KENELM now bent his way towards the parsonage, but just as he neared its glebe-lands he met a gentleman whose dress was so evidently clerical that he stopped and said,—
“Have I the honour to address Mr. Lethbridge?”
“That is my name,” said the clergyman, smiling pleasantly. “Anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, a great deal, if you will let me talk to you about a few of your parishioners.”
“My parishioners! I beg your pardon, but you are quite a stranger to me, and, I should think, to the parish.”
“To the parish,—no, I am quite at home in it; and I honestly believe that it has never known a more officious busybody, thrusting himself into its most private affairs.”
Mr. Lethbridge stared, and, after a short pause, said, “I have heard of a young man who has been staying at Mr. Saunderson’s, and is indeed at this moment the talk of the village. You are—”
“That young man. Alas! yes.”
“Nay,” said Mr. Lethbridge, kindly, “I cannot myself, as a minister of the Gospel, approve of your profession, and, if I might take the liberty, I would try and dissuade you from it; but still, as for the one act of freeing a poor girl from the most scandalous persecution, and administering, though in a rough way, a lesson to a savage brute who has long been the disgrace and terror of the neighbourhood, I cannot honestly say that it has my condemnation. The moral sense of a community is generally a right one: you have won the praise of the village. Under all the circumstances, I do not withhold mine. You woke this morning and found yourself famous. Do not sigh ‘Alas.’”
“Lord Byron woke one morning and found himself famous, and the result was that he sighed ‘Alas’ for the rest of his life. If there be two things which a wise man should avoid, they are fame and love. Heaven defend me from both!”
Again the parson stared; but being of compassionate nature, and inclined to take mild views of everything that belongs to humanity, he said, with a slight inclination of his head,—
“I have always heard that the Americans in general enjoy the advantage of a better education than we do in England, and their reading public is infinitely larger than ours; still, when I hear one of a calling not highly considered in this country for intellectual cultivation or ethical philosophy cite Lord Byron, and utter a sentiment at variance with the impetuosity of inexperienced youth, but which has much to commend it in the eyes of a reflective Christian impressed with the nothingness of the objects mostly coveted by the human heart, I am surprised, and—oh, my dear young friend, surely your education might fit you for something better!”
It was among the maxims of Kenelm Chillingly’s creed that a sensible man should never allow himself to be surprised; but here he was, to use a popular idiom, “taken aback,” and lowered himself to the rank of ordinary minds by saying, simply, “I don’t understand.”
“I see,” resumed the clergyman, shaking his head gently, “as I always suspected, that in the vaunted education bestowed on Americans, the elementary principles of Christian right and wrong are more neglected than they are among our own humble classes. Yes, my young friend, you may quote poets, you may startle me by remarks on the nothingness of human fame and human love, derived from the precepts of heathen poets, and yet not understand with what compassion, and, in the judgment of most sober-minded persons, with what contempt, a human being who practises your vocation is regarded.”
“Have I a vocation?” said Kenelm. “I am very glad to hear it. What is my vocation? And why must I be an American?”
“Why, surely I am not misinformed? You are the American—I forget his name—who has come over to contest the belt of prize-fighting with the champion of England. You are silent; you hang your head. By your appearance, your length of limb, your gravity of countenance, your evident education, you confirm the impression of your birth. Your prowess has proved your profession.”
“Reverend sir,” said Kenelm, with his unutterable seriousness of aspect, “I am on my travels in search of truth and in flight from shams, but so great a take-in as myself I have not yet encountered. Remember me in your prayers. I am not an American; I am not a prize-fighter. I honour the first as the citizen of a grand republic trying his best to accomplish an experiment in government in which he will find the very prosperity he tends to create will sooner or later destroy his experiment. I honour the last because strength, courage, and sobriety are essential to the prize-fighter, and are among the chiefest ornaments of kings and heroes. But I am neither one nor the other. And all I can say for myself is, that I belong to that very vague class commonly called English gentlemen, and that, by birth and education, I have a right to ask you to shake hands with me as such.”
Mr. Lethbridge stared again, raised his hat, bowed, and shook hands.
“You will allow me now to speak to you about your parishioners. You take an interest in Will Somers; so do I. He is clever and ingenious. But it seems there is not sufficient demand here for his baskets, and he would, no doubt, do better in some neighbouring town. Why does he object to move?”
“I fear that poor Will would pine away to death if he lost sight of that pretty girl for whom you did such chivalrous battle with Tom Bowles.”
“The unhappy man, then, is really in love with Jessie Wiles? And do you think she no less really cares for him?”
“I am sure of it.”
“And would make him a good wife; that is, as wives go?”
