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diff --git a/5773-0.txt b/5773-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..83a5c69 --- /dev/null +++ b/5773-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16849 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: September 1, 2002 [eBook #5773] +[Most recently updated: August 5, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD *** + + + + +Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood + +by George Macdonald, LL. D. + +New York + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. + CHAPTER II. MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. + CHAPTER III. MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. + CHAPTER IV. THE COFFIN. + CHAPTER V. VISITORS FROM THE HALL. + CHAPTER VI. OLDCASTLE HALL. + CHAPTER VII. THE BISHOP’S BASIN. + CHAPTER VIII. WHAT I PREACHED. + CHAPTER IX. THE ORGANIST. + CHAPTER X. MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. + CHAPTER XI. SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. + CHAPTER XII. THE AVENUE. + CHAPTER XIII. YOUNG WEIR. + CHAPTER XIV. MY PUPIL. + CHAPTER XV. DR DUNCAN’S STORY. + CHAPTER XVI. THE ORGAN. + CHAPTER XVII. THE CHURCH-RATE. + CHAPTER XVIII. JUDY’S NEWS. + CHAPTER XIX. THE INVALID. + CHAPTER XX. MOOD AND WILL. + CHAPTER XXI. THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR. + CHAPTER XXII. THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR. + CHAPTER XXIII. THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR. + CHAPTER XXIV. AN ANGEL UNAWARES. + CHAPTER XXV. TWO PARISHIONERS. + CHAPTER XXVI. SATAN CAST OUT. + CHAPTER XXVII. THE MAN AND THE CHILD. + CHAPTER XXVIII. OLD MRS TOMKINS. + CHAPTER XXIX. CALM AND STORM. + CHAPTER XXX. A SERMON TO MYSELF. + CHAPTER XXXI. A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. + CHAPTER XXXII. THE NEXT THING. + CHAPTER XXXIII. OLD ROGERS’S THANKSGIVING. + CHAPTER XXXIV. TOM’S STORY. + + + + +CHAPTER I. +DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. + + +Before I begin to tell you some of the things I have seen and heard, in +both of which I have had to take a share, now from the compulsion of my +office, now from the leading of my own heart, and now from that destiny +which, including both, so often throws the man who supposed himself a +mere on-looker, into the very vortex of events—that destiny which took +form to the old pagans as a gray mist high beyond the heads of their +gods, but to us is known as an infinite love, revealed in the mystery +of man—I say before I begin, it is fitting that, in the absence of a +common friend to do that office for me, I should introduce myself to +your acquaintance, and I hope coming friendship. Nor can there be any +impropriety in my telling you about myself, seeing I remain concealed +behind my own words. You can never look me in the eyes, though you may +look me in the soul. You may find me out, find my faults, my vanities, +my sins, but you will not SEE me, at least in this world. To you I am +but a voice of revealing, not a form of vision; therefore I am bold +behind the mask, to speak to you heart to heart; bold, I say, just so +much the more that I do not speak to you face to face. And when we meet +in heaven—well, there I know there is no hiding; there, there is no +reason for hiding anything; there, the whole desire will be alternate +revelation and vision. + +I am now getting old—faster and faster. I cannot help my gray hairs, +nor the wrinkles that gather so slowly yet ruthlessly; no, nor the +quaver that will come in my voice, not the sense of being feeble in the +knees, even when I walk only across the floor of my study. But I have +not got used to age yet. I do not FEEL one atom older than I did at +three-and-twenty. Nay, to tell all the truth, I feel a good deal +younger.—For then I only felt that a man had to take up his cross; +whereas now I feel that a man has to follow Him; and that makes an +unspeakable difference.—When my voice quavers, I feel that it is mine +and not mine; that it just belongs to me like my watch, which does not +go well-now, though it went well thirty years ago—not more than a +minute out in a month. And when I feel my knees shake, I think of them +with a kind of pity, as I used to think of an old mare of my father’s +of which I was very fond when I was a lad, and which bore me across +many a field and over many a fence, but which at last came to have the +same weakness in her knees that I have in mine; and she knew it too, +and took care of them, and so of herself, in a wise equine fashion. +These things are not me—or _I_, if the grammarians like it better, (I +always feel a strife between doing as the scholar does and doing as +other people do;) they are not me, I say; I HAVE them—and, please God, +shall soon have better. For it is not a pleasant thing for a young man, +or a young woman either, I venture to say, to have an old voice, and a +wrinkled face, and weak knees, and gray hair, or no hair at all. And if +any moral Philistine, as our queer German brothers over the Northern +fish-pond would call him, say that this is all rubbish, for that we ARE +old, I would answer: “Of all children how can the children of God be +old?” + +So little do I give in to calling this outside of me, ME, that I should +not mind presenting a minute description of my own person such as would +at once clear me from any suspicion of vanity in so introducing myself. +Not that my honesty would result in the least from indifference to the +external—but from comparative indifference to the transitional; not to +the transitional in itself, which is of eternal significance and +result, but to the particular form of imperfection which it may have +reached at any individual moment of its infinite progression towards +the complete. For no sooner have I spoken the word NOW, than that NOW +is dead and another is dying; nay, in such a regard, there is no +NOW—only a past of which we know a little, and a future of which we +know far less and far more. But I will not speak at all of this body of +my earthly tabernacle, for it is on the whole more pleasant to forget +all about it. And besides, I do not want to set any of my readers to +whom I would have the pleasure of speaking far more openly and +cordially than if they were seated on the other side of my +writing-table—I do not want to set them wondering whether the vicar be +this vicar or that vicar; or indeed to run the risk of giving the +offence I might give, if I were anything else than “a wandering voice.” + +I did not feel as I feel now when first I came to this parish. For, as +I have said, I am now getting old very fast. True, I was thirty when I +was made a vicar, an age at which a man might be expected to be +beginning to grow wise; but even then I had much yet to learn. + +I well remember the first evening on which I wandered out from the +vicarage to take a look about me—to find out, in short, where I was, +and what aspect the sky and earth here presented. Strangely enough, I +had never been here before; for the presentation had been made me while +I was abroad.—I was depressed. It was depressing weather. Grave doubts +as to whether I was in my place in the church, would keep rising and +floating about, like rain-clouds within me. Not that I doubted about +the church; I only doubted about myself. “Were my motives pure?” “What +were my motives?” And, to tell the truth, I did not know what my +motives were, and therefore I could not answer about the purity of +them. Perhaps seeing we are in this world in order to become pure, it +would be expecting too much of any young man that he should be +absolutely certain that he was pure in anything. But the question +followed very naturally: “Had I then any right to be in the Church—to +be eating her bread and drinking her wine without knowing whether I was +fit to do her work?” To which the only answer I could find was, “The +Church is part of God’s world. He makes men to work; and work of some +sort must be done by every honest man. Somehow or other, I hardly know +how, I find myself in the Church. I do not know that I am fitter for +any other work. I see no other work to do. There is work here which I +can do after some fashion. With God’s help I will try to do it well.” + +This resolution brought me some relief, but still I was depressed. It +was depressing weather.—I may as well say that I was not married then, +and that I firmly believed I never should be married—not from any +ambition taking the form of self-denial; nor yet from any notion that +God takes pleasure in being a hard master; but there was a lady—Well, I +WILL be honest, as I would be.—I had been refused a few months before, +which I think was the best thing ever happened to me except one. That +one, of course, was when I was accepted. But this is not much to the +purpose now. Only it was depressing weather. + +For is it not depressing when the rain is falling, and the steam of it +is rising? when the river is crawling along muddily, and the horses +stand stock-still in the meadows with their spines in a straight line +from the ears to where they fail utterly in the tails? I should only +put on goloshes now, and think of the days when I despised damp. Ah! it +was mental waterproof that I needed then; for let me despise damp as +much as I would, I could neither keep it out of my mind, nor help +suffering the spiritual rheumatism which it occasioned. Now, the damp +never gets farther than my goloshes and my Macintosh. And for that +worst kind of rheumatism—I never feel it now. + +But I had begun to tell you about that first evening.—I had arrived at +the vicarage the night before, and it had rained all day, and was still +raining, though not so much. I took my umbrella and went out. + +For as I wanted to do my work well (everything taking far more the +shape of work to me, then, and duty, than it does now—though, even now, +I must confess things have occasionally to be done by the clergyman +because there is no one else to do them, and hardly from other motive +than a sense of duty,—a man not being able to shirk work because it may +happen to be dirty)—I say, as I wanted to do my work well, or rather, +perhaps, because I dreaded drudgery as much as any poor fellow who +comes to the treadmill in consequence—I wanted to interest myself in +it; and therefore I would go and fall in love, first of all, if I +could, with the country round about. And my first step beyond my own +gate was up to the ankles, in mud. + +Therewith, curiously enough, arose the distracting thought how I could +possibly preach TWO good sermons a Sunday to the same people, when one +of the sermons was in the afternoon instead of the evening, to which +latter I had been accustomed in the large town in which I had formerly +officiated as curate in a proprietary chapel. I, who had declaimed +indignantly against excitement from without, who had been inclined to +exalt the intellect at the expense even of the heart, began to fear +that there must be something in the darkness, and the gas-lights, and +the crowd of faces, to account for a man’s being able to preach a +better sermon, and for servant girls preferring to go out in the +evening. Alas! I had now to preach, as I might judge with all +probability beforehand, to a company of rustics, of thought yet slower +than of speech, unaccustomed in fact to THINK at all, and that in the +sleepiest, deadest part of the day, when I could hardly think myself, +and when, if the weather should be at all warm, I could not expect many +of them to be awake. And what good might I look for as the result of my +labour? How could I hope in these men and women to kindle that fire +which, in the old days of the outpouring of the Spirit, made men live +with the sense of the kingdom of heaven about them, and the expectation +of something glorious at hand just outside that invisible door which +lay between the worlds? + +I have learned since, that perhaps I overrated the spirituality of +those times, and underrated, not being myself spiritual enough to see +all about me, the spirituality of these times. I think I have learned +since, that the parson of a parish must be content to keep the upper +windows of his mind open to the holy winds and the pure lights of +heaven; and the side windows of tone, of speech, of behaviour open to +the earth, to let forth upon his fellow-men the tenderness and truth +which those upper influences bring forth in any region exposed to their +operation. Believing in his Master, such a servant shall not make +haste; shall feel no feverous desire to behold the work of his hands; +shall be content to be as his Master, who waiteth long for the fruits +of His earth. + +But surely I am getting older than I thought; for I keep wandering away +from my subject, which is this, my first walk in my new cure. My excuse +is, that I want my reader to understand something of the state of my +mind, and the depression under which I was labouring. He will perceive +that I desired to do some work worth calling by the name of work, and +that I did not see how to get hold of a beginning. + +I had not gone far from my own gate before the rain ceased, though it +was still gloomy enough for any amount to follow. I drew down my +umbrella, and began to look about me. The stream on my left was so +swollen that I could see its brown in patches through the green of the +meadows along its banks. A little in front of me, the road, rising +quickly, took a sharp turn to pass along an old stone bridge that +spanned the water with a single fine arch, somewhat pointed; and +through the arch I could see the river stretching away up through the +meadows, its banks bordered with pollards. Now, pollards always made me +miserable. In the first place, they look ill-used; in the next place, +they look tame; in the third place, they look very ugly. I had not +learned then to honour them on the ground that they yield not a jot to +the adversity of their circumstances; that, if they must be pollards, +they still will be trees; and what they may not do with grace, they +will yet do with bounty; that, in short, their life bursts forth, +despite of all that is done to repress and destroy their individuality. +When you have once learned to honour anything, love is not very far +off; at least that has always been my experience. But, as I have said, +I had not yet learned to honour pollards, and therefore they made me +more miserable than I was already. + +When, having followed the road, I stood at last on the bridge, and, +looking up and down the river through the misty air, saw two long rows +of these pollards diminishing till they vanished in both directions, +the sight of them took from me all power of enjoying the water beneath +me, the green fields around me, or even the old-world beauty of the +little bridge upon which I stood, although all sorts of bridges have +been from very infancy a delight to me. For I am one of those who never +get rid of their infantile predilections, and to have once enjoyed +making a mud bridge, was to enjoy all bridges for ever. + +I saw a man in a white smock-frock coming along the road beyond, but I +turned my back to the road, leaned my arms on the parapet of the +bridge, and stood gazing where I saw no visions, namely, at those very +poplars. I heard the man’s footsteps coming up the crown of the arch, +but I would not turn to greet him. I was in a selfish humour if ever I +was; for surely if ever one man ought to greet another, it was upon +such a comfortless afternoon. The footsteps stopped behind me, and I +heard a voice:— + +“I beg yer pardon, sir; but be you the new vicar?” + +I turned instantly and answered, “I am. Do you want me?” + +“I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, if ye’ll not take it +amiss.” + +Before me stood a tall old man with his hat in his hand, clothed as I +have said, in a white smock-frock. He smoothed his short gray hair with +his curved palm down over his forehead as he stood. His face was of a +red brown, from much exposure to the weather. There was a certain look +of roughness, without hardness, in it, which spoke of endurance rather +than resistance, although he could evidently set his face as a flint. +His features were large and a little coarse, but the smile that parted +his lips when he spoke, shone in his gray eyes as well, and lighted up +a countenance in which a man might trust. + +“I wanted to see yer face, sir, if you’ll not take it amiss.” + +“Certainly not,” I answered, pleased with the man’s address, as he +stood square before me, looking as modest as fearless. “The sight of a +man’s face is what everybody has a right to; but, for all that, I +should like to know why you want to see my face.” + +“Why, sir, you be the new vicar. You kindly told me so when I axed +you.” + +“Well, then, you’ll see my face on Sunday in church—that is, if you +happen to be there.” + +For, although some might think it the more dignified way, I could not +take it as a matter of course that he would be at church. A man might +have better reasons for staying away from church than I had for going, +even though I was the parson, and it was my business. Some clergymen +separate between themselves and their office to a degree which I cannot +understand. To assert the dignities of my office seems to me very like +exalting myself; and when I have had a twinge of conscience about it, +as has happened more than once, I have then found comfort in these two +texts: “The Son of man came not to be ministered unto but to minister;” +and “It is enough that the servant should be as his master.” Neither +have I ever been able to see the very great difference between right +and wrong in a clergyman, and right and wrong in another man. All that +I can pretend to have yet discovered comes to this: that what is right +in another man is right in a clergyman; and what is wrong in another +man is much worse in a clergyman. Here, however, is one more proof of +approaching age. I do not mean the opinion, but the digression. + +“Well, then,” I said, “you’ll see my face in church on Sunday, if you +happen to be there.” + +“Yes, sir; but you see, sir, on the bridge here, the parson is the +parson like, and I’m Old Rogers; and I looks in his face, and he looks +in mine, and I says to myself, ‘This is my parson.’ But o’ Sundays he’s +nobody’s parson; he’s got his work to do, and it mun be done, and +there’s an end on’t.” + +That there was a real idea in the old man’s mind was considerably +clearer than the logic by which he tried to bring it out. + +“Did you know parson that’s gone, sir?” he went on. + +“No,” I answered. + +“Oh, sir! he wur a good parson. Many’s the time he come and sit at my +son’s bedside—him that’s dead and gone, sir—for a long hour, on a +Saturday night, too. And then when I see him up in the desk the next +mornin’, I’d say to myself, ‘Old Rogers, that’s the same man as sat by +your son’s bedside last night. Think o’ that, Old Rogers!’ But, +somehow, I never did feel right sure o’ that same. He didn’t seem to +have the same cut, somehow; and he didn’t talk a bit the same. And when +he spoke to me after sermon, in the church-yard, I was always of a mind +to go into the church again and look up to the pulpit to see if he war +really out ov it; for this warn’t the same man, you see. But you’ll +know all about it better than I can tell you, sir. Only I always liked +parson better out o’ the pulpit, and that’s how I come to want to make +you look at me, sir, instead o’ the water down there, afore I see you +in the church to-morrow mornin’.” + +The old man laughed a kindly laugh; but he had set me thinking, and I +did not know what to say to him all at once. So after a short pause, he +resumed— + +“You’ll be thinking me a queer kind of a man, sir, to speak to my +betters before my betters speaks to me. But mayhap you don’t know what +a parson is to us poor folk that has ne’er a friend more larned than +theirselves but the parson. And besides, sir, I’m an old salt,—an old +man-o’-war’s man,—and I’ve been all round the world, sir; and I ha’ +been in all sorts o’ company, pirates and all, sir; and I aint a bit +frightened of a parson. No; I love a parson, sir. And I’ll tell you for +why, sir. He’s got a good telescope, and he gits to the masthead, and +he looks out. And he sings out, ‘Land ahead!’ or ‘Breakers ahead!’ and +gives directions accordin’. Only I can’t always make out what he says. +But when he shuts up his spyglass, and comes down the riggin’, and +talks to us like one man to another, then I don’t know what I should do +without the parson. Good evenin’ to you, sir, and welcome to +Marshmallows.” + +The pollards did not look half so dreary. The river began to glimmer a +little; and the old bridge had become an interesting old bridge. The +country altogether was rather nice than otherwise. I had found a friend +already!—that is, a man to whom I might possibly be of some use; and +that was the most precious friend I could think of in my present +situation and mood. I had learned something from him too; and I +resolved to try all I could to be the same man in the pulpit that I was +out of it. Some may be inclined to say that I had better have formed +the resolution to be the same man out of the pulpit that I was in it. +But the one will go quite right with the other. Out of the pulpit I +would be the same man I was in it—seeing and feeling the realities of +the unseen; and in the pulpit I would be the same man I was out of +it—taking facts as they are, and dealing with things as they show +themselves in the world. + +One other occurrence before I went home that evening, and I shall close +the chapter. I hope I shall not write another so dull as this. I dare +not promise, though; for this is a new kind of work to me. + +Before I left the bridge,—while, in fact, I was contemplating the +pollards with an eye, if not of favour, yet of diminished dismay,—the +sun, which, for anything I knew of his whereabouts, either from +knowledge of the country, aspect of the evening, or state of my own +feelings, might have been down for an hour or two, burst his cloudy +bands, and blazed out as if he had just risen from the dead, instead of +being just about to sink into the grave. Do not tell me that my figure +is untrue, for that the sun never sinks into the grave, else I will +retort that it is just as true of the sun as of a man; for that no man +sinks into the grave. He only disappears. Life IS a constant sunrise, +which death cannot interrupt, any more than the night can swallow up +the sun. “God is not the God of the dead, but of the living; for all +live unto him.” + +Well, the sun shone out gloriously. The whole sweep of the gloomy river +answered him in gladness; the wet leaves of the pollards quivered and +glanced; the meadows offered up their perfect green, fresh and clear +out of the trouble of the rain; and away in the distance, upon a rising +ground covered with trees, glittered a weathercock. What if I found +afterwards that it was only on the roof of a stable? It shone, and that +was enough. And when the sun had gone below the horizon, and the fields +and the river were dusky once more, there it glittered still over the +darkening earth, a symbol of that faith which is “the evidence of +things not seen,” and it made my heart swell as at a chant from the +prophet Isaiah. What matter then whether it hung over a stable-roof or +a church-tower? + +I stood up and wandered a little farther—off the bridge, and along the +road. I had not gone far before I passed a house, out of which came a +young woman leading a little boy. They came after me, the boy gazing at +the red and gold and green of the sunset sky. As they passed me, the +child said— + +“Auntie, I think I should like to be a painter.” + +“Why?” returned his companion. + +“Because, then,” answered the child, “I could help God to paint the +sky.” + +What his aunt replied I do not know; for they were presently beyond my +hearing. But I went on answering him myself all the way home. Did God +care to paint the sky of an evening, that a few of His children might +see it, and get just a hope, just an aspiration, out of its passing +green, and gold, and purple, and red? and should I think my day’s +labour lost, if it wrought no visible salvation in the earth? + +But was the child’s aspiration in vain? Could I tell him God did not +want his help to paint the sky? True, he could mount no scaffold +against the infinite of the glowing west. But might he not with his +little palette and brush, when the time came, show his brothers and +sisters what he had seen there, and make them see it too? Might he not +thus come, after long trying, to help God to paint this glory of vapour +and light inside the minds of His children? Ah! if any man’s work is +not WITH God, its results shall be burned, ruthlessly burned, because +poor and bad. + +“So, for my part,” I said to myself, as I walked home, “if I can put +one touch of a rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman of my +cure, I shall feel that I have worked with God. He is in no haste; and +if I do what I may in earnest, I need not mourn if I work no great work +on the earth. Let God make His sunsets: I will mottle my little fading +cloud. To help the growth of a thought that struggles towards the +light; to brush with gentle hand the earth-stain from the white of one +snowdrop—such be my ambition! So shall I scale the rocks in front, not +leave my name carved upon those behind me.” + +People talk about special providences. I believe in the providences, +but not in the specialty. I do not believe that God lets the thread of +my affairs go for six days, and on the seventh evening takes it up for +a moment. The so-called special providences are no exception to the +rule—they are common to all men at all moments. But it is a fact that +God’s care is more evident in some instances of it than in others to +the dim and often bewildered vision of humanity. Upon such instances +men seize and call them providences. It is well that they can; but it +would be gloriously better if they could believe that the whole matter +is one grand providence. + +I was one of such men at the time, and could not fail to see what I +called a special providence in this, that on my first attempt to find +where I stood in the scheme of Providence, and while I was discouraged +with regard to the work before me, I should fall in with these two—an +old man whom I could help, and a child who could help me; the one +opening an outlet for my labour and my love, and the other reminding me +of the highest source of the most humbling comfort,—that in all my work +I might be a fellow-worker with God. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. + + +These events fell on the Saturday night. On the Sunday morning, I read +prayers and preached. Never before had I enjoyed so much the petitions +of the Church, which Hooker calls “the sending of angels upward,” or +the reading of the lessons, which he calls “the receiving of angels +descended from above.” And whether from the newness of the parson, or +the love of the service, certainly a congregation more intent, or more +responsive, a clergyman will hardly find. But, as I had feared, it was +different in the afternoon. The people had dined, and the usual +somnolence had followed; nor could I find in my heart to blame men and +women who worked hard all the week, for being drowsy on the day of +rest. So I curtailed my sermon as much as I could, omitting page after +page of my manuscript; and when I came to a close, was rewarded by +perceiving an agreeable surprise upon many of the faces round me. I +resolved that, in the afternoons at least, my sermons should be as +short as heart could wish. + +But that afternoon there was at least one man of the congregation who +was neither drowsy nor inattentive. Repeatedly my eyes left the page +off which I was reading and glanced towards him. Not once did I find +his eyes turned away from me. + +There was a small loft in the west end of the church, in which stood a +little organ, whose voice, weakened by years of praising, and possibly +of neglect, had yet, among a good many tones that were rough, wooden, +and reedy, a few remaining that were as mellow as ever praiseful heart +could wish to praise withal. And these came in amongst the rest like +trusting thoughts amidst “eating cares;” like the faces of children +borne in the arms of a crowd of anxious mothers; like hopes that are +young prophecies amidst the downward sweep of events. For, though I do +not understand music, I have a keen ear for the perfection of the +single tone, or the completeness of the harmony. But of this organ more +by and by. + +Now this little gallery was something larger than was just necessary +for the organ and its ministrants, and a few of the parishioners had +chosen to sit in its fore-front. Upon this occasion there was no one +there but the man to whom I have referred. + +The space below this gallery was not included in the part of the church +used for the service. It was claimed by the gardener of the place, that +is the sexton, to hold his gardening tools. There were a few ancient +carvings in wood lying in it, very brown in the dusky light that came +through a small lancet window, opening, not to the outside, but into +the tower, itself dusky with an enduring twilight. And there were some +broken old headstones, and the kindly spade and pickaxe—but I have +really nothing to do with these now, for I am, as it were, in the +pulpit, whence one ought to look beyond such things as these. + +Rising against the screen which separated this mouldy portion of the +church from the rest, stood an old monument of carved wood, once +brilliantly painted in the portions that bore the arms of the family +over whose vault it stood, but now all bare and worn, itself gently +flowing away into the dust it commemorated. It lifted its gablet, +carved to look like a canopy, till its apex was on a level with the +book-board on the front of the organ-loft; and over—in fact upon this +apex appeared the face of the man whom I have mentioned. It was a very +remarkable countenance—pale, and very thin, without any hair, except +that of thick eyebrows that far over-hung keen, questioning eyes. Short +bushy hair, gray, not white, covered a well formed head with a high +narrow forehead. As I have said, those keen eyes kept looking at me +from under their gray eyebrows all the time of the sermon—intelligently +without doubt, but whether sympathetically or otherwise I could not +determine. And indeed I hardly know yet. My vestry door opened upon a +little group of graves, simple and green, without headstone or slab; +poor graves, the memory of whose occupants no one had cared to +preserve. Good men must have preceded me here, else the poor would not +have lain so near the chancel and the vestry-door. All about and beyond +were stones, with here and there a monument; for mine was a large +parish, and there were old and rich families in it, more of which +buried their dead here than assembled their living. But close by the +vestry-door, there was this little billowy lake of grass. And at the +end of the narrow path leading from the door, was the churchyard wall, +with a few steps on each side of it, that the parson might pass at once +from the churchyard into his own shrubbery, here tangled, almost +matted, from luxuriance of growth. But I would not creep out the back +way from among my people. That way might do very well to come in by; +but to go out, I would use the door of the people. So I went along the +church, a fine old place, such as I had never hoped to be presented to, +and went out by the door in the north side into the middle of the +churchyard. The door on the other side was chiefly used by the few +gentry of the neighbourhood; and the Lych-gate, with its covered way, +(for the main road had once passed on that side,) was shared between +the coffins and the carriages, the dead who had no rank but one, that +of the dead, and the living who had more money than their neighbours. +For, let the old gentry disclaim it as they may, mere wealth, derived +from whatever source, will sooner reach their level than poor +antiquity, or the rarest refinement of personal worth; although, to be +sure, the oldest of them will sooner give to the rich their sons or +their daughters to wed, to love if they can, to have children by, than +they will yield a jot of their ancestral preeminence, or acknowledge +any equality in their sons or daughters-in-law. The carpenter’s son is +to them an old myth, not an everlasting fact. To Mammon alone will they +yield a little of their rank—none of it to Christ. Let me glorify God +that Jesus took not on. Him the nature of nobles, but the seed of Adam; +for what could I do without my poor brothers and sisters? + +I passed along the church to the northern door, and went out. The +churchyard lay in bright sunshine. All the rain and gloom were gone. +“If one could only bring this glory of sun and grass into one’s hope +for the future!” thought I; and looking down I saw the little boy who +aspired to paint the sky, looking up in my face with mingled confidence +and awe. + +“Do you trust me, my little man?” thought I. “You shall trust me then. +But I won’t be a priest to you, I’ll be a big brother.” + +For the priesthood passes away, the brotherhood endures. The priesthood +passes away, swallowed up in the brotherhood. It is because men cannot +learn simple things, cannot believe in the brotherhood, that they need +a priesthood. But as Dr Arnold said of the Sunday, “They DO need it.” +And I, for one, am sure that the priesthood needs the people much more +than the people needs the priesthood. + +So I stooped and lifted the child and held him in my arms. And the +little fellow looked at me one moment longer, and then put his arms +gently round my neck. And so we were friends. When I had set him down, +which I did presently, for I shuddered at the idea of the people +thinking that I was showing off the CLERGYMAN, I looked at the boy. In +his face was great sweetness mingled with great rusticity, and I could +not tell whether he was the child of gentlefolk or of peasants. He did +not say a word, but walked away to join his aunt, who was waiting for +him at the gate of the churchyard. He kept his head turned towards me, +however, as he went, so that, not seeing where he was going, he +stumbled over the grave of a child, and fell in the hollow on the other +side. I ran to pick him up. His aunt reached him at the same moment. + +“Oh, thank you, sir!” she said, as I gave him to her, with an +earnestness which seemed to me disproportionate to the deed, and +carried him away with a deep blush over all her countenance. + +At the churchyard-gate, the old man-of-war’s man was waiting to have +another look at me. His hat was in his hand, and he gave a pull to the +short hair over his forehead, as if he would gladly take that off too, +to show his respect for the new parson. I held out my hand gratefully. +It could not close around the hard, unyielding mass of fingers which +met it. He did not know how to shake hands, and left it all to me. But +pleasure sparkled in his eyes. + +“My old woman would like to shake hands with you, sir,” he said. + +Beside him stood his old woman, in a portentous bonnet, beneath whose +gay yellow ribbons appeared a dusky old face, wrinkled like a ship’s +timbers, out of which looked a pair of keen black eyes, where the best +beauty, that of loving-kindness, had not merely lingered, but +triumphed. + +“I shall be in to see you soon,” I said, as I shook hands with her. “I +shall find out where you live.” + +“Down by the mill,” she said; “close by it, sir. There’s one bed in our +garden that always thrives, in the hottest summer, by the plash from +the mill, sir.” + +“Ask for Old Rogers, sir,” said the man. “Everybody knows Old Rogers. +But if your reverence minds what my wife says, you won’t go wrong. When +you find the river, it takes you to the mill; and when you find the +mill, you find the wheel; and when you find the wheel, you haven’t far +to look for the cottage, sir. It’s a poor place, but you’ll be welcome, +sir.