THE VICAR AND HIS WIFE ARE ADJURED.
THE letter began thus: —
‘REVEREND SIR, — Please your divine, I am the woman by name Hileria Pullen, who cares the dearling child resently left an orphen by that angle of goodness the deseased Mrs. Mildmay, of Queen’s Snedley, and which I do suppose was well known to you and your lady, if she be still living; and Mr. Mildmay, whose lamentable departure likewise you saw, from a fall from his gig being in the papers — and the horse ran away, which caused his lamentable departure, a year before my mistress that was. Leaving her and her dearling infent, only eight months old, to lament his departure.’
“These people are all new to me,” said the vicar, shaking his head a little, and lowering the letter to the table, as he looked on his wife.
“Yes; that’s poor Alice. She married Mr. Mildmay, of Queen’s Snedley. I thought she took airs a little, and we have not written to one another this long time. Perhaps I wronged her; and so she’s gone, poor thing.”
“And he also died, it seems, a year before; and this is the nurse, I suppose,” said the vicar.
The vicar resumed:
‘Two days after my lamentable mistress died, Captain Torquil came to Queen’s Snedley, having given an order to Floss and Company for the funeral, which was done private. He has took the child and me to Guildford, where it and me at this present time is. We are comfortable in every particular as yet. Mrs. Torquil is here herself, but is not happy, nor, I think, in ‘ealth, to make it sootable for Miss Mildmay when she comes to grow up a bit to stay here, even if the captain was a saint upon earth — which it is far from so. Because, as I can make plain, I am very Unhappy about the dear child. He comes down here from London, sometimes every day for a bit, and sometimes he will not come for a week. Mrs. Torquil says she is a relative of your lady, and asked me after her very kindly, if she be still living, which I cannot tell, not having knewed the name.’
“That’s true, isn’t it?” asked the vicar. “They are related?”
“Yes, she is a cousin — not a first cousin — and I never saw very much of her. But go on, dear.”
“Well-yes. Where was I? Oh! here.”
And the vicar continued, thus:
‘But I am very anxious, please your divine, on account of the darling baby, you are aware it is only eighteen months old on the seventh of December last, and there is a many things you should know about; there being no near relative, and me in very great fear for the consequences. The captain is a pillite gentleman, and nice spoken to me. But I cannot write to your divine the cause of me being so very frightened as I am. For the captain he has been very kind to me, and I have nothing to complain. But has come to the nursery frequently, and looks at the child, and always offers me a drink, which is not the place of a gentleman to such as me; and having charge of the dearling child to offer me a drink, and press me to take it as he does.’
“Very odd, indeed,” said Mrs. Jenner. “I wonder what aged person this is?”
“I haven’t a notion, my dear,” answered the vicar.
“But what can he mean by it?” repeated his wife, with dignity.
“It is possibly mere good nature,” said her husband.
“I hope so,” said Mrs. Jenner. “I don’t think it gentlemanlike.”
“She may be an old woman, you know,” said the vicar.
“Extremely unlikely,” said the good lady, with an offended air. “You may as well read on, Hugh.”
The vicar read on therefore:
‘Being myself a many a year in the world, and having seen a great deal— ‘
“Oh! then she is a person of a certain age,” said the vicar.
“I’m glad she is. She’s the fitter person to take charge of children,” said his wife. “But I never heard any good of that Captain Torquil, and, Heaven forgive me if I wrong him, I don’t believe any; and I don’t say so without having heard a good deal about him. But read on, darling.”
“Very good,” said the vicar. “I wonder what on earth she can want of me? however, we’ll see,” and he read on:
‘It seems to me the captain wants to take the management of the dearling baby out of my hands hole us bole us.’
“She spells very oddly, “said the vicar.
“Never mind. What more, darling?” said Mrs. Jenner.
‘And the notions of such a thing puts me to my wits end, and, ‘indeed, God alone is my chief hope.’
“That, under all circumstances, I trust,” interpolated the vicar.
‘And I would wash my ends of it, and leave the place, was it not for that dearling baby, and the dreadful sin which it would lay on my soul — which the Lord forbid — and what may become of it I know not, if you will not see fit to come here and remove the poor little dearling. It will not do to write to me here, for it will fall, most likely, into the ends of the captain, which it would be a great break up, and the undoing of me; for he is, I hear, a very violent gentleman when he is crossed, and I should then be quite heart-broke about the dearling baby, for it would pass altogether into other ends, and so God only knows the consequence; and you being a parson, and acquainted with all goodness, will know what is right to be done by the poor innocent, and your own kin, and a great sin ‘twill be if you let the child come to evil. Great Heaven, if you but knew the hawful state I am in this hour, and the baby, poor innocent darling, in so great a danger, you would not fail to take coach for here — Guildford, Surrey, Old Hall, at the grocer’s in High Street, Samuel Folder’s, they will tell you of me; and as you hope for mercy yourself, come here and take away the child to stay in safety in your care.’
That was the end of the letter; and when he had read it, he lowered it again to the table, and looked in his wife’s face, and she looked in his.