R. I. P.
"Oh, Mr. Sergeant, how you did alarm me!" cried a very pretty damsel one
fine October evening, as she almost fell upon the breast of "High
Jarks," from some narrow stone steps at the corner of a lane. She was
coming by the nearest way to the upper village, from the side-entrance
to Walderscourt, a picturesque way but a rough one. For the lane was
overhung, and even overwhelmed, with every kind of hindrance to the
proper course of trade. Out of the sides, and especially at corners,
where the right of way should have been most sacred, jutted forth
obstacles most inconsiderate, or even of set purpose, malicious. If a
great stool of fern could be treated as nothing, even with its jagged
saws quivering, or a flexible ash could be shoved aside lightly, with
the cowardly knowledge that it had no thorns; yet in ambush with their
spears couched, would be the files of furze, the barbed brigade of
holly, or the stiff picket of blackthorn. And any man, engaged with
these deliveries of the moment, might thank his stars (when visible
through the tangle overhead) if by any chance he missed a blinding thump
in both his eyes.
Alas, it would have been indeed a blessing, as well as a just
correction, for the well-seasoned master of the youth of Perlycross, if
a benevolent switch from the hedgerow had taken him sharply in the eyes,
that had so long descried nothing but motes in more tender orbs. As the
young maid drew back from the warlike arm, which had been quite obliged
to encircle her, one flash of her eyes entered those of Mr. Jakes; and
he never saw again as he had seen before.
But his usual composure was not gone yet. A true schoolmaster is well
assured, whatever the circumstance may be, that he is in the right, and
all others in the wrong.
"I beg you will offer no apologies, Miss," he began with a very gracious
smile, as he rubbed up the nap of his old velvet coat where a wicked boy
had tallow-candled it: "I take it that you are a stranger here, and not
quite familiar with our kind of road. The roads about here have a manner
of showing that they know not in what direction they are going?"
"But, Mr. Sergeant, don't you know me? Not so very long ago, I ran up
this very lane, over the plank-bridge, and up to this heling, because of
the temper you were in. It was my brother Watty you wanted to catch: but
you flourished your cane so, that the girls ran too. But you would not
have beaten poor me, Mr. Sergeant?"
She skipped back a step or two, as if still afraid, and curtsied to show
her pretty figure, and managed to let her bright hair fall down over the
blush of her soft round cheeks. Then she lifted her eyes with the
sweetest appeal; for the fair Tamar Haddon was a born coquette.
"Why, Tamar, my dear, can it possibly be you? I could never have
supposed that you would come to this. You were always the prettiest
child among the girls. But, as you know, I had nothing to do with them.
My business has always been with the boys."
"And quite right, Mr. Sergeant--they are so much better, so much quicker
to learn, as well as better-looking, and more interesting!"
"That depends upon who it may be," said Mr. Jakes judicially; "some
girls are much better at round-hand, as well as arithmetic. But why have
I lost sight of you all these years? And why have you grown such
a--well, such a size?"
"Oh, you _are_ rude! I am not a size at all. I thought that you always
learned politeness in the wars. I am only seventeen round the waist--but
you shan't see. No, no, stick you to the boys, Mr. Sergeant. I must be
off. I didn't come out for pleasure. Good evening, sir; good evening to
you!"
"Don't be in such a hurry, Miss Haddon. Don't you know when I used to
give you sugar-plums out of this horn box? And if I may say it without
offence, you are much too pretty to be in this dark place, without
somebody to take care of you."
"Ah, now you are more like the Army again. There is nothing like a
warrior, in my opinion. Oh, what a plague these brambles are! Would you
mind just holding my hat for a moment? I mustn't go into the village,
such a fright, or everybody will stare at me. My hair is such a trouble,
I have half a mind sometimes to cut off every snip of it. No, no, you
can't help me; men are much too clumsy."