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. +MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. + + +The next day I might expect some visitors. It is a fortunate thing that +English society now regards the parson as a gentleman, else he would +have little chance of being useful to the UPPER CLASSES. But I wanted +to get a good start of them, and see some of my poor before my rich +came to see me. So after breakfast, on as lovely a Monday in the +beginning of autumn as ever came to comfort a clergyman in the reaction +of his efforts to feed his flock on the Sunday, I walked out, and took +my way to the village. I strove to dismiss from my mind every feeling +of DOING DUTY, of PERFORMING MY PART, and all that. I had a horror of +becoming a moral policeman as much as of “doing church.” I would simply +enjoy the privilege, more open to me in virtue of my office, of +ministering. But as no servant has a right to force his service, so I +would be the NEIGHBOUR only, until such time as the opportunity of +being the servant should show itself. + +The village was as irregular as a village should be, partly consisting +of those white houses with intersecting parallelograms of black which +still abound in some regions of our island. Just in the centre, +however, grouping about an old house of red brick, which had once been +a manorial residence, but was now subdivided in all modes that analytic +ingenuity could devise, rose a portion of it which, from one point of +view, might seem part of an old town. But you had only to pass round +any one of three visible corners to see stacks of wheat and a +farm-yard; while in another direction the houses went straggling away +into a wood that looked very like the beginning of a forest, of which +some of the village orchards appeared to form part. From the street the +slow-winding, poplar-bordered stream was here and there just visible. + +I did not quite like to have it between me and my village. I could not +help preferring that homely relation in which the houses are built up +like swallow-nests on to the very walls of the cathedrals themselves, +to the arrangement here, where the river flowed, with what flow there +was in it, between the church and the people. + +A little way beyond the farther end of the village appeared an iron +gate, of considerable size, dividing a lofty stone wall. And upon the +top of that one of the stone pillars supporting the gate which I could +see, stood a creature of stone, whether natant, volant, passant, +couchant, or rampant, I could not tell, only it looked like something +terrible enough for a quite antediluvian heraldry. + +As I passed along the street, wondering with myself what relations +between me and these houses were hidden in the future, my eye was +caught by the window of a little shop, in which strings of beads and +elephants of gingerbread formed the chief samples of the goods within. +It was a window much broader than it was high, divided into +lozenge-shaped panes. Wondering what kind of old woman presided over +the treasures in this cave of Aladdin, I thought to make a first of my +visits by going in and buying something. But I hesitated, because I +could not think of anything I was in want of—at least that the old +woman was likely to have. To be sure I wanted a copy of Bengel’s +“Gnomon;” but she was not likely to have that. I wanted the fourth +plate in the third volume of Law’s “Behmen;” she was not likely to have +that either. I did not care for gingerbread; and I had no little girl +to take home beads to. + +But why should I not go in without an ostensible errand? For this +reason: there are dissenters everywhere, and I could not tell but I +might be going into the shop of a dissenter. Now, though, I confess, +nothing would have pleased me better than that all the dissenters +should return to their old home in the Church, I could not endure the +suspicion of laying myself out to entice them back by canvassing or +using any personal influence. Whether they returned or not, however, +(and I did not expect many would,) I hoped still, some day, to stand +towards every one of them in the relation of the parson of the parish, +that is, one of whom each might feel certain that he was ready to serve +him or her at any hour when he might be wanted to render a service. In +the meantime, I could not help hesitating. + +I had almost made up my mind to ask if she had a small pocket compass, +for I had seen such things in little country shops—I am afraid only in +France, though—when the door opened, and out came the little boy whom I +had already seen twice, and who was therefore one of my oldest friends +in the place. He came across the road to me, took me by the hand, and +said— + +“Come and see mother.” + +“Where, my dear?” I asked. + +“In the shop there,” he answered. + +“Is it your mother’s shop?” + +“Yes.” + +I said no more, but accompanied him. Of course my expectation of seeing +an old woman behind the counter had vanished, but I was not in the +least prepared for the kind of woman I did see. + +The place was half a shop and half a kitchen. A yard or so of counter +stretched inwards from the door, just as a hint to those who might be +intrusively inclined. Beyond this, by the chimney-corner, sat the +mother, who rose as we entered. She was certainly one—I do not say of +the most beautiful, but, until I have time to explain further—of the +most remarkable women I had ever seen. Her face was absolutely +white—no, pale cream-colour—except her lips and a spot upon each cheek, +which glowed with a deep carmine. You would have said she had been +painting, and painting very inartistically, so little was the red +shaded into the surrounding white. Now this was certainly not +beautiful. Indeed, it occasioned a strange feeling, almost of terror, +at first, for she reminded one of the spectre woman in the “Rime of the +Ancient Mariner.” But when I got used to her complexion, I saw that the +form of her features was quite beautiful. She might indeed have been +LOVELY but for a certain hardness which showed through the beauty. This +might have been the result of ill health, ill-endured; but I doubted +it. For there was a certain modelling of the cheeks and lips which +showed that the teeth within were firmly closed; and, taken with the +look of the eyes and forehead, seemed the expression of a constant and +bitter self-command. But there were indubitable marks of ill health +upon her, notwithstanding; for not to mention her complexion, her large +dark eye was burning as if the lamp of life had broken and the oil was +blazing; and there was a slight expansion of the nostrils, which +indicated physical unrest. But her manner was perfectly, almost +dreadfully, quiet; her voice soft, low, and chiefly expressive of +indifference. She spoke without looking me in the face, but did not +seem either shy or ashamed. Her figure was remarkably graceful, though +too worn to be beautiful.—Here was a strange parishioner for me!—in a +country toy-shop, too! + +As soon as the little fellow had brought me in, he shrunk away through +a half-open door that revealed a stair behind. + +“What can I do for you, sir?” said the mother, coldly, and with a kind +of book-propriety of speech, as she stood on the other side of the +little counter, prepared to open box or drawer at command. + +“To tell the truth, I hardly know,” I said. “I am the new vicar; but I +do not think that I should have come in to see you just to-day, if it +had not been that your little boy there—where is he gone to? He asked +me to come in and see his mother.” + +“He is too ready to make advances to strangers, sir.” + +She said this in an incisive tone. + +“Oh, but,” I answered, “I am not a stranger to him. I have met him +twice before. He is a little darling. I assure you he has quite gained +my heart.” + +No reply for a moment. Then just “Indeed!” and nothing more. + +I could not understand it. + +But a jar on a shelf, marked TOBACCO, rescued me from the most pressing +portion of the perplexity, namely, what to say next. + +“Will you give me a quarter of a pound of tobacco?” I said. + +The woman turned, took down the jar, arranged the scales, weighed out +the quantity, wrapped it up, took the money,—and all without one other +word than, “Thank you, sir;” which was all I could return, with the +addition of, “Good morning.” + +For nothing was left me but to walk away with my parcel in my pocket. + +The little boy did not show himself again. I had hoped to find him +outside. + +Pondering, speculating, I now set out for the mill, which, I had +already learned, was on the village side of the river. Coming to a lane +leading down to the river, I followed it, and then walked up a path +outside the row of pollards, through a lovely meadow, where brown and +white cows were eating and shining all over the thick deep grass. +Beyond the meadow, a wood on the side of a rising ground went parallel +with the river a long way. The river flowed on my right. That is, I +knew that it was flowing, but I could not have told how I knew, it was +so slow. Still swollen, it was of a clear brown, in which you could see +the browner trouts darting to and fro with such a slippery gliding, +that the motion seemed the result of will, without any such +intermediate and complicate arrangement as brain and nerves and +muscles. The water-beetles went spinning about over the surface; and +one glorious dragon-fly made a mist about him with his long wings. And +over all, the sun hung in the sky, pouring down life; shining on the +roots of the willows at the bottom of the stream; lighting up the black +head of the water-rat as he hurried across to the opposite bank; +glorifying the rich green lake of the grass; and giving to the whole an +utterance of love and hope and joy, which was, to him who could read +it, a more certain and full revelation of God than any display of power +in thunder, in avalanche, in stormy sea. Those with whom the feeling of +religion is only occasional, have it most when the awful or grand +breaks out of the common; the meek who inherit the earth, find the God +of the whole earth more evidently present—I do not say more present, +for there is no measuring of His presence—more evidently present in the +commonest things. That which is best He gives most plentifully, as is +reason with Him. Hence the quiet fulness of ordinary nature; hence the +Spirit to them that ask it. + +I soon came within sound of the mill; and presently, crossing the +stream that flowed back to the river after having done its work on the +corn, I came in front of the building, and looked over the half-door +into the mill. The floor was clean and dusty. A few full sacks, tied +tight at the mouth—they always look to me as if Joseph’s silver cup +were just inside—stood about. In the farther corner, the flour was +trickling down out of two wooden spouts into a wooden receptacle below. +The whole place was full of its own faint but pleasant odour. No man +was visible. The spouts went on pouring the slow torrent of flour, as +if everything could go on with perfect propriety of itself. I could not +even see how a man could get at the stones that I heard grinding away +above, except he went up the rope that hung from the ceiling. So I +walked round the corner of the place, and found myself in the company +of the water-wheel, mossy and green with ancient waterdrops, looking so +furred and overgrown and lumpy, that one might have thought the wood of +it had taken to growing again in its old days, and so the wheel was +losing by slow degrees the shape of a wheel, to become some new awful +monster of a pollard. As yet, however, it was going round; slowly, +indeed, and with the gravity of age, but doing its work, and casting +its loose drops in the alms-giving of a gentle rain upon a little plot +of Master Rogers’s garden, which was therefore full of moisture-loving +flowers. This plot was divided from the mill-wheel by a small stream +which carried away the surplus water, and was now full and running +rapidly. + +Beyond the stream, beside the flower bed, stood a dusty young man, +talking to a young woman with a rosy face and clear honest eyes. The +moment they saw me they parted. The young man came across the stream at +a step, and the young woman went up the garden towards the cottage. + +“That must be Old Rogers’s cottage?” I said to the miller. + +“Yes, sir,” he answered, looking a little sheepish. + +“Was that his daughter—that nice-looking young woman you were talking +to?” + +“Yes, sir, it was.” + +And he stole a shy pleased look at me out of the corners of his eyes. + +“It’s a good thing,” I said, “to have an honest experienced old mill +like yours, that can manage to go on of itself for a little while now +and then.” + +This gave a great help to his budding confidence. He laughed. + +“Well, sir, it’s not very often it’s left to itself. Jane isn’t at her +father’s above once or twice a week at most.” + +“She doesn’t live with them, then?” + +“No, sir. You see they’re both hearty, and they ain’t over well to do, +and Jane lives up at the Hall, sir. She’s upper housemaid, and waits on +one of the young ladies.—Old Rogers has seen a great deal of the world, +sir.” + +“So I imagine. I am just going to see him. Good morning.” + +I jumped across the stream, and went up a little gravel-walk, which led +me in a few yards to the cottage-door. It was a sweet place to live in, +with honeysuckle growing over the house, and the sounds of the +softly-labouring mill-wheel ever in its little porch and about its +windows. + +The door was open, and Dame Rogers came from within to meet me. She +welcomed me, and led the way into her little kitchen. As I entered, +Jane went out at the back-door. But it was only to call her father, who +presently came in. + +“I’m glad to see ye, sir. This pleasure comes of having no work to-day. +After harvest there comes slack times for the likes of me. People don’t +care about a bag of old bones when they can get hold of young men. +Well, well, never mind, old woman. The Lord’ll take us through somehow. +When the wind blows, the ship goes; when the wind drops, the ship +stops; but the sea is His all the same, for He made it; and the wind is +His all the same too.” + +He spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone, unaware of anything poetic in +what he said. To him it was just common sense, and common sense only. + +“I am sorry you are out of work,” I said. “But my garden is sadly out +of order, and I must have something done to it. You don’t dislike +gardening, do you?” + +“Well, I beant a right good hand at garden-work,” answered the old man, +with some embarrassment, scratching his gray head with a troubled +scratch. + +There was more in this than met the ear; but what, I could not +conjecture. I would press the point a little. So I took him at his own +word. + +“I won’t ask you to do any of the more ornamental part,” I said,—“only +plain digging and hoeing.” + +“I would rather be excused, sir.” + +“I am afraid I made you think”— + +“I thought nothing, sir. I thank you kindly, sir.” + +“I assure you I want the work done, and I must employ some one else if +you don’t undertake it.” + +“Well, sir, my back’s bad now—no, sir, I won’t tell a story about it. I +would just rather not, sir.” + +“Now,” his wife broke in, “now, Old Rogers, why won’t ’ee tell the +parson the truth, like a man, downright? If ye won’t, I’ll do it for +’ee. The fact is, sir,” she went on, turning to me, with a plate in her +hand, which she was wiping, “the fact is, that the old parson’s man for +that kind o’ work was Simmons, t’other end of the village; and my man +is so afeard o’ hurtin’ e’er another, that he’ll turn the bread away +from his own mouth and let it fall in the dirt.” + +“Now, now, old ’oman, don’t ’ee belie me. I’m not so bad as that. You +see, sir, I never was good at knowin’ right from wrong like. I never +was good, that is, at tellin’ exactly what I ought to do. So when +anything comes up, I just says to myself, ‘Now, Old Rogers, what do you +think the Lord would best like you to do?’ And as soon as I ax myself +that, I know directly what I’ve got to do; and then my old woman can’t +turn me no more than a bull. And she don’t like my obstinate fits. But, +you see, I daren’t sir, once I axed myself that.” + +“Stick to that, Rogers,” I said. + +“Besides, sir,” he went on, “Simmons wants it more than I do. He’s got +a sick wife; and my old woman, thank God, is hale and hearty. And there +is another thing besides, sir: he might take it hard of you, sir, and +think it was turning away an old servant like; and then, sir, he +wouldn’t be ready to hear what you had to tell him, and might, mayhap, +lose a deal o’ comfort. And that I would take worst of all, sir.” + +“Well, well, Rogers, Simmons shall have the job.” + +“Thank ye, sir,” said the old man. + +His wife, who could not see the thing quite from her husband’s point of +view, was too honest to say anything; but she was none the less cordial +to me. The daughter stood looking from one to the other with attentive +face, which took everything, but revealed nothing. + +I rose to go. As I reached the door, I remembered the tobacco in my +pocket. I had not bought it for myself. I never could smoke. Nor do I +conceive that smoking is essential to a clergyman in the country; +though I have occasionally envied one of my brethren in London, who +will sit down by the fire, and, lighting his pipe, at the same time +please his host and subdue the bad smells of the place. And I never +could hit his way of talking to his parishioners either. He could put +them at their ease in a moment. I think he must have got the trick out +of his pipe. But in reality, I seldom think about how I ought to talk +to anybody I am with. + +That I didn’t smoke myself was no reason why I should not help Old +Rogers to smoke. So I pulled out the tobacco. + +“You smoke, don’t you, Rogers?” I said. + +“Well, sir, I can’t deny it. It’s not much I spend on baccay, anyhow. +Is it, dame? + +“No, that it bean’t,” answered his wife. + +“You don’t think there’s any harm in smoking a pipe, sir?” + +“Not the least,” I answered, with emphasis. + +“You see, sir,” he went on, not giving me time to prove how far I was +from thinking there was any harm in it; “You see, sir, sailors learns +many ways they might be better without. I used to take my pan o’ grog +with the rest of them; but I give that up quite, ’cause as how I don’t +want it now.” + +“’Cause as how,” interrupted his wife, “you spend the money on tea for +me, instead. You wicked old man to tell stories!” + +“Well, I takes my share of the tea, old woman, and I’m sure it’s a deal +better for me. But, to tell the truth, sir, I was a little troubled in +my mind about the baccay, not knowing whether I ought to have it or +not. For you see, the parson that’s gone didn’t more than half like it, +as I could tell by the turn of his hawse-holes when he came in at the +door and me a-smokin’. Not as he said anything; for, ye see, I was an +old man, and I daresay that kep him quiet. But I did hear him blow up a +young chap i’ the village he come upon promiscus with a pipe in his +mouth. He did give him a thunderin’ broadside, to be sure! So I was in +two minds whether I ought to go on with my pipe or not.” + +“And how did you settle the question, Rogers?” + +“Why, I followed my own old chart, sir.” + +“Quite right. One mustn’t mind too much what other people think.” + +“That’s not exactly what I mean, sir.” + +“What do you mean then? I should like to know.” + +“Well, sir, I mean that I said to myself, ‘Now, Old Rogers, what do you +think the Lord would say about this here baccay business?’” + +“And what did you think He would say?” + +“Why, sir, I thought He would say, ‘Old Rogers, have yer baccay; only +mind ye don’t grumble when you ‘aint got none.’” + +Something in this—I could not at the time have told what—touched me +more than I can express. No doubt it was the simple reality of the +relation in which the old man stood to his Father in heaven that made +me feel as if the tears would come in spite of me. + +“And this is the man,” I said to myself, “whom I thought I should be +able to teach! Well, the wisest learn most, and I may be useful to him +after all.” + +As I said nothing, the old man resumed— + +“For you see, sir, it is not always a body feels he has a right to +spend his ha’pence on baccay; and sometimes, too, he aint got none to +spend.” + +“In the meantime,” I said, “here is some that I bought for you as I +came along. I hope you will find it good. I am no judge.” + +The old sailor’s eyes glistened with gratitude. “Well, who’d ha’ +thought it. You didn’t think I was beggin’ for it, sir, surely?” + +“You see I had it for you in my pocket.” + +“Well, that IS good o’ you, sir!” + +“Why, Rogers, that’ll last you a month!” exclaimed his wife, looking +nearly as pleased as himself. + +“Six weeks at least, wife,” he answered. “And ye don’t smoke yourself, +sir, and yet ye bring baccay to me! Well, it’s just like yer Master, +sir.” + +I went away, resolved that Old Rogers should have no chance of +“grumbling” for want of tobacco, if I could help it. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +THE COFFIN. + + +On the way back, my thoughts were still occupied with the woman I had +seen in the little shop. The old man-of-war’s man was probably the +nobler being of the two; and if I had had to choose between them, I +should no doubt have chosen him. But I had not to choose between them; +I had only to think about them; and I thought a great deal more about +the one I could not understand than the one I could understand. For Old +Rogers wanted little help from me; whereas the other was evidently a +soul in pain, and therefore belonged to me in peculiar right of my +office; while the readiest way in which I could justify to myself the +possession of that office was to make it a shepherding of the sheep. So +I resolved to find out what I could about her, as one having a right to +know, that I might see whether I could not help her. From herself it +was evident that her secret, if she had one, was not to be easily +gained; but even the common reports of the village would be some +enlightenment to the darkness I was in about her. + +As I went again through the village, I observed a narrow lane striking +off to the left, and resolved to explore in that direction. It led up +to one side of the large house of which I have already spoken. As I +came near, I smelt what has been to me always a delightful smell—that +of fresh deals under the hands of the carpenter. In the scent of those +boards of pine is enclosed all the idea the tree could gather of the +world of forest where it was reared. It speaks of many wild and bright +but chiefly clean and rather cold things. If I were idling, it would +draw me to it across many fields.—Turning a corner, I heard the sound +of a saw. And this sound drew me yet more. For a carpenter’s shop was +the delight of my boyhood; and after I began to read the history of our +Lord with something of that sense of reality with which we read other +histories, and which, I am sorry to think, so much of the well-meant +instruction we receive in our youth tends to destroy, my feeling about +such a workshop grew stronger and stronger, till at last I never could +go near enough to see the shavings lying on the floor of one, without a +spiritual sensation such as I have in entering an old church; which +sensation, ever since having been admitted on the usual conditions to a +Mohammedan mosque, urges me to pull off, not only my hat, but my shoes +likewise. And the feeling has grown upon me, till now it seems at times +as if the only cure in the world for social pride would be to go for +five silent minutes into a carpenter’s shop. How one can think of +himself as above his neighbours, within sight, sound, or smell of one, +I fear I am getting almost unable to imagine, and one ought not to get +out of sympathy with the wrong. Only as I am growing old now, it does +not matter so much, for I daresay my time will not be very long. + +So I drew near to the shop, feeling as if the Lord might be at work +there at one of the benches. And when I reached the door, there was my +pale-faced hearer of the Sunday afternoon, sawing a board for a +coffin-lid. + +As my shadow fell across and darkened his work, he lifted his head and +saw me. + +I could not altogether understand the expression of his countenance as +he stood upright from his labour and touched his old hat with rather a +proud than a courteous gesture. And I could not believe that he was +glad to see me, although he laid down his saw and advanced to the door. +It was the gentleman in him, not the man, that sought to make me +welcome, hardly caring whether I saw through the ceremony or not. True, +there was a smile on his lips, but the smile of a man who cherishes a +secret grudge; of one who does not altogether dislike you, but who has +a claim upon you—say, for an apology, of which claim he doubts whether +you know the existence. So the smile seemed tightened, and stopped just +when it got half-way to its width, and was about to become hearty and +begin to shine. + +“May I come in?” I said. + +“Come in, sir,” he answered. + +“I am glad I have happened to come upon you by accident,” I said. + +He smiled as if he did not quite believe in the accident, and +considered it a part of the play between us that I should pretend it. I +hastened to add— + +“I was wandering about the place, making some acquaintance with it, and +with my friends in it, when I came upon you quite unexpectedly. You +know I saw you in church on Sunday afternoon.” + +“I know you saw me, sir,” he answered, with a motion as if to return to +his work; “but, to tell the truth, I don’t go to church very often.” + +I did not quite know whether to take this as proceeding from an honest +fear of being misunderstood, or from a sense of being in general +superior to all that sort of thing. But I felt that it would be of no +good to pursue the inquiry directly. I looked therefore for something +to say. + +“Ah! your work is not always a pleasant one,” I said, associating the +feelings of which I have already spoken with the facts before me, and +looking at the coffin, the lower part of which stood nearly finished +upon trestles on the floor. + +“Well, there are unpleasant things in all trades,” he answered. “But it +does not matter,” he added, with an increase of bitterness in his +smile. + +“I didn’t mean,” I said, “that the work was unpleasant—only sad. It +must always be painful to make a coffin.” + +“A joiner gets used to it, sir, as you do to the funeral service. But, +for my part, I don’t see why it should be considered so unhappy for a +man to be buried. This isn’t such a good job, after all, this world, +sir, you must allow.” + +“Neither is that coffin,” said I, as if by a sudden inspiration. + +The man seemed taken aback, as Old Rogers might have said. He looked at +the coffin and then looked at me. + +“Well, sir,” he said, after a short pause, which no doubt seemed longer +both to him and to me than it would have seemed to any third person, “I +don’t see anything amiss with the coffin. I don’t say it’ll last till +doomsday, as the gravedigger says to Hamlet, because I don’t know so +much about doomsday as some people pretend to; but you see, sir, it’s +not finished yet.” + +“Thank you,” I said; “that’s just what I meant. You thought I was hasty +in my judgment of your coffin; whereas I only said of it knowingly what +you said of the world thoughtlessly. How do you know that the world is +finished anymore than your coffin? And how dare you then say that it is +a bad job?” + +The same respectfully scornful smile passed over his face, as much as +to say, “Ah! it’s your trade to talk that way, so I must not be too +hard upon you.” + +“At any rate, sir,” he said, “whoever made it has taken long enough +about it, a person would think, to finish anything he ever meant to +finish.” + +“One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as +one day,” I said. + +“That’s supposing,” he answered, “that the Lord did make the world. For +my part, I am half of a mind that the Lord didn’t make it at all.” + +“I am very glad to hear you say so,” I answered. + +Hereupon I found that we had changed places a little. He looked up at +me. The smile of superiority was no longer there, and a puzzled +questioning, which might indicate either “Who would have expected that +from you?” or, “What can he mean?” or both at once, had taken its +place. I, for my part, knew that on the scale of the man’s judgment I +had risen nearer to his own level. As he said nothing, however, and I +was in danger of being misunderstood, I proceeded at once. + +“Of course it seems to me better that you should not believe God had +done a thing, than that you should believe He had not done it well!” + +“Ah! I see, sir. Then you will allow there is some room for doubting +whether He made the world at all?” + +“Yes; for I do not think an honest man, as you seem to me to be, would +be able to doubt without any room whatever. That would be only for a +fool. But it is just possible, as we are not perfectly good +ourselves—you’ll allow that, won’t you?” + +“That I will, sir; God knows.” + +“Well, I say—as we’re not quite good ourselves, it’s just possible that +things may be too good for us to do them the justice of believing in +them.” + +“But there are things, you must allow, so plainly wrong!” + +“So much so, both in the world and in myself, that it would be to me +torturing despair to believe that God did not make the world; for then, +how would it ever be put right? Therefore I prefer the theory that He +has not done making it yet.” + +“But wouldn’t you say, sir, that God might have managed it without so +many slips in the making as your way would suppose? I should think +myself a bad workman if I worked after that fashion.” + +“I do not believe that there are any slips. You know you are making a +coffin; but are you sure you know what God is making of the world?” + +“That I can’t tell, of course, nor anybody else.” + +“Then you can’t say that what looks like a slip is really a slip, +either in the design or in the workmanship. You do not know what end He +has in view; and you may find some day that those slips were just the +straight road to that very end.” + +“Ah! maybe. But you can’t be sure of it, you see.” + +“Perhaps not, in the way you mean; but sure enough, for all that, to +try it upon life—to order my way by it, and so find that it works well. +And I find that it explains everything that comes near it. You know +that no engineer would be satisfied with his engine on paper, nor with +any proof whatever except seeing how it will go.” + +He made no reply. + +It is a principle of mine never to push anything over the edge. When I +am successful, in any argument, my one dread is of humiliating my +opponent. Indeed I cannot bear it. It humiliates me. And if you want +him to think about anything, you must leave him room, and not give him +such associations with the question that the very idea of it will be +painful and irritating to him. Let him have a hand in the convincing of +himself. I have been surprised sometimes to see my own arguments come +up fresh and green, when I thought the fowls of the air had devoured +them up. When a man reasons for victory and not for the truth in the +other soul, he is sure of just one ally, the same that Faust had in +fighting Gretchen’s brother—that is, the Devil. But God and good men +are against him. So I never follow up a victory of that kind, for, as I +said, the defeat of the intellect is not the object in fighting with +the sword of the Spirit, but the acceptance of the heart. In this case, +therefore, I drew back. + +“May I ask for whom you are making that coffin?” + +“For a sister of my own, sir.” + +“I’m sorry to hear that.” + +“There’s no occasion. I can’t say I’m sorry, though she was one of the +best women I ever knew.” + +“Why are you not sorry, then? Life’s a good thing in the main, you will +allow.” + +“Yes, when it’s endurable at all. But to have a brute of a husband +coming home at any hour of the night or morning, drunk upon the money +she had earned by hard work, was enough to take more of the shine out +of things than church-going on Sundays could put in again, regular as +she was, poor woman! I’m as glad as her brute of a husband, that she’s +out of his way at last.” + +“How do you know he’s glad of it?” + +“He’s been drunk every night since she died.” + +“Then he’s the worse for losing her?” + +“He may well be. Crying like a hypocrite, too, over his own work!” + +“A fool he must be. A hypocrite, perhaps not. A hypocrite is a terrible +name to give. Perhaps her death will do him good.” + +“He doesn’t deserve to be done any good to. I would have made this +coffin for him with a world of pleasure.” + +“I never found that I deserved anything, not even a coffin. The only +claim that I could ever lay to anything was that I was very much in +want of it.” + +The old smile returned—as much as to say, “That’s your little game in +the church.” But I resolved to try nothing more with him at present; +and indeed was sorry that I had started the new question at all, partly +because thus I had again given him occasion to feel that he knew better +than I did, which was not good either for him or for me in our relation +to each other. + +“This has been a fine old room once,” I said, looking round the +workshop. + +“You can see it wasn’t a workshop always, sir. Many a grand +dinner-party has sat down in this room when it was in its glory. Look +at the chimney-piece there.” + +“I have been looking at it,” I said, going nearer. + +“It represents the four quarters of the world, you see.” + +I saw strange figures of men and women, one on a kneeling camel, one on +a crawling crocodile, and others differently mounted; with various +besides of Nature’s bizarre productions creeping and flying in +stone-carving over the huge fire-place, in which, in place of a fire, +stood several new and therefore brilliantly red cart-wheels. The sun +shone through the upper part of a high window, of which many of the +panes were broken, right in upon the cart-wheels, which, glowing thus +in the chimney under the sombre chimney-piece, added to the grotesque +look of the whole assemblage of contrasts. The coffin and the carpenter +stood in the twilight occasioned by the sharp division of light made by +a lofty wing of the house that rose flanking the other window. The room +was still wainscotted in panels, which, I presume, for the sake of the +more light required for handicraft, had been washed all over with +white. At the level of labour they were broken in many places. Somehow +or other, the whole reminded me of Albert Durer’s “Melencholia.” + +Seeing I was interested in looking about his shop, my new friend—for I +could not help feeling that we should be friends before all was over, +and so began to count him one already—resumed the conversation. He had +never taken up the dropped thread of it before. + +“Yes, sir,” he said; “the owners of the place little thought it would +come to this—the deals growing into a coffin there on the spot where +the grand dinner was laid for them and their guests! But there is +another thing about it that is odder still; my son is the last male”— + +Here he stopped suddenly, and his face grew very red. As suddenly he +resumed— + +“I’m not a gentleman, sir; but I will tell the truth. Curse it!—I beg +your pardon, sir,”—and here the old smile—“I don’t think I got that +from THEIR side of the house.—My son’s NOT the last male descendant.” + +Here followed another pause. + +As to the imprecation, I knew better than to take any notice of a mere +expression of excitement under a sense of some injury with which I was +not yet acquainted. If I could get his feelings right in regard to +other and more important things, a reform in that matter would soon +follow; whereas to make a mountain of a molehill would be to put that +very mountain between him and me. Nor would I ask him any questions, +lest I should just happen to ask him the wrong one; for this +parishioner of mine evidently wanted careful handling, if I would do +him any good. And it will not do any man good to fling even the Bible +in his face. Nay, a roll of bank-notes, which would be more evidently a +good to most men, would carry insult with it if presented in that +manner. You cannot expect people to accept before they have had a +chance of seeing what the offered gift really is. + +After a pause, therefore, the carpenter had once more to recommence, or +let the conversation lie. I stood in a waiting attitude. And while I +looked at him, I was reminded of some one else whom I knew—with whom, +too, I had pleasant associations—though I could not in the least +determine who that one might be. + +“It’s very foolish of me to talk so to a stranger,” he resumed. + +“It is very kind and friendly of you,” I said, still careful to make no +advances. “And you yourself belong to the old family that once lived in +this old house?” + +“It would be no boast to tell the truth, sir, even if it were a credit +to me, which it is not. That family has been nothing but a curse to +ours.” + +I noted that he spoke of that family as different from his, and yet +implied that he belonged to it. The explanation would come in time. But +the man was again silent, planing away at half the lid of his sister’s +coffin. And I could not help thinking that the closed mouth meant to +utter nothing more on this occasion. + +“I am sure there must be many a story to tell about this old place, if +only there were any one to tell them,” I said at last, looking round +the room once more.