Fabian's Tower; a novel

Front matter

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Chapter I

The first spring that I passed at my rural curacy in the West of England, was not a favourable season. One dismal day succeeded another. I missed, as every feeling man must do, the cheerful voices of my home. After the large rooms at the Hall, the Parsonage of Champneys, surrounded by muddy lanes, and overhung by tem pestuous skies, appeared intolerably gloomy. I often thought I heard the old Squire abusing me, as he passed my door, for not being up with the lark to follow the hounds, like my brother Everard and himself. My solitary evenings brought back to my mind VOL. I. B the return of the sportsmen, delighted with their hard ride ; — (as a boy, I had sym pathised with them keenly;) — the long recital of their achievements, and the un courteous slumbers which my sisters thought it their duty in every possible way to dis turb: — unless, indeed, as was most fre quently the case, the house was full of company, and the hardy sports of the morning were concluded by dancing and music, in that hospitable mansion, — one of the olden time.

Down came the rain in torrents, whether I liked it or not. Over the rich pasture meadows, through which the beautiful winding river found its passage to the sea, thick swept the mist. The fine dark red cattle snuffed the air uneasily. They knew the signs of the coming tempests better than I did. When I fancied that the clouds must have exhausted their stores, a new batch, with white flaky edges, rose up from the horizon, — a dull brown hue overspread the sky, — the pelting showers recommenced. I almost lost my faith in the rainbow, after I had been two months at Champneys-Magna, without seeing the face of the sun, for more than five minutes at a time. I derived little comfort from my neigh bours. When it began raining, at that season, with the wind from that particular quarter, there was no saying when it would leave off.

It shifted. I saw the vane over the church-tower veer completely round ; but whether the wind blew high or low, or whichever way it came, it did not disperse the clouds from that watery district. The few carriages that passed through the place — (no person living in it was wealthy enough to keep one) — were hooded. The females in the village street held up their draperies with a sang-froid which rendered it evident that the muddy state of the road was an habitual circumstance. The beautiful abundant vegetation showed the prevalence of a damp, warm tempera ture. B I was permitted to reside at the Rectory house, for nine months of the year, on condition of ceding it, for the remaining three, to the incumbent of the living, a dignitary of the church, Dean of a neigh bouring cathedral. The deep-set Eliza bethan windows of the dark, old rooms scarcely admitted light enough to let me write my sermons.

In the pervading ob scurity, I hit my head perpetually against the massive oaken beams which supported the ceilings. " It mostly rained when the new Curates came. The season had been fine enough before my arrival. I had brought the bad weather with me ;" was all the consolation I could elicit from the elderly maiden, who had devoted herself, she told me, for the last twenty years, to the ungrateful service of the young gentlemen who performed the parochial duty for her master; and had not succeeded in making one of them com fortable. My complaint concerning the rain was an unfortunate one. Mistress Sarah Mil verton left the room in a state of great dis composure. It was not the first melancholy remark with which she had favoured me, on the fate of my luckless predecessors. All had been nice young men : — at least, so the housekeeper considered them; but, either they had not suited the place, or Champneys had disagreed with them.

Not one had remained longer than two years ; some, only a few months. I ruminated over their want of success, and asked some questions ; but it was evi dently a painful subject. It was too bad, she said, just when she had learned to under stand the young gentlemen's ways, to have them taken away from her. Mrs. Milver ton had made up her mind to harden her heart against the Curates. She should do her duty to her employers, she trusted, to the last ; but, like the old clock in the kit chen, which never went wrong, it should be as a piece of machinery. When I went about in the parish, I heard some of these unfortunate young men eulogised ; some were abused. Each seemed to have a party in the place. Only Mrs. Milverton had loved them all. The last Curate, I learned, was " very dark." It was like the blind leading the blind, to have him to instruct them.

