# Parson Smith

Extracted from Pall Mall magazine, June 1908, pp. 711–718. Illustrations by Frank Reynolds may be omitted.
PARSON SMITH
By OWEN OLIVER
Illustrated By Frank Reynolds.
IT was an Octoberish October afternoon, raw and damp and dirty. Sadie Bell, daughter of old Peter, the oil millionaire, elevated her pretty, pert face in the air, and made uncomplimentary remarks about England in general and Endswell in particular, as she walked down the dreary main street, accompanied by the Hon. Tom Varing and the superintendent of police. She was staying at Lord Endswell's country house, just outside Endswell. Some of her diamonds had been stolen the night before; hence her excursion into the town, and some disposition to criticise it.
“It doesn't even look wicked,” she complained; “only nasty.”
“Ah!” said the superintendent. “You ought to go down some of those alleys—or rather you ought not. There's no one can venture there alone, except Parson Smith.”
Miss Sadie turned to the Hon. Tom. They did not share their parents' desire for a matrimonial alliance between them; but they were on good terms.
“Your friend the madman,” she remarked.
“He advised Miss Bell to sell her jewellery for the benefit of the poor,” the Hon. Tom explained, with a grin.
“Ah!” said the superintendent. “He carries things rather far. Still,—talk of parsons!”
He jerked his head toward a man who had just come out of a narrow passage on the other side of the road, and was striding along parallel with them—a very tall young fellow, who seemed to have obtained an unfair share of arms and legs, and to be somewhat embarrassed with them. He had red hair, and a long nose, and a mouth that looked as if it shut more easily than it opened. There was a permanent scar on his forehead, and a temporary swelling on his cheek, and his knuckles were cut and swollen. His clerical attire was somewhat disordered, and his coat was dabbed with mud.
“Why!” cried Miss Sadie, “he looks as if he had been fighting!”
The superintendent laughed. “It's his way of preaching,” he stated. “The only way that some of them understand. They call him 'Scrapping Smith,' and I'm told that it's pretty to see him handle a man. It seems to do them good, anyhow. I've had ten per cent. less convictions this last year, since he came.”
“Ask him about it,” Miss Sadie commanded, as Parson Smith slanted across the road to their side, without heeding the mud; and the superintendent cut him off.
“Been having a little trouble, sir?” he asked. It was noticeable that he addressed Parson Smith with deference. For the superintendent was an independent man.
“It was only Joe Siggers,” the parson apologised. “You see, he took the pledge last week, and I heard that he was going to the 'True Briton' this afternoon.”
“Ah!” said the superintendent. “From his wife, I suppose?”
“The information reached me,” said the parson evasively. “Fortunately, I arrived there just before poor Joe. I had some difficulty in persuading him to abandon his foolish intention; but in the end my arguments prevailed.”
Miss Sadie laughed. “Your arguments seem to have suffered in the process,” she suggested. She pointed to his bruised hands; and he blushed.
“I daresay it seems a strange way to you,” he confessed; “but I warned him before he took the pledge that I should hold him to it. You don't know what it means to the wife and children when the man drinks. Yes, it came to a fight. It often does.” He sighed. “I wish I could reach them some other way; but I use the best weapons that I have. I am a poor preacher, unfortunately, and I fear I am also lacking in tact. They are a queer flock; but there are some rough diamonds among them.”
“And some polished ones!” cried Miss Sadie. “Mine!”
Parson Smith shook his head sadly. “I fear so!—I fear so! I thought I had persuaded him to give up that sort of thing, but——”
“You know the thief?” she interrupted quickly.
“I understand that it is 'Sober Jones.'” He glanced at the superintendent; and the superintendent nodded. “It is a blow to me. I had great hopes of Jones—great hopes. He is an abstemious man, and a kind husband and father. Circumstances led him into evil courses; but he seemed penitent, and his wife joined her influence to mine; she is a worthy woman—very worthy. I really thought but it seems that he couldn't get work, and the children were hungry, and—I am grieved about it—deeply grieved.”
“I am obliged by your sympathy.” Miss Sadie tossed her pretty head slightly.
