CHAPTER. II

Swithin St. Cleeve lingered on at his post, until the more sanguine birdsrnof the plantation, already recovering from their midwinter anxieties,rnpiped a short evening hymn to the vanishing sun.rnrnThe landscape was gently concave; with the exception of tower and hillrnthere were no points on which late rays might linger; and hence the dish-rnshaped ninety acres of tilled land assumed a uniform hue of shade quiternsuddenly. The one or two stars that appeared were quickly clouded over,rnand it was soon obvious that there would be no sweeping the heavens thatrnnight. After tying a piece of tarpaulin, which had once seen service onrnhis maternal grandfather's farm, over all the apparatus around him, hernwent down the stairs in the dark, and locked the door.rnrnWith the key in his pocket he descended through the underwood on the sidernof the slope opposite to that trodden by Lady Constantine, and crossedrnthe field in a line mathematically straight, and in a manner that left norntraces, by keeping in the same furrow all the way on tiptoe. In a fewrnminutes he reached a little dell, which occurred quite unexpectedly onrnthe other side of the field-fence, and descended to a venerable thatchedrnhouse, whose enormous roof, broken up by dormers as big as haycocks,rncould be seen even in the twilight. Over the white walls, built of chalkrnin the lump, outlines of creepers formed dark patterns, as if drawn inrncharcoal.rnrnInside the house his maternal grandmother was sitting by a wood fire.rnBefore it stood a pipkin, in which something was evidently kept warm. Anrneight-legged oak table in the middle of the room was laid for a meal.rnThis woman of eighty, in a large mob cap, under which she wore a littlerncap to keep the other clean, retained faculties but little blunted. Shernwas gazing into the flames, with her hands upon her knees, quietly re-rnenacting in her brain certain of the long chain of episodes, pathetic,rntragical, and humorous, which had constituted the parish history for thernlast sixty years. On Swithin's entry she looked up at him in a sidewayrndirection.rnrn'You should not have waited for me, granny,' he said.rnrn''Tis of no account, my child. I've had a nap while sitting here. Yes,rnI've had a nap, and went straight up into my old country again, as usual.rnThe place was as natural as when I left it,--e'en just threescore yearsrnago! All the folks and my old aunt were there, as when I was arnchild,--yet I suppose if I were really to set out and go there, hardly arnsoul would be left alive to say to me, dog how art! But tell Hannah tornstir her stumps and serve supper--though I'd fain do it myself, the poorrnold soul is getting so unhandy!'rnrnHannah revealed herself to be much nimbler and several years younger thanrngranny, though of this the latter seemed to be oblivious. When the mealrnwas nearly over Mrs. Martin produced the contents of the mysteriousrnvessel by the fire, saying that she had caused it to be brought in fromrnthe back kitchen, because Hannah was hardly to be trusted with suchrnthings, she was becoming so childish.rnrn'What is it, then?' said Swithin. 'Oh, one of your special puddings.' Atrnsight of it, however, he added reproachfully, 'Now, granny!'rnrnInstead of being round, it was in shape an irregular boulder that hadrnbeen exposed to the weather for centuries--a little scrap pared off here,rnand a little piece broken away there; the general aim being,rnnevertheless, to avoid destroying the symmetry of the pudding whilerntaking as much as possible of its substance.rnrn'The fact is,' added Swithin, 'the pudding is half gone!'rnrn'I've only sliced off the merest paring once or twice, to taste if it wasrnwell done!' pleaded granny Martin, with wounded feelings. 'I said tornHannah when she took it up, "Put it here to keep it warm, as there's arnbetter fire than in the back kitchen."'rnrn'Well, I am not going to eat any of it!' said Swithin decisively, as hernrose from the table, pushed away his chair, and went up-stairs; thern'other station of life that was in his blood,' and which had been broughtrnout by the grammar school, probably stimulating him.rnrn'Ah, the world is an ungrateful place! 