—“I think I see the remains of paintings on the +ceiling.” + +“You are sharp-eyed, sir. My father says they were plain enough in his +young days.” + +“Is your father alive, then?” + +“That he is, sir, and hearty too, though he seldom goes out of doors +now. Will you go up stairs and see him? He’s past ninety, sir. He has +plenty of stories to tell about the old place—before it began to fall +to pieces like.” + +“I won’t go to-day,” I said, partly because I wanted to be at home to +receive any one who might call, and partly to secure an excuse for +calling again upon the carpenter sooner than I should otherwise have +liked to do. “I expect visitors myself, and it is time I were at home. +Good morning.” + +“Good morning, sir.” + +And away home I went with a new wonder in my brain. The man did not +seem unknown to me. I mean, the state of his mind woke no feeling of +perplexity in me. I was certain of understanding it thoroughly when I +had learned something of his history; for that such a man must have a +history of his own was rendered only the more probable from the fact +that he knew something of the history of his forefathers, though, +indeed, there are some men who seem to have no other. It was strange, +however, to think of that man working away at a trade in the very house +in which such ancestors had eaten and drunk, and married and given in +marriage. The house and family had declined together—in outward +appearance at least; for it was quite possible both might have risen in +the moral and spiritual scale in proportion as they sank in the social +one. And if any of my readers are at first inclined to think that this +could hardly be, seeing that the man was little, if anything, better +than an infidel, I would just like to hold one minute’s conversation +with them on that subject. A man may be on the way to the truth, just +in virtue of his doubting. I will tell you what Lord Bacon says, and of +all writers of English I delight in him: “So it is in contemplation: if +a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he +will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.” Now +I could not tell the kind or character of this man’s doubt; but it was +evidently real and not affected doubt; and that was much in his favour. +And I couid see that he was a thinking man; just one of the sort I +thought I should get on with in time, because he was +honest—notwithstanding that unpleasant smile of his, which did irritate +me a little, and partly piqued me into the determination to get the +better of the man, if I possibly could, by making friends with him. At +all events, here was another strange parishioner. And who could it be +that he was like? + + + + +CHAPTER V. +VISITORS FROM THE HALL. + + +When I came near my own gate, I saw that it was open; and when I came +in sight of my own door, I found a carriage standing before it, and a +footman ringing the bell. It was an old-fashioned carriage, with two +white horses in it, yet whiter by age than by nature. They looked as if +no coachman could get more than three miles an hour out of them, they +were so fat and knuckle-kneed. But my attention could not rest long on +the horses, and I reached the door just as my housekeeper was +pronouncing me absent. There were two ladies in the carriage, one old +and one young. + +“Ah, here is Mr. Walton!” said the old lady, in a serene voice, with a +clear hardness in its tone; and I held out my hand to aid her descent. +She had pulled off her glove to get a card out of her card-case, and so +put the tips of two old fingers, worn very smooth, as if polished with +feeling what things were like, upon the palm of my hand. I then offered +my hand to her companion, a girl apparently about fourteen, who took a +hearty hold of it, and jumped down beside her with a smile. As I +followed them into the house, I took their card from the housekeeper’s +hand, and read, Mrs Oldcastle and Miss Gladwyn. + +I confess here to my reader, that these are not really the names I read +on the card. I made these up this minute. But the names of the persons +of humble position in my story are their real names. And my reason for +making the difference will be plain enough. You can never find out my +friend Old Rogers; you might find out the people who called on me in +their carriage with the ancient white horses. + +When they were seated in the drawing-room, I said to the old lady— + +“I remember seeing you in church on Sunday morning. It is very kind of +you to call so soon.” + +“You will always see me in church,” she returned, with a stiff bow, and +an expansion of deadness on her face, which I interpreted into an +assertion of dignity, resulting from the implied possibility that I +might have passed her over in my congregation, or might have forgotten +her after not passing her over. + +“Except when you have a headache, grannie,” said Miss Gladwyn, with an +arch look first at her grandmother, and then at me. “Grannie has bad +headaches sometimes.” + +The deadness melted a little from Mrs Oldcastle’s face, as she turned +with half a smile to her grandchild, and said— + +“Yes, Pet. But you know that cannot be an interesting fact to Mr. +Walton.” + +“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Oldcastle,” I said. “A clergyman ought to know +something, and the more the better, of the troubles of his flock. +Sympathy is one of the first demands he ought to be able to meet—I know +what a headache is.” + +The former expression, or rather non-expression, returned; this time +unaccompanied by a bow. + +“I trust, Mr. Walton, I TRUST I am above any morbid necessity for +sympathy. But, as you say, amongst the poor of your flock,—it IS very +desirable that a clergyman should be able to sympathise.” + +“It’s quite true what grannie says, Mr. Walton, though you mightn’t +think it. When she has a headache, she shuts herself up in her own +room, and doesn’t even let me come near her—nobody but Sarah; and how +she can prefer her to me, I’m sure I don’t know.” + +And here the girl pretended to pout, but with a sparkle in her bright +gray eye. + +“The subject is not interesting to me, Pet. Pray, Mr. Walton, is it a +point of conscience with you to wear the surplice when you preach?” + +“Not in the least,” I answered. “I think I like it rather better on the +whole. But that’s not why I wear it.” + +“Never mind grannie, Mr. Walton. _I_ think the surplice is lovely. I’m +sure it’s much liker the way we shall be dressed in heaven, though I +don’t think I shall ever get there, if I must read the good books +grannie reads.” + +“I don’t know that it is necessary to read any good books but the good +book,” I said. + +“There, grannie!” exclaimed Miss Gladwyn, triumphantly. “I’m so glad +I’ve got Mr Walton on my side!” + +“Mr Walton is not so old as I am, my dear, and has much to learn yet.” + +I could not help feeling a little annoyed, (which was very foolish, I +know,) and saying to myself, “If it’s to make me like you, I had rather +not learn any more;” but I said nothing aloud, of course. + +“Have you got a headache to-day, grannie?” + +“No, Pet. Be quiet. I wish to ask Mr Walton WHY he wears the surplice.” + +“Simply,” I replied, “because I was told the people had been accustomed +to it under my predecessor.” + +“But that can be no good reason for doing what is not right—that people +have been accustomed to it.” + +“But I don’t allow that it’s not right. I think it is a matter of no +consequence whatever. If I find that the people don’t like it, I will +give it up with pleasure.” + +“You ought to have principles of your own, Mr Walton.” + +“I hope I have. And one of them is, not to make mountains of molehills; +for a molehill is not a mountain. A man ought to have too much to do in +obeying his conscience and keeping his soul’s garments clean, to mind +whether he wears black or white when telling his flock that God loves +them, and that they will never be happy till they believe it.” + +“They may believe that too soon.” + +“I don’t think any one can believe the truth too soon.” + +A pause followed, during which it became evident to me that Miss +Gladwyn saw fun in the whole affair, and was enjoying it thoroughly. +Mrs Oldcastle’s face, on the contrary, was illegible. She resumed in a +measured still voice, which she meant to be meek, I daresay, but which +was really authoritative— + +“I am sorry, Mr Walton, that your principles are so loose and +unsettled. You will see my honesty in saying so when you find that, +objecting to the surplice, as I do, on Protestant grounds, I yet warn +you against making any change because you may discover that your +parishioners are against it. You have no idea, Mr Walton, what inroads +Radicalism, as they call it, has been making in this neighbourhood. It +is quite dreadful. Everybody, down to the poorest, claiming a right to +think for himself, and set his betters right! There’s one worse than +any of the rest—but he’s no better than an atheist—a carpenter of the +name of Weir, always talking to his neighbours against the proprietors +and the magistrates, and the clergy too, Mr Walton, and the game-laws; +and what not? And if you once show them that you are afraid of them by +going a step out of your way for THEIR opinion about anything, there +will be no end to it; for, the beginning of strife is like the letting +out of water, as you know. _I_ should know nothing about it, but that, +my daughter’s maid—I came to hear of it through her—a decent girl of +the name of Rogers, and born of decent parents, but unfortunately +attached to the son of one of your churchwardens, who has put him into +that mill on the river you can almost see from here.” + +“Who put him in the mill?” + +“His own father, to whom it belongs.” + +“Well, it seems to me a very good match for her.” + +“Yes, indeed, and for him too. But his foolish father thinks the match +below him, as if there was any difference between the positions of +people in that rank of life! Every one seems striving to tread on the +heels of every one else, instead of being content with the station to +which God has called them. I am content with mine. I had nothing to do +with putting myself there. Why should they not be content with theirs? +They need to be taught Christian humility and respect for their +superiors. That’s the virtue most wanted at present. The poor have to +look up to the rich”— + +“That’s right, grannie! And the rich have to look down on the poor.” + +“No, my dear. I did not say that. The rich have to be KIND to the +poor.” + +“But, grannie, why did you marry Mr Oldcastle?” + +“What does the child mean?” + +“Uncle Stoddart says you refused ever so many offers when you were a +girl.” + +“Uncle Stoddart has no business to be talking about such things to a +chit like you,” returned the grandmother smiling, however, at the +charge, which so far certainly contained no reproach. + +“And grandpapa was the ugliest and the richest of them all—wasn’t he, +grannie? and Colonel Markham the handsomest and the poorest?” + +A flush of anger crimsoned the old lady’s pale face. It looked dead no +longer. + +“Hold your tongue,” she said. “You are rude.” + +And Miss Gladwyn did hold her tongue, but nothing else, for she was +laughing all over. + +The relation between these two was evidently a very odd one. It was +clear that Miss Gladwyn was a spoiled child, though I could not help +thinking her very nicely spoiled, as far as I saw; and that the old +lady persisted in regarding her as a cub, although her claws had grown +quite long enough to be dangerous. Certainly, if things went on thus, +it was pretty clear which of them would soon have the upper hand, for +grannie was vulnerable, and Pet was not. + +It really began to look as if there were none but characters in my +parish. I began to think it must be the strangest parish in England, +and to wonder that I had never heard of it before. “Surely it must be +in some story-book at least!” I said to myself. + +But her grand-daughter’s tiger-cat-play drove the old lady nearer to +me. She rose and held out her hand, saying, with some kindness— + +“Take my advice, my dear Mr Walton, and don’t make too much of your +poor, or they’ll soon be too much for you to manage.—Come, Pet: it’s +time to go home to lunch.—And for the surplice, take your own way and +wear it. _I_ shan’t say anything more about it.” + +“I will do what I can see to be right in the matter,” I answered as +gently as I could; for I did not want to quarrel with her, although I +thought her both presumptuous and rude. + +“I’m on your side, Mr Walton,” said the girl, with a sweet comical +smile, as she squeezed my hand once more. + +I led them to the carriage, and it was with a feeling of relief that I +saw it drive off. + +The old lady certainly was not pleasant. She had a white smooth face +over which the skin was drawn tight, gray hair, and rather lurid hazel +eyes. I felt a repugnance to her that was hardly to be accounted for by +her arrogance to me, or by her superciliousness to the poor; although +either would have accounted for much of it. For I confess that I have +not yet learned to bear presumption and rudeness with all the patience +and forgiveness with which I ought by this time to be able to meet +them. And as to the poor, I am afraid I was always in some danger of +being a partizan of theirs against the rich; and that a clergyman ought +never to be. And indeed the poor rich have more need of the care of the +clergyman than the others, seeing it is hardly that the rich shall +enter into the kingdom of heaven, and the poor have all the advantage +over them in that respect. + +“Still,” I said to myself, “there must be some good in the woman—she +cannot be altogether so hard as she looks, else how should that child +dare to take the liberties of a kitten with her? She doesn’t look to ME +like one to make game of! However, I shall know a little more about her +when I return her call, and I will do my best to keep on good terms +with her.” + +I took down a volume of Plato to comfort me after the irritation which +my nerves had undergone, and sat down in an easy-chair beside the open +window of my study. And with Plato in my hand, and all that outside my +window, I began to feel as if, after all, a man might be happy, even if +a lady had refused him. And there I sat, without opening my favourite +vellum-bound volume, gazing out on the happy world, whence a gentle +wind came in, as if to bid me welcome with a kiss to all it had to give +me. And then I thought of the wind that bloweth where it listeth, which +is everywhere, and I quite forgot to open my Plato, and thanked God for +the Life of life, whose story and whose words are in that best of +books, and who explains everything to us, and makes us love Socrates +and David and all good men ten times more; and who follows no law but +the law of love, and no fashion but the will of God; for where did ever +one read words less like moralising and more like simple earnestness of +truth than all those of Jesus? And I prayed my God that He would make +me able to speak good common heavenly sense to my people, and forgive +me for feeling so cross and proud towards the unhappy old lady—for I +was sure she was not happy—and make me into a rock which swallowed up +the waves of wrong in its great caverns, and never threw them back to +swell the commotion of the angry sea whence they came. Ah, what it +would be actually to annihilate wrong in this way!—to be able to say, +it shall not be wrong against me, so utterly do I forgive it! How much +sooner, then, would the wrong-doer repent, and get rid of the wrong +from his side also! But the painful fact will show itself, not less +curious than painful, that it is more difficult to forgive small wrongs +than great ones. Perhaps, however, the forgiveness of the great wrongs +is not so true as it seems. For do we not think it is a fine thing to +forgive such wrongs, and so do it rather for our own sakes than for the +sake of the wrongdoer? It is dreadful not to be good, and to have bad +ways inside one. + +Such thoughts passed through my mind. And once more the great light +went up on me with regard to my office, namely, that just because I was +parson to the parish, I must not be THE PERSON to myself. And I prayed +God to keep me from feeling STUNG and proud, however any one might +behave to me; for all my value lay in being a sacrifice to Him and the +people. + +So when Mrs Pearson knocked at the door, and told me that a lady and +gentleman had called, I shut my book which I had just opened, and kept +down as well as I could the rising grumble of the inhospitable +Englishman, who is apt to be forgetful to entertain strangers, at least +in the parlour of his heart. And I cannot count it perfect hospitality +to be friendly and plentiful towards those whom you have invited to +your house—what thank has a man in that?—while you are cold and +forbidding to those who have not that claim on your attention. That is +not to be perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect. By all means tell +people, when you are busy about something that must be done, that you +cannot spare the time for them except they want you upon something of +yet more pressing necessity; but TELL them, and do not get rid of them +by the use of the instrument commonly called THE COLD SHOULDER. It is a +wicked instrument that, and ought to have fallen out of use by this +time. + +I went and received Mr and Miss Boulderstone, and was at least thus far +rewarded—that the EERIE feeling, as the Scotch would call it, which I +had about my parish, as containing none but CHARACTERS, and therefore +not being CANNIE, was entirely removed. At least there was a wholesome +leaven in it of honest stupidity. Please, kind reader, do not fancy I +am sneering. I declare to you I think a sneer the worst thing God has +not made. A curse is nothing in wickedness to it, it seems to me. I do +mean that honest stupidity I respect heartily, and do assert my +conviction that I do not know how England at least would get on without +it. But I do not mean the stupidity that sets up for teaching itself to +its neighbour, thinking itself wisdom all the time. That I do not +respect. + +Mr and Miss Boulderstone left me a little fatigued, but in no way sore +or grumbling. They only sent me back with additional zest to my Plato, +of which I enjoyed a hearty page or two before any one else arrived. +The only other visitors I had that day were an old surgeon in the navy, +who since his retirement had practised for many years in the +neighbourhood, and was still at the call of any one who did not think +him too old-fashioned—for even here the fashions, though decidedly +elderly young ladies by the time they arrived, held their sway none the +less imperiously—and Mr Brownrigg, the churchwarden. More of Dr Duncan +by and by. + +Except Mr and Miss Boulderstone, I had not yet seen any common people. +They were all decidedly uncommon, and, as regarded most of them, I +could not think I should have any difficulty in preaching to them. For, +whatever place a man may give to preaching in the ritual of the +church—indeed it does not properly belong to the ritual at all—it is +yet the part of the so-called service with which his personality has +most to do. To the influences of the other parts he has to submit +himself, ever turning the openings of his soul towards them, that he +may not be a mere praying-machine; but with the sermon it is otherwise. +That he produces. For that he is responsible. And therefore, I say, it +was a great comfort to me to find myself amongst a people from which my +spirit neither shrunk in the act of preaching, nor with regard to which +it was likely to feel that it was beating itself against a stone wall. +There was some good in preaching to a man like Weir or Old Rogers. +Whether there was any good in preaching to a woman like Mrs Oldcastle I +did not know. + +The evening I thought I might give to my books, and thus end my first +Monday in my parish; but, as I said, Mr Brownrigg, the churchwarden, +called and stayed a whole weary hour, talking about matters quite +uninteresting to any who may hereafter peruse what I am now writing. +Really he was not an interesting man: short, broad, stout, red-faced, +with an immense amount of mental inertia, discharging itself in +constant lingual activity about little nothings. Indeed, when there was +no new nothing to be had, the old nothing would do over again to make a +fresh fuss about. But if you attempted to convey a thought into his +mind which involved the moving round half a degree from where he stood, +and looking at the matter from a point even so far new, you found him +utterly, totally impenetrable, as pachydermatous as any rhinoceros or +behemoth. One other corporeal fact I could not help observing, was, +that his cheeks rose at once from the collar of his green coat, his +neck being invisible, from the hollow between it and the jaw being +filled up to a level. The conformation was just what he himself +delighted to contemplate in his pigs, to which his resemblance was +greatly increased by unwearied endeavours to keep himself close +shaved.—I could not help feeling anxious about his son and Jane +Rogers.—He gave a quantity of gossip about various people, evidently +anxious that I should regard them as he regarded them; but in all he +said concerning them I could scarcely detect one point of significance +as to character or history. I was very glad indeed when the waddling of +hands—for it was the perfect imbecility of hand-shaking—was over, and +he was safely out of the gate. He had kept me standing on the steps for +full five minutes, and I did not feel safe from him till I was once +more in my study with the door shut. + +I am not going to try my reader’s patience with anything of a more +detailed account of my introduction to my various parishioners. I shall +mention them only as they come up in the course of my story. Before +many days had passed I had found out my poor, who, I thought, must be +somewhere, seeing the Lord had said we should have them with us always. +There was a workhouse in the village, but there were not a great many +in it; for the poor were kindly enough handled who belonged to the +place, and were not too severely compelled to go into the house; +though, I believe, in this house they would have been more comfortable +than they were in their own houses. + +I cannot imagine a much greater misfortune for a man, not to say a +clergyman, than not to know, or knowing, not to minister to any of the +poor. And I did not feel that I knew in the least where I was until I +had found out and conversed with almost the whole of mine. + +After I had done so, I began to think it better to return Mrs +Oldcastle’s visit, though I felt greatly disinclined to encounter that +tight-skinned nose again, and that mouth whose smile had no light in +it, except when it responded to some nonsense of her grand-daughter’s. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +OLDCASTLE HALL. + + +About noon, on a lovely autumn day, I set out for Oldcastle Hall. The +keenness of the air had melted away with the heat of the sun, yet still +the air was fresh and invigorating. Can any one tell me why it is that, +when the earth is renewing her youth in the spring, man should feel +feeble and low-spirited, and gaze with bowed head, though pleased +heart, on the crocuses; whereas, on the contrary, in the autumn, when +nature is dying for the winter, he feels strong and hopeful, holds his +head erect, and walks with a vigorous step, though the flaunting +dahlias discourage him greatly? I do not ask for the physical causes: +those I might be able to find out for myself; but I ask, Where is the +rightness and fitness in the thing? Should not man and nature go +together in this world which was made for man—not for science, but for +man? Perhaps I have some glimmerings of where the answer lies. Perhaps +“I see a cherub that sees it.” And in many of our questions we have to +be content with such an approximation to an answer as this. And for my +part I am content with this. With less, I am not content. + +Whatever that answer may be, I walked over the old Gothic bridge with a +heart strong enough to meet Mrs Oldcastle without flinching. I might +have to quarrel with her—I could not tell: she certainly was neither +safe nor wholesome. But this I was sure of, that I would not quarrel +with her without being quite certain that I ought. I wish it were NEVER +one’s duty to quarrel with anybody: I do so hate it. But not to do it +sometimes is to smile in the devil’s face, and that no one ought to do. +However, I had not to quarrel this time. + +The woods on the other side of the river from my house, towards which I +was now walking, were of the most sombre rich colour—sombre and rich, +like a life that has laid up treasure in heaven, locked in a casket of +sorrow. I came nearer and nearer to them through the village, and +approached the great iron gate with the antediluvian monsters on the +top of its stone pillars. And awful monsters they were—are still! I see +the tail of one of them at this very moment. But they let me through +very quietly, notwithstanding their evil looks. I thought they were +saying to each other across the top of the gate, “Never mind; he’ll +catch it soon enough.” But, as I said, I did not catch it that day; and +I could not have caught it that day; it was too lovely a day to catch +any hurt even from that most hurtful of all beings under the sun, an +unwomanly woman. + +I wandered up the long winding road, through the woods which I had +remarked flanking the meadow on my first walk up the river. These woods +smelt so sweetly—their dead and dying leaves departing in sweet +odours—that they quite made up for the absence of the flowers. And the +wind—no, there was no wind—there was only a memory of wind that woke +now and then in the bosom of the wood, shook down a few leaves, like +the thoughts that flutter away in sighs, and then was still again. + +I am getting old, as I told you, my friends. (See there, you seem my +friends already. Do not despise an old man because he cannot help +loving people he never saw or even heard of.) I say I am getting +old—(is it BUT or THEREFORE? I do not know which)—but, therefore, I +shall never forget that one autumn day in those grandly fading woods. + +Up the slope of the hillside they rose like one great rainbow-billow of +foliage—bright yellow, red-rusty and bright fading green, all kinds and +shades of brown and purple. Multitudes of leaves lay on the sides of +the path, so many that I betook myself to my old childish amusement of +walking in them without lifting my feet, driving whole armies of them +with ocean-like rustling before me. I did not do so as I came back. I +walked in the middle of the way then, and I remember stepping over many +single leaves, in a kind of mechanico-merciful way, as if they had been +living creatures—as indeed who can tell but they are, only they must be +pretty nearly dead when they are on the ground. + +At length the road brought me up to the house. It did not look such a +large house as I have since found it to be. And it certainly was not an +interesting house from the outside, though its surroundings of green +grass and trees would make any whole beautiful. Indeed the house itself +tried hard to look ugly, not quite succeeding, only because of the kind +foiling of its efforts by the Virginia creepers and ivy, which, as if +ashamed of its staring countenance, did all they could to spread their +hands over it and hide it. But there was one charming group of old +chimneys, belonging to some portion behind, which indicated a very +different, namely, a very much older, face upon the house once—a face +that had passed away to give place to this. Once inside, I found there +were more remains of the olden time than I had expected. I was led up +one of those grand square oak staircases, which look like a portion of +the house to be dwelt in, and not like a ladder for getting from one +part of the habitable regions to another. On the top was a fine expanse +of landing, another hall, in fact, from which I was led towards the +back of the house by a narrow passage, and shown into a small dark +drawing-room with a deep stone-mullioned window, wainscoted in oak +simply carved and panelled. Several doors around indicated +communication with other parts of the house. Here I found Mrs +Oldcastle, reading what I judged to be one of the cheap and gaudy +religious books of the present day. She rose and RECEIVED me, and +having motioned me to a seat, began to talk about the parish. You would +have perceived at once from her tone that she recognised no other bond +of connexion between us but the parish. + +“I hear you have been most kind in visiting the poor, Mr Walton. You +must take care that they don’t take advantage of your kindness, though. +I assure you, you will find some of them very grasping indeed. And you +need not expect that they will give you the least credit for good +intentions.” + +“I have seen nothing yet to make me uneasy on that score. But certainly +my testimony is of no weight yet.” + +“Mine is. I have proved them. The poor of this neighbourhood are very +deficient in gratitude.” + +“Yes, grannie,——” + +I started. But there was no interruption, such as I have made to +indicate my surprise; although, when I looked half round in the +direction whence the voice came, the words that followed were all +rippled with a sweet laugh of amusement. + +“Yes, grannie, you are right. You remember how old dame Hope wouldn’t +take the money you offered her, and dropped such a disdainful courtesy. +It was SO greedy of her, wasn’t it?” + +“I am sorry to hear of any disdainful reception of kindness,” I said. + +“Yes, and she had the coolness, within a fortnight, to send up to me +and ask if I would be kind enough to lend her half-a-crown for a few +weeks.” + +“And then it was your turn, grannie! You sent her five shillings, +didn’t you?—Oh no; I’m wrong. That was the other woman.” + +“Indeed, I did not send her anything but a rebuke. I told her that it +would be a very wrong thing in me to contribute to the support of such +an evil spirit of unthankfulness as she indulged in. When she came to +see her conduct in its true light, and confessed that she had behaved +very abominably, I would see what I could do for her.” + +“And meantime she was served out, wasn’t she? With her sick boy at +home, and nothing to give him?” said Miss Gladwyn. + +“She made her own bed, and had to lie on it.” + +“Don’t you think a little kindness might have had more effect in +bringing her to see that she was wrong.” + +“Grannie doesn’t believe in kindness, except to me—dear old grannie! +She spoils me. I’m sure I shall be ungrateful some day; and then she’ll +begin to read me long lectures, and prick me with all manner of +headless pins. But I won’t stand it, I can tell you, grannie! I’m too +much spoiled for that.” + +Mrs Oldcastle was silent—why, I could not tell, except it was that she +knew she had no chance of quieting the girl in any other way. + +I may mention here, lest I should have no opportunity afterwards, that +I inquired of dame Hope as to her version of the story, and found that +there had been a great misunderstanding, as I had suspected. She was +really in no want at the time, and did not feel that it would be quite +honourable to take the money when she did not need it—(some poor people +ARE capable of such reasoning)—and so had refused it, not without a +feeling at the same time that it was more pleasant to refuse than to +accept from such a giver; some stray sparkle of which feeling, +discovered by the keen eye of Miss Gladwyn, may have given that +appearance of disdain to her courtesy to which the girl alluded. When, +however, her boy in service was brought home ill, she had sent to ask +for what she now required, on the very ground that it had been offered +to her before. The misunderstanding had arisen from the total +incapacity of Mrs Oldcastle to enter sympathetically into the feelings +of one as superior to herself in character as she was inferior in +worldly condition. + +But to return to Oldcastle Hall. + +I wished to change the subject, knowing that blind defence is of no +use. One must have definite points for defence, if one has not a +thorough understanding of the character in question; and I had neither. + +“This is a beautiful old house,” I said. “There must be strange places +about it.” + +Mrs Oldcastle had not time to reply, or at least did not reply, before +Miss Gladwyn said— + +“Oh, Mr Walton, have you looked out of the window yet? You don’t know +what a lovely place this is, if you haven’t.” + +And as she spoke she emerged from a recess in the room, a kind of dark +alcove, where she had been amusing herself with what I took to be some +sort of puzzle, but which I found afterwards to be the bit and +curb-chain of her pony’s bridle which she was polishing up to her own +bright mind, because the stable-boy had not pleased her in the matter, +and she wanted both to get them brilliant and to shame the lad for the +future. I followed her to the window, where I was indeed as much +surprised and pleased as she could have wished. + +“There!” she said, holding back one of the dingy heavy curtains with +her small childish hand. + +And there, indeed, I saw an astonishment. It did not lie in the lovely +sweeps of hill and hollow stretching away to the horizon, richly +wooded, and—though I saw none of them—sprinkled, certainly with sweet +villages full of human thoughts, loves, and hopes; the astonishment did +not lie in this—though all this was really much more beautiful to the +higher imagination—but in the fact that, at the first glance, I had a +vision properly belonging to a rugged or mountainous country. For I had +approached the house by a gentle slope, which certainly was long and +winding, but had occasioned no feeling in my mind that I had reached +any considerable height. And I had come up that one beautiful +staircase; no more; and yet now, when I looked from this window, I +found myself on the edge of a precipice—not a very deep one, certainly, +yet with all the effect of many a deeper. For below the house on this +side lay a great hollow, with steep sides, up which, as far as they +could reach, the trees were climbing. The sides were not all so steep +as the one on which the house stood, but they were all rocky and steep, +with here and there slopes of green grass. And down in the bottom, in +the centre of the hollow, lay a pool of water. I knew it only by its +slaty shimmer through the fading green of the tree-tops between me and +it. + +“There!” again exclaimed Miss Gladwyn; “isn’t that beautiful? But you +haven’t seen the most beautiful thing yet. Grannie, where’s—ah! there +she is! There’s auntie! Don’t you see her down there, by the side of +the pond? That pond is a hundred feet deep. If auntie were to fall in +she would be drowned before you could jump down to get her out. Can you +swim?” + +Before I had time to answer, she was off again. + +“Don’t you see auntie down there?” + +“No, I don’t see her. I have been trying very hard, but I can’t.” + +“Well, I daresay you can’t. Nobody, I think, has got eyes but myself. +Do you see a big stone by the edge of the pond, with another stone on +the top of it, like a big potato with a little one grown out of it?” + +“No.” + +“Well, auntie is under the trees on the opposite side from that stone. +Do you see her yet?” + +“No.” + +“Then you must come down with me, and I will introduce you to her. +She’s much the prettiest thing here. Much prettier than grannie.” + +Here she looked over her shoulder at grannie, who, instead of being +angry, as, from what I had seen on our former interview, I feared she +would be, only said, without even looking up from the little +blue-boarded book she was again reading— + +“You are a saucy child.” + +Whereupon Miss Gladwyn laughed merrily. + +“Come along,” she said, and, seizing me by the hand, led me out of the +room, down a back-staircase, across a piece of grass, and then down a +stair in the face of the rock, towards the pond below. The stair went +in zigzags, and, although rough, was protected by an iron balustrade, +without which, indeed, it would have been very dangerous. + +“Isn’t your grandmamma afraid to let you run up and down here, Miss +Gladwyn?” I said. + +“Me!” she exclaimed, apparently in the utmost surprise. “That WOULD be +fun! For, you know, if she tried to hinder me—but she knows it’s no +use; I taught her that long ago—let me see, how long: oh! I don’t +know—I should think it must be ten years at least. I ran away, and they +thought I had drowned myself in the pond. And I saw them, all the time, +poking with a long stick in the pond, which, if I had been drowned +there, never could have brought me up, for it is a hundred feet deep, I +am sure. How I hurt my sides trying to keep from screaming with +laughter! I fancied I heard one say to the other, ‘We must wait till +she swells and floats?’” + +“Dear me! what a peculiar child!” I said to myself. + +And yet somehow, whatever she said—even when she was most rude to her +grandmother—she was never offensive. No one could have helped feeling +all the time that she was a little lady.—I thought I would venture a +question with her. I stood still at a turn of the zigzag, and looked +down into the hollow, still a good way below us, where I could now +distinguish the form, on the opposite side of the pond, of a woman +seated at the foot of a tree, and stooping forward over a book. + +“May I ask you a question, Miss Gladwyn?” + +“Yes, twenty, if you like; but I won’t answer one of them till you give +up calling me Miss Gladwyn. We can’t be friends, you know, so long as +you do that.” + +“What am I to call you, then? I never heard you called by any other +name than Pet, and that would hardly do, would it?” + +“Oh, just fancy if you called me Pet before grannie! That’s grannie’s +name for me, and nobody dares to use it but grannie—not even auntie; +for, between you and me, auntie is afraid of grannie; I can’t think +why. I never was afraid of anybody—except, yes, a little afraid of old +Sarah. She used to be my nurse, you know; and grandmamma and everybody +is afraid of her, and that’s just why I never do one thing she wants me +to do. It would never do to give in to being afraid of her, you +know.