PERLYCROSS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
_In one volume, Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 6s each._
+LORNA DOONE.+
+CLARA VAUGHAN.+
+CHRISTOWELL.+
+ALICE LORRAINE.+
+CRADOCK NOWELL.+
+CRIPPS THE CARRIER.+
+MARY ANERLEY.+
+EREMA; or, MY FATHER'S SIN.+
+TOMMY UPMORE.+
+SPRINGHAVEN.+
+KIT AND KITTY.+
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+SPRINGHAVEN: A Tale of the Great War.+ With Sixty-four Illustrations
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LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY,
LIMITED,
ST. DUNSTAN'S HOUSE, FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
PERLYCROSS
_A TALE OF THE WESTERN HILLS_
BY
R. D. BLACKMORE
AUTHOR OF "LORNA DOONE," "SPRINGHAVEN," ETC.
_THIRTEENTH THOUSAND_
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, & COMPANY
_LIMITED_
St. Dunstan's House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1894.
[_All rights reserved._]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE LAP OF PEACE 1
II.--FAIRY FAITH 6
III.--THE LYCH-GATE 12
IV.--NICIE 19
V.--A FAIR BARGAIN 28
VI.--DOCTORS THREE 37
VII.--R. I. P. 48
VIII.--THE POTATO-FIELD 57
IX.--THE NARROW PATH 66
X.--IN CHARGE 73
XI.--AT THE CHARGE 80
XII.--A FOOL'S ERRAND 87
XIII.--THE LAW OF THE LAND 101
XIV.--REASONING WITHOUT REASON 109
XV.--FRIENDS AND FOES 118
XVI.--LITTLE BILLY 128
XVII.--CAMELIAS 139
XVIII.--CONCUSSION 149
XIX.--PERCUSSION 161
XX.--DISCUSSION 172
XXI.--BLACKMARSH 184
XXII.--FIRESHIP AND GALLEON 197
XXIII.--A MAGIC LETTER 211
XXIV.--A WAGER 225
XXV.--A SERMON IN STONE 241
XXVI.--THE OLD MILL 252
XXVII.--PANIC 263
XXVIII.--VAGABONDS 277
XXIX.--TWO PUZZLES 291
XXX.--FRANKLY SPEAKING 300
XXXI.--A GREAT PRIZE 311
XXXII.--PLEADINGS 321
XXXIII.--THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD 331
XXXIV.--LOYALTY 341
XXXV.--A WRESTLING BOUT 352
XXXVI.--A FIGHTING BOUT 363
XXXVII.--GENTLE AS A LAMB 374
XXXVIII.--AN INLAND RUN 384
XXXIX.--NEEDFUL RETURNS 394
XL.--HOME AND FOREIGN 406
XLI.--THE PRIDE OF LIFE 416
XLII.--HIS LAST BIVOUAC 426
XLIII.--TWO FINE LESSONS 435
XLIV.--AND ONE STILL FINER 445
PERLYCROSS.
CHAPTER I.
THE LAP OF PEACE.
In the year 1835, the Rev. Philip Penniloe was Curate-in-charge of
Perlycross, a village in a valley of the Blackdown Range. It was true
that the Rector, the Rev. John Chevithorne, M.A., came twice every year
to attend to his tithes; but otherwise he never thought of interfering,
and would rather keep his distance from spiritual things. Mr. Penniloe
had been his College-tutor, and still was his guide upon any points of
duty less cardinal than discipline of dogs and horses.
The title of "Curate-in-charge" as yet was not invented generally; but
far more Curates held that position than hold it in these stricter
times. And the shifting of Curates from parish to parish was not so
frequent as it is now; theological views having less range and rage, and
Curates less divinity. Moreover it cost much more to move.
But the Curate of Perlycross was not of a lax or careless nature. He
would do what his conscience required, at the cost of his last penny;
and he thought and acted as if this world were only the way to a better
one. In this respect he differed widely from all the people of his
parish, as well as from most of his Clerical brethren. And it is no
little thing to say of him, that he was beloved in spite of his piety.
