Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Eli's Children The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family By George Manville Fenn Published by Chapman and Hall Ltd, 11 Henrietta Street, London WC. This edition dated 1882. PART ONE, CHAPTER ONE. PART 1--THE RECTORY FOLK. HOT WATER IN LAWFORD. "Eh? What?" "I say, why don't you give it up quietly?" "Speak up; I'm a little hard of hearing." "I say, why don't you give it up quietly?" roared the speaker to a little bent old man, with a weak, thin, piping voice, and a sharp look that gave him somewhat the air of a very attenuated sparrow in a severe frost, his shrunken legs, in tight yellow leather leggings, seeming to help the idea. "Don't shout at me like that, Master Portlock. I arn't deaf, only a trifle hard of hearing when I've got a cowd--just a trifle, you know." "Have you got a cold?" asked the man addressed, a sturdy-looking, fresh-coloured, middle-aged man, with a very bluff manner, and a look of prosperity in his general appearance that made him seem thoroughly adapted to his office. In fact, he was just the man that a country clergyman would be glad to elect at a vestry meeting for vicar's churchwarden. "Eh?" "I--say--have--you--got--a--cold? Hang him, how deaf he is!" "Oh, no! oh, no!" chirped the little old man, sharply; "I'm not deaf. Just a little thick i' the ears. Yes; I've got a cowd. It's settled here--just here," he piped, striking himself upon his thin chest with the hand that held his stick. "A bad cowd--a nasty cowd as keeps me awake all night, doing nowt but cough. It's that stove, that's what it is, Master Portlock." "Nonsense, man! It would keep the cold off." "Eh?" "I say it would keep the cold off." "Nay, nay; not it. A nasty, brimstone-smelling, choking thing, as sends out a reek as settles on your chest. Stove, indeed! What do we want with your noo-fangled stoves? We never had no stoves before. Here he stops away from town all these years, only coming now and then, and now all at once he's back at the Rectory, and nothing's right. Mr Paulby never said a word about no stoves." "No; but see how damp the church was." "Eh?" "Eh?" "Damp," roared the Churchwarden; "church--damp. Cush--shuns--moul-- dee." "Chah! Nonsense, Master Portlock. Damp? Suppose it was? A chutch ought to be damp, and smell solemn like of owd age and venerations. Mouldy? Ay; why not?" he piped. "'Mind ta chutch folk o' decay, and what they're comin' to some day. I once went to London, Master Portlock--forty year ago now, sir--forty year ago. It was cowd weather, and I got 'most froze a' top o' the coach, and it was a 'mazin' plaace. Ay, that it was. But you've been there?" "Ay, lots o' times in my life." "Niver been in your life? Then don't go. Niver go if you can help it. Owd Mr Burton paid for me to go, he did--owd vicar's father, you know-- and he said to me a did, `Mind ta go and see some o' the London chutches, Warmoth,' he says; and I did, and bless thou, pretty places they weer. I niver see a playhouse, but Sammy Mason wint to one i' London, and he towd me what it were like, and the chutch I went into i' the City weer just like it. Why, mun, theer were a big picter ower the 'mandments, and carpets on the floors, and all the pews was full o' red cushions an' basses, just as if they was all squires' sittings, and brass rails and red curtins an' grand candlesticks. Then reight up i' the gallery wheer the singers sit was a great thing all covered wi' goolden pipes, an' a man i' the front sittin' lookin' at his self i' a lookin' glass. That was t' organ, you know, and eh, but it was a straange sort o' plaace altogether to call a chutch." "Not like our old barn, eh, Sammy?" shouted the Churchwarden. "Nay, not a bit, Master Portlock," piped the old man. "Gi'e me whitewesh, and neat clean pews and a plait-straw cushion and bass. Folk don't go to sleep then, and snore through t' sarmunt. If I had my way, Master Portlock, I wouldn't hev a thing changed." "No, I suppose not, Sam," said the Churchwarden, nodding. "Sixty years have I been clerk o' t' owd chutch, and hae buried generations of them as comed to the owd place--christened 'em, and married 'em, and buried 'em, Master Portlock. They didn't like me being made clerk so young in them days. Jacky Robinson, as wanted to be clerk when father died, said I was nobbut a boy, but t' owd vicar said--owd Master Willoughby, you didn't know him?" The Churchwarden shook his head. "No; he died eight and fifty year ago. He said, `No; let Sammy Warmoth step into his father's shoes, same as him as is dead stepped into his father's shoes. I find,' he says, `there's been Warmoth's clerks here for a hundred years at least;' and now, Master Portlock, sir, I can say there's been Warmoths clerks here for a hundred and sixty year, and if my life is spared I'll make it two hundred, for they can't turn me out, and I wean't go." "How old wert ta when you was made clerk, Sammy?" said the Churchwarden, looking at the old man with a pitying smile. "Thrutty-three, and I was just married, Master Portlock, and thrutty-three and sixty makes ninety-three, eh?" "Fine owd age, Sam." "Eh?" "A fine owd age, I say." "Chah! Not it. Read your Bible more, man. Ninety-three's as good as nowt to what men used to be. Nay, nay, nay, I shan't give up. Yow may go and tell parson as theer's lots o' life in me yet, and that he'd best go back again to London and foreign parts, and leave us alone here wi' Mr Paulby. He'll drive all the congregation over to the Dissenters, they're talking a'ready o' building noo chapel for ta Wesley folk." "Ay, they're going ahead, Sammy, but we don't