NICIE.
In the bright summer sunshine the old church looked like a ship that had
been shattered by the waves, and was hoisted in a dry dock for repairs.
To an ignorant eye it appeared to be in peril of foundering and plunging
into the depths below, so frequent and large were the rifts and chasms
yawning in the ancient frame-work. Especially was there one long gap in
the footings of the south chancel wall, where three broad arches were
being turned, and a solid buttress rising, to make good the weakness of
the Waldron vault. Sacks of lime, and piles of sand, coils of cord and
blocks of stone, scaffold-poles and timber-baulks, wheel-barrows
grovelling upside-down, shovels and hods and planks and ladders, hats
upon tombstones, and jackets on graves, sacred niches garnished with
tobacco-pipes, and pious memories enlivened by "Jim Crow"--so cheerful
was the British workman, before he was educated.
"Parson coming," was whispered round, while pewter pots jumped under
slabs, and jugs had coats thrown over them, for Mr. Penniloe would have
none of their drinking in the churchyard, and was loth to believe that
they could do it, with all the sad examples beneath them. But now his
mind was filled with deeper troubles; and even the purpose of his visit
had faded from his memory.
"Just in time, sir. I was waiting for you"--said Mr. Robson Adney,
standing in front of the shored-up screen, on the southern side of the
tower,--"if it bears the strain of this new plinth, the rest is a matter
of detail. Your idea of the brace was capital, and the dovetail will
never show at all. Now, Charlie, steady there--not too heavy. Five
minutes will show whether we are men or muffs. But don't stand quite so
close, sir, I think we have got it all right; but if there should happen
to be a bit of cross-grain stone--bear to the left, you lubber there!
Beg your pardon, sir--but I never said--'damn.'"
"I hope not, I hope not, Mr. Adney. You remember where you are, too well
for that. Though I trust that you would say it nowhere. Ah, it is a
little on the warp, I fear."
"No, sir, no. Go to the end, and look along. It is only the bevel that
makes it look so. Could hardly be better if the Lord Himself had made
it. Trust Peveril, Gibbs, & Co. for knowing their work. Holloa! not so
hard--ease her, ease her! Stand clear for your lives, men! Down she
comes."
They were none too quick, for the great stone screen, after bulging and
sagging and shaking like a cobweb throughout its massive tracery, parted
in the middle and fell mightily.
"Any one hurt? Then you haven't got what you ought"--shouted Adney, with
his foot upon a pinnacle--"old Peter made a saint of? Get a roller, and
fetch him out. None the worse, old chap, are you now? Take him to the
_Ivy-bush_, and get a drop of brandy."
Sudden as the crash had been, no life was lost, no limb broken, and
scarcely a bruise received, except by an elderly workman, and he was
little the worse, being safely enshrined in the niche where some good
saint had stood. Being set upon his feet, he rubbed his elbows, and then
swore a little; therefore naturally enough he was known as "St. Peter,"
for the residue of his life among us.
But no sooner did Mr. Adney see that no one was hurt seriously than he
began to swear anything but a little, instead of thanking Providence.
"A pretty job--a fine job, by the holy poker!" he kept on exclaiming, as
he danced among the ruins; "why, they'll laugh at us all over
Devonshire. And that's not the worst of it. By the Lord, I wish it was.
Three or four hundred pounds out of our pockets. A nice set of ----
fellows you are, aren't you? I wish I might go this very moment----"
"Is this all your gratitude, Robson Adney, for the goodness of the Lord
to you?" Mr. Penniloe had been outside the crash, as he happened to be
watching from one end the adjustment of the piece inserted. "What are a
few bits of broken stone, compared with the life of a human being--cut
off perhaps with an oath upon his lips, close to the very house of God?
In truth, this is a merciful deliverance. Down upon your knees, my
friends, and follow me in a few simple words of acknowledgment to the
Giver of all good. Truly He hath been gracious to us."
