CHAPTER XXVI.
THE OLD MILL.
Combing up on the South like a great tidal wave, Hagdon Hill for mileslooks down on the beautiful valley of the Perle, and then at the westernend breaks down into steep declivities and wooded slopes. Here theSusscot brook has its sources on the southern side of the long gauntrange, outside the parish of Perlycross; and gathering strength at everystretch from flinty trough, and mossy runnel, is big enough to trundlean old mill-wheel, a long while before it gets to Joe Crang's forge.
This mill is situated very sweetly for those who love to be outside theworld. It stands at the head of a winding hollow fringed along the crestwith golden gorse, wild roses by the thousand, and the silvery gleam ofbirch. Up this pretty "goyal"--as they call it--there is a fine view ofthe ancient mill, lonely, decrepit, and melancholy, with the flintsdropping out of its scarred wall-face, the tattered thatch raspingagainst the wind, and the big wheel dribbling idly; for the woodencarrier, that used to keep it splashing and spinning merrily, sprawlsaway on its trestles, itself a wreck, broken-backed and bulging.
And yet in its time this mill has done well, and pounded the corn of ahundred farms; for, strange as it may be, the Perle itself isexceedingly shy of mill-work, being broken upon no wheel save those ofthe staring and white-washed factory which disfigures the village ofPerlycross. Therefore from many miles around came cart, and butt, andvan, and wain, to this out-of-the-way and hard to find, but flourishingand useful Tremlett mill. That its glory has departed and its thresholdis deserted, came to pass through no fault of wheel, or water, or evenwanton trade seduced by younger rivals. Man alone was to blame, and hecould not--seldom incapable as he is of that--even put the fault onwoman.
The Tremletts were of very ancient race, said to be of Norman origin,and this mill had been theirs for generations. Thrifty, respectable, andhard-working, they had worn out many millstones--one of which had beenset up in the churchyard, an honour to itself and owner--and patched upa lot of ages of mill-wheels (the only useful revolution) until therecame into the small human sluice a thread of vile weed, that cloggedeverything up. A vein of bad blood that tainted all, varicose, sluggish,intractable.
What man can explain such things, even to his own satisfaction? Yeteverybody knows that it is so, and too often with the people who havebeen in front of him. Down went the Tremletts for a hundred years--quitea trifle to such an old family--and the wheel ceased to turn, and thehearth had nought to burn, and the brook took to running in a lowperverted course.
But even sad things may be beautiful--like the grandest of all humantragedies,--and here before Mr. Penniloe's new long-sighted glasses,which already had a fine effect upon his mind, was a prospect, worth allthe three sovereigns he had paid, in addition to the three he had livedunder. No monarch of the world--let alone this little isle--could havegilded and silvered and pearled and jewelled his most sumptuous palace,and his chambers of delight, with a tithe of the beauty here set forthby nature, whose adornments come and go, at every breath.
For there had just been another heavy fall of snow, and the frosthaving firm hold of the air, the sun had no more power than a greatwhite star, glistening rather than shining, and doubtful of his owndomain in the multitude of sparkles. Everything that stood across thelight was clad with dazzling raiment; branch, and twig, and reed, andozier, pillowed with lace of snow above, and fringed with chenille ofrime below. Under and through this arcade of radiance, stood the oldmill-wheel--for now it could stand--black, and massive, and leaning onpellucid pillars of glistering ice.
Mr. Penniloe lifted up his heart to God, as he always did at any of Hisglorious works; and then he proceeded to his own less brilliant, butequally chilling duty. Several times he knocked vainly at the rickettydoor of the remaining room, until at last a harsh voice cried--"Come in,can't 'e? Nort for 'e to steal here."
Then he pulled the leather thong, an old boot-lace, and the grimy woodenlatch clicked up, and the big door staggered inwards. Everything lookedcold and weist and haggard in the long low room he entered, andhunger-stricked, though of solid fabric once, and even now tolerablyfree from dirt. At the further end, and in a gloomy recess, was a largelow bedstead of ancient oak, carved very boldly and with finely flowinglines. Upon it lay a very aged woman, of large frame and determinedface, wearing a high yellow cap, and propped by three coarse pillows,upon which fell the folds of a French shawl of rich material.
She had thick eyebrows, still as black as a coal, and fierce gray eyeswith some fire in them still, and a hooked nose that almost overhung apointed chin; and her long bony arms lay quivering upon a quilt ofwell-worn patchwork. She looked at Mr. Penniloe, discerning him clearlywithout the aid of spectacles, and saluted him with a slight disdainfulnod.
