"For some cry quick and some cry slow,
But while the hills remain,
Uphill, too slow, will need the whip,
Downhill, too quick, the chain."
_Tennyson_.
Several years had passed away, and Mary's Approach had never been made,
though the lane had been improved and worn a good deal smoother, and the
Duchess and other grandees had found their way along it.
There were other expenses and other interests. Dora was married. A
fellow-soldier of Captain Carbonel's had come on a visit, and had
carried the bright young sister off to Malta. She was a terrible loss
to all the parish, and it would have been worse if Sophia had not grown
up to take her place, and to be the great helper in the school and
parish, as well as the story-teller and playmate, the ever ready "Aunt
Sophy" of the little children.
And these years had made the farm and garden look much prettier and
neater altogether. The garden was full of flowers, and roses climbed up
the verandah; and the home-field beyond looked quite park-like with iron
railings between, so that the pretty gentle Alderney cows could be
plainly seen.
The skim-milk afforded by those same cows went in great part to the
delicate children in the village, though Mrs Carbonel had every year to
fight a battle for it with Master Pucklechurch and his wife, who
considered the whole of it as the right of the calves and little pigs,
and would hardly allow that the little human Bartons or Morrises were
more worth rearing.
There had been a visitation of measles through the village--very bad in
the cottages, and at Greenhow the three little children had all been
very ill; the second, Dora, died, and the elder one, little Mary,
remained exceedingly delicate, screaming herself ill on any alarm or
agitation, and needing the most anxious care.
The cottagers had learnt to look to Greenhow and the "Gobblealls" as the
safe resource in time of any distress, whether of a child having eaten
too many blackberries, or of a man being helpless from "rhumatiz;" a
girl needing a recommendation to a service, or "Please, sir, I wants to
know if it is allowed for a man to kill my father?" which was the
startling preface to George Truman's complaint of a public-house row, in
which his father had got a black eye.
Still, there was less fighting among the men and much less among the
women, since Nanny Barton and Betsy Seddon had lodged
counter-accusations after a great quarrel over the well, when Nanny had
called Betsy, among other choice epithets, "a sneaking hypercriting old
cat of a goody," and Betsy had returned the compliment by terming Nanny
"a drunken, trapesing, good-for-nothing jade, as had no call to good
water." On which Nanny had torn out a large bunch of Betsy's hair, and
Betsy had used her claws to make long scratches on Nanny's cheeks, the
scars of which were cherished for the magistrates! It was expected in
the village that Betsy would get off, being that she and her husband
worked for Captain Gobbleall, and Nanny was known, when "a bit
overtaken," to have sauced Miss Sophy. Nevertheless they were equally
fined, with the choice of three weeks' imprisonment, and, to every one's
surprise, the fines were produced.
Betsy thought it very hard that she should be fined when she worked in
the captain's fields; and she lamented still more when he insisted on
the family removing to a vacant cottage of his own between two of his
fields. It was in better condition, had more garden, and a lower rent,
and her husband, who was a quiet man, never quarrelling unless she made
him, much rejoiced. "She have too much tongue," he said, and she had to
keep the peace, for the captain declared that, after the next uproar in
his fields, he should give her no more work there. And though she
declared it was not her, but "they women who would not let her alone,"
things certainly became much quieter.
For Captain Carbonel was an active magistrate, busy in all the county
improvements, and preserving as much order in the two parishes as was
possible where there was no rural police, only the constable, Cobbler
Cox, who was said to be more "skeered of the rogues than the rogues was
of he," and, at Downhill, Appleton, the thatcher, who was generally to
be found enjoying himself at the Selby Arms. Still, fewer cases came up
to the bench than in former times, and Uphill hardly furnished one
conviction in a quarter. The doctors at the infirmary said that they
knew an Uphill person by the tidier clothing. This was chiefly owing to
the weekly club, of which the women were very glad. "It is just as if
it was given," they said, when the clothes came in half-yearly, and
decent garments encouraged more attendance at church. There was no
doubt that Uphill was more orderly, but who could tell what was the
amount of real improvement in the people's hearts and souls?
That first Confirmation had only produced two additional communicants,
Sophia Carbonel, and Susan Pucklechurch, who was in training in the
Greenhow nursery. Not one of the others came to the Holy Feast. Their
parents, for the most part, said they were too young, and, as these
parents never came themselves, the matter seemed hopeless unless some
deeper religious feeling could be infused by diligent care.
In one case, where there was a terrible illness and a slow recovery of
George Truman, he became strongly impressed, and so did his wife, a very
nice, meek woman, who had been in a good service. They both came to the
Holy Communion the month after the man was out again, but he did not
keep it up. "Sir, if you knew what the talk was like out in the fields,
you would not wish it," he said. Which gave Mr Harford much to think
about.
