How Master Peasegood said his Prayers and paid a Visit.
There was a deep, singular humming sound coming from the open window of Master Peasegood’s cottage, and, as this noise passed through the big cherry-tree, it seemed to be broken up like a wind through a hedge, and to be somewhat softened. A stranger would not have known what it was, unless he had listened very attentively; and then he would have found that it was Master Peasegood saying his prayers.
“Sum—sum—sum—sum—sum—sum—sum—sum.” It sounded like a gigantic bumble-bee. Then a few distinct words. Then “sum—sum—sum—sum—sum,” again; and you would hear, “Lead us not into temptation’—sum—sum—sum—especially with strong ales—sum—sum—sum—sum—sum—oh! Lord, I am so fleshly and so fat—sum—sum—sum—sum—I cannot do as I preach—sum—sum—sum—sum—I am a sadly hardened and weak man, oh! Lord—sum—sum—sum—sum; but I try to live at peace, and do to others as I would they should do unto me—sum—sum—sum—sum—Amen. Mistress Hilberry, I’m going out. Bring me my ale.”
Master Peasegood was refreshed in mind, and proceeded to refresh himself in body, feeling at peace with the whole world, including Mother Goodhugh and all her works.
Mistress Hilberry came in, looking sour, but, as her eyes lit on the jovial face before her, some of its amiability was reflected back upon her own; and, finally, as the stout parson drank up his great jug of ale with the heartiest of enjoyment, she almost smiled.
“How thou dost take to thy ale!” she said.
“Ay, how naturally we do take to all bad habits, Mistress Hilberry; but a man cannot be perfect, and the possession of one wicked little devil may keep out seven devils, all much worse. I don’t think it would be right to be quite good, Mistress Hilberry, so I take my ale.”
“If thou never take nothing worse, master,” said Mistress Hilberry—who was in a good temper—“thou wilt do;” and she seized the empty vessel and went out.
“Hah!” sighed Master Peasegood, taking his pipe off the mantel-piece, and looking at it ruefully, “I talked to her about one little devil, and, lo! here is another. That makes two who possess me, if King Jamie’s right. I’ll just have a little of the devilish weed before I go out. Nay, resist the devil, and he will flee from thee. Go, little devil, back to thy place, and let’s see what our good Protestant King does say.”
He put back the pipe, and took from his scantily-furnished shelves a copy of his Majesty’s Counterblast against Tobacco, seated himself comfortably, and began to read.
Master Peasegood’s countenance was a study: for what he read did not seem to agree with him. He frowned, he pursed up his lips, he nodded, he shook his head; and at last, after half-an-hour’s study, he dashed the book down upon the floor, doubled his fist, and brought it heavily upon the table.
“If this book had not been written by our sovereign lord, James the First, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, as it says in the dedication to my Bible—and what a thumping lie it is—I should say that it was the work of one of the silliest, most dunder-headed, and bumble-brained fools who ever walked God’s earth. Tchah, tchah, tchah, tchah. I don’t believe the pipe’s a little devil after all.
“Here! I must be off,” he said, with a sigh. “There’s work to be done. I’ll go see my poor old friend Cobbe, and try and comfort him in his trouble.
“Nay, I will not; it will be like running right into temptation. He’ll bring out pipes and ale.
“But he is in trouble sore, and I have not been of late. I must go—
“‘Into temptation.’
“Nay, it cannot be into temptation, for it is to do good works. The ale is not a devil of possession, after all.
“Mistress Hilberry, I’m going down to Jeremiah Cobbe, if any one should call.”
“All right, master,” she said; and the stout parson rolled out, and sauntered down to the cottage the founder occupied now.
“Ah! Master Cobbe,” he cried, “I’ve been remiss in visiting you these last few weeks, but I’m glad to see thee look so well.”
“Well? Master Peasegood,” said the founder, sadly. “Nay, I am not well. Perhaps I am, though—perhaps I am. I have been busy lately, very busy. A goodly store of cannon and ammunition has been sent off to his Majesty this past week.”
“Ay, so I hear,” said the parson.
“But sit down, man. Hey, Mrs Croftly, bring a flagon of ale and the pipes and tobacco. Master Peasegood will sit down here in the garden with me this evening.”
“That I will,” was the hearty response.
A table was placed on one side, and the two friends sat down, drank heartily to one another, and then filled, lit their pipes, and smoked in silence for awhile.
“There’s a nice view from here, Master Cobbe,” said the parson at last.
“Ay, there is,” said the founder; and a longing painful look came upon his deeply-lined face, as he thrust back his rough, white hair and sighed.