—There’s auntie, you see, down there, just where I told you +before.” + +“Oh yes! I see her now.—What does your aunt call you, then?” + +“Why, what you must call me—my own name, of course.” + +“What is that?” + +“Judy.” + +She said it in a tone which seemed to indicate surprise that I should +not know her name—perhaps read it off her face, as one ought to know a +flower’s name by looking at it. But she added instantly, glancing up in +my face most comically— + +“I wish yours was Punch.” + +“Why, Judy?” + +“It would be such fun, you know.” + +“Well, it would be odd, I must confess. What is your aunt’s name?” + +“Oh, such a funny name!—much funnier than Judy: Ethelwyn. It sounds as +if it ought to mean something, doesn’t it?” + +“Yes. It is an Anglo-Saxon word, without doubt.” + +“What does it mean?” + +“I’m not sure about that. I will try to find out when I go home—if you +would like to know.” + +“Yes, that I should. I should like to know everything about auntie +Ethelwyn. Isn’t it pretty?” + +“So pretty that I should like to know something more about Aunt +Ethelwyn. What is her other name?” + +“Why, Ethelwyn Oldcastle, to be sure. What else could it be?” + +“Why, you know, for anything I knew, Judy, it might have been Gladwyn. +She might have been your father’s sister.” + +“Might she? I never thought of that. Oh, I suppose that is because I +never think about my father. And now I do think of it, I wonder why +nobody ever mentions him to me, or my mother either. But I often think +auntie must be thinking about my mother. Something in her eyes, when +they are sadder than usual, seems to remind me of my mother.” + +“You remember your mother, then?” + +“No, I don’t think I ever saw her. But I’ve answered plenty of +questions, haven’t I? I assure you, if you want to get me on to the +Catechism, I don’t know a word of it. Come along.” + +I laughed. + +“What!” she said, pulling me by the hand, “you a clergyman, and laugh +at the Catechism! I didn’t know that.” + +“I’m not laughing at the Catechism, Judy. I’m only laughing at the idea +of putting Catechism questions to you.” + +“You KNOW I didn’t mean it,” she said, with some indignation. + +“I know now,” I answered. “But you haven’t let me put the only question +I wanted to put.” + +“What is it?” + +“How old are you?” + +“Twelve. Come along.” + +And away we went down the rest of the stair. + +When we reached the bottom, a winding path led us through the trees to +the side of the pond, along which we passed to get to the other side. + +And then all at once the thought struck me—why was it that I had never +seen this auntie, with the lovely name, at church? Was she going to +turn out another strange parishioner? + +There she sat, intent on her book. As we drew near she looked up and +rose, but did not come forward. + +“Aunt Winnie, here’s Mr. Walton,” said Judy. + +I lifted my hat and held out my hand. Before our hands met, however, a +tremendous splash reached my ears from the pond. I started round. Judy +had vanished. I had my coat half off, and was rushing to the pool, when +Miss Oldcastle stopped me, her face unmoved, except by a smile, saying, +“It’s only one of that frolicsome child’s tricks, Mr Walton. It is well +for you that I was here, though. Nothing would have delighted her more +than to have you in the water too.” + +“But,” I said, bewildered, and not half comprehending, “where is she?” + +“There,” returned Miss Oldcastle, pointing to the pool, in the middle +of which arose a heaving and bubbling, presently yielding passage to +the laughing face of Judy. + +“Why don’t you help me out, Mr Walton? You said you could swim.” + +“No, I did not,” I answered coolly. “You talked so fast, you did not +give me time to say so.” + +“It’s very cold,” she returned. + +“Come out, Judy dear,” said her aunt. “Run home and change your +clothes. There’s a dear.” + +Judy swam to the opposite side, scrambled out, and was off like a +spaniel through the trees and up the stairs, dripping and raining as +she went. + +“You must be very much astonished at the little creature, Mr Walton.” + +“I find her very interesting. Quite a study.” + +“There never was a child so spoiled, and never a child on whom it took +less effect to hurt her. I suppose such things do happen sometimes. She +is really a good girl; though mamma, who has done all the spoiling, +will not allow me to say she is good.” + +Here followed a pause, for, Judy disposed of, what should I say next? +And the moment her mind turned from Judy, I saw a certain stillness—not +a cloud, but the shadow of a cloud—come over Miss Oldcastle’s face, as +if she, too, found herself uncomfortable, and did not know what to say +next. I tried to get a glance at the book in her hand, for I should +know something about her at once if I could only see what she was +reading. She never came to church, and I wanted to arrive at some +notion of the source of her spiritual life; for that she had such, a +single glance at her face was enough to convince me. This, I mean, made +me even anxious to see what the book was. But I could only discover +that it was an old book in very shabby binding, not in the least like +the books that young ladies generally have in their hands. + +And now my readers will possibly be thinking it odd that I have never +yet said a word about what either Judy or Miss Oldcastle was like. If +there is one thing I feel more inadequate to than another, in taking +upon me to relate—it is to describe a lady. But I will try the girl +first. + +Judy was rosy, gray-eyed, auburn-haired, sweet-mouthed. She had +confidence in her chin, assertion in her nose, defiance in her +eyebrows, honesty and friendliness over all her face. No one, +evidently, could have a warmer friend; and to an enemy she would be +dangerous no longer than a fit of passion might last. There was nothing +acrid in her; and the reason, I presume, was, that she had never yet +hurt her conscience. That is a very different thing from saying she had +never done wrong, you know. She was not tall, even for her age, and +just a little too plump for the immediate suggestion of grace. Yet +every motion of the child would have been graceful, except for the fact +that impulse was always predominant, giving a certain jerkiness, like +the hopping of a bird, instead of the gliding of one motion into +another, such as you might see in the same bird on the wing. + +There is one of the ladies. + +But the other—how shall I attempt to describe her? + +The first thing I felt was, that she was a lady-woman. And to feel that +is almost to fall in love at first sight. And out of this whole, the +first thing you distinguished would be the grace over all. She was +rather slender, rather tall, rather dark-haired, and quite blue-eyed. +But I assure you it was not upon that occasion that I found out the +colour of her eyes. I was so taken with her whole that I knew nothing +about her parts. Yet she was blue-eyed, indicating northern +extraction—some centuries back perhaps. That blue was the blue of the +sea that had sunk through the eyes of some sea-rover’s wife and settled +in those of her child, to be born when the voyage was over. It had been +dyed so deep INGRAYNE, as Spenser would say, that it had never been +worn from the souls of the race since, and so was every now and then +shining like heaven out at some of its eyes. Her features were what is +called regular. They were delicate and brave.—After the grace, the +dignity was the next thing you came to discover. And the only thing you +would not have liked, you would have discovered last. For when the +shine of the courtesy with which she received me had faded away a +certain look of negative haughtiness, of withdrawal, if not of +repulsion, took its place, a look of consciousness of her own high +breeding—a pride, not of life, but of circumstance of life, which +disappointed me in the midst of so much that was very lovely. Her voice +was sweet, and I could have fancied a tinge of sadness in it, to which +impression her slowness of speech, without any drawl in it, +contributed. But I am not doing well as an artist in describing her so +fully before my reader has become in the least degree interested in +her. I was seeing her, and no words can make him see her. + +Fearing lest some such fancy as had possessed Judy should be moving in +her mind, namely, that I was, if not exactly going to put her through +her Catechism, yet going in some way or other to act the clergyman, I +hastened to speak. + +“This is a most romantic spot, Miss Oldcastle,” I said; “and as +surprising as it is romantic. I could hardly believe my eyes when I +looked out of the window and saw it first.” + +“Your surprise was the more natural that the place itself is not +properly natural, as you must have discovered.” + +This was rather a remarkable speech for a young lady to make. I +answered— + +“I only know that such a chasm is the last thing I should have expected +to find in this gently undulating country. That it is artificial I was +no more prepared to hear than I was to see the place itself.” + +“It looks pretty, but it has not a very poetic origin,” she returned. +“It is nothing but the quarry out of which the old house at the top of +it was built.” + +“I must venture to differ from you entirely in the aspect such an +origin assumes to me,” I said. “It seems to me a more poetic origin +than any convulsion of nature whatever would have been; for, look you,” +I said—being as a young man too much inclined to the didactic, “for, +look you,” I said—and she did look at me—“from that buried mass of rock +has arisen this living house with its histories of ages and +generations; and”— + +Here I saw a change pass upon her face: it grew almost pallid. But her +large blue eyes were still fixed on mine. + +“And it seems to me,” I went on, “that such a chasm made by the +uplifting of a house therefrom, is therefore in itself more poetic than +if it were even the mouth of an extinct volcano. For, grand as the +motions and deeds of Nature are, terrible as is the idea of the fiery +heart of the earth breaking out in convulsions, yet here is something +greater; for human will, human thought, human hands in human labour and +effort, have all been employed to build this house, making not only the +house beautiful, but the place whence it came beautiful too. It stands +on the edge of what Shelley would call its ‘antenatal tomb’—now +beautiful enough to be its mother—filled from generation to generation +“— + +Her face had grown still paler, and her lips moved as if she would +speak; but no sound came from them. I had gone on, thinking it best to +take no notice of her paleness; but now I could not help expressing +concern. + +“I am afraid you feel ill, Miss Oldcastle.” + +“Not at all,” she answered, more quickly than she had yet spoken. + +“This place must be damp,” I said. “I fear you have taken cold.” + +She drew herself up a little haughtily, thinking, no doubt, that after +her denial I was improperly pressing the point. So I drew back to the +subject of our conversation. + +“But I can hardly think,” I said, “that all this mass of stone could be +required to build the house, large as it is. A house is not solid, you +know.” + +“No,” she answered. “The original building was more of a castle, with +walls and battlements. I can show you the foundations of them still; +and the picture, too, of what the place used to be. We are not what we +were then. Many a cottage, too, has been built out of this old quarry. +Not a stone has been taken from it for the last fifty years, though. +Just let me show you one thing, Mr. Walton, and then I must leave you.” + +“Do not let me detain you a moment. I will go at once,” I said; +“though, if you would allow me, I should be more at ease if I might see +you safe at the top of the stair first.” + +She smiled. + +“Indeed, I am not ill,” she answered; “but I have duties to attend to. +Just let me show you this, and then you shall go with me back to +mamma.” + +She led the way to the edge of the pond and looked into it. I followed, +and gazed down into its depths, till my sight was lost in them. I could +see no bottom to the rocky shaft. + +“There is a strong spring down there,” she said. “Is it not a dreadful +place? Such a depth!” + +“Yes,” I answered; “but it has not the horror of dirty water; it is as +clear as crystal. How does the surplus escape?” + +“On the opposite side of the hill you came up there is a well, with a +strong stream from it into the river.” + +“I almost wonder at your choosing such a place to read in. I should +hardly like to be so near this pond,” said I, laughing. + +“Judy has taken all that away. Nothing in nature, and everything out of +it, is strange to Judy, poor child! But just look down a little way +into the water on this side. Do you see anything?” + +“Nothing,” I answered. + +“Look again, against the wall of the pond,” she said. + +“I see a kind of arch or opening in the side,” I answered. + +“That is what I wanted you to see. Now, do you see a little barred +window, there, in the face of the rock, through the trees?” + +“I cannot say I do,” I replied. + +“No. Except you know where it is—and even then—it is not so easy to +find it. I find it by certain trees.” + +“What is it?” + +“It is the window of a little room in the rock, from which a stair +leads down through the rock to a sloping passage. That is the end of it +you see under the water.” + +“Provided, no doubt,” I said, “in case of siege, to procure water.” + +“Most likely; but not, therefore, confined to that purpose. There are +more dreadful stories than I can bear to think of”—- + +Here she paused abruptly, and began anew “—-As if that house had +brought death and doom out of the earth with it. There was an old +burial-ground here before the Hall was built.” + +“Have you ever been down the stair you speak of?” I asked. + +“Only part of the way,” she answered. “But Judy knows every step of it. +If it were not that the door at the top is locked, she would have dived +through that archway now, and been in her own room in half the time. +The child does not know what fear means.” + +We now moved away from the pond, towards the side of the quarry and the +open-air stair-case, which I thought must be considerably more pleasant +than the other. I confess I longed to see the gleam of that water at +the bottom of the dark sloping passage, though. + +Miss Oldcastle accompanied me to the room where I had left her mother, +and took her leave with merely a bow of farewell. I saw the old lady +glance sharply from her to me as if she were jealous of what we might +have been talking about. + +“Grannie, are you afraid Mr. Walton has been saying pretty things to +Aunt Winnie? I assure you he is not of that sort. He doesn’t understand +that kind of thing. But he would have jumped into the pond after me and +got his death of cold if auntie would have let him. It WAS cold. I +think I see you dripping now, Mr Walton.” + +There she was in her dark corner, coiled up on a couch, and laughing +heartily; but all as if she had done nothing extraordinary. And, +indeed, estimated either by her own notions or practices, what she had +done was not in the least extraordinary. + +Disinclined to stay any longer, I shook hands with the grandmother, +with a certain invincible sense of slime, and with the grandchild with +a feeling of mischievous health, as if the girl might soon corrupt the +clergyman into a partnership in pranks as well as in friendship. She +followed me out of the room, and danced before me down the oak +staircase, clearing the portion from the first landing at a bound. Then +she turned and waited for me, who came very deliberately, feeling the +unsure contact of sole and wax. As soon as I reached her, she said, in +a half-whisper, reaching up towards me on tiptoe— + +“Isn’t she a beauty?” + +“Who? your grandmamma?” I returned. + +She gave me a little push, her face glowing with fun. But I did not +expect she would take her revenge as she did. “Yes, of course,” she +answered, quite gravely. “Isn’t she a beauty?” + +And then, seeing that she had put me hors de combat, she burst into +loud laughter, and, opening the hall-door for me, let me go without +another word. + +I went home very quietly, and, as I said, stepping with curious care—of +which, of course, I did not think at the time—over the yellow and brown +leaves that lay in the middle of the road. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +THE BISHOP’S BASIN. + + +I went home very quietly, as I say, thinking about the strange elements +that not only combine to make life, but must be combined in our idea of +life, before we can form a true theory about it. Now-a-days, the vulgar +notion of what is life-like in any annals is to be realised by sternly +excluding everything but the commonplace; and the means, at least, are +often attained, with this much of the end as well—that the appearance +life bears to vulgar minds is represented with a wonderful degree of +success. But I believe that this is, at least, quite as unreal a mode +of representing life as the other extreme, wherein the unlikely, the +romantic, and the uncommon predominate. I doubt whether there is a +single history—if one could only get at the whole of it—in which there +is not a considerable admixture of the unlikely become fact, including +a few strange coincidences; of the uncommon, which, although striking +at first, has grown common from familiarity with its presence as our +own; with even, at least, some one more or less rosy touch of what we +call the romantic. My own conviction is, that the poetry is far the +deepest in us, and that the prose is only broken-down poetry; and +likewise that to this our lives correspond. The poetic region is the +true one, and just, THEREFORE, the incredible one to the lower order of +mind; for although every mind is capable of the truth, or rather +capable of becoming capable of the truth, there may lie ages between +its capacity and the truth. As you will hear some people read poetry so +that no mortal could tell it was poetry, so do some people read their +own lives and those of others. + +I fell into these reflections from comparing in my own mind my former +experiences in visiting my parishioners with those of that day. True, I +had never sat down to talk with one of them without finding that that +man or that woman had actually a HISTORY, the most marvellous and +important fact to a human being; nay, I had found something more or +less remarkable in every one of their histories, so that I was more +than barely interested in each of them. And as I made more acquaintance +with them, (for I had not been in the position, or the disposition +either, before I came to Marshmallows, necessary to the gathering of +such experiences,) I came to the conclusion—not that I had got into an +extraordinary parish of characters—but that every parish must be more +or less extraordinary from the same cause. Why did I not use to see +such people about me before? Surely I had undergone a change of some +sort. Could it be, that the trouble I had been going through of late, +had opened the eyes of my mind to the understanding, or rather the +simple SEEING, of my fellow-men? + +But the people among whom I had been to-day belonged rather to such as +might be put into a romantic story. Certainly I could not see much that +was romantic in the old lady; and yet, those eyes and that +tight-skinned face—what might they not be capable of in the working out +of a story? And then the place they lived in! Why, it would hardly come +into my ideas of a nineteenth-century country parish at all. I was +tempted to try to persuade myself that all that had happened, since I +rose to look out of the window in the old house, had been but a dream. +For how could that wooded dell have come there after all? It was much +too large for a quarry. And that madcap girl—she never flung herself +into the pond!—it could not be. And what could the book have been that +the lady with the sea-blue eyes was reading? Was that a real book at +all? No. Yes. Of course it was. But what was it? What had that to do +with the matter? It might turn out to be a very commonplace book after +all. No; for commonplace books are generally new, or at least in fine +bindings. And here was a shabby little old book, such as, if it had +been commonplace, would not have been likely to be the companion of a +young lady at the bottom of a quarry— + +“A savage place, as holy and enchanted +As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted +By woman wailing for her demon lover.” + + +I know all this will sound ridiculous, especially that quotation from +Kubla Khan coming after the close of the preceding sentence; but it is +only so much the more like the jumble of thoughts that made a chaos of +my mind as I went home. And then for that terrible pool, and +subterranean passage, and all that—what had it all to do with this +broad daylight, and these dying autumn leaves? No doubt there had been +such places. No doubt there were such places somewhere yet. No doubt +this was one of them. But, somehow or other, it would not come in well. +I had no intention of GOING IN FOR—that is the phrase now—going in for +the romantic. I would take the impression off by going to see Weir the +carpenter’s old father. Whether my plan was successful or not, I shall +leave my reader to judge. + +I found Weir busy as usual, but not with a coffin this time. He was +working at a window-sash. “Just like life,” I thought—tritely perhaps. +“The other day he was closing up in the outer darkness, and now he is +letting in the light.” + +“It’s a long time since you was here last, sir,” he said, but without a +smile. + +Did he mean a reproach? If so, I was more glad of that reproach than I +would have been of the warmest welcome, even from Old Rogers. The fact +was that, having a good deal to attend to besides, and willing at the +same time to let the man feel that he was in no danger of being bored +by my visits, I had not made use even of my reserve in the shape of a +visit to his father. + +“Well,” I answered, “I wanted to know something about all my people, +before I paid a second visit to any of them.” + +“All right, sir. Don’t suppose I meant to complain. Only to let you +know you was welcome, sir.” + +“I’ve just come from my first visit to Oldcastle Hall. And, to tell the +truth, for I don’t like pretences, my visit to-day was not so much to +you as to your father, whom, perhaps, I ought to have called upon +before, only I was afraid of seeming to intrude upon you, seeing we +don’t exactly think the same way about some things,” I added—with a +smile, I know, which was none the less genuine that I remember it yet. + +And what makes me remember it yet? It is the smile that lighted up his +face in response to mine. For it was more than I looked for. And his +answer helped to fix the smile in my memory. + +“You made me think, sir, that perhaps, after all, we were much of the +same way of thinking, only perhaps you was a long way ahead of me.” + +Now the man was not right in saying that we were much of the same way +of THINKING; for our opinions could hardly do more than come within +sight of each other; but what he meant was right enough. For I was +certain, from the first, that the man had a regard for the downright, +honest way of things, and I hoped that I too had such a regard. How +much of selfishness and of pride in one’s own judgment might be mixed +up with it, both in his case and mine, I had been too often taken in—by +myself, I mean—to be at all careful to discriminate, provided there was +a proportion of real honesty along with it, which, I felt sure, would +ultimately eliminate the other. For in the moral nest, it is not as +with the sparrow and the cuckoo. The right, the original inhabitant is +the stronger; and, however unlikely at any given point in the history +it may be, the sparrow will grow strong enough to heave the intruding +cuckoo overboard. So I was pleased that the man should do me the honour +of thinking I was right as far as he could see, which is the greatest +honour one man can do another; for it is setting him on his own steed, +as the eastern tyrants used to do. And I was delighted to think that +the road lay open for further and more real communion between us in +time to come. + +“Well,” I answered, “I think we shall understand each other perfectly +before long. But now I must see your father, if it is convenient and +agreeable.” + +“My father will be delighted to see you, I know, sir. He can’t get so +far as the church on Sundays; but you’ll find him much more to your +mind than me. He’s been putting ever so many questions to me about the +new parson, wanting me to try whether I couldn’t get more out of you +than the old parson. That’s the way we talk about you, you see, sir. +You’ll understand. And I’ve never told him that I’d been to church +since you came—I suppose from a bit of pride, because I had so long +refused to go; but I don’t doubt some of the neighbours have told him, +for he never speaks about it now. And I know he’s been looking out for +you; and I fancy he’s begun to wonder that the parson was going to see +everybody but him. It WILL be a pleasure to the old man, sir, for he +don’t see a great many to talk to; and he’s fond of a bit of gossip, is +the old man, sir.” + +So saying, Weir led the way through the shop into a lobby behind, and +thence up what must have been a back-stair of the old house, into a +large room over the workshop. There were bits of old carving about the +walls of the room yet, but, as in the shop below, all had been +whitewashed. At one end stood a bed with chintz curtains and a +warm-looking counterpane of rich faded embroidery. There was a bit of +carpet by the bedside, and another bit in front of the fire; and there +the old man sat, on one side, in a high-backed not very easy-looking +chair. With a great effort he managed to rise as I approached him, +notwithstanding my entreaties that he would not move. He looked much +older when on his feet, for he was bent nearly double, in which posture +the marvel was how he could walk at all. For he did totter a few steps +to meet me, without even the aid of a stick, and, holding out a thin, +shaking hand, welcomed me with an air of breeding rarely to be met with +in his station in society. But the chief part of this polish sprung +from the inbred kindliness of his nature, which was manifest in the +expression of his noble old countenance. Age is such a different thing +in different natures! One man seems to grow more and more selfish as he +grows older; and in another the slow fire of time seems only to +consume, with fine, imperceptible gradations, the yet lingering +selfishness in him, letting the light of the kingdom, which the Lord +says is within, shine out more and more, as the husk grows thin and is +ready to fall off, that the man, like the seed sown, may pierce the +earth of this world, and rise into the pure air and wind and dew of the +second life. The face of a loving old man is always to me like a +morning moon, reflecting the yet unrisen sun of the other world, yet +fading before its approaching light, until, when it does rise, it pales +and withers away from our gaze, absorbed in the source of its own +beauty. This old man, you may see, took my fancy wonderfully, for even +at this distance of time, when I am old myself, the recollection of his +beautiful old face makes me feel as if I could write poetry about him. + +“I’m blithe to see ye, sir,” said he. “Sit ye down, sir.” + +And, turning, he pointed to his own easy-chair; and I then saw his +profile. It was delicate as that of Dante, which in form it +marvellously resembled. But all the sternness which Dante’s evil times +had generated in his prophetic face was in this old man’s replaced by a +sweetness of hope that was lovely to behold. + +“No, Mr Weir,” I said, “I cannot take your chair. The Bible tells us to +rise up before the aged, not to turn them out of their seats.” + +“It would do me good to see you sitting in my cheer, sir. The pains +that my son Tom there takes to keep it up as long as the old man may +want it! It’s a good thing I bred him to the joiner’s trade, sir. Sit +ye down, sir. The cheer’ll hold ye, though I warrant it won’t last that +long after I be gone home. Sit ye down, sir.” + +Thus entreated, I hesitated no longer, but took the old man’s seat. His +son brought another chair for him, and he sat down opposite the fire +and close to me. Thomas then went back to his work, leaving us alone. + +“Ye’ve had some speech wi’ my son Tom,” said the old man, the moment he +was gone, leaning a little towards me. “It’s main kind o’ you, sir, to +take up kindly wi’ poor folks like us.” + +“You don’t say it’s kind of a person to do what he likes best,” I +answered. “Besides, it’s my duty to know all my people.” + +“Oh yes, sir, I know that. But there’s a thousand ways ov doin’ the +same thing. I ha’ seen folks, parsons and others, ’at made a great show +ov bein’ friendly to the poor, ye know, sir; and all the time you could +see, or if you couldn’t see you could tell without seein’, that they +didn’t much regard them in their hearts; but it was a sort of +accomplishment to be able to talk to the poor, like, after their own +fashion. But the minute an ould man sees you, sir, he believes that you +MEAN it, sir, whatever it is. For an ould man somehow comes to know +things like a child. They call it a second childhood, don’t they, sir? +And there are some things worth growin’ a child again to get a hould ov +again.” + +“I only hope what you say may be true—about me, I mean.” + +“Take my word for it, sir. You have no idea how that boy of mine, Tom +there, did hate all the clergy till you come. Not that he’s anyway +favourable to them yet, only he’ll say nothin’ again’ you, sir. He’s +got an unfortunate gift o’ seein’ all the faults first, sir; and when a +man is that way given, the faults always hides the other side, so that +there’s nothing but faults to be seen.” + +“But I find Thomas quite open to reason.” + +“That’s because you understand him, sir, and know how to give him head. +He tould me of the talk you had with him. You don’t bait him. You don’t +say, ‘You must come along wi’ me,’ but you turns and goes along wi’ +him. He’s not a bad fellow at all, is Tom; but he will have the reason +for everythink. Now I never did want the reason for everything. I was +content to be tould a many things. But Tom, you see, he was born with a +sore bit in him somewheres, I don’t rightly know wheres; and I don’t +think he rightly knows what’s the matter with him himself.” + +“I dare say you have a guess though, by this time, Mr. Weir,” I said; +“and I think I have a guess too.” + +“Well, sir, if he’d only give in, I think he would be far happier. But +he can’t see his way clear.” + +“You must give him time, you know. The fact is, he doesn’t feel at home +yet.’ And how can he, so long as he doesn’t know his own Father?” + +“I’m not sure that I rightly understand you,” said the old man, looking +bewildered and curious. + +“I mean,” I answered, “that till a man knows that he is one of God’s +family, living in God’s house, with God up-stairs, as it were, while he +is at his work or his play in a nursery below-stairs, he can’t feel +comfortable. For a man could not be made that should stand alone, like +some of the beasts. A man must feel a head over him, because he’s not +enough to satisfy himself, you know. Thomas just wants faith; that is, +he wants to feel that there is a loving Father over him, who is doing +things all well and right, if we could only understand them, though it +really does not look like it sometimes.” + +“Ah, sir, I might have understood you well enough, if my poor old head +hadn’t been started on a wrong track. For I fancied for the moment that +you were just putting your finger upon the sore place in Tom’s mind. +There’s no use in keeping family misfortunes from a friend like you, +sir. That boy has known his father all his life; but I was nearly half +his age before I knew mine.” + +“Strange!” I said, involuntarily almost. + +“Yes, sir; strange you may well say. A strange story it is. The Lord +help my mother! I beg yer pardon, sir. I’m no Catholic. But that prayer +will come of itself sometimes. As if it could be of any use now! God +forgive me!” + +“Don’t you be afraid, Mr Weir, as if God was ready to take offence at +what comes naturally, as you say. An ejaculation of love is not likely +to offend Him who is so grand that He is always meek and lowly of +heart, and whose love is such that ours is a mere faint light—‘a little +glooming light much like a shade’—as one of our own poets says, beside +it.” + +“Thank you, Mr Walton. That’s a real comfortable word, sir. And I am +heart-sure it’s true, sir. God be praised for evermore! He IS good, +sir; as I have known in my poor time, sir. I don’t believe there ever +was one that just lifted his eyes and looked up’ards, instead of +looking down to the ground, that didn’t get some comfort, to go on +with, as it were—the ready—money of comfort, as it were—though it might +be none to put in the bank, sir.” + +“That’s true enough,” I said. “Then your father and mother—?” + +And here I hesitated. + +“Were never married, sir,” said the old man promptly, as if he would +relieve me from an embarrassing position. “_I_ couldn’t help it. And +I’m no less the child of my Father in heaven for it. For if He hadn’t +made me, I couldn’t ha’ been their son, you know, sir. So that He had +more to do wi’ the makin’ o’ me than they had; though mayhap, if He had +His way all out, I might ha’ been the son o’ somebody else. But, now +that things be so, I wouldn’t have liked that at all, sir; and bein’ +once born so, I would not have e’er another couple of parents in all +England, sir, though I ne’er knew one o’ them. And I do love my mother. +And I’m so sorry for my father that I love him too, sir. And if I could +only get my boy Tom to think as I do, I would die like a psalm-tune on +an organ, sir.” + +“But it seems to me strange,” I said, “that your son should think so +much of what is so far gone by. Surely he would not want another father +than you, now. He is used to his position in life. And there can be +nothing cast up to him about his birth or descent.” + +“That’s all very true, sir, and no doubt it would be as you say. But +there has been other things to keep his mind upon the old affair. +Indeed, sir, we have had the same misfortune all over again among the +young people. And I mustn’t say anything more about it; only my boy Tom +has a sore heart.” + +I knew at once to what he alluded; for I could not have been about in +my parish all this time without learning that the strange handsome +woman in the little shop was the daughter of Thomas Weir, and that she +was neither wife nor widow. And it now occurred to me for the first +time that it was a likeness to her little boy that had affected me so +pleasantly when I first saw Thomas, his grandfather. The likeness to +his great-grandfather, which I saw plainly enough, was what made the +other fact clear to me. And at the same moment I began to be haunted +with a flickering sense of a third likeness which I could not in the +least fix or identify. + +“Perhaps,” I said, “he may find some good come out of that too.” + +“Well, who knows, sir?” + +“I think,” I said, “that if we do evil that good may come, the good we +looked for will never come thereby. But once evil is done, we may +humbly look to Him who bringeth good out of evil, and wait. Is your +granddaughter Catherine in bad health? She looks so delicate!” + +“She always had an uncommon look. But what she looks like now, I don’t +know. I hear no complaints; but she has never crossed this door since +we got her set up in that shop. She never comes near her father or her +sister, though she lets them, leastways her sister, go and see her. I’m +afraid Tom has been rayther unmerciful, with her. And if ever he put a +bad name upon her in her hearing, I know, from what that lass used to +be as a young one, that she wouldn’t be likely to forget it, and as +little likely to get over it herself, or pass it over to another, even +her own father. I don’t believe they do more nor nod to one another +when they meet in the village. It’s well even if they do that much. +It’s my belief there’s some people made so hard that they never can +forgive anythink.” + +“How did she get into the trouble? Who is the father of her child?” + +“Nay, that no one knows for certain; though there be suspicions, and +one of them, no doubt, correct. But, I believe, fire wouldn’t drive his +name out at her mouth. I know my lass. When she says a thing, she’ll +stick to it.” + +I asked no more questions. But, after a short pause, the old man went +on. + +“I shan’t soon forget the night I first heard about my father and +mother. That was a night! The wind was roaring like a mad beast about +the house;—not this house, sir, but the great house over the way.” + +“You don’t mean Oldcastle Hall?” I said. + +“’Deed I do, sir,” returned the old man, “This house here belonged to +the same family at one time; though when I was born it was another +branch of the family, second cousins or something, that lived in it. +But even then it was something on to the downhill road, I believe.” + +“But,” I said, fearing my question might have turned the old man aside +from a story worth hearing, “never mind all that now, if you please. I +am anxious to hear all about that night. Do go on. You were saying the +wind was blowing about the old house.” + +“Eh, sir, it was roaring!