CHAPTER XLII.
HIS LAST BIVOUAC.
"Have I done wrong?" Young Waldron asked himself, as he strode down thehill, with his face still burning, and that muddy hat on. "Most fellowswould have knocked him down. I hope that nice girl heard nothing of therow. The walls are jolly thick, that's one good thing; as thick as mypoor head, I dare say. But when the fellow dared to laugh! Good Heavens,is our family reduced to that? I dare say I am a hot-headed fool, thoughI kept my temper wonderfully; and to tell me I am not a gentleman! Well,I don't care a rap who sees me now, for they must hear of this affair atWalderscourt. I think the best thing that I can do is to go and see oldPenniloe. He is as honest as he is clear-headed. If he says I'm wrong,I'll believe it. And I'll take his advice about other things."
This was the wisest resolution of his life, inasmuch as it proved to bethe happiest. Mr. Penniloe had just finished afternoon work with hispupils, and they were setting off; Pike with his rod to the long pool upthe meadows, which always fished best with a cockle up it, Peckover fora long steeple-chase, and Mopuss to look for chalcedonies, and mosses,among the cleves of Hagdon Hill; for nature had nudged him into thathigh bliss, which a child has in routing out his father's pockets. TheParson, who felt a warm regard for a very fine specimen of hot youth,who was at once the son of his oldest friend, and his own son inliterature--though Minerva sat cross-legged at that travail--he, Mr.Penniloe, was in a gentle mood, as he seldom failed to be; moreover ina fine mood, as behoves a man who has been dealing with great authors,and walking as in a crystal world, so different from our turbid fog.
To him the young man poured forth his troubles, deeper than of certainClassic woes, too substantial to be laid by any triple cast of dust. Andthen he confessed his flagrant insult to a rising member of the greatProfession.
"You have behaved very badly, according to your own account;" Mr.Penniloe said with much decision, knowing that his own weakness was tolet people off too easily, and feeling that duty to his ancient friendcompelled him to chastise his son; "but your bad behaviour to Jemmy Foxhas some excuse in quick temper provoked. Your conduct towards yourmother and sister is ten times worse; because it is mean."
"I don't see how you can make that out." Young Waldron would have flowninto a fury with any other man who had said this. Even as it was, hestood up with a doubtful countenance, glancing at the door.
"It is mean, in this way," continued the Parson, leaving him to go, ifhe thought fit, "that you have thought more of yourself than them.Because it would have hurt your pride to go to them, with this wrongstill unredressed, you have chosen to forget the comfort your presencemust have afforded them, and the bitter pain they must feel at hearingthat you have returned and avoided them. In a like case, your fatherwould not have acted so."
Waldron sat down again, and his great frame trembled. He covered hisface with his hands, and tears shone upon his warted knuckles; for hehad not yet lost all those exuberances of youth.
"I never thought of that," he muttered; "it never struck me in that way.Though Jakes said something like it. But he could not put it, as you do.I see that I have been a cad, as Jemmy Fox declared I was."
"Jemmy is older, and he should have known better than to say anything ofthe sort. He must have lost his temper sadly; because he could neverhave thought it. You have not been what he calls a cad; but in yourhaste and misery, you came to the wrong decision. I have spokenstrongly, Tom, my boy; more strongly perhaps than I should have done.But your mother is in weak health now; and you are all in all to her."
"The best you can show me to be is a brute; and I am not sure that thatis not worse than a cad. I ought to be kicked every inch of the wayhome; and I'll go there as fast as if I was."
"That won't do at all," replied the Curate smiling. "To go is your duty;but not to rush in like a thunderbolt, and amaze them. They have been soanxious about your return, that it must be broken very gently to them.If you wish it, and can wait a little while, I will go with you, andprepare them for it."
"Sir, if you only would--but no, I don't deserve it. It is a great dealtoo much to expect of you."
"What is the time? Oh, a quarter past four. At half past, I have tobaptise a child well advanced in his seventh year, whose parents havemade it the very greatest personal favour to me, to allow him to be'crassed'--as they express it. And I only discovered their neglect, lastweek! Who am I to find fault with any one? If you don't mind waiting forabout half-an-hour, I will come back for you, and meanwhile Mrs.Muggridge will make your hat look better; Master Jemmy must have losthis temper too, I am afraid. Good-bye for the moment; unless I ampunctual to the minute, I know too well what will happen--they will allbe off. For they 'can't zee no vally in it,' as they say. Alas, alas,and we are wild about Missions to Hindoos, and Hottentots!"
