The Vicar's Wife

by I. A. R. Wylie

 

THE VICAR'S WIFE

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BY I. A. R. WYLIE

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A SHORT STORY.

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“THERE'S them that grumbles,” said Mrs. Gummidge in tones of indignation, “and says as 'ow the gentry and haristocracy is halways a treadin' on us meek and 'umble. But I says—and I said it to Mrs. Jones this very mornin'—I says it's a downright perambulation, as your 'usband said in 'is last sermon, Mrs. Vicar.”

“Prevarication, perhaps was the word, Mrs. Gummidge,” said the little lady by the fire, raising a white hand to her forehead with a gesture of fatigue. Mrs. Gummidge nodded violently, so that the bonnet with the bedraggled ostrich feather assumed a more than usually alarming angle over one ear.

“May be, Mrs. Vicar, may be. Them words in 'ation' is that muddlin' there's only one I'm sure of—and that ain't either 'ere nor there, as the sayin' goes. What I mean is, that it's a downright thumpin' lie!” She snapped her lips together and looked defiantly round the room as though in search of some one to contradict her—possibly Mrs. Jones.

Seeing no one but her hostess, she went on. “I said to Mrs. Jones, I said, 'Call them 'ard-'arted brutes, do yer? I tells yer, if I goes to Mrs. Vicar to-day and tells 'er the 'ole truth, 'ow Jim's been out of work for a fortnight and dead drunk 'alf the time, and no food in the 'ouse and the rent owin' these ten days, I'll bet my last sixpence,' says I, 'that Mrs. Vicar'll up and say, 'Mrs. Gummidge, I knows your troubles, I knows your sufferin's, and 'eroic struggles against diversity—'ere's the rent and Gawd bless yer!' And I says to Mrs. Jones, who is a pert woman—'Say one word to the contrairy and, good churchgoer as I ham, I'll give yer a black eye yer won't—”

The flow of eloquence was here interrupted by a yell of boredom from the child seated on the next chair. Mrs. Gummidge shook the peace-disturber and boxed both ears impartially.

“'Old your noise, Lizzie! She tikes after 'er father, Mrs. Vicar, halways making a row and no good to no one. There, look what the good lidy 'as guv yer, yer little varmint!”

Eileen Calhoun, otherwise known as Mrs. Vicar, had got up and produced a bag of sweets. The sobs ceased—a large peppermint bull's-eye putting an effective stop to further sounds of distress. At the same time Mrs. Vicar drew out her purse.

“There, Mrs. Gummidge,” she said in her tired voice, “I hope this will help you with your rent.” Mrs. Gummidge got up, made a curtsy, and took the coin into her grimy palm.

“Mrs. Vicar, yer proves me an hupholder of the truth, for I says to Mrs. Jones—'I ain't the woman to go round a beggin' and a whimperin' over me 'ardships, but Mrs. Vicar's a lidy. She knows our wants afore we says a word. It's 'er hinstinkt. There, Lizzie, kiss the kind lidy!”

Lizzie put up her pale and pepperminty face, and Mrs. Vicar bent down and performed the task required of her. Her own face was quite expressionless.

“Be a good girl and help your mother,” she said as though she were speaking a formula. Then she opened the door and bade her visitors good-by with a smile which was as automatic as the rest of her movements.

She went to the top of the stairs and listened to Mrs. Gummidge's heavy descending step, the sound of a man's voice and Mrs. Gummidge's voluble reply. Then she went back and closed the door.

It was only four o'clock in the afternoon, but a dense London fog crept through the crevices of the ill-fitting window and filled the room with gloom and smut. There was smut on the white tea-cloth and, for the third time that day, Eileen Calhoun took it off and gave it a vicious shake into the fender. After that she took a duster out of a drawer and carefully removed the mud which Lizzie's boots had left behind them. This done she went back to the fire and, placing the kettle on the hob, knelt there, watching the play of the firelight with thoughtful eyes.

