The Vicar of Ellismond. A novel

Front matter

THE VICAR OF ELLISMOND a THE STANDARD WORK ON AUTHORSHIP The Author's Manual A Complete, Practical Guide to all Branches of Journalism, Literary Work generally, and Book-producing, with Special Advice in Reference to Imaginative Literature. By Percy Russell. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s. (Sixth Edition, New and Eevised, with Portrait of the Author.) SPECIAL NOTICE. The New and Revised Edition contains Prefatory Remarks by the RIGHT HON. W. E. GLADSTONE, M.P., who has read and approved the volume. "The aspirant to literature may certainly read Mr Russell's book with profit. ' — Spectator. " Mr. Eussell has got up his subject with much care, and supplies a great deal of uBeful information. His advice and suggestions are sound and to the point." — Graphic. 'Cordially recommending Mr Russell's vade mecum."— Literary World.

MisB M. E. Beaddo.v writes :-" Tour counsel both to the journalist and the imaginative writer is full of wisdom." LONDON : DIGBY, LONG & CO., 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. THE VICAR OF ELLISMOND A NOVEL BY WILLIAM DANCER LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. Ellismond

— GRILLS MANNING'S THREAT THE CURATE AND THE VICAR. When London comprised a much less area than now, the village of Ellismond had the honour of being styled its prettiest outskirt. But now, because of the grasping greediness of London, it has lost both its beauty and its name. At the time of which I am writing, it contained so few elements of discord, that one would smilingly exon erate it from self-flattery when it assumed the title of the "village of perfection." It had its winding stream, hopelessly rebelling against the miller's wheel which it was compelled to turn, as it wended its way through fields and across lanes, gathering strength as it persevered in its onward course to the sea. It had its small and comfortable homesteads, its thatched cottages, its row of almshouses, and its old and homely inn, where the farmers would gather on winter evenings and travellers call in and tell their tales.

It wanted not, moreover, a church and vicarage. The church had both its clock and its chimes, and commanded a rever ence from the quiet village people which was both an honour and a blessing to them. A The vicarage was three or four hundred yards from the church, and with its little garden behind, its ivy grown walls and small paned windows, looked just like the vicarage of a pretty village. The family at the vicarage comprised the Vicar, a widower of about forty-five, of whose character we will leave the reader to judge, and Ellen, his daughter, a pretty girl, or, rather, young lady we should call her, of about fifteen, aud of whom her father might well be proud, both for her beauty, her modesty, and gentleness ; also Alice, a sweet girl of thirteen, and an orphan of gentle blood, whom the Vicar had adopted to be a com panion for his daughter Ellen.

There were also Sarah, the housemaid ; Mary, the cook ; and Thomas, the groom, footman, and gardener. Having given this very compendious description, let me ask you, gentle reader, to direct your attention to the old inn above mentioned, and there you will see standing in the dimly-lighted entrance, pulling his slouching hat still more over his brow, and gathering his cloak more tightly around him, a man of rough and forbidding ap pearance. He looks up and down the old London road as though much used to caution, gives one more quick, shooting glance down the entrauce-passage of the inn, one more shrug of the shoulders, and we see him bending his footsteps towards the vicarage. It was a cold November night, and the vicarage was wrapped in misty gloom, but within seemed brighter for the outward darkness.

" Wonder if the old gentleman's in ? I've got him, an' I'll see he don't slip out o' my hands," muttered the rough-looking man as he neared the house. " He took to being rather uncivil the last time I called upon him ; I'll hev to remind him of a thing or two if he don't do square. Wonder if I can see him through this window ? I'll just jump up and see, and if he's in I'll not be turned away with that gal. Ha ! there he is. I must hev fifty—" " Hallo, there ; what are you after 1 " growled a voice from the yard as the man dropped from the window. " I was just a lookin' if the Parson was in, sir ; I thought as how I wouldn't trouble 'em if I didn't see 'im," was the answer. " You're just rather too thoughtful for a beggar, I'm thinking," growled Thomas, approaching the man from the yard. " Yes ; I'm not a beggar," was the answer ; " I hev some business with the gentleman o' this house."

