Perlycross: A Tale of the Western Hills, Page 2

  CHAPTER I.

  THE LAP OF PEACE.

  In the year 1835, the Rev. Philip Penniloe was Curate-in-charge ofPerlycross, a village in a valley of the Blackdown Range. It was truethat the Rector, the Rev. John Chevithorne, M.A., came twice every yearto attend to his tithes; but otherwise he never thought of interfering,and would rather keep his distance from spiritual things. Mr. Penniloehad been his College-tutor, and still was his guide upon any points ofduty less cardinal than discipline of dogs and horses.

  The title of "Curate-in-charge" as yet was not invented generally; butfar more Curates held that position than hold it in these strictertimes. And the shifting of Curates from parish to parish was not sofrequent as it is now; theological views having less range and rage, andCurates less divinity. Moreover it cost much more to move.

  But the Curate of Perlycross was not of a lax or careless nature. Hewould do what his conscience required, at the cost of his last penny;and he thought and acted as if this world were only the way to a betterone. In this respect he differed widely from all the people of hisparish, as well as from most of his Clerical brethren. And it is nolittle thing to say of him, that he was beloved in spite of his piety.

  Especially was he loved and valued by a man who had known him fromearly days, and was now the Squire, and chief landowner, in the parishof Perlycross. Sir Thomas Waldron, of Walderscourt, had battled asbravely with the sword of steel, as the Churchman had with the spiritualweapon, receiving damages more substantial than the latter can inflict.Although by no means invalided, perhaps he had been pleased at first tofall into the easy lap of peace. After eight years of constant hardship,frequent wounds, and famishing, he had struck his last blow at Waterloo,and then settled down in the English home, with its comforting cares,and mild delights.

  Now, in his fiftieth year, he seemed more likely to stand on thebattlements of life than many a lad of twenty. Straight and tall, robustand ruddy, clear of skin, and sound of foot, he was even cited by thedoctors of the time, as a proof of the benefit that flows from bleedingfreely. Few men living had shed more blood (from their own veins at anyrate) for the good of their native land, and none had made less fussabout it; so that his Country, with any sense of gratitude, must now putsubstance into him. Yet he was by no means over fat; simply in goodcase, and form. In a word, you might search the whole county, and findno finer specimen of a man, and a gentleman too, than Colonel Sir ThomasWaldron.

  All this Mr. Penniloe knew well; and having been a small boy, when theColonel was a big one, at the best school in the west of England, heowed him many a good turn for the times when the body rules the roost,and the mind is a little chick, that can't say--"Cockadoodle." In thosefine days, education was a truly rational process; creating a void inthe juvenile system by hunger, and filling it up with thumps. Scientificresearch has now satisfied itself that the mind and the body are theselfsame thing; but this was not understood as yet, and the oneministered to the other. For example, the big Tom Waldron supplied thelittle Phil Penniloe with dumps and penny-puddings, and with fists everready for his defence; while the quicker mind sat upon the broad arch ofchest sprawling along the old oak bench, and construed the lessons forit, or supplied the sad hexameter. When such a pair meet again in laterlife, sweet memories arise, and fine goodwill.

  This veteran friendship even now was enduring a test too severe, ingeneral, for even the most sterling affection. But a conscientious manmust strive, when bound by Holy Orders, to make every member of hisparish discharge his duty to the best advantage. And if there be a dutywhich our beloved Church--even in her snoring period--has endeavoured toimpress, the candid layman must confess that it is the duty ofalms-giving. Here Mr. Penniloe was strong--far in advance of the timeshe lived in, though still behind those we have the privilege to pay for.For as yet it was the faith of the general parishioner, that he had astrong parochial right to come to church for nothing; and if he chose toexercise it, thereby added largely to the welfare of the Parson, andearned a handsome reference. And as yet he could scarcely reconcile itwith his abstract views of religion, to find a plate poked into hiswaistcoat pocket, not for increase, but depletion thereof.

  Acknowledging the soundness of these views, we may well infer thatPerlycross was a parish in which a well-ordered Parson could do anythingreasonable. More than one substantial farmer was good enough to bepleased at first, and try to make his wife take it so, at theseopportunities of grace. What that expression meant was more than hecould for the life of him make out; but he always connected it withsomething black, and people who stretched out their hands undercocoa-nuts bigger than their heads, while "come over and help us,"issued from their mouths. If a shilling was any good to them, blesstheir woolly heads, it only cost a quarter of a pound of wool!

