by the Baroness de Calabrella [Catherine Ball].
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.3 #3 (Feb 1843).
At a later hour than usual one evening in the black and dreary month of November, lights were still to be seen in the humble Parsonage House, situated in the village of Tylehurst. The pious old curate, who had resided in it for more than half a century, had read the usual evening service to his grandchild and their only attendant, the latter had retired to rest, but the old man still lingered, and seemed anxious to retain his grand-daughter near him.
He had that day heard that the home which had sheltered him for so many years was soon to become the abode of another. He had risen from his knees resigned, if not consoled; but as he looked on the little object of his fond and anxious love, the orphan girl bequeathed to him in her infancy by a dying son, and since cherished in his inmost heart as the living image of her lost father—as he beheld her eyes raised to his in anxious inquiry, and remembered that she also must go forth a houseless wanderer, the cup of sorrow overflowed, and, folding his loved Mary in his arms, he wept over her long and silently. The affectionate girl, who had never before seen her grandfather so affected, almost feared to ask the cause of his unwonted emotion, and with her arm fondly encircling his neck, she remained silent, while her tears mingled with his as they chased each other down his furrowed cheek. "We must go hence, my precious Mary—we must leave our home!" at length uttered the curate—"and the flock I have so long guarded and watched over, till their joys and sorrows have become my own, will henceforth be tended by a stranger."
"But why, grandfather—why must we go? Surely all here love you, and none would wish to part with you? What would have become of that poor boy who caused his parents so much sorrow, and then came home to die, hardened and unrepentant, if it had not been for your warning voice and pious counsel, which led him to see his error and turn to his Saviour for mercy? And what will become," continued she, "of the poor old men and women who cannot, from their age and infirmities, go to church to hear the word of God—who will read the Bible to them to comfort them under their afflictions, if you are going away? And where are we going?" added she, something of new-born pleasure springing up in her young mind at the prospect of change—a journey, perhaps—and Mary's eyes became bright through her half-dried tears.
"I cannot answer your questions, to-night, my child; to-morrow's dawn will, I hope, find me resigned to the will of Him who, with the trial, will doubtless give me strength to bear it. Good night, my Mary!" said he, as he fondly embraced the child of his tenderest love ere he released her from his arms and bid her seek her pillow. But Mary could not sleep; and soon after daylight, she was at the door of their nearest neighbour, to relate all she knew of her grandfather's affliction, and his assertion that they were to leave the Parsonage. Something of the kind had been whispered about in the village the evening before, and already had the parishioners determined to use their utmost endeavours to keep with them him who they styled their friend and father (such, indeed, had he been to one and all!) Mary's early visit confirming the previous rumour, it was soon spread abroad, and as it chanced to be market-day in the neighbouring town, a large assembly of the parishioners gathered together, and when the squire passed through their village, submitted to him their wishes, and besought him to aid them with his advice.
As the cause of this dreaded change arose from the death of the late rector, and the promise of the bishop, in whose gift was the living, to bestow it on a young man, who, in his turn, had promised the cure held under it by the poor old curate to a friend of his own—the parishioners could only appeal to the new rector, or to the bishop of the diocese; and the latter being at hand, while the immediate residence of the former was unknown, they determined on signing a memorial, to be drawn up by the 'squire, importuning the bishop's interference, and beseeching him not to suffer the removal of the pious and worthy minister who had so long dwelt among them, and whose ministry had, for so many years, made them a happy and united flock.
Not a signature was missing to this memorial;—the bed-ridden, the infirm, were supported while they affixed their names or their mark—the young and helpless had their hands guided by their parents, who bid them pray for the success of their petition. When all was complete, the 'squire himself took it to the curate; and though the poor old man had known and felt himself beloved by his little flock, this proof of their faithful attachment nearly overcame the calm he had been struggling, by prayer and reflection, to re-establish in his usually placid mind; but when he found it the wish of his parishioners, and urged by the 'squire, that he should himself wait upon his bishop with this memorial, he felt that something was yet to be attempted for their good, and he prepared to set out, with his beloved Mary, on their journey—for though in reality but a short distance, and, in these days, coming within the denomination of a drive, it was, in the primitive years of which we are writing, considered a journey, especially for one who, like our curate, rarely passed the boundary of his parish.
