A VILLAGE STORY.
Anerly is one of the smallest villages in Devonshire. It, in fact,
does not rise to the dignity of a village, but is called one, rather
out of objection to use the more unfamiliar word hamlet than its own
particular claims. Such as it is, it stands at cross-roads, and
although the resident population is small, many wayfarers of all
degrees pass through it by day, not a few of whom draw up at the
Beagle Inn--the only one in the place--to taste the cider, for which
that house is famous all through the district. In Anerly there is a
theory that a good-sized lump of bread and a good-sized piece of
cheese and a pint of The Beagle cider form a repast at which the
Emperor of China's nose would cease to turn up.
In dwelling thus on the cider, it must not be supposed other things at
The Beagle were not of good quality. As a matter of fact, The Beagle
prided itself on keeping nothing which was not of the very first
quality. But the cider was what capped the climax, and gave a tone to
the whole. In addition to the excellence of the cider, The Beagle had
another great attraction: it was very favourably situated, and there
was no window or door of it from which you could not see a quiet,
soothing little landscape.
Whoever built the inn, in the time of the Stuarts, knew what he was
about, and set the face of the house towards the prettiest landscape
of all. As the men of Anerly sat smoking their long pipes and drinking
their incomparable cider in front of The Beagle on summer evenings,
they had before them a long stretch of winding and descending road,
bordered at irregular intervals with fine elms and beeches. To the
left lay a quiet valley, the lowest line of which was marked by a
broad stream. To the right a hill thinly wooded, sloped upward to
where the gaunt naked trunks of the pines stood out sharply against
the darkening sky. Halfway down the winding road lay the small village
church. Nothing could be more peaceful or soothing than the view from
the front of The Beagle on a warm June night.
Half-a-dozen of the better-off men of the village met every evening at
The Beagle. When the weather was wet they had their pipes and their
cider in the front parlour, where the flash of the great fire on the
ruddy sand strewn on the floor made one feel warm on entering. On warm
nights, the men sat outside under a roof supported by pillars and
trellis, up which climbed clematis and jasmine.
This June evening happening to be warm, the men were all seated out of
doors under the verandah. As a rule, the conversation on such
occasions was neither animated nor sustained. The clerk and sexton of
the church, a wheelwright by trade, was by courtesy supposed to be the
brain-carrier of the party; but he being a man of extremely few words,
it seemed as though the weight of intelligence was against
conversation. It was well known there were subjects on which Stephen
Goolby could be interested. Any mention of Napoleon I. made him fire
up with most unpatriotic ardour in favour of the Corsican. Upon the
mention of the name of the Man of Destiny, Stephen Goolby would double
up his fist and, smiting the table a mighty blow, cry out:
"The greatest general of this or of any other age was Napoleon
Bonaparte. I tell you what it is, sir: if Napoleon put his foot on
this country, with an army at his heels, there wouldn't be a man of us
alive now, and English would be as much a dead language as Latin or
Greek or double Dutch."
Upon a suggestion from someone that the Corsican met his match at
Waterloo, Stephen Goolby would cry out:
"His match, sir, his match! Why, sir, answer me this, if you can:
Weren't the Allies beaten when the Prussians came up? Answer me that,
if you can; but I think you'll find it a stiff one. Look here, sir, if
the battle was won by the Allies when the Prussians came up, what made
old Wellington go about the camp all the day, thumping his chest, and
saying, 'For the love of Heaven, send me night or the Prussians'? Tell
me, what did he mean by that? I tell you, sir, only them Prussians
came up then, every man Jack of us would be a Frenchman now, and
instead of answering the service down there in good English 'Amens,'
they'd be parleyvooing, so that neither you, sir, nor I would have
comfort or peace."
It so happened on the June night referred to, there was exceptional
reason for the exercise of the gifts which it had pleased Providence
to bestow on Stephen Goolby. Edward Graham, a young landscape painter,
on a walking and sketching tour through Devonshire, had arrived at
Anerly that night, put up at The Beagle, and now made one of the party
under the verandah.
Upon an occasion such as the present--that is, when there was
company--Goolby having made the allusion to Anerly church, it became
the duty of one of the regular company to suggest that Stephen Goolby
had a story to tell in connection with that church and a great
temptation which befell him. This having been done, Stephen Goolby
refilled his pipe, put his head carefully on one side, so as to open
the valves of his memory, and spoke:
"I won't do myself or anyone else hurt if I say I am close up to
sixty-five years of age. I am strong and hearty still, I thank God,
and can do a fair day's work, though I'm not so brisk as I was once.