The next Confirmation, three years later, collected nearly the same
number of boys and girls, and Mr Harford walked with the boys himself,
and sent Mrs Thorpe with the girls, so that there was no such scandal
as before. The only lad who presented himself from among those rejected
of the former year, was Johnnie Hewlett. He was by this time older than
any of the other candidates, and he had learnt in a measure to stand
alone, though it was chiefly his promise to his aunt that brought him
now. He still worked with his cousin George Hewlett, and was a good
deal trusted, and made useful. His father had, however, drifted farther
and farther away, since George had absolutely refused to employ him
again in his business.
"You never know where you are with such as he," said George, and with
good reason; but Dan laid it all to "they Gobblealls and their spite."
It was so far true that it was the depredations at Greenhow Farm that
first convinced George that Dan was an absolute pilferer, though he had
before suspected it, and tried to shut his eyes to the doubt. Dan,
being a really clever workman, far brighter-witted than George, had
lived upon chance jobs at Downhill or Poppleby, together with a good
deal of underhand poaching, which he kept as much as possible from the
knowledge of his family, never being sure what Molly might not tell her
sister, nor what Judith might disclose to the ladies. Polly had made a
miserable marriage, and Jenny was in service at a public-house, Jem, a
big idle lad, whom no one employed if it could be helped, Judy was still
at home, and a comfort to her aunt.
It was his aunt that chiefly induced John to live at home, though he
could easily have lodged away and have been nearer to the workshop. His
father had let him alone, and not interfered with his Sunday School
going, as long as he was a mere boy, till this second time, when, at
eighteen, and grown to man's stature, he was going up as a candidate
with the younger ones. Then the father swore "he was not going to have
his son make a tomfool of hisself to please that there parson."
"I have promised," said John.
"Promised? What--parson or ladies, or any sneaks that come meddling
where no one wants 'em?"
"'Twere not parson," said John.
"Then 'twas one of they Gobblealls"--with an oath. "That ain't of no
account."
"'Tweren't," again said John.
No more was to be got out of him than "'Tweren't," and "I shall keep my
word." He was too big to be beaten; a tall, strong, well-made youth,
and Dan was obliged to let him alone, and only swear at him for turning
his back on his old father, and being no better than a Methody.
In point of fact, Molly and the two younger children were chiefly
supported by John's earnings and Judith's pension, for whatever Dan
earned at Downhill or picked up in his various fashions was pretty sure
to be swallowed either by the "Blue Lion" or by the "Fox and Hounds."
Judith was entirely in bed upstairs, and the kitchen had lost all the
little semblance of smartness it once had. While Molly might have been
taken for sixty years old instead of forty-five, though that was not
unusual among the hard-working women, who got aged and dried up with
weather in the fields and with toil and care at home--even when they had
kindly, sober husbands.
Judith's room was a place of peace and order, so kept by the help of
little Judy and of John, both of whom loved her heartily, and felt as if
she were a mother to them. She had brought home to them all the good
that they knew. She had always made them say their prayers by her as
children, and John continued to do so still, "for old sake's sake if for
no other reason." They had always repeated to her what they had heard
at school, and by-and-by the text and substance of the sermons as far as
they could; and she told them her own thoughts, freely and earnestly,
thoughts that came partly from the readings of Mrs Carbonel and Mr
Harford with her, but far more than she knew from her own study of the
Bible, backed by her earnest spiritual mind, which grew deeper and
deeper as her earthly sufferings increased. Of course she had tried to
do the same with her sister and the other children, but none of them
would endure it. Molly always had something to do elsewhere, and said
what was all very well for a sick woman like Judith could not be
expected in one who had such a lot of trouble that she did not know
which way to look.
Poor thing! Neither Judith nor Mr Harford could persuade her that
there was a way to look which would have lightened all these troubles!
But John had learnt how to stand alone, and he did so, not only by
presenting himself for confirmation, but by becoming a Communicant. Not
another lad did so, but his cousin George and his wife had begun at
last, under the influence of Mr Harford's sermons, and so had a few
more in the parish. John, in his cousin's workshop, was shielded from a
good deal of the evil talk and jesting that went on among his fellows in
the fields. He "took after" George in being grave and quiet, and he
loved no company better than his invalid aunt's; but to be a steady and
religious youth was a more difficult matter in those days than at
present, for harmless outlets for youthful spirits had not been devised,
and to avoid mischief it was almost needful to abstain from almost all
the company and pleasures of a country lad.