"Oh, Passon is it? Well, what have 'e got to say to me?" Her voice washard and pitched rather high, and her gaunt jaws worked with a roll ofwrinkles, intended for a playful grin.
"Mrs. Tremlett, I was told that you wished to see me, and that it is asolemn moment with you--that soon you will stand in the presence of amerciful but righteous Judge."
Mr. Penniloe approached her with a kind and gentle look, and offered totake one of her clenched and withered hands, but she turned the knucklesto him with a sudden twist, and so sharp were they that they almost cuthis palm. He drew back a little, and a flash of spiteful triumph toldhim that she had meant this rasper for him.
"Bain't a gwain' to die yet," she said; "I be only ninety-one, and myown moother wor ninety-five afore her lost a tooth. I reckon I shall see'e out yet, Master Passon; for 'e don't look very brave--no that 'edon't. Wants a little drap out o' my bottle, I conzider."
The clergyman feared that there was little to be done; but he never letthe Devil get the best of him, and he betook himself to one of his mosttrustworthy resources.
"Mrs. Tremlett, I will with your permission offer a few simple words ofprayer, not only for you but for myself, my friend. You can repeat thewords after me, if you feel disposed."
"Stop!" she cried, "stop!" and threw out both hands with great vigour,as he prepared to kneel. "Why, you ban't gi'en me the zhillin' yet. Youalways gives Betty Cork a zhillin', afore 'e begins to pray to her.Bain't my soul worth every varden of what Betty Cork's be?"
The Parson was distressed at this inverted view of the value of hisministrations. Nevertheless he pulled out the shilling, which sheclapped with great promptitude under her pillow, and then turned herback upon him.
"Goo on now, Passon, as long as ever 'e wull; but not too much noiselike, case I might drop off to sleep."
Her attitude was not too favourable; but the Curate had met with manycases quite as bad, and he never allowed himself to be discouraged. Andsomething perhaps in his simple words, or the powers of his patienthumility, gave a better and a softer turn to the old woman's moody mind.
"Passon, be you a _h_onest man?" she enquired, when he had risen,affording that adjective a special roughness, according to the manner ofDevon. "B'lieve 'e be a good man. But be 'e _h_onest?"
"My goodness, as you call it, would be very small indeed, unless I werehonest, Mrs. Tremlett. Without honesty, all is hypocrisy."
"And you bain't no hypocrite; though 'e may be a vule. Most finescholards is big vules, and half-scholards always maketh start forrogues. But I'll trust 'e, Passon; and the Lord will strike 'e dead,being in his white sleeves, every Zunday, if 'e goo again the truth.What do 'e say to that, Passon Penniloe? What do 'e think now of thatthere? And thee praying for me, as if I hadn't got ne'er a coffin'sworth!"
The old lady pulled out a canvas bag, and jingled it against Mr.Penniloe's gray locks. Strong vitality was in her face. How could shedie, with all that to live for?
"Vifty-two guineas of Jarge the Zecond. T'other come to the throne aforeI did it; but his head wasn't out much, and they might goo back of his'en. So I took 'un of the man as come afore, and there they has beenever since--three score years, and ten, and two. The Lord knoweth, if Hereckon'th up the sparrows, what a fine young
woman I were then. Therebain't such a one in all the County now. Six foot high, twenty inchacross the shoulders, and as straight as a hazel wand sucker'd from theroot. Have mercy on you, Passon! Your wife, as used to come to see me,was a very purty woman. But in the time of my delight, I could 'a takenher with one hand, and done--well, chucked her over Horse-shoe."
"What do you mean?" Mr. Penniloe asked, and his quiet eyes bore down theboastful gaze, and altered the tone of the old virago.
"Nort, sir, nort. It bain't no use to worrit me. Her tumbled off theclift, and her bruk her purty nack. Her was spying too much afterconey's holes, I reckon. But her always waz that tender-hearted. Youbain't fit to hold a can'le to her, with all your precious prayers andlitanies. But I'll trust 'e, Passon, for her zake. Vetch thiccy old bookout o' cubbert."
In the cupboard near the fireplace he found an ancient Bible, bound inblack leather, and fortified with silver clasps and corners.
