THE VICAR OF LULLINGTON.
Jolly George Gurwood's only child, tie little boy whom his
grandfather, old John Lorraine, made so much of during the latter
years of his life, after having been educated at Marlborough and
Oxford, was admitted into holy orders, and, at the time of our story,
was Vicar of Lullington, a rural parish, about one hundred and twenty
miles from London, on the great Northern road. A pleasant place
Lullington for a lazy man. A quiet, sleepy little village of half a
hundred houses, scattered here and there, with a chirpy little brook
singing its way through what was supposed the the principal street,
and hurrying onwards though great broad tracts of green pasturage,
where in the summer time the red-brown cattle drank of it, and cooled
their heated limbs in its refreshing tide, until it was finally
swallowed up in the silver Trent.
Lullington Church was not a particularly picturesque edifice, for it
resembled a large barn, with a square, weather-beaten tower at one end
of it; nor was the churchyard at all likely to be provocative of an
elegy, or of anything but rheumatism, being a damp, dreary little
spot, with most of its tombstones covered with green moss, and with a
public footpath, with a stile at either end, running through the
middle of it. But to the artists wandering through that part of the
country (they were not numerous, for Notts and Lincoln have not much
to offer to the sketcher), the vicarage made up for the shortcomings
of the church. It was a square, old-fashioned, red-bricked house,
standing in the midst of a garden full of greenery; and whereas the
church looked time-worn and cold, and had even on the brightest summer
day, a teeth-chattering, gruesome appearance, the vicarage had a
jolly cheerful expression, and when the sun gleamed on its little
diamond-shaped windows, with their leaden casements, you were
inexplicably reminded of a red-faced, genial old gentleman, whose eyes
were twinkling in delight at some funny story which he had just heard.
It was just the home for a middle-aged man with a wife and family; for
it had a large number of rooms of all kinds and shapes, square
bed-chambers, triangular nooks, long passages, large attics, wherein
was accommodation for half-a-dozen servants, and ramshackle stables,
where as many horses could be stowed away. It was just the house for a
man of large means, who would not object to devoting a certain
portion of his leisure to his parochial duties, but whose principal
occupation would be in his garden or his greenhouses. Such a man was
Martin Gurwood's predecessor, who had held the living for fifty years,
and had seen some half-score boys and girls issue from the vicarage
into the world to marry and settle themselves in various ways of life.
The Reverend Anthony Camden was known as a rose-grower throughout
three adjoining counties, and had even obtained special prizes at
Crystal-Palace and Botanical-Garden shows. He was a bit of a fisherman
too, and had been in his younger days something of a shot. Not being
much of a reader, except of the _Field_ and the _Gardeners'
Chronicle_, he would have found the winter evenings dull, had it not
been for the excitement of perpetually re-arranging his large
collection of moths and butterflies, renewing their corks and pins,
and putting fresh pieces of camphor into the corners of the glazed
drawers which contained them. Mr. Camden knew all about crops and
manure, and sub-soiling and drainage; the farmers for miles round used
to come to the vicarage to consult him, and he always gave them beer
and advice both of the best quality. He played long-whist and preached
short sermons; and when he died in a green old age, it was universally
voted in Lullington and its neighbourhood, that it would be impossible
to replace him.
Certainly, there could not have been a more marked contrast than
between him and his successor. Martin Gurwood was a man of
six-and-twenty, unmarried, with apparently no thought in life beyond
his sacred calling and the duties appertaining to it. Only half the
rooms in the vicarage were furnished; and, except on such rare
occasions as his mother or some of his friends coming to stay with
him, only two of them on the ground-floor, one the vicar's study, the
other his bed-chamber, were used. The persistent entreaties of his old
housekeeper had induced him to relent from his original intention of
allowing the garden to go to rack and ruin, and it was accordingly
handed over to the sexton, who in so small a community had but little
work in his own particular line, and who kept up the old-fashioned
flowers and the smooth-shaven lawns in which their late owner had so
much delighted. But Martin Gurwood took no interest in the garden
himself, and only entered it occasionally of an evening, when he would
stroll up and down the lawn, or one of the gravel walks, with his
head bent forward and his hands clasped behind him, deep in
meditation. He kept a horse, certainly--a powerful big-boned Irish
hunter--but he only rode her by fits and starts, sometimes leaving her
in the stable for weeks together, dependent on such exercise as she
could obtain in the spare moments of her groom, at other times
persistently riding her day after day, no matter what might be the
weather. On those occasions the vicar did not merely go out for a mild
constitutional, to potter round the outskirts of his parish, or to
trot over to the market-town; he was out for hours at a stretch, and
generally brought the mare home heated and foam-flecked. Indeed, more
than one of his parishioners had seen their spiritual guide riding
across country, solitary indeed, but straight, as though he were
marking out the line for a steeple-chase, stopping neither for hedge,
bank, nor brook, the Irish mare flying all in her stride, her rider
sitting with his hands down on her withers, his lips compressed, and
his face deadly pale. "Tekkin it out of hisself, mebbe," said Farmer
Barford, when his son described to him this sight which he had seen
that afternoon; "for all he's so close, and so meek and religious,
there's a spice of the devil in him as in every other man; and, Bill,
my boy, that's the way he takes it out of hisself." Thus Farmer
Barford, and to this effect spoke several of the parishioners in
committee assembled over their pipes and beer at the Dun Cow.
