A WAGER.
It was true enough that Mr. Penniloe was gone to London, as Gronow said.
But it was not true that otherwise he would have held a prayer-meeting
every day in Lady Waldron's room, for the benefit of her case. He would
have been a great support and strength to Inez in her anxiety, and
doubtless would have joined his prayers with hers; that would have been
enough for him. Dr. Gronow was a man who meant well upon the whole, but
not in every crick and cranny, as a really fine individual does. But the
Parson was even less likely than the Doctor, to lift a latch plugged by
a lady against him.
"Thyatira, do you think that you could manage to see to the children,
and the butcher's bill, during the course of next week," he enquired,
when the pupils were off for their holiday, with accordions, and
pan-pipes and pea-shooters; "I have particular business in London. Only
Betty Cork, and old Job Tapscott, have come to my readings of Solomon's
Song, and both of them are as deaf as milestones. Master Harry will be
home again in three days' time, and when he is in the house you have no
fear; though your confidence should be placed much higher. Master
Michael is stronger of late, and if we can keep shocking stories from
him, his poor little head may be right again. There really has been no
proof at all of the existence of any Spring-heeled Jack; and he would
never come here to earn his money. He may have been mentioned in
Prophecy, as the Wesleyan Minister declared, but I have failed to come
across the passage. Our Church does not deal in those exciting views,
and does not recognise dark lanterns."
"No sir, we are much soberer like; but still there remains the Seven
Vials."
The Parson was up to snuff--if the matter may be put upon so low a
footing. Mrs. Muggridge had placed her arms akimbo, in challenge
Theological. He knew that her views were still the lowest of the low,
and could not be hoisted by any petard to the High Church level. And
the worst of it is that such people are pat with awkward points of Holy
Writ, as hard to parry as the stroke of Jarnac. In truth he must himself
confess that partly thus had Thyatira, at an early and impressible age,
been induced to join the Church, when there chanced to be a vacancy for
a housemaid at the Parsonage. It was in his father's parish, where her
father, Stephen Muggridge, occupied a farm belonging to the Rev. Isaac
Penniloe. Philip, as a zealous Churchman, urged that the Parson's chief
tenant should come to church, but the Rev. Isaac took a larger view,
preferring his tangible cornland to his spiritual Vineyard.
"You had better let Stephen alone," he said, "you would very soon get
the worst of it, with all your new Oxford theology. Farmer Steve is a
wonderfully stout Antipædobaptist; and he searches the Scriptures every
day, which leaves no chance for a Churchman, who can only find time on a
Saturday."
This dissuasion only whetted the controversial appetite, and off set
Philip with his Polyglot Bible under his arm. When Farmer Stephen saw
him coming, he smiled a grim and gallant smile, being equally hot for
the combat. Says he, after a few preliminary passes,
"Now, young sir, look here! I'll show 'e a text as you can't explain
away, with all Oxford College at the back of thee. Just you turn to
Gospel of John, third chapter and fifth verse, and you read it, after
me. 'Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter
into the Kingdom of God.' The same in your copy, bain't it now? Then
according to my larning, m. a. n. spells _man_, and b. a. b. e. spells
_babe_. Now till you can put b. a. b. e. in the place of m. a. n. in
that there text, what becomes of your Church baptism?"
The farmer grinned gently at the Parson, in the pride of triumph, and
looked round for his family to share it.
"Farmer Stephen, that sounds well;" replied the undaunted Philip, "but
perhaps you will oblige me, by turning over a few leaves, as far as the
sixteenth chapter of the same Gospel, and verse twenty-one. You see how
it begins with reference to the pains of a mother, and then occur these
words--'she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a _man_ is
born into the world.' Now was that man born full-grown, Farmer Stephen?"
The farmer knitted his brows, and stared; there was no smile left upon
his face; but in lieu of it came a merry laugh from beside his big oaken
chair; and the head of her class in the village school was studying his
countenance.
"Her can go to Parsonage," quoth the Antipædobaptist, "her won't take no
harm in a household where they know their Bible so."
Farmer Stephen was living still; and like a gentleman had foregone all
attempts to re-capture his daughter. With equal forbearance, Penniloe
never pressed his own opinions concerning smaller matters upon his pious
housekeeper, and therefore was fain to decline, as above, her often
proffered challenges.