They were very pretty eyes and, though her dark curly hair was already streaked with gray, they had still plenty of life and energy in them—thwarted life and energy, if one might have judged from the line of bitterness around the mouth. She was dressed simply in black. There was only a wedding-ring on the white hand held out to the blaze, and other jewelry she had none. Everything about her was shabby, and yet she did not look altogether shabby. It was as though the spirit of a Redfern or a Worth had breathed over the cheap material of her dress and lent it an inimitable grace and elegance. Just so was it with the room whose furniture had never been beautiful, even in its youth. Still, there was a flower here, a flower there, and a gracefully arranged hanging, things which proclaimed a steadfast struggle against mediocrity and ugliness.

II.

The door opened and a man in clerical dress entered. He was tall—very tall, but for a marked stoop, and his face, with the dark-brown eyes and finely cut features, was pleasant to look upon. Obviously, one would have said, this man is a dreamer. His dreams may be beautiful, but they will be impracticable none the less. At the present moment his expression was one of subdued sadness. His wife turned from the fire and greeted him with a smile half tender, half unwilling.

“You needn't tell me what you have been doing,” she said grimly. “I know.”

“Know what, my dear?” with great innocence.

“You have just given Mrs. Gummidge her rent.”

“Well, the poor woman has been hard put to it, and—”

“The poor woman has had her rent twice over, once from me, once from you, and you have been taken in again. Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey!”

He laughed, and his laughter matched his young face rather than the premature gray hair. He came over to the fire and seated himself in the large chair, his arm resting on his wife's shoulder.

“You may laugh,” she said faintly impatient, “but this folly of yours has made our to-morrow's dinner a problematic matter. Didn't we arrange that you should leave these people to me? They deserve their misery, for the most part. They are all cheats and humbugs, and so are we for pretending to love them. I had to kiss that Lizzie and call her a pretty child. Is it Christian to tell lies to please one's neighbor?”

“Hush, Eileen!” he interrupted quietly. “We must try and love them, that's all. And, if they are cheats and humbugs, we must remember that their lot is a very hard one. Our business is to give them what they want, both for body and soul.”

She said nothing, and he bent down and kissed her. “Why shouldn't I give them what they want?” he went on whimsically. “I have everything I want.”

She looked up at him with the old mixture of bitterness and tenderness.

“You mean me, I suppose? Yes, I am quite surprised that you haven't given me away with the rest of your goods and chattels before now. Geoffrey”—drawing back to see him better. “Dear, how dreadfully long your hair is! I shall cut it myself if you won't spare twopence for the hairdresser! And that waistcoat! No self-respecting man would ever wear such a thing! Were you like that when I married you? How could I have done it!” He shook his head.

“Oh, no; I was rather a smart young man in those days, especially when I began to—well—think life wouldn't be worth living without you.” She leaned her elbow on his knee and returned to her contemplation of the firelight.

“Yes, I remember now. And I was the best-dressed woman in London, so they said.” He pressed her shoulder.

“Those were light and foolish days,” he said, as though to excuse himself and her. “You proved what a noble heart beat behind the trumperies, when you gave your whole fortune into my hands to help me in my work. There are many who bless your name, Eileen, and their blessings must make you happy.”

She made no answer. The face turned to the fire was not altogether the face of a happy woman. So they remained for some moments, each of them deep in thought, then Geoffrey Calhoun started as though struck by a sudden recollection.

“My dear, how careless of me! These two letters were waiting for you downstairs. One is from Mrs. Langly, I think, and the other from a lawyer. What have you to do with lawyers, little woman?”

She caught the letters from his hand and, opening them, began to read them by the flickering light. She did not speak, but any one watching the changing face would have read breathless excitement in the wide-open eyes and parted lips.

Geoffrey Calhoun saw nothing. He was considering the financial difficulties of the Convalescent Home he had erected with his wife's money, and which was now threatened with debt. He saw no way out of the difficulty—except it were closed and the needy invalids sent back into the misery of the London streets. The thought made him knit his fine brows in sudden pain.

“Geoffrey!” he heard his wife say from afar off, “Geoffrey, read this.” He took the letters from her and read them, the first, rather absent-mindedly, the second with an excitement almost equal to her own. When he had finished he leaned back and they looked each other in the face, half laughing, half overwhelmed.

III.

