THE OLD PITCHER AT THE WELL AGAIN.
It helps a thoughtless man on his road towards a better kingdom, to get
a glimpse, every now and then, of such visitations of the Lord. When I
was a little boy, nothing did me so much good in almost all the Bible,
as to hear my father read the way in which Herod was eaten of worms. And
now in mature years, I received quite a serious turn by the death of
this Parson Chowne of ignominious canine madness. And still more, when
I came to know by what condign parental justice this visitation smote
him.
For while the women were busy up-stairs by candle-light, and with some
weeping, it fell to Parson Rambone's lot to lay the truth before us.
This great man took at once to Captain Rodney Bluett, as if he had known
him for years; nor did he fail to remember me, and in his distress to
seek some comfort from my simple wisdom. So having packed all the
country boobies, constables, doctors, and so on, out of the house, we
barred the door, made a bright fire in the kitchen, and sat down in
front of it, while a nice cook began to toss up some sweetbreads, and
eggs and ham-collops, and so on, for our really now highly necessary
sustenance.
You may remember the time I met with a very nice fellow (then Chowne's
head-groom), who gave me a capital supper of tripe elegantly stewed by a
young cook-maid, himself lamenting the stress (laid upon him by
circumstances) not to make his wife of her. He told me then with a sigh
of affection between his knife and fork, that social duties compelled
him instead to marry a publican's daughter, with fifty pounds down on
the nail, he believed, if it was a penny. Nevertheless he felt confident
that all would be ordered aright in the end. Now Providence had not
allowed such a case of faith to pass unrewarded. He married the
publican's daughter, got her money, and paid the last sad duties to her,
out of the pocket of his father-in-law, in a Christian-minded manner.
And then back he came to Nympton Rectory, and wedded that same
cook-maid, who now was turning our ham so cleverly with the egg-slice.
Thus we could speak before them both, without the least constraint; and
indeed he helped us much by his knowledge of the affairs of the family.
Also two Justices of the Peace, who had signed the warrant for poor
Chowne's end, upon the report of the doctors, but could find no one of
strength and courage to carry it out, except Parson Jack; these sate
with us to get their supper, before the long cold ride over the moors.
And there sate Parson Jack himself, with his thick hands trembling,
hopeless of eating a morsel, but dreading to be left alone for a moment.
"What a difference it will make in all this neighbourhood, to be sure!"
So said one of their worships.
"Ay, that it will," answered his brother magistrate. "Since Tom Faggus
died, there has not been such a man to be found, nowhere round these
here parts."
"No, nor Tom Faggus himself," said the other: "a noble highwayman he
were; but for mind, not fit to hold a candle to our lamented friend now
lying up there in the counterpane."
Parson Jack shuddered, and shook his great limbs, and feigned to have
done so on purpose; and then in defiance collected himself, and laid his
iron hand on the table, watching every great muscle, to see how long he
could keep it from trembling. Then I arose and grasped his hand--for
nobody else understood him at all--and he let me take it with
reluctance, wonder, and then deep gratitude. He had been saying to
himself--as I knew, though his lips never moved; and his face was set,
in scorn of all our moralising--within himself he had been thinking, "I
am Jack Ketch; I am worse; I am Cain. I have murdered my own dear
brother."
And I, who had seen him brand his bitten arm with the red hot poker,
laying the glowing iron on, until the blood hissed out at it, I alone
could gage the strength of heart that now enabled him to answer my grasp
with his poor scorched arm, and to show his great tears, and check them.
Enough of this, I cannot stand these melancholy subjects. A man of
irreproachable life, with a tendency towards gaiety, never must allow
his feelings to play ducks and drakes with him. If the justice of the
Almighty fell upon Chowne--as I said it would--let Chowne die, and let
us hope that his soul was not past praying for. It is not my place to be
wretched, because the biggest villain I ever knew showed his wit by
dying of a disease which gave him power to snap at the very devil, when
in the fulness of time he should come thirsting to lay hold of him. And
but for my purpose of proving how purely justice does come home to us,
well contented would I be to say no more about him. Why had he been such
a villain through life? Because he was an impostor. Why did he die of
rabid madness, under the clutch of his own best friend? Because he
lashed his favourite hound to fly at the throat of his own grandfather.
Not only does it confirm one's faith in the honesty of breeding, but it
enables me to acquit all the Chownes of Devonshire--and a fine and
wholesome race they are--of ever having produced such a scamp, in true
course of legitimacy; also enables me not to point out, so much as to
leave all my readers to think of, the humble yet undeniable traces of
old Davy's sagacity.
