WILL IT STRIKE?
PHILOMEL hailed as a good omen the sight of her uncle's form, with
the evening glow upon it, standing in the colonnade, which, of that
beautiful old building, had seemed to her the most beautiful part. She
could better plead with him, the fair petitioner thought, with the
fresh air of heaven around, and the rich sunset, sky before them. Had
not the master of Burnesbey Abbey come out to enjoy the deep calm of
Nature at its holiest hour, and would he not, at such a time and in
such a place, be more open to kindly and generous impressions?
It was well that Philomel did not know that Caleb, as he glanced upward
at the graceful capitals, the clematis-wreathed arches, the crumbling
statue on its time-worn pedestal, was not gazing in admiration, but
simply calculating "whether it would be worth while to improve and
modernize the western face of the mansion, by clearing away all this
ruinous rubbish, which serves as a shelter to the bats."
When Caleb caught sight of the slight figure of his niece advancing
towards him, he went to meet her with that peculiar expression on
his face which he intended for a smile, but which had something so
cynical in it, that it was wont to excite rather an uneasy suspicion of
ridicule in the person whom he might be addressing.
"So here you are again, Curly-poll, like a bad—'sovereign,' I suppose I
must say; for it would be uncivil to compare a young lady to a bit of
copper, be it bad or good."
"Nay, if either coin be false," replied Philomel Lamb, "the sovereign
is the worst of the two, as having the higher pretensions, and causing
the greater disappointment. You may wonder indeed to see me again
to-day, but I have come—"
"I know why you've come," said Caleb, pulling from the pocket of his
waistcoat a little tinted and scented note; "as your own arrow fell
short, you've come to see whether this had hit the mark. He! he! he!
I suppose that I shall have to stand as target for all the ladies of
Thwayte—one off, another on; but there's not one of 'em as will strike
the gold!—he! he! he!"
"I did not expect that Lady Macaw would succeed—"
"Where my pretty little niece had failed, eh, Philomel?" interrupted
Mr. Coffin. "You are a genuine woman; you would have been rather
provoked than pleased had her ladyship hit the bull's eye. There
was precious little chance of that, though she sent her arrow high
enough—right over my head. Of all things I hate the using religion
as a mask for worldliness; and a pretty specimen of that kind of
hypocritical cant is enclosed in this dainty pink note."
This was a discouraging commencement to the conversation, and Philomel
felt at the moment as if it had placed a leaden padlock upon her own
lips. But, conscious of the goodness of her cause, and resolved not
to return home until she had made an appeal to her uncle's better
feelings, Philomel linked her arm closely in his, and, in that
half-clinging position, began to speak in a tone which betrayed her
nervous emotion.
"I am really afraid to tell you what I have come here to say, lest you
should apply the same hard words to me. I have been reproaching myself
for the selfish, worldly spirit in which I visited this place an hour
ago; but now—" and warming with her theme, forgetting self in her
subject, Philomel pleaded earnestly and fervently, as to a Christian
man, influenced by Christian motives, looking beyond the narrow sphere
of this world, with its passing interests and empty praise, to the
beneficent Being from whom he had received all freely, that he too
might freely give—the Friend of the needy, who forgets not the smallest
service done to His poor, if done "unto Him."
The voice of Philomel trembled with earnestness as she spoke; the
profound silence observed by her hearer encouraged her to go on; her
eyes were fixed not upon him, but the crimson drapery of the clouds, as
if she drank in courage from the sight of their radiant beauty.
"You have accused me," she said in conclusion, "of vanity and selfish
desire to win credit while trying to do good, but I will show you
that I am, now, at least, seeking nothing for myself, not even 'the
crackling bank-notes of praise.' If you will write an answer to Lady
Macaw, assuring her that you will keep up the village school, never
will I hint to any mortal that 'my' persuasions had the slightest
influence; the credit shall be hers—yours—any one's—" here Philomel
looked her uncle full in the face with her honest blue eyes; "I will
have no thanks and no praise, for—
"'Our good works will be judged—and few will bear the trial—
By our purity of motive, and our strength of self-denial.'"
