The Carbonels

“No harm! To disturb all good thoughts in their minds and your own, and drive out all serious impressions by this mischievous trick! Now, will any one come forward and say he is sorry?”

Mr Harford waited, but no one stirred. He bade the girls get in again, and Pucklechurch drive them on. He waited again, but no one spoke. Indeed, Allen and another big youth were seen making for a gap in the hedge.

“Will no one say he is sorry for what was an idle trick, but very wrong when you ought to be thinking how you would be giving yourselves up to God?”

They stood like stocks, and Captain Carbonel said, “Has no one the grace to regret a very improper and thoughtless action?”

Still no one moved.

“Then,” said the clergyman, “there is no choice left to me. It would be profanation to take persons in such a mood to make vows, and kneel to receive God’s grace, which they evidently make light of. Whoever will not come and apologise must go home.”

There was no movement among the white round frocks. Boys are like sheep: what one does, the others do, and few are to be found to stand alone. Mr Harford looked anxiously at Johnnie Hewlett and one or two more, from whom he expected better things, but they only looked down, with their hands in their pockets and sullen faces; and Captain Carbonel held up his watch to show that they should all be too late. There was nothing to be done but to return to their seats, and urge the post-boy to hurry on.

The bells of Poppleby church might ring merrily, but the heart of the curate was very heavy with the questions—whether this misfortune could be owing to his not having impressed the lads enough while preparing them, or to his having been too hasty and peremptory in his indignation.

Captain Carbonel said they were such intolerable louts that to disappoint them was all the better, and they would know how to present themselves more seriously another time, but Mr Harford much doubted whether they would ever present themselves again.

“It would just be mockery for them to make the vow,” said the captain.

“Ah! they miss the grace,” said the curate.

Harriet Allen was crying all through the time of the Confirmation when she perceived that her brother’s head was not among the boys. Indeed the only male candidate from Uphill was Will Cox, who had gone with his cousins from Downhill. Most of the boys were glad to have got off making the vow, for, in spite of all Mr Harford’s teaching, there were some who still believed that they would take all their god-parents’ sins upon them, or, at any rate, that they should feel more bound to take heed to their ways.

Johnnie Hewlett indeed was sorry when he went home to his aunt, and had to tell her why he had not been confirmed after all.

“Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, you didn’t go for to upset the maids?”

“I? No. I was at the bottom of the hill with Harry Coles.”

“Then why couldn’t you have said so?” He hung his head and twisted his hands. “Oh, Johnnie, what was it? Was it only the going along with the others?”

Still he made no reply, but Judith saw in his face that this was the reason.

“Oh, my boy! To think that you did not feel that God’s blessing and grace were worth standing out for against a lot of idle chaps; and now you won’t be able to take the Sacrament!”

“Father never would let I,” returned the boy.

“Oh, my dear, dear lad, don’t you know that you might have got strength, and would get strength, to stand up for yourself, and do what you ought. Oh dear! My hope is gone!” she cried bitterly, and though Johnnie got away from the sight, her distress really found its way into his heart, while he said very little except, “There, there, auntie, never mind. Maybe I’ll try again next time.”

“You promise me, John Hewlett; even if I’m not here to see?”

“Yes, I promise, aunt,” said he, glad to have silenced her regrets, and hoping the fulfilment was a good way off.

The parishioners, especially those who had only sons and not daughters, were very angry. They did not value Confirmation greatly, but that the curate after “making such a work with the poor lads as never was,” should have presumed to reject them made them furious. Mr Allen even threatened to write to Dr Fogram, but as he did not know how to address a letter to what he called “Oxford College,” he contented himself with walking off with his belongings to Downhill church every Sunday—that is, when they went anywhere.

Chapter Seventeen.

Progress or no Progress

“For some cry quick and some cry slow,
But while the hills remain,
Uphill, too slow, will need the whip,
Downhill, too quick, the chain.”

    Tennyson.

Several years had passed away, and Mary’s Approach had never been made, though the lane had been improved and worn a good deal smoother, and the Duchess and other grandees had found their way along it.

