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“The Churchwardens?” I echoed.

“Aye, the Churchwardens: Matthey Hancock an’ th’ old Farmer Truslove. They was took ill right about the same time. Aw, my dear”–Mr. Trewoon addresses all mankind impartially as “my dear”–“th’ hull parish knaws about they. Though there warn’t no concealment, for that matter.”

“What about the Churchwardens?” I asked innocently, and of a sudden became aware that he was rocking to and fro in short spasms of inward laughter.

“–It started wi’ the Bishop’s motor breakin’ down; whereby he and his man spent the better part of two hours in a God-forsaken lane somewhere t’other side of Hen’s Beacon, tryin’ to make her go. He’d timed hisself to reach here punctual for the lunchin’ the Missus always has ready on Confirmation Day: nobody to meet his Lordship but theirselves and the two Churchwardens; an’ you may guess that Hancock and Truslove had turned up early in their best broadcloth, lookin’ to have the time o’ their lives.

“They were pretty keen-set, too, by one o’clock, bein’ used to eat their dinners at noon sharp. One o’clock comes–no Bishop: two o’clock and still no Bishop. ‘There’s been a naccydent,’ says the Missus: ‘but thank the Lord the vittles is cold!’ ‘Maybe he’ve forgot the day,’ says the Vicar; ‘but any way, we’ll give en another ha’f-hour’s grace an’ then set-to,’ says he, takin’ pity on the noises old Truslove was makin’ inside his weskit. . . . So said, so done. At two-thirty–service bein’ fixed for ha’f-after-three–they all fell to work.

“You d’know, I dare say, what a craze the Missus have a-took o’ late against the drinkin’ habit. Sally, the parlourmaid, told me as how, first along, th’ old lady set out by hintin’ that the Bishop, bein’ a respecter o’ conscience, wouldn’ look for anything stronger on the table than home-brewed lemonade. But there the Vicar struck; and findin’ no way to shake him, she made terms by outin’ with two bottles o’ wine that, to her scandal, she’d rummaged out from a cupboard o’ young Master Dick’s since he went back to Oxford College. She decanted ’em [chuckle], an’ th’ old Vicar allowed, havin’ tasted the stuff, that–though he had lost the run o’ wine lately, an’ didn’ reckernise whether ’twas port or what-not–seemin’ to him ’twas a sound wine and fit for any gentleman’s table. ‘Well, at any rate,’ says the Missus, ‘my boy shall be spared the temptation: an’ I hope ’tis no sign he’s betaken hisself to secret drinkin’!’

“Well, then, it was decanted: an’ Hancock and Truslove, nothin’ doubtful, begun to lap it up like so much milk–the Vicar helpin’, and the Missus rather encouragin’ than not, to the extent o’ the first decanter; thinkin’ that ’twas good riddance to the stuff and that if the Bishop turned up, he wouldn’t look, as a holy man, for more than ha’f a bottle. I’m tellin’ it you as Sally told it to me. She says that everything went on as easy as eggs in a nest until she started to hand round the sweets, and all of a sudden she didn’ know what was happenin’ at table, nor whether she was on her head or her heels. . . . All I can tell you, sir, is that me and Battershall”– Battershall is the vicarage gardener, stableman, and factotum–“was waitin’ in the stables, wonderin’ when in the deuce the Bishop would turn up, when we heard the whistle blown from the kitchen: which was the signal. Out we ran; an’ there to be sure was the Bishop comin’ down the drive in a hired trap. But between him and the house– slap-bang, as you might say, in the middle of the lawn–was our two Churchwardens, stripped mother-naked to the waist, and sparring: and from the window just over the porch th’ old Missus screaming out to us to separate ’em. No, nor that wasn’t the worst: for, as his Lordship’s trap drove up, the two tom-fools stopped their boxin’ to stand ‘pon their toes and blow kisses at him!

“I must say that Battershall showed great presence o’ mind. He shouted to me to tackle Truslove, while he ran up to Matthey Hancock an’ butted him in the stomach; an’ together we’d heaved the two tom-fools into the shrubbery almost afore his Lordship could believe his eyes. I won’t say what had happened to the Vicar, for I don’t rightways know. All I can get out o’ Sally–she’s a modest wench–is that–that–he wanted to be a Statoo!. . .”

“Quite so,” I interrupted, edging towards the gate and signifying with a gesture of the hand that I had heard enough.

Old Trewoon’s voice followed me.

“I reckon, sir, we best agree, for the sake o’ the dear old fella, that such a sight as them two Churchwardens was enough to make any gentleman take to his bed. But”–as the gate rang on its hasp and rang again–“I’ve been thinkin’ powerful what might ha’ happened if his Lordship had turned up in due time to partake.”

Master Dick is a good boy; and when we met in the Christmas vacation no allusion was made to the Mont-Bazillac. On my part, I am absolved from my promised confession, and my lips shall remain locked. That great, that exhilarating, that redoubtable wine, has–with the nuptials of M. Sebillot’s daughter–perished finally from earth. I wonder what happened in Bergerac on that occasion, and if it had a comparable apotheosis!