Old Mrs Chundle
The curate had not
been a week in the parish, but the autumn morning proving fine he thought he
would make a little water-colour sketch, showing a distant view of the
Corvsgate ruin two miles off, which he had passed on his way hither. The sketch
occupied him a longer time than he had anticipated. The luncheon hour drew on,
and he felt hungry.
Quite near him was
a stone-built old cottage of respectable and substantial build. He entered it,
and was received by an old woman.
"Can you give
me something to eat, my good woman?" he said. She held her hand to her
ear.
"Can you give
me something for lunch?" he shouted.
"Bread-and-cheese—anything
will do."
A sour look
crossed her face, and she shook her head. "That's unlucky," murmured
he.
She reflected and
said more urbanely: "Well, I'm going to have my own bit o' dinner in no
such long time hence. 'Tis taters and cabbage, boiled with a scantling o'
bacon. Would ye like it? But I suppose 'tis the wrong sort, and that ye would
sooner have bread-and-cheese?"
"No, I'll join
you. Call me when it is ready. I'm just out here."
"Ay, I've
seen ye. Drawing the old stones, baint ye? Sure 'tis well some folk have
nothing better to do with their time. Very well. I'll call ye, when I've dished
up."
He went out and
resumed his painting; till in about seven or ten minutes the old woman appeared
at her door and held up her hand. The curate washed his brush, went to the
brook, rinsed his hands proceeded to the house.
"There's
yours" she said, pointing to the table. "I'll have my bit here."
And she denoted
the settle.
"Why not join
me?"
"Oh, faith, I
don't want to eat with my betters—not I." And she continued firm in her
resolution, and eat apart.
The vegetables had
been well cooked over a wood fire—the only way to cook a vegetable properly—and
the bacon was well-boiled. The curate ate heartily: he thought he had never
tasted such potatoes and cabbage in his life, which he probably had not, for
they had been just brought in from the garden, so that the very freshness of
the morning was still in them. When he had finished he asked her how much he
owed for the repast, which he had much enjoyed.
"Oh, I don't
want to be paid for that bit of snack 'a b'lieve!"
"But really
you must take something. It was an excellent meal."
" 'Tis all my
own growing, that's true. But I don't take money for a bit o' victuals. I've
never done such a thing in my life."
"I should
feel much happier if you would."
She seemed
unsettled by his feeling, and added as by compulsion, "Well, then; I
suppose twopence won't hurt ye?"
"Twopence?"
"Yes.
Twopence."
"Why, my good
woman, that's no charge at all. I am sure it is worth, this, at least."
And he laid down a shilling.
"I tell 'ee
'tis twopence, and no more!" she said firmly. "Why, bless the man, it
didn't cost me more than three halfpence, and that leaves me a fair quarter
profit. The bacon is the heaviest item; that may perhaps be a penny. The taters
I've got plenty of, and the cabbage is going to waste."
He thereupon
argued no further, paid the limited sum demanded, and went to the door.
"And where
does that road lead?" he asked, by way of
engaging her in a
little friendly conversation before parting, and pointing to a white lane which
branched from the direct highway near her door.
"They tell me
that it leads to Enckworth."
"And how far
is Enckworth?"
"Three mile,
they say. But God knows if 'tis true."
"You haven't
lived here long, then?"
"Five-and-thirty
year come Martinmas."
"And yet you
have never been to Enckworth?"
"Not I. Why
should I ever have been to Enckworth? I never had any business there—a great
mansion of a place, holding people that I've no more
doings with than
with the people of the moon. No: there's on'y two places I ever go to from
year's end that's once a fortnight to Anglebury, to do my bit
o' marketing; and
once a week to my parish church."
"Which is
that?"
"Why,
Kingscreech."
"Oh—then you
are in my parish?"
"Maybe. Just
on the outskirts."
"I didn't
know the parish extended so far. I'm a new comer. Well, I hope we may meet
again. Good afternoon to you."
When the curate
was next talking to his rector he casually observed: "By the way, that's a
curious old soul who lives out towards Corvsgate—old Mrs—I don't know her
name—a deaf old woman.
"You mean old
Mrs Chundle, I suppose."
"She tells me
she's lived there five-and-thirty years, and has never been to Enckworth, three
miles off. She goes to two places only, from year's end to year's end—to the
market town, and to church on Sundays."
"To church on
Sundays. H'm. She rather exaggerates her travels, to my thinking. I've been
rector here thirteen years, and I have certainly never seen her at church in my
time."
"A wicked old
woman. What can she think of herself for such deception!"
"She didn't
know you belonged here when she said it, and could find out the untruth of her
story. I warrant she wouldn't have said it to me!" And the rector
chuckled.
On reflection the
curate felt that this was decidedly a case for his ministrations, and on the
first spare morning he strode across to the cottage beyond the ruin. He found
its occupant of course at home.
"Drawing
picters again?" she asked, looking up from the hearth, where she was
scouring the fire-dogs.
"No. I come
on more important matters, Mrs Chundle. I am the new curate of this
parish."
