CHAPTER VII.
R. I. P.
"Oh, Mr. Sergeant, how you did alarm me!" cried a very pretty damsel onefine October evening, as she almost fell upon the breast of "HighJarks," from some narrow stone steps at the corner of a lane. She wascoming by the nearest way to the upper village, from the side-entranceto Walderscourt, a picturesque way but a rough one. For the lane wasoverhung, and even overwhelmed, with every kind of hindrance to theproper course of trade. Out of the sides, and especially at corners,where the right of way should have been most sacred, jutted forthobstacles most inconsiderate, or even of set purpose, malicious. If agreat stool of fern could be treated as nothing, even with its jaggedsaws quivering, or a flexible ash could be shoved aside lightly, withthe cowardly knowledge that it had no thorns; yet in ambush with theirspears couched, would be the files of furze, the barbed brigade ofholly, or the stiff picket of blackthorn. And any man, engaged withthese deliveries of the moment, might thank his stars (when visiblethrough the tangle overhead) if by any chance he missed a blinding thumpin both his eyes.
Alas, it would have been indeed a blessing, as well as a justcorrection, for the well-seasoned master of the youth of Perlycross, ifa benevolent switch from the hedgerow had taken him sharply in the eyes,that had so long descried nothing but motes in more tender orbs. As theyoung maid drew back from the warlike arm, which had been quite obligedto encircle her, one flash of her eyes entered those of Mr. Jakes; andhe never saw again as he had seen before.
But his usual composure was not gone yet. A true schoolmaster is wellassured, whatever the circumstance may be, that he is in the right, andall others in the wrong.
"I beg you will offer no apologies, Miss," he began with a very gracioussmile, as he rubbed up the nap of his old velvet coat where a wicked boyhad tallow-candled it: "I take it that you are a stranger here, and notquite familiar with our kind of road. The roads about here have a mannerof showing that they know not in what direction they are going?"
"But, Mr. Sergeant, don't you know me? Not so very long ago, I ran upthis very lane, over the plank-bridge, and up to this heling, because ofthe temper you were in. It was my brother Watty you wanted to catch: butyou flourished your cane so, that the girls ran too. But you would nothave beaten poor me, Mr. Sergeant?"
She skipped back a step or two, as if still afraid, and curtsied to showher pretty figure, and managed to let her bright hair fall down over theblush of her soft round cheeks. Then she lifted her eyes with thesweetest appeal; for the fair Tamar Haddon was a born coquette.
"Why, Tamar, my dear, can it possibly be you? I could never havesupposed that you would come to this. You were always the prettiestchild among the girls. But, as you know, I had nothing to do with them.My business has always been with the boys."
"And quite right, Mr. Sergeant--they are so much better, so much quickerto learn, as well as better-looking, and more interesting!"
"That depends upon who it may be," said Mr. Jakes judicially; "somegirls are much better at round-hand, as well as arithmetic. But why haveI lost sight of you all these years? And why have you grown sucha--well, such a size?"
"Oh, you _are_ rude! I am not a size at all. I thought that you alwayslearned politeness in the wars. I am only seventeen round the waist--butyou shan't see. No, no, stick you to the boys, Mr. Sergeant. I must beoff. I didn't come out for pleasure. Good evening, sir; good evening toyou!"
"Don't be in such a hurry, Miss Haddon. Don't you know when I used togive you sugar-plums out of this horn box? And if I may say it withoutoffence, you are much too pretty to be in this dark place, withoutsomebody to take care of you."
"Ah, now you are more like the Army again. There is nothing like awarrior, in my opinion. Oh, what a plague these brambles are! Would youmind just holding my hat for a moment? I mustn't go into the village,such a fright, or everybody will stare at me. My hair is such a trouble,I have half a mind sometimes to cut off every snip of it. No, no, youcan't help me; men are much too clumsy."
