FAIRY FAITH.
At the beginning of July, work was proceeding steadily, though not quite
so merrily perhaps, as some of the workmen might have wished; because
Mr. Penniloe had forbidden the presence of beer-cans in consecrated
ground. A large firm of builders at Exeter (Messrs. Peveril, Gibbs &
Co.) had taken the contract according to Mr. Horner's specifications;
and had sent a strong staff of workmen down, under an active junior
partner, Mr. Robson Adney. There are very few noises that cannot find
some ear to which they are congenial; and the clink of the mason's
trowel is a delight to many good people. But that pleasant sound is
replaced, too often, by one of sadder harmony--the chink of coin that
says adieu, with all the regret behind it.
Perlycross had started well on this, its greatest enterprise; every man
was astonished at his neighbour's generosity, and with still better
reason at his own. Mr. Penniloe's spirit rose above the solid necessity
of repairs, and aspired to richer embellishment. That hideous gallery at
the western end, which spoiled the tower entrance and obscured a fine
window, should go into the fire at last; the noble arch of the chancel
(which had been shored with timber braces) should be restored and
reopened, and the blocked-up windows should again display their lovely
carving. In the handsomest manner, Sir Thomas Waldron had sent him a
cheque for five hundred pounds; which after all was only just, because
the vaults of the Waldron race lay at the bottom of half the lapse. The
Dean and Chapter of Exeter had contributed a hundred pounds; and the
Rector another hundred; and the Curate's own father--an ancient
clergyman in the north of Devon, with a tidy living and a plump
estate--had gone as far as twenty pounds, for the honour of the family.
With this money in hand, and much more in hope, all present designs
might well be compassed. But alas, a new temptation rose, very charming,
and very costly. The Curate had long suspected that his favourite church
had been endowed (like its smaller sister at Perlycombe) with a fair
rood-screen; perhaps a fine one, worthy of the days, when men could
carve. And now, when the heavy wooden gallery of Queen Anne's time had
been removed, it happened that Sergeant Jakes, the schoolmaster, who had
seen a great deal of old work in Spain, was minded to enquire into the
bearings of the great bressemer at the back. He put his foot into a hole
beneath it, where solid brickwork was supposed to be; but down went his
foot into a lot of crumbling stuff, and being no more than a one-armed
man, Mr. Jakes had a narrow escape of his neck. Luckily he clung with
his one hand to a crossbeam still in position, and being of a very wiry
frame--as all the school-children knew too well--was enabled to support
himself, until a ladder was clapped to. Even then it was no easy thing
to extricate his foot, wedged between two trefoils of sharply cut stone;
and for more than a week it was beyond his power to bring any fugitive
boy to justice. The Parson was sent for at once, and discovered the
finest stone-screen in the diocese, removed from its place by a
barbarous age, and plastered up in the great western wall.
There was little of that hot contention then, which rages now over every
stock and stone appertaining to the Church. As the beauty of design, and
the skill of execution, grew more and more manifest to his delighted
eyes, Mr. Penniloe was troubled with no misgivings as to "graven
images." He might do what he liked with this grand piece of work, if the
money were forthcoming. And the parish suspected no Popery in it, when
after much council with all concerned, and holding the needful faculty,
he proposed to set up this magnificent screen as a reredos beneath the
great Chancel window, and behind the stone Communion-table, generally
called the Altar now.
Yet brave as he was and of ardent faith, some little dismay was natural,
when the builders assured him that this could not be done, with all
needful repairs and proper finish, for less than three hundred and fifty
pounds, and they would not even bind themselves to that; for the
original was of the best Beere stone, difficult to match, and hard to
work. Mr. Penniloe went to the quarries, and found that this was no
exaggeration; and having some faith in mankind--as all who have much in
their Maker must have--he empowered the firm to undertake the task,
while he cast about zealously for the cash.
With filial confidence he made sure that his reverend father must
rejoice in another opportunity for glorifying God; and to that effect he
addressed him. But when the postman wound his horn at the bottom of the
village, and the Parson hurried down from the churchyard to meet him, at
the expense of eightpence he received the following dry epistle.
"SON PHILIP,--We are much surprised and pained by your
extraordinary letter. You speak very largely of 'duty to God,'
which ought to be done, without talking of it; while you think
lightly of your duty to your parents, the commandment that carries
the blessing. If you had not abandoned your Fellowship, by marrying
and having a family, it might have been more in your power to think
of Church-windows, and stone-carving. We did not expect to be
treated like this, after our very handsome gift, of not more than
three months agone. Look for no more money; but for that which a
good son values more, and earns by keeping within his income--the
love of his affectionate parents,
"ISAAC, AND JOAN PENNILOE."
"Ah! ah! Well, well, I dare say I was wrong. But I thought that he could
afford it;" said the Curate in his simple way: "'tis a sad day for me
altogether. But I will not be cast down, for the Lord knoweth best."
For on this very day, a year ago, he had lost the happiness of his life,
and the one love of his manhood. His fair wife (a loyal and tender
helpmate, the mother of his three children, and the skilful steward of
his small means) had been found lying dead at the foot of the "Horseshoe
Pitch," beneath Hagdon Hill. While her husband was obliged to remain in
the village, waiting for a funeral, she had set forth, with none but her
younger boy Michael, to visit an old woman on the outskirts of the
parish, very far advanced in years, but still a very backward Christian.
The old woman was living at the present moment, but could throw no light
upon her visitor's sad fate, and indeed denied that she had seen her on
that day. And the poor child who must have beheld what happened, though
hitherto a very quick and clever little fellow, could never be brought
to say a word about it. Having scarcely recovered from a sharp attack of
measles, he had lost his wits through terror, and ran all the way home
at the top of his speed, shouting "Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!"
