How Gil interrupted a Discussion.
There must be something very fascinating in the herb called tobacco, or else the reverend gentlemen, who had commenced taking it with distaste, would never have grown to be steady smokers; and, in spite of Mistress Hilberry’s sour looks, met evening by evening to enjoy their pipes with the regularity of a clock.
But so it was, and it grew to be quite a custom for Master Peasegood to welcome Father Brisdone daily, and lay his pipe ready to his hand when he seated himself at the table.
“Yes,” said Master Peasegood, as they sat together; “our gay spark has come back, and he has had a long talk with Jeremiah Cobbe. He wants to have our little maiden’s hand.”
“But he must not,” cried Father Brisdone, excitedly. “Better that she should enter some holy walls as the bride of Christ.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Master Peasegood; “I don’t quite agree with you there, brother; but we will not argue. I am with you that he should not marry our little maiden. By the way, he let drop to friend Cobbe something about you.”
“How know you this?” said the father. “Why Cobbe told me, to be sure.”
“Under the seal of confession?”
“Seal of stuff!” cried Master Peasegood, testily. “I don’t confess. He told me, and asked my advice, and I tell my most intimate friend. Look here, brother. It seems they won’t let thee alone.”
“Indeed! And why?”
“There’s a rumour out that thou art down here to purchase powder for some new plot, and Master Cobbe is in a fine way about it.”
“And you? What did you say to him?”
“Told him he was a fool.”
“Hah!” said Father Brisdone.
“I was just in the humour,” said Master Peasegood. “I am just in the humour now. Why I’d rather marry the poor girl myself than see her handed over to that court pie.”
“And Master Cobbe—what says he?”
“That he’d sooner see her in her grave.”
“Poor girl, poor, sweet girl!” said Father Brisdone. “It must not be, brother. We must fight on the other side.”
“There’ll be no need.”
“Nay, but there will. Yon spark is cunning and crafty, and he will work upon the old man till he consents. If they have designs against me, I may at any time be removed or have to flee. If this be so, I leave you to on that poor girl’s side to the very last.”
“Have you seen her lately?”
“I was there four days since for a good and pleasant hour,” said Father Brisdone, with a sigh. “Nay,” he said, smiling, “look not so suspiciously; I said no word on religion to her. What need was there when her breast is so pure and free from guile?”
Master Peasegood stretched out his broad fat hand, and pressed that of his friend.
“Thank you, brother,” he said, smiling. “It’s strange how we have drifted together. I’ll confess it; I’ve tried hard indirectly, and hoped to get thee over to our Church.”
“Not harder than I have tried indirectly with thee,” said Father Brisdone, smiling. “Ah, brother, why should we trouble ourselves about it when we are both journeying on the highway. You like to walk in boots, and I prefer sandals.”
“Hah, yes,” said Master Peasegood; “but then I do save my feet from the grit, and dust, and thorns of the way.”
“Yes, but then I travel with shaven crown and cooler head than you in your thick flap hat.”
“Yes, perhaps so. But there, there, why should we discourse about such matters?”
“True, brother, when we are both hopeful that, in spite of contending dogma, we may reach the heavenly gate in company; and it strikes me,” he added with a smile, “that if we do the good saint may give us both a welcoming smile.”
“Brother,” said Master Peasegood, leaning across the table, “if he had not one for you, I’d, I’d—bless me that I would—I’d take him to task about the fact.”
“Take him to task!”
“Ay! Remind him of a bit of weakness of his when a certain cock did crow.”
Father Brisdone looked up with a half-amused, half-sorrowful expression. Then, with a sigh:
“If the good saint had no welcome for my companion, and held the door open for me alone, I should feel that I had been mistaken all my life, join hands with my friend, and accompany him back.”
There was another hearty shake of the hand at this, and then the two friends sat and smoked in silence for a time.
“Look here, brother,” said Master Peasegood, suddenly; “we both love and like to direct sweet Mace, and leave another roaming about like a poor lost lamb. Now, why don’t you take up Mistress Anne Beckley? She is young, and easily moulded.”
“Nay,” was the reply; “I’d rather you tried your hand. I shall not seek to make her a proselyte to our cause.”
Master Peasegood sat gazing at his friend for a while, and then exclaimed—
“The news I gave you does not seem to have much effect.”
“What news?”
“That thou art a papist emissary, and come to purchase powder for a new plot.”
“Heaven grant that such a bloody and atrocious crime be not again upon the way. It makes me shudder to think that men could have such ideas, and say that they are in the cause of the Church.”
Father Brisdone spoke excitedly, and his pale face flushed as he rose and paced the room. “Oh, brother, we live in bitter times when men can think a good and gracious God could smile down upon such crimes.”
