I
The events of this history did not occur within my own recollection,
and I can only relate them at second-hand--from the Squire and others.
They are curious enough; especially as regard the three parsons--one
following upon another--in their connection with the Monk family,
causing no end of talk in Church Leet parish, as well as in other
parishes within earshot.
About three miles' distance from Church Dykely, going northwards across
country, was the rural parish of Church Leet. It contained a few
farmhouses and some labourers' cottages. The church, built of grey
stone, stood in its large graveyard; the parsonage, a commodious house,
was close by; both of them were covered with time-worn ivy. Nearly half
a mile off, on a gentle eminence, rose the handsome mansion called
Leet Hall, the abode of the Monk family. Nearly the whole of the
parish--land, houses, church and all--belonged to them. At the time I
am about to tell of they were the property of one man--Godfrey Monk.
The late owner of the place (except for one short twelvemonth) was
old James Monk, Godfrey's father. Old James had three sons and one
daughter--Emma--his wife dying early. The eldest son (mostly styled
"young James") was about as wild a blade as ever figured in story; the
second son, Raymond, was an invalid; the third, Godfrey, a reckless
lad, ran away to sea when he was fourteen.
If the Monks were celebrated for one estimable quality more than
another, it was temper: a cross-grained, imperious, obstinate temper.
"Run away to sea, has he?" cried old James when he heard the news; "very
well, at sea he shall stop." And at sea Godfrey did stop, not disliking
the life, and perhaps not finding any other open to him. He worked his
way up in the merchant service by degrees, until he became commander and
was called Captain Monk.
The years went on. Young James died, and the other two sons grew to be
middle-aged men. Old James, the father, found by signs and tokens that
his own time was approaching; and he was the next to go. Save for a
slender income bequeathed to Godfrey and to his daughter, the whole of
the property was left to Raymond, and to Godfrey after him if Raymond
had no son. The entail had been cut off in the past generation; for
which act the reasons do not concern us.
So Raymond, ailing greatly always, entered into possession of his
inheritance. He lived about a twelvemonth afterwards, and then died:
died unmarried. Therefore Godfrey came into all.
People were curious, the Squire says, as to what sort of man Godfrey
would turn out to be; for he had not troubled home much since he ran
away. He was a widower; that much was known; his wife having been a
native of Trinidad, in the West Indies.
A handsome man, with fair, curling hair (what was left of it); proud
blue eyes; well-formed features with a chronic flush upon them, for he
liked his glass, and took it; a commanding, imperious manner, and a
temper uncompromising as the grave. Such was Captain Godfrey Monk; now
in his forty-fifth year. Upon his arrival at Leet Hall after landing,
with his children and one or two dusky attendants in their train, he
was received by his sister Emma, Mrs. Carradyne. Major Carradyne had
died fighting in India, and his wife, at the request of her brother
Raymond, came then to live at Leet Hall. Not of necessity, for Mrs.
Carradyne was well off and could have made her home where she pleased,
but Raymond had liked to have her. Godfrey also expressed his pleasure
that she should remain; she could act as mother to his children.
Godfrey's children were three: Katherine, aged seventeen; Hubert, aged
ten; and Eliza, aged eight. The girls had their father's handsome
features, but in their skin there ran a dusky tinge, hinting of other
than pure Saxon blood; and they were every whit as haughtily self-willed
as he was. The boy, Hubert, was extremely pretty, his face fair, his
complexion delicately beautiful, his auburn hair bright, his manner
winning; but he liked to exercise his own will, and appeared to have
generally done it.
A day or two, and Mrs. Carradyne sat down aghast. "I never saw children
so troublesome and self-willed in all my life, Godfrey," she said to her
brother. "Have they ever been controlled at all?"
"Had their own way pretty much, I expect," answered the Captain. "I was
not often at home, you know, and there's nobody else they'd obey."
"Well, Godfrey, if I am to remain here, you will have to help me manage
them."
"That's as may be, Emma. When I deem it necessary to speak, I speak;
otherwise I don't interfere. And you must not get into the habit of
appealing to me, recollect."
Captain Monk's conversation was sometimes interspersed with sundry light
words, not at all orthodox, and not necessarily delivered in anger. In
those past days swearing was regarded as a gentleman's accomplishment; a
sailor, it was believed, could not at all get along without it. Manners
change. The present age prides itself upon its politeness: but what of
its sincerity?
Mrs. Carradyne, mild and gentle, commenced her task of striving to tame
her brother's rebellious children. She might as well have let it alone.
The girls laughed at her one minute and set her at defiance the next.
Hubert, who had good feeling, was more obedient; he did not openly defy
her. At times, when her task pressed heavily upon her spirits, Mrs.
Carradyne felt tempted to run away from Leet Hall, as Godfrey had run
from it in the days gone by. Her own two children were frightened at
their cousins, and she speedily sent both to school, lest they should
catch their bad manners. Henry was ten, the age of Hubert; Lucy was
between five and six.
