Parish Explorations
A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly:
Judge, when you hear.--But, soft; what nymphs are these?
Midsummer Night's Dream
It was quite true that Cecil Charnock Poynsett was a very
intelligent industrious creature, very carefully brought up--nay, if
possible, a little too much so. "A little wholesome neglect" had
been lacking.
The only child of her parents who had lived to see a second birthday
was sure to be the centre of solicitude. She had not been spoilt in
the usual acceptation of the word, for she had no liberty, fewer
indulgences and luxuries than many children, and never was permitted
to be naughty; but then she was quite aware that each dainty or each
pleasure was granted or withheld from a careful consideration of her
welfare, and that nothing came by chance with her. And on her rare
ebullitions of self-will, mamma, governess, nurse, nay even papa,
were all in sorrowful commotion till their princess had been brought
to a sense of the enormity of her fault.
She lost her mother at fourteen, but the same anxious training was
carried on by her father; and after three years he married her
mother's most intimate friend, avowedly that the perfect system
might be continued. Cecil's gaieties as a come-out young lady were
selected on the same judicious principles as her childish
diversions; and if ever the Dunstone family favoured an
entertainment not to their taste, it was after a debate on the need
of condescension and good-nature. She had, however, never had a
season in London--a place her father hated; but she was taken abroad
as soon as she was deemed old enough thoroughly to appreciate what
she was to see there; and in Switzerland her Cousin Raymond, who had
at different times visited Dunstone, overtook the party, and ere
long made his proposals. He was the very man to whom two or three
centuries ago Mr. Charnock would have betrothed the heiress in her
infancy; and Cecil had never liked any one so well, feeling that her
destiny came to a proper culmination in bestowing her hand on the
most eligible Charnock, an M.P., and just a step above her father in
rank and influence.
Her step-mother was under orders to spend the winter in Italy and
the wedding had therefore taken place in Venice, so that Cecil might
finish her journey as a wife. She had been very happy and fully
occupied; Raymond, being younger and stronger than her parents, was
more competent to escort her to every height or depth to which she
wished to go, hunted up information for her, and was her most
obedient servant, only resisting any prolongation of the journey
beyond the legitimate four weeks; nor indeed had Cecil been desirous
of deferring her introduction to her new sphere.
There she stood, her hair and pretty Parisian winter dress arranged
to perfection, contemplating with approval the sitting-room that had
been appropriated to her, the October sunshine lighting up the many-
tinted trees around the smooth-shaven dewy lawn, and a bright fire
on the hearth, shelves and chiffoniers awaiting her property, and
piles of parcels, suggestive of wedding presents, awaiting her hand.
She was standing at the table, turning out her travelling-bag with
the comfortable sensation that it was not to be immediately re-
packed, and had just disinterred a whole library of note-books, when
her husband opened the door. "I believe Jenkins is waiting for your
appearance to bring in the urn, my dear."
"I'm coming; but surely there ought to be a bell or gong to assemble
the family."
"It might disturb my mother. What sleep she gets is in the morning.
I never go to her till eleven o'clock, unless I am going out for the
day."
"And what will she want me to do for her?" asked Cecil, glancing at
her empty shelves.
"A woman's tact will soon find out. All I wish is that she should
be your first object."
It was a much larger _all_ than could be realized by the son whose
happiest moments had been spent in devotion to her, and who thought
the motherless girl must rejoice doubly in such a mother.
"But I am free till eleven," said Cecil.
"Free always, I hope," he returned, with a shade of vexation.
Therewith they descended the broad stairs into the panelled hall,
where a great fire was blazing on the hearth, and Rosamond and the
two young brothers were standing chatting merrily before it.
Julius, she said, had his primary sermon heavy on his mind, and had
risen before day to attack it; and she sped away to summon him from
Mrs. Poynsett's beautiful old dressing-room, where he sat writing
amid all the old associations. Anne was discovered hanging over the
dining-room fire, looking whiter and more exhausted than the night
before, having indeed been the first to come down-stairs. She was
rebuked for fatiguing herself, and again murmured something about
family worship.