Especially was he loved and valued by a man who had known him from
early days, and was now the Squire, and chief landowner, in the parish
of Perlycross. Sir Thomas Waldron, of Walderscourt, had battled as
bravely with the sword of steel, as the Churchman had with the spiritual
weapon, receiving damages more substantial than the latter can inflict.
Although by no means invalided, perhaps he had been pleased at first to
fall into the easy lap of peace. After eight years of constant hardship,
frequent wounds, and famishing, he had struck his last blow at Waterloo,
and then settled down in the English home, with its comforting cares,
and mild delights.
Now, in his fiftieth year, he seemed more likely to stand on the
battlements of life than many a lad of twenty. Straight and tall, robust
and ruddy, clear of skin, and sound of foot, he was even cited by the
doctors of the time, as a proof of the benefit that flows from bleeding
freely. Few men living had shed more blood (from their own veins at any
rate) for the good of their native land, and none had made less fuss
about it; so that his Country, with any sense of gratitude, must now put
substance into him. Yet he was by no means over fat; simply in good
case, and form. In a word, you might search the whole county, and find
no finer specimen of a man, and a gentleman too, than Colonel Sir Thomas
Waldron.
All this Mr. Penniloe knew well; and having been a small boy, when the
Colonel was a big one, at the best school in the west of England, he
owed him many a good turn for the times when the body rules the roost,
and the mind is a little chick, that can't say--"Cockadoodle." In those
fine days, education was a truly rational process; creating a void in
the juvenile system by hunger, and filling it up with thumps. Scientific
research has now satisfied itself that the mind and the body are the
selfsame thing; but this was not understood as yet, and the one
ministered to the other. For example, the big Tom Waldron supplied the
little Phil Penniloe with dumps and penny-puddings, and with fists ever
ready for his defence; while the quicker mind sat upon the broad arch of
chest sprawling along the old oak bench, and construed the lessons for
it, or supplied the sad hexameter. When such a pair meet again in later
life, sweet memories arise, and fine goodwill.
This veteran friendship even now was enduring a test too severe, in
general, for even the most sterling affection. But a conscientious man
must strive, when bound by Holy Orders, to make every member of his
parish discharge his duty to the best advantage. And if there be a duty
which our beloved Church--even in her snoring period--has endeavoured to
impress, the candid layman must confess that it is the duty of
alms-giving. Here Mr. Penniloe was strong--far in advance of the times
he lived in, though still behind those we have the privilege to pay for.
For as yet it was the faith of the general parishioner, that he had a
strong parochial right to come to church for nothing; and if he chose to
exercise it, thereby added largely to the welfare of the Parson, and
earned a handsome reference. And as yet he could scarcely reconcile it
with his abstract views of religion, to find a plate poked into his
waistcoat pocket, not for increase, but depletion thereof.
Acknowledging the soundness of these views, we may well infer that
Perlycross was a parish in which a well-ordered Parson could do anything
reasonable. More than one substantial farmer was good enough to be
pleased at first, and try to make his wife take it so, at these
opportunities of grace. What that expression meant was more than he
could for the life of him make out; but he always connected it with
something black, and people who stretched out their hands under
cocoa-nuts bigger than their heads, while "come over and help us,"
issued from their mouths. If a shilling was any good to them, bless
their woolly heads, it only cost a quarter of a pound of wool!
Happy farmer, able still to find a shilling in his Sunday small-clothes,
and think of the guineas in a nest beneath the thatch! For wheat was
golden still in England, and the good ox owned his silver side. The fair
outlook over hill and valley, rustling field and quiet meadow, was not
yet a forlorn view, a sight that is cut short in sigh, a prospect
narrowing into a lane that plods downhill to workhouse. For as yet it
was no mockery to cast the fat grain among the clods, or trickle it into
the glistening drill, to clear the sleek blade from the noisome weed,
to watch the soft waves of silky tassels dimple and darken to the breeze
of June, and then the lush heads with their own weight bowing to the
stillness of the August sun, thrilling the eyes with innumerable throng,
glowing with impenetrable depth of gold. Alas, that this beauty should
be of the past, and ground into gritty foreign flour!