They did not hint anything of the kind to the vicar himself, trust
them for that! Martin Gurwood could not be called popular amongst the
community in which his lot was cast; he was charitable to a degree,
lavish with his money, thinking nothing of passing days and nights by
the bedside of the sick, contributing more than half the funds
necessary for the maintenance of the village schools, accessible at
all times, and ready with such advice or assistance as the occasion
demanded; but yet they called him "high and standoffish." Old Mr..
Camden, making a house-to-house visitation perhaps once a year, when
the fit so seized him, "going his rounds," as he called it, would sit
down to dinner in a farm-house kitchen, or take a mug of beer with the
farmer while they talked about crops, and occasionally would preside
at a harvest-home supper, or a Christmas gathering. Martin Gurwood did
nothing of this kind; he was always polite, invariably courteous, but
he never courted anything like fellowship or bonhomie. He had joined
the village cricket-club on his first arrival, and showed himself an
excellent and energetic player; but the familiarity engendered in the
field seemed displeasing to him, and though he continued his
subscription, he gradually withdrew from active membership. Nor was
his religious ardour particularly pleasing to the parishioners, who,
under Mr. Camden's lax rule, had thought it sufficient if they put-in
an appearance at morning service, and thus cleared off the debt of
attendance until the succeeding Sunday. They could not understand what
the parson meant by having prayers at eight o'clock every morning: who
did he expect would go at such a time, they wondered? Not they, nor
their men, who were far away in the fields before that time; not the
missuses, who had the dairy and the house to attend to; not the girls,
who were looking after the linen and minding the younger children; nor
the boys, who, if not at school, were out at farm-work. It was all
very well for the two Miss Dyneleys, the two maiden ladies living at
Ivy Cottage, who had money coming in regular, paid them by the
Government (the Lullington idea of consols was not particularly
clear), and had naught to do from morning till night; it filled-up
their time like, and was a kind of amusement to them. All very well
for old Mr. Willis, who had made his fortune, it was said, by being a
tailor in London, who had bought the Larches where Squire Needham used
to live in the good old times, who could not ride, or drive, or shoot,
or fish, or do anything but walk about his garden with a spud over his
shoulders, and who was said to be dying to get back to business. These
and some two or three of the bigger girls from the Miss Gilks's
seminary for young ladies, were all that attended at "Mattins," as the
name of the morning service stood in Early-english type on the
index-board in the churchyard; but Martin Garwood persevered and went
through the service with as much earnestness and devotion as though
the church had been full and the bishop of the diocese seated in the
vicar's pew.
There was the usual element of squirearchy in the neighbourhood, and
on Martin's first introduction into its parish the squires' wives
drove over, leaving their own and their husbands' cards, and
invitations to dinner, duly arranged for a time when the moon was at
its full. Mr. Gurwood responded to these invitations, and made his
appearance at the various banquets. Accustomed to old Mr. Camden with
his red face, his bald head, his white whiskers, and black suit cut in
the fashion of a quarter of a century ago, the county people were at
first rather impressed with Martin Gurwood's thin handsome face, and
small well-dressed figure. It was a relief, the women said, to see a
gentleman amongst them, and they were all certain that Mr. Gurwood
would be an acquisition to the local society; but as the guests were
driving homeward from the first of these feasts, several of the male
convives imparted to their wives their idea that the new Vicar of
Lullington was not merely unfit to hold a candle to his predecessor,
but was likely to prove a meddlesome, disagreeable fellow. It seemed
that after the ladies had retired, the conversation becoming as usual
rather free, Mr. Gurwood had sat in blank, stony silence, keeping his
eyes steadily fixed upon the contents of his dessert plate, and
neither by look nor word giving the slightest intimation that he was
aware of what was going on. But when rallied from his silence by Mr.
