The good people assembled in Nowelhurst church were agreeably
surprised, on the following Sunday, by the announcement from Mr.
Pell—in that loud sonorous voice of his, which had frightened
spinsters out of their wits, lest he were forbidding, instead of asking
their banns of matrimony—that there would be no sermon that morning,
inasmuch as he, the Rev. Octavius, was forced to hurry away, at full
speed, to assuage the rampant desire of Rushford for the performance of
divine service.
Mrs. Nowell Corklemore, who had the great curtained pew of the Hall
entirely to herself and child—for Eoa never would go to church,
because they defy the devil there—Georgie, who appeased her active
mind by counting the brass–headed nails, and then multiplying them into
each other, and subtracting the ones that were broken, lifted her
indescribable eyes, and said, “Thank God,” almost audibly.
Octavius Pell, hurrying out of the porch, ascended Coræbus, as had
been arranged; but he did it so rapidly, and with such an air of
decision, that Amy, standing at the churchyard gate, full of beautiful
misgivings, could not help exclaiming,
“Oh please, Mr. Pell, whatever you do, leave your stick here till
Monday. We will take such care of it.”
“Indeed, I fear I must not, Miss Rosedew,” Octavius answered, gravely,
looking first at his stick, and then at the flanks of Ræby, who was
full of interesting tricks; “I have so far to go, you know, and I must
try to keep time with them.—Whoa, you little villain!”
“Oh dear, I am so sorry. At any rate please not to strike him, only
_stroke_ him with it. He is so _very_ high–spirited. And he has never
had a weal upon him, at least since he came to papa. And I could not
bear to see it. And I know you wonʼt, Mr. Pell.”
Octavius looked at the soft–hearted girl, blushing so in her new drawn
bonnet—mauve with black, for the sake of poor Clayton. He looked at
her out of his knowing dry eyes in that sort of response–to–the–Litany
style which a curate adopts to his rectorʼs daughter.
“Can you suppose, Miss Rosedew, that I would have the heart to beat him
now?—Ah, you will, will you then?” Ræbus thought better of it.
“No, I hope you would not,” said Amy, in pure good faith, with a
glance, however, at the thick bamboo, “because it would be _so cruel_.
It is hollow, I hope; but it has such knots, and it looks so very hard!”
“Hollow, and thin as a piece of pie–crust; and you know how this wood
splits.”
“Oh, I am so glad, because you canʼt hurt him so very much. Please
not to go, if you can hold him, more than three miles and a half an
hour. Papa says that is the pace that always suits his health best.
And please to take the saddle off, and keep it at your house, that
the Rushford boy may not ride him back. And please to choose a steady
boy from the head–class in your Sunday school, and, if possible, a
communicant. But Iʼm sadly afraid thereʼs no trusting the boys.”
“Indeed, I fear not,” said Octavius, gravely; and adding to himself,
“at any rate when you are concerned, you darling. What a love you are!
But thereʼs no chance for me, I know; and itʼs a good job for me that I
knew it. Oh you little angel, I wonder who the lucky fellow is!” Aunt
Eudoxia had dropped him a hint, quite in a casual way, when she saw
that the stout young bachelor was going in, over head and ears.
Sweet Amy watched Mr. Pell, or rather his steed, with fond interest,
until they turned the corner; and certainly the pace, so far, was
very sedate indeed. Octavius was an upright man—you could see that
by his seat in the saddle—as well as a kind and good–natured one;
and on no account would he have vexed that gentle and beautiful
girl. Nevertheless he grew impatient, as Coræbus pricked his ears
pretentiously, and snorted so as to defy the winds, and was fain to
travel sidewise, as if the distance was not enough for him; and all the
time he was swallowing the earth at the rate of no more than four miles
an hour. Then the young parson pulled out his watch, and saw that it
wanted but half an hour of the time himself had fixed for the morning
service at Rushford. And he could not bear the thought of keeping the
poor folk waiting about the cross, as they always did and would wait,
till the parson appeared among them. As Mr. Wise has well observed,
“the peasant of the New Forest is too full of veneration.”
And here let me acknowledge, as behoveth a man to do, not in a
scambling preface, which nobody ever would read, but in the body of
my work, great and loving obligation to the labours of Mr. John R.
Wise. His book is perfectly beautiful, written in admirable English,
full of observation, taste, and gentle learning; and the descriptions
of scenery are such that they make the heart yearn to verify them.
I know the New Forest pretty well, from my own perambulations and
perequitations—one barbarism is no worse than the other—but I never
should have loved it as I do but for his loving guidance.
The Rev. Mr. Pell, as some people put when they write to a
parson,—hoping still to keep faith with Amy, because her eyes were
so lovely,—pulled the snaffle, and turned Coræbus into a short cut,
through beeches and hazels. Then compromise came soon to an end, and
the big bamboo was compelled to fall upon the fat flank of Coræbus,
because he would not go without it. He showed sense of that first
attention only by a little buck–jump, and a sprightly wag of his
tail; then, hoping that the situation need not be looked in the face,
shambled along at five miles an hour, with a mild responsibility.
