THE VILLAGE DORCAS.
The big room at King's Warren Parsonage was already fairly well filled.
Old Mrs. Wurzel and the buxom but not too well-favoured heiress of the
house of Grains were at the head of the table. Old Mrs. Wurzel was a
personage in her way; she it was who made the annual contract with the
local linen-draper; she it was who, as an adept learned in the art,
officiated at the awful ceremony of "cutting-out"; she it was who, with
infinite trouble, obtained for the school children those antiquated
straw bonnets of a forgotten type, which were the despair of the
juvenile village beauties. She herself had worn them in her youth, and
they were the proper bonnets for "growing girls." But, alas! Nemesis had
arrived; the head coverings worn in country places thirty years ago had
become once more the fashion, and the little maids from school had been
voted by Spunyarn "quite smart people." It was Mrs. Wurzel who with her
own fair but energetic hands had, with her famous cutting-out scissors,
shorn away the luxuriant but obnoxious fringe which Jemima Ann Blogg,
the poacher's daughter, had appeared in at the Confirmation. Jemima Ann
had violently resisted, but her struggles were in vain; in this case the
sheep had not been dumb when in the hands of the shearer: the daughter
of the village Radical had returned to her father's roof weeping, but
shorn. It is true that old Mrs. Wurzel had reluctantly paid to Blogg the
sum of five pounds, under the threat of a summons for assault, but the
honest fellow had honourably kept her secret as he had promised, and
Mrs. Wurzel's reputation, as the champion of virtue and respectability,
had in no way suffered, though she had paid her five pounds for it.
The vicar's wife, whose principal characteristics were her interest in
missionary work and the saliency of her angles, was a mere priestess in
the little circle of which old Mrs. Wurzel was the permanent
archdruidess. Vicars' wives had come and gone, but all had submitted,
some after a brief struggle, to old Mrs. Wurzel's sway. But Mrs.
Dodd, the present vicar's wife, retained the precious prerogative of
choosing the book to be read at the monthly Dorcas. Mrs. Dodd's choice
was invariably the biography of some missionary; and she did her
best to carry out the idea that a Dorcas meeting should provide
self-mortification for the ladies present, in the shape of coarse work
for the fingers and repellent reading for the mind.
The village Dorcas was that happy neutral ground where the various ranks
of society met on an equality. Here might be seen the three good-looking
and well-educated daughters of the local draper. Nice girls these, but
under the baleful shadow, the bitter blight of trade. For country
places are very conservative: the squire looks down on the yeoman, the
doctor and the lawyer, all three of whom consider themselves
considerably taller in social stature than the tenant farmer, who in his
turn will eat no bread and drink no water in the houses of those
Rechabites, the tradesmen. All these people, however, join in despising
the rich stockbroker who has recently purchased the pretentious place
which he calls "The Park;" the gates of which are almost celestial,
being of bright gilded iron work. The unfortunate inhabitant of "The
Park," notwithstanding his well-appointed barouche and his men in
livery, is but a pariah. For not a year ago, till the big corner
occurred in Mex. Rails in which he made his pile, little Sleek, of Sleek
and Dabbler, of Throgmorton Street, had "been to business" every
morning. Sleek now passes his time in good works, he takes a great
interest in local affairs, and, unless he flings the whole matter up in
a rage, he may yet become a justice of the peace. Sleek finds it far
harder work than fortune-making; but he pursues his Will-o'-the-Wisp
with untiring energy. So do we all. It is for this, that Sleek
contributes so liberally to the local charities. It is for this, that
the two Misses Sleek, clad in shining raiment of needlework, are seated
at the big table, pursuing the unromantic occupation of hemming
huckaback towels of a more than Spartan coarseness. But something has
been already gained by the monthly martyrdom; Mrs. Dodd and her
sister-in-law the ethereal Anastatia address them as "dear," and they
have a bowing acquaintance, which they energetically attempt to
increase, with, the Misses Warrender.
Within this charmed circle the veterinary surgeon's womankind and the
grocer's daughters also dare to tread, but they are there merely on
sufferance. The line must be drawn somewhere, and the vicar's wife, as
did her predecessor, drew it at that man of blood, the harmless Kubble,
the local butcher. He and the rest of those shut out from Paradise
sought their enjoyment, and a perhaps more congenial society, at those
buttery banquets, the tea meetings of the local Little Bethel. Thus, as
in most country places, Dissent was at a premium among the humbler
classes, and possibly the continued assertion of their position by the
clergy of the State has had a good deal to do with the spread of Dissent
in other villages than King's Warren.
