WIDOW PENWARNE.
There are epochs in the lives of most men when a sad fatality seems to
dog their steps and turn athwart all that they do. Anthony had come to
such an epoch suddenly since that ride and walk along the Lyke-Way. He
had allowed himself to be taunted into a foolish visit to the churchyard
on St. Mark's Eve, when there he had desecrated a grave, then he had
thrown Madame Malvine into a fit, had disagreed with his father, and now
had injured the eye of his comrade.
Anthony's anger cooled down the moment he was aware of what he had done,
but this was not a piece of mischief that could be put to rights at
once, like the replacing of the headpiece of the grave. His presence in
the room was a distraction and cause of irritation to the man he had
hurt, now in the hands of the surgeon, and he deemed it advisable to
leave the inn, mount his horse, and ride away to Peter Tavy Church,
where he desired to have a word with the sexton and carpenter relative
to the old head-post of Malvine's grave.
Peter Tavy Church, or the Church of St. Peter on the Tavy, is a grey
granite edifice, mottled with lichen, with moorstone pinnacles, and a
cluster of fine old trees in the yard. Externally the church is
eminently picturesque, it was beautiful within at the time of our tale,
in spite of the havoc wrought in the period of the Directory; of more
recent times it has undergone a so-called restoration which has
destroyed what remained of charm.
For a long time it has been matter of felicitation that the old
opprobrium attaching to the men of the West Country of being wreckers
has ceased to apply; the inhumanity of destroying vessels and their
crews for the sake of the spoil that could be got from them has
certainly ceased. But we are mistaken if we suppose that wrecking as a
profession or pastime has come to an end altogether. The complaint has
been driven inwards, or rather, wrecking is no longer practised on
ships, which the law has taken under its protection, but on the
defenceless parish churches.
The havoc that has been wrought in our churches within the last thirty
years is indescribable. In Cornwall, with ruthless and relentless
activity, the parish churches have, with rare exceptions, been attacked
one after another, and robbed of all that could charm and interest, and
have been left cold and hideous skeletons. I know nothing that more
reminds one (speaking ecclesiologically) of the desert strewn with the
bones of what were once living and beautiful creatures, scraped of every
particle of flesh, the marrow picked out of their bones, the soul, the
divine spark of beauty and life, expelled for ever.
No sooner does a zealous incumbent find himself in the way of collecting
money to do up his church, than he rubs his hands over it and says,
"Embowelled will I see thee by and by." Falstaff was fortunately able to
get away from the knife. Alas! not so our beautiful old churches. The
architect and the contractor are called in, and the embowelling goes on
apace. All the old fittings are cast forth, the monumental slabs broken
up, the walls are scraped and painted, plaster everywhere peeled off,
just as the skin was taken off St. Bartholomew, and the shells are
exulted over by architect, contractor, parson, and parishioners, as
shells from which the bright soul has been expelled--_sans_ beauty,
_sans_ interest, _sans_ poetry, _sans_ everything. The man of taste and
feeling crosses the threshold, and falls back with the same sense as
comes on the reader of a young lady's novel, as at a mouthful of bread
from which the salt has been omitted, of something inexpressibly flat
and insipid. Before its restoration, Peter Tavy Church had the remains
of a beautiful roodscreen nicely painted and gilt, and an unique pew of
magnificent carved oak for the manorial lord to sit in, with twisted
columns at the angles supporting heraldic lions.
Anthony Cleverdon dismounted from his horse at the church-yard, hitched
up his beast, and entered the graveyard. He saw the sexton there, and
talking to him was an old woman in threadbare dress, grey hair, very
dark piercing eyes, bent, and leaning on a staff. She was a stranger, at
all events, he did not know her, and yet there was a something in her
features that seemed peculiar to him. The sexton said something to her,
and she at once came down the church path to meet Anthony, extending to
him her hand.
"Ah!" she said. "I can see, I can see my Margaret in your face--you have
her eyes, her features, and the same toss of head. I know you. You have
never, maybe, heard of me, and yet I am your grandmother. Have you come
here to see your mother's grave? I am glad, I am glad it is cared for,
not, I ween, by your father. Which of you thinks of the mother, and has
set flowers on the grave--see, it is alight with primroses?"