“Isn't it strange—almost fate!” she said with her hands clasped before her. “First the invitation and then the money which makes it possible to accept! Oh, Geoffrey, think what it all means! Six thousand pounds! I never thought I should be left so much! It's a lot of money! You could get a substitute. We could go away—perhaps forever—from all this dirt and squalor! Let me see, first we could go to Rachel Langly's—they have asked us to their lovely place in Surrey. There, what does she say?”

She caught up the letter and read it again. She spoke incoherently, and her hand shook with more than ordinary excitement. Every tone and movement was that of a captive who begins again to breathe the pure air of freedom.

“She says—'Your husband must come, too; and bring all your pretty clothes—I am sure you must be tired of slumming!' Tired of slumming!”

She got up, crushing the letter between her hands. “Oh, Geoffrey, I never said it before to you because it couldn't be helped. But now it can be helped—and I am sick of it all—sick of it all! Only this afternoon I felt I could have murdered Mrs. Gummidge and her Lizzie and every one of them! I loathed the sight of them, and the ugliness of it all!”

She came behind his chair and took his face between her hands. “There, my darling old saint, don't be shocked; don't mind anything I say. I am only wild with excitement and joy. It has all been smothered and bottled up so long. Think, Geoffrey, what it will be to get away—our first holiday for three years! Say you are glad—say something!”

He patted her hand fondly. His face was still flushed with the reflection of her delight, and there was a far-off look in his dreamy eyes.

“Yes, dear, I, too, long for fresh, pure sunlight. Do you know, lately. I have had such a hunger for the smell of hay and the sight of roses and the song of birds. There are never any roses or birds here, are there?”

“I should think not!” she answered laughing.

“I wish we could import them!” with a sigh of regret. “It would do the poor people so much good.”

“Never mind them for once. Besides, I don't suppose even Mrs. Langly will be able to supply us with hay and roses at the beginning of April, you silly town-fellow! But, there, we shall have the fresh spring green and the violets! Won't it be glorious?”

“Yes, wouldn't it be glorious?” He echoed her future tense with the conditional, but she did not notice it.

“Mrs. Langly says I am to bring my pretty clothes! Poor Rachel! She thinks we have been playing at poverty. She doesn't know how real it has all been. I haven't any pretty clothes—but I soon shall have. Just think of a pretty muslin dress, and not this”—she ran her hand over her skirt almost as though it were something repulsive—“this cheap serge, of all awful things. And you, Geoffrey, shall have a new waistcoat at last!” She clapped her hands, but, as though the sound awakened him from a pleasant dream, he got up, his face pale and resolute.

“My dear, we have been two foolish children wandering in a fairyland which doesn't belong to us,” he said. “It was beautiful—but it isn't true, and we mustn't waste time with what isn't true.”

He had folded his arms and gazed straight ahead of him into the gathering darkness.

“The money has come as a Godsend,” he said with feverish enthusiasm. “All to-day I have been wondering how the Convalescent Home could be kept open—your home, Eileen—and there are so many sick and ailing who need its help. Now the problem is solved, for I know, dear, how you will wish the money spent.”

“Geoffrey!” she said under her breath, but he did not seem to hear her.

“It is a Godsend!” he repeated fervently. “The poor creatures can still enjoy the country air, and room made for others there. It is a real weight from my mind.”

Then she interrupted him. She came and stood opposite him with a face as resolute as his own, but paler, as though she felt the coming conflict of their wills.

“Geoffrey, it is you who are in fairyland now,” she said. “You are dreaming of things that cannot be. No, dear, let me say what I have to say. I—we have sacrificed our all for these others—not money only, but the best years of our lives. Somewhere the sacrifice must stop—it must stop here.”

“It is no sacrifice,” he said sternly, more sternly than he had ever spoken to her before. “It is our simple duty.” His tone stung her.

“Have we no duty to ourselves?” she demanded half-appealingly, but with growing passion. “Have we no right to enjoy the fresh air, to laugh, to be glad and happy? Must we, our whole lives, sit and suffocate in this murky atmosphere, never meet our equals, never for get the pinch of our poverty? Is there no end to our sacrifice—”

“I have told you,” he interrupted dogmatically. “It is no sacrifice.”

She threw up her head and her eyes met his for the first time with hot defiance.

