The Lonely Church

By Fergus Hume

"The Lonely Church" by Fergus Hume. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 4066338078902

Fergus Hume

Lytton Strachey (1880-1932) was an English writer and critic, best known for his innovation in the biographical genre. After starting his career by writing reviews and critical articles for periodicals, Strachey reached his first great success and crowning achievement with the publication of Eminent Victorians, which defied the conventional standards of biographical work. Strachey was a founding member of the Bloomsburg Group, a club of English artists, writers, intellectuals and philosophers. Growing very close to some of the members, Strachey participated in an open three-way relationship with Dora Carrington, a painter, and Ralph Partridge. Stachey published a total of fourteen major works, eight of which were publish posthumously.

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Chapter 1

The Unexpected

Table of Contents

There are few sadder spectacles than a deserted house. Not in the sense of having lost one tenant, and waiting for another, but roofless, windowless, with a cold hearthstone, and a grass-grown threshold. And if instead of one house there are many, the sight is sufficiently pathetic to chill the warmest heart. Eric Baker had chanced upon such ruinous habitations. These were collected round a tumble-down church, and the whole was not far removed from the waters of a sluggish river. Seen in the red light of the sunset, the deserted hamlet looked dreary, even sinister.

During the earlier part of the day, Eric had tramped through a comfortable country. Passing over admirable roads, between flowering hedges, along the foot-paths of cultivated fields, which surrounded trim farm-houses, he had later come to a desolate moor, where Nature resumed her unchecked sway. And on the fringe of this dreary expanse he found a marshy fenland, flat, reedy, damp and dismal, through which flowed a broad sullen river. Beside its muddy banks stood the ruined church with its cluster of deserted cottages. His road led directly through this uninhabited village, and he paused by the ancient stone cross which marked its centre, to survey its desolation. The sight, the hour, and perhaps the fatigue of a long walk, made him reflective, melancholy, even poetical.

Yet the young man was matter-of-fact, and little given to day-dreaming. His profession of civil engineer did not encourage the cultivation of the spiritual faculties. But there was something about that roofless shrine which inspired him with sad thoughts. He sucked melancholy therefrom as Jacques did out of a song. How many generations had knelt at that desecrated altar, how many simple souls had sought God within those ivy-covered walls. Now, the sound of psalm and hymn, the voice of holy exhortation were silent: the wind moaned through the chancel, bramble-bushes barred the doors, owl and bat nested in the belfry. And the headstones of the forgotten dead were almost buried amongst a luxuriant herbage. Darnels, docks, thistles, nettles, hemlock and briar: these flourished like a jungle in the graveyard. The desolation was complete.

Not less mournful was the village green. The well was choked with rubbish; one arm of the Saxon cross was broken; between the cobble-stones grew rank grass, and the whole space was a waste wilderness. The cottages around were absolute ruins. Some were roofless, others had no doors, many exhibited broken windows, and the chimneys of a few had fallen into the roadway. Eric could not hear a human voice; not even the bark of a dog broke the stillness. Only the wind moaned through the arches of the lonely church, the ruddy sunlight tinted the ruined houses, and over all brooded the nun-like quiet of the evening. He might have been standing in one of those accursed cities of Arabian tale, so absolutely removed was the place from all feelings of humanity.

But the sun was sinking, the shadows were falling, and if Eric desired to reach his destination before the darkness closed down, it behoved him to put his best foot foremost. The quiet melancholy of the place detained him for a few moments longer, and then he resumed his way. At the end of ten miles, his best friend awaited him, also an excellent dinner, and as the traveller was hungry both for food and friendship, and inspiriting conversation, he walked on briskly. And behind him the shadows of night fell darkling on the lonely church.

