THE CURATE’S TROUBLE
After brooding over this disastrous letter for a long hour the curate
summoned enough courage to arise and go to his wife and take counsel
with her.
This was, indeed, a trouble that he dared not keep from her, even to
spare her from anxiety; for it was absolutely necessary that they should
take immediate measures for removal from the rectory and settlement in
lodgings somewhere in the town before the arrival of the new incumbent;
or, so at least it seemed to the curate in his dismayed state of mind.
He went directly into the back parlor, where the fire was burning
cheerfully in the grate, the tea table was set, and Hetty resting in her
low rocking-chair on the rug.
“Where is Jennie?” inquired the curate, dropping into another chair
beside his wife.
“In her bedroom, putting her baby to sleep,” replied Hetty.
“Well, I am glad the child is not here just now. I have bad news to tell
you, my dear.”
“Eh? Bad news? What is it, Jimmy? But, dear me, don’t look so dreadfully
cast down! It cannot be such awfully bad news, since you, I, Jennie and
the baby are all safe and sound in the house. But what, then, is your
bad news?”
“I have lost my position here, and we shall have to leave the rectory,”
replied Mr. Campbell in a tone of despair.
“Let me take a look at you?” said his wife, rising, giving him her hand,
helping him to his feet, and surveying him all around. “Well, I don’t
see that you have lost a limb, or any mental or bodily faculty, that you
need look so woebegone! As for losing your position, of course you lost
that when the old rector died; and as for leaving the rectory, we all
knew that we should have to do that.”
“Yes, but not so soon. We shall have to vacate by the first of January.”
“Well, that gives us plenty of time to choose new lodgings. I would not
‘fash my beard’ about that, if I were you, Jimmy! But why must we move
by that time?”
“Because my successor, or rather Dr. Orton’s successor, is appointed.”
“Already!”
“Yes, already.”
“Upon my word, there has been but little time lost! And you have
received notice to quit?”
“Yes, in a letter from the new incumbent, which I found lying on my
study table when I came in from the church.”
“Who is he, then?”
“‘Who is he?’ That is the very worst of all. Do you remember that
fellow, Cassius Leegh, who used to come to Medge parsonage long ago and
fasten on us for weeks?”
“I should think so!”
“He was the son of a small shopkeeper in the borough, London, studied
for the ministry as a matter of pride and ambition; but, morally and
spiritually, as unfit for the pulpit as a man can well be! I do not know
how he has contrived to get himself inducted into this living, except
upon the basis that he and the new squire are birds of a feather!”
“Stop!” exclaimed Hetty as a sudden light dawned on her mind—“I
understand it all perfectly now! Don’t you know that this man, this
so-called new squire of Haymore, married in New York a young lady by the
name of Leegh?”
“I paid no attention to the name of the lady,” replied the curate.
“Well, naturally I did, being a woman, you know. And the bride’s name
was Leegh! And surely you have heard Cassius Leegh speak of his
beautiful sister Lamia, who was taken up by a wealthy New York family?”
“Why—yes—certainly!”
“That is it, then. This man Leegh, no doubt, sought out his
brother-in-law and put in his plea for the living, even before Dr. Orton
was dead, and so he has secured it, and lost no time in warning you out.
But I wonder if he happened to mention your name to the ‘squire,’ for if
so, the said squire, finding out that you were here, would scarcely
venture to set foot within the place until you should be gone.”
“No,” said Mr. Campbell emphatically; “knowing the man as well as I do,
I can say most positively that he has never mentioned my name to his
patron, or even alluded to the fact that the late Dr. Orton left a
temporary substitute to fill his pulpit, when he himself went away for
his health, lest, you see, the knowledge of this fact should cause the
squire to take more time in appointing Dr. Orton’s successor. Don’t you
see?”
“Yes. To leave the absent squire to believe that the parish of Haymore
was entirely destitute of a pastor, would, of course, hasten the patron,
who wishes the good opinion of his people, to appoint an incumbent, and
the most natural thing would be to appoint his brother-in-law. I wish he
were a better man.”
“So do I, with all my heart!”
“Well! we are in Heaven’s hands. And as we must clear out by the first
of January, and get into new lodgings somewhere or other, I will go out
the first thing after breakfast to-morrow morning to look them up,” said
Hetty cheerfully.
