THE VICAR TRIES PUFFIN.
It must not be supposed that all the religious activity in King's Warren was confined to the Dissenters. The Reverend John Dodd was a fine old-crusted Tory; the world had gone very well with him. He had his cross, of course, in the shape of his wife Cecilia, and the Reverend B. Smiter was a very thorn in his flesh; but his living was a good living, and his peaches and his port wine were unsurpassed in the county. His archdeacon was an old personal friend of his own, and I am afraid that the post-prandial conversations of the two when the archdeacon made his yearly visitations and Mrs. Dodd had left them to themselves, turned more upon vintages and things of this world than on church matters. But a young and active bishop, of High Church tendencies, now reigned in the neighbouring cathedral, and the archdeacon in a friendly manner suggested to Dodd that it behoved him to set his house in order.
"We must move with the times, Dodd," he said. "The bishop is a man of six-and-thirty and an enthusiast. I am sorry to say he is no respecter of persons. There is no doubt, my friend, that dissent has spread in this parish of late years with frightful rapidity." He spoke of it as if it were a disease. "What you want is an energetic coadjutor, and you can't do better than try Puffin. Puffin has been a Missioner, and he is a wonderful organizer. If you want to be in the bishop's good books you should try Puffin. He'll take every sort of trouble off your hands; all you have to do is to give him plenty of rope. He has his peculiarities, but he is honest in his way, and he did wonders at the East End, where he nearly killed himself by overwork. You won't keep him long, you know, for Puffin's a man certain of good preferment. He'll fill your church, and if anything will stop the insidious progress of dissent in the place, it's Puffin."
"But, my dear fellow, we are very comfortable as we are. I hate a clerical firebrand. Why can't we rub along comfortably for the rest of my time?"
"The days of rubbing along, Dodd, are gone by. As the bishop puts it, the Church in these latter days must be a Church militant, or it will cease to exist."
"But it needn't become a Church pugnacious for all that," said Dodd.
"My dear fellow, if we were certain that I should be archdeacon for ever you might, as you put it, go on rubbing along. But the king who knew not Joseph has arrived. Our spiritual head is a man who will stand no nonsense. If you don't follow his lead, he will look upon you as refractory. Don't be refractory, Dodd; try Puffin. You will find him a perfect panacea."
"But I don't believe in panaceas," said Dodd; "the fellow will set the whole place by the ears before he has been here a month. Why, in this village the aggrieved parishioner does not even exist. If a man doesn't like the church he takes sittings in the chapel, and there is an end of the thing."
"My dear fellow, you mistake the matter altogether. Now-a-days, a real, good, wrong-headed aggrieved parishioner is exactly what you do want. He keeps you before the public, and brings you to the favourable notice of your spiritual head."
"But look at the fuss, the letters, and the lawsuits."
"With a new bishop, Dodd, and a man like Puffin at your back, though there would be lots of fuss, it need not trouble you. Puffin would write all the letters; and as for the lawsuits, you would win them, and the costs would not come out of your pocket. Puffin, of course, sails rather close to the wind, if I may be allowed the expression, but he knows exactly how far he can go. In fact, Dodd, though he puts his candles upon the altar he never lights them, except at evensong, and then he knows he can do so with impunity."
And then they gradually began to talk about the wine.
The result of this conversation was that the Reverend John Dodd hastened to secure the services of that energetic priest the Reverend Barnes Puffin.
Mr. Puffin arrived at the Vicarage looking very much like an ordinary clergyman, save that the round black felt that he wore had a brim of portentous width; and Mrs. Dodd noticed with some astonishment that the white tie, which all clergymen of her acquaintance habitually wore, was conspicuous by its absence, and that the new curate appeared to have put on his collar wrong side before. At first it was a mystery to her how he could have got into that collar. There was certainly no visible means of entrance in front. Puffin wore his hair very long indeed, while the whole of his face was clean shaven. Mrs. Dodd, too, gave a start when he proceeded to address her as "his dear sister;" but she was still more astonished when he removed his long clerical great-coat and she saw that the Reverend Barnes Puffin was clad in a long black garment with innumerable little buttons running from his neck to within two inches of the ground. Around his waist was a long black sash with a silken fringe. As he gave the vicar's wife his arm, when they went in to dinner, he suddenly produced from his pocket a little square cap, which he placed upon his head. He did full justice to the stewed eels, with which the meal commenced; but he never removed the little cap during the whole of the entertainment, nor could the vicar and his wife persuade him to partake of any of the numerous dainties which composed the rest of the feast. At first he said he wasn't hungry. A curate who refused entrées was a novelty to Mrs. Dodd.