“Ah,” said Master Peasegood, re-lighting his little pipe, “you are a bad Catholic, and I no longer wonder that thou art left here by thy party.”
Father Brisdone looked back on him, and smiled.
“The captain has sailed,” said Master Peasegood.
“Yes; he asked me to keep a protecting eye over our child.”
“He did, did he? Then I have a counter turn with him. Why did he not ask me to play that part?”
“Because he knew thee of old, and that our child would be certain of thy protection.”
“Ah!” said Master Peasegood, with a sigh; “that girl is a great strain upon my mind—bless her!”
“Ay, bless her!” said Father Brisdone, fervently. Then, after a pause, “I may have to flee one of these days, for persecutions are sometimes very bitter against such as I. If I do go suddenly, you will remember all my words.”
“Remember them! Yes. But where should you go?”
“Throw myself upon the hands of Captain Carr, and trust to his generosity.”
“Yes, if at home; but he has sailed.”
“There are the woods and rocky hills.”
“Yes,” said Master Peasegood! “and plenty of blackberries, and hips and haws, and cold night-dews, and damp ferns. Bah, man, we can’t live like hermits here in this Christian land. This is not a place where a man can be happy in a hair-shirt and a scooped-out hole in the rock, with a handful of dates and a cup of water. My word, it would puzzle some of those early fathers to exist on such terms down here. But there, have no fear, there is not a man for miles round who would not give either of us a hiding-place and a regular meal if we were in need.”
“Brother Peasegood, you are a true friend,” said Father Brisdone; “and I shall resign myself to thy advice, for I am weak, and I own that I shrink from the thought of martyrdom; for life is, after all, so very sweet.”
“Of course it is, or it wouldn’t be given to us. Bah! When you meet with a man who talks much about the weariness and wretchedness of the world, depend upon it there is something wrong.”
Father Brisdone bowed his head. “I’m afraid I have a good deal of the evil one in me, brother,” said Master Peasegood, helping himself to more tobacco. “See here, I try this herb to see what it is like, so that I may be able to follow out his Majesty’s wishes, and duly preach it down; and how do I find myself? Why, tied neck and heels, and given over to the hands of the tempter.”
“Ah, yes,” said Father Brisdone, re-lighting his own pipe, “it is a soothing and seductive weed.”
“Then again, about you? Sir Thomas at the Moat twitted me again with our intimacy, as not becoming the parson of Roehurst, and I told him I was converting you fast.”
“An untruth, brother Peasegood.”
“Yes; but it slipped out unawares. Ah, Brother Francis, I’m afraid that I resemble the unjust steward, and am making friends with such as thou against the days when thy party has the ascendancy once more, and we Protestants are of small account.”
Father Brisdone shook his head sadly.
“Nay,” he said, “the day is gone; and, if it were not, thou art not the man to stand on the order of taking care of self. But was not that a step?”
They ceased speaking, for it was plainly enough a step, and directly after the door was unceremoniously opened and a figure stood on the threshold.
“Gilbert Carr!” cried Master Peasegood; “why I thought thee miles away.”
“And so I should be,” was the reply; “but I could not go without first saying a few words.”
Master Peasegood rose from his chair, and made way for his fresh visitor to take a seat; but Gil laid his hands upon the stout clerk’s shoulders, and gently pressed him back.
“Sit still,” he said; “I have not a minute to stay. I have come across from Curtport, and must be back at daybreak, or my vessel will have to wait another tide.”
“Have you a horse?”
“No; I walked,” said Gil, smiling.
“Why, it is nearly thirty miles,” said Father Brisdone.
“Quite,” was the reply. “Look here, Master Peasegood, I can speak before Father Brisdone, for he is a friend.”
“But first have bite and sup,” cried Master Peasegood, essaying to rise.
“I have both in my wallet here,” said Gil. “Now, listen to me: I am uneasy about matters at the house by the Pool.”
“And thou would’st have me watch over some one there?” said Master Peasegood.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Be easy in thy mind, then, lad, for it is done. Not that I favour thee, or think well of thy suit, mind; but rely on my taking care of the little treasure there.”
“I am content, Master Peasegood,” said Gil, holding out his hand.
“But you did not walk across country from Curtpool to tell me this?” said Master Peasegood.
“I did; and why not, Master Peasegood? There, my mission is ended, so good night to both.”
Before either could reply he had passed out into the darkness, and they heard his steps die away in the distance.
“A true-hearted, brave man!” said Father Brisdone, fervently. “Heaven’s blessing be upon him!”
“Heaven’s blessing be upon him, by all means,” said Master Peasegood drily; “and I hope it will do him good.”
“Why do you speak so cynically of the young man?”
“Because I don’t like him after all for our child, and he shall never have her with my consent.”