“Lodgings in this town!” ruefully grunted the curate.
“They needn’t be in this town. There are, no doubt, plenty of farmhouses
in the surrounding country where we may get them very cheap, and very
wholesome and pleasant.”
“Yes; but how are we to pay, even for the cheapest?”
“Jimmy Campbell! You a minister of the gospel, and have no more faith
than to ask such a question! If you have lost your position here, and if
we must leave the pleasant rectory, still we are three able-bodied
people, who, if we do the best we can, and work at any honest thing our
hands may find to do, will be helped by the Lord, and will do very well
and pay our way.”
“Oh, Hetty, my dear, you have had no experience in a bitter struggle
with the world!”
“If I have not, it is well, perhaps, that I should have. And I am ready
to engage in the struggle, though I do not see why it need be a bitter
one, but just a healthful one.”
“You have a healthful nature, dear, that is certain. As for me, I
sometimes think I am falling weak in body and in mind,” sighed the
curate.
“No, no, dear Jimmy; not weak, only overworked and weary. Why, you have
not had a vacation for eighteen years, to my certain knowledge. So long
a strain might have made an idiot or a ‘damp, unpleasant corpse’ of any
man less strong and brave than yourself,” said the wife with
affectionate fervor.
“It helps me to see your faith in me, dear,” he sighed as he took her
hand and pressed it.
“As for me, Jimmy, I am glad that you will be obliged to rest for a few
weeks or months. Don’t doubt. You must rest. It is our turn now. Mine
and Jennie’s. We must work.”
“You! What in this world could you do?”
“A good many things. We—Jennie and I—could teach English and French,
music and drawing, to young ladies, or A B C’s to little children.
Failing that, we could take in dressmaking or plain sewing. Failing
that, I could go out as sick nurse, and Jennie could do up fine laces.”
“Hetty, you talk wildly.”
“Not at all. Unless you preach wildly. I am only going to put into
practice what you preach. You tell the artisans and agricultural
laborers that work is worship.”
“I would not mind your teaching——” slowly began the curate.
“Of course you would not,” promptly assented his wife; “and I should
prefer it. Teaching is, conventionally, considered a very ‘genteel’
occupation for a poor lady. And for that, and a few other unworthy
reasons, I would rather teach than do anything else. But if I cannot get
teaching to do I hope I am Christian enough to take whatever work I can
get, whether it should be dressmaking, plain sewing, sick nursing,
or—washing and ironing. There! Even that! I am ashamed of myself for
even preferring a ‘genteel’ occupation to an humble one which is equally
useful. But I won’t let my feelings govern me in this; and so sure as
you have to leave your situation here, you shall take a rest after
twenty years’ hard labor, and Jennie and I will go to work at whatever
we can get to do.”
“Hetty, you amaze and distract me! You do, indeed!”
“Look here, Jim. I have not kept my eyes shut all my life, and this is
what I have seen—many unsuccessful professional ‘gentlemen and ladies,’
who have not talent enough to climb where ‘there is more room higher
up,’ or even to keep their footing on the level where they were born,
but yet who will struggle, slip, flounder, suffer and sin where they are
rather than take a step ‘lower down,’ as they would consider it, but
where there is also ‘more room.’”
“I don’t quite follow you, Hetty.”
“This is what I mean: Take an illustration. A man may be an unsuccessful
lawyer, but his knowledge of law would make him so much better a clerk
that his chances of employment in that capacity would be much greater
than those of other competitors. Another man may fail as a minister, but
he might make all the better schoolmaster. A woman may fail as a
teacher, but succeed as a nurse. And what I would both inculcate and
practice is this: That when man or woman fails in the line of life they
have been born into or chosen for themselves, and when they have neither
the power to rise above the level or to keep their footing upon it, let
them not give up in despair or struggle in vain, but step frankly down
to an humbler and honester position. There is always some work of some
sort to be got. He who said ‘Six days shalt thou labor’ will give work
to every hand willing to take it, though it may not be the kind of work
their pride would like best. As for me and my daughter, whatever our
‘hands find to do, we will do it with our might,’ whether we like it or
not.”
“But, my dear, do you really not care about leaving this beautiful
home?”