As soon as Mr. Penniloe had left the house, the youth, who had beenlowered in his own esteem, felt a very strong desire to go after him.Possibly this was increased by the sad reproachful gaze of Thyatira;who, as an old friend, longed to hear all about him, but was toowell-mannered to ask questions. Cutting all consideration short--whichis often the best thing to do with it--he put on his fairlyre-established hat, and cared not a penny whether Mrs. Channing, thebaker's wife, was taking a look into the street or not; or even Mrs.Tapscott, with the rosemary over her window.
Then he turned in at the lych-gate, thinking of the day when hisfather's body had lain there (as the proper thing was for a body to do)and then he stood in the churchyard, where the many ways of deathdivided. Three main paths, all well-gravelled, ran among those who hadtoddled in the time of childhood down them, with wormwood andstock-gilly flowers in their hands; and then sauntered along them, withhands in pockets, and eyes for the maidens over tombstone-heads; andthen had come limping along on their staffs; and now were having allthis done for them, without knowing anything about it.
None of these ways was at all to his liking. Peace--at least indeath--was there, green turf and the rounded bank, gray stone, and theun-household name, to be made out by a grandchild perhaps, proud ofskill in ancient letters, prouder still of a pocket-knife. What a faintscratch on soft stone! And yet the character far and away stronger thanthat of the lettered times that follow it.
Young Waldron was not of a morbid cast, neither was his mindintrospective; as (for the good of mankind) is ordained to those whohave the world before them. He turned to the right by a track across thegrass, followed the bend of the churchyard wall, and fearing to go anyfurther, lest he should stumble on his father's outraged grave, sat downupon a gap of the gray enclosure. This gap had been caused by the sweepof tempest that went up the valley at the climax of the storm. The wall,being low, had taken little harm; but the great west gable of the Abbeyhad been smitten, and swung on its back, as a trap-door swings upon itshinges. Thick flint structure, and time-worn mullion, massive buttress,and deep foundation, all had gone flat, and turned their fangs up,rending a chasm in the tattered earth. But this dark chasm was hiddenfrom view, by a pile of loose rubble, and chunks of flint, that hadrattled down when the gable fell, and striking the cross-wall had lodgedthereon, breaking the cope in places, and hanging (with tangles of ivy,and tufts of toad-flax) over the interval of wall and ruin, as asnowdrift overhangs a ditch.
Here the young man sat down; as if any sort of place would do for him.The gap in the wall was no matter to him, but happened to suit hisdowncast mood, and the misery of the moment. Here he might sit, andwait, until Mr. Penniloe had got through a job, superior to theburial-service, because no one could cut you in pieces, directlyafterwards, without being hanged for it. He could see Mr. Penniloe'sblack stick, standing like a little Parson--for some of them are proudof such resemblance--in the great south porch of the church; and therebyhe knew that he could not miss his friend. As he lifted his eyes to theancient tower, and the black yew-tree still steadfast, and the fourvanes (never of one opinion as to the direction of the wind, in anythingless than half a gale), and the jackdaws come home prematurely, afterdigging
up broad-beans, to settle their squabble about their nests; andthen as he lowered his gaze to the tombstones, and the newfoundation-arches, and other labours of a parish now so hateful tohim--heavy depression, and crushing sense of the wrath of God againsthis race, fell upon his head; as the ruin behind him had fallen on itsown foundations.
He felt like an old man, fain to die, when time is gone weary and empty.What was the use of wealth to him, of bodily strength, of brightambition to make his Country proud of him, even of love of dearestfriends, and wedded bliss--if such there were--and children who wouldhonour him? All must be under one black ban of mystery insoluble; nevercould there be one hearty smile, one gay thought, one soft delight; butever the view of his father's dear old figure desecrated, mangled,perhaps lectured on. He could not think twice of that, but groaned--"TheLord in Heaven be my help! The Lord deliver me from this life?"
He was all but delivered of this life--happy, or wretched--it was allbut gone. For as he flung his body back, suiting the action to his agonyof mind--crash went the pile of jagged flint, the hummocks of deadmortar, and the wattle of shattered ivy. He cast himself forward, justin time, as all that had carried him broke and fell, churning, andgrinding, and clashing together, sending up a cloud of powdered lime.
