THE OLD MILL.
Combing up on the South like a great tidal wave, Hagdon Hill for miles
looks down on the beautiful valley of the Perle, and then at the western
end breaks down into steep declivities and wooded slopes. Here the
Susscot brook has its sources on the southern side of the long gaunt
range, outside the parish of Perlycross; and gathering strength at every
stretch from flinty trough, and mossy runnel, is big enough to trundle
an old mill-wheel, a long while before it gets to Joe Crang's forge.
This mill is situated very sweetly for those who love to be outside the
world. It stands at the head of a winding hollow fringed along the crest
with golden gorse, wild roses by the thousand, and the silvery gleam of
birch. Up this pretty "goyal"--as they call it--there is a fine view of
the ancient mill, lonely, decrepit, and melancholy, with the flints
dropping out of its scarred wall-face, the tattered thatch rasping
against the wind, and the big wheel dribbling idly; for the wooden
carrier, that used to keep it splashing and spinning merrily, sprawls
away on its trestles, itself a wreck, broken-backed and bulging.
And yet in its time this mill has done well, and pounded the corn of a
hundred farms; for, strange as it may be, the Perle itself is
exceedingly shy of mill-work, being broken upon no wheel save those of
the staring and white-washed factory which disfigures the village of
Perlycross. Therefore from many miles around came cart, and butt, and
van, and wain, to this out-of-the-way and hard to find, but flourishing
and useful Tremlett mill. That its glory has departed and its threshold
is deserted, came to pass through no fault of wheel, or water, or even
wanton trade seduced by younger rivals. Man alone was to blame, and he
could not--seldom incapable as he is of that--even put the fault on
woman.
The Tremletts were of very ancient race, said to be of Norman origin,
and this mill had been theirs for generations. Thrifty, respectable, and
hard-working, they had worn out many millstones--one of which had been
set up in the churchyard, an honour to itself and owner--and patched up
a lot of ages of mill-wheels (the only useful revolution) until there
came into the small human sluice a thread of vile weed, that clogged
everything up. A vein of bad blood that tainted all, varicose, sluggish,
intractable.
What man can explain such things, even to his own satisfaction? Yet
everybody knows that it is so, and too often with the people who have
been in front of him. Down went the Tremletts for a hundred years--quite
a trifle to such an old family--and the wheel ceased to turn, and the
hearth had nought to burn, and the brook took to running in a low
perverted course.
But even sad things may be beautiful--like the grandest of all human
tragedies,--and here before Mr. Penniloe's new long-sighted glasses,
which already had a fine effect upon his mind, was a prospect, worth all
the three sovereigns he had paid, in addition to the three he had lived
under. No monarch of the world--let alone this little isle--could have
gilded and silvered and pearled and jewelled his most sumptuous palace,
and his chambers of delight, with a tithe of the beauty here set forth
by nature, whose adornments come and go, at every breath.
For there had just been another heavy fall of snow, and the frost
having firm hold of the air, the sun had no more power than a great
white star, glistening rather than shining, and doubtful of his own
domain in the multitude of sparkles. Everything that stood across the
light was clad with dazzling raiment; branch, and twig, and reed, and
ozier, pillowed with lace of snow above, and fringed with chenille of
rime below. Under and through this arcade of radiance, stood the old
mill-wheel--for now it could stand--black, and massive, and leaning on
pellucid pillars of glistering ice.
Mr. Penniloe lifted up his heart to God, as he always did at any of His
glorious works; and then he proceeded to his own less brilliant, but
equally chilling duty. Several times he knocked vainly at the ricketty
door of the remaining room, until at last a harsh voice cried--"Come in,
can't 'e? Nort for 'e to steal here."
Then he pulled the leather thong, an old boot-lace, and the grimy wooden
latch clicked up, and the big door staggered inwards. Everything looked
cold and weist and haggard in the long low room he entered, and
hunger-stricked, though of solid fabric once, and even now tolerably
free from dirt. At the further end, and in a gloomy recess, was a large
low bedstead of ancient oak, carved very boldly and with finely flowing
lines. Upon it lay a very aged woman, of large frame and determined
face, wearing a high yellow cap, and propped by three coarse pillows,
upon which fell the folds of a French shawl of rich material.
She had thick eyebrows, still as black as a coal, and fierce gray eyes
with some fire in them still, and a hooked nose that almost overhung a
pointed chin; and her long bony arms lay quivering upon a quilt of
well-worn patchwork. She looked at Mr. Penniloe, discerning him clearly
without the aid of spectacles, and saluted him with a slight disdainful
nod.
