VOICES IN THE HALL
“I DON’T see, my love, do you,” said the vicar, “that I am called upon to take any step on this odd letter from a servant-maid? ““But, Hugh, dear, suppose she says true? Suppose there is a good reason for her alarm and urgency?”
“People of that rank of life don’t understand ours. I don’t believe, Dolly, there is any reason such as an educated person would act on.”
“And — I was just thinking, Hugh — does not this offer, as it were, from Providence of a little child of our kindred to take in, and protect, and educate, and love, I might say, very wonderfully? It might be such a darling-just eighteen months old, and a little orphan, poor little thing; and it must be a darling little creature, or she could not love it so very much.”
“But, my dear, the woman may be mad. If I could be certain there was anything in it — but I don’t even understand what she means.”
“Don’t you think she means that the child will be kidnapped, or made away with somehow?”
“Well, suppose she does, is it not more likely that a woman in her rank of life should be either stupid, or tipsy, or even mad, than that Captain — what’s his name?-should meditate any such enormity?”
“But you told us, Hugh, last Sunday, in that beautiful sermon on the text, ‘Search the Scriptures,’ that that was the very argument-wasn’t it? — by which that wicked man, Mr. Hume, attacked revealed religion.”
“Very well argued, I allow, Dolly,” said the vicar, smiling and patting her cheek affectionately.
“I am not sure, but I know it was something like it. And suppose, Hugh, dear, that anything bad did happen to the poor little child in consequence of your holding back and leaving it to its fate, would you ever forgive yourself? Think what a treasure it might be; and, oh, could you-could you feel quite happy if you resolve on leaving the poor little thing to take its chance after this warning?”
“I see, my good little Dolly, you have set your heart on our burning our fingers with other people’s chestnuts,” said the vicar, who secretly was more of his wife’s way of feeling and thinking in the matter than he cared to avow; and even at the cost of the long joumey-a longer one than the rail makes of it — he was very well disposed to be urged into the affair. “I see you have made up your mind, and I suppose, with such a termagant for a wife, I may as well make up mine,” he continued merrily. “It would be odd, Dolly, if it turned out as you say, and supplied a little inmate for that one lonely nook in the house, the quiet room upstairs, that may be noisy enough yet. But you must give me time to arrange about my duty, and to speak to Stubbs and Mompesson. And you’ll allow me to pack my trunk, also. I think you will? And so we’ll see what’s to be done, and should anything come of it, I may be delayed. I may be absent two Sundays; and, do you observe, the letter is stamped ‘late.’
I see the date corresponds. It has been a day longer making the journey than it ought; but that accounts for it. The last mail. They are so dilatory in that rank of life. Yes, we must reckon two Sundays’ absence. If you look at the map he pointed to a large map of England hanging on the screen— “you’ll see that it is a long way between this and Guildford.”
By this time the vicar was a little fussed, and had begun to feel the distraction of the coming journey.
Dorothy had got Hileria Pullen’s letter, and was reading it, over again.
“Well, darling, may God bless the undertaking,” said the vicar, after a silence of some minutes, laying his hand kindly on his wife’s shoulder. “But the more I think of it, the more I am satisfied we are right.”
She looked up, meeting his fond glance as fondly.
“Yes, Hugh, it will be the longest separation we have had since we were married.”
And these good people, who loved very fondly and kissed easily, kissed very tenderly again, and she laid her hand in his as he sat down by her side, and they looked with inexpressible affection and happiness in each other’s faces. I wonder if it was possible for two human beings to be happier; and yet the wish of these hearts was still to seek-quifit Mecaenas?
As, hand locked in hand, they fell thus into a reverie, on a sudden the iron gate opened, a tramp of feet and the sound of voices reached the hall door, at which came a loud knock like a woundy pelt, as they say in that country, of a hammer. This was followed by a great peal of the bell, and was so startling that good Mrs. Jenner bounded with an ejaculation, and the vicar, holding his wife’s hand tighter than he intended, looked round to the window.
There were several voices talking, and the bell rang again.
“Some one ill, I’m afraid,” said the vicar, going to the head of the stairs to hurry the maid.
She was already at the door, and he heard feet entering, and some talk, and the deep bass voice of Tom Shackles among the rest.
“By the mess!” cried the lusty voice of the girl. “Here will be news for the master and mistress. In wi’ it here. By Jen!”
The other voices meanwhile were talking loudly enough in the hall to make it no easy matter for the vicar, calling over the banister at the head of the stairs, to make himself heard.
“Fetch it in!”
Could it be some half-drowned body picked out of the lake, and brought in to recover or die, as God might please, in the vicar’s house?