"Oh," ejaculated Thomas. "Well, you'll always find my master where he's wanted, only go through the door, and leave the windows for what they were made for,' and with this, Thomas returned to his pony and stable. Rap, rap, rap, went the knocker, and the unseemly and unwelcome visitor bent his ear to the sound of foot steps within. " Is the Parson in, please? " was the man's self-introduction, as Sarah opened the door. "The Parson!" said Sarah, indignantly; "I should think you mean the Vicar." "Yes, yes; the Vicar, please, Miss," stammered the man. The Vicar was seated in his study, evidently in deep thought, as Sarah knocked at the study door and announced " that coarse-looking man " at the door ; but he immediately arose in a somewhat startled and con fused manner, and said — " Yes, yes, Sarah, he is only a beggar.

We must assist the poor. You may go to your kitchen, Sarah, and I'll attend to him." " Good evening, sir," said the man as the Vicar reached the door. " Come this way," said the Vicar, rather sternly, as he led the way to his study. The study reached, he bade the man sit down while he closed the door. "Now, sir," said he, "what do you mean by coming here after I ordered you to stay away, and you agreed to do so after I gave you the last fifty pounds 1" " Why, sir," said the man, " things hasn't looked up in my business lately, and fifty doesn't last the likes o' me long." " Well, what have I to do with that ? " said the Vicar, sharply. ' You know as how I did the work for you, sir, and how I looks after the lad," said the man with a furtive glance. " You did the work, but I am not the gainer," said the Vicar.

" Besides, I did not wish you to keep the lad away longer than when I should have tried my fortune with the widow." " Well, sir," said the man, " if you didn't just succeed with the widow, that's no fault o' mine. " I took the lad away as he wouldn't hinder you ; and as for him a-coming back — well, you see, he was a sharp lad, though he's more like a big, strong young fellow now, and the guvnor took to 'im like, and we thought as how he'd be useful among us, so we just treated him well, and he's along of us yet. An' you know, sir, as how it's one thing to fire a lad's mind about big things in London, and get him to leave his home and join the likes of us, an' it's another to get him back again. An' that there lad's got some mettle in him ; he'll never come back." " But I did not employ you to take him to your infernal den, you villain," said the Vicar, angrily. ' Why did you not carry out my instructions and keep him privately 1 Had you done so, since there is no hope of my gaining the widow, he could have been brought back, and I could have washed my hands of the whole matter."

" Why, I knows as I'm a villain, Vicar," said the man, coolly ; " if I wasn't, you wouldn't hev asked me to hev done that job ; an' we must hev a eye to our own business. Besides, it weren't for a man o' my sort to coax a respectable and intelligent lad away. My sort is generally for rougher work. An', as t' guvnor said, it was a job as wanted a smooth tongue and a swellish figure, and as Simmonds and Swasher was there, they was put on, and they did it as nice as ever you seed a thing done." "Indeed, sir," said the Vicar; "they have done it nicely, and you've done it nicely. But I will not be held by you; you shall not have another fraction from me under any consideration." " Well, you know as how the police hev the matter of that lad in their hand," said the man, suggestively ; "an' how I've kept quiet, an' hev kept the lad from seeing of 'em, an' hev — " " Look here, Grills," said the Vicar, interrupting the man, " I'll give you twenty pounds never to let me see you again in the village."

" I'm glad to see you a-coolin' down, sir," said the man, "as they might be hearing of you in the other room, an' a temper isn't becoming in a man o' your cloth. But—" " Did you hear what I said V said the Vicar, again interrupting his visitor. " Certainly I heard, sir," said the man ; " an', as I was saying, twenty isn't much, but if you'll make it into fifty, I'll—" " I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Vicar, rising with anger and determination. " I have been artfully drawn into this business by you and your masters, but I tell you I will not be held any longer." " But you'd better make it into thirty-five, Vicar," said the man, beginning to be somewhat doubtful of his power. " Will you agree to my offer of twenty ; or will you not ? " said the Vicar, with unmistakable earnestness.

" Well, I can't take twenty, an' never — " " You will not take it," said the Vicar, not waiting to hear the man finish. "Then that is the last time I will offer it. You may say what you like, and do what you like. I have paid your lawyers as they have drawn me on step by step. I have been continually paying you for your silence, and I have constantly lived in fear of your treachery, but I will pay you no more, I will fear you no longer, I dare you to the worst." " You'd better take it cool an' give me twenty-five, sir," said the man, calmly. " I will not give you twenty-five pence. I will not give you a penny. I will not give you a crust of bread. I am surprised I have tolerated you so long. There is the door, sir." The Vicar was roused with great anger as he uttered these words, and pointed to the door and bade Grills Manning depart.