“Not for you, then, but for me! Geoffrey, I have borne it all these years. I have been patient through all the dirt and squalor of our lives. It was hard to be patient, for I wasn't used to such things. I have seen our money flung away on drunkards and humbugs who fooled you and laughed at you behind your back. I have fought out the problem of our daily bread. I have seen you ill. And I tell you, I have borne it all, and would have borne it to the bitter end but for this hope of salvation—yes, salvation, Geoffrey! It is like a breath of fresh air in a dungeon, a note of music out of an old song, a call from a world to which I belong, body and soul. It's true, Geoffrey. I can't help it. It's true!”

He looked at her coldly and critically. Even in her excitement his iciness chilled her into silence. She did not know that behind that iciness there burned a temper as hot, as obstinate, as headstrong as her own.

“I thought differently of you,” he said. “I thought you would be my comrade to the end, giving in money what I give in actual labor. You have spoken very poetically, but in the simple language I prefer, you mean that you have been sacrificing yourself all through our married life, and that you are wearied of it. Let me tell you that I ask 'sacrifices' of no one—least of all, you.”

He paused. He may or may not have known it—angry people are often consciously and willingly tactless—but he was aggravating her with every look and tone into hotter rebellion.

“The money is yours. You have already 'sacrificed' one fortune, and, no doubt, consider your duty done. Do what you please. Do with the money what you please. But, if you go away from here in this time of need and sickness you go alone—and you will return only of your own free will. I leave you to make your choice.”

He went out, stiff and erect, and left her in a state of bewilderment, torn between anger and the desire to call him back. It was the first disagreement, the first time that their wills had broken asunder, and it hurt her. For a moment she hated the typewritten letter she still held—then she remembered all it meant, and her heart beat high with irrepressible hope. It meant freedom.

The walls of the shabby, ugly room faded away and she saw a bright, sunlit world spread itself out before her, filled with flowers and green pastures. She went mechanically to the writing-table, and having lit a candle, stood there looking down on the white note-paper. She was going to answer one of the letters. What was she going to say? What? She did not know. She seated herself and the pen hovered over the paper. The lovely gardens faded. The habit and love of a lifetime regained its old dominion over her, the strength of an iron will crushed her energy, the very room seemed to close in upon her like a prison.

She began to write. It was her death-warrant and she knew it, but she went on. She wrote just as she had kissed Lizzie's dirty face, as she had sacrificed the necessaries of life, as she had listened day after day to the moanings of her husband's parishioners—without spirit, resignedly, submitting to the custom of self-abnegation and self-annihilation:

My dear Rachel:

It is good of you to ask us both to Sunningdean. There is nothing we should have liked better, but unfortunately—

The door of the little drawing-room opened and a disordered head, surmounted by a crumpled cap, made its appearance in the aperture.

“Please, mum, Mrs. Gummidge is 'ere. She says Lizzie has come hover hall a queer color and she don't know what to do. Will you come at once? And Mrs. Jones is 'ere, too. She says the bailiffs 'ave seized 'er furnitur' and she'd be glad if you'd see 'er for a moment. Her cough's hawful troublesome, and she'd thank you for some of them lodgenses—”

Eileen Calhoun sprang up almost violently.

“Tell Mrs. Gummidge to go to the doctor, and Mrs. Jones that I can't help her. The lozenges are in the dining-room cupboard. And please don't disturb me again to-night.”

The door closed noisily, and with an exclamation that was half a sob Mrs. Vicar took up the letter of refusal and tore it across again and again.

IV.

The Rev. Geoffrey Calhoun looked round the little sitting-room with somber, angry eyes. He had never realized before what an ugly place it was. The furniture was probably the same as it had always been, but he could not understand why it had never struck him as being so atrocious. It certainly looked no better for a week's coating of dust, nor for the decoration of long-dead flowers stuck about in extremely ugly vases. He rang the bell impatiently. The call was answered after a long interval by the maid of all work, now minus a cap, but considerably dirtier. Her expression was aggressive, and said more plainly than words—“Now, wot are yer a wantin' of?” The Rev. Geoffrey's frown faded. He felt that his daily existence was at the mercy of this Medusa, and he felt equally sure that she knew it.

