He led the way across the central aisle, — Lionel followed, interested and curious, thinking meanwhile that this handsome white-haired verger could not exactly be called a stupid man, or even a ‘semi-barbarian,’ — he was decidedly intelligent, and seemed to know something about the facts of history.
“There’s an old door fur ye!” he said with almost an air of triumph as he paused on the vestry threshold and rapped his fingers lightly on the thick oak panels of the ancient portal— “That’s older than anything in the church — I shouldn’t a bit wonder if it came out o’ some sacred place o’ Norman worship, — it looks like it. An’ here’s th’ old key” — and he held up a quaint and heavy iron implement that looked more like a screw-driver with a cross handle than anything else,— “An’ here’s Peter’s little money-box,” — showing a ponderous oak chest some five feet long and three feet high— “That ‘ud ‘old a rare sight o’ pennies, wouldn’t it! Now don’t you two chillern go a-tryin’ to lift the lid, for it’s mortal ‘eavy, an’ it ‘ud crush your little ‘an’s to pulp in a minnit. I’ll let ye see the inside o’t, — there y’are!”
And with a powerful effort of his sinewy arms he threw it open, disclosing its black worm-eaten interior, with a few old bits of tarnished silver lying at the bottom, the fragments of a long disused Communion-service. Lionel and Jessamine peered down at these with immense inquisitiveness.
“Lor’ bless me!” said Reuben then, laughing a little,— “There’s a deal o’ wot I calls silly faith left in some o’ they good Papist folk still. There wos a nice ole leddy cam’ ’ere last summer, an’ she believed that Peter hisself cam’ down from Heaven o’ nights, an’ tuk all the money offered ’im, specially pennies, fur they’se the coins chiefly mentioned i’ th’ Testament, an’ she axed me to let ‘er put a penny in, — I s’pose she thought the saint might be in want o’t. ‘For, my good man,’ sez she to me, ‘‘ave you never ‘eerd that St. Peter still visits th’ world, an’ when he cooms down ’ere, it may be he might need this penny o’ mine to buy bread.’ ‘Do as ye like marm,’ sez I,— ‘it don’t make no difference to me I’m sure!’ Well, she put the penny in, bless ‘er ‘art! — an’ this Christmas past I wos a-cleanin’ an’ rubbin’ up everything i’ th’ church, an’ in dustin’ out this ’ere box, there I saw that penny, — St. Peter ‘adn’t come arter it! So I just tuk it!” and he chuckled softly— “I tuk it an’ giv’ it to a poor old beggar-man outside the church-gate, so I played Peter fur once i’ my life, an’ not s’ badly I ‘ope, but wot I shall be furgiven!”
The smile deepened at the corners of his mouth and sparkled in his fine eyes as he shut the great coffer, and stood up in all his manly height and breadth, surveying the two small creatures beside him.
“Well, do ‘ee like th’ old church, little zur? he asked of Lionel, whose face expressed an intense and melancholy gravity.
“Indeed I do!” answered the boy— “But I think I like the music even better, — listen! What is that?” And he held up one hand with a gesture of rapt attention.
“That’s the hymn we allus sings on Harvest Thanksgiving Sunday,— ‘Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee,’” — replied Reuben— “It’s a rare fine tune, an’ fills th’ heart as well as th’ voice. Now little ‘uns, coom ‘ome to dinner!”
They passed out of the church into the warm sunlit air, fragrant with the scent of roses, sweet-briar and wild thyme, and drowsy with the hum of honey-seeking bees, Reuben Dale calling Lionel’s attention as he went, to a great iron ring which was attached to the ancient door of entrance.
“Could ‘ee tell me wot that ring’s there for?” he demanded.
Lionel shook his head.
“Well, ye must ha’ read in yer hist’ry books ‘bout sanctuary privilege,” — said Reuben— “When any poor wretched thief or mis’rable sinner wos bein’ a-hunted through the country by all the townspeople an’ officers o’ justice ’e ‘ad but to make straight for th’ church-door an’ ketch ‘old of a ring like this an’ ’e wos safe. It wos ‘sanctuary’ — an’ no one dussn’t lay a finger on ’im. ‘Twos a rare Christian custom, — it wos a’most as if ’e ‘ad laid ‘old of our dear Saviour’s garment, an’ found the mercy as wos never denied by Him to the weakest and wretchedest among us,” — concluded Reuben piously, raising his cap as he spoke and looking up at the bright sky with a rapt expression, as though he saw an angel of protection there— “An’ that’s the meaning o’ th’ iron ring.”
