CHAPTER III.
THE LYCH-GATE.
The old church, standing on a bluff above the river, is well placed forlooking up and down the fertile valley. Flashes of the water on itswestward course may be caught from this point of vantage, amidst thetranquillity of ancient trees and sunny breadths of pasture. For therethe land has smoothed itself into a smiling plain, casting off thewrinkles of hills and gullies, and the frown of shaggy brows of heather.The rigour of the long flinty range is past, and a flower can standwithout a bush to back it, and the wind has ceased from shuddering.
But the Perle has not come to these pleasures yet, as it flows on thenorth of the churchyard, and some hundred feet beneath it. The broadshallow channel is strewn with flint, and the little stream cannot fillit, except in times of heavy flood; for the main of its water has beendiverted to work the woollen factory, and rejoins the natural course atthe bridge two or three hundred yards below. On the further side, theland rises to the barren height of Beacon Hill, which shelters SirThomas Waldron's house, and is by its conical form distinct from otherextremities of the Black-down Chain. For the southern barrier of thevalley (which is about three miles wide at its mouth) is formed by thelong dark chine of Hagdon Hill, which ends abruptly in a steep descent;and seeing that all this part of the vale, and the hills which shape it,are comprised in the parish of Perlycross, it will become clear that asingle Parson, if he attempts to go through all his work, must have avery fine pair of legs, and a sound constitution to quicken them.
Mr. Penniloe, now well advanced in the fifth decade, was of very sparehabit and active frame, remarkable also for his springy gait, except atthose periods of dark depression, with which he was afflicted now andthen. But the leading fault of his character was inattention to hisvictuals, not from any want of common sense, or crude delight infasting, but rather through self-neglect, and the loss of the one whoused to attend to him. To see to that bodily welfare, about which hecared so little, there was no one left, except a careful active anddevoted servant, Thyatira Muggridge. Thyatira had been in his employmentever since his marriage, and was now the cook, housekeeper, and generalmanager at the rectory. But though in the thirty-fifth year of her age,and as steady as a pyramid, she felt herself still too young to urgesound dietary advice upon her master, as she longed to do. The women ofthe parish blamed her sadly, as they watched his want of fattening; butshe could only sigh, and try to tempt him with her simple skill, andzeal.
On the morrow of that sad anniversary which had caused him suchdistress, the Curate was blest with his usual vigour of faith andcourage and philanthropy. An affectionate letter from his mother,enclosing a bank-order for ten pounds, had proved that she was nowilling partner in the father's harshness. The day was very bright, histhree pupils had left him for their summer holidays, and there happenedto be no urgent call for any parochial visits. There was nothing to stophim from a good turn to-day among trowel and chisel and callipers; hewould see that every man was at his work, and that every stroke of workwas truthful.
Having slurred his early dinner with his usual zest, he was hasteningdown the passage for his hat and stick, when Thyatira Muggridge cameupon him from the pantry, with a jug of toast-and-water in her hand.
"Do'e give me just a minute, sir," she whispered, with a glance at thedoor of the dining-room where the children had been left; and hefollowed her into the narrow back-parlour, the head-quarters of hisabsent pupils.
Mr. Penniloe thought very highly of his housekeeper's judgment anddiscretion, and the more so perhaps because she had been converted, by astroke of his own readiness, from the doctrines of the"Antipaeedo-Baptists"--as they used to call themselves--to those of theChurch of England. Her father, moreover, was one of the chief tenants onthe North Devon property of Mr. Penniloe the elder; and simplicity,shrewdness, and honesty were established in that family. So her masterwas patient with her, though his hat and stick were urgent.
"Would you please to mind, sir,"--began Thyatira, with her thick redarms moving over her apron, like rolling-pins upon pie-crust--"if littleMaster Mike was to sleep with me a bit, till his brother Master Harrycometh back from school?"
"I dare say you have some good reason for asking; but what is it, Mrs.Muggeridge?" The housekeeper was a spinster, but had receivedbrevet-rank from the village.
"Only that he is so lonesome, sir, in that end hattick, by his littleself. You know how he hath been, ever since his great scare; and nowsome brutes of boys in the village have been telling him a lot of stuffabout Spring-heel Jack. They say he is coming into this part now, withhis bloody heart and dark lantern. And the poor little lamb hath awindow that looks right away over the churchyard. Last night he weresobbing so in his sleep, enough to break his little heart. The soundcame all across the lumber-room, till I went and fetched him into mybed, and then he were as happy as an Angel."
