Round the Corner: Being the Life and Death of Francis Christopher Folyat, Bachelor of Divinity, and Father of a Large FamilyCannan, Gilbert
General
Round the Corner: Being the Life and Death of Francis Christopher Folyat, Bachelor of Divinity, and Father of a Large Family
Cannan, Gilbert
Clergy -- Fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; English fiction -- 20th century; Families -- Fiction
It was arranged that Frederic should finish his articles in Plymouth;
and then, on a brilliant spring day, all the furniture, heirlooms,
family portraits, and the valuable china inherited at intervals by
Mrs. Folyat as her few aged relations one by one departed this life,
having gone before, the Folyats set out at seven o'clock in the
morning, and at half-past ten the same night reached our town where,
at last, their history becomes interesting.
IV
FERN SQUARE
_Sir,--I pray you take heed how you put a beast, tired with the heat
of the sun and with long travel, among others, which, as I hear say,
have divers maladies and diseases._--A PETTY THEFT.
HENCEFORTH we see Francis Folyat in trousers, and his broad-brimmed
silk hat, like a bishop's without cords, has been exchanged for the
soft round black felt which takes so many inches from a man's stature.
Black trousers, elastic-sided boots, a black silk waistcoat on which
hung an amethyst cross, a clerical frock-coat, and a round white-linen
collar were the daily attire of the new Rector of St. Paul's, Bide
Street. On great occasions the black-silk waistcoat was renounced in
favour of one of violet silk. All day on Sundays he wore his cassock
with a black silk sash round his full stomach, and when he walked to
church he wore a biretta, to the solemn awe of the street urchins, who
confounded him with the Greek _papa_, a strange figure that haunted
the children of the northern district of our town and was reputed to
be a wizard.
Francis was in fine middle age. His head was beginning to be bald and
his golden beard was rapidly turning white. There were red veins on
his round cheeks, but his eyes were those of a boy, bright and blue
and merry, and when he laughed they used to close up into little slits
and all his bulk would shake until tears were squeezed out of them. He
had a great capacity for laughter, but always it seemed that he could
not shake it out. It possessed him and set him quivering like a jelly,
and there was nothing to be heard but a hoarse chuckle deep down in
his chest.
There had been times of great difficulty in the beginning. Martha had
come to our town with glowing dreams, and when she saw Fern Square and
the house she was to live in they came tumbling down on her romantic
head, and she wept many tears and declared that she could not bear the
house or the people or the town, and she demanded to be taken away--to
Potsham, to Plymouth, anywhere out of the smoke and the rain and the
filth and the noise and away from the common, common people. She vowed
that she would never attend service in the hideous, squalid little
church, and could never have anything to do with the nasty, dirty
school. It was impossible. She could not let her children mix with the
children of these barbarians. They must find another living or give up
the Church altogether. Francis could retire, and devote himself to
theological literature.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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