interior(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)INTERIOR VIEW OF PERIVALE CHURCH.
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)INTERIOR VIEW OF PERIVALE CHURCH.
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)
INTERIOR VIEW OF PERIVALE CHURCH.
The cathedral of St. Asaph, in Flintshire, might be mentioned in this category as being the smallest cathedral in the country. It is in the shape of a simple cross in plan, consisting of a choir transept, nave, with five bays with aisles, and a central tower forty feet square and one hundred feet high. The choir was built in 1867-68 from the designs of the late Sir Gilbert Scott, R.A., and is of Early English architecture.
Passing references might also be made to the diminutive church of Warlingham, in Surrey, which runs the midget church of Wotton in that county very close; and to Grosmont Church, Monmouth, erected by Eleanor of Provence, a quaint little structure with an octagonal tower. There used to be a church known as St. Mildred in the Poultry, which was removed to Lincolnshire. It formerly occupied a position in the eastern end of Cheapside, and in 1872 it was taken to pieces and re-erected at Louth. It is generally considered to be the smallest church designed by Wren.
At St. Andrew, Greensted, near Ongar, there is a very small church, and it is a curiosity, inasmuch as it is believed to be a relic of the only church of Saxon origin built of wood remaining.
There is a small chapel at Point in View, near Exmouth. It is Congregational, and it provides seating accommodation for eighty persons, and forms one side of a block, the other three sides being taken up by four little almshouses, each consisting of two rooms occupied by four elderly maiden ladies. Over the chapel door is this motto:—
"One Point in ViewWe all pursue."
The chapel contains a diminutive organ made by the pastor. In the vicinity there is a peculiar round house, the property of the Reichel family. It was a member of this family who founded the chapel and almshouses.
The little church of St. Nicholas at Hulcote should be mentioned. It is near Woburn, the seat of the Duke of Bedford. It is rather difficult to find, at any rate when the foliage is on the trees, so surrounded is it by them. It was built about the year 1610 by Richard Chernocke. Its measurements are: length, from the tower to the chancel step, thirty-nine and a half feet; chancel, eight and a half feet from step to east; width, sixteen feet three inches. There are carved oaken panels to many of the seats, and on the north wall, inside the chancel rails, are some valuable old monuments in memory of the Chernocke family. It is now between fifteen and twenty years since the church was used for divine service, but it is still used for funerals.
There is a little church, near London, known as Perivale. Although so near to the great metropolis, it is situated in a peculiarly lonely district. It lies in the valley of the Brent amid expansive meadows and hay farms. In 1871 there were only seven houses and thirty-three inhabitants in the parish. The midget church is situated at the end of a field near a low, semi-Gothic half-timber parsonage and a farmhouse. Although somewhat desolate, the spot is a restful one, and the hill and spire of Harrow in the distance make the scene pleasing to the eye. The little church is in the Early Perpendicular style, and consists of a nave, a narrow chancel, a rough wooden tower with short, pyramidal spire at the west, and porch on the south-west. The interior presents a well-kept appearance. The church was restored in 1875. In the windows is some late fifteenth-century glass containing figures of St. John the Baptist and St. Matthew, in fairly good condition, and of Mary and Joseph, which are not so well preserved.
The prettily situated ivy-clad church of St. Lawrence, Ventnor, Isle of Wight, is another edifice which might well be described as a midget church, although some years ago it was found necessary to enlarge it. The church originally was thirty feet eight and a half inches long, it is now forty feet eight and a half inches; and its breadth was formerly eleven feet, whereas it is now twenty feet. The height to the eaves is about six feet. The architecture is Old English, but not at all striking. The church dates back to about the year 1190.
old(Photo: F. N. Broderick Hyde.)THE OLD CHURCH AT ST. LAWRENCE.
(Photo: F. N. Broderick Hyde.)THE OLD CHURCH AT ST. LAWRENCE.
(Photo: F. N. Broderick Hyde.)
THE OLD CHURCH AT ST. LAWRENCE.
We have now exhausted our space, but not our subject. There are other examples of diminutive churches throughout the country, but we have made a selection of the more interesting ones. However small the church, the worshippers have this assurance from the Founder of the Christian religion: "Where two or three are gathered together in My name, there am I in the midst of them"; and with that quotation this little article may fittingly be concluded.
canon
By E. S. Curry, Author of "One of the Greatest," "Closely Veiled," Etc.
II n the Canons' Court, between Mr. Bethune's and the Deanery, lived Mr. Warde. He was a pleasant man, well off, artistic, musical—and happy in a life of little work, which left him leisure for his artistic pursuits. He had a rosy, kind face and plump figure; the Bethune children, Marjorie included, went to him before anyone else in times of need. He had often shielded them from offended law.