"Hold that there book in your right hand, and this here bag in t'other;"the old lady still clave to the bag, as if far more precious than theBible--"and then you say slowly after me, same as I was to do theprayers, 'I, Passon Penniloe, of Perlycross, Christian Minister, dohereby make oath and swear that I will do with this bag of money asZipporah Tremlett telleth me, so help me God Almighty.'"
"Stop, if you please. I will make no such promise, until I know allabout it;" objected Mr. Penniloe, while she glared at him with risinganger, and then nodded as something occurred to her.
"Well, then, I'll tell 'e fust; and no call for prabbles. This moneybain't none o' they Tremletts; every varden of theirs is gone long ago,although they had ten times so much as this, even while I can mind of'un. All this, except for a bit of a sto'un in the lower cornder, andthat hath been hunderds of years with the Tremletts, but all the restcometh from my own father, and none on 'em knoweth a word of it.Wouldn't believe if they did, I reckon. Zippy, that's my grand-darter asminds me, her hath orders to burn for her life and vetch you--night orday, mind,--fust moment the breath be gone out of my body. And everyvarden of it is for she. You be to take it from this here little nestie,wi'out a word to no one, and keep it zealed up under lock and key, tillZippy be eighteen year of age, and then, accordin' to your oath, youputt it into her two hands. If 'e do that, Passon, I'll die a Christian,and you be welcome of me to your churchyard. But if 'e wun't do it, thenI'll die a hathen, and never go to no churchyard, same as scores andscores of the Tremletts is. Now, do 'e care for the soul of an old'ooman? Or would 'e soonder her went to the Devil?"
By this alternative the Curate felt much pressure put upon hisconscience. If there were no other way to save her, he must evendispense with legal form, and accept a trust, which might for all heknew defraud the Revenue of legacy duty, and even some honest solicitorof a contribution to his livelihood. But first he must be certain thatthe scheme was just and rational.
"No fear of robbing nobody. They Tremletts be a shocking lot," she said,with amiable candour. "Just slip the wedge on top of latch, for fear oneon 'em should come to see if I be dead; though I reckon, this weather,it would be too much for either son or darter. Wouldn't 'em burn, if 'emknowed of this? But here I may lie and be worm-eaten. And chillers of myown--my own buys and girls. Dree quarters of a score I've had, and notone on 'em come anigh me! Never was a harrier-bird could fly so fast asevery one on 'em would, to this old bed, if 'em knowed what be in it.No, I be a liar--every one on 'em can't, because the biggest half begone. Twelve buys there was, and dree wenches of no count. Dree buys washanged, back in time of Jarge the Third, to Exeter jail, forship-staling, and one to Gibbet-moor, for what a' did upon the road.Vour on 'em was sent over seas, for running a few bits of goods fromFrance. Two on 'em be working to Whetstone pits, 'cording to their ownaccount, though I reckon they does another sort of job, now and again.And as for t'other two, the Lord, or the Devil, knoweth what be come tothey. Not one on 'em comes nigh poor old moother, who might a' diedyears ago 'cep for little Zippy. Though little Zip's father have a' beenhere now and then. The biggest and the wildest of the dozen I call him,though a' kapeth wonderful out of jail. 'Tis his cheel he comes to see,not his poor old moother. Look 'e ere, Passon, all the ins and outs of'un be set down rarely in that there book; same as the game with linesand crosses we used to play with a oyster-shell, fourscore years agoneand more."
On three or four leaves of the ancient Bible, bound in for that purpose,was a pedigree of these Tremletts of the Mill, descending from thefourteenth century. Mr. Penniloe looked at it with no small interest.What a pity to find them come to this! The mill itself had been a fallno doubt; but the Whetstone pits were a great descent from that.
"Tremletts has always had one or two fine scholards"--the old woman hada strange theory about this. "'Twor all along o' that they come down so.Whenever any man taketh much to books, a' stoppeth up his ears to goodadvice, and a' heedeth of his headpiece, and robbeth of 's own belly.But there, no matter. I can do a bit myself. Have 'e made up your mindabout my poor soul?"
From the toss of her nose, Mr. Penniloe was afraid that she was not muchin earnest about that little matter. And in common sense, he was loth toget entangled with the nettles and briars of such a queer lot.
"I think, Mrs. Tremlett," he said, with a smile containing some light ofwavering, "that your wisest plan by far would be to have a short willdrawn up, and leave the money----"
"Gi'e me my bag, and go thy ways," she screamed in a fury, though thebag was in her claws. "No churchyard for me, and my soul at thy door,thou white-livered, black-smocked Passon!"