Lionel said nothing, but his thoughts were very busy. He was only a small boy, but his store of purely scientific information was great, and yet he knew not whether to pity or envy this ‘semi-barbarian’ for his simple beliefs. “I should not like to tell him that all the clever men nowadays say that Christ is a myth” — he considered seriously, “I am sure it would vex him.”
So he walked on soberly silent, holding the hand of the little Jessamine who was equally mute, and Reuben led the way out of the churchyard, across the high road, and up a narrow street full of old-fashioned, gable-windowed, crookedly-built houses, which at first sight appeared to lean over one another in a curiously lop-sided helpless way, as though lacking proper foundation and support. At one of these, standing by itself in a little patch of neatly trimmed garden, and covered with clusters of full-flowering jessamine and wistaria, Dale stopped, and rapped on the door with his knuckles. It was opened at once by a clean, mild-featured elderly dame in a particularly large white apron, who opened her lack-lustre yet kindly eyes in great astonishment at the sight of Lionel.
“Auntie Kate! Auntie Kate!” exclaimed Jessamine eagerly— “This be a little gemmun boy, — nice an’ prutty ’e be! — we’se been playin’ babes i’ th’ wood an’ Drojunwors all th’ mornin’, an’ we’se goin’ to ‘ave our dinner an’ see my ole ‘oss arterwards!”
Auntie Kate did her best to understand this brilliant explanation on the part of her small niece, but failing to entirely grasp its meaning, looked to Reuben for further enlightenment.
“This is Master Valliscourt,” — said the verger then,— “The little son o’ the gemmun wot ‘as took the big ‘ouse yonder for summer. He’s bin fagged-like wi’s lessons, an’ ‘e’s just out on the truant as boys will be at times when they’ve got any boyhood in ’em; — giv’ ’im a bit an’ a sup wi’ us Kitty, an’ ‘e’ll play a while longer wi’ Jessamine ‘fore ’e goes ‘ome.”
Auntie Kate nodded and smiled, — then in deference to ‘Master Valliscourt,’ curtseyed.
“Coom in, sir! — coom in, an’ right welcome!” said she— “Sit ‘ee down, an’ make ‘eeself comfortable. Dinner’s ready, an’ there’s naught to wait for but jest to let Reuben wash ’is ‘ands an’ ask a blessin.’ Now my Jessamine girl, take off your bonnit an’ sit down prutty!”
Jessamine obeyed, dragging off the becoming white sun-bonnet in such haste that she nearly tore one of her own brown curls away with it. Lionel uttered an exclamation of pain at the sight, and went to detach the rebellious tress from the string with which it had become knotted. He succeeded in his effort, and when the bonnet was fairly taken off, he thought the little maid looked prettier than ever, with her rough tumbled locks falling about her and her rosy face like a blossom in the midst of the chestnut tangle. Throwing off his own cap he sat down beside her at the table, which was covered with a coarse but clean cloth, and garnished with black-handled steel forks and spoons, and so waited patiently till Reuben came in from the washing of his hands, which he did very speedily. Auntie Kate then lifted off the fire a black pot, steaming with savoury odours, and poured out into a capacious blue dish a mixture of meat and vegetables, — (more vegetables than meat) and set round plates to match the dish. Reuben stood up and bowed his head reverently; “For what we are going to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful!” said he, and Jessamine’s sweet little cooing voice answered “Amen!” Whereupon they began the meal, which though so poor and plain, was goo
d and wholesome. Auntie Kate was no mean cook, and she was famous in the village for a certain make of ‘pear cordial,’ a glass of which she poured out for Lionel, curtseying as she did so, and requesting him to taste it. He found it delicious; and he likewise discovered, to his own surprise, that he had an appetite. It was very remarkable, he thought, that Reuben Dale’s frugal fare should have a better flavour than anything he had ever had at his own father’s luxuriously appointed table. He did not realise that the respite from study, the temporary liberty he was enjoying, and the romp with Jessamine, had all given room for his physical nature to breathe and expand; and a sense of the actual pleasure of life when lived healthily, had roused his exhausted faculties to new and delightful vigour. With this momentary development of natural youthful energy had come the appetite he wondered at, when the simplest food seemed exquisite, and Auntie Kate’s ‘pear cordial’ suggested the ambrosial nectar quaffed by the gods of Olympus. The dinner over, Reuben Dale again stood up, and said “For what we have received, may the Lord make us truly thankful!” and once more his little girl responded demurely “Amen!” Then he proceeded to fill and smoke a pipe, before returning to the churchyard to complete the digging of ‘Mother Twiley’s’ last resting-place, and Jessamine, still wearing the ‘pinny’ her aunt had tied round her while she ate her dinner, seized Lionel by the hand and dragged him off to the ‘back yard’ which was half garden, half shed, where Reuben kept his tools, and where a couple of smart bantams with their clucking little harem of prettily-feathered wives and favourites, strutted about behind a wire netting and imagined themselves the rulers of the planet.
