KIRKBY CLIFFE CHURCH
Kirkby Cliffe Church stands close upon the River Wharfe, about a quarter of a mile from the parsonage, which is on a steep hill-side running down from the moors to the stream. A prettier little church or graveyard you shall hardly find in England. Here, no large influx of population has necessitated the removal of the last home of the parishioners from beneath the shelter of the parish church. Every inhabitant of Kirkby Cliffe has, when dead, the privilege of rest among those green hillocks. Within the building is still room for tablets commemorative of the rectors and their wives and families, for there are none others in the parish to whom such honour is accorded. Without the walls, here and there, stand the tombstones of the farmers; while the undistinguished graves of the peasants lie about in clusters which, solemn though they be, are still picturesque. The church itself is old, and may probably be doomed before long to that kind of destruction which is called restoration; but hitherto it has been allowed to stand beneath all its weight of ivy, and has known but little change during the last two hundred years. Its old oak pews, and ancient exalted reading-desk and pulpit are offensive to many who come to see the spot; but Isabel Lownd is of the opinion that neither the one nor the other could be touched, in the way of change, without profanation.
In the very porch Maurice Archer met Mabel, with her arms full of ivy branches, attended by David Drum. “So you have come at last, Master Maurice?” she said.
“Come at last! Is that all the thanks I get? Now let me see what it is you’re going to do. Is your sister here?”
“Of course she is. Barty is up in the pulpit, sticking holly branches round the sounding-board, and she is with him.”
“T’ boorde’s that rotten an’ maaky, it’ll be doon on Miss Is’bel’s heede, an’ Barty Crossgrain ain’t more than or’nary saft-handed,” said the clerk.
They entered the church, and there it was, just as Mabel had said. The old gardener was standing on the rail of the pulpit, and Isabel was beneath, handing up to him nails and boughs, and giving him directions as to their disposal. “Naa, miss, naa; it wonot do that a-way,” said Barty. “Thou’ll ha’ me o’er on to t’stances — thou wilt, that a-gait. Lard-a-mussy, miss, thou munnot clim’ up, or thou’lt be doon, and brek thee banes, thee ull!” So saying, Barty Crossgrain, who had contented himself with remonstrating when called upon by his young mistress to imperil his own neck, jumped on to the floor of the pulpit and took hold of the young lady by both her ankles. As he did so, he looked up at her with anxious eyes, and steadied himself on his own feet, as though it might become necessary for him to perform some great feat of activity. All this Maurice Archer saw, and Isabel saw that he saw it. She was not well pleased at knowing that he should see her in that position, held by the legs by the old gardener, and from which she could only extricate herself by putting her hand on the old man’s neck as she jumped down from her perch. But she did jump down, and then began to scold Crossgrain, as though the awkwardness had come from fault of his.
“I’ve come to help, in spite of the hard words you said to me yesterday, Miss Lownd,” said Maurice, standing on the lower steps of the pulpit. “Couldn’t I get up and do the things at the top?” But Isabel thought that Mr. Archer could not get up and “do the things at the top.” The wood was so far decayed that they must abandon the idea of ornamenting the sounding-board, and so both Crossgrain and Isabel descended into the body of the church.
Things did not go comfortably with them for the next hour. Isabel had certainly invited his co-operation, and therefore could not tell him to go away; and yet, such was her present feeling towards him, she could not employ him profitably, and with ease to herself. She was somewhat angry with him, and more angry with herself. It was not only that she had spoken hard words to him, as he had accused her of doing, but that, after the speaking of the hard words, she had been distant and cold in her manner to him. And yet he was so much to her! she liked him so well! — and though she had never dreamed of admitting to herself that she was in love with him, yet — yet it would be so pleasant to have the opportunity of asking herself whether she could not love him, should he ever give her a fair and open opportunity of searching her own heart on the matter. There had now sprung up some half-quarrel between them, and it was impossible that it could be set aside by any action on her part. She could not be otherwise than cold and haughty in her demeanour to him. Any attempt at reconciliation must come from him, and the longer that she continued to be cold and haughty, the less chance there was that it would come. And yet she knew that she had been right to rebuke him for what he had said. “Christmas a bore!” She would rather lose his friendship for ever than hear such words from his mouth, without letting him know what she thought of them. Now he was there with her, and his coming could not but be taken as a sign of repentance. Yet she could not soften her manners to him, and become intimate with him, and playful, as had been her wont. He was allowed to pull about the masses of ivy, and to stick up branches of holly here and there at discretion; but what he did was done under Mabel’s direction, and not under hers, — with the aid of one of the farmer’s daughters, and not with her aid. In silence she continued to work round the chancel and communion-table, with Crossgrain, while Archer, Mabel, and David Drum used their taste and diligence in the nave and aisles of the little church. Then Mrs. Lownd came among them, and things went more easily; but hardly a word had been spoken between Isabel and Maurice when, after sundry hints from David Drum as to the lateness of the hour, they left the church and went up to the parsonage for their luncheon.