The one before him was " a blessed man ;" but, judging from the hard words which the old women retained from his sermons, somewhat abstruse in his doctrines. Another — a loquacious black smith informed me — would argue better, and had more texts to quote than any per son in the village. He was " a great preacher ;" but seemed, I thought, to have carried his condescension to the controver sial tendency of his flock farther than I liked. A fourth had given so much offence by inveighing too forcibly against the wickedness of the rustic population that he had declaimed to empty benches during the re mainder of his stay. The choir had refused to sing, and taken away the instruments, alleging that they were private property ; while half the congregation had gone to hear the gospel, as they phrased it, preached in a barn by a wretch who professed to be the Holy Ghost, and finally arro gated to himself the sacred attributes of the Creator.

When I looked down upon the unusually crowded benches — (many persons were there to hear the new clergyman, who, on other occasions, I was grieved to learn, seldom entered the church) — a solemn, and very earnest desire to make these ignorant peo ple wiser and better, filled my mind. I prayed for them and for myself ; that, dis carding all party views, owing to which the land, at the time in question, was splitting from end to end into sects and divisions — disdaining all meaner ambition — I might preach God's word with a single heart, and enforce it by upright conduct. I saw the rugged brows of the men who occupied the free sittings in the middle aisle confronting me, knit into an expression of fixed attention; but it did not daunt me. I was there to announce no new-fangled doctrine, but God's promises to sinful man, revealed through His anointed Son ; a Gospel, not of human fabrication, but glad tidings of salvation, proclaimed by angels, and con firmed by the blood of martyrs.

Whether they would hear, or whether they would forbear, I had to deliver my message; and the people listened to me, as I spoke it — reverently. In the churchyard, one, however, questioned the solidity of my opinions. Many stood by to listen. " I am here," I said, " to teach you. If you do not understand what I say, I will explain it. Come to my house when you like, in a Christian spirit; but I will not argue. The shepherd is to guide the flock : — if the sheep are to have their own way, what is the use of his being there at all 1 All that I tell you from the pulpit is contained in the Word of God. Search the Scriptures ; or I will show you the passage, and you will find it to be so. It is neither of Paul nor of Cephas, but the doctrine of Christ." I spoke, as I had a right to do, with authority ; and the caviller was silenced.

Those who thought that each knew better than his teacher, shrank back abashed. The man was one who had given great trouble to my predecessor ; but he now came, as I had invited him, to my house. I showed him word for word, line for line, precept upon precept, my authority for what I had preached. I would not argue with him, but I tried to instruct him. He was, however, only anxious to display his own knowledge. I made no way with him. Others received the lesson more meekly. I had made myself respected, Mrs. Milver ton said, but it would not last long. More than one of the young gentlemen had done so before me, but it was a bad place. It was not likely that I should get on better than they did. My poor mother — Heaven bless her ! — used to say, the first thing that came into B her head, on Sunday morning, after she had a son in the ministry, was whether it were a fine day for the clergy.

The con gregation tiiight stay away, if they preferred it ; but rain or snow, poor Frank must be at his post I thought of this affectionate concern on her part, when, through the dripping evergreens, and along the muddy lane, I went, Sunday after Sun day, to the damp, weather-stained church ; but this was nothing to the long rambles, which, gradually, as I knew my parish better, I felt myself compelled to take, to visit the scattered members of my congre gation. The village of Champneys did not form a third of my district. Up every winding lane, along each field pathway, some lonely farm or cottage was to be reached. They all looked alike gloomy and uninviting, as I sought them out in the thick mist and constantly-falling rain. The sun shone out at last. I scarcely knew the place. Glimpses of high hills had dimly met my view.

I knew by ex perience the deep-rutted briery lanes — but could that wide, fertile valley, with the glancing river winding through it — with the orchards bursting into blossom, and brightly-tinted granite summits rising above a wilderness of foliage, be the gloomy scene of which I had begun, like my predecessors, to weary 1 Everywhere the ground was covered with spring flowers. The late rains, coming after a hard winter, had brought them all out together. Blue hyacinths flung their scent on the air, at the top of the banks, which were wide and set with double rows of thorns, cut low in some places, in others luxuriantly spreading over the pathways — patches of veronica, violets and primroses, mingled with the ivy which mantled everywhere. The fine old church bells rang out a joyous peal, as I approached, on the Festival of Whit- Sunday.