“Coom an’ see my ole ‘oss!” said Jessamine excitedly— “Such a good ole ‘oss ’e be! ’Ere ’e is! — a-hidin’ behin’ th’ wall! See ’im? O my bee — oo — ful ole ‘oss!”
And she threw her arms round the neck of the quadruped in question, which was nothing else but a battered wooden toy that had evidently once been a gallant steed on ‘rockers,’ but which now, without either mane, tail, or eyes, and with only three shaky legs and a stump of wood to support it, presented a very sorry spectacle indeed. But to Jessamine this ‘ole ‘oss’ was apparently the flower of all creation, for she hugged it and kissed its pale nose, from which the paint had long since been washed off by wind and weather, with quite a passionate ardour.
“Oh my dee ‘ole ‘oss!” she murmured tenderly, patting its hairless neck,— “Do ‘ee know why I loves ‘ee? ‘Cos ‘ee’s poor an’ ole, an’ no one wants to ride ‘ee now but Jessamine! Jessamine can git on ‘ee’s poor ole back wizout ‘urtin’ of ‘ee, good ole ‘oss! Kiss ’im, won’t ‘ee?” she added, turning to Lionel, “Do ‘ee kiss ’im! — it makes ’im feel comfortabler now ‘e’s poor an’ ole!”
Who could resist such an appeal! Who would refuse to embrace a superannuated wooden rocking-horse, described with so much sweetly pitiful fervour as ‘poor an’ ole,’ and therefore in need of affectionate consolement! Not Lionel, — despite the many learned books he had studied, he fully entered into the spirit of all this childish nonsense, and bending over the dilapidated toy, he kissed its wan nose with ardour in his turn.
“That’s right!” cried Jessamine, clapping her hands delightedly— “Now ’e feels ‘appy! Now ‘e’ll give us a ride!
And forthwith she clambered up on the gaunt, worn back of her beloved steed, showing a pair of little innocent looking white legs as she did so, and jerked herself up and down to imitate a gallop.
“Ain’t ’e goin’ well!” she exclaimed breathlessly, — her hair blowing in a golden-brown tangle behind her, and her cheeks becoming rosier than the rosiest apples with her exertions, while the laughter in her pretty eyes rivalled the brightness of the sunlight playing round her— “Oh ’e be a rare nice ole ‘oss! Now, Lylie, ‘ee must git up an’ ‘ave a ride!”
Lionel started at the sound of his mother’s pet name for him, — then he remembered he had told it to Jessamine, and smiled as he thought how sweet it sounded from her lips. And he answered gently,
“I’m afraid I’m too big, dear! Your horse couldn’t carry me, — I might hurt him.”
“O no, ‘ee won’t ‘urt ’im!” declared Jessamine, springing lightly to the ground— “Try an’ git on ’im! — I’se sure ‘ee’ll be good t’ye!”
Thus adjured, Lionel threw a leg across the passive toy, and pretended to ride at full gallop as Jessamine had done, much to the little maiden’s delight. She danced about and shrieked with ecstasy, till the bantams behind the wire netting evidently thought the end of the world had come, for they ran to and fro, clucking in the wildest excitement, no doubt imploring their special deities to protect them from the terrible human thing that showed its white legs and danced in the sun almost as if it had as good a right to live as a well-bred fowl. Reuben Dale, hearing the uproar and having finished his pipe, came out to see what was going on, and laughed almost as much as the children did, now and then playfully urging the wooden steed to a wilder exhibition of its ‘mettle’ by a stentorian “Gee-up Dobbin!” which rather added to the general hilarity of the scene. When the game was quite over, and Lionel, flushed and full of merriment, resigned the ‘ole ‘oss’ to Jessamine, who at once offered it a handful of hay and whispered tender nothings in its broken ear, the verger said —
“Now, my little zur, I’m a-goin’ back to my work i’ th’ churchyard, for I must finish Mother Twiley’s bed ‘fore nightfall. Ye’ll find me there if ye’se want me. If s’be ye care to stay on wi’ Jessamine a bit, ye can, — she’s a lonesome little un’ since ‘er mother went to God, — and mebbe you’re lonesome too, — a little play’ll do neither o’ ye ‘arm, an’ Auntie Kate’s i’ th’ ‘ouse all day, an’ she’ll look arter ye. But ye mustn’t be away too long from yer feyther an’ mother, — ye must git ‘ome ‘fore the sun sets, my lad, — promise me that!”
