HOW it was that we began seriously to consider the expediency of organizing “Penny Readings” in the school-room attached to the quaint old square-towered church at Chewton Cudley I haven’t the remotest idea. I fancy it must have been Mr. Petifer, the curate, who suggested it after he had been to preach for a friend of his in London. I know that he was much impressed by what the congregation of St. Boanerges his friend’s church were doing, and that there was a noticeable difference in his delivery when he read the lessons after his visit. We all observed it, and some of the old-fashioned people thought that he was going to intone to which there was a strong objection but his efforts not carrying him beyond a peculiar rising inflection towards the middle of a verse, and a remarkable lingering fall into deep bass at the end, we soon regarded it as a praiseworthy attempt to give variety to his previous vapid utterances, and came rather to like it, as it gave the church somewhat of a cathedral flavour. The old pew-opener and sextoness said that to hear him publish the banns was almost as good as listening to the marriage service itself.

The truth is that we had few changes of any kind at Chewton. It had ceased to be a market town when the new line of railway took the three coaches off the road, and opened a branch to Noxby; and though the tradesfolk contrived to keep their shops open they did a very quiet business indeed. There was nothing actively speculative about the place, and the motto of the town was “Slow and sure.” From the two maiden ladies the Misses Twitwold who kept the circulating library, and sold stationery and Berlin wool to the brewer who owned half the beer-shops, or the landlord of the “George and Gate,” who kept a select stud of saddle-horses, and had promoted the tradesmen’s club nobody was ever seen in a hurry, not even the doctor who had come to take old Mr. Varico’s practice, and was quite a young man from the hospitals. He began by bustling about, and walking as though he was out for a wager, and speaking as though he expected people to do things in a minute; but he soon got over that. Folks at Chewton Cudley had a way of looking with a slow, placid, immovable stare at anybody who showed unseemly haste. If they were told to “be quick” or to “look sharp,” they would leave what they were about to gaze with a cow-like serenity at the disturber. It was quite a lesson in placidity even to watch a farm-labourer or a workman sit on a gate or a cart-shaft to eat a slice of bread and cheese. Each bite was only taken after a deliberate investigation of the sides and edges of the hunch, and was slowly masticated during a peculiar ruminating survey of surrounding objects. The possessor of a clasp-knife never closed it with a click; and if any adult person had been seen to run along the High-street public attention would have been aroused by the event.

The vicar was really the most active person in the town; and though he had lived there in the quaint, ivy-covered parsonage house for twenty years, and had been constantly among his parishioners, he had the same bright, pleasant, and yet grave smile, the same quick, easy step, the same lively way with children and old women, the same impatient toleration of “dawdlers,” as had distinguished him on his first coming. He had been a famous cricketer at college, and one of the first things he did was to form a cricket club; but he always said the batsman waited to watch the ball knock down the wicket, and the fielders stood staring into space when they ought to have made a catch. This was his fun, of course, and the cricket club flourished in a sedate, slow-bowling sort of way. So did the penny bank, and the evening school, and the sewing-class for he was well loved, was our vicar, in spite, or perhaps because, of his offering such a contrast to the larger number of his flock.

He was a bachelor, and his sister kept house for him a quiet, middle-aged lady a little older than himself, and more accomplished than most of the Chewton ladies were, not only in music and needlework, but in the matter of pickles, puddings, preserves, and domestic medicine, about which she and the doctor had many pleasant discussions, as he declared she was the best friend he had, since her herb-tea and electuaries made people fancy they were ill enough to send for him to complete their cure. That the vicar should have remained unmarried for so many years had almost ceased to be a topic for speculation, for it had somehow become known that some great sorrow had befallen him years before, and it was supposed that he had been “crossed in love;” though, to give them credit, there were unmarried ladies of the congregation who never could and never would believe that a young man such as he must have been, could have spoken in vain to any well-regulated young person possessed of a heart. They came to the conclusion, therefore, that he never told his love; and as he had certainly never told it to them, only a few of his more intimate friends knew that the shadow which had fallen on the lives of those two kindly beings at the vicarage was the early marriage of a younger sister with some adventurer, who had taken her away from the home to which she never had been returned. Only occasional tidings were received of her, for she was seldom to be found at any stated address, and was travelling with her husband from one poor lodging to another in the large towns, where they had sometimes sought for her in vain.