What had I said to Mrs Steelyard, when she overbore me so, upon an empty
stomach? "Madam," I said, "your son, you mean!" And it proved to be one
of my famous hits, at a range beyond that of other men. When great stirs
happen, truth comes out; as an earthquake starts the weasels.
Everybody knows what fine old age those wandering gypsies come to. The
two most killing cares we have, are money, and reputation. Here behold
gypsy wisdom! The disregard of the latter of the two does away with the
plague of the former. They take what they want; while we clumsy fellows
toil for the cash as the only way to get the good estimation. Hence it
was that Chowne's grandfather came about stealing as lively as ever, at
the age of ninety. A wiry and leathery man he was, and had once been a
famous conjurer. And now in his old age he came to sleep in his
grandson's barn, and to live on his grandson's ducks, potatoes, and
pigeons. This was last harvest-time, just as Chowne was enjoying his bit
of cub-hunting.
Turning in from his sport one day, in a very sulky humour, with the
hounds he was educating, the Parson caught his grandfather withdrawing
in a quiet manner from a snug little hen-roost. Not knowing who it was
(for his mother had never explained a thing to him, not even that she
was his mother), he thought it below his dignity to ride after this old
fellow. But at his heels stalked a tall young hound, who had vexed him
all day by surliness, and was now whipped in for punishment.
"At him--'loo boy!" he called out; "Hike forrard, catch him by the leg,
boy!" But the hound only showed his teeth and snarled; so that Chowne
let out his long lash at him. In a moment the dog sprang at his master
who was riding a low cob-horse, and bit him in the thigh and the horse
in the shoulder, and then skulked off to his kennel. The hound was shot,
and the horse shared his fate in less than six weeks afterwards; and as
for the Parson, we know too well what they were forced to do with him.
In her first horror, that stony woman, even Mrs Steelyard, when her son
came ravening at her, could not keep her secret. "It is the judgment of
God," she cried; "after all there is a God. He set the dogs at his
grandfather, and now he would bite his own mother!"
How she had managed to place him in the stead of the real Chowne heir, I
never heard, or at least no clear account of it; for she was not (as we
know already) one who would answer questions. Let him rest, whoever he
was. His end was bad enough, even for him.
Enough of this fright--for it was a fright even to me, I assure you--let
us come back to the innocent people injured so long by his villany.
To begin with Parson Jack. Never in all his life had he taken a stroke
towards his own salvation, until by that horrible job he earned
repentance, fear, and conscience. And not only this (for none of these
would have stood him in any service, with Chowne still at his elbow),
but that the face,--which had drawn him for years, like a loadstone of
hell, to destruction,--now ever present in its terror, till his prayers
got rid of it, shone in the dark like the face of a scarecrow, if ever
he durst think of wickedness. His wife found the benefit of this change,
and so did his growing family, and so did the people who flocked to his
church, in the pleasure of being afraid of him. In the roads, he might
bite; but in his surplice, he was bound to behave himself, or at least,
he must bite the churchwarden first. Yet no one would have him to
sprinkle a child, until a whole year was over. And then he restored
himself, under a hint from a man beyond him in intellect; he made
everybody allow that the poker had entirely cured him, by preaching from
the bottom of his chest, with a glass of water upon the cushion, a
sermon that stirred every heart, with the text, "Is thy servant a dog,
that he should do this thing?"
I quit him with sorrow; because I found him a man of true feeling, and
good tobacco. We got on together so warmly that expense alone divided
us. He would have had me for parish-clerk, if I could have seen my way
to it.
What prevails with a man like me, foremost first of everything? Why,
love of the blessed native land--which every good Welshman will love me
for. I may have done a thing, now and then, below our native dignity,
except to those who can enter into all the things we look at. It is not
our nature altogether, to go for less than our value. We know that we
are of the oldest blood to be found in this ancient island, and we ask
nothing more than to be treated as the superior race should be.
In the presence of such great ideas, who cares what becomes of me? I
really feel that my marriage to Polly, and prolongation of a fine old
breed, scarcely ought to be spoken of. A man who has described the
battle of the Nile need not dwell on matrimony.
Hurried speech does not become me on any other subject. Everybody has
the right to know, and everybody does know, how the whole of North Devon
was filled with joy, talk, and disputation, as to Commodore Bampfylde
and the brightness of his acquittal. They drew him from Barnstaple in a
chaise, with only two springs broken, men having taken the horses out,
and done their best at collar-work. He would have gladly jumped out and
kicked them, but for the feeling of their goodwill.
