Perlycross: A Tale of the Western Hills

"Yes that I will," answered Christie quick as light, "though it won't cost me quite as much as the one I hired, when I came post-haste to your rescue. The name of my coach is the Defiance; and the Guard shall play 'Roast-beef' all the way, in honour of the coming Christmas-time. Won't we have a fine time at Foxden, if father is in good health again?"

Jemmy wisely left her to her own devices – for she generally "took the change out of him" – and consoled himself with soft contemplation of a lovelier, nicer, and (so far as he knew yet) ten thousand times sweeter-tempered girl, whose name was Nicie Waldron.

Now that sweet creature had a worry of her own, though she did not afflict the public with it. She was dying with anxiety, all the time, to know the contents of her brother Tom's letter, which had so enlivened her dear mother.

It is said that the only thing the all-wise Solomon could not explain to the Queen of Sheba, was the process of her own mind, or rather perhaps the leaps of it, which landed her in conclusions quite correct, yet unsupported even by the shadow of an enthymem. Miss Waldron was not so clever as the Queen of Sheba, or even as Miss Christie Fox; yet she had arrived at a firm conviction that the one, who was destined to solve the sad and torturing question about her dear father, was no other than her brother, Tom Rodrigo. She had observed that his letter bore no token of the family bereavement, neither was that to be expected yet, although six weeks had now elapsed since the date of their sore distress.

Envelopes was not as yet in common use, and a letter was a cumbrous and clumsy-looking thing, one of the many reasons being that a writer was bound by economy, and very often by courtesy as well, to fill three great pages, before he began to double in. This naturally led to a vast sprawl of words, for the most part containing very little; and "what shall I say next?" was the constant enquiry of even the most loving correspondent. Nicie knew well, that her brother was not gifted with the pen of a ready writer, and that all his heart indited of was – "what shall I put, to get done with it?" This increased the value of his letters (by means of their rarity) and also their interest, according to the canon that plenty of range should be allowed for the reader's imagination.

But now even too much range was left, for that of the affectionate and poetic maiden, inasmuch as her mother lay asleep for hours with this fine communication to support her heart. There was nothing for Nicie to do, except to go to sleep patiently on her own account, and that she did in her own white bed, and saw a fair vision through tears of joy.

Behold, she was standing at the door, the sacred portal of Walderscourt, gazing at trees that were full of singing birds, with her milk-white pony cropping clover honey-sweet, and Pixie teetotuming after his own tail. All the air was blossoming with dance of butterflies, and all the earth was laughing at the flatteries of the sun. And behold a very tall form arose, from beyond the weeping willow, leading a form yet taller, and looking back for fear of losing it. Then a loud voice shouted, and it was brother Tom's – "Here he is at last! No mistake about it. I have found the Governor – hurrah, hurrah!" The maiden sprang up with a bounding heart, to embrace her darling father. But alas, there was nothing, except the cold moon, and a pure virgin bosom that glistened with tears.

When Tom's letter came to the reading at last, there was plenty of blots in it, and brown sand, but not a blessed bit of poetry. The youth had been at Eton, and exhausted there all the tendency of his mind towards metre. Even now people, who ought to know better, ask why poetry will not go down with the tall, and imaginative, and romantic public. It must be from the absence of the spark divine among them. Nay rather because ere they could spell, their flint was fixed for life, with the "fire" used up by Classic hammer.

Of these things the present Sir Thomas Rodrigo Waldron had neither thought nor heed. For him it was enough to be released; and the less he saw of book and pen, for the rest of his natural life, the better for the book, the pen, and him. So that on the whole he deserved much credit, and obtained even more (from his mother) as the author of the following fine piece of correspondence. Though all the best bits were adapted from a book, entitled "The young man's polite letter-writer, to his parents, sisters, sweethearts, friends, and the Minister of his native parish, etc., etc. – also when applying for increase of wages."

"Valetta, in the Island of Malta, Mediterranean Sea, etc. November the 5th, also Guy Fawkes' Day, A.D. 1835.

"My beloved and respected Mother, – I take up my pen with mingled feelings of affection and regret. The bangs" – oh, he ought to say "pangs," thought Nicie, as her mother read it on most gravely – "which I have suffered, and am suffering still, arise from various sources. Affection, because of your unceasing and unmerited parental goodness; regret because absence in a foreign land enhances by a hundred fold the value of all those lost endearments. I hope that you will think of me, whenever you sit on the old bench by the door, and behold the sun setting in the east."