“I was thinking of him and his family,” the parson said gravely. “I do not suppose it matters so much to you.”
She tossed her head more than slightly. “You are on the side of the thieves and drunkards,” she challenged him.
He faced her quietly and unflinchingly. “On the side of the sinners, yes! On the side of the sin, no!”
Miss Sadie bowed with a sweep. “Since you are on their side, not mine,” she said, “good-day!”
“Good-day!” Parson Smith looked at her with admiration too sincere to be impertinent. “I wish I could preach,” he said wistfully.
“Try!” she cried defiantly; and he took off his hat.
“They live hard,” he said; “and you live soft. God soften your heart to them. Good-day!” He put on his hat and strode away.
“I'll soften my heart when I get back those diamonds,” Miss Sadie told her companions; “and not before, I guess!”
She watched Parson Smith's broad back, with a strange look in her eyes. “What do you make of him?” she demanded sharply.
“A man,” said the Hon. Tom, with unusual gravity.
“That's it,” the superintendent agreed.
“I'll tell you what I make of him,” said Miss Sadie. “A thief! He stole my diamonds!”
The Hon. Tom glared, and the superintendent laughed.
“Hang it all!” the Hon. Tom spluttered. “Hang it all! He's a 'varsity man; and a double blue; and a parson,”
“A queer parson!” snapped Miss Sadie.
“Well,” said the superintendent, “he may be; but I'd sooner take my chance with him than with some of the regular clergy. As for taking your jewels, it's absurd—if you'll excuse me for speaking plainly.”
“He's the very figure of the fellow I saw jump through the window,” Miss Sadie persisted obstinately; “and red hair, too.”
The superintendent pointed out that “Sober Jones” was of similar build, and rejoiced in hair of the same colour; and the Hon. Tom made angry remarks about the unreasonableness of women, and especially spoilt American girls—he and Miss Sadie were good enough friends to wrangle—-but they failed to convince her.
“I don't mean that he's a common pickpocket,” she explained, “only a—what do you call it?—an anarchist?”
“Socialist, you mean, I suppose?” the Hon. Tom growled.
“Ye-es. Those people who think they've as much right to your things as you have yourself—and more! He's taken them for his poor, or something of that sort. He told me they'd be more use to them than to me. He's quite mad. It's a pity, for he's real fine in some ways.” She sighed.
The Rev. Theophilus Smith marched on, little guessing these slurs upon his character. He would no more have dreamed of taking the diamonds than of flying; and he would rather have harmed any one in the world than Miss Sadie. He was thinking of her, in fact, as he walked along, and, quoting The Lady of Shalott to himself—
He said, 'She has a lovely face. The Lord in His mercy send her grace'—
“There's good in her,” he told himself—“there must be, with eyes like that. If I could show her herself, in her furs, beside the wife of 'Sober Jones,' in her rags, she would know what I meant; but I've no power of words—no power at all.... I suppose she thought me a disreputable, brawling brute. It is disreputable; but, if I hadn't stopped him drinking, he wouldn't have taken a penny home.... Poor old Joe!”
The parson's landlady held up her hands and scolded him when she opened the door. “Fighting again!” she cried. “You're a pretty parson!”
“I may be a parson,” he said cheerfully; “but I am certainly not pretty. Neither is poor Joe at this moment. I caught him just as he was going in. I fear he will not be able to come to the smoker this evening.” He looked sad, but brightened up quickly. “Still, he's a good chap, and bears no malice. And what's for tea, Mrs. Millet?”
Mrs. Millet smiled triumphantly. “Crumpets!” she said. “Sixpennyworth!”
“Ah!” said Parson Smith. “Ah-ha!”
He rubbed his hands boyishly, and ran upstairs to wash; and Mrs. Millet told her daughter to dish up the crumpets and the tea. “And if any one wants to see him,” she commanded, “just fetch me to them. They'll not go in till he's eaten every crumpet. If he had the last loaf in the world he'd give it away. He's a saint on earth, he is!”