But the spot was fitted for an adventure, and he was not to leave without one. Hardly had he reached the crooked street which led out of the village green, when he came face to face with a strange old woman. She might have been one of the weird sisters, so unexpectedly did she appear, so uncanny were her looks. Here was a witch indeed, a mediaeval bond-slave of Satan on her way to some ghastly Sabbath in the desecrated church. She had a nut-cracker face, seamed with many wrinkles, snow-white hair, hanging loosely over her bent shoulders, and hobbled towards him with the aid of a quaintly carved stick, upon which she doubtless took her midnight rides. Over her torn gown, which was of no colour whatsoever; she wore an ample scarlet cloak faded by exposure to sun and rain. With a small basket on her arm, she moved slowly along muttering to herself, and looked up, only when she heard the brisk footsteps of the young man. Then she revealed a pair of fiery black eyes undimmed by age, and with a distinctly malignant expression in their glittering depths. She was like a crone in a fairy tale.

Her looks and her sudden appearance in that dismal spot shook Eric’s nerves for the moment. He started back with an ejaculation. Being a Romanist, he hastily made the sign of the cross. The hag heard his exclamation, saw the protecting sign, and guessed the meaning of both. Stopping short she laughed long and shrilly. Her unpleasant merriment sounded eerie, but somehow matched the lamentable surroundings. Baker felt the horrors of nightmare.

You’re afraid of an old woman, are you? said the beldame in a wonderfully refined voice, and as softly as she might have spoken in any drawing-room.

Afraid! echoed the young man recovering from his panic. No! why should I be afraid? I own that your sudden appearance startled me.

And my strange appearance, she sneered, brushing aside her loose locks to see him the more clearly. Did you take me for one of Macbeth’s witches?

I tell you what I don’t take you for, replied Eric rather nettled, and that is a native of these parts.

Why not? I am old and ugly enough.

You speak with a cultivated accent; you quote Shakespeare; you—

The old creature interrupted him with an imperious tapping of her staff.

There! there, that’s enough. I am what I am. Call me Mother Mandarin if you like. I am known by that name hereabouts.

And by what name were you known in London? asked Eric shrewdly.

Mother Mandarin’s face flushed a deep red, and her eyes glittered ominously.

The past is past and the dead are dead, she said enigmatically; never talk of London to me.

Baker surveyed her with interest. She replied evasively. Yet he was certain that she was a woman well-born and well-bred. In her time she had glittered in society. There was an air of refinement about her, which showed she had occupied a certain position. Also by her speech and her reference to Shakespeare, he judged that she was educated. But her looks were wild, her garb was ragged, and she seemed a fit dweller in this howling wilderness. Eric thought of the demoniac who dwelt amongst tombs, and wondered if this woman—but she saw his thought in his eyes, and answered it directly.

I am not mad, Mr. Eric Baker, she snapped out, and looked at him with a malicious smile. The young man started back, genuinely astonished.

You know my name! he said, lost in wonderment. Who are you?

I am a woman who has fled from the corruption of the world into the desert like the hermits of the Thebaid, said she fixing her eyes on him steadily. In one of those cottages I live, and I earn my bread by gathering herbs which I sell to the chemists of Moncaster. When not otherwise employed I weave baskets, and when religiously inclined I worship with the owls in yonder church. Is there anything else you wish to know, Mr. Baker?

My name. How do you come to be acquainted with it? I never saw you before, I am a stranger in these parts. Are you a witch?

And are you a matter-of-fact engineer to ask so silly a question.

Eric was more and more amazed. My profession also!

Ah! said Mother Mandarin, smacking her withered lips; more people know Tom Fool, than Tom Fool knows. Good evening.

No. He sprang forward and caught her by the arm. You shall not go until you tell me how you came to know my name and profession.

Her face became quite expressionless. She stood as still as any stone and closed her lips firmly. Eric asked her the question again and again. In his eagerness and anger at her silence, he even shook her. But Mother Mandarin kept to her dour attitude, without a word, without a look, without a movement. His will against hers was like a wave beating against a granite rock. In sheer despair he released his hold, and fell back a pace to survey this mule of a woman. Immediately Mother Mandarin resumed speech and motion, and seized his hand. In the vivid red light she peered at the lines thereon, and, too astonished to speak or move, the young man let her have her way.