"You said you
was last time. And after you had told me and went away I said to myself, he’ll
be here again sure enough, hang me if I didn’t. And here you be."
"Yes. I hope
you don't mind?"
"Oh, no. You
find us a roughish lot, I make no doubt?"
"Well, I
won't go into that. But I think it was a very culpable—unkind thing of you to
tell me you came to church every Sunday, when I find you've not been seen there
for years."
"Oh—did I
tell 'ee that?"
"You
certainly did."
"Now I wonder
what I did that for?"
"I wonder
too."
"Well, you
could ha' guessed, after all, that I didn't come to any service. Lord, what's
the good o' my lumpering all the way to church and back again, when I'm as deaf
as a
"Don't you
think you could hear the service if you were to sit close to the reading-desk
and pulpit?"
"I'm sure I
couldn't. O no—not a word. Why I couldn't hear anything even at that time when
Isaac Coggs used to cry the Amens out loud beyond anything that's done
nowadays, and they had the barrel-organ for the tunes—years and years agone,
when I was stronger in my narves than now."
"H'm—I'm
sorry. There's one thing I could do, which I would with pleasure, if you'll use
it. I could get you an ear-trumpet. Will you use it?"
"Ay, sure.
That I woll. I don't care what I use—'tis all the same to me."
"And you'll
come?"
"Yes. I may
as well go there as bide here, I suppose."
The ear-trumpet
was purchased by the zealous young man, and the next Sunday, to the great
surprise of the parishioners when they arrived, Mrs Chundle was discovered in
the front seat of the nave of
She was the centre
of observation through the whole morning service. The trumpet, elevated at a
high angle, shone and flashed in the sitters' eyes
as the chief
object in the sacred edifice.
The curate could
not speak to her that morning, and called the next day to inquire the result of
the experiment. As soon as she saw him in the distance she began shaking her
head.
"No;
no;" she said decisively as he approached. "I knowed 'twas all
nonsense."
"What?"
" 'Twasn't a
mossel o' good, and so I could have told 'ee before. A wasting your money in
jimcracks upon a' old 'ooman like me."
"You couldn't
hear? Dear me—how disappointing."
"You might as
well have been mouthing at me from the top o' Creech Barrow."
"That's
unfortunate."
"I shall
never come no more—never—to be made such a fool of as that again."
The curate mused.
"I'll tell you what, Mrs Chundle. There's one thing more to try, and only
one. If that fails I suppose we shall have to give it up. It is a plan I have
heard of, though I have never myself tried it; it's having a sound-tube fixed, with
its lower mouth in the seat immediately below the pulpit, where you would sit,
the tube running up inside the pulpit with its upper end opening in a
bell-mouth just beside the book-board. The voice of the preacher enters the
bellmouth, and is carried down directly to the listener's ear. Do you
understand?"
"Exactly."
"And you'll
come, if I put it up at my own expense?"
"Ay, I
suppose. I'll try it, e'en though I said I wouldn't. I may as well do that as
do nothing, I reckon."
The kind-hearted
curate, at great trouble to himself, obtained the tube and had it fixed
vertically as described, the upper mouth being immediately under the face of
whoever should preach, and on the following Sunday morning it was to be tried.
As soon as he came from the vestry the curate perceived to his satisfaction Mrs
Chundle in the seat beneath, erect and at attention, her head close to the
lower orifice of the sound-pipe, and a look of great complacency that her soul
required a special machinery to save it, while other people's could be saved in
a commonplace way. The rector read the prayers from the desk on the opposite
side, which part of the service Mrs Chundle could follow easily enough by the
help of the prayer-book; and in due course the curate mounted the eight steps into
the wooden octagon, gave out his text, and began to deliver his discourse.
It was a fine
frosty morning in early winter, and he had not got far with his sermon when he
became conscious of a steam rising from the bell-mouth of the tube, obviously
caused by Mrs Chundle's breathing at the lower end, and it was accompanied by a
suggestion of onion-stew. However he preached on awhile, hoping it would cease,
holding in his left hand his finest cambric handkerchief kept especially for
Sunday morning services. At length, no longer able to endure the odour, he
lightly dropped the handkerchief into the bell of the tube, without stopping
for a moment the eloquent flow of his words; and he had the satisfaction of
feeling himself in comparatively pure air.
He heard a fidgeting
below; and presently there arose to him over the pulpit-edge a hoarse whisper:
"The pipe's chokt!"
"Now, as you
will perceive, my brethren," continued the curate, unheeding the
interruption; "by applying this test to ourselves, our discernment of—"
"The pipe's
chokt!" came up in a whisper yet louder and hoarser.
"Our
discernment of actions as morally good, or indifferent, will be much quickened,
and we shall be materially helped in our—"
Suddenly came a
violent puff of warm wind, and he beheld his handkerchief rising from the bell
of the tube and floating to the pulpit-floor. The little boys in the gallery
laughed, thinking it a miracle. Mrs Chundle had, in fact, applied her mouth to
the bottom end, blown with all her might, and cleared the tube. In a few
seconds the atmosphere of the pulpit became as before, to the curate's great
discomfiture. Yet stop the orifice again he dared not, lest the old woman
should make a still greater disturbance and draw the attention of the
congregation to this unseemly situation.