The crumpets were in two glorious, greasy stacks. Parson Smith had demolished one pile when two ragged little boys tapped cautiously at his window, which looked into the street. He rose hastily, with his finger to his lips, opened the window, and pulled them in. Then he motioned to the crumpets, and the boys rushed upon them. He watched them eat, rubbing his hands.
“Well, Jones?” he asked, when the plate was empty.
“Mother wants you to come round at once,” said the elder boy, who was about ten.
“Farver's come back,” said the younger boy, who was about eight.
“You fool!” cried his older brother. “Mother told you not to tell. She'll give it to you, if she knows!”
“Then she'd better not know,” the parson suggested, “or I might have to give it to you. You wouldn't like that, eh?” He pinched their ears playfully. “Best go out the way you came, or Mrs. Millet will give it to me. Tell your mother I'll be round directly.”
He shook his head when he had closed the window, and strode up and down the room. “They'll have him,” he muttered—“they'll have him. Dear, dear me! A good husband and father. If I'd had more power of influencing him. The man's not bad—not really bad. I ought to have managed better; but I'm such a poor hand at preaching. I don't find the right words. Dear, dear me! It's terrible—terrible!”
He put on his hat, and went out into the drizzling rain. He wore no overcoat, because he had none. He had given his old ulster to an asthmatic pavement artist. “The overcoat fund,” as he playfully termed his savings for the new one, only amounted to fifteen shillings and sevenpence as yet. His private income was not small; but the calls upon his charity were large.
He passed down dark alleys and ill-lit passages till he reached some squalid cottages backing upon the banks of the torpid, unsavoury canal. He knocked at a door, and entered without waiting for an answer. A meagre little woman stood in the passage, twisting her apron in her bony hands. She had evidently been crying.
“Well, Mrs. Jones?” he asked.
“He can't get away,” she said. “He's run back here. The police are coming. Oh, sir! can't you save him? He never meant to do it, sir; but the children were hungry. Oh, sir! you never had children?”
“Where is he?” the parson asked.
She jerked her head toward an unlit room.
The parson entered.
“It's your own fault,” he pronounced, with a resolute attempt at sternness.
“What's the use of talking about 'fault,'” a hoarse voice asked from the darkness, “when a chap's kids are starving?”
“It isn't I who speaks,” said the parson sternly. “'Thou shalt not steal.'”
There was a silence.
“They was all laid out under the light, by the window,” the hoarse voice apologised at length. “And we was that hard up. I never set out to do it, parson. I'd put 'em back if I could. Straight!”
“Give them to me,” said the parson. “I'll take them back.” There was another silence. “Well, I'll do nothing for you while you keep them.”
“What's the good?” the voice asked. “They've tracked me here. There's two 'cops' on the banks, and two in the street; and they're waiting for more!” The man laughed fiercely, “They know it'll take half a dozen to run me in. If there ain't murder done——”
“If I set about you,” the parson cried, with sudden fury, “there'll be something of the kind done now! Give me the diamonds, or—— You fool! do you want to be taken with them on you?”
“Doesn't matter,” said “Sober Jones.” “She saw me—the gal they belonged to. Look here, parson. Couldn't you draw them off, just for a few minutes—the blessed 'cops'? If you'd do that and lend me two-and-five I might get down to the junction, and off to my sister's. That's the' fare. I'd try to get work swelp me bob, I would!—and then I'd write to you, and you could tell her.” A shadowy arm pointed out of the darkness to the trembling woman in the doorway. “Can't you fox them, and give a chap a dog's chance?”
“Give me the diamonds,” the parson repeated, “It's the last time I shall ask you.”
“Give him the diamonds,” the woman begged.
There was a hoarse groan. The hand stretched slowly out from the gloom again. The parson took a case to the candle in the passage and examined the contents. When he was satisfied he put it in his pocket.
