For many weeks the poor Curate had been indeed alone; for so long had
his old companions, hope and cheerfulness, deserted him; for so long had
he gone mechanically about his old pursuits, feeling that the glory had
departed from them, and sat in the stormy autumn evenings by a hearth
where only the vacant pedestals reminded him of the wonted presence of
household gods.
Time, of whose lapse heretofore he had taken little note, became now a
dull, remorseless enemy. The Curate, when he woke, would sometimes
shudder at the prospect of the many-houred day between him and the
grateful oblivion of sleep; for the day, formerly so busy, was now to
him but a long tract of weary, reiterated sorrows.
Though he still spent many hours in his garden, it was lamentable to see
the change there. Weeds sprung unregarded side by side with his choicest
flowers—worms revelled in his tenderest buds—and the caterpillars were
so numerous as to form quite an army of occupation. His books, too, were
blank to him—the pages he used to love seemed meaningless. His only
remaining consolation was his pipe.
See, then, the Curate sitting in the twilight in his elbow-chair, in an
attitude at once listless and uncomfortable, his waist bent sharply in,
his head drooping, one leg gathered under the seat, the other straddling
toward the fire, his right hand shading his eyes, while the elbow rests
on the table—the left holding the bowl of his pipe, while the elbow
rests on the arm of his chair. Frequently he takes the mouthpiece from
his lips, sighs heavily, and forgets to smoke—then, with a shake of the
head, he again sucks comfort from his meerschaum. There is a tap at the
door, which opens slowly—Jennifer looks in at him, and then draws near.
Jennifer stopt—looked at him—sighed—then drew a little closer—sighed
again. The Curate, fancying she had come on some of her accustomed
visits of inspection (for of late she had found frequent excuses for
entering, such as to dust his books, to stir his fire, to draw his
curtains), took no notice of her, but continued to pursue his train of
thought. Presently he, too, sighed; it was echoed so sympathetically by
Mrs Greene, that her suspiration sounded like a gust coming down the
chimney. Finding that the Curate, as usual, pursued the plan which is
popularly attributed to apparitions in their intercourse with human
beings, and was not likely to speak till spoken to, Jennifer, with a
little cough, came round between the table and the fire, and stirred the
latter. Being thus quite close to the Curate, with the table in her
rear, and her master’s chair close to her left hand, she commenced.
“I’m vexed to see you so down, Mr Young. I’m afraid you’re not satisfied
in your mind. You used to be a far cheerfuller gentleman than what you
are now.”
Mr Young, rousing himself, looked up with an assumed briskness.
“It’s my way, Mrs Greene—only my way.”
“No, sir,” said Jennifer, peremptorily, “’tis not your way, asking your
pardon. There’s something on your mind. Perhaps it’s me—perhaps things
have not gone according to your wishes in the house. If it’s me, sir,
say so, I beg.”
“You, Mrs Greene—impossible. I’m quite sensible of your kind attention
to my comforts, I assure you,” protested the Curate.
“Because,” said Jennifer, heedless of his disclaimer, and going on as if
he had not uttered it—“because, if so, I wish to say one word. I only
wish to remark, sir, that whatever fault there is of that kind, ’tis not
a fault according to my will. My wish is, and always has been, to serve
you to the utmost of my”—
“Mrs Greene!” began the Curate, touching her on the arm with the
extended stem of his meerschaum, to check her volubility for a moment,
“my good soul”—
——“To the utmost of my ability,” went on Jennifer, with a slight
faltering in her voice. “If laying down my life could have served you,
Mr Young, I’m sure”— Here Jennifer whimpered.
“Faithful creature!” thought the Curate, “what an interest she takes in
me! My dear Mrs Greene,” said he, “your doubts wrong me very much; but
this proof of your care for me is exceedingly gratifying”—which was
perhaps an unconscious fib, for the Curate felt more embarrassment than
gratification.
“And after all my trials and efforts, thinking only how I could please
you, to see you—oh—oh—” and Jennifer broke down again, and in the excess
of her agitation sat down on a chair near her. And though to sit down in
his presence was a quite unusual proceeding on her part, yet the Curate
was so heedless of forms, that if she had seated herself on the
mantelpiece, he would possibly have thought it merely a harmless
eccentricity.
“Calm yourself, Mrs Greene,” entreated the Curate. “These doubts of my
regard are quite unfounded; be assured I fully appreciate your value.”
