Then Mr. Stone spoke up — Mr. Stone, the warmest man in the parish. He spoke with his fat hands in his fat pockets.
‘Dr. Goodman, sir,’ — the courteous Rector bowed, — ’ my attachment to the Church and my respect for your cloth must not prevent my doing my duty by my fellow-parishioners, whose mouthpiece on the present occasion I claim to be.’ A general movement of relief accepted him as the lay champion. ‘We acknowledge, sir, and appreciate your zeal amongst us, but we protest against your innovations. We have borne with chants, with a surpliced choir, with daily services, but we will not bear to see all our rights trampled under foot, and all our time-hallowed usages set at nought. The tendency of the day is to level social distinctions and to elevate unduly the lower orders. In this parish at least let us combine to keep up wise barriers between class and class, and to maintain that fundamental principle practically bowed to all over our happy England, that what you can pay for you can purchase. This, sir, has been our first dissension’ — a statement not quite correct, — ’let it be our last; and in token that we are at one again, here is my hand.’
Dr. Goodman grasped the proffered hand, looking rather pale as he did so.
‘Let this betoken,’ rejoined he, ‘that whatever is discarded amongst us, it shall not be Christian charity. And now it grows late. I must not selfishly prolong our discussion; yet, as your pastor, with a sacred duty to discharge towards all my flock, suffer me to add one word. What Mr. Stone has alleged may be the system of worldly England; though many a man professing far less than we do would repudiate so monstrous a principle; but as Churchmen we can have nothing to do with it. God’s gifts are bought without money and without price: “Ho, every one,” cries His invitation. I, therefore, as His most unworthy ambassador, protest that in His house I will no longer buy and sell as in a market. I confess myself in fault that I have so long tolerated this monstrous abuse; and I avow that you, my brethren, have this evening furnished me with the only plausible argument in favour of pews which has ever been suggested to me, for it is hard upon our open-hearted poor that they should be compelled to sit by persons who, instead of viewing them as brethren beloved, despise the poor.’
THE WAVES OF THIS TROUBLESOME WORLD.
A TALE OF HASTINGS FIFTEEN YEARS AGO.
PART I.
PERHAPS there is no pleasanter watering-place in England where to spend the fine summer months than Hastings, on the Sussex coast. The old town, nestling in a long, narrow valley, flanked by the East and West Hills, looks down upon the sea. At the valley mouth, on the shingly beach, stands the fish-market, where boatmen disembark the fruit of daily toil; where traffic is briskly plied, and maybe haggling rages; where bare-legged children dodge in and out between the stalls; where now and then a travelling show — dwarf, giant, or what not — arrests for brief days its wanderings.
Hard by the market, on the beach, stands the fishermen’s chapel — plain, but comely, with, near the door, its small chest for offerings. I know not whether chanted psalms and hymns rise within its walls; but if they do, the windy sea must sound an accompaniment exceeding in solemn harmony any played upon earthly organs, to such words as, ‘One deep calleth another, because of the noise of the water-pipes: all Thy waves and storms are gone over me;’ or, ‘They are carried up to the heaven, and down again to the deep: their soul melteth away because of the trouble;’ or, ‘Let not the waterflood drown me, neither let the deep swallow me up.’
It is a pretty sight in brilliant holiday weather to watch the many parties of health or pleasure-seekers which throng the beach. Boys and girls picking up shells, pebbles, and star-fishes, or raising with hands and wooden spades a sand fortress, encircled by a moat full of sea-water, and crowned by a twig of seaweed as a flag; mothers and elder sisters reading or working beneath shady hats, whilst after bathing their long hair dries in the sun and wind. Hard by rock at their moorings bannered pleasure-boats, with blue-jerseyed oarsmen or white sails; and if the weather is oppressively hot and sunny, a gaily-coloured canopy is reared on light poles, for the protection of voyagers. When tide is high, a plank or a long step suffices; but at low water, as the shore is flat, boatmen have frequently to carry children, and even women, across the broad stretch of wet sands to and from the vessels.
Very different from such seafarers in sport are their near neighbours, the seafarers in earnest; who neither hoist canopies for fair weather, nor tarry at home for foul; who might say with the patriarch Jacob, ‘In the day the drought consumed me, and the frost by night whose vigils often see the moon rise and set; who sometimes buffet with the winds and tug against the tide for very life.
