THE VICAR TRIES PUFFIN.
It must not be supposed that all the religious activity in King's Warren
was confined to the Dissenters. The Reverend John Dodd was a fine
old-crusted Tory; the world had gone very well with him. He had his
cross, of course, in the shape of his wife Cecilia, and the Reverend B.
Smiter was a very thorn in his flesh; but his living was a good living,
and his peaches and his port wine were unsurpassed in the county. His
archdeacon was an old personal friend of his own, and I am afraid that
the post-prandial conversations of the two when the archdeacon made his
yearly visitations and Mrs. Dodd had left them to themselves, turned
more upon vintages and things of this world than on church matters. But
a young and active bishop, of High Church tendencies, now reigned in
the neighbouring cathedral, and the archdeacon in a friendly manner
suggested to Dodd that it behoved him to set his house in order.
"We must move with the times, Dodd," he said. "The bishop is a man of
six-and-thirty and an enthusiast. I am sorry to say he is no respecter
of persons. There is no doubt, my friend, that dissent has spread in
this parish of late years with frightful rapidity." He spoke of it as if
it were a disease. "What you want is an energetic coadjutor, and you
can't do better than try Puffin. Puffin has been a Missioner, and he is
a wonderful organizer. If you want to be in the bishop's good books you
should try Puffin. He'll take every sort of trouble off your hands; all
you have to do is to give him plenty of rope. He has his peculiarities,
but he is honest in his way, and he did wonders at the East End, where
he nearly killed himself by overwork. You won't keep him long, you
know, for Puffin's a man certain of good preferment. He'll fill your
church, and if anything will stop the insidious progress of dissent in
the place, it's Puffin."
"But, my dear fellow, we are very comfortable as we are. I hate a
clerical firebrand. Why can't we rub along comfortably for the rest of
my time?"
"The days of rubbing along, Dodd, are gone by. As the bishop puts it,
the Church in these latter days must be a Church militant, or it will
cease to exist."
"But it needn't become a Church pugnacious for all that," said Dodd.
"My dear fellow, if we were certain that I should be archdeacon for ever
you might, as you put it, go on rubbing along. But the king who knew not
Joseph has arrived. Our spiritual head is a man who will stand no
nonsense. If you don't follow his lead, he will look upon you as
refractory. Don't be refractory, Dodd; try Puffin. You will find him a
perfect panacea."
"But I don't believe in panaceas," said Dodd; "the fellow will set the
whole place by the ears before he has been here a month. Why, in this
village the aggrieved parishioner does not even exist. If a man doesn't
like the church he takes sittings in the chapel, and there is an end of
the thing."
"My dear fellow, you mistake the matter altogether. Now-a-days, a real,
good, wrong-headed aggrieved parishioner is exactly what you do want. He
keeps you before the public, and brings you to the favourable notice of
your spiritual head."
"But look at the fuss, the letters, and the lawsuits."
"With a new bishop, Dodd, and a man like Puffin at your back, though
there would be lots of fuss, it need not trouble you. Puffin would write
all the letters; and as for the lawsuits, you would win them, and the
costs would not come out of your pocket. Puffin, of course, sails rather
close to the wind, if I may be allowed the expression, but he knows
exactly how far he can go. In fact, Dodd, though he puts his candles
upon the altar he never lights them, except at evensong, and then he
knows he can do so with impunity."
And then they gradually began to talk about the wine.
The result of this conversation was that the Reverend John Dodd hastened
to secure the services of that energetic priest the Reverend Barnes
Puffin.
Mr. Puffin arrived at the Vicarage looking very much like an ordinary
clergyman, save that the round black felt that he wore had a brim of
portentous width; and Mrs. Dodd noticed with some astonishment that the
white tie, which all clergymen of her acquaintance habitually wore, was
conspicuous by its absence, and that the new curate appeared to have put
on his collar wrong side before. At first it was a mystery to her how
he could have got into that collar. There was certainly no visible means
of entrance in front. Puffin wore his hair very long indeed, while the
whole of his face was clean shaven. Mrs. Dodd, too, gave a start when he
proceeded to address her as "his dear sister;" but she was still more
astonished when he removed his long clerical great-coat and she saw that
the Reverend Barnes Puffin was clad in a long black garment with
innumerable little buttons running from his neck to within two inches of
the ground. Around his waist was a long black sash with a silken fringe.