Isabel stoutly walked on first, as though determined to show that she had no other idea in her head but that of reaching the parsonage as quickly as possible. Perhaps Maurice Archer had the same idea, for he followed her. Then he soon found that he was so far in advance of Mrs. Lownd and the old gardener as to be sure of three minutes’ uninterrupted conversation; for Mabel remained with her mother, making earnest supplication as to the expenditure of certain yards of green silk tape, which she declared to be necessary for the due performance of the work which they had in hand. “Miss Lownd,” said Maurice, “I think you are a little hard upon me.”
“In what way, Mr. Archer?”
“You asked me to come down to the church, and you haven’t spoken to me all the time I was there.”
“I asked you to come and work, not to talk,” she said.
“You asked me to come and work with you.”
“I don’t think that I said any such thing; and you came at Mabel’s request, and not at mine. When I asked you, you told me it was all — a bore. Indeed you said much worse than that. I certainly did not mean to ask you again. Mabel asked you, and you came to oblige her. She talked to you, for I heard her; and I was half disposed to tell her not to laugh so much, and to remember that she was in church.”
“I did not laugh, Miss Lownd.”
“I was not listening especially to you.”
“Confess, now,” he said after a pause; “don’t you know that you misinterpreted me yesterday, and that you took what I said in a different spirit from my own.”
“No; I do not know it.”
“But you did. I was speaking of the holiday part of Christmas, which consists of pudding and beef, and is surely subject to ridicule, if one chooses to ridicule pudding and beef. You answered me as though I had spoken slightingly of the religious feeling which belongs to the day.”
“You said that the whole thing was — ; I won’t repeat the word. Why should pudding and beef be a bore to you, when it is prepared as a sign that there shall be plenty on that day for people who perhaps don’t have plenty on any other day of the year? The meaning of it is, that you don’t like it all, because that which gives unusual enjoyment to poor people, who very seldom have any pleasure, is tedious to you. I don’t like you for feeling it to be tedious. There! that’s the truth. I don’t mean to be uncivil, but —— ”
“You are very uncivil.”
“What am I to say, when you come and ask me?”
“I do not well know how you could be more uncivil, Miss Lownd. Of course it is the commonest thing in the world, that one person should dislike another. It occurs every day, and people know it of each other. I can perceive very well that you dislike me, and I have no reason to be angry with you for disliking me. You have a right to dislike me, if your mind runs that way. But it is very unusual for one person to tell another so to his face, — and more unusual to say so to a guest.” Maurice Archer, as he said this, spoke with a degree of solemnity to which she was not at all accustomed, so that she became frightened at what she had said. And not only was she frightened, but very unhappy also. She did not quite know whether she had or had not told him plainly that she disliked him, but she was quite sure that she had not intended to do so. She had been determined to scold him, — to let him see that, however much of real friendship there might be between them, she would speak her mind plainly, if he offended her; but she certainly had not desired to give him cause for lasting wrath against her. “However,” continued Maurice, “perhaps the truth is best after all, though it is so very unusual to hear such truths spoken.”
“I didn’t mean to be uncivil,” stammered Isabel.
“But you meant to be true?”
“I meant to say what I felt about Christmas Day.” Then she paused a moment. “If I have offended you, I beg your pardon.”
He looked at her and saw that her eyes were full of tears, and his heart was at once softened towards her. Should he say a word to her, to let her know that there was, — or, at any rate, that henceforth there should be no offence? But it occurred to him that if he did so, that word would mean so much, and would lead perhaps to the saying of other words, which ought not to be shown without forethought. And now, too, they were within the parsonage gate, and there was no time for speaking. “You will go down again after lunch?” he asked.
“I don’t know; — not if I can help it. Here’s Papa.” She had begged his pardon, — had humbled herself before him. And he had not said a word in acknowledgment of the grace she had done him. She almost thought that she did dislike him, — really dislike him. Of course he had known what she meant, and he had chosen to misunderstand her and to take her, as it were, at an advantage. In her difficulty she had abjectly apologised to him, and he had not even deigned to express himself as satisfied with what she had done. She had known him to be conceited and masterful; but that, she had thought, she could forgive, believing it to be the common way with men, — imagining, perhaps, that a man was only the more worthy of love on account of such fault; but now she found that he was ungenerous also, and deficient in that chivalry without which a man can hardly appear at advantage in a woman’s eyes. She went on into the house, merely touching her father’s arm, as she passed him, and hurried up to her own room. “Is there anything wrong with Isabel?” asked Mr. Lownd.
“She has worked too hard, I think, and is tired,” said Maurice.
Within ten minutes they were all assembled in the dining-room, and Mabel was loud in her narrative of the doings of the morning. Barty Crossgrain and David Drum had both declared the sounding-board to be so old that it mustn’t even be touched, and she was greatly afraid that it would tumble down some day and “squash papa” in the pulpit. The rector ridiculed the idea of any such disaster; and then there came a full description of the morning’s scene, and of Barty’s fears lest Isabel should “brek her banes.” “His own wig was almost off,” said Mabel, “and he gave Isabel such a lug by the leg that she very nearly had to jump into his arms.”