“A very pretty view. You like this spot?”
“Yes,” said the founder, slowly, as he pointed with the stem of his little pipe to an opening in the forest beyond the ruins of the Pool-house. “Do you see yon patch of rock where the martins have made their nests?”
“Surely, surely,” said Master Peasegood.
“There is a good-sized hole there, friend Peasegood.”
“Yes, I see,” said Master Peasegood, nodding, “though my eyes are not what they were.”
“That place was made by the shell fired from my big howitzer when my poor girl applied the match.”
“Poor child!” said Master Peasegood, sadly, and for some time the two men sat and smoked in silence.
“Shall you ever build up the house again, Master Cobbe?” said the parson at last.
The founder turned upon him almost fiercely, and seemed about to utter some angry word; but he calmed down, took the parson’s fat hand in his, shook it, and released it.
“Nay,” he said, “let it rest; let it rest.”
“I did not want to hurt your feelings, Master Cobbe,” said the parson; “but I thought it would be better for it and for thee. You must be growing richer than before.”
“Yes; and what good is it?” said the founder, bitterly. “Of what use is money to me? I only work and toil to keep my mind at rest. Nay, nay, I cannot build the old place up; let it be. Besides,” he added dryly, “Mother Goodhugh says it is cursed.”
“Hang Mother Goodhugh—or burn her,” cried the parson impetuously. “A wicked, cursing, old hag. She had better mend her ways, or Sir Thomas will be laying her by the heels. He swore he would months ago, but I persuaded him not. She had been following and abusing Mistress Anne.”
“Ay, poor soul—poor soul, she is mad from her grief, and it makes her curse. Ah! parson, many’s the time I could have gone about cursing too. Poor soul—poor soul! let her rest.”
“I see you have been very busy with the garden again.”
“Ay; it is getting to be what it was. The trees have shot forth once more, and the flowers bloom. She loved that garden, parson—dearly.”
“Ay; and the old house too, Master Cobbe. Build it up, man; build it up.”
“Nay, not a stone. It is cursed—cursed.”
“Bah! Stuff, man. Away with such folly. It is no more cursed than it is haunted, as the people say.”
The founder started, and gazed strangely at his friend.
“Do they say it is haunted?”
“Yes; such folly. Two or three people have sworn to me that they have heard shrieks.”
“Parson,” said the founder hoarsely, as he laid his hand on the other’s sleeve; “they are right; I once heard them too.”
“What?” said Master Peasegood, laughing, “the owls?”
“Nay, I should know the cry of an owl, man. It is not that. Time after time I’ve stood there in the forest, and heard the wild cry just at dark when everything is still.”
“Nay, nay,” said Master Peasegood, “the dead don’t cry for help, neither do the angels in heaven; and if there’s truth in all we believe, man, our little Mace’s looking down upon us, an angel among God’s best and dearest ones.”
The old man’s head went down upon his hand at this, and he sat in silence for some time, while, with his eyes misty and dim, Master Peasegood leaned back in his chair, and smoked with all his might.
The silence was broken by the founder holding out his hand to his visitor, and shaking it warmly.
“Thankye, parson, thankye,” he said. “What you say ought to be true; and I hope she forgives me for my vanity and pride.”
“Poor child! It was a mistake, Master Cobbe, but let it rest. They say our gay spark, Sir Mark, is going to comfort himself by wedding Mistress Anne.”
“Ay? Indeed?” said the founder. “I did hear something of the kind, but I paid little heed.”
“I hear it as a fact, Master Cobbe.”
“Well, let him,” said the founder. “He should be a rich man, too, by this time, for he has made money from me as well as I have from the King. Don’t talk of it, though; it makes me dwell upon the past.”
They smoked on for a time without speaking, and then, with a patient, piteous aspect in his face, the founder turned to his visitor.
“I’ve been a wicked man, parson,” he said.
“So we all are,” said Master Peasegood, bluffly. “I always sinned from a desire for the good things of this life. I love goodly food, and good ale, and good tobacco now; and I shall go on sinning to the end,” he added, taking a hearty draught.
“I have been harsh and hard, and I’ve not done my duty here, Master Peasegood; and these punishments have come upon me for my sins.”
