The Vicar of Bullhampton

he was blacking the boots of a great man. It was acknowledged throughout the household that the Squire having such an uncle, was more of a Squire than he would have been without him. The clergyman, being such as he was, was greater than the country gentleman. And yet Mr. Chamberlaine was only a prebendary, was the son of a country clergyman who had happened to marry a wife with money, and had absolutely never done anything useful in the whole course of his life. It is often very curious to trace the sources of greatness. With Mr. Chamberlaine, I think it came from the whiteness of his hands, and from a certain knack he had of looking as though he could say a great deal, though it suited him better to be silent, and say nothing. Of outside deportment, no doubt, he was a master.

Mr. Fenwick always declared that he was very fond of Mr. Chamberlaine, and greatly admired him. “He is the most perfect philosopher I ever met,” Fenwick would say, “and has gone to the very centre depth of contemplation. In another ten years he will be the great Akinetos. He will eat and drink, and listen, and be at ease, and desire nothing. As it is, no man that I know disturbs other people so little.” On the other hand, Mr. Chamberlaine did not profess any great admiration for Mr. Fenwick, who he designated as one of the smart “windbag tribe, clever, no doubt, and perhaps conscientious, but shallow and perhaps a little conceited.” The Squire, who was not clever and not conceited, understood them both, and much preferred his friend the Vicar to his uncle the prebendary.

Gilmore had once consulted his uncle⁠—once in an evil moment, as he now felt⁠—whether it would not be well for him to marry Miss Lowther. The uncle had expressed himself as very adverse to the marriage, and would now, on this occasion, be sure to ask some question about it. When the great man arrived the Squire was out, still wandering round among the bullocks and sheep; but the evening after dinner would be very long. On the following day Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick, with Mr. and Mrs. Greenthorne, were to dine at the Privets. If this first evening were only through, Gilmore thought that he could get some comfort, even from his uncle. As he came near the house, he went into the yard, and saw the Prebendary’s grand carriage, which was being washed. No; as far as the groom knew, Mr. Chamberlaine had not gone out; but was in the house then. So Gilmore entered, and found his uncle in the library.

His first questions were about the murder. “You did catch one man, and let him go?” said the Prebendary.

“Yes; a tenant of mine; but there was no evidence against him. He was not the man.”

“I would not have let him go,” said Mr. Chamberlaine.

“You would not have kept a man that was innocent?” said Gilmore.

“I would not have let the young man go.”

“But the law would not support us in detaining him.”

“Nevertheless, I would not have let him go,” said Mr. Chamberlaine. “I heard all about it.”

“From whom did you hear?”

“From Lord Trowbridge. I certainly would not have let him go.” It appeared, however, that Lord Trowbridge’s opinion had been given to the Prebendary prior to that fatal meeting which had taken place in the house of the murdered man.

The uncle drank his claret in silence on this evening. He said nothing, at least, about Mary Lowther.

“I don’t know where you got it, Harry, but that is not a bad glass of wine.”

“We think there’s none better in the country, sir,” said Harry.

“I should be very sorry to commit myself so far; but it is a good glass of wine. By the by, I hope your chef has learned to make a cup of coffee since I was here in the spring. I think we will try it now.” The coffee was brought, and the Prebendary shook his head⁠—the least shake in the world⁠—and smiled blandly.

“Coffee is the very devil in the country,” said Harry Gilmore, who did not dare to say that the mixture was good in opposition to his uncle’s opinion.

After the coffee, which was served in the library, the two men sat silent together for half an hour, and Gilmore was endeavouring to think what it was that made his uncle come to Bullhampton. At last, before he had arrived at any decision on this subject, there came first a little nod, then a start and a sweet smile, then another nod and a start without the smile, and, after that, a soft murmuring of a musical snore, which gradually increased in deepness till it became evident that the Prebendary was extremely happy. Then it occurred to Gilmore that perhaps Mr. Chamberlaine might become tired of going to sleep in his own house, and that he had come to the Privets, as he could not do so with comfortable self-satisfaction in the houses of indifferent friends. For the benefit of such a change it might perhaps be worth the great man’s while to undergo the penalty of a bad cup of coffee.

And could not he, too, go to sleep⁠—he, Gilmore? Could he not fall asleep⁠—not only for a few moments on such an occasion as this⁠—but altogether, after the Akinetos fashion, as explained by his friend Fenwick? Could he not become an immoveable one, as was this divine uncle of his? No Mary Lowther had ever disturbed that man’s happiness. A good dinner, a pretty ring, an easy chair, a china teacup, might all be procured with certainty, as long as money lasted. Here was a man before him superbly comfortable, absolutely happy, with no greater suffering than what might come to him from a chance cup of bad coffee, while he, Harry Gilmore himself, was as miserable a devil as might be found between the four seas, because a certain young woman