"I fear you are not well, Mr. Puffin," she said as he declined woodcock on toast.
"Dear Mrs. Dodd, I remember that it is the Eve of St. Radegonde, Virgin and Martyr."
The vicar and his wife looked at one another; but they respected Mr. Puffin's prejudices, and ceased to press him.
The next day the reign of the Reverend Barnes Puffin commenced. The old church, where service had been held as seldom as possible from time immemorial, was now thrown open daily for matins and evensong. At first there was no congregation; but the Reverend Barnes Puffin looked up all the old pensioners, particularly the old women who were in receipt of parish relief at home, and in his persuasive but forcible way he made all these poor old people understand that their comforts, for which they had hitherto given nothing in return, would depend upon good behaviour, that is to say, going to church. Nor did Mr. Puffin confine his ministrations to the lower orders. How he managed it I don't know; but before he had been three months in the place most of the younger ladies in the parish flocked to the services. I suppose he made love to them in a quiet, clerical sort of way. The Misses Sleek, looking as plump and pretty as ever, but dressed with a prim demureness which considerably astonished their father, were among his first converts; and they used to hurry to church on foot twice a day with praiseworthy regularity. They considered themselves well rewarded if the curate walked home with them occasionally to dinner, and so beatified The Park by his presence. But Mr. Puffin egregiously failed with Miss Grains. She, too, had felt inclined at first to place her conscience in Mr. Puffin's hands; but young Mr. Wurzel, an easy-going fellow enough at most times, objected to Puffin's addressing his affianced bride, save from the pulpit, as "his dear sister." He had even told Miss Grains that he looked upon Mr. Puffin as a "philanderer," and that "he didn't hold with philanderers." So Miss Grains made no alteration in her costume, and she turned a deaf ear to Mr. Puffin's ecclesiastical authority.
It was not long before King's Warren Church rejoiced in a surpliced choir. There was rather a martial clang of hob-nailed boots during the numerous processions of the choir on Sundays; but the service was undoubtedly much more imposing than in the old days. Mr. Puffin did wonders with the small material at his command. He would have made an admirable stage-manager. He never missed a possible effect, and he considerably astonished the King's Warreners when he preached his first funeral sermon. He was a good preacher, and always held the attention of the congregation. But perhaps some few of them smiled when he led up to the fact that the silver cord was loosed and the golden bowl broken, in an ornate and sensational harangue reaching an unexpected climax by tilting over the tumbler at his side, which fell with a crash and was shivered in a thousand pieces on the floor. There were no sleepers in King's Warren Church when the Reverend Barnes Puffin graced the pulpit after that. And yet Puffin was a sincere man, and worked energetically according to his lights.
But it was an evil day for the Reverend Barnes Puffin when he felt it to be his duty to attempt the conversion of Lucy Warrender. She was the one black sheep of the fold, for she had committed the unpardonable sin—she had laughed at Mr. Puffin. A girl may differ with a modern parson, she may argue with him; nay, she may refuse to argue with him at all, but she must not laugh at him, and Lucy had done this. Had she not irreverently compared him to Samson, and wickedly declared that she would like to be a Delilah to shear with her own hands his too redundant locks? Had she not told him that it was rude to wear the little square hat, which he persisted in calling a baretta, in the presence of ladies? Had she not openly asserted her belief that he wore a hair shirt and scourged himself in private? These are only a few of the many crimes of which Miss Warrender had been guilty. It was evidently the duty of the Reverend Barnes Puffin to convert Miss Warrender without loss of time.
Puffin was always well received at The Warren; he amused the squire by the seriousness of his arguments about trifling things. For every thing that he did, for every little bob, bow or gesture, the Reverend Barnes Puffin had a very good reason. Nothing that he did was trifling; it was always symbolical of something. According to him, for every movement of his body there was a ritual reason why. It became a sort of custom at The Warren that as soon as dessert was upon the table, the Reverend Barnes Puffin was allowed to mount his hobby-horse and wildly career. He liked to give what he called a little information on sacred things, and he made the most of his opportunities, for he never had a long innings, as he always retired with the ladies.