'Twas a pity I didn't take myrnpoor name off this earthly calendar and creep under ground sixty longrnyears ago, instead of leaving my own county to come here!' mourned oldrnMrs. Martin. 'But I told his mother how 'twould be--marrying so manyrnnotches above her. The child was sure to chaw high, like his father!'rnrnWhen Swithin had been up-stairs a minute or two however, he altered hisrnmind, and coming down again ate all the pudding, with the aspect of arnperson undertaking a deed of great magnanimity. The relish with which herndid so restored the unison that knew no more serious interruptions thanrnsuch as this.rnrn'Mr. Torkingham has been here this afternoon,' said his grandmother; 'andrnhe wants me to let him meet some of the choir here to-night for practice.rnThey who live at this end of the parish won't go to his house to try overrnthe tunes, because 'tis so far, they say, and so 'tis, poor men. So he'srngoing to see what coming to them will do. He asks if you would like tornjoin.'rnrn'I would if I had not so much to do.'rnrn'But it is cloudy to-night.'rnrn'Yes; but I have calculations without end, granny. Now, don't you tellrnhim I'm in the house, will you? and then he'll not ask for me.'rnrn'But if he should, must I then tell a lie, Lord forgive me?'rnrn'No, you can say I'm up-stairs; he must think what he likes. Not a wordrnabout the astronomy to any of them, whatever you do. I should be calledrna visionary, and all sorts.'rnrn'So thou beest, child. Why can't ye do something that's of use?'rnrnAt the sound of footsteps Swithin beat a hasty retreat up-stairs, wherernhe struck a light, and revealed a table covered with books and papers,rnwhile round the walls hung star-maps, and other diagrams illustrative ofrncelestial phenomena. In a corner stood a huge pasteboard tube, which arnclose inspection would have shown to be intended for a telescope. Swithinrnhung a thick cloth over the window, in addition to the curtains, and satrndown to his papers. On the ceiling was a black stain of smoke, and underrnthis he placed his lamp, evidencing that the midnight oil was consumed onrnthat precise spot very often.rnrnMeanwhile there had entered to the room below a personage who, to judgernfrom her voice and the quick pit-pat of her feet, was a maiden young andrnblithe. Mrs. Martin welcomed her by the title of Miss Tabitha Lark, andrninquired what wind had brought her that way; to which the visitor repliedrnthat she had come for the singing.rnrn'Sit ye down, then,' said granny. 'And do you still go to the House tornread to my lady?'rnrn'Yes, I go and read, Mrs. Martin; but as to getting my lady to hearken,rnthat's more than a team of six horses could force her to do.'rnrnThe girl had a remarkably smart and fluent utterance, which was probablyrna cause, or a consequence, of her vocation.rnrn''Tis the same story, then?' said grandmother Martin.rnrn'Yes. Eaten out with listlessness. She's neither sick nor sorry, butrnhow dull and dreary she is, only herself can tell. When I get there inrnthe morning, there she is sitting up in bed, for my lady don't care tornget up; and then she makes me bring this book and that book, till the bedrnis heaped up with immense volumes that half bury her, making her look, asrnshe leans upon her elbow, like the stoning of Stephen. She yawns; thenrnshe looks towards the tall glass; then she looks out at the weather,rnmooning her great black eyes, and fixing them on the sky as if they stuckrnthere, while my tongue goes flick-flack along, a hundred and fifty wordsrna minute; then she looks at the clock; then she asks me what I've beenrnreading.'rnrn'Ah, poor soul!' said granny. 'No doubt she says in the morning, "WouldrnGod it were evening," and in the evening, "Would God it were morning,"rnlike the disobedient woman in Deuteronomy.'rnrnSwithin, in the room overhead, had suspended his calculations, for thernduologue interested him. There now crunched heavier steps outside therndoor, and his grandmother could be heard greeting sundry localrnrepresentatives of the bass and tenor voice, who lent a cheerful and well-rnknown personality to the names Sammy Blore, Nat Chapman, Hezekiah Biles,rnand Haymoss Fry (the latter being one with whom the reader has already arndistant acquaintance); besides these came small producers of treble, whornhad not yet developed into such distinctive units of society as tornrequire particularizing.rnrn'Is the good man come?' asked Nat Chapman. 