A long life, croaked the old woman intent on his palm, and a happy one after a year’s troubles. Here are death and doom, and marriage-rings. But aid no woman: heed her not when she cries. With the crying will come love, and with the love sorrow, till all be accomplished. Go from here at once, for the way is open, but wait no longer, else the way will close up.

What do you mean by this jargon? cried Eric, snatching his hand from her claws. Do you think I’m a fool to—

You are not a fool now, but you will be—you will be. Remember, when a woman cries for aid, make no speed to save her.

For a moment she looked at him maliciously, then took her leave in quite a graceful lady-like way. Au revoir sans adieu, Mr. Baker, said Mother Mandarin, and disappeared round the corner before Eric could detain her. Bewilderment deprived him of motion for a few seconds, then he sprang after her. The lane up which he looked was bare. Apparently she had vanished into one of the ruined cottages, and as there were some twenty or thirty of these it was useless to seek her therein with any hope of success. However he remembered her last speech, and rested satisfied that he would meet her again. Then he hoped to learn who she was, what she meant, and how she came to know his name and profession. It was the strangest of adventures, and Baker did not profess to explain its meaning or its reason.

Is this the twentieth century? Eric asked himself, as he shifted his knapsack. Am I a sensible man or a dreaming idiot? He paused—pondered, and then burst out into a boyish laugh. It was echoed with sinister merriment from a near cottage.

Doubtless the strange woman was close at hand, but Eric, much as he wished to see her, decided not to give chase. The night was coming on and he had far to go. Once more he turned his face towards Moncaster, where his friend waited for him, and, if Eric knew anything of Hal Ferris, waited with great impatience. But his adventures were not yet ended. That connected with the old beldame was apparently concluded, but a new one connected with her reading of his hand had yet to take place. The cry for help against which he had been warned struck his ear just as he started on his way.

It was a woman’s voice that called for aid, but not the voice cracked and shrill of the old hag. Besides, it came from the direction of the river. With the memory of that warning Baker stood still for a moment, debating whether it was worth his while to respond, and risk the promised love and sorrow. Then his common sense came to his aid, and with a laugh of scorn at his folly, he dashed down the lane which led to the river. If all the devils which the hag held in control barred his way, Baker felt that he must rescue the woman who cried for help.

The river flowed red as blood under the angry sunset, and its low muddy banks gleamed in the light. The lane led directly on to a kind of rude wharf, and beside this lay a squat heavy-looking barge.

On the deck a man and woman were struggling, and their figures bulked sharp and black against the clear sky. The man held the woman by the hair, and was beating her with his fist. She shrieked for aid, and the scared birds swept across the brilliant sky.

Eric Baker was young, chivalrous and active. Enraged by the sight he raced down the lane like a blood horse nearing the goal, and leaped on board the barge. The next moment one well-directed blow stretched the man on the deck, and he held the sobbing woman in his arms.

The situation seemed to demand a few oaths, and Eric delivered them with a vigour worthy of a Texan mule-driver.

You— shouted Eric with well-chosen adjectives. How dare you strike a woman.

If I ain’t to whop my own daughter who am I to hammer, growled the man gathering himself up. And who are you—you— his vocabulary exceeded Baker’s in richness if not in volubility. And still condemning the young man to the infernal pit, the bargee came on.

But he was no scientific boxer, and Eric was. The bargee relied on his brute strength, and had he got in a blow, Eric might have been knocked senseless. But Baker had dealt with recalcitrant navvies before now in the great waste lands, and knew how to drop his man. Bargee hurled himself forward with his huge arms working like flails. Eric planted one under his jaw, another smashing blow in his eye, and the Hercules reeled back against the gunwale of the craft. It was low, and the bargee was tall. He hit against it, toppled and fell splash into the river. It was a very pretty exhibition of Nemesis.

We’ll have no more trouble with him, said Eric, as he saw the man floundering about in the muddy waters like a gigantic frog, a cold bath will cool his blood.

Oh, he’ll drown—he’ll drown, cried the girl, for she was little more than nineteen years of age. Father! father!