"We must begin to-morrow," said Raymond. "We have got a chaplain
now."
Julius, however, on entering excused himself, saying that after
Sunday he should be at Matins at nine o'clock; whereupon Anne looked
at him in mute astonishment.
Raymond, feeling that he ought to cultivate the solitary sister-in-
law, began asking about Miles; but unlike the typical colonist, she
was very silent, and her replies were monosyllabic, till Rosamond
created a diversion by talking to Frank; and then Raymond elicited
that Glen Fraser was far up the country--King Williamstown nearer
than any other town. They had sent thither for a doctor for Miles,
and he stayed one night, but said that mother's treatment was quite
right; and as it was thirty miles off he did not come again. Thirty
miles! what sort of roads? Not bad for wagons. It only took two
days to get there if the river was not in flood. Had she not been
married there? Yes, they all rode in thither for the purpose. Was
it the nearest church, then? There was one only nine miles off, to
which papa went when there was service--one Sunday in three, "for he
is an Episcopalian, you know."
"And not your mother?" asked Cecil.
"I don't think she was at home," said Anne.
"Then had you a Presbyterian Kirk?" asked Cecil, remembering that in
Scotland gentle blood and Anglicanism did not go together as
uniformly as she believed them to do in England.
"There was one at Schneyder's Kloof, but that was Dutch."
"Then did you go nowhere?" asked Cecil.
"There was Mr. Pilgrim's."
"A clergyman?"
"No, a settler. He used to pray and expound every Sunday."
"What does he call himself?" said Cecil, growing more severe.
"I don't know," said Anne. "He gathers together a little flock of
all denominations, who only care to hear the word."
"Such a voice in the wilderness as often does good service," said
Julius, with a perception that the side with which he least agreed
best deserved support.
He and Rosamond were bent on a tour of parochial inspection, as were
Raymond and Cecil on a more domestic one, beginning with the
gardens.
Cecil was the first lady down-stairs, all in claret colour trimmed
with gray fur, with a little fur and velvet cap upon her head.
"There! it is a clear morning, and you can see the view," said
Raymond, opening the hall door.
"Very prettily undulating ground," she said, standing on the steps,
and looking over a somewhat rapid slope scattered with trees to the
opposite side of the valley, where a park with a red mansion in the
midst gleamed out among woods of green, red, orange, and brown
tints. "How you are shut in! That great Spanish chestnut must be a
perfect block when its leaves are out. My father would never let it
stand so near the house."
"It is too near, but it was planted at the birth of my mother's
brother."
"Who died?"
"Yes, at seven years old. It was her first grief."
"Then it would vex her if you cut it."
Raymond laughed. "It is hers, not mine."
"I forgot." There was a good deal in the tone; but she added, "What
is that place opposite?"
"Sirenwood. It belongs to Sir Harry Vivian; but he does not live
there."
"Yes, he does," said Cecil. "Your brothers say he has come back
with his two daughters."
"There is only one unmarried."
"There is a widow come to keep house for him--Lady Tyrrell."
"Very likely," said Raymond; "my mother only writes with difficulty,
so I hear little when I am from home."
"Is it true that they are horrid people, very dissipated, and not
fit for me to associate with?"
"That is putting it strongly," said Raymond, quietly. "They are not
likely to be very desirable acquaintances for you, but there is no
reason you should not associate with them on ordinary terms of
courtesy."
"Ah! I understand--as member's wife."
"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Raymond. "Ah!
Rosamond!" as she came down in a Galway cloak over her black
velveteen, "on the way to view your domain?"
"Yes, and yours," she said, nodding to Cecil. "You appreciate such
English apple-pie order. It looks as if you never suffered a stray
leaf to dance without an old woman to hunt it down. And what's that
red house smiling across the valley?"