As he gave the vicar's wife his arm, when they went in to dinner, he
suddenly produced from his pocket a little square cap, which he placed
upon his head. He did full justice to the stewed eels, with which the
meal commenced; but he never removed the little cap during the whole of
the entertainment, nor could the vicar and his wife persuade him to
partake of any of the numerous dainties which composed the rest of the
feast. At first he said he wasn't hungry. A curate who refused _entrées_
was a novelty to Mrs. Dodd.
"I fear you are not well, Mr. Puffin," she said as he declined woodcock
on toast.
"Dear Mrs. Dodd, I remember that it is the Eve of St. Radegonde, Virgin
and Martyr."
The vicar and his wife looked at one another; but they respected Mr.
Puffin's prejudices, and ceased to press him.
The next day the reign of the Reverend Barnes Puffin commenced. The old
church, where service had been held as seldom as possible from time
immemorial, was now thrown open daily for matins and evensong. At first
there was no congregation; but the Reverend Barnes Puffin looked up all
the old pensioners, particularly the old women who were in receipt of
parish relief at home, and in his persuasive but forcible way he made
all these poor old people understand that their comforts, for which
they had hitherto given nothing in return, would depend upon good
behaviour, that is to say, going to church. Nor did Mr. Puffin confine
his ministrations to the lower orders. How he managed it I don't know;
but before he had been three months in the place most of the younger
ladies in the parish flocked to the services. I suppose he made love to
them in a quiet, clerical sort of way. The Misses Sleek, looking as
plump and pretty as ever, but dressed with a prim demureness which
considerably astonished their father, were among his first converts; and
they used to hurry to church on foot twice a day with praiseworthy
regularity. They considered themselves well rewarded if the curate
walked home with them occasionally to dinner, and so beatified The Park
by his presence. But Mr. Puffin egregiously failed with Miss Grains.
She, too, had felt inclined at first to place her conscience in Mr.
Puffin's hands; but young Mr. Wurzel, an easy-going fellow enough at
most times, objected to Puffin's addressing his affianced bride, save
from the pulpit, as "his dear sister." He had even told Miss Grains that
he looked upon Mr. Puffin as a "philanderer," and that "he didn't hold
with philanderers." So Miss Grains made no alteration in her costume,
and she turned a deaf ear to Mr. Puffin's ecclesiastical authority.
It was not long before King's Warren Church rejoiced in a surpliced
choir. There was rather a martial clang of hob-nailed boots during the
numerous processions of the choir on Sundays; but the service was
undoubtedly much more imposing than in the old days. Mr. Puffin did
wonders with the small material at his command. He would have made an
admirable stage-manager. He never missed a possible effect, and he
considerably astonished the King's Warreners when he preached his first
funeral sermon. He was a good preacher, and always held the attention of
the congregation. But perhaps some few of them smiled when he led up to
the fact that the silver cord was loosed and the golden bowl broken, in
an ornate and sensational harangue reaching an unexpected climax by
tilting over the tumbler at his side, which fell with a crash and was
shivered in a thousand pieces on the floor. There were no sleepers in
King's Warren Church when the Reverend Barnes Puffin graced the pulpit
after that. And yet Puffin was a sincere man, and worked energetically
according to his lights.
But it was an evil day for the Reverend Barnes Puffin when he felt it to
be his duty to attempt the conversion of Lucy Warrender. She was the one
black sheep of the fold, for she had committed the unpardonable sin--she
had laughed at Mr. Puffin. A girl may differ with a modern parson, she
may argue with him; nay, she may refuse to argue with him at all, but
she must not laugh at him, and Lucy had done this. Had she not
irreverently compared him to Samson, and wickedly declared that she
would like to be a Delilah to shear with her own hands his too redundant
locks? Had she not told him that it was rude to wear the little square
hat, which he persisted in calling a _baretta_, in the presence of
ladies? Had she not openly asserted her belief that he wore a hair shirt
and scourged himself in private? These are only a few of the many crimes
of which Miss Warrender had been guilty. It was evidently the duty of
the Reverend Barnes Puffin to convert Miss Warrender without loss of
time.
Puffin was always well received at The Warren; he amused the squire by
the seriousness of his arguments about trifling things. For every thing
that he did, for every little bob, bow or gesture, the Reverend Barnes
Puffin had a very good reason. Nothing that he did was trifling; it was
always symbolical of something. According to him, for every movement of
his body there was a ritual reason why. It became a sort of custom at
The Warren that as soon as dessert was upon the table, the Reverend
Barnes Puffin was allowed to mount his hobby-horse and wildly career. He
liked to give what he called a little information on sacred things, and
he made the most of his opportunities, for he never had a long innings,
as he always retired with the ladies.
