Chapter Three.
M’Appari.
“She’s coming, my own, my sweet!
Had she never so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her, and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed!”
It was now November, as I have already said; and a very dull, dismal, desolate November it was—more so, even, than usual. Fogs were frequent, rain regular, and the sun singular in his appearance. It was enough to make one feel miserable, without the haunting thoughts that affected me; so, before the weather became too much for me and turned me insane, I determined to go abroad for a short time to try what change of air and scene could do towards relaxing my mind, although nothing could banish the remembrance of her from my heart.
When I came back to England, it was close on Christmas, and Christmas, you must know, was always a busy and stirring time with us in our suburb, especially so, too, for its younger and prettier parishioners.
Then the church had to be decorated—a matter not to be trifled with. Commencing about a week or ten days before the festival, these young ladies would gather themselves together in the old school-room, which was a detached building, situated a short distance from Saint Canon’s.
Here, the scholars being dismissed for their long holidays, they would change the look of the academic apartment into that of a miniature Covent Garden market or greengrocer’s shop, filling it up with heaps of evergreens—holly and ivy and yew, ad libitum, to be transformed by the aid of their nimble fingers into all sorts of floral decorations. Garlands were woven, elaborate illuminated texts and scrolls painted, and wondrous crosses of commingled laurel leaves and holly berries contrived; all of which went so far to change the aspect of the old church, that those well acquainted with it could not help wondering within themselves, if, indeed, it was really so very old and ancient after all as learned archaeologists said; while new comers, who only saw it in its festal trim, had serious doubts as to whether they were not in a ritualistic edifice—the vicar allowing the girls to have their own way and import as much natural ornament as they pleased. The flowers and shrubs were God’s handiwork, he said, so why should they not be used in God’s service, to do honour to “the Giver of the feast?”
This year was no exception to the general practice. On my going down to the school-room on the first day that the work of “the decorations” began, which was the very morning after my return from the continent, I found things just as they had been in previous years, save that some half-a-dozen panes of glass had been smashed in the oriel window at the eastern end of the room, through the incautious manipulation of a bunch of holly by some “green” hand.
There were the usual number of young ladies, all of whose faces I knew so well, engaged in the pious work; with Horner, Mr Mawley the curate, and one or two other attendant male aides, to minister to their needs—such as stripping off leaves for wreath making—and help them to flirt the dull hours away. Dear little Miss Pimpernell, our vicar’s maiden sister and good right hand, presided, also, to preserve order and set an example for industrious souls to follow, just as she had been in the habit of presiding as far back as I could recollect.
She was not there merely as a chaperon. Oh no! If Lady Dasher, sitting on an upturned form in a corner, like a very melancholy statue of Patience, was not sufficient to prevent the prudent proprieties from being outraged, there was, also, the “model of all the virtues” present—Miss Spight—a lady of a certain age, who, believing, as the kindly beings of her order do, that there was too large a flow of the milk of human kindness current in the world, deemed it her mission to temper this dispensation by the admixture of as much vitriol and vinegar as in her lay: she succeeded pretty well, too, for that matter, in her practice and belief.
Little Miss Pimpernell was quite a different sort of body altogether to Miss Spight. Every one who knew her, or ever saw her kindly face, loved her and venerated her.
She was the very impersonification of good-nature, good-will, and good action. Did any misfortune chance to befall some one with whom she was acquainted, or any casual stranger with whom she might be brought in contact, there was none of that “I told you so” spirit of philosophy about her.
No; she tried to do her best for the sufferer as well as she was able; and would not be contented until she was absolutely satisfied that matters had somewhat mended.
Young and old, rich and poor, alike considered her as one of their best friends—as indeed she was—a good Samaritan to whom they might always confide their griefs and ailments, their sufferings and privations, with the assurance that they would certainly meet with a kindly sympathy and a word of comfort, in addition to as much practical assistance in their adversity and physical consolation in their need as “little” Miss Pimpernell—that was the fond title she was always known by—could compass or give.
