CHAPTER IV.
NICIE.
In the bright summer sunshine the old church looked like a ship that hadbeen shattered by the waves, and was hoisted in a dry dock for repairs.To an ignorant eye it appeared to be in peril of foundering and plunginginto the depths below, so frequent and large were the rifts and chasmsyawning in the ancient frame-work. Especially was there one long gap inthe footings of the south chancel wall, where three broad arches werebeing turned, and a solid buttress rising, to make good the weakness ofthe Waldron vault. Sacks of lime, and piles of sand, coils of cord andblocks of stone, scaffold-poles and timber-baulks, wheel-barrowsgrovelling upside-down, shovels and hods and planks and ladders, hatsupon tombstones, and jackets on graves, sacred niches garnished withtobacco-pipes, and pious memories enlivened by "Jim Crow"--so cheerfulwas the British workman, before he was educated.
"Parson coming," was whispered round, while pewter pots jumped underslabs, and jugs had coats thrown over them, for Mr. Penniloe would havenone of their drinking in the churchyard, and was loth to believe thatthey could do it, with all the sad examples beneath them. But now hismind was filled with deeper troubles; and even the purpose of his visithad faded from his memory.
"Just in time, sir. I was waiting for you"--said Mr. Robson Adney,standing in front of the shored-up screen, on the southern side of thetower,--"if it bears the strain of this new plinth, the rest is a matterof detail. Your idea of the brace was capital, and the dovetail willnever show at all. Now, Charlie, steady there--not too heavy. Fiveminutes will show whether we are men or muffs. But don't stand quite soclose, sir, I think we have got it all right; but if there should happento be a bit of cross-grain stone--bear to the left, you lubber there!Beg your pardon, sir--but I never said--'damn.'"
"I hope not, I hope not, Mr. Adney. You remember where you are, too wellfor that. Though I trust that you would say it nowhere. Ah, it is alittle on the warp, I fear."
"No, sir, no. Go to the end, and look along. It is only the bevel thatmakes it look so. Could hardly be better if the Lord Himself had madeit. Trust Peveril, Gibbs, & Co. for knowing their work. Holloa! not sohard--ease her, ease her! Stand clear for your lives, men! Down shecomes."
They were none too quick, for the great stone screen, after bulging andsagging and shaking like a cobweb throughout its massive tracery, partedin the middle and fell mightily.
"Any one hurt? Then you haven't got what you ought"--shouted Adney, withhis foot upon a pinnacle--"old Peter made a saint of? Get a roller, andfetch him out. None the worse, old chap, are you now? Take him to the_Ivy-bush_, and get a drop of brandy."
Sudden as the crash had been, no life was lost, no limb broken, andscarcely a bruise received, except by an elderly workman, and he waslittle the worse, being safely enshrined in the niche where some goodsaint had stood. Being set upon his feet, he rubbed his elbows, and thenswore a little; therefore naturally enough he was known as "St. Peter,"for the residue of his life among us.
But no sooner did Mr. Adney see that no one was hurt seriously than hebegan to swear anything but a little, instead of thanking Providence.
"A pretty job--a fine job, by the holy poker!" he kept on exclaiming, ashe danced among the ruins; "why, they'll laugh at us all overDevonshire. And that's not the worst of it. By the Lord, I wish it was.Three or four hundred pounds out of our pockets. A nice set of ----fellows you are, aren't you? I wish I might go this very moment----"
"Is this all your gratitude, Robson Adney, for the goodness of the Lordto you?" Mr. Penniloe had been outside the crash, as he happened to bewatching from one end the adjustment of the piece inserted. "What are afew bits of broken stone, compared with the life of a human being--cutoff perhaps with an oath upon his lips, close to the very house of God?In truth, this is a merciful deliverance. Down upon your knees, myfriends, and follow me in a few simple words of acknowledgment to theGiver of all good. Truly He hath been gracious to us."
"Don't want much more of that sort of grace. _Coup de grace_ I callit"--muttered Mr. Adney. Nevertheless he knelt down, with the dust uponhis forehead; and the workmen did the like; for here was another month'sgood wages.
Mr. Penniloe always spoke well and readily, when his heart was urgent;and now as he knelt between two lowly graves, the men were wondering athim. "Never thought a' could have dooed it, without his gown!" "Why, a'put up his two hands, as if 'twor money in his pockets!" "Blest if Idon't send for he, when my time cometh!" "Faix, sor, but the Almightymust be proud of you to spake for Him!" Thus they received it; and thesenior Churchwarden coming in to see the rights of the matter, toldevery one (when he recovered his wits) that he had never felt so proudof the parish minister before. Even the Parson felt warmly in his heartthat he had gone up in their opinions; which made him more diffident inhis own.
"Don't 'e be cast down, sir," said one fine fellow, whom the heavyarchitrave had missed by about an inch, saving a young widow and sevenlittle orphans. "We will put it all to rights, in next to no time. Youdo put up with it, uncommon fine. Though the Lord may have laboured totempt 'e, like Job. But I han't heard a single curse come out of yourlips--not but what it might, without my knowing. But here coom'th ayoung man in bright clothes with news for 'e."
