'I know Mr Evans, the curate, very well; he's a very nice gentleman.'
'Perhaps you could get him to have a talk with your husband. The fact is, it's a sort of religious mania he's got, and perhaps a clergyman could talk him out of it. Anyhow, it's worth trying.'
Mrs Clinton straightway went to Mr Evans's rooms, explained to him the case, and settled that on the following day he should come and see what he could do with her husband.
X
In expectation of the curate's visit, Mrs Clinton tidied the house and adorned herself. It has been said that she was a woman of taste, and so she was. The mantelpiece and looking glass were artistically draped with green muslin, and this she proceeded to arrange, tying and carefully forming the yellow satin ribbon with which it was relieved. The chairs were covered with cretonne which might have come from the Tottenham Court Road, and these she placed in positions of careless and artistic confusion, smoothing down the antimacassars which were now her pride, as the silk petticoat from which she had manufactured them had been once her glory. For the flower-pots she made fresh coverings of red tissue paper, re-arranged the ornaments gracefully scattered about on little Japanese tables; then, after pausing a moment to admire her work and see that nothing had been left undone, she went upstairs to perform her own toilet.... In less than half an hour she reappeared, holding herself in a dignified posture, with her head slightly turned to one side and her hands meekly folded in front of her, stately and collected as Juno, a goddess in black satin. Her dress was very elegant; it might have typified her own life, for in its original state of virgin whiteness it had been her wedding garment; then it was dyed purple, and might have betokened a sense of change and coming responsibilities; lastly it was black, to signify the burden of a family, and the seriousness of life. No one had realised so intensely as Mrs Clinton the truth of the poet's words. Life is not an empty dream. She took out her handkerchief, redolent with lascivious patchouli, and placed it in her bosom--a spot of whiteness against the black.... She sat herself down to wait.
There was a knock and a ring at the door, timid, as befitted a clergyman; and the servant-girl showed in Mr Evans. He was a thin and short young man, red faced, with a long nose and weak eyes, looking underfed and cold, keeping his shoulders screwed up in a perpetual shiver. He was an earnest, God-fearing man, spending much money in charities, and waging constant war against the encroachments of the Scarlet Woman.
'I think I'll just take my coat off, if you don't mind, Mrs Clinton,' he said, after the usual greetings. He folded it carefully, and hung it over the back of a chair; then, coming forward, he sat down and rubbed the back of his hands.
'I asked my 'usband to stay in because you wanted to see 'im, but he would go out. 'Owever'--Mrs Clinton always chose her language on such occasions--''owever, 'e's promised to return at four, and I will say this for 'im, he never breaks 'is word.'
'Oh, very well!'
'May I 'ave the pleasure of offering you a cup of tea, Mr Evans?'
The curate's face brightened up.
'Oh, thank you so much!' And he rubbed his hands more energetically than ever.
Tea was brought in, and they drank it, talking of parish matters, Mrs Clinton discreetly trying to pump the curate. Was it really true that Mrs Palmer of No. 17 Adonis Road drank so terribly?
At last Mr Clinton came, and his wife glided out of the room, leaving the curate to convert him. There was a little pause while Mr Evans took stock of the clerk.
'Well, Mr Clinton,' he said finally, 'I've come to talk to you about yourself.... Your wife tells me that you have adopted certain curious views on religious matters; and she wishes me to have some conversation with you about them.'
'You are a man of God,' replied Mr Clinton; 'I am at your service.'
Mr Evans, on principle, objected to the use of the Deity's name out of church, thinking it a little blasphemous, but he said nothing.
'Well,' he said, 'of course, religion is a very good thing; in fact, it is the very best thing; but it must not be abused, Mr Clinton,' and he repeated gravely, as if his interlocutor were a naughty schoolboy--'it mustn't be abused. Now, I want to know exactly what you views are.'
Mr Clinton smiled gently.
'I 'ave no views, sir. The only rule I 'ave for guidance is this--love thy neighbour as thyself.'
'Hum!' murmured the curate; there was really nothing questionable in that, but he was just slightly prejudiced against a man who made such a quotation; it sounded a little priggish.
'But your wife tells me that you've been going about with all sorts of queer people?'
'I found that there was misery and un'appiness among people, and I tried to relieve it.'
'Of course, I strongly approve of district visiting; I do a great deal of it myself; but you've been going about with public-house loafers and--bad women.'
'Is it not said: 'I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance'?'
'No doubt,' answered Mr Evans, slightly frowning. 'But obviously one isn't meant to do that to such an extent as to be dismissed from one's place.'
'My wife 'as posted you well up in all my private affairs.'
'Well, I don't think you can have done well to be sent away from your office.'
'Is it not said: 'Forsake all and follow me'?'
Decidedly this was bad form, and Mr Evans, pursing up his lips and raising his eyebrows, was silent. 'That's the worst of these half-educated people,' he said to himself; 'they get some idea in their heads which they don't understand, and, of course, they do idiotic things....'
'Well, to pass over all that,' he added out loud, 'apparently you've been spending your money on these people to such an extent that your wife and children are actually inconvenienced by it.'