“Poor girl! And yet she loves him.”
“He’s not good enough man for her,” growled Master Peasegood.
“No man that I know is,” replied Father Brisdone. “But, there, we cannot dislike him for his love for one so sweet and true. Good night, brother; I must be for home. It grows late.”
“I’ll see thee half-way back,” cried Master Peasegood; and after a short walk with his friend he returned to his cottage, and was soon making the bed vibrate with his heavy breathing, which often degenerated into a snore. But he had not been sleeping many minutes before there was a loud pattering at the casement, one that was repeated again and again.
“He gave them hailstones for rain,” muttered Master Peasegood, in his sleep.
Patter, patter, patter again at the casement, when Master Peasegood started up, and the bed gave forth a dismal groan.
Patter, patter, patter at the window once more.
“There’s some one ill,” said the stout clerk, and, rising hastily, while the bedstead emitted a sound like a sigh of relief, he threw on his old gown, went to the window and threw it open.
“Hallo!” he cried.
“Hallo, parson,” came up out of the darkness in a deep growl.
“What is it thou, old son of Belial,” said Master Peasegood, sourly, for he had been awakened from a pleasant sleep.
“Ay, Wat Kilby it is.”
“I thought thee with thy master, far at sea—safe enough, for thou’lt be hanged some day, Wat Kilby, and never drowned.”
“Thou’rt a false prophet,” growled Wat Kilby.
“Thou’rt a villainous old unbeliever, worse than a Jew!” cried Master Peasegood, angrily.
“I wish all thy country flock were as good as Jews, parson.”
“I wish they were,” said Master Peasegood, angrily. “And now why art thou here?”
“We’re at anchor. Skipper’s ashore.”
“He was here an hour ago, man.”
“Eh? Was he then? I must get me back. Here, hold down thy hand; I’ve brought thee some tobacco. I know thou’rt converted, parson, and can smoke.”
“I’ll come down, if I can convert thee, Wat Kilby.”
“Convert me, Master Peasegood; why, what’s amiss with me?”
“Amiss, thou wicked old reprobate? Why thou’rt an open sinner, and never com’st to church.”
“Eh, but I would if thou’dst let me smoke my pipe by the open door.”
“Then you are repenting of your evil ways.”
“Nay, I’ve nothing to repent of, but a love or two.”
“And spiriting away poor Abel Churr.”
“Nay, parson, I never did; I wish I had,” growled Wat.
“Then that’s as bad.”
“Nay, parson, don’t preach; I arn’t a bad ’un after all. I always tries, and gets along pretty well for a time, but, just as I’ve got as perfect as can be, down comes the devil with a pretty girl, and then I’m done.”
“Out upon thee, Wat Kilby, my cheeks burn with shame.”
“Ay, it do make the cheeks burn, parson. But it always was so, parson, and that’s the devil’s way. He always did serve me so, and you may preach at me and preach, and preach, and preach, but unless you can preach all the pretty women off the earth, if you’re right in what you say, I’m sartain to be burnt.”
“But you must resist the devil and he’ll flee, Wat Kilby.”
“Nay: not he, parson. He knows his man too well. There, it’s all no good. Reach down thy hand—got it. That’s well.”
“Thanks, Wat Kilby. Man, it is a goodly offering of the precious weed.”
“Thou and the king said it was devilish poison.”
“Ah, um, yes; but my ideas are being modified, my man. And now what does this mean?”
“Well, you see, parson, it’s all about a woman I have come.”
“Is this a time man to speak about a wedding?”
“Yes, parson; when you have to go by orders.”
“Well speak out quick, for the night is chill.”
“I will, parson. It’s like this: I love pretty Mistress Janet at the Pool.”
“For a grandchild, Wat Kilby?”
“Nay, master; for a wife. I wanted to get speech of her, but could not get me near. Tell her, and keep thy eye on her as well, that Wat Kilby han’t forgot, and will come back and wed her.”
“Well man, well?”
“And I ask thee, parson, not to wed her to any other man.”
“But man, how can I help—”
“Why, forbid it all, and I’ll sattle down to be a better man and come to church when I be not at sea. Sometimes I’ll come and sit in the porch o’ Sunday afternoons. And now I must hasten to catch the skipper. Tell her from me, parson, Wat Kilby will come and make her an honest woman, and be true; and now good night.”
“Here, stop, you vile old sinner!” cried Master Peasegood, but he only heard old Wat Kilby striding rapidly away, and after listening for a few moments he closed the lattice with a slam.
“The place gets worse the more I preach,” he cried, angrily. “Master and man. A nice charge, verily—but Wat and that Janet! My preaching must be stronger, yet. That wicked wench!”
Five minutes later Master Peasegood was fast asleep, and the casement-frames vibrated to his snore.