"She's coming, my own, my sweet!
Had she never so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her, and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed!"
It was now November, as I have already said; and a very dull, dismal,
desolate November it was--more so, even, than usual. Fogs were
frequent, rain regular, and the sun singular in his appearance. It was
enough to make one feel miserable, without the haunting thoughts that
affected me; so, before the weather became too much for me and turned me
insane, I determined to go abroad for a short time to try what change of
air and scene could do towards relaxing my mind, although nothing could
banish the remembrance of _her_ from my heart.
When I came back to England, it was close on Christmas, and Christmas,
you must know, was always a busy and stirring time with us in our
suburb, especially so, too, for its younger and prettier parishioners.
Then the church had to be decorated--a matter not to be trifled with.
Commencing about a week or ten days before the festival, these young
ladies would gather themselves together in the old school-room, which
was a detached building, situated a short distance from Saint Canon's.
Here, the scholars being dismissed for their long holidays, they would
change the look of the academic apartment into that of a miniature
Covent Garden market or greengrocer's shop, filling it up with heaps of
evergreens--holly and ivy and yew, ad libitum, to be transformed by the
aid of their nimble fingers into all sorts of floral decorations.
Garlands were woven, elaborate illuminated texts and scrolls painted,
and wondrous crosses of commingled laurel leaves and holly berries
contrived; all of which went so far to change the aspect of the old
church, that those well acquainted with it could not help wondering
within themselves, if, indeed, it was really so _very_ old and ancient
after all as learned archaeologists said; while new comers, who only saw
it in its festal trim, had serious doubts as to whether they were not in
a ritualistic edifice--the vicar allowing the girls to have their own
way and import as much natural ornament as they pleased. The flowers
and shrubs were God's handiwork, he said, so why should they not be used
in God's service, to do honour to "the Giver of the feast?"
This year was no exception to the general practice. On my going down to
the school-room on the first day that the work of "the decorations"
began, which was the very morning after my return from the continent, I
found things just as they had been in previous years, save that some
half-a-dozen panes of glass had been smashed in the oriel window at the
eastern end of the room, through the incautious manipulation of a bunch
of holly by some "green" hand.
There were the usual number of young ladies, all of whose faces I knew
so well, engaged in the pious work; with Horner, Mr Mawley the curate,
and one or _two_ other attendant male aides, to minister to their
needs--such as stripping off leaves for wreath making--and help them to
flirt the dull hours away. Dear little Miss Pimpernell, our vicar's
maiden sister and good right hand, presided, also, to preserve order and
set an example for industrious souls to follow, just as she had been in
the habit of presiding as far back as I could recollect.
She was not there merely as a chaperon. Oh no! If Lady Dasher, sitting
on an upturned form in a corner, like a very melancholy statue of
Patience, was not sufficient to prevent the prudent proprieties from
being outraged, there was, also, the "model of all the virtues"
present--Miss Spight--a lady of a certain age, who, believing, as the
kindly beings of her order do, that there was too large a flow of the
milk of human kindness current in the world, deemed it her mission to
temper this dispensation by the admixture of as much vitriol and vinegar
as in her lay: she succeeded pretty well, too, for that matter, in her
practice and belief.
Little Miss Pimpernell was quite a different sort of body altogether to
Miss Spight. Every one who knew her, or ever saw her kindly face, loved
her and venerated her.
She was the very impersonification of good-nature, good-will, and good
action. Did any misfortune chance to befall some one with whom she was
acquainted, or any casual stranger with whom she might be brought in
contact, there was none of that "I told you so" spirit of philosophy
about _her_.
No; she tried to do her best for the sufferer as well as she was able;
and would not be contented until she was absolutely satisfied that
matters had somewhat mended.
Young and old, rich and poor, alike considered her as one of their best
friends--as indeed she was--a good Samaritan to whom they might always
confide their griefs and ailments, their sufferings and privations, with
the assurance that they would certainly meet with a kindly sympathy and
a word of comfort, in addition to as much practical assistance in their
adversity and physical consolation in their need as "little" Miss
Pimpernell--that was the fond title she was always known by--could
compass or give.
The worst of it was, that she was in such general request, that we had
to make up our minds to lose her sometimes.
Of course it was a selfish consideration, but we missed her and grumbled
at her visits and absences sadly; for, when she was away, everything
appeared to go wrong in the parish. Still none, knowing the
gratification that her ministrations gave her, would have grudged her
their indulgence.
She was never so happy as when she was helping somebody; and, of course,
people took advantage of her weakness, and were merciless in their calls
upon her time.
Whenever the most distant cousin or stray relative happened to be ill--
or about to move into a new house, or be married, or increase the
population in defiance of Malthus, or depart from the pomps and vanities
of this wicked world--as sure as possible would Miss Pimpernell be sent
for post haste. She had, as a matter of course, to nurse the patient,
assist the flitting, accelerate the wedding, welcome the little
stranger, or console the mourners as the case might be.