But the vicar was no kill-joy. He entered with hearty good-will into the scheme for weekly penny readings, and delivered an address at the preliminary meeting, in which he alluded with a sly touch of humour to the capabilities of Mr. Binks, the saddler, who was reputed to sing a famous comic song, and of Raspall, the baker, who had once tried his hand at an original Christmas carol. He even called upon the ladies and we were all of us rather shocked at the time to bring their music; and as a piano had actually been hired from somewhere, and stood on the platform, he called upon his sister for a song there and then, and she actually we were surprised sang one of those old English ballads to hear which we had regarded as the sole privilege of the select few who were invited to take tea at the vicarage, at the sewing meetings which we had associated with the name of Dorcas the widow. We should as soon have thought of seeing Dorcas herself at a sewing-machine as the vicar’s sister at a piano in public but she sang very well, and the applause at the back of the room was uproarious.

So it was when the vicar himself followed with Macaulay’s “Lay of Horatius,” though of course it was only intended for the front rows for how could the tradespeople and the labourers understand it? More to their taste was the performance of Mr. Binks, who was with difficulty persuaded to sit on the platform, where, after fixing his eye on the remotest corner of the ceiling, he began by giving himself a circular twist on his chair and, moving his arm as though he were gently whipping a horse, started with a prolonged “Oh-o-o!” and then stopped, coughed, cogitated, and, gathering courage from the ceiling, started again with a more emphatic

“Oh-o-o! Terry O’Rann
Was a nice young man,”

and went on to describe in song how some person of that name

“Took whisky punch
Every day for his lunch.”

The landlord of the George, who was about the middle of the room, shook his head in a deprecating manner at this, and we ladies in the front row were saddened; but the vicar laughed, the brewer led off a round of applause with the farmers, the doctor grinned, and the smaller tradespeople and the boys near the door stamped till the dust from the floor made them sneeze; and when

“Jerry’s dead ghost
Stood by the bed-post,”

with an imitation of the Irish brogue which everybody admitted was singularly “like the real thing,” Mr. Binks had risen in public estimation, and his name was put down on the committee.

The baker was scarcely so successful, for he could remember nothing but the Christmas Carol by which he had risen to transient fame; and as it contained some slight but obvious allusions to Raspall’s French rolls and Sally Lunns, with a distant but rhyming reference to rich plum-cake and currant buns, a few disrespectful ejaculations were heard from some unruly boys on the side benches, and the recitation ended in some confusion and suppressed chuckling on the part of the farmers and their wives. But the eldest Miss Rumbelow was persuaded to attempt one of Moore’s melodies, and selected “Young Love Once Dwelt,” with a singularly wiry accompaniment, and this having restored complete decorum the curate came forward in a surprising manner, and astonished us by that change in voice and delivery to which reference has already been made. He had chosen “Eugene Aram’s Dream” as his recitation, and the tone in which he announced the title was, as Mrs. Multover said, “like cold water running down your back.” Every breath was held, every eye started as he told us

“It wors the prame of summerer tame,
An even-ing ca-alm and kheoule,
When-er fower-and-twenty happy baies
Cam trouping out of skheoule.”

The boys shifted uneasily on their seats; their master looked anxious, as though something personal was coming; and when the drama reached its height we timid ones in front were fain to pinch each other in a stress of nervous excitement. The tragical conclusion was marked by a simultaneous, low, long, agricultural whistle, which did duty as a sigh, and the audience first stared into each other’s faces and then gave a roar of applause, amidst which the vicar announced that the penny readings were established from that night; that books containing suitable pieces for recitation could be obtained at the circulating library; and that practice nights for efficient members would be held on Wednesday evenings.

