A Vicar's Wife

Part I. Chapter

I. 'THE living is worth five hundred and twenty pounds net, and the house is tolerable, and there are about twenty-five acres of glebe,' said the Rector of Wilswick — ' a very fair investment, the advowson of Colewater ! He is thirty-five years of age — an excellent age to marry — and I suppose you like him, Lucy, so there is no more to be said.' ' You might have put that first, Tom.' ' I might, my dear, but thank God I am not poetical. I prefer to think first that you have a prospect of living in decent comfort ; besides, I feel sure that Fletcher himself will manage the romance so as to leave nothing to be desired. I imagine romance to be one of his strong points.' ' You don't like him much ! ' ' Oh, well enough. We haven't — never had — a great deal in common. He isn't the kind of man A that suits me best.

But there — a sister's fancy is quite beyond the control or calculation of a brother, and there is nothing known against him, and if you are satisfied, why, I think I may be pretty comfortable about you, and grateful to Heaven that things have turned out so.' ' I am afraid I have been a great responsibility to you, Tom.' 'Well, rather. You have some very upsetting ideas, you see.' ' Then there is reason for unlimited gratitude to Heaven that they have run into the channel of matrimony, and that you can be so respectably rid of me.' 'That's not quite fair, Lucy. I have done my duty by you as far as I could, and I have really liked having you to look after, but you know you always wanted me to be a hero or a saint. Women always do want a hero or a saint to worship, and I am very glad you have got one now in the natural way, which is of course the best way.' ' You have never forgotten or understood why I wished to call you Thomas when you became a rector ? ' ' No, by Jove ! it was so priggish, and thank God I am not a prig, though I am a Clerk in Holy Orders.

A man can be an Englishman first and a clergyman afterwards, as I have so often told you. But as for Fletcher, now, you can call him Markham from the beginning. I don't suppose you would care for Markey — and you can be Lucia to him, or Santa Lucia. He might be Saint Mark to you, by the way.' The Rector laughed heartily. His sister looked a little vexed. ' His face is certainly refined enough for a saint's,' she said sharply. ' Yes, I grant you that.' ' And his sermons — ' ' Elegant ! Exactly] elegant ! ' ' I will not allow him to be ridiculed ! If you cannot appreciate the delicacy of his nature, at least respect the man I am going to marry.' ' Very fine, my dear ; but I must tell you that if I thought a little ridicule would prevent your doing So it would J not be wanting.' ' It would fall as powerless as waves upon a rock.

Oh, Tom, why do you dislike him so ? ' The Rector considered. ' Well, he isn't manly.' Lucia answered quickly, with scorn, — ' That's to say he cannot walk thirty miles a day, nor lift a ton weight in one hand — your idea of manliness ! Is it not a finer thing to have high ideals and live up to them, as becomes a clergy man, a minister of God ? What can athletic triumphs matter to one whose heart is fixed on heavenly matters ? ' ' Oh, good gracious ! How your silly little young lady head is full of phrases ! It is a fine thing, no doubt, to be an angel, but we are mortals, and you will learn that a fellow is neither more nor less than human because he has received an Apos tolic Blessing ! Saints don't marry, or if they do, make very poor husbands, and you may find yourself even less pleased with Markham Fletcher and his refinement than with me, who wish to be nothing more than a fair-dealing Englishman.' ' It's a shocking thing that you should be in the Church.

I cannot imagine what made you enter it.' ' You know perfectly that I did so to hold the family living. While Harry lived, what better thing was there for me to do ? If I could have foreseen that he was so soon to die, poor soul ! of course I should have chosen differently. Now, I am squire and parson too, and may your Fletcher never disgrace his profession more than I ! ' ' My dear Tom, disgrace and you are very far apart. I haven't lived with you for seven years without learning that; but you know you were meant to be a soldier.' 'I was. In the Middle Ages I should have been a fighting priest. Look here, Lucy, it is no easy profession for an average man — that of parson — every imaginable virtue expected of him, every eye on him, every tongue wagging about him whatever he does, all the world anxious, delighted, to believe any irregularity on his part, any scandal that may attach itself to him.