One evening the Reverend Barnes Puffin was seated in the drawing-room at The Warren conversing with the cousins. Fanchette, in all the pride of her Norman costume, was bringing the little Lucius to bid his mother good-night. Now Fanchette, from his cassock, his sash, his baretta, and the collar which had so puzzled poor Mrs. Dodd, had always looked upon the Reverend Barnes Puffin as a veritable Catholic priest, and respected him accordingly. She made him a succession of low courtesies, and placing the little Lucius in his mother's arms, she advanced towards the curate in a respectful manner. To his intense astonishment she suddenly dropped on her knees at his side, seized his hand, and covered it with kisses. Then, in fluent patois, she demanded his blessing. But the curate, unfortunately, did not understand a word she said. Like most curates, he was accustomed to the blandishments which are invariably lavished by the female sex on these most fortunate of men. Interesting penitents had made eyes at him, had squeezed his hand at parting with unnecessary pressure, had loaded him with slippers, vestments, and socks and comforters knitted by their own fair fingers. They had even obtained interviews, and had wickedly taken the opportunity of the tête-à-tête to make violent love to him; but never, in the whole course of his clerical experience, had any of his "dear sisters" suddenly dropped on their knees at his side and violently kissed his hand. Puffin was by no means a vain man. But what could he think? Here was a foreign woman, of prepossessing appearance, administering sounding osculations to his unwilling fingers.
"Ladies, dear ladies," he said, as he rose to his feet, the bonne still clinging to his hand and kissing it furiously, "this is most irregular." Here he strove with gentle dignity to try to withdraw his hand, but all to no purpose. "Ladies," he said, blushing violently, and speaking of Fanchette as if she had been an infuriated bull-terrier, "call her off. Please call her off."
But the cousins were far too amused at the incident to come to his assistance. Georgie could not forbear a smile, while Lucy burst into inextinguishable peals of silvery laughter.
"She wants your blessing, Mr. Puffin, that's all," said Lucy at length.
"Then she should come to church, Miss Warrender," exclaimed Mr. Puffin, to whose hand the bonne clung, alternately kissing it and gazing up at him with imploring eyes.
"She thinks you are a Catholic priest," exclaimed Lucy.
"This is too horrible," cried the Reverend Barnes Puffin, as he vainly struggled to release the imprisoned hand.
"Ah, mon père," vociferated the bonne.
"Goodness me, she says I'm her father; pray explain, dear ladies. Is her mind affected?"
And then Miss Warrender did explain to her.
On hearing that the unhappy curate was not a priest of her own Church, but only, as Lucy had expressed it, a heretical Protestant pastor, Fanchette's demeanour changed altogether.
"Ah, gredin, farceur, monsieur est en travesti. Saperlotte," she added, and here she snapped her fingers in the astonished curate's face, and abruptly left the room.
The curate sank into a chair and wiped his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.
"Goodness me, ladies," he said, "what a terrible person! I assure you I didn't mean to exasperate her."
From that day Fanchette ceased her respectful obeisances to the curate, but his visits to The Warren, where he was always a welcome guest, became gradually more frequent.
It is human nature after all ever to strive after the impossible, and Mr. Puffin recognizing in Miss Warrender a young lady who was essentially of the world worldly, naturally determined to attempt her conversion. But the spirit of contrariety is ever strongly developed in the female breast. As the parson became more pertinacious, Miss Warrender, who was at first rather bored than otherwise by his eloquence, resolved upon reprisals.
"I'll bet you a new bonnet," she had said to Haggard, "that I make the Celibate propose to me."
"Not he, my dear," said Georgie's husband with a laugh. "Puffin's not altogether a fool after all; he's got the run of his teeth in this house, and he won't care to lose it by making an ass of himself."
"My dear Miss Warrender, my husband's curate considers himself as vowed to heaven," said Mrs. Dodd, who was present.
"They all do, Mrs. Dodd, till they find metal more attractive. I daresay even Mr. Dodd considered himself at one time as vowed to heaven."
"There is no analogy, Miss Warrender, between my husband's case and that of Mr. Puffin. When Mr. Dodd proposed to me, Miss Warrender, he did so as a beneficed clergyman; and he proposed to the daughter of a dignitary of the Church. Had Mr. Dodd been a curate, he would not have so far forgotten his position as to have been guilty of so presumptuous an act."