It is with one of these that my tale has to do: let us peep into his cottage.
An accident to his boat, only just now, after hours of diligent labour, repaired, has kept Frank Hardiman on shore all day. Within another hour the tide will be favourable, and he must put to sea; till then he stays with his wife and two children, Jane and Henry. They are seated at tea, discussing the contents of a letter received that afternoon. Let us look at the faces and listen to the conversation.
Frank Hardiman is thirty-one years old, tall, stout, tanned by the sun, with a deep, jolly voice, bright eyes, and the merriest of laughs. His wife, Emma, is slim and rather pretty, dressed with considerable taste and uncommon neatness; for before her marriage she was upper nurse in a gentleman’s family, and, indeed, made acquaintance with her good man when loitering along the beach after her little charges. Jane is nine years old, quiet and shy, with a mild expression, redeemed from insipidity by lines of unusual firmness about the mouth: when she speaks it is mostly in a slow, apathetic manner; but now and then a flash of feeling reveals that there are strength and depth in her character. Harry has scarcely entered his seventh year, and is a miniature likeness of his father, only less sunburned.
The letter under discussion ran as follows: —
Dear Brother and Sister,
My husband died ten days ago in the hope of a blessed resurrection. Moreover God, Who does all things well, has been pleased to call my sin to remembrance, and to slay my son. I am alone indeed now; not in debt, having just enough in hand to pay my way till Thursday, and then come down to you. Will you receive me? We parted in anger, but perhaps you will forgive me when you know how much I have lost, and guess with how sore a longing I desire to lay my bones amongst my own people. If I do not hear from you by Thursday, I shall understand that you cannot forgive: nevertheless remember, in the next world if not in this, we must meet again.
Your sorrowful, affectionate sister, SARAH LANE.
‘How can she fancy we’d bear malice after all her troubles?’ said Frank; ‘and when it was for her own good, too. Write at once, my dear, and make her welcome to all we’ve got, such as it is, and the best of it.’
‘Yes,’ replied Emma, dryly. She was jealously alive to her husband’s fondness for his sister, and by no means relished the prospect of her returning to live with them.
‘How old is Aunt Sarah?’ inquired Jane.
‘Twenty-five last March; and five years ago she was the prettiest girl in Hastings. You must furbish up your room a bit, Jenny, and make your aunt as comfortable as you can. She’s got rather high notions, naturally; but I guess they must have come down by this time, poor thing! only don’t let us make her feel strange coming back to what used to be her home — and shall be her home again, please God, if she’ll come and share it. Well, I’m off, Emma,’ continued Frank, rising and shaking himself: ‘you’ll write a kind welcome, I know, for you ‘re the scholar; and you needn’t say a word about me, except that I’m just the same as five years ago. Good night.’ — ’ Good night.’ So he left the cottage.
Then Jane busied herself with washing the tea-things and ‘tidying up;’ Harry, at the imminent risk of his fingers, began hacking a small bit of wood, to produce what he dubbed a boat, and Emma sat down to write the letter of invitation — I cannot say welcome: —
My dear Sister,
&nbs
p; Your letter came to hand this afternoon, and Frank and I are very sorry for your troubles; but if you come here I dare say you will mind less. Frank says, ‘Come and welcome, and be as all was five years ago:’ only ours is but a poor place for such as you, and you must not mind having Jenny in bed with you; and you cannot expect me to do nothing but wait on you, as I have a good handful with Frank and the children, I tell you plainly.
So next Thursday we shall expect you, and no more at present from Your affectionate sister,
EMMA HARDIMAN.
Whilst Emma wrote her letter, Jane, I say, washed the tea-things. There was brisk thoroughness in her manner of washing; no great handiness, but concentrated energy: she was evidently conscientious. Next she coaxed Harry to forego his hacking and be put to bed, showing tact and good nature with firmness in the transaction. Then, returning with her bonnet on her head and a basket on her arm, she asked her mother whether she should not take her letter to the post.
‘Yes,’ answered Emma; ‘and you must make haste, too, or it won’t be in time. Here’s a penny for a stamp; and,’ putting a crown-piece into the little girl’s hand, ‘you must bring me in some butter, and sugar, and treacle, and a loaf, and some tea; and call at Mrs. Smith’s for my bonnet, and get a reel of black cotton and a paper of needles. And you must run, too; you’ll have running enough, I reckon, when madam comes.’