“Here's five shillings,” he said shortly, “Give me an old muffler of his, Mrs. Jones. Sharp!” She ran upstairs; and the parson put his hat under his jacket—a shabby, unclerical garment that he wore in rough weather—and buttoned the jacket tightly. “We're the same size and build,” he said, “and both red hair. They may take me for you in the dark. If they do, and chase me, take the chance, and get away. Try to go straight, man, for——”
The elder boy rushed in at the back door, and announced that the “cops” were coming up the alley. Mrs. Jones ran downstairs with a huge, tattered muffler. The parson tied it round his neck and face almost up to his eyes. Even in the candle-light he was scarcely distinguishable from “Sober Jones.” He darted from the front door into the ill-lit street. Two policemen gave a shout, and blew their whistles. The parson ran, and they ran after him, and the denizens of the cottages ran here and there around and between them. They never got in the way of the pursued, but always in that of the pursuers. “Mind the 'cop' in the alley,” one rough muttered in his ear; and he made a football swerve, and eluded a young policeman who sprang out. “Through Black's house and along the canal bank,” another rough whispered, as he turned the corner. He saw an open front door facing him, and darted in. The front door closed behind him, and the back door opened in front of him. He flew down the garden, vaulted the fence, and ran along the greasy bank, almost hidden in the rising mist that generally hung about the canal at this time of the year.
For a few moments he thought that his escape was made. Then he heard a whistle behind him. A constable posted on the bank had detected the moving figure, and was pursuing. Whistles were blowing shrilly everywhere in the street above that ran parallel to the canal. Through the long alleys that ran down to the bank he saw a crowd pouring by. Another crowd was gathering on the bridge where it crossed the canal. The electric lights there pierced through the mist, and he could see the vehicles halting. He heard police whistles there too. That was where they expected to catch him evidently.
Well, they must catch him, he decided. Jones would have got away by now, and they would probably not be able to prove anything against himself. They might suspect that he had given them this wild chase to enable the thief to escape; but proof was another matter—unless they searched him and found the diamonds! He sweated coldly at the thought. If they discovered them they would think that he was the thief! He! A minister of religion! He groaned aloud. His thought was less of himself than of the disgrace to his sacred calling, and the sneers that would fall upon religion. He knew the harm that was done by those sneers; saw it every day of his life.
He put his hand in his pocket hastily to throw the jewels into the canal, drew out the little case, and paused.... No! he could not do that. They were not his to throw away. That would be theft. He must find some way of restoring them to the rightful owner, as had been his intention when he took them. If that way involved disgrace and prison for him, he must face it.
He paused in his running, threw the tattered muffler into the canal, replaced his hat on his head, and walked on. The constable behind slowed down as he drew near, and crept on very cautiously, truncheon in hand. Parson Smith paused under the light of a lamp and faced him. They stared at each other.
“I've got the wrong man!” the constable panted.
“You've got the wrong man!” the parson agreed. He tried to speak steadily, but his breath failed him.
“You've been running, sir,” the constable observed with sudden suspicion. “You—what do you know about it?”
“About what?” asked Parson Smith, with a great effort to regain his wind.
The man eyed him keenly. “I think we'd better go into that at the station,” he suggested.
“Very well,” said the parson.
They walked along together. At the bridge they met an inspector and a number of policemen. The inspector heard the man's story without comment.
“You must come to the station, sir,” he said; and they walked up the steps, and over the bridge, followed by an excited crowd. At the far end there was an ugly rush. Some of the roughs wished to rescue “Scrapping Smith,” and were only kept back by his stepping in front of the police and remonstrating with them. He was going with the police in the interests of justice, he told them; and they gave him three cheers.
He was kept waiting in the station a long while. Then he was shown into a room where he found the superintendent—and Sadie Bell. She had been driving before dinner, and had heard of the chase, and had come into the station to see the thief. He would sooner have seen any one else; for Sadie's bright eyes had done their work very thoroughly, and he feared her more than the rest of the world.
“I suppose,” said the superintendent slowly, “you wanted to draw our men off, and give Jones a run. Well, I've been talking it over with Miss Bell, and we don't want to ask you any questions. You didn't wish to be mixed up in this affair, and you ran out, and, being in a dangerous neighbourhood and hearing that something was going on, you kept on running. Our men mistook you for Jones, and followed. That's what we'll understand.... I don't know that I'm doing my duty in letting you go, but—I know that you do a good work among these poor wretches, and—I suppose there are two sides to every question. I hope you'll be more careful in future, sir. You can go.”