I thought the pleasant aspect of the weather disposed the congregation to attention. After I left the sacred edifice, several of its members crowded in a friendly man ner round me. When I got back to the Rectory, the trim old-fashioned garden smiled its welcome. The sun shone in at the Elizabethan windows. The housekeeper had put vases of lilies from under the shrub bery-wall upon my table. The labours of the day went on satisfactorily. In the evening, after my duty was over, I walked up the hill behind the village, which commanded a wide view of the beautiful valley. It lay like a map before me. In the distance, was the sea into which, two miles lower down, the river found its way. The scattered farms, the lone cots which I had visited in storm and tempest, now each nestled amidst sheltering foliage.

The river rolled its waters, beneath the sunset, like a golden thread, through the landscape. I traced its course past the white church tower of the hamlet, which stood close by its mouth, on the opposite shore, to the sea. Just on the boundary between the two parishes, lay a farm-house, where I had not called. I thought of going there, the next day. No pressing duty, no case of sickness had summoned me thither. I had many things to occupy me nearer home. The light was falling upon the sloping fields, and thatched roof of the dwelling. I could see the cattle like dark specks in the meadow ; — the sheep-dogs were barking round the flock. I wished to speak to the farmer about making some arrangement for letting the boys who worked for him attend the school or Divine Service. Mrs. Mil verton said, indeed, that the other Curates had produced no impression upon him; but this was no reason why I should not try.

My eyes wandered over the farm-build ings and orchards, and rested on a dark object, which the dense mist seemed hitherto to have veiled from my notice. It now stood out clearly defined against the golden hue of the western sky. This was a ruined tower, covered from top to base with redundant ivy, standing alone, nearer to the sea than the farm, and in the midst of a barren tract of land, which stretched from the wooded bank of the river to the cliff. There were no trees near it, but some druidical-looking piles of stone lay around. It had a sort of wizard-like effect in the sunny landscape. When I mentioned the ruin to my housekeeper, her behaviour led me to suspect that it was connected, as everything in the neighbourhood appeared to be, with some unpleasant reminiscence of the poor woman's successive favourites, the Curates.

She shook her head and said, there was no one there I need wet my feet with going to see. I answered, certainly not. The place looked uninhabited — a fit residence only for the owls which were hooting and flying about it. If any living souls dwelt there, it would be my duty to call upon them ; but it was evidently a ruin. I only noticed it for its peculiarity, and wished to know the name. She told me that it was Fabian's Tower, without adding a syllable to the information, and went away, instead of lingering as she usually does, in spite of her determination to take no further interest in her young master for the time being, either to question me as to the meaning of some passage she had not quite understood in my sermon, or to com municate the strictures of my parishioners upon it, and the depth and length of the slumbers into which it had beguiled my listeners.

No wonder, when she became really fond of the Curates, that they had no other friend in the place, and speedily grew disgusted with it, owing to the unflattering revela tions made to them by their injudicious admirer. I shall not encourage the old lady's turn for gossiping ; nor allow her to make parties for and against me, in the parish. The way to the Ferry Farm lay entirely through the apple and cherry orchards, by steep, narrow, lanes. Glimpses of the river were caught at intervals, but no wide pros pect could be obtained. Above the trees, I saw now and then the granite top of a re markable hill, the highest in the country, which assumed different hues according to the state of the atmosphere. It was a day of shifting shadows, and the clouds blew fleetly across the sky. I walked on, enjoying the sharper feel of the air from which the moisture had departed.

The farmer was a blunt, ill-mannered man, and refused, point-blank, my petition about the boys. Not one could be spared. If they went to church, they must leave off working for him, or pay some one else to perform their labour. I tried to persuade him to parcel out their work differently ; to give each a few hours on the Lord's day, to dedicate to his Maker ; but the man's heart was in his fat sheep and lambs, his rich pastures, and fine cattle. He took me over his farm exult ingly. I thought it was a point gained, that he was civil to me, the minister of Him whose word he esteemed so lightly. 1 did not ask him of what avail his wealth would be, if He, who had so plenteously filled the barns and granaries, demanded that night the soul which He had given him. He would not have listened, then ; but I trusted a time might come when a word in season would not be thrown away upon him.

