But that was not the point of Nurse's tales about Mr. Rampant which
impressed me most, nor even the endless anecdotes of his unreasonable
passions which leaked out at his back-door and came up our back-stairs
to the nursery. They rather amused us. That assault on the butcher's
boy, who brought ribs of beef instead of sirloin, for which he was
summoned and fined; his throwing the dinner out of the window, and
going to dine at the village inn--by which the dogs ate the dinner and
he had to pay for two dinners, and to buy new plates and dishes.
We laughed at these things, but in my serious moments, especially on
the first Sunday of the month, I was haunted by something else which
Nurse had told me about old Mr. Rampant.
In our small parish--a dull village on the edge of a marsh--the Holy
Communion was only celebrated once a month. It was not because he was
irreligious that old Mr. Rampant was one of the too numerous
non-communicants. "It's his temper, poor gentleman," said Nurse. "He
can't answer for himself, and he has that religious feeling he
wouldn't like to come unless he was fit. The housekeeper overheard
Mrs. Rampant a-begging of him last Christmas. It was no listening
either, for he bellowed at her like a bull, and swore dreadful that
whatever else he was he wouldn't be profane.
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