“And why indeed shouldn’t he have his glass·” cried the mother. “He picks no man’s pocket to pay for it!”
The clergyman stiffened at what he thought was an allusion to his own profession, and his unpaid bills.
“With all due consideration, I am glad to hear he has joined the Navy,” he said.
“Me with my old age coming on, and his father working very little! I’d thank you to be glad about something else besides that, Mr. Lindley.”
The woman began to cry. Her husband, quite impassive, finished his lunch of meat-pie, and drank some beer. Then he turned to the fire, as if there were no one in the room but himself.
“I shall respect all men who serve God and their country on the sea, Mrs. Durant,” said the clergyman stubbornly.
“That is very well, when they’re not your sons who are doing the dirty work. It makes a difference,” she replied tartly.
“I should be proud if one of my sons were to enter the Navy.”
“Ay—well—we’re not all of us made alike—”
The minister rose. He put down a large folded paper.
“I’ve brought the almanac,” he said.
Mrs. Durant unfolded it.
“I do like a bit of colour in things,” she said, petulantly.
The clergyman did not reply.
“There’s that envelope for the organist’s fund—” said the old woman, and rising, she took the thing from the mantel-piece, went into the shop, and returned sealing it up.
“Which is all I can afford,” she said.
Mr. Lindley took his departure, in his pocket the envelope containing Mrs. Durant’s offering for Miss Louisa’s services. He went from door to door delivering the almanacs, in dull routine. Jaded with the monotony of the business, and with the repeated effort of greeting half-known people, he felt barren and rather irritable. At last he returned home.
In the dining-room was a small fire. Mrs. Lindley, growing very stout, lay on her couch. The vicar carved the cold mutton; Miss Louisa, short and plump and rather flushed, came in from the kitchen; Miss Mary, dark, with a beautiful white brow and grey eyes, served the vegetables; the children chattered a little, but not exuberantly. The very air seemed starved.
“I went to the Durants,” said the vicar, as he served out small portions of mutton; “it appears Alfred has run away to join the Navy.”
“Do him good,” came the rough voice of the invalid.
Miss Louisa, attending to the youngest child, looked up in protest.
“Why has he done that·” asked Mary’s low, musical voice.
“He wanted some excitement, I suppose,” said the vicar. “Shall we say grace·”
The children were arranged, all bent their heads, grace was pronounced, at the last word every face was being raised to go on with the interesting subject.
“He’s just done the right thing, for once,” came the rather deep voice of the mother; “save him from becoming a drunken sot, like the rest of them.”
