The Treasure of Heaven Part 52

CHAPTER XVIII

And now by slow and beautiful degrees the cold and naked young year grew warm, and expanded from weeping, s.h.i.+vering infancy into the delighted consciousness of happy childhood. The first snowdrops, the earliest aconites, perked up their pretty heads in Mary's cottage garden, and throughout all nature there came that inexplicable, indefinite, soft pulsation of new life and new love which we call the spring. Tiny buds, rosy and s.h.i.+ning with sap, began to gleam like rough jewels on every twig and tree--a colony of rooks which had abode in the elms surrounding Weircombe Church, started to make great ado about their housekeeping, and kept up as much jabber as though they were inaugurating an Irish night in the House of Commons,--and, over a more or less tranquil sea, the gulls poised lightly on the heaving waters in restful att.i.tudes, as though conscious that the stress of winter was past. To look at Weircombe village as it lay peacefully aslant down the rocky "coombe,"

no one would have thought it likely to be a scene of silent, but none the less violent, internal feud; yet such nevertheless was the case, and all the trouble had arisen since the first Sunday of the first month of the Reverend Mr. Arbroath's "taking duty" in the parish. On that day six small choirboys had appeared in the Church, together with a tall lanky youth in a black gown and white surplice--and to the stupefied amazement of the congregation, the lanky youth had carried a gilt cross round the Church, followed by Arbroath himself and the six little boys, all chanting in a manner such as the Weircombe folk had never heard before.

It was a deeply resented innovation, especially as the six little boys and the lanky cross-bearer, as well as the cross itself, had been mysteriously "hired" from somewhere by Mr. Arbroath, and were altogether strange to the village. Common civility, as well as deeply rooted notions of "decency and order," kept the paris.h.i.+oners in their seats during what they termed the "play-acting" which took place on this occasion, but when they left the Church and went their several ways, they all resolved on the course they meant to adopt with the undesired introduction of "'Igh Jinks" for the future. And from that date henceforward not one of the community attended Church. Sunday after Sunday, the bells rang in vain. Mr. Arbroath conducted the service solely for Mrs. Arbroath and for one ancient villager who acted the double part of s.e.xton and verger, and whose duties therefore compelled him to remain attached to the sacred edifice. And the people read their morning prayers in their own houses every Sunday, and never stirred out on that day till after their dinners. In vain did both Mr. and Mrs.

Arbroath run up and down the little village street, calling at every house, coaxing, cajoling, and promising,--they spoke to deaf ears.

Nothing they could say or do made amends for the "insult" to which the paris.h.i.+oners considered they had been subjected, by the sudden appearance of six strange choirboys and the lanky youth in a black gown, who had carried a gilt cross round and round the tiny precincts of their simple little Church, which,--until the occurrence of this remarkable "mountebank" performance as they called it,--had been everything to them that was sacred in its devout simplicity. Finally, in despair, Mr.

Arbroath wrote a long letter of complaint to the Bishop of the diocese, and after a considerable time of waiting, was informed by the secretary of that gentleman that the matter would be enquired into, but that in the meantime he had better conduct the Sunday services in the manner to which the paris.h.i.+oners had been accustomed. This order Arbroath flatly refused to obey, and there ensued a fierce polemical correspondence, during which the Church remained, as has been stated, empty of wors.h.i.+ppers altogether. Casting about for reasons which should prove some contumacious spirit to be the leader of this rebellion, Arbroath attacked Mary Deane among others, and asked her if she was "a regular Communicant." To which she calmly replied--

"No, sir."

"And why are you not?" demanded the clergyman imperiously.

"Because I do not feel like it," she said; "I do not believe in going to Communion unless one really feels the spiritual wish and desire."

"Oh! Then that is to say that you are very seldom conscious of any spiritual wish or desire?"

She was silent.

"I am sorry for you!" And Arbroath shook his bullet head dismally. "You are one of the unregenerate, and if you do not amend your ways will be among the lost----"

"'I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, when thou liest howling!'" said Helmsley suddenly.

Arbroath turned upon him sharply.

"What's that?" he snarled.

"Shakespeare!" and Helmsley smiled.

"Shakespeare! Much you know about Shakespeare!" snapped out the irritated clergyman. "But atheists and ruffians always quote Shakespeare as glibly as they quote the New Testament!"

"It's lucky that atheists and ruffians have got such good authorities to quote from," said Helmsley placidly.

Arbroath gave an impatient exclamation, and again addressed Mary.

"Why don't you come to Church?" he asked.

She raised her calm blue eyes and regarded him steadfastly.

"I don't like the way you conduct the service, sir, and I don't take you altogether for a Christian."

