REASONING WITHOUT REASON.
One of the most unlucky things, that could befall an unlucky man, in the
hour of tribulation, had befallen that slandered Fox; to wit the
helpless condition of the leading spirit, and most active head, in the
troubled parish of Perlycross. Mr. Penniloe was mending slowly; but his
illness had been serious, and the violent chill in a low state of health
had threatened to cause inflammation of the lungs. To that it would have
led, there can be little doubt, but for the opportune return of Fox, and
the speedy expulsion of Jackson. Now the difficulty was to keep the
curate quiet; and his great anxiety to get to work prolonged the
disability, even as a broken arm in splinters is not likely to do
without them, while the owner works a pump.
The Doctor caught his patient, on the Friday morning, groping his way
through the long dark tunnel which underran the rectory, and just
emerging, with crafty triumph, into the drive by his own main gate.
Thyatira was gone to Jakes the butcher, after locking the front door and
carrying off the key. The parson looked miserably thin and wan, but
proud of this successful sortie. He was dressed as if for action in his
Sunday clothes, though tottering on his black-varnished stick; while his
tortoise-shell eyeglass upon its watered ribbon dangled across his
shrunken chest. But suddenly all his scheme collapsed.
"Ah, ah, ah!" he began with his usual exclamation, while his delicate
face fell sadly, and his proud simper waned into a nervous smile; "fine
morning, Fox; I hope you are quite well--pleasant morning for a walk."
"It may be pleasant," returned the Doctor, trying to look most awful;
"but like many other pleasant things it is wrong. Will you do me the
honour to take my arm?"
Fox hooked the baffled parson by the elbow, and gently led him towards
his own front door, guilty-looking, sadly smiling, striving vainly to
walk as if he were fit to contest a hurdle-race. But the cup of his
shame was not full yet.
"Oh sir, oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Muggridge, rushing in from the street with
a dish of lamb's fry reposing among its parsley. "I never would have
believed it, sir, if an Angel was to speak the words. To think that he
have come to this!"
"She refers to my moral condition, I fear;" Mr. Penniloe held his head
down, while the key he had thought to elude was used to restore him to
safer durance. "Well perhaps I was wrong; but I only meant to go a very
short way, I assure you; only as far as the spot where my dear old
friend is sleeping."
"What a blessing as we caught you, sir!" cried the impulsive Muggridge;
while her master looked up in sharp wonder, and the Doctor frowned at
her clumsiness.
"Not to the repairs, sir? Oh come, come, come!" Jemmy cut in rapidly,
with this attractive subject.
"No, not even to the repairs, or I might even say--the arrest of ruin.
Without the generosity of my dear friend, we never should have achieved
so much for the glory of--I will not speak proudly--for the doing up of
our old church. Those who should have been foremost--but no doubt they
had good reason for buttoning up their pockets. Comparatively, I mean,
comparatively; for they really did give something. Possibly, all that
they could afford."
"Or all they thought they couldn't help. It was very hard upon them,
sir. But you are getting into a rebellious humour. Sit down by the fire,
and allow me to examine you."
"I will carry my rebellion further," said the invalid, after sitting
down. "I know how kind you have been to me, kinder by far than I ever
could deserve. And I believe it was the goodness of the Lord that
delivered me from Jackson. He meant well; but he can not be positive
whether the lungs should be higher up, or deeper down than the liver. I
have been examined, and examiner as well, at Oxford, and in some public
schools; but the question has never arisen; and I felt myself unable to
throw any light on it. Still it struck me that he ought to know, as a
properly qualified medical man."
"No, sir, no. That is quite a trifle. That should never have lessened
your confidence in him." Dr. Fox spoke so gravely, that Mr. Penniloe was
angry with his own inside.
"Well, after all, the mind and soul are the parts that we should study.
I see that I have wronged poor Jackson, and I will apologise. But what I
have to say to you is this--even if I am not to take a walk, I must be
allowed some communication with people of the parish. I have no idea
what is going on. I am isolated as if I had the plague, or the cholera
of three years ago. Let me see Channing, or Jakes, or Mr. Horner, or
even Robson Adney."
"In a day or two, sir. You are getting stronger fast; and we must not
throw you back. You must have a little patience. Not a service has been
missed; and you can do no good."
