One day I was chatting with the landlord of the inn when the Reverend Gascoyne passed the window. It was about half-past four in the afternoon, and I had presumably come over to the village to fish. As a matter of fact, my nature is too fastidious for so brutal a sport. I cannot bear to inflict suffering for mere pleasure, and I am quite unable to understand the brutality and grossness of a nature that delights in it.
I had been careful, however, to master its jargon, and there were two or three shining specimens at the bottom of my basket to give evidence of my prowess.
“There goes the parson,” I said, carelessly.
“Ah! ’e be going to take tea with old Mrs. Finucane.”
“Indeed?”
“Wet or fine, twice a week, ’e goes over and drinks a cup of tea with ’er, and reads to ’er for an hour or two. ’e be a good man, be the parson.”
“Who’s old Mrs. Finucane?”
“ ’Er husband were organist, and when ’e died—though, by the way, ’e were younger than Mrs. Finucane, and they do say were at college with the parson—well, when ’e died it were found that Mrs. Finucane were a pauper, and wur as like as not to ’ave to go to the workus, but the parson, ’e says to the Squire, ‘If you’ll put down a pound a week for life, I’ll put down a pound a week for life also,’ and so ’twas done. Sir Robert couldn’t for shame’s sake refuse, seeing that Mr. Finucane had saved his son’s life, and so Mrs. Finucane be comfortable enough, ’er cottage being ’er own. They do say that the Squire wur none too willing to do it, though.”
“Does Mrs. Finucane live in the village?”
I knew it was quite unnecessary to ask exactly where she lived, as every villager loves to maunder on, and give any inquirer details concerning his neighbours gratis.