From the child's sad condition, and a strict search of the "Horseshoe,"
it appeared that he had leaped after his poor mother, but had been saved
from death by a ledge of brambles and furze which had broken his fall.
Even now, though all trace of his bruises was gone, and his blue eyes
were as bright as ever, the tender young brain was so dazed and daunted,
by the fall, and the fright, and agony, that the children of the village
changed his nickname from "Merry Michael," to "Mazed Mikey."
Mr. Penniloe had been fighting bravely against the sad memories of this
day. To a deeply religious mind like his, despondency was of the nature
of doubt, and sorrow long indulged grew into sin. But now a cloud of
darkness fell around him; the waves of the flood went over his soul, his
heart was afflicted, and in sore trouble; and there was none to deliver
him.
All men have their times of depression; but few feel such agonies of
dejection, as the firm believer and lover of his faith, when harrowing
doubts assail him. The Rector of Perlycross, Mr. Chevithorne, though by
no means a man of vast piety, had a short way of dealing with such
attacks, which he always found successful. To his certain knowledge, all
debility of faith sprang directly from "lowness of the system;" and his
remedy against all such complaints was a glass of hot brandy and water.
But his Curate's religion was a less robust, because a far more active
power; and his keener mind was not content to repel all such sallies, as
temptations of the Devil.
Sensitive, diffident, and soft-hearted, he was apt to feel too acutely
any wound to his affections; and of all the world now left to him, the
dearest one was his mother. Or at any rate, he thought so for the
present; though a certain little tender claim was creeping closer and
closer into the inmost cell of love.
"Can mother have forgotten what day it would be, when I should receive
these cruel words?" he said to himself, as he went sadly up the hill
towards his white-washed dwelling-place, having no heart left for the
finest of stone-carvings. "If she did, it was not like her; and if she
remembered, it seems still worse. Surely he would not have dared to sign
her name, without her knowledge. But whenever he thinks of that
Fellowship--well, perhaps it was wrong on my part to attempt so much. It
is high time to look more closely into ways and means."
That was the proper thing to do beyond a doubt, and he hastened inside
to do it. But when he sat in his lonely bookroom, with the evening
shadows of the dark ilex slowly creeping over him, his mind went back
into the past, and a mighty sadness conquered him. Instead of the list
of subscriptions for the church he had drawn from the long portfolio
(which his wife had given him on the last wedding-day they should ever
keep together) a copy of a sad despondent hymn, which he had written in
the newness of his grief. As he read the forgotten lines, once more
their deep gloom encompassed him; even the twinkle of hope, in which
they ended, seemed a mockery.
"Will it ever be so, or is it all a dream, inspired by our longings, and
our self-conceit? Whatever is pleasant, or good, or precious, is
snatched from our grasp; and we call it a trial, and live on, in the
belief that we are punished for our good, and shall be rewarded tenfold.
If so, it can be for those alone who are able to believe always; who can
dismiss every shadow of doubt, and live with their Maker face to face.
Oh that I could do so. But I cannot; my shallow mind is vexed by every
breeze. When I was a young man, I felt pity, and even contempt for
Gowler's unfaith--a man of far superior powers. He gave up his
Fellowship, like a conscientious man; while I preach to others, and am
myself a castaway. Oh, Ruth, Ruth, if you could only see me!"
This man of holy life, and of pure devotion to his sacred office, bent
his head low in the agony of the moment, and clasped his hands over his
whitening hair. How far he was out of his proper mind was shown by his
sitting in the sacred chair,[1] the old "dropping-chair" of the parish,
which had been sent back that morning. Of this, and of all around, he
took no heed; for the tide of his life was at the lowest ebb, and his
feeble heart was fluttering, like a weed in shallow water.
But his comfort was not far to seek. After sundry soft taps, and a
shuffle of the handle, the door was opened quietly, and a little girl
came dancing in, bringing a gleam of summer sunshine in a cloud of
golden hair. The gloom of the cold room fled, as if it had no business
near her, and a thrush outside (who knew her well) broke forth into a
gratitude of song. For this was little Faith Penniloe, seven years old
last Tuesday, the prettiest and the liveliest soul in all the parish of
Perlycross; and Faith being too substantial perhaps, everybody called
her "Fay," or "Fairy." Nothing ever troubled her, except the letter _r_,
and even that only when it wanted to come first.
"Father, fathery, how much colder is the tea to get?" she cried; "I call
it very yude of you, to do what you like, because you happen to be
older."
As the little girl ran, with her arms stretched forth, and a smile on
her lips that was surety for a kiss--a sudden amazement stopped her. The
father of her love and trust and worship, was not even looking at her;
his face was cold and turned away; his arms were not spread for a jump
and a scream. He might as well have no child at all, or none to whom he
was all in all. For a moment her simple heart was daunted, her dimpled
hands fell on her pinafore, and the sparkle of her blue eyes became a
gleam of tears.
Then she gathered up her courage, which had never known repulse, and
came and stood between her father's knees, and looked up at him very
tenderly, as if she had grieved him, and yearned to be forgiven.
"Child, you have taught me the secret of faith," he cried, with a sudden
light shed on him; "I will go as a little one to my Father, without a
word, and look up at Him."
Then, as he lifted her into his lap, and she threw her arms around his
neck, he felt that he was not alone in the world, and the warmth of his
heart returned to him.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] In country parishes an easy-chair, for the use of the sick and
elderly, was provided from the Communion offerings, and lent to those
most in need of it. When not so required, it was kept under cover, and
regarded with some reverence, from its origin and use.