“What should parson want to be always at ’em,” said Mrs Goodenough. “Old Mr Jones, he never made no work with them.”
However, she had two daughters to be confirmed, and the reigning “Lizzie” was allowed to go as an escort to them. The elder lads, who were really grown men, would not come at all, and could never be found. “They wouldn’t be catechiz—not they.” The Sunday scholars, male and female, came pretty well, but not in large numbers, and the age fixed for Confirmation was fifteen, so that those who were fresh from teaching were not many. Sophia Carbonel was a candidate, and very much in earnest, but Mr Harford preferred giving her books to read and questions to answer in private, as with most of the others he had to begin at the very beginning. The Misses Goodenough knew almost nothing—far less than Susan Pucklechurch and Rachel Mole, who were the gems of the female class, as was Johnnie Hewlett of that of the youths. The brightest of these was, however, in some respects, Fred Allen, of the general shop. He had been at school at Downhill, and could really read and write better than Johnnie, and far better than any one else; for the chief scholars only made what Betty Pucklechurch called “a sad hackering job of un,” and most scarcely knew a letter, having forgotten whatever they might have learnt at Dame Verdon’s before they went out bird-starving. Fred Allen began by answering, when asked what was done in Confirmation, “Taking all your godfather’s and godmother’s sins upon you, and becoming liable to be balloted for the militia!” It was a startling view, and, as far as Mr Harford could make out, it was shared by most of the candidates; but, then, they had very little notion of what sin meant, as, if they had a general idea, it was plain that they did not seriously expect to suffer for their sponsors sins after Confirmation, or that the sponsors suffered for theirs previously.
The curate taught, questioned, explained, and exhorted. Fred Allen knew little, but his wits were sharper, and he took in Mr Harford’s instructions more readily, and remembered them better, while apparently most of the other minds were, and remained, a blank. Only he could not refrain from causing horse-laughs outside, and making grins at every opportunity.
But, with much anxiety, and after many exhortations, Mr Harford gave out his tickets. The girls were to be conveyed—the most of them—in the Greenhow waggon, driven by old Pucklechurch, the boys to walk. Mr Goodenough would drive his daughters; and Sophia, in her white dress and cap (nobody wore a veil then), would be with her sisters and brother in the chariot with post-horses. Captain Carbonel and Mr Harford went outside on the box.
They had passed Downhill, and were getting on, as well as their horses could, through the muddy ground at the bottom, freshly stirred up by a previous wet day. Before them was a steep, short ascent, but at the bottom of this there was a sudden stop. The captain put his head in at the window and said, “Only the cart—no harm,” and strode on following Mr Harford, while the ladies craned their heads out, and Dora, exclaiming “An accident,” ran after him, and Mary only just withheld Sophy, in consideration of her white dress, on the post-boy’s assurance, with a scarcely suppressed grin, “No harm done, ma’am. Only they lads.”
For what the two gentlemen and the amused post-boy had seen was this. The squadron of boys had overtaken the cart full of girls, when, just as the waggon had come to the pitch of the hill, all the load of maidens were seen tumbling out at the back, and as the horses of the chariot halted, the girls’ screams, mingled with the horse-laughter of the boys, was plainly to be heard. Only Susan Pucklechurch, sitting on the front seat with her father, remained in her place. The girls were giggling and helping one another up, nearly all unhurt, but some very angry, and Bessy Linwood was scolding violently, Pucklechurch likewise in his most growling voice, “Ye young good-for-noughts! I’ll lay the cart whip about your idle, mischievous backs,” while the party of boys were still laughing, and one voice was heard to shout, “Rubbish shot here.” A peal of laughter followed, but was cut short by Bessy Linwood’s, “Here’s parson; you’ll catch it.” Then, at the top of her voice, “Sir, ’tis them boys! They’ve bin and pulled out the linch-pins and shot us all down into the mud!”
“Is this so?” said the captain sternly, while silence came down on the party, except for the sobs of Jenny Hewlett, who had gone into a dirty pool, and whom Rachel Mole and Betsy Seddon were brushing down vigorously.
“Quite true, sir,” returned Pucklechurch. “They young dogs got behind, and played the poor maids this trick.”
“Who did?” demanded Mr Harford.
Bessy Linwood spoke up and said it was “all on ’em,” but she saw Fred Allen at it.