“But in that case,” said Jennifer, pursuing her own hypothesis with
great perseverance, “in that case I must quit you whatever it costs me.
And I hope you could find them, Mr Young, as would serve you better.”
“Don’t talk of quitting me, Mrs Greene,” said the Curate soothingly.
“This is all mere creation of your fancy. I am perfectly satisfied—more
than satisfied with you.”
“No, sir—I’ve seen it—I’ve seen it this some time. You don’t look upon
me like what you used. ’Tisn’t any longer, ‘Mrs Greene, do this,’ and
‘Mrs Greene, do that,’ and the other. You can do without Mrs Greene now.
And perhaps,” said Jennifer, “’tis better I was—gone” (the last word
almost inaudible).
“Really, Mrs Greene, this is quite unnecessary. You are paining yourself
and me to no purpose. Be persuaded”—(and the Curate took Jennifer’s
hand)—“be persuaded of my sense of your merits.”
Jennifer wiped her eyes; then starting and looking round over her
shoulder, “O sir,” said she, “if anybody should catch us!—what would
they say?”
“Catch us, Mrs Greene,” said the Curate, hastening to withdraw his hand;
but Jennifer clutched it nervously.
“Stop!” said Jennifer, “there’s a step—and that maid’s got such a
tongue! No, ’twas my fancy—the maid’s asleep in the kitchen. O, sir—yes,
what would they say?—people is so scandalous. They’ve been talking
already.”
“Talking!” exclaimed Mr Young, withdrawing his hand with a jerk. “What
can you mean, Mrs Greene? Talking of what?”
“O yes!” said Jennifer. “They’ve been remarking, the busy ones has, how
it comes that a lone woman like me could live so long with a single
gentleman. Many’s the bitter thought it gave me.”
“Good heavens, Mrs Greene!” cried the Curate, pushing his chair, which
ran on castors, away with a loud creak, “really this is all very strange
and unexpected.”
“And more than that,” pursued Jennifer, “they’ve said concerning my
looks——but I couldn’t repeat what they said, further than to mention
that they meant I wasn’t old nor ugly—which perhaps I’m not. And they
know what a good wife I made to Samuel” (this was the deceased
shipmaster’s Christian appellation)—“never, as Mrs Britton that keeps
the grocery said to me last Wednesday, never was a better. And when
’twas named to me what they’d been saying, I thought—O good gracious!—I
thought I should have sunk into the hearth.”
“Gracious goodness!” exclaimed Mr Young, starting from his chair, and
pacing the room in great perturbation. “How extremely infamous! Why,
’tis like a terrible nightmare. To spread false reports—to drive me to
part with a valuable servant—’tis atrocious! I’m afraid, Mrs Greene, you
really had better go to-morrow. I need not say how I regret it, but what
you have told me renders it imperative.”
“I wish it mayn’t be too late, sir,” said Jennifer, putting her
handkerchief to her eyes.
“Too late!—too late for what?” inquired the Curate.
“And where do you think I’m to get another place? Who’ll take in a lone
woman, whose character have been breathed upon? Oh, that ever I should
have seen Lanscote parsonage!” cried Jennifer, choking.
“But, Mrs Greene,” said the agitated Curate, stopping in his walk to
lean his hands on the table, and looking earnestly at her, “it shall be
my care, as it is my duty, to prove the falsehood of these reports. You
shall not suffer on my account, believe me. If necessary, I’ll expose
the wicked slander from the pulpit.”
This wouldn’t have suited Jennifer at all. The Curate was going off
quite on the wrong track, and she made a last effort to bring him into
the right direction.
“And my—my—my feelings,” sobbed she, “ain’t they to be considered? Oh,
that ever I should be a weak foolish woman! Oh, that ever I should have
been born with a weak trustful heart!”
“I daresay ’twill be painful to leave a place where you have lived long,
and a master who I hope has been kind to you,” said the Curate.
(Jennifer lifted up her voice here, and writhed in her chair.) “No doubt
it will, for you have an excellent heart, Mrs Greene. But what you have
said convinces me of the necessity of it. And you shall be no loser;
until you can suit yourself with a place, I’ll continue your salary as
usual.”