There were other expenses and other interests. Dora was married. A fellow-soldier of Captain Carbonel’s had come on a visit, and had carried the bright young sister off to Malta. She was a terrible loss to all the parish, and it would have been worse if Sophia had not grown up to take her place, and to be the great helper in the school and parish, as well as the story-teller and playmate, the ever ready “Aunt Sophy” of the little children.

And these years had made the farm and garden look much prettier and neater altogether. The garden was full of flowers, and roses climbed up the verandah; and the home-field beyond looked quite park-like with iron railings between, so that the pretty gentle Alderney cows could be plainly seen.

The skim-milk afforded by those same cows went in great part to the delicate children in the village, though Mrs Carbonel had every year to fight a battle for it with Master Pucklechurch and his wife, who considered the whole of it as the right of the calves and little pigs, and would hardly allow that the little human Bartons or Morrises were more worth rearing.

There had been a visitation of measles through the village—very bad in the cottages, and at Greenhow the three little children had all been very ill; the second, Dora, died, and the elder one, little Mary, remained exceedingly delicate, screaming herself ill on any alarm or agitation, and needing the most anxious care.

The cottagers had learnt to look to Greenhow and the “Gobblealls” as the safe resource in time of any distress, whether of a child having eaten too many blackberries, or of a man being helpless from “rhumatiz;” a girl needing a recommendation to a service, or “Please, sir, I wants to know if it is allowed for a man to kill my father?” which was the startling preface to George Truman’s complaint of a public-house row in which his father had got a black eye.

Still, there was less fighting among the men and much less among the women, since Nanny Barton and Betsy Seddon had lodged counter-accusations after a great quarrel over the well, when Nanny had called Betsy, among other choice epithets, “a sneaking hypercriting old cat of a goody,” and Betsy had returned the compliment by terming Nanny “a drunken, trapesing, good-for-nothing jade, as had no call to good water.” On which Nanny had torn out a large bunch of Betsy’s hair, and Betsy had used her claws to make long scratches on Nanny’s cheeks, the scars of which were cherished for the magistrates! It was expected in the village that Betsy would get off, being that she and her husband worked for Captain Gobbleall, and Nanny was known, when “a bit overtaken,” to have sauced Miss Sophy. Nevertheless they were equally fined, with the choice of three weeks’ imprisonment, and, to every one’s surprise, the fines were produced.

Betsy thought it very hard that she should be fined when she worked in the captain’s fields; and she lamented still more when he insisted on the family removing to a vacant cottage of his own between two of his fields. It was in better condition, had more garden, and a lower rent, and her husband, who was a quiet man, never quarrelling unless she made him, much rejoiced. “She have too much tongue,” he said, and she had to keep the peace, for the captain declared that, after the next uproar in his fields, he should give her no more work there. And though she declared it was not her, but “they women who would not let her alone,” things certainly became much quieter.

For Captain Carbonel was an active magistrate, busy in all the county improvements, and preserving as much order in the two parishes as was possible where there was no rural police, only the constable, Cobbler Cox, who was said to be more “skeered of the rogues than the rogues was of he,” and, at Downhill, Appleton, the thatcher, who was generally to be found enjoying himself at the Selby Arms. Still, fewer cases came up to the bench than in former times, and Uphill hardly furnished one conviction in a quarter. The doctors at the infirmary said that they knew an Uphill person by the tidier clothing. This was chiefly owing to the weekly club, of which the women were very glad. “It is just as if it was given,” they said, when the clothes came in half-yearly, and decent garments encouraged more attendance at church. There was no doubt that Uphill was more orderly, but who could tell what was the amount of real improvement in the people’s hearts and souls?

That first Confirmation had only produced two additional communicants, Sophia Carbonel, and Susan Pucklechurch, who was in training in the Greenhow nursery. Not one of the others came to the Holy Feast. Their parents, for the most part, said they were too young, and, as these parents never came themselves, the matter seemed hopeless unless some deeper religious feeling could be infused by diligent care.

