Poor Annie, his wife, was a patient, hard-working, ignorant woman. She had once been pretty, but many children and growing poverty had made her at the age of seven-and-twenty look like most women of forty. She was worn and thin, and was untidy; she was unrefined in her ways and uncouth in her speech; she was badly educated, having been idle at school, and forgotten what little her teachers managed to knock into her unwilling head; but for all this she managed to retain her husband's affection, and to keep him from the public-house. The vicar, who was a bachelor himself, often wondered why Tom Chapman was one of the steadiest young men in the parish, and why he always spent his evenings at home with "such a wife" as he had, and in such a pigsty of a house; for I grieve to say cleanliness in her household was far from being a virtue of Mrs. Chapman's. The house stood at the bottom of Gravel-pit Lane, and was the first of a row of cottages that crept up the steep little hill that led away from the vicarage into the buttercup meadows. The stream did not come anywhere near Gravel-pit Lane, and the water supply was never very good—one well having to serve eight or ten cottages with water; and this year, owing to the unprecedented dryness of the spring, the well was nearly empty. Small wonder, then, that the little Chapmans were even less well washed than usual, and that their dirty pinafores were an ever-increasing source of annoyance to the schoolmistress.
It was from this house that the vicar had carried off the patient for the little fever hospital on the side hill above the village. This fever hospital was a pet scheme of his and the doctor's. All through the dry spring they had been prophesying trouble, and had made themselves unpopular in consequence. Now, popularity is a very pleasant thing, and a very useful thing; but there are things better than popularity. Popularity is a fickle, faithless jade. She comes often unbidden and unsought, and sits down by a man's side, and while she is there he may do what he likes. He may scold people for not giving enough in church, he may forget to answer invitations, he may even lose his temper, and say all sorts of things he doesn't mean; but once Madam Popularity has left him, or even shown any signs of approaching departure, this same man may no longer ask your assistance in his charities. He may never offer you advice, or criticise your actions; he may scarcely even presume to wish you good-morning, and when he comes to see you, you imagine he comes to pry into your private affairs. If he gives your boy a penny for opening a gate for him, you are certain he is "up to suffin'," and the luckless penny is nothing but bribery and corruption; in short, all that was right and commendable before is wrong and reprehensible now.
It was this that had happened to the vicar of Willowton, and strangely enough, everybody knew it but the vicar! He was far too busy attending to his duties and succouring his people, body and soul, to feel any changes of temperature; and if he had, I will not exactly say that he would not have cared (for, of course, he would; he would not have been human if he had not), but it would have made no difference; he would have persevered in his course just the same. He was, he would have said, "about his Master's work," and it would never have occurred to him to alter his ways once he had made up his mind he was right.
The reason of his unpopularity was not difficult to determine—he had been preaching a crusade against dirt and unthriftiness. He had foretold in forcible language, from the pulpit as well as elsewhere, the coming epidemic, which the sanitary commissioner had declared inevitable, with the village in such a shocking state of insanitariness. The inspector called the houses "unsanitary," the vicar called them "dirty"—that was the difference. There was a very great difference between the sound of these two swords, and the vicar made the fatal mistake of using the wrong one. It was a pity, but the vicar was very outspoken, very impetuous, very straightforward. He had said so many times before, and nobody had ever even dreamt of taking offence. They knew it was true, and they were so used to it that they never thought of objecting to hearing the truth blurted out in his good-humoured, friendly manner—never till Corkam came back after his thirty-five years of "foreign travel."
"How you do truckle to that chap!" he would say to the men who touched their hats respectfully to him as he passed. "You think, he was cap'en on a wessel at least, and bos'un tight and midshipmite inter ther bargain. Blessed if I are goin' ter knock under to the parson, or a whole cargo o' parsons! that I won't; so there!" and Corkam would lean his elbows on the parapet of the bridge behind him, and stand with an impudent sneer on his coarse, flabby lips at the unsuspecting vicar as he passed.
Corkam had "no manners," he thought; "but one mustn't judge too much by appearances, and probably," he would tell himself, if Corkham's rudeness was more than usually aggressive, "he was much better than he looked." For the vicar's creed was of the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians order—of the kind that believeth all things, and hopeth all things; and after all there is nothing like hope in the world. It is so perennial, if you are disappointed in your hopes about one thing, you can always go on hoping about another. And the vicar was very happy in his hopes, though they were often doomed to disappointment. He had good health, good spirits, and a good conscience, and he scarcely knew what it was to have a headache or endure a sleepless night. Truly "a man to be envied," his friend the doctor said, "and there are not many like him!"
The vicarage was a small house—a great many gables and very small rooms, all except the hall, which was a large, low-roofed, roomy apartment, with black oak beams supporting the uneven white-washed ceiling. A great gilt-faced grandfather's clock stood in one corner on the right-hand side of the fireplace, which was one of those delightful Queen Anne, urn-shaped grates, with high hobs on either side, on which the vicar's housekeeper kept her master's coffee, or soup, or cocoa, as the case might be, warm when he failed to come in for his meals, which was no uncommon occurrence, especially since the outbreak of the fever, when, as the long-suffering woman constantly complained, "he don't never show his face till the meat is cooked to a cinder, or the water for his tea has boiled itself flat."
The vicarage garden ran down to the churchyard on one side, and was bordered on the other by the ubiquitous little stream that wound itself in and out through the village like a shining ribbon. The flowers in the vicar's garden were mostly quaint, old-fashioned things. He knew nothing about flowers himself, but his housekeeper did, and he had the advantage of succeeding a man who had a passion for gardening, and who had stocked the place with bulbs, innumerable tulips, daffodils, crocuses, snowdrops, and aconites, and little old-world hepatica and grape hyacinths. While against the high brick wall, now mellowed with time, were old single pink peonies, great yellow tiger lilies, and mulleins, just coming out over the porch the blue wisteria did her best to flower, but perished in the attempt; while the tropeolum, and other creeping things that Mrs. Crowe had grown so successfully every year against the trellis, died off before they began to climb. It was as if the fever had touched them too, poor things; though Mrs. Crowe did surreptitiously fill her watering-pot at the stream and water them ever evening when the vicar was out of the way; for that gentleman was a very dragon over the water, and the stream, as I said before, was getting daily lower and lower, and water scarcer and scarcer.