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At that time Old Town hung, as it were, between thePast and the Future. It had not shaken off the one, andyet could not resist the other. Beneath it was New Town, agrowing industrial city, absorbing workers of every kind fromevery quarter; stretching back from the sea to Rodmill andoverrunning the marshes at an incredible speed; with theslums, the Sunday agitators, the Salvationists and reformers,the rumble of discontent, that mark the cities of our day.Beyond it lay the immemorial countryside with shepherds onthe hills, oxen ploughing in the valleys, villages clusteredabout the village-green, the squire, the public-house, theparish-church as in the days of Elizabeth. Old Town stillslept upon its hill about the parish-church, but the murmurof the ungainly offspring at its feet disturbed slumbersthat had endured for centuries. In its steep streets youmight hear the undulating Sussex tongue, little changedfrom Saxon times, clashing in vain conflict with theaggressive cockney phrase and accent which is conquering theBritish Isles as surely, if as slowly, as did the English ofthe men of the Elbe in by-gone days.


The room, flooded with sunshine, was Mrs. Caspar's secretpride. She knew very well that there was nothing quite likeit in Beachbourne, Old or New, and preserved it jealously.She did not understand it, much preferring her own kitchen,but she recognized that it stamped her husband for what hewas, admired its atmosphere of distinction, and loved showingit to her rare visitors. On these occasions she stood herselfin the passage, one arm of steel barring the door, like apriest showing the sanctuary to one without the pale. Andit gave her malicious pleasure when Canon Willcocks, fromthe Rectory, opposite, calling one day, showed surprise, notuntinged with jealousy, at what he was permitted to see.The Canon clearly thought it unseemly that Lazarus livingat the Rectory gate should boast a room like that. And hewas seriously annoyed when Anne, pointing to the Cavalierupon the wall, referred to the first Lord Ravensrood as "mychildren's ancestor."


In fact pseudo-Canon Willcocks had in Ernie's absencebecome Archdeacon, to his own ineffable satisfaction and thatof his lady. Now he marched down the middle of the roadwith his hands behind his back, in the meditative pose healways hoped passers-by would mistake for prayer.


His garage was empty; his car in little request; he had fewrepairs. Old Town at one end of Beachbourne and Holywellon the foot-hills under Beau-nez at the other were thequarters of the resident aristocracy amongst whom it was theconvention to avoid "the front" as bad form. These clungto their sleek pairs and cockaded coachmen just as they clungto the Church and Joseph Chamberlain and the belief, sooften re-affirmed by Archdeacon Willcocks, that KaiserWilhelm of Germany was the one man living who knew how torule the masses. The firm hand, sir!


At the preceding Khaki Election the Conservative candidate,who was an undoubtedly fine whip, had secured the"Triumph of Right," as Archdeacon Willcocks finely calledit, by the simple process of driving a well-appointed teamthrough the constituency.


Archdeacon Willcocks always wore a little white imperialin reverent imitation of his master, Louis Napoleon. Hiscult of the Third Emperor was perhaps the most genuinething about him, and had endured for fifty years. But fora stern no-nonsense father he would have deserted Cambridgein '70 to fight for a cause already lost. And he had neverforgiven the scholar at his gate who had told him that hisfavourite had painted his face before Sedan.


The Lady Augusta Willcocks, a fierce and efficient Guardian,tramping the wards in short skirts, broad-toed boots,and cropped woolly white hair, cross-questioned the Masteras to what Mr. Caspar said to the inmates.


He did not like his brother-curates to have beenpublic-schoolmen, and, when asked, would say that he himself hadbeen educated privately. The Archdeacon, who was notjealous of him, spoke of him to those of his staff heconsidered on his own social level as "dear brother Spink." Onthe rare occasions when the Lady Augusta Willcocks askedhim to supper, he oiled his hair before the great event andprayed fervently for guidance at his bed-side.


The Archdeacon eyed her de-haut-en-bas. From hisundergraduate days he had believed implicitly in the power ofhis eye to master and demoralize his enemies and those ofhis Church, and the Lady Augusta Willcocks had loyallyfostered his belief.


More massive than of old, matured in face and figure, shewas a woman now and not a girl: one who had fought andsuffered and endured, and bore on her body the stigmata ofher ordeal. There was no laughter in her, and no trace ofcoquetry. Almost austere, nobly indifferent, she was facinglife without fear and with little hope.


The Reverend Spink, who boasted a moustache he believedto be military, rocked judicially to and fro before the fire.Since he had been ordained a Minister of the EstablishedChurch, and had lived in touch with the Archdeacon andLady Augusta Willcocks, he felt very profoundly that themaintenance of the aristocratic and imperial tradition hadbeen entrusted to his special keeping. 041b061a72


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