care for the opposition shop. We've got the old established bank, eh?" "That's a true word, Master Portlock," piped the old man, "and we can pity 'em, wi' their plans and local preachers, a set o' nobodies, o' sons o' Levi, takking off their aprons and running fro' behind their counters to usurp the priest's office; but you mark my words, and you may tell parson what I say; if he's coming down here thinking to do just as he likes, he'll be driving all folk to chapel." "No, no; not he, Sammy." "Ay, but he will, altering ta chutch sarvice, an' upsetting all that's owd--schoolmaster, and clerk, and chutch. You tell him that he may keep his man till I'm dead, and then put him in, for I nivver had a boy o' my own to tak' my place." "But he hasn't got a man." "Eh? Not got a man? Good job too. He don't want one?" "No. He isn't going to have a clerk any more." "Eh?" "I say you'll be the last clerk o' Lawford. There'll nivver be another." "Nivver be another? What dost ta mean?" "Mr Mallow is going to do the service wi'out a clerk," roared the Churchwarden. "Do sarvice wi'out a clerk!" piped the old man, indignantly; "who's to say t' `Amens'?" "Congregation and singers." "An' what 'bout t' 'sponses?" quavered the old clerk. "People!" They were standing in the churchyard, walled up high above the town street, and as the Churchwarden spoke the old clerk placed his left hand across the small of his back, and stamping his stick on the cobble stones of the path, he made an effort to straighten himself up so as to gaze at the venerable mouldering square-towered church, taking it in from end to end with his pale grey eyes before resuming his former attitude with his head on one side. "Not going to have another clerk?" he quavered. "No," roared the Churchwarden. "No one to say t' amens and 'sponses?" "No." "Who's t' help him on wi' his gownd?" The Churchwarden shook his head. "Who's going to shut pulpit door?" There was another shake of the Churchwarden's head. "Then who'll gi'e out t' psalms?" "Parson." "Ah!" ejaculated the old man, staring down at his feet. "Look here, Sammy," said the Churchwarden, kindly, and with his lips close to the old man's ear; "Mr Mallow's a nice sort o' man, and means kindly." "No one to say t' amens?" said the old clerk, softly. "He thinks you're getting too owd for the work." "Nobbut t' people to say the 'sponses," continued the old clerk, without seeming to hear the Churchwarden's words. "He's been talking to us at sort o' meeting, and he wants to get up testimonial for thee. Says we owt to make un enew to mak' thee comfortable to end o' thee days, and he'll give twenty pounds towards it, and you're to have one of the Bede Houses." "How's he going to bury them as dies?" piped the old man, suddenly. The Churchwarden shook his head. Old Sammy Warmoth took a couple of feeble steps towards the edge of the path, and began to poke at the loose, friable earth of the grave nearest to him with the long brass ferrule of his stick, taking two hands to the task, and making quite a little hole. "It's getten time I was put down theer," he said, in a low voice that was very pathetic in its tones. "There's a sight o' my owd friends I've seen put down here, and its getten time for me to be put along wi' 'em, sown a corruptible body to be raised an incorruptible, for I spose I'm getten owd and good for nowt." "Oh, nay, nay, Sammy," said the Churchwarden, warmly. "Don't take on about it. Tak' my advice. Don't be obstinit, but just go up and see parson quiet like, an' say you give up, and tak' it kindly, an' I'll see as you don't come to no wrong." "No one to say t' amens," muttered the old man--"no one to say t' 'sponses--no one to gi'e out t' psalms. Why," he cried, raising his voice, "I b'lieve it now." "Believe what, Sammy?" "That he's goin' to have t' owd pews out, and put i' benches; and I said when I heerd it as the dead wouldn't rest i' theer graves if he did." "It's all true, Sammy. They're going to spend three thousand pounds i' doing up t' owd church, and young Lord Artingale's going to give us an organ." "Then I wean't go," cried the old man, stamping his stick down on the stones. "I'll nivver do it. I've been here clerk and saxton these sixty year, and I helps wi' ivvery grave even now. It wean't do. It's a revvylootion, and a sweeping away of t' owd chutch, like they did among the French, and I'll be one o' the faithful while I live." "Nonsense, man; come, say thou'lt give up quiet like," said the Churchwarden, soothingly. "Eh?" "Say thou'lt give up quietly." "Nivver, nivver!" quavered the old man, angrily. "It's as much my chutch as his, and if he goes wrong wi' his new notions and idees, I'll stand by mine. There's nivver been a clerk o' Lawford as didn't die a clerk, and dost ta think I'll be the first, Master Portlock? Nivver. I'll howd by chutch till t' last, say what thou will!" "Poor owd boy!" said the Churchwarden, as he stood watching the tottering figure descending the slope on the farther side of the churchyard, till it seemed from where the gazer stood as if the old man were sinking slowly into a grave. First he disappeared to the middle, then the path line was level with his shoulders, and a few moments more and his head had gone. "Poor owd boy!" said the Churchwarden, musingly. "It can't be for long. I'll ask parson to let him stop." PART ONE, CHAPTER TWO. THE RECTORY GIRLS. "I love the country! I love the country!" "Hush, hush, Cynthy! don't be so childish; some one will hear you." "No one is near us, Ju. That's why I like being down here." "But it is so childish to keep running up the banks and shouting like that." "Well, but