“How did you find out all this, Horace?” I asked.
“A friend o’ mine belonged to the vestry,” sez Horace; “and he kept me posted to the minute. This was his first term at it, and it was his last; but he was a lucky cuss to get the chance just when he did. I have since won him over to see the beauty o’ the Greek religion.”
“What became o’ the girl?” sez I with some impatience, for I didn’t care as much as a single cuss-word for the Greek religion.
“Carmichael was a gentle spoken young feller,” sez Horace, “but for all that, he wasn’t a doormat by inheritance nor choice, and he kept on payin’ attention to the girl, and got her to sing at his annex in the slums. Night after night he filled the place with the best assortment o’ last-chance sinners ’at that locality could furnish; and he an’ the girl an’ the sinners all pitched in and offered up song music to make the stars rock; but St. Holiernthou wasn’t the sort of a parish to sit back and let a slum outfit put over as swell a line o’ melody as they were servin’, themselves; so they ordered Carmichael to cut her off his list. He tried to get ’em to hire another curate, and let him have full swing at the annex; but they told him they’d close it up first.
“Next, a delegation o’ brave an’ inspired women took it upon ’emselves to call on the girl. They pointed out that she was standin’ in the way o’ Carmichael’s career, that, under good conditions, his advance was certain; but that a false step at the start would ruin it all. They went on and hinted that if it wasn’t for her, he might have married an heiress, and grow up to be one o’ the leadin’ ministers o’ the whole country.”
“What did she do, Horace?” sez I.
“The girl was proud; she thanked the delegation for takin’ so much interest in her—and said that she would not detain ’em any longer; but would think it over as careful as she could. Then she walked out o’ the room; and the delegation strutted off with their faces shinin’ like a cavey o’ prosperous cats. The girl vanished, just simply vanished. She wrote Carmichael a letter, and that was the end of it. Some say she committed suicide, and some say she went to Europe and became a preemie donner—a star singer—but anyway, that was the end of her, as far as that region was concerned.”
“She was a fine girl,” sez I; “though I wish that instead of slippin’ off that way, she had asked me to drown the members o’ that delegation as inconspicuous as possible. I wouldn’t put on mournin’, if the whole outfit of ’em was in the same fix your confounded Greek Religion is. What was her name, Horace?”
“Janet Morris,” sez he.
I said it over a time or two to myself; and it seemed to fit her. “I like that name,” sez I. “Now tell me the way ’at the Friar cut loose and tied into that vestry. I bet he made trade boom for hospitals and undertakers.”