Chapter VI: A Slackened Bow

WITH wounded feelings and an embittered spirit, Philomel Lamb trod her homeward path in the twilight, averting her eyes as she passed the picturesque village schoolhouse on the edge of the moor. Caleb Coffin, she saw clearly, had been trifling with her. He had craftily found a method of silencing her earnest pleadings for what he was resolved not to grant. The cynic was hugging himself in the comfortable conviction that selfishness is a necessary constituent of solid sense, and that enthusiasm in any cause is but the bubbling up of weaker fluid, easily stirred, easily heated, without form or consistency of its own.

As she hurried on her way, the sweet sounds and sights of nature seemed for the time to have lost all attraction for Philomel Lamb. A thought came flitting ever and anon across the mind of the maiden, always thrust impatiently aside, yet ever returning. Again and again the words, "Could I—ought I—no—absurd! Impossible!" unconsciously escaped from Philomel's lips, as she approached the green gate which opened on the vicarage lawn, and its half circle of narrow gravel drive.

Fresh hoof-marks were on that gravel; none had been there when, after her early dinner with her father, Philomel had left her home on her visit to the Villa of Roses. Visitors must have surely been rare, or why should the heart of Philomel have fluttered at sight of those hoof-prints; and why should she have looked so eagerly towards the porch to see if a saddle-horse were standing before it? All thoughts of Caleb Coffin, the Arkwrights, the abbey and the school, at once passed away from her mind.

With rapid step Philomel passed along the drive, unconsciously smoothing back from her brow with her hand the light hair that the breezes had ruffled. There was no steed fastened by the rein to the rose-covered porch, yet it was not without a sensation of disappointment that the young lady, on entering the sitting-room, found her father alone.

"Why, Philomel, what has become of you?" was the greeting of the vicar to his daughter, as she hurried in, a little flushed and panting. "The water is getting cold in the tea-pot. I told Sandi not to bring the tray up till you made your appearance, but Sarah is a bit of clock-work herself, and makes no allowance for the vagaries of young ladies."

"I'm sorry to be late, papa," said Philomel, as she hastily proceeded to perform the duties of the tea-table, after unloosing her straw hat and throwing her scarf across the back of a chair.

Mr. Lamb was a punctual man, and the hands of the little brass clock on the mantelpiece—the most steady-going of clocks—pointed to quarter of an hour beyond the usual time at which the vicar partook of his simple repast.

"Any news, papa?" asked Philomel, as she unlocked the rosewood caddy.

"That wretched business about the school can hardly be called news now," said the vicar; "nothing has ever happened in this parish that has given me more annoyance."

"Has any one been here?" inquired Philomel, with her eyes fixed upon the water which she was pouring into the cups to heat them.

"Yes, poor old Barnes was here; he wants me to get him a weekly allowance from the Board. I think that the honest old fellow should have it; I told him I'd do what I could."

Philomel was persuaded old Barnes had not come upon horseback, and felt no strong interest at that moment in the worn-out ploughman.

"And Mrs. Bullen called for a letter to the G— Dispensary for her child. I'll go and see poor little Martha to-morrow; I'm afraid that she'll never get the better of that attack in her chest." And the vicar, as he took his seat at the table, looked almost as grave as if the washerwoman's child had been one of his own.

"Any other visitors, papa?" asked Philomel, after a pause. Had she seen the mark of wheels as well as of hoofs on the gravel, she would have asked the question more boldly.

"Visitors—yes," said the vicar, rousing himself from an apparently painful train of thought to speak on a subject of indifference. "Young Latour was here; he came just when I was up to my ears in the parish accounts, and sat for nearly an hour. These young fellows seem to think that time is of no more value to others than it is to themselves."

"I suppose that he'll be at the bow-meeting to-morrow," said Philomel Lamb.

"I don't know—yes—I remember he said that he was going," replied the vicar; "but really my mind was so much taken up, what with the accounts and what with the conduct of Coffin regarding my school, that I could scarcely give attention to what my visitor was saying."

Philomel felt provoked with herself for having gone a second time to Burnesbey Abbey upon her unsuccessful mission.