"There are many things still very dark before us," he answered with his
sweet sad smile; "let us therefore be instant in prayer, while not
neglecting our worldly duties. It is a worldly duty now, which takes me
from my parish, much against my own desires. I shall not stay an hour
more than can be helped, and shall take occasion to forward, if I can,
the interests of our restoration fund."
Mrs. Muggridge, when she heard of that, was ready at once to do her
best. Not that she cared much about the church repairs, but that her
faithful heart was troubled by her master's heavy anxieties. As happens
(without any one established exception) in such cases, the outlay had
proved to be vastly vaster than the most exhaustive estimate. Mr.
Penniloe felt himself liable for the repayment of every farthing; and
though the contractors at Exeter were most lenient and considerate
(being happily a firm of substance), his mind was much tormented--at the
lower tides of faith--about it. At least twelve hundred pounds was
certain to fall due at Christmas, that season of peace and good-will for
all Christians, who can pay for it. Even at that date there were several
good and useful Corporations, Societies, Associations, ready to help the
Church of England, even among white men, when the case was put well
before them. The Parson had applied by letter vainly; now he hoped to
see the people, and get a trifle out of them.
The long and expensive journey, and the further expense of the sojourn,
were quite beyond his resources--drained so low by the House of the
Lord--but now the solicitors to the estate of Sir Thomas Waldron Bart.
deceased required his presence in London for essential formalities, and
gladly provided the _viaticum_. Therefore he donned his warmest clothes,
for the weather was becoming wintry, put the oilskin over his Sunday
hat--a genuine beaver, which had been his father's, and started in life
at two guineas, and even now in its Curate stage might stand out for
twenty-one shillings--and committing his household solemnly to the care
of the Almighty, met the first up-coach before daylight on Monday, when
it changed horses at the _Blue Ball_ Inn, at the north-east corner of
his parish.
All western coaches had been quickened lately by tidings of steam in the
North, which would take a man nearly a score of miles in one hour; and
though nobody really believed in this, the mere talk of it made the
horses go. There was one coach already, known by the rather profane name
of _Quicksilver_, which was said to travel at the almost impious pace of
twelve miles an hour. But few had much faith in this break-neck tale,
and the _Quicksilver_ flew upon the southern road, which never comes
nigh the Perle valley. Even so, there were coaches on this upper road
which averaged nine miles an hour all the way, foregoing for the sake of
empty speed, breakfast, and dinner, and even supper on the road. By one
of these called the _Tallyho_, Mr. Penniloe booked his place for London,
and arrived there in good health but very tired, early on Tuesday
morning.
The curate of Perlycross was not at all of the rustic parson type, such
as may still be found in many an out-of-the-way parish of Devon. He was
not likely to lose himself in the streets of "Mighty Babylon," as London
was generally called in those days--and he showed some perception of the
right thing to do, by putting up at the "Old Hummums." His charges for
the week were borne by the lawyers, upon whose business he was come; and
therefore the whole of his time was placed at the disposal of their
agents, Messrs. Spindrift, Honeysweet, and Hoblin, of Theobald's Road,
Gray's Inn. That highly respected firm led him about from office to
office, and pillar to post, sometimes sitting upon the pillar, sometimes
leaning against the post, according to the usage immemorial of their
learned Profession. But one of the things he was resolved to do between
Doe and Roe, and Nokes and Styles, was to see his old friend Harrison
Gowler, concerning the outrage at Perlycross.
There happened to be a great run now upon that eminent Physician,
because he had told a lady of exalted rank, who had a loose tendon
somewhere, that she had stepped on a piece of orange-peel five and
twenty years ago. Historical research proved this to be too true,
although it had entirely escaped the august patient's memory. Dr. Gowler
became of course a Baronet at once, his practice was doubled, though it
had been very large, and so were all his fees, though they had not been
small. In a word, he was the rage, and was making golden hay in the full
blaze of a Royal sun.
No wonder then that the simple friend for a long time sought the great
man vainly. He could not very well write, to ask for an interview on the
following day, because he never knew at what hour he might hope to be
delivered from the lawyers; and it never occurred to him to prepay the
postage of his card from door to table, through either of the haughty
footmen. Slow as he was to take offence, he began to fear that it must
be meant, for the name of his hotel was on his cards; until as he was
turning away once more, debating with himself whether self-respect would
allow him to lift that brass knocker again, the great man himself came
point-blank upon him. The stately footman had made a rush for his pint
of half-and-half round the corner, and Sir Harrison had to open his own
door to show a noble patient forth.