" Do you mean it, Vicar ? " said Grills, with a fear fully angry scowl. "I mean it," said the Vicar. "Go, and never again place your head within my door. Go, sir ! " "I'll go, Vicar," said Grills, rising; "but you shall never forget this night. You have a daughter, sir, and by her, I swear I will have revenge. You shall re member the day, Vicar, when for you we took the boy from his mother's home." " Go ! " was the last word the Vicar spoke to Grills as he closed the door, and Grills took his departure for London. Whhn Grills Manning had gone, the Vicar returned to his study, and, for some minutes, paced its floor, apparently with much agitation ; then resumed his seat. He did not remain seated long, but rose and again paced to and fro with evident uneasiness of mind. At last he began to unburden his mind by a low-toned speech.

"Alas!" he exclaimed; "to what has my love of money brought me ? Why was I not content to live upon my income 1 How quickly my peace of mind fled when I stretched forth my hand to grasp more than God and justice had allowed me ? But am I speaking of God and justice in respect of myself 1 No, no ; I must not do that. It is intolerable that I am compelled to speak of them to others, but to bring my own heart and actions before them would drive me mad. But those lawyers, those villainous lawyers ! They knew my love for money, hence did they set the trap for me. They knew the widow would not marry. They did not want her to. They wanted to get me in their clutches that they might draw my money from me, aud they have succeeded. They have drawn and drawn ; they have tightened their grip upon me, until I am left with an empty purse, an aching heart, and a restless mind.

But, my daughter ! What did he say ? You have a daughter. Oh, villain ! Dare to lay a finger upon her and my very blood shall follow my money and my peace of mind ! But I will have done with them. In the morning I will go to the city and will wash my hands of the matter altogether." He had just resumed his seat again, when rap, rap again went the knocker. "Some one else for money, I suppose," he exclaimed. " Good evening, Mr Vicar," said a young man, entering. " Ah, good evening, my dear sir," said the Vicar, rising to meet the young man, "Pray, how are you? I'm so very pleased to see you ; I wanted to see you this very night." " But you are not looking very well, my dear sir," interrupted the curate, for he it was. " No, no ; I have had a fearful headache all day," explained the Vicar, " and — and I suppose the effects are observable.

However, I feel much better now, thank you. What sort of a service have you had this evening ? " " We have had a really splendid time of it, sir," an swered the curate. " The church was nearly full, and the people seemed really to hunger and thirst after righteousness, and the power of the Spirit felt by all was remarkable. I never before realised such a heavenly influence in my work as I realised in that service. I could not refrain from calling to tell you. I shall be able to go my round amongst the people to-morrow with much joy in my heart." " My dear young man," said the Vicar, "I am very pleased to hear such an account. I was very wishful to be there myself, but my head was so very bad. I hope you will continue seeking your establishment in grace. Depend upon it, my dear sir, there is nothing worth living for but God's eternal riches.

I have found it so in the whole course of my life, and my conviction becomes stronger and stronger. " Such is my very pleasant experience," said the curate. " But you said you wanted to see me in particular." " Yes," said the Vicar ; " and the evening is getting far spent. What I wish to say is, that business calls me to the city in the morning, and therefore I shall not be able to make the calls I designed. But will you walk round by the widow, Mrs Mansforth's, and see how she is getting on, and call here in the afternoon and let me know?" "I shall be very happy indeed to call there sir," answered the curate. " Yes," said the Vicar ; "and you will tell the widow how anxious I am for her welfare, aud you will call upon me in the afternoon." "Oh, yes; certainly, sir," was the answer. " Now, I wfll wish you a very pleasant journey home," said the Vicar, "and much joy and profit in your labours."

" Yes, sir," said the curate ; " to labour in the Master's vineyard is a source of continual joy and profit to me, and I hope it will long continue so." "Yes," said the Vicar; "I hope it will. Mind the steps, my dear sir, it is very dark and thick to-night." " It is, indeed," said the curate, as he nearly fell down the steps, then turned to say " good-night." The Vicar returned his good-night, and added, though inaudibly, " I wish my life were as bright as yours, young man, and that my mind were as pure." When the curate had gone, the Vicar endeavoured to call brightness to his countenance, though it was a miserable failure, and retired to the drawing-room, where were seated Ellen and her companion Alice. " Pray, why does my daughter look so sad to-night ? " said he, as he seated himself by Ellen's side.

