Jonathan Merle: West Country Story of the times ... Fifth edition

Front matter

BY THE SAME AUTHOR. ALFREDA HOLME. A Story of Australian Life. Third Edition. Crown Svo, cloth, 3/6. "Daily Chronicle" says — "It is both graceful a*ad pathetic, and is written with exquisite taste and expression." JONATHAN MERLE. A West Country Story of the Times. Fifth Edition. Crown Svo, cloth, 3/6. "Glasgow Herald" says— "A story which is well con structed, carefH-Jfo-; written fraught with tender feeling, and healthy in tojwK*^ JARROLD S: SONS, 10 & n, WARWICK LANE, E.C. Mtst Cotmirg of \\t %vm. BV ELISABETH BOYD BAYLY, Author of " Alfredo. Holmes etc. FIFTH EDITION LONDON : JARROLD & SONS, 10 & n, WARWICK LANE, E.C. 1893. [.-4// rights reserved^ " We see human heroism broken into units, and say, this unit did little — might as well not have been. But in this way we might break up a great army into units ; we might break the sunlight into fragments, and think that this and the other might be cheaply patted with.

Let us rather raise a monument to the soldiers whose brave hearts only kept the ranks unbroken, — a monument to the faithful who were not iamous, and who are y.aaacious, as the continuity of the sunbeams is precious though some of them fall unseen." — George Eliot. I had intended that this story should be called "Worth While," — the motto on its title-page, "Wer viel lehren muss, der muss viel leiden." " He who is to teach much must suffer much." The title has been changed, in deference to a wish expressed that the book should go by the name of its hero ; but the fact remains, that all appointed to much teaching, whether in large or little spheres, must suffer much, and will think it well worth while. In touching on social questions, especially those which concern the terrible draft of human life from country to city, from fields to slums, I have tried to draw only from such facts as I had the means of testing through and through.

Whatever the result may be, my aim has been that of a book keeper in the 16th century, who wrote inside the board of his ledger, " God bliss this buik, and keip me and it honest." E. B. P. November 15///, 1889.

Preface

TO THE FOURTH EDITION. In sending out the story of Jonathan Merle in a new edition, I have to thank its readers for the hearty way in which they have made friends with the characters described, and to ask their forgiveness, should any of them regret to miss one sub ordinate episode from the later chapters. To those whose sympathies were chiefly absorbed in the social question*** illus trated, that part of the story appeared irrelevant ; and as the present stirring of interest in rural economics makes it probable that such readers will be an increasing majority, I have willingly omitted its details, though careful, as will be evident, to make no positive alteration — a story once stamped on the brain of writer and reader being virtually as unalterable as an accomplished fact. Once more these simple Annals of the Poor go forth to ask for sympathy from rich and poor alike; since "All we be brethren."

E. B. B. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PACE I. The Wayfarer ... ... ... 9 II. Jonathan at School ... ... 16 III. The Turn of the Day ... ... 22 IV, Pastors' Opinions ... ... 31 V. Girls' Opinions ... ... 37 VI. The Landlord ... ... ... 47 VII. A New School ... ... ... 58 VIII. The Course of True Love much Disturbed ... ... ... 65 IX. Broomhill Farm and its Inmates ... 79 X. The Lady's Story ... ... 92 XI. The Brook ... ... ... 105 XII. Afterwards ... ... ... 114 XIII. The Billow following the Storm ... 124 XIV. The Silver Lining ... ... 134 XV A Friendship ... ... ... 144 XVI. In the Shortest Days ... ... 158 XVII. The Admiral's Offer ... ... 172 XVIII. Across the Turnip Fields ... 185 XIX. At Broomhill Again ... ... 197 XX. The New Vicar ... ... 205 XXI. The Reaper ... ... ... 221 XXII. Mercy ... ... ... 233 XXIII.

