"The Vicar's Conversion."

Timaru Herald, Volume XIIC, Issue 13811, 23 January 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

"The Vicar's Conversion."

(By A. E. .'TV. Mason.)

"These are fancies," said the.vicar. The' Vicar, had just come to. the parish, and had come straight from a coi-lbo-e lecture-room. The peasant with wnom he was walking on the trim gravel path between the lynch-gate and the church-door had heard tfie clocK strike six on every morinng ol his seventy-two years. "These are fancies, Jan, and. reprehensible. It is dishearten :'ing to notice how the traditions of ignorance still live in distant villages. In olden times there was more excuse, and to he sure instances were more common. An unexpected draught of wind on a calm day and a rustle of the frees, and at once it was the fairies calling 'Horse and Hattock,' as they were transported from place to place. To see one's self in a dream divided into a two-told person was a sign of death, doubtless because such a vision had appeared to I a man in a delirium and near his end. Superstition was an excuse, too, for quacks, and by them encouraged. There was a miller in Norfolk, who owned a beryl set in a circle of silver, on which were engraved the names of four ehgels —Ariel, Raphael, Michael, and Gabriel —and in this beryl he professed to see prescriptions written on images of herbs, and so to cure the sick." . Jan shook his head m admiration of the vicar's harangue. "There's hook-larnin' in every word, said he. , • ' "Then there are the phantasmata proper," continued the vicar, "siieh as corpse-candles, which, rightly understood are no more than Will-o'-the-wisps' or- marsh fires and exhalations of the soil, and when-seen in churchyards are indeed an argument for ere-, mation." . . The vicar was en3oying his lecture too much to remark the look of dismay on Jan's old, wrinkled lace, or to pay heed to his expostulation against that or any argument for cremation. He bore Jan down with knowledge. "Besides these, there are apparitions, reserved,-it would seem," he continued, with a severe look at Jan, "to those who have second sight. The Scotch are the chief offenders in claiming that gift, and they tell many ridiculous stories about meeting people on the road with winding sheets up to their knees or necks, according as they are to die, immediately or only soon. There-is a legend told of the McLeans, whose child's nurse began suddenly to. weep when she saw McLean and his ladv entering together. She wept, it seems, "'because she saw between them a man in a scarlet cloak and a white hat, who gave the lady a kiss. And the meaning of that rubbish was thai McLean would dio and his lady marry again, arid marry a man in a scarlet cloak and a white hat." "An' did she?" interrupted Jan. "Did she?" said the vicar, with scorn. "Would any woman marry a man in a scarlet cloak and a white hat.". , ~ „ -j "She might be datb loike, said

Jan. The vicar waved the suggestion aside. "The Scotch, indeed, make the most

absurd pretentions: Aubrey writes that in the Island of Skye they offeied in his day to preach second sight tor a pound of tobacco." "They eoundn't du that," said Jan. , •« 'Tis not to-be lamed. 'Tis born ma body, so to speak. My .feyther. had it afore me " , • . _ "Now Jan," interrupted the, vicar, "I cannot listen to you. It is mere presumption for you to speak in tnat way." • - - T <irv '•Be sure, vicar," replied Jan, ui aren't proud o' the gift. Would git rid of it if Oi cud. "Tain't pleasant to sit supping your yale with them as you knows are corpses already, so' to 'say, and many years Oi've never been near churchyard at all on New Year s Eve, so as Oi moightn't knaw. But when Oi du come, sure enough all who are o-oin' to doi durin' the year comes down the lane, through the gate, and up the path into the church. An those who doi first, come first. They don't wear no sheets, or tra/npin s, but they comes in their cloathes, opens gate, and so into church. An' Oi 11 prove it to you, vicar." "How?"' i"Oi'll watch to-morrow, bein'.New Year's Eve, and Oi'll write down the names of the three who. first go through the gate. Then Oi'll put the names in envelopes and mark 'em outside 'one, 'two,' 'three,' and giv£ you the envelopes. Then, when the first person doles vou open the envelope, and there you'll" fiind the name,* and same wi the second and the third." The vicar was in a'* quandary. _ It was undignified to accept the challenge; it would seem cowardly to refuse it. He compounded wjth his dignity and accepted. , .'; "Not because I have anv doubts myself," he said to Jan, '"but in order to convince you of the absurdity of your pretension." > : . On the first of Jariuarj; the three envelopes were delivered' to him by. Jan. They were sealed and numbered.' The vicar tossed them contemptuously into a drawer and locked them up. He for-, got them altogether until the end of the moiith, when he was summoned hastilv to the bedside of a labourer who was ill with influenza. The..man wns very old—eighty-four., the doctor said. "Is there a chance of his living?' asked the vicar when he came out of the cottage with the doctor. "Not one in ten thousand. He'has been breaking for months. Last: autumn'' I didn't think he'd see another summer." . ' . The vicar met Jan in the street and remembered the envelopes. He shrugged his shoulders at the recollection of the ridiculous challenge arid went hame to his study. His uncompleted sermon lay on his desk, and he'sat down, to it! In a minute or two lie went to his book-case for a reference, and, standing before the shelves, forgot why he had risen from his chair.' He was thinking: "After'all, old Peter Stewer's death was an easy guess: 1 ' He went back to his table and unlocked, the drawer. "It wouldn't be a proof if Peter Stewer's name was in envelope No 1," He took out envelope No. 1. ' "Anyone, it seemed, might have known in the autumn that Peter Stewer was breaking. ■ And his next was, "These envelopes are very thick." He woke up with a start to realise that hewas holding the envelope up to the light of the window, and he tossed it back impatiently and snapped the drawer to. Peter Stewer died at three: o'clock in the morning. The vicar heard the news at nine'as he was walking to the cottage,, and he suddenly; turned back as though he were going home. He ehange'd him mind, however, and turned again, continuing his.walk to the cottage ;-,'*. - - - ' "He : was eighty-four," > said Peter s daughter, phlegmatically. ; "A ripe age,"' replied - r'i He repeated "Eighty-forir""|o*Tiim-self more than once as he went home. "Eighty-four. Very likely his name's in the envelope. There's no", proof in that"; and he felt himself grabbed by the arm. It was the doctor who had caught hold of him. , "liou're in a great hurry," said the