"That may be true," said the parson with a sigh. "Unhappily they always
tell me that; but it does not absolve me. All my duties are neglected
now. Three pupils, and not a lesson have I heard them. How can that new
boy get on without me? A very odd youth, from all that I am told. He
will require much attention. No, no, it will never do, Fox. I know how
kind everybody has been, in doing with only one sermon; and the Lord has
provided an uncommonly good man. But I feel as if there was something
wrong. I am sure you are hiding something from me. I am not allowed to
see anybody; and even Fay looks odd sometimes, as if the others were
puzzling her. And the pupils too must have heard of something bad; for
poor little Michael has been forbidden to talk to any of them. What is
it? It would hurt me less to know, than to keep on wondering, and
probably imagine it worse than it is. And good or bad for my bodily
health, my first duty is not to myself, but to those entrusted to me."
Mr. Penniloe had spoken with more excitement than he often showed when
in his usual health, and the doctor had observed it with some alarm. But
he had long foreseen that this must come; and it might come in a more
abrupt and dangerous manner, when he was out of reach. So he made up
his mind at once, and spoke without further hesitation.
"Yes, sir, a most disgraceful thing has happened in this parish; and it
is better perhaps that you should know it, than be kept in the dark any
longer. But you must not be angry with me, though I have given all the
orders which puzzled you. It was not for my own sake, you may be sure;
for God only knows how much I have longed for your advice in this
miserable affair. And yet, before I tell you, you must promise to do
nothing whatever about it, for at least three days. By that time you
will be yourself again, if we can keep you quiet, and if you take this
sad blow with your usual strength of mind--and piety."
The parson began to tremble, and the blue lines on his delicate forehead
shone, like little clues of silk. He fingered his open glasses, and
began to raise them, until it struck him that he might seem rude, if he
thus inspected Fox throughout his narrative. A rude act was impossible
to him; so he leaned back in his ancient chair, and simply said--"Be
quick, my friend, if you can thus oblige me."
The young man watched him very narrowly, while he told his dreadful
tale; and Thyatira in the passage sobbed, and opened her
smelling-bottle, for she had been making urgent signs and piteous
appeals from the background to the doctor to postpone this trial. But
her master only clasped his hands, and closed his quivering eyelids.
Without a word he heard the whole; though little starts, and twitching
lips, and jerkings of his gaiter'd foot, made manifest that self-control
was working at high pressure.
"And who has done this inhuman thing?" asked Mr. Penniloe at last; after
hoping that he need not speak, until he felt that he could speak. "Such
things have been done about Bristol; but never in our county. And my
dear friend, my best friend Tom! We dare not limit the mercy of God; for
what are we? Ah, what are we? But speaking as a frail man should, if
there is any crime on earth----" He threw his handkerchief over his
head; for what can the holiest man pronounce? And there was nothing that
moved him more to shame, than even to be called a "holy man."
"The worst of it is," said Dr. Fox, with tears in his eyes, for he
loved this man, although so unlike him in his ways of thought; "the
worst of it is--or at least from a wretchedly selfish point of view, the
worst--that all the neighbourhood has pitched upon the guilty person."
"Who is supposed to have done this horribly wicked thing? Not Gowler?"
"No sir; but somebody nearer home. Somebody well-known in the village."
"Tell me who it is, my dear fellow. I am sure there is no one here who
would have done it."
"Everybody else is sure there is. And the name of the scoundrel
is--James Fox."
"Fox, it is not a time for jokes. If you knew how I feel, you would not
joke."
"I am not joking, sir," said Fox, and his trembling voice confirmed his
words. "The universal conclusion is, that I am the villain that did it."
"My dear friend, my noble fellow!" The Parson sprang up on his feeble
legs, and took both of Jemmy's strong thick hands in his quivering
palms, and looked at him; "I am ashamed of my parish; and of myself, as
a worthless labourer. And with this crushing lie upon you, you have been
tending me, day and night, and shown not a sign of your bitter disdain!"
"I knew that you would acquit me, sir. And what did I care for the rest
of them? Except one of course--well you know what I mean; and I must now
give up all hope of that. Now take a little of this strengthening stuff,
and rest for a couple of hours."