Just before the death of Raymond Monk, the living of Church Leet became
vacant, and the last act of his life was to present it to a worthy young
clergyman named George West. This caused intense dissatisfaction to
Godfrey. He had heard of the late incumbent's death, and when he arrived
home and found the living filled up he proclaimed his anger loudly,
lavishing abuse upon poor dead Raymond for his precipitancy. He had
wanted to bestow it upon a friend of his, a Colonial chaplain, and
had promised it to him. It was a checkmate there was no help for now,
for Mr. West could not be turned out again; but Captain Monk was not
accustomed to be checkmated, and resented it accordingly. He took up,
for no other reason, a most inveterate dislike to George West, and
showed it practically.
In every step the Vicar took, at every turn and thought, he found
himself opposed by Captain Monk. Had he a suggestion to make for the
welfare of the parish, his patron ridiculed it; did he venture to
propose some wise measure at a vestry meeting, the Captain put him and
his measure down. Not civilly either, but with a stinging contempt,
semi-covert though it was, that made its impression on the farmers
around. The Reverend George West was a man of humility, given to much
self-disparagement, so he bore all in silence and hoped for better
times.
* * * * *
The time went on; three years of it; Captain Monk had fully settled down
in his ancestral home, and the neighbours had learnt what a domineering,
self-willed man he was. But he had his virtues. He was kind in a general
way, generous where it pleased him to be, inordinately attached to his
children, and hospitable to a fault.
On the last day of every year, as the years came round, Captain Monk,
following his late father's custom, gave a grand dinner to his tenants;
and a very good custom it would have been, but that he and they got
rather too jolly. The parson was always invited--and went; and sometimes
a few of Captain Monk's personal friends were added.
Christmas came round this year as usual, and the invitations to the
dinner went out. One came to Squire Todhetley, a youngish man then, and
one to my father, William Ludlow, who was younger than the Squire. It
was a green Christmas; the weather so warm and genial that the hearty
farmers, flocking to Leet Hall, declared they saw signs of buds
sprouting in the hedges, whilst the large fire in the Captain's
dining-room was quite oppressive.
Looking from the window of the parsonage sitting-room in the twilight,
while drawing on his gloves, preparatory to setting forth, stood Mr.
West. His wife was bending over an easy-chair, in which their only
child, little Alice, lay back, covered up. Her breathing was quick, her
skin parched with fever. The wife looked sickly herself.
"Well, I suppose it is time to go," observed Mr. West, slowly. "I shall
be late if I don't."
"I rather wonder you go at all, George," returned his wife. "Year after
year, when you come back from this dinner, you invariably say you will
not go to another."
"I know it, Mary. I dislike the drinking that goes on--and the free
conversation--and the objectionable songs; I feel out of place in it
all."
"And the Captain's contemptuous treatment of yourself, you might add."
"Yes, that is another unwelcome item in the evening's programme."
"Then, George, why _do_ you go?"
"Well, I think you know why. I do not like to refuse the invitation;
it would only increase Captain Monk's animosity and widen still further
the breach between us. As patron he holds so much in his power. Besides
that, my presence at the table does act, I believe, as a mild restraint
on some of them, keeping the drinking and the language somewhat within
bounds. Yes, I suppose my duty lies in going. But I shall not stay late,
Mary," added the parson, bending to look at the suffering child; "and if
you see any real necessity for the doctor to be called in to-night, I
will go for him."
"Dood-bye, pa-pa," lisped the little four-year-old maiden.
He kissed the little hot face, said adieu to his wife and went out,
hoping that the child would recover without the doctor; for the living
of Church Leet was but a poor one, though the parsonage house was so
handsome. It was a hundred-and-sixty pounds a year, for which sum the
tithes had been compounded, and Mr. West had not much money to spare for
superfluities--especially as he had to substantially help his mother.
The twilight had deepened almost to night, and the lights in the mansion
seemed to smile a cheerful welcome as he approached it. The pillared
entrance, ascended to by broad steps, stood in the middle, and a raised
terrace of stone ran along before the windows on either side. It was
quite true that every year, at the conclusion of these feasts, the
Vicar resolved never to attend another; but he was essentially a man of
peace, striving ever to lay oil upon troubled waters, after the example
left by his Master.
Dinner. The board was full. Captain Monk presided, genial to-day; genial
even to the parson. Squire Todhetley faced the Captain at the foot; Mr.
West sat at the Squire's right hand, between him and Farmer Threpp,
a quiet man and supposed to be a very substantial one. All went on
pleasantly; but when the elaborate dinner gave place to dessert and
wine-drinking, the company became rather noisy.
"I think it's about time you left us," cried the Squire by-and-by to
young Hubert, who sat next him on the other side: and over and over
again Mr. Todhetley has repeated to us in later years the very words
that passed.