'No,--I see we be here aforernhim. And how is it with aged women to-night, Mrs. Martin?'rnrn'Tedious traipsing enough with this one, Nat. Sit ye down. Well, littlernFreddy, you don't wish in the morning that 'twere evening, and at eveningrnthat 'twere morning again, do you, Freddy, trust ye for it?'rnrn'Now, who might wish such a thing as that, Mrs Martin?--nobody in thisrnparish?' asked Sammy Blore curiously.rnrn'My lady is always wishing it,' spoke up Miss Tabitha Lark.rnrn'Oh, she! Nobody can be answerable for the wishes of that onnaturalrntribe of mankind. Not but that the woman's heart-strings is tried inrnmany aggravating ways.'rnrn'Ah, poor woman!' said granny. 'The state she finds herself in--neitherrnmaid, wife, nor widow, as you may say--is not the primest form of lifernfor keeping in good spirits. How long is it since she has heard from SirrnBlount, Tabitha?'rnrn'Two years and more,' said the young woman. 'He went into one side ofrnAfrica, as it might be, three St. Martin's days back. I can mind it,rnbecause 'twas my birthday. And he meant to come out the other side. Butrnhe didn't. He has never come out at all.'rnrn'For all the world like losing a rat in a barley-mow,' said Hezekiah.'He's lost, though you know where he is.'rnrnHis comrades nodded.rnrn'Ay, my lady is a walking weariness. I seed her yawn just at the veryrnmoment when the fox was halloaed away by Lornton Copse, and the houndsrnrunned en all but past her carriage wheels. If I were she I'd see arnlittle life; though there's no fair, club-walking, nor feast to speak of,rntill Easter week,--that's true.'rnrn'She dares not. She's under solemn oath to do no such thing.'rnrn'Be cust if I would keep any such oath! But here's the pa'son, if myrnears don't deceive me.'rnrnThere was a noise of horse's hoofs without, a stumbling against the door-rnscraper, a tethering to the window-shutter, a creaking of the door on itsrnhinges, and a voice which Swithin recognized as Mr. Torkingham's. Herngreeted each of the previous arrivals by name, and stated that he wasrnglad to see them all so punctually assembled.rnrn'Ay, sir,' said Haymoss Fry. ''Tis only my jints that have kept me fromrnassembling myself long ago. I'd assemble upon the top of WellandrnSteeple, if 'tweren't for my jints. I assure ye, Pa'son Tarkenham, thatrnin the clitch o' my knees, where the rain used to come through when I wasrncutting clots for the new lawn, in old my lady's time, 'tis as if ratsrnwez gnawing, every now and then. When a feller's young he's too small inrnthe brain to see how soon a constitution can be squandered, worse luck!'rnrn'True,' said Biles, to fill the time while the parson was engaged inrnfinding the Psalms. 'A man's a fool till he's forty. Often have Irnthought, when hay-pitching, and the small of my back seeming no stouterrnthan a harnet's, "The devil send that I had but the making of labouringrnmen for a twelvemonth!" I'd gie every man jack two good backbones, evenrnif the alteration was as wrong as forgery.'rnrn'Four,--four backbones,' said Haymoss, decisively.rnrn'Yes, four,' threw in Sammy Blore, with additional weight of experience.'For you want one in front for breast-ploughing and such like, one at thernright side for ground-dressing, and one at the left side for turningrnmixens.'rnrn'Well; then next I'd move every man's wyndpipe a good span away from hisrnglutchpipe, so that at harvest time he could fetch breath in 's drinking,rnwithout being choked and strangled as he is now. Thinks I, when I feelrnthe victuals going--'rnrn'Now, we'll begin,' interrupted Mr. Torkingham, his mind returning tornthis world again on concluding his search for a hymn.rnrnThereupon the racket of chair-legs on the floor signified that they werernsettling into their seats,--a disturbance which Swithin took advantage ofrnby going on tiptoe across the floor above, and putting sheets of paperrnover knot-holes in the boarding at points where carpet was lacking, thatrnhis lamp-light might not shine down. The absence of a ceiling beneathrnrendered his position virtually that of one suspended in the samernapartment.rnrnThe