"Sirenwood," repeated Raymond; then to Julius he said, "Did you know
it was inhabited again?"
"Frank said so," answered Julius, without further remark, giving his
arm to his wife, who clasped both hands on it; while the other
couple looked on as if doubtful whether this were a trying duty
incumbent on them.
"What is it all about?" said Rosamond, as they walked down the
avenue of walnuts leading to the iron gates in the opposite
direction from Sirenwood. "Which of you was _that woman's_ victim?
Was it a sailor love of Miles's? I hope not! That poor little
African might not stand a gay ghost cropping up again."
"Miles is far removed from the conventional sailor."
"Then it is reduced to the grave Raymond."
"I wish I had betrayed nothing."
"Now you may as well proceed to betray the rest, instead of leaving
me to exercise my fancy."
"It is no secret, only such things are best not brought up again.
Camilla Vivian was poor Raymond's grande passion, and you may
imagine what a grief that was to my mother, especially as the poor
brother was then living--one of the most fascinating, dangerous men
I ever saw; and the whole tone of the place was ultra gay and
thoughtless, the most reckless extravagance. However, he was set
upon it, and my mother was forced to consent to the engagement. She
seemed equally devoted to him, till she met Lord Tyrrell at some
country house, and then a quarrel was picked, either by her mother
or herself, about my mother retaining the headship of her own house.
It was a palpable excuse, but it served to break the affair off, and
Raymond was cruelly cut up. My mother made herself everything to
him from that moment, gave up all her former habits to be with him,
sent the little boys to school, and fairly dragged him through the
trouble!"
"How long ago was it?"
"Ten years--yes, ten years. So far as ceasing to care a straw for a
heartless woman like that, he has got over it, no doubt; but it has
made a graver man of him for life, and I doubt whether, but for my
mother's accident, he ever would have married."
"Did you marry for your mother's sake, Julius, or only tell her so?"
"For shame, my Lady Mischief!"
"And do you think the fair Camilla returned with plans that she
finds disconcerted?"
"How can I tell? I have not seen her since I was a lad of
eighteen.--Ah! how d'ye do, Betty?" in a tone of relief; "you've not
seen my wife."
This was the first of a long series of introductions. Compton
Poynsett was a straggling village, with the church, schools, and
Rectory, ten minutes' walk from the park gates. It had not been
neglected, so that Julius had not the doubtful satisfaction of
coming like a missionary or reformer. The church, though not
exactly as with his present lights he would have made it, was in
respectable order, and contained hardly anything obnoxious to his
taste; the schools were well built, properly officered, and the
children under such discipline that Rosamond declared she could no
more meddle with them than with her father's regiment.
The Rectory was at that moment level with the ground, and Julius
explaining the plans, when up came the senior curate. Mr. Bindon,
whom she, as well as Julius, greeted as an old friend, was the
typical modern priest, full of his work, and caring for nothing
besides, except a Swiss mountain once a year; a slight, spare,
small, sallow man, but with an enormous power of untiring energy.
Scarcely had Rosamond shaken hands with him, standing where her
drawing-room rug was to be in future days, when a merry whistle came
near, and over the wall from the churchyard leapt first a black
retriever, secondly a Skye terrier, thirdly a bull ditto, fourthly a
young man, or rather an enormous boy, who for a moment stood amazed
and disconcerted at the unexpectedly worshipful society into which
he had jumped!
"Ha! Herbert! is that you?" laughed Julius.
"I beg your pardon!" he breathlessly exclaimed. "I was just taking
the short cut! I had no idea--Here, Mungo, you ruffian!" as the
Skye was investigating Lady Rosamond's boot.
"Oh, I like him of all things! I am glad to welcome you to our
future house!" as she held out her hand to the Reverend Herbert
Bowater, the junior curate, a deacon of a fortnight's standing,
whose round open happy blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, merry lips, and
curly light hair, did not seem in keeping with the rigidly straight
collar and waistcoat, and the long black coat, at present
plentifully streaked with green tree-moss, while his boots and
trousers looked as if they had partaken of the mud-bath which his
dogs had evidently been wallowing in.