"What, you in London, Penniloe!" And a kind grasp of the hand made it
clear, that the physician was not himself to blame. In a few quick words
it was arranged that the Parson should call again at six o'clock, and
share his old friend's simple meal. "We shall have two good hours for a
talk," said Gowler, "for all the great people are at dinner then. At
eight, I have a consultation on."
"I never have what can be called a dinner;" Sir Harrison said, when
they met again; "only a bit of--I forget what the Greek expression is.
There is an American turn for it."
"You must indeed be overdone, if you are forgetting your Greek," replied
his friend; "you were far in front of me there always; though I think I
was not so far behind, in Latin."
"I think you were better in both. But what matter? We have little time
now for such delights. How often I wish I were back again at Oxford; ten
times poorer, but a thousand times happier. What is the good of my
hundred pounds a day? I often get that; and am ashamed of it."
The Parson refrained from quoting any of the plentiful advice upon that
matter, from the very highest authorities. He tried to look cheerfully
at his old friend, and did not even shake his head. But a very deep
sadness was in his own heart; and yet a confirmation of his own higher
faith.
Then knowing that the time was very short and feeling his duty to his
own parish, he told the tale he was come to tell; and Sir Harrison
listened intently to it.
"I scarcely know what to think," he said; "even if I were on the spot,
and knew every one whom it was possible to suspect, it would be a
terrible puzzle to me. One thing may be said, with confidence, amounting
almost to certainty, that it is not a medical matter at all. That much I
can settle, beyond all doubt, by means which I need not specify. Even
with you I cannot enter upon questions so professional. We know that
irregular things are done, and the folly of the law compels them. But
this is quite out of the course they pursue. However I can make quite
certain about all that within a week. Meanwhile you should look for a
more likely clue. You have lost invaluable time by concluding, as of
course the stupid public would, especially after all the Burke and Hare
affairs, that 'the doctors must be at the bottom of it.' Most unlucky
that you were so unwell, or you might have set the enquiry on the right
track from the first. Surely it must have occurred to you that medical
men, as a general rule, are the sharpest fellows of the neighbourhood,
except of course--of course excepting the parsons?"
"They are sharper than we are," said the Parson with a smile; "but
perhaps that is the very thing that tells against our faith in them."
"Very likely. But still it keeps them from utterly mad atrocities. Sir
Thomas Waldron, a famous man, a grand old soldier, and above all a
wealthy man! Why they could have done no more to a poor old wretch from
the workhouse!"
"The crime in that case would have been as great; perhaps greater,
because more cowardly."
"You always were a highflyer, my friend. But never mind the criminality.
What we want to know is the probability. And to find out that, we have
to study not the laws of morality, but the rules of human conduct. What
was the name of the man I met about the case, at your house? Oh, I
remember--Gronow; a very shrewd clear-headed fellow. Well, what does he
say about it?"
"As nearly as possible what you have said. Some slight suspicion has
fallen upon him. But as I told you, Jemmy Fox has come in for the lion's
share of it."
"Poor young fellow! It must be very hard to bear. It will make him hate
a Profession in which he would have been sure to distinguish himself,
because he really loves it. What a thick-headed monster the English
public is! They always exult in a wild-goose chase. Are you sure that
the body was ever carried off at all?"
"The very question Doctor Gronow asked! Unhappily, there can be no doubt
whatever upon that point. As I ought to have told you, though I was not
there to see it, the search was made in the middle of the day, and with
a dozen people round the grave. They went to the bottom, found the
brickwork broken down, and no sign of any coffin."
"Well, that ought to lead us to something clear. That alone is almost
certain proof of what I said just now. 'Resurrection-men,' as the stupid
public calls them--would have taken the body alone. Not only because
they escape all charge of felony by doing so, but that it is so much
easier; and for many other reasons which you may imagine. I begin to see
my way more clearly. Depend upon it, this is some family matter. Some
private feud, or some motive of money, or perhaps even some religious
scruple lies at the bottom of this strange affair. I begin to think
that you will have to go to Spain, before you understand it all. How has
Lady Waldron behaved about it?"
