Free Grand Canary by A. J. Cronin

brown eyes fixed on Robert, who still sat by the harmonium.
    â€˜Are you coming, Robbie?’ she asked quietly. ‘It’s about time you had your extract.’
    Like one removed from serious thought he lifted his head.
    â€˜I’ll be along right now, Sue. Will you put out the’ – he smiled in a big brotherly fashion – ‘ the darn stuff.’
    â€˜Come now. You’ll forget for certain if you don’t.’
    He still smiled at her; spoke with unusual lightness:
    â€˜Pour out the dose, Susie, and if it’s not gone in half an hour I’ll swallow the bottleful.’
    Her fingers tightened against the green cardboard of the music case, but she managed to answer his smile, then she turned, retreated noiselessly from the saloon.
    Elissa, removing her gaze from vacancy, let it fall by chance on Robert.
    â€˜She’s jealous of you,’ she said – then added her jibe: ‘What on earth for?’
    â€˜Susan and I live for each other.’
    â€˜And for God?’
    â€˜Yes. For God.’
    From across the cabin she contemplated him as from across a continent, her gaze charged with lifeless scorn yet holding a sort of antipodean wonder, seeing him the most abject creature, the most insufferable bore, the most contemptible prig who had ever whined a psalmody. His dark eyes absorbed her scrutiny with all that it contained, and he broke out suddenly:
    â€˜Why do you despise us, Mrs Baynham – my sister and me? We haven’t your breeding, your poise, we’re not in your social grade. But for all that, ma’am, we are human. At least I guess so. We’re ordinary human beings trying to be honest and good.’
    She lit a cigarette without interest. But he rose, strode over to the settee, and impressively seated himself beside her.
    â€˜Mrs Baynham,’ he said earnestly, his voice full, soft, and ceremonial. ‘I’ve wanted the chance to talk to you. And say’ – his eyes blazed suddenly and his voice quickened – ‘I am real honest about this. You think my sister and myself are fakirs – what you would call plain humbugs. It isn’t true. There’s been mud thrown at us evangelists. Books have been written – guying us – our accent, our clothes, everything. It’s shameful! And before God it isn’t true. There’s been cases, I grant you – bad cases – men and women with commercial minds who prostituted the gospel for money. But for every one of these shams there’s a hundred others with a positive and burning belief. You’d think, to read those books, there wasn’t an ounce of good intention or endeavour in religion. That every minister doubted what he preached. That’s a downright lie. I believe with every fibre of my being. Mrs Baynham, ma’am, granted you’re not in sympathy with that belief, at least have the goodness to admit that we are sincere.’
    She threw him a patronising glance.
    â€˜What a long speech. What does it mean? And what does it matter?’
    â€˜It matters more than you think, ma’am. And you know what it means. Believe me, it grieves me to see a woman of your talents and capacity and beauty so blind to the meaning of life. You are not happy. You have tried everything and enjoyed nothing.’
    Her eyebrows lifted.
    â€˜So I’ve enjoyed nothing?’
    â€˜No!’ he cried. ‘Nothing! And you’ll never be happy until you find God. There lies the only joy in life.’
    She inhaled a long puff of smoke and studied the cigarette’s fat glowing end. He was sincere; she admitted it with a kind of lustreless surprise; and a vague whim rose and sank within her – his profile rather good, she speculated, his figure big, quite solid, but there were tiny hairs sprouting in his nostrils and he was a bore, oh, yes, such a frightful crashing bore. She found herself saying:
    â€˜And you’ve got all the