Nothing would have detracted from this, and the feasts that were felt to
be due upon it, if Squire Philip had only known how not to die at a time
when nobody was seasonably called on to think of death. But when he
learned the shame inflicted by himself on his ancient race, through
trusting Chowne, and misbelieving his brother out of the self-same womb;
and, above all, when he learned that Chowne was the bastard of a gypsy,
he cast himself into his brother's arms, fetched one long sigh, and
departed to a better world with his hat on.
This was the best thing that he could do, if he had chosen the time
aright; and it saved a world of trouble. Sir Philip felt it a good bit,
of course; and so did Sir Drake Bampfylde. Nevertheless, if a living man
withdraws into a shell so calmly, what can he expect more lively than
his undertakers?
This was good, and left room for Harry, or rather young Philip
Bampfylde, to step into the proper shoes, and have practice how to walk
in them. Yet he was so caught with love of service, and of the Navy, and
so mad about Nelson, that the General could not help himself; but let
him go to sea again.
Nelson is afloat just now. The Crappos and the Dons appear to have made
up their minds against us; and the former have the insolence to threaten
a great invasion. If I only had two arms, I would leave my Polly to howl
about me. As it is, they have turned me into a herring! Colonel Lougher
has raised a regiment, and I am first drill-sergeant!
Our dear Maid of Sker would also give her beautiful son, only six months
old, Bampfylde Lougher Bluett, to go to the wars, and to fight the
French; if any one could only show her the way to do without him. He
cocks up his toes, in a manner which proves that his feet are meant for
ratlines.
How the war is raging! I run to and fro, upon hearing of Felix Farley's
Journal, and am only fit to talk of it. Sir Philip comes down, with his
best tobacco, whenever he stops at Candleston. And a craft has been
built for me on purpose, by the old fellow at Appledore, and her name it
is the "Maid of Sker"--to dance across the Channel, whenever a one-armed
man can navigate. Colonel Lougher, and even Lady Bluett, have such trust
in me, that they cross if their dear Delushy seems to pine too much for
her husband. And the Maid herself has brought her son, as proud as if he
came out of a wreck, to exhibit him to Moxy, and Roger, and Bunny, and
Stradling the clerk--in a word, to all the parish, and the
extra-parochial district.
Now I hope that nobody will ask me any more questions concerning any
one, male or female. If I cannot speak well of a person--my rule is to
be silent.
Hezekiah found his knavery altogether useless. He scraped himself home
at last; and built a bellows-organ at Bridgend, with a 74-gun crash to
it. His reputation is therefore up--especially since he rejoined the
Church--in all churches that can afford him. Yet he will not always own
that I was his salvation. Hepzibah prophesies nothing, except that
Polly's little son, "David Llewellyn," will do something wonderful, to
keep the ancient name up.
It may be so. And I think that he will. But his father never did it. How
many chances have I missed! How many times might I have advanced to
stern respectability! Yet some folk will like me better, and I like
myself no less, for not having feigned to be more than I am--a poor
frail fellow.
The children still come down to the well, with three of our Bunny's
foremost; they get between my knees, and open blue or brown eyes up at
me. In spite of Roger Berkrolles nodding to instil more manners, some of
the prettiest stroke my white beard, coaxing for a story. Then they push
forward little Davy, thinking that I spoil him so, because of his
decided genius giving such promise of bard-hood--already it would do you
good to hear him on the Jew's harp. Nevertheless I answer firmly, nine
times out of ten at least--
"Little dears," is all I say, "Captain Davy is getting old. It is hard
to tell a tale, but easy to find fault with it. You tell me that my left
arm will grow quite as long as my right one, if I only will shake it
about, and keep a hollow sleeve on. My pets, when I get another arm, I
will tell you another story."
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] A clear and interesting account of this mighty sand-march
may be found in a very learned paper by the Rev. H. H. Knight, B.D.,
formerly rector of Neath, Glamorgan; which paper, entitled "An Account
of Newton-Nottage," was reprinted at Tenby in 1853, from the
'Archaeologia Cambrensis.' Considerable movements still occur, but of
late years no very great advance.
[B] These fine fellows are talked of now as if we had found a
novelty. They came through South Wales on a "starring" tour thirty years
agone, and they seemed to be on their last legs then. Under the moon is
there anything new?
[C] ? Diocesan.
[D] There are several entries of deaths from plague in parish
registers of North Devon, circa 1790. Perhaps it was what they now call
"black fever," the most virulent form of typhus.
[E] That intelligent view still holds its own. A Devonshire
farmer challenged me, the other day, to prove, "Whatt be the gude of the
papper, whan any vule can rade un?"--ED^R. M. of S.
Transcriber's notes:
Italics marked as: _ ... _
Superscripts are represented using the caret symbol, e.g. ED^R
End of Project Gutenberg's The Maid of Sker, by Richard Doddridge Blackmore