"You may argue, Brother Brisdone, till all is blue," said Master
Peasegood, "but I maintain that what I say is right. Now, look here; go
back to the early days, and take your own apostle."
"My own apostle?" said Father Brisdone, smiling, as they walked down the
lane, soon after sunrise, one bearing a basket the other a bag. The
heavy dew lay upon leaf and strand, and sparkled in the brilliant
sunshine; birds sang and flitted from bough to bough, scattering the
heavy drops from off each spray; and, as the two clerics had come out of
the cottage after an early breakfast, they had stood breathing the soft
pure air, and smiled back at smiling Nature.
"My own apostle?" said Father Brisdone.
"Yes, Saint Peter; the rock upon which your church is built. Well, what
was he--a fisherman?"
"Yes," said Father Brisdone, "before he took up his holy calling."
"Fisherman still, good brother. Did he not become a fisher of men?
Depend upon it, brother, Peter, if he had been down by the lake again,
would have enjoyed a good pull at the net."
"Maybe, maybe," said the father, smiling.
"Well, let's grant it. Now, I was a fisherman before I took to the
cloth, and I have been a fisherman ever since, right or wrong; and I
hold that there is very little wrong in providing a dinner."
"I'll not argue with you," said Father Brisdone. "If all men were like
you, Brother Peasegood, this would be a happier world."
"Wrong again!" cried Master Peasegood. "You see you force on an
argument. If all men were like me, brother, it would be an unhappier
world; for, look you, I'm too fat. I'm as big as three small men; and,
if all were like me, we should be so crowding and elbowing each other
that we should be quarrelling for want of room. Ha, ha, ha!" and "ha,
ha, ha," he laughed again, making the rocks and woodlands echo to his
jovial mirth; the stray rabbits betrayed their whereabouts by showing
their little white tails as they hopped into their holes; and snake and
lizard upon sunny bank hurrying away to safety long before the footsteps
could be heard.
"There's something in fishing that seems to expand the heart," continued
Master Peasegood to his willing hearer. "I never knew a man who was a
good fisherman who was very wicked or brutal."
"In other matters," said Father Brisdone, with a smile.
"Well, well, well, but the fish we catch are vile, cruel things, which
persecute their smaller fellows. Why, I've known a luce of twenty
pounds seize and half swallow one of ten, and kill himself in the act.
Oh, no, brother, I have no pity for a great luce or pike; and, besides,
see what they are when nicely treated, well cleaned, and stuffed, and
buttered, and baked. Ha, ha, ha! we have the advantage of you there,
Brother Brisdone; we can be carnal-minded, and eat, and drink, and wive
if we like. But come along and let's begin. I can sniff the water now,
with its soft wreaths of mist floating around. We'll have the boat and
set our lures, and fish for a couple of hours, and then take a brace of
the finest to Master Cobbe, and beg some more breakfast for our pains."
"But suppose we catch no fish?"
"But we shall catch fish--more, perhaps, than you expect."
The two friends trudged on, and, upon turning a corner of the narrow
lane, came upon Mother Goodhugh, standing at the turning where Sir Mark
had made his first acquaintance with Wat Kilby.
"Good morrow, Mother Goodhugh," said the stout parson.
"Save thee, my daughter," said Father Brisdone.
"Are you both going to curse the murderer of Abel Churr?" said Mother
Goodhugh, sourly.
"Nay," said Master Peasegood; "and it would behove thee better, good
woman, if thou did'st not sprinkle these curses of thine about with so
liberal a hand. Come along, father."
"Yes, go along," cried the old woman, maliciously; "time-servers and
makers of friendship with the ungodly as you are. But you'll see,
you'll live to see."
"She's a terrible old woman," said Master Peasegood, with a curious
smile upon his lip; "and she seems to make my fat go cold, like unto
that of venison on an unwarmed dish. I've given her up, father, as a
bad nut to crack. The worst of it is, that if I turn prophet my sayings
are never fulfilled; while, when she raises her voice, her prophesyings
come to pass, and the simple folks here believe in her more than in me.
But thank goodness, here we are."
Three hundred paces brought them to the edge of the lake, over which the
soft white mists were disappearing before the sun. The boat lay on the
sandy beach, with a chain holding it fast to the trunk of an old willow;
and, as soon as the basket and wallet had been laid in, Master Peasegood
helped his friend to take his place.
"I don't think I shall swamp the boat, Brother Brisdone," he said,
laughing, as he sent the skiff well down in the water. "If I do, just
you hold on tightly to my gown, for I'm too fat to sink."
A hearty "Ha, ha, ha!" floated across the lake as he finished his
speech; and then, taking the little oars, he proceeded to paddle across
for some distance before pausing and opening the large basket he had
brought.
The first thing taken out was a large can of water with a lid pierced
with holes; and then from the bag were shaken out a dozen bladders, each
tied round the centre with a string and a loop. From his basket Master
Peasegood then brought out a dozen goodly hooks, whose points were stuck
in a piece of cork, and whose strings were neatly tied in a bunch; and,
as he took them off, one by one, each was baited with a fresh young
gudgeon from the can, the string attached to one of the bladders, and
this dropped overboard to float away.