that's what I like. It's the country air makes one feel so young, and I am so, so glad that we are going to stay at home. I want to know the people. Oh, I was tired of the Continent. I want to be free." "Now, Cynthy, what would papa say if he saw you climb up on that gate?" "Don't know--don't care!" "Well, then," said Julia Mallow, smiling, "what, would Lord Artingale say?" "That I was a jolly little girl, and come and sit beside me." "Oh! Cynthy!" "And put his arm round my waist to keep me from falling off. Oh, I say, Ju, he did once, and it was so funny." "Cynthy, I'm ashamed of you," cried her sister, and there was a slight deepening of the colour in her sweet English face. "Well, I am ashamed of myself," cried Cynthia, springing lightly off the gate, and passing her arm round her sister as they walked on along the rutty lane. "But I do feel so happy, Ju. So will you some day, when you meet the special him. Not Perry-Morton though. Ha, ha, ha! How stupid papa is! I say, Ju, though, who shall we go and see? Papa says we are to visit the people a great deal, and get them to know more of us, but I shan't go near any of the horrid Dissenters." "Don't call people horrid because they don't think the same as we do, Cynthy." "Well, but it is horrid. Papa says it's dreadful, the opposition that is in the town. I heard him say to mamma yesterday that he couldn't understand the people a bit, and that though he had now come to settle down amongst them for good, only when we go to town for the season, everybody seemed so independent, and they were all in opposition to him." "Yes, he was talking to Mr Paulby about it at dinner on Tuesday." "Papa is going to improve everything, he says. The place must have been terribly neglected by Mr Paulby. Oh, what a funny little man he is!" "I think him very nice and genuine," said Julia, quietly. "But you mustn't fall in love with him, Ju. He's too old. But I say, what was the real reason of our being away from Lawford so much?" "Money matters," said her sister. "Papa got to be very much behindhand through Frank and Cyril." "Oh, I wish I were a man!" cried Cynthia, with her pretty fair young face flushing. "How I would have whipped those two fellows and made good boys of them! They've half broken poor mamma's heart." "I'm afraid papa indulged them too much," said Julia, quietly, and the two girls walked on for some little distance in silence, enjoying the briskness of the morning air. "Now where are we going?" cried Cynthia suddenly. "Oh, I know. Down that lane leads to the ford, where the wheelwright's is. Let's go and see Polly Morrison." "Shall we?" said her sister, smiling. "Oh, yes. It will be a parochial visit all the same. Only fancy, Polly with a baby! What a little stupid she was to leave us to come back here and marry a wheelwright!" "I don't know," said Julia quietly; "perhaps she is very happy." "Oh, of course. People are when they get married. Come along; I want to see Polly's baby. I wish she had not left us. She was such a clever maid." "I was very glad she went," said Julia gravely. "Glad? Why?" "Because of Cyril. He was always following her about. She complained to me several times." "Cyril is a wretch!" said Cynthia, with heightened colour. "Papa ought to whip him. He always would look at pretty girls. I say, Ju, did you see Miss Portlock, the schoolmistress, on Monday? Was she nice?" "Yes, I thought her very nice and superior. She is the churchwarden's niece. Hush! here is Mr Paulby." "Good-morning, ladies," said a little plump man, raising his hat and showing his slightly-bald head. "What a lovely morning! I think I dare prophesy where you are going." "If you prophesy Morrison's cottage, Mr Paulby, you are right," said Cynthia, merrily. "Then I am right," said the curate. "I have just come from there, and Mrs Morrison has been chatting about old times, and how she went all over the Continent with you." "She didn't tell you about Cyril, I know," said Cynthia to herself. "I'm really very, very glad, ladies, that the rectory is inhabited again," said the curate, "and I hope you will help me a great deal." "That indeed we will, Mr Paulby," said Julia. "Yes, and visit, and do needlework, and help in the schools, and everything," said Cynthia, quickly. "And now we must say good-morning, Mr Paulby. Come, Julia." There was the customary hand-shaking and raising of the curate's hat, and then they separated, the little plump rosy man looking very thoughtful as he made some observation to himself, and that observation was "Hah!" a remark that evidently meant a great deal. "I'm not going to allow that, Ju," said Cynthia, decidedly. "The little man is quite smitten with you, and if Frank or Cyril were to know--" "Don't be absurd!" said her sister, colouring a little. "That would be as bad as Perry-Morton. Oh, here we are. Why, what a pretty little place Polly has got!" The sisters stopped at the road-side to gaze at the long low ivy-covered cottage, with a broad patch of green in front, upon which was a lumber of broken carts and waggons waiting to be doctored. There was a shed at one end, from which came the sound of sawing, for which job there was a good-sized pit, while farther on the road dipped suddenly down and passed through a little river, which foamed and bubbled and sparkled as it turned the gravelly shallows into liquid silver in the morning sun. "Oh, what a funny little thing!" cried Cynthia, as they were welcomed into the neat cottage. "Look at its little button-hole of a mouth. Let me take it, Polly." The young mother, quite a rustic beauty, with a touch of refinement in her appearance, picked up