Mr. Penniloe turned, and behold it was Bob Cornish, one of his bestSunday-school boys last year, patient and humble in a suit of corduroy;but now gay and lordly in the livery of the Waldrons, buff with blueedgings, and buttons of bright gold. His father sold rushlights at thebottom of the village, but his mother spent her time in thinking.
"From Sir Thomas?" asked the Curate, as the lad with some attempt at asoldier's salute produced a note, folded like a cocked hat, and not easyto undo.
"No, sir, from my lady"--answered Robert, falling back.
Mr. Penniloe was happy enough to believe that all things are ordered andguided for us by supreme goodness and wisdom. But nature insisted thathis hands should tremble at anything of gravity to any one he loved; andnow after Dr. Gronow's warning, his double eyeglass rattled in itstortoiseshell frame, as he turned it upon the following words.
"DEAR SIR,--I am in great uncertainty to trouble you with this, and beg you to accept apologies. But my husband is in pain of the most violent again, and none the less of misery that he conceals it from me. In this country I have no one now from whom to seek good counsel, and the young Dr. Fox is too juvenile to trust in. My husband has so much value for your wise opinion. I therefore take the liberty of imploring you to come, but with discretion not to speak the cause to Sir Thomas Waldron, for he will not permit conversation about it. Sincerely yours,
"ISABEL WALDRON."
Mr. Penniloe read these words again, and then closed his eyeglass with aheavy sigh. Trusted and beloved friend as he was of the veteran SirThomas, he had never been regarded with much favour by the lady of thehouse. By birth and by blood on the father's side, this lady was aSpaniard; and although she spoke English fluently--much better indeedthan she wrote it--the country and people were not to her liking, andshe cared not to make herself popular. Hence her fine qualities, andgenerous nature, were misprised and undervalued, until less and less wasseen of them. Without deserving it, she thus obtained the repute of ahaughty cold-hearted person, without affection, sympathy, orloving-kindness. Even Mr. Penniloe, the most charitable of men, wasinclined to hold this opinion of her.
Therefore he was all the more alarmed by this letter of the statelylady. Leaving Mr. Adney to do his best, he set off at once forWalderscourt, by way of the plank-bridge over the Perle, at no greatdistance above the church; and then across the meadows and the slopingcornland, with the round Beacon-hill in front of him. This path, savingnearly half a mile of twisting lanes, would lead him to the house almostas soon as the messenger's horse would be there.
To any one acquainted with the Parson it would prove how much his mindwas disturbed that none of the fair sights around him were heeded. Thetall wheat reared upon its jointed stalk, with the buff pollen shed
, andthe triple awns sheltering the infancy of grain, the delicate bells ofsky-blue flax quivering on lanced foliage, the glistening cones ofteasels pliant yet as tasselled silk, and the burly foxglove in thehedgerow turning back its spotted cuffs--at none of these did he care toglance, nor linger for a moment at the treddled stile, from which thebroad valley he had left was shown, studded with brown farm and whitecottage, and looped with glittering water.
Neither did he throw his stick into his left hand, and stretch forth theright--as his custom was in the lonely walks of a Saturday--toinvigorate a hit he would deliver the next day, at Divine service in theschoolroom.
"What is to become of them? What can be done to help it? Why should sucha loving child have such a frightful trial? How shall we let him knowhis danger, without risk of doubling it? How long will it take, to getGowler down, and can he do any good, if he comes?"--These and other suchquestions drove from his mind both sermon and scenery, as he hastened tothe home of the Waldrons.
Walderscourt was not so grand as to look uncomfortable, not yet on theother hand so lowly as to seem insignificant. But a large old-fashionedhouse, built of stone, with depth and variety of light and shade,sobered and toned by the lapse of time, yet cheerful on the whole, as isa well-spent life. For by reason of the trees, and the wavering of theair--flowing gently from hill to valley--the sun seemed to linger invarious visits, rather than to plant himself for one long stare. Thepleasure-grounds, moreover, and the lawns were large, gifted withsurprising little ups and downs, and blest with pretty corners where aman might sit and think, and perhaps espy an old-fashioned flower unseensince he was five years old.
Some of the many philosophers who understand our ways, and can accountfor everything, declare that we of the human race become of such andsuch a vein, and turn, and tone of character, according to the flow, andbend, and tinge of early circumstance. If there be any truth in this, itwill help to account for a few of the many delightful features andloveable traits in the character of Nicie Waldron. That young lady, theonly daughter of the veteran Colonel, had obtained her present Christianname by her own merits, as asserted by herself. Unlike her mother shehad taken kindly to this English air and soil, as behoves a native; andher childish lips finding _Inez_ hard had softened it into _Nicie_. Thatname appeared so apt to all who had the pleasure of seeing her toddle,that it quite superseded the grander form, with all except her mother."_Nicie_ indeed!" Lady Waldron used to say, until she found ituseless--"I will feel much obliged to you, if you shall call my daughterInez by her proper name, sir." But her ladyship could no more subdue theuniversal usage, than master the English _wills_ and _shalls_.