But everybody went away impressed with Mr. Petifer’s sudden accession of dramatic power.

“That comes of the play-house, mark me if it do’ent,” said Farmer Shorter, as he buttoned his coat. “Folk do’ent go up to London for notheng, an’ curat’s been to the tradigy that’s where he’s a’been.”

This first meeting of our “Penny Reading” Society gave a decided tone to our subsequent proceedings, but we had made but slow progress, and there was still some difficulty in inducing many of the readers to meet the audible remarks, the half-concealed mirth, and even the exaggerated applause of their audiences, when the vicar one evening announced his intention of leaving Chewton for a fortnight on a visit to London, and coming back in time to prepare a grand entertainment at the school-room.

In a few days the vicar returned, and told his sister to have the guest’s room got ready, as he expected a professional gentleman from London to visit him in a day or two.

It was on the Wednesday that the idlers about the old coach-yard of the George and Gate woke up from their usual expressionless stare at things in general to notice a stranger who came along at a brisk rate, carrying a small portmanteau, and looking sharply and with a quick penetrating glance at them and the sign and the bar of the tap, where he called for a glass of ale and inquired his way to the vicarage. He was a well-knit, active man of about forty-five, with dark, glossy hair, just beginning to gray; a dark, short moustache; shaven cheeks and chin, with a blue tinge where the beard and whiskers would have been; and he wore well-fitting but rather shabby clothes, which scarcely seemed to be in keeping with the big (false or real) diamond ring on his right hand and a huge breast-pin in his satin stock.

These were the remarks some of us made about him when he appeared on the low platform at our penny reading the next evening, and was introduced by the vicar as “My friend Mr. Walter De Montfort, a gentleman connected with the dramatic profession in London, who has consented to favour us with a reading and to contribute to our improvement as well as to our entertainment.”

A good many of us thought we had never heard reading, or rather recitation, till that evening; there was such a keen, bright, intense look in the man’s face; such a rich, flexible, sonorous roll in his voice; such a conscious appropriateness in his rather exaggerated gestures, that when he commenced with what I have since learned was a peculiarly stagey expression the poem of “King Robert of Sicily and the Angel,” and began to tell us how

“King-ar-Rroberut of Sissurlee”

dreamed his wonderful dream, we were all eye and ear, and when he had concluded people looked at each other and gasped.

Who was he? an actor a manager of a theatre a great tragedian? How did the vicar first know him? How long was he going to stay? What theatre did he perform at? All these questions were asked among ourselves, and to some of them we obtained answers at the next Dorcas meeting, which was held at the vicarage. Mr. De Montfort was not a regular actor now. He had been, but he now taught elocution and deportment, and had been introduced to the vicar by a brother clergyman in London much interested in the union of church and stage. His credentials were undoubted, but it was feared he was poor. Of his ability everybody spoke highly, and he was so accomplished that the vicar had invited him to stay for several days; but he had told them he must be in London, for he was a widower, with one little child, a girl who was at school, but would be waiting for him to fetch her home for her one week’s holiday in the year.

It was evident that the vicar’s guest had created a very favourable impression on us all, for though Mrs. Marchbold looked at us rather hard, and then pursed up her lips and looked steadily at the vicar’s sister, evidently meaning to disconcert that lady with some indication of the thought that was in all our minds, we rather resented the rudeness, and murmured in chorus that it was evident that Mr. De Montfort was quite a gentleman.

“Which is just what he is not,” said the lady, who bore Mrs. Marchbold’s deprecatory stare with the most complete indifference. “He is not quite a gentleman, and my brother the vicar knows that very well; but he is a clever, amusing man, and his reading will help on the society. On the whole, though, I think it’s quite as well he should leave before long, for I’m certain idling about in Chewton will do him no good, especially as he has already kept us up late two nights, because a deputation came to ask him to be a visitor at the tradesmen’s club at the George.”

