mr. mince, ruddy and effulgent, spread his palms to the glow of his study fire. muddy boots steamed before the fender. mrs. mince, duster in hand, was brushing the rain and mud from her husband’s trousers. the vicarage cat, perched on a footstool as on a pulpit, purred forth a feline hymn of peace.
mrs. mince drew the tea-table before the fire, sat down with lavish lap in a basket-chair, took up the sugar-tongs, and held them poised like a miniature spear.
“so the old man is dying,” she said, with a slight sniff, thrusting out her slippered feet before the fire and taking the warmth into her bosom.
“sinking fast,” the vicar answered her; “the last ebb of the tide. a singular man—a most singular man. marjoy tells me he can’t last a week.”
mrs. mince dropped three cubes of sugar with deliberation into her husband’s cup.
“what a moral,” she observed, reflectively; “what a living text on the vanity of riches. mammon deserts a rich man at the grave; he trusteth in gold and findeth it dust. zeus gildersedge might leave a legacy to the ‘living.’ the porch needs repairing, and we cannot afford to pay for dilapidations.”
mr. mince stared at the fire and smiled.
“there is that daughter,” the vicaress continued, “a dreadful drab; left her father in his old age to run away with that blackguard gabriel strong. i wonder what has become of them.”
“can’t say,” said the clergyman.
“gone to the bad, of course. such women always gravitate to the gutter. i’ve no sympathy with the slut. he won’t leave her anything.”
mr. mince lifted the lid of the muffineer; a fragrant steam ascended therefrom; his eyes sparkled as he replenished his plate.
“terrible, terrible,” he observed. “ah, my dear, the way of transgressors is hard, their feet light upon stony places. sad, most sad. i like these muffins.”
mrs. mince adjusted the tea-cosey and settled herself comfortably in the arm-chair. the black cat, abandoning its rostrum, migrated to the lady’s lap and lay curled there, licking her paws.
“the girl had had no education,” said the vicaress. “i believe she had never been inside a church. what can you expect of a wench who has never been confirmed and knows nothing of the catechism? such barbaric ignorance is inconceivable in these days; a most dreadful instance of neglect. what about the old man’s money?”
mr. mince’s soul expanded in the fragrant atmosphere of home. he lolled in his chair with the two lower buttons of his waistcoat unfastened and his bald head pillowed on a faded green cushion. he stretched the soles of his gray, besocked feet to the fire, twitching his toes as they tingled on the fender.
“i had some very serious words with zeus gildersedge,” he said. “i found him to-day in a subdued and penitent spirit, thanks to the good counsel that i had left to germinate in his heart. he grew quite trustful, spoke to me about his money and his daughter. he confessed that he was troubled about the wench.”
“surely, jacob,” said the vicaress, “you did not advise him to try his strength by worrying about so abandoned a hussy?”
mr. mince sipped his tea, besprinkling his waistcoat with customary libations.
“my dear,” he retorted, “i had more christian forethought than to increase the old man’s troubles. in fact, i told him that it would be an absolute sin for him to darken his last moments with reflections that were unnecessary and unpleasant.”
“admirable tact, my dear.”
“i demonstrated to him how little the girl deserved his remembrance or claimed his pity.”
“exactly.”
“that she had wilfully deserted him to follow a notorious blackguard.”
“precisely.”
“that certain folk are undeserving of consideration, and that one must set one’s face sternly against impertinent iniquity and gross ingratitude.”
“my dear,” said the vicaress, “you have the spirit of a solomon. if zeus gildersedge left the girl any of his money it would only fall into the hands of that young brute gabriel strong. and such a circumstance could only be deplored as the actual subsidizing of immorality.”
mr. mince sat up suddenly in his chair, as though the idea had stimulated his spinal marrow.
“pomponia,” he said, “you are a most intelligent woman; strangely enough, that is the very argument i used to impress my point upon zeus gildersedge.”
the vicaress refilled her husband’s cup.
“the old man saw the wisdom of your words?” she asked.
“absolutely. my logic triumphed.”
the pair subsided into silence for a season, a peaceful interlude suffused as with a beatific sanctity. the fire jigged and flickered in the grate. mr. mince’s gray socks smoked. the black cat purred beneath the vicaress’s bony hand.
“and the money?” she said, at last, her large, yellow face gleaming in the fire-light.
her husband awoke as from some saintly reverie.
“zeus gildersedge stated certain facts to me,” he said, “facts that i may confide to your admirable discretion.”
“of course, my dear.”
“mrs. primmer and i were witnesses to his will. he has left the bulk of his money to charitable enterprises and missions.”
“most creditable.”
“a solid annuity has been settled on mrs. primmer.”
“a most deserving woman.”
“he has also bequeathed a certain sum to be used by me in the parish—to be used, my dear, at my own discretion.”
“excellent man.”
“i must confess, pomponia, that zeus gildersedge is departing this world with a chastened and regenerate soul.”
“due, my dear jacob, to your christian zeal.”
“i shall bury him in saltire church-yard, and make no charge for it upon his estate.”
mrs. mince beamed on him out of the fulness of her heart.
“you are a good man, jacob,” she said; “may heaven recompense you according to your deserts. i am a proud woman and a proud wife. you fulfil my ideals. let me give you some more tea.”
“only one more cup, my dear,” said the vicar, “and then i must complete my sabbath sermon.”