I n the Canons' Court, between Mr. Bethune's and the Deanery, lived Mr. Warde. He was a pleasant man, well off, artistic, musical—and happy in a life of little work, which left him leisure for his artistic pursuits. He had a rosy, kind face and plump figure; the Bethune children, Marjorie included, went to him before anyone else in times of need. He had often shielded them from offended law.
It was he who set on foot the literary and drawing guilds, arranged concerts, and was the universal handy man for games and social festivities to all the county round Norham. He was about thirty-five, and had a chivalric devotion to Mrs. Bethune and her children, since, as a young man, he had first come to Norham.
Marjorie was so accustomed to this that she did not see what was manifest to other eyes, on her return from school in Munich. She took all his kindness as a matter of course, having no more relation to herself individually than the Bishop's or the Dean's. Since her return, he had been sedulously pursuing his courtship in every way that occurred to him.
This gentleman was standing beside her under the lime-tree at the top of the garden, where Marjorie could superintend the pursuits of her two youngest brothers. They were now busily engaged underground. For a whole week every minute of David's and Sandy's leisure had been spent in digging a deep hole in the corner of the garden devoted to their use. Thence, with infinite patience, passages had been scooped, and the mound of earth thrown up against the wall had come in useful as a toboggan ground.
The little boys had received strict orders that morning that all the earth in the passages of the "cave," which, in a frenzy of labour, the two schoolboys had burrowed out before breakfast, was to be removed before their return in the afternoon. As it got deeper, steps had been conveyed from the house for the descent of the hole. The utility of division of labour had been impressed upon the children. Orme was to fill the baskets; Ross, being surer of his equilibrium, was to carry them up and empty them. If the work was not done, and done properly, the babies would have to play elsewhere; no longer would their presence be tolerated by their elders.
Marjorie was enjoying a new book, whose alluring cover was fit index to its contents. Now and then, between the pages, dark eyes looked at her in a strange and wonderful fashion. When this occurred, she would lift her own, and gaze dreamily over the currant bushes, her breath coming quickly, the colour fluctuating in her cheeks. Upon one such moment Mr. Warde had intruded.
"I thought I would come in and talk toyou about your sonnet, Marjorie," he said, looking about for a seat. There was nothing handy except a cleft log—used by the boys as a block for chopping sticks. On this uncomfortable seat Mr. Warde poised himself.
lookingThe man, looking at her, thought he might take hope.
The man, looking at her, thought he might take hope.
The man, looking at her, thought he might take hope.
"But that wouldn't be fair, would it?" asked Marjorie.
"Oh! we judged the poems yesterday. I didn't propose to alter anything. Mrs. Adeane's is the best, and Lady Esther's next. But—your usual imagination was wanting this time," he said gently.
"I thought it was bad—it seemed so prosaic," Marjorie said humbly. "You see, father's advice always is, not to let imagination go further than it knows."
"Have you never imagined, never thought about love?" he asked softly.
"Often, lately," frankly. "I thought it was a very silly subject to choose."
"Not silly, Marjorie. The loveliest poetry has been written about it, as it is the loveliest subject. Why 'lately'?" he asked.
"To get ideas. They don't come, if you don't think—not to me, at least."
"That way of putting it is new," he said, considering. "Well, Marjorie, I want you to think of it, to imagine all you can of what it means—the new brightness, the new beauty it gives to life; how it transforms all things, even the commonest, so that——" He paused. Marjorie was looking at him in wonder.
Was it something in his glance that brought irresistibly back to her remembrance that look in Mr. Pelham's dark eyes, of which more than once that afternoon she had been thinking? She coloured brightly, and her beautiful eyes grew soft.
"Ah! I see you know what I mean," Mr. Warde said gently.
"Oh! I don't," said Marjorie confusedly. But the man, looking at her, thought he might take hope. He went on:
"It is expressed in all beautiful music, as well as in the best literature and art. It appeals to everyone, because it is natural to all, and answers to something in the heart of every one of us. So you see, Marjorie, knowing you and your gift of imagination, I am disappointed at this bald little verse."
"Father says it is dangerous imagining on nothing," Marjorie replied, plucking up her spirit. "First get facts, absolutely accurate. Then build on them."
"Well, Marjorie, don't you realise thatthe facts are all about you, that I——Whatever's the matter?"
A yell broke across the summer air, and Marjorie, springing up, bent over the edge of the crater-like hole. At the bottom lay Orme, his basket beside him, its contents upon him. In a second Marjorie had descended underground, and Mr. Warde was left gazing into space.
When she emerged, Orme was in her arms, muddy tears bedewing his cherubic cheeks. "Fall'd," he announced, in a self-pitying tone, to the visitor.