"Off! off!" were his words, as he shook hands with his rectoress.
"Get away, Rollo!" with an energetic shove of the foot to the big
dog, who was about to shake his dripping coat for the ladies'
special benefit. "I saw you arrive last evening," he said, in the
conversational tone of a gentlemanly school-boy; "didn't you find it
very cold?"
"Not very. I did not see you, though."
"He was organizing the cheers," said Mr. Bindon. "You shone in
that, Bowater. They kept such good time."
"You were very good to cheer us at all," said Julius, "coming in the
wake of the Squire as we did."
"The best of it was," said the junior, "that Charlie was so awfully
afraid that he and poor Miles's wife would be taken for the Squire,
that he dashed in on his way to warn me to choke them off. If she
hadn't been ill, I must have set the boys on for a lark! How is
she, though?" he asked in a really kind tone.
"She looks very ill, poor thing," said Julius.
Here the bull terrier became assiduous in his attentions to
Rosamond; and between his master's calls and apologies, and her
caresses and excuses, not much more was heard, till Julius asked
with mock gravity, "And are these all you've brought over, Herbert?"
"Yes, all; I'd half a mind to bring the two greyhounds, but my
father thought they would get into trouble in the preserves, and
there isn't room at Mrs. Hornblower's place," he answered, with
apologetic simplicity.
"What a pity Durham has been reduced!" said Mr. Bindon, dryly. "It
would have been the right preferment for Bowater. The Bishop was
obliged by statute to keep a pack of hounds."
"But, sir," expostulated the deacon, turning to the Rector,
colouring all over his honest rosy face, "you don't object! You
know, of course, I've given up sport," he added ruefully; "but only
just as companions!--Ain't you, Rollo?" he added, almost with tears
in his eyes, and a hand on the smooth black head, belonging to such
a wise benignant face, that Rosamond was tempted to pronounce the
dog the more clerical looking of the two.
"You are very welcome," said Julius, laughing, "provided you can
manage with the old women's cats. I should find such companions
rather awkward in pastoral visits."
"I'll teach them, sir! You may depend on it! We did have a little
flare-up yesterday, but I showed them the sense of it. You might
teach those dogs anything!--Ha! what then, Tartar! Halloo, Mungo!
Rats, rats, rats!"
A prodigious scratching and snorting was audible in what had been a
cellar of the quondam Rectory; and Rollo, becoming excited, dashed
up to the scene of action, with a deep bass war-cry, while, to
Rosamond's great amusement, "rats" was no less a peal to Rector and
senior; and for the next quarter of an hour the three clergymen
moved bricks, poked with their sticks, and cheered on the chase till
the church clock struck one, the masons began to return from dinner,
and the sounds of the bell at the Hall recalled the party to order.
"There, Rose! Our first day!" said Julius, aghast.
"You'd better come to lunch at my rooms," said the young curate,
eagerly. "Do! Mother has brought the jolliest hamper! Game-pie,
and preserved magnum-bonums, and pears off the old jargonelle.--
Come, Lady Rosamond, do.--Come along, Bindon! There's such a dish
of damson-cheese! Do!"
That "_do_," between insinuation and heartiness, was so boyish, that
it was quite irresistible to the lady, who consented eagerly, while
Julius wrote a word or two on a card, which he despatched to the
Hall by the first child he encountered. In a few minutes they
reached the nice clean bay-windowed room over the village shop,
comically like an undergraduate's, in spite of the mother's and
sister's recent touches.
There ensued a resolute quieting of the dogs, and a vigorous
exertion of hospitality, necessitating some striding up and down
stairs, and much shouting to Mrs. Hornblower and her little niece,
who rejoiced in the peculiar name of Dilemma; while Rosamond petted
Tartar upon her lap, and the two elder clergymen, each with an elbow
against the window-frame and a knee on the seat, held council, based
on the Rector's old knowledge of the territory and the curate's
recent observations during his five weeks' sojourn.