“Thank you,” said Parson Smith. He bowed to both.
“I will drive you a little way,” said the girl. “I want to speak to you ... about the softening of hearts.” She laughed queerly.
Nevertheless, she did not speak till she put him down at the corner of the street where he lived, and he had alighted. Then she bent slowly toward him,
“Thief!” she said in a fierce, quiet whisper. “It was you who took them! I saw your red hair. I knew it when I saw it this afternoon. I thought you did it for the poor, and—and I meant to say nothing; but you let them put the blame on this poor man, with a wife and children.... If hearts want softening... Drive on, please.”
She leaned back in the carriage and pulled up the window.
Parson Smith was still standing motionless when the carriage turned the corner. He did not sleep that night.
He called upon her next morning and gave her the jewels,
“You are mistaken on one point,” he began; but she cut him short fiercely.
“Do not dare to speak to me!” she cried. “And do not suppose that I am influenced by any pity for you—or any softening of the heart! Those who steal deserve to pay the penalty. It is just. It is right. If the thief had been this man Jones, he should go to prison. If you had not been a parson—a parson! Oh! Aren't you ashamed of yourself!—I could have asked them to search you at the station, and you should have gone to prison. I have spared you for one reason—only one. I once had a friend who was a minister. I loved him; and I remembered what he had said about—about any disgrace to the cloth. I did not think of such disgrace as yours. I—please go!”
Parson Smith did not answer, only looked at her fora moment. He had hoped against hope that she would believe his story; but now he could not even tell it, for the sake of “Sober Jones” and his children and wife. He looked at her a long while before he turned away; and again from the door. She never forgot the look in his eyes.
The superintendent came round to see him the next morning. “Well, sir,” he said cheerfully, “I'm glad for once that I did wrong: but I always back your judgment about that sort of people. It seems that Jones didn't take those things after all. She's found them in a secret drawer! For utter carelessness and thoughtlessness give me a woman—especially a pretty one! She doesn't seem to think a bit of the trouble she's caused to the police. Still, she behaved very well about you. It was a foolish thing to do, and she had it in her power to give you a deal of trouble.”
“Yes,” said Parson Smith. “She had.”
He brought “Sober Jones” back to his family, and started him upon a life of honesty out of the balance of the “overcoat fund.” He denied himself more, and worked harder among the poor. He grew quieter and more thoughtful; and, when he preached, the gift of words seemed to come to him. Sorrow speaks, especially when we are silent about the sorrow. “The parson's had trouble,” his rough flock said; and they listened to his preaching for the sake of the preacher.
He told his trouble to none for nine months—till Sadie Bell had come on another visit to the Varings, and the paths of rectitude threatened to prove too strait for “Sober Jones.” In the old days the parson would have punched him into well-doing; but now he preached instead.
“Jones,” he said, “I'm beginning to think that you're an out-and-out blackguard; but, if there's any good at all in you, listen to me.” And then he told him of his interview with Miss Bell.
“Now, Jones,” he concluded, “I've let her think this because she'd spare me, but she wouldn't spare you; and—she's the woman I love. So you'll have to keep straight. You owe it to me.”
“Sober Jones” cried like a child. He wished it was even harder to go straight, he said, so that he could do it for the parson. And from that day to this there is no more upright man than “Sober Jones.”
The next afternoon Parson Smith was sitting in a little room, compiling the accounts of the coal club; and Mrs, Millet showed in Sadie Bell. Sadie's usually bright face was tearful, and she put her hand in his.
“Jones has told me,” she said.
“That he took them?” said Parson Smith.
“And that—that you love me,” she said. “Oh! I do too.”
“And if a friend of yours hadn't been a clergyman,” Parson Smith said afterwards—a long time afterwards—“I should have been in prison.”
Miss Sadie blushed. “Ye-es,” she said. “You see, the friend was—Parson Smith.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 90 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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