It is a dog's life. There is many a fool now wearing a white tie, for respectability and position's sake, who, if his time had to come over again, would choose to be a bank clerk or a jockey, so that he might rap out an occasional oath or two without every old cat in the neighbourhood thinking it her duty to hold up her hands in pious horror. And, uncommon bad pay for his self-repression, expected to lead the life of a grandmother and speak with the voice of a prophet, and such an abundance of leisure as makes any average fellow an easy prey to Satan! God bless my soul ! they are a wonderful creditable lot, considering all things, the clergy. And now these Tractarians gaining ground, with their frills and furbelows and tomfoolery, to make things harder for a sensible man who wants to get through his appointed time as little of a humbug as possible !

Not that he need fear much from them, with their petticoats and finery — England hasn't come to that yet; but I tell you, Lucy, every time anyone sees me in the lanes or in Coleminster in pepper-and-salt trousers, smoking that cigar or pipe which so much annoys you, I reflect that I am not only enjoying myself but making it easier for some poor curate in the diocese to live more naturally and have a little fun. No one can say anything of me, Wilbraham of Wilswick, landlord and priest, except that I am a good fellow, and the Rev. Jeremiah Jorkins, B.A., perpetual curate of— anywhere, with one hundred and fifty pounds a year, may have a trifle of impunity to smoke his pipe up the chimney and take a hand at whist. God bless the Church of England ! There isn't a finer institution in the world, but she's honeycombed with humbug ! ' The Rector had risen, and was walking up and down the room, jerking out his words in his ex citement.

He was a well-grown, broad-shouldered man of three-and-thirty, dark, with a firm mouth and chin, and thick short black whiskers. His voice was strong and unaffected ; he impressed a stranger as being full of vitality and of honest if dull purpose. Of his companion's vitality neither could there be any doubt. Darker than himself, with re markable straight brows and beautiful luminous eyes, sensitiveness and mobility were the char acteristics of each well -formed feature. Her abundant blue-black hair framed to advantage a forehead and cheek of excellent proportion, where the colour continually varied with her vary ing mood. She was tall, made on a large and ad mirable scale ; in mind and body alike there was no stint in her growth. She was triumphant and radiant with generous young life and young thought.

There was nothing negative in Lucia Wilbraham. ' Honeycombed with humbug ! ' her brother de clared with heat and decision, then felt a little ashamed of his vehemence. ' That is because you all take such low views of your calling,' she cried in ringing tones. ' If you cared for the real matter, the cure of souls, what would a pipe matter, or pepper-and-salt trousers versus black ? The thing that most attracts me about Mr Fletcher is that he ranks the spiritual first.' ' Yes, spiritual first, no doubt, when he inter viewed Smollett & Co. of Maddox Street, con cerning the living of Colewater, rather than one perhaps in some dingy manufacturing town. Gravel soil and fruit garden well stocked — vicarage com pact and in good repair — cathedral town within six miles — all spiritual advantages — all !

Come, Lucy, don't let us squabble about words. You are romantic — your age, sex, and the happy moment combine to make you so. Fletcher is of poetical appearance and elegant mind, but, thank God, has intervals of practical sanity, and never more so than when he set his affections on a well-grown, high-spirited girl like you, of decent family, with connections in the county — ' 'You lower yourself, not him, by your insinuations ! They are only insinuations — there is no real ground for them. How do you know he bought the presentation ? If it is wrong to do so, I don't believe it of him ! And do you imagine I am the only girl he has ever seen who is what you call well grown and high spirited?' Words failed Lucia, and her cheeks blazed with indignation. Mr Wilbraham saw no use in argument. ' There, I've done,' he said briefly. ' If I have vexed you, I'm sorry.