"I will take the stuff; but I will not rest, until you have told me,
upon what grounds this foul accusation has been brought. That I should
be in this helpless state, when I ought to go from house to house--truly
the ways of Providence are beyond our poor understanding."
The young man told him in a few hot words, upon what a flimsy tale his
foes had built this damning charge, and how lightly those who called
themselves his friends had been ready to receive it. He had had a long
interview with Crang, and had shaken the simple blacksmith's faith in
his own eyes; and that was all. Owing to the sharp frost of the night,
there was no possibility of following the track of the spring-cart up
the road, though its course had first been eastward, and in the
direction of the Old Barn. For the same reason, all attempts had failed
in the immediate scene of the outrage; and the crisp white frost had
settled on bruised herbage and heavy footmark.
"There is nothing more to be done in that way;" the Doctor finished with
a bitter smile; "their luck was in the right scale, and mine in the
wrong one, according to the usual rule. Now what do you advise me to do,
dear sir?"
"I am never very quick, as some men are;" Mr. Penniloe replied, without
even the reproof which he generally administered to those who spoke of
"luck." "I am slow in perceiving the right course, when it is a question
of human sagacity. But the Lord will guide this for our good. Allow me
to think it over, and to make it a subject of earnest prayer."
Fox was well content with this, though his faith in prayer was limited.
But he knew that the clergyman was not of those, who plead so well that
the answer tallies with their inclinations. For such devoted labourers,
when a nice preferment comes in view, lay it before the "Throne of
Grace;" and the heavenly order always is--"Go thou into the fatter
Vineyard." Mr. Penniloe had not found it thus, when a College living was
offered to him as a former Fellow, at a time when he and his wife could
scarce succeed in making both ends meet. The benefice being in a part of
Wales where the native tongue alone prevailed, his Ministry could be
blest to none but the occupants of the rectory. Therefore he did not
pray for guidance, but for grace to himself and wife--especially the
latter--to resist this temptation without a murmur. Therein he
succeeded, to the huge delight of the gentleman next upon the roll, and
equally ignorant of Welsh, whose only prayer upon the occasion
was--"Thank the Lord, oh my soul!"
In the afternoon, when Fox returned according to arrangement, he found
his much respected patient looking pale and sad, but tranquil. He had
prayed as only those who are in practice can accomplish it; and his
countenance showed that mind and heart, as well as soul, were fortified.
His counsel to Fox was to withstand, and not to be daunted by the most
insidious stratagem of the Evil One--whose existence was more personal
in those days than it now appears, and therefore met more gallantly--to
pay no heed to furtive looks, sly whispers, cold avoidance, or even
spiteful insults, but to carry himself as usual, and show an example to
the world of a gentleman and a Christian.
Fox smiled in his sleeve, for his fist was sore with knocking down three
low cads that day; but he knew that the advice was sound, and agreed
with that of Squire Mockham, only it was more pacific, and grounded on
larger principles.
"And now, my dear young friend," the Parson continued very earnestly;
"there are two things I have yet to speak of, if you will not think me
intrusive. You ought to have some one in the Old Barn to comfort and to
cheer you. The evenings are very long and dark, and now I suppose you
will have to spend the greater part of them at home. Even without such
trouble as yours, a lonely man is apt to become depressed and sometimes
bitter. I have heard you speak of your sister, I think--your only
sister, I believe--and if your father could spare her----"
"My father is much stronger, sir. But I could not think of bringing
Christie here. Why, it would be wretched for her. And if anybody
insulted her----"
"Who could insult her, in your own house? She would stay at home mostly
in that very quiet place, and have her own amusements. She would come
across no one, but old Betty and yourself. It would feel lonely at
first, no doubt; but a loving sister would not mind that. You would take
care not to vex her by speaking of any of the slights you suffered, or
even referring to the subject at all, whenever it could be avoided. If
it were only for one week, till you get used to this sad state of
things, what a difference it would make to you! Especially if she is of
a lively nature. What is her character--at all like yours?"
"Not a bit. She has ten times the pluck that I have. I should like to
hear any one dare to say a word against me, before Christie. But it is
not to be thought of, my dear sir. A pretty coward I should be to bring
a girl here to protect me!"