The worst of it was, that she was in such general request, that we had to make up our minds to lose her sometimes.
Of course it was a selfish consideration, but we missed her and grumbled at her visits and absences sadly; for, when she was away, everything appeared to go wrong in the parish. Still none, knowing the gratification that her ministrations gave her, would have grudged her their indulgence.
She was never so happy as when she was helping somebody; and, of course, people took advantage of her weakness, and were merciless in their calls upon her time.
Whenever the most distant cousin or stray relative happened to be ill—or about to move into a new house, or be married, or increase the population in defiance of Malthus, or depart from the pomps and vanities of this wicked world—as sure as possible would Miss Pimpernell be sent for post haste. She had, as a matter of course, to nurse the patient, assist the flitting, accelerate the wedding, welcome the little stranger, or console the mourners as the case might be.
We, the inhabitants of the suburb which she blessed with her presence, thought all this a gross infringement of our rights in her possession, although we welcomed the dear old lady all the more gladly when we got her back again amongst us once more.
As for confidences, I believe she had the skeleton secret of every soul in the place confided to her sacred keeping at some one time or other; and love stories! why, she must have been cram full of them—from the heart-breaking affair of poor little Polly Skittles, the laundress’ pretty daughter, up to Baby Blake’s last flirtation.
What her brother would have done without her, it would be impossible to tell. She had quite as much to do with the parish as he; and, I’m sure, if little Miss Pimpernell had not kept house for him and minded all his temporal affairs, he would never have known what to eat or drink, or what to put on.
The vicar had lost his wife soon after his marriage, when he was quite a young man; but, instead of being bowed down by his affliction, as might have been the case with a good many ardent natures like his, he earnestly fought against it, buckling to his work, all the more vigorously perhaps, as one of Christ’s ministers.
Everybody thenceforth was wife and child, brother and sister to him: humanity in general took the place of all family ties.
He was the purest Christian character I have ever come across, lovable, intelligent, winning and merry, too, at times, in spite of his grief—would that all ministers were like him to uphold the old love and honour of our national Church!
No orator or skilled preacher in the pulpit, he simply led you captive by his earnestness and evident thorough belief in all that he uttered; so that “those who came to scoff, remained to pray.” No hard, metallic repetition by rote was his; but the plain, unvarnished story of the gospel which he felt and of whose truth he was assured, animated by a broad spirit of Protestantism that led him to extend a raising hand to every erring brother, and see religion in other creeds besides his own.
“In his duty prompt at every call,
He watch’d and wept, he pray’d and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way!”
He and his good sister were, in fact, a pair of heart-oddities, whom to know was to admire with reverential affection. They could not have had an enemy or slanderer in the world. Even Miss Spight had never a word to say against either; that alone spoke volumes for them.
“Oh, Frank,” exclaimed little Miss Pimpernell as I entered the school-room—she always called me by my Christian name, or styled me her “boy,” having known me from childhood—“Oh, Frank! Here you are at last! I am so glad to see you back again, my boy: you have just come in time to help us. I was really afraid those nasty Frenchmen had eaten you up, you have been such a long time away!”
“I dare say there’s enough left of him,” sneered Mr Mawley the curate. He was the direct opposite of the vicar; and a man whom I cordially detested, the feeling, I believe, being mutual. He was consequential, dogmatic, and with all the self-asserting priggishness of young Oxford fresh upon him. I confess I was pretty much inclined the same way myself; so, it was but natural that we should disagree: two suns, you know, cannot shine in the same hemisphere.
Before I could answer him, Miss Pimpernell hastily interposed. She hated to hear us arguing and bickering as was generally our way when we met. “Please bring the measuring tape, Frank,” she said, “you will find it on that bench in the corner; and come and see how long my wreath is. It should be just nineteen feet, but I’m afraid I am a yard short.”
By the time I had done as my old friend requested, the conversation which I had interrupted by my advent resumed its course. They were talking about the future world, and ventilating sundry curious thoughts on the subject.