Marjorie reseated herself, her little brother's head upon her breast. As she comforted him, the man observing her grew more in love than ever. Marjorie, soft and gentle, unconsciously rehearsing Madonna attitudes, gave him a thrill of delight. Presently the boy, his conscience uneasy over neglected work, slipped from her knee, and, with muttered remarks on "er, nasty ground," descended again into its bosom.
He had learnt the imprudence of engaging in another man's labour. Resenting the meaner part of filling the baskets for the more stolid and surefooted Ross to ascend and empty, he had been promptly punished for his ambition. His little soul was now sore with the injustice of things.
"Er, nasty steps slipped poor Orme," he said to Ross, watching his careful ascent.
"You not big anuff," Ross answered importantly. "Go and fill er basket. Do what David bidded you."
Meanwhile Mr. Warde had glanced at his watch. Soon, all too soon, this semi-solitude in which he had been fortunate enough to find Marjorie would be invaded by the schoolboys. He was no nearer the end for which he had come, and he could not again drag in Marjorie's little verse for criticism. She glanced at him, as she drew the alluring book towards her, and said, not too politely:
"If you are going to stay, I'll just fetch my work," rising as she spoke.
"No, Marjorie, don't go. There's something I specially wished to say, to talk to you about," he said, becoming a little confused under her unconscious gaze. Could he, after all, disturb this serenity by the suggestion of love and marriage? He felt somehow that the time was not ripe—that they would seem incongruous to her in connection with himself. And yet, if he did not speak, and be quick about it, another man might step in.
"I have had a letter to-day," he said, "offering me a college living."
"Have you?" said Marjorie in a not altogether flattering manner, and looking at him rather as though she were much surprised. She stood poised, ready to fetch the threatened work; her attitude altogether an unflattering one to a lover who has just made an important communication.
"You won't go, shall you?" she went on, her glance going past him to the wall which divided the gardens. Over the top big clusters of the roses in which Mr. Warde delighted nodded gaily, whilst further on the square face of his house was gay with bloom, amid which the two lines of windows stared a little baldly. The blind in each was arranged symmetrically, and in spite of its prim tidiness, even its outside showed that no loved woman ruled within. From her neighbour's house Marjorie's eyes jumped to her own home.
Here there was no symmetry, but its character as a home stood out plain. The nursery windows, distinguished by their guarding bars, were wide open, and the blinds drawn to the top, whilst in the three open windows of her mother's room adjoining the curtains flopped lazily, and the blinds had been adjusted to the sun. Somehow the sight and the difference brought a feeling into Marjorie's heart which had not yet stirred it in connection with Mr. Warde. Hitherto he had not seemed to her to need pity. But now, when he went back into his house—away from her and the homely garden, where vegetables, and currant bushes, and the untidy quarter of the boys, were of more account than flowers, where little feet pattered, and boys' voices were never silent—what would he go back to? The blank windows lit up empty rooms, where no foot but his own stirred. He would find no companionship but that of his music and his books. Marjorie never guessed of the visions that peopled his fireside.
"Shall you go?" she asked, looking at him—then speaking out suddenly the pity her thoughts had called up: "Won't it be very lonely?"
"Very. Sit down please, Marjorie, and listen to me."
Then, as she complied: "When first I came here, ten years ago, your father and mother were very kind to me, and I grew so attached to them and theirs, that I wanted nothing more. I felt no need of the ties other men have or make, because I had—you." Then his tone grew tender. "Do you remember how you used to come round and climb into my study window for your lessons, when the boys began to go to school? You were a bit forsaken then, Marjorie. And then, when you were good—as you weren't always—how a little pony accompanied me on my rides, and then when the pony and the child who rode it had each grown bigger, one day they bothdisappeared. The child went to school, to come back, nearly grown up, with music oozing out of her fingers' ends. Well, Marjorie" (he had risen, and his face was paling, his self-control vanishing, as he stood looking down on her), "I have waited a long time for that little girl—who has yet seemed always mine—I want her for my wife. Will you go with me, dear, if I go?"
Marjorie gazed blankly into his face. "I? Of course, it is me," she said slowly. "I don't know—I didn't think—how can I leave—everybody?" her voice faltered.
She rose suddenly, putting aside the hand that would have stayed her. There is nothing so cruel as a young thing who has no notion of her power and of the devotion she has stirred.
"I didn't think," she said, cuttingly, "that you wanted payment. I thought—I thought——" And then, not trusting her voice further, she sprang away from his detaining hand, and fled.