One evening the Reverend Barnes Puffin was seated in the drawing-room at
The Warren conversing with the cousins. Fanchette, in all the pride of
her Norman costume, was bringing the little Lucius to bid his mother
good-night. Now Fanchette, from his cassock, his sash, his _baretta_,
and the collar which had so puzzled poor Mrs. Dodd, had always looked
upon the Reverend Barnes Puffin as a veritable Catholic priest, and
respected him accordingly. She made him a succession of low courtesies,
and placing the little Lucius in his mother's arms, she advanced towards
the curate in a respectful manner. To his intense astonishment she
suddenly dropped on her knees at his side, seized his hand, and covered
it with kisses. Then, in fluent patois, she demanded his blessing. But
the curate, unfortunately, did not understand a word she said. Like most
curates, he was accustomed to the blandishments which are invariably
lavished by the female sex on these most fortunate of men. Interesting
penitents had made eyes at him, had squeezed his hand at parting with
unnecessary pressure, had loaded him with slippers, vestments, and socks
and comforters knitted by their own fair fingers. They had even obtained
interviews, and had wickedly taken the opportunity of the _tête-à-tête_
to make violent love to him; but never, in the whole course of his
clerical experience, had any of his "dear sisters" suddenly dropped on
their knees at his side and violently kissed his hand. Puffin was by no
means a vain man. But what could he think? Here was a foreign woman, of
prepossessing appearance, administering sounding osculations to his
unwilling fingers.
"Ladies, dear ladies," he said, as he rose to his feet, the _bonne_
still clinging to his hand and kissing it furiously, "this is most
irregular." Here he strove with gentle dignity to try to withdraw his
hand, but all to no purpose. "Ladies," he said, blushing violently, and
speaking of Fanchette as if she had been an infuriated bull-terrier,
"call her off. Please call her off."
But the cousins were far too amused at the incident to come to his
assistance. Georgie could not forbear a smile, while Lucy burst into
inextinguishable peals of silvery laughter.
"She wants your blessing, Mr. Puffin, that's all," said Lucy at length.
"Then she should come to church, Miss Warrender," exclaimed Mr. Puffin,
to whose hand the _bonne_ clung, alternately kissing it and gazing up at
him with imploring eyes.
"She thinks you are a Catholic priest," exclaimed Lucy.
"This is too horrible," cried the Reverend Barnes Puffin, as he vainly
struggled to release the imprisoned hand.
"Ah, _mon père_," vociferated the _bonne_.
"Goodness me, she says I'm her father; pray explain, dear ladies. Is her
mind affected?"
And then Miss Warrender did explain to her.
On hearing that the unhappy curate was not a priest of her own Church,
but only, as Lucy had expressed it, a heretical Protestant pastor,
Fanchette's demeanour changed altogether.
"_Ah, gredin, farceur, monsieur est en travesti. Saperlotte_," she
added, and here she snapped her fingers in the astonished curate's face,
and abruptly left the room.
The curate sank into a chair and wiped his brow with his
pocket-handkerchief.
"Goodness me, ladies," he said, "what a terrible person! I assure you I
didn't mean to exasperate her."
From that day Fanchette ceased her respectful obeisances to the curate,
but his visits to The Warren, where he was always a welcome guest,
became gradually more frequent.
It is human nature after all ever to strive after the impossible, and
Mr. Puffin recognizing in Miss Warrender a young lady who was
essentially of the world worldly, naturally determined to attempt her
conversion. But the spirit of contrariety is ever strongly developed in
the female breast. As the parson became more pertinacious, Miss
Warrender, who was at first rather bored than otherwise by his
eloquence, resolved upon reprisals.
"I'll bet you a new bonnet," she had said to Haggard, "that I make the
Celibate propose to me."
"Not he, my dear," said Georgie's husband with a laugh. "Puffin's not
altogether a fool after all; he's got the run of his teeth in this
house, and he won't care to lose it by making an ass of himself."
"My dear Miss Warrender, my husband's curate considers himself as vowed
to heaven," said Mrs. Dodd, who was present.
"They all do, Mrs. Dodd, till they find metal more attractive. I daresay
even Mr. Dodd considered himself at one time as vowed to heaven."
"There is no analogy, Miss Warrender, between my husband's case and that
of Mr. Puffin. When Mr. Dodd proposed to me, Miss Warrender, he did so
as a beneficed clergyman; and he proposed to the daughter of a dignitary
of the Church. Had Mr. Dodd been a curate, he would not have so far
forgotten his position as to have been guilty of so presumptuous an
act."
