The Vicar Hears Something to His Advantage.

“My dear,” said old Miss Thornton, that evening, “I have consulted Mrs. Buckley on the sleeves, and she is of opinion that they should be pointed.”

“Do you think,” said Mary, “that she thought much about the matter?”

“She promised to give the matter her earnest attention,” said Miss Thornton; “so I suppose she did. Mrs. Buckley would never speak at random, if she once promised to give her real opinion.”

“No, I don’t think she would, Auntie, but she is not very particular in her own dress.”

“She always looks like a thorough lady, my dear: Mrs. Buckley is a woman whom I could set before you as a model for imitation far sooner than myself.”

“She is a duck, at all events,” said Mary; “and her husband is a darling.”

Miss Thornton was too much shocked to say anything. To hear a young lady speak of a handsome military man as a “darling,” went quite beyond her experience. She was considering how much bread and water and backboard she would have felt it her duty to give Lady Kate, or Lady Fanny, in old times, for such an expression, when the Vicar, who had been dozing, woke up and said:—

“Bless us, what a night! The equinoctial gales come back again. This rain will make up for the dry March with a vengeance; I am glad I am safely housed before a good fire.”

Unlucky words! he drew nearer to the fire, and began rubbing his knees; he had given them about three rubs, when the door opened and the maid’s voice was heard ominous of evil.

“Thomas Jewel is worse, sir, and if you please his missis don’t expect he’ll last the night; and could you just step up?”

“Just stepping up,” was a pretty little euphemism for walking three long miles dead in the teeth of a gale of wind, with a fierce rushing tropical rain. One of the numerous tenders of the ship Jewel (74), had just arrived before the wind under bare poles, an attempt to set a rag of umbrella having ended in its being blown out of the bolt-ropes, and the aforesaid tender Jewel was now in the vicarage harbour of refuge, reflecting what an awful job it would have in beating back against the monsoon.

“Who has come with this message?” said the Vicar, entering the kitchen followed by Miss Thornton and Mary.

“Me, sir,” says a voice from the doorway.

“Oh, come in, will you,” said the Vicar; “it’s a terrible night, is it not?”

“Oh Loord!” said the voice in reply — intending that ejaculation for a very strong affirmative. And advancing towards the light, displayed a figure in a long brown great-coat, reaching to the ancles, and topped by some sort of head-dress, resembling very closely a small black carpet bag, tied on with a red cotton handkerchief. This was all that was visible, and the good Vicar stood doubting whether it was male or female, till catching sight of an immense pair of hobnail boots peeping from the lower extremity of the coat, he made up his mind at once, and began:—

“My good boy —”

There was a cackling laugh from under the carpet bag, and a harsh grating voice replied:

“I be a gurl.”

“Dear me,” said the Vicar, “then what do you dress yourself in that style for? — So old Jewel is worse.”

“Us don’t think a’ll live the night.”

“Is the doctor with him?” said the Vicar.

“The ‘Talian’s with un.”

By which he understood her to mean Dr. Mulhaus, all foreigners being considered to be Italians in Drumston. An idea they got, I take it, from the wandering organ men being of that nation.

“Well,” said the Vicar, “I will start at once, and come. It’s a terrible night.”

The owner of the great-coat assented with a fiendish cackle, and departed. The Vicar, having been well wrapped up by his sister and daughter, departed also, with a last injunction from Miss Thornton to take care of himself.

Easier said than done, such a night as this. A regular south-westerly gale, accompanied by a stinging, cutting rain, which made it almost impossible to look to windward. Earth and sky seemed mixed together, and each twig and bough sent a separate plaint upon the gale, indignant at seeing their fresh-acquired honours torn from them and scattered before the blast.

The Vicar put his head down and sturdily walked against it. It was well for him that he knew every inch of the road, for his knowledge was needed now. There was no turn in the road after he had passed the church, but it took straight away over the high ground up to Hawker’s farm on the woodlands.

Old Jewel, whom he was going to see, had been a hind of Hawker’s for many years; but about a twelvemonth before the present time he had left his service, partly on account of increasing infirmity, and partly in consequence of a violent quarrel with Madge. He was a man of indifferent character. He had been married once in his life, but his wife only lived a year, and left him with one son, who had likewise married and given to the world seven as barbarous, neglected, young savages as any in the parish. The old man, who was now lying on his deathbed, had been a sort of confidential man to old Hawker, retained in that capacity on account, the old man said once in his drink, of not having any wife to worm family affairs out of him. So it was generally believed by the village folks, that old Jewel was in possession of some fearful secrets (such as a murder or two, for instance, or a brace of forgeries), and that the Hawkers daren’t turn him out of the cottage where he lived for their lives.

Perhaps some of these idle rumours may have floated through the Vicar’s brain as he fought forwards against the storm; but if any did, they were soon dismissed again, and the good man’s thoughts carried into a fresh channel. And he was thinking what a fearful night this would be at sea, and how any ship could live against such a storm, when he came to a white gate, which led into the deep woods surrounding Hawker’s house, and in a recess of which lived old Jewel and his family.

Now began the most difficult part of his journey. The broader road that led from the gate up to the Hawkers’ house was plainly perceptible, but the little path which turned up to the cottage was not so easily found, and when found, not easily kept on such a black wild night as this. But, at length, having hit it, he began to follow it with some difficulty, and soon beginning to descend rapidly, he caught sight of a light, and, at the same moment, heard the rushing of water.

“Oh,” said he to himself, “the water is come down, and I shall have a nice job to get across it. Any people but the Jewels would have made some sort of a bridge by now; but they have been content with a fallen tree ever since the old bridge was carried away.”

