The Elsingham Portrait

Eighteen


As Richard and Kathryn moved off through the woods toward Elsingham Manor, the Vicar was hastily briefing Newton.

“Hold them on the porch as long as you are able, Newton. Then let just a few—the leaders—in to see me—”

“Nay, Vicar,” protested the old servant shrewdly. “The ones left outside may go prowling about, seeking what they may devour, and we wouldn’t want to give them a chance to get on Mistress’s trail, would we?”

The Vicar was much struck by the wisdom of this. “Newton, old friend, you are a Machiavelli! What do you advise?”

Newton was already moving toward the front door. “Go back to your study, sir. I’ll let them in the hall and come to get you,” he said over his shoulder.

Already there was the sound of harsh voices and the trampling of feet on the broad porch of the vicarage. Someone pounded heavily on the brass knocker. A woman’s voice called out the Vicar’s name.

Newton approached the door with his usual unhurried gait. He opened it to reveal a mob of about fifteen persons, mostly women. At their head, obviously the leader, stood Elspeth Cameron. Newton, enjoying himself as never before, moved to the attack.

“Is the village burning down, then, Mistress Cameron? Or are you and these silly folk playing at All Fools’ Eve? Your racket is enough to wake the dead.”

“We’ll see the Vicar, you doddering old skelpin,” retorted Elspeth, but it was plain that she was a little taken aback by the reception.

“Oh, you’ll see the Vicar, will you, Elspeth Cameron?” Newton parodied her. “And all these brave gentlemen clinging to your skirts, will they see the Vicar, too? Is it arson and insurrection you’re intending, Jonas Tilley? Going to burn down the vicarage with those torches? Is murder and revolution in the wind, Thomas Berry? Shall I call out the militia to defend the Vicar from his own parishioners?”

The men from the village were beginning to regret that they had let themselves be talked into this march. Faced with old Newton’s mockery, they were discovering little stomach for a confrontation so unlike their usual, sober behavior. Jonas Tilley, the innkeeper, spoke in a moderated tone.

“¼Twas Mistress Cameron telled us that young Mistress Radcliffe was a looney and a dissolute woman, run off from her lawful husband—”

“And where did Mistress Cameron discover these great truths?” wondered Newton. “I would have thought that our innkeeper would be too busy to run tattling to the Vicar with women’s gossip.”

Elspeth Cameron had had enough.

“Stand aside, you old fool, and let us talk to the Vicar,” she snapped, shouldering her way past Newton. The old man was a match for her. Ignoring her completely, he stepped in front of her again and directed his remarks to Jonas.

“So Bennet’s housekeeper is doing your thinking for you now, Jonas?” he grinned. “Better you than me!”

Jonas glared at his tormentor resentfully. “Well, we thought it our duty to come and warn Vicar he was nourishing a viper in his house. My wife said—”

“So now it’s your wife doing your thinking,” commented Newton. “If it’s not one woman it’s another, telling you what to say.”

There was a chuckle from the men in the crowd. Mrs. Tilley was well-known in the village.

Elspeth Cameron advanced on Newton, her face mottled with anger. “Step aside, you skelpin, or I’ll—”

Reluctantly the Vicar decided it was time to interfere. He had been listening with pleasure to the utterances of his champion, but he knew enough about human nature to recognize the note of hysteria in Elspeth’s voice. So he came placidly out into the hall, saying calmly, “Newton, who are these people making such a racket? Is there trouble in the village?”

“Trouble enough, Mr. Percy,” shouted Elspeth. “We’ve come to warn you to get rid of that woman you’re harboring—”

“Mrs. Cameron, is it?” asked the Vicar quietly. “My poor woman, are you ill? Do come in and sit down. How can I help you?”

“You old fool, it’s yourself you’d better help—” began Elspeth. But this was too much for the men of the parish. Already embarrassed by the situation they had let themselves be led into by this woman, impressed as always by the Vicar’s gentle dignity, they found themselves shocked and shamed by Elspeth’s rudeness. And she not even a member of the church, but some non-conforming fanatic!

“Here, now then, Mistress Cameron, you’d best hold your tongue,” advised Jonas sternly. And Mrs. Tilley, resentful though she was of Newton’s behavior, was forced to agree with her husband that Farmer Bennet’s housekeeper had no business calling the Vicar an old fool. She moved forward and took Elspeth’s arm.

“Come away, Mrs. Cameron. We’ll let the men handle it,” she suggested gently enough, but her words and gesture angered Elspeth beyond endurance. To think that the girl she hated should be resting peacefully within this house, protected by the Vicar from getting her just desserts, and that now the village folk she had roused against the creature were turning craven . . . they’d let the wanton stay here to corrupt the hearts and minds of decent men like Richard Bennet, stupid fool that he was, too blind to see what the woman really was. . . ! Elspeth could not endure it. She jerked her arm out of Mrs. Tilley’s grasp and lunged toward the Vicar.

“You are harboring that Jezebel! Separating husband and wife! What kind of immorality is this in a Christian household?”

The Vicar did not flinch under the wild attack. “Poor woman, she is beside herself. Here, Tilley, Barry, help her into the parlor and I’ll have Newton prepare a cup of tea for her. Some of you ladies come in too; this poor creature cannot be left unattended. Is she having a fit, do you think? Should one of you men go for the doctor?”

Elspeth, firm in the grasp of the two men, stared from the Vicar’s gentle face to the stern visages of her captors. Then she glared around at the rest of her following, now a very sheepish-looking mob indeed. She knew she had lost the battle.

“No need for that,” she managed to say, harsh-voiced. “I’ll return to Bennet Farm, since these timorous Sassenachs have no stomach for a battle against evil. But I warn you all,” and she glared around the circle, “you’ll rue this night’s work, when that wanton destroys your children and ensnares your men—”

Whatever else she might have said was cut off as the villagers, uneasy now at the situation they had created, hustled her out of the Vicar’s hallway and onto the porch. Remembering that Richard Bennet would not be at the farm, the Vicar called out, “One moment, please, Tilley! I cannot bear to think of that poor woman trying to make her way home alone to the Bennet Farm. I suggest, therefore, that your good wife put her up in a room at your inn—I shall pay the charges, of course. Then she can have a quiet night to recover her wits before she takes the drive to the farm.”

There was a general murmur of approbation at this generous forbearance on the part of the offended party, and several men were heard to tell their wives that THAT was the man they had been urging their husbands to attack, and how they’d be able to face the good Vicar on Sunday their husbands couldn’t imagine. Whereat several of the wives protested that it wasn’t their idea to come on this wild-goose chase, and of course everyone knew the Vicar was a saint.

Listening to these and other comments as the erstwhile mob wended its way cautiously down the driveway and along the road—for the torches, neglected, had long gone out—the Vicar closed his door with relief. And turned to find Newton at his elbow with two large glasses filled to the brim.

Silently the Vicar accepted one, and silently master and servant toasted one another’s performance.