"Poor little man! I should have thought of it, since he became sonervous. But I have always tried to make my children feel that the Lordis ever near them."
"He compasseth the righteous round about," Mrs. Muggeridge replied witha curtsey, as a pious woman quoting Holy Writ; "but for all that, youcan't call Him company, sir; and that's what these little one's lacksof. Master Harry is as brave as a lion, because he is so much older.But hoping no offence, his own dear mother would never have left thatlittle soul all by himself."
"You are right, and I was wrong;" replied the master, concealing thepain her words had caused. "Take him to your room; it is very kind ofyou. But where will you put Susanna?"
"That will be easy enough, sir. I will make up a bed in the lumber-room,if you have no objection. Less time for her at the looking-glass, Ireckon."
Mr. Penniloe smiled gravely--for that grievance was a classic--and hadonce more possessed himself of his hat and stick, when the earnesthousekeeper detained him once again.
"If you please, sir, you don't believe, do you now, in all that theysays about that Spring-heeled Jack? It scarcely seemeth reasonable to aChristian mind. And yet when I questioned Mr. Jakes about it, he was notfor denying that there might be such a thing--and him the very bravestman in all this parish!"
"Mrs. Muggeridge, it is nonsense. Mr. Jakes knows better. He must havebeen trying to terrify you. A man who has been through the Peninsularcampaign! I hope I may remember to reprove him."
"Oh no, I would beg you, sir, not to do that. It was only said--as onemight express it, promiscuous, and in a manner of speaking. I wouldnever have mentioned it, if I had thought----"
Knowing that her face was very red, her master refrained from looking atit, and went his way at last, after promising to let the gallant Jakesescape. It was not much more than a hundred yards, along the chiefstreet of the village, from the rectory to the southern and chiefentrance of the churchyard; opposite to which, at a corner of the roadand partly in front of the ruined Abbey, stood an old-fashioned Inn, the_Ivy-bush_. This, though a very well conducted house, and quiet enough(except at Fair-time), was not in the Parson's opinion a pleasinginduction to the lych-gate; but there it had stood for generations, andthe landlord, Walter Haddon, held sound Church-views, for his wife hadbeen a daughter of Channing the clerk, and his premises belonged to theDean and Chapter.
Mr. Penniloe glanced at the yellow porch, with his usual regret but noill-will, when a flash of bright colour caught his eye. In the outercorner he described a long scarlet fishing-rod propped against the wall,with the collar and three flies fluttering. All was so bright and spickand span, that a trout's admiration would be quite safe; and theclergyman (having been a skilful angler, till his strict views of dutydeprived him of that joy) indulged in a smile of sagacity, as he openedhis double eye-glass, and scrutinised this fine object.
"Examining my flies, are you, Reverend? Well, I hope you are satisfiedwith them."
The gentleman who spoke in this short way came out of the porch, with apipe in his hand and a large fishing-creel swinging under his left arm.
"I beg your pardon, Dr. Gronow, for the lib
erty I am taking. Yes, theyare very fine flies indeed. I hope you have had good sport with them."
"Pretty fair, sir; pretty fair"--the owner answered cheerfully--"onemust not expect much in this weather. But I have had at least threerises."
"It is much to your credit, so far as I can judge, under thecircumstances. And you have not had time to know our water yet. You willfind it pretty fishing, when you get accustomed to it."
The angler, a tall thin man of sixty, with a keen grave face and wirygray hair, regarded the Parson steadfastly. This was but the second timethey had met, although Dr. Gronow had been for some while an importantparishioner of Perlycross, having bought a fair estate at Priestwell, ahamlet little more than a mile from the village. People, who pretendedto know all about him, said that he had retired suddenly, for someunknown reason, from long and large medical practice at Bath. There hehad been, as they declared, the first authority in all cases ofdifficulty and danger, but not at all a favourite in the world offashion, because of his rough and contemptuous manners, and sad want ofsympathy with petty ailments. Some pious old lady of rank had calledhim, in a passionate moment, "the Godless Gronow;" and whether hedeserved the description or not, it had cleaved to him like asand-leech. But the Doctor only smiled, and went his way; the good willof the poor was sweeter to him than the good word of the wealthy.
"Let me say a word to you, Mr. Penniloe," he began, as the Curate wasturning away; "I have had it in my mind for some short time. I believeyou are much attached to Sir Thomas Waldron."
"He is one of my oldest and most valued friends. I have the highestpossible regard for him."
"He is a valuable man in the parish, I suppose--comes to churchregularly--sets a good example?"