“Salary!” cried Jennifer, starting from her chair. “Oh, that I should be
talked to like a hireling! God forgive you, Mr Young. Well, it’s over
now. I’ll consider what you’ve said, Mr Young, and I’ll try—try to bring
my mind to it.”
Jennifer rose—sobbed a little—looked at her chair as if she had a mind
to sit down again, and then prepared to depart. In her way out of the
room, she passed close to the Curate, and paused, almost touching him,
with her handkerchief to her eyes. “If ever he’d say the word, he’d say
it now,” thought Jennifer, weeping copiously. But Mr Young, far from
availing himself of the proximity to take her hand, or say anything even
of comfort, far less of a tenderer nature, retreated with great alacrity
to his original post near the fire, and Jennifer had no alternative but
to walk onward out of the room.
She left him, roused, certainly, most effectually from his melancholy;
but the change was not for the better. The poor shy Curate was exactly
the man to feel the full annoyance of such reports as, according to
Jennifer, were in circulation. He fancied himself an object of derision
to all Lanscote—how could he hope to do any good among parishioners who
said scandalous things of him and his housekeeper? How could he hope to
convince them of his innocence? How preserve his dignity in the pulpit,
with the consciousness that a whole congregation were looking at him in
a false light?
Jennifer’s demeanour next day was sad and subdued. After breakfast she
came into the room, and, without lifting her eyes, said that she thought
she had better go next Wednesday. “On Wednesday,” said Jennifer, “Miss
Rosa’s coming, and then, with your leave, I’ll quit, Mr Young.”
The Curate highly approved of this; he knew he could not feel easy till
she was out of the house, and meanwhile he absented himself from it as
much as possible.
It was fortunate for the Curate that the period of her stay was so
short, for she took care it should be far from pleasant. She personally
superintended the making of his bed, which she caused to slope downwards
towards the feet, and at one side, so that the hapless occupant was
perpetually waking from a dream in which he had been sliding over
precipices; and, reascending to his pillow for another precarious
slumber, would be again woke by finding his feet sticking out from
beneath the clothes, and his body gradually following them. He got hairs
in his butter, and plenty of salt in his soup; his tea, the only luxury
of the palate that he really cared about, and that rather on
intellectual than sensual grounds, grew weaker and weaker; his toast
simultaneously got tougher; and he was kept the whole time on
mutton-chops, which, from their identity of flavour, appeared to have
been all cut from the same patriarchal ram.
Wednesday arrived. The Curate, leaning over his garden gate, saw the
carriage from the Heronry coming down the lane. It drew up at the
parsonage; in it were Lady Lee, Orelia, and Rosa, all in black, and all
looking very sad. Rosa, rising to take leave of her friends, underwent
innumerable embraces.
Orelia was the calmest of the three, but even her grandeur and
stateliness quite gave way in parting. “Good-bye, Rosalinda,” was all
she could trust herself to say, as Rosa alighted.
The Curate had intended to say a great deal to Hester, but it had all
vanished from his mind, and remained unexpressed, unless a long pressure
of the hand could convey it. Lady Lee gave several things in charge to
the Curate to execute, and delivered a purse to him, the contents of
which were to be distributed among various pensioners in the village;
then she told the coachman to drive on.
“Write at least three times a-week, Rosalinda,” cried Orelia, putting a
tearful face over the hood of the carriage, “or never hope for
forgiveness.”
They were gone. A white handkerchief waved from the side, and another
from the top of the carriage, till it disappeared, and the Curate and
his sister slowly turned into the house—the last remnant of the once
joyous party assembled at the Heronry.
What a hard thing was life! What a cruel thing was fate, that they could
not all be left as they were! Their happiness did no harm to any
one—nay, good to many—yet it was inexorably scattered to the winds for
ever. So thought the Curate; and so felt Rosa, though perhaps her
feelings did not shape themselves into thoughts.
But there was no time just then to indulge their grief. Scarcely had the
carriage departed, when its place was taken by a vehicle of altogether
different description. A donkey-cart, destined to convey away Jennifer’s
chattels, and driven by a small boy, drew up at the gate, producing a
kind of practical anti-climax. Then Jennifer, attired in bonnet and
shawl, entered, and announced, in an austere and steady voice, that she
was ready to hand over her keys of office to the still weeping Rosa.
“Now, Miss,” said Jennifer sharply, “if you could make it convenient to
come at once, I should be obliged.”