during her stay on the Continent as maid to the rector's daughters, handed her plump little baby to the extended arms; watchfully, though, and as if afraid the treasure might be dropped upon the red-brick floor. "And how are you, Polly?" said Julia, looking rather searchingly at the young wife as she set chairs for her visitors. "I hope you are very happy?" "Oh, as happy, Miss Julia, as the day is long, and I'm so busy that the days are never long enough." "Cooey, cooey, cooey, cooey!" cried Cynthia to the baby in a very dove-like manner, as she kissed and fondled it, laughing merrily the while. "I was so surprised, Miss, to hear that you had come back to the rectory." "Not going to stop very long this time, Polly--I mean Mrs Morrison," said Cynthia, without raising her face from the baby. "We are going to town for the season. Oh, you, you, you funny little thing! There's a wet mouth. Oh, I say, Ju, I wonder whether I shall ever have a baby of my own." "Cynthia!" cried her sister, reproachfully. "It would be such fun. I say, Polly, is it good?" "Oh, there never was such a good baby, Miss, and Tom worships it. She's as good as gold." "She?" cried Cynthia. "Is it a she?" "Oh, yes, Miss," cried the young mother, proudly. "How funny!" said Cynthia. "It might be anything, it is so round and soft." "Would you mind feeling how heavy she grows, Miss Julia?" said the young mother and the baby was duly handed to Julia, who held it to her cheek, and then gazed lovingly at the little thing, her eyes wearing a curious wistful aspect, full of tenderness, while the young mothers face lit up with pleasure. "Isn't it heavy, Miss?" she said. "Wonderfully," replied Julia quietly, and with as much decision as if her life had been spent in the management of babies. "She don't know!" laughed Cynthia. "I don't believe she ever had hold of one before. Here, give it to me." "No; let it stay," said Julia softly, and to the young mother's great satisfaction, for she seemed rather scared lest Cynthia should let it fall in tossing it up and down. "She gets heavier every day, Miss, and Tom says it's wonderful now for a baby a month old." "You must introduce us to your husband, Polly." "Yes, Miss, I'll call him in. Or no, Miss, not this morning," said the young wife, rather hurriedly; "he is very busy." "Some other time then," said Julia. "I suppose you are very fond of it, Polly?" "Fond of it, Miss Julia? Oh, you can't think how I love it." "No," said Julia, softly, and looking curiously at the young mother, "I suppose not." "Oh, here is Budge," said little Mrs Morrison, as a heavy, stolid-looking girl entered the room. "She will take baby now, Miss. There, Budge, take her in the kitchen, and don't go too near the fire." "No, missus," said the girl, taking the well-wrapped-up baby in her red arms, staring heavily the while at the visitors, and consequently nearly bringing her charge to grief by stumbling over a stool. "Oh, Budge!" cried little Mrs Morrison. "I ain't hurt, missus," said the girl coolly, and she allowed herself to be piloted out of the room by her mistress, when a chair was heard to scroop. "Oh, how funny it does seem!" cried Cynthia. "Hush! don't talk like that," said her sister; "here she is." Little Mrs Morrison came into the room again, looking very red-faced and hot. "What a funny little maid you have got, Polly!" cried Cynthia. "Yes, Miss Cynthia; she is from the workhouse, and she is a little clumsy, but she is very faithful, and so fond of baby." "And what is to be its name?" cried Cynthia. "Rose, Miss; and--and," stammered the young wife, looking very hard at Julia. "And what, Polly?" "I--I had a sort of idea, Miss Julia, that--" "That what, Polly? Speak out!" "Of asking you and Miss Cynthia if--" "If what?" "You wouldn't mind being little Rose's godmothers." "Oh, no, Polly," said Julia, "I think not." "Oh, yes, Ju, it would be good fun," cried Cynthia. "I told Tom it would be too much to ask, Miss Julia; but he said you could only say _no_." "Of course," said Julia, thoughtfully. "And he is very kind to you?" "Oh, kind isn't the word, Miss Julia," cried the young wife. "And are his relations kind to you too?" "He has no relations, Miss, but one brother," replied Polly, "and he is a good deal of trouble to him--I mean to us," she added, correcting herself. "Trouble to you, Polly?" "Yes, Miss; he won't work, and he has taken to a gipsy sort of life, and goes poaching, I'm afraid." "That's _very_, very sad," said Julia, remembering that her father had just been made chairman of the bench of magistrates. "Yes, Miss, very, very sad, for we are always afraid of his getting into trouble; but there, you know, Miss, what brothers are." "Yes, yes," said Julia, hastily. "I will think about what you said, Polly," she added, rising, and holding out her hand, "and if papa does not object, Cynthia and I will be godmothers to baby." "Oh, if you would, Miss!" cried the young wife, flushing with pride; and then, in a low voice, as Cynthia went on out of the room, "You always were kind to me, Miss Julia, and more like a sister than a mistress. May I kiss you, Miss?" "Oh, yes, Polly," said Julia, kissing her smilingly. "You always were kind to me, Miss, and there's nothing in life I wouldn't do for you if you wanted it." "Come, Ju," cried Cynthia, from without. "Oh, thank you, Polly, I know you would." "And you'd come and ask me, Miss, if you wanted help, wouldn't you?" "Indeed I would, Polly; but why do you ask me in that strange way?" "Because--because, Miss, I want to ask a favour of you now," cried the young wife, desperately. "What is it, Polly?" said Julia, showing