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Updated: May 1, 2025
Pennycoop pointed out to her, "occurs only once a year, and at that time your own temper, I have noticed " "I always try to remember I am a Christian," interrupted little Mrs. Pennycoop. "I do not pretend to be a saint, but whatever I say I am always sorry for it afterwards you know I am, George." "It's what I am saying," explained her husband.
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.
Pennycoop's remarks that he had always regarded the Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe as the vicar of his dreams, but misunderstandings in some unaccountable way will arise. The Rev. Augustus Cracklethorpe, it appeared, had always secretly respected Mr. Pennycoop.
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.
Pennycoop to George, her husband, on the way home; "but he irritated me." Rumour of the Pennycoops' visit flew through the parish. Other ladies felt it their duty to show to Mrs. Pennycoop that she was not the only Christian in Wychwood-on-the-Heath. Mrs. Pennycoop, it was feared, might be getting a swelled head over this matter. The Rev.
I have marvelled sometimes that you have been able to control yourself as you have done, most times; the things that he has said to you." Mr. Pennycoop had slid unconsciously into an attitude suggestive of petrified virtue, lately discovered. "One's own poor self," observed Mr. Pennycoop, in accents of proud humility "insults that are merely personal one can put up with.
"I don't care what you say, George," persisted his wife; "he may be a disagreeable, cantankerous old brute I don't say he isn't. All the same, the man is going away, and we may never see him again." "If I thought there was any fear of our doing so," observed Mr. Pennycoop, "I'd turn my back on the Church of England to-morrow and become a Methodist."
Augustus Cracklethorpe, informed in his study on the Wednesday 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.
"A vicar who has contrived in three years to make every member of his congregation hate the very sight of a church well, there's something wrong about it somewhere." Mrs. Pennycoop, gentlest of little women, laid her plump and still pretty hands upon her husband's shoulders. "Don't think, dear, I haven't sympathized with you. You have borne it nobly.
"After all, he has been our vicar for three years, and he must be feeling it, poor man whatever he may pretend going away like this, knowing that everybody is glad to see the back of him." "Well, I sha'n't say anything I don't really feel," stipulated Mr. Pennycoop. "That will be all right, dear," laughed his wife, "so long as you don't say what you do feel.
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