"I believe that was Bessie's doing," answered Anthony; then
involuntarily he looked at her shabby gown, patched and worn.
"I would like to see Bessie. Is she like you? If so--she is like your
mother. Ah! my Margaret was the handsomest girl in all the West of
England. You have not forgotten your mother, I hope, young man."
"I do not remember her--you forget she died shortly after I was born."
"How should I know?" The old woman took his hand, and held it fast as
she peered into his face with eager eyes. "How should I know, when your
father never took the trouble to let me know that my own, my dear and
only child, was dead? If I had known she was ill, I would have come to
her, though he took, as he threatened to take, the pitchfork to me, if I
crossed his threshold. I would have come and nursed her; then, maybe,
she would not have died. But he did not tell me. He did not ask me to
her burial, and not till long after did I hear she was no more. He was a
hard and a cruel man."
The clear tears formed in the old woman's eyes, and trickled down her
cheeks.
"I have been ill all the winter, and very poor; but that was not known,
and if known would not have concerned your father. When I got better, I
came here to ask if I might be buried, when I die, near my Margaret. Or
are you Cleverdons too great and fine now for that? Well--you will let
me lie at her feet, though I was her mother, just as I have seen a dog
put under the soles of the figures in old churches. You are her son, you
are my own grandchild, though you have never known me and cared for me,
and given me a thought. Please the Lord, you are not hard as your
father, and you will grant me this."
"I did not know I had a grandmother," said Anthony. "If there is
anything you want, it shall be done."
"No, I do not suppose that your father ever spoke of me. Your mother's
father was the parson here, and died leaving no money. I had to leave,
and become a housekeeper to maintain myself, and what little money I
then earned has been expended in my illness. Now, will you let me see
Bessie? She is good, she remembers her mother, and thinks of her."
Anthony endeavoured to withdraw his hand from the grasp of the old
woman, but she would not suffer it; she laid the other caressingly on
his, and said,
"No, my boy, you will not be unkind, you will not go from me without a
promise to bring me Bessie. I must see her."
"You shall come to Hall, and see her there."
She shook her grey head. "Never! never! I could not bear to be in that
house where your mother, my poor Margaret, suffered. Moreover, your
father would not endure it! He threatened to take the pitchfork to
me--when your mother was alive."
"He would not do that now," said Anthony. "But as you will. I will bring
Bessie to you. Where shall I find you?"
"I am staying at Master Youldon's. He knew my dear husband in the old
times, and knew me, and does not forget old kindnesses."
"Very well. You shall see Bessie. I have some business with the sexton."
Then he withdrew his hand from the old woman, and went to the grave of
Richard Malvine, where he gave directions what was to be done to that
and the headpiece. Widow Penwarne came to him.
"What is this?" she asked. "What have you to do with this grave?"
"I have some orders to give concerning it," answered Anthony, vexed at
her interference. "I will speak with you later, madam."
"But what does the grave of Richard Malvine matter to you?" again she
asked. "Ah!" she exclaimed, and went and picked some of the primroses
from the mound over her daughter, and then strewed them over the grave
of Richard, "Ah!" she said. "Here lie two whose hearts were broken by
your father--two for whom he will have to answer at the Judgment Day,
and then I will stand up along with them, and point the finger at him,
and accuse him. If there be a righteous God, then as He is righteous so
will He judge and punish!"
"Why, well, now, is not this strange?" exclaimed Anthony. "Here comes my
sister Elizabeth. I wonder much what has brought her."
Bessie appeared, with a wreath of spring flowers in her hand. She had
ridden, attended by a serving-man. She was surprised and pleased to see
Anthony at Richard Malvine's grave.
"Oh, brother!" she said, "I have been so troubled over what has been
done that I set to work to make a garland to hang on the grave, as some
token of respect, and regret for what had been done."
"What, you also!" exclaimed the old woman, and went to her and clasped
her hands. "You are Bessie Cleverdon, the dear child of my Margaret. Let
me kiss you, ay, and bless you." She drew the head of Elizabeth to her
and kissed her.
"This is our grandmother, Bessie," exclaimed Anthony.
"Ay!" said the old woman, studying the girl earnestly with her dark,
eager eyes. "Yes, I am the grandmother of you both; but you are not like
my Margaret, not in face, and yet not like your father--please God in
heaven--not like him in soul!" she said, with vehemence.