“Why is this room not dusted?” he inquired mildly. Mary Ann tossed a wisp of hair out of her smutty face.

“'Taint my job. When the missus was 'ere she did it.”

“And the dining-room? I could hardly sit in it this morning.”

“'Tain't my job, neither. The missus did it.”

“Oh! Might I ask what 'your job' actually is?”

“I washes hup and does a bit of the cookin'—wot I knows.”

“Oh!” The vicar shuddered in recollection of his last meal. “I suppose we shall have to have another servant to help,” he said with a sigh.

“We hought to 'ave, now the missus 'as gawn. She weren't no more than a servent—'cept that she did twice as much as Hi'd do on double wages.” The vicar sprang up. A hot flush had mounted to his pale cheeks.

“How dare you—” he began angrily, and then stopped, surprised and ashamed of his own lack of self-control.

“Well, it's true,” with another toss of the head; “and please, Mrs. Gummidge wants to see yer, sir.”

“Show her in here.” The vicar seated himself again and drummed idly with his fingers on the pile of letters before him. There was a photograph of his wife on the table. It pictured her in the full bloom of her youth, and he noted, with a sudden, interest, how gaily she laughed at him from among her rich sables. She had always been so fond of tasteful, expensive things; not because they were expensive, but because she had a natural love of the beautiful. Even in her wealthy days, when she could have had anything for the asking, she had been so grateful for some unexpected innocent pleasure. Innocent pleasure! Yes, he admitted it—innocent pleasure. There had been no unnatural craving in her pleasure-seeking—only she liked to laugh and to see others laugh. Of late she had not laughed much.

Now he came to think of it, whatever was there in her life to laugh about? Against his will he began to study the details in the little room. He remembered how he had refused to spend money on the furnishing, and the results of this economy were indeed awful. He began to understand how those plush chairs and cheap vases must have jarred on her nerves, seeing them all day long as she did. And Mary Ann had said she was no better than a servant. What did the girl mean?

The vicar grew hot and uncomfortable. He flung open the window to let in some fresh air, and was surprised to find that there is no fresh air to be had if you live in rooms looking out on a street little more than twelve feet across. He had just flung the window down again when his visitor entered. Mrs. Gum midge looked paler and thinner, but her volubility had not diminished.

“I 'opes I 'aven't disturbed you, Mr. Vicar,” she said with a ponderous bob, “but I felt as 'ow I 'ad to thank you for gettin' me and my Lizzie into the Convolescent 'Ome in the country. We're both that poorly and we 'opes it'll do us a world o' good.”

“That's all right, Mrs. Gummidge,” the vicar returned kindly. “That's all right.” He hoped that she would go, but Mrs. Gummidge had other intentions. She looked around the room and her gaze was critical.

“Lawks! 'Ow the place 'as changed since your missus went, Mr. Vicar!” she ejaculated. “Ain't it in a state! And the paw lidy always a tryin' to make it look decent, too! I remember them bits of flowers she 'ad about. One could see she weren't born to these sort of things.”

The vicar asked himself, impatiently, how he had ever come to let his parishioners get so familiar, but he found nothing to say, and Mrs. Gummidge went on placidly:

“Wot I says when I sees wot a 'iggledy-piggledy you lives in, sir, is that you were quite right to let 'er 'ave 'er 'oliday. You halways sees that us paw folk 'ave our turn in the fresh air, so you let your missus 'ave 'er turn, too. Quite right. Charity begins at 'ome. That's wot I says.”

The Rev. Geoffrey turned scarlet. “The paw lidy was that pale and peeky,” Mrs. Gummidge went on. “wot with her 'er workin' so 'ard and hall—”

The rest of Mrs. Gummidge's conversation was spoken to deaf ears. The vicar was looking at the faded picture, and for the first time in that bitter month of solitude he admitted to himself that his heart ached—with regret and longing. Had his charity begun at home? Far rather had he not poured it abroad on the hardy weeds and thistles, neglecting the delicate flower entrusted to his immediate care?