  Happy farmer, able still to find a shilling in his Sunday small-clothes,and think of the guineas in a nest beneath the thatch! For wheat wasgolden still in England, and the good ox owned his silver side. The fairoutlook over hill and valley, rustling field and quiet meadow, was notyet a forlorn view, a sight that is cut short in sigh, a prospectnarrowing into a lane that plods downhill to workhouse. For as yet itwas no mockery to cast the fat grain among the clods, or trickle it intothe glistening drill, to clear the sleek blade from the noisome weed,to watch the soft waves of silky tassels dimple and darken to the breezeof June, and then the lush heads with their own weight bowing to thestillness of the August sun, thrilling the eyes with innumerable throng,glowing with impenetrable depth of gold. Alas, that this beauty shouldbe of the past, and ground into gritty foreign flour!

  But in the current year of grace, these good sons of our native land hadno dream of the treason, which should sell our homes and landscapes tothe sneering foreigner. Their trouble, though heavy, was not of Britishmadness, but inflicted from without; and therefore could be met andcured by men of strong purpose and generous act.

  That grand old church of Perlycross (standing forth in gray power oflife, as against the black ruins of the Abbey) had suddenly been foundwanting--wanting foundation, and broad buttress, solid wall, andsound-timbered roof, and even deeper hold on earth for the high soar ofthe tower. This tower was famous among its friends, not only forsubstance, and height, and proportion, and piercings, and sweet contentof bells; but also for its bold uplifting of the green against the blue.To-wit, for a time much longer than any human memory, a sturdy yew-treehad been standing on the topmost stringing-course, in a sheltering nicheof the southern face, with its head over-topping the battlements, andscraping the scroll of the south-east vane. Backed as it was by solidstone, no storm had succeeded in tugging its tough roots out of themeshes of mortar; and there it stood and meant to stand, a puzzle togardeners, a pleasure to jackdaws, and the pride of all Perlycrucians.Even Mr. Penniloe, that great improver, could not get a penny towardshis grand designs, until he had signed a document with bothChurchwardens, that happen what might, not a hair of the head of thesacred yew-tree should perish.

  Many a penny would be wanted now, and who was to provide them? Theparish, though large and comprising some of the best land in East Devon,had few resources of commerce, and not many of manufacture. The brightPerle running from east to west clove it in twain; and the northernpart, which was by far the larger, belonged to the Waldrons; while thesouthern (including the church and greater part of village) was ofdivers owners, the chiefest being the Dean and Chapter of Exeter. It isneedless to say that this sacred body never came nigh the place, andfelt no obligation towards it, at the manhood of this century.

  "What is to be done?" cried the only man who could enter into the griefof it, when Richard Horner of Pumpington, architect, land-agent, andsurveyor, appeared before the Clergyman and Churchwardens, with thereport required by them.

  "One of two things," answered Mr. Horner, a man of authority andbrevity; "either let it crumble, or make up your minds to spend athousand pounds upon it."

  "We should be prepared to spend that sum, if we had only got it;" Mr.Penniloe said, with that
gentle smile which made his people fond of him.

  "We han't got a thousand, nor a hundred nayther You talk a bit too big,Dick. You always did have a big mouth, you know."

  The architect looked at his cousin, Farmer John (the senior Churchwardenof Perlycross, and chief tenant of the Capitular estates), and if hisown mouth was large, so was that of his kinsman, as he addressed himthus.

  "John Horner, we know well enough, what you be. It wouldn't make much ofa hole in you, to put down your hundred pounds--to begin with."

  "Well," said his colleague, Frank Farrant, while the elder was in labourof amazement; "if John will put down his hundred pounds, you may trustme to find fifty."

  "And fifty to you is a good bit more than a thousand to him, I reckon.Book it, Mr. Penniloe, before they run back; and me for another five andtwenty."

  "I never said it; I never said a word of it"--Farmer John began to gasp,while cousin and colleague were patting him on the back, crying,

  "Don't go back from your word, John."

  "Now, did I say it, Parson Penniloe?" he appealed, as soon as they wouldlet him speak; "come now, I'll go by what you say of it."

  "No, Mr. Horner; I wish you had. You never said anything of the kind."

  "Parson, you are a gentleman. I do like a man as tells the truth. Butas for them fellows, I'll just show them what's what. Whether I said it,or no--I'll do it."

  Mr. Penniloe smiled, but not with pleasure only. Simple and charitableas he was, he could scarcely believe that the glory of God was themotive power in the mind of Farmer John.