doctor. ; "On to-morrow's, sermon, eh? well, I Won't spoil it." •■••" . ' ■ ' The vicar, however, would not let the doctor go; lie loitered, he had a word for everybody he passed in the street, and it was not until evening that he opened the envelope. He opened it with a great suoiv of carelessness, all the -greater because he was conscious that his heart'was beating a little quicker than usual. He was .prepared lor the name, and yet the sight of it written there in black ana white, "i-'eter Stewcr," was a shod* to him. He tore the paper into fragments and tried to thrust the matter from his

mind. ,■ Jiut Jan was at the iuneral, and after the ceremony, he said: "What did I tell 'ee, vicar?" "Peter was old," said.the vicar, "and breaking fast. It was easy to guess his name."' "Wait to the next, vicar; said Jan. "OL'm not proud o' the gift—Oi wish Oi hadn't it; but wait to the next." Now, the parish was situated in a healthy, upland district, aiid the winter «;.*s mmi. One or two.jflf the eider people suffered the usual 'ailments of February and March, but there was 110 serious illness. More than once the vicar was inclined to tear tip his envelopes during that time, for he had to live in an expectation of; ! a summons to a deathbed. But it would have seemed almost a confession that he gave in, that he admitted the possibility of second sight, and the-posses-sion' of it by Jan. He djd not Be assured himself often that: he did not. Indeed, it would after alllprove nothing if all three envelopes contained the correct names. For there^were extraordinary flukes: they happened every dav The vicar had read his newspaper of them happening at gambling saloons. Jan was just gambling on the names as a player gambles on numbers No, the vicar did not object to the letters because he shirked the challenge but because they |k<?pt him in spite of himself speculating who of his parishioners'would betheinext to go. Half-way through Match he knew. A servant from the great) house on the hanger above the village jcarae to fetch him A runaway horse, q.collision with a cart, and the of the house seriously hurt-this was (the footman a story The vicar hurried up the hill. The' envelopes in his diawer were at that time swol>t clean out of his mmd; he had no thoughts huf thoughts ot dread and pity. The girl who had been injured was barely nineteen, and she had all her acquaintances for her ' r The' S doctor was already upstairs; the vicar waited in the graft hall with the girl's father, hearing jover and over acrain a hroken narrative of the accident. At last the doctor descended, and neither of the tfo men waiting had the courage to but a question The doctor replied tojtheir looks, and replied cheerfully. fte recommended that;a telegram be sept for a specialist "There is a chance, then? asked the father, in a voiei? he could not raise above a whispej. "More than a chance," replied the doctor, and the vicar was at once, 111 spite of himself, anf against his will, certain that there Was no chance—not one in ten thousand; Perhaps it was that he remembered 1 a similar question put to him outside!old Peter Stewer s