I suppose you have really and finally made up your mind to accept him?' ' I accepted him this morning, as I told you.' ' Yes, and hence his letter to me. Well, I have seen it coming for the last month or two. All right ; you couldn't fancy Eddy Bengough — ' Lucia tossed her head without speaking. Her brother sat down to write to Markham Fletcher, giving his consent to the proposal of marriage. He fumed and pursed his lips, but it had to be done, and done it was, while the girl looked out of the window and across the lawn, golden green in the afternoon sunlight, and strained her eyes to catch between the trees a glimpse of the sea, which lay some miles to the south. ' You'll miss me, Tom ? ' she asked suddenly. 'Bless my soul, yes!' said Mr Wilbraham. He closed the envelope, got up, and coming to her, kissed her cheek. ' There's no hurry about your marrying, however,' he added. 'You know I wish your happiness — but I don't believe Fletcher will make it ! ' ' And I do — that is all the difference ! ' she an swered, with her head on her shoulder.

He stood a minute, then went away, and she watched him going over the grass towards the village, striding, his head forward, swinging his stick. The afternoon wore on. The ivy on the grey walls of the Court House was as golden green as the grass in the brilliant light ; all the flat, ugly windows glittered. A thrush, perched on one end of a spout, cheeped and chuckled, and chat tered and called, and poured out his very heart in song. It was June, in verdant Southamptonshire, in one of those leafy much-loved estates that are the chief beauty of England, for which all her sons are born with a sense of worship. No man can live in them too long, or tell their charm too often, nor can his eyes grow sated with the sight of them, and however far and often he may wander, he would wish his bones to rest under their shadow.

The Court House of Wilswick was two storeys high, built of grey stone, with a long straight front age, and stretching deep behind. It would have been unpleasingly plain but for the thick mantle of creeping plants which partly covered it, and the roses that softened the hard outline of windows and doors, yet the main colour, that of soft bluish flint, was delightful. It stood half-way up a moderate slope, sheltered at the back from the east winds by the hillside and the fir wood. It looked westward over a lawn with broad, gay flower-beds — over a width of park land where old oak and lime trees flourished, and a little strip of river curled between borders of yellow irises — over the village to the silent setting of the sun. The estate was not large, but contained all scope that a moderate man could wish for his energies.

A couple of good sized farms well let — a village of five hundred souls — and round the house three hundred acres of excellent land. The Wilbrahams had owned it for many generations. They had been famed for nothing but their respectablity, that strange boast so dear to the average Briton, which means the absolute negation of all freedom of action or sentiment, and the stifling of generosity and genius. They had done nothing great, either good or bad, but they had kept the law, and tilled the soil, and planted trees, and maintained the beauty of the country. The first departure from the traditions of the family had been the marriage of the late Squire with a fervid Irish maiden — Miss Ellen Callaghan. For portion she gave him the pleasure of her silky blueblack hair and fine glistening skin, where colour came and went as though for joy in its own loveliness.

Her buoyant, quick-moving spirit was a perpetual perplexity and delight to him, but he held the ordinary family course, and only by some rare freak in flower-bed or fountain, or staining of a chamber wall, was she allowed to leave her impress on the solid Saxon home. They had two sons, Henry and Thomas, sturdy English boys, who valued gun and dog above every other treasure of Nature or Art. These went to school at Win chester, and thence to Oxford, where Tom took a bare degree and Holy Orders, and Harry, as became the elder son, took nothing — commonplace fellows to their very names, of high rank among the crowd who daily thank God they are exactly as other men. What of her Celtic dreams and fervours had poor Ellen given to them ? In a supreme effort she endowed a daughter with her heart and soul and life, and having left herself nothing — ceased. ' I'm going, Harry,' she cried to her husband, ' but they say she is just like me, so you won't be able to forget me.' 'We'll call her Ellen,' said the Squire, hoarse with woe. 'No; call her Lucia — Lucia — promise me — a light, and joy she'll be to you — call her Lucia, Harry,' and because even to a British squire a dear wife's death cannot but be a little convulsive, he promised, and it was so.