“And what do you think heaven will be like?” asked Seraphine Dasher, appealing to me. “Everybody’s opinion has been given but yours and Miss Pimpernell’s, and Mr Mawley’s; and I’m coming to them presently.”
“I’m sure I can’t say,” I answered, “perhaps a combination of choral music, running water, I mean the sound of brooks gliding and fountains splashing, with almond toffee at discretion: that’s my idea of earthly felicity at least.”
“Oh, fie!” said my interlocutor; while I could hear Miss Spight murmur “What deplorable levity,” as she glowered at me severely and looked sympathisingly at Mr Mawley.
“Well,” said I, “I was only joking then; for, really, I’ve never seriously thought about the matter. As far as I can believe, however, I do not imagine heaven is going to be a place where we’ll be singing hymns all day. I think we shall be happy there, each in our several ways, as we are on earth, and be in the company of those we love: heaven would be miserable without that, I think.”
“And what do you say, Miss Pimpernell?” next asked Seraphine.
“I do not say anything at all, my dear: the subject is beyond me. I leave it to One who is wiser than us all to tell me in his own good time.”
“And you, Mr Mawley?” continued our fair questioner.
“We should not seek to understand the mysteries of the oracles of God,” said the curate pompously.
“My dear, I can tell you,” said the vicar, who had slipped in quietly, unknown to us all, “‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him!’”
“I wonder, sir,” said I, “whether that text, ‘In My Father’s house are many mansions,’ means that there are different degrees of happiness in the future world?”
“That passage,” said the vicar, “is one whose interpretation has been more disputed than any I know. Some say it has the meaning which you attach to it; while others, with whom I am more inclined to agree, think that it conveys only the promise and assurance that in heaven there will be found room for us all. You must remember that we in the present day have the Bible through the medium of translation; and all translations are liable to error. Why, if you read the Book of Job, for instance, in the original Hebrew, without the arbitrary division into verses which the translators of the authorised version inserted, you would find it a perfect poem!”
“For my part,” said Mr Mawley, “I do not think we ought to speak about religious matters in this sort of way, and make them subjects for general conversation.”
“I don’t agree with you, Mawley,” said the vicar, “the truth is not so brittle that we should be afraid of handling it; if religion were more openly discussed and brought into our daily life, I believe we should be all the better for it.”
“Ah, you are Broad Church!” said the curate.
“Very well, be it so,” said the vicar good-humouredly; “I’m not ashamed of it, so long as you allow that I’m at least a Christian.”
“What is Broad Church, Mr Mawley?” asked Bessie Dasher, who was suspected of having tender feelings towards the curate, for she generally deferred to his views and opinions.
“Broad Church,” said Mr Mawley, “holds that every man is at liberty to judge for himself; and that any Sectarian or Unitarian, or heathen, has as much chance of heaven as you or I.”
“Positively shocking!” said Miss Spight, in virtuous indignation at any nonconformist being esteemed as worthy of future salvation as herself.
“Oliver Wendell Holmes,” I said, “gives a truer exposition. He says that ‘the narrow church may be seen in the ship’s boats of humanity, in the long boat, in the jolly boat, in the captain’s gig, lying off the poor old vessel, thanking God that they are safe, and reckoning how soon the hulk containing the mass of their fellow-creatures will go down. The Broad Church is on board, working hard at the pumps, and very slow to believe that the ship will be swallowed up with so many poor people in it, fastened down under the hatches ever since it floated!’”
“Ah, that is better,” said the vicar. “It is there put very aptly. If we could only be less bigoted, and assimilate our various sects together, what a happy church would ours be! We all have the same sure fundamental ground of belief, and only differ in details.”
“But, my dear sir,” said the curate, in pious horror, “that is rank latitudinarianism!”
“Latitudinarianism or not, Mawley,” said the vicar, “it is the Christianity and doctrine that earnest thinkers like Kingsley and Maurice preach and practise. If we could only all act up to it—all act up to it!”