And though she was now a full-grown maiden, lively, tall, andself-possessed, Nicie had not lost as yet the gentle and confidingmanner, with the playful smile, and pleasant glance, which had earned,by offering them, good-will and tender interest. Pity moreover had someshare in her general popularity, inasmuch as her mother was known to besometimes harsh, and nearly always cold and distant to her. Women, whoshould know best, declared that this was the result of jealousy, becauseSir Thomas made such an idol of his loving daughter. On the other handthe Spanish lady had her idol also--her only son, despatched of latewith his regiment towards India; his father always called him _Tom_, andhis mother _Rodrigo_.
Mr. Penniloe had a very soft place in his heart for this young lady; butnow, for the first time in his life, he was vexed to see her white chiphat, and pink summer-frock between the trees. She was sitting on abench, with a book upon her lap, while the sunlight, broken by thegentle play of leafage, wavered and flickered in her rich brown hair.Corkscrew ringlets were the fashion of the time; but Nicie would havenone of them, with the bashful knowledge of the rose, that Nature haddone enough for her.
And here came her father to take her part, with his usual decision;daring even to pronounce, in presence of the noblest fashion, that hispet should do what he chose, and nothing else. At this the pet smiledvery sweetly, the words being put into his lips by hers, and dutifullyobeyed her own behest; sweeping back the flowing curves into a gracefulcoronet, in the manner of a Laconian maid.
Now the sly Penniloe made endeavour to pass her with a friendly smileand bow; but her little pug _Pixie_ would not hear of such a slight.This was a thorough busybody, not always quite right in his mind,according to some good authorities, though not easily outwitted. Havingscarcely attained much obesity yet, in spite of never-flagging efforts,he could run at a good pace, though not so very far; and sometimes, atsight of any highly valued friend, he would chase himself at full gallopround a giddy circle, with his reasoning powers lost in rapture.
Even now he indulged in this expression of good-will, for he dearlyloved Mr. Penniloe; and then he ran up, with such antics of delight,that the rudest of mankind could not well have passed unheeding. Andbehind him came his fair young mistress, smiling pleasantly at histricks, although her gentle eyes were glistening with a shower scarcelyblown away.
"Uncle Penniloe," she began, having thus entitled him in early days, anddoing so still at coaxing times; "you will not think me a sly girl, willyou? But I found out that mother had sent for you; and as nothing wouldmake her tell me why, I made up my mind to come and ask you myself, if Icould only catch you here. I was sure you could never refuse me."
"Nice assurance indeed, and nice manners, to try to steal a march uponyour mother!" The Parson did his utmost to look stern; but his eyesmeeting hers failed to carry it out.
"Oh, but you know better, you could never fancy that! And your trying toturn it off like that, only frightens me ten times more. I am sure it issomething about my father. You had better tell me all. I must know all.I am too old now, to be treated like a child. Who can have half theright I have, to know all about my darling dad? Is he very ill? Is hisprecious life in danger? Don't look at me like that. I know more thanyou imagine. Is he going to die? I will never believe it. God couldnever do such a cruel wicked thing."
"My dear, what would your dear father say, to hear you talk like that? Aman so humble, and brave, and pious----"
"As humble and brave as you please, Uncle Penniloe. But I don't want himto be pious for a long time yet. He swore a little yesterday,--that isone comfort,--when he had no idea I was near him. And he would not havedone that, if there had been any--oh, don't go away so! I won't let yougo, until you have answered my question. Why were you sent for in suchhaste?"
"How can I tell you, my dear child, until I have had time to ask aboutit? You know there is to be the cricket-match on Tuesday, the northagainst the south side of the valley, and even the sides are not quitesettled yet; because Mr. Jakes will not play against his Colonel, thoughquite ready to play against his Parson."
"Will you give me your word, Uncle Penniloe, that you really believe youwere sent for about that?"
The clergyman saw that there was no escape, and as he looked into herbeseeching eyes, it was all that he could do to refrain his own fromtears.
"I will not cry--or at least not if I can help it," she whispered, as heled her to the seat, and sat by her.
"My darling Nicie," he began in a low voice, and as tenderly as if hewere her father; "it has pleased the Lord to visit us with a very sadtrial; but we may hope that it will yet pass away. Your dear father isseriously ill; and the worst of it is that, with his wonderful courageand spirit, he makes light of it, and will not be persuaded. He couldscarcely be induced to say a word to Dr. Fox, although he is so fond ofhim; and nobody knows what the malady is, except that it is painful andwearing. My object to-day is to do my very utmost to get your dearfather to listen to us, and see a medical man of very large experienceand very great ability. And much as it has grieved me to tell you this,perhaps it is better upon the whole; for now you will do all you can, tohelp us."
"Sometimes father will listen to me," Miss Waldron answered between hersobs; "when he won't--when he won't let anybody else--because I neverargue with him. But I thought Dr. Fox was exceedingly clever."
"So he is, my dear;
but he is so young, and this is a case of greatperplexity. I have reason to believe that he wishes just as we do. Sonow with God's help let us all do our best."
She tried to look cheerful; but when he was gone, a cold terror fellupon her. Little _Pixie_ tugged at her frock unheeded, and made himselfa whirligig in chase of his own tail.