Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

Part 1, Chapter I.
Part 1 – The Rectory Folk.
Hot Water in Lawford

“Eh? What?”

“I say, why don’t you give it up quietly?”

“Speak up; I’m a little hard of hearing.”

“I say, why don’t you give it up quietly?” roared the speaker to a little bent old man, with a weak, thin, piping voice, and a sharp look that gave him somewhat the air of a very attenuated sparrow in a severe frost, his shrunken legs, in tight yellow leather leggings, seeming to help the idea.

“Don’t shout at me like that, Master Portlock. I arn’t deaf, only a trifle hard of hearing when I’ve got a cowd – just a trifle, you know.”

“Have you got a cold?” asked the man addressed, a sturdy-looking, fresh-coloured, middle-aged man, with a very bluff manner, and a look of prosperity in his general appearance that made him seem thoroughly adapted to his office. In fact, he was just the man that a country clergyman would be glad to elect at a vestry meeting for vicar’s churchwarden. “Eh?”

“I – say – have – you – got – a – cold? Hang him, how deaf he is!”

“Oh, no! oh, no!” chirped the little old man, sharply; “I’m not deaf. Just a little thick i’ the ears. Yes; I’ve got a cowd. It’s settled here – just here,” he piped, striking himself upon his thin chest with the hand that held his stick. “A bad cowd – a nasty cowd as keeps me awake all night, doing nowt but cough. It’s that stove, that’s what it is, Master Portlock.”

“Nonsense, man! It would keep the cold off.”

“Eh?”

“I say it would keep the cold off.”

“Nay, nay; not it. A nasty, brimstone-smelling, choking thing, as sends out a reek as settles on your chest. Stove, indeed! What do we want with your noo-fangled stoves? We never had no stoves before. Here he stops away from town all these years, only coming now and then, and now all at once he’s back at the Rectory, and nothing’s right. Mr Paulby never said a word about no stoves.”

“No; but see how damp the church was.”

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Damp,” roared the Churchwarden; “church – damp. Cush – shuns – moul – dee.”

“Chah! Nonsense, Master Portlock. Damp? Suppose it was? A chutch ought to be damp, and smell solemn like of owd age and venerations. Mouldy? Ay; why not?” he piped. “’Mind ta chutch folk o’ decay, and what they’re comin’ to some day. I once went to London, Master Portlock – forty year ago now, sir – forty year ago. It was cowd weather, and I got ’most froze a’ top o’ the coach, and it was a ’mazin’ plaace. Ay, that it was. But you’ve been there?”

“Ay, lots o’ times in my life.”

“Niver been in your life? Then don’t go. Niver go if you can help it. Owd Mr Burton paid for me to go, he did – owd vicar’s father, you know – and he said to me a did, ‘Mind ta go and see some o’ the London chutches, Warmoth,’ he says; and I did, and bless thou, pretty places they weer. I niver see a playhouse, but Sammy Mason wint to one i’ London, and he towd me what it were like, and the chutch I went into i’ the City weer just like it. Why, mun, theer were a big picter ower the ’mandments, and carpets on the floors, and all the pews was full o’ red cushions an’ basses, just as if they was all squires’ sittings, and brass rails and red curtins an’ grand candlesticks. Then reight up i’ the gallery wheer the singers sit was a great thing all covered wi’ goolden pipes, an’ a man i’ the front sittin’ lookin’ at his self i’ a lookin’ glass. That was t’ organ, you know, and eh, but it was a straange sort o’ plaace altogether to call a chutch.”

“Not like our old barn, eh, Sammy?” shouted the Churchwarden.

“Nay, not a bit, Master Portlock,” piped the old man. “Gi’e me whitewesh, and neat clean pews and a plait-straw cushion and bass. Folk don’t go to sleep then, and snore through t’ sarmunt. If I had my way, Master Portlock, I wouldn’t hev a thing changed.”

“No, I suppose not, Sam,” said the Churchwarden, nodding.

