HIS LAST BIVOUAC.
"Have I done wrong?" Young Waldron asked himself, as he strode down the
hill, with his face still burning, and that muddy hat on. "Most fellows
would have knocked him down. I hope that nice girl heard nothing of the
row. The walls are jolly thick, that's one good thing; as thick as my
poor head, I dare say. But when the fellow dared to laugh! Good Heavens,
is our family reduced to that? I dare say I am a hot-headed fool, though
I kept my temper wonderfully; and to tell me I am not a gentleman! Well,
I don't care a rap who sees me now, for they must hear of this affair at
Walderscourt. I think the best thing that I can do is to go and see old
Penniloe. He is as honest as he is clear-headed. If he says I'm wrong,
I'll believe it. And I'll take his advice about other things."
This was the wisest resolution of his life, inasmuch as it proved to be
the happiest. Mr. Penniloe had just finished afternoon work with his
pupils, and they were setting off; Pike with his rod to the long pool up
the meadows, which always fished best with a cockle up it, Peckover for
a long steeple-chase, and Mopuss to look for chalcedonies, and mosses,
among the cleves of Hagdon Hill; for nature had nudged him into that
high bliss, which a child has in routing out his father's pockets. The
Parson, who felt a warm regard for a very fine specimen of hot youth,
who was at once the son of his oldest friend, and his own son in
literature--though Minerva sat cross-legged at that travail--he, Mr.
Penniloe, was in a gentle mood, as he seldom failed to be; moreover in
a fine mood, as behoves a man who has been dealing with great authors,
and walking as in a crystal world, so different from our turbid fog.
To him the young man poured forth his troubles, deeper than of certain
Classic woes, too substantial to be laid by any triple cast of dust. And
then he confessed his flagrant insult to a rising member of the great
Profession.
"You have behaved very badly, according to your own account;" Mr.
Penniloe said with much decision, knowing that his own weakness was to
let people off too easily, and feeling that duty to his ancient friend
compelled him to chastise his son; "but your bad behaviour to Jemmy Fox
has some excuse in quick temper provoked. Your conduct towards your
mother and sister is ten times worse; because it is mean."
"I don't see how you can make that out." Young Waldron would have flown
into a fury with any other man who had said this. Even as it was, he
stood up with a doubtful countenance, glancing at the door.
"It is mean, in this way," continued the Parson, leaving him to go, if
he thought fit, "that you have thought more of yourself than them.
Because it would have hurt your pride to go to them, with this wrong
still unredressed, you have chosen to forget the comfort your presence
must have afforded them, and the bitter pain they must feel at hearing
that you have returned and avoided them. In a like case, your father
would not have acted so."
Waldron sat down again, and his great frame trembled. He covered his
face with his hands, and tears shone upon his warted knuckles; for he
had not yet lost all those exuberances of youth.
"I never thought of that," he muttered; "it never struck me in that way.
Though Jakes said something like it. But he could not put it, as you do.
I see that I have been a cad, as Jemmy Fox declared I was."
"Jemmy is older, and he should have known better than to say anything of
the sort. He must have lost his temper sadly; because he could never
have thought it. You have not been what he calls a cad; but in your
haste and misery, you came to the wrong decision. I have spoken
strongly, Tom, my boy; more strongly perhaps than I should have done.
But your mother is in weak health now; and you are all in all to her."
"The best you can show me to be is a brute; and I am not sure that that
is not worse than a cad. I ought to be kicked every inch of the way
home; and I'll go there as fast as if I was."
"That won't do at all," replied the Curate smiling. "To go is your duty;
but not to rush in like a thunderbolt, and amaze them. They have been so
anxious about your return, that it must be broken very gently to them.
If you wish it, and can wait a little while, I will go with you, and
prepare them for it."
"Sir, if you only would--but no, I don't deserve it. It is a great deal
too much to expect of you."
"What is the time? Oh, a quarter past four. At half past, I have to
baptise a child well advanced in his seventh year, whose parents have
made it the very greatest personal favour to me, to allow him to be
'crassed'--as they express it. And I only discovered their neglect, last
week! Who am I to find fault with any one? If you don't mind waiting for
about half-an-hour, I will come back for you, and meanwhile Mrs.