He had hardened his heart—he, the man of God, the preacher of mercy and pity, had hardened his heart against his own wife, the woman who had given up everything—comfort, pleasure, all the beautiful things of life—to follow him into the midst of dirt and misery. And he loved her! The knowledge of that love came with a blessed sense of relief. His own hard heart had tortured him. It melted now at the warm breath of memory, and the face he turned to Airs. Gummidge was full of hope.

“Mrs. Gummidge,” he said, breaking into that lady's category of woes, “my wife—my wife may be coming home soon, and I've been thinking—this place isn't fit for her. I can't change just now, but I want to make it more—more as she would like it. I want you to help me before you go away; will you?” Mrs. Gummidge opened her eyes wide.

“That I will,” she said highly flattered. “That there slattern down-stairs ain't no good. I knows.” The vicar sprang up. His eyes flashed with the energy and eagerness of the “smart young man,” whom he thought had died out of him years ago.

“We'll clear out all this hideous stuff,” he said with a wave in the direction of the plush chairs. “We'll have it all re-papered—a pretty paper with roses. She loves roses. Everything must be fresh and clean. New carpets, new chairs, flowers everywhere. Come this afternoon and we'll begin turning out.”

His excitement was infectious. Mrs. Gummidge was fairly agog, so much so that in her exit she smashed the hideous vase which Geoffrey had treasured as a family heirloom against his wife's wishes. He laughed light-heartedly, and then taking up a pen began to write;

My Darling Wife:

This is the first real letter I have written to you. All the others were humbugs; cold, frozen things, born of my stubborn pride. I have thought it all over and I think I understand everything. I know how you must have suffered. I was such a selfish brute, so engrossed in my schemes for the good of others that I forgot my own wife! I am ashamed, but I'm afraid it's true. Can you forgive me? Will you let me try and make it up to you? Will you come home? Dear, you don't know what it is like without you—so dreary. The very sun seems to have forgotten to shine—

He stopped suddenly. He looked out of the murky window onto the miserable street. Despair crept over his face.

“I can't!” he said aloud. “I can't! It wouldn't be fair. She's gone away to the world where she belongs, body and soul—she said so. I can't call her back. I have been selfish enough already. She won't come back of her own free will—and I can't call her! I can't!” He pushed the letter roughly on one side and buried his face in his hands.

V.

Eileen Calhoun leaned back among the cushions, and with half-closed eyes watched the water drip from the idle oars as their boat floated with the stream. She avoided looking at the oarsman and forced herself to listen to the woman at her side.

“My dear Eileen,” the latter said, shifting her parasol to catch a troublesome sunbeam, “it's the very thing for you. You must come. Six months' traveling with us would set you up for a lifetime. You would be my guest, of course, and Captain Arnold will look after you when he joins us. Wouldn't you, captain?” The oarsman leaned forward as though to force Eileen to look at him.

“Mrs. Calhoun knows I will,” he said significantly. As though hypnotized she returned his gaze for a brief instant. Something in his bronzed face disturbed her. She looked away again.

“It is very good of you, Rachel,” she said. “I should like it very much.” She spoke, however, without enthusiasm. Somehow, her thirst for pleasure and everlasting sunshine had been slaked to satiety. And still she felt unsatisfied—she could not explain why.

“Bravo!” Captain Arnold exclaimed with a triumphant tug at the oars. “Write that down as settled, excellent Cousin Rachel!” Eileen started.

“No, no,” she said impulsively. “Nothing is settled. It can't be. Six months is a long time. I must consult my husband.” Arnold stopped rowing and laughed.

“After your own showing, Mrs. Calhoun, your husband is too busy to bother about your movements,” he said. “He will be only too glad to get you settled.” She made no answer, oppressed with the bitter truth of his words. Geoffrey did not care; obviously, probably never had.

“Look here,” Captain Arnold went on. “I have been indiscreet enough to see that the letter in your lap is from your husband. If there is a word in it asking your return or inquiring about your movements, I won't try and persuade you. There's a bargain!”

Eileen picked up the unopened letter. She had not cared to read it before starting. She knew so well what was inside—formal words, written out of a sense of duty and conveying no meaning to her but the one—that he did not care. These letters came every Monday. Every Monday hope had been born afresh and frozen afresh.