deep interest now. "Please, Miss, you--you remember when we were at Dinan." "Yes, yes; what?" cried Julia. "About Mr Cyril." "Yes," cried Julia, catching her hand; "he has not dared?" "He--he came here yesterday, Miss, while Tom was out," cried Polly, bursting into tears, "and he came once before; and it frightens me, Miss--it horrifies me; for Tom loves me so dearly, Miss; and it would make him angry, and break his heart if he thought ill of me, Miss Julia." "But did you encourage him to come again?" cried Julia, angrily. "No, Miss Julia, I nearly went on my knees to him, and begged him not to come again, but he only laughed, and--and called me a little fool." "You shall tell your husband, Polly," cried Julia, hotly. "I--I was afraid, Miss Julia," sobbed Polly. "I was afraid of making mischief. I dared not tell him. If he thought Mr Cyril came here and troubled me, he would be ready to kill him, Miss, and me too. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" "I'll tell papa," said Cynthia, who had come back unseen. "I declare it's shameful, and I--I wish my brothers were both dead. Oh, Ju, papa must know." "No, no," said Julia, holding the sobbing little woman to her breast; "Polly is right. It would be making terrible mischief. I'll speak to Cyril myself, and if he will not listen to me, mamma shall try. But, Polly, you will tell me if he comes again?" "Oh, yes, yes, Miss Julia," cried the young wife, gazing up passionately in her visitor's face. "And always tell me the whole truth?" "Indeed--indeed I will. Please, Miss Julia," she said simply, "I don't think I ever told a lie." "I don't believe you ever did, Polly," said Julia, kissing her, and turning to the door to go. "There, good-bye, and don't be low-spirited. Cyril is soon going away again, and even if he is not, he shall not trouble you." "Thank you, Miss Julia, and you too, Miss Cynthia," said the young wife, wiping her eyes; "and perhaps you will be at baby's christening?" "If papa doesn't object, indeed we will," cried Julia, smiling, and the sisters went back along the lane. "I would--I would indeed," said the young mother, softly; "I'd do anything to serve dear Miss Julia, and I hope and pray she may never feel such trouble as I do now. Oh, if only they had stopped away!" She was standing in the little porch, listening to the regular harsh sound of a saw in the work-shed, some fifty yards away, gazing after the sisters, till a step coming in the other direction made her sharply turn her head, and then, as she shrank back, her whole aspect seemed to change. She turned ghastly white, her eyes dilated, and she trembled visibly, as if at the sight of some great horror. It was nothing so very terrible approaching either, being only a tall, well-built, handsome young man of six or seven and twenty, his hands in the pockets of his loose jacket, and a cigar in his mouth. PART ONE, CHAPTER THREE. THE STATE OF LAWFORD. Only some twenty years ago, but from the streets and surroundings of the place the date might have been in the last century. For Lawford was in an out-of-the-way part of Lincolnshire towards which one of the main northern lines had been running straight, but the company were beaten in Parliament, and the iron road curved off, leaving Lawford where it was-- all behind. When the new rector was appointed to the living he resolutely refused to go without a fresh rectory was built, for the old house, with its low rooms, was ten yards from the churchyard, which in the course of centuries had gone up, while the old rectory seemed to have gone down, so that you walked along a slope and then descended three steps into the ancient, damp, evil-smelling place, which had more the aspect of a furnished mausoleum than a house. The consequence was that a grant was made for the building of a new rectory, which was erected a mile and a half out of the town; and as the living was rich, the Rev Eli Mallow borrowed a couple of thousand pounds to have the house made handsomer, and to add conservatories and greenhouses to the place, got it all in excellent order, and then went on the Continent for a few years, when the old rectory did very well for Mr Paulby, the curate who was left in charge. Difficulties of pocket had certainly had something to do with the absenteeism of the Rev Eli Mallow, but there had been other troubles as well in connection with his sons, whom he had made several efforts to start in life and get away from Lawford. They were the sons of a clergyman, but two more unclerical youths never troubled father, and so unfortunate were his efforts, so persistently did the young men return home to their fond and indulgent mother and their proud weak father, that the Lawford people, famous among themselves for nick-naming those that they did not like, called Frank Mallow, the elder brother, "The Bad Shilling," while Cyril, consequent upon a visit to Australia, they named "The Boomerang." They were an old-fashioned people at Lawford, and the "owd rector" had been old-fashioned too. It was past the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty, and Victoria was seated upon the throne, but the old rector thought it no wrong to go to one of the inns and sit and drink his mug of ale and chat and gossip with any townsman who came in. As to the church, a colder, damper, more musty-smelling place could not have been found. Its glory was its whitewash, which was so rich and fat and thick that every here and there it bore a crop of curious spindly mushrooms, which grew and flourished and died, leaving great black patches on the walls like hatchments to record their vegetable deaths, till