"Dear Marjorie,—You gave me no answer yesterday, and I am afraid I took you by surprise, and perhaps shocked you. A girl is a tender thing, I know. Will you send me just a little line of hope and forgiveness? I love you—how dearly you cannot guess—and I want you to be my wife. But I will press nothing against your will, and I have written 'No' to the offer of that living. I think you will like to stay near home. Whatever you decide, whether you say 'Yes' or 'No,' believe always that my love is too great to change, and that I am ever your attached friend,—W. St. J. Warde."
Marjorie was reading this letter with an expression which certainly did not augur well for its writer. She had been seeing to household matters for her mother, and had sat down with an armful of boys' clothes to mend, when the note had been handed to her.
"I do not know what to say to him, mother. I wish—oh, I do so wish he hadn't done it."
"He is a good man, Margie," her mother said simply. "A man, I think, to make you happy."
good man"He is a good man, Margie."
"He is a good man, Margie."
"He is a good man, Margie."
"Happy, mother? I am happy now. What should I do next door? I should always be running in to see you. And how could you get on without me?"
"We shall manage. And next door with Mr. Warde would be so much nicer than a long way off with someone else. It would scarcely be losing you."
"Do you want me to go, mother?" asked Marjorie, struck by her mother's tone.
"Not in one sense, dear; but you will go. It is natural for girls to marry. You will marry, I hope; it is the happiest life, with a good man you can look up to."
boys"You have been very good to my boys," Mrs. Bethune said.
"You have been very good to my boys," Mrs. Bethune said.
"You have been very good to my boys," Mrs. Bethune said.
"But do I look up to him? I think we—Charity and I—often laugh at him."
"But you can laugh, and yet look up, or life would be very dull. Who do you go to when you want to know anything that father can't teach you?"
"To Mr. Warde," acknowledged Marjorie.
"And when you want to go anywhere?"
"Yes; but only because he has a carriage—and we haven't."
"And when you want to see the picture galleries?"
"He can go; he always has time. But all that doesn't mean that I want to marry him," she added.
"But it is just that. You already look to him for most of your pleasures. That is a long way towards loving him. You would find him a very kind husband and friend."
"Oh! mother, what must I do?" entreated Marjorie, the tears coming into her eyes. "He has spoilt everything. It is Charity's garden-party this afternoon, and I shall be so uncomfortable. Couldn't you go, mother, in your chair?"
Mrs. Bethune's face changed.
"I could, dear. Yes, I will go; perhaps it will be difficult for you." She sighed softly; she was hardly as yet reconciled to her helplessness in public, in spite of the cheery spirit which enabled her to bear suffering with such courage.
Mrs. Bethune's spirit made her the idol and confidante of her boys. Her fun was unquenched, even when the fire of life would seem to have gone out for ever; after the terrible fall, when, to save the infant in her arms, she had laid herself upon her back for life. The baby—Orme—was found unhurt, folded round, so it seemed, by the broken body of his mother. Ross, the most thoughtful, she averred, of her six sons, once said to her:
"Mummie, you do laugh mor'n anybody. Is it 'cos you can't walk?"
"Yes, little son, perhaps it is; to make up, you know."
And Sandy, butting his bright head into her knees one day, inconsolable about something, was won to laughter by, "Sandy, laugh! Look at me!"—and he had looked. And the irresistible witchery of the beautiful dark eyes had cured his woe. She was always the sunshiny centre of the house, and only her husband, or Marjorie in rare moments, guessed how sometimes the bright spirit quailed.
The Dean was popular in the county. When Mr. Pelham came into the Deanery garden somewhat late, he found Mrs. Bethune's chair under the chestnut trees, a centre of laughter and conversation. Marjorie was standing by her mother, with a wistful look on her face, he thought at first sight, wondering at its expression. Love, when presented first to a girl brought up as Marjorie had been, comes as a great shock. That it should be Mr. Warde of all men who should cause her this disquiet filled Marjorie with a sense of the unsatisfactoriness of the world. It disturbed things that had seemed to her as settled as the hills round Norham that this old friend should want to be her lover.
Before going to the Deanery she had sent a little note in answer to his letter, in which she had said—
"There is nothing to forgive. But you must not think of me like this any more. You have always been so kind to all of us that it grieves me to say 'No' to anything you want. Still, it must be 'No.'"
She hoped he would not be present at the Deanery. It was his turn of duty at the cathedral. She would bring her mother away early, before he arrived. The afternoon was quite spoilt for her.
And then Mr. Pelham had come up, and she had introduced him to her mother with a tremulousness and agitation quite unlike her usual serenity.
"You have been very good to my boys," Mrs. Bethune said gratefully.
"Your boys have been very good to my little girl," he answered, admiring the delicate beauty of the face, scarcely looking older than the unquiet one of the tall daughter beside her.
"They're very enterprising," their mother said. "I hope she will not come to any harm with them. They're apt to give us surprises."
