The little village of Beechfield, like all other villages, had its dark
corners where vice and misery reigned supreme. In old times Mr. and Mrs.
Rumbold--good people as they were in their own fashion--had been content
to leave these darker places to themselves; the decent religious poor
of the parish gave them enough to do. But under the new Rector's rule a
new system had begun. The Reverend Maurice Evandale thought that his
duty lay amongst the lost sheep as well as amongst those already in the
fold. If he had been at Beechfield in the days before Sydney Vane's
death, he would never have let poor Andrew Westwood and his child remain
outcasts from the interests of religious life. He would have visited
them, talked to them, persuaded the child to go to school, perhaps even
induced the poacher to give up his vagrant ways; at any rate, he would
not have let them alone, but would have grappled fearlessly with the
difficulties of their position, and with that hostility which seemed to
exist between Westwood and the rest of the village. Whether he would
have been successful or not it were indeed hard to say, but that he
would have made a great effort to be so there can be no manner of doubt.
Mr. Evandale's new system produced a great sensation in the parish--not
altogether a favorable sensation either; for the villagers, who had gone
on so long in quiet, comfortable, self-complacent ways, did not regard
with a favorable eye the changes which the Rector introduced. All the
old abuses which had slumbered peacefully in darkness for so many years
were exposed relentlessly by this too energetic young man. He swept away
the village band of stringed instruments from the church gallery; he
erected an organ in the chancel, and set the schoolmistress to play it;
he introduced new tunes into the choir, new doctrines into the pulpit;
he played havoc amongst all that was fusty and musty and venerable in
the villagers' eyes. He talked about drainage, and had an inspector down
to investigate the state of the village water-supply; he waged war upon
the publicans, set up an institute and a library for the village youths,
taught the boys, played with them--thrashed them too occasionally--and
made himself a terror to evil-doers and the idol of the young ladies of
the place. Naturally much was said against him, especially behind his
back. To his face, people did not venture to say much. The young Rector
had such a fearless way of looking straight into people's eyes, of
saying what he meant and expecting other people to do the same, that he
inspired something like fear in the shiftier and less trustworthy part
of the community. On the other hand, the weak, the sick, the very
young, instinctively loved and trusted him. "He is beautiful in a
sick-room," averred the elder women. Perhaps his words seemed beautiful
to them because they felt that by some mysterious law of sympathy he
understood their sorrows without having been a partaker in them, that he
had an infinite pity for the erring and the suffering, and that he never
felt himself less of a brother to his flock because so many of that
flock were sinful and ignorant and degraded.
So, parson though he was, he became the friend and confidant of half the
village; and strange tales were poured into his ear sometimes--tales
which the tellers would formerly have laughed at the idea of relating to
the Rector of the parish so long as Mr. Rumbold reigned supreme. But to
Maurice Evandale nothing seemed to come amiss; he had interest and
sympathy for all. Stern to impenitent sinners he certainly was--brutal
men and idle lads cowered under the lash of his rebuke; but there was
not a soul in the village who did not also know that a word of
repentance, an act that showed a yearning after better things, was
sufficient to melt the Rector's wrath and turn him from a judge and
censor into a friend. Judging from the progress that Maurice Evandale
had already made in the hearts of his people, there was a fair
likelihood that if he stayed much longer he would be master of their
affections and their intellects, in a way which was unprecedented indeed
at Beechfield.
He was not often at Beechfield Hall. The General liked his society
extremely, but Mrs. Vane declared that it fatigued her.
"The man is so oppressively blunt and downright," she said, "that one
never knows what to expect from him next. He is a perfect bear."
"But, my dear Flossy, he comes of a very good family, and I have heard
him praised on all sides for his distinguished manners," expostulated
the General. "I never knew a young man so courteous, so polished!"
"I am spoiled for young men, General," said Flossy, extending her hand
very graciously to her white-haired husband.
It was not often that she showed herself so actively amiable towards
him. She was usually somewhat passive, receiving his attentions with a
languid indifference which would have disconcerted some men, but which
did not disconcert the unsuspicious old General. He was delighted with
her little compliment, kissed her hand gallantly, and avowed that nobody
should come near the house whom she disliked. So Maurice Evandale was
not invited a second time to dinner.