“Sixty years have I been clerk o’ t’ owd chutch, and hae buried generations of them as comed to the owd place – christened ’em, and married ’em, and buried ’em, Master Portlock. They didn’t like me being made clerk so young in them days. Jacky Robinson, as wanted to be clerk when father died, said I was nobbut a boy, but t’ owd vicar said – owd Master Willoughby, you didn’t know him?” The Churchwarden shook his head. “No; he died eight and fifty year ago. He said, ‘No; let Sammy Warmoth step into his father’s shoes, same as him as is dead stepped into his father’s shoes. I find,’ he says, ‘there’s been Warmoth’s clerks here for a hundred years at least;’ and now, Master Portlock, sir, I can say there’s been Warmoths clerks here for a hundred and sixty year, and if my life is spared I’ll make it two hundred, for they can’t turn me out, and I wean’t go.”

“How old wert ta when you was made clerk, Sammy?” said the Churchwarden, looking at the old man with a pitying smile. “Thrutty-three, and I was just married, Master Portlock, and thrutty-three and sixty makes ninety-three, eh?”

“Fine owd age, Sam.”

“Eh?”

“A fine owd age, I say.”

“Chah! Not it. Read your Bible more, man. Ninety-three’s as good as nowt to what men used to be. Nay, nay, nay, I shan’t give up. Yow may go and tell parson as theer’s lots o’ life in me yet, and that he’d best go back again to London and foreign parts, and leave us alone here wi’ Mr Paulby. He’ll drive all the congregation over to the Dissenters, they’re talking a’ready o’ building noo chapel for ta Wesley folk.”

“Ay, they’re going ahead, Sammy, but we don’t care for the opposition shop. We’ve got the old established bank, eh?”

“That’s a true word, Master Portlock,” piped the old man, “and we can pity ’em, wi’ their plans and local preachers, a set o’ nobodies, o’ sons o’ Levi, takking off their aprons and running fro’ behind their counters to usurp the priest’s office; but you mark my words, and you may tell parson what I say; if he’s coming down here thinking to do just as he likes, he’ll be driving all folk to chapel.”

“No, no; not he, Sammy.”

“Ay, but he will, altering ta chutch sarvice, an’ upsetting all that’s owd – schoolmaster, and clerk, and chutch. You tell him that he may keep his man till I’m dead, and then put him in, for I nivver had a boy o’ my own to tak’ my place.”

“But he hasn’t got a man.”

“Eh? Not got a man? Good job too. He don’t want one?”

“No. He isn’t going to have a clerk any more.”

“Eh?”

“I say you’ll be the last clerk o’ Lawford. There’ll nivver be another.”

“Nivver be another? What dost ta mean?”

“Mr Mallow is going to do the service wi’out a clerk,” roared the Churchwarden.

“Do sarvice wi’out a clerk!” piped the old man, indignantly; “who’s to say t’ ‘Amens’?”

“Congregation and singers.”

“An’ what ’bout t’ ’sponses?” quavered the old clerk.

“People!”

They were standing in the churchyard, walled up high above the town street, and as the Churchwarden spoke the old clerk placed his left hand across the small of his back, and stamping his stick on the cobble stones of the path, he made an effort to straighten himself up so as to gaze at the venerable mouldering square-towered church, taking it in from end to end with his pale grey eyes before resuming his former attitude with his head on one side.

“Not going to have another clerk?” he quavered.

“No,” roared the Churchwarden.

“No one to say t’ amens and ’sponses?”

“No.”

“Who’s t’ help him on wi’ his gownd?”

The Churchwarden shook his head.

“Who’s going to shut pulpit door?”

There was another shake of the Churchwarden’s head.

“Then who’ll gi’e out t’ psalms?”

“Parson.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the old man, staring down at his feet.

“Look here, Sammy,” said the Churchwarden, kindly, and with his lips close to the old man’s ear; “Mr Mallow’s a nice sort o’ man, and means kindly.”

“No one to say t’ amens?” said the old clerk, softly.

“He thinks you’re getting too owd for the work.”

“Nobbut t’ people to say the ’sponses,” continued the old clerk, without seeming to hear the Churchwarden’s words.

“He’s been talking to us at sort o’ meeting, and he wants to get up testimonial for thee. Says we owt to make un enew to mak’ thee comfortable to end o’ thee days, and he’ll give twenty pounds towards it, and you’re to have one of the Bede Houses.”

“How’s he going to bury them as dies?” piped the old man, suddenly.