Mr. Jakes was lost in deep admiration, and Tamar Haddon knew it well,and turned away to smile, as she sat upon a bank of moss, drawing herlong tresses through the supple play of fingers and the rosy curve ofpalms; while her cherry lips were pouting and her brown eyes sparkling,in and out the golden shower from her saucy forehead. The schoolmasterheld her little hat, and watched every movement of her hands and eyes,and wondered; for the gaiety of girlhood, and the blushes and theglances were as the opening of a new world to him.
"I know what you are thinking now, it's no good to deny it," she criedas she jumped up, and snatched her hat away; "you are saying toyourself--'What a poor vain creature! Servants' hats are not allowed inwell-conducted households.' But you must understand that I am not acommon servant. I am a private lady's-maid to her ladyship, theCountess; and she has none of your old-fashioned English ways about her.She likes to see me look--well, perhaps you would not call it 'pretty,'for that depends upon the wearer, and I have no pretension to it--buttidy, and decent, and tolerably nice----"
"Wonderfully nice, and as lovely as a rose."
"Oh, Mr. Sergeant, you who must know so much better! But I have no timefor such compliments, and they would turn my little head, from such alearned man as you are. How can I think of myself for a moment, whenthings are so dreadful? Poor Sir Thomas--you know how ill he is; he islonging for something, and I am sent to fetch it on the sly, so that Dr.Fox should have no idea, but her ladyship says that it can do no harm,now."
"What, the poor Colonel waiting, Miss, and I have kept you all thistime? I was just on my way to enquire for him, when--when I happened tomeet you. I can scarcely believe in any doctor conquering him."
"They are though--they are doing it. He is very low to-day. They seem tohave brought him down to a flat knock-under, just as you do with theschoolboys. I can't hardly think of it, without crying."
The fair Tamar dropped her eyes, and hung her head a little, and thenlooked softly at the veteran, to plead for his warmest sympathy.
"There, I declare to you, I have cried so much that I can't cry nomore," she continued with a sigh; "but it is a calf's sweetbread that Ibe bound to get; and where from, I'd like to know, unless it is to Mr.Robert's."
A pang shot through the heart of Mr. Jakes, and if his cane had been athand he would have grasped it. For Mr. Robert was his own brother, theonly butcher in the village, a man of festive nature (as a butcher oughtto be), of no habitual dignity--and therefore known as "Low Jarks"--afavourite with the fair sex, and worst of all, some twenty years thejunior of "High Jarks."
"What, young Bobby!" cried the Sergeant, striking out, "there is nothingthat he knows worth speaking of. And what is more to the purpose, henever will know nothing. I mean to say 'anything.' Sometimes I go backfrom all my instructions all over the world, to the way--to the way youtalk, in this part of the world."
"But, Mr. Sergeant, that is only natural; considering that you belong tothis part of the world. Now, you do--don't you? However learned you maybe."
"Well, I will not deny that it comes up sometimes. A man of my years--Imean, a young man by age, and yet one who has partaken in great motions,feels himself so very much above butchers' shops, and the like of them.And all the women--or as they call themselves now--all the ladies of theneighbourhood, have now been so well educated, that they think a greatdeal of the difference."
"To be sure," said Tamar Haddon, "I can quite see that. But how couldthey get their meat, without the butchers' shops? Some people are toolearned, Mr. Sergeant."
"I know it, Miss. But I am very particular, not to let any one say it ofme. I could quote Latin, if I chose: but who would put a spill to mypipe afterwards? One must never indulge in all one knows."
"Well, it does seem a pity, after spending years about it. But here weare, come to the river-side at last. You mustn't think of coming acrossthe plank with me. It would never do to have you drownded; and you knowwhat Betty Cork is. Why, all the boys to Perlycross would be makingmouths to-morrow? And I shall
go home along the turnpike-road."
The schoolmaster saw the discretion of this. Charmed as he was with thisgay young maid, he must never forget what was thought of him.
For she was the daughter of Walter Haddon, the landlord of the_Ivy-bush_, a highly respectable place, and therefore jealous of theparish reputation. Moreover the handrail of the footbridge was now onthe side of his empty sleeve; and the plank being very light andtremulous, he feared to recross it without stepping backward, which wasbetter done without spectators. So he stayed where he was, while shetripped across, without even touching the handrail; and the dark gleamof the limpid Perle, in the twilight of gray branches, fluttered withher passing shadow.