It’s the best thing he could do, said Baker, rather disgusted at beauty proving thus ungrateful; but if you think his life’s worth saving, see here— and Eric threw a rope to the floundering man.

With a gasp and an oath, he seized it, and Eric, aided by the girl, drew him on board. Covered with mud, dripping with water, the man sat down on the deck and swore freely, spitting weeds out of his jaws. After a glance at him, to see that he meant no mischief, Eric turned his attention to the girl.

She was a remarkably handsome brunette, slender and tall, with a gipsy cast of countenance. Her garb was as tattered and picturesque as that of Mother Mandarin’s, and as she busied herself in coiling up a tress of jetty black hair which had fallen during the struggle, Eric thought she was as pretty and wicked-looking a piece of flesh as he had ever set eyes on. The old woman’s warning recurred to him, and he inwardly laughed it to scorn. There was no danger of his falling in love with this gipsy Cleopatra, and without love—according to the prophecy—sorrow could not come.

By this time the girl was perfectly composed, and looked at her knight with a roguish eye. Thank you, sir, she said. But there was no need for you to interfere, I can manage father myself.

Eric thought this speech both ungrateful and untrue. Father seemed to be managing you when I came, he said dryly.

The man who had been swearing in undertones, now spoke freely. But there is no need to reproduce his jewels of wit. I’ve been hit in the eye, said the man huskily, and on my own barge. I’ve been chucked from my own barge too, and I’ve drunk more water than I’ve swallered since I was a bloomin’ kid, and that’s fifty years agone.

You look as though whiskey was more in your line, said Eric carelessly.

Oh, poor father, said the girl going to him, and looking something like Titinia caressing Bottom the Weaver, does your eye hurt you?

My fist hurts me, said Baker looking at his swollen knuckles, for the bargee’s head was not soft, but no one seems to care.

You’d better go, said the girl tossing her head.

Thanks. And if ever I save you from a beating again—

She deserved it. Didn’t you, Pansey? said the man.

Here Pansey showed another side of her character. No I didn’t, and you’re a brute; you always were. I did deliver the letter.

Then why ain’t he here?

You’d better ask him when he comes.

This mysterious conversation did not interest Eric, and he turned to go. But just to punish the girl, and to show her that he did not care for her rank ingratitude, he took half-a-crown from his pocket and bestowed it on his late antagonist. There you are my man, he said cheerily, beat her again when she wants it.

Oh, cried Pansey, and you call yourself a gentleman.

No I don’t, my dear. I call myself a fool. If you thank everyone who helps you as you have thanked—

I did thank you, said Pansey sullenly.

Not with a kiss as I should have liked.

She reddened, and retreated as though she thought Baker would really take what he claimed. The young man laughed. Don’t be alarmed, he said, you can keep it for the next fool.

Meanwhile the bargee was biting the silver, and finding it good currency rose to express his thanks. You’re a gentleman, he declared, and I’m an honest cove I am. Luke’s my name. Luke Tyler, and if you want anything down in the sly way—

Hold your tongue, father, broke in Pansey anxiously.

Shut up, roared her father again doubling his mighty fist, but with a side glance at Eric, you’ve lost me money. He ain’t here?

He’ll come to the church I tell you.

He, snorted Luke, who’s the fool now. Giving away the show.

Eric laughed. I’m quite in the dark, said he lightly, keep your sly secrets, I go. Here he leaped on to the shore. By the way who is Mother Mandarin?

The effect of his words astonished him. Pansey shrieked and dived below. Her father produced a revolver. Hands up, he cried. Then with an oath, Bail up, Cornstalk!

Chapter 2

Eavesdropping

Table of Contents

It was not the first time Baker had looked down the muzzle of a pistol, as in the great waste lands, men are quick-tempered and handy with what they playfully call their persuaders. Such a training instructs a man in the reading of faces, since sudden death may result from the momentary mood of his opponent. A glance assured Eric that Luke Tyler, as he called himself, was a bully, which by interpretation means a coward. Having failed to master Eric with his hands, Tyler now attempted intimidation. But why he should behave thus on the mere mention of a woman’s name, Baker could not understand.