“Five miles more,” said Octave Pell, “and only twenty minutes to do
it in! Itʼs an unlucky thing for you, Coræbus, that your mistress is
engaged.” Whack, came the yellow bamboo again, and this time in solid
earnest; Ræbus went off as if he meant to go mad. He had never known
such a blow since the age wherein he belonged to the innkeeper. Oh,
could a horse with four feeds a day be expected to put up with tyranny?
But, to the naggyʼs great amazement, Octave Pell did not tumble off;
more than that, he seemed to stick closer, with a most unpleasant
embrace, and a pressure that told upon the wind—not of heaven but of
horse—till the following symptoms appeared:—First a wheeze, and creak
internal, a slow creak, like leather chafing, or a pair of bellows out
of order; then a louder remonstrance, like the ironwork of a roller,
or the gudgeons of a wheelbarrow; then, faster and faster, a sucking
noise, like the bucket of an old pump, when the gardener works by
the job; finally, puff, and roar, and shriek, with notes of passing
sadness, like the neap–tide wailing up a cavern, or the lament of the
Berkshire Blowing Stone.
In forest glades, where hollow hoofs fell on the sod quite mutely, that
roar was enough to try masculine courage, though never unnerved by a
heart–shock. How then could poor Pearl Garnet, sitting all alone, in a
lonely spot, wherein she had pledged herself to her dead love, sitting
there to indulge her tears, the only luxury left her—how could she
help being frightened to death as the unearthly sound approached her?
The terror was mutual. Coræbus, turning the corner sharply, stopped
short, in a mode that must have sent his true master over his withers,
to explore the nature of the evil. Then he shook all through, and would
have bolted, if the bamboo had not fallen heavily.
In the niche of a hollow oak was crouching, falling backward with
terror, and clutching at the brave old bark, yet trying to hide behind
it—only the snowy arms would come outwards—a beautiful girl, clad in
summer white on that foggy day of December. The brown cloak, which had
protected her from sylvan curiosity, lay on the ground, a few yards
away, on the spot so sad and sacred. Pearl Garnetʼs grief, if we knew
the whole of it, or perhaps because we cannot, was greater than any
girl could bear. A lovely, young, and loving maid, with stores of
imagination, yet a practical power of stowing it; of building castles,
yet keeping them all within compass of the kitchen–range; quite
different from our Amy, yet a better wife for _some_ men—according
to what the trumps are, and Amy must have hearts, or she dies;—that
very nice girl, we have let her go weep, and never once cared to follow
her. There is never any justice in this world; therefore who cares
to apologise? It would take up all our business–time, if we did it
properly.
Now, as she stretched her white arms forth, and her delicate form
shrunk back into the black embrace of the oak–tree; while her rich
hair was streaming all down her breast, and her dark eyes still full
of tear–drops; the rider no less than the horse was amazed, and seemed
to behold a vision. Then as she shrunk away into the tree–bole, with a
shriek of deadly terror—for what love casteth out fear?—and she saw
not through the ivy–screen, and Coræbus groaned sepulchrally, Pell came
down with a dash on one foot, and went, quick jump, to help her.
In a fainting fit,—for the heart so firm and defiant in days of
happiness was fluxed now and frail with misery—she was cowering away
in the dark tree–nook, like the pearls of mistletoe fallen, with her
head thrown back (such an elegant head, a womanʼs greatest beauty), and
the round arms hanging helpless.
Hereupon Mr. Pell was abroad. He had never experienced any sisters,
nor much mother consciously—being the eighth son, as of course we
know, of a jolly Yorkshire baronet; at any rate he had lost his mother
at the birth of Nonus Pell; and I am sorry there are not ninety of
them, if of equal merit.
So Octavius stood like a fish out of water, with both hands in his
pocket, as it is so generally the habit of fishes to stand.
Then, meaning no especial harm, nor perhaps great good, for that
matter, he said to himself—
“Confound it all. What the deuce am I to do?”
His sermon upon the Third Commandment, about to be preached at
Rushford, where the fishermen swore like St. Peter,—that sermon went
crack in his pocket at such a shocking ejaculation. Never heeding that,
he went on to do what a stout fellow and a gentleman must have done
in this emergency. He lifted the drooping figure forth into the open
air, touching it only with his hands, timidly and reverently, as if
every fair curve were sacred. Then he fetched water in his best Sunday
hat—the only chimney–pot he possessed—from the stream trickling
through the spire–bed; and he sprinkled it on the broad, white
forehead, as if he were christening a baby.
The moment he saw that her life was returning, and her deep grey eyes,
quiet havens of sorrow, opened and asked where their owner was, and her
breast rose like a billow in a place where two tides meet, that moment
Octave laid her back against the rugged trunk, in the thick brown cloak
which he had fetched when he went for the water; and wrapped it around
her, delicately, as if she were taking a nap there.
Oh, man of short pipes and hard, bachelor fare, for this thou deservest
as good a wife as ever basted a leg of mutton!
At last the young lady looked up at him with a deep–drawn sigh, and
said—
“I am afraid I have been very silly.”
“No, indeed, you have not. But I am very sorry for you, because I am
dreadfully clumsy.”