"Don't want much more of that sort of grace. _Coup de grace_ I call
it"--muttered Mr. Adney. Nevertheless he knelt down, with the dust upon
his forehead; and the workmen did the like; for here was another month's
good wages.
Mr. Penniloe always spoke well and readily, when his heart was urgent;
and now as he knelt between two lowly graves, the men were wondering at
him. "Never thought a' could have dooed it, without his gown!" "Why, a'
put up his two hands, as if 'twor money in his pockets!" "Blest if I
don't send for he, when my time cometh!" "Faix, sor, but the Almighty
must be proud of you to spake for Him!" Thus they received it; and the
senior Churchwarden coming in to see the rights of the matter, told
every one (when he recovered his wits) that he had never felt so proud
of the parish minister before. Even the Parson felt warmly in his heart
that he had gone up in their opinions; which made him more diffident in
his own.
"Don't 'e be cast down, sir," said one fine fellow, whom the heavy
architrave had missed by about an inch, saving a young widow and seven
little orphans. "We will put it all to rights, in next to no time. You
do put up with it, uncommon fine. Though the Lord may have laboured to
tempt 'e, like Job. But I han't heard a single curse come out of your
lips--not but what it might, without my knowing. But here coom'th a
young man in bright clothes with news for 'e."
Mr. Penniloe turned, and behold it was Bob Cornish, one of his best
Sunday-school boys last year, patient and humble in a suit of corduroy;
but now gay and lordly in the livery of the Waldrons, buff with blue
edgings, and buttons of bright gold. His father sold rushlights at the
bottom of the village, but his mother spent her time in thinking.
"From Sir Thomas?" asked the Curate, as the lad with some attempt at a
soldier's salute produced a note, folded like a cocked hat, and not easy
to undo.
"No, sir, from my lady"--answered Robert, falling back.
Mr. Penniloe was happy enough to believe that all things are ordered and
guided for us by supreme goodness and wisdom. But nature insisted that
his hands should tremble at anything of gravity to any one he loved; and
now after Dr. Gronow's warning, his double eyeglass rattled in its
tortoiseshell frame, as he turned it upon the following words.
"DEAR SIR,--I am in great uncertainty to trouble you with this, and
beg you to accept apologies. But my husband is in pain of the most
violent again, and none the less of misery that he conceals it from
me. In this country I have no one now from whom to seek good
counsel, and the young Dr. Fox is too juvenile to trust in. My
husband has so much value for your wise opinion. I therefore take
the liberty of imploring you to come, but with discretion not to
speak the cause to Sir Thomas Waldron, for he will not permit
conversation about it. Sincerely yours,
"ISABEL WALDRON."
Mr. Penniloe read these words again, and then closed his eyeglass with a
heavy sigh. Trusted and beloved friend as he was of the veteran Sir
Thomas, he had never been regarded with much favour by the lady of the
house. By birth and by blood on the father's side, this lady was a
Spaniard; and although she spoke English fluently--much better indeed
than she wrote it--the country and people were not to her liking, and
she cared not to make herself popular. Hence her fine qualities, and
generous nature, were misprised and undervalued, until less and less was
seen of them. Without deserving it, she thus obtained the repute of a
haughty cold-hearted person, without affection, sympathy, or
loving-kindness. Even Mr. Penniloe, the most charitable of men, was
inclined to hold this opinion of her.
Therefore he was all the more alarmed by this letter of the stately
lady. Leaving Mr. Adney to do his best, he set off at once for
Walderscourt, by way of the plank-bridge over the Perle, at no great
distance above the church; and then across the meadows and the sloping
cornland, with the round Beacon-hill in front of him. This path, saving
nearly half a mile of twisting lanes, would lead him to the house almost
as soon as the messenger's horse would be there.