Just as she turned on the opposite bank, where cart-ruts ridged thewater's brink, and was kissing her hand to the ancient soldier, with agay "Good evening!"--the deep boom of a big bell rang, and quiveredthroughout the valley. Cattle in the meadows ceased from browsing, andlooked up as if they were called, birds made wing for the distant wood,and sere leaves in the stillness rustled, as the solemn thrill trembledin the darkening air.
"For God's sake, count," the old soldier cried, raising the hat from hisgrizzled head, and mounting a hillock clear of bushes; "it is the bigbell tolling!"
But the frolicsome maiden had disappeared, and he was left to countalone.
At intervals of a minute, while the fall of night grew heavier, theburden of the passing-bell was laid on mortal ears and hearts.
"Time is over for one more,"
was graven on the front of it, and was borne along the valley; while theecho of the hills brought home the lesson of the reverse--
"Soon shall thy own life be o'er."
Keeping throbbing count, the listener spread the fingers of his onehand upon his threadbare waistcoat; and they trembled more and more, asthe number grew towards the fatal forty-nine. When the forty-ninthstroke ceased to ring, and the last pulsation died away, he stood as ifhis own life depended on the number fifty. But the knell was finished;the years it told of were but forty-nine--gone by, like the minutesbetween the strokes.
"Old Channing perhaps is looking at the tower-clock. Hark! In a moment,he will strike another stroke." But old Channing knew his arithmetic toowell.
"Now God forgive me for a sinful man--or worse than a man, an ungratefulbeast!" cried the Sergeant, falling upon his knees, with sorrowembittered by the shameful thought, that while his old chief was at thelatest gasp, himself had been flirting merrily with a handmaid of thehouse, and sniggering like a raw recruit. He wiped his eyes with theback of his hand, and the lesson of the bell fell on him.
It had fallen at the same time upon ears more heedful, and less needfulof it. Mr. Penniloe, on his homeward road, received the mournfulmessage, and met the groom who had ridden so hard to save the angelicalhour. And truly, if there be any value in the ancient saying--
"Happy is the soul That hath a speedy toll,"
the flight of Sir Thomas Waldron's spirit was in the right direction.
The clergyman turned from his homeward path, and hastened to the houseof mourning. He scarcely expected that any one as yet would care to comedown, or speak to him; but the least he could do was to offer his help.In the hush of the dusk, he was shown through the hall, and into alittle sitting-room favoured by the ladies. Believing that he was quitealone, for no one moved, and the light was nearly spent, he took a seatby the curtained window, and sank into a train of sombre thoughts. Butpresently a lapping sound aroused him, and going to the sofa, there hefound his favourite Nicie overcome with sorrow, her head drooping back,like a wind-tossed flower; while _Pixie_, with a piteous gaze, wasnestling to her side, and offering every now and then the silent comfortof his tongue.
"What is it, my dear?" The Parson asked, as if he did not know too well.But who knows what to say sometimes? Then, shocked at himself, hesaid--"Don't, my dear." But she went on sobbing, as if he had notspoken; and he thought of his little Fay, when she lost her mother.
He was too kind to try any consolations, or press the sense of duty yet;but he put on his glasses, and took little _Pixie_, and began to strokehis wrinkled brow.
"This dear little thing is crying too," he whispered; and certainlythere were tears, his own or another's, on the velvet nose. Then Nicierose slowly, and put back her hair, and tried to look bravely at both ofthem.
"If mother could only cry," she said; "but she has not moved once, andshe will not come away. There is one thing she ought to do, but shecannot; and I am afraid that I should never do it right. Oh, will you doit, Uncle Penniloe? It would be an excuse to get her out of the room;and then we might make her lie down, and be better. My father is gone;and will mother go too?"