“Stuff, stuff!” cried Master Peasegood. “I won’t sit and hear it. Don’t talk of your Maker as if he were some petty, revengeful man like us, ready to visit every little weakness upon our heads with a misfortune, or to pay us for being good boys with a slice of bread and honey. Out on such religious ideas as that, Master Cobbe, and think of your God as one who is great and good. Bah! It aggravates me to hear and see people fall down and worship the ugly image they have set up in their hearts, one that every work of the Creator gives the lie to for its falsity and cruel wrong. Bear your burden, Jeremiah Cobbe, like a man. It is not in us to know the ins and outs of God’s ways; and it is a wicked and impious sin for people to say this is a judgment, or that is a judgment, and to pretend to know what the All-Seeing thinks and does. You say you’ve been a wicked man, Master Cobbe.”
“Yes, yes,” said the founder sadly; “and I have but one hope now, and that is that I may see my darling once again.”
“Amen to that,” said Master Peasegood; “but, as to your wickedness, I wish every man was as wicked, and hot-tempered, and true-hearted, and generous, and frank, and industrious, and forgiving as thou art, Jeremiah Cobbe; and—Will you have that ale flagon filled again? Much talking makes me dry.”
The founder smiled, and called for Croftly’s wife, who replenished the flagon, bobbed a curtsey to the parson, and re-entered the cottage.
“I like you, Jeremiah Cobbe,” continued Master Peasegood, after setting down the flagon with a satisfied sigh; “but don’t be superstitious, man, like our sovereign master the King, who has written a book to hand down his wisdom to posterity.”
“Indeed!” said the founder, whose thoughts were evidently far away.
“Yes, indeed,” said Master Peasegood; “and it’s all about witches and warlocks and the like. That piece of idiot spawn has gotten itself down here into Sir Thomas’s hands; and, as I told thee, he was very near laying that foolish old woman Mother Goodhugh by the heels. Now she hates me like poison, because I laugh at her and tell the people she is a half-crazed old crone. Last time I saw her we quarrelled, for I told her she was a wretched old impostor, for cheating the poor people as she did. Ha! ha! ha! and then she defied and cursed me, and said she’d go to Father Brisdone and turn Roman Catholic. I told her to go, and he’d curse her for cursing, for it is his trade, and she has no right to handle such tools at all.”
“Poor weak woman,” said the founder. “She is more to be pitied than blamed. I suppose she thinks in her heart that I am the cause of all her woes.”
“Ay, poor soul, but it’s partly vanity, friend Cobbe. She likes to set up for a prophetess, a sort of diluted Deborah, and to make the people believe in her. There, you must go and see her. If I go to her, being the good man of the parish, she will have naught to say to me. Now, you being a wicked man, may have more influence than I.”
“I influence? Nay, man; she’ll fall a cursing if I go nigh her cot.”
“Let her curse. Her words won’t hurt thee, man. Go to her, and give her money—thou hast enough—bid her get away far enough from this place to somewhere safe; and when there, tell her to live a decent life and forget her silly trickstering and stuff. It’s a fine opportunity for thee, Jeremiah Cobbe. It’s just the sort of revenge thou lik’st to take on an enemy. Go and pour coals of fire on her head, for I’m sure this place isn’t safe for such as she.”
“Would Sir Thomas imprison her?” said the founder.
“Sir Thomas is so good and honest a justice of the peace, and so great a lover of the words of his Majesty the King, who made him the baronet he is, that he would set up a stake, scatter Dame Beckley’s dried simples and herbs around it, heap it with goodly faggots, and burn Mother Goodhugh for a witch while the Roehurst people would look on.”
“Thinkest thou this, Master Peasegood?”
“I’m sure of it,” said the parson, dashing down his pipe in his anger. “Jeremiah Cobbe, it makes me as mad as Moses to see what fools the people are. We have just got rid of the superstitions of Rome, sir, and we go at once and set up the golden calf of witchcraft, and worship it, from our ruler to the humblest peasant in his realm. By my word, Master Cobbe, an’ I had had the two tables in my hands like the old prophet, I’d not have broken them on the rocks, but upon the thick-boned skulls of my erring folk.”
“Not worship the idol—condemn it, Master Peasegood,” said the founder, smiling.
“Well, but we believe it,” cried the other. “Out upon us all, but we are sorry-fools.”
“I’ll go and do this thing, Master Peasegood,” said the founder, after musing for a few minutes.
“That’s right; I knew thou would’st.”
“But maybe she will not go.”
“Then take her, like the angels did Lot of old, and thrust her out of the place. Tell her Roehurst will prove a Sodom to her if she does not go, for i’ faith she’ll go to the flames, in spite of all I can do or say.”
“I’ll go to her this very evening, Master Peasegood.”
“Then I will go my way,” cried the parson; and, paying one more attention to the flagon, he rose, shook hands, and left.