However Eric was quick to see that his only safety lay in coolness. Tyler was too great a coward to fire, and his production of the revolver was in the bombastic vein. Still the weapon was pointed at Eric’s head, and in a moment of passion, even against the true desire of the man who held it, a catastrophe might take place. With a laugh Baker stood his ground, and looked Mr. Tyler steadily in the eye. Thus holding him he spoke.

That cock won’t fight, said Baker with a metaphor adapted to the comprehension of his enemy; what’s your game?

I’m going to stretch you a corpse, snarled Tyler.

Oh, no you aren’t, unless you want to be hanged.

Luke lowered the pistol, for he grew weary of pointing it at a man who showed no signs of the white feather.

I wouldn’t be hanged for a killing of you, mister, he said insolently, who’d know if I bored a hole in you, and chucked you into the river with a bloomin’ stone round that—adjective, adjective—neck of yours.

Mother Mandarin would.

Mr. Tyler thrust the revolver into his pocket.

Not ’cause I ain’t agin’ to, for I might yet, he explained; but I don’t know Mother what’s-her-name, I don’t.

Mandarin, said Eric, carefully repeating the name. She lives in the village, and you’re devilish afraid of her, my man.

I ain’t, growled Luke, and confirmed his denial with an oath.

Ah, then, you do know her?

I know an old rat as hunts these banks, snarled Tyler; but whether her name’s Mandarin or Chiner oranges ain’t nothin’ to do with me.

If you shot me, it would have lots to do with you, Mr. Tyler. Mother Mandarin knows that I am here. If she heard the shot, and my friends could not find me, it’s as like as not that she would tell the police and then you’d be in a fine hole, Captain Starlight.

Tyler started. Why do you call me by that bloomin’ name? he asked.

Why do you use colonial terms? bantered Eric. Did you find Australia too hot for you?

I was never in Australy.

Oh, yes, you were—perhaps you belonged to the Kelly gang. Eric took out his pipe and loaded it carefully. Tell me all about it.

I tell you I don’t know what you’re jolly well talking of, mister—whatever your beastly name is. I was never out of England.

Like the man in Robert Browning’s poem, laughed Baker. Got a light, Captain Starlight?

Luke began to grin, and handed a box of matches. Well you are a plucked un, he said approvingly.

And you’re a silly ass who plays to the gallery.

What’s that? asked Tyler looking puzzled.

Humph. You’re not a dweller in the cities, said Eric, else you would know the saying. Passed your life in the bush probably.

I’ve been here man and boy for fifty years, explained the man in a most unnecessary manner, and looking uneasily at Eric.

Oh no, you haven’t. You went to Australia to be educated. There you learned to say ‘Bail up!’ though I didn’t know there were bush-rangers now-a-days. And I’m not a native of Melbourne, Captain Starlight, so you can’t call me a cornstalk.

This, said Tyler addressing the sky, is bloomin’ loonatice.

Eric laughed and glanced at the box of matches before handing it back. So you were in Moncaster to-day? he said.

Bad language from Tyler. How did you know that? he roared.

Box of matches quite full. Name of Moncaster tobacconist on the box, he tossed it lightly across the water to Luke. It’s as easy as falling off a log when you explain. Well I must be going. I don’t know what you mean by your fear of Mother Mandarin, or by beating Pansey because she did not deliver the letter—

That’s none of your business, growled Luke, growing savage.

Nor, continued Baker imperturbably, nor do I know who you expect to meet in the church.

No one. I tell you, no one.

Oh, yes you do. The person to whom the letter was addressed. Pansey delivered it, didn’t you, Pansey? He added this for the benefit of a pretty pair of ears that showed themselves to be listening at a window in the side of the barge.

I tell you what, said Tyler solemnly, I believe you’re the devil.

You know him better than I apparently, said Eric shifting his knapsack. I’m sorry you trace a likeness, though we have the authority of Shakespeare that the Prince of Darkness is a gentleman. I suppose you have seen him in Mother Mandarin’s company when His Majesty keeps his festivals in yonder church.