"She has been most bitter against poor Jemmy." Mr. Penniloe had not
heard of what was happening this very week at Walderscourt. "She will
not see him, will not hear his name, and is bitter against any one who
takes his part. She cannot even bring herself to speak to me, because in
common fairness I have done my best for him, against the general
opinion, and her own firm conclusion. That is one reason why I am in
London now. She will not even act with me in taking probate of the will.
In fact it has driven her, as I fear, almost to the verge of insanity;
for she behaves most unkindly even to her daughter. But she is more to
be pitied than blamed, poor thing."
"I agree with you; in case of all this being genuine. But is it so? Or
is it a bit of acting over-acted? I have known women, who could act so
as to impose upon their own brains."
"It has never once entered my head," replied the simple-minded Parson,
"to doubt that all she says, and does, is genuine. Even you could not
doubt, if you beheld her."
"I am not so sure of that," observed Sir Harrison very drily; "the
beauty of your character is the grand simplicity. You have not the least
idea of any wickedness."
"My dear fellow," cried the Parson deeply shocked; "it is, alas, my sad
duty to find out and strive with the darkest cases of the depravity of
our fallen race!"
"Of course. But you think none the worse of them for that. It is water
on a duck's back, to such a man as you. Well, have it so; if you like. I
see the worst of their bodies, and you the worst of their souls, as you
suppose. But I think you put some of your own into them--infusion of
sounder blood, as it were."
"Gowler, you may think as ill, as fallen nature can make you think, of
all your fellow-creatures;" Mr. Penniloe spoke with a sharpness very
seldom found in words of his. "But in fair truth, it is beyond the
blackest of all black bitterness to doubt poor Lady Waldron's simple and
perfect sincerity."
"Because of her very magnificent eyes," Sir Harrison answered, as if to
himself, and to meet his own too charitable interjections. "But what has
she done, to carry out her wild revenge at an outrage, which she would
feel more keenly perhaps than the most sensitive of English women? Has
she moved high and low, ransacked the earth, set all the neighbourhood
on fire, and appealed with tears, and threats, and money, (which is the
strongest of all appeals) to the Cæsar enthroned in London? If she had
done any of these things, I fancy I should have heard of them."
For the moment Mr. Penniloe disliked his friend; as a man may feel
annoyance at his own wife even, when her mind for some trivial cause is
moving on a lower level than his own.
"As yet she has not taken any strong steps," he confessed with some
reluctance; "because she has been obliged to act under her lawyer's
guidance. Remember that she is a foreigner, and knows nothing of our
legal machinery."
"Very likely not. But Webber does--Webber her solicitor. I suppose
Webber has been very energetic."
"He has not done so much as one might have expected. In fact he has
seemed to me rather remiss. He has had his own private hands at work,
which as he says is the surest plan; but he has brought no officers from
London down. He tells me that in all such cases they have failed; and
more than that, they have entirely spoiled the success of all private
enquiry."
"It looks to me very much as if private enquiry had no great desire to
succeed. My conclusion grows more and more irresistible. Shall I tell
you what it is?"
"My dear fellow, by all means do. I shall attach very great importance
to it."
"It is simply this," Sir Harrison spoke less rapidly than usual; "all
your mystery is solved in this--_Lady Waldron knows all about it_. How
you all have missed that plain truth, puzzles me. She has excellent
reasons for restricting the enquiry, and casting suspicion upon poor
Fox. Did I not hear of a brother of hers, a Spanish nobleman I think he
was?"
"Yes, her twin-brother, the Count de Varcas. She has always been warmly
attached to him; but Sir Thomas did not like him much. I think he has
been extravagant. Lady Waldron has been doing her utmost to discover
him."
"I dare say. To be sure she has! Advertised largely of course. Oh dear,
oh dear! What poor simple creatures we men are, in comparison with
women!"
Mr. Penniloe was silent. He had made a good dinner, and taken a glass of
old port-wine; and both those proceedings were very rare with him. Like
all extremely abstemious men, when getting on in years, he found his
brain not strengthened, but confused, by the unusual supply. The air of
London had upon him that effect which it often has at first upon
visitors from the country--quick increase of appetite, and hearty joy in
feeding.
"Another thing you told me, which confirms my view," resumed the
relentless Doctor--"the last thing discovered before you came away--but
not discovered, mark you, by her ladyship's agents--was that the cart
supposed to have been employed had been traced to a smuggler's
hiding-place, in a desolate and unfrequented spot, probably in the
direction of the coast. Am I right in supposing that?"