"What!" And he stared at her so furiously that his little pig eyes grew almost large for the moment--"You don't take me--_me_--for a Christian?"

"No, sir,--not altogether. You are too hard and too proud. You are not careful of us poor folk, and you don't seem to mind whether you hurt our feelings or not. We're only very humble simple people here in Weircombe, but we're not accustomed to being ordered about as if we were children, or as if our parson was a Romish priest wanting to get us all under his thumb. We believe in G.o.d with all our hearts and souls, and we love the dear gentle Saviour who came to show us how to live and how to die,--but we like to pray as we've always been accustomed to pray, just without any show, as our Lord taught us to do, not using any 'vain repet.i.tions.'"

Helmsley, who was bending some stiff osiers in his hands, paused to listen. Arbroath stared gloomily at the n.o.ble, thoughtful face on which there was just now an inspired expression of honesty and truth which almost shamed him.

"I think," went on Mary, speaking very gently and modestly--"that if we read the New Testament, we shall find that our Lord expressly forbade all shows and ceremonies,--and that He very much disliked them. Indeed, if we strictly obeyed all His orders, we should never be seen praying in public at all! Of course it is pleasant and human for people to meet together in some place and wors.h.i.+p G.o.d--but I think such a meeting should be quite without any ostentation--and that all our prayers should be as simple as possible. Pray excuse me if I speak too boldly--but that is the spirit and feeling of most of the Weircombe folk, and they are really very good, honest people."

The Reverend Mr. Arbroath stood inert and silent for about two minutes, his eyes still fixed upon her,--then, without a word, he turned on his heel and left the cottage. And from that day he did his best to sow small seeds of scandal against her,--scattering half-implied innuendoes,--faint breathings of disparagement, coa.r.s.e jests as to her "old maid" condition, and other mean and petty calumnies, which, however, were all so much wasted breath on his part, as the Weircombe villagers were as indifferent to his attempted mischief as Mary herself.

Even with the feline a.s.sistance of Mrs. Arbroath, who came readily to her husband's aid in his capacity of "downing" a woman, especially as that woman was so much better-looking than herself, nothing of any importance was accomplished in the way of either shaking Mary's established position in the estimation of Weircombe, or of persuading the paris.h.i.+oners to a "'Igh Jink" view of religious matters. Indeed, on this point they were inflexible, and as Mrs. Twitt remarked on one occasion, with a pious rolling-up of the whites of her eyes--

"To see that little black man with the 'igh stomach a-walkin' about this village is enough to turn a baby's bottle sour! It don't seem nat'ral like--he's as different from our good old parson as a rat is from a bird, an' you'll own, Mis' Deane, as there's a mighty difference between they two sorts of insecks. An' that minds me, on the Sat.u.r.day night afore they got the play-actin' on up in the Church, the wick o' my candle guttered down in a windin' sheet as long as long, an' I sez to Twitt--'There you are! Our own parson's gone an' died over in Madery, an' we'll never 'ave the likes of 'im no more! There's trouble comin'

for the Church, you mark my words.' An' Twitt, 'e says, 'G'arn, old 'ooman, it's the draught blowin' in at the door as makes the candle gutter,'--but all the same my words 'as come true!"

"Why no, surely not!" said Mary, "Our parson isn't dead in Madeira at all! The Sunday-school mistress had a letter from him only yesterday saying how much better he felt, and that he hoped to be home again with us very soon."

Mrs. Twitt pursed her lips and shook her head.

"That may be!" she observed--"I aint a-sayin' nuthin' again it. I sez to Twitt, there's trouble comin' for the Church, an' so there is. An' the windin' sheet in the candle means a death for somebody somewhere!"

Mary laughed, though her eyes were a little sad and wistful.

"Well, of course, there's always somebody dying somewhere, they say!"

And she sighed. "There's a good deal of grief in the world that n.o.body ever sees or hears of."

"True enough, Mis' Deane!--true enough!" And Mrs. Twitt shook her head again--"But ye're spared a deal o' worrit, seein' ye 'aven't a husband nor childer to drive ye silly. When I 'ad my three boys at 'ome I never know'd whether I was on my 'ed or my 'eels, they kept up such a racket an' torment, but the Lord be thanked they're all out an' doin' for theirselves in the world now--forbye the eldest is thinkin' o' marryin'

a girl I've never seen, down in Cornwall, which is where 'e be a-workin'

in tin mines, an' when I 'eerd as 'ow 'e was p'raps a-goin' to tie hisself up in the bonds o' matterimony, I stepped out in the garden just casual like, an' if you'll believe me, I sees a magpie! Now, Mis' Deane, magpies is total strangers on these coasts--no one as I've ever 'eard tell on 'as ever seen one--an' they's the unlikeliest and unluckiest birds to come across as ever the good G.o.d created. An' of course I knows if my boy marries that gel in Cornwall, it'll be the worst chance and change for 'im that 'e's 'ad ever since 'e was born! That magpie comed 'ere to warn me of it!"