Yet, what if to-day's letter were different? What if the barrier between them should be broken down at last by one loving word? What if in the nick of time he should hold out his strong hand to save her—perhaps from danger and temptation? She tore the envelope open and began to read. Then hope died as it had died before, and a smothered sigh forced itself to her lips. There was no difference, no change, or scarcely any. The sentences were jerkier, more stilted, less coherent, as if the writer had been in trouble or preoccupied. That was all. Eileen put the letter down. She was pale and her hand unsteady.

“You are quite right, Captain Arnold,” she said. “There is no word about my return—so I suppose I must agree. It's Fate. Why!” she exclaimed, suddenly, pointing to a little house not far from the water's edge, “what a pretty place! To whom does it belong?” She had spoken more to put an end to the subject than for any other reason. Rachel Langly put up her lorgnette.

“That, my dear? Some Convalescent Home, I fancy, for the everlasting poor—” She got no further. Eileen laid an eager hand upon her arm.

“Put me ashore, captain!” she said breathlessly. “I see people I know. I want to speak to them—please!” Her eyes shone with eagerness and pleasure. Captain Arnold obeyed, though unwillingly.

“I don't see any one,” he said as the boat bumped against the ground, “except an ugly old washerwoman and an ugly child in need of washing. I don't suppose those are friends—”

But Eileen had already sprung ashore and was running toward the despised pair with a delighted cry of “Mrs. Gummidge—Lizzie!” Mrs. Gummidge, who had just rescued the too venturesome Lizzie from a watery grave, gave such a start of surprise that she nearly fell in herself.

“Lawks! If it ain't Mrs. Vicar 'erself!” she exclaimed, shaking hands with a vigor which instantly dislodged the precarious bonnet. “Now, ain't that a treat, Lizzie? And in that pretty dress, too! Wouldn't your 'usband be proud of you, even though 'e be a clargyman?”

Eileen seated herself at the foot of a tree and beckoned Mrs. Gummidge to do likewise. Mrs. Gummidge obeyed, having first, with town-bred care, felt the grass—“for fear of them roomatics,” as she said.

“I was in a boat when I saw you,” Eileen explained, “and I thought I'd come and hear all about you—and every one else. It seems such a long time since I left.”

“Aye, that it is, mum. And a lot 'appens in no time, wot with them motors and such like. There's Lizzie 'ad the measles, me the roomatics, and Mrs. Jones a summons. We've 'ad lively times, I can tell you, Mrs. Vicar!”

Eileen smiled. The smile was meaningless. Her heart beat almost to suffocation. A question trembled on her lips and she dared hardly utter it, so much did the answer mean to her.

“And in Roburn Street—has anything happened there?” she said, striving to speak with great indifference. Mrs. Gummidge's small eyes twinkled knowingly.

“I 'specks there ain't much that 'appens there you don't 'ear of, mum,” she said, “wot with hall them letters Mr. Vicar writes.”

“Letters!” Mrs. Gummidge waved her fat hands apologetically.

“I can't 'elp seeing 'em,” she said; “'e leaves them about 'is table, and 'as I comes to do 'is dusting I 'as to see 'em. 'Me own darling wife,' they begins. Not that they ever gets posted, it seems,” she added with vague wonder. “P'r'aps 'e sends 'em off budgetwise, or 'e just writes 'em to relieve 'is paw feelings.” There was a shout of admonition from the waiting boat, but Eileen appeared not to hear.

“Tell me more, dear Mrs. Gummidge,” she said. “You know, my husband writes, of course; but, then, you are on the spot. Tell me, does everything go well? Is my husband all right—happy?” Mrs. Gummidge shook her head.

“'Appy? Naw, not particular. Old 'e looks and miserable—wants a woman to look after 'im, I says. Only, one day I saw 'im laugh—when all the noo furnutur' was a being brought in—”

“Furniture!” And Mrs. Gummidge thumped herself on the mouth.

