CHAPTER II.
FAIRY FAITH.
At the beginning of July, work was proceeding steadily, though not quiteso merrily perhaps, as some of the workmen might have wished; becauseMr. Penniloe had forbidden the presence of beer-cans in consecratedground. A large firm of builders at Exeter (Messrs. Peveril, Gibbs &Co.) had taken the contract according to Mr. Horner's specifications;and had sent a strong staff of workmen down, under an active juniorpartner, Mr. Robson Adney. There are very few noises that cannot findsome ear to which they are congenial; and the clink of the mason'strowel is a delight to many good people. But that pleasant sound isreplaced, too often, by one of sadder harmony--the chink of coin thatsays adieu, with all the regret behind it.
Perlycross had started well on this, its greatest enterprise; every manwas astonished at his neighbour's generosity, and with still betterreason at his own. Mr. Penniloe's spirit rose above the solid necessityof repairs, and aspired to richer embellishment. That hideous gallery atthe western end, which spoiled the tower entrance and obscured a finewindow, should go into the fire at last; the noble arch of the chancel(which had been shored with timber braces) should be restored andreopened, and the blocked-up windows should again display their lovelycarving. In the handsomest manner, Sir Thomas Waldron had sent him acheque for five hundred pounds; which after all was only just, becausethe vaults of the Waldron race lay at the bottom of half the lapse. TheDean and Chapter of Exeter had contributed a hundred pounds; and theRector another hundred; and the Curate's own father--an ancientclergyman in the north of Devon, with a tidy living and a plumpestate--had gone as far as twenty pounds, for the honour of the family.
With this money in hand, and much more in hope, all present designsmight well be compassed. But alas, a new temptation rose, very charming,and very costly. The Curate had long suspected that his favourite churchhad been endowed (like its smaller sister at Perlycombe) with a fairrood-screen; perhaps a fine one, worthy of the days, when men couldcarve. And now, when the heavy wooden gallery of Queen Anne's time hadbeen removed, it happened that Sergeant Jakes, the schoolmaster, who hadseen a great deal of old work in Spain, was minded to enquire into thebearings of the great bressemer at the back. He put his foot into a holebeneath it, where solid brickwork was supposed to be; but down went hisfoot into a lot of crumbling stuff, and being no more than a one-armedman, Mr. Jakes had a narrow escape of his neck. Luckily he clung withhis one hand to a crossbeam still in position, and being of a very wiryframe--as all the school-children knew too well--was enabled to supporthimself, until a ladder was clapped to. Even then it was no easy thingto extricate his foot, wedged between two trefoils of sharply cut stone;and for more than a week it was beyond his power to bring any fugitiveboy to justice. The Parson was sent for at once, and discovered thefinest stone-screen in the diocese, removed from its place by abarbarous age, and plastered up in the great western wall.
There was little of that hot contention then, which rages now over everystock and stone appertaining to the Church. As the beauty of design, andthe skill of execution, grew more and more manifest to his delightedeyes, Mr. Penniloe was troubled with no misgivings as to "gravenimages." He might do what he liked with this grand piece of work, if themoney were forthcoming. And the parish suspected no Popery in it, whenafter much council with all concerned, and holding the needful faculty,he proposed to set up this magnificent screen as a reredos beneath thegreat Chancel window, and behind the stone Communion-table, generallycalled the Altar now.
Yet brave as he was and of ardent faith, some little dismay was natural,when the builders assured him that this could not be done, with allneedful repairs and proper finish, for less than three hundred and fiftypounds, and they would not even bind themselves to that; for theoriginal was of the best Beere stone, difficult to match, and hard towork. Mr. Penniloe went to the quarries, and found that this was noexaggeration; and having some faith in mankind--as all who have much intheir Maker must have--he empowered the firm to undertake the task,while he cast about zealously for the cash.
With filial confidence he made sure that his reverend father mustrejoice in another opportunity for glorifying God; and to that effect headdressed him. But when the postman wound his horn at the bottom of thevillage, and the Parson hurried down from the churchyard to meet him, atthe expense of eightpence he received the following dry epistle.
"SON PHILIP,--We are much surprised and pained by your extraordinary letter. You speak very largely of 'duty to God,' which ought to be done, without talking of it; while you think lightly of your duty to your parents, the commandment that carries the blessing. If you had not abandoned your Fellowship, by marrying and having a family, it might have been more in your power to think of Church-windows, and stone-carving. We did not expect to be treated like this, after our very handsome gift, of not more than three months agone. Look for no more money; but for that which a good son values more, and earns by keeping within his income--the love of his affectionate parents,
"ISAAC, AND JOAN PENNILOE."
"Ah! ah! Well, well, I dare say I was wrong. But I thought that he couldafford it;" said the Curate in his simple way: "'tis a sad day for mealtogether. But I will not be cast down, for the Lord knoweth best."
For on this very day, a year ago, he had lost the happiness of his life,and the one love of his manhood. His fair wife (a loyal and tenderhelpmate, the mother of his three children, and the skilful steward ofhis small means) had been found lying dead at the foot of the "HorseshoePitch," beneath Hagdon Hill. While her husband was obliged to remain inthe village, waiting for a funeral, she had set forth, with none but heryounger boy Michael, to visit an old woman on the outskirts of theparish, very far advanced in years, but still a very backward Christian.
The old woman was living at the present moment, but could throw no lightupon her visitor's sad fate, and indeed denied that she had seen her onthat day. And the poor child who must have beheld what happened, thoughhitherto a very quick and clever little fellow, could never be broughtto say a word about it. Having scarcely recovered from a sharp attack ofmeasles, he had lost his wits through terror, and ran all the way homeat the top of his speed, shouting "Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!"