“Then, I suppose,” said Mr Mawley, “that you agree with the writers of Essays and Reviews?”
“Suppose nothing, my dear Mawley,” said the vicar, kindly but seriously, “except what you have facts to vouch for. I do not say I agree with them or not.”
“And do you think the hare chewed the cud, as Colenso says?” asked Baby Blake, with such a serious face that we could not help laughing at her.
“Proximus ille deo est qui scit ratione tacere!” said the vicar, putting on his hat and moving towards the door.
“And what does that mean, brother?” asked Miss Pimpernell.
“My dear, it is only Dionysius Cato’s original Latin for our old English proverb, ‘A silent tongue shows a wise head!’” said the vicar; and he then went out to attend to his parish duties, promising to look in upon us again, and see how we were getting on before we separated for the day.
On his departure, our conversation veered round to local chit-chat.
“Have you heard the news about The Terrace yet, Frank?” asked Miss Pimpernell.
“No,” I said. “What is it?”
“Number sixty-five is let at last!”
“Indeed,” said I; “how pleased old Shuffler must be, for the house has hung a long time on his hands. Who are the people that have taken it?”
“A widow lady and her daughter. Their name is Clyde, and they have a good deal of money, I believe,” said Bessie Dasher.
“Bai-ey Je-ove!” exclaimed Horner. “I say, old fellah, p’waps they ah those ladies in hawf-mawning, ah?”
“Dear me! this is quite interesting,” said Miss Spight. “Do let me know what the joke is about ladies in half-mourning, Mr Lorton—something romantic, I’ve no doubt.” She was always keen to scent out what might be disagreeable to other people, was Miss Spight!
“Oh, it’s only Horner’s nonsense!” said I. “But what are these Clydes like?”
“Very nice, indeed!” said Miss Pimpernell. “The mother is extremely well-bred and ladylike, and the daughter Minnie—such a pretty name, Frank—is quite a little darling. I’m positively in love with her, and I’m sure you will like her. They are very nice people indeed, my boy, and thorough acquisitions to our little society.”
“I only hope so, Miss Pimpernell,” sighed Lady Dasher; “but appearances, you know, are so deceitful sometimes.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Miss Spight, “handsome is as handsome does! We’ll see them by and by in their true colours; new brooms, Lady Dasher, sweep clean. Ah!”
There was a world in that “ah!”
“Well,” said little Miss Pimpernell, in her staunch good-nature, “I think it is best to be charitable and take people as we find them. I have seen a good deal of the Clydes during the month they have been here and like them very much. But you will have an opportunity of judging for yourself, Frank, as Minnie Clyde promised me to come down to-day and help us with the decorations.”
“She’s a very nice-looking girl,” said the curate.
“Do you really think her pretty?” asked Bessie Dasher. One could detect a slight tone of dissatisfaction in her voice, and she spoke with a decided pout.
“Well, perhaps she’s not exactly pretty,” said Mr Mawley, diplomatically; “but nice-looking, at all events—that was the word I used, Miss Bessie.”
“But she dresses so plainly!” said Lizzie Dangler.
“I call her quite a dowdthy!” lisped Baby Blake.
“And I say she’s very nice!” said Seraphine Dasher, who had none of the petty dislike of her sex to praise another girl that might turn out to be a possible rival.
“That’s right, my dear,” said Miss Pimpernell; “I’m glad, Seraphine, to hear you take the part of the absent; Miss Clyde ought to be here now—she promised me to come soon after luncheon.”
Even as the good old soul spoke, I heard the outer door of the school-room open, and a light footstep along the passage. “There she is now, I do believe!” whispered Miss Pimpernell to me.
I could scarcely breathe. I felt that I had at last arrived at the crisis of my life. It must be her, I thought, for my heart palpitated with wild pulsations.
And, as the thought thrilled through me, my lost madonna entered the room.
I was not one whit surprised. I had been certain that I should see her again!