The Bishop of — was a man distinguished for his courteous and accessible habits as much as for his learning and piety. Our travellers were at once admitted to his presence, and the aged curate received with that kind and cordial warmth to which his years and known character entitled him. His story was soon told; and as the bishop's eye glanced rapidly over the rich tribute to his worth contained in the memorial he presented, his interest became greater, and his wish to befriend his petitioner increased. "My promise of this living," said his lordship, "was long since given to the gentleman who has now so hurriedly appointed a curate to succeed you. I hope my influence with him may be sufficient to induce him to rescind the appointment, and that you may still be continued to watch over the flock on whom your ministry has evidently not been expended in vain. I will write this very day," added he, "and you shall know the result of my mediation as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, comfort yourself, my dear sir, with the hope that all will be well, and that the issue of this, as well as every other event, is in the hands of Him who knows best what is good for us." The aged pastor and his grand-daughter returned to their beloved parsonage—he with a faint hope that it might still afford a shelter to his remaining days, and she in all the freshness and innocence of happy youth, satisfied that the bishop, whose presence had been so imposing to her, could not be unsuccessful in his promised interference.
More than a fortnight elapsed without any news reaching them, when, one afternoon, while they were seated in the same parlour where we first found them, watching the bright fire's blaze (for the pale and watery sun had sunk below the horizon), they were startled by a tall, dark shadow in front of the window. "Oh, it is the bishop!" exclaimed Mary, as she sprang from the low stool on which she had placed herself, by her grandfather's knee—"he is come to tell us we are to stay." The pastor thought differently; he felt that the bishop's visit to his humble home was more likely intended to soften the blow which awaited him, than to announce good tidings. And the curate was right. The bishop's first application had been unsuccessful—he had essayed again—and had even proposed to provide some other curacy for the gentleman to whom the one of Tylehurst had been promised—but in vain; there was a perseverance on the part of his friend that vexed him; and he told his disappointment with all the tenderness and consideration a good and kind-hearted man would feel when forced to pain another. The aged pastor, on hearing the result, raised his hands to heaven, saying, "God's will be done! the workhouse must be our shelter, for I am penniless!" The cry of distress that broke from Mary's lips as she threw herself on her grandfather's breast, as though she would shield him from his impending fate, awoke the deepest sympathy in the bishop's heart. "Must they, then, be driven hence?—is there no alternative?" he asked himself; when suddenly a new thought occurred,—his promise had been given, but no forms had yet been gone through—his friend had not been inducted to this living—and seizing the curate's arm, he exclaimed—"But one course is left me: I cannot command the curacy, but I will give you the living." The old man wildly started up, and "Will you by —!" issued from his lips; but in an instant, his face became crimson, his lips trembled, and he had nigh fallen to the ground from excess of shame and confusion. During a long life, such an expression had never stained the purity of his lips, had never sullied the holiness of his language—and now, before his bishop, to have thus forgotten himself! Mary—his gentle Mary—either disbelieved her senses or feared for her grandfather's reason,—both child and sire remained motionless, with downcast eyes, awaiting the censure which would doubtless crush their new-born hopes, and rebuke the old man's sin.
But the kind-hearted prelate saw it all; he knew the frailty of the best of mortals, and felt that he had overtasked the heart-stricken and aged curate's mind by his precipitancy in holding out such an unlooked for prospect of earthly good. No rebuke hovered near his lips—pity was his only feeling for the aged being, who appeared sinking under the weight of the impious expression he had unguardedly and unintentionally uttered, and, with the kindness of an angel's heart,—he sought to raise the humbled man by debasing himself, as he exclaimed—"By — I will!"
The aged curate—the young girl—were in an instant at his feet,—both felt the value of that echoed oath. The old man prized the promise which raised him from beggary to wealth, but he adored the delicacy which had restored him to himself, and taken from his cheek the blush of shame. Meekly and reverently his spirit turned for pardon from the bishop to his God,—but where human love had been so indulgent to error, could he doubt of divine mercy!