Naturally Enid was not consulted in the matter. She never expressed any
opinion at all concerning the new Rector. She had always been a regular
church-goer, and, wet or fine, never failed to be present at the class
over which she presided every Sunday afternoon. She was not a whit more
regular in her attendance at church and school than she had been before,
whereas giddy girls like the doctor's daughter and the lawyer's bevy of
fair damsels, and even the members of a neighboring Squire's large
family of girls, had all taken to attending Mr. Evandale's services and
schools with unexampled regularity. Flossy, who seldom went to church
herself, but always inquired diligently after the worshippers, and
exacted an account of their names and number from her young kinswoman,
used to utter sarcastic little jibs anent these young women's
clearly-manifested preference for Mr. Evandale, and was heard to say
rather sharply that, if Enid followed their example, it would be worth
while to have the horses out on a Sunday and drive over to the cathedral
of Whitminster, six miles away. But Enid never gave any sign of liking
the new Rector any better than she had liked Mr. Rumbold; and, as to
take the General away from the church in which he had knelt almost every
Sunday since he came home from active service in India, after his old
father's death, would have been to uproot one of the most deeply-rooted
instincts in his life. Florence was wise enough to let the matter pass,
and to content herself with wishing that the patron of the living had
given it to an older man--or at least to a married man. There was always
danger when a bachelor of eight-and-twenty, good-looking--indeed very
handsome--and with a comfortable income, came into close contact with
young and romantic girls. And Florence did not intend Enid to marry Mr.
Evandale--she had other views for her.
It was strange to see how this white, silent, languid woman, whose only
occupations in life seemed to be eating, sleeping, driving, and
dressing, was able to mould the natures and ambitions of others to her
liking. Behind the mask of Flossy's pensive beauty lay a brain as
subtle, a will as inflexible, a heart as cold as ever daring criminal
possessed. Nothing daunted or repelled her, and in other circumstances
and other times her genius might have made her a mark for the execration
of all succeeding ages. But her sphere was not large; she had but
indifferent material to work upon in the seclusion of a country home and
the company of an old country gentleman and his niece; and she could but
do her best to gain her ends, even though the path of them lay across
bleeding hearts and lives laid waste by her cruelty.
Mr. Evandale had felt the same distaste for her society that she had
expressed for his visits, and troubled himself not a little about the
want of charity that he discovered in himself. To his clear and
penetrating eyes there was a vein of falseness apparent in Mrs. Vane's
most honeyed speeches; her narrowed eyes were too subtle for his taste;
there were lines about her mouth which he had seen on faces of women
whom he did not love. For the life of him he could not repress a certain
honest gravity and even sternness of manner in addressing her; something
in her revolted him--he did not know how or why. He almost pitied the
General--the hearty, good old man who seemed so fond of his fair wife.
And he was sorry for Enid too, not only on account of her sad story, but
because she lived with this woman whom he distrusted, because she was
ruled by her fancies and educated according to her desires. And he was
even sorry--still without knowing why--for little Dick, whose quaint
childish face always expanded into a broad smile at the sight of him,
and whom he often met in the village, clinging fondly to Enid's hand.
When he dined at the Hall, he had scarcely seen Enid, for, on some plea
of illness or fatigue, Mrs. Vane had kept her away from dinner, and her
presence in the drawing-room for the last half hour of Evandale's stay
had been a very silent one. But he often saw her in church. The Vanes'
pew was just in front of the pulpit, and the Rector could not preach
without noticing the steady attention given to him by the girl in the
Squire's pew, could not fail to be struck by the sweetness of the fair
uplifted face, the beauty of the pathetic eyes, in which there always
lurked the shadow of some past or future pain. The Rector fell into the
habit of preaching to that fair young face. But, strangely enough, he
did not preach as men usually preach to the young and innocent--his
words were often of consolation for bitter grief, tender counsel for the
afflicted, even of future hope and amendment for the guilty. Nothing
less peculiarly appropriate to a young girl of seventeen than some of
his sermons could be imagined--and yet they were all addressed to Enid
Vane. It was as if he were trying to strengthen her for some dread
conflict, some warfare of life and death, which his foreseeing eye
discerned for her in days to come.
Enid was allowed to do a little district-visiting in the parish, and Mr.
Evandale had often heard reports of her gentleness and goodness; but he
had never personally encountered her on any of her errands of mercy. An
exception to this rule, however, took place on a certain afternoon in
November, a few weeks after Hubert Lepel's visit to Beechwood.
Mr. Evandale had on that day received information that one of his
parishioners--a Mrs. Meldreth--was seriously ill and would like to see
him. The informant added that she brought the Rector word of this,
because Mrs. Meldreth's daughter Sabina was now at home, and seemed
anxious to keep the clergyman away. The Rector's fighting instincts were
at once aroused by this communication. He knew Sabina Meldreth by name
only, and had not derived a very pleasant impression of her from all
that he had heard. She had once been an under-housemaid at the Hall, but
had been dismissed for misconduct--of what sort nobody could exactly
say, although much was hinted at which the gossips did not put into
words--and had left the village soon afterwards. Since that time she had
been seen at Beechfield only at intervals; she came occasionally to see
her mother, and stated that she was "engaged in a millinery business at
Whitminster, and doing well." Certainly her airs and graces, her plumes
and jewelry, seemed to betoken that her finances were in a flourishing
condition. But she never came to church, and was reported to talk in an
irreverent manner, which made the Rector long to get hold of her for
five minutes. With his strong convictions, Maurice Evandale could not
bear to hear without protest of the insolent and almost profane sallies
of wit by which, to his mind, Sabina Meldreth dishonored her Creator.