He duly mourned her, and took no other in her place, and followed her sooner than could have been expected, by reason of a chill which he caught watching one damp November night for poachers, and his son Harry reigned briefly in his stead. Time was given him for few acts of state. He stocked a pond with fish, and laid the first stone of a village reading-room, and the Rector, Lucia's tutor, being made the Dean of Coleminster, he gave the living to his brother, who waited for it in a Cornish curacy. Then one morning as he hunted the Southamptonshire Hounds through a planta tion of young firs, his mare set her foot in a hole of that enemy of man, the rabbit, and Harry was propelled over her head on to his own, and death was instantaneous. So Tom at thirty found himself Squire and Rector of Wilswick, and being a man of energy, decided to fill both offices himself.

The rectory was deserted, and he took up his abode at the Court House with his beautiful young sister. He was an excellent man in his narrow practical way. His intentions were perfectly good, his standard was essentially commonplace. His sister per plexed him almost as much as her mother had perplexed his father. To her the Real existed only as the symbol of the Ideal. There was a meaning in everything, everything was interesting, everything Providential. She had learned no science, but had begged so hard for classics that the Squire yielded, and gave her over to the Rector to teach her anything he would, and he being a wise and well-read man, and moreover a Christian not so unworthy of his Master as most, had trained and stocked her mind, and prevented it from becoming too luxuriant in romance of all sorts.

But it remained uncontroll ably sanguine and sensitive, intolerant of anything low, quick to catch any glimpse of poetry, even more passionate and credulous than its youth warranted — a nature on which life must surely some day jar. The shadows lengthened and the blackbirds out sang the thrushes in the tree tops, and Lucia sat under them, accepting their message as it were the tale of all the wonderful mystery of being and all the happiness of love which had come to her in the words and worship of Markham Fletcher.

Chapter II

Mr WlLBRAHAM's note was delivered to Mr Fletcher in the course of the afternoon. He read it, smiled a happy and complacent smile, and ordered his dinner for six o'clock punctually, that he might acknowledge its receipt that evening in person. At seven, therefore, dressed in the glossiest of clerical black, he started to ride the four miles that separated him from Wilswick. Mr Fletcher looked better in the pulpit or a drawing-room than on horseback. He rode loosely, with long stirrups ; only a malicious person could have wished to see him on a beast not of the quietest, and a man such as Mr Wilbraham, who — the year was 1866 A.D. — hunted regularly twice a week throughout the season, could not help despising a creature whose knee-grip was so slight. Otherwise, however, the Vicar of Colewater was a handsome man, of an exceedingly refined and gentlemanly style.

He was tall and slim, brown haired, with beautiful grey eyes and a thin aquiline nose. When he smiled his well-shaped mouth curled upwards, showing his white and regular teeth. His forehead, though receding, was high, his voice deep and melodious, he was pardonably vain of his hands and feet. In manner, in dress, in the detail of his transparent nostril and his clean shaving he was an exact representative of a certain type of old-fashioned man of good family — often poor, always admired by many, of whom the greater number were women. It is easy to understand that Mr Wilbraham, who set John Bull as a standard before his eyes, would not be one of the admirers. The cloth was just taken from the dinner-table at the Court House when Mr Fletcher rode up to the door. He delayed a minute or two in the hall while the dust was brushed from his trousers and coat-tails, then, passing his fingers lightly through his glossy waving hair, he caused himself to be ushered into the dining-room. ' May my exceptional and most happy circum stances excuse this intrusion,' he said ; ' I could not wait longer to thank you for your reassuring and agreeable letter, Mr Wilbraham, and to give myself the pleasure of seeing your sister.' He bowed to her gracefully, with a charming smile.

