DEATH OF THE REV.CHARLES CARDINAL
Death leapt upon the Rev.Charles Cardinal, Rector of St.Dreots in South Glebeshire, at the moment that he bent down towards the second long drawer of his washhand-stand; he bent down to find a clean collar.It is in its way a symbol of his whole life, that death claimed him before he could find one.
At one moment his mind was intent upon his collar; at the next he was stricken with a wild surmise, a terror that even at that instant he would persuade himself was exaggerated.He saw before his clouding eyes a black pit.A strong hand striking him in the middle of his back flung him contemptuously forward into it; a gasping cry of protest and all was over.Had time been permitted him he would have stretched out a hand towards the shabby black box that, true to all miserly convention, occupied the space beneath his bed.Time was not allowed him.He might take with him into the darkness neither money nor clean clothing.
He had been told on many occasions about his heart, that he must not excite nor strain it.He allowed that to pass as he allowed many other things because his imagination was fixed upon one ambition, and one alone.He had made, upon this last and fatal occasion, haste to find his collar because the bell had begun its Evensong clatter and he did not wish to-night to be late.The bell continued to ring and he lay his broad widespread length upon the floor.He was a large and dirty man.
The shabby old house was occupied with its customary life.Down in the kitchen Ellen the cook was snatching a moment from her labours to drink a cup of tea.She sat at the deal table, her full bosom pressed by the boards, her saucer balanced on her hand; she blew, with little heaving pants, at her tea to cool it.Her thoughts were with a new hat and some red roses with which she would trim it; she looked out with little shivers of content at the falling winter's dusk: Anne the kitchen-maid scoured the pans; her bony frame seemed to rattle as she scrubbed with her red hands; she was happy because she was hungry and there would be a beef-steak pudding for dinner.
She sang to herself as she worked.
Upstairs in the dining-room Maggie Cardinal, the only child of the Rev.Charles, sat sewing.She hoard the jangling of the church hell;she heard also, suddenly, with a surprise that made her heart beat for a moment with furious leaps, a tapping on the window-pane.Then directly after that she fancied that there came from her father's room above the thud of some sudden fall or collapse.She listened.
The bell swallowed all other noise.She thought that she had been mistaken, but the tapping at the window began again, now insistent;the church bell suddenly stopped and in the silence that followed one could hear the slight creak of some bough driven by the sea-wind against the wall.
The curtains were not drawn and where the curve of the hill fell away the sky was faintly yellow; some cold stars like points of ice pierced the higher blue; carelessly, as though with studied indifference, flakes of snow fell, turning grey against the lamp-lit windows, then vanishing utterly.Maggie, going to the window, saw a dark shapeless figure beyond the glass.For an instant she was invaded by the terror of her surprised loneliness, then she remembered her father and the warm kitchen, then realised that this figure in the dark must be her Uncle Mathew.
She went out into the hall, pushed back the stiff, clumsy handle of the door, and stepped on to the gravel path.She called out, laughing:
"Come in! You frightened me out of my life."As he came towards her she felt the mingled kindness and irritation that he always roused in her.He stood in the light of the hall lamp, a fat man, a soft hat pushed to the back of his head, a bag in one hand.His face was weak and good-tempered, his eyes had once been fine but now they were dim and blurred; there were dimples in his fat cheeks; he wore on his upper lip a ragged and untidy moustache and he had two indeterminate chins.His expression was mild, kindly, now a little ashamed, now greatly indignant.It was a pity, as he often said, that he had not more control over his feelings.Maggie saw at once that he was, as usual, a little drunk.
"Well," she said."Come in, Uncle.Father is in church, I think,"she added.
Uncle Mathew stepped with careful deliberation into the hall, put his bag on a chair, and began a long, rambling explanation.
"You know, Maggie, that I would have sent you a post card if I had had an idea, but, upon my soul, there I was suddenly in Drymouth on important business.I thought to myself on waking this morning--Itook a room at the 'Three Tuns'--'Why, there are Charles and Maggie whom I haven't seen for an age.' I'd have sent you a telegram but the truth is, my dear, that I didn't want to spend a penny more than I must.Things haven't been going so well with me of late.It's a long story.I want your father's advice.I've had the worst of luck and I could tell you one or two things that would simply surprise you--but anyway, there it is.Just for a night I'm sure you won't mind.To-morrow or the day after I must be back in town or this thing will slip right through my fingers.These days one must be awake or one's simply nowhere."He paused and nodded his head very solemnly at her, looking, as he did so, serious and important.
It was thus that he always appeared, "for one night only," but staying for weeks and weeks in spite of the indignant protests of his brother Charles who had never liked him and grudged the expense of his visits.Maggie herself took his appearance as she did everything else in her life with good-tempered philosophy.She had an affection for her uncle; she wished that he did not drink so much, but had he made a success of life she would not have cared for him as she did.After all every one had their weaknesses...