We, the inhabitants of the suburb which she blessed with her presence,
thought all this a gross infringement of our rights in her possession,
although we welcomed the dear old lady all the more gladly when we got
her back again amongst us once more.
As for confidences, I believe she had the skeleton secret of every soul
in the place confided to her sacred keeping at some one time or other;
and love stories! why, she must have been cram full of them--from the
heart-breaking affair of poor little Polly Skittles, the laundress'
pretty daughter, up to Baby Blake's last flirtation.
What her brother would have done without her, it would be impossible to
tell. She had quite as much to do with the parish as he; and, I'm sure,
if little Miss Pimpernell had not kept house for him and minded all his
temporal affairs, he would never have known what to eat or drink, or
what to put on.
The vicar had lost his wife soon after his marriage, when he was quite a
young man; but, instead of being bowed down by his affliction, as might
have been the case with a good many ardent natures like his, he
earnestly fought against it, buckling to his work, all the more
vigorously perhaps, as one of Christ's ministers.
Everybody thenceforth was wife and child, brother and sister to him:
humanity in general took the place of all family ties.
He was the purest Christian character I have ever come across, lovable,
intelligent, winning and merry, too, at times, in spite of his grief--
would that all ministers were like him to uphold the old love and honour
of our national Church!
No orator or skilled preacher in the pulpit, he simply led you captive
by his earnestness and evident thorough belief in all that he uttered;
so that "those who came to scoff, remained to pray." No hard, metallic
repetition by rote was his; but the plain, unvarnished story of the
gospel which he felt and of whose truth he was assured, animated by a
broad spirit of Protestantism that led him to extend a raising hand to
every erring brother, and see religion in other creeds besides his own.
"In his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and _led the way_!"
He and his good sister were, in fact, a pair of heart-oddities, whom to
know was to admire with reverential affection. They could not have had
an enemy or slanderer in the world. Even Miss Spight had never a word
to say against either; that alone spoke volumes for them.
"Oh, Frank," exclaimed little Miss Pimpernell as I entered the school-
room--she always called me by my Christian name, or styled me her "boy,"
having known me from childhood--"Oh, Frank! Here you are at last! I am
so glad to see you back again, my boy: you have just come in time to
help us. I was really afraid those nasty Frenchmen had eaten you up,
you have been such a long time away!"
"I dare say there's enough left of him," sneered Mr Mawley the curate.
_He_ was the direct opposite of the vicar; and a man whom I cordially
detested, the feeling, I believe, being mutual. He was consequential,
dogmatic, and with all the self-asserting priggishness of young Oxford
fresh upon him. I confess I was pretty much inclined the same way
myself; so, it was but natural that we should disagree: two suns, you
know, cannot shine in the same hemisphere.
Before I could answer him, Miss Pimpernell hastily interposed. She
hated to hear us arguing and bickering as was generally our way when we
met. "Please bring the measuring tape, Frank," she said, "you will find
it on that bench in the corner; and come and see how long my wreath is.
It should be just nineteen feet, but I'm afraid I am a yard short."
By the time I had done as my old friend requested, the conversation
which I had interrupted by my advent resumed its course. They were
talking about the future world, and ventilating sundry curious thoughts
on the subject.
"And what do _you_ think heaven will be like?" asked Seraphine Dasher,
appealing to me. "Everybody's opinion has been given but yours and Miss
Pimpernell's, and Mr Mawley's; and I'm coming to them presently."
"I'm sure I can't say," I answered, "perhaps a combination of choral
music, running water, I mean the sound of brooks gliding and fountains
splashing, with almond toffee at discretion: that's my idea of earthly
felicity at least."
"Oh, fie!" said my interlocutor; while I could hear Miss Spight murmur
"What deplorable levity," as she glowered at me severely and looked
sympathisingly at Mr Mawley.
"Well," said I, "I was only joking then; for, really, I've never
seriously thought about the matter. As far as I can believe, however, I
do not imagine heaven is going to be a place where we'll be singing
hymns all day. I think we shall be happy there, each in our several
ways, as we are on earth, and be in the company of those we love: heaven
would be miserable without that, I think."
"And what do you say, Miss Pimpernell?" next asked Seraphine.
"I do not say anything at all, my dear: the subject is beyond me. I
leave it to One who is wiser than us all to tell me in his own good
time."
"And you, Mr Mawley?" continued our fair questioner.
"We should not seek to understand the mysteries of the oracles of God,"
said the curate pompously.
"My dear, I can tell you," said the vicar, who had slipped in quietly,
unknown to us all, "`Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have
entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for
them that love him!'"
"I wonder, sir," said I, "whether that text, `In My Father's house are
many mansions,' means that there are different degrees of happiness in
the future world?"