parson announced the tune, and his voice burst forth with 'Onward,rnChristian soldiers!' in notes of rigid cheerfulness.rnrnIn this start, however, he was joined only by the girls and boys, the menrnfurnishing but an accompaniment of ahas and hems. Mr. Torkinghamrnstopped, and Sammy Blore spoke,--rnrn'Beg your pardon, sir,--if you'll deal mild with us a moment. What withrnthe wind and walking, my throat's as rough as a grater; and not knowingrnyou were going to hit up that minute, I hadn't hawked, and I don't thinkrnHezzy and Nat had, either,--had ye, souls?'rnrn'I hadn't got thorough ready, that's true,' said Hezekiah.rnrn'Quite right of you, then, to speak,' said Mr. Torkingham. 'Don't mindrnexplaining; we are here for practice. Now clear your throats, then, andrnat it again.'rnrnThere was a noise as of atmospheric hoes and scrapers, and the bassrncontingent at last got under way with a time of its own:rnrn'Honwerd, Christen sojers!'rnrn'Ah, that's where we are so defective--the pronunciation,' interruptedrnthe parson. 'Now repeat after me: "On-ward, Christ-ian, sol-diers."'rnrnThe choir repeated like an exaggerative echo: 'On-wed, Chris-ting, sol-rnjaws!'rnrn'Better!' said the parson, in the strenuously sanguine tones of a man whorngot his living by discovering a bright side in things where it was notrnvery perceptible to other people. 'But it should not be given with quiternso extreme an accent; or we may be called affected by other parishes.rnAnd, Nathaniel Chapman, there's a jauntiness in your manner of singingrnwhich is not quite becoming. Why don't you sing more earnestly?'rnrn'My conscience won't let me, sir. They say every man for himself: but,rnthank God, I'm not so mean as to lessen old fokes' chances by beingrnearnest at my time o' life, and they so much nearer the need o't.'rnrn'It's bad reasoning, Nat, I fear. Now, perhaps we had better sol-fa therntune. Eyes on your books, please. Sol-sol! fa-fa! mi--'rnrn'I can't sing like that, not I!' said Sammy Blore, with condemnatoryrnastonishment. 'I can sing genuine music, like F and G; but not anythingrnso much out of the order of nater as that.'rnrn'Perhaps you've brought the wrong book, sir?' chimed in Haymoss, kindly.'I've knowed music early in life and late,--in short, ever since LukernSneap broke his new fiddle-bow in the wedding psalm, when Pa'son Wiltonrnbrought home his bride (you can mind the time, Sammy?--when we sung "Hisrnwife, like a fair fertile vine, her lovely fruit shall bring," when thernyoung woman turned as red as a rose, not knowing 'twas coming). I'vernknowed music ever since then, I say, sir, and never heard the like o'rnthat. Every martel note had his name of A, B, C, at that time.'rnrn'Yes, yes, men; but this is a more recent system!'rnrn'Still, you can't alter a old-established note that's A or B by nater,'rnrejoined Haymoss, with yet deeper conviction that Mr. Torkingham wasrngetting off his head. 'Now sound A, neighbour Sammy, and let's have arnslap at Christen sojers again, and show the Pa'son the true way!'rnrnSammy produced a private tuning-fork, black and grimy, which, being aboutrnseventy years of age, and wrought before pianoforte builders had sent uprnthe pitch to make their instruments brilliant, was nearly a note flatterrnthan the parson's. While an argument as to the true pitch was inrnprogress, there came a knocking without.rnrn'Somebody's at the door!' said a little treble girl.rnrn'Thought I heard a knock before!' said the relieved choir.rnrnThe latch was lifted, and a man asked from the darkness, 'Is Mr.rnTorkingham here?'rnrn'Yes, Mills. What do you want?'rnrnIt was the parson's man.rnrn'Oh, if you please,' said Mills, showing an advanced margin of himselfrnround the door, 'Lady Constantine wants to see you very particular, sir,rnand could you call on her after dinner, if you ben't engaged with poorrnfokes? She's just had a letter,--so they say,--and it's about that, Irnbelieve.'rnrnFinding, on looking at his watch, that it was necessary to start at oncernif he meant to see her that night, the parson cut short the practising,rnand, naming another night for meeting, he withdrew. All the singersrnassisted him on to his cob, and watched him till he disappeared over thernedge of the Bottom.