The Churchwarden shook his head.

Old Sammy Warmoth took a couple of feeble steps towards the edge of the path, and began to poke at the loose, friable earth of the grave nearest to him with the long brass ferrule of his stick, taking two hands to the task, and making quite a little hole.

“It’s getten time I was put down theer,” he said, in a low voice that was very pathetic in its tones. “There’s a sight o’ my owd friends I’ve seen put down here, and its getten time for me to be put along wi’ ’em, sown a corruptible body to be raised an incorruptible, for I spose I’m getten owd and good for nowt.”

“Oh, nay, nay, Sammy,” said the Churchwarden, warmly. “Don’t take on about it. Tak’ my advice. Don’t be obstinit, but just go up and see parson quiet like, an’ say you give up, and tak’ it kindly, an’ I’ll see as you don’t come to no wrong.”

“No one to say t’ amens,” muttered the old man – “no one to say t’ ’sponses – no one to gi’e out t’ psalms. Why,” he cried, raising his voice, “I b’lieve it now.”

“Believe what, Sammy?”

“That he’s goin’ to have t’ owd pews out, and put i’ benches; and I said when I heerd it as the dead wouldn’t rest i’ theer graves if he did.”

“It’s all true, Sammy. They’re going to spend three thousand pounds i’ doing up t’ owd church, and young Lord Artingale’s going to give us an organ.”

“Then I wean’t go,” cried the old man, stamping his stick down on the stones. “I’ll nivver do it. I’ve been here clerk and saxton these sixty year, and I helps wi’ ivvery grave even now. It wean’t do. It’s a revvylootion, and a sweeping away of t’ owd chutch, like they did among the French, and I’ll be one o’ the faithful while I live.”

“Nonsense, man; come, say thou’lt give up quiet like,” said the Churchwarden, soothingly. “Eh?”

“Say thou’lt give up quietly.”

“Nivver, nivver!” quavered the old man, angrily. “It’s as much my chutch as his, and if he goes wrong wi’ his new notions and idees, I’ll stand by mine. There’s nivver been a clerk o’ Lawford as didn’t die a clerk, and dost ta think I’ll be the first, Master Portlock? Nivver. I’ll howd by chutch till t’ last, say what thou will!”

“Poor owd boy!” said the Churchwarden, as he stood watching the tottering figure descending the slope on the farther side of the churchyard, till it seemed from where the gazer stood as if the old man were sinking slowly into a grave. First he disappeared to the middle, then the path line was level with his shoulders, and a few moments more and his head had gone.

“Poor owd boy!” said the Churchwarden, musingly. “It can’t be for long. I’ll ask parson to let him stop.”

Part 1, Chapter II.
The Rectory Girls

“I love the country! I love the country!”

“Hush, hush, Cynthy! don’t be so childish; some one will hear you.”

“No one is near us, Ju. That’s why I like being down here.”

“But it is so childish to keep running up the banks and shouting like that.”

“Well, but that’s what I like. It’s the country air makes one feel so young, and I am so, so glad that we are going to stay at home. I want to know the people. Oh, I was tired of the Continent. I want to be free.”

“Now, Cynthy, what would papa say if he saw you climb up on that gate?”

“Don’t know – don’t care!”

“Well, then,” said Julia Mallow, smiling, “what, would Lord Artingale say?”

“That I was a jolly little girl, and come and sit beside me.”

“Oh! Cynthy!”

“And put his arm round my waist to keep me from falling off. Oh, I say, Ju, he did once, and it was so funny.”

“Cynthy, I’m ashamed of you,” cried her sister, and there was a slight deepening of the colour in her sweet English face.

“Well, I am ashamed of myself,” cried Cynthia, springing lightly off the gate, and passing her arm round her sister as they walked on along the rutty lane. “But I do feel so happy, Ju. So will you some day, when you meet the special him. Not Perry-Morton though. Ha, ha, ha! How stupid papa is! I say, Ju, though, who shall we go and see? Papa says we are to visit the people a great deal, and get them to know more of us, but I shan’t go near any of the horrid Dissenters.”

“Don’t call people horrid because they don’t think the same as we do, Cynthy.”