about once in a generation the whitewash brush came into use again, and a new coat was laid on to moulder and grow damp, and fall in patches of a goodly thickness upon the stained stone pave. The worst of that whitewash was that it was not white, only a dirty wash that covered the ceiling and face of the wall, great blank patches of which used to be mentally studied by the schoolboys as maps of unknown regions, for the moisture that streamed down from the roof soon marked black rivers, while dark boundary lines seemed to be traced by cracks and mould of strange continents, islands, and seas, upon which in summer-time bluebottle flies and spiders made islands or cruising barks. In the moist autumn times the place always broke out into a cold perspiration, the wet standing in great tears upon the flat tombstones and even upon the broad slab of old blackened oak that served for Sammy Warmoth's desk, where his books, like those above his head, were patterned on their covers with white mould-spots exhaling an odour of mushrooms not fit to eat. The pews were of dull white deal; the sacramental table was covered with a ragged green baize in the sere and yellow leaf, and as worthy of being called green as the church whitewash was of being termed white. Taken altogether, there was a strong suggestion on entering Lawford church of going into a cellar without the sawdust, and wanting in the wine; and old Mrs Marley, lately gone to her rest, and over whom as a very ancient friend Sammy Warmoth had affectionately patted down the earth with his spade, moistening it a little with his tears to make it stick, afterwards building up her grave with a mound of the finest, most velvety turf he could cut, that he protected with brambles from the sheep--old Mrs Marley, when she was schoolmistress, always made a point in winter of taking a large stone bottle of hot water with her to the church, smuggling it regularly beneath her cloak, and pitying the four-and-twenty blue-nosed little children, whom she led, because only two could sit by her at a time and warm their hands. Humphrey Bone, the schoolmaster, also made a point of taking a bottle to church, but his was small, and he made occasions for bending his head beneath the front of the pew and imbibing portions of its contents through a very long turkey quill. The church had remained _in statu quo_ during the Rector's stay abroad, but now that he had returned, it was with ideas similar to the new broom--he meant to sweep clean. Perhaps the Rev Eli Mallow was a little conscience-stricken for past neglect. At all events the Rector had now set himself to work on a general reform, but his absence had embittered a by no means friendly people. "Taking that great wage out of the place year after year," said Tomlinson, one of the townspeople, "and leaving that curate to do all the work on eighty pounds a year; I haven't patience with him." Several other fellow-townsmen expressed their opinions that it was a shame, and declared that they had not patience with the parson, and the consequence was that he was so talked over, that when he came back and set about his work of reformation he was met at his very first movement by a hedge of thorns that regularly surrounded the church. Every one of these thorns was a prejudice which he had to fight. "Church did very well for t' owd rector, and always has done," was the cry; "why won't it do for he?" "_Festina lente_," said the Reverend Eli to himself; and he set to work slowly, cautiously, and well, making such advance in his undertaking that plenty of money was promised, and he saw in the future a handsome, well-warmed church, with all the surroundings for reverent worship. "Poor old fellow!" he had said to himself as he listened to the clerk, for the old man would utter the three first words of a response in a shrill tenor, and then drop his voice, nothing, else being heard until it came to the end, when to a new-comer his peculiar "_Hup-men_" was almost startling in its strangeness. "_Week, week, week; wubble, wubble, wubble_," the school-children always declared he said, no matter what was the response; and then, after giving out the psalm or hymn so that no one could hear, the poor old fellow would sing in a shrill unmusical voice from behind a huge pair of tortoiseshell framed spectacles, holding his great hymn-book with both hands, and emphasising the words he sang by raising and lowering the book; turning to right and left, singing to the people below his desk, and then at the huge whitewashed beams of the ceiling, before turning three parts round to send his voice into the chancel, for the benefit of the old women from the Bede houses who sat there upon a very uncomfortable bench. "I dare say it is very wrong," said Lord Artingale, who had ridden over from Gatton one Sunday to welcome the Mallows back to Lincolnshire, "but much as I want to be reverent, I really don't think I could go to your church again, Mr Mallow, without laughing in the middle of the service." The Rector looked grave, for poor old Warmoth was a great trouble to him, and, as may be gathered, he had consulted the churchwardens on the question of the alterations, and among other things suggested that the old clerk should be asked to resign. The effect we have seen, and that same day Portlock, the farmer, went up and told the result of his chat with the old clerk. "It is very provoking, Mr Portlock, very. I want the old man to go quietly--in fact, to resign," said the Rector. "If I send him away the people will say that he is ill-used." "That they will, depend on't," replied the Churchwarden. "Our folk take