"Stop—that's enough—you've put in three lumps already; I don't want the sugar-basin emptied into my cup," said the vicar good-humouredly. "If the tea prove colourless and cold, you seem resolved at least to have it sweet. I might as well have asked Latour to stay and share our bread and butter," continued the vicar, drawing his cup towards him; "I wish that he had called a little later, when I should have been more at leisure. I like the young man; he is not one of your drawing-room puppies, dangling after ladies, and retailing mere gossip. I believe that Latour has both heart and brains; and he is none the worse for shooting better than any other man in the county."

The vicar himself had been no contemptible archer, and during the earlier period of his residence in Thwayte might have been cited as a specimen of muscular Christianity. Lady Macaw had been somewhat scandalized by the pastor's energetic cricketing on the green with his parishioners, and had often observed that a vicar who would pull off his coat and rush about madly with butcher-boys and plough-boys, could not have a becoming sense of the dignity of his position, nor inspire respect in his flock.

It was certain, however, that Thomas Lamb succeeded in winning their affections, for he threw himself heart and soul into their interests, and would walk twenty miles and miss his dinner any day to serve the poorest of his people. The vicar had for years given up cricketing and archery; Miss Eccles said that he had had no heart for such sports since the death of his poor dear wife; while Lady Macaw averred that Mr. Lamb was growing stout, and that it was not heart but breath that he wanted. In confirmation of the latter opinion, the rosy, cheerful face of the parson was still always seen wherever his people gathered together for harmless amusement; and his hearty "Well done!" would resound over the green when there was a high leap over a hurdle, or a skilful hit at a wicket.

In the pulpit, Thomas Lamb was simple, earnest, straightforward preacher who forgot himself in his work. He spoke plainly and always to the point, and grappled with sin in his parish, as, in his youth, he would have grappled and wrestled with an opponent in one of the athletic contests in which he then delighted. Thomas Lamb was, however, no eloquent preacher in the pulpit, no ready writer at the desk. It was no easy matter to the worthy vicar to compose a single sermon in the week, especially since the loss of his wife, who had helped him to write it; and he always on Sundays preached two. Thomas Lamb drew from his library what he could not draw from his brain, and, to the great disgust of Lady Macaw, made no secret of doing so.

"I really, much as I dislike using my carriage on a Sunday, have often to drive to G— to attend service there," the lady would say, in a tone of pathetic complaint. "Of course it is right to set an example of regular attendance at a parish-church; and I know, in a village like Thwayte, the people naturally look up for direction to those in a position like mine; but really, to see a clergyman taking a book, a bound book, into the pulpit, shocks all one's ideas of propriety. I actually presented Mr. Lamb with a black silk manuscript cover, and suggested that if he must preach the sermons of others, he should at any rate copy them out, so that he might at least appear to his congregation to be giving them the fruits of his own toil and study; but he has never had the grace to take the hint, or make use of the cover."

"If it is right for me to give my flock better sermons than I can make myself, why should I be ashamed to let them know that I do so?" had been the observation of honest Thomas Lamb. "If a man lend me his good cloak to cover my threadbare suit, it seems to me only fair to let him have credit for the loan."

The vicar of Thwayte was a kind-hearted, cheerful-tempered, hard-working parson, more popular perhaps in the cottage than the hall, but everywhere welcome, and everywhere at home. He enjoyed a good story, he relished a good jest, but never when mirth had the slightest tinge of profanity, or the joke could cause the smallest degree of pain. Thomas Lamb was one of the fondest of fathers; he had been Philomel's playmate in her childhood—quite as fond of a game of romps as herself; and often had the vicar raced up and down the slip of garden at the back of his house with his little one perched on his shoulder, her golden locks streaming behind her, while the mingled laughter of father and daughter sounded merrily on the breeze.

Though the gaiety of the Lambs had now a more sober cast, Philomel still found in her surviving parent not only a guide and instructor, but the most genial and cheerful of companions, fondly partial, tenderly indulgent, whose rebuke seldom went beyond a smile and shake of the head, or a playful admonition conveyed in a jest. But Thomas Lamb's own standard of duty was high; and he had so impressed his views and principles on his daughter, that the bridle of roses by which he held her was in his hands a very powerful curb. Philomel would have shrunk more from bringing a cloud over that frank loving face whose smile made brightness in her home, than many a girl would from bringing upon herself the sternest displeasure of a parent less tenderly beloved.