-roaring as if it was mad with rage! And every +now and then it would come down the chimley like out of a gun, and blow +the smoke and a’most the fire into the middle of the housekeeper’s +room. For the housekeeper had been giving me my supper. I called her +auntie, then; and didn’t know a bit that she wasn’t my aunt really. I +was at that time a kind of a under-gamekeeper upon the place, and slept +over the stable. But I fared of the best, for I was a favourite with +the old woman—I suppose because I had given her plenty of trouble in my +time. That’s always the way, sir.—Well, as I was a-saying, when the +wind stopped for a moment, down came the rain with a noise that sounded +like a regiment of cavalry on the turnpike road t’other side of the +hill. And then up the wind got again, and swept the rain away, and took +it all in its own hand again, and went on roaring worse than ever. +‘You’ll be wet afore you get across the yard, Samuel,’ said auntie, +looking very prim in her long white apron, as she sat on the other side +of the little round table before the fire, sipping a drop of hot rum +and water, which she always had before she went to bed. ‘You’ll be wet +to the skin, Samuel,’ she said. ‘Never mind,’ says I. ‘I’m not salt, +nor yet sugar; and I’ll be going, auntie, for you’ll be wanting your +bed.’—‘Sit ye still,’ said she. ‘I don’t want my bed yet.’ And there +she sat, sipping at her rum and water; and there I sat, o’ the other +side, drinking the last of a pint of October, she had gotten me from +the cellar—for I had been out in the wind all day. ‘It was just such a +night as this,’ said she, and then stopped again.—But I’m wearying you, +sir, with my long story.” + +“Not in the least,” I answered. “Quite the contrary. Pray tell it out +your own way. You won’t tire me, I assure you.” + +So the old man went on. + +“‘It was just such a night as this,’ she began again—‘leastways it was +snow and not rain that was coming down, as if the Almighty was a-going +to spend all His winter-stock at oncet.’—‘What happened such a night, +auntie?’ I said. ‘Ah, my lad!’ said she, ‘ye may well ask what +happened. None has a better right. You happened. That’s all.’—‘Oh, +that’s all, is it, auntie?’ I said, and laughed. ‘Nay, nay, Samuel,’ +said she, quite solemn, ‘what is there to laugh at, then? I assure you, +you was anything but welcome.’—‘And why wasn’t I welcome?’ I said. ‘I +couldn’t help it, you know. I’m very sorry to hear I intruded,’ I said, +still making game of it, you see; for I always did like a joke. ‘Well,’ +she said, ‘you certainly wasn’t wanted. But I don’t blame you, Samuel, +and I hope you won’t blame me.’—‘What do you mean, auntie ?’ I mean +this, that it’s my fault, if so be that fault it is, that you’re +sitting there now, and not lying, in less bulk by a good deal, at the +bottom of the Bishop’s Basin.’ That’s what they call a deep pond at the +foot of the old house, sir; though why or wherefore, I’m sure I don’t +know. ‘Most extraordinary, auntie!’ I said, feeling very queer, and as +if I really had no business to be there. ‘Never you mind, my dear,’ +says she; ‘there you are, and you can take care of yourself now as well +as anybody.’—‘But who wanted to drown me?’ ‘Are you sure you can +forgive him, if I tell you?’—‘Sure enough, suppose he was sitting where +you be now,’ I answered. ‘It was, I make no doubt, though I can’t prove +it,—I am morally certain it was your own father.’ I felt the skin go +creepin’ together upon my head, and I couldn’t speak. ‘Yes, it was, +child; and it’s time you knew all about it. Why, you don’t know who +your own father was!’—‘No more I do,’ I said; ‘and I never cared to +ask, somehow. I thought it was all right, I suppose. But I wonder now +that I never did.’—‘Indeed you did many a time, when you was a mere +boy, like; but I suppose, as you never was answered, you give it up for +a bad job, and forgot all about it, like a wise man. You always was a +wise child, Samuel.’ So the old lady always said, sir. And I was +willing to believe she was right, if I could. ‘But now,’ said she, +‘it’s time you knew all about it.—Poor Miss Wallis!—I’m no aunt of +yours, my boy, though I love you nearly as well, I think, as if I was; +for dearly did I love your mother. She was a beauty, and better than +she was beautiful, whatever folks may say. The only wrong thing, I’m +certain, that she ever did, was to trust your father too much. But I +must see and give you the story right through from beginning to +end.—Miss Wallis, as I came to know from her own lips, was the daughter +of a country attorney, who had a good practice, and was likely to leave +her well off. Her mother died when she was a little girl. It’s not easy +getting on without a mother, my boy. So she wasn’t taught much of the +best sort, I reckon. When her father died early, and she was left +atone, the only thing she could do was to take a governess’s place, and +she came to us. She never got on well with the children, for they were +young and self willed and rude, and would not learn to do as they were +bid. I never knew one o’ them shut the door when they went out of this +room. And, from having had all her own way at home, with plenty of +servants, and money to spend, it was a sore change to her. But she was +a sweet creature, that she was. She did look sorely tried when Master +Freddy would get on the back of her chair, and Miss Gusta would lie +down on the rug, and never stir for all she could say to them, but only +laugh at her.—To be sure!’ And then auntie would take a sip at her rum +and water, and sit considering old times like a statue. And I sat as if +all my head was one great ear, and I never spoke a word. And auntie +began again. ‘The way I came to know so much about her was this. +Nobody, you see, took any notice or care of her. For the children were +kept away with her in the old house, and my lady wasn’t one to take +trouble about anybody till once she stood in her way, and then she +would just shove her aside or crush her like a spider, and ha’ done +with her.’—They have always been a proud and a fierce race, the +Oldcastles, sir,” said Weir, taking up the speech in his own person, +“and there’s been a deal o’ breedin in-and-in amongst them, and that +has kept up the worst of them. The men took to the women of their own +sort somehow, you see. The lady up at the old Hall now is a Crowfoot. +I’ll just tell you one thing the gardener told me about her years ago, +sir. She had a fancy for hyacinths in her rooms in the spring, and she +had some particular fine ones; and a lady of her acquaintance begged +for some of them. And what do you think she did? She couldn’t refuse +them, and she couldn’t bear any one to have them as good as she. And so +she sent the hyacinth-roots—but she boiled ’em first. The gardener told +me himself, sir.—‘And so, when the poor thing,’ said auntie, ‘was taken +with a dreadful cold, which was no wonder if you saw the state of the +window in the room she had to sleep in, and which I got old Jones to +set to rights and paid him for it out of my own pocket, else he +wouldn’t ha’ done it at all, for the family wasn’t too much in the way +or the means either of paying their debts—well, there she was, and +nobody minding her, and of course it fell to me to look after her. It +would have made your heart bleed to see the poor thing flung all of a +heap on her bed, blue with cold and coughing. “My dear!” I said; and +she burst out crying, and from that moment there was confidence between +us. I made her as warm and as comfortable as I could, but I had to +nurse her for a fortnight before she was able to do anything again. She +didn’t shirk her work though, poor thing. It was a heartsore to me to +see the poor young thing, with her sweet eyes and her pale face, +talking away to those children, that were more like wild cats than +human beings. She might as well have talked to wild cats, I’m sure. But +I don’t think she was ever so miserable again as she must have been +before her illness; for she used often to come and see me of an +evening, and she would sit there where you are sitting now for an hour +at a time, without speaking, her thin white hands lying folded in her +lap, and her eyes fixed on the fire. I used to wonder what she could be +thinking about, and I had made up my mind she was not long for this +world; when all at once it was announced that Miss Oldcastle, who had +been to school for some time, was coming home; and then we began to see +a great deal of company, and for month after month the house was more +or less filled with visitors, so that my time was constantly taken up, +and I saw much less of poor Miss Wallis than I had seen before. But +when we did meet on some of the back stairs, or when she came to my +room for a few minutes before going to bed, we were just as good +friends as ever. And I used to say, “I wish this scurry was over, my +dear, that we might have our old times again.” And she would smile and +say something sweet. But I was surprised to see that her health began +to come back—at least so it seemed to me, for her eyes grew brighter +and a flush came upon her pale face, and though the children were as +tiresome as ever, she didn’t seem to mind it so much. But indeed she +had not very much to do with them out of school hours now; for when the +spring came on, they would be out and about the place with their sister +or one of their brothers; and indeed, out of doors it would have been +impossible for Miss Wallis to do anything with them. Some of the +visitors would take to them too, for they behaved so badly to nobody as +to Miss Wallis, and indeed they were clever children, and could be +engaging enough when they pleased.—But then I had a blow, Samuel. It +was a lovely spring night, just after the sun was down, and I wanted a +drop of milk fresh from the cow for something that I was making for +dinner the next day; so I went through the kitchen-garden and through +the belt of young larches to go to the shippen. But when I got among +the trees, who should I see at the other end of the path that went +along, but Miss Wallis walking arm-in-arm with Captain Crowfoot, who +was just home from India, where he had been with Lord Clive. The +captain was a man about two or three and thirty, a relation of the +family, and the son of Sir Giles Crowfoot’—who lived then in this old +house, sir, and had but that one son, my father, you see, sir.—‘And it +did give me a turn,’ said my aunt, ‘to see her walking with him, for I +felt as sure as judgment that no good could come of it. For the captain +had not the best of characters—that is, when people talked about him in +chimney corners, and such like, though he was a great favourite with +everybody that knew nothing about him. He was a fine, manly, handsome +fellow, with a smile that, as people said, no woman could resist, +though I’m sure it would have given me no trouble to resist it, +whatever they may mean by that, for I saw that that same smile was the +falsest thing of all the false things about him. All the time he was +smiling, you would have thought he was looking at himself in a glass. +He was said to have gathered a power of money in India, somehow or +other. But I don’t know, only I don’t think he would have been the +favourite he was with my lady if he hadn’t. And reports were about, +too, of the ways and means by which he had made the money; some said by +robbing the poor heathen creatures; and some said it was only that his +brother officers didn’t approve of his speculating as he did in horses +and other things. I don’t know whether officers are so particular. At +all events, this was a fact, for it was one of his own servants that +told me, not thinking any harm or any shame of it. He had quarrelled +with a young ensign in the regiment. On which side the wrong was, I +don’t know. But he first thrashed him most unmercifully, and then +called him out, as they say. And when the poor fellow appeared, he +could scarcely see out of his eyes, and certainly couldn’t take +anything like an aim. And he shot him dead,—did Captain +Crowfoot.’—Think of hearing that about one’s own father, sir! But I +never said a word, for I hadn’t a word to say.—‘Think of that, Samuel,’ +said my aunt, ‘else you won’t believe what I am going to tell you. And +you won’t even then, I dare say. But I must tell you, nevertheless and +notwithstanding.—Well, I felt as if the earth was sinking away from +under the feet of me, and I stood and stared at them. And they came on, +never seeing me, and actually went close past me and never saw me; at +least, if he saw me he took no notice, for I don’t suppose that the +angel with the flaming sword would have put him out. But for her, I +know she didn’t see me, for her face was down, burning and smiling at +once.’—I’m an old man now, sir, and I never saw my mother; but I can’t +tell you the story without feeling as if my heart would break for the +poor young lady.—‘I went back to my room,’ said my aunt, ‘with my empty +jug in my hand, and I sat down as if I had had a stroke, and I never +moved till it was pitch dark and my fire out. It was a marvel to me +afterwards that nobody came near me, for everybody was calling after me +at that time. And it was days before I caught a glimpse of Miss Wallis +again, at least to speak to her. At last, one night she came to my +room; and without a moment of parley, I said to her, “Oh, my dear! what +was that wretch saying to you?”—“What wretch?” says she, quite sharp +like. “Why, Captain Crowfoot,” says I, “to be sure.”—“What have you to +say against Captain Crowfoot?” says she, quite scornful like. So I +tumbled out all I had against him in one breath. She turned awful pale, +and she shook from head to foot, but she was able for all that to say, +“Indian servants are known liars, Mrs Prendergast,” says she, “and I +don’t believe one word of it all. But I’ll ask him, the next time I see +him.”—“Do so, my dear,” I said, not fearing for myself, for I knew he +would not make any fuss that might bring the thing out into the air, +and hoping that it might lead to a quarrel between them. And the next +time I met her, Samuel—it was in the gallery that takes to the west +turret—she passed me with a nod just, and a blush instead of a smile on +her sweet face. And I didn’t blame her, Samuel; but I knew that that +villain had gotten a hold of her. And so I could only cry, and that I +did. Things went on like this for some months. The captain came and +went, stopping a week at a time. Then he stopped for a whole month, and +this was in the first of the summer; and then he said he was ordered +abroad again, and went away. But he didn’t go abroad. He came again in +the autumn for the shooting, and began to make up to Miss Oldcastle, +who had grown a fine young woman by that time. And then Miss Wallis +began to pine. The captain went away again. Before long I was certain +that if ever young creature was in a consumption, she was; but she +never said a word to me. How ever the poor thing got on with her work, +I can’t think, but she grew weaker and weaker. I took the best care of +her she would let me, and contrived that she should have her meals in +her own room; but something was between her and me that she never spoke +a word about herself, and never alluded to the captain. By and by came +the news that the captain and Miss Oldcastle were to be married in the +spring. And Miss Wallis took to her bed after that; and my lady said +she had never been of much use, and wanted to send her away. But Miss +Oldcastle, who was far superior to any of the rest in her disposition, +spoke up for her. She had been to ask me about her, and I told her the +poor thing must go to a hospital if she was sent away, for she had +ne’er a home to go to. And then she went to see the governess, poor +thing! and spoke very kindly to her; but never a word would Miss Wallis +answer; she only stared at her with great, big, wild-like eyes. And +Miss Oldcastle thought she was out of her mind, and spoke of an asylum. +But I said she hadn’t long to live, and if she would get my lady her +mother to consent to take no notice, I would take all the care and +trouble of her. And she promised, and the poor thing was left alone. I +began to think myself her mind must be going, for not a word would she +speak, even to me, though every moment I could spare I was up with her +in her room. Only I was forced to be careful not to be out of the way +when my lady wanted me, for that would have tied me more. At length one +day, as I was settling her pillow for her, she all at once threw her +arms about my neck, and burst into a terrible fit of crying. She sobbed +and panted for breath so dreadfully, that I put my arms round her and +lifted her up to give her relief; and when I laid her down again, I +whispered in her ear, “I know now, my dear. I’ll do all I can for you.” +She caught hold of my hand and held it to her lips, and then to her +bosom, and cried again, but more quietly, and all was right between us +once more. It was well for her, poor thing, that she could go to her +bed. And I said to myself, “Nobody need ever know about it; and nobody +ever shall if I can help it.” To tell the truth, my hope was that she +would die before there was any need for further concealment. “But +people in that condition seldom die, they say, till all is over; and so +she lived on and on, though plainly getting weaker and weaker.—At the +captain’s next visit, the wedding-day was fixed. And after that a +circumstance came about that made me uneasy. A Hindoo servant—the +captain called him his NIGGER always—had been constantly in attendance +upon him. I never could abide the snake-look of the fellow, nor the +noiseless way he went about the house. But this time the captain had a +Hindoo woman with him as well. He said that his man had fallen in with +her in London; that he had known her before; that she had come home as +nurse with an English family, and it would be very nice for his wife to +take her back with her to India, if she could only give her house room, +and make her useful till after the wedding. This was easily arranged, +and he went away to return in three weeks, when the wedding was to take +place. Meantime poor Emily grew fast worse, and how she held out with +that terrible cough of hers I never could understand—and spitting +blood, too, every other hour or so, though not very much. And now, to +my great trouble, with the preparations for the wedding, I could see +yet less of her than before; and when Miss Oldcastle sent the Hindoo to +ask me if she might not sit in the room with the poor girl, I did not +know how to object, though I did not at all like her being there. I +felt a great mistrust of the woman somehow or other. I never did like +blacks, and I never shall. So she went, and sat by her, and waited on +her very kindly—at least poor Emily said so. I called her Emily because +she had begged me, that she might feel as if her mother were with her, +and she was a child again. I had tried before to find out from her when +greater care would be necessary, but she couldn’t tell me anything. I +doubted even if she understood me. I longed to have the wedding over +that I might get rid of the black woman, and have time to take her +place, and get everything prepared. The captain arrived, and his man +with him. And twice I came upon the two blacks in close +conversation.—Well, the wedding-day came. The people went to church; +and while they were there a terrible storm of wind and snow came on, +such that the horses would hardly face it. The captain was going to +take his bride home to his father, Sir Giles’s; but, short as the +distance was, before the time came the storm got so dreadful that no +one could think of leaving the house that night. The wind blew for all +the world just as it blows this night, only it was snow in its mouth, +and not rain. Carriage and horses and all would have been blown off the +road for certain. It did blow, to be sure! After dinner was over and +the ladies were gone to the drawing-room, and the gentlemen had been +sitting over their wine for some time, the butler, William Weir—an +honest man, whose wife lived at the lodge—came to my room looking +scared. “Lawks, William!” says I,’ said my aunt, sir, ‘“whatever is the +matter with you?”—“Well, Mrs Prendergast!” says he, and said no more. +“Lawks, William,” says I, “speak out.”—“Well,” says he, “Mrs +Prendergast, it’s a strange wedding, it is! There’s the ladies all +alone in the withdrawing-room, and there’s the gentlemen calling for +more wine, and cursing and swearing that it’s awful to hear. It’s my +belief that swords will be drawn afore long.”—“Tut!” says I, “William, +it will come the sooner if you don’t give them what they want. Go and +get it as fast as you can.”—“I don’t a’most like goin’ down them stairs +alone, in sich a night, ma’am,” says he. “Would you mind coming with +me?”—“Dear me, William,” says I, “a pretty story to tell your wife”—she +was my own half-sister, and younger than me—“a pretty story to tell +your wife, that you wanted an old body like me to go and take care of +you in your own cellar,” says I. “But I’ll go with you, if you like; +for, to tell the truth, it’s a terrible night.” And so down we went, +and brought up six bottles more of the best port. And I really didn’t +wonder, when I was down there, and heard the dull roar of the wind +against the rock below, that William didn’t much like to go alone.—When +he went back with the wine, the captain said, “William, what kept you +so long? Mr Centlivre says that you were afraid to go down into the +cellar.” Now, wasn’t that odd, for it was a real fact? Before William +could reply, Sir Giles said, “A man might well be afraid to go anywhere +alone in a night like this.” Whereupon the captain cried, with an oath, +that he would go down the underground stair, and into every vault on +the way, for the wager of a guinea. And there the matter, according to +William, dropped, for the fresh wine was put on the table. But after +they had drunk the most of it—the captain, according to William, +drinking less than usual—it was brought up again, he couldn’t tell by +which of them. And in five minutes after, they were all at my door, +demanding the key of the room at the top of the stair. I was just going +up to see poor Emily when I heard the noise of their unsteady feet +coming along the passage to my door; and I gave the captain the key at +once, wishing with all my heart he might get a good fright for his +pains. He took a jug with him, too, to bring some water up from the +well, as a proof he had been down. The rest of the gentlemen went with +him into the little cellar-room; but they wouldn’t stop there till he +came up again, they said it was so cold. They all came into my room, +where they talked as gentlemen wouldn’t do if the wine hadn’t got +uppermost. It was some time before the captain returned. It’s a good +way down and back. When he came in at last, he looked as if he had got +the fright I wished him, he had such a scared look. The candle in his +lantern was out, and there was no water in the jug. “There’s your +guinea, Centlivre,” says he, throwing it on the table. “You needn’t ask +me any questions, for I won’t answer one of them.”—“Captain,” says I, +as he turned to leave the room, and the other gentlemen rose to follow +him, “I’ll just hang up the key again.”—” By all means,” says he. +“Where is it, then?” says I. He started and made as if he searched his +pockets all over for it. “I must have dropped it,” says he; “but it’s +of no consequence; you can send William to look for it in the morning. +It can’t be lost, you know.”—“Very well, captain,” said I. But I didn’t +like being without the key, because of course he hadn’t locked the +door, and that part of the house has a bad name, and no wonder. It +wasn’t exactly pleasant to have the door left open. All this time I +couldn’t get to see how Emily was. As often as I looked from my window, +I saw her light in the old west turret out there, Samuel. You know the +room where the bed is still. The rain and the wind will be blowing +right through it to-night. That’s the bed you was born upon, +Samuel.’—It’s all gone now, sir, turret and all, like a good deal more +about the old place; but there’s a story about that turret afterwards, +only I mustn’t try to tell you two things at once.—‘Now I had told the +Indian woman that if anything happened, if she was worse, or wanted to +see me, she must put the candle on the right side of the window, and I +should always be looking out, and would come directly, whoever might +wait. For I was expecting you some time soon, and nobody knew anything +about when you might come. But there the blind continued drawn down as +before. So I thought all was going on right. And what with the storm +keeping Sir Giles and so many more that would have gone home that +night, there was no end of work, and some contrivance necessary, I can +tell you, to get them all bedded for the night, for we were nothing too +well provided with blankets and linen in the house. There was always +more room than money in it. So it was past twelve o’clock before I had +a minute to myself, and that was only after they had all gone to +bed—the bride and bridegroom in the crimson chamber, of course. Well, +at last I crept quietly into Emily’s room. I ought to have told you +that I had not let her know anything about the wedding being that day, +and had enjoined the heathen woman not to say a word; for I thought she +might as well die without hearing about it. But I believe the vile +wretch did tell her. When I opened the room-door, there was no light +there. I spoke, but no one answered. I had my own candle in my hand, +but it had been blown out as I came up the stair. I turned and ran +along the corridor to reach the main stair, which was the nearest way +to my room, when all at once I heard such a shriek from the crimson +chamber as I never heard in my life. It made me all creep like worms. +And in a moment doors and doors were opened, and lights came out, +everybody looking terrified; and what with drink, and horror, and +sleep, some of the gentlemen were awful to look upon. And the door of +the crimson chamber opened too, and the captain appeared in his +dressing-gown, bawling out to know what was the matter; though I’m +certain, to this day, the cry did come from that room, and that he knew +more about it than any one else did. As soon as I got a light, however, +which I did from Sir Giles’s candle, I left them to settle it amongst +them, and ran back to the west turret. When I entered the room, there +was my dear girl lying white and motionless. There could be no doubt a +baby had been born, but no baby was to be seen. I rushed to the bed; +but though she was still warm, your poor mother was quite dead. There +was no use in thinking about helping her; but what could have become of +the child? As if by a light in my mind, I saw it all. I rushed down to +my room, got my lantern, and, without waiting to be afraid, ran to the +underground stairs, where I actually found the door standing open. I +had not gone down more than three turnings, when I thought I heard a +cry, and I sped faster still. And just about half-way down, there lay a +bundle in a blanket. And how ever you got over the state I found you +in, Samuel, I can’t think. But I caught you up as you was, and ran to +my own room with you; and I locked the door, and there being a kettle +on the fire, and some conveniences in the place, I did the best for you +I could. For the breath wasn’t out of you, though it well might have +been. And then I laid you before the fire, and by that time you had +begun to cry a little, to my great pleasure, and then I got a blanket +off my bed, and wrapt you up in it; and, the storm being abated by this +time, made the best of my way with you through the snow to the lodge, +where William’s wife lived. It was not so far off then as it is now. +But in the midst of my trouble the silly body did make me laugh when he +opened the door to me, and saw the bundle in my arms. “Mrs +Prendergast,” says he, “I didn’t expect it of you.”—“Hold your tongue,” +I said. “You would never have talked such nonsense if you had had the +grace to have any of your own,” says I. And with that I into the +bedroom and shut the door, and left him out there in his shirt. My +sister and I soon got everything arranged, for there was no time to +lose. And before morning I had all made tidy, and your poor mother +lying as sweet a corpse as ever angel saw. And no one could say a word +against her. And it’s my belief that that villain made her believe +somehow or other that she was as good as married to him. She was buried +down there in the churchyard, close by the vestry-door,’ said my aunt, +sir; and all of our family have been buried there ever since, my son +Tom’s wife among them, sir.” + +“But what was that cry in the house?” I asked “And what became of the +black woman?” + +“The woman was never seen again in our quarter; and what the cry was my +aunt never would say. She seemed to know though; notwithstanding, as +she said, that Captain and Mrs Crowfoot denied all knowledge of it. But +the lady looked dreadful, she said, and never was well again, and died +at the birth of her first child. That was the present Mrs Oldcastle’s +father, sir.” + +“But why should the woman have left you on the stair, instead of +drowning you in the well at the bottom?” + +“My aunt evidently thought there was some mystery about that as well as +the other, for she had no doubt about the woman’s intention. But all +she would ever say concerning it was, ‘The key was never found, Samuel. +You see I had to get a new one made.’ And she pointed to where it hung +on the wall. ‘But that doesn’t look new now,’ she would say. ‘The lock +was very hard to fit again.’ And so you see, sir, I was brought up as +her nephew, though people were surprised, no doubt, that William Weir’s +wife should have a child, and nobody know she was expecting.—Well, with +all the reports of the captain’s money, none of it showed in this old +place, which from that day began, as it were, to crumble away. There’s +been little repair done upon it since then. If it hadn’t been a +well-built place to begin with, it wouldn’t be standing now, sir. But +it’s a very different place, I can tell you. Why, all behind was a +garden with terraces, and fruit trees, and gay flowers, to no end. I +remember it as well as yesterday; nay, a great deal better, for the +matter of that. For I don’t remember yesterday at all, sir.” + +I have tried a little to tell the story as he told it. But I am aware +that I have succeeded very badly; for I am not like my friend in +London, who, I verily believe, could give you an exact representation +of any dialect he ever heard. I wish I had been able to give a little +more of the form of the old man’s speech; all I have been able to do is +to show a difference from my own way of telling a story. But in the +main, I think, I have reported it correctly. I believe if the old man +was correct in representing his aunt’s account, the story is very +little altered between us. + +But why should I tell such a story at all? + +I am willing to allow, at once, that I have very likely given it more +room than it deserves in these poor Annals of mine; but the reason why +I tell it at all is simply this, that, as it came from the old man’s +lips, it interested me greatly. It certainly did not produce the effect +I had hoped to gain from an interview with him, namely, A REDUCTION TO +THE COMMON AND PRESENT. For all this ancient tale tended to keep up the +sense of distance between my day’s experience at the Hall and the work +I had to do amongst my cottagers and trades-people. Indeed, it came +very strangely upon that experience. + +“But surely you did not believe such an extravagant tale? The old man +was in his dotage, to begin with.” + +Had the old man been in his dotage, which he was not, my answer would +have been a more triumphant one. For when was dotage consistently and +imaginatively inventive? But why should I not believe the story? There +are people who can never believe anything that is not (I do not say +merely in accordance with their own character, but) in accordance with +the particular mood they may happen to be in at the time it is +presented to them. They know nothing of human nature beyond their own +immediate preference at the moment for port or sherry, for vice or +virtue. To tell me there could not be a man so lost to shame, if to +rectitude, as Captain Crowfoot, is simply to talk nonsense. Nay, gentle +reader, if you—and let me suppose I address a lady—if you will give +yourself up for thirty years to doing just whatever your lowest self +and not your best self may like, I will warrant you capable, by the end +of that time, of child murder at least. I do not think the descent to +Avernus is always easy; but it is always possible. Many and many such a +story was fact in old times; and human nature being the same still, +though under different restraints, equally horrible things are +constantly in progress towards the windows of the newspapers. + +“But the whole tale has such a melodramatic air!” + +That argument simply amounts to this: that, because such subjects are +capable of being employed with great dramatic effect, and of being at +the same time very badly represented, therefore they cannot take place +in real life. But ask any physician of your acquaintance, whether a +story is unlikely simply because it involves terrible things such as do +not occur every day. The fact is, that such things, occurring monthly +or yearly only, are more easily hidden away out of sight. Indeed we can +have no sense of security for ourselves except in the knowledge that we +are striving up and away, and therefore cannot be sinking nearer to the +region of such awful possibilities. + +Yet, as I said before, I am afraid I have given it too large a space in +my narrative. Only it so forcibly reminded me at the time of the +expression I could not understand upon Miss Oldcastle’s face, and since +then has been so often recalled by circumstances and events, that I +felt impelled to record it in full. And now I have done with it. + +I left the old man with thanks for the kind reception he had given me, +and walked home, revolving many things with which I shall not detain +the attention of my reader. Indeed my thoughts were confused and +troubled, and would ill bear analysis or record. I shut myself up in my +study, and tried to read a sermon of Jeremy Taylor. But it would not +do. I fell fast asleep over it at last, and woke refreshed. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +WHAT I PREACHED. + + +During the suffering which accompanied the disappointment at which I +have already hinted, I did not think it inconsistent with the manly +spirit in which I was resolved to endure it, to seek consolation from +such a source as the New Testament—if mayhap consolation for such a +trouble was to be found there. Whereupon, a little to my surprise, I +discovered that I could not read the Epistles at all. For I did not +then care an atom for the theological discussions in which I had been +interested before, and for the sake of which I had read those epistles. +Now that I was in trouble, what to me was that philosophical theology +staring me in the face from out the sacred page? Ah! reader, do not +misunderstand me. All reading of the Book is not reading of the Word. +And many that are first shall be last and the last first. I know NOW +that it was Jesus Christ and not theology that filled the hearts of the +men that wrote those epistles—Jesus Christ, the living, loving God-Man, +whom I found—not in the Epistles, but in the Gospels. The Gospels +contain what the apostles preached—the Epistles what they wrote after +the preaching. And until we understand the Gospel, the good news of +Jesus Christ our brother-king—until we understand Him, until we have +His Spirit, promised so freely to them that ask it—all the Epistles, +the words of men who were full of Him, and wrote out of that fulness, +who loved Him so utterly that by that very love they were lifted into +the air of pure reason and right, and would die for Him, and did die +for Him, without two thoughts about it, in the very simplicity of NO +CHOICE—the Letters, I say, of such men are to us a sealed book. Until +we love the Lord so as to do what He tells us, we have no right to have +an opinion about what one of those men meant; for all they wrote is +about things beyond us. The simplest woman who tries not to judge her +neighbour, or not to be anxious for the morrow, will better know what +is best to know, than the best-read bishop without that one simple +outgoing of his highest nature in the effort to do the will of Him who +thus spoke. + +But I have, as is too common with me, been led away by my feelings from +the path to the object before me. What I wanted to say was this: that, +although I could make nothing of the epistles, could see no possibility +of consolation for my distress springing from them, I found it +altogether different when I tried the Gospel once more. Indeed, it then +took such a hold of me as it had never taken before. Only that is +simply saying nothing. I found out that I had known nothing at all +about it; that I had only a certain surface-knowledge, which tended +rather to ignorance, because it fostered the delusion that I did know. +Know that man, Christ Jesus! Ah! Lord, I would go through fire and +water to sit the last at Thy table in Thy kingdom; but dare I say now I +KNOW Thee!