a deal o' driving." "Well, well; what is to be done?" "Best let things bide as they are, sir; you wean't do any good by trying to alter 'em." "Oh, but that is absurd, Mr Portlock, highly absurd. No, I regret it very much, but he must go. There, I will see him myself." The Rector saw the old clerk sooner than he expected, for in crossing the churchyard next day he met him going up to the church. "Poor old fellow! ninety-three," said the Rector to himself, as he looked curiously at the strange old figure tottering up the rough cobble-stone path. "Good-morning, Warmoth," he said. "Here, give me your hand." The old man stopped short, thumped his stick down, and peered up fiercely. "Nay, nay, nay," he groaned, "not so owd as all that, mester. I can do it yet. Let me bide, I'm reight yet. Yow want to get shut o' me--to drift me off. Yow thowt wi' your new ways that I wasn't good enew for t' church, but revvylootion or no revvylootion, I stick to church as my fathers did afore me. When I'm down theer, and can howd out no more, thou mun do thy worst." "That's all put aside, Mr Warmoth," said the Rector, smiling. "I do want to make improvements here, but not to that extent. I did not want to hurt your feelings. Come, shake hands." "Nay; I'll not," cried the old man, fiercely, his bearing seeming to have wonderfully altered now. "Thou want'st to get round me wi' soft words, but I'll howd thee off--I'll howd thee off. There ain't every servant of t' owd church like me, and I'll howd my own unto the last." "My good old fellow, Heaven forbid that I should be guilty of so unkind an act. You shall stop on, Warmoth, till the last, for no act of mine shall remove you from your post." The old man's jaw fell, and he stepped back, slipped, and would have fallen, but for the Rector's hands, to which the old fellow clung spasmodically, his face working, his lips twitching in his efforts to speak. But for a long time no words would come, and then but two, twice repeated, though with earnest emphasis-- "Bless thee! Bless thee!" Then, quickly snatching his hands away, the old man turned aside, leaned his trembling arm against a tombstone which had gradually encroached upon the path, and stood with his head bent down, trying to recover his strength. It was a strange contrast: the thin, sharply featured old man, and the handsome portly figure of the Rector, as he stood there vexed with himself at having, as he called it, been so weak as to give way at the first difficulty that he had to encounter; and he afterwards came to the conclusion that he might just as well have held out, for the people gave him the credit of killing old Warmoth so as to have his way. "Let me help you into the church to sit down for a bit," he said to the trembling old man. Old Warmoth turned and laid one hand upon the Rector's, gazing up in his face, and there was a piteous smile upon his withered lips. "I was afraid thou'd want me to go as soon as I heard thou was coming back; and they said thou'dst get shut o' me. But sixty year, sir! It would have killed me. I couldn't have beared to go." Two Sundays later the congregation had just left the church, and Portlock was going up to the vestry, when he saw there was something wrong in the clerk's seat. "Why, Sammy, owd man," he cried, "what ails--" He did not finish his broken sentence, but tore open the door of the clerk's desk, the Rector coming forward to where the old man knelt in his accustomed narrow place, his hands upon his book, his head upon his breast, as he had knelt down after the sermon. "He's like ice," whispered the Churchwarden, putting forth his great strength, and lifting the old man bodily out, to lay him by the stove, the Rector placing a cushion beneath his head. The motion seemed to revive the old man for a moment, and he opened his eyes, staring strangely at the Rector, who held one hand. Then his lips moved, and in a voice hardly above a whisper they heard him say-- "Bless--thou!--Bless--thou!--those words would--have killed me." There was a pause, and the Churchwarden was hastening forth to fetch help, when there arose in the now empty church a shrill "_Amen_." It was the old clerk's last. PART ONE, CHAPTER FOUR. AT LAWFORD SCHOOL. "Oh!" in a loud shrill voice; and then a general titter. "Silence! who was that?" "Please, Miss, Cissy Hudson, Miss. Please, Miss, it's Mr Bone." This last delivered in a chorus of shrill voices; and Sage Portlock turned sharply from the semi-circle of children, one and all standing with their toes accurately touching a thickly-chalked line, to see a head thrust into the schoolroom, but with the edge of the door held closely against the neck, pressing it upon the jamb, so that the entire body to which the head belonged was invisible. The head which had been thus suddenly thrust into the schoolroom was not attractive, the face being red and deeply lined with marks not made by age. The eyes were dull and watery, there was a greyish stubble of a couple of days' growth upon the chin, and the hair that appeared above the low brow was rough, unkempt, and, if clean, did no justice to the cleansing hand. "How tiresome!" muttered Sage Portlock, moving towards the door, which then opened, and a tall man, in a very shabby thin greatcoat which reached almost to his heels, stumped into the room. Stumped or thumped--either word will do to express the heavy way in which Humphrey Bone, thirty years master of Lawford boys' school, drew attention to the fact that he had one leg much shorter than the other, the difference in length being made up by a sole of some five inches' thickness, which sole came down upon the