“Well, but it is horrid. Papa says it’s dreadful, the opposition that is in the town. I heard him say to mamma yesterday that he couldn’t understand the people a bit, and that though he had now come to settle down amongst them for good, only when we go to town for the season, everybody seemed so independent, and they were all in opposition to him.”

“Yes, he was talking to Mr Paulby about it at dinner on Tuesday.”

“Papa is going to improve everything, he says. The place must have been terribly neglected by Mr Paulby. Oh, what a funny little man he is!”

“I think him very nice and genuine,” said Julia, quietly.

“But you mustn’t fall in love with him, Ju. He’s too old. But I say, what was the real reason of our being away from Lawford so much?”

“Money matters,” said her sister. “Papa got to be very much behindhand through Frank and Cyril.”

“Oh, I wish I were a man!” cried Cynthia, with her pretty fair young face flushing. “How I would have whipped those two fellows and made good boys of them! They’ve half broken poor mamma’s heart.”

“I’m afraid papa indulged them too much,” said Julia, quietly, and the two girls walked on for some little distance in silence, enjoying the briskness of the morning air.

“Now where are we going?” cried Cynthia suddenly. “Oh, I know. Down that lane leads to the ford, where the wheelwright’s is. Let’s go and see Polly Morrison.”

“Shall we?” said her sister, smiling.

“Oh, yes. It will be a parochial visit all the same. Only fancy, Polly with a baby! What a little stupid she was to leave us to come back here and marry a wheelwright!”

“I don’t know,” said Julia quietly; “perhaps she is very happy.”

“Oh, of course. People are when they get married. Come along; I want to see Polly’s baby. I wish she had not left us. She was such a clever maid.”

“I was very glad she went,” said Julia gravely.

“Glad? Why?”

“Because of Cyril. He was always following her about. She complained to me several times.”

“Cyril is a wretch!” said Cynthia, with heightened colour. “Papa ought to whip him. He always would look at pretty girls. I say, Ju, did you see Miss Portlock, the schoolmistress, on Monday? Was she nice?”

“Yes, I thought her very nice and superior. She is the churchwarden’s niece. Hush! here is Mr Paulby.”

“Good-morning, ladies,” said a little plump man, raising his hat and showing his slightly-bald head. “What a lovely morning! I think I dare prophesy where you are going.”

“If you prophesy Morrison’s cottage, Mr Paulby, you are right,” said Cynthia, merrily.

“Then I am right,” said the curate. “I have just come from there, and Mrs Morrison has been chatting about old times, and how she went all over the Continent with you.”

“She didn’t tell you about Cyril, I know,” said Cynthia to herself.

“I’m really very, very glad, ladies, that the rectory is inhabited again,” said the curate, “and I hope you will help me a great deal.”

“That indeed we will, Mr Paulby,” said Julia.

“Yes, and visit, and do needlework, and help in the schools, and everything,” said Cynthia, quickly. “And now we must say good-morning, Mr Paulby. Come, Julia.”

There was the customary hand-shaking and raising of the curate’s hat, and then they separated, the little plump rosy man looking very thoughtful as he made some observation to himself, and that observation was “Hah!” a remark that evidently meant a great deal.

“I’m not going to allow that, Ju,” said Cynthia, decidedly. “The little man is quite smitten with you, and if Frank or Cyril were to know – ”

“Don’t be absurd!” said her sister, colouring a little.

“That would be as bad as Perry-Morton. Oh, here we are. Why, what a pretty little place Polly has got!”

The sisters stopped at the road-side to gaze at the long low ivy-covered cottage, with a broad patch of green in front, upon which was a lumber of broken carts and waggons waiting to be doctored. There was a shed at one end, from which came the sound of sawing, for which job there was a good-sized pit, while farther on the road dipped suddenly down and passed through a little river, which foamed and bubbled and sparkled as it turned the gravelly shallows into liquid silver in the morning sun.

“Oh, what a funny little thing!” cried Cynthia, as they were welcomed into the neat cottage. “Look at its little button-hole of a mouth. Let me take it, Polly.”

The young mother, quite a rustic beauty, with a touch of refinement in her appearance, picked up during her stay on the Continent as maid to the rector’s daughters, handed her plump little baby to the extended arms; watchfully, though, and as if afraid the treasure might be dropped upon the red-brick floor.