Lidstone, a man of low tastes and small education, but enormously
wealthy, Mr. Gurwood had spoken out and declared that if by indulging
in such conversation, and telling such stories, they chose to ignore
the respect due to themselves, they ought at least, while he was among
them, to recollect the respect due to him, and to the calling which he
represented. He had no desire to assume the character of a wet blanket
or a kill-joy, but they must understand that for the future they must
chose between his presence and the indulgence in such conversation;
and as they had evidently not expected any such demonstration in the
present instance, he would relieve them of his company at once, and
leave them to decide whether or not he should again come amongst them
as a guest. So saying, the parson had walked out of the window on to
the lawn as cool as a cucumber, and left the squirearchy gaping in
astonishment.
They were Boeotian, these county people, crass, ignorant, and rusted
with prejudice from want of contact with the world, but they were by
no means bad-hearted, and they took the parson's remonstrance in very
good part. Each one who had already sent Martin Gurwood an invitation,
managed to grip his hand before the evening was over, and took
occasion to renew it, declaring he should have no occasion to
reiterate the remarks which he had just made, and which they perfectly
understood. Nor had he; he went a round of these solemn festivities,
finding each one, both during the presence of the ladies and after
their withdrawal, perfectly decorous, but unspeakably dull. He had not
been sufficiently long in the neighbourhood for the local gossip to
possess the smallest interest to him; he was not sufficient of an
agriculturist to discuss the different methods of farming or the
various qualities of food; he could talk about Oxford indeed, where
some of his hosts or their friends had young relations whom he had
known; he could and did sing well certain Italian songs in a rich
tenor voice; and he discussed church architecture and decorations with
the young ladies. But the old squires and the young squires cared for
none of these things. They remembered how old Anthony Camden would sit
by while the broadest stories were told, looking, save from the
twinkle in his eye and the curling of his bulbous nether lip, as
though he heard them not; with what feeling he would troll out a
ballad of Dibdin's, or a bacchanalian ditty; and how the brewing of
the bowl of punch, the "stirrup-cup," was always intrusted to his
practised hand. Martin Gurwood took a glass of cold water before
leaving; and if he were dining out any distance always had the one
hired fly of the neighbourhood to convey him back to the vicarage. No
wonder that the laughter-loving, roisterous squires shook their heads
when they thought of old Anthony Camden, and mourned over the glories
of those departed days.
Martin Gurwood was not, however, at Lullington just now. He had
induced an old college friend to look after the welfare of his
parishioners while he ran up, as he did once or twice in the year, to
stay for a fortnight with his mother in Great Walpole-street. John
Calverley, who had a strong liking for Martin, a feeling which the
vicar cordially reciprocated, was anxious that his step-son should
come to them at Christmas; being an old-fashioned soul with a belief
in holly and yule logs, and kindly greetings and open-hearted
charities, at what he invariably spoke of as that "festive season,"
and having an intense desire to interpose at such a time a friendly
aegis between him and the stony-faced Gorgon, whom it was his lot
through life to confront. But Martin Gurwood, regarding the Christmas
season in a very different light, urged that at such a time it would
be impossible for him to absent himself from his duties, and after his
own frigid manner refused to be tempted by the convivial blandishments
which John held out to him, or to be scared by the picture of the grim
loneliness of the vicarage which his stepfather drew for his
edification. So, in the early days of November, when the Lullington
farmers were getting well into their hunting, and the London
fogs, scarcely long enough to embrace the entire length of Great
Walpole-street, blotted out its middle and its lower end, leaving the
upper part comparatively bright and airy, Martin Gurwood came to town
and took up his abode in Mrs. Calverley's best spare bedroom.
The other spare bedroom in the house was occupied by Madame Pauline Du
Tertre, who had for some time been installed there, and had regularly
taken up her position as the friend of the family and confidential
adviser to the female head of the house. Immediately on gaining her
footing within the walls, Pauline had succeeded in establishing
herself in the good graces of the self-contained, silent woman, who
hitherto had never known what it was to have any one to share her
confidences, to listen patiently to her never-ceasing complaints, and
to be able and willing to make little suggestions which chimed-in with
Mrs. Calverley's thoughts and wishes. Years ago, before her first
marriage, Jane Calverley had had a surfeit of toadyism and flattery
from her poor relations and dependants, and from the servants, who
cringed to and fawned upon the young girl as though they had been
southern slaves and she their owner. But in George Gurwood's days, and
since her marriage with her second husband, Mrs. Calverley had made no
friends, and even those whose interest it was to stand well with her
had found it impossible to break through the barriers of icy reserve
with which she surrounded herself. They did not approach her in the
proper manner perhaps, they did not go to work in the right way.