"Partly so. It would be towards the sea; though certainly not the
shortest way."
"But the best way probably of getting at the coast, if you wished to
avoid towns and villages? That you admit? Then all is plain. Poor Sir
Thomas was to be exported. Probably to Spain. That I will not pretend to
determine; but I think it most likely. Perhaps to be buried in Catholic
soil, and with Catholic ceremonial; which they could not do openly here,
because of his own directions. How simple the very deepest mystery
becomes, when once you have the key to it! But how strange that it never
occurred to you! I should have thought Gronow at any rate would have
guessed it."
"He has more penetration than I have; I am well aware of that," replied
the humble Parson; "and you of course have more than either of us. But
for all that, Gowler, and although I admit that your theory is very
plausible, and explains many points that seemed inexplicable, I cannot,
and I will not accept it for a moment."
"Where is your difficulty? Is it not simple--consistent with all that
we know of such people, priest-ridden of course, and double-faced, and
crafty? Does it not solve every difficulty? What can you urge against
it?"
"My firm belief in the honesty, affection, and good faith of women."
"Whew!" The great physician forgot his dignity, in the enjoyment of so
fine a joke. He gave a long whistle, and then put his thumb to his nose,
and extended his fingers, as schoolboys of that period did. "Honesty of
women, Penniloe! At your age, you surely know better than that. A very
frail argument indeed."
"Because of my age it is perhaps that I do know better. I would rather
not discuss the subject. You have your views; and I have mine."
"I am pleased with this sort of thing, because it reminds one so much of
boyhood;" Sir Harrison stood by the fire, and began to consult his short
gray locks. "Let me see, how many years is it, since I cherished such
illusions? Well, they are pleasant enough while they last. I suppose you
never make a bet, Penniloe?"
"Of course not, Gowler. You seem to be as ignorant of clergymen, as you
are of women."
"Don't be touchy, my dear fellow. Many of the cloth accept the odds, and
have privilege of clergy when they lose. Well, I'll tell you what I will
do. You see that little cupboard in the panelling? It has only one key,
and the lock is peculiar. Here I deposit--behold my act and deed--these
two fifty-pound notes. You take the key. Now you shall come, or send
either churchwarden, and carry them off for the good of your
church-restoration fund, the moment you can prove that my theory is
wrong."
"I am not sure," said the clergyman, with a little agitation, as the
courage of that single glass of port declined, "that this is not too
much in the nature of a wager."
"No, there is no wager. That requires two parties. It is simply a
question of forfeiture. No peril to a good cause--as you would call
it--in case of failure. And a solid gain to it, if I prove wrong. Take
the key, my friend. My time is up."
Mr. Penniloe, the most conscientious of mankind, and therefore the most
gentle, had still some qualms about the innocence of this. But his
friend's presumptuous manner hushed them. He dropped the key into his
deep watch-pocket, specially secured against the many rogues of London;
and there it was when he mounted on the _Magnet_ coach, at two o'clock
on the Friday afternoon, prepared for a long and dreary journey to his
home.
The _Magnet_ was one of those calm and considerate coaches which thought
a great deal more of the comfort and safety of their passengers and
horses, than of the fidgety hands of any clock--be it even a cathedral
clock--on the whole road from London to Exeter. What are the most
important hours of the day? Manifestly those of feeding. Each of them is
worth any other three. Therefore, you lose three times the time you
save, by omitting your dinner. This coach breakfasted, dined, and
supped, and slept on the road, or rather out of it, and started again as
fresh as paint, quite early enough in the morning.
With his usual faith in human nature, Mr. Penniloe had not enquired into
these points, but concluded that this coach would rush along in the
breathless manner of the _Tallyho_. This leisurely course began to make
him very nervous, and when on the Saturday at two o'clock, another
deliberate halt was made at a little wayside inn, some fifty miles still
from Perlycross, and every one descended with a sprightly air, the
clergyman marched up to the coachman to remonstrate.
"Unless we get on a little faster," he said, with a kind but anxious
smile; "I shall not be at home for Sunday."
"Can't help that, sir. The coach must dine;" replied the fat driver, as
he pulled his muffler down, to give his capacious mouth fair play.