"But I'm only Squire Warrender's niece, Mrs. Dodd; there would be no presumption in my case."
"Don't buoy yourself up with false hopes, Lucy. Were Mr. Puffin to be guilty of such unseemly folly, it would be my duty, as his vicar's wife, to seriously remonstrate with him; and should he prove obdurate, even to dispense with his services. The position of a clergyman's wife, Lucy Warrender, is full of difficulty and responsibility," she added sententiously.
"That's what makes me long for it so, Mrs. Dodd. I yearn to feel myself lifted out of the common ruck of women."
"You are unmaidenly, Lucy Warrender," said the vicar's wife, instantly assuming her favourite tone of a Lord Chief Justice.
Miss Hood smiled, for she felt that the badinage was sober earnest to Mrs. Dodd; but she made no remark, for Lucy was long ago out of leading strings.
When the vicar's wife reached her home, she sent for Mr. Puffin. After she had shaken hands with him, she came to the point at once.
"I trust you are comfortable here, Mr. Puffin," she said, "and that you find King's Warren a congenial sphere."
"I do indeed, dear madam," replied the curate. "We have already accomplished much, but there is yet an abundant field of work in the place. I am very happy here."
"I have a dreadful communication to make to you, Mr. Puffin. A member of the congregation has confided to me the disgraceful fact of her personal infatuation for my husband's curate."
"This is sad, Mrs. Dodd, this is very sad; but it is not wholly unexpected. Clergymen, as you are aware, dear madam, are constantly exposed to these annoyances in the course of their ministrations. You allude, I conclude, to the younger Miss Sleek. I have noticed latterly her marked assiduity in attendance at church—the most unseasonable weather has failed to keep her away. I half feared that it would be so. Alas, girls are apt to forget the priest in the man. But this is a new kind of experience to me, Mrs. Dodd, for I have found that they usually first confide their folly to the object of their aspirations."
"No, Mr. Puffin, it is not Miss Sleek to whom I allude; nothing would surprise me with regard to her. There is no folly that young persons in her class of life might not be guilty of. It is not the younger Miss Sleek, though she is an ambitious girl, but the squire's near relative who has confessed a wicked passion for my husband's curate."
"Gracious me," cried Mr. Puffin. "Can you possibly allude to young Mrs. Haggard?"
"Mr. Puffin, you forget yourself. No, it is Miss Warrender who has confided to me her infamous secret."
Mr. Puffin turned pale, then he blushed to the roots of his hair; he sighed deeply, and then he simpered. The vicar's wife drummed impatiently upon the table.
"Oh, Mr. Puffin," she said, "you don't mean to say that you reciprocate this? How often have you protested to me that you were a Celibate, a priest; and now you do nothing but sit and snigger. I'm grieved; I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Puffin."
"Dear Mrs. Dodd," said the poor parson, "your communication has taken me by surprise. At first it horrified me. I am a priest, Mrs. Dodd," he said, "it is true; but, alas, I also remember that I am a man." He buried his face in his hands.
Mrs. Dodd sat immovable, looking at the curate with an astonished gaze; and then she suddenly left the room and slammed the door violently.
The transformation was as thorough as it was sudden; the Reverend Barnes Puffin had entered that room the humble coadjutor of the vicar's wife; as he left it, he felt his soul soar into higher regions: as Orientals put it, "his head was touching the skies." Mrs. Dodd looked out of her breakfast room window to watch the departure of him who she mentally termed "the fallen man."
But the fallen man considerably astonished her by the change in his appearance. Mr. Puffin, who was accustomed to walk slowly and with downcast eyes, as became a celibate priest, now strode down the drive; he didn't walk, he strode. He swung his walking-stick defiantly in the air, and to her astonishment Mrs. Dodd perceived that, ere he left the place, he committed the brutal act of beheading one of her favourite poppies with a sort of swashbuckler-stroke that would have done credit to a Life Guardsman.
Flutter on, happy clerical butterfly, your bliss will be of short duration; for that careful entomologist, Miss Lucy Warrender, is already preparing the sharp needle that shall transfix your little triumphant heart.
Puffin, as he passed through the village, returned the many salutations he received with joyous bows, and the wiseacres noticed that his broad brimmed clerical hat was now worn with a triumphant cock.