Muggridge will make your hat look better; Master Jemmy must have lost
his temper too, I am afraid. Good-bye for the moment; unless I am
punctual to the minute, I know too well what will happen--they will all
be off. For they 'can't zee no vally in it,' as they say. Alas, alas,
and we are wild about Missions to Hindoos, and Hottentots!"
As soon as Mr. Penniloe had left the house, the youth, who had been
lowered in his own esteem, felt a very strong desire to go after him.
Possibly this was increased by the sad reproachful gaze of Thyatira;
who, as an old friend, longed to hear all about him, but was too
well-mannered to ask questions. Cutting all consideration short--which
is often the best thing to do with it--he put on his fairly
re-established hat, and cared not a penny whether Mrs. Channing, the
baker's wife, was taking a look into the street or not; or even Mrs.
Tapscott, with the rosemary over her window.
Then he turned in at the lych-gate, thinking of the day when his
father's body had lain there (as the proper thing was for a body to do)
and then he stood in the churchyard, where the many ways of death
divided. Three main paths, all well-gravelled, ran among those who had
toddled in the time of childhood down them, with wormwood and
stock-gilly flowers in their hands; and then sauntered along them, with
hands in pockets, and eyes for the maidens over tombstone-heads; and
then had come limping along on their staffs; and now were having all
this done for them, without knowing anything about it.
None of these ways was at all to his liking. Peace--at least in
death--was there, green turf and the rounded bank, gray stone, and the
un-household name, to be made out by a grandchild perhaps, proud of
skill in ancient letters, prouder still of a pocket-knife. What a faint
scratch on soft stone! And yet the character far and away stronger than
that of the lettered times that follow it.
Young Waldron was not of a morbid cast, neither was his mind
introspective; as (for the good of mankind) is ordained to those who
have the world before them. He turned to the right by a track across the
grass, followed the bend of the churchyard wall, and fearing to go any
further, lest he should stumble on his father's outraged grave, sat down
upon a gap of the gray enclosure. This gap had been caused by the sweep
of tempest that went up the valley at the climax of the storm. The wall,
being low, had taken little harm; but the great west gable of the Abbey
had been smitten, and swung on its back, as a trap-door swings upon its
hinges. Thick flint structure, and time-worn mullion, massive buttress,
and deep foundation, all had gone flat, and turned their fangs up,
rending a chasm in the tattered earth. But this dark chasm was hidden
from view, by a pile of loose rubble, and chunks of flint, that had
rattled down when the gable fell, and striking the cross-wall had lodged
thereon, breaking the cope in places, and hanging (with tangles of ivy,
and tufts of toad-flax) over the interval of wall and ruin, as a
snowdrift overhangs a ditch.
Here the young man sat down; as if any sort of place would do for him.
The gap in the wall was no matter to him, but happened to suit his
downcast mood, and the misery of the moment. Here he might sit, and
wait, until Mr. Penniloe had got through a job, superior to the
burial-service, because no one could cut you in pieces, directly
afterwards, without being hanged for it. He could see Mr. Penniloe's
black stick, standing like a little Parson--for some of them are proud
of such resemblance--in the great south porch of the church; and thereby
he knew that he could not miss his friend. As he lifted his eyes to the
ancient tower, and the black yew-tree still steadfast, and the four
vanes (never of one opinion as to the direction of the wind, in anything
less than half a gale), and the jackdaws come home prematurely, after
digging up broad-beans, to settle their squabble about their nests; and
then as he lowered his gaze to the tombstones, and the new
foundation-arches, and other labours of a parish now so hateful to
him--heavy depression, and crushing sense of the wrath of God against
his race, fell upon his head; as the ruin behind him had fallen on its
own foundations.
He felt like an old man, fain to die, when time is gone weary and empty.
What was the use of wealth to him, of bodily strength, of bright
ambition to make his Country proud of him, even of love of dearest
friends, and wedded bliss--if such there were--and children who would
honour him? All must be under one black ban of mystery insoluble; never
could there be one hearty smile, one gay thought, one soft delight; but
ever the view of his father's dear old figure desecrated, mangled,
perhaps lectured on. He could not think twice of that, but groaned--"The
Lord in Heaven be my help! The Lord deliver me from this life?"
He was all but delivered of this life--happy, or wretched--it was all
but gone. For as he flung his body back, suiting the action to his agony
of mind--crash went the pile of jagged flint, the hummocks of dead
mortar, and the wattle of shattered ivy. He cast himself forward, just
in time, as all that had carried him broke and fell, churning, and
grinding, and clashing together, sending up a cloud of powdered lime.
