South Wind | Page 3

He was
not disheartened by experience. He had never allowed his judgment to
be warped by those degrading aspects of womanhood which he had
encountered ruing his work among the London poor, and more recently
in Africa, where women are treated as the veriest beasts. He kept his
ideals bright. He would tolerate no flippant allusions to the sex.
Muhlen's talk had left a bad taste in his mouth.
And here he was, prancing up and down, sublimely pleased with
himself. Mr. Heard watched his perambulations with mixed
feelings--moral disapproval combining with a small grain of envy at the
fellow's conspicuous immunity from the prevailing sea-sickness.
A weed; unquestionably a weed.

Meanwhile, the mainland slowly receded. Morning wore on, and under
the fierce attraction of the sun the fogs were drawn upwards. Nepenthe
became tangible--an authentic island. It gleamed with golden rocks and
emerald patches of culture. A cluster of white houses, some town or
village, lay perched on the middle heights where a playful sunbeam had
struck a pathway through the vapours. The curtain was lifted. Half
lifted; for the volcanic peaks and ravines overhead were still shrouded
in pearly mystery.
The fat priest looked up from his breviary and smiled in friendly
fashion.
"I heard you speak English to that person," he began, with hardly a
trace of foreign accent. "You will pardon me. I see you are unwell. May
I get you a lemon? Or perhaps a glass of cognac?"
"I am feeling better, thank you. It must have been the sight of those
poor people that upset me. They seem to suffer horribly. I suppose I
have got used to it."
"They do suffer. And they get used to it too. I often wonder whether
they are as susceptible to pain and discomfort as the rich with their
finer nervous structure. Who can say? Animals also have their
sufferings, but they are not encouraged to tell us about them. Perhaps
that is why God made them dumb. Zola, in one of his novels, speaks of
a sea-sick donkey."
"Dear me!" said Mr. Heard. It was an old-fashioned trick he had got
from his mother. "Dear me!"
He wondered what this youthful ecclesiastic was doing with Zola. In
fact, he was slightly shocked. But he never allowed such a state of
affairs to be noticed.
"You like Zola?" he queried.
"Not much. He is rather a dirty dog, and his technique is so ridiculously
transparent. But one can't help respecting the man. If I were to read this

class of literature for my own amusement I would prefer, I think,
Catulle Mendes. But I don't. I read it, you understand, in order to be
able to penetrate into the minds of my penitents, many of whom refuse
to deprive themselves of such books. Women are so influenced by what
they read! Personally, I am not very fond of improper writers. And yet
they sometimes make one laugh in spite of one's self, don't they? I
perceive you are feeling better."
Mr. Heard could not help saying:
"You express yourself very well in English."
"Oh, passably! I have preached to large congregations of Catholics in
the United States. In England, too. My mother was English. The
Vatican has been pleased to reward the poor labours of my tongue by
the title of Monsignor."
"My congratulations. You are rather young for a Monsignor, are you
not? We are apt to associate that distinction with snuff-boxes and gout
and--"
"Thirty-nine. It is a good age. One begins to appreciate things at their
true value. Your collar! Might I enquire--"
"Ah, my collar; the last vestige. . . . Yes, I am a bishop. Bishop of
Bampopo in Central Africa."
"You are rather young, surely, for a bishop?"
Mr. Heard smiled.
"The youngest on the list, I believe. There were not many applicants for
the place; the distance from England, the hard work, and the climate,
you know--"
"A bishop. Indeed!"
He waxed thoughtful. Probably he imagined that his companion was
telling him some traveller's tale.

"Yes," continued Mr. Heard. "I am what we call a 'Returned Empty.' It
is a phrase we apply in England to Colonial bishops who come back
from their dioceses."
"Returned Empty! That sounds like beer."
The priest was looking perplexed, as though uncertain of the other's
state of mind. Southern politeness, or curiosity, overcame his fears.
Perhaps this foreigner was fond of joking. Well, he would humour him.
"You will see our bishop to-morrow," he pursued blandly. "He comes
over for the feast of the patron saint; you are lucky in witnessing it. The
whole island is decorated. There will be music and fireworks and a
grand procession. Our bishop is a dear old man, though not exactly
what you would call a liberal," he added, with a