Commonly bred and ill-educated people as they were, they imagined that
the direct road to Jane Calverley's favour lay in pitying her and
speaking against her husband, with whom she was plainly at strife. As
is usual with such people, they overacted their parts; they spoke
strongly and bitterly in their denunciation of Mr. Calverley; they
were coarse, and their loud-trumpeted compassion for their mistress
jarred upon its recipient. Jane Calverley was a proud as well as a
hard woman, and her mind revolted against the idea of being openly
compassionated by her inferiors; so she kept her confidences rigidly
locked in her own breast, and Pauline's was the first hand to press a
spring by which the casket was opened.
Before the Frenchwoman had been in the house twenty-four hours, she
had learned exactly the relations of its inmates, and as much as has
been already set forth in these pages of their family history. She had
probed the characters of the husband and the wife, had listened to the
mother's eulogies of her saintly son, and had sighed and shaken her
head in seeming condolence over the vividly-described shortcomings of
Mr. Calverley. Without effusion, and with only the dumb sympathy
conveyed by her eloquent eyes and gestures, Pauline managed to lead
her new-found friend, now that she comprehended her domestic troubles,
and would do her best to aid her in getting rid of them, and in many
other ways she made herself useful and agreeable to the cold,
friendless woman who was her hostess. She re-arranged the furniture of
the dreary drawing-room, lighting it up here and there with such
flowers as were procurable, and with evergreens, which she bought
herself; she covered the square formal chairs and couches with muslin
antimacassars, and gave the room, what it had never hitherto had, the
semblance of a woman's presence. She accomplished what everybody had
imagined to be an impossibility, an alteration in the style of Mrs.
Calverley's costume; she made with her own hands a little elegant cap
with soft blond falling from it, which took away from that rigid
outline of the chin; and instead of the wisp of black net round her
throat, she induced Mrs. Calverley to wear a neat white muslin
handkerchief across her chest. The piano, seldom touched, save when
Mrs. Calverley, in an extraordinary good temper, would, for her
husband's edification, thump and strum away at an overture in
_Semiramide_ and other set pieces, which she had learned in her youth,
was now regularly brought into use, and in the evening Pauline would
seat herself at it, playing long selections from Mendelssohn and
Beethoven, or singing religious songs by Mozart, the listening to
which made John Calverley supremely happy, and even brought something
like moisture into his wife's steely eyes. It is probable that had
Mrs. Calverley had any notion that these songs were the composition of
a Roman Catholic, and were many of them used in what she was
accustomed to speak of as "Popish ceremonies," she would never have
been induced even to listen to them; but with unerring judgment
Pauline had at once divined this phase in her employer's character,
and, while the particular sect to which she belonged was of no
importance to herself, had taken care to make Mrs. Calverley
understand that Luther had no more devoted adherent.
"She is a Huguenot, my dear," said Mrs. Calverley to Martin Gurwood,
shortly after his arrival, and before she had presented him to the
new inmate of the house; "a Huguenot of ancient family, who lost all
their property a long time ago by the revocation of the edict of
somebody--Nancy, I think, was the name. You will find her a most
amiable person, richly endowed with good gifts, and calculated, should
she not suffer from the evil effects of Mr. Calverley's companionship,
to prove an inestimable blessing to me."
Martin Gurwood expressed himself well pleased to hear this account of
his mother's new-found friend; but, on being presented to Pauline, he
scarcely found the description realised. His natural cleverness had
been sharpened by his public-school and university education; and,
though during the last few years of his life he had been buried in
comparative obscurity, he retained sufficient knowledge of the world
to perceive that a woman like Madame Du Tertre, bright, clever, to a
certain degree accomplished, and possessing immense energy and power
of will, would not have relegated herself to such a life as she was
then leading without having a strong aim to gain. And what that aim
was he was determined to find out.