“Go with Mrs Greene, my child,” said the Curate. When Jennifer found she
had failed in her grand design on the Curate, and must quit the
parsonage, she did not continue to affect regret at her departure; and
having easily and at once secured the coveted post at Monkstone, through
the influence of Mr Randy, she felt the change was likely to be for the
better. She might, therefore, have been expected to quit her present
abode, if with some natural regret, yet at perfect peace and charity
with all the household. Jennifer’s disposition did not, however, admit
of this. She felt enraged at the Curate because of the failure of her
design upon him, and resolved to be of as little use as possible in the
last moments of her expiring authority. “He’ll be wishing me back again
before a week’s over his head,” said Jennifer to herself, with infinite
satisfaction.
In vain Rosa protested against being dragged into every corner of the
house, and having every bit of household property set before her eyes.
In vain she assured Mrs Greene that both her brother and herself were
perfectly satisfied of the correctness of everything. “’Twas a
satisfaction to herself,” Jennifer said, “to show everything;” and it
really was, for the extreme bewilderment and ignorance of Rosa on all
points of housekeeping afforded Jennifer the keenest gratification. The
Heronry, where Rosa’s chief business had been to amuse herself, was a
very bad school to learn anything of the sort.
Accordingly, Jennifer did not spare her the enumeration of a single
kitchen implement, pot of jam, nor article of linen.
“The bed and table linen’s all in this press,” said Jennifer, opening a
large one of walnut wood in the spare bedroom.
“These are the sheets, I suppose, Mrs Greene,” Rosa remarked, wishing to
show an interest in the matter.
“Bless you, they’re the tablecloths!” returned Jennifer, with a glance
of disdain.
“Oh, to be sure! And these are towels?” resumed Rosa.
“Napkins,” said Jennifer, with calm superiority. “Mr Young’s shirts, and
collars, and bands, and neckcloths, is all in these two drawers. Do you
understand much about clear-starching, Miss?”
“N—n—no; I am afraid not much,” said Rosa.
“Ah, ’twould be just as well you should, perhaps, because the
washerwoman requires a deal of looking after. She can be careless and
impudent, too, when she dares, especially when she’s in drink. She never
ventured upon any tricks with _me_, though.”
The thought of this terrible washerwoman made Rosa tremble, while
Jennifer secretly exulted in the thought of seeing the Curate in limp
collars and a crumpled shirt.
“There,” said the ex-housekeeper, locking up the press, and handing the
key to Rosa; “I advise you, Miss, to take out everything that’s wanted
yourself. The girl’s hands is generally dirty, and, besides, in taking
out one thing she drags all the rest out upon the floor. Oh, she’s a
nice one, that girl!—the work I’ve had to manage her! Well, Miss, I hope
you’ll keep an eye upon her, that’s all.”
Having thus rendered Rosa as uncomfortable as possible at the prospect
before her, Jennifer at length prepared to depart. Opening the door of
the sitting-room, she said to the Curate, “The young lady’s seen
everything, and is quite satisfied. Well, good-bye, and wishing you
well, sir.” But the benediction was quite contradicted by the ferocity
of her look and tone.
“Good-bye, good-bye, my good Mrs Greene,” said the Curate, who could not
help regarding Jennifer as a martyr. “I wish you all success and
happiness; I hope you won’t fret too much after the parsonage, Mrs
Greene.”
“Ho, no,” said Jennifer, with an ironical little laugh; “it’s not
likely.”
“I’m heartily glad of that,” said the Curate, who would not have
detected irony even in Dean Swift; “and I hope you’ll soon get another
and as good a place.”
“I’ve got one,” said Jennifer, “as good a one as ever I could wish.”
“Indeed! that is fortunate,” said the Curate; “and when do you go to it
then?”
“I’m going now,” said Jennifer. “Ho, bless you! as soon as ’twas known I
was going to leave this, I had more offers than enough. I took
Monkstone,” said Jennifer, “being ’twas near my friends in the village.
Wishing you good-bye, sir,”—here she dropt a curtsey, and closed the
door. The boy had already conveyed her trunks and bandboxes to the
donkey-cart. Jennifer marched past the window (from whence the Curate
was watching this exodus) in austere majesty, and never deigned to turn
her head. Then she, the boy, the donkey-cart, and the bandboxes, all
went in procession down the road, leaving Rosa sole superintendant of
the Curate’s household.