Her brother rose and held out his hand. 'Very glad, I'm "sure, for my part, and Lucy will speak for herself,' he answered, doing his best to be cordial. ' Have a glass of port ? No ? I always drink it — but let me give you some claret. Beautiful evening.' ' Very. I have had a delightful ride.' 'You came along the path through the hay fields, I daresay. Is the Bengough's hay down yet?' ' I believe so. I hardly noticed.' The Vicar looked at Lucia, and pressed her hand before he gave it up. ' Ah ! I imagine it would be. Wonderful weather lately for grass — showery days alternating with heat and sunshine — brings it on amazingly. I began to cut mine yesterday.' ' A fine crop, I hope ? ' ' Capital. By the way, you have a couple of fields which should be about ready? ' ' Really, have I ? Oh, yes ; but I was at a con vocation at Colebury yesterday and too busy to walk round my little domain.' ' Dull things convocations !

Lucky in escaping the meetings here, isn't he, Lucy? ' ' How can I know, Tom ? Am I allowed to be present ? ' ' Oh ! your ear at the door, I'll swear.' Mr Wilbraham felt awkward, and wished to get rid of his companions. ' You don't smoke, I think, Fletcher ? ' ' Thank you, no.' ' And you do, Tom — no one more so. I shall go into the drawing-room. The smell of the honey suckle and syringa is too sweet to be spoilt by that of tobacco.' Lucia rose. ' Let me follow you and we will enjoy it together,' said Mr Fletcher, and they went. 'Thank God that's over,' muttered the Squire. ' Very right and proper, of course, coming over this evening — not that I like him any the better for it. Cannot for the life of me tell what Lucy sees in him — a smiley-wiley fellow. Figuring round at convocations instead of looking after his hay !

Say he's in love, he needn't neglect his duty that lies just at hand. God bless my soul ! if I were a girl in her place — ' But mentally the worthy gentleman once more returned thanks to his Creator that he was neither more nor less than himself, and went off into his study to put on an old coat and enjoy a cigar. ' Yesterday and to-day have been the proudest and happiest I have ever known, Lucia mia ! ' said Mr Fletcher tenderly. His betrothed had seated herself in a chair near an open French window. He stood by, bending towards her. ' Have they ? ' she answered. ' Markham,' he suggested. It is a harsh name, but she made it seem as soft as her own. B ' Ah ! ' A long sigh of pleasure from her lover. ' I have never cared for my name till now, yet it is not a bad one — a family name, indeed.

Are you happy, Lucia ? ' ' Yes.' ' There is all your life before you. Are you content to give it into my keeping ? ' ' Yes.' ' You trust me — you love me ? ' ' I do.' Mr Fletcher sank to his knee at her side, and put his arm round her and kissed her. Never had the quality of summer evening perfumes been more mysteriously sweet — never the summer even ing silence more eloquent of the unspeakable something beyond than just then to her. All that the universe held of goodness and beauty seemed to meet in the handsome, ardent man who pressed her to him, and raised her face to his — all met — and all was hers. ' I am unworthy of my fortune ! ' he mur mured. ' Unworthy me ! ' She was nothing to herself, while he seemed godlike. ' What drew you to me first ? ' he asked. ' I don't know — I was always drawn to you.

Yet I think perhaps it was that sermon you preached just after the New Year — "the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose " — do you remember ? How you spoke of Heaven ! ' ' I remember your face chiefly, Lucia, lifted up to me in the half-lighted church. You inspired me — your eyes were fathomless — Heaven dawned upon me as I looked at them — the world's desert blossomed verily. I spoke, carried beyond my ordinary mood. Was it wrong? No ! I answer myself. You were my angel, my guiding star, my source of thought — I have already said it — my inspiration ! There is no better word ! And you will be so to me in the long sweet years to come, will you not, dear one ? ' Mr Fletcher had risen and was standing, his face illumined, the sunset flushing his pale cheek. ' Can I, Markham ? Oh, yes.