"It is very beautiful," said Lady Waldron, animated by a cup of strong beef-tea; "but Rodrigo was so hard to kiss. Very often, I have knocked my head – but he is competent to feel it in his own head now."

"Mother, there is no bench by the door. And how can the sun set in the east? Oh I see it was 'west,' and he has scratched it out, because of his being in the east himself."

"That means the same thing;" replied Lady Waldron; "Inez, if you intend to find fault with your dear brother's letter about such trifles, you deserve to hear no more of it."

"Mother, as if it made any difference where the sun sets; so long as he can see it!"

"He always had large thoughts," reflected his mother; "he is not of this cold geography. Hearken how beautifully he proceeds to write —

"'But it is vain to indulge these contemplations. Thanks to your careful tuition, and the lofty example set before me, I trust that I shall never be found wanting in my duty to the Country that gave me birth. Unfortunately in these foreign parts, the price of every article is excessive; and although I am guided, as you are well aware, by the strictest principles of economy, my remembrance of what is due to you, and the position of a highly respected family, have in some degree necessitated an anticipation of resources. Feeling assured of your sympathy, and that it will assume a practical form by return of post, I venture to state for your guidance that the house of Plumper, Wiggins, and Golightly in this City have been advised, and have consented to receive on my behalf a remittance of £120, which will, I trust, appear a very reasonable sum.'"

"Mother, dear mother, let me go on," cried Nicie, as the letter dropped from her mother's hand; "the pleasure and excitement have been too much for you, although the style is so excellent."

"It is not the style; but my breath has been surprised, by – by the expressions of that last sentence. The sum that I myself placed to his credit, out of my bonds of the City of Corduba, was in addition, and without his father's knowledge – but no doubt he will give explanation more further down; though the writing appears now to become of a different kind, shorter and less polished. But why is he in Malta, when the ship sailed for Bombay? Oh I am terrified there will be some war. The English can never stay without fighting very long. And behold his letter seems to go into three pieces! See now, it is quite crooked, Inez, and of less correction. Nevertheless I approve more of it so. Listen again, child.

"'I was almost forgeting to say that we were mett before we had got very far on our way by a Despatch Vessle bringing urgent orders for all of the Draught to be sent to this place, which is not half so hot as the other place would be, and much more convenient, and healthy but too white. But it does make the money fly, and they are a jolley sett. I have long been wanting to write home, but waited untill there was some news to tell, and we could tell where we are going next. But we shall have to stay here for some time, because most of our things were sent to West Indies, and the other part went on to East India. It will all be for the best because so strong a change of climate will be almost certain to destroy the moths. I have bought three dogs. There is a new sort here, very clever, and can almost speak. I hope all the dogs at home are well. I miss the shooting very much, and there are no horses in the Mediterranean big enough to cary me. Now I must conclude with best love and duty to the Governor and you, and Nicie, and old nurse Sweetland, and anybody else who inquires for

"'remaining your affectionate and dutiful Son,

    "'Tom R. Waldron.

"'P.S. – Your kind letter of Aug. 30th just come. They must be very clever to have found us here. I am dredfully cutt up to hear dear Governor not at all well when you wrote. Shall hope for better news every day. There is a Greek gentleman here with a pill waranted to cure everything yet discovered. They are as large as yellow sluggs, and just the same shape. He will let me have 10 for my amathist studds which are no good to me. Shall try to send them by the next ship that goes home. Do write at once, because I never heard before of anything wrong with dear Governor.

    "'T. R. W.'"

"Poor darling!" said his mother with tears in her eyes, while Nicie was sobbing quietly; "by this time he may be aware of it perhaps, though not of the dreadful thing that happened since. It will not be for his happiness that he should ever know. Remember that, Inez. He is of so much vigour and high blood of the best Andalusian, that he would become insane, and perhaps do himself deep injury. He would cast away his office – what you call the Commission, – and come back to this country, and be put in prison for not accepting quietly the sacrilegious laws."

"Mother, you have promised never to speak of that subject. If it is too much for poor Tom, what is it likely to be for us? All we can do is to leave it to God."

"There is not the same God in this Country as we have. If there was, He would never endure it."

CHAPTER XXIV.