He had long resolved to speak to her on the subject when next she
visited Beechfield. Perhaps her mother's illness would have softened her
and would make the Rector's task less difficult--for it was not his
nature to love the administration of rebuke, although he held it to be
one of his essential duties, when occasion required.
Mrs. Meldreth was a respectable elderly woman, who kept a small shop for
cheap groceries and haberdashery in the village. She did not do much
business, but she lived in apparent comfort--probably, the neighbors
said, because she was helped by her daughter's earnings. And then Mrs.
Vane was unusually kind to her. Flossy did not interest herself much in
the welfare of her poorer neighbors, but to Mrs. Meldreth she certainly
showed peculiar favor. Many a gift of food and wine went from the Hall
across Mrs. Meldreth's threshold; and it was noticed that Mrs. Meldreth
was occasionally admitted to Mrs. Vane's own room for a private
conference with the lady of Beechfield Hall herself. But those who
commented wonderingly on that fact were reminded that Mrs. Meldreth
added to her occupations that of sick-nurse, and that she had been in
attendance on Mrs. Vane at the time of the young Squire's birth. It was
natural that Mrs. Vane should be on more intimate terms with her than
with any other of the village women.
Mrs. Meldreth was not an interesting person in the eyes of the world at
large. She was a sad, silent, dull-faced individual, with blank looking
eyes and a dreary mouth. There were anxious lines on her forehead and
hollows in her pale cheeks, such as her easy circumstances did not
account for. That she "enjoyed very poor health," according to the
dictum of her neighbors, was considered by them to be a sufficient
reason for Mrs. Meldreth's evident lack of peace of mind.
Mr. Evandale set off for his visit to the sick woman early in the
afternoon. He was hindered on his way to her house by meeting with
various of his friends of the humbler sort, whom he did not like to pass
without a word, and it was after three o'clock before he reached Mrs.
Meldreth's cottage. He entered the shop, which looked duller and more
uninviting than ever, and found that it was tenanted only by a girl of
thirteen--a girl whom he knew to be the stupidest in the whole of the
village school.
"Well, Polly Moss," he said good-naturedly, "are you taking care of the
shop?"
Polly Moss, a girl whose mouth looked as if it would never close, beamed
at him with radiant satisfaction, and replied--
"Yes, sir--I'm minding the shop, sir. Did you want any groceries to-day,
please, sir?"
"No, thank you," said the Rector, smiling. "I have come to see Mrs.
Meldreth, who, I hear, is ill."
"Yes, sir," said Polly, in a tone of resigned affliction. "I thought
p'r'aps you was going to buy something, sir. I hain't sold anythink the
'ole afternoon."
"Polly," said Mr. Evandale, "how often am I to tell you to say the
'whole' afternoon, not the ''ole'?" The unlucky man had even made war on
the natives' practice of leaving out their "h's"! "'Whole,' with an 'h,'
remember! Well, I will buy something--what shall it be?--a pound of tea
perhaps. Ah, yes! Two shillings a pound, isn't it? Pack it up and send
it to the Rectory to-night, Polly; and here are the two shillings to put
into the till. Now will you ask if I can see Mrs. Meldreth?"
Polly's shining face suddenly fell.
"I daren't leave the shop, sir," she said. "I left it this morning just
for a minute or two, and Miss Meldreth said she'd skin me alive if ever
I did so again. Would you mind, sir"--insinuatingly--"just a-going up
the stairs and knocking at the door atop o' them? They'll be glad to see
you, I'm sure, sir; and I daren't leave the shop for a single minute."
"All right," said the Rector. He was used to entering sick-rooms, and
did not find Polly Moss' request very much out of the way. "I'll go up."
He passed through the shop and ascended the stairs, with every step of
which he was familiar, as he had already visited Mrs. Meldreth during
one or two previous attacks of illness, and was heard to knock at the
sick woman's bed-room door.
"Oh, my," exclaimed Polly, as soon as he was out of reach, "and if I
didn't go for to forget to tell him as 'ow Miss Enid was up there! Oh,
my! But I don't suppose he'll mind! He's only the parson, after all."