There were at least a dozen ladies seated round the big table at the
Parsonage. Our friends Lucy and Georgina were among the number, their
simple muslins strikingly contrasting with the more elaborate garments
of the Misses Sleek. Anastatia Dodd fluttered (it is the only word)
round the workers, as they plied their busy needles; she "gave out" the
various garments, or portions thereof, of mysterious shape; and as she
did so whispered her little word of welcome, her little chirrup of
harmless gossip to each. Mrs. Dodd who sat at the bottom of the table as
vice-chairmaness, now opened a thick black book in which various markers
of coloured paper had been inserted. "I think we are all here," she
said, as she put on her spectacles in a determined manner, and ominously
cleared her throat. Nobody disputed this proposition; the hum of
conversation ceased.
"I think we left off at the second appendix, which contained letters
from the wife of the lamented subject of the biography. I will now
continue.
"'Quashi-Bungo,
"'July 21st, 18--.
"'DEAREST MARY,
"'I received your welcome letter and the boxes of stores. You
were quite right when you said that I seemed to be launching out
in the matter of outfit. But I suddenly find myself (under
Providence) a means of civilization to the poor benighted
natives. These unfortunate heathen, until our arrival, had no
sense of propriety. M'Bongo, the great chief of this
neighbourhood, paid a ceremonial visit to my husband. Of course
we understood that he would wear the court costume of the
Kukulokos. I seized the opportunity to watch what I supposed
would be a most interesting interview, from behind a curtain. Oh
Mary, what was my indignation when I saw the nasty savage enter
our dear little morning room! His great shock head of woolly
hair was dyed a bright yellow with quicklime, in his ears were a
pair of huge ear-rings of massive gold that made my mouth water.
(William told me afterwards that they were worth at least fifty
pounds). On his head was the second-hand hat of some _parvenu's_
coachman, gold lace, cockade and all. Fancy my horror, dear
Mary, my terror, indignation and astonishment, when I perceived
that the rest of his costume merely consisted of a thick layer
of palm oil, with which the wretch had covered his disgusting
body. I saw no more; I need not say I fainted from the mingled
effects of terror, indignation, and astonishment. On coming to,
William told me that the courtiers, some twenty in number, wore
precisely the same costume, minus the hat and ear-rings.
"'Such, dear Mary, was the degraded condition of M'Bongo and his
court on our arrival; but it has been my happy lot (under
Providence) to change all this, and my endeavours have not been
without even an earthly reward. Only think, Mary, M'Bongo's
ear-rings are now my own, my very own. They will reach you by
the hands of Mr. Mackenzie, a worldly-minded Scotch merchant,
but honest as to earthly things. On no account, dear Mary, in
disposing of these priceless treasures, have anything to do with
the jewellers, who I am told are extremely dishonest persons.
You had better try to sell them to the South Kensington Museum
as _curios_, or at some fashionable bazaar; or failing these,
to some wealthy but unworldly person, who takes an interest in
our working in Africa. Do not forget to mention that they are
_royal_ ear-rings.'"
Here one of the Miss Sleeks coughed, but the broad grin on her face
subsided instantly under the severe look which Mrs. Dodd gave her over
her spectacles. After a short pause and a snort of indignation, the
vicar's wife continued:
"'I have been the blessed instrument, dear Mary, of a great work
in this country. M'Bongo and his whole court are now clothed, I
am happy to say, at least to a certain extent. The greater
portion of the royal garments have been obtained from me;
unfortunately I have been compelled to take payment in cattle
and grain. You remember my scarlet rep underskirt, the one I
wore so much during our last winter in dear old England; with a
little alteration at the waist, to which I have added a green
velvet collar, and an additional placket hole (through which the
royal arms are thrust), and wearing my galoshes, M'Bongo
attended service here yesterday for the first time. Both garment
and galoshes were quite useless to me in this hot country.
William was unable to persuade him to remove the cockaded hat,
which he, in his benighted way, looks upon as a royal crown; but
as my husband's is the only other hat in the country, this does
not perhaps much matter. William has thus been happily able to
report to the society the approaching conversion of M'Bongo and
his imminent civilization. The poor king, however, complains
much of the heat, and I am sorry to say only wears these robes
on ceremonial occasions. Still it has been a great, great
comfort to us both.
"'Yours lovingly,
"'AMELIA REES.'