Mr. Jakes was lost in deep admiration, and Tamar Haddon knew it well,
and turned away to smile, as she sat upon a bank of moss, drawing her
long tresses through the supple play of fingers and the rosy curve of
palms; while her cherry lips were pouting and her brown eyes sparkling,
in and out the golden shower from her saucy forehead. The schoolmaster
held her little hat, and watched every movement of her hands and eyes,
and wondered; for the gaiety of girlhood, and the blushes and the
glances were as the opening of a new world to him.
"I know what you are thinking now, it's no good to deny it," she cried
as she jumped up, and snatched her hat away; "you are saying to
yourself--'What a poor vain creature! Servants' hats are not allowed in
well-conducted households.' But you must understand that I am not a
common servant. I am a private lady's-maid to her ladyship, the
Countess; and she has none of your old-fashioned English ways about her.
She likes to see me look--well, perhaps you would not call it 'pretty,'
for that depends upon the wearer, and I have no pretension to it--but
tidy, and decent, and tolerably nice----"
"Wonderfully nice, and as lovely as a rose."
"Oh, Mr. Sergeant, you who must know so much better! But I have no time
for such compliments, and they would turn my little head, from such a
learned man as you are. How can I think of myself for a moment, when
things are so dreadful? Poor Sir Thomas--you know how ill he is; he is
longing for something, and I am sent to fetch it on the sly, so that Dr.
Fox should have no idea, but her ladyship says that it can do no harm,
now."
"What, the poor Colonel waiting, Miss, and I have kept you all this
time? I was just on my way to enquire for him, when--when I happened to
meet you. I can scarcely believe in any doctor conquering him."
"They are though--they are doing it. He is very low to-day. They seem to
have brought him down to a flat knock-under, just as you do with the
schoolboys. I can't hardly think of it, without crying."
The fair Tamar dropped her eyes, and hung her head a little, and then
looked softly at the veteran, to plead for his warmest sympathy.
"There, I declare to you, I have cried so much that I can't cry no
more," she continued with a sigh; "but it is a calf's sweetbread that I
be bound to get; and where from, I'd like to know, unless it is to Mr.
Robert's."
A pang shot through the heart of Mr. Jakes, and if his cane had been at
hand he would have grasped it. For Mr. Robert was his own brother, the
only butcher in the village, a man of festive nature (as a butcher ought
to be), of no habitual dignity--and therefore known as "Low Jarks"--a
favourite with the fair sex, and worst of all, some twenty years the
junior of "High Jarks."
"What, young Bobby!" cried the Sergeant, striking out, "there is nothing
that he knows worth speaking of. And what is more to the purpose, he
never will know nothing. I mean to say 'anything.' Sometimes I go back
from all my instructions all over the world, to the way--to the way you
talk, in this part of the world."
"But, Mr. Sergeant, that is only natural; considering that you belong to
this part of the world. Now, you do--don't you? However learned you may
be."
"Well, I will not deny that it comes up sometimes. A man of my years--I
mean, a young man by age, and yet one who has partaken in great motions,
feels himself so very much above butchers' shops, and the like of them.
And all the women--or as they call themselves now--all the ladies of the
neighbourhood, have now been so well educated, that they think a great
deal of the difference."
"To be sure," said Tamar Haddon, "I can quite see that. But how could
they get their meat, without the butchers' shops? Some people are too
learned, Mr. Sergeant."
"I know it, Miss. But I am very particular, not to let any one say it of
me. I could quote Latin, if I chose: but who would put a spill to my
pipe afterwards? One must never indulge in all one knows."
"Well, it does seem a pity, after spending years about it. But here we
are, come to the river-side at last. You mustn't think of coming across
the plank with me. It would never do to have you drownded; and you know
what Betty Cork is. Why, all the boys to Perlycross would be making
mouths to-morrow? And I shall go home along the turnpike-road."
The schoolmaster saw the discretion of this. Charmed as he was with this
gay young maid, he must never forget what was thought of him.
For she was the daughter of Walter Haddon, the landlord of the
_Ivy-bush_, a highly respectable place, and therefore jealous of the
parish reputation. Moreover the handrail of the footbridge was now on
the side of his empty sleeve; and the plank being very light and
tremulous, he feared to recross it without stepping backward, which was
better done without spectators. So he stayed where he was, while she
tripped across, without even touching the handrail; and the dark gleam
of the limpid Perle, in the twilight of gray branches, fluttered with
her passing shadow.