So sudden was the rush, that his hat went with it, leaving his brown
curls grimed with dust, and his head for a moment in a dazed condition,
as of one who has leapt from an earthquake. He stood with his back to
the wall, and the muscles of his great legs quivering, after the strain
of their spring for dear life. Then scarcely yet conscious of his
hair-breadth escape, he descried Mr. Penniloe coming from the porch, and
hastened without thought to meet him.
"Billy-jack!" said the clergyman, smiling, yet doubtful whether he ought
to smile. "They insisted on calling that child 'Billy-jack.'
'William-John' they would not hear of. I could not object, for it was
too late; and there is nothing in it uncanonical. But I scarcely felt as
I should have done, when I had to say--'Billy-jack, I baptise thee,'
etc. I hope they did not do it to try me. Now the Devonshire mind is
very deep and subtle; though generally supposed to be the simplest of
the simple. But what has become of your hat, my dear boy? Surely
Thyatira has had time enough to clean it."
"She cleaned it beautifully. But it was waste of time. It has gone down
a hole. Come, and I will show you. I wonder my head did not go with it.
What a queer place this has become!"
"A hole! What hole can there be about here?" Mr. Penniloe asked, as he
followed the young man. "The downfall of the Abbey has made a heap,
rather than what can be called a hole. But I declare you are right! Why,
I never saw this before; and I looked along here with Haddon, not more
than a week age. Don't come too near; it is safe enough for me, but you
are like Neptune, a shaker of the earth. Alas for our poor ivy!"
He put on his glasses, and peered through the wall-gap, into the
flint-strewn depth outside. Part of the ruins, just dislodged, had
rolled into a pit, or some deep excavation; the crown of which had
broken in, probably when the gable fell. The remnant of the churchyard
wall was still quite sound, and evidently stood away from all that had
gone on outside.
"Be thankful to God for your escape," Mr. Penniloe said, looking back at
the youth. "It has indeed been a narrow one. If you had been carried
down there head-foremost, even your strong frame would have been crushed
like an egg-shell."
"I am not sure about that; but I don't want to try it. I think I can see
a good piece of my hat; and I am not going to be done out of it. Will
you be kind enough, sir, to wait, while I go round by the stile, and get
in at that end? You see that it is easy to get down there; but a
frightful job from this side. You won't mind waiting, will you, sir?"
"If you will take my advice," said the Curate, "you will be content to
let well alone. It is the great lesson of the age. But nobody attends to
it."
The young man did not attend to it; and for once Mr. Penniloe had given
bad advice; though most correct in principle, and in practice too, nine
times and a half out of every ten.
"Here I am, sir. Can you see me?" Sir Thomas Waldron shouted up the
hole. "It is a queer place, and no mistake. Please to stop just where
you are. Then you can give me notice, if you see the ground likely to
cave in. Halloa! Why, I never saw anything like it! Here's a stone arch,
and a tunnel beyond it, just like what you've got at the rectory, only
ever so much bigger. Looks as if the old Abbey had butted up against it,
until it all got blown away. If I had got a fellow down here to help me,
I believe I could get into it. But all these chunks are in the way."
"My dear young friend, it will soon be dark; and we have more important
things to see to. You are not at all safe down there; if the sides fell
in, you would never come out alive."
"It has cost me a hat; and I won't be done. I can't go home without a
hat, till dark. I am not coming up, till I know all about it. Do oblige
me, sir, by having the least little bit of patience."
Mr. Penniloe smiled. The request, as coming from such a quarter, pleased
him. And presently the young man began to fling up great lumps of
clotted flint, as if they were marbles, right and left.
"What a volcano you are!" cried the Parson, as the youth in the crater
stopped to breathe. "It is nothing but a waste of energy. The hole won't
run away, my dear Tom. You had much better leave it for the proper man
to-morrow."
"Don't say that. I am the proper man." How true his words were, he had
no idea. "But I hear somebody whistling. If I had only got a fellow, to
keep this stuff back, I could get on like a house on fire."
It was Pike coming back from the long pool in the meadow, with a pretty
little dish of trout for supper. His whistling was fine; as a
fisherman's should be, for want of something better in his mouth; and he
never got over the Churchyard stile, without this little air of
consolation for the ghosts.