So sudden was the rush, that his hat went with it, leaving his browncurls grimed with dust, and his head for a moment in a dazed condition,as of one who has leapt from an earthquake. He stood with his back tothe wall, and the muscles of his great legs quivering, after the strainof their spring for dear life. Then scarcely yet conscious of hishair-breadth escape, he descried Mr. Penniloe coming from the porch, andhastened without thought to meet him.
"Billy-jack!" said the clergyman, smiling, yet doubtful whether he oughtto smile. "They insisted on calling that child 'Billy-jack.''William-John' they would not hear of. I could not object, for it wastoo late; and there is nothing in it uncanonical. But I scarcely felt asI should have done, when I had to say--'Billy-jack, I baptise thee,'etc. I hope they did not do it to try me. Now the Devonshire mind isvery deep and subtle; though generally supposed to be the simplest ofthe simple. But what has become of your hat, my dear boy? SurelyThyatira has had time enough to clean it."
"She cleaned it beautifully. But it was waste of time. It has gone downa hole. Come, and I will show you. I wonder my head did not go with it.What a queer place this has become!"
"A hole! What hole can there be about here?" Mr. Penniloe asked, as hefollowed the young man. "The downfall of the Abbey has made a heap,rather than what can be called a hole. But I declare you are right! Why,I never saw this before; and I looked along here with Haddon, not morethan a week age. Don't come too near; it is safe enough for me, but youare like Neptune, a shaker of the earth. Alas for our poor ivy!"
He put on his glasses, and peered through the wall-gap, into theflint-strewn depth outside. Part of the ruins, just dislodged, hadrolled into a pit, or some deep excavation; the crown of which hadbroken in, probably when the gable fell. The remnant of the churchyardwall was still quite sound, and evidently stood away from all that hadgone on outside.
"Be thankful to God for your escape," Mr. Penniloe said, looking back atthe youth. "It has indeed been a narrow one. If you had been carrieddown there head-foremost, even your strong frame would have been crushedlike an egg-shell."
"I am not sure about that; but I don't want to try it. I think I can seea good piece of my hat; and I am not going to be done out of it. Willyou be kind enough, sir, to wait, while I go round by the stile, and getin at that end? You see that it is easy to get down there; but afrightful job from this side. You won't mind waiting, will you, sir?"
"If you will take my advice," said the Curate, "you will be content tolet well alone. It is the great lesson of the age. But nobody attends toit."
The young man did not attend to it; and for once Mr. Penniloe had givenbad advice; though most correct in principle, and in practice too, ninetimes and a half out of every ten.
"Here I am, sir. Can you see me?" Sir Thomas Waldron shouted up thehole. "It is a queer place, and no mistake. Please to stop just whereyou are. Then you can give me notice, if you see the ground likely tocave in. Halloa! Why, I never saw anything like it! Here's a stone arch,and a tunnel beyond it, just like what you've got at the rectory, onlyever so much bigger. Looks as if the old Abbey had butted up against it,until it all got blown away. If I had got a fellow down here to help me,I believe I could get into it. But all these chunks are in the way."
"My dear young friend, it will soon be dark; and we have more importantthings to see to. You are not at all safe down there; if the sides fellin, you would never come out alive."
"It has cost me a hat; and I won't be done. I can't go home without ahat, till dark. I am not coming up, till I know all about it. Do obligeme, sir, by having the least little bit of patience."
Mr. Penniloe smiled. The request, as coming from such a quarter, pleasedhim. And presently the young man began to fling up great lumps ofclotted flint, as if they were marbles, right and left.
"What a volcano you are!" cried the Parson, as the youth in the craterstopped to breathe. "It is nothing but a waste of energy. The hole won'trun away, my dear Tom. You had much better leave it for the proper manto-morrow."
"Don't say that. I am the proper man." How true his words were, he hadno idea. "But I hear somebody whistling. If I had only got a fellow, tokeep this stuff back, I could get on like a house on fire."
It was Pike coming back from the long pool in the meadow, with a prettylittle dish of trout for supper. His whistling was fine; as afisherman's should be, for want of something better in his mouth; and henever got over the Churchyard stile, without this little air ofconsolation for the ghosts.
