MARTIN GURWOOD'S RECKONING WITH HIMSELF.
It was full time that Martin Gurwood returned to Lullington, for his
parishioners had begun to grow impatient at his absence. Although, as
we have already shown, the Vicar could not be called popular amongst
them, having no tastes in common with theirs and rather aweing them
with his dignified reserve, the good people of Lullington had become
accustomed to their parson's ways, and were disposed t-o overlook what
they thought the oddity of his manners in consideration of his
bountiful kindness and the strict fidelity with which he discharged
the duties of his office. He was not one of their own sort; he was not
a 'good fellow;' there was nothing at all free-and-easy about him; no
jokes were cracked before him; no harvest-home suppers, no Christmas
merry-makings found him among the assembled company. But the farmers,
if they did not like their Vicar, respected him most thoroughly, and
thought it something to have amongst them a man on whose advice on all
spiritual matters (and in all worldly matters, few indeed though they
be, in which honour and honesty are alone concerned) they could fully
and firmly rely. So that when Martin Gurwood, on his mother's
invitation, went up to London in the autumn of the year, intending to
stop there but a very few weeks, the churchwardens and such others of
his parishioners as he deigned to take so far into his confidence,
were sincere in expressing their wishes for his speedy return.
But if the inhabitants of Lullington were sorry for their pastor's
departure at the time of his leaving them, much more bitterly did they
regret it after they had had a little experience of his locum tenens.
The gentleman who had temporarily undertaken the spiritual care of the
Lullingtonians was a man of birth and ability, an old college friend
of Martin Gurwood, and emphatically a scholar and a gentleman. He had
married when very young, and had a large family; he was miserably
poor, and it was principally with the view of helping him that Martin
had requested him to fill his place during his absence. Mr. Dill was
only too glad to find some place which he could occupy rent-free, and
where he had a better chance of being able to work undisturbed by the
racket of his children than in the noisy lodging in town. So he moved
all his family by the third-class train, and in less than an hour
after their arrival the boys were playing hockey on the lawn, the
girls were swinging in the orchard, Mrs. Dill was in her usual state
of uncertainty as to where she had packed away any of the 'things,'
and Mr. Dill, inked up to the eyebrows and attired in a ragged grey
duffel dressing-gown, was seated in Martin Gurwood's arm-chair hard at
work at his Greek play.
Although not much given to cultivating politeness, the Lullington
farmers, out of respect for Martin Gurwood, thought it advisable to
tender a welcome to their Vicar's representative, and appointed two of
their number to carry out the determination. The deputation did not
succeed in obtaining admittance; Mr. Dill's old servant, a kind of
female Caleb Balderstone, meeting them in the hall and declaring her
master to be 'at work'--a condition in which e was never to be
interrupted. The deputation retired in dudgeon, and that evening at
the Dun Cow described their reception amidst the sympathising groans
of their assembled friends. It was unanimously decided that when Mr.
Dill called upon any of them he should be accommodated with that
species of outspoken candour which was known in those parts as 'a
piece of their mind.' It is impossible to say what effect this
intended frankness would have had upon the temporary occupant of the
Lullington pulpit, inasmuch as that during his whole time of residence
Mr. Dill never called on one of the parishioners. Many of them never
saw him except on Sundays; others caught glimpses of him, a small
homely-looking man, striding about the garden dressed in the
before-mentioned ragged morning-gown, very short pepper-and-salt
trousers, white socks not too clean, and low shoes, gazing now on to
the ground, now into the skies, muttering to himself; and apparently
enforcing his arguments with extended forefinger, but so entranced and
enrapt in his cogitation as to be conscious of nothing passing around
him, or to gaze placidly into the broad countenances of Hodge or Giles
staring at him over the hedge, without the least notion that they were
there. On Sundays, however, it was a very different matter. Then Mr.