Mercy's Journey ... ... 242 XXIV Two Rebukes ... ... ... 254 XXV. Driven to Go ... ... ... 265 XXVI. Which Surpasses Making Hay in Fine Weather ... ... ... CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE XXVII. The Iron Entered into their Souls 286 XXVIII. The Iron Enters Deeper ... 298 XXIX. The Chain Snaps ... ... 312 XXX. Merle's First Heroine ... ... 319 XXXI. Jem's Choice ... ... ... 333 XXXII. Farewell ... ... ... 339 XXXIII. The Prophet's Calling ... ... 348 XXXIV. Aubrey Carrel ... ... 360 XXXV. Inferior Diplomacy ... ... 374 XXXVI. A Vista Opens ... ... 388 XXXVII. Obstruction ... ... ... 4c t XXXVIII. The Black Currant Crop ... 416 XXXIX. Aubrey's Dairywoman ... ... 424 XL. Coming Events Cast Sunshine Before Them ... ... ... 432 XLI. A Disclosure ... ... ... 440 XLII. The Dead Past Lives Again ... 453 XLIII.

Another Side of the World ... 465 XLIV. The Fowler Caught ... ... 477 XLV. A Climbing Plant Untwined ... 484 XLVI. Beginning Life Anew ... ... 494 XLVII. Wedding Presents ... ... 503 XLVIII. The Hardest Lesson ... ... 510 XLIX. A Discovery ... ... ... 527 L. Cottage and Court ... ... 531 LI. The Old Place Again ... ... 541 LII. An Evening Sermon ... ... 554 LIII. Family Opinions ... ... 569 LIV. General Opinions ... ... 582 LV. Worth While ... ... ■JO^KTHHjq MERLE,

Chapter I

" I set it down That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain ." Hamlet. Rain had fallen softly from the April skies all day. Night settled in, moist, soft, and warm, — a night to swell buds and open leaves as if by magic. In the west-country village of Grenlea, every one seemed to be in bed and asleep, when a soft-footed man walked slowly up the straggling street, with the limp of a footsore tramp. He had been lucky at cards that evening, and had money in his pocket : but he was hoarding it for another stake to-morrow ; and his good luck had brought ill-will, so that he had thought it best to make for Grenlea, in hopes of begging a lodging there ; but the way had proved longer than he expected, and the ale houses were closed. "No song, no supper. No song, no bed," he muttered. "Nobody wants a song here, so I must do without a bed.

Ugh!" John Wilson disliked going on tramp. He would never have done it, if it had not paid so well. He enjoyed begging : to see how his dark liquid eyes, and gentlemanly accent, could draw the silver out of a lady's purse, gave him a flattering sense of being still a lady-killer, on reduced lines. But he hated long walks and wet boots, and having to herd in at night with fellows who never washed. All his sensuous faculties were by nature in tensely keen, and a strong brain, and natural disposition rather to sip than wallow in every kind of indulgence, had preserved him from blunting them by intemperance. Imagine, then, the feelings of one fond of soft linen and lavender, who sleeps in a common lodging-house without being drunk ! Wilson never did such a thing in dry weather, when he could find a shake down of hay behind a rick ; but the ground was too wet for that, to-night, and he did not know where to look for an open shed.

It was fair, now, and the half-moon glanced fitfully among slowly drifting clouds. Wilson turned a corner at the end of the village street, and saw a light shining from the upper win dow of a cottage, perhaps a furlong off. He walked towards it, and paused at the garden gate, attracted by two things — the scent of a large bush of sweet-brier just coming into leaf, and the effect of lamplight on a man's face, seen through the window. It was a worn face, with deep lines beside the mouth, thin, straight features, and deep-set eyes — hair lying thinly across the wide, rounded brow ; the sides of the head so full as to give a pear-like shape to the whole contour. The hands were out of sight ; the face was bent, probably over a book, as the lips moved from time to time without any appearance of answering another speaker.