"Oh, Passon is it? Well, what have 'e got to say to me?" Her voice was
hard and pitched rather high, and her gaunt jaws worked with a roll of
wrinkles, intended for a playful grin.
"Mrs. Tremlett, I was told that you wished to see me, and that it is a
solemn moment with you--that soon you will stand in the presence of a
merciful but righteous Judge."
Mr. Penniloe approached her with a kind and gentle look, and offered to
take one of her clenched and withered hands, but she turned the knuckles
to him with a sudden twist, and so sharp were they that they almost cut
his palm. He drew back a little, and a flash of spiteful triumph told
him that she had meant this rasper for him.
"Bain't a gwain' to die yet," she said; "I be only ninety-one, and my
own moother wor ninety-five afore her lost a tooth. I reckon I shall see
'e out yet, Master Passon; for 'e don't look very brave--no that 'e
don't. Wants a little drap out o' my bottle, I conzider."
The clergyman feared that there was little to be done; but he never let
the Devil get the best of him, and he betook himself to one of his most
trustworthy resources.
"Mrs. Tremlett, I will with your permission offer a few simple words of
prayer, not only for you but for myself, my friend. You can repeat the
words after me, if you feel disposed."
"Stop!" she cried, "stop!" and threw out both hands with great vigour,
as he prepared to kneel. "Why, you ban't gi'en me the zhillin' yet. You
always gives Betty Cork a zhillin', afore 'e begins to pray to her.
Bain't my soul worth every varden of what Betty Cork's be?"
The Parson was distressed at this inverted view of the value of his
ministrations. Nevertheless he pulled out the shilling, which she
clapped with great promptitude under her pillow, and then turned her
back upon him.
"Goo on now, Passon, as long as ever 'e wull; but not too much noise
like, case I might drop off to sleep."
Her attitude was not too favourable; but the Curate had met with many
cases quite as bad, and he never allowed himself to be discouraged. And
something perhaps in his simple words, or the powers of his patient
humility, gave a better and a softer turn to the old woman's moody mind.
"Passon, be you a _h_onest man?" she enquired, when he had risen,
affording that adjective a special roughness, according to the manner of
Devon. "B'lieve 'e be a good man. But be 'e _h_onest?"
"My goodness, as you call it, would be very small indeed, unless I were
honest, Mrs. Tremlett. Without honesty, all is hypocrisy."
"And you bain't no hypocrite; though 'e may be a vule. Most fine
scholards is big vules, and half-scholards always maketh start for
rogues. But I'll trust 'e, Passon; and the Lord will strike 'e dead,
being in his white sleeves, every Zunday, if 'e goo again the truth.
What do 'e say to that, Passon Penniloe? What do 'e think now of that
there? And thee praying for me, as if I hadn't got ne'er a coffin's
worth!"
The old lady pulled out a canvas bag, and jingled it against Mr.
Penniloe's gray locks. Strong vitality was in her face. How could she
die, with all that to live for?
"Vifty-two guineas of Jarge the Zecond. T'other come to the throne afore
I did it; but his head wasn't out much, and they might goo back of his
'en. So I took 'un of the man as come afore, and there they has been
ever since--three score years, and ten, and two. The Lord knoweth, if He
reckon'th up the sparrows, what a fine young woman I were then. There
bain't such a one in all the County now. Six foot high, twenty inch
across the shoulders, and as straight as a hazel wand sucker'd from the
root. Have mercy on you, Passon! Your wife, as used to come to see me,
was a very purty woman. But in the time of my delight, I could 'a taken
her with one hand, and done--well, chucked her over Horse-shoe."
"What do you mean?" Mr. Penniloe asked, and his quiet eyes bore down the
boastful gaze, and altered the tone of the old virago.
"Nort, sir, nort. It bain't no use to worrit me. Her tumbled off the
clift, and her bruk her purty nack. Her was spying too much after
coney's holes, I reckon. But her always waz that tender-hearted. You
bain't fit to hold a can'le to her, with all your precious prayers and
litanies. But I'll trust 'e, Passon, for her zake. Vetch thiccy old book
out o' cubbert."
In the cupboard near the fireplace he found an ancient Bible, bound in
black leather, and fortified with silver clasps and corners.