There was no smile on the face of the vicar, however, as he sat with his daughter at their humble repast in the twilight of that spring evening. There was an unwonted stamp of care on the brow of the pastor, and not a single story or joke escaped him as he slowly stirred his tea and emptied his plate.

Philomel also felt little inclined to converse. Her thoughts, however, were of a more chequered character than those of her father, sunshine or shadow prevailing as they reverted to the disappointments of the day, or the expected pleasures of the morrow. To judge by the softened yet bright expression of her blue eyes, the sunshine predominated; for at the silent tea-table, as in the flowery fields, Philomel was indulging in day-dreams. From these she was roused by an exclamation from her father, whose meditations had been of a more sombre and practical cast.

"It will do incalculable mischief!" And a sigh followed which came from the depth of the vicar's soul.

"Ah, papa, you were thinking of the school."

"I was thinking of the public-house," said Mr. Lamb, pushing back his chair and rising from the table. "Here have I been for twenty years battling against drunkenness in my village, giving up my own glass of ale for the sake of example. And when I hoped that I was showing a good front to the foe, there comes my own brother-in-law and attacks me, as it were, from the rear. Look at poor Wakefield, father of six children (every one of them attending the school); he is just struggling out of the mire, making resolutions not to drink, and keeping them sometimes for three weeks at a time. What chance will he have to become a sober fellow at last, when a new public-house is planted almost opposite to his own door; and where will these wretched children of a drunkard be taught anything but mischief, when the only schoolhouse within four miles of them is turned into a pest-house instead!" The vicar used a good deal of gesture in speaking, and his manner, usually animated, had now the warmth of just indignation.

"I wish that Sir John had lived till he was a hundred years old," cried Philomel.

"I wonder whether you could do anything with your uncle?" said the vicar, as the idea suddenly presented itself to his mind. "He cared not a straw for my words; I've not much of the knack of persuasion, but a woman can sometimes coax when a man cannot convince; and you, Philomel—" the father's hand was on the shoulder of his daughter, playing with her soft golden tresses—"you have been rather a pet with your uncle; suppose that you take him in hand."

"I have been twice at the abbey to-day," said Philomel Lamb.

"Ah, I might have been sure that you would leave no stone unturned. You are the willing horse, my darling, that never needs the spurring. But, of course, your request, like my own, met with flat refusal. Had the least hope been held out by Caleb, you would have shared it with me at once."

Had honest Thomas Lamb been fronting his daughter instead of standing behind her, looking at her countenance suffused with crimson, instead of toying with her curls, notwithstanding the deepening shades of approaching night, he must have seen the confusion caused by his observation. That confusion became more painful as the vicar went on.

"I know that you have the matter just as much at heart as I have, and I would willingly part with my right hand to preserve that school to my village."

A sharp pang shot through the heart of Philomel. She rose hastily and busied herself with putting by sugar, locking the caddy, and ringing the bell for Sarah to clear away the tea-things and bring the lighted candle. Philomel then brought her workbasket from its corner. This was the hour when the vicar delighted to listen to her music—to hear, as he said, his nightingale sing in the gloaming—but Philomel felt this evening that she had not the heart to sing.

After Sarah had brought in the single light, Philomel proposed that her father should read aloud to her as she worked; Mr. Lamb made an attempt to do so, but neither he nor his daughter could fix their thoughts on the page. The volume was soon closed, and the vicar's conversation again recurred to the school. Philomel, bending over her needle, was a very silent listener.

Thus the evening wore on heavily till the time had arrived for Bible-reading and prayer. In his simply-expressed supplications, the vicar especially remembered the subject then uppermost in his mind. He earnestly prayed that He who has all hearts in his hand would preserve the village school, and make it a blessing to many; and give to those who had power to help it a ready will, a self-sacrificing spirit.

As Philomel knelt by her father's side, two bright drops fell from her closed eyes upon her clasped fingers, but so faint was her whispered "Amen" at the close, that it reached no human ear.