A WAGER

It was true enough that Mr. Penniloe was gone to London, as Gronow said. But it was not true that otherwise he would have held a prayer-meeting every day in Lady Waldron's room, for the benefit of her case. He would have been a great support and strength to Inez in her anxiety, and doubtless would have joined his prayers with hers; that would have been enough for him. Dr. Gronow was a man who meant well upon the whole, but not in every crick and cranny, as a really fine individual does. But the Parson was even less likely than the Doctor, to lift a latch plugged by a lady against him.

"Thyatira, do you think that you could manage to see to the children, and the butcher's bill, during the course of next week," he enquired, when the pupils were off for their holiday, with accordions, and pan-pipes and pea-shooters; "I have particular business in London. Only Betty Cork, and old Job Tapscott, have come to my readings of Solomon's Song, and both of them are as deaf as milestones. Master Harry will be home again in three days' time, and when he is in the house you have no fear; though your confidence should be placed much higher. Master Michael is stronger of late, and if we can keep shocking stories from him, his poor little head may be right again. There really has been no proof at all of the existence of any Spring-heeled Jack; and he would never come here to earn his money. He may have been mentioned in Prophecy, as the Wesleyan Minister declared, but I have failed to come across the passage. Our Church does not deal in those exciting views, and does not recognise dark lanterns."

"No sir, we are much soberer like; but still there remains the Seven Vials."

The Parson was up to snuff – if the matter may be put upon so low a footing. Mrs. Muggridge had placed her arms akimbo, in challenge Theological. He knew that her views were still the lowest of the low, and could not be hoisted by any petard to the High Church level. And the worst of it is that such people are pat with awkward points of Holy Writ, as hard to parry as the stroke of Jarnac. In truth he must himself confess that partly thus had Thyatira, at an early and impressible age, been induced to join the Church, when there chanced to be a vacancy for a housemaid at the Parsonage. It was in his father's parish, where her father, Stephen Muggridge, occupied a farm belonging to the Rev. Isaac Penniloe. Philip, as a zealous Churchman, urged that the Parson's chief tenant should come to church, but the Rev. Isaac took a larger view, preferring his tangible cornland to his spiritual Vineyard.

"You had better let Stephen alone," he said, "you would very soon get the worst of it, with all your new Oxford theology. Farmer Steve is a wonderfully stout Antipædobaptist; and he searches the Scriptures every day, which leaves no chance for a Churchman, who can only find time on a Saturday."

This dissuasion only whetted the controversial appetite, and off set Philip with his Polyglot Bible under his arm. When Farmer Stephen saw him coming, he smiled a grim and gallant smile, being equally hot for the combat. Says he, after a few preliminary passes,

"Now, young sir, look here! I'll show 'e a text as you can't explain away, with all Oxford College at the back of thee. Just you turn to Gospel of John, third chapter and fifth verse, and you read it, after me. 'Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into the Kingdom of God.' The same in your copy, bain't it now? Then according to my larning, m. a. n. spells man, and b. a. b. e. spells babe. Now till you can put b. a. b. e. in the place of m. a. n. in that there text, what becomes of your Church baptism?"

The farmer grinned gently at the Parson, in the pride of triumph, and looked round for his family to share it.

"Farmer Stephen, that sounds well;" replied the undaunted Philip, "but perhaps you will oblige me, by turning over a few leaves, as far as the sixteenth chapter of the same Gospel, and verse twenty-one. You see how it begins with reference to the pains of a mother, and then occur these words – 'she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.' Now was that man born full-grown, Farmer Stephen?"

The farmer knitted his brows, and stared; there was no smile left upon his face; but in lieu of it came a merry laugh from beside his big oaken chair; and the head of her class in the village school was studying his countenance.

"Her can go to Parsonage," quoth the Antipædobaptist, "her won't take no harm in a household where they know their Bible so."

Farmer Stephen was living still; and like a gentleman had foregone all attempts to re-capture his daughter. With equal forbearance, Penniloe never pressed his own opinions concerning smaller matters upon his pious housekeeper, and therefore was fain to decline, as above, her often proffered challenges.

"There are many things still very dark before us," he answered with his sweet sad smile; "let us therefore be instant in prayer, while not neglecting our worldly duties. It is a worldly duty now, which takes me from my parish, much against my own desires. I shall not stay an hour more than can be helped, and shall take occasion to forward, if I can, the interests of our restoration fund."