The plans to be put in force next week were arranged during the
meal, and the junior observed that he would walk home to-night and
back on Saturday evening, since after that he should be tied pretty
fast.
And he started with Julius and Rosamond on their further progress,
soon, however, tumbling over another stone wall with all his dogs,
and being only heard hallooing to them as they yelped after the
larks.
"That is a delicious boy!" said Rosamond, laughing merrily. "A nice
fellow--but we mustn't make it a custom to be always going in to
partake of his hampers, or we shall prey inordinately on Mrs.
Bowater's preserves."
"He was just like the hero of
"Oh, I have a plum-cake,
And a rare feast I'll make."
I do like a boy with a sweet tooth!"
"Like him! Of course I do. The Bowaters are like one's own
kindred! I only hope I shall not spoil him."
"Hasn't his mother done that for you?"
"I wish he had spent a year or two at Cuddesdon! I ought to have
seen him before consenting to give him a title at once, but his
father and Jenny wished it so much. Ah! come in here. Bindon said
Lucy Martin was a case for a lady."
Rosamond's hearty good-nature was much more at ease among ailing old
women than prim school-children, and she gave great satisfaction in
the cottages.
Julius did not of course come as a stranger, and had a general
impression as to names and families; but he had been absent, except
on short visits, for five years, so that Rosamond declared that this
was a staple of his conversation: "Then it was Tom Deane--no, it
was John Deane that married Blake's son--no, it was Blake's daughter
that died who is living in the next house."
They finished with a long and miry lane, lying along the valley, and
leading to the cottages of a little clan, the chief of whom seemed
to be a large-boned lively-eyed old dame, who, after minute
inquiries after "the Lady Poynsett," went on, "And be it true,
Master Julius, as that young gentleman of Squire Bowater's is one of
your passons?"
Julius admitted the fact.
"And be ye going to put he up in the pulpit to preach to we? 'Pon
my word of honour, says I to Sally when her telled I, we shall have
little Dick out of the infant-school next!"
"We're all young, Betty! Can't you put up with any one that is not
older than yourself! I'm afraid he would hardly be able to get up
the pulpit stair."
The Rector's reply delighted Betty; but she returned to the charge.
"No, no, sir, I be coming to hear ye next Sunday. Sally have turned
my black bonnet a purpose. It be one of the Lady Poynsett's, as her
gave I when my old gentleman was took two years after the Squire--
when bonnets was bonnets, you know, ma'am. Now tell me true, be ye
to preach morning or arternoon, sir?"
"In the morning, I hope, Betty."
"Then I'll be there, Master Julius, to the third seat from the
front; but it ain't becoming for a woman of my age, seventy-nine
come Christmas, to sit under a slip of a lad as hasn't got the taste
of the birch off his back."
"That's too bad, Betty," broke in Rosamond, speaking out of
conviction. "Mr. Bowater isn't so young as he looks, and he was too
good a boy ever to need the birch."
"All the wuss for he," retorted the undaunted Betty. "Spare the
rod, and spile the child."
The village wit was left triumphant, and Julius proposed to return
by a cross-road leading into the plantations. Suddenly a scud of
rain mixed with whirling yellow leaves sent them hurrying into a
cart-shed, where, with a sudden start, they found themselves rushing
in on some one. Who was it? A girl--a young lady. That was
evident, as Rosamond panted out, "I beg your pardon!" and the next
moment there was the exclamation, "Mr. Julius Charnock! You don't
remember me? Eleonora Vivian!"
"Miss Vivian! you have the advantage of me," said Julius, a little
stiffly. "Let me introduce my wife."
The hands met, and Rosamond perceived in the failing light a very
fine-looking maiden, with a superbly carried head and neck, simply
dressed in gray cloth. "Are you sheltering here, or are you
sketching?" she asked, seeing some paper and drawing materials.