—But Thou art the Gospel, for Thou art the Way, the Truth, +and the Life; and I have found Thee the Gospel. For I found, as I read, +that Thy very presence in my thoughts, not as the theologians show +Thee, but as Thou showedst Thyself to them who report Thee to us, +smoothed the troubled waters of my spirit, so that, even while the +storm lasted, I was able to walk upon them to go to Thee. And when +those waters became clear, I most rejoiced in their clearness because +they mirrored Thy form—because Thou wert there to my vision—the one +Ideal, the perfect man, the God perfected as king of men by working out +His Godhood in the work of man; revealing that God and man are one; +that to serve God, a man must be partaker of the Divine nature; that +for a man’s work to be done thoroughly, God must come and do it first +Himself; that to help men, He must be what He is—man in God, God in +man—visibly before their eyes, or to the hearing of their ears. So much +I saw. + +And therefore, when I was once more in a position to help my fellows, +what could I want to give them but that which was the very bread and +water of life to me—the Saviour himself? And how was I to do this?—By +trying to represent the man in all the simplicity of His life, of His +sayings and doings, of His refusals to say or do.—I took the story from +the beginning, and told them about the Baby; trying to make the fathers +and mothers, and all whose love for children supplied the lack of +fatherhood and motherhood, feel that it was a real baby-boy. And I +followed the life on and on, trying to show them how He felt, as far as +one might dare to touch such sacred things, when He did so and so, or +said so and so; and what His relation to His father and mother and +brothers and sisters was, and to the different kinds of people who came +about Him. And I tried to show them what His sayings meant, as far as I +understood them myself, and where I could not understand them I just +told them so, and said I hoped for more light by and by to enable me to +understand them; telling them that that hope was a sharp goad to my +resolution, driving me on to do my duty, because I knew that only as I +did my duty would light go up in my heart, making me wise to understand +the precious words of my Lord. And I told them that if they would try +to do their duty, they would find more understanding from that than +from any explanation I could give them. + +And so I went on from Sunday to Sunday. And the number of people that +slept grew less and less, until, at last, it was reduced to the +churchwarden, Mr Brownrigg, and an old washerwoman, who, poor thing, +stood so much all the week, that sitting down with her was like going +to bed, and she never could do it, as she told me, without going to +sleep. I, therefore, called upon her every Monday morning, and had five +minutes’ chat with her as she stood at her wash-tub, wishing to make up +to her for her drowsiness; and thinking that if I could once get her +interested in anything, she might be able to keep awake a little while +at the beginning of the sermon; for she gave me no chance of +interesting her on Sundays—going fast asleep the moment I stood up to +preach. I never got so far as that, however; and the only fact that +showed me I had made any impression upon her, beyond the pleasure she +always manifested when I appeared on the Monday, was, that, whereas all +my linen had been very badly washed at first, a decided improvement +took place after a while, beginning with my surplice and bands, and +gradually extending itself to my shirts and handkerchiefs; till at last +even Mrs Pearson was unable to find any fault with the poor old sleepy +woman’s work. For Mr Brownrigg, I am not sure that the sense of any one +sentence I ever uttered, down to the day of his death, entered into his +brain—I dare not say his mind or heart. With regard to him, and +millions besides, I am more than happy to obey my Lord’s command, and +not judge. + +But it was not long either before my congregations began to improve, +whatever might be the cause. I could not help hoping that it was really +because they liked to hear the Gospel, that is, the good news about +Christ himself. And I always made use of the knowledge I had of my +individual hearers, to say what I thought would do them good. Not that +I ever preached AT anybody; I only sought to explain the principles of +things in which I knew action of some sort was demanded from them. For +I remembered how our Lord’s sermon against covetousness, with the +parable of the rich man with the little barn, had for its occasion the +request of a man that our Lord would interfere to make his brother +share with him; which He declining to do, yet gave both brothers a +lesson such as, if they wished to do what was right, would help them to +see clearly what was the right thing to do in this and every such +matter. Clear the mind’s eye, by washing away the covetousness, and the +whole nature would be full of light, and the right walk would speedily +follow. + +Before long, likewise, I was as sure of seeing the pale face of Thomas +Weir perched, like that of a man beheaded for treason, upon the apex of +the gablet of the old tomb, as I was of hearing the wonderful playing +of that husky old organ, of which I have spoken once before. I +continued to pay him a visit every now and then; and I assure you, +never was the attempt to be thoroughly honest towards a man better +understood or more appreciated than my attempt was by the ATHEISTICAL +carpenter. The man was no more an atheist than David was when he saw +the wicked spreading like a green bay-tree, and was troubled at the +sight. He only wanted to see a God in whom he could trust. And if I +succeeded at all in making him hope that there might be such a God, it +is to me one of the most precious seals of my ministry. + +But it was now getting very near Christmas, and there was one person +whom I had never yet seen at church: that was Catherine Weir. I +thought, at first, it could hardly be that she shrunk from being seen; +for how then could she have taken to keeping a shop, where she must be +at the beck of every one? I had several times gone and bought tobacco +of her since that first occasion; and I had told my housekeeper to buy +whatever she could from her, instead of going to the larger shop in the +place; at which Mrs Pearson had grumbled a good deal, saying how could +the things be so good out of a poky shop like that? But I told her I +did not care if the things were not quite as good; for it would be of +more consequence to Catherine to have the custom, than it would be to +me to have the one lump of sugar I put in my tea of a morning one shade +or even two shades whiter. So I had contrived to keep up a kind of +connexion with her, although I saw that any attempt at conversation was +so distasteful to her, that it must do harm until something should have +brought about a change in her feelings; though what feeling wanted +changing, I could not at first tell. I came to the conclusion that she +had been wronged grievously, and that this wrong operating on a nature +similar to her father’s, had drawn all her mind to brood over it. The +world itself, the whole order of her life, everything about her, would +seem then to have wronged her; and to speak to her of religion would +only rouse her scorn, and make her feel as if God himself, if there +were a God, had wronged her too. Evidently, likewise, she had that +peculiarity of strong, undeveloped natures, of being unable, once +possessed by one set of thoughts, to get rid of it again, or to see +anything except in the shadow of those thoughts. I had no doubt, +however, at last, that she was ashamed of her position in the eyes of +society, although a hitherto indomitable pride had upheld her to face +it so far as was necessary to secure her independence; both of +which—pride and shame—prevented her from appearing where it was +unnecessary, and especially in church. I could do nothing more than +wait for a favourable opportunity. I could invent no way of reaching +her yet; for I had soon found that kindness to her boy was regarded +rather in the light of an insult to her. I should have been greatly +puzzled to account for his being such a sweet little fellow, had I not +known that he was a great deal with his aunt and grandfather. A more +attentive and devout worshipper was not in the congregation than that +little boy. + +Before going on to speak of another of the most remarkable of my +parishioners, whom I have just once mentioned I believe already, I +should like to say that on three several occasions before Christmas I +had seen Judy look grave. She was always quite well-behaved in church, +though restless, as one might expect. But on these occasions she was +not only attentive, but grave, as if she felt something or other. I +will not mention what subjects I was upon at those times, because the +mention of them would not, in the minds of my readers, at all harmonise +with the only notion of Judy they can yet by possibility have. + +For Mrs Oldcastle, I never saw her change countenance or even +expression at anything—I mean in church. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +THE ORGANIST. + + +On the afternoon of my second Sunday at Marshmallows, I was standing in +the churchyard, casting a long shadow in the light of the declining +sun. I was reading the inscription upon an old headstone, for I thought +everybody was gone; when I heard a door open, and shut again before I +could turn. I saw at once that it must have been a little door in the +tower, almost concealed from where I stood by a deep buttress. I had +never seen the door open, and I had never inquired anything about it, +supposing it led merely into the tower. + +After a moment it opened again, and, to my surprise, out came, stooping +his tall form to get his gray head clear of the low archway, a man whom +no one could pass without looking after him. Tall, and strongly built, +he had the carriage of a military man, without an atom of that +sternness which one generally finds in the faces of those accustomed to +command. He had a large face, with large regular features, and large +clear gray eyes, all of which united to express an exceeding placidity +or repose. It shone with intelligence—a mild intelligence—no way +suggestive of profundity, although of geniality. Indeed, there was a +little too much expression. The face seemed to express ALL that lay +beneath it. + +I was not satisfied with the countenance; and yet it looked quite good. +It was somehow a too well-ordered face. It was quite Greek in its +outline; and marvellously well kept and smooth, considering that the +beard, to which razors were utterly strange, and which descended +half-way down his breast, would have been as white as snow except for a +slight yellowish tinge. His eyebrows were still very dark, only just +touched with the frost of winter. His hair, too, as I saw when he +lifted his hat, was still wonderfully dark for the condition of his +beard.—It flashed into my mind, that this must be the organist who +played so remarkably. Somehow I had not happened yet to inquire about +him. But there was a stateliness in this man amounting almost to +consciousness of dignity; and I was a little bewildered. His clothes +were all of black, very neat and clean, but old-fashioned and +threadbare. They bore signs of use, but more signs of time and careful +keeping. I would have spoken to him, but something in the manner in +which he bowed to me as he passed, prevented me, and I let him go +unaccosted. + +The sexton coming out directly after, and proceeding to lock the door, +I was struck by the action. “What IS he locking the door for?” I said +to myself. But I said nothing to him, because I had not answered the +question myself yet. + +“Who is that gentleman,” I asked, “who came out just now?” + +“That is Mr Stoddart, sir,” he answered. + +I thought I had heard the name in the neighbourhood before. + +“Is it he who plays the organ?” I asked. + +“That he do, sir. He’s played our organ for the last ten year, ever +since he come to live at the Hall.” + +“What Hall?” + +“Why the Hall, to be sure,—Oldcastle Hall, you know.” + +And then it dawned on my recollection that I had heard Judy mention her +uncle Stoddart. But how could he be her uncle? + +“Is he a relation of the family?” I asked. + +“He’s a brother-in-law, I believe, of the old lady, sir, but how ever +he come to live there I don’t know. It’s no such binding connexion, you +know, sir. He’s been in the milintairy line, I believe, sir, in the +Ingies, or somewheres.” + +I do not think I shall have any more strange parishioners to present to +my readers; at least I do not remember any more just at this moment. +And this one, as the reader will see, I positively could not keep out. + +A military man from India! a brother-in-law of Mrs Oldcastle, choosing +to live with her! an entrancing performer upon an old, asthmatic, +dry-throated church organ! taking no trouble to make the clergyman’s +acquaintance, and passing him in the churchyard with a courteous bow, +although his face was full of kindliness, if not of kindness! I could +not help thinking all this strange. And yet—will the reader cease to +accord me credit when I assert it?—although I had quite intended to +inquire after him when I left the vicarage to go to the Hall, and had +even thought of him when sitting with Mrs Oldcastle, I never thought of +him again after going with Judy, and left the house without having made +a single inquiry after him. Nor did I think of him again till just as I +was passing under the outstretched neck of one of those serpivolants on +the gate; and what made me think of him then, I cannot in the least +imagine; but I resolved at once that I would call upon him the +following week, lest he should think that the fact of his having +omitted to call upon me had been the occasion of such an apparently +pointed omission on my part. For I had long ago determined to be no +further guided by the rules of society than as they might aid in +bringing about true neighbourliness, and if possible friendliness and +friendship. Wherever they might interfere with these, I would disregard +them—as far on the other hand as the disregard of them might tend to +bring about the results I desired. + +When, carrying out this resolution, I rang the doorbell at the Hall, +and inquired whether Mr Stoddart was at home, the butler stared; and, +as I simply continued gazing in return, and waiting, he answered at +length, with some hesitation, as if he were picking and choosing his +words: + +“Mr Stoddart never calls upon any one, sir.” + +“I am not complaining of Mr Stoddart,” I answered, wishing to put the +man at his ease. + +“But nobody calls upon Mr Stoddart,” he returned. + +“That’s very unkind of somebody, surely,” I said. + +“But he doesn’t want anybody to call upon him, sir.” + +“Ah! that’s another matter. I didn’t know that. Of course, nobody has a +right to intrude upon anybody. However, as I happen to have come +without knowing his dislike to being visited, perhaps you will take him +my card, and say that if it is not disagreeable to him, I should like +exceedingly to thank him in person for his sermon on the organ last +Sunday.” + +He had played an exquisite voluntary in the morning. + +“Give my message exactly, if you please,” I said, as I followed the man +into the hall. + +“I will try, sir,” he answered. “But won’t you come up-stairs to +mistress’s room, sir, while I take this to Mr Stoddart?” + +“No, I thank you,” I answered. “I came to call upon Mr Stoddart only, +and I will wait the result of you mission here in the hall.” + +The man withdrew, and I sat down on a bench, and amused myself with +looking at the portraits about me. I learned afterwards that they had +hung, till some thirty years before, in a long gallery connecting the +main part of the house with that portion to which the turret referred +to so often in Old Weir’s story was attached. One particularly pleased +me. It was the portrait of a young woman—very lovely—but with an +expression both sad and—scared, I think, would be the readiest word to +communicate what I mean. It was indubitably, indeed remarkably, like +Miss Oldcastle. And I learned afterwards that it was the portrait of +Mrs Oldcastle’s grandmother, that very Mrs Crowfoot mentioned in Weir’s +story. It had been taken about six months after her marriage, and about +as many before her death. + +The butler returned, with the request that I would follow him. He led +me up the grand staircase, through a passage at right angles to that +which led to the old lady’s room, up a narrow circular staircase at the +end of the passage, across a landing, then up a straight steep narrow +stair, upon which two people could not pass without turning sideways +and then squeezing. At the top of this I found myself in a small +cylindrical lobby, papered in blocks of stone. There was no door to be +seen. It was lighted by a conical skylight. My conductor gave a push +against the wall. Certain blocks yielded, and others came forward. In +fact a door revolved on central pivots, and we were admitted to a +chamber crowded with books from floor to ceiling, arranged with +wonderful neatness and solidity. From the centre of the ceiling, whence +hung a globular lamp, radiated what I took to be a number of strong +beams supporting a floor above; for our ancestors put the ceiling above +the beams, instead of below them, as we do, and gained in space if they +lost in quietness. But I soon found out my mistake. Those radiating +beams were in reality book-shelves. For on each side of those I passed +under I could see the gilded backs of books standing closely ranged +together. I had never seen the connivance before, nor, I presume, was +it to be seen anywhere else. + +“How does Mr Stoddart reach those books?” I asked my conductor. + +“I don’t exactly know, sir,” whispered the butler. “His own man could +tell you, I dare say. But he has a holiday to-day; and I do not think +he would explain it either; for he says his master allows no +interference with his contrivances. I believe, however, he does not use +a ladder.” + +There was no one in the room, and I saw no entrance but that by which +we had entered. The next moment, however, a nest of shelves revolved in +front of me, and there Mr Stoddart stood with outstretched hand. + +“You have found me at last, Mr Walton, and I am glad to see you,” he +said. + +He led me into an inner room, much larger than the one I had passed +through. + +“I am glad,” I replied, “that I did not know, till the butler told me, +your unwillingness to be intruded upon; for I fear, had I known it, I +should have been yet longer a stranger to you.” + +“You are no stranger to me. I have heard you read prayers, and I have +heard you preach.” + +“And I have heard you play; so you are no stranger to me either.” + +“Well, before we say another word,” said Mr Stoddart, “I must just say +one word about this report of my unsociable disposition.—I encourage +it; but am very glad to see you, notwithstanding.—Do sit down.” + +I obeyed, and waited for the rest of his word. + +“I was so bored with visits after I came, visits which were to me +utterly uninteresting, that I was only too glad when the unusual nature +of some of my pursuits gave rise to the rumour that I was mad. The more +people say I am mad, the better pleased I am, so long as they are +satisfied with my own mode of shutting myself up, and do not attempt to +carry out any fancies of their own in regard to my personal freedom.” + +Upon this followed some desultory conversation, during which I took +some observations of the room. Like the outer room, it was full of +books from floor to ceiling. But the ceiling was divided into +compartments, harmoniously coloured. + +“What a number of books you have!” I observed. + +“Not a great many,” he answered. “But I think there is hardly one of +them with which I have not some kind of personal acquaintance. I think +I could almost find you any one you wanted in the dark, or in the +twilight at least, which would allow me to distinguish whether the top +edge was gilt, red, marbled, or uncut. I have bound a couple of hundred +or so of them myself. I don’t think you could tell the work from a +tradesman’s. I’ll give you a guinea for the poor-box if you pick out +three of my binding consecutively.” + +I accepted the challenge; for although I could not bind a book, I +considered myself to have a keen eye for the outside finish. After +looking over the backs of a great many, I took one down, examined a +little further, and presented it. + +“You are right. Now try again.” + +Again I was successful, although I doubted. + +“And now for the last,” he said. + +Once more I was right. + +“There is your guinea,” said he, a little mortified. + +“No,” I answered. “I do not feel at liberty to take it, because, to +tell the truth, the last was a mere guess, nothing more.” + +Mr Stoddart looked relieved. + +“You are more honest than most of your profession,” he said. “But I am +far more pleased to offer you the guinea upon the smallest doubt of +your having won it.” + +“I have no claim upon it.” + +“What! Couldn’t you swallow a small scruple like that for the sake of +the poor even? Well, I don’t believe YOU could.—Oblige me by taking +this guinea for some one or other of your poor people. But I AM glad +you weren’t sure of that last book. I am indeed.” + +I took the guinea, and put it in my purse. + +“But,” he resumed, “you won’t do, Mr Walton. You’re not fit for your +profession. You won’t tell a lie for God’s sake. You won’t dodge about +a little to keep all right between Jove and his weary parishioners. You +won’t cheat a little for the sake of the poor! You wouldn’t even +bamboozle a little at a bazaar!” + +“I should not like to boast of my principles,” I answered; “for the +moment one does so, they become as the apples of Sodom. But assuredly I +would not favour a fiction to keep a world out of hell. The hell that a +lie would keep any man out of is doubtless the very best place for him +to go to. It is truth, yes, The Truth that saves the world.” + +“You are right, I daresay. You are more sure about it than I am +though.” + +“Let us agree where we can,” I said, “first of all; and that will make +us able to disagree, where we must, without quarrelling.” + +“Good,” he said—“Would you like to see my work shop?” + +“Very much, indeed,” I answered, heartily. + +“Do you take any pleasure in applied mechanics?” + +“I used to do so as a boy. But of course I have little time now for +anything of the sort.” + +“Ah! of course.” + +He pushed a compartment of books. It yielded, and we entered a small +closet. In another moment I found myself leaving the floor, and in yet +a moment we were on the floor of an upper room. + +“What a nice way of getting up-stairs!” I said. + +“There is no other way of getting to this room,” answered Mr Stoddart. +“I built it myself; and there was no room for stairs. This is my shop. +In my library I only read my favourite books. Here I read anything I +want to read; write anything I want to write; bind my books; invent +machines; and amuse myself generally. Take a chair.” + +I obeyed, and began to look about me. + +The room had many books in detached book-cases. There were various +benches against the walls between,—one a bookbinder’s; another a +carpenter’s; a third had a turning-lathe; a fourth had an iron vice +fixed on it, and was evidently used for working in metal. Besides +these, for it was a large room, there were several tables with chemical +apparatus upon them, Florence-flasks, retorts, sand-baths, and such +like; while in a corner stood a furnace. + +“What an accumulation of ways and means you have about you!” I said; +“and all, apparently, to different ends.” + +“All to the same end, if my object were understood.” + +“I presume I must ask no questions as to that object?” + +“It would take time to explain. I have theories of education. I think a +man has to educate himself into harmony. Therefore he must open every +possible window by which the influences of the All may come in upon +him. I do not think any man complete without a perfect development of +his mechanical faculties, for instance, and I encourage them to develop +themselves into such windows.” + +“I do not object to your theory, provided you do not put it forward as +a perfect scheme of human life. If you did, I should have some +questions to ask you about it, lest I should misunderstand you.” + +He smiled what I took for a self-satisfied smile. There was nothing +offensive in it, but it left me without anything to reply to. No +embarrassment followed, however, for a rustling motion in the room the +same instant attracted my attention, and I saw, to my surprise, and I +must confess, a little to my confusion, Miss Oldcastle. She was seated +in a corner, reading from a quarto lying upon her knees. + +“Oh! you didn’t know my niece was here? To tell the truth, I forgot her +when I brought you up, else I would have introduced you.” + +“That is not necessary, uncle,” said Miss Oldcastle, closing her book. + +I was by her instantly. She slipped the quarto from her knee, and took +my offered hand. + +“Are you fond of old books?” I said, not having anything better to say. + +“Some old books,” she answered. + +“May I ask what book you were reading?” + +“I will answer you—under protest,” she said, with a smile. + +“I withdraw the question at once,” I returned. + +“I will answer it notwithstanding. It is a volume of Jacob Behmen.” + +“Do you understand him?” + +“Yes. Don’t you?” + +“Well, I have made but little attempt,” I answered. “Indeed, it was +only as I passed through London last that I bought his works; and I am +sorry to find that one of the plates is missing from my copy.” + +“Which plate is it? It is not very easy, I understand, to procure a +perfect copy. One of my uncle’s copies has no two volumes bound alike. +Each must have belonged to a different set.” + +“I can’t tell you what the plate is. But there are only three of those +very curious unfolding ones in my third volume, and there should be +four.” + +“I do not think so. Indeed, I am sure you are wrong.” + +“I am glad to hear it—though to be glad that the world does not possess +what I thought I only was deprived of, is selfishness, cover it over as +one may with the fiction of a perfect copy.” + +“I don’t know,” she returned, without any response to what I said. “I +should always like things perfect myself.” + +“Doubtless,” I answered; and thought it better to try another +direction. + +“How is Mrs Oldcastle?” I asked, feeling in its turn the reproach of +hypocrisy; for though I could have suffered, I hope, in my person and +goods and reputation, to make that woman other than she was, I could +not say that I cared one atom whether she was in health or not. +Possibly I should have preferred the latter member of the alternative; +for the suffering of the lower nature is as a fire that drives the +higher nature upwards. So I felt rather hypocritical when I asked Miss +Oldcastle after her. + +“Quite well, thank you,” she answered, in a tone of indifference, which +implied either that she saw through me, or shared in my indifference. I +could not tell which. + +“And how is Miss Judy?” I inquired. + +“A little savage, as usual.” + +“Not the worse for her wetting, I hope.” + +“Oh! dear no. There never was health to equal that child’s. It belongs +to her savage nature.” + +“I wish some of us were more of savages, then,” I returned; for I saw +signs of exhaustion in her eyes which moved my sympathy. + +“You don’t mean me, Mr Walton, I hope. For if you do, I assure you your +interest is quite thrown away. Uncle will tell you I am as strong as an +elephant.” + +But here came a slight elevation of her person; and a shadow at the +same moment passed over her face. I saw that she felt she ought not to +have allowed herself to become the subject of conversation. + +Meantime her uncle was busy at one of his benches filing away at a +piece of brass fixed in the vice. He had thick gloves on. And, indeed, +it had puzzled me before to think how he could have so many kinds of +work, and yet keep his hands so smooth and white as they were. I could +not help thinking the results could hardly be of the most useful +description if they were all accomplished without some loss of +whiteness and smoothness in the process. Even the feet that keep the +garments clean must be washed themselves in the end. + +When I glanced away from Miss Oldcastle in the embarrassment produced +by the repulsion of her last manner, I saw Judy in the room. At the +same moment Miss Oldcastle rose. + +“What is the matter, Judy?” she said. + +“Grannie wants you,” said Judy. + +Miss Oldcastle left the room, and Judy turned to me. “How do you do, Mr +Walton?” she said. + +“Quite well, thank you, Judy,” I answered. “Your uncle admits you to +his workshop, then?” + +“Yes, indeed. He would feel rather dull, sometimes, without me. +Wouldn’t you, Uncle Stoddart?” + +“Just as the horses in the field would feel dull without the gad-fly, +Judy,” said Mr Stoddart, laughing. + +Judy, however, did not choose to receive the laugh as a scholium +explanatory of the remark, and was gone in a moment, leaving Mr +Stoddart and myself alone. I must say he looked a little troubled at +the precipitate retreat of the damsel; but he recovered himself with a +smile, and said to me, + +“I wonder what speech I shall make next to drive you away, Mr Walton.” + +“I am not so easily got rid of, Mr Stoddart,” I answered. “And as for +taking offence, I don’t like it, and therefore I never take it. But +tell me what you are doing now.” + +“I have been working for some time at an attempt after a perpetual +motion, but, I must confess, more from a metaphysical or logical point +of view than a mechanical one.” + +Here he took a drawing from a shelf, explanatory of his plan. + +“You see,” he said, “here is a top made of platinum, the heaviest of +metals, except iridium—which it would be impossible to procure enough +of, and which would be difficult to work into the proper shape. It is +surrounded you will observe, by an air-tight receiver, communicating by +this tube with a powerful air-pump. The plate upon which the point of +the top rests and revolves is a diamond; and I ought to have mentioned +that the peg of the top is a diamond likewise. This is, of course, for +the sake of reducing the friction. By this apparatus communicating with +the top, through the receiver, I set the top in motion—after exhausting +the air as far as possible. Still there is the difficulty of the +friction of the diamond point upon the diamond plate, which must +ultimately occasion repose. To obviate this, I have constructed here, +underneath, a small steam-engine which shall cause the diamond plate to +revolve at precisely the same rate of speed as the top itself. This, of +course, will prevent all friction.” + +“Not that with the unavoidable remnant of air, however,” I ventured to +suggest. + +“That is just my weak point,” he answered. “But that will be so very +small!” + +“Yes; but enough to deprive the top of PERPETUAL motion.” + +“But suppose I could get over that difficulty, would the contrivance +have a right to the name of a perpetual motion? For you observe that +the steam-engine below would not be the cause of the motion. That comes +from above, here, and is withdrawn, finally withdrawn.” + +“I understand perfectly,” I answered. “At least, I think I do. But I +return the question to you: Is a motion which, although not caused, is +ENABLED by another motion, worthy of the name of a perpetual motion; +seeing the perpetuity of motion has not to do merely with time, but +with the indwelling of self-generative power—renewing itself constantly +with the process of exhaustion?” + +He threw down his file on the bench. + +“I fear you are right,” he said. “But you will allow it would have made +a very pretty machine.” + +“Pretty, I will allow,” I answered, “as distinguished from beautiful. +For I can never dissociate beauty from use.” + +“You say that! with all the poetic things you say in your sermons! For +I am a sharp listener, and none the less such that you do not see me. I +have a loophole for seeing you. And I flatter myself, therefore, I am +the only person in the congregation on a level with you in respect of +balancing advantages. I cannot contradict you, and you cannot address +me.” + +“Do you mean, then, that whatever is poetical is useless?” I asked. + +“Do you assert that whatever is useful is beautiful?” he retorted. + +“A full reply to your question would need a ream of paper and a quarter +of quills,” I answered; “but I think I may venture so far as to say +that whatever subserves a noble end must in itself be beautiful.” + +“Then a gallows must be beautiful because it subserves the noble end of +ridding the world of malefactors?” he returned, promptly. + +I had to think for a moment before I could reply. + +“I do not see anything noble in the end,” I answered. + +“If the machine got rid of malefaction, it would, indeed, have a noble +end. But if it only compels it to move on, as a constable does—from +this world into another—I do not, I say, see anything so noble in that +end. The gallows cannot be beautiful.” + +“Ah, I see. You don’t approve of capital punishments.” + +“I do not say that. An inevitable necessity is something very different +from a noble end. To cure the diseased mind is the noblest of ends; to +make the sinner forsake his ways, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, +the loftiest of designs; but to punish him for being wrong, however +necessary it may be for others, cannot, if dissociated from the object +of bringing good out of evil, be called in any sense a NOBLE end. I +think now, however, it would be but fair in you to give me some answer +to my question. Do you think the poetic useless?” + +“I think it is very like my machine. It may exercise the faculties +without subserving any immediate progress.” + +“It is so difficult to get out of the region of the poetic, that I +cannot think it other than useful: it is so widespread. The useless +could hardly be so nearly universal. But I should like to ask you +another question: What is the immediate effect of anything poetic upon +your mind?” + +“Pleasure,” he answered. + +“And is pleasure good or bad?” + +“Sometimes the one, sometimes the other.” + +“In itself?” + +“I should say so.” + +“I should not.” + +“Are you not, then, by your very profession, more or less an enemy of +pleasure?” + +“On the contrary, I believe that pleasure is good, and does good, and +urges to good. CARE is the evil thing.” + +“Strange doctrine for a clergyman.” + +“Now, do not misunderstand me, Mr Stoddart. That might not hurt you, +but it would distress me. Pleasure, obtained by wrong, is poison and +horror. But it is not the pleasure that hurts, it is the wrong that is +in it that hurts; the pleasure hurts only as it leads to more wrong. I +almost think myself, that if you could make everybody happy, half the +evil would vanish from the earth.” + +“But you believe in God?” + +“I hope in God I do.” + +“How can you then think that He would not destroy evil at such a cheap +and pleasant rate.” + +“Because He wants to destroy ALL the evil, not the half of it; and +destroy it so that it shall not grow again; which it would be sure to +do very soon if it had no antidote but happiness. As soon as men got +used to happiness, they would begin to sin again, and so lose it all. +But care is distrust. I wonder now if ever there was a man who did his +duty, and TOOK NO THOUGHT. I wish I could get the testimony of such a +man. Has anybody actually tried the plan?” + +But here I saw that I was not taking Mr Stoddart with me (as the old +phrase was). The reason I supposed to be, that he had never been +troubled with much care. But there remained the question, whether he +trusted in God or the Bank? + +I went back to the original question. + +“But I should be very sorry you should think, that to give pleasure was +my object in saying poetic things in the pulpit. If I do so, it is +because true things come to me in their natural garments of poetic +forms. What you call the POETIC is only the outer beauty that belongs +to all inner or spiritual beauty—just as a lovely face—mind, I say +LOVELY, not PRETTY, not HANDSOME—is the outward and visible presence of +a lovely mind. Therefore, saying I cannot dissociate beauty from use, I +am free to say as many poetic things—though, mind, I don’t claim them: +you attribute them to me—as shall be of the highest use, namely, to +embody and reveal the true. But a machine has material use for its end. +The most grotesque machine I ever saw that DID something, I felt to be +in its own kind beautiful; as God called many fierce and grotesque +things good when He made the world—good for their good end. But your +machine does nothing more than raise the metaphysical doubt and +question, whether it can with propriety be called a perpetual motion or +not?” + +To this Mr Stoddart making no reply, I take the opportunity of the +break in our conversation to say to my readers, that I know there was +no satisfactory following out of an argument on either side in the +passage of words I have just given. Even the closest reasoner finds it +next to impossible to attend to all the suggestions in his own mind, +not one of which he is willing to lose, to attend at the same time to +everything his antagonist says or suggests, that he may do him justice, +and to keep an even course towards his goal—each having the opposite +goal in view. In fact, an argument, however simply conducted and +honourable, must just resemble a game at football; the unfortunate +question being the ball, and the numerous and sometimes conflicting +thoughts which arise in each mind forming the two parties whose +energies are spent in a succession of kicks. In fact, I don’t like +argument, and I don’t care for the victory. If I had my way, I would +never argue at all. I would spend my energy in setting forth what I +believe—as like itself as I could represent it, and so leave it to work +its own way, which, if it be the right way, it must work in the right +mind,—for Wisdom is justified of her children; while no one who loves +the truth can be other than anxious, that if he has spoken the evil +thing it may return to him void: that is a defeat he may well pray for. +To succeed in the wrong is the most dreadful punishment to a man who, +in the main, is honest. But I beg to assure my reader I could write a +long treatise on the matter between Mr Stoddart and myself; therefore, +if he is not yet interested in such questions, let him be thankful to +me for considering such a treatise out of place here. I will only say +in brief, that I believe with all my heart that the true is the +beautiful, and that nothing evil can be other than ugly. If it seems +not so, it is in virtue of some good mingled with the evil, and not in +the smallest degree in virtue of the evil. + +I thought it was time for me to take my leave. But I could not bear to +run away with the last word, as it were: so I said, + +“You put plenty of poetry yourself into that voluntary you played last +Sunday. I am so much obliged to you for it!” + +“Oh! that fugue. You liked it, did you?” + +“More than I can tell you.” + +“I am very glad.” + +“Do you know those two lines of Milton in which he describes such a +performance on the organ?” + +“No. Can you repeat them?” + +“‘His volant touch, +Instinct through all proportions, low and high, +Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.’” + + +“That is wonderfully fine. Thank you. That is better than my fugue by a +good deal. You have cancelled the obligation.” + +“Do you think doing a good turn again is cancelling an obligation? I +don’t think an obligation can ever be RETURNED in the sense of being +got rid of. But I am being hypercritical.” + +“Not at all.