“Under the circumstances, I should not care to stay, even if we could.
Should you? Reflect. The new squire will be here in a few days. You will
have to denounce him as an impostor, a fraudulent claimant, a bigamous
bridegroom. But it would take time to prove these charges. Could you
stay in the parish and preach in the church during that time with any
sort of peace to us all? No. Better that we should go away, and the
sooner we go the better.”
“My dear, I shall easily prove the fellow to be a bigamist; but as his
crime was committed in the United States of America, I cannot prosecute
him for it here in England. Neither can I prove him to be a fraudulent
claimant. I have been turning that matter over in my mind, and I do not
even know that he is one.”
“What!” exclaimed Hetty with wide-open eyes. “You do not know him to be
a fraudulent claimant when you know that his name is Kightly Montgomery,
and that he calls himself Randolph Hay?”
“See here, my love. I know nothing of the conditions of inheritance that
rule this estate. I know nothing of the history of the family or their
intermarriages with other families. How should I, coming here a stranger
from the south of England?”
“I should think it could not require much experience to teach you that
when a man’s name is Kightly Montgomery and he calls himself Randolph
Hay, he is a liar, swindler and an impostor.”
“But consider, dear, he may he next of kin and heir-at-law, and his name
now have been legally changed as the condition of his inheritance. His
mother or his grandmother may have been born a daughter of Hay, of
Haymore. The estate may have ‘fallen to the distaff,’ as it is
called—that is, to the female line, and so the heir through that line
might be obliged to take the family name as the condition of his
heirship. Now do you see?”
“Yes, I see what you mean. But your theory has so many ‘mays’ that it
won’t do. As for me, I prefer to think the villain a fraudulent claimant
as well as a bigamous bridegroom.”
They were interrupted by a ring at the doorbell.
Mr. Campbell went to answer it. It was his custom always, when at home,
to do so, to save the steps of the rectory’s one elderly servant-woman.
There was a hanging lamp in the little hall between the parlor and the
study that gave but a subdued light. They had no gas, and oil was dear,
and economy necessary.
Mr. Campbell opened the door, expecting to see no one but the little old
sexton. He saw, instead, the tallest and finest looking athlete he had
ever seen in or out of a circus; but he could not distinguish his
features.
“The Rev. Mr. Campbell?” said the stranger interrogatively.
“That is my name. What can I do for you?” inquired the curate, who, now
that his eyes had got used to the obscurity, saw that the collossus was
clothed from head to heel in an outlandish costume of dressed buckskin
trimmed with fur, and that his stature was heightened, and his face
shortened by the tall fur cap he wore pulled low down over his forehead
and ears, for the night was cold.
“My name is Longman—Samson Longman, at your service, sir. I have been
directed by the people at Chuxton to come to you, sir, for information
concerning one Elizabeth Longman, widow——” The speaker’s voice trembled
and broke.
“Your mother!” said the curate gravely. “She is well and happy as she
can be, without the son she is always pining for and praying for.”
“Heaven be praised for that! And may the Lord forgive me. Where is she,
sir, if you please?”
“With us here in the house, our cherished housekeeper, almost our
mother——”
“Thank the Lord! Can I see her, sir, now, at once? I have come a long
way to ask her forgiveness at last, and to stay with her forever.”
“Come into my study. We must prepare her for the sight of her son, for
although she seems to be always expecting you, yet the sudden meeting
might be too much for her,” said the curate as he closed the front door
after the entrance of his visitor and led the way into the study.
“Now, Mr. Longman, sit down here at my desk and write a letter to your
mother. It need be only a line or so, to give me the means of breaking
the glad tidings safely to her ears,” said Mr. Campbell as he turned up
the light of the study lamp and placed a chair for the visitor.
Longman obeyed like a child, and sat down and wrote his letter.
“Will that do?” he inquired as he put the sheet of paper into the
curate’s hands.
“Yes! that will do very well. Now put it into an envelope and seal and
direct it regularly,” said the curate when he had read and returned the
letter.
Again Longman obeyed like a child, and when he had sealed the letter,
arose and placed it in the hands of the curate.
“Resume your seat and wait for my return,” said Mr. Campbell as he left
the study.
He went first into the parlor.