But, though these were Martin Gurwood's thoughts, he never permitted a
trace of them to appear in his manner to Madame Du Tertre, which was
scrupulously courteous, if nothing more. Perhaps it was from his
mother that he inherited a certain cold propriety of bearing and
frigidity of demeanour, which his acquaintances generally complained
of. The farmers of Lullington, comparing it with the geniality of
their previous pastor, found it insufferable; and his college friends,
who had come in contact with him of late years, thought he was a
totally changed being from the high-spirited fellow who had been one
of the noisiest athletes of his day. Certain it was that he was now
pensive and reserved; nay more, that when out of Lullington in
company--that is to say, either with any of his former colleagues,
or of a few persons who were visitors at the house in Great
Walpole-street--he seemed desirous almost of shunning observation, and
of studiously keeping in the back-ground, when his mother's pride in
him would have made him take a leading part in any conversation that
might be going on. Before he had been two days in the house Pauline's
quick instinct had detected this peculiarity, and she had mentally
noted it among the things which, properly worked, might help her to
the elucidation of the plan to which she had devoted her life. She
determined on making herself agreeable to this young man, on forcing
him into a certain amount of intimacy and companionship; and so
skilful were her tactics, that, without absolute rudeness, Martin
Gurwood found it impossible entirely to withdraw from her advances.
One night she challenged him to chess, and during the intervals of the
game she endeavoured to learn more of him than she had hitherto been
able to do in mere desultory conversation in the presence of others.
Mrs. Calverley was hard at work at the Berlin-wool frame, putting the
final touches to Jael and Sisera; John Calverley, with the newspaper
in his lap, was fast asleep in his easy-chair; and the chess-players
were at the far end of the room, with a shaded lamp between them.
They formed a strange contrast this couple: he, with his wavy chestnut
hair, his thin red-and-white, clear-cut, whiskerless face, his
shifting blue eyes, and his weak irresolute mouth; she, with her olive
complexion, her blue-black hair, her steady earnest gaze, her square
firm jaw, and the deep orange trimmings of her black silk dress,
showing off strangely against her companion's sable-hued clerical
dress.
"You are too strong for me, monsieur," said Pauline, at the conclusion
of the first game; "but I will not yield you the victory without a
farther struggle."
"I was going to say you played an excellent game, Madame Du Tertre;
but after your remark, it would sound: as though I were complimenting
myself," said Martin. "I have but few opportunities for chess-playing
now, but it was a favourite game of mine at college; and I knew many a
man who prided himself on his play whose head for it was certainly not
so good as yours."
"You have not many persons in your--what you call your parish--who
play chess?"
"No, indeed," said Martin; "cribbage I believe to be the highest
flight in that line amongst the farmers."
"Madame Calverley has explained to me the style of place that it is.
Is it not wearisome to you to a degree to pass your existence in such
a locale amongst such a set of people?"
"It is my duty, Madame Du Tertre," said Martin, "and I do not repine."
"Ah, monsieur," said Pauline, with an inclination of her head and
downcast eyes, "I am the last person in the world to rebel against
duty, or to allow that it should not be undertaken in that spirit of
Christianity which you have shown. But are you sure, Monsieur Martin,
that you are acting rightly? However good your intentions may be, with
your devotion to the cause you have espoused, and with your great
talents, you should be taking a leading position in the great battle
of religion; whereas, by burying yourself in this hole, there you lose
for yourself the opportunity of fame, while the Church loses a
brilliant leader."
"I have no desire for fame, Madame Du Tertre; and if I can only do my
duty diligently, it is enough for me."
"Yes; but there is another thing. Pardon me, Monsieur Martin, I am a
strange woman and some years older than you, so that you must not
think me guilty of an impertinence in speaking freely to you. Your
Church--our Church--does not condemn its ministers to an ascetic or a
celibate life--that is one of the wildest errors of Romanism. Has it
never struck you that in consenting to remain amongst persons with
whom you have nothing in common--where you are never likely to meet a
woman calculated so to excite your admiration and affection as to
induce you to make her your wife, you are rather following the Roman
than the Protestant custom?"
A faint flush, duly marked by Pauline's keen eyes, passed over Martin
Gurwood's handsome features. "I have no intention of marrying," he
said, in a low voice.
"Not now perhaps," said Pauline, "because you have not yet seen anyone
whom you could love. A man of your taste and education is always
fastidious; but, depend upon it, you will some day find some lovely
girl of ancient family who--"
"It will be time enough then to speak of it, Madame Du Tertre, would
it not?" said Martin Gurwood, flushing again. "Now, if you please, we
will resume our game."
When Pauline went to her bedroom that night she locked the door, threw
herself into an easy-chair in front of the fire, and remained buried
in contemplation. Then she rose, and as she strolled towards the
dressing-table, said half aloud: "That man is jealously guarding a
secret--and it is his own!"