Further discussion of the merits or demerits of the gentleman was prevented by his entering the room along with the vicar, who told us he had prevailed on Mr. De Montfort to take tea with us and to read us something from Shakespeare while we were at work. Mr. De Montfort took tea, and talked unceasingly of London, of its streets, shops, people, trades, and amusements. He described to us the stage of a theatre, and told us all about how a play was performed and how the actors came on and went off, opening the door between the parlour and the drawing-room and hanging it with table-covers to represent the front of the stage. Then he recited Hamlet and King Lear; and we all left off work to look at him; and when he wound up with a performance of legerdemain, and brought a vase that had previously been on the mantel-piece out of Mrs. Marchbold’s work-bag, and took eggs from a pillow-case, and took four reels of cotton out of Miss Bailey’s chignon, we didn’t know whether to scream or to laugh, but we all agreed that he was the most entertaining person we had ever met or were likely to meet again.

Mr. De Montfort had grown more familiar to the Chewton Cudley people by that time. He had only been with them a few days, and yet he had a dozen invitations. The vicar had evidently taken an unaccountable liking to him. There were even people who went so far as to say we should hear him read the lessons in church if he were to stay over another Sunday. He had been to two more penny readings, and had held an extra night for instructing some of the members in the art of elocution. Only three people seemed rather doubtful as to their opinion of the visitor. One of these was the vicar’s sister. She said nothing slighting, but it was evident that she mistrusted him a little. Another was Mr. Petifer, and his coolness to the stranger was set down to jealousy, especially when he fired up on the subject of the probable reading of the lessons. The third was Mr. Femm, the doctor, but he only grinned, and said he thought he remembered having heard De Montfort recite under another name when he was a student at Guy’s Hospital, and used to go to a Hall of Harmony in the Walworth Road. “It’s dreadful to hear a doctor talk so,” said Mrs. Marchbold; “these young medical men have no reverence.”

But the visitor showed such remarkable good humour, and was so very entertaining and was so sedate and respectful to all the ladies that I fancy there was something said about his bringing his little daughter down to Chewton for the holidays. Mr. Binks would have taken De Montfort off the vicar’s hands in a minute. Raspall was heard to intimate that he had a nice warm spare room over the bakehouse doing nothing; and our principal butcher, Mr. Clodd, declared boldly that a man like that, who could amuse any company, and was fit for any company, was worth his meat anywhere at holiday-time.

But we had all heard that Mr. De Montfort was about to leave. He had received an invitation from the landlord of the “George and Gate,” countersigned by the members of the club, to spend the last evening with them, and they had even gone so far as to wish that the vicar himself “if they might make so bold would condescend to look in for an hour.”

This request of course could not be complied with, and the guest was about to send a polite refusal reluctantly, it must be confessed but the vicar readily excused him. The townsfolk naturally wanted to have him among them again for an evening, and he could return about eleven for a glass of hot spiced elder-wine before going to bed. The vicar had put his hand on De Montfort’s shoulder as he said this, and was looking at him in his kind, genial way, when his visitor looked up, rose, hesitated, and seemed about to say something. There was such a remarkable expression in his face that the good parson afterwards said he should never forget it; but it passed, and with a smile, which was half trustful, half sorrowful, the actor turned away.

“Well, then, if you think I ought to go, I’ll say yes,” he replied; “but I had thought to spend the last night here with you.”

“I sha’n’t have done work much before ten myself,” said the vicar; “for I must see about the beef and bread for the pensioners, and there are the cakes for the school treat, and no end of things. So we’ll meet at a late supper; don’t stay to the club pies and sausages, but get back in time for ours. There’s no need to say, Don’t drink too much of the ‘George and Gate’ ale and brandy, for you never take much of either, so far as I know.”

