Part 52 (2/2)

”To see that little black man with the 'igh stomach a-walkin' about this village is enough to turn a baby's bottle sour! It don't seem nat'ral like--he's as different from our good old parson as a rat is from a bird, an' you'll own, Mis' Deane, as there's a mighty difference between they two sorts of insecks. An' that minds me, on the Sat.u.r.day night afore they got the play-actin' on up in the Church, the wick o' my candle guttered down in a windin' sheet as long as long, an' I sez to Twitt--'There you are! Our own parson's gone an' died over in Madery, an' we'll never 'ave the likes of 'im no more! There's trouble comin'

for the Church, you mark my words.' An' Twitt, 'e says, 'G'arn, old 'ooman, it's the draught blowin' in at the door as makes the candle gutter,'--but all the same my words 'as come true!”

”Why no, surely not!” said Mary, ”Our parson isn't dead in Madeira at all! The Sunday-school mistress had a letter from him only yesterday saying how much better he felt, and that he hoped to be home again with us very soon.”

Mrs. Twitt pursed her lips and shook her head.

”That may be!” she observed--”I aint a-sayin' nuthin' again it. I sez to Twitt, there's trouble comin' for the Church, an' so there is. An' the windin' sheet in the candle means a death for somebody somewhere!”

Mary laughed, though her eyes were a little sad and wistful.

”Well, of course, there's always somebody dying somewhere, they say!”

And she sighed. ”There's a good deal of grief in the world that n.o.body ever sees or hears of.”

”True enough, Mis' Deane!--true enough!” And Mrs. Twitt shook her head again--”But ye're spared a deal o' worrit, seein' ye 'aven't a husband nor childer to drive ye silly. When I 'ad my three boys at 'ome I never know'd whether I was on my 'ed or my 'eels, they kept up such a racket an' torment, but the Lord be thanked they're all out an' doin' for theirselves in the world now--forbye the eldest is thinkin' o' marryin'

a girl I've never seen, down in Cornwall, which is where 'e be a-workin'

in tin mines, an' when I 'eerd as 'ow 'e was p'raps a-goin' to tie hisself up in the bonds o' matterimony, I stepped out in the garden just casual like, an' if you'll believe me, I sees a magpie! Now, Mis' Deane, magpies is total strangers on these coasts--no one as I've ever 'eard tell on 'as ever seen one--an' they's the unlikeliest and unluckiest birds to come across as ever the good G.o.d created. An' of course I knows if my boy marries that gel in Cornwall, it'll be the worst chance and change for 'im that 'e's 'ad ever since 'e was born! That magpie comed 'ere to warn me of it!”

Mary tried to look serious, but Helmsley was listening to the conversation, and she caught the mirthful glance of his eyes. So she laughed, and taking Mrs. Twitt by the shoulders, kissed her heartily on both cheeks.

”You're a dear!” she said--”And I'll believe in the magpie if you want me to! But all the same, I don't think any mischief is coming for your son or for you. I like to hope that everything happening in this world is for the best, and that the good G.o.d means kindly to all of us. Don't you think that's the right way to live?”

”It may be the right way to live,” replied Mrs. Twitt with a doubtful air--”But there's ter'uble things allus 'appenin', an' I sez if warnings is sent to us even out o' the mouths o' babes and sucklings, let's accept 'em in good part. An' if so be a magpie is chose by the Lord as a messenger we'se fools if we despises the magpie. But that little paunchy Arbroath's worse than a whole flock o' magpies comin' together, an' 'e's actin' like a pestilence in keepin' decent folk away from their own Church. 'Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin', an'

t'other day Mr. Reay came in an' 'eerd 'im. An' Mr. Reay sez--'Twitt, ye're better than any parson I ever 'eerd!' An' I believe 'e is--'e's got real 'art an' feelin' for Scripter texes, an' sez 'em just as solemn as though 'e was carvin' 'em on tombstones. It's powerful movin'!”

Mary kept a grave face, but said nothing.

”An' last Sunday,” went on Mrs. Twitt, encouraged, ”Mr. Reay hisself read us a chapter o' the New Tesymen, an' 'twas fine! Twitt an' me, we felt as if we could 'a served the Lord faithful to the end of the world!

An' we 'ardly ever feels like that in Church. In Church they reads the words so sing-songy like, that, bein' tired, we goes to sleep wi' the soothin' drawl. But Mr. Reay, he kep' us wide awake an' starin'! An'

there's one tex which sticks in my 'ed an' comforts me for myself an'

for everybody in trouble as I ever 'eerd on----”

”And what's that, Mrs. Twitt?” asked Helmsley, turning round in his chair, that he might see her better.

”It's this, Mister David,” and Mrs. Twitt drew a long breath in preparation before beginning the quotation,--”an' it's beautiful! 'If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated you.' Now if that aint enuff to send us on our way rejoicin', I don't know what is! For Lord knows if the dear Christ was hated, we can put up wi' a bit o' the hate for ourselves!”

There was a pause.

”So Mr. Reay reads very well, does he?” asked Mary.

”Fine!” said Mrs. Twitt,--”'E's a lovely man with a lovely voice! If 'e'd bin a parson 'e'd 'a drawed thousands to 'ear 'im! 'E wouldn't 'a wanted crosses nor candles to show us as 'e was speakin' true. Twitt sez to 'im t'other day--'Why aint you a parson, Mr. Reay?' an' 'e sez, 'Cos I'm goin' to be a preacher!' An' we couldn't make this out nohow, till 'e showed us as 'ow 'e was a-goin' to tell people things as they ought to know in the book 'e's writin'. An' 'e sez it's the only way, cos the parsons is gettin' so uppish, an' the Pope 'as got 'old o' some o' the newspapers, so that there aint no truth told nowheres, unless a few writers o' books will take 'art o' grace an' speak out. An' 'e sez there's a many as 'll do it, an' he tells Twitt--'Twitt,' sez he, 'Pin your faith on brave books! Beware o' newspapers, an' fight off the priest! Read brave books--books that were written centuries ago to teach people courage--an' read brave books that are written now to keep courage goin'!' An' we sez, so we will--for books is cheap enuff, G.o.d knows!--an' only t'other day Twitt went over to Minehead an' bought a new book by Sir Walter Scott called _Guy Mannering_ for ninepence. It's a grand story! an' keeps us alive every evenin'! I'm just mad on that old woman in it--Meg Merrilies--she knew a good deal as goes on in the world, I'll warrant! All about signs an' omens too. It's just fine! I'd like to see Sir Walter Scott!”

”He's dead,” said Mary, ”dead long ago. But he was a good as well as a great man.”

”'E must 'a bin,” agreed Mrs. Twitt; ”I'm right sorry 'e's dead. Some folks die as is bound to be missed, an' some folks lives on as one 'ud be glad to see in their long 'ome peaceful at rest, forbye their bein'

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