"Hold that there book in your right hand, and this here bag in t'other;"
the old lady still clave to the bag, as if far more precious than the
Bible--"and then you say slowly after me, same as I was to do the
prayers, 'I, Passon Penniloe, of Perlycross, Christian Minister, do
hereby make oath and swear that I will do with this bag of money as
Zipporah Tremlett telleth me, so help me God Almighty.'"
"Stop, if you please. I will make no such promise, until I know all
about it;" objected Mr. Penniloe, while she glared at him with rising
anger, and then nodded as something occurred to her.
"Well, then, I'll tell 'e fust; and no call for prabbles. This money
bain't none o' they Tremletts; every varden of theirs is gone long ago,
although they had ten times so much as this, even while I can mind of
'un. All this, except for a bit of a sto'un in the lower cornder, and
that hath been hunderds of years with the Tremletts, but all the rest
cometh from my own father, and none on 'em knoweth a word of it.
Wouldn't believe if they did, I reckon. Zippy, that's my grand-darter as
minds me, her hath orders to burn for her life and vetch you--night or
day, mind,--fust moment the breath be gone out of my body. And every
varden of it is for she. You be to take it from this here little nestie,
wi'out a word to no one, and keep it zealed up under lock and key, till
Zippy be eighteen year of age, and then, accordin' to your oath, you
putt it into her two hands. If 'e do that, Passon, I'll die a Christian,
and you be welcome of me to your churchyard. But if 'e wun't do it, then
I'll die a hathen, and never go to no churchyard, same as scores and
scores of the Tremletts is. Now, do 'e care for the soul of an old
'ooman? Or would 'e soonder her went to the Devil?"
By this alternative the Curate felt much pressure put upon his
conscience. If there were no other way to save her, he must even
dispense with legal form, and accept a trust, which might for all he
knew defraud the Revenue of legacy duty, and even some honest solicitor
of a contribution to his livelihood. But first he must be certain that
the scheme was just and rational.
"No fear of robbing nobody. They Tremletts be a shocking lot," she said,
with amiable candour. "Just slip the wedge on top of latch, for fear one
on 'em should come to see if I be dead; though I reckon, this weather,
it would be too much for either son or darter. Wouldn't 'em burn, if 'em
knowed of this? But here I may lie and be worm-eaten. And chillers of my
own--my own buys and girls. Dree quarters of a score I've had, and not
one on 'em come anigh me! Never was a harrier-bird could fly so fast as
every one on 'em would, to this old bed, if 'em knowed what be in it.
No, I be a liar--every one on 'em can't, because the biggest half be
gone. Twelve buys there was, and dree wenches of no count. Dree buys was
hanged, back in time of Jarge the Third, to Exeter jail, for
ship-staling, and one to Gibbet-moor, for what a' did upon the road.
Vour on 'em was sent over seas, for running a few bits of goods from
France. Two on 'em be working to Whetstone pits, 'cording to their own
account, though I reckon they does another sort of job, now and again.
And as for t'other two, the Lord, or the Devil, knoweth what be come to
they. Not one on 'em comes nigh poor old moother, who might a' died
years ago 'cep for little Zippy. Though little Zip's father have a' been
here now and then. The biggest and the wildest of the dozen I call him,
though a' kapeth wonderful out of jail. 'Tis his cheel he comes to see,
not his poor old moother. Look 'e ere, Passon, all the ins and outs of
'un be set down rarely in that there book; same as the game with lines
and crosses we used to play with a oyster-shell, fourscore years agone
and more."
On three or four leaves of the ancient Bible, bound in for that purpose,
was a pedigree of these Tremletts of the Mill, descending from the
fourteenth century. Mr. Penniloe looked at it with no small interest.
What a pity to find them come to this! The mill itself had been a fall
no doubt; but the Whetstone pits were a great descent from that.
"Tremletts has always had one or two fine scholards"--the old woman had
a strange theory about this. "'Twor all along o' that they come down so.
Whenever any man taketh much to books, a' stoppeth up his ears to good
advice, and a' heedeth of his headpiece, and robbeth of 's own belly.
But there, no matter. I can do a bit myself. Have 'e made up your mind
about my poor soul?"
From the toss of her nose, Mr. Penniloe was afraid that she was not much
in earnest about that little matter. And in common sense, he was loth to
get entangled with the nettles and briars of such a queer lot.
"I think, Mrs. Tremlett," he said, with a smile containing some light of
wavering, "that your wisest plan by far would be to have a short will
drawn up, and leave the money----"
"Gi'e me my bag, and go thy ways," she screamed in a fury, though the
bag was in her claws. "No churchyard for me, and my soul at thy door,
thou white-livered, black-smocked Passon!"