I can, I feel it, I will be your inspiration ! I will fill the desert with roses for you, and show you all those paths of glory which I have so often seen in my waking dreams. Yet, surely it will be your part to show me ? ' ' Much, no doubt. But the woman's is the more angelic nature, and I shall learn of you, my Lucia ! How fitly you are named, my sweet one, my light ! Not named so by chance, I think.' ' It was my mother's dying wish.' ' Alas ! poor lady, to have to die and leave you. Did you not say you never knew her? I am in just such a case — a coincidence which should draw us even nearer together, dear. My mother, too, died in my infancy. Let me tell you of myself a little, shall I ? ' ' There is nothing I should so much like to hear, for I know you chiefly as Vicar of Colewater for the past eight months.

What a number of years there are I can never share with you ! ' 'Just thirty-five. But all the rest (I have been tempted often, do you know, to wish they might be few in number, so great is the weariness of life upon me at times — now I could wish them a hundred, that they might all be shared with you) all the rest will be yours — all your life mine ! Are you happy in this, Lucia ? ' She bowed her head. ' My treasure ! ' was mur mured in her ear. Then followed a kiss upon her cheek. 'Well, I was born in London, dearest — an un romantic spot, yet the birthplace of many great men — born in a street off Piccadilly. My father was a Cumberland man — a younger son of the Fletchers of Fletcherstown. He was put into a cavalry regiment, and saw much service. A gallant soldier, but a worldly man — I say it with all respect — he had many virtues, but was of a worldly nature.

He married late ; my mother — er — hardly understood him. She died before I could judge of the differences between them, and I recollect my father chiefly as a soured man, cynical, a martyr to sciatica. Poor fellow, how he suffered ! I picture him to myself, his high-bred face con vulsed with pain, groaning on his couch ; then again, the attack over, charming a circle of friends in club or drawing-room — a delightful man, my father — witty — a raconteur. We lived at Bath, in Great Pulteney Street. Lord Marshbanks, an old comrade of my father's, would come in continually of an evening, bringing a fourth to make a game of whist. I played myself from seven years old. Poor dad ! he forgot his aches over his beloved cards. He was a first-rate player of the old school, and a very severe teacher.

I assure you, darling, I used to lay down the pasteboard with inward trembling. Any fault was recognised with a stern ness that had been better employed towards some moral backsliding. The terrors of that game for me — my father's gleaming hawk-eye as he cried : " Markham, what next, sir ! Do you take my trick ? " or, " Did you not see my lead, you jackan apes ? " or, " Marshbanks, will you take this boy ? He's yours, sir, from to-night! No son of mine would have withheld that trump ! " ' ' Oh, poor dear ! How you must have hated it ! What a horrid old man — forgive me.' ' A martinet — a great sufferer — we must be tolerant, my Lucia. It made me a whist player.' ' A noble thing, I am sure ! I loathe the game. I loathe all cards. They are a wicked waste of time. Do we need to pass away our hours with painted paper, Markham, the few short hours of our earthly life which means so much ? ' ' If all men took your view, my sweet serious one, the world would be a better place than it unfortunately is.

I say it was an unedifying phase, that of my childhood and youth. Rouged dowagers, old Lady Marshbanks, Mrs Moggridge, and gouty men of fashion presided over my morals. My father taught me manners, hitting out at me with his stick if I bowed clumsily or answered in an unpleasing tone. I went to school in Bath. All their teaching could not stifle the dreams of youth, the long long thoughts of boy hood, when the trees grow green and the moon makes the rivers silvery. Oh, happy boyhood ! Life never fulfils the promises it made to you ! But I weary you, Lucia.' ' No, never less. Am I not hearing all about yourself?' 'You make me very happy. I pass the years when I waited, a boy no longer, for the commission we had no means of getting. Follies many were mine, I grieve to say, in those idle days, but nothing the world calls dishonourable was among them.