“And how are you, Polly?” said Julia, looking rather searchingly at the young wife as she set chairs for her visitors. “I hope you are very happy?”

“Oh, as happy, Miss Julia, as the day is long, and I’m so busy that the days are never long enough.”

“Cooey, cooey, cooey, cooey!” cried Cynthia to the baby in a very dove-like manner, as she kissed and fondled it, laughing merrily the while.

“I was so surprised, Miss, to hear that you had come back to the rectory.”

“Not going to stop very long this time, Polly – I mean Mrs Morrison,” said Cynthia, without raising her face from the baby. “We are going to town for the season. Oh, you, you, you funny little thing! There’s a wet mouth. Oh, I say, Ju, I wonder whether I shall ever have a baby of my own.”

“Cynthia!” cried her sister, reproachfully.

“It would be such fun. I say, Polly, is it good?”

“Oh, there never was such a good baby, Miss, and Tom worships it. She’s as good as gold.”

“She?” cried Cynthia. “Is it a she?”

“Oh, yes, Miss,” cried the young mother, proudly.

“How funny!” said Cynthia. “It might be anything, it is so round and soft.”

“Would you mind feeling how heavy she grows, Miss Julia?” said the young mother and the baby was duly handed to Julia, who held it to her cheek, and then gazed lovingly at the little thing, her eyes wearing a curious wistful aspect, full of tenderness, while the young mothers face lit up with pleasure.

“Isn’t it heavy, Miss?” she said.

“Wonderfully,” replied Julia quietly, and with as much decision as if her life had been spent in the management of babies.

“She don’t know!” laughed Cynthia. “I don’t believe she ever had hold of one before. Here, give it to me.”

“No; let it stay,” said Julia softly, and to the young mother’s great satisfaction, for she seemed rather scared lest Cynthia should let it fall in tossing it up and down.

“She gets heavier every day, Miss, and Tom says it’s wonderful now for a baby a month old.”

“You must introduce us to your husband, Polly.”

“Yes, Miss, I’ll call him in. Or no, Miss, not this morning,” said the young wife, rather hurriedly; “he is very busy.”

“Some other time then,” said Julia. “I suppose you are very fond of it, Polly?”

“Fond of it, Miss Julia? Oh, you can’t think how I love it.”

“No,” said Julia, softly, and looking curiously at the young mother, “I suppose not.”

“Oh, here is Budge,” said little Mrs Morrison, as a heavy, stolid-looking girl entered the room. “She will take baby now, Miss. There, Budge, take her in the kitchen, and don’t go too near the fire.”

“No, missus,” said the girl, taking the well-wrapped-up baby in her red arms, staring heavily the while at the visitors, and consequently nearly bringing her charge to grief by stumbling over a stool.

“Oh, Budge!” cried little Mrs Morrison.

“I ain’t hurt, missus,” said the girl coolly, and she allowed herself to be piloted out of the room by her mistress, when a chair was heard to scroop.

“Oh, how funny it does seem!” cried Cynthia.

“Hush! don’t talk like that,” said her sister; “here she is.”

Little Mrs Morrison came into the room again, looking very red-faced and hot.

“What a funny little maid you have got, Polly!” cried Cynthia.

“Yes, Miss Cynthia; she is from the workhouse, and she is a little clumsy, but she is very faithful, and so fond of baby.”

“And what is to be its name?” cried Cynthia.

“Rose, Miss; and – and,” stammered the young wife, looking very hard at Julia.

“And what, Polly?”

“I – I had a sort of idea, Miss Julia, that – ”

“That what, Polly? Speak out!”

“Of asking you and Miss Cynthia if – ”

“If what?”

“You wouldn’t mind being little Rose’s godmothers.”

“Oh, no, Polly,” said Julia, “I think not.”

“Oh, yes, Ju, it would be good fun,” cried Cynthia.

“I told Tom it would be too much to ask, Miss Julia; but he said you could only say no.”

“Of course,” said Julia, thoughtfully. “And he is very kind to you?”

“Oh, kind isn’t the word, Miss Julia,” cried the young wife.

“And are his relations kind to you too?”