"What is her name? Christine, I suppose. A very good name indeed; and I
dare say she deserves it." The curate looked at Fox, to have his
inference confirmed; and the young man burst into a hearty laugh--his
first for a most unaccustomed length of time.
"Forgive me, sir. I couldn't help it. I was struck with the contrast
between your idea of a Christian, and Christie's. Though if any one
called her anything else, he would have a specimen of zeal. For she is
of the militant Christian order, girt with the sword of the Spirit. A
great deal of St. Peter, but not an atom of St. John. Thoroughly
religious, according to her lights; and always in a flame of generosity.
Her contempt for any littleness is something splendid; except when it is
found in any one she loves. She is always endeavouring to 'see herself
from the outside,' as she expresses it; and yet she is inside all the
time. Without any motive that a man can see, she flares up sometimes
like a rocket, and then she lies rolling in self-abasement. She is as
full as she can be of reasoning; and yet there is not a bit of reason in
her. Yet somehow or other, everybody is wonderfully fond of Christie."
"What a valuable addition to this parish! And the very one to keep you
up, in this mysterious trial. She would come at once, of course; if she
is as you describe her."
"Come, sir? She would fly--or at least post with four horses. What a
sensation in Perlycross! But she is not the one to live in a cupboard,
and keep silence. She would get up in your pulpit, sir, and flash away
at your Churchwardens. No, I could not think of bringing her into this
turmoil. If I did, it would serve me right enough, never to get out of
it."
"Very well. We shall see," Mr. Penniloe said quietly, having made up his
mind, after Fox's description, to write for this doughty champion,
whatever offence might come of it. "Now one other matter, and a delicate
one. Have you seen Lady Waldron, since this terrible occurrence?"
"No; I have feared to go near the house. It must be so awful for them.
It is horrible enough for me, God knows. But I am ashamed to think of my
own trouble, in comparison with theirs. I shall never have the courage
to go near them."
"It would be a frightful visit; and yet I think that you should go
there. But it is most difficult to say. In all the dark puzzles and
trials of this world, few men have been placed, I should say, in such a
strange dilemma. If you go, you may shock them beyond expression. If you
don't go, you must confirm their worst ideas. But there is one who holds
you guiltless."
"I am afraid that you only mean--the Lord," Jemmy Fox said, with his
eyes cast down. "It is out of my luck to hope for more. He is very good,
of course--but then He never comes and does it. I wish that you meant
some one nearer."
"My dear young friend, my dear young friend! Who can be nearer to us?"
The Parson thought of his own dark times, and spoke with reproach, but
not rebuke. "I ought to have meant the Lord, no doubt. But in plain
truth, I didn't. I meant a mere mortal, like yourself. Oh, how we all
come down to ground! I should have referred to Providence. What a sad
relapse from duty!"
"Relapse more, sir. Relapse more!" cried the young man, insisting on the
human vein. "You have gone so far, that you must speak out, as--as a
Messenger of good tidings."
"Really, Jemmy, you do mix things up"--the parson's eyes twinkled at
this turn upon him--"in a very extraordinary manner. You know what I
mean, without any words of mine."
"But how can you tell, sir? Oh, how can you tell? If I could only be
sure of that, what should I care for anything?"
"Young man, you are sure," said Mr. Penniloe, placing his hand upon
Jemmy's shoulder. "Or if you are not, you are not worthy to have faith
in anything. Next to the word of God, I place my confidence in a woman's
heart."
Fox said not another word. His heart was as full as the older man's. One
with the faithful memory, and the other with the hopeful faith of love.
But he kept out of sight, and made a stir, with a box of powders, and
some bottles.
When he got home, in a better state of mind than he had been able to
afford for a long time, out rushed somebody, and pulled him off his
horse, and took the whole command of him with kisses.
"I will never forgive you, never, never!" cried a voice of clear music,
out of proper pitch with tears. "To think that you have never told me,
Jemmy, of all the wicked things they are doing to you!"
"Why, Christie, what on earth has brought you here? Look out! You are
going all to tatters with my spurs! Was there ever such a headlong girl?
What's up now?"
"It won't do, Jemmy. Your poor mind is all abroad. I saw the whole thing
in the _Exeter Gazette_. You deserve to be called--even worse than they
have called you, for behaving so to me."