"I wonder if you will give me some advice about her," he went on, drawn by some magic in the dark eyes to appeal to their owner for sympathy, "if I may consult you. It is about clothes," he said, smiling. "My nurse is kind and careful, but surely a baby in the country does not really need expensive dresses from a Regent Street outfitter. I should be so grateful if you would tell me where you get those pretty things your little boys always look so nice in."
"Even when they are grubby?" laughed the mother. "I do not know where they could be bought. My nurse, and Marjorie, and I make them."
"Then, if you do, surely my nurse ought to have time. I do not like my baby's over-dressed look; at least, white satin seems to be out of keeping with mud-pies and digging. She is great on digging just now."
"Quite so," said Mrs. Bethune. "If you will send your nurse down to see me, I will have a talk with her."
The Duchess of Norham, a very great person indeed now came up to greet Mrs.Bethune. She was not one who troubled about dress. To-day, in her grey silk, and round hat, she was the most plainly dressed woman on the Deanery lawn. Charity, by her side, was an effective contrast, in soft, shimmering pink.
"Glad to see you out again, my dear," she said to Mrs. Bethune. "And this is your girl come back to you—grown past all knowledge. I hear wonders about her music," kindly. "Charity, may I take her away for a few minutes, presently? I want to hear this music Mr. Warde extols so. Where is he?" looking round.
Marjorie's cheeks, in spite of her usual self-control, turned scarlet. But the Duchess's gaze was arrested by the look on Mr. Pelham's face. He, still standing with a hand on Mrs. Bethune's chair, was looking at Marjorie with a surprised appeal in his expression, as if he, too, was wondering at her sudden flush.
"Oh!" thought the Duchess, "I imagined it was Charity. Was I mistaken then? Not about the girl, if those rosy cheeks are to be trusted."
"Why isn't Mr. Warde here?" she asked of Marjorie, who, in obedience to her gesture, turned with her towards the house.
"He is at the cathedral. It is his week."
And the Duchess thought she guessed rightly the reason of the agitation she detected in Marjorie's voice.
"The Blackton man will be unsuccessful," she settled. "But Charity is pretty enough to console him, and it will be a good marriage for them both."
This great lady was never more happy than when arranging marriages amongst her friends.
Marjorie did not dream how her sudden flush had betrayed her, and forgot lovers and the difficulties they caused when she sat down to the piano. But perhaps it was the perplexity in her mind that conveyed itself to the listener, through the plaintive melody ending in a staccato phrase which fell from her fingers.
The Duchess sat at a little distance, viewing with approval the delicate face, framed in its bright hair.
hush"Hush! Barbe, don't call!" entreated Sandy.—p. 168.
"Hush! Barbe, don't call!" entreated Sandy.—p. 168.
"Hush! Barbe, don't call!" entreated Sandy.—p. 168.
"Good, pure, true, and strong," shesettled; "and," as a sudden conviction struck her, "she is beautiful, like her mother was ten years ago. Dressed"—her thoughts following along the same way as Charity's—"well, she would be a success. She is wasted on Mr. Warde. Shall I interfere?"
She was so deep in thought, working out a sudden plan, that she did not notice when Marjorie ceased playing.
Marjorie, glancing at her, asked softly—
"Was that too sad? Shall I try something else?"
But in a moment the Duchess rose briskly, and put her hand kindly on Marjorie's shoulder.
"No, my dear. I shouldn't like that spoiled by anything else. Mr. Warde is right. You have a gift. But a girl like you should not be sad or—or perplexed. Forgive an old woman. Is something troubling you?"
Marjorie looked up into the keen eyes above her.
"Not troubling," she hesitated, "only things are sometimes perplexing."
As she spoke her eyes travelled to the window, through which came the sound of low-voiced chatter and delicate laughter. The older woman, looking at the girl, saw a sudden arrested look come into her eyes and, following their direction, was again puzzled. Charity, standing by Mrs. Bethune's chair, was smiling up into Mr. Pelham's face. She had the manner of one who is pleased, and who wishes to please, and her pretty daintiness of pose and dress was very attractive. Mr. Pelham's whole attention, as he conversed, was given to her. In his courteous attitude were expressed, in the eyes of the two lookers-on, both deference and admiration.
"That girl has grown very pretty," the Duchess said, "and Mr. Pelham seems to think so. He is quite an acquisition here, though I am amused to hear you sniffed at him at first."
"Yes," agreed Marjorie, a little pang at her heart.
The keen eyes travelled back again to Marjorie's face.
"But your mother was prettier than any of you. The sweetest, merriest creature ever seen, with you babies at her feet. I am glad to see her so much better, able to do even this little, poor soul, poor soul!"
The sudden tears welled up into Marjorie's eyes at the appreciation and tenderness of the tone.