"Let us go aside," said Anthony, "out of earshot of the sexton, if you
cannot speak of my father without such an overflow of spleen."
"Then we will go to your mother's grave," said Madame Penwarne. "I see
you stand by your father; but I can see this in you--that you will stand
by him so long as he does not cross your will. Let him but oppose you,
young man, where your headstrong will drives, and there will be trouble
between you. Then, maybe, your father will begin to receive the
chastisement from the hand of the Lord that has been hanging over him
ever since he took Margaret to Hall. That is a strange turn of the
wheel, that his two children should meet at the grave of Richard
Malvine to care for its adornment. And I warrant you do not know, either
of you, what is owing to him who lies there--ay! and to her who rests at
our feet."
"I can't understand riddles," said Anthony, "and it is no pleasure to me
to hear hard words cast at my father. If you are in poverty,
grandmother, you shall be helped. I will speak to my father about you,
and when I speak he will listen and do as is fitting. Of that be
assured. If you have anything further to say of my father, say it to
him, not to me."
"I will take nothing, not a farthing of his," answered the old woman,
sharply.
"Why not, grandmother?" asked Bessie, gently, and kissed the old woman's
quivering cheek. "It will be the greatest unhappiness to Anthony and me
to think that you are not provided for in your age, and in comfort. We
shall not be able to rest if we suppose that you are in want. It would
fill us with concern and self-reproach. My father is just, and he
also----"
"No," said the old woman, interrupting her, "just he is not. Moreover,
he owes me too much--or rather he owes my dead daughter, your mother,
too much--he cannot repay it: not one thousandth part with coin. You,
Elizabeth, are older than your brother. You must know that your mother's
life was made miserable, that she had no happiness at Hall."
"And I trust and believe," said Bessie, "that my dear mother, in the
rest of Paradise, has long ago forgotten her troubles, and forgiven my
father if he had in any way annoyed her."
"Do not be so sure of that, child," exclaimed the old woman, with
vehemence. "If I were to go out of this life to-morrow, I should go
before the throne of God to denounce your father, and I would call
Richard Malvine and your mother as witnesses against him. Shall I tell
you what he did? These who lie here--he yonder, where you have placed
the garlands, and my poor Margaret--loved each other, and would have
been happy with each other. But her father died, I was poor, and then
for the sake of his money, Margaret was persuaded to take Anthony
Cleverdon, and give up Richard Malvine."
"If that be so----" began young Anthony.
"It is so," said the old woman, vehemently.
"Then the blame lies with you," said he. "You pressed her to take the
rich man and refuse the poor. My father was guiltless."
The widow drew back and trembled; but presently recovered herself and
said, "That may be--I bear in part the blame. But if he had been kind to
her it would have been other. I would not reproach him; but it was not
so, and Bessie was old enough to remember that little love passed
between them, that he was hard, and cruel, and unkind. He broke her
heart--and there she lies."
"I am not here," said Anthony, "to hear my father reproached. I respect
you as my grandmother; but you have doubtless a jaundiced eye, that sees
all things yellow. I will see what can be done for you. It does not
befit us that the mother of our mother should be in want."
As they spoke, from out of the church came Luke Cleverdon. His face was
pale, and his eyes were sunken. The sexton had not known that he was in
the sacred building. Luke came towards the little group, treading his
way among the graves with care. The tomb of the Cleverdons was near the
chancel south window. He extended his hand to Mistress Penwarne, saying,
"I was within. It was not my fault if I heard much that was said; and
now I have but come into your midst, Anthony, Bessie, and you, Madame,
to make a humble petition. I am curate in charge here; the rector is not
resident. I live in the old parsonage, that must be so familiar to
Mistress Penwarne--every room hallowed with some sweet recollection--and
I am alone, and need a kinswoman to be my housekeeper, and"--he smiled
at the old woman--"be to me as a mother. Madame, will you honour my poor
roof by taking up your abode therein? It is, forsooth, more yours than
mine, for there you lived your best days, and to it you are attached by
strongest ties; but I am but a casual tenant. It is not mine--I am but
the curate. Here we have no continuous city, and every house is to us
but a tavern on our pilgrimage where we stay a night."