Just as she turned on the opposite bank, where cart-ruts ridged the
water's brink, and was kissing her hand to the ancient soldier, with a
gay "Good evening!"--the deep boom of a big bell rang, and quivered
throughout the valley. Cattle in the meadows ceased from browsing, and
looked up as if they were called, birds made wing for the distant wood,
and sere leaves in the stillness rustled, as the solemn thrill trembled
in the darkening air.
"For God's sake, count," the old soldier cried, raising the hat from his
grizzled head, and mounting a hillock clear of bushes; "it is the big
bell tolling!"
But the frolicsome maiden had disappeared, and he was left to count
alone.
At intervals of a minute, while the fall of night grew heavier, the
burden of the passing-bell was laid on mortal ears and hearts.
"Time is over for one more,"
was graven on the front of it, and was borne along the valley; while the
echo of the hills brought home the lesson of the reverse--
"Soon shall thy own life be o'er."
Keeping throbbing count, the listener spread the fingers of his one
hand upon his threadbare waistcoat; and they trembled more and more, as
the number grew towards the fatal forty-nine. When the forty-ninth
stroke ceased to ring, and the last pulsation died away, he stood as if
his own life depended on the number fifty. But the knell was finished;
the years it told of were but forty-nine--gone by, like the minutes
between the strokes.
"Old Channing perhaps is looking at the tower-clock. Hark! In a moment,
he will strike another stroke." But old Channing knew his arithmetic too
well.
"Now God forgive me for a sinful man--or worse than a man, an ungrateful
beast!" cried the Sergeant, falling upon his knees, with sorrow
embittered by the shameful thought, that while his old chief was at the
latest gasp, himself had been flirting merrily with a handmaid of the
house, and sniggering like a raw recruit. He wiped his eyes with the
back of his hand, and the lesson of the bell fell on him.
It had fallen at the same time upon ears more heedful, and less needful
of it. Mr. Penniloe, on his homeward road, received the mournful
message, and met the groom who had ridden so hard to save the angelical
hour. And truly, if there be any value in the ancient saying--
"Happy is the soul
That hath a speedy toll,"
the flight of Sir Thomas Waldron's spirit was in the right direction.
The clergyman turned from his homeward path, and hastened to the house
of mourning. He scarcely expected that any one as yet would care to come
down, or speak to him; but the least he could do was to offer his help.
In the hush of the dusk, he was shown through the hall, and into a
little sitting-room favoured by the ladies. Believing that he was quite
alone, for no one moved, and the light was nearly spent, he took a seat
by the curtained window, and sank into a train of sombre thoughts. But
presently a lapping sound aroused him, and going to the sofa, there he
found his favourite Nicie overcome with sorrow, her head drooping back,
like a wind-tossed flower; while _Pixie_, with a piteous gaze, was
nestling to her side, and offering every now and then the silent comfort
of his tongue.
"What is it, my dear?" The Parson asked, as if he did not know too well.
But who knows what to say sometimes? Then, shocked at himself, he
said--"Don't, my dear." But she went on sobbing, as if he had not
spoken; and he thought of his little Fay, when she lost her mother.
He was too kind to try any consolations, or press the sense of duty yet;
but he put on his glasses, and took little _Pixie_, and began to stroke
his wrinkled brow.
"This dear little thing is crying too," he whispered; and certainly
there were tears, his own or another's, on the velvet nose. Then Nicie
rose slowly, and put back her hair, and tried to look bravely at both of
them.
"If mother could only cry," she said; "but she has not moved once, and
she will not come away. There is one thing she ought to do, but she
cannot; and I am afraid that I should never do it right. Oh, will you do
it, Uncle Penniloe? It would be an excuse to get her out of the room;
and then we might make her lie down, and be better. My father is gone;
and will mother go too?"