"And, my dear—forgive an old woman again—but I think I have guessed Mr. Warde's hopes for a long time, and he is a good man. There, there"—as Marjorie's face grew agitated—"nothing could have happened better. Your mother will have you at hand, and though she is so unselfish and brave, she has missed you sadly; and there is plenty of money."
Marjorie listened in silence, with a feeling as though chains were being bound round her. As she walked back by the Duchess's side to her mother's chair she strove in vain to recall her courage. In the eyes of the man who watched her, as she came towards him, the shadow on her face had deepened with that little excursion into the house.
The boys had seized the opportunity of the attention of their elders being engaged elsewhere to get into mischief. Although they had made so much fuss about their right of way to school, it was not the only way they used. They had, in fact, several ways. One was by train to Baskerton, a village on the river five miles away, and thence, by lanes and the parks, home. This, however, required time and the absence of authorities. Another way was through Easton and the parks, up the course of the little stream, which at one point nearly touched the Court gardens. In this stream, its shallow waters splashing up against their ankles, the boys were walking, and the baby was prancing between them.
"Should we take Barbe with us?" David had asked, pausing on the Green.
"If we can get her," Sandy had replied.
The boys reconnoitred, and the piercing whistle, which set the baby all a-quiver with expectation, sounded through the garden.
"There then, go!" said nurse somewhat crossly, as Barbe began to stamp; and she went. Her education was proceeding apace. Her father sometimes listened aghast at the things which, in her baby prattle, she reported herself to have done.
"See, Barbe, there's a rat!" Sandy said eagerly, as a flop and a splash made them jump. "See, it's swimmin' away."
"'Wimmin' away," said the baby, stooping to look, her two hands on her two knees, and the front of her frock sailing on the water before her.
"Oh, Barbe, you're all wet!" David said, as they landed, and strolled up the field.
"Wet!" she echoed delightedly. "Foots—f'ock!"
"You'll have to be dried."
"I know," said Sandy cheerfully; "we'll dry you by the Bishop's fire—almost sure to be a fire."
But the study window, to which they crept warily by sheltered ways, was shut. The Bishop was absent.
"Now what's to be done?" said David.
"I know where there's a fire," Sandy said. "Was this morning, 'cos of that lead. Let's take her to the little room."
Again they slipped by leafy ways out of the Palace garden into the cathedral yard. The baby's wet skirts flopped round her, and David lifted her into his arms.
The approach of Mrs. Lytchett, returning from the Deanery in unwonted bravery of attire, prompted them to seek refuge behind a tomb. Here it took the boys' whole attention to prevent Barbe's chatter drawing unwished-for notice upon them.
"Hush! Barbe, don't call!" entreated Sandy.
"Barbedie good girl," announced the baby in a loud voice, lifting herself on tip-toe to see the passer-by.
Mrs. Lytchett's ears were good, and, besides, she felt certain at this point that her eyes had seen something fluttering. She stepped off the pathway, and examined a tomb near.
"Hush!—sh—sh!" cautioned David, holding up his finger to his mouth—a movement which so pleased Barbe that she proceeded to copy it.
Mrs. Lytchett passed on; the danger was over. David lifted up the baby and carried her into a little octagon room near by, built in the wall of the cathedral, and used frequently as a workroom or office.
Here the boys were at home. It was the head-quarters of their greatest friends—the masons engaged on the renovations always in progress at the cathedral.
In the grate were the slowly dying embers of a fire, and the room was empty.
"Mr. Galton ain't locked up yet, knowed he wouldn't," said Sandy. "He likes his tea punctual—'spects it's time. Now, Barbe, come an' get done."
Whilst David was holding the baby to the fire, Sandy disappeared, presently returning with an excited face.
"They've nearly done," he said. "It's prime up there. Seems to me, we'd best settle as soon as possible."
"This baby won't get dry," said David, gloomily. "Just look at her!"
"I know," said Sandy, regarding the bedraggled Barbe. "We'll take it off an' leave it here. An' I'll fetch her somefink. Sure to be somefink stored in Margie's basket—know Orme made holes in himself last week."
So it happened that it was a little blue girl—clad in one of Orme's shabbiest overalls—who met Mrs. Bethune's returning chair, and was lifted to her knee for a "yide."
"But what has happened? where are her own clothes?" Mrs. Bethune asked, recognising the substitute.
"We thought they were just a little damp," said Sandy in explanation, climbing up the back of the chair to kiss his mother.
"Good boy, Sandy!" said his mother, "to take care of her."
"But how did they get damp?" asked Marjorie suspiciously.
"Just a little water p'raps got on them," he replied, feeling the tone unkind after his mother's praise.
"Then you have been in mischief?" asked Marjorie.