In one case, where there was a terrible illness and a slow recovery of George Truman, he became strongly impressed, and so did his wife, a very nice, meek woman, who had been in a good service. They both came to the Holy Communion the month after the man was out again, but he did not keep it up. “Sir, if you knew what the talk was like out in the fields, you would not wish it,” he said. Which gave Mr Harford much to think about.

The next Confirmation, three years later, collected nearly the same number of boys and girls, and Mr Harford walked with the boys himself, and sent Mrs Thorpe with the girls, so that there was no such scandal as before. The only lad who presented himself from among those rejected of the former year, was Johnnie Hewlett. He was by this time older than any of the other candidates, and he had learnt in a measure to stand alone, though it was chiefly his promise to his aunt that brought him now. He still worked with his cousin George Hewlett, and was a good deal trusted, and made useful. His father had, however, drifted farther and farther away, since George had absolutely refused to employ him again in his business.

“You never know where you are with such as he,” said George, and with good reason; but Dan laid it all to “they Gobblealls and their spite.” It was so far true that it was the depredations at Greenhow Farm that first convinced George that Dan was an absolute pilferer, though he had before suspected it, and tried to shut his eyes to the doubt. Dan, being a really clever workman, far brighter-witted than George, had lived upon chance jobs at Downhill or Poppleby, together with a good deal of underhand poaching, which he kept as much as possible from the knowledge of his family, never being sure what Molly might not tell her sister, nor what Judith might disclose to the ladies. Polly had made a miserable marriage, and Jenny was in service at a public-house, Jem, a big idle lad, whom no one employed if it could be helped, Judy was still at home, and a comfort to her aunt.

It was his aunt that chiefly induced John to live at home, though he could easily have lodged away and have been nearer to the workshop. His father had let him alone, and not interfered with his Sunday School going, as long as he was a mere boy, till this second time, when, at eighteen, and grown to man’s stature, he was going up as a candidate with the younger ones. Then the father swore “he was not going to have his son make a tomfool of hisself to please that there parson.”

“I have promised,” said John.

“Promised? What—parson or ladies, or any sneaks that come meddling where no one wants ’em?”

“’Twere not parson,” said John.

“Then ’twas one of they Gobblealls”—with an oath. “That ain’t of no account.”

“’Tweren’t,” again said John.

No more was to be got out of him than “’Tweren’t,” and “I shall keep my word.” He was too big to be beaten; a tall, strong, well-made youth, and Dan was obliged to let him alone, and only swear at him for turning his back on his old father, and being no better than a Methody.

In point of fact, Molly and the two younger children were chiefly supported by John’s earnings and Judith’s pension, for whatever Dan earned at Downhill or picked up in his various fashions was pretty sure to be swallowed either by the “Blue Lion” or by the “Fox and Hounds.” Judith was entirely in bed upstairs, and the kitchen had lost all the little semblance of smartness it once had. While Molly might have been taken for sixty years old instead of forty-five, though that was not unusual among the hard-working women, who got aged and dried up with weather in the fields and with toil and care at home—even when they had kindly, sober husbands.

Judith’s room was a place of peace and order, so kept by the help of little Judy and of John, both of whom loved her heartily, and felt as if she were a mother to them. She had brought home to them all the good that they knew. She had always made them say their prayers by her as children, and John continued to do so still, “for old sake’s sake if for no other reason.” They had always repeated to her what they had heard at school, and by-and-by the text and substance of the sermons as far as they could; and she told them her own thoughts, freely and earnestly, thoughts that came partly from the readings of Mrs Carbonel and Mr Harford with her, but far more than she knew from her own study of the Bible, backed by her earnest spiritual mind, which grew deeper and deeper as her earthly sufferings increased. Of course she had tried to do the same with her sister and the other children, but none of them would endure it. Molly always had something to do elsewhere, and said what was all very well for a sick woman like Judith could not be expected in one who had such a lot of trouble that she did not know which way to look.