“Yes, Mr. Dale, I promise: — and thank you!” responded Lionel eagerly— “I’ve had such a happy time! — you don’t know how happy! I may come again some day and see you and Jessamine, mayn’t I?”
“Why sartin zure ye may!” said Reuben heartily, “Purvidin’ they makes no objections at your own ‘ome, little zur, — ye must make that clear an’ straight fust.”
“Oh yes! — Of course!” murmured the boy, — but a shadow clouded his hitherto bright face. He knew well enough that if his father were asked about it, not only the acquaintance, but also the very sight of the kindly verger and his pretty child would be altogether forbidden him. However he said nothing of this, and Reuben after a few more cheery words, strode off to the resumption of his labours. With his departure a silence fell on the two little creatures left alone together; the excitement engendered by the ‘ole ‘oss’ had its reaction, and Jessamine grew serious, even sad.
“I fink I wants my sun-bonnet,” — she remarked in an injured tone— “My facey burns.”
Lionel ran into the house at once, and obtained the desired head-gear from Auntie Kate, whereupon Miss Jessamine adjusted it sideways, and peered at him in a sudden fit of shyness.
“‘Specs ‘eed better go ‘ome now,” — she said severely— “You’se tired of me an’ my ole ‘oss, — I sees you’se tired!”
“Tired, Jessamine! Indeed I’m not tired, — I’ll play with you ever so long! — as long as you like. What shall we do now?”
“Nuffink!” replied the little lady, putting the string of her bonnet in her mouth, which was a favourite habit of hers, and still regarding him with an odd mixture of coyness and affection; — then, with sudden and almost defiant energy she added— “I knows you’se tired of me, Lylie!”
“Now Jessamine, dear!” expostulated Lionel, with quite a lover-like ardour, as he saw that the tiny maiden was inclined to be petulant— “Come and sit under that beautiful big apple-tree!”
“My big apple-tree!” put in Jessamine, with an air of grave correction— “That’s my tree, Lylie!”
“That’s why it’s such a nice one,” — d
eclared Lionel gallantly, taking her little hand in his own,— “Come along and let us sit there, and you’ll tell me another story, or I’ll tell you one. You know I’m going away very soon, and perhaps I shall never see you again.”
He sighed quite unconsciously as he said this, and Jessamine looked up at him with eyes that were angelically lovely in their momentary gravity.
“Will ‘ee be sorry?” she asked.
“Very sorry!” he answered— “Dreadfully sorry!”
Jessamine’s doubtful humour passed at this assurance, and she allowed him to lead her unresistingly to the big apple-tree which was the chief ornament of Reuben Dale’s back garden, — her tree, against whose gnarled trunk a rough wooden seat was set for shelter and repose.
“I’ll be sorry too!” she confessed—”’Specs I’ll ky when you’se gone, Lylie!”
There was something touching in this remark, or they found it so, — and a deep silence followed. They sat down side by side, under the spreading apple-boughs laden with ruddy fruit that shone with a bright polish in the hot glow of the afternoon sun, and holding each other’s hands, were very quiet, while round and round them flew butterflies and bees, all intent on business or love-making; and a linnet who had just cooled his throat at the bantams’ water-trough, alighted on an opposite twig and essayed a soft cadenza. There were a thousand sweet suggestions in the warm air, — too subtle for the young things who sat so demurely together hand in hand, to perceive or comprehend; — the beautiful things of God and Nature, which wordlessly teach the eternal though unheeded lesson, that happiness and good are the chief designs and ultimate ends of all creation, — and that only Man’s perverted will, working for solely selfish purposes, makes havoc of all that should be pure and fair. Yet even children have certain meditative moments, when they are vaguely conscious of some great Beneficence ruling their destinies, — and some of them have been known at a very early age to express the wonder as to why God should be so good, and their own parents so bad!
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 379
