Mrs. Major cried.

“But, Mr. Davenant—” Miss Willoughby, who, as being older, both in years and length of Fardles citizenship, than most of the ladies of the neighbourhood, permitted herself to use the personal name. And “Who can have done it?” they both concluded.

“Ah!” the Archdeacon said benignantly. “A curious business, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it sacrilege?” said Mrs. Major.

“Was it a tramp?” asked Miss Willoughby.

“What we want is Towlow,” the sexton said firmly. “Towlow isn’t at all bad at finding things out, though, being a Wesleyan Methodist, as he calls himself, he can’t be expected to want to find out these bloody murderers. I’ll go and get him, shall I, sir?”

“How fortunate my brother’s staying with me,” Mrs. Major cried out. “He’s in the Navy, you know, and quite used to crime. He even sat on a court-martial once.”

Miss Willoughby, out of a wider experience, knew better than to commit herself at once. She watched the Archdeacon’s eyes, and, as she saw them glaze at these two suggestions, ventured a remote and disapproving “H’m, h’m!” Even the nicest clergymen, she knew, were apt to have unexpected fads about religion.

“No,” the Archdeacon said, “I don’t think we’ll ask Towlow. And though, of course, I can’t object to your brother looking at these damaged doors, Mrs. Major, I shouldn’t like him to want to make an arrest. Sacrilege is hardly a thing a priest can prosecute for—not, anyhow, in a present-day court.”

“But—” Mrs. Major and the sexton began.

“The immediate thing,” the Archdeacon flowed on, “is the celebration, don’t you think? Jessamine”—this to the