The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood by Susan Wittig Albert Page A
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
was engaged in writing a book about the folklore of Cumbria, and that he and Mrs. Thexton were traveling about the area so that he might collect local folktales.
The Thextons had planned to leave shortly after Christmas, but were prevented by a snowfall. (Mrs. Thexton was fearful of traveling when the roads were covered with ice and snow.) By the time the snow had melted, however, the lady had contracted a nasty cold, and their departure was delayed once again. Her recuperation took rather longer than expected (she had a delicate constitution and was unfortunately susceptible to bronchial ailments), so that the vicar felt obliged to extend his hospitality until the beginning of March, at which time it emerged that Mr. Thexton had uncovered a promising vein of local folklore and thought he should like to stay and mine it—that is, if dear Cousin Samuel would not object to their company for just a little while longer. They would be very good and as quiet as a pair of little mice, promised Mr. Thexton, and would not impose upon the vicar in any way.
Vicar Sackett was by nature a mild-mannered man much preoccupied with reading, writing, and the cares of his little flock, and as a rule did not take much notice of what was going on immediately around him. However, even the vicar could not fail to notice, at the beginning of April, that the Thextons were still in residence at the vicarage, and that he was beginning to feel . . . well, just a little weary of their company. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them—the pair did possess a certain charming and ingratiating amiability—and he was, after all, a man of the cloth whose Christian duty it was to be tolerant of all sorts of people.
But the vicar’s tolerance was severely tested. Mrs. Thexton’s sensibilities being most delicate, pipe smoke made her violently ill. The vicar had to go out into the garden to smoke his pipe, or on days when the weather forbade, into the unheated porch. Mr. Thexton, however, might comfortably smoke his cigar in the parlor, for Mrs. Thexton quite enjoyed cigar smoke, which the vicar detested.
And although she was an attractive woman, Mrs. Thexton could in no sense be likened to a quiet little mouse. In fact, she talked so continually and so volubly about such a variety of inconsequential subjects that she put the vicar in mind of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s famous babbling brook: “Men may come and men may go, but I go on forever.” The vicar began to fear that Mrs. Thexton would indeed go on forever, and that as long as she was a resident in the vicarage, he should have to hear about the lamentable felt hat that Miss Woodcock had worn at Sunday service; the difficulty of finding cerise velvet ribbons in Hawkshead or Alceon lace in Kendal; and the relative inferiority of cod as an entrée, as compared to pheasant or sirloin of beef.
Mr. Thexton, on the other hand, had only one subject of conversation—his researches—and the disagreeable habit of reviewing his most recent findings at breakfast, whilst the vicar was reading his newspaper, or of popping into the study with them, just at the moment the vicar was about to wrestle into submission the most unyielding paragraph of his Sunday sermon. Mr. Thexton, as it turned out, had a profound interest in the supernatural, a passion which the vicar, a man of God, might under other circumstances have shared. But Mr. Thexton’s fascination with the supernatural seemed to be directed toward—of all things—fairies, elves, and other such creatures, and on that score, the vicar was forced to confess ignorance. This did not, unfortunately, discourage Mr. Thexton, who seemed determined to bring to light all evidences of the past or present existence of fairies in the Lake District, so that he could put them into his book.
Other things vexed the vicar. Mrs. Thompson, who kept a careful eye on the accounts, reported that the cost of the vicarage’s table had risen sharply, in inverse proportion (as
The Thextons had planned to leave shortly after Christmas, but were prevented by a snowfall. (Mrs. Thexton was fearful of traveling when the roads were covered with ice and snow.) By the time the snow had melted, however, the lady had contracted a nasty cold, and their departure was delayed once again. Her recuperation took rather longer than expected (she had a delicate constitution and was unfortunately susceptible to bronchial ailments), so that the vicar felt obliged to extend his hospitality until the beginning of March, at which time it emerged that Mr. Thexton had uncovered a promising vein of local folklore and thought he should like to stay and mine it—that is, if dear Cousin Samuel would not object to their company for just a little while longer. They would be very good and as quiet as a pair of little mice, promised Mr. Thexton, and would not impose upon the vicar in any way.
Vicar Sackett was by nature a mild-mannered man much preoccupied with reading, writing, and the cares of his little flock, and as a rule did not take much notice of what was going on immediately around him. However, even the vicar could not fail to notice, at the beginning of April, that the Thextons were still in residence at the vicarage, and that he was beginning to feel . . . well, just a little weary of their company. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them—the pair did possess a certain charming and ingratiating amiability—and he was, after all, a man of the cloth whose Christian duty it was to be tolerant of all sorts of people.
But the vicar’s tolerance was severely tested. Mrs. Thexton’s sensibilities being most delicate, pipe smoke made her violently ill. The vicar had to go out into the garden to smoke his pipe, or on days when the weather forbade, into the unheated porch. Mr. Thexton, however, might comfortably smoke his cigar in the parlor, for Mrs. Thexton quite enjoyed cigar smoke, which the vicar detested.
And although she was an attractive woman, Mrs. Thexton could in no sense be likened to a quiet little mouse. In fact, she talked so continually and so volubly about such a variety of inconsequential subjects that she put the vicar in mind of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s famous babbling brook: “Men may come and men may go, but I go on forever.” The vicar began to fear that Mrs. Thexton would indeed go on forever, and that as long as she was a resident in the vicarage, he should have to hear about the lamentable felt hat that Miss Woodcock had worn at Sunday service; the difficulty of finding cerise velvet ribbons in Hawkshead or Alceon lace in Kendal; and the relative inferiority of cod as an entrée, as compared to pheasant or sirloin of beef.
Mr. Thexton, on the other hand, had only one subject of conversation—his researches—and the disagreeable habit of reviewing his most recent findings at breakfast, whilst the vicar was reading his newspaper, or of popping into the study with them, just at the moment the vicar was about to wrestle into submission the most unyielding paragraph of his Sunday sermon. Mr. Thexton, as it turned out, had a profound interest in the supernatural, a passion which the vicar, a man of God, might under other circumstances have shared. But Mr. Thexton’s fascination with the supernatural seemed to be directed toward—of all things—fairies, elves, and other such creatures, and on that score, the vicar was forced to confess ignorance. This did not, unfortunately, discourage Mr. Thexton, who seemed determined to bring to light all evidences of the past or present existence of fairies in the Lake District, so that he could put them into his book.
Other things vexed the vicar. Mrs. Thompson, who kept a careful eye on the accounts, reported that the cost of the vicarage’s table had risen sharply, in inverse proportion (as