“I didn’t do anything of the kind,” said Isabel.
“You had better leave the sounding-board alone,” said the parson.
“We have left it alone, papa,” said Isabel, with great dignity. “There are some other things that can’t be done this year.” For Isabel was becoming tired of her task, and would not have returned to the church at all could she have avoided it.
“What other things?” demanded Mabel, who was as enthusiastic as ever. “We can finish all the rest. Why shouldn’t we finish it? We are ever so much more forward than we were last year, when David and Barty went to dinner. We’ve finished the Granby-Moore pew, and we never used to get to that till after luncheon.” But Mabel on this occasion had all the enthusiasm to herself. The two farmer’s daughters, who had been brought up to the parsonage as usual, never on such occasions uttered a word. Mrs. Lownd had completed her part of the work; Maurice could not trust himself to speak on the subject; and Isabel was dumb. Luncheon, however, was soon over, and something must be done. The four girls of course returned to their labours, but Maurice did not go with them, nor did he make any excuse for not doing so.
“I shall walk over to Hundlewick before dinner,” he said, as soon as they were all moving. The rector suggested that he would hardly be back in time. “Oh, yes; ten miles — two hours and a half; and I shall have two hours there besides. I must see what they are doing with our own church, and how they mean to keep Christmas there. I’m not quite sure that I shan’t go over there again to-morrow.” Even Mabel felt that there was something wrong, and said not a word in opposition to this wicked desertion.
He did walk to Hundlewick and back again, and when at Hundlewick he visited the church, though the church was a mile beyond his own farm. And he added something to the store provided for the beef and pudding of those who lived upon his own land; but of this he said nothing on his return to Kirkby Cliffe. He walked his dozen miles, and saw what was being done about the place, and visited the cottages of some who knew him, and yet was back at the parsonage in time for dinner. And during his walk he turned many things over in his thoughts, and endeavoured to make up his mind on one or two points. Isabel had never looked so pretty as when she jumped down into the pulpit, unless it was when she was begging his pardon for her want of courtesy to him. And though she had been, as he described it to himself, “rather down upon him,” in regard to what he had said of Christmas, did he not like her the better for having an opinion of her own? And then, as he had stood for a few minutes leaning on his own gate, and looking at his own house at Hundlewick, it had occurred to him that he could hardly live there without a companion. After that he had walked back again, and was dressed for dinner, and in the drawing-room before any one of the family.
With poor Isabel the afternoon had gone much less satisfactorily. She found that she almost hated her work, that she really had a headache, and that she could put no heart into what she was doing. She was cross to Mabel, and almost surly to David Drum and Barty Crossgrain. The two farmer’s daughters were allowed to do almost what they pleased with the holly branches, — a state of things which was most unusual, — and then Isabel, on her return to the parsonage, declared her intention of going to bed! Mrs. Lownd, who had never before known her to do such a thing, was perfectly shocked. Go to bed, and not come down the whole of Christmas Eve! But Isabel was resolute. With a bad headache she would be better in bed than up. Were she to attempt to shake it off, she would be ill the next day. She did not want anything to eat, and would not take anything. No; she would not have any tea, but would go to bed at once. And to bed she went.
She was thoroughly discontented with herself, and felt that Maurice had, as it were, made up his mind against her forever. She hardly knew whether to be angry with herself or with him; but she did know very well that she had not intended really to quarrel with him. Of course she had been in earnest in what she had said; but he had taken her words as signifying so much more than she had intended! If he chose to quarrel with her, of course he must; but a friend could not, she was sure, care for her a great deal who would really be angry with her for such a trifle. Of course this friend did not care for her at all, — not the least, or he would not treat her so savagely. He had been quite savage to her, and she hated him for it. And yet she hated herself almost more. What right could she have had first to scold him, and then to tell him to his face that she disliked him? Of course he had gone away to Hundlewick. She would not have been a bit surprised if he had stayed there and never come back again. But he did come back, and she hated herself as she heard their voices as they all went in to dinner without her. It seemed to her that his voice was more cheery than ever. Last night and all the morning he had been silent and almost sullen, but now, the moment that she was away, he could talk and be full of spirits. She heard Mabel’s ringing laughter downstairs, and she almost hated Mabel. It seemed to her that everybody was gay and happy because she was upstairs in her bed, and ill. Then there came a peal of laughter. She was glad that she was upstairs in bed, and ill. Nobody would have laughed, nobody would have been gay, had she been there. Maurice Archer liked them all, except her, — she was sure of that. And what could be more natural after her conduct to him? She had taken upon herself to lecture him, and of course he had not chosen to endure it. But of one thing she was quite sure, as she lay there, wretched in her solitude, — that now she would never alter her demeanour to him. He had chosen to be cold to her, and she would be like frozen ice to him. Again and again she heard their voices, and then, sobbing on her pillow, she fell asleep.