HOW ANDREW MADE ONE ENEMY, AND WAS LIKE TO HAVE ANOTHER.
And now my happy time was over; its story is all told so far; and I must
write of darker days that came after.
The living of West Fazeby, left vacant because of Mr. Truelocke's
sturdiness in his opinion, did not wait long for an incumbent, but was
quickly bestowed on a Mr. Lambert; a man not troubled with awkward
scruples, for he had been a strong Presbyterian under the Commonwealth,
and now was become as strong a Churchman; but an honest man as the world
goes now, and not hard-hearted. He had another better living where he
resided; so our parish was served by his curate, a Mr. Poole, a young
man of shallow capacity and but little learning. Mr. Truelocke,
however, went to hear him preach;--a strange sight it was to see so
reverend, saintly, and able a minister sitting humbly as a listener,
while that weak-headed lad spoke from the pulpit;--and he said the youth
preached true doctrine; so he continued going to hear him, and
encouraged our household to do the like, which they all did, except
Andrew. That Mr. Truelocke himself did not join in the new formal
prayers was not noticed, his presence at sermon-time seeming to give
mighty satisfaction to Mr. Poole, who would often walk up to the Grange
of a Lord's Day evening, to ask Mr. Truelocke's opinion of his handling
of a text, and would even beg to hear his exposition of the same; when
several of our neighbours would also come in and listen thankfully to
their old pastor's words; neither we nor they dreaming that such
practices could be deemed unlawful, as they soon were, being stigmatized
as conventicles, and heavily punished. But this did not happen in Mr.
Poole's time.
There were other things much less agreeable to us under the new order of
things. A monstrous new Maypole was set up on the village green, by
command of a gentleman very powerful in the parish, whom I shall soon
have to name, and we were told the old heathen May-games would be
observed at the right season,--as indeed they were when the time came;
meantime the one or two taverns in West Fazeby began to stand open on a
Sunday, and were much more frequented than they used to be, men who had
formerly been very careful to shun them now going to them boldly in open
day; which plainly discovered their former decent carriage to have been
a hollow show. Althea and I chanced one day to be passing the Royal Oak,
as the chief inn of the village had been new christened, just as there
reeled out of it a young gentleman whom every one had deemed a most
hopeful pious youth, Mr. Truelocke in particular having a great opinion
of him, though I never liked his demure looks for my part, nor his stiff
way of dressing himself. He was called Ralph Lacy, and was son and heir
to old Mr. Lacy of Lacy Manor, a worthy old gentleman, though somewhat
austere, who was lately dead; which I suppose partly accounted for the
mighty change in his son, who was now clad in silk and velvet, scarlet
and gold; and, as I have said, could not walk too straight at that
moment.
He stood still, leering foolishly on us, just in our way; I could not
bear to look at him, and would have slipt on one side; but Althea
looked sternly at him, and said bitterly,--
'Shame on you, Ralph Lacy! You mourn for your father in a very vile
manner; a swine could do no worse.'
'Ah, sweet Mistress Dacre,' said he, 'do you think then the grim,
sour-visaged saints are reigning still? Nay, their day is over! we have
a right good fellow for a king now, and this shall be Merry England
again, I can tell thee.' (He was growing more familiar at every word.)
'I will soon show thee what the ways are at Whitehall now;' and he was
coming much nearer to her than was pleasant, when Andrew, who came up
with us at that moment, flung him out of our path with such goodwill
that Master Lacy measured his length on the ground; and there we left
him lying. Althea thanked Andrew warmly and cordially; but Andrew, who
had been all glowing with just wrath at first, seemed to shrink into
himself at her praise.
'It was a temptation,' he said, 'and I have fallen. I could have taken
you out of yon fool's way without laying a finger on him.'
'It's something of a disgrace indeed to have touched the beast--an oaken
staff had been fitter than your hand,' she replied. 'Merry England,
quotha! drunken England, I suppose he meant.'
'There is too much indeed of the unclean spirit of riot abroad now,'
answered Andrew; 'but it is not with violent hands that we can cast it
out. I sinfully forgot our Lord's word, "Resist not evil;"' and nothing
could brighten him, though Althea did her best all the way home.
There came the day when I rued Andrew's angry action as much as he did,
though not for the same reason. Ralph Lacy was not too drunk to be
unaware who had flung him aside into the dust; he never forgave it; and
his hand was plainly seen afterwards in the troubles that came upon us.
Another man also contributed something to them, though more innocently.
Mr. Poole now came very much about us, and would often talk about the
good family he belonged to and his hopes of speedy preferment; and
another favourite topic of his was the gay suits he had worn in his
secular days; he would dwell very fondly on the cut and trimmings of
these clothes. I think nothing misliked him in his profession but the
gravity of dress required from a clerical person; and I was often
tempted to ask, had his father been a tailor? He made the most of his
sober apparel, and loved to show a white, smooth, fat hand, with a fine
diamond on one finger; but he was unhappy in an insignificant person and
a foolish face, both of them something fatter than is graceful.
I do not know what first made me guess that all his boastings and
paradings were intended to advance him in Althea's good graces; but she
refused to believe me when I said so.
'Poor harmless wretch!' said she; 'he is but practising with me; he
would fain perfect himself in the airs and graces of a thriving wooer,
before laying siege in earnest to some fair lady, with the heavy purse,
that I lack, at her girdle.'
'That's a far-fetched fancy indeed,' said I. 'Why should he single you
out alone for such practisings?'