Speaking as steadily as she could, but breaking down every now and then,
she told him, that there was a certain old ring, of no great value, but
very curious, which her father had said many years ago he would like to
have buried with him. He seemed to have forgotten it, throughout his
long illness; but his wife had remembered it suddenly, and had told them
where to find it. It was found by a trusty servant now; and she was
present, while Mr. Penniloe placed it on the icy finger, and dropped a
tear on the forehead of his friend, holy now in the last repose.
On his homeward path that night, the Curate saw through the gloom of
lonely sorrow many a storm impending. Who was there now to hold the
parish in the bonds of amity, to reconcile the farmers' feuds, to help
the struggling tradesman, to bury the aged cripple, to do any of those
countless deeds of good-will and humanity, which are less than the
discount of the interest of the debt, due from the wealthy to the poor?
And who would cheer him now with bold decision, and kind deference, in
all those difficulties which beset the country clergyman, who hates to
strain his duty, yet is fearful of relaxing it? Such difficulties must
arise; and though there certainly was in those days, a great deal more
fair give-and-take than can be now expected, there was less of settled
rule and guidance for a peaceful parson. Moreover, he felt the important
charge which he had undertaken, as co-trustee of large estates, as well
as a nervous dread of being involved in heavy outlay, with no rich
friend to back him now, concerning the repairs, and in some measure the
rebuilding, of the large and noble parish church.
But all these personal troubles vanished, in the memories of true
friendship, and in holy confidence, when he performed that last sad duty
in the dismantled church, and then in the eastern nook of the long
graveyard. He had dreaded this trial not a little, but knew what his
dear friend would have wished; and the needful strength was given him.
It has been said, and is true too often (through our present usages)
that one funeral makes many. A strong east wind of unwonted bitterness
at this time of year--it was now the last day of October--whistled
through the crowd of mourners, fluttered scarf, and crape, and veil, and
set old Channing's last tooth raging, and tossed the minister's
whitening locks, and the leaves of the Office for the Dead. So cold was
the air, that people of real pity and good feeling, if they had no
friends in the village, hied to the _Ivy-bush_, when all was over, and
called for hot brandy and water.
But among them was not Mr. Jakes, though he needed a stimulus as much as
any. He lingered in the churchyard, till the banking up was done, and
every one else had quitted it. When all alone, he scooped a hole at the
head of the grave, and filled it with a bunch of white chrysanthemums,
imbedded firmly to defy the wind. Then he returned to the sombre
school-room, at the west end of the churchyard, and with one window
looking into it. There, although he had flint and tinder, he did not
even light a dip, but sat for hours in his chair of office, with his
head laid on the old oak desk. Rough, and sad, and tumbled memories
passed before his gray-thatched eyes, and stirred the recesses of his
rugged heart.
Suddenly a shadow fell across his desk. He rose from his dream of the
past, and turning saw the half-moon quivering aslant, through the
diamond panes of the lattice. For a minute he listened, but there was
nothing to be heard, except a long low melancholy wail. Then he buttoned
his coat, his best Sunday black, and was ashamed to find the empty cuff
wet, as the bib of an infant, but with the tears of motherless old age.
After his manner--when no boys were nigh--he condemned himself for an
ancient fool, and was about to strike a light, when the sad low sound
fell again upon his ears. Determined to know what the meaning of it was,
he groped for his hat, and stout oak staff, and entered the churchyard
by the little iron gate, the private way from the school premises.
The silence was as deep as the stillness of the dead; but, by the light
of the westering moon, he made his way among the white tombstones, and
the rubbish of the builders, to the eastern corner where Sir Thomas
Waldron lay. His old chief's grave was fair and smooth, and the crisp
earth glistened in the moonlight, for the wind had fallen, and a frost
was setting in; but a small black figure lay on the crown, close to the
bunch of flowers. A low growl met him; and then a dismal wail of
anguish, beyond any power of words or tears, trembled along the wan
alleys of the dead, and lingered in the shadowy recesses of the church.
"Good little _Jess_, thou art truer than mankind," said the Sergeant,
and marched away to his lonely bed.