Oh cuss you, go home, grumbled Luke, who seemed particularly annoyed by these constant references to the church.

I’m going—to Moncaster.

To Moncaster, repeated Tyler, scratching his bullet head, and you know the way no doubt?

No. I’m a stranger in these parts. But I daresay I’ll find the road. What’s this place called?

Old Dexleigh. New Dexleigh’s three miles further on, and Moncaster’s ten or thereabouts.

And why is Old Dexleigh deserted?

I dunno. It was deserted when I come here.

Oh, I thought you lived here these fifty years man and boy, mimicked Eric enjoying the growing exasperation of the big man.

See here, shouted Luke, you’re a born devil, you are. Git out or I’ll brain you.

Will you use your pistol or your fist? asked Eric cheerfully.

Luke growled again like an unfed bear, I could lay you out with one hand, cuss you.

Why didn’t you. Am I to admire your magnanimity.

Don’t cuss at me you bloomin’ dandy, said Luke rubbing his great hands, and viciously added, I’d like to smash you.

Come along then. If you talk so much about smashing me, I shall begin to disbelieve you.

Tyler looked at the trim slim figure of the young man, and declined the invitation. Eric’s bright eye, and Eric’s dexterous fists, and Eric’s calm insolence embarrassed the bully. He changed his tone. You’re a funny gent you are, he said with an attempt at jocularity, but you don’t know everything.

No. Not even why you fear Mother Mandarin.

I don’t fear the bloomin’ old pig, snapped Tyler, then seeing he had betrayed his acquaintance with the woman, he added quickly, What I mean is, that you don’t know the way to Moncaster. Night’s coming on and you may go astray.

I may, said Baker, wondering at this sudden solicitude.

Then I tell you what, sir. Pansey shall guide you to the cross-roads, two mile from here. You can’t go wrong then.

That’s very good of Pansey. I shall be delighted, and Pansey will be the richer by half a sovereign.

Lord, and you only guv me half a crown.

Never mind, I’ve no doubt you’ll steal the gold from your daughter when she comes back.

That he won’t, said Pansey suddenly appearing with an alacrity which showed she had been listening. I want a new dress, and new boots. Look at me in these rags. A handsome girl like me.

You could have got the lot out of that Merston cove, said her respectable papa, and the girl flushed angrily.

Don’t mention names, she said, her eyes blazing. Come Mr.—

Mr. Nobody, said Eric serenely.

Here’s mysteries, grumbled the bargee.

You have yours. Why should I not have mine. Good-bye Mr. Tyler, I hope we’ll meet again. I should love to give you another black eye.

You ain’t guv me but a scratch, roared the exasperated brute.

Ah that’s your pride, flung back Eric already half way down the lane. Wait till you see your eye tomorrow. It will be as black as your soul, my good man. What are you laughing at, Pansey?

The girl who was tripping lightly by his side looked at him with an arch face. Father was never spoken to like that before.

Of course not. That’s why father is such a bully. Do you mind my smoking, Pansey?

I don’t mind anything you do, admitted Miss Tyler sharply.

Quite right. Live and let live, my purple Pansey, freaked with jet hair, replied Baker serenely.

Don’t call names, she flashed out in a rage.

Milton never called anyone names, said her companion, "and I but misquoted him.

Pansey looked curiously at him. You ain’t mad, she said half to herself, for you’re too sharp. And you ain’t a fool, for you’re too handy with your fists. But you’re a queer gentleman.

I am a man, take me for all in all, which is another misquotation, my modest flower, said Eric as they trudged along. How far are the cross roads?

Two miles. You follow this path, and it leads you to them. Take the left hand one, and you fetch Moncaster.

In that case I need not take you further.

They were just clear of the village when Eric made this remark. He really did not want to give the girl the trouble of walking back in the darkness, and had no other motive in saying what he did. But she seemed to attach a double meaning to his speech, and looked suspiciously at him. I shan’t leave you till you are at the roads.

This speech made Eric suspicious on his side. Why did she and Luke wish to get rid of him? Why did they deny knowing