As he topped the ridge of meadow that looks down on the river, Mr.
Penniloe waved his hat to him, over the breach of the churchyard wall;
and he nothing loth stuck his rod into the ground, pulled off his
jacket, and went down to help.
"All clear now. We can slip in like a rabbit. But it looks uncommonly
black inside, and it seems to go a long way underground;" Waldron
shouted up to the clergyman. "We cannot do anything, without a light."
"I'll tell you what, sir," Pike chimed in. "This passage runs right into
the church, I do believe."
"That is the very thing I have been thinking;" answered Mr. Penniloe. "I
have heard of a tradition to that effect. I should like to come down,
and examine it."
"Not yet, sir; if you please. There is scarcely room for three. And it
would be a dangerous place for you. But if you could only give us
something like a candle----"
"Oh, I know!" The sage Pike suggested, with an angler's quickness. "Ask
him to throw us down one of the four torches stuck up at the lych-gate.
They burn like fury; and I dare say you have got a lucifer, or a
Promethean."
"Not a bad idea, Pike;" answered Mr. Penniloe. "I believe that each of
them will burn for half-an-hour."
Soon he returned with the driest of them, from the iron loop under the
covered space; and this took fire very heartily, being made of twisted
tow soaked in resin.
"I am rather big for this job;" said Sir Thomas, as the red flame
sputtered in the archway, "perhaps you would like to go first, my young
friend."
"Very much obliged," replied Pike drawing back; "but I don't seem to
feel myself called upon to rush into the bowels of the earth, among six
centuries of ghosts. I had better stop here, perhaps, till you come
back."
"Very well. At any rate hold my coat. It is bad enough; I don't want to
make it worse. I shan't be long, I dare say. But I am bound to see the
end of it."
Young Waldron handed his coat to Pike, and stooping his tall head with
the torch well in front of him, plunged into the dark arcade. Grim
shadows flitted along the roof, as the sound of his heavy steps came
back; then the torchlight vanished round a bend of wall, and nothing
could either be seen or heard. Mr. Penniloe, in some anxiety, leaned
over the breach in the churchyard fence, striving to see what was under
his feet; while Pike mustered courage to stand in the archway--which was
of roughly chiselled stone--but kept himself ready for instant flight,
as he drew deep breaths of excitement.
By-and-by, the torch came quivering back, throwing flits of light along
the white-flint roof; and behind it a man, shaking worse than any
shadow, and whiter than any torchlit chalk.
"Great God!" He cried, staggering forth, and falling with his hand on
his heart against the steep side of the pit. "As sure as there is a God
in heaven, I have found my father!"
"What!" cried the Parson; "Pike, see to the torch; or you'll both be on
fire."
In a moment, he ran round by way of the stile, and slid into the pit,
without thinking of his legs, laying hold of some long rasps of ivy.
Pike very nimbly leaped up the other side; this was not the sort of hole
to throw a fly in.
"Give me the torch. You stay here, Tom. You have had enough of it." Mr.
Penniloe's breath was short, because of the speed he had made of it. "It
is my place now. You stop here, and get the air."
"I think it is rather my place, than of any other man upon the earth. Am
I afraid of my own dear dad? Follow me, and I will show him to you."
He went with a slow step, dazed out of all wonder--as a man in a dream
accepts everything--down the dark passage again, and through the
ice-cold air, and the shivering fire. Then he stopped suddenly, and
stooped the torch, stooping his curly head in lowliness behind it; and
there, as if set down by the bearers for a rest, lay a long oaken
coffin.
Mr. Penniloe came to his side, and gazed. At their feet lay the good and
true-hearted Colonel, or all of him left below the heaven, resting
placidly, unprofaned, untouched by even the hand of time; unsullied and
honourable in his death, as in his loyal and blameless life.
The clear light fell upon the diamond of glass, (framed in the oak above
his face, as was often done then for the last look of love) and it
showed his white curls, and tranquil forehead, and eyelids for ever
closed against all disappointment.
His son could not speak, but sobbed, and shook, with love, and
reverence, and manly grief. But the clergyman, with a godly joy, and
immortal faith, and heavenly hope, knelt at the foot, and lifted hands
and eyes to the God of heaven.
"Behold, He hath not forsaken us! His mercy is over all His works. And
his goodness is upon the children of men."