It was a special evening at the “George and Gate,” and every member of the club who could leave his shop was there by eight o’clock. The low-ceilinged but handsome parlour was all bright and tidy, and the plates stood on a sideboard ready for supper. Two noble punch-bowls graced the table, and a number of long “churchwarden” pipes supported the large brass coffer filled with tobacco, which opened only by some cunning mechanism, set in motion by dropping a halfpenny in a slit at the top. Mr. Binks was in the chair; Clodd, the butcher, sat opposite; a great fragrance of spice and lemon-peel pervaded the place. It only needed a speech to commence the proceedings, and Mr. Binks was equal to the occasion. It was a hearty welcome to their visitor. He responded with a few words and a recitation. There was a song and another toast, and then the accomplished visitor played on the “George and Gate” fiddle in a manner that astonished everybody played it behind his back, over his head, under his arm, between his knees with the bow in his mouth. Then he showed a few tricks with the cards, spun plates, passed coins and watches into space, and sung a song with a violin accompaniment. The evening was in his honour, and he opened his whole repertoire of accomplishments. Time passed quickly; the waiters were at the door with the table-cloths ready to lay for supper. Mr. Clodd proposed “The Health of the Vicar.” They all rose to do it honour, and called upon De Montfort to reply. He had his glass in his hand just touching it with his lips. “I wish,” he said, and then he stopped; “I wish I could say what I would do to deserve that he should call me his friend; but it can never be.” They wondered what he would say next, there was such a strange look in his eyes. They were about to ask him what he meant, when everybody there was startled by a sudden cry in the street a sudden cry and an uproar that penetrated to the inn-yard the cry of “Fire!” and the trampling of feet. They were all out in a minute, De Montfort first, and without his hat.

“It’s your place, Raspall, as I’m a living sinner,” said Clodd, forcing himself to the front and commencing to run.

“Don’t say so! Don’t say so!” cried the baker, “for my missis is up at the school makin’ the cakes, and the man’s down below settin’ the batch, and my little Bess is in bed this hour an’ more. Oh, help! help! where’s that engine?” But the key of the engine-house had to be found, and the wretched old thing had to be wheeled out, and the hose attached and righted; and before all this could be done the flame, which seemed to have begun at the back of Raspall’s shop, had burst through the shutters, and was already lapping the outer wall. It was an old-fashioned house, with a high, rickety portico over the door, and a tall, narrow window a good way above it.

At this window, where the flicker of the flame was reflected through the smoke that was now pouring out and blackening the old woodwork, a glimpse of a child’s face had been seen, and Raspall was already in the roadway wringing his hands and calling for a ladder.

“We must get her down from the top of that there portico,” cried Clodd; “but I’m too heavy. Here; who’ll jump atop of my back, and so try to clamber up?”

“Stand away there!” shouted a strong deep voice; and almost before they could move aside a man shot past them like a catapult, and with one bound had reached the carved cornice of the portico with his right hand. The whole structure quivered, but in another moment he had drawn himself up with the ease of a practised acrobat, and was standing on the top. It was De Montfort.

The window was still far above him, and the glare within showed that the fire had reached the room; but a gutter ran down the wall to the leaden roof of the portico, and he was seen through the smoke to clasp it by a rusty projection and to draw his chin on a level with the sill, to cling to the sill itself with his arm and elbow, and with one tremendous effort to sit there amidst the smoke and to force the sash upward. They had scarcely had time to cry out that he had entered the room when he was out again pursued by the flame that now roared from the open space, but with something under his arm. Somebody had brought out a large blanket, and four men were holding it; the engine was just beginning to play feebly where it wasn’t wanted; and a short ladder had been borrowed from somewhere. He dropped a little heavily from the window, but was on his feet when they called to him to let the child fall, and a cheer went up as he seemed to gather up his strength, and tossed his living burden from him, so that it cleared the edge of the wood-work, and was caught and placed in her father’s arms.

“Jump! jump for your life!” they cried, for the wretched portico had begun to sway, and every lip turned white. It was too late; he had stooped to swing himself off, when the whole thing fell in ruin, and he in the midst of it, covered with the heavy lead and woodwork, and the stone and bricks that had come down with it.