As we stood in the middle of the fields, my eye caught again a view of the frown ing Tower, dark, quiet, and solitary. I asked if he knew the date of the ruin, and whether I could inspect it. He stared at me, in a rude, unpolished way, and said, I had best leave that alone. I did not understand him. Throughout our conversation, he had often been un intelligible to me; but, after I left his land, I saw him watching me curiously. I crossed the fields, nevertheless, and ap proached the desolate-looking building, which stood alone, more than half a mile from any dwelling, yet within view of the fabtan's tower. 18 farm. The character of the scenery was quite changed, after quitting the rich pas tures by the river. Stony, and bare, and arid, the ground was uncultivated, and seemed not worth the tiller's care.

I was surprised to find that a gate in the wall which ran round the ruins was locked, and resolved to enquire who had the charge of the place, and could show it ; but, after I went home, I forgot it for a time. A child at the lower end of the parish had been attacked with virulent typhus fever. It died in the course of a few days. The complaint spread rapidly. Mrs. Mil verton could no longer disguise that she was becoming attached to me. She looked upon me as the last of the Curates. If the disease assailed me in the exercise of my dnty, she would not stay in the place After the funeral was over — she meant not to desert me till then, — she would seek another situation. In spite of her cheerless prognostications, no further harm ensued. The clearer weather dispelled the fogs which had so long hung over the river.

The parish once more became healthy. The fever had done me good service, in familiarising me with my flock. I stood among them as a friend, when it had passed away, and the scourge which impended over us for many weeks, was mercifully removed. FABIAN S TOWER.

Chapter II

My best supporter in the place, where I soon discovered that my predecessors had not led easy lives, was Farmer Adams. His family held, by comparison, the rank of gentry, and had always, Mrs. Milverton said, been staunch allies of the Curates. Of course, she gave me a good account of them, though the young ladies dressed rather more expensively than she liked. I thought, myself, that their skirts took up more space than was necessary, and the rustling of the silk, as they walked up the aisle to their comfortable family-pew, disturbed me ; particularly as it was exactly opposite to the reading-desk, and they always came into church late, after Divine Service had commenced. This was a common practice. Even the singers were far from punctual. On Easter Sunday, I had been forced to begin the prayers Avithout their assistance ; but on my speaking, seriously and quietly, to them at their own houses, they promised to alter, and I have not had to complain of them since.

The young ladies at the Grange took the slight remarks I made to them on the subject, very well; and I did not carry my pastoral rebuke further than the proper time of attendance was concerned. I was too young a man to venture upon the domain of the toilet. I did not say a sylla ble about the buckram petticoats and the flounces. The head of the family was an excellent person, and much more homely in manner and appearance than his daughters. Though in easy, — some said, in affluent, circumstances — the farmer worked as hard as any of his numerous labourers. He was a con stant attendant at church, and a liberal supporter of every charity set on foot. He was kinder to his work-people than the other employers, and would not keep a boy away from school or from Divine worship, if it could be avoided.

When it was known that I wished to alter the custom which prevailed in this as well as many other country parishes, of teaching the children in the church, for want of a building devoted to the purpose, Miss Adams aided me zealously in raising a col lection towards erecting a new school-house. The Dean headed the subscription liberally. Farmer Adams's name was next on the list. His second daughter, Miss Mary, was en tirely taken up with the missionaries, for whom she gathered a considerable sum, even among the poor cottagers, and laboured indefatigably. It was said that she had attached herself to the enthusiastic Irish man, who had held the cure two years before me. Mrs. Milverton positively denied that the young man had encouraged anything of the kind. It would have been better for him, perhaps, if he had, she observed.

Farmer Adams would leave his girls handsomely provided for : though, dress as they might, they would never look like ladies. Mr. Gilday, however, had evidently not so high a character, with his partial friend, for sagacity, as for warm-heartedness and piety. He had done some foolish things, contrary to her advice; and it had ended with his going out as a Missionary to China, where she understood the natives hated a Christian, as much as she did the nasty Howqua mixture, sold at the shop in the village for Souchong. Whatever might have been the state of Miss Mary's heart, at the time of the Irish Curate's residence at Champneys, it was now in her missionary-box. I could not reasonably have addressed a single admo nition to her on the subject of fine clothes. A dark-brown or sage-coloured merino, in winter ; a gingham of the same sober hue, as the season advanced, was her usual attire.

