already.”
“Oh?” Marianne picked up her embroidery.
“Why, yes, friends and fellow laborers. Wherever I go in the village, to whatever house of sickness and sorrow, I find that Miss Lamb has been before me. Do not think your goodness goes unnoticed, my dear young lady. God sees it all, and so, I can tell you, do I.”
“I do not do it with that in mind. I do it to please myself—and because there is such need. I have never seen such poverty, such ignorance ... ”
“Never?” He took it up with bright-eyed curiosity. “You mean that you have remembered?”
“Nothing,” she said almost angrily. “About myself, that is. It is only maddening that I remember so much that does not concern me. But wherever I have lived, I am convinced I have never seen anything like the conditions of some of the cottagers here. Do you know that the Martins sleep twelve in a room, with beds three deep, and only one other room?”
“I do indeed, and it is on that very subject that I am come to speak with you, ma’am.” He turned to address himself ingratiatingly to Mrs. Mauleverer, who was showing signs of irritation at being left so long out of the conversation. “I do not like the tone of the village. Is there any hope that Mr. Mauleverer will be coming down soon? His appearance would be worth a whole detachment of troops, for the people are convinced that he is their friend. And I tell you frankly, since this Reform Bill he is so concerned with was thrown out in the Lords, there are many in the village that are neither to hold nor to bind. If the King had not dissolved Parliament, I do not know what would have happened. But of course an election is unsettling too, even in a peaceful district like this where there is no question of a contest.”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Mauleverer. “I hope the burgesses know their duty better than that. But do you mean to tell me that our dolts of villagers are beginning to concern themselves with politics?”
“They are indeed, and, between ourselves, I should feel very much safer if Mr. Mauleverer were to come down and talk some sense into them.”
She shuddered. “You mean we may have riots like last year? And be burned in our beds—or worse. I will write to Mark at once. Surely he must be returned from the North by now, and, neglectful though he is, the news that his old mother is in danger of her life must bring him home posthaste. You will excuse me, I know, Mr. Emsworth; I must catch today’s post.”
Thus summarily dismissed, the vicar took his leave, favoring Marianne once more with an almost tender pressure of the hand, and calling her his “blessed fellow worker.”
“Do you know what—” Mrs. Mauleverer settled herself at her writing desk. “I really believe that absurd Mr. Emsworth fancies himself in love with you. ‘Fellow worker’ indeed. What on earth did he mean?”
“Nothing but a lot of nonsense. You know that since you do not like the idea of my walking alone on the moors, I take my walks mostly to the village. Naturally, I have got to know many of the cottagers, and they are so terribly in need of help and advice—one must feel for them.”
“So that is where the kitchen scraps have been going! Mr. Boxall was complaining only the other day that the pigs’ bucket was coming out half empty. No, no, never look so guilty, child; if we can stave off riot and revolution with our kitchen scraps, so much the better. I am no fool, and know well enough how much you have saved me since you took over the housekeeping. If you choose to invest some of the saving in village good will, so much the better. You must let me know if there is anything more you think we should do. I have no more wish to be burned in my bed than the next person. Oh, if only Mark would agree to our visiting Bath, or, better still, London, where, I have no doubt, he means to spend the summer if Lord Grey is returned to power. And now, my dear, if you will forgive me, I must finish my
“Oh?” Marianne picked up her embroidery.
“Why, yes, friends and fellow laborers. Wherever I go in the village, to whatever house of sickness and sorrow, I find that Miss Lamb has been before me. Do not think your goodness goes unnoticed, my dear young lady. God sees it all, and so, I can tell you, do I.”
“I do not do it with that in mind. I do it to please myself—and because there is such need. I have never seen such poverty, such ignorance ... ”
“Never?” He took it up with bright-eyed curiosity. “You mean that you have remembered?”
“Nothing,” she said almost angrily. “About myself, that is. It is only maddening that I remember so much that does not concern me. But wherever I have lived, I am convinced I have never seen anything like the conditions of some of the cottagers here. Do you know that the Martins sleep twelve in a room, with beds three deep, and only one other room?”
“I do indeed, and it is on that very subject that I am come to speak with you, ma’am.” He turned to address himself ingratiatingly to Mrs. Mauleverer, who was showing signs of irritation at being left so long out of the conversation. “I do not like the tone of the village. Is there any hope that Mr. Mauleverer will be coming down soon? His appearance would be worth a whole detachment of troops, for the people are convinced that he is their friend. And I tell you frankly, since this Reform Bill he is so concerned with was thrown out in the Lords, there are many in the village that are neither to hold nor to bind. If the King had not dissolved Parliament, I do not know what would have happened. But of course an election is unsettling too, even in a peaceful district like this where there is no question of a contest.”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Mauleverer. “I hope the burgesses know their duty better than that. But do you mean to tell me that our dolts of villagers are beginning to concern themselves with politics?”
“They are indeed, and, between ourselves, I should feel very much safer if Mr. Mauleverer were to come down and talk some sense into them.”
She shuddered. “You mean we may have riots like last year? And be burned in our beds—or worse. I will write to Mark at once. Surely he must be returned from the North by now, and, neglectful though he is, the news that his old mother is in danger of her life must bring him home posthaste. You will excuse me, I know, Mr. Emsworth; I must catch today’s post.”
Thus summarily dismissed, the vicar took his leave, favoring Marianne once more with an almost tender pressure of the hand, and calling her his “blessed fellow worker.”
“Do you know what—” Mrs. Mauleverer settled herself at her writing desk. “I really believe that absurd Mr. Emsworth fancies himself in love with you. ‘Fellow worker’ indeed. What on earth did he mean?”
“Nothing but a lot of nonsense. You know that since you do not like the idea of my walking alone on the moors, I take my walks mostly to the village. Naturally, I have got to know many of the cottagers, and they are so terribly in need of help and advice—one must feel for them.”
“So that is where the kitchen scraps have been going! Mr. Boxall was complaining only the other day that the pigs’ bucket was coming out half empty. No, no, never look so guilty, child; if we can stave off riot and revolution with our kitchen scraps, so much the better. I am no fool, and know well enough how much you have saved me since you took over the housekeeping. If you choose to invest some of the saving in village good will, so much the better. You must let me know if there is anything more you think we should do. I have no more wish to be burned in my bed than the next person. Oh, if only Mark would agree to our visiting Bath, or, better still, London, where, I have no doubt, he means to spend the summer if Lord Grey is returned to power. And now, my dear, if you will forgive me, I must finish my
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