Mary tried to look serious, but Helmsley was listening to the conversation, and she caught the mirthful glance of his eyes. So she laughed, and taking Mrs. Twitt by the shoulders, kissed her heartily on both cheeks.

"You're a dear!" she said--"And I'll believe in the magpie if you want me to! But all the same, I don't think any mischief is coming for your son or for you. I like to hope that everything happening in this world is for the best, and that the good G.o.d means kindly to all of us. Don't you think that's the right way to live?"

"It may be the right way to live," replied Mrs. Twitt with a doubtful air--"But there's ter'uble things allus 'appenin', an' I sez if warnings is sent to us even out o' the mouths o' babes and sucklings, let's accept 'em in good part. An' if so be a magpie is chose by the Lord as a messenger we'se fools if we despises the magpie. But that little paunchy Arbroath's worse than a whole flock o' magpies comin' together, an' 'e's actin' like a pestilence in keepin' decent folk away from their own Church. 'Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin', an'

t'other day Mr. Reay came in an' 'eerd 'im. An' Mr. Reay sez--'Twitt, ye're better than any parson I ever 'eerd!' An' I believe 'e is--'e's got real 'art an' feelin' for Scripter texes, an' sez 'em just as solemn as though 'e was carvin' 'em on tombstones. It's powerful movin'!"

Mary kept a grave face, but said nothing.

"An' last Sunday," went on Mrs. Twitt, encouraged, "Mr. Reay hisself read us a chapter o' the New Tesymen, an' 'twas fine! Twitt an' me, we felt as if we could 'a served the Lord faithful to the end of the world!

An' we 'ardly ever feels like that in Church. In Church they reads the words so sing-songy like, that, bein' tired, we goes to sleep wi' the soothin' drawl. But Mr. Reay, he kep' us wide awake an' starin'! An'

there's one tex which sticks in my 'ed an' comforts me for myself an'

for everybody in trouble as I ever 'eerd on----"

"And what's that, Mrs. Twitt?" asked Helmsley, turning round in his chair, that he might see her better.

"It's this, Mister David," and Mrs. Twitt drew a long breath in preparation before beginning the quotation,--"an' it's beautiful! 'If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated you.' Now if that aint enuff to send us on our way rejoicin', I don't know what is! For Lord knows if the dear Christ was hated, we can put up wi' a bit o' the hate for ourselves!"

There was a pause.

"So Mr. Reay reads very well, does he?" asked Mary.

"Fine!" said Mrs. Twitt,--"'E's a lovely man with a lovely voice! If 'e'd bin a parson 'e'd 'a drawed thousands to 'ear 'im! 'E wouldn't 'a wanted crosses nor candles to show us as 'e was speakin' true. Twitt sez to 'im t'other day--'Why aint you a parson, Mr. Reay?' an' 'e sez, 'Cos I'm goin' to be a preacher!' An' we couldn't make this out nohow, till 'e showed us as 'ow 'e was a-goin' to tell people things as they ought to know in the book 'e's writin'. An' 'e sez it's the only way, cos the parsons is gettin' so uppish, an' the Pope 'as got 'old o' some o' the newspapers, so that there aint no truth told nowheres, unless a few writers o' books will take 'art o' grace an' speak out. An' 'e sez there's a many as 'll do it, an' he tells Twitt--'Twitt,' sez he, 'Pin your faith on brave books! Beware o' newspapers, an' fight off the priest! Read brave books--books that were written centuries ago to teach people courage--an' read brave books that are written now to keep courage goin'!' An' we sez, so we will--for books is cheap enuff, G.o.d knows!--an' only t'other day Twitt went over to Minehead an' bought a new book by Sir Walter Scott called _Guy Mannering_ for ninepence. It's a grand story! an' keeps us alive every evenin'! I'm just mad on that old woman in it--Meg Merrilies--she knew a good deal as goes on in the world, I'll warrant! All about signs an' omens too. It's just fine! I'd like to see Sir Walter Scott!"

"He's dead," said Mary, "dead long ago. But he was a good as well as a great man."

"'E must 'a bin," agreed Mrs. Twitt; "I'm right sorry 'e's dead. Some folks die as is bound to be missed, an' some folks lives on as one 'ud be glad to see in their long 'ome peaceful at rest, forbye their bein'