"But--but consider, Mr. Coachman; I must get home. I have my church to
serve."
"Must serve the dinner first, sir, if you please," said the landlord
coming forward with a napkin, which he waved as if it were worth a score
of sermons: "all the gents are waiting, sir, for you to say the
grace--hot soup, knuckle of veal, boiled round, and baked potatoes.
Gents has to pay, if they dine, or if they don't. Knowing this, all
gents does dine. Preach all the better, sir, to-morrow for it."
If this preparation were needful, the curate's sermon would not have
been excellent, for anxiety had spoiled his appetite. When at length
they lumbered on again, he strove to divert his thoughts by observing
his fellow-passengers. And now for the first time he descried, over the
luggage piled on the roof, a man with a broad slouched hat and fur
cloak, who sat with his back towards him, for Mr. Penniloe had taken his
place on the hinder part of the coach. That man had not joined the
dinner party, yet no one remained on the coach or in it during the
dinner hour; for the weather was cold and windy, with a few flakes of
snow flying idly all day, and just making little ribs of white upon the
road. Mr. Penniloe was not a very observant man, least of all on a
Saturday, when his mind was dwelling chiefly upon Scriptural subjects;
but he could not help wondering how this man came there; for the coach
had not stopped since they left the little inn.
This perhaps drew his attention to the man, who appeared to be
"thoroughly a foreigner," as John Bull in those days expressed it. For
he wore no whiskers, but a long black beard streaked with silver, as
even those behind could see, for the whirl of the north wind tossed it
now and then upon his left shoulder. He kept his head low behind the
coachman's broad figure, and appeared to speak to nobody, but smoked
cigars incessantly, lighting each from the stump of its predecessor, and
scattering much ash about, to the discomfort of his neighbours' eyes.
Although Mr. Penniloe never smoked, he enjoyed the fragrance of a good
cigar, perhaps more than the puffer himself does (especially if he puff
too vehemently), and he was able to pronounce this man's tobacco very
fine.
At length they arrived at Pumpington, about six miles from Perlycross,
and here Mr. Penniloe fully expected another halt for supper, and had
made up his mind in that case to leave the coach and trudge home afoot.
But to his relief, they merely changed horses, and did that with some
show of alacrity; for they were bound to be at Exeter that night, and
the snow was beginning to thicken. At the turnpike-gate two men got up;
one of them a sailor, going probably to Plymouth, who mounted the
tarpaulin that covered the luggage, and threw himself flat upon it with
a jovial air, and made himself quite at home, smoking a short pipe, and
waving a black bottle, when he could spare time from sucking it. The
other man came and sat beside the Parson, who did not recognise him at
first; for the coach carried only two lamps, both in front, and their
light was thrown over their shoulders now and then, in rough streams,
like the beard of the foreigner. All the best coaches still carried a
guard, and the Royal Mail was bound to do so; but the Magnet towards the
end of its career had none.
Mr. Penniloe meekly allowed the new-comer to edge his feet gradually out
of the straw nest, and work his own into the heart of it; for now it was
truly a shivering and a shuddering night. The steam of the horses and
their breath came back in turbid clouds, and the snow, or soft hail (now
known as _graupel_), cut white streaks through them into travellers'
eyes, and danced on the roof like lozenges. Nobody opened mouth, except
the sailor; and his was stopped, as well as opened, by the admirable fit
of the neck of his rum-bottle. But this being over-strained became too
soon a hollow consolation; and the rim of the glass rattled drily
against his chattering teeth, till he cast it away.
"Never say die, mates. I'll sing you a song. Don Darkimbo, give us a
cigar to chaw. Never could smoke them things, gentlemen and ladies.
Can't 'e speak, or won't 'e then? Never mind, here goes!"
To his own encouragement this jolly fellow, with his neck and chest
thrown open, and his summer duds on, began to pour forth a rough
nautical ballad, not only beyond the pale of the most generous
orthodoxy, but entirely out of harmony with the tone of all good
society. In plainer words, as stupid a bit of ribaldry and blasphemy as
the most advanced period could produce.
Then up rose Mr. Penniloe, and in a firm voice clear above the piping of
the wind, and the roar of wheels, and rattle of loose harness,
administered to that mariner a rebuke so grave, and solemn, and yet so
full of large kindness and of allowance for his want of teaching, that
the poor fellow hung his head, and felt a rising in his throat, and
being not advanced beyond the tender stage of intoxication, passed into
a liquid state of terror and repentance.