Wilson was interested to find a pale student burning midnight oil in this lone place, and stood watching him, remembering bygone nights when he had been wont to pore late over an intricate score. Suddenly the student raised his head, a smile like rose-light upon snow kindling his whole face into a passion of tender joy. He rose, and stepped out of sight. Wilson moved his own position without succeeding in getting another view of him ; but presently a man's shadow came in sight upon the wall, and in its arms the shadow of — a baby ! Wilson's home had seen the advent of eleven babies, eight of which survived. Had he been rich enough to keep them in a nursery, and see them at intervals, picturesquely dressed, he would probably have liked them as well as he did all other pretty things ; but a poor man's baby, squalling at all houft, and dribbling over its wretched frock — growing up with an enormous appetite and no pockethandkerchief — pah !

And this soft fool could give that smile (he could appreciate it æsthetic ally, and knew that a painter might have died happy who had laid such a smile on canvas) because the little howling-machine had waked up ! "At all events, he won't give me much trouble if I am caught on his premises," thought he. The gate creaked as he opened it. Just then the moon shone out brightly, and the tramp paused to read, over the doorway, "Thomas Merle, Boot and Shoemaker. Repairs Neatly Ex ecuted." The student's quick ear caught the familiar gate-creak. He blew out his lamp, and peeping out, saw a man's figure in the moonlight. Lighting his lantern, he hastened down the stairs. Wilson heard his touch on the bolts, and determined to stand his ground. When the door opened, he was discovered just inside the gate.

" Who are you ? " asked Merle. "John Wilson, — a poor man looking for work." " What do you want here ? " " A night's lodging in your shed, if you have a shed. I saw the light in your window, and was just considering whether to throw up a pebble, and ask your permission, or whether to take French leave, rather than disturb you," said Wilson. His tone and accent were not those of a poor man looking for work, and Merle felt doubtful of him. " You don't belong to these parts ? " he said. " No, I come from the north, where I have seen better days," said Wilson, surprised in his turn by the purity of accent with which those few words were spoken. " I have twopence in my pocket, and will gladly pay them for a night's lodging, if you will let me stay." Merle smelt brandy in his breath, and taking for granted that drink had wrecked him, compassionately led the way to a small shed, where he pulled down a good bed of straw.

"I will bring you some supper and a blanket," he said kindly. " No supper, thanks. I had a bite not long ago, and am not hungry. But if you could let me have a little water to wash my feet." Merle was quite touched, and soon returned with all things needful for a comfortable wash. The tramp's delight was genuine. Merle made sure that he had no flask about him, and then hurried back to his precious charge. The little creature was lying awake, looking at the lamp he had rekindled, and cooing to itself. At sight of its father, little hands, feet, face were all one spring of welcome. Merle took him up, and sunned himself in the child's rare beauty, perfect in every line and hue. To him, as to Wilson, all the delights of sense were intensely keen ; it was ecstacy to handle those polished limbs, and look into the dark eyes shining like happy stars in the rose-leaf face.

This child had cost its mother's life ; and as if to make amends for that great agony, its own little span had scarcely known an hour's illness or even fretful ness. Merle denied himself the pleasure of rousing him into play, and soon was stretched beside him on the couch, — but not to sleep, for hours. His visitor slept soundly till dawn next morning. On awak ing, he looked at the towel and blanket, and thought, " I should like to walk off with these goods ; but then I must give up the chance of breakfast — a very good chance with that mild cove. No, it wouldn't pay : petty larceny does not pay." The truth was, he had not the nerve for it. There was no dare in his devil, and he had not been early hardened to the risks of theft ; consequently, though he could lie with perfect coolness, having practised that accomplishment successfully from his cradle, he always found some good excuse when con science — his conscience — pricked him for losing a happy chance of theft.

" Thou shalt not steal — an empty feat, When 'tis so lucrative to cheat ! " Sleep not returning to his eyes, he lay enjoying the fresh, pure smell of the place, and yet, withal, missing the amusement he would be having by this time in a common lodging-house, as his companions awoke one by one, and tickled his ears with outpourings of corruption. No depth of moral grossness went too far for him to like hearing and thinking of it. Doing was another matter : deeds brought risk, or at any rate, cost and effort : and he was a cautious, lazy, self-interested sinner, and liked to enjoy, without expense, a sympathetic pleasure in other men's bold abandonment to vice. Merle brought him breakfast, as he had hoped, and returned again with a hunk of bread and bacon in his hand, a pledge book in his pocket, and a fervent longing for this man's salvation in his heart.