Away ran Jane with all her might, reaching the post-office in much more than time to catch the evening mail. ‘Well, my little woman, is it a love-letter you’re carrying?’ said the postmaster; to which she answered demurely, ‘No, sir, please; it’s to my aunt in London.’ Seeing he was busy she added no more, but set off on her next errand. This took her to a various-smelling shop in one of the back streets, where she ran glibly through the accustomed list of articles: ‘Half a pound of butter, a pound of sugar, two pennyworth of treacle (for Harry), a quartern loaf, a quarter of a pound of three-and-fourpenny tea, and two rashers of bacon,’ supplying the last item from her knowledge of what must be wanted, though her mother had forgotten to name it. She packed all carefully in her little basket, counted the change from her crown-piece, chirped to a poor imprisoned lark, which could catch not one glimpse of sky from his nail in the shop, stroked her old friend the black cat,”and started for Mrs. Smith’s smart establishment in the High Street.
Mrs. Smith, in a false front and staring flowers, presiding behind her millinery counter, looked somewhat formidable. Jane preferred asking the young woman on the other side for the black cotton and needles. These were supplied and paid for; then Mrs. Smith called out to know if she wanted anything else. ‘Please, ma’am,’ began Jane, ‘is mother’s bonnet — ’
‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Smith, shortly, ‘tell your mother that her bonnet isn’t done yet, and she needn’t keep bothering after it; for when it’s done I’ll send it home, and not before. Good evening!’ This bonnet was a bone of contention between the two women: it was to be trimmed in return for certain errands already executed by Jane; and the milliner’s hands being filled just now with more lucrative orders, great delay ensued in its completion.
When Jane reached home, she found her mother seated hard at work making a black-and-white muslin dress with flounces — Emma loved to be smart on Sunday — for her own wear. Jane put away the purchases, handed what change remained to Mrs. Hardiman, and sat down to write a copy and work an addition sum for Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife, who gave her an hour’s instruction two or three times a-week. The little girl laboured to do her very best, and had just produced a particularly correct capital B when her mother shook the table. Not a word said poor Jane, though a great blot was jerked out of the pen on to the B. She tried again and again for six lines more, but without equalling the defaced B; then, that page finished, turned her mind to the sum. ‘4 and 4 are 8, and 1 are 9, and 7 — ”Jane,’ cried her mother, ‘there’s nothing for supper; run out and fetch two rashers.”I got them, mother, when I was out, because I knew they were wanted,’ was the cheerful answer, and reckoning recommenced.” and 4 are 8, and 1 are 9, and 7 are sixt — ”Jane.”Yes, mother.”Was the letter in time?”Oh, much more than time. 4 and 4 — ” I shall never get through these flounces to-night: put away your books, child, and help me. I’m sure your schooling isn’t worth much if it doesn’t teach you to mind me.’
Jane jumped up, though she could have cried, laid by her book and slate, and sat down close to her mother. In another minute two pairs of hands were hemming as fast as they could hem at the flounces. Why was Emma in such a hurry to finish making her dress? It could not be out of regard to her sisterrin-law’s feelings, as she and her daughter were already in black for the death of an old relation who had left them a few pounds; neither could it be with an exclusive eye to Sunday, for this was only Tuesday evening: no, she was bent on receiving poor, sad Sarah in this fine gown, because she felt jealous of her good looks, and wanted to outshine her in Frank’s eyes.
Jane, who had no idea of this state of things, asked, ‘What was Uncle Lane?’
‘Don’t call him uncle,’ returned Emma, sharply; ‘he was no kith or kin to us, but a Methodist fografer [photographer], and but a poor body at best. I dare say his widow hasn’t a pound that she can call her own, though she is so ready to invite herself to live with them who work hard for their bread. However, your father must please himself. [Thread snaps.] Mrs. Smith’s cotton is mere rubbish; you go to Widow Wright’s next time, and see if you can’t get an honest penn’orth; do you hear?’
‘Yes, mother. I shall like to have Aunt Sarah in my bed: is she like father?’
‘No — yes — I don’t know; don’t bother me. You’ll have enough and to spare of Aunt Sarah, I can tell you.’