Her passion struck into her lungs or throat, and she tore at her scraggychest, to ease the pain and gripe of a violent coughing-fit. Mr.Penniloe supported her massive head, for if it fell back, it might neverrise again.
"A drap out o' bottle!" she gasped at last, pointing to the cupboardwhere the Bible had been. He propped up her head with a pillow on end,and took from the cupboard a long-necked bottle of the best Frenchbrandy, and a metal pannikin.
"No watter! No watter!" the old woman shrieked, as he went towards apitcher that stood by the chimney. "Watter spileth all. No vear. Villup!"
He gave her the pannikin full, and she tipped it off, like a mouthful ofmilk, and then sat up and looked at him steadily.
"I be no drunkard," she said, "though a man as knoweth nort might vancyit. Never touches that stuff, excep' for physic. I've a' seed too muchwhat comes of that. Have a drap, wull 'e? Clane glass over yanner."
She seemed annoyed again at his refusal, but presently subsided into amilder vein, as if she were soothed by the mighty draught, instead ofbecoming excited.
"Naden't have troubled 'e, Passon," she said, "but for zending of littleZip away. I'll tell 'e why, now just. Better cheel never lived thanlittle Zip. Her tendeth old grannie night and day, though her getteth atap on the head now and then. But her mustn't know of this here money,or her father'd have it out of her in two zeconds. Now 'e see why Iwon't make no will. Now, will 'e do what I axed of 'e?"
After some hesitation the Parson gave his promise. He had heard from hiswife about poor little Zip, and how faithful she was to her oldgrandmother; and he felt that it would be unfair to the child to depriveher of the chance in life this money might procure; while he knew thatif he declined the trust, not a penny would she ever see of it. Heinsisted however upon one precaution--that the owner should sign amemorandum of the gift, and place it with the guineas in the bag, andthen hand the whole to him as trustee, completing by delivery the_donatio mortis causa_. In spite of her sufferings from the ruinouseffects of the higher education, Zipporah could sign her name veryfairly, and a leaf of her grandchild's copybook served very well for thememorial prepared by Mr. Penniloe.
"Now rouse up the fire there, 'e must be frore a'most," Mrs. Tremlettsaid when that was finished, and she had shown him where she concealedthe treasure. "'One good toorn desarves another,' as I've heerd say,though never had much chance of proving it; and I could tell 'e a thingor two, 'e might be glad to know, Pa
sson Penniloe, wi'out doing harm tonobody. Fust place then, you mind hearing of the man as gi'ed thatdoiled zany of a blacksmith such a turn--how long agone was it? I can'tsay justly; but the night after Squire Waldron's vuneral."
"To be sure. The big man with the lame horse, at Susscot Ford."
"Well, that man was my son Harvey, little Zip's father. You see the namein big Bible. French name it waz then, spelled different, and with astroke to the tail, as maight be. Tremletts had a hankering afterforeign languages. See 'un all down the page you can."
"What, Mrs. Tremlett!" exclaimed the Parson. "Are you aware what you aredoing? Informing against your own son--and one of the very fewremaining!"
"Zober now, zober! Don't 'e be a vule, Passon. I knows well enough whatI be adoing of. Just I wants 'un out of way, till arter I be buriedlike. I zent his little darter to the pits to-day, to tell 'un as howyou knowed of it. That'll mak 'un cut sticks, till I be underground, Ireckon."
As the old woman grinned and nodded at her own sagacity, a horrible ideacrossed the mind of Mr. Penniloe. Could she be afraid that her own sonwould dig up her body, and dispose of it?
Before he had condemned himself for such a vile suspicion, Mrs. Tremlettseemed to have read his thoughts; for she smiled with bitter glory, asif she had caught a pious man yielding to impiety.
"No, Harvey bain't no body-snatcher--leastways not as I ever heer'd on;though most volk would say a' was bad enough for anything. All that Iwants 'un out of way for, is that he mayn't have the chance to rob hisdarter. He loveth of the little maid, so much as Old Nick 'loweth him.But he could never kape his hands out of this here bag, if a' zeed 'un.And as for your folk doin' any hurt to 'un, 'twould be more use for 'eto drive nails into a shadow, than to lay hold of Harvey when he knowethyou be arter 'un. And even if 'e wor to vind 'un, man alive, it would bea bad job for you, or for zix such men as you be, to come nigh the handsof Harvey Tremlett. Volk about these parts don't know nort of un', elsethey'd have had un' for the 'rastling long ago. He hath been about agood deal among the Gipsies, and sailor-folk, and so on; and the Lordknows He musn't look for too very much of good in 'un."