"So that is your division of labour, is it?" said Caleb abruptly,
smiling down into the eyes raised to his, but with his own cynical
smile. "You have the 'purity of motive'—granted—and you make over the
'strength of self-denial' to me! I protest against the division! 'Tis
clear that you know, when two carry a burden on a pole, how to get hold
of the lighter end. I am to expend two thousand pounds; you ladies any
amount of words, which cost you nothing! But
"'Words without deeds
Are—husks without seeds!'
"Would that fine Lady Macaw give up the gold cord on her footman's
shoulder for all the schools in the world, or Miss Lucy one gallop
after the hounds, or her pretty simpering sister one dress 'à la
mode,' or you—but I'll put you to the proof!" exclaimed Caleb Coffin,
suddenly interrupting himself, and changing his animated manner to one
of cold business-like decision. "Listen to me, Philomel Lamb—Lamb of
the golden fleece, as somebody called you. I will consent to do as you
have proposed; return a favourable answer to that fine lady's officious
note—tell her that I am going, not only to keep up the school, but to
endow it in perpetuity."
"Oh, uncle, you darling!" exclaimed Philomel, with a burst of delight
and gratitude, pressing the arm on which she was leaning with both her
little hands. She could hardly believe in her own success, it was so
much beyond her hopes.
"Softly, softly—hear the conditions first; if I'm to set up in the
self-denial line, I'll take care to have you in partnership," said
Caleb Coffin, with his irritating laugh. "My conditions are three,
Philomel Lamb, and must be observed to the very letter, or not one
farthing of my money will I throw away on that school."
"Oh, tell me them at once; don't keep me in suspense!" cried Philomel
gaily. "I shall not be easily frightened, I assure you. I would engage
to walk up to London, and back, or to reap a field, or to leap over
hedge and ditch with Lucy; anything that would tax my strength or my
courage—and I have not a great share of either—to induce you to write
such a letter to Lady Macaw."
"I will neither tax your strength nor your courage," said Caleb drily;
"your task shall be quite proportioned to your powers. My three
conditions are these: First, you shall clip off—pretty close to your
head, mind you—every lock of your golden fleece—"
"Uncle Caleb!" exclaimed the astonished Philomel, quitting her hold of
Coffin's arm, and drawing backwards.
"Secondly," pursued the owl, pronouncing every sentence with
deliberation, and keenly watching through his goggle glasses the effect
of his words, "you shall appear with your clipped poll—and no wig, no
false tresses, mind you—at the archery-meeting to-morrow, and shoot for
the prize as if nothing had happened."
"Every one present would think me crazy!" cried Philomel Lamb.
"Perhaps they might," said her uncle drily, "but not more crazy than
I should think myself were I to fling away two thousand pounds on a
school. Now for my last condition. You shall never convey a hint, by
word or by look, to any one living why you have cut off your curls."
"Uncle Caleb, I know that you are jesting; I am sure that you
are!" exclaimed Philomel, attempting to laugh off the annoyance and
disappointment which she felt.
"I never was more serious in my life," said Caleb Coffin. "I have made
you a fair offer, Philomel—a handsome offer, I should call it—golden
coin for golden tresses; you keep these, I keep that. But I'll never
listen to another word, I promise you, about maintaining and endowing
that wretched school for the brats of the village."
"You never could wish me to make myself the laughing-stock of the
county!" cried Philomel, with an expression of indignation, which
painted itself upon her expressive face.
[Illustration: CALEB STATING THE CONDITIONS.]
"Wish it—no, certainly I neither wish nor expect you to play the fool!"
cried the wily old man. "I only want you not to wish or expect another
to make sacrifices which you do not choose to make yourself. But
see—all the colour has gone from the clouds; it has transferred itself,
I think, to your cheeks—I never saw them before with such a fine
crimson tint; it's mighty becoming, set off by the tresses of gold!
You had better return home, Philomel, before it grows dark, namesake
though you be to the warbler of night. The nightingale herself, I take
it, only chooses to sing in darkness that she may have the field, or
rather the bush, all to herself. Go home, Philomel Lamb, go home; the
nightingale was never intended to soar to the lofty height which you
were attempting just now, she had better keep to her quiet bush and
her pleasant song. Be as charitable as you like in a sober, easy,
comfortable way, but leave fools and fanatics to follow the example of
the eider duck, that to warm others is ready to strip off the very down
from her breast!"