d. h. lawrence: The Ship of Death.
ST. PETER’S FINGER
chapter i
cyclist
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edward benlowes: Theophila.
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George sat on a bit of board laid across the top of an upturned bucket, and read the Sunday paper. He was in his shirt-sleeves and was without his leggings. A slight breeze rustled the pages of the paper and stirred his hair, for his peaked cap hung on a bush. Two dogs lay near him in the sun; a faint smell of horse-manure mingled (despite their appeal to different senses) with the pleasant sound of a far-off mowing machine; and a lilac tree by the wall was bold with buds. The stable cat was watching birds near by, and the newly washed car stood gleaming at the doors of the garage.
At the end of the lane which connected Mrs. Bradley’s house with the main road through the village, three elm trees were in thick, dark-clustered flower. The elders already had their leaves, and an almond tree at the gate was in bright pink blossom. Emulating it, but not happily, since the colour made her yellow skin look dirty, was Mrs. Bradley in a pink spring suit. Her black eyes were brilliant as she listened, with a faint and sceptical grin, to the half-bullying persuasions of her son.
Ferdinand was earnest, and Mrs. Bradley, apparently contemplating not his face but the yellow-starred jasmine behind his black-clad shoulder, had given him close attention for more than twenty minutes, while they stood together at the gate, for, characteristically, he had given no hint of the object of his visit until he was ready to depart.
“So, you see, mother, it really is exceptionally interesting, and it would be a good thing for the convent if you would go and look into the matter. It may be nothing, but the Superior is a pretty shrewd old lady, and if she smells a rat there must be something that wants nailing to the mast. In any case, you need a rest after that long American tour, and the country is lovely there now.”
“So it is here, dear child.”
“Yes, but you need a change, and the air on the moors is like wine. (Yes, I know, but juries like cliches, so I practise when I get the opportunity.) Now, mother, please, do go. I half-promised Father Thomas that you would. Look here, let me drive you down.”
“I would rather be driven by George. Where is Father Thomas now?”
“He has gone back to Bermondsey. He was living in the convent guest-house to recuperate after a breakdown. That is how he came to know what had happened. I could arrange for you to meet him, but I’m sure I’ve told you everything he said. ”
“I have no doubt of it, child. Well, I will think it all over. Give my love to Juliet, and I hope you get the better of Mrs. O’Dowd.”
“Not a hope, mother. If I do, I’ll pay your consultation fee. It’s quite certain that the convent won’t be able to afford it. The guest-house and the boarding-school keep the orphanage going, and what other income the sisters have is microscopic, I believe, and in any case they’ve a mortgage round their necks like a millstone. Well, good- bye. I’ll come down in Easter week-end and see how you’re getting on. Hilary ends on the thirteenth, so, if you’re still there, I’ll come and compare impressions with you. Good-bye, good-bye.”
Mrs. Bradley watched his car swirl out of sight, and then walked alongside the house, through the kitchen garden, past the rainwater butt, and into the yard. George stamped on his cigarette and rose when he saw his employer.
“What do you know about convents, George?” she asked.
“I had a sister who changed to Catholic, madam. There’s nothing in it, really, I believe. It seems as sensible, in essence, as—pardon me, madam—your religion or mine.”
“Yours being—what, George?”
“In the army I was a Seventh Day Adventist for the reason that they had no Church Parade. Nowadays I should think perhaps you might call me a sympathetic agnostic. Religion has altered, madam, since I was a boy. It’s a far cry, now, from the time when the Creed and the Catechism carried one through. But the Catholics really do appear to have a point of view, madam, and support it very ably in argument.”
“Excellent. Get your things, George, and have the car ready for half-past three. We are going away for a day or two, unless I change my mind by the end of lunch.”
She turned to walk back to the house, but it occurred to her that here was an excellent opportunity of passing on the story as her son had told it her to a reasonably unprejudiced listener, so she went back to the chauffeur and said:
“There was once a child of ten who sneaked into the guest-house of a convent and had a bath. The hot water was supplied by a geyser, which must have given off fumes. The child became unconscious, fell back into the water, was submerged and consequently drowned. I can’t smell the rat, Ceorge. Can you?”
“I remember my sister’s little girl of ten, madam. The only water she would ever go into, without being actually ordered, was the water of the municipal swimming bath, and there she took impetigo. Not at all nice, madam, children at certain stages of development.”
“Good heavens, George! But the incident I have just related to you happened several years ago. The other