Speaking as steadily as she could, but breaking down every now and then,she told him, that there was a certain old ring, of no great value, butvery curious, which her father had said many years ago he would like tohave buried with him. He seemed to have forgotten it, throughout hislong illness; but his wife had remembered it suddenly, and had told themwhere to find it. It was found by a trusty servant now; and she waspresent, while Mr. Penniloe placed it on the icy finger, and dropped atear on the forehead of his friend, holy now in the last repose.
On his homeward path that night, the Curate saw through the gloom oflonely sorrow many a storm impending. Who was there now to hold theparish in the bonds of amity, to reconcile the farmers' feuds, to helpthe struggling tradesman, to bury the aged cripple, to do any of thosecountless deeds of good-will and humanity, which are less than thediscount of the interest of the debt, due from the wealthy to the poor?
And who would cheer him now with bold decision, and kind deference, inall those difficulties which beset the country clergyman, who hates tostrain his duty, yet is fearful of relaxing it? Such difficulties mustarise; and though there certainly was in those days, a great deal morefair give-and-take than can be now expected, there was less of settledrule and guidance for a peaceful parson. Moreover, he felt the importantcharge which he had undertaken, as co-trustee of large estates, as wellas a nervous dread of being involved in heavy outlay, with no richfriend to back him now, concerning the repairs, and in some measure therebuilding, of the large and noble parish church.
But all these personal troubles vanished, in the memories of truefriendship, and in holy confidence, when he performed that last sad dutyin the dismantled church, and then in the eastern nook of the longgraveyard. He had dreaded this trial not a little, but knew what hisdear friend would have wished; and the needful strength was given him.
It has been said, and is true too often (through our present usages)that one funeral makes many. A strong east wind of unwonted bitternessat this time of year--it was now the last day of October--whistledthrough the crowd of mourners, fluttered scarf, and crape, and veil, andset old Channing's last tooth raging, and tossed the minister'swhitening locks, and the leaves of the Office for the Dead. So cold wasthe air, that people of real pity and good feeling, if they had nofriends in the village, hied to the _Ivy-bush_, when all was over, andcalled for hot brandy and water.
But among them was not Mr. Jakes, though he needed a stimulus as much asany. He lingered in the churchyard, till the banking up was done, andevery one else had quitted it. When all alone, he scooped a hole at thehead of the grave, and filled it with a bunch of white chrysanthemums,imbedded firmly to defy the wind. Then he returned to the sombreschool-room, at the west end of the churchyard, and with one windowlooking into it. There, although he had flint and tinder, he did noteven light a dip, but sat for hours in his chair of office, with hishead laid on the old oak desk. Rough, and sad, and tumbled memoriespassed before his gray-thatched eyes, and stirred the recesses of hisrugged heart.
Suddenly a shadow fell across his desk. He rose from his dream of thepast, and turning saw the half-moon quivering aslant, through thediamond panes of the lattice. For a minute he listened, but there wasnothing to be heard, except a long low melancholy wail. Then he buttonedhis coat, his best Sunday bla
ck, and was ashamed to find the empty cuffwet, as the bib of an infant, but with the tears of motherless old age.
After his manner--when no boys were nigh--he condemned himself for anancient fool, and was about to strike a light, when the sad low soundfell again upon his ears. Determined to know what the meaning of it was,he groped for his hat, and stout oak staff, and entered the churchyardby the little iron gate, the private way from the school premises.
The silence was as deep as the stillness of the dead; but, by the lightof the westering moon, he made his way among the white tombstones, andthe rubbish of the builders, to the eastern corner where Sir ThomasWaldron lay. His old chief's grave was fair and smooth, and the crispearth glistened in the moonlight, for the wind had fallen, and a frostwas setting in; but a small black figure lay on the crown, close to thebunch of flowers. A low growl met him; and then a dismal wail ofanguish, beyond any power of words or tears, trembled along the wanalleys of the dead, and lingered in the shadowy recesses of the church.
"Good little _Jess_, thou art truer than mankind," said the Sergeant,and marched away to his lonely bed.