"Barbedie walked in er water," the baby replied, as if she had been doing a good work.
"You shouldn't have let her," Mrs. Bethune said caressingly.
"Barbe don't want lettin'," answered Sandy philosophically. "She does wivout."
The sweets of mischief whetted the boys' appetites for more. They applied themselves with zeal to a work they had in hand, and for the next few days little was seen of them.
One evening they were standing in a disused corner of the Palace grounds, under the ruined window of the old banqueting hall, which formed part of the wall enclosing the gardens of the modern wing of the house. The corner where they stood was immediately adjoining the wall of their own garden, and was part of an overgrown shrubbery between the ruins and the parks.
Both boys were exceedingly dirty. Faces, capless heads, fingers, clothes, all bore traces of the underground work from which they had just emerged. They had burrowed from their cave, and were mightily pleased at their point of exit. No place could be more secluded, nor less likely to be discovered. And from the ruined wall close by, under the shelter of a spreading elder, they were able to drop easily either into the cathedral yard or the Bishop's garden.
"Now the game begins. We've got a base of operations," said David grandly.
"How much?" asked Sandy.
"What you work from, and what you fall back upon, if you get besieged. And it's a good base too," he added, looking round. "We've got to make this passage hard and firm, and then hide it from that prying gardener."
"An' we can pay back Mrs. Lytchett," said Sandy with joy.
"How?"
"Oh, I know! She just hates us going to the Bishop's window. He told me he'd just got a new tin of gingerbread, an' now we can get in wivout goin' through the gate. She's made that gate so it clicks."
"But you mustn't let her see."
"Not me! If she comes, we'll just run round the house, and she'll fink we've come back way. And then she'll run round to catch us, an' we shan't be there."
Sandy spoke with the certainty of much experience, as, indeed, he had a right to do.
"Our character is all gone," David said thoughtfully, "so it don't much matter how bad we are."
"No, s'long as it ain't wicked bad. We'll be highwaymen, but we won't be thieves and robbers."
"We can get into the cathedral, too," suggested David.
And then, with minds full of revolution and anarchy, the boys bent earnestly to the preliminary work of making their passage secure.
"Ross and Orme, you're never to go along there without us," David said to his young brothers, when he had wriggled back to the cave whence his passage started. Now their services were no longer needed, they were felt to be rather nuisances.
"If you do, you'll get smacked right hard," said Sandy.
Both children fixed round eyes on their elders, unable to understand this sudden change. They were dismayed at its injustice. For some days they had been treated with indulgent kindness, all their faults overlooked, so long as they did diligent work. They were cleaned when possible, and consoled when their dirty appearance awoke wrath in the powers responsible for them. Now, it seemed, all was changed. There was no mistaking Sandy's attitude, as he stood ready to administer the smacks alluded to. Nor were David's frowning brows more encouraging.
Ross tried argument. "We'se scooped, too," he said. "We'se got dirty, ever so," he added.
"Ever so," echoed Orme.
"No matter! You kids must do as you're bid, and if ever you go a step along there you'll catch it. See?" said David. And the infants, with moody brows, averred that they saw.
By this time the hole which formed the entrance to the cave was much improved. The wooden steps had been replaced by a flight of mud steps, the making of which had been a joy, not only to the boys, but to the baby. They had required water as well as mud in their making—endless paddlings and pattings and treadings down of little feet before the staircase was complete. David had engineered the proceedings, and Mr. Warde, now and then hovering about the top, had conferred advice. He was not encouraged to descend. The boys wanted no prying grown-ups to mar their schemes. Marjorie, now and then, had suspicions that some extra mischief was afloat. Never before had she known them to stick to anything for so long. But she recollected the fascination of caves and holes, and was, besides, much engaged with her own concerns.
bishopThe Bishop and the boy.—p. 170.
The Bishop and the boy.—p. 170.
The Bishop and the boy.—p. 170.
One evening the Bishop, on leaving the drawing-room, had gone to his study. It had been a wet day, and the rain had finished in a thunderstorm an hour or so before, leaving the sky washed and pellucid under the summer moon.
The shutters had been closed and a little fire lighted; but presently, finding the room warm, the Bishop opened the window, and stood gazing over the wide lawn which occupied the space between the house and the ruins.
The delicate tracery of the ruined window of the banqueting hall, and the many unevennesses of the walls, stood out black against the sky. Every object on the lawn—every bush and tree and flower—was sharply distinct.
As he looked, his eye caught a movement among the distant shrubs. Some small object was advancing along the gravelled walk surrounding the lawn. Presently, as if attracted by the light, it turned off the pathway on to the lawn, in a bee-line for the window.
The Bishop stood watching, wondering a little, when the object resolved itself first into a small boy, and then into Sandy Bethune.