"If all my parishioners were like him, it would be a comfort to me,and--and a benefit to them."
"Well said--according to your point of view. I like a straightforwardman, sir. But I want you to be a little crooked now. You have an oldfriend, Harrison Gowler."
"Yes,"--Mr. Penniloe replied with some surprise, "I was very fond ofGowler at Oxford, and admired him very greatly. But I have not seen himfor some years."
"He is now the first man in London in his special line. Could you gethim to visit you for a day or two, and see Sir Thomas Waldron, withoutletting him know why?"
"You astonish me, Dr. Gronow. There is nothing amiss with Sir Thomas,except a little trouble now and then, caused by an ancient wound, Ibelieve."
"Ah, so you think; and so perhaps does he. But I suppose you can keep athing to yourself. If I tell you something, will you give me your wordthat it shall go no further?"
The two gentlemen were standing in the shadow of the lych-gate, as ashelter from the July sun, while the clergyman gazed with much alarm atthe other, and gave the required promise. Dr. Gronow looked round, andthen said in a low voice--
"Sir Thomas is a strong and temperate man, and has great powers ofendurance. I hope most heartily that I may be wrong. But I am convincedthat within three months, he will be lying upon this stone; while youwith your surplice on are standing in that porch, waiting for thebearers to advance."
"Good God!" cried the Parson, with tears rushing to his eyes; then helifted his hat, and bowed reverently. "May He forgive me for using Hisholy name. But the shock is too terrible to think of. It would certainlybreak poor Nicie's heart. What right have you to speak of such adreadful thing?"
"Is it such a dreadful thing to go to heaven? That of course youguarantee for your good friends. But the point is--how to put off thatcatastrophe of bliss."
"Flippancy is not the way to meet it, Dr. Gronow. We have every right totry to keep a valuable life, and a life dear to all that have the senseto feel its value. Even a scornful man--such as you appear to be, unableto perceive the childish littleness of scorn--must admire valour, senseof duty, and simplicity; though they may not be his own leadingqualities. And once more I ask you to explain what you have said."
"You know Jemmy Fox pretty well, I think?" Dr. Gronow took a seat uponthe coffin-stone, and spoke as if he liked the Parson's vigour--"Jemmyis a very clever fellow in his way, though of course he has noexperience yet. We old stagers are always glad to help a young member ofour Profession, who has a proper love for it, and is modest, andhard-working. But not until he asks us, you must clearly understand. Yousee we are not so meddlesome as you Reverends are. Well, from theaccount young Fox gives me, there can, I fear, be little doubt about thenature of the case. It is not at all a common one; and so far as we knowyet, there is but one remedy--a very difficult operation."
Mr. Penniloe was liable to a kind of nervous quivering, when anythinghappened to excite him, and some of his very best sermons had beenspoiled by this visitation.
"I am troubled more than I can tell you,--I am grieved beyonddescription,"--he began with an utterance which trembled more and more;"and you think that Gowler is the only man, to--to----"
"To know the proper course, and to afford him the last chance. Gowler isnot a surgeon, as I need not tell you. And at present such a case couldbe dealt with best in Paris, although we have young men rising now, whowill make it otherwise before very long. Sir Thomas will listen tonothing, I fear, from a young practitioner like Fox. He has been soknocked about himself, and so close to death's door more than once, thathe looks upon this as a fuss about nothing. But I know better, Mr.Penniloe."
"You are too likely to be right. Fox has told me of several cases ofyour wonderful penetration. That young man thinks so much of you. Oh,Dr. Gronow, I implore you as a man--whatever your own opinions are--saynothing to unsettle that young fellow's mind. You know not the miseryyou may cause, and you cannot produce any happiness. I speak--I speakwith the strongest feelings. You will think that I should not havespoken at all--and I dare say it is unusual. But you will forgive me,when you remember it is my duty as a clergyman."
"Surely you are responsible for me as well"--replied the doctor with akinder tone; "but perhaps you regard me as beyond all cure. Well, I willpromise what you ask, good sir. Your sheep, or your foxes, shall notstray through me. Will you do what I suggest about Gowler?"
"I will try to get him down. But from all that I hear, he is one of thebusiest men in London. And I dislike procuring his opinion on the sly.Excuse me--I know how well you meant it. But perhaps, through LadyWaldron, he may be brought down in the regular course, and have thewhole case laid before him."
"That would be the best thing, if it could be managed. Good-bye! I goa-fishing, as your prototypes expressed it."