Dill was anything but preoccupied. He gave himself up entirely and
earnestly to the duty of addressing his congregation; but he addressed
them with such ferocity, and the doctrine which he preached was so
stern and uncompromising--so different from anything that they had
been accustomed to hear from the gentle lips of Martin Gurwood--that
the congregation, for the time struck rigid with awe and dismay, no
sooner found themselves outside the porch than they gathered into a
knot in the churchyard and determined on writing off at once to their
Vicar to request him to remove his substitute.
The letter, in the form of a round-robin, was duly signed and
dispatched, and produced a reply from Martin, counselling moderation,
and promising the exertion of his influence with Mr. Dill. That
influence had a somewhat salutary effect, and on the next Sunday the
discourse was incomprehensible instead of denunciatory in its tone.
But there was no sympathy between Mr. Dill and those with whom his lot
was cast, and spiritual matters in Lullington had come to a very low
ebb indeed when Martin Gurwood returned to his parishioners. Then they
revived at once. The Vicar's arrival was hailed with the greatest
delight; he was greeted with a cordiality which he had never before
experienced, and, after the celebration of service on the ensuing
Sunday, there was quite a demonstration of affection towards him on
the part of the warm-hearted, if somewhat narrow-minded, people,
amongst whom he had not laboured in vain.
But when the gloss of renewed confidence and regard began to wear off,
it was noticed among the farmers that the Vicar's reserve, which had
been the original stumbling block to his popularity with his
parishioners, had, if anything, rather grown than decreased since his
visit to London. Martin Gurwood did his duty regular as heretofore;
attended schools, visited the sick, was always accessible when wanted;
but he seemed more than ever anxious to escape to his solitude; the
services of the Irish mare were brought into constant requisition, and
she was ridden harder than ever. All this was not lost upon the
observant eye of Farmer Barford.
'It's pride, that's what it is, my boy,' said the old man to his son;
'it was so when parson first came down here, and though he got the
better of it, it is so again now. It's after having been up to London,
and seeing the ways, and wickedness, and goings-on of the grand folks
that leaves the sting of envy behind, mebbe; and he knows it's not
right, and flies from the temptation back to these quiet parts; and
then the thought of what he has seen, and what he has to give up,
rankles and galls him sorely.'
Farmer Barford was by no means strictly correct in his impression.
There was a temptation in London for Martin Gurwood indeed, but it was
not of the kind which the worthy old churchwarden imagined; and though
the Vicar devoted the greater portion of his thoughts to it, it had
not, at first at least, the effect of goading or harassing him in any
way. Indeed, instead of attempting to expel the subject from his mind,
he loved to brood and ponder over it, turning it hither and thither,
dwelling upon it in its every phase, and parting from it to enter once
more upon the work-a-day duties of the world with the greatest
reluctance.
Yes, however much he had attempted to deceive himself when in Alice's
presence, to tell himself that the interest he felt in her merely
arose from pity for the position in which, by a sad combination of
circumstances, she had been placed, Martin Gurwood no sooner found
himself in the peaceful retreat of his own home, no longer surrounded
by the feverish excitement of London, no longer compelled to be
constantly on his guard lest he should betray the Claxton mystery to
his mother, lest even he should betray to his friend Statham the
secret of his heart, than he acknowledged to himself that he loved
Alice. Loved her with depth and intensity such as no one would have
accredited him with; loved her with a power of love such as he had
never dreamed of possessing, and which astonished him by its force and
earnestness. He, the man of saintly reputation, loved with his whole
heart this woman, whose name and fame--innocent, and even ignorant of
it as she was--were tarnished in the eyes of the world, and quite
humbly put to himself the question if he could win her. In the silent
watches of the night, or when riding far away from home, he would
bring his horse to a stand-still on wind-swept common or barren
moorland, and ask himself if he dared--having reference to his own
past life--to hope for such happiness. Surely there could be little to
cause trouble or anxiety to such a man? he, if any one, could afford
to stand the scrutiny of the world, could ignore or laugh at what the
world might say respecting his choice of a wife! And what could the
world say? The secrecy which had been maintained about the whole
matter had been perfect, so perfect as to make him easy about the fact
that the dead man whom Alice had believed to be her husband was his
stepfather. No one will ever know that but Statham, who is to be
trusted, and--and Madame Du Tertre. He had forgotten her, and somehow,
at the thought of her his heart turned chill within him. She could be
relied upon, however, and Alice would never be troubled by any one or
anything more when once he had the right to protect her.