Hetty was still sitting there alone. Jennie was still with her baby in
the bedroom.
“Who was that, Jim? A man come to serve you with a writ of eviction?”
inquired Hetty mischievously.
“Hardly, my dear. But I am sure you will be happy to hear who it was.”
“Who was it, then?”
“Elspeth Longman’s prodigal son returned.”
“Oh-h-h, Jim!” exclaimed Hetty, jumping up, her face perfectly radiant
with benevolent delight.
“Yes, dear. And now, if you please, I will take you to see him in the
study, where you can talk to him while I go and break these ‘glad
tidings of great joy’ to the poor, long-suffering mother.”
“Oh, yes! I would love to go! What is the boy like?”
“‘Boy?’ ‘Like?’ He is like the Apollo Belvedere, or like the Colossus of
Rhodes. A superb, a stupendous fellow. But all dressed in hides like a
North American Indian, or a prehistoric Norseman. But come and see!”
said Mr. Campbell, leading the way to the study.
Hetty followed, now half anxious, half afraid to see the savage.
As they entered Longman, seeing the lady, arose, bowed and handed a
chair with so much ease, dignity and grace that Mrs. Campbell was
surprised, pleased and reassured.
“Mr. Longman, this lady is my wife. She will entertain you while I go to
your mother,” said the curate.
Longman bowed more profoundly than before, and murmured something to the
effect that he was most honored and grateful to be permitted to make the
lady’s acquaintance; but the hunter was always shy in the society of
gentlewomen.
Then Mr. Campbell, knowing that Hetty could give the prodigal son more
satisfactory information about his mother in five minutes than any other
creature could in five years, went out and left them together.
He passed through the parlor and opened the kitchen door. He saw Elspeth
sitting before the stove, knitting, while she waited for her muffins to
bake.
“Will you come into the parlor for a moment? I wish to speak to you,
Mrs. Longman,” said the curate.
“Yes, sir,” replied the woman, rising and untying her kitchen apron,
which she took off and hung over the back of her chair. Then she went
into the parlor.
“Take Mrs. Campbell’s rocking-chair while we talk. Save your back
whenever you can, Mrs. Longman.”
“Oh, no, sir, it better becomes me to stand in your reverence’s
presence.”
“Pray, sit down. No, but I insist upon it. I have something to say to
you which cannot be said in a minute.”
The widow sighed profoundly and sank into the easy-chair. She thought
she knew what was coming. Without the least intention of eavesdropping,
she had heard enough of the conversation that had that evening passed
between the minister and his wife—and which, by the way, had never been
intended to be concealed—to know that they expected to leave the rectory
under such reverse of fortune as would compel them to use the closest
economy in their domestic arrangements.
Therefore Elspeth thought that she had been summoned to the parlor to
receive her “warning” or her discharge. And she felt not so sorry for
herself in the prospect of losing a good home as for the curate and his
wife on having to dispense with her services. She was turning over in
her meek mind the question of how, without seeming presumptuous, she
could offer to remain with them and serve them without wages, just so
long as her strength and also her clothes and shoes should last, and if
they could afford to keep her even on such easy terms as her board and
lodging.
Mr. Campbell broke gently in upon her troubled thoughts by asking her:
“Have you ever received any letter from your son since he has been away,
Mrs. Longman?”
“Not one, sir, though I feel sure in my mind that he has writ to me,
maybe many letters, and they have all gone astray; and then what hurts
me worst of all is that he may think I must have got some of his letters
and as I was too mad at him and too unforgiving to answer any of them.
And I don’t even know where to write to tell him any better.”
“But when at last you meet, face to face, then you can tell him.”
“Oh, yes, sir. And I know that we shall meet again. He who raised the
widow’s son from his bier will hear the poor old widowed mother’s
prayer, and bring her boy back. Though it seems long! Oh, it seems long!
But all the while it comforts me to think that if I don’t know where he
is, the Lord does! If I can’t see him, the Lord can! And I may pray to
the Lord for my boy and He will hear me!”
“How old are you, Mrs. Longman?” was the curate’s next seemingly
irrelevant question.
“Forty-three, sir; will be forty-four on the thirty-first of December.
But I must look full sixty, my hair is so white, and my face so thin and
wrinkly.”