—Shall I tell you what I was thinking of while playing that +fugue?” + +“I should like much to hear.” + +“I had been thinking, while you were preaching, of the many fancies men +had worshipped for the truth; now following this, now following that; +ever believing they were on the point of laying hold upon her, and +going down to the grave empty-handed as they came.” + +“And empty-hearted, too?” I asked; but he went on without heeding me. + +“And I saw a vision of multitudes following, following where nothing +was to be seen, with arms outstretched in all directions, some clasping +vacancy to their bosoms, some reaching on tiptoe over the heads of +their neighbours, and some with hanging heads, and hands clasped behind +their backs, retiring hopeless from the chase.” + +“Strange!” I said; “for I felt so full of hope while you played, that I +never doubted it was hope you meant to express.” + +“So I do not doubt I did; for the multitude was full of hope, vain +hope, to lay hold upon the truth. And you, being full of the main +expression, and in sympathy with it, did not heed the undertones of +disappointment, or the sighs of those who turned their backs on the +chase. Just so it is in life.” + +“I am no musician,” I returned, “to give you a musical counter to your +picture. But I see a grave man tilling the ground in peace, and the +form of Truth standing behind him, and folding her wings closer and +closer over and around him as he works on at his day’s labour.” + +“Very pretty,” said Mr Stoddart, and said no more. + +“Suppose,” I went on, “that a person knows that he has not laid hold on +the truth, is that sufficient ground for his making any further +assertion than that he has not found it?” + +“No. But if he has tried hard and has not found ANYTHING that he can +say is true, he cannot help thinking that most likely there is no such +thing.” + +“Suppose,” I said, “that nobody has found the truth, is that sufficient +ground for saying that nobody ever will find it? or that there is no +such thing as truth to be found? Are the ages so nearly done that no +chance yet remains? Surely if God has made us to desire the truth, He +has got some truth to cast into the gulf of that desire. Shall God +create hunger and no food? But possibly a man may be looking the wrong +way for it. You may be using the microscope, when you ought to open +both eyes and lift up your head. Or a man may be finding some truth +which is feeding his soul, when he does not think he is finding any. +You know the Fairy Queen. Think how long the Redcross Knight travelled +with the Lady Truth—Una, you know—without learning to believe in her; +and how much longer still without ever seeing her face. For my part, +may God give me strength to follow till I die. Only I will venture to +say this, that it is not by any agony of the intellect that I expect to +discover her.” + +Mr Stoddart sat drumming silently with his fingers, a half-smile on his +face, and his eyes raised at an angle of forty-five degrees. I felt +that the enthusiasm with which I had spoken was thrown away upon him. +But I was not going to be ashamed therefore. I would put some faith in +his best nature. + +“But does not,” he said, gently lowering his eyes upon mine after a +moment’s pause—“does not your choice of a profession imply that you +have not to give chase to a fleeting phantom? Do you not profess to +have, and hold, and therefore teach the truth?” + +“I profess only to have caught glimpses of her white garments,—those, I +mean, of the abstract truth of which you speak. But I have seen that +which is eternally beyond her: the ideal in the real, the living truth, +not the truth that I can THINK, but the truth that thinks itself, that +thinks me, that God has thought, yea, that God is, the truth BEING true +to itself and to God and to man—Christ Jesus, my Lord, who knows, and +feels, and does the truth. I have seen Him, and I am both content and +unsatisfied. For in Him are hid all the treasures of wisdom and +knowledge. Thomas a Kempis says: ‘Cui aeternum Verbum loquitur, ille a +multis opinionibus expeditur.’” (He to whom the eternal Word speaks, is +set free from a press of opinions.) + +I rose, and held out my hand to Mr Stoddart. He rose likewise, and took +it kindly, conducted me to the room below, and ringing the bell, +committed me to the care of the butler. + +As I approached the gate, I met Jane Rogers coming back from the +village. I stopped and spoke to her. Her eyes were very red. + +“Nothing amiss at home, Jane?” I said. + +“No, sir, thank you,” answered Jane, and burst out crying. + +“What is the matter, then? Is your——” + +“Nothing’s the matter with nobody, sir.” + +“Something is the matter with you.” + +“Yes, sir. But I’m quite well.” + +“I don’t want to pry into your affairs; but if you think I can be of +any use to you, mind you come to me.” + +“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Jane; and, dropping a courtesy, walked on +with her basket. + +I went to her parents’ cottage. As I came near the mill, the young +miller was standing in the door with his eyes fixed on the ground, +while the mill went on hopping behind him. But when he caught sight of +me, he turned, and went in, as if he had not seen me. + +“Has he been behaving ill to Jane?” thought I. As he evidently wished +to avoid me, I passed the mill without looking in at the door, as I was +in the habit of doing, and went on to the cottage, where I lifted the +latch, and walked in. Both the old people were there, and both looked +troubled, though they welcomed me none the less kindly. + +“I met Jane,” I said, “and she looked unhappy; so I came on to hear +what was the matter.” + +“You oughtn’t to be troubled with our small affairs,” said Mrs. Rogers. + +“If the parson wants to know, why, the parson must be told,” said Old +Rogers, smiling cheerily, as if he, at least, would be relieved by +telling me. + +“I don’t want to know,” I said, “if you don’t want to tell me. But can +I be of any use?” + +“I don’t think you can, sir,—leastways, I’m afraid not,” said the old +woman. + +“I am sorry to say, sir, that Master Brownrigg and his son has come to +words about our Jane; and it’s not agreeable to have folk’s daughter +quarrelled over in that way,” said Old Rogers. “What’ll be the upshot +on it, I don’t know, but it looks bad now. For the father he tells the +son that if ever he hear of him saying one word to our Jane, out of the +mill he goes, as sure as his name’s Dick. Now, it’s rather a good +chance, I think, to see what the young fellow’s made of, sir. So I +tells my old ’oman here; and so I told Jane. But neither on ’em seems +to see the comfort of it somehow. But the New Testament do say a man +shall leave father and mother, and cleave to his wife.” + +“But she ain’t his wife yet,” said Mrs Rogers to her husband, whose +drift was not yet evident. + +“No more she can be, ’cept he leaves his father for her.” + +“And what’ll become of them then, without the mill?” + +“You and me never had no mill, old ’oman,” said Rogers; “yet here we +be, very nearly ripe now,—ain’t us, wife?” + +“Medlar-like, Old Rogers, I doubt,—rotten before we’re ripe,” replied +his wife, quoting a more humorous than refined proverb. + +“Nay, nay, old ’oman. Don’t ’e say so. The Lord won’t let us rot before +we’re ripe, anyhow. That I be sure on.” + +“But, anyhow, it’s all very well to talk. Thou knows how to talk, +Rogers. But how will it be when the children comes, and no mill?” + +“To grind ’em in, old ’oman?” + +Mrs Rogers turned to me, who was listening with real interest, and much +amusement. + +“I wish you would speak a word to Old Rogers, sir. He never will speak +as he’s spoken to. He’s always over merry, or over serious. He either +takes me up short with a sermon, or he laughs me out of countenance +that I don’t know where to look.” + +Now I was pretty sure that Rogers’s conduct was simple consistency, and +that the difficulty arose from his always acting upon one or two of the +plainest principles of truth and right; whereas his wife, good +woman—for the bad, old leaven of the Pharisees could not rise much in +her somehow—was always reminding him of certain precepts of behaviour +to the oblivion of principles. “A bird in the hand,” &c.—“Marry in +haste,” &c.—“When want comes in at the door love flies out at the +window,” were amongst her favourite sayings; although not one of them +was supported by her own experience. For instance, she had married in +haste herself, and never, I believe, had once thought of repenting of +it, although she had had far more than the requisite leisure for doing +so. And many was the time that want had come in at her door, and the +first thing it always did was to clip the wings of Love, and make him +less flighty, and more tender and serviceable. So I could not even +pretend to read her husband a lecture. + +“He’s a curious man, Old Rogers,” I said. “But as far as I can see, +he’s in the right, in the main. Isn’t he now?” + +“Oh, yes, I daresay. I think he’s always right about the rights of the +thing, you know. But a body may go too far that way. It won’t do to +starve, sir.” + +Strange confusion—or, ought I not rather to say?—ordinary and +commonplace confusion of ideas! + +“I don’t think,” I said, “any one can go too far in the right way.” + +“That’s just what I want my old ’oman to see, and I can’t get it into +her, sir. If a thing’s right, it’s right, and if a thing’s wrong, why, +wrong it is. The helm must either be to starboard or port, sir.” + +“But why talk of starving?” I said. “Can’t Dick work? Who could think +of starting that nonsense?” + +“Why, my old ’oman here. She wants ’em to give it up, and wait for +better times. The fact is, she don’t want to lose the girl.” + +“But she hasn’t got her at home now.” + +“She can have her when she wants her, though—leastways after a bit of +warning. Whereas, if she was married, and the consequences a follerin’ +at her heels, like a man-o’-war with her convoy, she would find she was +chartered for another port, she would.” + +“Well, you see, sir, Rogers and me’s not so young as we once was, and +we’re likely to be growing older every day. And if there’s a difficulty +in the way of Jane’s marriage, why, I take it as a Godsend.” + +“How would you have liked such a Godsend, Mrs Rogers, when you were +going to be married to your sailor here? What would you have done?” + +“Why, whatever he liked to be sure. But then, you see, Dick’s not my +Rogers.” + +“But your daughter thinks about him much in the same way as you did +about this dear old man here when he was young.” + +“Young people may be in the wrong, _I_ see nothing in Dick Brownrigg.” + +“But young people may be right sometimes, and old people may be wrong +sometimes.” + +“I can’t be wrong about Rogers.” + +“No, but you may be wrong about Dick.” + +“Don’t you trouble yourself about my old ’oman, sir. She allus was +awk’ard in stays, but she never missed them yet. When she’s said her +say, round she comes in the wind like a bird, sir.” + +“There’s a good old man to stick up for your old wife! Still, I say, +they may as well wait a bit. It would be a pity to anger the old +gentleman.” + +“What does the young man say to it?” + +“Why, he says, like a man, he can work for her as well’s the mill, and +he’s ready, if she is.” + +“I am very glad to hear such a good account of him. I shall look in, +and have a little chat with him. I always liked the look of him. Good +morning, Mrs. Rogers.” + +“I’ll see you across the stream, sir,” said the old man, following me +out of the house. + +“You see, sir,” he resumed, as soon as we were outside, “I’m always +afeard of taking things out of the Lord’s hands. It’s the right way, +surely, that when a man loves a woman, and has told her so, he should +act like a man, and do as is right. And isn’t that the Lord’s way? And +can’t He give them what’s good for them. Mayhap they won’t love each +other the less in the end if Dick has a little bit of the hard work +that many a man that the Lord loved none the less has had before him. I +wouldn’t like to anger the old gentleman, as my wife says; but if I was +Dick, I know what I would do. But don’t ’e think hard of my wife, sir, +for I believe there’s a bit of pride in it. She’s afeard of bein’ +supposed to catch at Richard Brownrigg, because he’s above us, you +know, sir. And I can’t altogether blame her, only we ain’t got to do +with the look o’ things, but with the things themselves.” + +“I understand you quite, and I’m very much of your mind. You can trust +me to have a little chat with him, can’t you?” + +“That I can, sir.” + +Here we had come to the boundary of his garden—the busy stream that ran +away, as if it was scared at the labour it had been compelled to go +through, and was now making the best of its speed back to its +mother-ocean, to tell sad tales of a world where every little brook +must do some work ere it gets back to its rest. I bade him good day, +jumped across it, and went into the mill, where Richard was tying the +mouth of a sack, as gloomily as the brothers of Joseph must have tied +their sacks after his silver cup had been found. + +“Why did you turn away from me, as I passed half-an-hour ago, Richard?” +I said, cheerily. + +“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t think you saw me.” + +“But supposing I hadn’t?—But I won’t tease you. I know all about it. +Can I do anything for you?” + +“No, sir. You can’t move my father. It’s no use talking to him. He +never hears a word anybody says. He never hears a word you say o’ +Sundays, sir. He won’t even believe the Mark Lane Express about the +price of corn. It’s no use talking to him, sir.” + +“You wouldn’t mind if I were to try?” + +“No, sir. You can’t make matters worse. No more can you make them any +better, sir.” + +“I don’t say I shall talk to him; but I may try it, if I find a fitting +opportunity.” + +“He’s always worse—more obstinate, that is, when he’s in a good temper. +So you may choose your opportunity wrong. But it’s all the same. It can +make no difference.” + +“What are you going to do, then?” + +“I would let him do his worst. But Jane doesn’t like to go against her +mother. I’m sure I can’t think how she should side with my father +against both of us. He never laid her under any such obligation, I’m +sure.” + +“There may be more ways than one of accounting for that. You must mind, +however, and not be too hard upon your father. You’re quite right in +holding fast to the girl; but mind that vexation does not make you +unjust.” + +“I wish my mother were alive. She was the only one that ever could +manage him. How she contrived to do it nobody could think; but manage +him she did, somehow or other. There’s not a husk of use in talking to +HIM.” + +“I daresay he prides himself on not being moved by talk. But has he +ever had a chance of knowing Jane—of seeing what kind of a girl she +is?” + +“He’s seen her over and over.” + +“But seeing isn’t always believing.” + +“It certainly isn’t with him.” + +“If he could only know her! But don’t you be too hard upon him. And +don’t do anything in a hurry. Give him a little time, you know. Mrs +Rogers won’t interfere between you and Jane, I am pretty sure. But +don’t push matters till we see. Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye, and thank you kindly, sir.—Ain’t I to see Jane in the +meantime?” + +“If I were you, I would make no difference. See her as often as you +used, which I suppose was as often as you could. I don’t think, I say, +that her mother will interfere. Her father is all on your side.” + +I called on Mr Brownrigg; but, as his son had forewarned me, I could +make nothing of him. He didn’t see, when the mill was his property, and +Dick was his son, why he shouldn’t have his way with them. And he was +going to have his way with them. His son might marry any lady in the +land; and he wasn’t going to throw himself away that way. + +I will not weary my readers with the conversation we had together. All +my missiles of argument were lost as it were in a bank of mud, the +weight and resistance of which they only increased. My experience in +the attempt, however, did a little to reconcile me to his going to +sleep in church; for I saw that it could make little difference whether +he was asleep or awake. He, and not Mr. Stoddart in his organ +sentry-box, was the only person whom it was absolutely impossible to +preach to. You might preach AT him; but TO him?—no. + + + + +CHAPTER X. +MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. + + +As Christmas Day drew nearer and nearer, my heart glowed with the more +gladness; and the question came more and more pressingly—Could I not do +something to make it more really a holiday of the Church for my +parishioners? That most of them would have a little more enjoyment on +it than they had had all the year through, I had ground to hope; but I +wanted to connect this gladness—in their minds, I mean, for who could +dissever them in fact?—with its source, the love of God, that love +manifested unto men in the birth of the Human Babe, the Son of Man. But +I would not interfere with the Christmas Day at home. I resolved to +invite as many of my parishioners as would come, to spend Christmas Eve +at the Vicarage. + +I therefore had a notice to that purport affixed to the church door; +and resolved to send out no personal invitations whatever, so that I +might not give offence by accidental omission. The only person thrown +into perplexity by this mode of proceeding was Mrs. Pearson. + +“How many am I to provide for, sir?” she said, with an injured air. + +“For as many as you ever saw in church at one time,” I said. “And if +there should be too much, why so much the better. It can go to make +Christmas Day the merrier at some of the poorer houses.” + +She looked discomposed, for she was not of an easy temper. But she +never ACTED from her temper; she only LOOKED or SPOKE from it. + +“I shall want help,” she said, at length. + +“As much as you like, Mrs. Pearson. I can trust you entirely.” + +Her face brightened; and the end showed that I had not trusted her +amiss. + +I was a little anxious about the result of the invitation—partly as +indicating the amount of confidence my people placed in me. But +although no one said a word to me about it beforehand except Old +Rogers, as soon as the hour arrived, the people began to come. And the +first I welcomed was Mr. Brownrigg. + +I had had all the rooms on the ground-floor prepared for their +reception. Tables of provision were set out in every one of them. My +visitors had tea or coffee, with plenty of bread and butter, when they +arrived; and the more solid supplies were reserved for a later part of +the evening. I soon found myself with enough to do. But before long, I +had a very efficient staff. For after having had occasion, once or +twice, to mention something of my plans for the evening, I found my +labours gradually diminish, and yet everything seemed to go right; the +fact being that good Mr Boulderstone, in one part, had cast himself +into the middle of the flood, and stood there immovable both in face +and person, turning its waters into the right channel, namely, towards +the barn, which I had fitted up for their reception in a body; while in +another quarter, namely, in the barn, Dr Duncan was doing his best, and +that was simply something first-rate, to entertain the people till all +should be ready. From a kind of instinct these gentlemen had taken upon +them to be my staff, almost without knowing it, and very grateful I +was. I found, too, that they soon gathered some of the young and more +active spirits about them, whom they employed in various ways for the +good of the community. + +When I came in and saw the goodly assemblage, for I had been busy +receiving them in the house, I could not help rejoicing that my +predecessor had been so fond of farming that he had rented land in the +neighbourhood of the vicarage, and built this large barn, of which I +could make a hall to entertain my friends. The night was frosty—the +stars shining brilliantly overhead—so that, especially for country +people, there was little danger in the short passage to be made to it +from the house. But, if necessary, I resolved to have a covered-way +built before next time. For how can a man be THE PERSON of a parish, if +he never entertains his parishioners? And really, though it was lighted +only with candles round the walls, and I had not been able to do much +for the decoration of the place, I thought it looked very well, and my +heart was glad that Christmas Eve—just as if the Babe had been coming +again to us that same night. And is He not always coming to us afresh +in every childlike feeling that awakes in the hearts of His people? + +I walked about amongst them, greeting them, and greeted everywhere in +turn with kind smiles and hearty shakes of the hand. As often as I +paused in my communications for a moment, it was amusing to watch Mr. +Boulderstone’s honest, though awkward endeavours to be at ease with his +inferiors; but Dr Duncan was just a sight worth seeing. Very tall and +very stately, he was talking now to this old man, now to that young +woman, and every face glistened towards which he turned. There was no +condescension about him. He was as polite and courteous to one as to +another, and the smile that every now and then lighted up his old face, +was genuine and sympathetic. No one could have known by his behaviour +that he was not at court. And I thought—Surely even the contact with +such a man will do something to refine the taste of my people. I felt +more certain than ever that a free mingling of all classes would do +more than anything else towards binding us all into a wise patriotic +nation; would tend to keep down that foolish emulation which makes one +class ape another from afar, like Ben Jonson’s Fungoso, “still lighting +short a suit;” would refine the roughness of the rude, and enable the +polished to see with what safety his just share in public matters might +be committed into the hands of the honest workman. If we could once +leave it to each other to give what honour is due; knowing that honour +demanded is as worthless as insult undeserved is hurtless! What has one +to do to honour himself? That is and can be no honour. When one has +learned to seek the honour that cometh from God only, he will take the +withholding of the honour that comes from men very quietly indeed. + +The only thing that disappointed me was, that there was no one there to +represent Oldcastle Hall. But how could I have everything a success at +once!—And Catherine Weir was likewise absent. + +After we had spent a while in pleasant talk, and when I thought nearly +all were with us, I got up on a chair at the end of the barn, and +said:— + +“Kind friends,—I am very grateful to you for honouring my invitation as +you have done. Permit me to hope that this meeting will be the first of +many, and that from it may grow the yearly custom in this parish of +gathering in love and friendship upon Christmas Eve. When God comes to +man, man looks round for his neighbour. When man departed from God in +the Garden of Eden, the only man in the world ceased to be the friend +of the only woman in the world; and, instead of seeking to bear her +burden, became her accuser to God, in whom he saw only the Judge, +unable to perceive that the Infinite love of the Father had come to +punish him in tenderness and grace. But when God in Jesus comes back to +men, brothers and sisters spread forth their arms to embrace each +other, and so to embrace Him. This is, when He is born again in our +souls. For, dear friends, what we all need is just to become little +children like Him; to cease to be careful about many things, and trust +in Him, seeking only that He should rule, and that we should be made +good like Him. What else is meant by ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God +and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you?’ +Instead of doing so, we seek the things God has promised to look after +for us, and refuse to seek the thing He wants us to seek—a thing that +cannot be given us, except we seek it. We profess to think Jesus the +grandest and most glorious of men, and yet hardly care to be like Him; +and so when we are offered His Spirit, that is, His very nature within +us, for the asking, we will hardly take the trouble to ask for it. But +to-night, at least, let all unkind thoughts, all hard judgments of one +another, all selfish desires after our own way, be put from us, that we +may welcome the Babe into our very bosoms; that when He comes amongst +us—for is He not like a child still, meek and lowly of heart?—He may +not be troubled to find that we are quarrelsome, and selfish, and +unjust.” + +I came down from the chair, and Mr Brownrigg being the nearest of my +guests, and wide awake, for he had been standing, and had indeed been +listening to every word according to his ability, I shook hands with +him. And positively there was some meaning in the grasp with which he +returned mine. + +I am not going to record all the proceedings of the evening; but I +think it may be interesting to my readers to know something of how we +spent it. First of all, we sang a hymn about the Nativity. And then I +read an extract from a book of travels, describing the interior of an +Eastern cottage, probably much resembling the inn in which our Lord was +born, the stable being scarcely divided fron the rest of the house. For +I felt that to open the inner eyes even of the brain, enabling people +to SEE in some measure the reality of the old lovely story, to help +them to have what the Scotch philosophers call a true CONCEPTION of the +external conditions and circumstances of the events, might help to open +the yet deeper spiritual eyes which alone can see the meaning and truth +dwelling in and giving shape to the outward facts. And the extract was +listened to with all the attention I could wish, except, at first, from +some youngsters at the further end of the barn, who became, however, +perfectly still as I proceeded. + +After this followed conversation, during which I talked a good deal to +Jane Rogers, paying her particular attention indeed, with the hope of a +chance of bringing old Mr Brownrigg and her together in some way. + +“How is your mistress, Jane?” I said. + +“Quite well, sir, thank you. I only wish she was here.” + +“I wish she were. But perhaps she will come next year.” + +“I think she will. I am almost sure she would have liked to come +to-night; for I heard her say”—— + +“I beg your pardon, Jane, for interrupting you; but I would rather not +be told anything you may have happened to overhear,” I said, in a low +voice. + +“Oh, sir!” returned Jane, blushing a dark crimson; “it wasn’t anything +particular.” + +“Still, if it was anything on which a wrong conjecture might be +built”—I wanted to soften it to her—“it is better that one should not +be told it. Thank you for your kind intention, though. And now, Jane,” +I said, “will you do me a favour?” + +“That I will, sir, if I can.” + +“Sing that Christmas carol I heard you sing last night to your mother.” + +“I didn’t know any one was listening, sir.” + +“I know you did not. I came to the door with your father, and we stood +and listened.” + +She looked very frightened. But I would not have asked her had I not +known that she could sing like a bird. + +“I am afraid I shall make a fool of myself,” she said. + +“We should all be willing to run that risk for the sake of others,” I +answered. + +“I will try then, sir.” + +So she sang, and her clear voice soon silenced the speech all round. + +“Babe Jesus lay on Mary’s lap; + The sun shone in His hair: +And so it was she saw, mayhap, + The crown already there. + +“For she sang: ‘Sleep on, my little King! + Bad Herod dares not come; +Before Thee, sleeping, holy thing, + Wild winds would soon be dumb. + +“‘I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet, + My King, so long desired; +Thy hands shall never be soil’d, my sweet, + Thy feet shall never be tired. + +“‘For Thou art the King of men, my son; + Thy crown I see it plain; +And men shall worship Thee, every one, + And cry, Glory! Amen.” + +“Babe Jesus open’d His eyes so wide! + At Mary look’d her Lord. +And Mary stinted her song and sigh’d. + Babe Jesus said never a word.” + + +When Jane had done singing, I asked her where she had learned the +carol; and she answered,— + +“My mistress gave it me. There was a picture to it of the Baby on his +mother’s knee.” + +“I never saw it,” I said. “Where did you get the tune?” + +“I thought it would go with a tune I knew; and I tried it, and it did. +But I was not fit to sing to you, sir.” + +“You must have quite a gift of song, Jane!” I said. + +“My father and mother can both sing.” + +Mr Brownrigg was seated on the other side of me, and had apparently +listened with some interest. His face was ten degrees less stupid than +it usually was. I fancied I saw even a glimmer of some satisfaction in +it. I turned to Old Rogers. + +“Sing us a song, Old Rogers,” I said. + +“I’m no canary at that, sir; and besides, my singing days be over. I +advise you to ask Dr. Duncan there. He CAN sing.” + +I rose and said to the assembly: + +“My friends, if I did not think God was pleased to see us enjoying +ourselves, I should have no heart for it myself. I am going to ask our +dear friend Dr. Duncan to give us a song.—If you please, Dr. Duncan.” + +“I am very nearly too old,” said the doctor; “but I will try.” + +His voice was certainly a little feeble; but the song was not much the +worse for it. And a more suitable one for all the company he could +hardly have pitched upon. + +“There is a plough that has no share, +But a coulter that parteth keen and fair. +But the furrows they rise +To a terrible size, +Or ever the plough hath touch’d them there. +’Gainst horses and plough in wrath they shake: +The horses are fierce; but the plough will break. + +“And the seed that is dropt in those furrows of fear, +Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear. +Down it drops plumb, +Where no spring times come; +And here there needeth no harrowing gear: +Wheat nor poppy nor any leaf +Will cover this naked ground of grief. + +“But a harvest-day will come at last +When the watery winter all is past; +The waves so gray +Will be shorn away +By the angels’ sickles keen and fast; +And the buried harvest of the sea +Stored in the barns of eternity.” + + +Genuine applause followed the good doctor’s song. I turned to Miss +Boulderstone, from whom I had borrowed a piano, and asked her to play a +country dance for us. But first I said—not getting up on a chair this +time:— + +“Some people think it is not proper for a clergyman to dance. I mean to +assert my freedom from any such law. If our Lord chose to represent, in +His parable of the Prodigal Son, the joy in Heaven over a repentant +sinner by the figure of ‘music and dancing,’ I will hearken to Him +rather than to men, be they as good as they may.” + +For I had long thought that the way to make indifferent things bad, was +for good people not to do them. + +And so saying, I stepped up to Jane Rogers, and asked her to dance with +me. She blushed so dreadfully that, for a moment, I was almost sorry I +had asked her. But she put her hand in mine at once; and if she was a +little clumsy, she yet danced very naturally, and I had the +satisfaction of feeling that I had an honest girl near me, who I knew +was friendly to me in her heart. + +But to see the faces of the people! While I had been talking, Old +Rogers had been drinking in every word. To him it was milk and strong +meat in one. But now his face shone with a father’s gratification +besides. And Richard’s face was glowing too. Even old Brownrigg looked +with a curious interest upon us, I thought. + +Meantime Dr Duncan was dancing with one of his own patients, old Mrs +Trotter, to whose wants he ministered far more from his table than his +surgery. I have known that man, hearing of a case of want from his +servant, send the fowl he was about to dine upon, untouched, to those +whose necessity was greater than his. + +And Mr Boulderstone had taken out old Mrs Rogers; and young Brownrigg +had taken Mary Weir. Thomas Weir did not dance at all, but looked on +kindly. + +“Why don’t you dance, Old Rogers?” I said, as I placed his daughter in +a seat beside him. + +“Did your honour ever see an elephant go up the futtock-shrouds?” + +“No. I never did.” + +“I thought you must, sir, to ask me why I don’t dance. You won’t take +my fun ill, sir? I’m an old man-o’-war’s man, you know, sir.” + +“I should have thought, Rogers, that you would have known better by +this time, than make such an apology to ME.” + +“God bless you, sir. An old man’s safe with you—or a young lass, +either, sir,” he added, turning with a smile to his daughter. + +I turned, and addressed Mr Boulderstone. + +“I am greatly obliged to you, Mr Boulderstone, for the help you have +given me this evening. I’ve seen you talking to everybody, just as if +you had to entertain them all.” + +“I hope I haven’t taken too much upon me. But the fact is, somehow or +other, I don’t know how, I got into the spirit of it.” + +“You got into the spirit of it because you wanted to help me, and I +thank you heartily.” + +“Well, I thought it wasn’t a time to mind one’s peas and cues exactly. +And really it’s wonderful how one gets on without them. I hate +formality myself.” + +The dear fellow was the most formal man I had ever met. + +“Why don’t you dance, Mr Brownrigg?” + +“Who’d care to dance with me, sir? I don’t care to dance with an old +woman; and a young woman won’t care to dance with me.” + +“I’ll find you a partner, if you will put yourself in my hands.” + +“I don’t mind trusting myself to you, sir.” + +So I led him to Jane Rogers. She stood up in respectful awe before the +master of her destiny. There were signs of calcitration in the +churchwarden, when he perceived whither I was leading him. But when he +saw the girl stand trembling before him, whether it was that he was +flattered by the signs of his own power, accepting them as homage, or +that his hard heart actually softened a little, I cannot tell, but, +after just a perceptible hesitation, he said: + +“Come along, my lass, and let’s have a hop together.” + +She obeyed very sweetly. + +“Don’t be too shy,” I whispered to her as she passed me. + +And the churchwarden danced very heartily with the lady’s-maid. + +I then asked him to take her into the house, and give her something to +eat in return for her song. He yielded somewhat awkwardly, and what +passed between them I do not know. But when they returned, she seemed +less frightened at him than when she heard me make the proposal. And +when the company was parting, I heard him take leave of her with the +words— + +“Give us a kiss, my girl, and let bygones be bygones.” + +Which kiss I heard with delight. For had I not been a peacemaker in +this matter? And had I not then a right to feel blessed?