A score of strong and willing hands lifted the wreck away piecemeal, and, under the direction of the doctor, got him out and placed him on a hurdle made soft with blankets and straw. He was insensible, but his face and head were uninjured, for he was found lying with his arms protecting both. Carefully they bore him to the vicarage, the vicar following, and his sister already at the door with everything ready.

It was nearly an hour before the sad group of men who stood outside anxiously waiting heard that he was so seriously injured that his life was in danger, and that he was still unconscious. Raspall was crying more for the accident than for his injured house, which was still smouldering, though the engine had at last put out the fire. His child was safe, but he felt almost guilty for rejoicing that her life had been spared. Binks and Clodd sat patiently on the fence opposite the vicarage talking in low tones. At last the vicar came out to them and told them to go home. The patient would not be left for a moment. In the morning he would let them know if there was any change.

There was a change, but only after long efforts to restore consciousness; and the vicar himself sat by the injured man’s bedside, with something in his hand upon which his tears fell as he looked at it by the light of the shaded lamp. When De Montfort had been carried in and placed upon the bed the doctor had asked to be allowed to undress him without help as it required a practised hand, and for a moment the vicar left the room to bring up some restorative and the bandages which had been sent for to the surgery. He had turned into the dining-room, when to his surprise the doctor came quickly but softly downstairs, entered the room, and gently closed the door.

“Do you feel that you could bear another great shock just now?” he said in a curious tone, taking hold of the vicar’s wrist as he spoke. “Yes, I think you can; your nerves are pretty firm.”

“What do you mean? Is he dead?”

“No; but I have undressed him, and under his shirt near his heart found something which I think you ought to see. I may be mistaken, but I seldom miss observing a likeness, especially one so strong as this” and he held out a locket attached to a silken cord and holding a likeness.

The vicar trembled as he stretched out his hand for it. Some prevision of the truth had already flashed upon him; and as he carried the trinket to the candle above the mantel-piece he leaned heavily against the wall and groaned as though he had been smitten with sudden pain.

“A man like that could scarcely have been cruel to a woman, at all events,” said the doctor in a low but emphatic tone. “Poverty is not the worst of human ills, and even occasional want, if it be not too prolonged, is endurable more endurable than brutal neglect and indifference. This poor fellow was going home to his child, I think?”

The vicar clasped the young man’s hand, and bent his noble gray head upon his shoulder. “Take my thanks, my dear friend,” he said with a sob. “You have recalled me to myself. He was my sister’s husband.”

As the vicar sat by the bedside that night watching, watching, the injured man moved and tried to raise himself, but fell back with a heavy sigh.

The good parson was bending over him in a moment.

“Shall I fetch the doctor again?” he asked.

“No; I must speak to you now, alone.”

It was nearly an hour before the vicar went to the stair-head, and called for his sister and the doctor to come up. We never heard quite what took place what was the conversation between the vicar and his guest. But the next day the vicar went to London, and before the week was out a plain funeral went from the vicarage to the old churchyard, and the curate conducting the burial service had to stop with his handkerchief to his eyes, for in the church, clad in deep mourning, was a little girl whose silent sobbing was only hushed when the aunt whom she had but just found took her in her arms and pressed the little pale face to her bosom.

Nobody knew what name was on the locket, for it was replaced where it so long had rested, and was buried when the heart beneath it had ceased to beat; but the name afterwards carved on the tombstone was not De Montfort.

“I don’t think I shall be able to collect my wits enough to tell a story this evening,” said our governess as we sat at tea on the Thursday evening, “for I’ve had a long letter to answer and to think over; but I fancied you liked my story about the Baby’s Hand, and so if you please I’ll read you another from a little black-covered manuscript book which my old friend gave me. He said it was a story about a very near friend and schoolfellow of his, and was one of the most pathetic and affecting histories that he had ever known. I don’t suppose you’ll think so. Still it is rather affecting, though it is only a tale of disappointment in love; but then it was a love that lasted for a lifetime and survived death.”