Thornycroft Hall

A little while ago, as I sat reading by the fire, I took up my "Tennyson," and, turning over its well-conned and well-beloved pages abstractedly, lighted, as it were by chance, on one of the poet's vigorous sonnets, wherein occur the following lines:--

"Hating to hark
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone
Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk
Browbeats his desk below."

Now you must not suppose that I am going to write a tirade against sermons, or against parsons--far from it; I love good sermons and I love good parsons; but sermons may be too long, and parsons may be none of the cleverest--and then! Well, reading the above lines, addressed to "J. M. K.," who was not a"pulpit drone," but a "latter Luther," carried me back in memory to an evening long ago--to the evening, in fact, when the story of my life really and truly begins: for on that memorable evening I, Ellen Threlkeld, a young damsel of ten years of age, was dismally wearied and cruelly oppressed by a sermon of tedious duration, preached by the Rev. Octavius Longman, my dear father's immediate successor, in the ancient' parish church of the North Country town of Battlebarrow.

Now, as all sermons, even if divided into four-and-twenty heads, and blessed with a "finally," a "lastly," and an "in conclusion," must come to a termination some time or other, so ours, following the natural course of all things mundane, was over at last; and, the Benediction being pronounced, the Rev. Octavius Longman retired into the vestry, where, alas! I had no longer any reason or any business to intrude myself.

Gradually the congregation dispersed, and the last note of one of Handel's magnificent choruses died away in the dark-arched roof of our beautiful, old, minster-like church; and then Mrs. Jackson slowly uprose from her cushioned corner in the "Castle-pew," and said to me--"Now, Miss Ellen, dear, we must go home." I was standing within the chancel-screen, before a plain marble slab, bearing the following inscription:-

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
ELLEN,
THE BELOVED WIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD THRELKELD,
WHO DIED DECEMBER 4TH, 1832, IN THE 22ND YEAR OF HER AGE
ALSO, OF THE
REV. EDWARD THRELKELD, MA., VICAR OF THIS PARISH,
WHO DIED AUGUST 3lST, 1842, AGED 40 YEARS.
"BLESSED ARE THE DEAD WHO DIE IN THE LORD."

And as I read and re-read the simple inscription, I knew that the stone beneath covered the mortal remains of my fair young mother, whom I had never known; and of my dearly-loved, almost worshipped father, who had lain but a few weeks in the cold, voiceless chambers of the grave. I remember that grief unutterable weighed down my childish heart as I turned away, with tearless eyes and aching spirit, from that most sacred spot. I remember that I gazed lingeringly on the quaint pulpit, with its faded, threadbare velvet, and its heavy sounding-board, where Sunday after Sunday my father's familiar form had appeared; on the narrow winding pulpit-stairs, which his feet had so often trodden; on the grim faces that frowned between the arches; on the half-decayed altar-screen; and especially of the vicarage-pew, where I might sit nevermore--nevermore. I could not make up my mind to go yet; and so Mrs. Jackson talked to the clerk, While I made the circuit of the dimly-lighted church, and finally mounted to the organ-loft, in order to take a bird's-eye view of the whole interior, and also to bid farewell to two dusty, gilded angels, blowing trumpets on each side of the fine old organ, that had seen better days in the cathedral of another county. Neither of these angels, if I recollect aright, were by any means of celestial aspect; one of them looked like a person suffering an excruciating toothache with pious resignation; the other gazed with an expression of mingled despair and stupidity on a mass of dusty carved work, supposed to represent lyres, harps, and shawms, and other canonical musical instruments; and besides these two, there was yet another angel, bodiless, fat-faced, and with clipt wings, at the very top of the organ, right in the centre of the ceiling above the gallery, and a very ill-favoured, unpleasant-looking angel he was! Judging from these, and from similar works of art, I have often wondered what must have been the ideas cherished by our forefathers of the heavenly world and its angelic hierarchy. And yet I loved them all--nay! I am not ashamed to say I love them, or rather their memory, very dearly now: they beguiled many a weary hour, when, too young to understand the sacred service, I sat in my corner, trying to count the tarnished pipes of that dear old organ, and wondering if the real angels up in the sky were anything like the imitation ones in the church. I think, if I had been alone that evening, I should have tried to devise some means whereby I might climb up to the more accessible angels, and imprint a parting kiss on their dusty, awful faces. But I was not alone. Mrs. Jackson stood regarding me with watchful eye from below, and the clerk, commonly called Lazarus, because his ghastly countenance and attenuated form suggested the idea of recent resuscitation, was hovering about the aisles, slowly extinguishing the candles.