" This will carry you on a little way," he said awkwardly, setting down the food. " How can I thank you ? " said the tramp with deep feeling. " I don't know when I have had such a night's rest — and food to start with ! " He sighed, as if with a wistful remembrance of other days. As they stood thus together, you might have seen, through the two men's unlikeness, curious points of resemblance : they had the same long slender fingers, slight, but sinewy build, and straight features ; but the fine-cut lines you would have called chiselled in the one face, were scraggy in the other. Merle's scanty dull-brown hair was fine and soft as Wilson's locks of jet. He had the heavier jaw, though his brows, still larger in pro portion, took off the effect of squareness : his lips were thin and sensitive : he was clean shaven, and nature had given him poor apologies for whiskers ; his skin was of the dullest colour com patible with health, and his light grey eyes, looking out from caverns of eye-brow, had bits of eye-lash, — a contrast to the long curved lashes which added to the charm of Wilson's beautiful dark eyes.

Just now, his tell-tale lips twitched nervously ; his conscience was lashing him up to the assault, and at last he blurted out, " How did you come to this ? " Wilson had a pathetic story ready, but it did not go off as well as he had expected. This mild countryman had once spent a few years in London, and cut in with rather sharp questions. The tramp, finding himself cornered, laid blame on " the drink." Out came the pledge-book, and the shoemaker grew eloquent in pleading with him to renounce the destroyer. Wilson had told his real name, and hardly cared to leave it behind him in writing • but the pleasure of bamboozling this ardent innocent was irresistible, and after a well-acted show of reluctance, he signed the pledge. " Now pray that I may keep it," he said, laying down the pen. They knelt down.

To Merle's dismay, he could not utter a word. Every petition framed by his intellect was stopped at the entrance of his heart. For long oppressive minutes he knelt speechless ; then rose in silence. Wilson remained kneel ing on purpose to embarrass him the more, his face hidden in his hands, swallowing chuckles as he thought how he would shake his sides over this scene in many a tavern. At last curiosity got the better of him: he took a side-long glance, expecting to see the " stickit " moralizer in sheepish confusion. Merle's eyes met his with a steely flash. " What does this mean ? " he asked, sternly. Wilson got off his knees with an unwonted sense of not being quite equal to the situation. Merle's eyes still fastened on him. "If you are in earnest," he said, "how is it that the Lord won't let me pray for you ?

" Wilson, having the marrow of a coward under his savoirfaire, felt an unpleasant dart of vague alarm. " Perhaps your own conscience may suggest a reason for finding difficulty in prayer," he answered sneeringly. His shafts were always barbed : he knew — no man better — what would rankle most ; but Merle's eyes did not fall. " I don't know. I can't tell," he answered, with a sad, per plexed look. " I can do nothing more for you." " I am extremely obliged for what you have done," said Wilson, with an air of elegant patronage, secretly much relieved to end the interview. He picked up his bacon and bread, and took his leave. Merle watched him down the road very mournfully. He was always longing to mitigate the sin and sorrow of the world ; and here a live sinner, in sorrowful plight, had come to his own door, and gone away without effectual help.

What was the use of mere food and sleep, if no hope went with them ? Had Merle known all, he would have felt more keenly that his gifts had simply aided to keep in existence one of the blackest scoundrels that ever cursed the globe. It could not be helped : the rain and sunshine from heaven do the same ; only, man must use effort in order to profit by these : the bounties of nature include a labour-test. The shoemaker turned slowly back to the house. A small face peeped round the door, shyly watching for him — a minia ture copy of himself, strangely exact, save that his little daughter had clear, pencilled eyebrows, and long dark lashes shaded her wistful grey eyes. "Ah, Ellie," he said, holding out his arms. This child did not bound to him, as his baby tried to do. The softest pink colour flushed into her cheek ; she stole to his side, and put her hand into his.