gate. At all events the envelopes were recalled to his,mind. Jan had as much as tqld'"him that the next of, his parishioners to go would be young. And a conviction, which lie cotild not shake oft", stood fixed in his mind that Gertrude Leslie . was the name written within the envelope. He seemed as he stood.in the hall listening to the interchange of hopeful words.,, to' he actually reading the nam'e through the envelope, arid'it- was with, a start almost of guilt thathe roused himself to take his leave.' In three.days' time he had occasion to open' the second envelope. "Gertrude Leslie" was,.' the name inscribed in it, and he opened 'it on the day of Gertrude Leslie's .death. "What did 1 tell ''eo, vicar P" said Jan. ' ■ The vicar turned away without answering. 'He could not- argue that Jan had merely made'a likely guess. '.Apart from the other circumstances', it hardly seemed natural that Jan should have guessed'at the Squire's daughter, at all, when -there'were cronies arid, acquaintances to select from. 'The vicar from that rno'merit took an aversion to Jan as to something repellent and -uncanny;' arid it-became a surprise, to him that the'villagers' regarded' the peasant with • indifference ' and almost with-a. pity as a beirig ! endowed with a commonplace but uncomfortable gift. .The , yicnr no loritrer ' disbelieved 'in Jan's second sight. .He owned as much franklv to himself one evening, and took the.' third 1 envelone from the drawer,.' "T may as well . burn thi=, then." he debated, "since I am already convinced"; but evert'while he was debatinß- be" replaced it' in the' drawer. His disbelief was replaced by curiosity —ouriosity to know not so much whose name was .in the-envelope,-but rather which of his parishioners:would _ be the next to die^—a-point upon which the breaking of the sen! would- surelv 41lumine him. He felt, that'it would be went however, to break the seal. He had a sense, too, that it would be wrong:, it seemed to him • almost that it .would be an acknowledgement of -a suhmission to the powers of darkness. But -he kept the envelope;, and-it tempted him like .a forbidden thing, it called, him to break the seal and read, it- became -permanent in ■ his thoughts. His parishioners began,to notice a. curious, secret look of inquiry, whch came into "bis eyes whenever he met or snoke to them. He was speculating, "Is it -you?-"- and the spring came. . ,

The vicar threw up his window, one morning and felt his blood renewed. He drew in the fresh morning-air, with a consciousness that of late he,had been living in and -breathing a miasma. The trees in his garden were lively and miisical with, birds'; there were sprouts of "tender green upon the branches; the blackbirds were packing at his lawn, and between the blades of grass be saw white bells of snowdrops. He. determined to'brush all this oppressive curiosity from his mind, to forget the envelope lurking in his drawer. He breakfasted, and went out to make a call. On his way to the cottage he passed the post-office. By the letter-box the schoolmistress was standing with some. letters in her hand. She raised her hand and slipped, one of the letters into the box just as the vicar came up to her. The vicar was a keen sighted man, and it chanced that liis eyes fell upon the envelope. He read the superscription and recognised the handwriting.. The. envelope was addressed to Jan's son, a yeoman with the South African Field Force, and the address was written in the same handwriting" as the names in the envelopes marked "1" and "2" which he had opened. "So you are posting Jan's letters?" said the vicar ; who was a trifle puzzled. '• ■ ' ' :

"Yes," explained the' schoolmistress. "-Tan's an old lnhri,' and vthere_-»was-iio; school here -when he was SrhoyT -So. he never -learnt to read or Write. He tells me what he wants' to say to his boy, and I write it for hirii." "Then you know the name in the third envelope?" cried the vicar. . The- question was, out and spokenbefore he was aware of what lie said. Then he ■ flushed ' with shame. It was humiliating, it was most undignified to betray such . vehement - curiosity. The -vicar was .so disconcerted that "h« hardly paid heed to the: confusion and excuses of the schoolmistress. "I did • not know -. why "Jail 'wanted the names written," she pleaded. "He never told me. -I would never have done it if I had known that this was one of his heathenish' tricks. I did not guess until the Squire's daughter died. I don't believe it, sir, 'even now, any more than you do." "Well, well!" The vicar cut her short, anxious to escape from his undignified position. "You were not to blame, since you did not know. But it is not right to encourage Jan in these'—he cast about-for an ambiguous word and found it— "in- these de-. vices." .. The vicar hurried home in a turmoil of indignation against Jan, and. more particulayly against himself. He would put an.end to the obsession of this sealed envelope, wldch was daily engrossing more and more of his life. He went straight to his study, unlocked the drawer, and pulled out the envelope. He tore it open, shutting his eyes.the while unconsciously, so, that he might read the name.at once, anct have done with it. Then he opened his eyes, and read. The name was bis own! The vicar looked out of diis window upon his garden, but the spring morning had lost its charm -for him. ,