" I thought the company of dear little Alice was going to dispel all sad looks for ever." "Alice is a dear, good companion, dear father," said Ellen, exchanging smiles with Alice; "and it was very kind of you to consider me so much, but I did not know I was looking sad ; I do not feel sad ; I should feel quite happy, but for — " Here she hesitated for a moment, and glanced mean ingly at Alice. "But for what?" said her father, smiling tenderly. " Forgive me, father," she said, standing by his side and putting her right arm round his neck, whilst her left rested upon his knee, and her long, beautiful hair streamed carelessly over her shoulder, " I ought not to be so rude and inquisitive, but why does that harsh looking man come so often, and why does he stay so long, and why does he vex you so?"

"Oh, he is only a beggar, my child," said he; "and we must assist the poor, my darling, must we not 1 " "Yes, dear father," said the girl, in an absent-minded manner ; " mother always used to help the poor ; but he seems to be so selfish and so ungrateful." " Yes, my child," said he, taking her left hand in his right, " he does seem selfish and ungrateful too." " Perhaps you have helped him so many times," said she, " that he thinks he has a right to all he gets and all he wants, father." " Yes ; perhaps that is so, my daughter," said he ; "but I think he will not come any more. I had to complain of his conduct, and I spoke rather harshly to him, so perhaps he will not care to come again." " Perhaps not," was the answer. " But Alice and I are going to our room now, so we must say good-night, dear father."

He kissed them both and bade them have a peaceful night's rest, and after many vain efforts to read the book he had brought from his study, he also retired to his chamber. He closed his eyes, but sleep refused to visit his eye lids, and he turned, and turned again, but could gain no rest, for the mind that was in him was a watchful witness of his sin, and his conscience refused to give him peace.

Chapter II Departure Of Widow Mansforth And Her Boy In Search Of

HER LOST ONE. "Ah, I am very glad you have returned, my son, I am so anxious to depart. Did you see both Mr and Mrs Buffington?" These words were uttered by Widow Mansforth to her little boy who, at that moment, had returned from Squire Buffington's, whither he had been sent. " No, mother," answered the boy ; " I only saw Mrs Buffington, the Squire was away from home." " Did you tell her that I had entirely lost my sight, and could do no more work?" "Yes, mother; and that we were going away to-day," answered the boy. "And, what did she say, my dear boy?" said the mother. " She said she was very, very sorry, mother," said the boy ; " and she asked me where we were going. And when I said we were going to London to seek Clifford, she said ' poor Clifford,' and I thought I saw a tear roll down her cheek, but she turned away just then for a little while, and when she came back, she said, ' See, take this to your mother, it is a ten-pound note, and tell her I hope she will succeed in finding your brother, and tell her I will pray for her success.' So I've brought this, mother ; here it is, it is a ten-pound note.

But you are not crying, mother, are you ? Oh, don't cry, mother, we shall soon find Clifford. You know when father was dying, he said to me, 'Never cry over anything, Harley, but always try to mend it.' And we shall soon find Clifford, now, mother." " Let us hope so, my boy," said the poor woman. " Perhaps it is God's will that we should find him." "Yes, mother," said the boy, endeavouring to cheer her; "the Vicar said on Sunday, that God helps them that help themselves." " Yes, Harley," said the widow ; " and we must seek poor Clifford until we find him. But see who that is coming up the stairs." Harley, who was a bright, intelligent boy of eleven, quickly ran to the top of the stairs, and returned, followed by the curate. "It is the curate who has called to see us, mother," said he, approaching his mother.

" Good morning, Mrs Mansforth," said the curate, in a cheerful voice ; " how have you been getting on since last I saw you ? " " Thank you, Mr Cursell," said she. " I have not had much to complain of. My sight has completely gone, but perhaps it is for the best." "I am very sorry for your affliction, dear madam," said the curate; "but it does one good to see how you resign yourself to our Heavenly Father's will." " Yes, sir," said the woman ; " our bark is frail, but it is guided by Him, and He will steer us safely, and in His own good time bring us to a happy and peaceful haven." " I think you were not at the meeting, last night," said the curate, changing the subject. " We had such a splendid time of it." "No, sir," said she; "I wished to arrange a few matters I had to arrange previous to our departure, so that we should not be delayed this morning."