Her bonnet was a straw of the coarsest kind, in shape what ladies mysteriously de nominate a poke. The thickest boots the village cobbler could fabricate adorned her by no means slender ankles. She was never seen without an enormous umbrella. Indeed, her long expeditions through the muddy lanes and across the fields made such protection advisable. She seldom spoke to me, an omission which I regarded the less, as, when we did converse, we were sure to differ. In the parish and the cottages, she was a stumbling block and a hindrance in my path — being one of those who looked upon me with dis trust, and excluded me, in common with her excellent father and pious, charitable mother, from the privilege enjoyed by the narrow circle of intimate friends, who talked in a peculiar jargon, and appro priated to themselves the title of the Elect.

Mrs. Milverton said, she had no patience with her. What business had a girl of twenty to set herself above the rest of her family, and wear neither cuffs nor collar? I did not quite understand the connection of ideas ; but, certainly, the absence of any particle of white in the young lady's attire, to which I believe she alluded, was ob jectionable to the eye. I had been talking on business to the farmer, one afternoon, Avhen he ushered me, before I took leave, into the large parlour, where it appeared to me as if all the females of the neighbourhood were congregated. It would have required the handsome Irish man's assurance, and a more encouraging glance than Miss Mary accorded to me, to enable a stranger like myself to enter the room without a blush. I was, too, — I immediately perceived, — violating one of Mrs. Milverton's most stringent rules — acting in a manner to which she attributed the utter ruin of two weak-minded young men.

Not to go to the Dorcas Meetings, had been her most vol. i. c earnest advice and pathetic entreaty to me, on my first settling at the Rectory. With out allowing me a moment for consideration, the worthy old Michael Adams had precipitated me into the very heart of one ! There was some shuffling away of work, but most of the ladies welcomed me cor dially. Except the male individuals be longing to the families, at whose houses the weekly meetings took place in rotation, I was the only man entitled to admittance. The Curate was the sole interloper sanc tioned. Some offence had been given to the Dean, at the time when the charity was established. He had refused to subscribe. The ladies of his family never attended. As Mrs. Mil verton observed, I was quite at liberty to stay away. She did not patronise it.

She was used to hearing sound divinity at home, from her young gentlemen ; and to go and listen to Mrs. Warren from the Pastures, Miss Reed from the Mill, Mrs. Parker, who kept the shop, and all the other women of the place, prate about dividing Church and State, infant and adult baptism, regenera tion and sanctification — was more than she could stand. As for the work, little enough was done, she felt convinced. For her part, she should be ashamed, old as she was, to be cutting out such things before young gentlemen. All the gossip of the village — all the irreverent canvassing of her household divinities, the Curates, was hatched and carried on at the Dorcas Meetings. For my part, I was inclined to see great good in them. I had heard much in favour of the charity among the cottagers, and was determined to stand by it.

Nothing else was done in the parish for the relief of the labourers' families. Like most other earthly benefits, this might be mixed with evil ; but the undertaking had been begun in a kindly spirit. It was conducted fairly and liberally. If the women of the place met, it did not follow that it must be for mischief and gossiping. It could not be c for a better purpose than making garments for the poor. I by no means agreed with Miss Mary, the only female unemployed, as she sat in the window, occupying a place which some of the industrious workwomen might have coveted for the excellent light it afforded. I saw by her elevated eyebrows that she was condemning the whole thing, and full of uncharitable ideas about her neighbours. The cheerful room, with the fire, which was agreeable in the evening, just lighted ; the dark old oaken casement-frames ; the polished floor ; the China roses peeping in at the windows ; the neatly dressed females — all but Miss Mary with their spotless muslin ; the comely matron with her high quaint cap and handkerchief pinned tightly down — she did not change her fashions as quicklyasher daughters — pleased me greatly.