Her passion struck into her lungs or throat, and she tore at her scraggy
chest, to ease the pain and gripe of a violent coughing-fit. Mr.
Penniloe supported her massive head, for if it fell back, it might never
rise again.
"A drap out o' bottle!" she gasped at last, pointing to the cupboard
where the Bible had been. He propped up her head with a pillow on end,
and took from the cupboard a long-necked bottle of the best French
brandy, and a metal pannikin.
"No watter! No watter!" the old woman shrieked, as he went towards a
pitcher that stood by the chimney. "Watter spileth all. No vear. Vill
up!"
He gave her the pannikin full, and she tipped it off, like a mouthful of
milk, and then sat up and looked at him steadily.
"I be no drunkard," she said, "though a man as knoweth nort might vancy
it. Never touches that stuff, excep' for physic. I've a' seed too much
what comes of that. Have a drap, wull 'e? Clane glass over yanner."
She seemed annoyed again at his refusal, but presently subsided into a
milder vein, as if she were soothed by the mighty draught, instead of
becoming excited.
"Naden't have troubled 'e, Passon," she said, "but for zending of little
Zip away. I'll tell 'e why, now just. Better cheel never lived than
little Zip. Her tendeth old grannie night and day, though her getteth a
tap on the head now and then. But her mustn't know of this here money,
or her father'd have it out of her in two zeconds. Now 'e see why I
won't make no will. Now, will 'e do what I axed of 'e?"
After some hesitation the Parson gave his promise. He had heard from his
wife about poor little Zip, and how faithful she was to her old
grandmother; and he felt that it would be unfair to the child to deprive
her of the chance in life this money might procure; while he knew that
if he declined the trust, not a penny would she ever see of it. He
insisted however upon one precaution--that the owner should sign a
memorandum of the gift, and place it with the guineas in the bag, and
then hand the whole to him as trustee, completing by delivery the
_donatio mortis causâ_. In spite of her sufferings from the ruinous
effects of the higher education, Zipporah could sign her name very
fairly, and a leaf of her grandchild's copybook served very well for the
memorial prepared by Mr. Penniloe.
"Now rouse up the fire there, 'e must be frore a'most," Mrs. Tremlett
said when that was finished, and she had shown him where she concealed
the treasure. "'One good toorn desarves another,' as I've heerd say,
though never had much chance of proving it; and I could tell 'e a thing
or two, 'e might be glad to know, Passon Penniloe, wi'out doing harm to
nobody. Fust place then, you mind hearing of the man as gi'ed that
doiled zany of a blacksmith such a turn--how long agone was it? I can't
say justly; but the night after Squire Waldron's vuneral."
"To be sure. The big man with the lame horse, at Susscot Ford."
"Well, that man was my son Harvey, little Zip's father. You see the name
in big Bible. French name it waz then, spelled different, and with a
stroke to the tail, as maight be. Tremletts had a hankering after
foreign languages. See 'un all down the page you can."
"What, Mrs. Tremlett!" exclaimed the Parson. "Are you aware what you are
doing? Informing against your own son--and one of the very few
remaining!"
"Zober now, zober! Don't 'e be a vule, Passon. I knows well enough what
I be adoing of. Just I wants 'un out of way, till arter I be buried
like. I zent his little darter to the pits to-day, to tell 'un as how
you knowed of it. That'll mak 'un cut sticks, till I be underground, I
reckon."
As the old woman grinned and nodded at her own sagacity, a horrible idea
crossed the mind of Mr. Penniloe. Could she be afraid that her own son
would dig up her body, and dispose of it?
Before he had condemned himself for such a vile suspicion, Mrs. Tremlett
seemed to have read his thoughts; for she smiled with bitter glory, as
if she had caught a pious man yielding to impiety.
"No, Harvey bain't no body-snatcher--leastways not as I ever heer'd on;
though most volk would say a' was bad enough for anything. All that I
wants 'un out of way for, is that he mayn't have the chance to rob his
darter. He loveth of the little maid, so much as Old Nick 'loweth him.
But he could never kape his hands out of this here bag, if a' zeed 'un.
And as for your folk doin' any hurt to 'un, 'twould be more use for 'e
to drive nails into a shadow, than to lay hold of Harvey when he knoweth
you be arter 'un. And even if 'e wor to vind 'un, man alive, it would be
a bad job for you, or for zix such men as you be, to come nigh the hands
of Harvey Tremlett. Volk about these parts don't know nort of un', else
they'd have had un' for the 'rastling long ago. He hath been about a
good deal among the Gipsies, and sailor-folk, and so on; and the Lord
knows He musn't look for too very much of good in 'un."
