Ellen McMillan
Augustus Davis Pew
Augustus Davis Pew
Augustus Davis Pew, minister of the Free Church in Sweet Acre, had spent the last week completely drunk. His sermons were renowned for their damnation to all who partook of the demon drink, and yet he’d been staggering around the Parish, smiling at people he would not normally have acknowledged. No alcohol had passed his lips and none would ever do so. Augustus was drunk on the folly of love.
Not the love of a good woman. There were few of those, in his opinion. Woman overall irritated him but there were instances when a woman was capable of carrying out her life purpose. To be precise effective running of the household for the benefit of her fine husband and his offspring. They had no other use and, the sooner they accepted this, the better society would be in his wise opinion.
Not everyone shared his opinion, and some women were now convinced that they could think for themselves. It was a damnable situation but women nowadays were contradicting their husband in matters that went out-with even the remit of the household.
No, Augustus was not in love with a woman. He was in love with a young choirboy who was a ward of care. The boy, Nathaniel, had the voice of an Angel and the looks to suit. Augustus thought of him almost every waking moment of the day. Not lusting thoughts of exposed flesh or such; these thoughts he found rather disgusting. He dreamed rather of fortuitous walks with the young man and some fine discussions. At sixty years and more, Augustus was not looking for passion.
He even began to visualise himself as he could have been in another life: handsome, robust, and exploring the world with his fine companion, but Augustus was neither. Even his mother had laughed and mocked his ugliness. She said to any visitor who cared to listen that Augustus had too many teeth and quite copious quantities of saliva. ` Very much like a reptile` she would add, enjoying the laughter and gaiety of the joke aimed at her offspring.
This harsh treatment of Augustus was in sharp contrast to the treatment his younger brother had received. Septimus was all that Augustus longed to be. A fine boned young boy with an excellent crown of golden hair, he grew up to be someone men sought out and women adored. Augustus truly wanted to despise him but, alas, he couldn’t. The boy’s natural charm exuded from every pore. Harder still to comprehend; Septimus adored his brother and would defend him at every opportunity, never fearful of the wrath of others. Even his mother who attacked Augustus at every opportunity would back down when this charming sibling intervened. It was impossible to dislike his brother in the face of such love. Augustus watched Septimus’ charmed life in awe; loving his brother more than any other, until the day he died from a lung disease that raged despite modern medicine. Queen Victoria was mourning the loss of her beloved husband, while Augustus pined the death of Septimus. The Queen’s grief was very public, his own pain in contrast very private. But it stripped a piece from his very person. His brother had not reached the age of thirty when he was taken from him; frail, gaunt, but still filled with his gentle compassion, smiling even to the end.
Augustus would spend thirty years or more filling the days with anger and duty in the small Parish he loathed. The small stipend he was paid insulted his intellect, but his mother had given him the meanest of allowances, ensuring his penurious misery, in the midst of his grief. He had no choice but to survive in this bleak world, and to such ends he carried out his duties. Not with love and compassion, but with a dedication and rigour that could not be faulted. Even the church elders - who didn’t like him, kept him in the position because he was reliable and inexpensive. It infuriated Augustus when his parishioners would ask after his mother knowing she was extraordinarily wealthy, while he was so poor that he had learned to repair his own worn clothing. No man should have to carry out such duties and the parishioners knew it, but his clothes needed repair and there was no money to spare for a housekeeper or, for that matter, even a needlewoman.
Life was for Augustus a serious of bleak days, years, and decades until the boy Nathaniel came into the parish with his beautiful voice, his gentle manner and his looks; so much like Augustus’ beloved Septimus. No words could describe the joy he felt in the child’s presence. He listened to him sing each note exquisitely and spoke to him as a friend, rather than as a member of the clergy. The simplest conversation would send his heart sailing, and he knew without a doubt that God, in his wisdom had sent this child to replace his beloved brother. But there was always a price and his mother had sensed his joy, and knowing not the reason for it, spread the rumour within the parish, that her son Augustus had fallen foul of the demon drink. Even at her great age she had never forgiven him or God for taking her beautiful son and leaving her with the ugly creature she thought him to be. The grief she experienced at the death of Septimus was, indeed, heightened by the survival of her elder son. In her long, joyless life Augustus was blight rather than blessing. She had no maternal instinct for her first-born child. With ailing health, and death approaching, she had taken great pleasure in watching him struggle. And now she was being deprived of that little morsel of comfort. It was tearing her apart to witness this joyful change in him that seemed to radiate from within. Augustus must be drinking she told the church elders, hoping desperately that they would sever his employment. But they refused. No one would take the position for the small stipend they had to offer and so they retained him.
Augustus was delighted and so he stayed. He told himself he hated her but the reality was; she was more an object of pity with the passage of time. She reminded him of a squawking chicken. He would never forgive the wicked women who had laughed along with her cruel insults. The parish and the parishioners he would never care for but he would carry on loving Nathaniel from afar. The boy had shown him that somewhere deep inside; he still had compassion.
No Augustus would never be drunk with the joy of loving a woman. He would be more likely to be drunk on an alcoholic beverage and he had never touched a drink in his life.