Silence once more, except for the click, click, of thimble and needle; Jane wondering what she had said amiss, for her mother was not usually cross.
At last the flounces were finished. ‘There, that will do,’ observed Emma, more complacently, for they looked puffy and well. ‘I declare it’s supper-time; make haste, child, and toast the bacon whilst I clear away.’
On Wednesday, Jane having, under her mother’s direction, scrubbed her own bed-room floor, added a blue bason and jug to its furniture, and an extra chair. The window looked into Frank’s garden, very bright just now with nasturtiums; and though it did not command a sea view, the murmur, or tumult, or roar of the great deep, could always, except in very still weather, be distinctly heard from it.
The room made ready, let us glance at its future occupant.
Sarah Lane, now so mournful, had years ago been not only the prettiest, but almost the merriest girl in Hastings. True, she was a child of sorrow to her mother, who died without even kissing her new-born baby; but, bequeathed to the guardianship of father and brother, she never missed a mother’s care. Often might Henry Hardiman be seen loitering up and down the parade, or lounging by the sun-dial, holding in his arms his little girl; or, as she grew older, putting his finger into her chubby fist to help her in toddling. Sometimes, in pleasant weather, he took her in the boat with him for a row; sometimes left her on shore under the care of Frank, who lugged her unweariedly about the beach, where she served as plaything to her father’s rugged mates.
When the time arrived for Frank to go out with his father and share his labours, a change ensued for little Sarah. She was sfent to a superior school — for Henry Hardiman drove a flourishing trade — and only went home on a Saturday to stay till the Monday; the Hardimans, from father to son, observing Sunday, and frequenting St. Clement’s Church. Henry and Frank were not a little proud of their girl as she walked beside them, rosy and good-humoured, or, with a pretty childish voice, joined in the hymns of the congregation; and before long she, too, learned to be proud of her sturdy, weather-beaten father in his Sunday blue coat, and of her handsome, merry brother, and to give them back warm love for the life-long love which they gave her.
At fifteen, grown tall and womanly, Sarah came home to keep her father’s house.
Her school-education included several useful items: she was quick and clever with her needle, read with fluency and expression, wrote a clear hand, was a capital accountant, had a fair knowledge of geography, history, and spelling, could express herself well in a letter; moreover, she knew a little music and a little dancing, and, thanks to natural voice and ear, sang sweetly and tuneably. Very soon the cottage bore witness to her good taste. The old-fashioned furniture was rubbed up; a few geraniums and fuchsias screened the parlour window; a Virginia creeper, scarlet-coloured in autumn, clambered up the outer wall; and carefully tended plants rendered her garden the prettiest in the Tackle way. She liked and wore bright colours; and when she watered her window - flowers, or gathered a nosegay in the garden, or sat among the Pier Rocks watching for her father’s boat to come across the intense blue, sunny sea, often and often passers-by lingered to admire her noble beauty and untaught grace.
When her skill as a needlewoman became known, first neighbours, then ladies, engaged her to work for them. By this means she amassed a little sum of money, carefully stored amongst her treasures, but never spent. Sometimes Henry, coming home, found her sewing and singing, whilst puss purred at her feet, and the kettle sang on the fire. Then he would say, ‘Bless you, Sally; there’s no need for you to wear out your plump bits of fingers. Ain’t Frank and I big enough to work for you?’ And she would answer, ‘Ah, but some day when you’ re a dear old father, and stay at home in the chimney-corner, Frank mustn’t have all the pleasure of working for you, and my earnings will come in handy, you’ll see.’
Several young men courted her for her fair’ face, or clever ways, or kind heart; but to all of them she answered a civil ‘No,’ till it came to be said among the fisher-folk that Sarah Hardiman must be waiting for a lord. Even John Archer, a well-to-do, God-fearing young boatman, who followed her for many an anxious month, only at last elicited her gentle, firm ‘No,’ though her father pitied the poor lad, and Frank spoke warmly in his favour. Soon after Sarah left school, Frank married and brought home his Emma; but Sarah continued mistress of the house, her father’s darling, and very dear to her brother, which, with her good looks and many suitors, made Emma sore and jealous. The two young women were not over cordial together, though they never spoke of their coolness, and Frank was long before he even suspected it.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 94