Just as I joined Mrs. Jackson, Lazarus came up, and he really did look as if he were newly risen from one of the mouldering tombs around us. "And so you're a-going, Miss Ellen?" he said, with a twitch of his lank, black hair; "so you're going right away into the South! Ah! it's sad times for we all! Mrs. Jackson, ma'am, did ye ever hear sic a sarmon?--I never did." Lazarus had not heard much of it; he had been enacting Tennyson's "worn-out clerk" with much success. I am afraid he even snored. "There's to be all sorts o' new ways, fashing and vexing add steady bodies like we. Why, there's the new parson, that don't know the faces of us yet, talking about gas! yes, Miss Ellen, gas!--flaring, stinking, unhealthy GAS! Says I, 'Yer reverence, there isn't none laid down in these here pats.' Says he, 'Never mind that; we'll make it ourselves. I'll start a company; we'll have a gas-chronicler in Tinker's-lane.' What's gas-chronicler, Mrs. Jackson? Then he says these candles do gutter and run, and wants a world of snuffing, that takes off the people's attention; but what then? can't we get wax tapers? They'd be a deal more properer, and I'd rather have them, anyways, for they're cleaner, and last longer, and the ends 'ud gie my missus more light to knit by," said poor Lazarus, innocently revealing his primary objection to the flaring,unhealthy gas; for "the ends" were the lawful perquisite of Mrs. Atkinson, Lazarus' better half; and there were people uncharitable enough to say that her notions of how much candle went to make "an end" were, to say the least of it, unreasonably extensive.

All the "ends" were' extinguished now, save one which Lazarus held in his hands and that one did certainly gutter and run, to an extent that fully justified the new vicar's unconservative preference for gas. Then the clerk, marshalling us before him, turned the key in the heavy door, and bidding Mrs. Jackson "good night," and me "goodbye," went slowly and sadly to his own lowly domicile on the confines of the churchyard.

Mrs. Jackson and I proceeded up the street; it was bright moonlight, and we saw John Wharton standing at the door of his shop, where on week-days he dispensed groceries, stationery, perfumery, drugs,and toys. The worthy man was looking for us, and he came out with a pretty little box fitted with writing materials in one hand, and a huge packet of sweets, or, as I called them, "goodies," in the other, which he begged me to accept as a small token of respect. Miss Dobson, the lame dressmaker, was leaning on her crutches, waiting to say her last "God Almighty bless you, my dear, and make you worthy of your dear sainted father; and here's some silks I've been saving for you." And Jeanie Grahame, and Aggy Dawson, and old Eleanor Thwaites, who was said to be a hundred years old and upwards, were standing in front of the almshouses, and came hobbling to meet us, each one primed with a valedictory address, as hearty and sincere as it was quaint and ungrammatical, and that is saying a good deal.

I was sobbing by the time we reached the Castle, where I had been living with good Mrs. Jackson, the housekeeper, ever since my father's death; but my uncle was now at Battlebarrow, for the express purpose of taking me away to Thornycroft Hall, his own house, and my future home. He was the husband of my father's half-sister, whom I had never seen, and seldom heard of for very little intercourse was maintained between the wealthy Mrs. Ward and her reverend brother, who had not the remotest prospect of a mitre, or a deanery, or of any of those good things which Mother Church keeps in store for her more highly-favoured sons. Then, my father had been weak enough to marry the portionless daughter of a clergyman poor as himself, for no better reason than that he loved her very dearly. My father was meek, quiet, studious, erudite, and contented. Mrs. Ward, as I afterwards discovered, was haughty, violent when offended, ignorant, and ever dissatisfied: the two were utterly and always dissimilar.

If I had heard but seldom of Mrs. Ward, I had never heard at all of Mr. Ward; I had no idea how many cousin Wards I possessed. I knew that my aunt was rich, compared with my father; that she lived at Thornycroft Hall, hear the large manufacturing town of Hackington, in one of the Midland counties; that she had several children; and now, to this previous stock of information, I added the knowledge of her husband's existence, and a personal acquaintance with a stout, good-natured, well-dressed elderly gentleman, whom I was instructed to call uncle.