To any one acquainted with the Parson it would prove how much his mind
was disturbed that none of the fair sights around him were heeded. The
tall wheat reared upon its jointed stalk, with the buff pollen shed, and
the triple awns sheltering the infancy of grain, the delicate bells of
sky-blue flax quivering on lanced foliage, the glistening cones of
teasels pliant yet as tasselled silk, and the burly foxglove in the
hedgerow turning back its spotted cuffs--at none of these did he care to
glance, nor linger for a moment at the treddled stile, from which the
broad valley he had left was shown, studded with brown farm and white
cottage, and looped with glittering water.
Neither did he throw his stick into his left hand, and stretch forth the
right--as his custom was in the lonely walks of a Saturday--to
invigorate a hit he would deliver the next day, at Divine service in the
schoolroom.
"What is to become of them? What can be done to help it? Why should such
a loving child have such a frightful trial? How shall we let him know
his danger, without risk of doubling it? How long will it take, to get
Gowler down, and can he do any good, if he comes?"--These and other such
questions drove from his mind both sermon and scenery, as he hastened to
the home of the Waldrons.
Walderscourt was not so grand as to look uncomfortable, not yet on the
other hand so lowly as to seem insignificant. But a large old-fashioned
house, built of stone, with depth and variety of light and shade,
sobered and toned by the lapse of time, yet cheerful on the whole, as is
a well-spent life. For by reason of the trees, and the wavering of the
air--flowing gently from hill to valley--the sun seemed to linger in
various visits, rather than to plant himself for one long stare. The
pleasure-grounds, moreover, and the lawns were large, gifted with
surprising little ups and downs, and blest with pretty corners where a
man might sit and think, and perhaps espy an old-fashioned flower unseen
since he was five years old.
Some of the many philosophers who understand our ways, and can account
for everything, declare that we of the human race become of such and
such a vein, and turn, and tone of character, according to the flow, and
bend, and tinge of early circumstance. If there be any truth in this, it
will help to account for a few of the many delightful features and
loveable traits in the character of Nicie Waldron. That young lady, the
only daughter of the veteran Colonel, had obtained her present Christian
name by her own merits, as asserted by herself. Unlike her mother she
had taken kindly to this English air and soil, as behoves a native; and
her childish lips finding _Inez_ hard had softened it into _Nicie_. That
name appeared so apt to all who had the pleasure of seeing her toddle,
that it quite superseded the grander form, with all except her mother.
"_Nicie_ indeed!" Lady Waldron used to say, until she found it
useless--"I will feel much obliged to you, if you shall call my daughter
Inez by her proper name, sir." But her ladyship could no more subdue the
universal usage, than master the English _wills_ and _shalls_.
And though she was now a full-grown maiden, lively, tall, and
self-possessed, Nicie had not lost as yet the gentle and confiding
manner, with the playful smile, and pleasant glance, which had earned,
by offering them, good-will and tender interest. Pity moreover had some
share in her general popularity, inasmuch as her mother was known to be
sometimes harsh, and nearly always cold and distant to her. Women, who
should know best, declared that this was the result of jealousy, because
Sir Thomas made such an idol of his loving daughter. On the other hand
the Spanish lady had her idol also--her only son, despatched of late
with his regiment towards India; his father always called him _Tom_, and
his mother _Rodrigo_.
Mr. Penniloe had a very soft place in his heart for this young lady; but
now, for the first time in his life, he was vexed to see her white chip
hat, and pink summer-frock between the trees. She was sitting on a
bench, with a book upon her lap, while the sunlight, broken by the
gentle play of leafage, wavered and flickered in her rich brown hair.
Corkscrew ringlets were the fashion of the time; but Nicie would have
none of them, with the bashful knowledge of the rose, that Nature had
done enough for her.
And here came her father to take her part, with his usual decision;
daring even to pronounce, in presence of the noblest fashion, that his
pet should do what he chose, and nothing else. At this the pet smiled
very sweetly, the words being put into his lips by hers, and dutifully
obeyed her own behest; sweeping back the flowing curves into a graceful
coronet, in the manner of a Laconian maid.