Nothing in life ever thrilled him like the touch of that small hand, from the little one too timid ever to offer a caress to anyone but himself. He took her up and gently kissed her, with a dumb, subdued passion of unspeakable tenderness. All his delight in his beautiful boy did not go as deep as the love of this frail, tiny thing, whom he had shared with her mother, too, for nearly two years. Yet the thought of what this child, with a nature sensitive as his own and weaker health, must suffer if she lived, was often so painful to him — had an angel come down and offered to take her back to heaven, Merle would have given her up at once, and missed her every hour for the rest of his life. A fine, severe-looking elderly woman, with smooth bands of grey hair under her white frilled cap, was stepping about the kitchen when they entered.

" Be that man gone ? " she asked. "Yes, mother." " You should have a-brought un in to family wu'ship, Jona athan." " I didn't like to, mother, as I hadn't brought him in to breakfast." " Did you give un ar o' them tracks ? " " No, mother," said the son, who had forgotten that part of his ammunition. Mrs. Merle walked solemnly to the book-shelves, took down the family Bible, and laid it before him with a look that said, " Do your duty now, whatever you have left undone." It is not a pleasant thing, just when the smart of a failure is fresh, to be called on to lead the devotions of one's severest critic. Merle would have been glad of liberty to use a form of prayer that morning. It did not hurt him severely that the tramp had made a fool of him. Naturally most sensitive to ridicule, he had been wounded so early and often, that repeated scars had formed a hard skin against it.

The barb lay, as Wilson meant it should, in the thought that had he himself been more full of the spirit of goodness, it would have been strong enough to master the other man's evil. He was always disappointing himself, — and his mother. "Read short," said Mrs. Merle, looking at the eight-day clock. Merle obeyed, Ellie sitting like a mouse meanwhile, and then went into his little workshop, with his boy on his arm. At least there were boots and shoes to make : he could satisfy his ideal in them — as poor James Hinton, worn out with life's perplex ities, would say for comfort, "There are deaf people to cure ! " There were corns to be accommodated, and tender feet to ease. Merle's brow was always smoother while he worked at his trade. His boy cooed and laughed beside him, playing with a little last, and the father's eyes brightened with the hope that his life would leave behind it one success great enough to outweigh all his failures — the world should owe him something for Harry.

Chapter II

Tremulous, impressional, Alive to gentle influence Of landscape and of sky, And tender to the spirit-touch Of man's or maiden's eye. Thomas Merle, Jonathan's father, was descended from Huguenot refugees, who had found their way to a remote west country village, where they became possessed of a cottage and two acres of land, which, with the family trade of shoemaking, Thomas inherited. Having but one child, and a thrifty wife, he might have become a rich man after his kind ; but hoarding was not in him. Whenever by frugal habits he had accumu lated a little sum, he was sure to find out that its possession would be of much more importance to some one else than to himself; and in his later years, population diminished in the village, and trade with it ; his plot of land grew poorer and poorer ; the old fruit trees in his little orchard bore scantily, and the old house often wanted repairs.

He was a devoted lover of his craft, and his son inherited the enthusiasm in an advanced form. Jonathan had a native passion for perfection, quite independent of profit to accrue from it: the sight of London and Paris-made boots which came into his hands for repair, fired him with a wish to go to London, and learn the higher secrets of his trade. At seventeen he was as good a workman as his father ; and the empty ing village not affording work enough for them both, his parents let him have his way. Jonathan was a lad of a sorrowful spirit— with all his father's tenderness of heart, and in place of his buoyant hopefulness, his mother's mournful caution and self-despair. When he reached London, horror overwhelmed him at sight of the sufferings of man and beast. Day and night the same words haunted him, "Joy is withered away from the sons of men."