To protect her, to watch over and tend her! To listen to the
outpourings of her mind, simple and innocent as those of any village
girl, to mould her soft nature and note the growth and development
under his tuition of the common sense and right feeling which were her
undoubted natural gifts. To solace the dead dull level of his daily
life with her sweet companionship; to listen, as he had never hoped to
listen, to words of love addressed to him--to him whose celibate life
had been so long uncheered by fond look or word of affection! Could it
be possible that this girl, of whom, as he recollected with something
like dismay, he had at first conceived so distorted an idea, of whom
he had spoken with so much harshness, and to whom he had so grudgingly
extended the common Christian charity due from him in his position to
any fellow-creature however erring;--could she, by the mysterious
dispensation of Providence, be the one woman reserved as his haven of
rest from the buffets of the world, as the hope and comfort of his
declining days? Could such a blessing come to him? The whisper of his
fate within him seemed to answer, 'No!'
And yet why should such happiness be denied him? However lonely had
been his own life, there were few men who had greater opportunities of
studying the pleasures of domesticity; fewer still more calculated to
enjoy the calm blessings of the married state, all-sufficient,
all-engrossing in themselves. And Alice, what response could she make
to this affection? She was surely heart-whole so far as the present
was concerned; she loved no other man; her affection, such as it
was, was buried in the grave. Such as it was! Yes, the phrase was
harsh-sounding, but true. Communing with himself, Martin Gurwood came
to the conclusion that Alice during her life long had never known what
it was really to love. There could be no doubt, from all he had heard,
from all he had seen, that she had been devoted to John Calverley, but
it was the devotion of a young girl to a man many years her senior--to
a man with whom their disparity of years prevented her having much in
common. The feeling which she had entertained for John Calverley was
respect, gratitude, affection if you will, but it was not love. Even
if it had been, even if those philosophers, according to whose dicta
the first impression made upon a woman's heart by a man, no matter of
what age or position, remains for ever branded and ineffaceable, were
right--if Alice had been devoted to John Calverley in a sense other
than that which he felt inclined to believe--Martin Gurwood
acknowledged that he would be only too glad to take her as she was. He
would accept with infinite thankfulness such a love as she could give
him, and perhaps it would be better so. The dangerous passion which
might have been, he would not ask for, he would not dream of. A quiet
trusting love, such as her gentle nature could feel so truly, could
give so freely, would amply satisfy him; and notwithstanding the
never-ceasing whisper of his fate, he inclined to hope that he
eventually might obtain it.
This hope, not arrived at until after many days' anxious
self-communing, brought with it a different train of thought--a better
train of mind. He was no longer inclined to be solitary now; he took a
pleasure in going among his parishioners; in chatting with the old
dames and young lasses; in listening to the farmers, and discussing
future plans with them. That was to be the scene of his future
labours; that was to be the place where his life with Alice would be
passed. He pictured her to himself dispensing her charities, aiding
him in his work, proving herself, as she was certain to do, kind,
patient, active, exactly fitted for a parson's wife. Far removed from
London and its temptations, out of the reach of any who might chance
to know her previous history, worshipped and protected by him; the
benefactress of the poor and sick; the kindly friend of all; her life
at Lullington would be as it ought to have been from the first. And
his life? It was almost too much happiness to speculate upon it. With
the new hope came renewed health, fresh brightness, unaccustomed
geniality. His village friends had never before seen their Vicar so
radiantly happy; and farmer Barford bade his son Bill remark that all
the direful effects of the visit to London had passed away, and that
the Lullington air and the return to his congregation had made their
parson a man again.