With this the clergyman was content, being of longer experience than to
indulge in further homily. But the moment he sat down, up rose the
gentleman who had cribbed his straw, and addressed the applauding
passengers.
"My friends, the Reverend Penniloe has spoken well and eloquently. But I
think you will agree with me, that it would be more consistent of him,
and more for the service of the Lord, if he kept his powers of reproof
for the use of his own parishioners. He is the clergyman of Perlycross,
a place notorious throughout the country for the most infamous of
crimes--a place where even the dead are not allowed to sleep in peace."
After this settler, the man sat down, and turned his back on the Parson,
who had now recognised him, with deep sorrow at his low malevolence. For
this was no other than Solomon Pack, watchmaker and jeweller at
Pumpington, well known among his intimates as "Pack of lies," from his
affection for malignant gossip. Mr. Penniloe had offended him by
employing the rival tradesman, Pack's own brother-in-law, with whom he
was at bitter enmity.
"Mr. Pack, you have done much harm, I fear; and this is very unjust of
you"--was all that the Parson deigned to say. But he had observed with
some surprise, that while Pack was speaking, the foreigner turned round
and gazed intently, without showing much of his swarthy face, at
himself--Philip Penniloe.
Before silence was broken again, the _Magnet_ drew up at the _Blue Ball_
Inn, where the lane turns off towards Perlycross, and the clergyman
leaving his valise with the landlord, started upon his three-mile
trudge. But before he had walked more than a hundred yards he was
surprised to see, across the angle of the common, that the coach had
stopped again at the top of a slight rise, where a footpath led from the
turnpike road towards the northern entrance to Walderscourt. The clouds
were now dispersing, and the full moon shining brightly, and the ground
being covered with newly fallen snow, the light was as good as it is
upon many a winter afternoon. Mr. Penniloe was wearing a pair of
long-sight glasses, specially adapted to his use by a skilful optician
in London, and he was as proud of them as a child is of his first
whistle. Without them the coach might have been a haystack, or a whale,
so far as he could tell; with them he could see the horses, and the
passengers, and the luggage.
Having seen too much of that coach already, he was watching it merely as
a test for his new glasses; and the trial proved most satisfactory. "How
proud Fay will be," he was thinking to himself, "when I tell her that I
can see the big pear-tree from the window, and even the thrushes on the
lawn!" But suddenly his interest in the sight increased. The man, who
was standing in the road with his figure shown clearly against a snowy
bank, was no other than that dark foreigner, who had stared at him so
intently. There was the slouched hat, and there was the fur cloak, and
even the peculiar bend of the neck. A parcel was thrown to him from the
roof, and away he went across the common, quite as if he knew the way,
through furze and heather, to the back entrance of Walderscourt grounds.
He could not see the Parson in the darker lane below, and doubtless
believed himself unseen.
The circumstance aroused some strange ideas in the candid mind of
Penniloe. That man knowing who he was from Pack's tirade, must have been
desirous to avoid him, otherwise he would have quitted the coach at the
_Blue Ball_, and taken this better way to Walderscourt; for the lane Mr.
Penniloe was following led more directly thither by another entrance.
What if there were something, after all, in Gowler's too plausible
theory? That man looked like a Spaniard, probably a messenger from Lady
Waldron's scapegrace brother; for that was his character if plain truth
were spoken, without any family gloss upon it. And if he were a
messenger, why should he come thus, unless there were something they
wanted to conceal?
The Curate had not traversed all this maze of meditations, which made
him feel very miserable--for of all things he hated suspiciousness, and
that £100, though needed so sadly, would be obtained at too high a cost,
if the cost were his faith in womankind--when, lo, his own church-tower
rose grandly before him, its buttresses and stringing courses capped
with sparkling snow, and the yew-tree by the battlements feathered with
the same, and away to the east the ivy mantle of the Abbey, laced and
bespangled with the like caprice of beauty, showered from the
glittering stores of heaven.
He put on a spurt through the twinkling air, and the frozen snow crushed
beneath his rapid feet; and presently he had shaken hands with
Muggridge, and Fay in her nightgown made a reckless leap from the height
of ten stairs into his gladsome arms.