red-brick floor like the modified blows of a pavior's rammer. Such a clever man! Such a good teacher! the Lawford people said. There was nothing against him but a drop of drink, and this drop of drink had kept Humphrey Bone a poor man, dislocated his hip in a fall upon a dark night, when the former doctor of the place had not discovered the exact nature of the injury till it was too late, and the drop of drink in this instance had resulted in the partaker becoming a permanent cripple. Lawford was such a slow-moving place in those days, that it took its principal inhabitants close upon twenty years to decide that a master who very often went home helplessly intoxicated, and who had become a hopeless moral wreck, living in a state of squalor and debt, could not be a fitting person to train and set an example to the boys left in his charge. And at last, but in the face of great opposition from the old-fashioned party arrayed against the Rev Eli Mallow and his friends--the party who reiterated the cry that Humphrey Bone was such a clever man, wrote such a copperplate-like hand, when his fingers were not palsied, and measured land so well--it was decided that Humphrey Bone should be called upon to resign at Christmas, and Luke Ross, the son of the Lawford tanner, then training at Saint Chrysostom's College, London, should take his place. It was only natural that Sage Portlock, as she advanced to meet Humphrey Bone, should think of the coming days after the holidays, when Mr Ross, whom she had known so well from childhood, should be master of the adjoining school, and that very unpleasant personage now present should cease to trouble her with visits that were becoming more and more distasteful and annoying. "Mornin'! Ink!" said Mr Bone, shortly. "Ours like mud. How are you?" "Ink, Mr Bone?" said the young mistress, ignoring the husky inquiry after her health. "Yes; one of the girls shall bring some in." This and the young mistress's manner should have made Mr Humphrey Bone retire, but he stood still in the middle of the room, chuckling softly; and then, to the open-eyed delight of the whole school, drew a goose-quill from his breast, stripped off the plume from one side of the shaft, and, with a very keen knife, proceeded to cut, nick, and shape one of the pens for which he bore a great reputation, holding it out afterwards for the young mistress to see. "That beats training, eh? Didn't teach you to make a pen like that at Westminster, did they, eh?" "No," said Sage, quietly; "we always used steel pens." "Hah--yes?" ejaculated the old schoolmaster, with a laugh of derision. "Steel pens--steel teaching--steel brains--they'll have steel machine teachers soon, who can draw a goose like that on a black board with a bit of chalk. Faugh!" He pointed to one of a series of woodcuts mounted on millboard and hung against the whitewashed wall, stumped away three or four yards, and then returned. "New ways--new theories--new machines! Wear the old ones out and chuck 'em away--eh?" "I do not understand you, Mr Bone," said the young mistress, longing for the interview to come to an end; but he went on, speaking angrily, and ignoring her words-- "When old Widow Marley died, I said to Mallow and the rest of 'em, `Knock a hole through the brick wall,' I said; `make one school of it; mix 'em all up together, boys and gals. Give me another ten a year, and I'll teach the lot;' but they wouldn't do it. Said they must have a trained mistress; and here you are." "Yes, I am here," said Sage Portlock, rather feebly, for she had nothing else to say. "Only the other day you were a thin strip of a girl. Deny it if you can!" "I do not deny it, Mr Bone," said Sage, determining to be firm, and speaking a little more boldly. "No," he continued, in his husky tones, "you can't deny it. Then you leave Miss Quittenton's school, and your people send you to town for two years to be trained; and now here you are again." Sage Portlock bowed, and looked longingly at the door, hoping for some interruption, but none came. "And now--" began the old master. "Mary Smith, take the large ink-bottle into the boys' school," said the young mistress, quickly; and the girl went to the school cupboard, took out the great wicker-covered bottle, and was moving toward the door, when the old master caught her by the shoulder, and held her back. "Stop!" he said sharply. "Take it myself. Ha! ha!" Sage started and coloured, for the children were amused. "Ha, ha!--Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" The old man continued his hoarse cachinnation, ending by wiping his eyes on a washed-out ragged old print cotton handkerchief. "It makes me laugh," he said. "Young Ross--him I taught to write-- evening lessons up at his father's house. Young Luke Ross! warmed him up like a viper in my breast to turn and sting me. Ha, ha, ha! Master here!" "For shame, Mr Bone," exclaimed the young mistress, indignantly. "Mr Ross never sought for the engagement. It was only after Mr Mallow's invitation that he accepted the post." "Mr Mallow's invitation, eh? The Rev Eli Mallow, eh? Better look after his sons. Nice wild sons! Nice old prophet he is. Better look after his boys." "And only the other day when he was down, young Mr Ross said that he was doubtful about taking the post, and thought of declining it after all." "Told you so, eh? Ha--ha--ha! Not he. Sweet-hearting, eh? Ha--ha-- ha! Very well, when he comes, knock a hole through the wall, and make one school of it,
{'title': "Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family by George Manville Fenn", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}