The day after my father's death, Mrs. Jackson had written to Mrs. Ward, giving her verbatim his dying appeal on behalf of his desolate and almost destitute orphan, at the same time inquiring her wishes respecting me.

For more than a week no answer arrived, though Mrs. Jackson had fully expected some one to come to the funeral; and at last she became morally certain that either her own missive or Mrs. Ward's reply had miscarried. For three days Mrs. Jackson, the housemaid, and the head gardener inveighed against the shameful carelessness of the Post-office authorities; but on the fourth morning the long-looked-for letter arrived. Mrs. Jackson was very much surprised to see a rather short epistle; she read it in silence--read it again, and looked discontented and suspicious.

At length she yielded to my earnest entreaties, and imparted to me the contents of my aunt's letter, first reading, with a strong emphasis, the address--"Mrs. Jemima Jackson, the Castle, Battlebarrow." "The Castle, Battlebarrow!" quoth the good lady, in a tone of intensest annoyance; "just as if I kept 'the Castle,' down the street, and let out neat gigs, and post-chaises, and stuck up 'good stabling and well-aired beds!' I wonder what my lord would say to it! And Mrs. Jemima Jackson! as if I were an elderly maiden lady, ashamed of calling myself Miss any longer! I--that have had two good husbands of my own, and two highly-respectable offers, since my poor dear Mr. Jackson departed this mortal life. There was Mr. Brunskill, at the Nether Croome Farm, and there was my lord's steward, you know, Miss Ellen--"

Yes, I knew very well. I knew all about Mrs. Jackson's husbands and lovers, and I made haste to assure her I remembered it quite well, for I was impatient to know what might be in the inside of a letter, the outside whereof caused so much indignation: so, after two very audible sighs--to the memory of Mr. Jackson, deceased, I suppose--the good lady deliberately settled her spectacles, cleared her voice, and read as follows:--"Mrs. Ward thanks Mrs. Jackson for her considerate communication, and for her care of Miss Threlkeld. Mr. Ward will be at Battlebarrow in a few days to take charge of Miss Threlkeld, and convey her to her future home. Mrs. Ward sincerely trusts that her niece is of an industrious and tractable temper, and religiously disposed; she would also feel obliged to Mrs. Jackson if she would take care to have Miss Threlkeld in readiness for her journey, as, after the 20th inst., Mr. Ward may reach Battlebarrow at any time."

"There, my dear, that's all," said Mrs. Jackson, handing me the letter without comment, but with a look and a gesture that spoke as plainly as words. From that hour I have believed unwaveringly that handwriting is an index of character. Mrs. Ward's sharp, cramped, yet methodical and respectable-looking caligraphy shadowed forth the enter woman and her innermost soul. Of course I could not there and then form my conceptions of Mrs. Ward's character; but I felt an instinctive and childish dread of the person whose written communication I held in my hand, which the experience of after-days strengthened and confirmed.

But to return to that mournful Sunday night. Owing to various causes, which I never understood, or else forget, my uncle did not come for me till the beginning of November; and, greatly to my content, I stayed in the dear old place till I began to have faint hopes of remaining there altogether. But one Saturday evening Mr. Ward made his appearance; and I was instructed to hold myself in readiness to set out early on Monday morning. So Mrs. Jackson and I sat down together for the last time to our supper: then she called the maids, and read prayers, according to custom, and finally counted the spoons, went her rounds, and retired to rest.

My trunks were packed and corded, my travelling-gear lay on the table near at hand, and Mrs. Jackson's parting admonition to Deborah, the housemaid, was to be sure and have a good fire, and breakfast ready at half-past five. When Mrs. Jackson was fairly asleep, I sat up in my little bed, and cried quietly, but bitterly: I would have given worlds to stay at Battlebarrow, roaming over the Castle, where "the family" seldom or never came, taking pleasant walks by the sweeping river, through the deep woods, or in the wild glens of the mighty mountains, that girdled us in with their strong, giant arms; going in and out among old familiar faces, and attending Divine service every Sunday in the dear old church, where those who had given me life were quietly, side by side, sleeping the sleep of death.