But in the current year of grace, these good sons of our native land had
no dream of the treason, which should sell our homes and landscapes to
the sneering foreigner. Their trouble, though heavy, was not of British
madness, but inflicted from without; and therefore could be met and
cured by men of strong purpose and generous act.
That grand old church of Perlycross (standing forth in gray power of
life, as against the black ruins of the Abbey) had suddenly been found
wanting--wanting foundation, and broad buttress, solid wall, and
sound-timbered roof, and even deeper hold on earth for the high soar of
the tower. This tower was famous among its friends, not only for
substance, and height, and proportion, and piercings, and sweet content
of bells; but also for its bold uplifting of the green against the blue.
To-wit, for a time much longer than any human memory, a sturdy yew-tree
had been standing on the topmost stringing-course, in a sheltering niche
of the southern face, with its head over-topping the battlements, and
scraping the scroll of the south-east vane. Backed as it was by solid
stone, no storm had succeeded in tugging its tough roots out of the
meshes of mortar; and there it stood and meant to stand, a puzzle to
gardeners, a pleasure to jackdaws, and the pride of all Perlycrucians.
Even Mr. Penniloe, that great improver, could not get a penny towards
his grand designs, until he had signed a document with both
Churchwardens, that happen what might, not a hair of the head of the
sacred yew-tree should perish.
Many a penny would be wanted now, and who was to provide them? The
parish, though large and comprising some of the best land in East Devon,
had few resources of commerce, and not many of manufacture. The bright
Perle running from east to west clove it in twain; and the northern
part, which was by far the larger, belonged to the Waldrons; while the
southern (including the church and greater part of village) was of
divers owners, the chiefest being the Dean and Chapter of Exeter. It is
needless to say that this sacred body never came nigh the place, and
felt no obligation towards it, at the manhood of this century.
"What is to be done?" cried the only man who could enter into the grief
of it, when Richard Horner of Pumpington, architect, land-agent, and
surveyor, appeared before the Clergyman and Churchwardens, with the
report required by them.
"One of two things," answered Mr. Horner, a man of authority and
brevity; "either let it crumble, or make up your minds to spend a
thousand pounds upon it."
"We should be prepared to spend that sum, if we had only got it;" Mr.
Penniloe said, with that gentle smile which made his people fond of him.
"We han't got a thousand, nor a hundred nayther You talk a bit too big,
Dick. You always did have a big mouth, you know."
The architect looked at his cousin, Farmer John (the senior Churchwarden
of Perlycross, and chief tenant of the Capitular estates), and if his
own mouth was large, so was that of his kinsman, as he addressed him
thus.
"John Horner, we know well enough, what you be. It wouldn't make much of
a hole in you, to put down your hundred pounds--to begin with."
"Well," said his colleague, Frank Farrant, while the elder was in labour
of amazement; "if John will put down his hundred pounds, you may trust
me to find fifty."
"And fifty to you is a good bit more than a thousand to him, I reckon.
Book it, Mr. Penniloe, before they run back; and me for another five and
twenty."
"I never said it; I never said a word of it"--Farmer John began to gasp,
while cousin and colleague were patting him on the back, crying,
"Don't go back from your word, John."
"Now, did I say it, Parson Penniloe?" he appealed, as soon as they would
let him speak; "come now, I'll go by what you say of it."
"No, Mr. Horner; I wish you had. You never said anything of the kind."
"Parson, you are a gentleman. I do like a man as tells the truth. But
as for them fellows, I'll just show them what's what. Whether I said it,
or no--I'll do it."
Mr. Penniloe smiled, but not with pleasure only. Simple and charitable
as he was, he could scarcely believe that the glory of God was the
motive power in the mind of Farmer John.