"We must make allowances, Mrs. Tremlett. We never do justice to our
fellow-men, in that way." Mr. Penniloe was saying to himself, while he
spoke--"and a great deal must be allowed for such bringing-up as yours,
ma'am. But have you anything more to tell me, about that shocking thing,
that is such a sad disgrace to Perlycross?" The Parson buttoned up his
Spencer, as if he still felt that dirty Pack's hits below the belt.
"I could tell 'e a saight of things, if I waz so minded, about what they
vules to Perlycross, and you among t'others be mazed about. I can't make
'un out myself; but I be free to swear you'm a passel of idiots.
Tremletts was bad enough; no vamley could be worse a'most; and much
older they was than any Waldrons. But none on 'em never was dug up for
generations. Won'erful things has come to them--things as would fill
books bigger than this Bible; because 'em always wor above the lids of
the ten Commandments. But 'em always had peace, so soon as they was
dead, till such time as the Devil could come for 'un, and he don't care
for no corpses. They Waldrons is tame--no French blood in 'em. Vitted
for big pews in church, and big vunerals. Vellers not laikely to be dug
up, when that waz never done to Tremletts. Passon, I could tell 'e such
a saight of things, as would make the hair creep round the head of thee.
Can't talk no more, or my cough will come on. Will tell 'e all about
your little boy, Mike; if 'e come again when this vrost is over. And
then I'll show 'e Zip. But I can't talk vair, while the houze be so
cold. I've a dooed too much to-day, for a 'ooman in her ninety-zecond
year. You come again about this day wake. I trust 'e now, Passon. You be
a good man, because you'm got no good blood in you. A old 'ooman's
blessing won't do 'e no harm."
Vast is the power of a good kind face, and of silence at the proper
moment. The Curate of Perlycross possessed that large and tender nature,
at which the weak are apt to scoff, because they are not afraid of it.
Over them no influence can last, for there is nothing to lay hold of.
But a strong-willed person, like that old woman, has substance that can
be dealt with, if handled kindly and without pretence. Thus Mr. Penniloe
indulged some hope of soothing and softening that fierce and flinty
nature, and guiding it towards that peace on earth, which is the surest
token of the amnesty above.
But while he was at breakfast on the following day, he was told that a
little maid was at the front door, crying very bitterly, and refusing to
come in. He went out alone, but not a syllable would she utter, until he
had closed the door behind him. There she stood, shivering in the snow,
and sobbing, very poorly dressed, and with nothing on her head, but
mopping her eyes and nose, as she turned away, with a handkerchief of
the finest lace.
"Zip," was all the answer Mr. Penniloe could get to his gentle enquiry
as to who she was; and then she looked at him with large and lustrous
eyes, beautifully fringed below as well as above, and announcing very
clearly that she was discussing him within. Although he guessed what her
errand was, the clergyman could not help smiling at her earnest and
undisguised probation of his character; and that smile settled the issue
in his favour.
"You be to coom to wance;" her vowel-sounds were of the purest
Devonshire air, winged by many a quill, but never summed in pen by any;
"Wi'out no stapping to think, you be to coom!"
"What an imperious little Zenobia!" said Mr. Penniloe, in self-commune.
"Dunno, whatt thiccy be. Grandmoother zayeth, 'e must coom to wance. But
her be dead, zince the can'le gooed out." Her eyes burst into another
flood, and she gave up the job of sopping it.
"My dear. I will come with you, in half a minute. Come and stand in the
warmth, till I am ready."
"Noo. Noo. I bain't to stop. Putt on hat, and coom raight awai. Vire
gooed out, and can'le gooed out, and Grannie gooed out, along wi' 'un."
Mr. Penniloe huddled his Spencer on, while the staring child danced with
impatience in the snow; and quiet little Fay came and glanced at her,
and wondered how such things could be. But Fay would not stare, because
she was a little lady.
The clergyman was very quick of foot; but the child with her long
Tremlett legs kept easily in front of him all the way, with the cloud of
her black hair blowing out, on the frosty air, to hurry him.
"I bain't aveared of her. Be you?" said the little maid, as she rose on
tip-toe, to pull the thong of the heavy latch. "If her coom back, her
would zay--'Good cheel, Zippy!'"