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—