Mrs. Muggridge, when she heard of that, was ready at once to do her best. Not that she cared much about the church repairs, but that her faithful heart was troubled by her master's heavy anxieties. As happens (without any one established exception) in such cases, the outlay had proved to be vastly vaster than the most exhaustive estimate. Mr. Penniloe felt himself liable for the repayment of every farthing; and though the contractors at Exeter were most lenient and considerate (being happily a firm of substance), his mind was much tormented – at the lower tides of faith – about it. At least twelve hundred pounds was certain to fall due at Christmas, that season of peace and good-will for all Christians, who can pay for it. Even at that date there were several good and useful Corporations, Societies, Associations, ready to help the Church of England, even among white men, when the case was put well before them. The Parson had applied by letter vainly; now he hoped to see the people, and get a trifle out of them.

The long and expensive journey, and the further expense of the sojourn, were quite beyond his resources – drained so low by the House of the Lord – but now the solicitors to the estate of Sir Thomas Waldron Bart. deceased required his presence in London for essential formalities, and gladly provided the viaticum. Therefore he donned his warmest clothes, for the weather was becoming wintry, put the oilskin over his Sunday hat – a genuine beaver, which had been his father's, and started in life at two guineas, and even now in its Curate stage might stand out for twenty-one shillings – and committing his household solemnly to the care of the Almighty, met the first up-coach before daylight on Monday, when it changed horses at the Blue Ball Inn, at the north-east corner of his parish.

All western coaches had been quickened lately by tidings of steam in the North, which would take a man nearly a score of miles in one hour; and though nobody really believed in this, the mere talk of it made the horses go. There was one coach already, known by the rather profane name of Quicksilver, which was said to travel at the almost impious pace of twelve miles an hour. But few had much faith in this break-neck tale, and the Quicksilver flew upon the southern road, which never comes nigh the Perle valley. Even so, there were coaches on this upper road which averaged nine miles an hour all the way, foregoing for the sake of empty speed, breakfast, and dinner, and even supper on the road. By one of these called the Tallyho, Mr. Penniloe booked his place for London, and arrived there in good health but very tired, early on Tuesday morning.

The curate of Perlycross was not at all of the rustic parson type, such as may still be found in many an out-of-the-way parish of Devon. He was not likely to lose himself in the streets of "Mighty Babylon," as London was generally called in those days – and he showed some perception of the right thing to do, by putting up at the "Old Hummums." His charges for the week were borne by the lawyers, upon whose business he was come; and therefore the whole of his time was placed at the disposal of their agents, Messrs. Spindrift, Honeysweet, and Hoblin, of Theobald's Road, Gray's Inn. That highly respected firm led him about from office to office, and pillar to post, sometimes sitting upon the pillar, sometimes leaning against the post, according to the usage immemorial of their learned Profession. But one of the things he was resolved to do between Doe and Roe, and Nokes and Styles, was to see his old friend Harrison Gowler, concerning the outrage at Perlycross.

There happened to be a great run now upon that eminent Physician, because he had told a lady of exalted rank, who had a loose tendon somewhere, that she had stepped on a piece of orange-peel five and twenty years ago. Historical research proved this to be too true, although it had entirely escaped the august patient's memory. Dr. Gowler became of course a Baronet at once, his practice was doubled, though it had been very large, and so were all his fees, though they had not been small. In a word, he was the rage, and was making golden hay in the full blaze of a Royal sun.

No wonder then that the simple friend for a long time sought the great man vainly. He could not very well write, to ask for an interview on the following day, because he never knew at what hour he might hope to be delivered from the lawyers; and it never occurred to him to prepay the postage of his card from door to table, through either of the haughty footmen. Slow as he was to take offence, he began to fear that it must be meant, for the name of his hotel was on his cards; until as he was turning away once more, debating with himself whether self-respect would allow him to lift that brass knocker again, the great man himself came point-blank upon him. The stately footman had made a rush for his pint of half-and-half round the corner, and Sir Harrison had to open his own door to show a noble patient forth.

"What, you in London, Penniloe!" And a kind grasp of the hand made it clear, that the physician was not himself to blame. In a few quick words it was arranged that the Parson should call again at six o'clock, and share his old friend's simple meal. "We shall have two good hours for a talk," said Gowler, "for all the great people are at dinner then. At eight, I have a consultation on."

"I never have what can be called a dinner;" Sir Harrison said, when they met again; "only a bit of – I forget what the Greek expression is. There is an American turn for it."