'Well,' quoth Althea idly, 'he may deem me the fittest person to
rehearse with, seeing I have at least the breeding of a gentlewoman, and
am contracted to no one else. He will think that if his ways and words
please me, they may answer with richer women of my sort as well.'
'But sure they do not please you!' I cried; 'nor should you let him
think they do; 'tis not fair usage.'
'Nay, he diverts me hugely,' said she; 'and I need diversion, for my
heart is heavy as lead, Lucy;'--all at once there were tears in her
eyes;--'if I can forget my griefs while I watch a mannikin bowing and
grimacing before me, don't grudge me the poor pastime. I assure thee,
child, there's nothing more in it;' and with that she left me hastily.
I was used to think Althea much wiser than myself, but the evening of
the very day when we had this talk proved that in this matter her
judgment was more at fault than mine. For about sunset Mr. Poole came up
to the Grange, which was a rare thing for him to do, seeing he did not
love to be abroad when it was dark. He seemed mightily puffed up about
something; and, not being one of those who can keep their own counsel
long, he soon imparted to Althea and me, whom he found sitting by the
parlour fire, how his promotion now seemed very near. There was a living
of which he had long had hopes to get the reversion; and the actual
incumbent was fallen sick of a strange fever, with little prospect of
recovery.
'And you are troubled because of the poor man's grievous case,' says
Althea demurely. 'I guessed something was disturbing you. It's
melancholy news indeed, Mr. Poole, for one would guess by it that the
place must be unhealthy, so it may be your luck to sicken in like manner
when it is your turn to live there.'
I thought Althea cruel thus to tease the poor man, imputing to him a
tender concern for the sufferer of which he had never dreamed; besides,
he was chicken-hearted about contagious disorders, and that she knew. I
pitied him then, but found it hard to forbear laughing, his aspect was
so comical; therefore I feigned an errand out of the room, and, having
stayed away long enough to compose my countenance, I returned to the
parlour, where I found poor Mr. Poole on his knees to Althea, urging his
suit for her hand with a great deal more passion than one could have
expected in him. 'Twas in vain she spoke of her orphanhood and poverty,
and told him he should look higher; and at last she had to speak
sharply, and say, however she might esteem the honour he would do her,
wife of his she would never be; 'so quit that unbecoming posture at my
feet,' she added; on which he rose indeed, but said half-frantically,--
'Give me at least, madam; the comfort of hearing you say you are
heart-free, that you love none other better than you do me;' on which
first her eyes flashed angry fire, and then changed and softened, her
whole face and even her neck going rosy-red, and she said almost
kindly,--
'I will give you no such assurance, sir, to hold you in vain hopes; but
I wish you a happier fate than marriage with me might prove.' With that
she was gone from the room, like a shadow; and Mr. Poole and I were left
foolishly staring at each other. Presently he said hoarsely,--
'Who is it that your sister loves, madam? for whom does she disdain me?
Sure,' he went on, with growing heat, 'it cannot be your cousin--he that
is infected with the Quaker heresy! say it is not he, madam.'
Well, I was tempted to lie, and say it was not our cousin; for Andrew
was nothing akin to us; but I resisted the tempter, and said I could say
nothing, but that I was heartily sorry,--'and I am sure, so is my
sister,' I said, 'that you should have fixed your affections so
unluckily.' Then I told him Andrew had no thoughts of marriage with
Althea or any one; and I reminded him of the many rich and fair women
who would be sure to look kindly on him; at which he smiled again, and
presently went away in no unfriendly mood. So I acquit him of meaning
the harm which he afterwards did us, poor youth, with his prattling
tongue. He did not wait long for his promotion, the poor man whom he
hoped to succeed dying indeed of the fever that had seized him; so we
lost our curate. But it seems he prated to his patron about the fair
young lady he had hoped should share his preferment, lamenting her
silliness in preferring a moonstruck Quaker youth; also he complained of
Mrs. Golding for not discouraging such follies, and he even deplored Mr.
Truelocke's obstinate heresies as to church discipline.
I think even he had held his peace, if he had known into how greedy an
ear he poured these tales. This patron of his, one Sir Edward Fane, had
much land and not a little power in our parish, though he resided in
another neighbourhood; he was a bitter hater of all Nonconformists, and
in especial of the Quakers; men said this was because of some encounter
he had had with Fox himself, by whose sharp tongue and ready wit our
gentleman was put to open shame, where he had hoped to make himself
sport out of Quaker enthusiasm. However that might be, it was commonly
said this Sir Edward loved Quaker-baiting, as it was called, beyond all
other of the cruel, inhuman sports, the bull-baitings and bear-baitings,
in which too many men of condition now take pleasure; and it was not
long before we found a powerful enemy was raised up against our harmless
friends.
'Twas a wonder to me that any would lift a hand against them; Mr.
Truelocke being so venerable and so peaceable a man, and Andrew of life
so irreproachable. Also, since the youth had cast in his lot with the
Friends, he had shown a singular zeal in good works. He sought out those
who were in distress or necessity, and laboured to make their hard lot
easy, not merely giving them alms, but comforting them as a loving
brother might do; and such as had fallen into want through folly or sin
he toiled hard to lift up again, and to put them into an honest way of
living. By this means some few were led to embrace his way of religion,
it is true; and what wonder? My wonder was that so many were vilely
ungrateful to him, at which _he_ never showed any vexation. 'We are
bidden,' he said, 'to do good to the unthankful and the evil,' which
seemed enough for him.
But it being contrary to his conscience to attend the church, I suppose
all his other graces did but lay him more open to injury, and we were
soon warned of mischief hatching against us and him, and that by one
from whom we never expected it.