"If you
carefully analyze the passage I have quoted," he continued in somewhat
uncomfortable accents, "you will perceive that it naturally suggests three
points for consideration—"
("It's not
onions: it's peppermint," he said to himself)
"Namely,
mankind in its unregenerate state—"
("And
cider.")
"The
incidence of the law, and loving kindness or grace, which we will now severally
consider—"
("And pickled
cabbage. What a terrible supper she must have made!")
"Under the
twofold aspect of external and internal consciousness."
Thus the reverend
gentleman continued strenuously for perhaps five minutes longer: then he could
stand it no more. Desperately thrusting his thumb into the hole he drew the
threads of his distracted plug. But he stuck to the hole, and brought his
sermon to a premature close.
He did not call on
Mrs Chundle the next week, a slight cooling of his zeal for her spiritual
welfare being manifest; but he encountered her at the house of another cottager
whom he was visiting; and she immediately addressed him as a partner in the
same enterprize.
"I could hear
beautiful!" she said. "Yes; every word! Never did I know such a
wonderful machine as that there pipe. But you forgot what you was doing once or
twice, and put your handkercher on the top o' en, and stopped the sound a bit.
Please not to do that again, for it makes me lose a lot. Howsomever, I shall
come every Sunday morning reg'lar now, please God."
The curate
quivered internally.
"And will ye
come to my house once in a while and read to me?"
"Of
course."
Surely enough the
next Sunday the ordeal was repeated for him. In the evening he told his trouble
to the rector. The rector chuckled.
"You've
brought it upon yourself" he said. "You don't know this parish so
well as I. You should have left the old woman alone."
"I suppose I
should!"
"Thank
Heaven, she thinks nothing of my sermons, and doesn't come when I preach. Ha,
ha!"
"Well,"
said the curate somewhat ruffled, "I must do something. I cannot stand
this. I shall tell her not to come."
"You can
hardly do that."
"And I've
half-promised to go and read to her. But—I shan't go."
"She's
probably forgotten by this time that you promised."
A vision of his
next Sunday in the pulpit loomed horridly before the young man, and at length he
determined to escape the experience. The pipe should be taken down. The next
morning he gave directions, and the removal was carried out.
A day or two later
a message arrived from her, saying that she wished to see him. Anticipating a
terrific attack from the irate old woman he put off going to her for a day, and
when he trudged out towards her house on the following afternoon it was in a
vexed mood. Delicately nurtured man as he was he had determined not to re-erect
the tube, and hoped he might hit on some new modus vivendi, even if at the any
inconvenience to Mrs Chundle, in a situation that had become intolerable as it
was last week.
"Thank
Heaven, the tube is gone," he said to himself as he walked; and nothing
will make me put it up again!"
On coming near he
saw to his surprise that the calico curtains of the cottage windows were all
drawn. He went up to the door, which was ajar; and a little girl peeped through
the opening.
"How is Mrs
Chundle?" he asked blandly.
"She's dead,
sir" said the girl in a whisper.
"Dead? ...
Mrs Chundle dead?"
"Yes,
sir."
A woman now came.
"Yes, 'tis so, sir. She went off quite sudden-like about two hours ago.
Well, you see, sir, she was over seventy years of age, and last Sunday she was
rather late in starting for church, having to put her bit o' dinner ready
before going out; and was very anxious to be in time. So she hurried overmuch,
and runned up the hill, which at her time of life she ought not to have done.
It upset her heart, and she's been poorly all the week since, and that made her
send for 'ee. Two or three times she said she hoped you would come soon, as
you'd promised to, and you were so staunch and faithful in wishing to do her
good, that she knew 'twas not by your own wish you didn't arrive. But she would
not let us send again, as it might trouble 'ee too much, and there might be
other poor folks needing you. She worried to think she might not be able to
listen to 'ee next Sunday, and feared you'd be hurt at it, and think her
remiss. But she was eager to hear you again later on. However, 'twas ordained
otherwise for the poor soul, and she was soon gone. 'I've found a real friend
at last,' she said. 'He's a man in a thousand. He's not ashamed of a' old
woman, and he holds that her soul is worth saving as well as richer people's.'
She said I was to give you this."
It was a small
folded piece of paper, directed to him and sealed with a thimble. On opening it
he found it to be what she called her will, in which she had left him her
bureau, case-clock, settle, four-post to bedstead, and framed sampler—in fact
all the furniture of any account that she possessed.
The curate went
out, like Peter at the cock-crow. He was a meek young man, and as he went his
eyes were wet. When he reached a lonely place in the lane he stood still
thinking, and kneeling down in the dust of the road rested his elbow in one
hand and covered his face with the other. Thus he remained some minute or so, a
black shape on the hot white of the sunned trackway; till he rose, brushed the
knees of his trousers, and walked on.
The end.