She glanced at his snowy choker—which he never wore but on
Sundays—and, being a very quick–witted young woman, she guessed at
once who he was.
“Oh, please to tell me—I hope the service is not over at Nowelhurst
church.”
“The service has been over for a quarter of an hour; because there was
no sermon.”
“Oh, what shall I do, then? What can I do? I had better never go home
again.”
This was said to herself in anguish, and Pell saw that he was not meant
to hear it.
“Can I go, please, to the Rectory? Mr. Rosedew is from home; but Iʼm
sure they will give me shelter until my—until I am sent for. I have
lost my way in the wood here.”
This statement was none of the truest.
“To be sure,” said the hasty parson, forgetting about the Rushford
bells, the rheumatic clerk, and the quid–chewing pilots—let them turn
their quids a bit longer—“to be sure, I will take you there at once.
Allow me to introduce myself. How very stupid of me! Octavius Pell, Mr.
Rosedewʼs curate at Rushford.”
Hereupon “Pello, pepuli, pulsum” (as his friends loved to call him
from his driving powers at cricket, and to show that they knew some
Latin) executed a noble salaam—quite of the modern school, however,
and without the old reduplication (like the load on the back of
Christian)—till the duckweed came out of his hat in a body, and fell
into the flounce tucket of the beautiful Pearlʼs white skirt.
She never looked, though she knew it was there—that girl understood
her business—but curtseyed to him prettily, having recovered strength
by this time; and there was something in his dry, manly tone, curt
modesty, and breeding, without any flourish about it, which led the
young maid to trust him, as if she had known him since tops and bottoms.
“I am Pearl Garnet,” said she, imitating his style unconsciously, “the
daughter—I mean I live at Nowelhurst Dell Cottage.”
Coræbus had cut off for stable long ago, with three long weals from
bamboo upon him, which he vowed he would show to Amy.
“Please to take my arm, Miss Garnet. You are not very strong yet. I
know your brother well; and a braver or more straightforward young
gentleman never thought small things of himself after doing great ones.”
Pearl was delighted to hear Bobʼs praises; and Mr. Pell treated that
subject so cleverly, from every possible point of view, that she was
quite astonished when she saw the Rectory side–gate, and Octavius, in
the most light–hearted manner, made a sudden and warm farewell, and
darted away for Rushford. How good it is for a sad, heavy heart to
exchange with a gay and light one!
“Hang it! after that let me have a burster!” was his clerical
ejaculation, “or else it is all up with me. I hope we havenʼt spilt the
sermon, though, or got any duckweed down it. Duckweed, indeed; what a
duck she is! And oh, what splendid eyes!”
He ran all the way to Rushford, at a pace unknown to Coræbus; and his
governor–coat flew away behind him, with the sermon banging about, and
the text peeping out under the pocket–lap. “Swear not at all,” were the
words, I believe; and a rare good sermon it must have been, if it stuck
to the text under the circumstances.
The jolly old tars, after waiting an hour, orally refreshing their
grandmothers’ epitaphs, and close–hauling on many a tight yarn, were
just setting up stunʼsails to take grog on board at the “Luggerʼs
Locker,” hard by, as the banyan time was over. Let them ship their
grog, and their old women might keep gravy hot, and be blessed to
them. They had come there for sarvice, and shiver their timbers if
theyʼd make sail till the chaplain came. Good faith, and they got
their service at last, but an uncommonly short–winded one, a sermon,
moreover, which each man felt coming admirably home—to his shipmate.
Meanwhile, Mr. Pell had left behind no small excitement at Nowelhurst.
For a rumour took wing after morning service—when the wings of fame
are briskest in all country parishes—that parson John was gone to
London to complain to the Queen that Sir Cradock Nowell never came to
church now, nor even sent his agent thither, to manage matters for
him. For Mr. Garnet still retained his stewardship among them, though
longing to be quit of it, and discharging his duties silently, and not
with his old pronouncement, because his health was weaker. The vivid
power of vital force seemed to be failing the man who had stamped his
character upon all people around him; because he never said a thing
which he did not think, and scarcely ever thought a thing with any fear
of saying it.
Hitherto we have had of Bull Garnet by far the worse side uppermost. I
will offer no excuses now for his too ready indulgence of his far too
savage temper. In sooth, we meet with scarce any case in which excuses
are undiscoverable. God and the angels find them always; our best
earthly friends can see them, when properly pointed out; our enemies,
when they want to make accusation of them.
All I will say for Bull Garnet is (to invert the historianʼs sentence)
“Hæc tanta viri vitia ingentes virtutes exæquabant”—“These blemishes,
however dark, had grand qualities to redress them.” Strong affection,
great scorn of falsehood, tenderness almost too womanly, liberality
both of mind and heart, a real depth of sympathy—would all these
co–exist with, or be lost in, one great vice? It appears to me that we
are so toothed in, spliced and mortised, dovetailed, double–budded, and
inarched, both of good and evil, that the wrong, instead of poisoning
the right, often serves as guano to it. Nevertheless we had better be
perfect—when we have found the way out.