Now the sly Penniloe made endeavour to pass her with a friendly smile
and bow; but her little pug _Pixie_ would not hear of such a slight.
This was a thorough busybody, not always quite right in his mind,
according to some good authorities, though not easily outwitted. Having
scarcely attained much obesity yet, in spite of never-flagging efforts,
he could run at a good pace, though not so very far; and sometimes, at
sight of any highly valued friend, he would chase himself at full gallop
round a giddy circle, with his reasoning powers lost in rapture.
Even now he indulged in this expression of good-will, for he dearly
loved Mr. Penniloe; and then he ran up, with such antics of delight,
that the rudest of mankind could not well have passed unheeding. And
behind him came his fair young mistress, smiling pleasantly at his
tricks, although her gentle eyes were glistening with a shower scarcely
blown away.
"Uncle Penniloe," she began, having thus entitled him in early days, and
doing so still at coaxing times; "you will not think me a sly girl, will
you? But I found out that mother had sent for you; and as nothing would
make her tell me why, I made up my mind to come and ask you myself, if I
could only catch you here. I was sure you could never refuse me."
"Nice assurance indeed, and nice manners, to try to steal a march upon
your mother!" The Parson did his utmost to look stern; but his eyes
meeting hers failed to carry it out.
"Oh, but you know better, you could never fancy that! And your trying to
turn it off like that, only frightens me ten times more. I am sure it is
something about my father. You had better tell me all. I must know all.
I am too old now, to be treated like a child. Who can have half the
right I have, to know all about my darling dad? Is he very ill? Is his
precious life in danger? Don't look at me like that. I know more than
you imagine. Is he going to die? I will never believe it. God could
never do such a cruel wicked thing."
"My dear, what would your dear father say, to hear you talk like that? A
man so humble, and brave, and pious----"
"As humble and brave as you please, Uncle Penniloe. But I don't want him
to be pious for a long time yet. He swore a little yesterday,--that is
one comfort,--when he had no idea I was near him. And he would not have
done that, if there had been any--oh, don't go away so! I won't let you
go, until you have answered my question. Why were you sent for in such
haste?"
"How can I tell you, my dear child, until I have had time to ask about
it? You know there is to be the cricket-match on Tuesday, the north
against the south side of the valley, and even the sides are not quite
settled yet; because Mr. Jakes will not play against his Colonel, though
quite ready to play against his Parson."
"Will you give me your word, Uncle Penniloe, that you really believe you
were sent for about that?"
The clergyman saw that there was no escape, and as he looked into her
beseeching eyes, it was all that he could do to refrain his own from
tears.
"I will not cry--or at least not if I can help it," she whispered, as he
led her to the seat, and sat by her.
"My darling Nicie," he began in a low voice, and as tenderly as if he
were her father; "it has pleased the Lord to visit us with a very sad
trial; but we may hope that it will yet pass away. Your dear father is
seriously ill; and the worst of it is that, with his wonderful courage
and spirit, he makes light of it, and will not be persuaded. He could
scarcely be induced to say a word to Dr. Fox, although he is so fond of
him; and nobody knows what the malady is, except that it is painful and
wearing. My object to-day is to do my very utmost to get your dear
father to listen to us, and see a medical man of very large experience
and very great ability. And much as it has grieved me to tell you this,
perhaps it is better upon the whole; for now you will do all you can, to
help us."
"Sometimes father will listen to me," Miss Waldron answered between her
sobs; "when he won't--when he won't let anybody else--because I never
argue with him. But I thought Dr. Fox was exceedingly clever."
"So he is, my dear; but he is so young, and this is a case of great
perplexity. I have reason to believe that he wishes just as we do. So
now with God's help let us all do our best."
She tried to look cheerful; but when he was gone, a cold terror fell
upon her. Little _Pixie_ tugged at her frock unheeded, and made himself
a whirligig in chase of his own tail.