"By George, yes!" put in a bluff and hearty fox-hunter, the master of
the hounds, bending forward to look at the lad, for he was in a line
with him, and breaking short off an anecdote he was regaling the company
with. "I forgot you were there, Master Hubert. Quite time you went to
bed."
"I daresay!" laughed the boy. "Please let me alone, all of you. I don't
want attention drawn to me."
But the slight commotion had attracted Captain Monk's notice. He saw his
son.
"What's that?--Hubert! What brings you there now, you young pirate? I
ordered you to go out with the cloth."
"I am not doing any harm, papa," said the boy, turning his fair and
beautiful face towards his father.
Captain Monk pointed his stern finger at the door; a mandate which
Hubert dared not disobey, and he went out.
The company sat on, an interminable period of time it seemed to the
Vicar. He glanced stealthily at his watch. Eleven o'clock.
"Thinking of going, Parson?" said Mr. Threpp. "I'll go with you. My
head's not one of the strongest, and I've had about as much as I ought
to carry."
They rose quietly, not to disturb the table; intending to steal away, if
possible, without being observed. Unluckily, Captain Monk chanced to be
looking that way.
"Halloa! who's turning sneak?--Not you, surely, Parson!--" in a
meaningly contemptuous tone. "And _you_, Threpp, of all men! Sit down
again, both of you, if you don't want to quarrel with me. Odds fish! has
my dining-room got sharks in it, that you'd run away? Winter, just lock
the door, will you; you are close to it, and pass up the key to me."
Mr. Winter, a jovial old man and the largest tenant on the estate, rose
to do the Captain's behest, and sent up the key.
"Nobody quits my room," said the host, as he took it, "until we have
seen the old year out and the new one in. What else do you come for--eh,
gentlemen?"
The revelry went on. The decanters circulated more quickly, the glasses
clinked, the songs became louder, the Captain's sea stories broader. Mr.
West perforce made the best of the situation, certain words of Holy Writ
running through his memory:
"_Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth its colour
in the cup, when it moveth itself aright!_"
Well, more than well, for Captain Monk, that he had not looked upon the
red wine that night!
In the midst of all this, the hall clock began to strike twelve. The
Captain rose, after filling his glass to the brim.
"Bumpers round, gentlemen. On your legs. Ready? Hooray! Here's to the
shade of the year that's gone, and may it have buried all our cares with
it! And here's good luck to the one setting in. A happy New Year to you
all; and may we never know a moment in it worse than the present?
Three-times-three--and drain your glasses."
"But we have had the toast too soon!" called out one of the farmers,
making the discovery close after the cheers had subsided. "It wants some
minutes yet to midnight, Captain."
Captain Monk snatched out his watch--worn in those days in what was
called the fob-pocket--its chain and bunch of seals at the end hanging
down.
"By Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "Hang that butler of mine! He knew the
hall clock was too fast, and I told him to put it back. If his memory
serves him no better than this, he may ship himself off to a fresh
berth.--Hark! Listen!"
It was the church clock striking twelve. The sound reached the
dining-room room very clearly, the wind setting that way. "Another
bumper," cried the Captain, and his guests drank it.
"This day twelvemonth I was at a feast in Derbyshire; the bells of a
neighbouring church rang in the year with pleasant melody; chimes they
were," remarked a guest, who was a partial stranger. "Your church has no
bells, I suppose?"
"It has one; an old ting-tang that calls us to service on a Sunday,"
said Mr. Winter.
"I like to hear those midnight chimes, for my part. I like to hear them
chime in the new year," went on the stranger.
"Chimes!" cried out Captain Monk, who was getting very considerably
elated, "why should we not have chimes? Mr. West, why don't we have
chimes?"
"Our church does not possess any, sir--as this gentleman has just
remarked," was Mr. West's answer.
"Egad, but that parson of ours is going to set us all ablaze with his
wit!" jerked out the Captain ironically. "I asked, sir, why we should
not get a set of chimes; I did not say we had got them. Is there any
just cause or impediment why we should not, Mr. Vicar?"
"Only the expense," replied the Vicar, in a conciliatory tone.
"Oh, bother expense! That's what you are always wanting to groan over.
Mr. Churchwarden Threpp, we will call a vestry meeting and make a rate."
"The parish could not bear it, Captain Monk," remonstrated the
clergyman. "You know what dissatisfaction was caused by the last extra
rate put on, and how low an ebb things are at just now."
"When I will a thing, I do it," retorted the Captain, with a meaning
word or two. "We'll send out the rate and we'll get the chimes."
"It will, I fear, lie in my duty to protest against it," spoke the
uneasy parson.
"It may lie in your duty to be a wet blanket, but you won't protest
me out of my will. Gentlemen, we will all meet here again this time
twelvemonth, when the chimes shall ring-in the new year for you.----
Here, Dutton, you can unlock the door now," concluded the Captain,
handing the key to the other churchwarden. "Our parson is upon thorns
to be away from us."
Not the parson only, but several others availed themselves of the
opportunity to escape.