"That passage," said the vicar, "is one whose interpretation has been
more disputed than any I know. Some say it has the meaning which you
attach to it; while others, with whom I am more inclined to agree, think
that it conveys only the promise and assurance that in heaven there will
be found room for us all. You must remember that we in the present day
have the Bible through the medium of translation; and all translations
are liable to error. Why, if you read the Book of Job, for instance, in
the original Hebrew, without the arbitrary division into verses which
the translators of the authorised version inserted, you would find it a
perfect poem!"
"For my part," said Mr Mawley, "I do not think we ought to speak about
religious matters in this sort of way, and make them subjects for
general conversation."
"I don't agree with you, Mawley," said the vicar, "the truth is not so
brittle that we should be afraid of handling it; if religion were more
openly discussed and brought into our daily life, I believe we should be
all the better for it."
"Ah, you are Broad Church!" said the curate.
"Very well, be it so," said the vicar good-humouredly; "I'm not ashamed
of it, so long as you allow that I'm at least a Christian."
"What _is_ Broad Church, Mr Mawley?" asked Bessie Dasher, who was
suspected of having tender feelings towards the curate, for she
generally deferred to his views and opinions.
"Broad Church," said Mr Mawley, "holds that every man is at liberty to
judge for himself; and that any Sectarian or Unitarian, or heathen, has
as much chance of heaven as you or I."
"Positively shocking!" said Miss Spight, in virtuous indignation at any
nonconformist being esteemed as worthy of future salvation as herself.
"Oliver Wendell Holmes," I said, "gives a truer exposition. He says
that `the narrow church may be seen in the ship's boats of humanity, in
the long boat, in the jolly boat, in the captain's gig, lying off the
poor old vessel, thanking God that _they_ are safe, and reckoning how
soon the hulk containing the mass of their fellow-creatures will go
down. The Broad Church is on board, working hard at the pumps, and very
slow to believe that the ship will be swallowed up with so many poor
people in it, fastened down under the hatches ever since it floated!'"
"Ah, that is better," said the vicar. "It is there put very aptly. If
we could only be less bigoted, and assimilate our various sects
together, what a happy church would ours be! We all have the same sure
fundamental ground of belief, and only differ in details."
"But, my dear sir," said the curate, in pious horror, "that is rank
latitudinarianism!"
"Latitudinarianism or not, Mawley," said the vicar, "it is the
Christianity and doctrine that earnest thinkers like Kingsley and
Maurice preach and practise. If we could only all act up to it--all act
up to it!"
"Then, I suppose," said Mr Mawley, "that you agree with the writers of
_Essays and Reviews_?"
"Suppose nothing, my dear Mawley," said the vicar, kindly but seriously,
"except what you have facts to vouch for. I do not say I agree with
them or not."
"And do you think the hare chewed the cud, as Colenso says?" asked Baby
Blake, with such a serious face that we could not help laughing at her.
"Proximus ille deo est qui scit ratione tacere!" said the vicar, putting
on his hat and moving towards the door.
"And what does that mean, brother?" asked Miss Pimpernell.
"My dear, it is only Dionysius Cato's original Latin for our old English
proverb, `A silent tongue shows a wise head!'" said the vicar; and he
then went out to attend to his parish duties, promising to look in upon
us again, and see how we were getting on before we separated for the
day.
On his departure, our conversation veered round to local chit-chat.
"Have you heard the news about The Terrace yet, Frank?" asked Miss
Pimpernell.
"No," I said. "What is it?"
"Number sixty-five is let at last!"
"Indeed," said I; "how pleased old Shuffler must be, for the house has
hung a long time on his hands. Who are the people that have taken it?"
"A widow lady and her daughter. Their name is Clyde, and they have a
good deal of money, I believe," said Bessie Dasher.
"Bai-ey Je-ove!" exclaimed Horner. "I say, old fellah, p'waps they ah
those ladies in hawf-mawning, ah?"
"Dear me! this is quite interesting," said Miss Spight. "Do let me know
what the joke is about ladies in half-mourning, Mr Lorton--something
romantic, I've no doubt." She was always keen to scent out what might
be disagreeable to other people, was Miss Spight!
"Oh, it's only Horner's nonsense!" said I. "But what are these Clydes
like?"
"Very nice, indeed!" said Miss Pimpernell. "The mother is extremely
well-bred and ladylike, and the daughter Minnie--such a pretty name,
Frank--is quite a little darling. I'm positively in love with her, and
I'm sure you will like her. They are very nice people indeed, my boy,
and thorough acquisitions to our little society."
"I only hope so, Miss Pimpernell," sighed Lady Dasher; "but appearances,
you know, are _so_ deceitful sometimes."
"Ah!" ejaculated Miss Spight, "handsome is as handsome does! We'll see
them by and by in their true colours; new brooms, Lady Dasher, sweep
clean. Ah!"