But it could not be. Even then old things were passing away like a dream, and a new life and a new world lay before me; and while I was wondering what my aunt would be like, and what she would say to me, and hoping that my uncle would not think it necessary to converse with me during the journey I fell asleep.

I seemed to have slept but a few minutes, when I was awakened by Mrs. Jackson striking a lucifer match. She consulted her watch, and then, looking wistfully towards my bed, and seeing my eyes open, told me it was time to get up. The dear old lady helped me to dress with infinite care and tenderness; but she did not speak, nor I either; our hearts were too full. Then we went down, and found breakfast all ready; but I could not eat; I could only swallow half a cup of coffee, and essay to swallow a tiny bit of toast; and very soon Robert came to take my luggage to the terrace; and when my bonnet and cloak were fairly on, and there was nothing more to be done, dear Mrs. Jackson took me on her lap, and cried over me heartily.

Presently the carriage came rattling up, and with many tears we parted. Robert gave me a nosegay of beautiful winter roses, and Deborah presented me with a crooked six-pence, and a many-coloured engraving of the nuptials of Her Majesty and the Thrice Consort. I promised to keep both till I died, and the coin is in my possession still.

I remember how the carriage passed slowly across the courtyard, and under the dark archway, with its iron-clenched gates and long-disused portcullis. I have a vivid recollection of how the Castle looked in the slanting lines of yellow light, which the setting moon cast on the dark turrets, and on the heavy balustrades of the stately terrace; how the black shadows lay en the silvered turf, as we went swiftly across the park; how the newly-lighted fire gleamed from the lodge windows, as we passed the limits of the Castle precincts, and began carefully to descend the steep, ill-paved street; how sad and sombre looked the almshouses, and the grand old church, and the grey, shadowy cloisters, and the white vicarage under the shelter of its stately sycamores--that pleasant happy home that had been mine ever since I was born--that was to be mine never, no, never again!

I was not long in passing from the Castle to the principal inn, where my uncle had taken up his quarters; but into that brief transit were crowded all the memories of my short life: I felt as if I were somebody else, whom I pitied exceedingly, and not the orphan child herself--the poor, desolate, sorrowful Ellen Threlkeld. I found Mr. Ward rising from the breakfast-table, which was covered with the remnants of a right noble repast.

"Well, Nelly," he cried, kissing me with a mouth full of muffin, "we're off in excellent time; you are a very good girl not to keep me waiting. But come, have some breakfast; there is a quarter of an hour yet. Have an egg? Like duck eggs, or hen eggs? Have some damson jam and toast? And here is cold fowl, and something made of sausages; and here is honey, and marmalade, and muffins, and eat-cakes, and we'll have some hot coffee in, and there's plenty of sugar and cream; and be quick about it."

And before I knew what was coming, my bonnet was whisked off, and I was placed in the vacant chair, with an injunction to make the most of my time, and clear the table, if I could.

It was several minutes before I could make my uncle understand that I had already breakfasted, and could not, under the circumstances, accept his kind invitation.

"Well, well," he replied, at last, "if you really have had enough, don't try to eat any more; there is nothing worse than indigestion when you are on a journey; and 'enough's as good as a feast'--only be sure to have enough. Now then, child, tie on your bonnet, and if you are ready jump into the carriage; the coach starts at eight, and we have eleven miles to go, and not the best road, either. Boots, tuck that rug round the young lady's feet, and see to the other window."

Then the ostler lifted me in, bidding me "Good-bye," and giving me his sister's love and humble duty; and "Boots" thrust fresh straw round and under my feet, and told me "Battlebarrow wouldn't look nohow now."

And then my uncle jumped in, and established himself as comfortably as circumstances permitted, and we drove off, as fast as we could, over the bridge, and into the darkness; for the moon had now set, and all the eastern horizon was heavily clouded. I had seen the last of my native place; when should I behold it again?

Till that hour, I had never felt quite orphaned; but now the full misery of my position came upon me with overwhelming force: I knew that I was fatherless, and that I was going to live among strangers; and I tried to think of my father's last words--"I commend thee to God, my darling. In his hands thou wilt be safe; he will bring us together again, in his own good time."

And so, sadly and tearfully, I was borne along the familiar road to Kendal, where the coach started for the south.