"Many such interesting letters were received from our self-sacrificing
countrywoman up to the death of her husband and fellow-worker. The sad
end of the mission to King M'Bongo has been narrated in the body of this
work. But Mrs. Rees was loth to leave her sphere in Africa, and is now
happily married to Alonzo P. Jones, an energetic coloured Baptist
minister, of Cape Coast Castle."
There was a universal sigh of relief.
"I wonder whether she wears the ear-rings?" remarked the elder Miss
Sleek pertly.
"Perhaps they were the attraction to Alonzo P. Jones," suggested her
sister, as she triumphantly folded and smoothed her second completed
towel.
"It's always the way with them," sighed Miss Grains, who suffered from a
complication of romantic tendency and very tight stays. "It's the money
that attracts them, and possibly Mrs. Rees might have been Mrs. Rees to
the end of the chapter, if it hadn't been for the ear-rings and the sale
of her old clothes for countless flocks and herds."
"Doubtless Miss Grains speaks from painful experience, my dears,"
retorted Mrs. Dodd, with a severe look at her victim; "but you may be
quite certain that the acquisition of the ear-rings and the sale of the
clothes were but the blessed means to an end, a mere spoiling of the
Egyptians, that _the work_ might progress."
"In fact, a robbing of Peter to pay Paul," suggested Lucy Warrender, but
without raising her eyes from her work.
The needle of the archdruidress broke, as she shook her head viciously
at the scoffer. "Ah, my dear, you shouldn't laugh at sacred things,"
said the elder lady.
"But I don't look upon Mrs. Rees as a sacred thing," cried Lucy, not to
be intimidated.
"A person no one would wish to know," chimed in Miss Sleek.
"Ah, but think how she loved the blacks, and gave herself up to them,"
cooed the vicaress, in a tone intended at the same time to convey
instruction and reproof.
"Nasty thing," retorted Lucy, with biting sarcasm. "I suppose it was
because she loved the blacks and gave herself up to them, that she
married the energetic negro ranter with the dreadful name."
This proved too much for Mrs. Dodd. "I am surprised and ashamed, Lucy
Warrender, at your attempt to depreciate the noble self-immolation of
dear Mrs. Jones. Of course it is a great privilege to be married to a
clergyman, a very precious privilege, but when he is a negro and a
Baptist--hum--I suppose I must say clergyman, then a woman's life must
be indeed a martyrdom."
"I suppose he beats her?" asked one of the draper's daughters of the
experienced Mrs. Wurzel.
"I sincerely trust he does," broke in the irreverent Lucy.
Just at this moment the door was hurriedly opened, and the Reverend John
Dodd entered the room. He was a stout man, his principal characteristics
being an intense pleasure in ladies' society, and an obliviousness of
the fact that he was no longer the pale slim young curate of earlier
days. A life of almost absolute inactivity, which was forced upon him by
his wife's jealousy of the rest of the sex, had rendered the muscular
young Dodd of Oriel a perfect Daniel Lambert. Little irreverent boys
from the village corners were in the habit of shouting "Jumbo" at the
poor vicar. He was accustomed to pursue them, but in vain; a stern chase
is proverbially a long chase, and poor Mr. Dodd's futile efforts to
capture his persecutors had become a bye-word. But the Reverend John
Dodd's weak point, the red rag to the bull, the bee in his bonnet, was
his devotion to the fair sex. Handsome Jack Dodd, as he had been once
called, in his undergraduate and curate days, had been accustomed to
find his attentions very highly appreciated. The habit grew on him,
love-sick maidens sighed, and love-sick maidens wept, but all in vain.
Handsome Jack Dodd, a very clerical butterfly, flitted from flower to
flower. His admiration was freely, openly, ardently expressed for every
variety of female beauty. Was Jack Dodd a flirt? Not a bit of it; he was
merely a fancier, just as there are pigeon fanciers and poultry
fanciers; so Handsome Jack Dodd was a fancier, an admirer, a worshipper
of the entire female sex: that is to say, the select specimens of it.
What he could have seen in Canon Drivel's daughter who can say? though,
when he married Cecilia Drivel, she was a well-known light of London.