“Well, you have good health, and you Yorkshire people are long-lived.
You may live forty years longer yet—forty happy years with your son.”
“Oh, minister! what does your reverence mean? Have you heard anything?
Have you got anything to tell me?” inquired the mother, startled by
something in the curate’s tone or look, and speaking with repressed
eagerness.
“Well, something has come. Have you anybody who would be likely to write
a letter to you?”
“Nobody in the world, sir, except my boy, and I have never had a letter
from him, as I told you.”
“Well, a letter has come for you. I did not give it at first, for fear
it might startle you. I think it must be from your son.”
“Oh, give it to me, sir, please!—now, this moment!”
The curate handed the letter. The woman seized it, held it under the
light of the lamp and devoured the superscription with ravenous eyes.
“Oh, yes! It is his writing! It is his own! Oh, thank the Lord! Oh,
thank the Lord!” she cried, falling on her knees and sinking her head in
the cushion of the chair. But she soon arose and drew her spectacles
from her pocket and opened the letter and tried to read it; but the
words ran together in dark lines before her disturbed vision, and she
could not decipher them.
“Oh, sir, be so kind! Read it for me! Please do!”
“With pleasure,” said Mr. Campbell. And he took the letter, and omitting
date, read as follows:
“‘MY BELOVED MOTHER——’”
“The darling boy!” ejaculated Elspeth in rapture.
“‘I have crossed the sea and come back to England——’”
“He is in England! In England! Oh, thank Heaven! Thank Heaven! Go on,
sir! Please go on!” impatiently exclaimed Elspeth.
The curate smiled at her impetuosity and continued:
“‘To see your dear face again, and to beg your forgiveness, which I know
you will grant me, though I know I do not deserve it——’”
“Ah, hear the noble fellow! Taking all the blame on himself, though I
was more in fault nor him! But go on, sir! Pray go on!”
“‘I long to be with you, to stay with you all the rest of our lives; to
work for you, and to try to make you happy and comfortable, and so atone
for all the trouble I have caused you——’”
“Oh! the grand son! the noble boy! He will stay with me all the rest of
my life! Oh, that will be joyful!” exclaimed Elspeth, clapping her hands
and breaking into a camp meeting revival hymn, very appropriate, it is
true:
“‘Oh! that will be joyful!
Joyful! Joyful! Joyful!
Oh! that will be joyful,
To meet and part no more!’
“It will be like heaven, sir! like heaven! to have my boy with me all
the rest of my life! But do go on, sir! Forgive a poor mother’s
impatience, and read me what else he says!” she cried, ready to turn
from rapture to tears.
“There is not much more,” said Mr. Campbell. “Only this:
“‘Please, dearest mother, if you can pardon me, let me know when I can
come to see you. And believe me your sincerely penitent and evermore
loving and dutiful son,
“‘SAM.’”
“Oh! the darling of darlings! the angel of angels! Oh, please, dear
minister, write for me directly, for I never can hold a pen in the hand
that is trembling for joy and blessedness and gratitude, and tell him to
come immediately. But, no! I will go to him! Where is he? I’ll get the
Red Fox carryall and start for the station immediately. Truly, where
shall I go? Tell me, minister, dear! Look at the letter! Where is it
dated from?” she eagerly demanded.
“You will not have far to go. He is in this village,” said Mr. Campbell,
smiling.
“In this village! Oh! then he is at the Red Fox! Let me get my bonnet
and cloak!” she cried, rising to her feet.
“He is nearer to you than that,” said the minister. Then he drew the
woman’s arm within his own and led her into the study.
“Mother!” exclaimed Longman, starting up and striding toward her with
outstretched arms.
“Oh, my darling! my darling!” cried Elspeth, and she fell fainting on
his bosom.
So much for the careful breaking of the news.
But she did not swoon to unconsciousness. She almost immediately
recovered.
Then Longman seated her in the large armchair, and placed himself on the
hassock at her feet. She put her arms over his shaggy head and smiled
through her tears.
“Come!” said Hetty, laughing. “You and I are _de trop_ in a room with
such a pair of lovers as these!” And she slipped her hand through her
husband’s arm and dragged him from the room without the reunited pair—so
absorbed in their meeting—seeing them go.