ifex had married in the year 1750, but for fifteen years his
wife bore no children. At the end of that time Mrs Pontifex astonished
the whole village by showing unmistakable signs of a disposition to
present her husband with an heir or heiress. Hers had long ago been
considered a hopeless case, and when on consulting the doctor concerning
the meaning of certain symptoms she was informed of their significance,
she became very angry and abused the doctor roundly for talking nonsense.
She refused to put so much as a piece of thread into a needle in
anticipation of her confinement and would have been absolutely
unprepared, if her neighbours had not been better judges of her condition
than she was, and got things ready without telling her anything about it.
Perhaps she feared Nemesis, though assuredly she knew not who or what
Nemesis was; perhaps she feared the doctor had made a mistake and she
should be laughed at; from whatever cause, however, her refusal to
recognise the obvious arose, she certainly refused to recognise it, until
one snowy night in January the doctor was sent for with all urgent speed
across the rough country roads. When he arrived he found two patients,
not one, in need of his assistance, for a boy had been born who was in
due time christened George, in honour of his then reigning majesty.
To the best of my belief George Pontifex got the greater part of his
nature from this obstinate old lady, his mother--a mother who though she
loved no one else in the world except her husband (and him only after a
fashion) was most tenderly attached to the unexpected child of her old
age; nevertheless she showed it little.
The boy grew up into a sturdy bright-eyed little fellow, with plenty of
intelligence, and perhaps a trifle too great readiness at book learning.
Being kindly treated at home, he was as fond of his father and mother as
it was in his nature to be of anyone, but he was fond of no one else. He
had a good healthy sense of _meum_, and as little of _tuum_ as he could
help. Brought up much in the open air in one of the best situated and
healthiest villages in England, his little limbs had fair play, and in
those days children's brains were not overtasked as they now are; perhaps
it was for this very reason that the boy showed an avidity to learn. At
seven or eight years old he could read, write and sum better than any
other boy of his age in the village. My father was not yet rector of
Paleham, and
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