"For seven-and-thirty years I have been clerk and sexton to Anerly
Church; and the thing that lies in my memory now took place when I was
about thirty years old, and when, as I was just then trying to set up
a home for myself and my poor wife, who is dead and gone, a little
ready money would have been more useful than any time before or since.
"A few months before the great temptation came in my way--I am now
speaking of five-and-thirty years ago--a gentleman drove into the
village one day. He had a young girl with him. I did not see him when
he drove into the village; but I saw him and her often afterwards. He
took the best room in The Beagle for her, and having given great
instructions to the landlady, old Mrs. Timmons, dead and gone long
ago, he drove away again; and we did not see him any more for a few
days.
"As I said before, I have often seen both him and her since. I've
been in London in my time, and seen as handsome faces as any man
alive, I'll bet my life; but never did I see anywhere such a lovely
creature as that young girl the gentleman left here at The Beagle
five-and-thirty years ago. He was a fine tall man, with an open free
manner as you'd please to meet. Soon we got word there was going to be
a marriage, and that there was some secret at the bottom of all of it.
What that secret was we never found out from that day to this.
"Mrs. Timmons noticed that the young girl often wept and cried when he
was away; but when he came back she seemed ready to die of joy. I've
never seen a prettier picture in all my life than when he took her on
his arm and walked down the village with her. The people all came out
of doors to look at her and him; for he was a fine man too, well made
and shapely.
"Well, after a little while, we heard that the wedding was to be soon,
and that it wasn't to be by banns, but by license. In time it came.
There was no bridesmaid or best man. They walked down to the church
together, went in, were married. I gave away the bride and signed the
register. Old Billy Newton, long since dead and gone, he that led the
choir then, was the other witness.
"The two left the church, and got in a chaise standing by, and drove
away towards Moorfield.
"Although I did not forget the marriage, I had other things on my
mind, and I gave no thought to it. I had been married a couple of
years myself, and, between my trade, and my duties at the church, and
shifting to my new house and the birth of a daughter, I had my hands
and my head full of my own affairs.
"About six months after the marriage, who must ride up to the door of
this very same Beagle but the gentleman who had married the lovely
young girl in the church down there. They took his horse round. Those
that saw him when he came said he looked excited and wild-like. He
ordered them to keep a room for him, and to get him some supper, no
matter what; and then he came straight on to me.
"'Goolby,' says he as free as if he had known me all his life, 'I want
to have a few words with you in private.'
"It was to the old house he came, and we were just leaving it for
good, my wife and myself, taking a last look round to see we had
forgotten nothing. I beckoned to my wife to go on, and, shutting the
door, I asked him to step back into one of the empty rooms.
"'Goolby,' says he, 'I see you are house-shifting. Five hundred pounds
would be very useful to you now.'
"'It would be a small fortune to me at any time, sir,' says I.
"'Goolby,' says he, putting one hand on my shoulder, and putting the
other into my pocket, 'I've put five one-hundred-pound Bank of England
notes in your pocket now.'
"I felt all of a tremble. I put my hand in my pocket and took out what
he had put in. I felt that weak then you could have knocked me down
with a little push. The sweat came out on my forehead and my throat
felt twisted up. Here was more money than I could hope to lay by in a
lifetime in my hand--my own, he said.
"'If you please, sir,' I says, 'I'd rather not take the money. Put it
away, sir, and let me go.'
"I felt getting weaker and weaker every minute.
"'Nonsense!' says he. 'Put the money in your pocket, and don't be a
fool.'
"'I can't take it, sir. You're not giving it to me for nothing; and I
know I cannot do for any money what you want,' says I; for I guessed
at once what he wanted.
"'What do I want?' says he, getting white and red all by turns.
"'It's something about the register, sir; and I can't think of it any
longer. I must go now,' says I, 'There's your money.' And with these
words I stuffed the notes into the pocket of his riding-coat, and
opened the door and ran home.
"I did not tell the rector. I was too much afraid. But that night, and
every night for a fortnight after, I slept in the vestry, with an axe
and a crowbar handy, but no one ever came. I never saw the gentleman
since; and the leaf is still in the book.
"'And what are the names on that leaf?' asked Edward Graham, the young
artist.
"George Temple Cheyne and Harriet Mansfield."