"I was giving a lesson. See," exhibiting some bold outlines on
large paper. "Does not my pupil do me credit?"
"Very spirited," said Rosamond. "Where is she?"
"_He_ is gone to fetch me his grandmother's umbrella. He is the
little Gurth of these parts."
"Of whom you are making a Giotto?" asked Julius, thawing a little.
"Exactly; I found him drawing on a barn-door with such zeal and
spirit, that I could not help offering him some lessons. Only see,
does he not get on? I wish I could get him to the school of
design."
"May I ask what becomes of his pigs?" demanded Julius.
"Don't you hear?" as sundry grunts and squeals of those eminently
conversational animals were audible through the walls. "They are
driven home to this rick-yard, so here I meet the boy."
"Who is he?" asked the Rector.
"I only know that he answers to the name of Joe. And here he
comes," as a boy about ten years old came lumbering up in big boots,
with a heavy plaid shawl on one arm, and an immense green umbrella
in the other.
"Thank you, Joe. Make your bow to the lady and gentleman."
This was a pull of the flaxen forelock; for Joe was a slender,
pretty, fair boy, of that delicately-complexioned English type which
is not roughened till after many years of exposure.
"That's right, my man," said Julius, kindly. "What is your name?"
"Please, sir, Joshua Reynolds."
"Instinct," whispered Rosamond.
"Or influence of a name," returned Miss Vivian.
"Are you one of Dan Reynolds's boys, or Tim's?" proceeded
"No, I bides with granny."
Julius made no further attempt at disentangling the pedigree but
inquired about his employments. Did he go to school?
"When there ain't nothing to be done."
"And what can be done by such a mite?" asked Rosamond.
"Tell the lady," said the Rector; "what work can you do?"
"Bird-starving."
"Well!"
"And stoon-picking, and cow-herding, and odd jobs up at Farmer
Light's; but they won't take I on for a carter-boy not yet 'cause I
bean't not so lusty as some on 'em."
"Have you learnt to read?"
"Oh yes, very nicely," interposed Miss Vivian.
"Did you teach him?" said Rosamond.
"No! He could read well before I came to the place. I have only
been at home six weeks, you know, and I did not know I was poaching
on your manor," she added sotto voce to Julius, who could not but
answer with warm thanks.
It was discovered that the rain had set in for the night, and an
amicable contest ensued between the ladies as to shawl and umbrella,
each declaring her dress unspoilable, till it ended in Eleonora
having the shawl, and both agreeing to share the umbrella as far as
the Sirenwood lodge.
However, the umbrella refused to open, and had to be given to the
boy, who set his teeth into an extraordinary grin, and so dealt with
the brazen gear as to expand a magnificent green vault, with a
lesser leathern arctic zone round the pole; but when he had handed
it to Miss Vivian, and she had linked her arm in Lady Rosamond's, it
proved too mighty for her, tugged like a restive horse, and would
fairly have run away with her, but for Rosamond's holding her fast.
"Lost!" they cried. "Two ladies carried away by an umbrella!"
"Here, Julius, no one can grapple with it but you," called Rosamond.
"I really think it's alive!" panted Eleonora, drawn up to her tip-
toes before she could hand it to Julius, who, with both clinging to
his arm, conducted them at last to the lodge, where Julius could
only come in as far as it would let him, since it could neither be
let down nor left to itself to fly to unknown regions.
A keeper with a more manageable article undertook to convey Miss
Vivian home across the park; and with a pleasant farewell, husband
and wife plodded their way home, along paths the mud of which could
not be seen, only heard and felt; and when Rosamond, in the light of
the hall, discovered the extent of the splashes, she had to leave
Julius still contending with the umbrella; and when, in spite of the
united efforts of the butler and footman, it still refused to come
down, it was consigned to an empty coach-house, with orders that
little Joe should have a shilling to bring it down and fetch it home
in the morning!