"Why, Sandy!" he exclaimed, "how did you get here?"
"Is it the middle of the night?" asked Sandy in his usual cheerful way.
"Nearly. It's half-past eleven. Good gracious! What have you been doing?"
For, on approaching the light, Sandy was seen to be covered with mud and otherwise much disarrayed.
Sandy considered. He was in a deep fix—so deep a one as to threaten the upheaval and overthrow of some well-laid plans, just on the point of being carried out. The Bishop was an understanding man. Sandy had confided in him before, and knew his worth. If only Mrs. Lytchett did not live at the Palace, and spoil everything, Sandy would have been quite willing to share that residence with the Bishop. He had once told the Bishop so, artlessly asking when Mrs. Lytchett was going away to live elsewhere. The Bishop, on his side, found the children of his friend very charming, specially so irrepressible Sandy; and was ready to be lenient when their peccadilloes were in question. He now invited Sandy in, despite the muddy covering which encased him from head to foot. Sitting down, he began to question him gravely.
"What is it, Sandy? Why are you in such a mess?"
Sandy sat down on a little stool, as if glad to present his small person to the fire, and said, "It's the bovering funderstorm. We'd never thought of that. An' we got caught, an' had to take shelter, an' when we got back our way was bunged up—all squashy with mud. An' we hadn't got no spades nor fings out with us. So at last I said I would go and scout—you know—an' then I saw you."
"Who's 'we'?" asked the Bishop.
"Me an' David."
"And how did you get into my garden?"
"Oh, over the wall. We're highwaymen, and we've got a way of our own."
"Indeed. And where's David now?"
"Oh, he's over there, all muddy, tryin' to clean himself. He's a deal worse than me," said Sandy cheerfully.
"He must indeed be bad, then. What do you propose to do?"
"That's it. We can't get back to the pantry window now our way's gone," said artless Sandy. "Not in at all, not wivout knockin' at the door. I did think p'raps"—persuasively—"you cud come and knock."
"I see. And then?"
"Then, when you was talkin' to father, we cud slip in. Don't fink father would see—not to notice."
"How long have you been highwaymen?" the Bishop asked.
"On'y about a week—and this is a sickener," said Sandy disgustedly. "We was ghosts for a bit at first—till a woman screeched so we nearly got caught, stupid fing!"
And the Bishop, remembering certain reports that had been made to him, was pleased with his acumen in refusing to call in the police.
"If I were you, I should try a better line of business," he said. "Ghosts frighten silly women, and highwaymen are not very creditable, on the whole."
"Yes," agreed Sandy. "We're goin' to. Next we're goin' to be pioneers and settlers."
"Ah, I see. And where are you going to settle?"
Sandy's bright eyes were turned suspiciously to the kind ones looking down upon him. He fidgeted uneasily, and a smile came across the Bishop's face.
"I see," he said. "Perhaps you have not yet made up your minds."
Sandy looked uncomfortable. "Not 'zactly," he confessed. "Truth is, it depends—I don't fink Dave would like me to tell. It's such a grand plan," he went on enthusiastically, "it 'ud be such a pity——"
"To have it spoilt. Well, don't get into more mischief than you can help," the Bishop cautioned, "and don't do anything to make your mother uneasy."
"Mother? Oh, mother'll laugh—she always does. You see, the bother is," confided Sandy, "there ain't no places to pioneer—every bit's taken. An' we've on'y just thought on it; an' it's splendid. We want a girl badly, though. Margie? No, Margie's no good. Settlers has wives an' squaws," went on Sandy pensively, "and we've on'y got Barbe lately, an' she's aw'fly little. 'Sides, you have to take such care on her—she's the on'y one Mr. Pelham's got. There's a lot of us, but mother says she cudn't spare not the littlest bit of one. So much less him his one, an' such a little one. It's a 'sponsibility," sighed Sandy, "when you want to do fings."
Through the open window came the musical sound of the chimes from the cathedral. The Bishop, with a quick sigh, rose.
"There is a quarter to twelve. Your father will be going to bed. Fetch David quickly."
"Should fink he's cleaned by now," said Sandy hopefully. "He was rubbin' himself wiv the leaves off the trees—drippin' wet."
Mr. Bethune opened his front door in response to a low knocking, which at first he did not hear. His eyes had the unseeing,far-away look in them of a man disturbed in a possessing line of thought. The red light in the hall shone on the face of the Bishop, who entered and stood on the doormat for a minute, in such a position as to shield the entrance of the two muddy boys.
"Here is theGuardianfor you," he said, "with a very appreciative notice of your paper." Then he went on, "And tell Marjorie to-morrow morning not to be too cross with the state of the boys' clothes. They've been in mischief, but it won't happen again—not the same sort."