" Previous to your departure, Mrs Mansforth ! " echoed the curate. " You do not mean to say you are going to leave us, do you ? " " Yes," answered the widow; "we have arranged to leave the village this morning. We shall not be long before we depart." "How strange," said he, very much surprised. "I never heard a word about it until now." " No ; we did not wish to make it known much before hand," said Mrs Mansforth; "indeed, we only fixed our intentions a few days ago. I and my little boy have talked the matter over, and we have resolved to leave the village this morning. It is just a year ago to-day that my poor boy, Clifford, left us, and the London police have failed to gain information of his whereabouts, and all our little savings have been paid to private detectives, and yet my boy has not been brought back.

We must go and search for him ourselves, if happily we may find him." " You have some idea where he has gone, then, Mrs Mansforth," said the curate, hopefully. " Yes, sir," said she ; " we think he must be in Lon don. The Vicar and his daughter were driving through one of the city streets about six months ago, and she thought she saw him there, but the Vicar said it was not he, and drove on. But it might have been him, for he always wished to go to London ; and Ellen might not have been mistaken, for he often went to the vicarage, and she knew him well." " But what do you suppose he will be engaged in that he should not let you know his whereabouts?" " Oh ! my dear sir," she said, " we fear he is not doing the will of God. Clifford was a good and obedi ent son, and I was and am still proud of him ; but he was, like his father, of a very proud, determined, and fiery spirit, so different from Harley's and from my own, and his imagination was filled with unwholesome pictures by reading unsuitable books lent to him by his friends, or rather by his enemies, and we fear he was allured by evil companions, aud we fear, too, that his associations now are not of the best.

But he has had a good educa tion, he is very intelligent, he has a tenderness of heart, and his religious training was not neglected, that I be lieve a loose life will not always be followed by him." " Indeed, it is very sad, Mrs Mansforth. Was he much older than this little boy ? " said the curate, tenderly stroking Harley's curly hair, and looking sympatheti cally into his bright, intelligent eyes. " Oh, yes ; he is six years older than Harley," said the widow. " He was just over sixteen when he went away, and he has been away just one year, so that he is now a little over seventeen years of age. But he was strong and big, just the opposite of Harley ; Harley is gentle and more of a feminine nature." " Yes ; it seems almost a pity for this slender little figure to go amongst the rough street arabs of London ; he seems more fitted for ladies' drawing-rooms than for such a duty," said the curate.

" Oh no, sir," said Harley, alarmed at the suggestion ; " I would rather go with mother and find Clifford. Mother can't see, and would not know if Clifford were near her." " Very true, my boy," answered the curate. " It grieves me very much, dear sir," said the widow, " to think of the hardships and privations that may be before him. But even if I could go without him, he would not stay behind ; and he is a very good boy, and we have committed ourselves to the care of God, and we believe He will care for us." " Rest assured He will, my dear madam," said the curate ; " but I believe you are very unfit for the task you have assigned yourself. You do not seem very strong, and by your education and manners you must have belonged to a very different class of society." " No, I am not very strong," answered the widow, " but I must spend what strength I have in seeking, and seeking to reclaim my lost boy ; and though my change of fortune is very great indeed, it must not make me less willing to prosecute my duty.

It is now four years," she went on, " since my poor husband died, and since I first came to this village. He was a Liverpool merchant and was very rich, and while he lived we wanted not for either comfort or luxury, but just before he died he lost all by a too bold speculation and by unsuccessful lawsuits. To escape the pity of those whom fortune continued to favour, and to escape dependency upon richer relatives, we sought obscurity, and found it in this little village of Ellismond. I sold all my jewellery, and all that I had, to pay for the education of my two boys, aud until now I have done needlework to support ourselves and to pay the rent of these two furnished rooms. The Squire and the lady have been very good to me. She has always found me sufficient work, and has always paid me well ; but my sight has now entirely gone, and I cannot do the lady's work.

But I can walk, and my boy can lead me, and I can make inquiries, and together we can seek the lost one." " Thank you very much for showing so much confi dence in me as to acquaint me with so much of your history," said the curate, " and I sincerely trust and pray that you will speedily find your son, and that he will be protected from the dangers that encircle the life of youth. By-the-bye, I called upon the Vicar last night, and he requested me to call upon you and express his regret that business prevented him from calling himself, and he hopes you are bearing your bereavement with Christian fortitude." " Yes ; the Vicar is very kind," said she, " and his daughter is a dear, sympathising girl. Will you kindly remember me to them both, and, of course, tell them I have gone." " I will not forget that, dear madam," said the curate.