The Vicars Daughter | Page 2

do with plain, yes, vulgar human

nature, than the thickness of the varnish would ever have permitted him
to discover in what are called the higher orders of society. Yet I must
say, that, amongst those I have recognized as nearest, the sacred
communism of the early church--a phrase of my father's--are two or
three people of rank and wealth, whose names are written in heaven,
and need not he set down in my poor story.
A few days ago, then, my father, coming home to dinner, brought with
him the publisher of the two books called, "The Annals of a Quiet
Neighborhood," and "The Seaboard Parish." The first of these had lain
by him for some years before my father could publish it; and then he
remodelled it a little for the magazine in which it came out, a portion at
a time. The second was written at the request of Mr. S., who wanted
something more of the same sort; and now, after some years, he had
begun again to represent to my father, at intervals, the necessity for
another story to complete the _trilogy_, as he called it: insisting, when
my father objected the difficulties of growing years and failing
judgment, that indeed he owed it to him; for he had left him in the lurch,
as it were, with an incomplete story, not to say an uncompleted series.
My father still objected, and Mr. S. still urged, until, at length, my
father said--this I learned afterwards, of course--"What would you say
if I found you a substitute?" "That depends on who the substitute might
be, Mr. Walton," said Mr. S. The result of their talk was that my father
brought him home to dinner that day; and hence it comes, that, with
some real fear and much metaphorical trembling, I am now writing this.
I wonder if anybody will ever read it. This my first chapter shall be
composed of a little of the talk that passed at our dinner-table that day.
Mr. Blackstone was the only other stranger present; and he certainly
was not much of a stranger.
"Do you keep a diary, Mrs. Percivale?" asked Mr. S., with a twinkle in
his eye, as if he expected an indignant repudiation.
"I would rather keep a rag and bottle shop," I answered: at which Mr.
Blackstone burst into one of his splendid roars of laughter; for if ever a
man could laugh like a Christian who believed the world was in a fair
way after all, that man was Mr. Blackstone; and even my husband, who
seldom laughs at any thing I say with more than his eyes, was infected
by it, and laughed heartily.
"That's rather a strong assertion, my love," said my father. "Pray, what

do you mean by it?"
"I mean, papa," I answered, "that it would be a more profitable
employment to keep the one than the other."
"I suppose you think," said Mr. Blackstone, "that the lady who keeps a
diary is in the same danger as the old woman who prided herself in
keeping a strict account of her personal expenses. And it always was
correct; for when she could not get it to balance at the end of the week,
she brought it right by putting down the deficit as charity."
"That's just what I mean," I said.
"But," resumed Mr. S., "I did not mean a diary of your feelings, but of
the events of the day and hour."
"Which are never in themselves worth putting down," I said. "All that
is worth remembering will find for itself some convenient cranny to go
to sleep in till it is wanted, without being made a poor mummy of in a
diary."
"If you have such a memory, I grant that is better, even for my purpose,
much better," said Mr. S.
"For your purpose!" I repeated, in surprise. "I beg your pardon; but
what designs can you have upon my memory?"
"Well, I suppose I had better be as straightforward as I know you would
like me to be, Mrs. Percivale. I want you to make up the sum your
father owes me. He owed me three books; he has paid me two. I want
the third from you."
I laughed; for the very notion of writing a book seemed preposterous.
"I want you, under feigned names of course," he went on, "as are all the
names in your father's two books, to give me the further history of the
family, and in particular your own experiences in London. I am
confident the history of your married life must contain a number of
incidents which, without the least danger of indiscretion, might be
communicated to the public to the great advantage of all who read
them."
"You forget," I said,