In a short time the whole of the hooks were baited, and the lake dotted
with the bladders that floated here and there, borne by the breeze or
tugged by the lively gudgeons. Then, and then only, did Master
Peasegood nearly upset the boat by leaning over the side to wash his
hands, and smile at his companion.
His smile was not perceived though, for Father Brisdone was sitting with
one elbow upon his knee, his cheek upon his hand, gazing out and away at
the soft landscape, with the Pool-house and its works glorified by the
morning sun.
"Now we'll sit and talk for awhile," said Master Peasegood, smiling
jollily. "What do you say to a pleasant subject for discussion--say
purgatory?"
"Because thou hast been putting these poor gudgeons into a state of
misery, brother?" said Father Brisdone.
"Let the gudgeons rest," said Master Peasegood. "They have all gone
overboard like so many finny Jonahs, for the benefit of those on board
this ship; and, if they are lucky, they will soon be safe in so many
whales' insides. Ha, ha, ha! Master Brisdone, I'm afraid I'm a very
irreverent disciple. By all the saints, there goes one of the Jonahs.
See!"
He pointed to where, just by a reed-bed towards which the bladder had
drifted, there was a tremendous swirl in the water, and away it went
skimming along at a rapid rate.
"Ha, yes, I suppose that will be a great fish," said Father Brisdone,
sadly; "but I was thinking of the maiden at yon house--sweet little
Mace."
"Bless her!" said Master Peasegood.
"Amen," said his companion. "Brother Joseph, she is at a perilous age,
and I do not think her father's to be trusted."
"You mean with her future?" said Master Peasegood. "I fear so too.
Poor child, she needs a mother's counsel!"
"Think you she has a lover?" said Father Brisdone, quietly.
"Two fierce luces playing round the little gudgeon," cried Master
Peasegood, excitedly. "One of them will snatch it up directly. Nay,
nay," he continued, reddening; "I meant no inference. I was thinking of
yon bait. There it goes."
He pointed to where a gudgeon had leaped several times out of the water
to escape a couple of fierce pike, one of which seized it and bore it
off.
"Lovers?" he continued. "Yes, that courtly fellow from town is trying
to win her, and so is Gilbert Carr."
"And she?"
"She loves Culverin Carr with all her pretty little soul, but he shall
not have her unless--"
"Unless what?"
"He mends his ways. She shall marry no scapegrace who plays fast and
loose with women's hearts. He trifles with Mistress Anne Beckley, and
the silly girl is mad for him."
"Nay, I think you wrong him, brother. I believe in Gil Carr as a true
gentleman at heart. I love the brave, bold youth."
"I hope I do wrong him," said Master Peasegood. "He's a fine, handsome
fellow, but I will not have my little white moth played with, and the
tender down upon her winglets crushed by unholy hands."
"Why do you call her white moth?" said the father, dreamily.
"It is a fancy of the people here, because she dresses in white; and
they meet her, looking soft, and white, and ethereal, in the woody lanes
at eventide where moths abound. Ah, Father Brisdone, happy men are we
who early marry ourselves to the Church, and know nought of these
fleshly troubles. Yes, they call her the white moth; and between
ourselves it's a glowworm that often comes wooing to her, and I fear his
light will burn."
Father Brisdone sighed. "Ha, ha, ha! that's because another Jonah has
gone down," said Master Peasegood, pointing to a flying bladder.
"Nay," said the other sadly; "I sighed at your words about our being
happier without these fleshly cares. I don't know--I don't know."
"More do I," said Master Peasegood; "only that I'm very fatherly fond of
little Mace, and if I can stand between her and Carr I will. Now,
brother, we'll chase that first great fish. Suppose you take the oars."
Father Brisdone obeyed, and Master Peasegood fitted a large hook to the
end of a stout walking-staff, directing his friend the while as he urged
the boat over the limpid water, making fish dart away here and there
amongst the water-lilies and flags.
They approached pretty near the bladder, and then away it went, showing
that the great pike was well hooked, and now commenced a chase for some
ten minutes, the captive always evading the great hook just as Master
Peasegood was on the point of securing the string.
The chase led them right away over the deepest part of the Pool, and
amidst various little islands of reeds growing on soft masses of decayed
vegetation; the boat, when urged forward, passing easily amongst and
over them, so lightly were they rooted in the soft vegetable fibre
below.
"Now then, a good pull, brother, and we shall have him," whispered
Master Peasegood. "He's a monster, but he is tired now. Four good
strokes and then hold up your oars, and let the skiff glide and I'll--
Good God! what's that?--the other oar, man, pull!"
The skiff spun round and was urged towards a clump of reeds, among
which, and half covered by the water, were two ghastly faces, which
settled down, gliding from their precarious hold, as the wave made by
the skiff reached them.