From fourteen years old he had been a member of the church at Grenlea meeting-house, and by the minister's advice he had taken his transfer to a small East-end chapel, where he made acquaintance with good humble folks, who found him decent lodgings, and promoted his obtaining work in a large city house. Outwardly he had friends ; but there was no one to whom he could open his heart : it never had been opened. Least of all could he have uttered the doubts and agonies aroused by what he saw about him, and fanned by the talk of atheist fellow-workmen. For a while, the Sabbath services he used to love were dust and ashes to him : if the simple minister ever approached the problems which tore his heart in pieces, he was apt to offer solutions which the shoemakers would have laughed to scorn. With his soul the lad clung to the faith of his fathers, but his intellect was adrift on a stormy sea, and he had no material to make sail with.

On Sundays he was expected to dispose of himself abroad from dinner-time till nine o'clock, and one grey afternoon found him outside Westminster Abbey, gazing up at its hoary walls. A gentleman about to pass in, stopped to speak to him, and asked him what he knew of the Abbey's history. Jonathan's lore was oddly regulated by the few books which had come in his way to be devoured. In his eagerness to piece together his broken bits of knowledge, for once he found his tongue, and the gentleman, attracted by his shy earnestness, walked about with him till after service had begun, and at last asked him to go in with him. Jonathan hesitated. He had heard that a cathedral service was next door to rank Popery, a work of the devil. " Come in. You won't be sorry for it," said his new friend kindly, surmising a very different cause for his reluctance.

Jonathan yielded. The heights of the vaulted roof rose above him ; music swelled and lost itself among the pillared aisles, and the great voice of the multitude, like many waters, took up the song. He felt himself carried away by a strange ecstacy — a thrill and yearning, like to what he had felt before at sunset or moonrise, yet different — a human fellowship was in it. He and his companion remained on the edge of the assembly until just before preaching began — then they went forward and stood. Jonathan thought he could have stood the whole night to listen. He had never heard such a sermon before — a rare epitome of deep, clear, burning thought. His companion watched him furtively, and as they came out together, said, " You will come again, I hope ? " The colour rushed to Jonathan's temples.

" Sir," he faltered, "could you tell me any books I could get, that would make B me see as plain as that gentleman does that what he believes is true ? " " My dear fellow, that is more than books can do for you," said the stranger, surprised and moved ; but he hurriedly wrote down titles which occurred to him at the moment, and took the lad's name and address. " I will write to you," he said. " I have an engagement now, and to-morrow morning I go abroad ; but keep this," and he left in Jonathan's hand the little prayer-book he had lent him during the service. No name was written in it. Jonathan watched and waited for the promised letter, but it did not come, and he found that the books recommended were so expensive, it would be a work of time to get them one by one. As yet his earnings were small, and he had resolved to send home money to his parents ; but he hoped soon to be allowed to go on piece-work, and how his hands should toil to win those books !

Before he had them, his mates had drawn the poison-fangs from his doubts. They disliked his silent, self-contained ways. The speed and beauty of his work excited their jealousy, and the worst among them banded together, determined to drag him down under their own vices. The poor lad went through a fiery ordeal ; but when he came out of it, he could no more have doubted the Lord who had stood by him, and filled his soul with a shout of triumph in the midst of every conceivable form of cruelty and persecution, than if he had walked unhurt through physical flames, by means of the visible presence of the Son of God. He was eager for all the help that books could give, to make his faith more reasonable, but the personal anguish of doubt was past ; so also was the vague melancholy which is the curse of youthful genius.

Meanwile a softer influence had begun to work upon him. His great wish to know more of history led him to the adventure of presenting himself at a ladies' night-school, where, he heard, there was a history class. A lady was a holy mystery in Jonathan's eyes. All he knew of ladies came from Walter Scott : he had never seen the queens of nature " assiduously dethroning themselves." He stood greatly in awe of all women, and from his mother downwards, they all snubbed him. Even Lucy White, who used to run to school with him hand in hand, and get punished for smiling at him in meeting had taken to hold her head high since she went to service and cut him to the heart ■ and the woman he lodged with, held him in dire subjection. What must be the awfulness of a lady with learning ! Palpitating, he approached the sanctuary.