From the child's sad condition, and a strict search of the "Horseshoe,"it appeared that he had leaped after his poor mother, but had been savedfrom death by a ledge of brambles and furze which had broken his fall.Even now, though all trace of his bruises was gone, and his blue eyeswere as bright as ever, the tender young brain was so dazed and daunted,by the fall, and the fright, and agony, that the children of the villagechanged his nickname from "Merry Michael," to "Mazed Mikey."
Mr. Penniloe had been fighting bravely against the sad memories of thisday. To a deeply religious mind like his, despondency was of the natureof doubt, and sorrow long indulged grew into sin. But now a cloud ofdarkness fell around him; the waves of the flood went over his soul, hisheart was afflicted, and in sore trouble; and there was none to deliverhim.
All men have their times of depression; but few feel such agonies ofdejection, as the firm believer and lover of his faith, when harrowingdoubts assail him. The Rector of Perlycross, Mr. Chevithorne, though byno means a man of vast piety, had a short way of dealing with suchattacks, which he always found successful. To his certain knowledge, alldebility of faith sprang directly from "lowness of the system;" and hisremedy against all such complaints was a glass of hot brandy and water.But his Curate's religion was a less robust, because a far more activepower; and his keener mind was not content to repel all such sallies, astemptations of the Devil.
Sensitive, diffident, and soft-hearted, he was apt to feel too acutelyany wound to his affections; and of all the world now left to him, thedearest one was his mother. Or at any rate, he thought so for thepresent; though a certain little tender claim was creeping closer andcloser into the inmost cell of love.
"Can mother have forgotten what day it would be, when I should receivethese
cruel words?" he said to himself, as he went sadly up the hilltowards his white-washed dwelling-place, having no heart left for thefinest of stone-carvings. "If she did, it was not like her; and if sheremembered, it seems still worse. Surely he would not have dared to signher name, without her knowledge. But whenever he thinks of thatFellowship--well, perhaps it was wrong on my part to attempt so much. Itis high time to look more closely into ways and means."
That was the proper thing to do beyond a doubt, and he hastened insideto do it. But when he sat in his lonely bookroom, with the eveningshadows of the dark ilex slowly creeping over him, his mind went backinto the past, and a mighty sadness conquered him. Instead of the listof subscriptions for the church he had drawn from the long portfolio(which his wife had given him on the last wedding-day they should everkeep together) a copy of a sad despondent hymn, which he had written inthe newness of his grief. As he read the forgotten lines, once moretheir deep gloom encompassed him; even the twinkle of hope, in whichthey ended, seemed a mockery.
"Will it ever be so, or is it all a dream, inspired by our longings, andour self-conceit? Whatever is pleasant, or good, or precious, issnatched from our grasp; and we call it a trial, and live on, in thebelief that we are punished for our good, and shall be rewarded tenfold.If so, it can be for those alone who are able to believe always; who candismiss every shadow of doubt, and live with their Maker face to face.Oh that I could do so. But I cannot; my shallow mind is vexed by everybreeze. When I was a young man, I felt pity, and even contempt forGowler's unfaith--a man of far superior powers. He gave up hisFellowship, like a conscientious man; while I preach to others, and ammyself a castaway. Oh, Ruth, Ruth, if you could only see me!"
This man of holy life, and of pure devotion to his sacred office, benthis head low in the agony of the moment, and clasped his hands over hiswhitening hair. How far he was out of his proper mind was shown by hissitting in the sacred chair,[1] the old "dropping-chair" of the parish,which had been sent back that morning. Of this, and of all around, hetook no heed; for the tide of his life was at the lowest ebb, and hisfeeble heart was fluttering, like a weed in shallow water.
But his comfort was not far to seek. After sundry soft taps, and ashuffle of the handle, the door was opened quietly, and a little girlcame dancing in, bringing a gleam of summer sunshine in a cloud ofgolden hair. The gloom of the cold room fled, as if it had no businessnear her, and a thrush outside (who knew her well) broke forth into agratitude of song. For this was little Faith Penniloe, seven years oldlast Tuesday, the prettiest and the liveliest soul in all the parish ofPerlycross; and Faith being too substantial perhaps, everybody calledher "Fay," or "Fairy." Nothing ever troubled her, except the letter _r_,and even that only when it wanted to come first.
"Father, fathery, how much colder is the tea to get?" she cried; "I callit very yude of you, to do what you like, because you happen to beolder."
As the little girl ran, with her arms stretched forth, and a smile onher lips that was surety for a kiss--a sudden amazement stopped her. Thefather of her love and trust and worship, was not even looking at her;his face was cold and turned away; his arms were not spread for a jumpand a scream. He might as well have no child at all, or none to whom hewas all in all. For a moment her simple heart was daunted, her dimpledhands fell on her pinafore, and the sparkle of her blue eyes became agleam of tears.
Then she gathered up her courage, which had never known repulse, andcame and stood between her father's knees, and looked up at him verytenderly, as if she had grieved him, and yearned to be forgiven.
"Child, you have taught me the secret of faith," he cried, with a suddenlight shed on him; "I will go as a little one to my Father, without aword, and look up at Him."
Then, as he lifted her into his lap, and she threw her arms around hisneck, he felt that he was not alone in the world, and the warmth of hisheart returned to him.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] In country parishes an easy-chair, for the use of the sick andelderly, was provided from the Communion offerings, and lent to thosemost in need of it. When not so required, it was kept under cover, andregarded with some reverence, from its origin and use.