This happy frame of mind was, however, not destined to last long. One
bright winter's morning, when Martin Gurwood was walking briskly up
and down the long gravel path leading to the garden-gate, now and then
diverging for a moment to speak to the old gardener, who was pottering
away in the conservatory, and who had as yet scarcely got over his
grief for the damage done to his favourite shrubs by Mr. Dill's
mischievous children, the heavily-laden village postman saluted the
Vicar, and handed him two letters and his weekly copy of the
_Guardian_. There was a time when Martin, in his eagerness to plunge
into his journal, would have laid the letters aside for a more
favourable opportunity, but now the postman had become a person of the
greatest interest to him. On several occasions he had received a
letter from Alice--quietly, simply, and naturally written--describing
the domestic events of her daily life, and always speaking gratefully
of his kindness towards her. This morning, however, there was
nothing from Alice; one of the letters was written in his mother's
narrow-cramped characters; the other in the bold flowing hand of
Humphrey Statham.
Martin now never saw his mother's writing without a certain nervous
apprehension. However cleverly their precautions had been taken, there
was always the chance of Mrs. Calverley's discovering the story of the
Claxton mystery, and her son never opened one of her letters without
the dread of learning that that discovery had been made. The perusal
of the first lines, however, reassured him on that point, though the
letter on the whole was not especially gratifying.
Thus it ran:
'_Great Walpole-street, Wednesday_.
'MY DEAR MARTIN,--Although I have been gifted with a singularly
patient disposition, with the power of enduring a large amount of
weariness and suffering without complaint, yet as a worm will turn, so
do I at length lift up my voice to protest against my son's treatment
of me. There are not, I imagine, many mothers in this world who have
made such sacrifices for their offspring as I have for you, Martin;
there are certainly very few sons who have received such an offer from
their parents as that made by me to you when last you were in London,
and yet the treatment which I receive at your hands is in exact
conformity with that which has been my lot during my ill-fated life.
My long-suffering has been overlooked, my kindness unappreciated, my
actions misunderstood.
'Martin, are you, or are you not, going to take advantage of the offer
which I made you to take your position in my establishment, give up
your country parish, and become a shining light in the metropolis? One
would have thought such an opportunity, combining as it would an
admirable position in society, not vain and frivolous, but solid and
respectable and eminently fitted for a clergyman, with the command of
wealth, which would have placed you entirely at your ease, would have
been such a one as you would not have hesitated to avail yourself of;
and yet weeks, I may say months, have passed since I first broached
the subject to you, and I have as yet received no definite reply. I
must ask you to let me hear from you at once, Martin, upon this point.
I always thought the late Mr. Calverley the most dilatory of men, and
I do not wish to see his bad example imitated by my own flesh and
blood.
'I suppose that, independently of other considerations, the son of any
other woman would have thought of his mother's loneliness, and done
his best to console her even under much less agreeable circumstances;
but I am fated I know, and I do not repine. One thing, however, I am
determined on, and that is, I will not bear this solitude any longer;
I must have a companion of some kind; and upon your answer will depend
what steps I shall take. By the way, talking of companions, Madame Du
Tertre has called here once or twice lately. She seems very
comfortable in her new place, and talked a great deal about you. But I
have no fear; my son will always know his proper position in society.
Write to me at once, Martin; and believe me
'Your affectionate mother,
'JANE CALVERLEY.'
A faint smile played over Martin's lips as he perused two or three
portions of this letter, and when he came to its conclusion he laid it
aside with a shrug of the shoulder.
'Poor mother,' he muttered, 'she is right so far. I certainly ought to
have given her an answer upon that matter long since. I will write to
her to-night. Now let's see what Statham has to say.'
'The letter from Statham was that described in a previous chapter.
Martin's exclamation on reading it has been already recorded. After a
little time he placed both letters in his pocket, clasped his hands
behind him, and walked up and down the gravel path.
'I must go to London at once,' he said. 'I will answer this letter in
person. Statham would not have written in this way if he had not
imagined that there were some danger. This man must be paying Alice no
ordinary attention if Humphrey's suspicions are excited. I will go to
London at once, and take the opportunity of seeing my mother at the
same time.'
The next day Martin Gurwood presented himself in 'Change-alley, and
was told by Mr. Collins that Mr. Statham was in, and would see him.