Another moment and they would have been beyond reach, but Master
Peasegood thrust his arm to the shoulder into the water, as he leaned
over the side, and grasped the doublet of one man, thrusting in his hook
and seizing the other, and then drawing both up to the sides of the
boat, as it rustled amongst the reeds, but bringing the edge down so low
that the water began to pour in over the side.
"Quick, brother, quick!" shouted Master Peasegood. "Hang over the other
side, or we are lost!"
With a promptitude that might not have been expected from him, Father
Brisdone threw himself to the other side of the skiff, and raised the
endangered edge so that the water ceased to pour over the gunwale, while
Master Peasegood deftly leaned sideways and dragged the first body he
had secured round the stern of the boat.
Father Brisdone saw what he intended, and, changing his position a
little, just managed to catch the doublet, and the next minute the boat
was well balanced, for one of the bodies was being held up on either
side.
"Are--are they dead?" whispered Father Brisdone, in an awe-stricken
voice. "Poor lad--poor lad."
"Heaven only knows," cried Master Peasegood, as he changed his position
and said, "Give me hold of the poor boy--his collar--that's well. I've
got this one the same. There, their heads are well above the water now,
and I can hold them thus. Now take the oars and row for life."
"But can you hold them?" cried Father Brisdone, as he obeyed his
companion, and gazed at him the while, seated with hands grasping the
two men's collars, one on either side.
"I hope so. Oh, yes! They can't drag me out of the boat, but it would
be madness to try and drag them in. Row hard: never mind me."
Father Brisdone bent to his task with a will, and in a fashion that
showed how he had more than once handled an oar, while Master Peasegood
braced himself up, and held on to his burdens as they dragged behind.
"You see who they are?" he said, as the skiff gathered way, and the
water rattled under her bows.
"Yes; one is the man of whom we talked."
"And the other is old Wat Kilby. I'll never believe he is drowned,"
cried Master Peasegood. "He's born for quite another fate. Pull steady
and hard, man. If my arms are jerked out of the sockets I'll forgive
thee. Ohe--ahoy--hoi--oy," he shouted to a couple of men on the shore,
and as they stopped to gaze others began to collect, so that by the time
the side was reached there was plenty of willing aid, and hands ready to
bear the two men into the charcoal-shed, where, by Father Brisdone's
orders, blankets were fetched and stimulants, while, under his
instructions, strong hands rubbed the icy limbs.
This was continued for a time, and then the founder made a proposal,
which was put into effect.
"Four of you, one to the corner of each blanket," he cried; "and run
them down to the little furnace. We can lay them on the hot bricks
there."
"Yes, quickly," cried Father Brisdone. "The very thing."
It was done, and the genial heat and the friction liberally applied. At
first no change took place, and the founder shook his head; while Sir
Mark, as he gazed at the stern, handsome countenance of Culverin Carr,
felt that a dangerous rival had been removed from his path.
"We were too late, brother, were we not?" said Master Peasegood, sadly.
"I'll tell thee, anon," was the reply, as, with cassock off and sleeves
up, Father Brisdone was toiling away, with the perspiration streaming
down his forehead.
One hour--two hours passed, and still there was no sign of life. Those
who aided would have given up long before but for the father's example,
led by which they worked manfully, till, to the great joy of the
operator, there was a faint quivering about his patients' eyelids.
Encouraged by this, all worked the harder, to be rewarded by a sigh from
Gil, and a low growl from Wat Kilby, who now rapidly recovered
consciousness, and startled all present by exclaiming:--
"Who has taken my tobacco?" Gil recovered more slowly, but he was soon
able to speak; and the first person upon whom his eyes fell was Sir
Mark, who seemed half fascinated by his gaze.
A couple of hours later the two men were sufficiently revived to bear
removal; and in a gruff way, as if the show of hospitality were forced
upon him, Master Cobbe offered them the use of his house.
Gil's heart gave a leap of joy at the invitation, while Sir Mark's
countenance grew black as night. It resumed, its former aspect, though,
as he heard Gil refuse, and merely request permission to stay where they
were for a time, after which he said they would go their way.
"I'd give something to know how those two came so near being drowned,"
said the founder, as he walked over the little bridge with Sir Mark.
"I'd give something," said Sir Mark to himself, "if that meddling priest
had left the scoundrel to die in peace. How I hate him, to be sure."
Meanwhile, Mace, who had been upon her knees in her little chamber,
praying with all her soul for her lover's life, had now changed her
prayer to thanksgiving, and at last stood by the window, and exchanged a
look with him, as she saw him walk slowly away, with Wat Kilby, whose
pipe was lit, and who was smoking as if nothing whatever had been amiss.
As to how the accident had occurred, that was the secret of the two
sufferers, the guests that evening of Master Peasegood, whose luces were
not sought for till the next morning, by which time three-parts had
managed to get away, or rid themselves of their steel, leaving the
floating bladders alone for the parson's crook.
Volume 2, Chapter V.