As he topped the ridge of meadow that looks down on the river, Mr.Penniloe waved his hat to him, over the breach of the churchyard wall;and he nothing loth stuck his rod into the ground, pulled off hisjacket, and went down to help.
"All clear now. We can slip in like a rabbit. But it looks uncommonlyblack inside, and it seems to go a long way underground;" Waldronshouted up to the clergyman. "We cannot do anything, without a light."
"I'll tell you what, sir," Pike chimed in. "This passage runs right intothe church, I do believe."
"That is the very thing I have been thinking;" answered Mr. Penniloe. "Ihave heard of a tradition to that effect. I should like to come down,and examine it."
"Not yet, sir; if you please. There is scarcely room for three. And itwould be a dangerous place for you. But if you could only give ussomething like a candle----"
"Oh, I know!" The sage Pike suggested, with an angler's quickness. "Askhim to throw us down one of the four torches stuck up at the lych-gate.They burn like fury; and I dare say you have got a lucifer, or aPromethean."
"Not a bad idea, Pike;" answered Mr. Penniloe. "I believe that each ofthem will burn for half-an-hour."
Soon he returned with the driest of them, from the iron loop under thecovered space; and this took fire very heartily, being made of twistedtow soaked in resin.
"I am rather big for this job;" said Sir Thomas, as the red flamesputtered in the archway, "perhaps you would like to go first, my youngfriend."
"Very much obliged," replied Pike drawing back; "but I don't seem tofeel myself called upon to rush into the bowels of the earth, among sixcenturies of ghosts. I had better stop here, perhaps, till you comeback."
"Very well. At any rate hold my coat. It is bad enough; I don't want tomake it worse. I shan't be long, I dare say. But I am bound to see theend of it."
Young Waldron handed his coat to Pike, and stooping his tall head withthe torch well in front of him, plunged into the dark arcade. Grimshadows flitted along the roof, as the sound of his heavy steps cameback; then the torchlight vanished round a bend of wall, and nothingcould either be seen or heard. Mr. Penniloe, in some anxiety, leanedover the breach in the churchyard fence, striving to see what was underhis feet; while Pike mustered courage to stand in the archwa
y--which wasof roughly chiselled stone--but kept himself ready for instant flight,as he drew deep breaths of excitement.
By-and-by, the torch came quivering back, throwing flits of light alongthe white-flint roof; and behind it a man, shaking worse than anyshadow, and whiter than any torchlit chalk.
"Great God!" He cried, staggering forth, and falling with his hand onhis heart against the steep side of the pit. "As sure as there is a Godin heaven, I have found my father!"
"What!" cried the Parson; "Pike, see to the torch; or you'll both be onfire."
In a moment, he ran round by way of the stile, and slid into the pit,without thinking of his legs, laying hold of some long rasps of ivy.Pike very nimbly leaped up the other side; this was not the sort of holeto throw a fly in.
"Give me the torch. You stay here, Tom. You have had enough of it." Mr.Penniloe's breath was short, because of the speed he had made of it. "Itis my place now. You stop here, and get the air."
"I think it is rather my place, than of any other man upon the earth. AmI afraid of my own dear dad? Follow me, and I will show him to you."
He went with a slow step, dazed out of all wonder--as a man in a dreamaccepts everything--down the dark passage again, and through theice-cold air, and the shivering fire. Then he stopped suddenly, andstooped the torch, stooping his curly head in lowliness behind it; andthere, as if set down by the bearers for a rest, lay a long oakencoffin.
Mr. Penniloe came to his side, and gazed. At their feet lay the good andtrue-hearted Colonel, or all of him left below the heaven, restingplacidly, unprofaned, untouched by even the hand of time; unsullied andhonourable in his death, as in his loyal and blameless life.
The clear light fell upon the diamond of glass, (framed in the oak abovehis face, as was often done then for the last look of love) and itshowed his white curls, and tranquil forehead, and eyelids for everclosed against all disappointment.
His son could not speak, but sobbed, and shook, with love, andreverence, and manly grief. But the clergyman, with a godly joy, andimmortal faith, and heavenly hope, knelt at the foot, and lifted handsand eyes to the God of heaven.
"Behold, He hath not forsaken us! His mercy is over all His works. Andhis goodness is upon the children of men."