“He has no relations, Miss, but one brother,” replied Polly, “and he is a good deal of trouble to him – I mean to us,” she added, correcting herself.

“Trouble to you, Polly?”

“Yes, Miss; he won’t work, and he has taken to a gipsy sort of life, and goes poaching, I’m afraid.”

“That’s very, very sad,” said Julia, remembering that her father had just been made chairman of the bench of magistrates.

“Yes, Miss, very, very sad, for we are always afraid of his getting into trouble; but there, you know, Miss, what brothers are.”

“Yes, yes,” said Julia, hastily. “I will think about what you said, Polly,” she added, rising, and holding out her hand, “and if papa does not object, Cynthia and I will be godmothers to baby.”

“Oh, if you would, Miss!” cried the young wife, flushing with pride; and then, in a low voice, as Cynthia went on out of the room, “You always were kind to me, Miss Julia, and more like a sister than a mistress. May I kiss you, Miss?”

“Oh, yes, Polly,” said Julia, kissing her smilingly.

“You always were kind to me, Miss, and there’s nothing in life I wouldn’t do for you if you wanted it.”

“Come, Ju,” cried Cynthia, from without.

“Oh, thank you, Polly, I know you would.”

“And you’d come and ask me, Miss, if you wanted help, wouldn’t you?”

“Indeed I would, Polly; but why do you ask me in that strange way?”

“Because – because, Miss, I want to ask a favour of you now,” cried the young wife, desperately.

“What is it, Polly?” said Julia, showing deep interest now.

“Please, Miss, you – you remember when we were at Dinan.”

“Yes, yes; what?” cried Julia.

“About Mr Cyril.”

“Yes,” cried Julia, catching her hand; “he has not dared?”

“He – he came here yesterday, Miss, while Tom was out,” cried Polly, bursting into tears, “and he came once before; and it frightens me, Miss – it horrifies me; for Tom loves me so dearly, Miss; and it would make him angry, and break his heart if he thought ill of me, Miss Julia.”

“But did you encourage him to come again?” cried Julia, angrily.

“No, Miss Julia, I nearly went on my knees to him, and begged him not to come again, but he only laughed, and – and called me a little fool.”

“You shall tell your husband, Polly,” cried Julia, hotly.

“I – I was afraid, Miss Julia,” sobbed Polly. “I was afraid of making mischief. I dared not tell him. If he thought Mr Cyril came here and troubled me, he would be ready to kill him, Miss, and me too. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

“I’ll tell papa,” said Cynthia, who had come back unseen. “I declare it’s shameful, and I – I wish my brothers were both dead. Oh, Ju, papa must know.”

“No, no,” said Julia, holding the sobbing little woman to her breast; “Polly is right. It would be making terrible mischief. I’ll speak to Cyril myself, and if he will not listen to me, mamma shall try. But, Polly, you will tell me if he comes again?”

“Oh, yes, yes, Miss Julia,” cried the young wife, gazing up passionately in her visitor’s face.

“And always tell me the whole truth?”

“Indeed – indeed I will. Please, Miss Julia,” she said simply, “I don’t think I ever told a lie.”

“I don’t believe you ever did, Polly,” said Julia, kissing her, and turning to the door to go. “There, good-bye, and don’t be low-spirited. Cyril is soon going away again, and even if he is not, he shall not trouble you.”

“Thank you, Miss Julia, and you too, Miss Cynthia,” said the young wife, wiping her eyes; “and perhaps you will be at baby’s christening?”

“If papa doesn’t object, indeed we will,” cried Julia, smiling, and the sisters went back along the lane.

“I would – I would indeed,” said the young mother, softly; “I’d do anything to serve dear Miss Julia, and I hope and pray she may never feel such trouble as I do now. Oh, if only they had stopped away!”

She was standing in the little porch, listening to the regular harsh sound of a saw in the work-shed, some fifty yards away, gazing after the sisters, till a step coming in the other direction made her sharply turn her head, and then, as she shrank back, her whole aspect seemed to change. She turned ghastly white, her eyes dilated, and she trembled visibly, as if at the sight of some great horror.

It was nothing so very terrible approaching either, being only a tall, well-built, handsome young man of six or seven and twenty, his hands in the pockets of his loose jacket, and a cigar in his mouth.