FullReads

“There were, maybe, half a dozen men in the lounge, scattered about in the armchairs and smoking. By and by, glancing up from my newspaper, I noticed that two or three had their eyes fixed on me pretty curiously. One of them–an old boy with a grizzled moustache–set down his paper, and came slowly across the room. ‘Pardon, monsieur,’ he said in the politest way, ‘but have we the honour of numbering you amongst our members?’ ‘Good Lord!’ cried I, sitting up, ‘isn’t this the Couronne d’Or?‘ ‘Pray let monsieur not discommode himself,’ said he, with a quick no-offence sort of smile, ‘but he has made a little mistake. This is the Cercle Militaire.’

“I must say those French officers were jolly decent about it: especially when I explained about the Mont-Bazillac. They saw me back to the hotel in a body; and as we turned in at the porchway, who should come down the street but Jinks, striding elbows to side, like a man in a London-to-Brighton walking competition! . . . He told me, as we found our bedrooms, that ‘of course, he had gone up the hill, and that the view had been magnificent.’ I did not argue about it, luckily: for–here comes in another queer fact–there was no moon at all that night. Next morning I wheedled two more bottles of the stuff out of old Sebillot–which leaves him two for the wedding. I thought that you and I might have some fun with them. . . . Now tell me your experience.”

“That,” said I, “must wait until you unlock my tongue; if indeed you have brought home the genuine Mont-Bazillac.”

As it happened, Master Dick was called up to Oxford unexpectedly, a week before the beginning of term, to start practice in his college “four.” Our experiment had to be postponed; with what result you shall hear.

About a fortnight later I read in our local paper that the Bishop had been holding a Confirmation service in Gantick Parish Church. The paragraph went on to say that “a large and reverent congregation witnessed the ceremony, but general regret was expressed at the absence of our respected Vicar through a temporary indisposition. We are glad to assure our readers that the reverend gentleman is well on the way to recovery, and indeed has already resumed his ministration in the parish, where his genial presence and quick sympathies, etc.”

This laid an obligation upon me to walk over to Gantick and inquire about my old friend’s health: which I did that same afternoon. Mrs. Kendall received me with the information that her husband was quite well again, and out-and-about; that in fact he had started, immediately after luncheon, to pay a round of visits on the outskirts of the parish. On the nature of his late indisposition she showed herself reticent, not to say “short” in her answers; nor, though the hour was four o’clock, did she invite me to stay and drink tea with her.

On my way back, and just within the entrance-gate of the vicarage drive, I happened on old Trewoon, who works at odd jobs under the gardener, and was just now busy with a besom, sweeping up the first fall of autumn leaves. Old Trewoon, I should tell you, is a Wesleyan, and a Radical of the sardonic sort; and, as a jobbing man, holds himself free to criticise his employers.

“Good afternoon!” said I. “This is excellent news that I hear about the Vicar. I was afraid, when I first heard of his illness, that it might be something serious–at his age–“

“Serious?” Old Trewoon rested his hands on the besom-handle and eyed me, with a twist of his features. “Missus didn’ tell you the natur’ of the complaint, I reckon?”

“As a matter of fact she did not.”

“I bet she didn’. Mind you, I don’t know, nuther.” He up-ended his besom and plucked a leaf or two from between the twigs before adding, “And what, makin’ so bold, did she tell about the Churchwardens?”