Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

“Not going to have another clerk?” he quavered.

“No,” roared the Churchwarden.

“No one to say t’ amens and ’sponses?”

“No.”

“Who’s t’ help him on wi’ his gownd?”

The Churchwarden shook his head.

“Who’s going to shut pulpit door?”

There was another shake of the Churchwarden’s head.

“Then who’ll gi’e out t’ psalms?”

“Parson.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the old man, staring down at his feet.

“Look here, Sammy,” said the Churchwarden, kindly, and with his lips close to the old man’s ear; “Mr Mallow’s a nice sort o’ man, and means kindly.”

“No one to say t’ amens?” said the old clerk, softly.

“He thinks you’re getting too owd for the work.”

“Nobbut t’ people to say the ’sponses,” continued the old clerk, without seeming to hear the Churchwarden’s words.

“He’s been talking to us at sort o’ meeting, and he wants to get up testimonial for thee. Says we owt to make un enew to mak’ thee comfortable to end o’ thee days, and he’ll give twenty pounds towards it, and you’re to have one of the Bede Houses.”

“How’s he going to bury them as dies?” piped the old man, suddenly.

The Churchwarden shook his head.

Old Sammy Warmoth took a couple of feeble steps towards the edge of the path, and began to poke at the loose, friable earth of the grave nearest to him with the long brass ferrule of his stick, taking two hands to the task, and making quite a little hole.

“It’s getten time I was put down theer,” he said, in a low voice that was very pathetic in its tones. “There’s a sight o’ my owd friends I’ve seen put down here, and its getten time for me to be put along wi’ ’em, sown a corruptible body to be raised an incorruptible, for I spose I’m getten owd and good for nowt.”

“Oh, nay, nay, Sammy,” said the Churchwarden, warmly. “Don’t take on about it. Tak’ my advice. Don’t be obstinit, but just go up and see parson quiet like, an’ say you give up, and tak’ it kindly, an’ I’ll see as you don’t come to no wrong.”

“No one to say t’ amens,” muttered the old man – “no one to say t’ ’sponses – no one to gi’e out t’ psalms. Why,” he cried, raising his voice, “I b’lieve it now.”

“Believe what, Sammy?”

“That he’s goin’ to have t’ owd pews out, and put i’ benches; and I said when I heerd it as the dead wouldn’t rest i’ theer graves if he did.”

“It’s all true, Sammy. They’re going to spend three thousand pounds i’ doing up t’ owd church, and young Lord Artingale’s going to give us an organ.”

“Then I wean’t go,” cried the old man, stamping his stick down on the stones. “I’ll nivver do it. I’ve been here clerk and saxton these sixty year, and I helps wi’ ivvery grave even now. It wean’t do. It’s a revvylootion, and a sweeping away of t’ owd chutch, like they did among the French, and I’ll be one o’ the faithful while I live.”

“Nonsense, man; come, say thou’lt give up quiet like,” said the Churchwarden, soothingly. “Eh?”

“Say thou’lt give up quietly.”

“Nivver, nivver!” quavered the old man, angrily. “It’s as much my chutch as his, and if he goes wrong wi’ his new notions and idees, I’ll stand by mine. There’s nivver been a clerk o’ Lawford as didn’t die a clerk, and dost ta think I’ll be the first, Master Portlock? Nivver. I’ll howd by chutch till t’ last, say what thou will!”

“Poor owd boy!” said the Churchwarden, as he stood watching the tottering figure descending the slope on the farther side of the churchyard, till it seemed from where the gazer stood as if the old man were sinking slowly into a grave. First he disappeared to the middle, then the path line was level with his shoulders, and a few moments more and his head had gone.

“Poor owd boy!” said the Churchwarden, musingly. “It can’t be for long. I’ll ask parson to let him stop.”

Part 1, Chapter II.

The Rectory Girls

“I love the country! I love the country!”

“Hush, hush, Cynthy! don’t be so childish; some one will hear you.”

“No one is near us, Ju. That’s why I like being down here.”

“But it is so childish to keep running up the banks and shouting like that.”

“Well, but that’s what I like. It’s the country air makes one feel so young, and I am so, so glad that we are going to stay at home. I want to know the people. Oh, I was tired of the Continent. I want to be free.”

“Now, Cynthy, what would papa say if he saw you climb up on that gate?”

“Don’t know – don’t care!”

“Well, then,” said Julia Mallow, smiling, “what, would Lord Artingale say?”

“That I was a jolly little girl, and come and sit beside me.”

“Oh! Cynthy!”

“And put his arm round my waist to keep me from falling off. Oh, I say, Ju, he did once, and it was so funny.”

“Cynthy, I’m ashamed of you,” cried her sister, and there was a slight deepening of the colour in her sweet English face.

“Well, I am ashamed of myself,” cried Cynthia, springing lightly off the gate, and passing her arm round her sister as they walked on along the rutty lane. “But I do feel so happy, Ju. So will you some day, when you meet the special him. Not Perry-Morton though. Ha, ha, ha! How stupid papa is! I say, Ju, though, who shall we go and see? Papa says we are to visit the people a great deal, and get them to know more of us, but I shan’t go near any of the horrid Dissenters.”

“Don’t call people horrid because they don’t think the same as we do, Cynthy.”

“Well, but it is horrid. Papa says it’s dreadful, the opposition that is in the town. I heard him say to mamma yesterday that he couldn’t understand the people a bit, and that though he had now come to settle down amongst them for good, only when we go to town for the season, everybody seemed so independent, and they were all in opposition to him.”

“Yes, he was talking to Mr Paulby about it at dinner on Tuesday.”

“Papa is going to improve everything, he says. The place must have been terribly neglected by Mr Paulby. Oh, what a funny little man he is!”