She it was who, in the severity of her classic and rather imperial
beauty, had posed to Mahlstick, R.A., for his well-known picture of
Judith with the head of Holofernes. Alas! for poor Jack Dodd, he had
assisted at the numerous sittings. He it was who had had the honour of
sitting (that is to say lying prone on a bedstead of the period) for the
headless trunk of Holofernes. To lie prone on a bedstead of any period,
and have nothing to do for two mortal hours but gaze on the classic
proportions of any lady--for Mahlstick was a strict disciplinarian and
discouraged conversation--is enough to seal the fate of any man, even if
he were of a less inflammable type than Handsome Jack. Miss Drivel was
her father's only daughter, and ambitious; but four seasons, during
which she was much admired, but never once received a serious offer, had
warned the waning beauty not to neglect her opportunities. Miss Drivel
was a lady of no imagination and strong will; the interest of her
father, a notorious pluralist, was very great: Cecilia Drivel was
determined to marry Dodd. She did so, and her victim became her obedient
slave, and was duly inducted to the fat living of King's Warren. In all
things Jack Dodd, as the weaker vessel, yielded to his wife. He had but
one drawback in her eyes, he retained his passion, his innocent passion,
for the fair sex. At the shrine of beauty he remained a constant and
ecstatic worshipper. This was Mrs. Dodd's cross, and she had to bear it.
An idle life at King's Warren Parsonage, and frequent dinner parties,
for the Reverend John Dodd was a popular man, had caused Handsome Jack
to expand into a very Falstaff. Alas, anxiety had had precisely the
reverse effect upon the vicar's wife. The once statuesque "Judith" had
disappeared, and Mrs. Dodd's characteristics were now high principle and
bone.
"Busy as usual, my dear," said the vicar to his wife, as he proceeded
to welcome each member of the female bevy in turn, devoting perhaps a
little more time than was necessary to handsome Miss Warrender and her
cousin.
Mrs. Dodd closed the thick black book with a slap. "I suppose work is
over now for the day; you really should not intrude on our Dorcas,
John," she said in a severe tone.
"My dear, it is my duty to encourage my parishioners in good works, nay,
it is my pleasure," replied the parson.
"No one doubts it, Mr. Dodd," said the vicaress in an icy manner.
But Mrs. Dodd was evidently in a minority. The ladies crowded round
their popular vicar. It is easy to spoil a man, and the Reverend John
Dodd had been much spoilt by his parishioners, and seemed to like the
process.
And now a whispered conference took place between the Misses Sleek.
With smiles and conscious blushes, the elder sister addressed the
vicar. "Oh, dear Mr. Dodd, we do so want you to do us a favour," she
faltered.
"Granted, my dear young lady, granted before it is asked."
Mrs. Dodd vainly sought to fix her husband with a freezing look, and
gazed appealingly at old Mrs. Wurzel, but that experienced matron had
been present at many similar scenes, and was rather amused than
otherwise, to watch the discomfiture of the vicar's imperious wife. Mrs.
Wurzel's eagle eye detected the little parcel which the younger Miss
Sleek hesitatingly attempted to hold towards the vicar. "It is our own
work, dear Mr. Dodd," she said, "and we hope, we do hope, we do _so_
hope that you will accept them."
"And wear them too," chimed in her sister.
In an elaborate box, from which Miss Sleek rapidly tore the paper in
which it was wrapped, and hurriedly opened, lay a dozen bands of the
latest ecclesiastical fashion.
"Oh ladies, dear ladies, so you equip your faithful knight for the fray;
accept my grateful thanks, my very grateful thanks," sighed the vicar.
"So pleased you like them, dear Mr. Dodd," chorused the stockbroker's
daughters.
The triumphs of decorative millinery were passed from hand to hand.
"They never made these," muttered old Mrs. Wurzel to herself, as she
critically held one up to the light. "The minxes," she inwardly added.
Mrs. Wurzel was quite right; they had been supplied, regardless of cost,
from Messrs. Rochet and Stole's well-known establishment.
"Ah," purred Lucy Warrender, "the ladies used to arm their knights with
their own fair hands in the days of chivalry."
The parson laughed. "And have the days of chivalry departed, ladies?"
he said, protruding his head, much as the unconscious aldermanic turtle
is said to protrude his, when awaiting the fatal stroke.
Conny Sleek, the younger and bolder of the two, looked at her sister;
the elder girl nodded maliciously.
Conny stepped smilingly forward, and proceeded to affix the band around
the vicar's massive throat.
Fat Jack Dodd was in his glory; "Jumbo" was in the seventh heaven of
bliss. A smile of beatitude spread over his enormous countenance during
the process. But it suddenly disappeared, as a sharp slam of the door
announced the sudden departure of his indignant wife, the outraged
Cecilia. Will it ever dawn on Mrs. Dodd's mind, that parsons, even
married parsons, are but men?