"But I'm only Squire Warrender's niece, Mrs. Dodd; there would be no
presumption in my case."
"Don't buoy yourself up with false hopes, Lucy. Were Mr. Puffin to be
guilty of such unseemly folly, it would be my duty, as his vicar's wife,
to seriously remonstrate with him; and should he prove obdurate, even to
dispense with his services. The position of a clergyman's wife, Lucy
Warrender, is full of difficulty and responsibility," she added
sententiously.
"That's what makes me long for it so, Mrs. Dodd. I yearn to feel myself
lifted out of the common ruck of women."
"You are unmaidenly, Lucy Warrender," said the vicar's wife, instantly
assuming her favourite tone of a Lord Chief Justice.
Miss Hood smiled, for she felt that the badinage was sober earnest to
Mrs. Dodd; but she made no remark, for Lucy was long ago out of leading
strings.
When the vicar's wife reached her home, she sent for Mr. Puffin. After
she had shaken hands with him, she came to the point at once.
"I trust you are comfortable here, Mr. Puffin," she said, "and that you
find King's Warren a congenial sphere."
"I do indeed, dear madam," replied the curate. "We have already
accomplished much, but there is yet an abundant field of work in the
place. I am very happy here."
"I have a dreadful communication to make to you, Mr. Puffin. A member of
the congregation has confided to me the disgraceful fact of her personal
infatuation for my husband's curate."
"This is sad, Mrs. Dodd, this is very sad; but it is not wholly
unexpected. Clergymen, as you are aware, dear madam, are constantly
exposed to these annoyances in the course of their ministrations. You
allude, I conclude, to the younger Miss Sleek. I have noticed latterly
her marked assiduity in attendance at church--the most unseasonable
weather has failed to keep her away. I half feared that it would be so.
Alas, girls are apt to forget the priest in the man. But this is a new
kind of experience to me, Mrs. Dodd, for I have found that they usually
first confide their folly to the object of their aspirations."
"No, Mr. Puffin, it is not Miss Sleek to whom I allude; nothing would
surprise me with regard to her. There is no folly that young persons in
her class of life might not be guilty of. It is not the younger Miss
Sleek, though she is an ambitious girl, but the squire's near relative
who has confessed a wicked passion for my husband's curate."
"Gracious me," cried Mr. Puffin. "Can you possibly allude to young Mrs.
Haggard?"
"Mr. Puffin, you forget yourself. No, it is Miss Warrender who has
confided to me her infamous secret."
Mr. Puffin turned pale, then he blushed to the roots of his hair; he
sighed deeply, and then he simpered. The vicar's wife drummed
impatiently upon the table.
"Oh, Mr. Puffin," she said, "you don't mean to say that you reciprocate
this? How often have you protested to me that you were a Celibate, a
priest; and now you do nothing but sit and snigger. I'm grieved; I'm
disappointed in you, Mr. Puffin."
"Dear Mrs. Dodd," said the poor parson, "your communication has taken me
by surprise. At first it horrified me. I am a priest, Mrs. Dodd," he
said, "it is true; but, alas, I also remember that I am a man." He
buried his face in his hands.
Mrs. Dodd sat immovable, looking at the curate with an astonished gaze;
and then she suddenly left the room and slammed the door violently.
The transformation was as thorough as it was sudden; the Reverend Barnes
Puffin had entered that room the humble coadjutor of the vicar's wife;
as he left it, he felt his soul soar into higher regions: as Orientals
put it, "his head was touching the skies." Mrs. Dodd looked out of her
breakfast room window to watch the departure of him who she mentally
termed "the fallen man."
But the fallen man considerably astonished her by the change in his
appearance. Mr. Puffin, who was accustomed to walk slowly and with
downcast eyes, as became a celibate priest, now strode down the drive;
he didn't walk, he strode. He swung his walking-stick defiantly in the
air, and to her astonishment Mrs. Dodd perceived that, ere he left the
place, he committed the brutal act of beheading one of her favourite
poppies with a sort of swashbuckler-stroke that would have done credit
to a Life Guardsman.
Flutter on, happy clerical butterfly, your bliss will be of short
duration; for that careful entomologist, Miss Lucy Warrender, is
already preparing the sharp needle that shall transfix your little
triumphant heart.
Puffin, as he passed through the village, returned the many salutations
he received with joyous bows, and the wiseacres noticed that his broad
brimmed clerical hat was now worn with a triumphant cock.