He scrambled down the steep hill side with great difficulty, and not without one or two nasty slips, which, to a man of his age, was no trifle, but at length stood trembling with exertion before a flooded brook, across which lay a fallen tree, dimly seen in the dark against the gleam of the rushing water.

“I must stand and steady my nerves a bit after that tumble,” he said, “before I venture over there. That’s the ‘Brig of Dread’ with a vengeance. However, I never came to harm yet when I was after duty, so I’ll chance it.”

The cottage stood just across the brook, and he halloed aloud for some one to come. After a short time the door opened, and a man appeared with a lantern.

“Who is there?” demanded Dr. Mulhaus’ wellknown voice. “Is it you, Vicar?”

“Aye,” rejoined the other, “it’s me at present; but it won’t be me long if I slip coming over that log. Here goes,” he said, as he steadied himself and crossed rapidly, while the Doctor held the light. “Ah,” he added, when he was safe across, “I knew I should get over all right.”

“You did not seem very certain about it just now,” said the Doctor. “However, I am sincerely glad you are come. I knew no weather would stop you.”

“Thank you, old friend,” said the Vicar; “and how is the patient?”

“Going fast. More in your line than mine. The man believes himself bewitched.”

“Not uncommon,” said the Vicar, “in these parts; they are always bothering me with some of that sort of nonsense.”

They went in. Only an ordinary scene of poverty, dirt, and vice, such as exists to some extent, in every parish, in every country on the globe. Nothing more than that, and yet a sickening sight enough.

A squalid, damp, close room, with the earthen floor sunk in many places and holding pools of water. The mother smoking in the chimney corner, the eldest daughter nursing an illegitimate child, and quarrelling with her mother in a coarse, angry tone. The children, ragged and hungry, fighting for the fireside. The father away, at some unlawful occupation probably, or sitting drinking his wages in an alehouse. That was what they saw, and what any man may see today for himself in his own village, whether in England or Australia, that working man’s paradise. Drink, dirt, and sloth, my friends of the working orders, will produce the same effects all over the world.

As they came in the woman of the house rose and curtseyed to the Vicar, but the eldest girl sat still and turned away her head. The Vicar, after saluting her mother, went gently up to her, and patting the baby’s cheek, asked her kindly how she did. The girl tried to answer him, but could only sob. She bent down her head again over the child, and began rocking it to and fro.

“You must bring it to be christened,” said the Vicar kindly. “Can you come on Wednesday?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” she said with a sort of choke. And now the woman having lit a fresh candle, ushered them into the sick man’s room.

“Typhus and scarlatina!” said the Doctor. “How this place smells after being in the air. He is sensible again, I think.”

“Quite sensible,” the sick man answered aloud. “So you’ve come, Mr. Thornton; I’m glad of it; I’ve got a sad story to tell you; but I’ll have vengeance if you do your duty. You see the state I am in!”

“Ague!” said the Vicar.

“And who gave it me?”

“Why, God sent it to you,” said the Vicar. “All people living in a narrow wet valley among woodlands like this, must expect ague.”

“I tell you she gave it to me. I tell you she has overlooked me; and all this doctor’s stuff is no use, unless you can say a charm as will undo her devil’s work.”

“My good friend,” said the Vicar, “you should banish such fancies from your mind, for you are in a serious position, and ought not to die in enmity with anyone.”

“Not die in enmity with her? I’d never forgive her till she took off the spell.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked the Vicar.

“Why, that infernal witch, Madge, that lives with old Hawker,” said the man excitedly. “That’s who I mean!”

“Why, what injury has she done you?”

“Bewitched me, I tell you! Given me these shaking fits. She told me she would, when I left; and so she has, to prevent my speaking. I might a spoke out anytime this year, only the old man kept me quiet with money; but now it’s nigh too late!”

“What might you have spoken about?” asked the Vicar.

“Well, I’ll just relate the matter to you,” said the man, speaking fast and thick, “and I’ll speak the truth. A twelvemonth agone, this Madge and me had a fierce quarrel, and I miscalled her awful, and told her of some things she wasn’t aware I knew of; and then she said, ‘If ever a word of that escapes your lips, I’ll put such a spell on ye that your bones shall shake apart.’ Then I says, if you do, your bastard son shall swing.”

“Who do you mean by her bastard son?”

“Young George Hawker. He is not the son of old Mrs. Hawker! Madge was brought to bed of him a fortnight before her mistress; and when she bore a still-born child, old Hawker and I buried it in the wood, and we gave Madge’s child to Mrs. Hawker, who never knew the difference before she died.”

“On the word of a dying man, is that true?” demanded the Vicar.

“On the word of a dying man that’s true, and this also. I says to Madge, ‘Your boy shall swing, for I know enough to hang him.’ And she said, ‘Where are your proofs?’ and I— O Lord! O Lord! she’s at me again.”

He sank down again in a paroxysm of shivering, and they got no more from him. Enough there was, however, to make the Vicar a very silent and thoughtful man, as he sat watching the sick man in the close stifling room.

“You had better go home, Vicar,” said the Doctor; “you will make yourself ill staying here. I do not expect another lucid interval.”

“No,” said the Vicar, “I feel it my duty to stay longer. For my own sake too. What he has let out bears fearfully on my happiness, Doctor.”

“Yes, I can understand that, my friend, from what I have heard of the relations that exist between your daughter and that young man. You have been saved from a terrible misfortune, though at the cost, perhaps, of a few tears, and a little temporary uneasiness.”

“I hope it may be as you say,” said the Vicar. “Strange, on............