“A good daughter generally makes a good wife. And there is not a father in the place who has a better child than Jessie is to hers. She really is a girl of a superior nature. She was the cleverest pupil at our school, and my wife is much attached to her. But she has something better than mere cleverness: she has an excellent heart.”
“What you say confirms my own impressions. And the girl’s father has no other objection to Will Somers than his fear that Will could not support a wife and family comfortably.
“He can have no other objection save that which would apply equally to all suitors. I mean his fear lest Tom Bowles might do her some mischief, if he knew she was about to marry any one else.”
“You think, then, that Mr. Bowles is a thoroughly bad and dangerous person?”
“Thoroughly bad and dangerous, and worse since he has taken to drinking.”
“I suppose he did not take to drinking till he lost his wits for Jessie Wiles?”
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“But, Mr. Lethbridge, have you never used your influence over this dangerous man?”
“Of course, I did try, but I only got insulted. He is a godless animal, and has not been inside a church for years. He seems to have got a smattering of such vile learning as may be found in infidel publications, and I doubt if he has any religion at all.”
“Poor Polyphemus! no wonder his Galatea shuns him.”
“Old Wiles is terribly frightened, and asked my wife to find Jessie a place as servant at a distance. But Jessie can’t bear the thoughts of leaving.”
“For the same reason which attaches Will Somers to the native soil?”
“My wife thinks so.”
“Do you believe that if Tom Bowles were out of the way, and Jessie and Will were man and wife, they could earn a sufficient livelihood as successors to Mrs. Bawtrey, Will adding the profits of his basket-work to those of the shop and land?”
“A sufficient livelihood! of course. They would be quite rich. I know the shop used to turn a great deal of money. The old woman, to be sure, is no longer up to the business, but still she retains a good custom.”
“Will Somers seems in delicate health. Perhaps if he had a less weary struggle for a livelihood, and no fear of losing Jessie, his health would improve.”
“His life would be saved, sir.”
“Then,” said Kenelm, with a heavy sigh and a face as long as an undertaker’s, “though I myself entertain a profound compassion for that disturbance to our mental equilibrium which goes by the name of ‘love,’ and I am the last person who ought to add to the cares and sorrows which marriage entails upon its victims,—I say nothing of the woes destined to those whom marriage usually adds to a population already overcrowded,—I fear that I must be the means of bringing these two love-birds into the same cage. I am ready to purchase the shop and its appurtenances on their behalf, on the condition that you will kindly obtain the consent of Jessie’s father to their union. As for my brave friend Tom Bowles, I undertake to deliver them and the village from that exuberant nature, which requires a larger field for its energies. Pardon me for not letting you interrupt me. I have not yet finished what I have to say. Allow me to ask if Mrs. Grundy resides in this village.”
“Mrs. Grundy! Oh, I understand. Of course; wherever a woman has a tongue, there Mrs. Grundy has a home.”
“And seeing that Jessie is very pretty, and that in walking with her I encountered Mr. Bowles, might not Mrs. Grundy say, with a toss of her head, ‘that it was not out of pure charity that the stranger had been so liberal to Jessie Wiles’? But if the money for the shop be paid through you to Mrs. Bawtrey, and you kindly undertake all the contingent arrangements, Mrs. Grundy will have nothing to say against any one.”
Mr. Lethbridge gazed with amaze at the solemn countenance before him.
“Sir,” he said, after a long pause, “I scarcely know how to express my admiration of a generosity so noble, so thoughtful, and accompanied with a delicacy, and, indeed, with a wisdom, which—which—”
“Pray, my dear sir, do not make me still more ashamed of myself than I am at present for an interference in love matters quite alien to my own convictions as to the best mode of making an ‘Approach to the Angels.’ To conclude this business, I think it better to deposit in your hands the sum of L45, for which Mrs. Bawtrey has agreed to sell the remainder of her lease and stock-in-hand; but, of course, you will not make anything public till I am gone, and Tom Bowles too. I hope I may get him away to-morrow; but I shall know to-night when I can depend on his departure, and till he goes I must stay.”
As he spoke, Kenelm transferred from his pocket-book to Mr. Lethbridge’s hand bank-notes to the amount specified.
“May I at least ask the name of the gentleman who honours me with his confidence, and has bestowed so much happiness on members of my flock?”
“There is no great reason why I should not tell you my name, but I see no reason why I should. You remember Talleyrand’s advice, ‘If you are in doubt whether to write a letter or not, don’t.’ The advice applies to many doubts in life besides that of letter-writing. Farewell, sir!”
“A most extraordinary young man,” muttered the parson, gazing at the receding form of the tall stranger; then gently shaking his head, he added, “Quite an original.” He was contented with that solution of the difficulties which had puzzled him. May the reader be the same.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg