The Cost of Kindness | Page 2

all right, dear," laughed his wife, "so long as you don't
say what you do feel. And we'll both of us keep our temper," further
suggested the little woman, "whatever happens. Remember, it will be
for the last time."

Little Mrs. Pennycoop's intention was kind and Christianlike. The Rev.
Augustus Cracklethorpe would be quitting Wychwood-on-the-Heath
the following Monday, never to set foot--so the Rev. Augustus
Cracklethorpe himself and every single member of his congregation
hoped sincerely--in the neighbourhood again. Hitherto no pains had
been taken on either side to disguise the mutual joy with which the
parting was looked forward to. The Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe, M.A.,
might possibly have been of service to his Church in, say, some
East-end parish of unsavoury reputation, some mission station far
advanced amid the hordes of heathendom. There his inborn instinct of
antagonism to everybody and everything surrounding him, his
unconquerable disregard for other people's views and feelings, his
inspired conviction that everybody but himself was bound to be always
wrong about everything, combined with determination to act and speak
fearlessly in such belief, might have found their uses. In picturesque
little Wychwood-on-the-Heath, among the Kentish hills, retreat
beloved of the retired tradesman, the spinster of moderate means, the
reformed Bohemian developing latent instincts towards respectability,
these qualities made only for scandal and disunion.
For the past two years the Rev. Cracklethorpe's parishioners, assisted
by such other of the inhabitants of Wychwood-on-the-Heath as had
happened to come into personal contact with the reverend gentleman,
had sought to impress upon him, by hints and innuendoes difficult to
misunderstand, their cordial and daily-increasing dislike of him, both as
a parson and a man. Matters had come to a head by the determination
officially announced to him that, failing other alternatives, a deputation
of his leading parishioners would wait upon his bishop. This it was that
had brought it home to the Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe that, as the
spiritual guide and comforter of Wychwood-on-the Heath, he had
proved a failure. The Rev. Augustus had sought and secured the care of
other souls. The following Sunday morning he had arranged to preach
his farewell sermon, and the occasion promised to be a success from
every point of view. Churchgoers who had not visited St. Jude's for
months had promised themselves the luxury of feeling they were
listening to the Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe for the last time. The Rev.
Augustus Cracklethorpe had prepared a sermon that for plain speaking

and directness was likely to leave an impression. The parishioners of St.
Jude's, Wychwood-on-the-Heath, had their failings, as we all have. The
Rev. Augustus flattered himself that he had not missed out a single one,
and was looking forward with pleasurable anticipation to the sensation
that his remarks, from his "firstly" to his "sixthly and lastly," were
likely to create.
What marred the entire business was the impulsiveness of little Mrs.
Pennycoop. The Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe, informed in his study
on the Wednesdav afternoon that Mr. and Mrs. Pennycoop had called,
entered the drawing-room a quarter of an hour later, cold and severe;
and, without offering to shake hands, requested to be informed as
shortly as possible for what purpose he had been disturbed. Mrs.
Pennycoop had had her speech ready to her tongue. It was just what it
should have been, and no more.
It referred casually, without insisting on the point, to the duty
incumbent upon all of us to remember on occasion we were Christians;
that our privilege it was to forgive and forget; that, generally speaking,
there are faults on both sides; that partings should never take place in
anger; in short, that little Mrs. Pennycoop and George, her husband, as
he was waiting to say for himself, were sorry for everything and
anything they may have said or done in the past to hurt the feelings of
the Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe, and would like to shake hands with
him and wish him every happiness for the future. The chilling attitude
of the Rev. Augustus scattered that carefully-rehearsed speech to the
winds. It left Mrs. Pennycoop nothing but to retire in choking silence,
or to fling herself upon the inspiration of the moment and make up
something new. She choose the latter alternative.
At first the words came halting. Her husband, man-like, had deserted
her in her hour of utmost need and was fumbling with the door-knob.
The steely stare with which the Rev. Cracklethorpe regarded her,
instead of chilling her, acted upon her as a spur. It put her on her mettle.
He should listen to her. She would make him understand her kindly
feeling towards him if she had to take him by the shoulders and shake it
into him. At the end of five minutes the Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe,

without knowing it, was looking pleased. At