“There now, ain't I a fool! Let the cat out, I 'ave. Well, I suppose I'd better tell you, 'adn't I?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, 'twas this way: Mr. Vicar, 'e sends for me and 'e says, 'Mrs. Gummidge, my wife may come back soon, and I wants things made fine for 'er—d'yer understand?—fit for 'er. None of this hold 'eathenish gear. You're a clever woman, Mrs. Gummidge, and I wants you to 'elp me make it hall prutty.' Well, I was doddering with them roomatics, but 'e's a kindly gentleman, so I 'elped 'im. We chose the d'intiest paipers you hever saw—hall roses—and wot with our two 'eads together we've made the place fit for a doochess! And the flowers!” Mrs. Gummidge flung up her hands because no words of hers could convey the impression she intended.

“Every day 'e comes with 'is arms full of 'em and fills the vases. 'E ain't no good with flowers, but 'e does 'is best. 'She loves flowers, Mrs. Gummidge,' 'e says, 'and she may come 'ome to-day.' But 'e loses 'ope, paw feller. I was that sorry to leave 'im, but 'e sent me and Lizzie down 'ere. He said it was the place you 'ad built, Mrs. Vicar, an' 'ow grateful we was to be to you for making such a noble sacrifice.”

Eileen looked back at the little house. Perhaps the words, “Cast your bread upon the waters,” occurred to her in that moment of intense gratitude to the Power which had led her to this rough, simple woman. She got up, and the tears stood burning in her eyes. Mrs. Gummidge looked up at her, and a shrewd smile twisted the lined face.

“It may be pert, Mrs. Vicar,” she said, “but I'm an hold woman, and I says to you—go 'ome. You and your 'usband looks as though you wanted one another.” Eileen laughed brokenly.

“I'm going,” she said, “I'm going.” Suddenly she bent down and kissed, first the child, and then Mrs. Gummidge, with a warmth she would not have believed possible a month before. “God bless you, Mrs. Gummidge,” she whispered, and ran back to the waiting boat. She looked at both occupants steadily.

“Row me back, please, Captain Arnold,” she said. “Rachel, I must take the afternoon train to London—home.”

VI.

It was the beginning of May, but no one in Roburn Street would have known it except for the calendar. The rain poured down, the gutters had become miniature torrents, a piercing east wind whistled round the corners as if to prove that in this part of the world its authority was not at an end.

The Rev. Geoffrey Calhoun turned up his coat-collar, indifferent to the fact that the rain was trickling down his neck, and that he was standing in the midst of a large puddle.

He looked first to one end of the street and then to the other with a glance of expectation, as though he hoped to see some well remembered form. But there was no one in sight. A laden four-wheeler jolted round the corner, and he turned away with a sigh. Somebody was coming home to somebody—and, being a conscientious clergyman, he fought hard against the pang of envy which shot through him. No one was coming home to him. So he went his way and visited his sick parishioners and listened to their woes with the old sympathetic smile. They were too absorbed in themselves to notice how pale and tired he looked.

It was late in the evening when he returned. He took off his hat and coat in the dark hall, and stood there a moment with his hand pressed to his aching head. Then he opened the door of their little drawing-room and entered. A lamp burned on the table, the kettle sang merrily on the bright fire, his wife sat in the pretty armchair he had bought for her, and looked up at him and smiled.

“You are late, dear,” she said. “Tea is ready.” The half-merry, half-tearful smile grew more tremulous as he drew nearer. He saw that she was dressed in the old serge, and her lap was full of his neglected mending. It was all so peaceful, so homely, so like his dreams, that something caught him by the throat and a mist swam before his eyes. He had lived under a hard strain, and the revulsion was more than he could bear.

“You have made things so beautiful, Geoffrey,” she went on, “so beautiful! But I would have been contented if nothing had been changed. You see—I wasn't bound to that other world, after all. I haven't found any happiness there.”

He sank down in the chair opposite her, still silent. But she looked into his face and was satisfied. There was more written there than mere surprise and welcome—there was a whole history of love and thankfulness. She flung her work away and dropped on her knees beside him.

“My darling,” she said brokenly, “I have come home—don't you understand? I have come to the only place in the whole world which I love most—to my home!”

She buried her face in the shabby old coat, and he held her pressed to him. So they remained—at first silent, and then talking in hushed voices. What they said matters to no one. They were very happy, and the stormy world outside was forgotten.