"We must make allowances, Mrs. Tremlett. We never do justice to ourfellow-men, in that way." Mr. Penniloe was saying to himself, while hespoke--"and a great deal must be allowed for such bringing-up as yours,ma'am. But have you anything more to tell me, about that shocking thing,that is such a sad disgrace to Perlycross?" The Parson buttoned up hisSpencer, as if he still felt that dirty Pack's hits below the belt.
"I could tell 'e a saight of things, if I waz so minded, about what theyvules to Perlycross, and you among t'others be mazed about. I can't make'un out myself; but I be free to swear you'm a passel of idiots.Tremletts was bad enough; no vamley could be worse a'most; and mucholder they was than any Waldrons. But none on 'em never was dug up forgenerations. Won'erful things has come to them--things as would fillbooks bigger than this Bible; because 'em always wor above the lids ofthe ten Commandments. But 'em always had peace, so soon as they wasdead, till such time as the Devil could come for 'un, and he don't carefor no corpses. They Waldrons is tame--no French blood in 'em. Vittedfor big pews in church, and big vunerals. Vellers not laikely to be dugup, when that waz never done to Tremletts. Passon, I could tell 'e sucha saight of things, as would make the hair creep round the head of thee.Can't talk no more, or my cough will come on. Will tell 'e all aboutyour little boy, Mike; if 'e come again when this vrost is over. Andthen I'll show 'e Zip. But I can't talk vair, while the houze be socold. I've a dooed too much to-day, for a 'ooman in her ninety-zecondyear. You come again about this day wake. I trust 'e now, Passon. You bea good man, because you'm got no good blood in you. A old 'ooman'sblessing won't do 'e no harm."
Vast is the power of a good kind face, and of silence at the propermoment. The Curate of Perlycross possessed that large and tender nature,at which the weak are apt to scoff, because they are not afraid of it.Over them no influence can last, for there is nothing to lay hold of.But a strong-willed person, like that old woman, has substance that canbe dealt with, if handled kindly and without pretence. Thus Mr. Penniloeindulged some hope of soothing and softening that fierce and flintynature, and guiding it towards that peace on earth, which is the suresttoken of the amnesty above.
But while he was at breakfast on the following day, he was told that alittle maid was at the front door, crying very bitterly, and refusing tocome in. He went out alone, but not a syllable would she utter, until hehad closed the door behind him. There she stood, shivering in the snow,and sobbing, very poorly dressed, and with nothing on her head, butmopping her eyes and nose, as she turned away, with a handkerchief ofthe finest lace.
"Zip," was all the answer Mr. Penniloe could get to his gentle enquiryas to who she was; and then she looked at him with large and lustrouseyes, beautifully fringed below as well as above, and announcing veryclearly that she was discussing him within. Although he guessed what hererrand was, the clergyman could not help smiling at her earnest andundisguised probation of his character; and that smile settled the issuein his favour.
"You be to coom to wance;" her vowel-sounds were of the purestDevonshire air, winged by many a quill, but never summed in pen by any;"Wi'out no stapping to think, you be to coom!"
"What an imperious little Zenobia!" said Mr. Penniloe, in self-commune.
"Dunno, whatt thiccy be. Grandmoother zayeth, 'e must coom to wance. Buther be dead, zince the can'le gooed out." Her eyes burst into anotherflood, and she gave up the job of sopping it.
"My dear. I will come with you, in half a minute. Come and stand in thewarmth, till I am ready."
"Noo. Noo. I bain't to stop. Putt on hat, and coom raight awai. Viregooed out, and can'le gooed out, and Grannie gooed out, along wi' 'un."
Mr. Penniloe huddled his Spencer on, while the staring child danced withimpatience in the snow; and quiet little Fay came and glanced at her,and wondered how such things could be. But Fay would not stare, becauseshe was a little lady.
The clergyman was very quick of foot; but the child with her longTremlett legs kept easily in front of him all the way, with the cloud ofher black hair blowing out, on the frosty air, to hurry him.
"I bain't aveared of her. Be you?" said the little maid, as she rose ontip-toe, to pull the thong of the heavy latch. "If her coom back, herwould zay--'Good cheel, Zippy!'"