—But the +understanding was brought about simply by making the people +meet—compelling them, as it were, to know something of each other +really. Hitherto this girl had been a mere name, or phantom at best, to +her lover’s father; and it was easy for him to treat her as such, that +is, as a mere fancy of his son’s. The idea of her had passed through +his mind; but with what vividness any idea, notion, or conception could +be present to him, my readers must judge from my description of him. So +that obstinacy was a ridiculously easy accomplishment to him. For he +never had any notion of the matter to which he was opposed—only of that +which he favoured. It is very easy indeed for such people to stick to +their point. + +But I took care that we should have dancing in moderation. It would not +do for people either to get weary with recreation, or excited with what +was not worthy of producing such an effect. Indeed we had only six +country dances during the evening. That was all. And between the dances +I read two or three of Wordsworth’s ballads to them, and they listened +even with more interest than I had been able to hope for. The fact was, +that the happy and free hearted mood they were in “enabled the +judgment.” I wish one knew always by what musical spell to produce the +right mood for receiving and reflecting a matter as it really is. Every +true poem carries this spell with it in its own music, which it sends +out before it as a harbinger, or properly a HERBERGER, to prepare a +harbour or lodging for it. But then it needs a quiet mood first of all, +to let this music be listened to. + +For I thought with myself, if I could get them to like poetry and +beautiful things in words, it would not only do them good, but help +them to see what is in the Bible, and therefore to love it more. For I +never could believe that a man who did not find God in other places as +well as in the Bible ever found Him there at all. And I always thought, +that to find God in other books enabled us to see clearly that he was +MORE in the Bible than in any other book, or all other books put +together. + +After supper we had a little more singing. And to my satisfaction +nothing came to my eyes or ears, during the whole evening, that was +undignified or ill-bred. Of course, I knew that many of them must have +two behaviours, and that now they were on their good behaviour. But I +thought the oftener such were put on their good behaviour, giving them +the opportunity of finding out how nice it was, the better. It might +make them ashamed of the other at last. + +There were many little bits of conversation I overheard, which I should +like to give my readers; but I cannot dwell longer upon this part of my +Annals. Especially I should have enjoyed recording one piece of talk, +in which Old Rogers was evidently trying to move a more directly +religious feeling in the mind of Dr Duncan. I thought I could see that +THE difficulty with the noble old gentleman was one of expression. But +after all the old foremast-man was a seer of the Kingdom; and the +other, with all his refinement, and education, and goodness too, was +but a child in it. + +Before we parted, I gave to each of my guests a sheet of Christmas +Carols, gathered from the older portions of our literature. For most of +the modern hymns are to my mind neither milk nor meat—mere wretched +imitations. There were a few curious words and idioms in these, but I +thought it better to leave them as they were; for they might set them +inquiring, and give me an opportunity of interesting them further, some +time or other, in the history of a word; for, in their ups and downs of +fortune, words fare very much like human beings. + +And here is my sheet of Carols:— + +AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE. + +O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace! +O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light! +Most lively image of thy Father’s face, +Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might, +Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight, +How can we Thee requite for all this good? +Or what can prize that Thy most precious blood? + +Yet nought Thou ask’st in lieu of all this love, +But love of us, for guerdon of Thy paine: +Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove? +Had He required life of us againe, +Had it beene wrong to ask His owne with gaine? +He gave us life, He it restored lost; +Then life were least, that us so little cost. + +But He our life hath left unto us free, +Free that was thrall, and blessed that was bann’d; +Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee, +As He himselfe hath lov’d us afore-hand, +And bound therto with an eternall band, +Him first to love that us so dearely bought, +And next our brethren, to His image wrought. + +Him first to love great right and reason is, +Who first to us our life and being gave, +And after, when we fared had amisse, +Us wretches from the second death did save; +And last, the food of life, which now we have, +Even He Himselfe, in His dear sacrament, +To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent. + +Then next, to love our brethren, that were made +Of that selfe mould, and that self Maker’s hand, +That we, and to the same againe shall fade, +Where they shall have like heritage of land, +However here on higher steps we stand, +Which also were with self-same price redeemed +That we, however of us light esteemed. + +Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth! out of thy soyle, +In which thou wallowest like to filthy swyne, +And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle, +Unmindfull of that dearest Lord of thyne; +Lift up to Him thy heavie clouded eyne, +That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold, +And read, through love, His mercies manifold. + +Beginne from first, where He encradled was +In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay, +Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse, +And in what rags, and in how base array, +The glory of our heavenly riches lay, +When Him the silly shepheards came to see, +Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. + +From thence reade on the storie of His life, +His humble carriage, His unfaulty wayes, +His cancred foes, His fights, His toyle, His strife, +His paines, His povertie, His sharpe assayes, +Through which He past His miserable dayes, +Offending none, and doing good to all, +Yet being malist both by great and small. + +With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, +Thou must Him love, and His beheasts embrace; +All other loves, with which the world doth blind +Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, +Thou must renounce and utterly displace, +And give thy selfe unto Him full and free, +That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee. + +Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee +With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil, +And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see +Th’ idee of His pure glorie present still +Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill +With sweet enragement of celestial love, +Kindled through sight of those faire things above. + + +Spencer + + +NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP. + +Behold a silly tender Babe, + In freezing winter night, +In homely manger trembling lies; + Alas! a piteous sight. + +The inns are full, no man will yield + This little Pilgrim bed; +But forced He is with silly beasts + In crib to shroud His head. + +Despise Him not for lying there, + First what He is inquire; +An orient pearl is often found + In depth of dirty mire. + +Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish, + Nor beast that by Him feed; +Weigh not his mother’s poor attire, + Nor Joseph’s simple weed. + +This stable is a Prince’s court, + The crib His chair of state; +The beasts are parcel of His pomp, + The wooden dish His plate. + +The persons in that poor attire + His royal liveries wear; +The Prince himself is come from heaven— + This pomp is praised there. + +With joy approach, O Christian wight! + Do homage to thy King; +And highly praise this humble pomp + Which He from heaven doth bring. + + +SOUTHWELL. + + +A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS. + +1. Where is this blessed Babe +That hath made +All the world so full of joy +And expectation; +That glorious Boy +That crowns each nation +With a triumphant wreath of blessedness? + +2. Where should He be but in the throng, +And among +His angel-ministers, that sing +And take wing +Just as may echo to His voice, +And rejoice, +When wing and tongue and all +May so procure their happiness? + +3. But He hath other waiters now. +A poor cow, +An ox and mule stand and behold, +And wonder +That a stable should enfold +Him that can thunder. + +Chorus. O what a gracious God have we! +How good! How great! Even as our misery. + + +Jeremy Taylor. + + +A SONG OF PRAISE FOR THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. + +Away, dark thoughts; awake, my joy; + Awake, my glory; sing; +Sing songs to celebrate the birth + Of Jacob’s God and King. +O happy night, that brought forth light, + Which makes the blind to see! +The day spring from on high came down + To cheer and visit thee. + +The wakeful shepherds, near their flocks, + Were watchful for the morn; +But better news from heaven was brought, + Your Saviour Christ is born. +In Bethlem-town the infant lies, + Within a place obscure, +O little Bethlem, poor in walls, + But rich in furniture! + +Since heaven is now come down to earth, + Hither the angels fly! +Hark, how the heavenly choir doth sing + Glory to God on High! +The news is spread, the church is glad, + SIMEON, o’ercome with joy, +Sings with the infant in his arms, + NOW LET THY SERVANT DIE. + +Wise men from far beheld the star, + Which was their faithful guide, +Until it pointed forth the Babe, + And Him they glorified. +Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing— + Shall we our Christ deny? +He’s born for us, and we for Him: + GLORY TO GOD ON HIGH. + + +JOHN MASON. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. + + +I never asked questions about the private affairs of any of my +parishioners, except of themselves individually upon occasion of their +asking me for advice, and some consequent necessity for knowing more +than they told me. Hence, I believe, they became the more willing that +I should know. But I heard a good many things from others, +notwithstanding, for I could not be constantly closing the lips of the +communicative as I had done those of Jane Rogers. And amongst other +things, I learned that Miss Oldcastle went most Sundays to the +neighbouring town of Addicehead to church. Now I had often heard of the +ability of the rector, and although I had never met him, was prepared +to find him a cultivated, if not an original man. Still, if I must be +honest, which I hope I must, I confess that I heard the news with a +pang, in analysing which I discovered the chief component to be +jealousy. It was no use asking myself why I should be jealous: there +the ugly thing was. So I went and told God I was ashamed, and begged +Him to deliver me from the evil, because His was the kingdom and the +power and the glory. And He took my part against myself, for He waits +to be gracious. Perhaps the reader may, however, suspect a deeper cause +for this feeling (to which I would rather not give the true name again) +than a merely professional one. + +But there was one stray sheep of my flock that appeared in church for +the first time on the morning of Christmas Day—Catherine Weir. She did +not sit beside her father, but in the most shadowy corner of the +church—near the organ loft, however. She could have seen her father if +she had looked up, but she kept her eyes down the whole time, and never +even lifted them to me. The spot on one cheek was much brighter than +that on the other, and made her look very ill. + +I prayed to our God to grant me the honour of speaking a true word to +them all; which honour I thought I was right in asking, because the +Lord reproached the Pharisees for not seeking the honour that cometh +from God. Perhaps I may have put a wrong interpretation on the passage. +It is, however, a joy to think that He will not give you a stone, even +if you should take it for a loaf, and ask for it as such. Nor is He, +like the scribes, lying in wait to catch poor erring men in their words +or their prayers, however mistaken they may be. + +I took my text from the Sermon on the Mount. And as the magazine for +which these Annals were first written was intended chiefly for Sunday +reading, I wrote my sermon just as if I were preaching it to my unseen +readers as I spoke it to my present parishioners. And here it is now: + +The Gospel according to St Matthew, the sixth chapter, and part of the +twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth verses:— + +“‘YE CANNOT SERVE GOD AND MAMMON. THEREFORE I SAY TO YOU, TAKE NO +THOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE.’ + +“When the Child whose birth we celebrate with glad hearts this day, +grew up to be a man, He said this. Did He mean it?—He never said what +He did not mean. Did He mean it wholly?—He meant it far beyond what the +words could convey. He meant it altogether and entirely. When people do +not understand what the Lord says, when it seems to them that His +advice is impracticable, instead of searching deeper for a meaning +which will be evidently true and wise, they comfort themselves by +thinking He could not have meant it altogether, and so leave it. Or +they think that if He did mean it, He could not expect them to carry it +out. And in the fact that they could not do it perfectly if they were +to try, they take refuge from the duty of trying to do it at all; or, +oftener, they do not think about it at all as anything that in the +least concerns them. The Son of our Father in heaven may have become a +child, may have led the one life which belongs to every man to lead, +may have suffered because we are sinners, may have died for our sakes, +doing the will of His Father in heaven, and yet we have nothing to do +with the words He spoke out of the midst of His true, perfect +knowledge, feeling, and action! Is it not strange that it should be so? +Let it not be so with us this day. Let us seek to find out what our +Lord means, that we may do it; trying and failing and trying +again—verily to be victorious at last—what matter WHEN, so long as we +are trying, and so coming nearer to our end! + +“MAMMON, you know, means RICHES. Now, riches are meant to be the +slave—not even the servant of man, and not to be the master. If a man +serve his own servant, or, in a word, any one who has no just claim to +be his master, he is a slave. But here he serves his own slave. On the +other hand, to serve God, the source of our being, our own glorious +Father, is freedom; in fact, is the only way to get rid of all bondage. +So you see plainly enough that a man cannot serve God and Mammon. For +how can a slave of his own slave be the servant of the God of freedom, +of Him who can have no one to serve Him but a free man? His service is +freedom. Do not, I pray you, make any confusion between service and +slavery. To serve is the highest, noblest calling in creation. For even +the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, yea, +with Himself. + +“But how can a man SERVE riches? Why, when he says to riches, ‘Ye are +my good.’ When he feels he cannot be happy without them. When he puts +forth the energies of his nature to get them. When he schemes and +dreams and lies awake about them. When he will not give to his +neighbour for fear of becoming poor himself. When he wants to have +more, and to know he has more, than he can need. When he wants to leave +money behind him, not for the sake of his children or relatives, but +for the name of the wealth. When he leaves his money, not to those who +NEED it, even of his relations, but to those who are rich like himself, +making them yet more of slaves to the overgrown monster they worship +for his size. When he honours those who have money because they have +money, irrespective of their character; or when he honours in a rich +man what he would not honour in a poor man. Then is he the slave of +Mammon. Still more is he Mammon’s slave when his devotion to his god +makes him oppressive to those over whom his wealth gives him power; or +when he becomes unjust in order to add to his stores.—How will it be +with such a man when on a sudden he finds that the world has vanished, +and he is alone with God? There lies the body in which he used to live, +whose poor necessities first made money of value to him, but with which +itself and its fictitious value are both left behind. He cannot now +even try to bribe God with a cheque. The angels will not bow down to +him because his property, as set forth in his will, takes five or six +figures to express its amount It makes no difference to them that he +has lost it, though; for they never respected him. And the poor souls +of Hades, who envied him the wealth they had lost before, rise up as +one man to welcome him, not for love of him—no worshipper of Mammon +loves another—but rejoicing in the mischief that has befallen him, and +saying, ‘Art thou also become one of us?’ And Lazarus in Abraham’s +bosom, however sorry he may be for him, however grateful he may feel to +him for the broken victuals and the penny, cannot with one drop of the +water of Paradise cool that man’s parched tongue. + +“Alas, poor Dives! poor server of Mammon, whose vile god can pretend to +deliver him no longer! Or rather, for the blockish god never pretended +anything—it was the man’s own doing—Alas for the Mammon-worshipper! he +can no longer deceive himself in his riches. And so even in hell he is +something nobler than he was on earth; for he worships his riches no +longer. He cannot. He curses them. + +“Terrible things to say on Christmas Day! But if Christmas Day teaches +us anything, it teaches us to worship God and not Mammon; to worship +spirit and not matter; to worship love and not power. + +“Do I now hear any of my friends saying in their hearts: Let the rich +take that! It does not apply to us. We are poor enough? Ah, my friends, +I have known a light-hearted, liberal rich man lose his riches, and be +liberal and light-hearted still. I knew a rich lady once, in giving a +large gift of money to a poor man, say apologetically, ‘I hope it is no +disgrace in me to be rich, as it is none in you to be poor.’ It is not +the being rich that is wrong, but the serving of riches, instead of +making them serve your neighbour and yourself—your neighbour for this +life, yourself for the everlasting habitations. God knows it is hard +for the rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven; but the rich man +does sometimes enter in; for God hath made it possible. And the greater +the victory, when it is the rich man that overcometh the world. It is +easier for the poor man to enter into the kingdom, yet many of the poor +have failed to enter in, and the greater is the disgrace of their +defeat. For the poor have more done for them, as far as outward things +go, in the way of salvation than the rich, and have a beatitude all to +themselves besides. For in the making of this world as a school of +salvation, the poor, as the necessary majority, have been more regarded +than the rich. Do not think, my poor friend, that God will let you off. +He lets nobody off. You, too, must pay the uttermost farthing. He loves +you too well to let you serve Mammon a whit more than your rich +neighbour. ‘Serve Mammon!’ do you say? ‘How can I serve Mammon? I have +no Mammon to serve.’—Would you like to have riches a moment sooner than +God gives them? Would you serve Mammon if you had him?—‘Who can tell?’ +do you answer? ‘Leave those questions till I am tried.’ But is there no +bitterness in the tone of that response? Does it not mean, ‘It will be +a long time before I have a chance of trying THAT?’—But I am not driven +to such questions for the chance of convicting some of you of +Mammon-worship. Let us look to the text. Read it again. + +“‘YE CANNOT SERVE GOD AND MAMMON. THEREFORE I SAY UNTO YOU, TAKE NO +THOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE.’ + +“Why are you to take no thought? Because you cannot serve God and +Mammon. Is taking thought, then, a serving of Mammon? Clearly.—Where +are you now, poor man? Brooding over the frost? Will it harden the +ground, so that the God of the sparrows cannot find food for His sons? +Where are you now, poor woman? Sleepless over the empty cupboard and +to-morrow’s dinner? ‘It is because we have no bread?’ do you answer? +Have you forgotten the five loaves among the five thousand, and the +fragments that were left? Or do you know nothing of your Father in +heaven, who clothes the lilies and feeds the birds? O ye of little +faith? O ye poor-spirited Mammon-worshippers! who worship him not even +because he has given you anything, but in the hope that he may some +future day benignantly regard you. But I may be too hard upon you. I +know well that our Father sees a great difference between the man who +is anxious about his children’s dinner, or even about his own, and the +man who is only anxious to add another ten thousand to his much goods +laid up for many years. But you ought to find it easy to trust in God +for such a matter as your daily bread, whereas no man can by any +possibility trust in God for ten thousand pounds. The former need is a +God-ordained necessity; the latter desire a man-devised appetite at +best—possibly swinish greed. Tell me, do you long to be rich? Then you +worship Mammon. Tell me, do you think you would feel safer if you had +money in the bank? Then you are Mammon-worshippers; for you would trust +the barn of the rich man rather than the God who makes the corn to +grow. Do you say—‘What shall we eat? and what shall we drink? and +wherewithal shall we be clothedl?’ Are ye thus of doubtful mind?—Then +you are Mammon-worshippers. “But how is the work of the world to be +done if we take no thought?—We are nowhere told not to take thought. We +MUST take thought. The question is—What are we to take or not to take +thought about? By some who do not know God, little work would be done +if they were not driven by anxiety of some kind. But you, friends, are +you content to go with the nations of the earth, or do you seek a +better way—THE way that the Father of nations would have you walk in? + +“WHAT then are we to take thought about? Why, about our work. What are +we not to take thought about? Why, about our life. The one is our +business: the other is God’s. But you turn it the other way. You take +no thought of earnestness about the doing of your duty; but you take +thought of care lest God should not fulfil His part in the goings on of +the world. A man’s business is just to do his duty: God takes upon +Himself the feeding and the clothing. Will the work of the world be +neglected if a man thinks of his work, his duty, God’s will to be done, +instead of what he is to eat, what he is to drink, and wherewithal he +is to be clothed? And remember all the needs of the world come back to +these three. You will allow, I think, that the work of the world will +be only so much the better done; that the very means of procuring the +raiment or the food will be the more thoroughly used. What, then, is +the only region on which the doubt can settle? Why, God. He alone +remains to be doubted. Shall it be so with you? Shall the Son of man, +the baby now born, and for ever with us, find no faith in you? Ah, my +poor friend, who canst not trust in God—I was going to say you +DESERVE—but what do I know of you to condemn and judge you?—I was going +to say, you deserve to be treated like the child who frets and +complains because his mother holds him on her knee and feeds him +mouthful by mouthful with her own loving hand. I meant—you deserve to +have your own way for a while; to be set down, and told to help +yourself, and see what it will come to; to have your mother open the +cupboard door for you, and leave you alone to your pleasures. Alas! +poor child! When the sweets begin to pall, and the twilight begins to +come duskily into the chamber, and you look about all at once and see +no mother, how will your cupboard comfort you then? Ask it for a smile, +for a stroke of the gentle hand, for a word of love. All the full-fed +Mammon can give you is what your mother would have given you without +the consequent loathing, with the light of her countenance upon it all, +and the arm of her love around you.—And this is what God does +sometimes, I think, with the Mammon-worshippers amongst the poor. He +says to them, Take your Mammon, and see what he is worth. Ah, friends, +the children of God can never be happy serving other than Him. The +prodigal might fill his belly with riotous living or with the husks +that the swine ate. It was all one, so long as he was not with his +father. His soul was wretched. So would you be if you had wealth, for I +fear you would only be worse Mammon-worshippers than now, and might +well have to thank God for the misery of any swine-trough that could +bring you to your senses. + +“But we do see people die of starvation sometimes,—Yes. But if you did +your work in God’s name, and left the rest to Him, that would not +trouble you. You would say, If it be God’s will that I should starve, I +can starve as well as another. And your mind would be at ease. “Thou +wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed upon Thee, because +he trusteth in Thee.” Of that I am sure. It may be good for you to go +hungry and bare-foot; but it must be utter death to have no faith in +God. It is not, however, in God’s way of things that the man who does +his work shall not live by it. We do not know why here and there a man +may be left to die of hunger, but I do believe that they who wait upon +the Lord shall not lack any good. What it may be good to deprive a man +of till he knows and acknowledges whence it comes, it may be still +better to give him when he has learned that every good and every +perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights. + +“I SHOULD like to know a man who just minded his duty and troubled +himself about nothing; who did his own work and did not interfere with +God’s. How nobly he would work—working not for reward, but because it +was the will of God! How happily he would receive his food and +clothing, receiving them as the gifts of God! What peace would be his! +What a sober gaiety! How hearty and infectious his laughter! What a +friend he would be! How sweet his sympathy! And his mind would be so +clear he would understand everything His eye being single, his whole +body would be full of light. No fear of his ever doing a mean thing. He +would die in a ditch, rather. It is this fear of want that makes men do +mean things. They are afraid to part with their precious lord—Mammon. +He gives no safety against such a fear. One of the richest men in +England is haunted with the dread of the workhouse. This man whom I +should like to know, would be sure that God would have him liberal, and +he would be what God would have him. Riches are not in the least +necessary to that. Witness our Lord’s admiration of the poor widow with +her great farthing. + +“But I think I hear my troubled friend who does not love money, and yet +cannot trust in God out and out, though she fain would,—I think I hear +her say, “I believe I could trust Him for myself, or at least I should +be ready to dare the worst for His sake; but my children—it is the +thought of my children that is too much for me.” Ah, woman! she whom +the Saviour praised so pleasedly, was one who trusted Him for her +daughter. What an honour she had! “Be it unto thee even as thou wilt.” +Do you think you love your children better than He who made them? Is +not your love what it is because He put it into your heart first? Have +not you often been cross with them? Sometimes unjust to them? Whence +came the returning love that rose from unknown depths in your being, +and swept away the anger and the injustice! You did not create that +love. Probably you were not good enough to send for it by prayer. But +it came. God sent it. He makes you love your children; be sorry when +you have been cross with them; ashamed when you have been unjust to +them; and yet you won’t trust Him to give them food and clothes! Depend +upon it, if He ever refuses to give them food and clothes, and you knew +all about it, the why and the wherefore, you would not dare to give +them food or clothes either. He loves them a thousand times better than +you do—be sure of that—and feels for their sufferings too, when He +cannot give them just what He would like to give them—cannot for their +good, I mean. + +“But as your mistrust will go further, I can go further to meet it. You +will say, ‘Ah! yes’—in your feeling, I mean, not in words,—you will +say, ‘Ah! yes—food and clothing of a sort! Enough to keep life in and +too much cold out! But I want my children to have plenty of GOOD food, +and NICE clothes.’ + +“Faithless mother! Consider the birds of the air. They have so much +that at least they can sing! Consider the lilies—they were red lilies, +those. Would you not trust Him who delights in glorious colours—more at +least than you, or He would never have created them and made us to +delight in them? I do not say that your children shall be clothed in +scarlet and fine linen; but if not, it is not because God despises +scarlet and fine linen or does not love your children. He loves them, I +say, too much to give them everything all at once. But He would make +them such that they may have everything without being the worse, and +with being the better for it. And if you cannot trust Him yet, it +begins to be a shame, I think. + +“It has been well said that no man ever sank under the burden of the +day. It is when to-morrow’s burden is added to the burden of to-day, +that the weight is more than a man can bear. Never load yourselves so, +my friends. If you find yourselves so loaded, at least remember this: +it is your own doing, not God’s. He begs you to leave the future to +Him, and mind the present. What more or what else could He do to take +the burden off you? Nothing else would do it. Money in the bank +wouldn’t do it. He cannot do to-morrow’s business for you beforehand to +save you from fear about it. That would derange everything. What else +is there but to tell you to trust in Him, irrespective of the fact that +nothing else but such trust can put our heart at peace, from the very +nature of our relation to Him as well as the fact that we need these +things. We think that we come nearer to God than the lower animals do +by our foresight. But there is another side to it. We are like to Him +with whom there is no past or future, with whom a day is as a thousand +years, and a thousand years as one day, when we live with large bright +spiritual eyes, doing our work in the great present, leaving both past +and future to Him to whom they are ever present, and fearing nothing, +because He is in our future, as much as He is in our past, as much as, +and far more than, we can feel Him to be in our present. Partakers thus +of the divine nature, resting in that perfect All-in-all in whom our +nature is eternal too, we walk without fear, full of hope and courage +and strength to do His will, waiting for the endless good which He is +always giving as fast as He can get us able to take it in. Would not +this be to be more of gods than Satan promised to Eve? To live +carelessly-divine, duty-doing, fearless, loving, self-forgetting +lives—is not that more than to know both good and evil—lives in which +the good, like Aaron’s rod, has swallowed up the evil, and turned it +into good? For pain and hunger are evils, but if faith in God swallows +them up, do they not so turn into good? I say they do. And I am glad to +believe that I am not alone in my parish in this conviction. I have +never been too hungry, but I have had trouble which I would gladly have +exchanged for hunger and cold and weariness. Some of you have known +hunger and cold and weariness. Do you not join with me to say: It is +well, and better than well—whatever helps us to know the love of Him +who is our God? + +“But there HAS BEEN just one man who has acted thus. And it is His +Spirit in our hearts that makes us desire to know or to be another +such—who would do the will of God for God, and let God do God’s will +for Him. For His will is all. And this man is the baby whose birth we +celebrate this day. Was this a condition to choose—that of a baby—by +one who thought it part of a man’s high calling to take care of the +morrow? Did He not thus cast the whole matter at once upon the hands +and heart of His Father? Sufficient unto the baby’s day is the need +thereof; he toils not, neither does he spin, and yet he is fed and +clothed, and loved, and rejoiced in. Do you remind me that sometimes +even his mother forgets him—a mother, most likely, to whose +self-indulgence or weakness the child owes his birth as hers? Ah! but +he is not therefore forgotten, however like things it may look to our +half-seeing eyes, by his Father in heaven. One of the highest benefits +we can reap from understanding the way of God with ourselves is, that +we become able thus to trust Him for others with whom we do not +understand His ways. + +“But let us look at what will be more easily shown—how, namely, He did +the will of His Father, and took no thought for the morrow after He +became a man. Remember how He forsook His trade when the time came for +Him to preach. Preaching was not a profession then. There were no +monasteries, or vicarages, or stipends, then. Yet witness for the +Father the garment woven throughout; the ministering of women; the +purse in common! Hard-working men and rich ladies were ready to help +Him, and did help Him with all that He needed.—Did He then never want? +Yes; once at least—for a little while only. + +“He was a-hungered in the wilderness. ‘Make bread,’ said Satan. ‘No,’ +said our Lord.—He could starve; but He could not eat bread that His +Father did not give Him, even though He could make it Himself. He had +come hither to be tried. But when the victory was secure, lo! the +angels brought Him food from His Father.—Which was better? To feed +Himself, or be fed by His Father? Judge yourselves, anxious people, He +sought the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and the bread was +added unto Him. + +“And this gives me occasion to remark that the same truth holds with +regard to any portion of the future as well as the morrow. It is a +principle, not a command, or an encouragement, or a promise merely. In +respect of it there is no difference between next day and next year, +next hour and next century. You will see at once the absurdity of +taking no thought for the morrow, and taking thought for next year. But +do you see likewise that it is equally reasonable to trust God for the +next moment, and equally unreasonable not to trust Him? The Lord was +hungry and needed food now, though He could still go without for a +while. He left it to His Father. And so He told His disciples to do +when they were called to answer before judges and rulers. ‘Take no +thought. It shall be given you what ye shall say.’ You have a +disagreeable duty to do at twelve o’clock. Do not blacken nine and ten +and eleven, and all between, with the colour of twelve. Do the work of +each, and reap your reward in peace. So when the dreaded moment in the +future becomes the present, you shall meet it walking in the light, and +that light will overcome its darkness. How often do men who have made +up their minds what to say and do under certain expected circumstances, +forget the words and reverse the actions! The best preparation is the +present well seen to, the last duty done. For this will keep the eye so +clear and the body so full of light that the right action will be +perceived at once, the right words will rush from the heart to the +lips, and the man, full of the Spirit of God because he cares for +nothing but the will of God, will trample on the evil thing in love, +and be sent, it may be, in a chariot of fire to the presence of his +Father, or stand unmoved amid the cruel mockings of the men he loves. + +“Do you feel inclined to say in your hearts: ‘It was easy for Him to +take no thought, for He had the matter in His own hands?’ But observe, +there is nothing very noble in a man’s taking no thought except it be +from faith. If there were no God to take thought for us, we should have +no right to blame any one for taking thought. You may fancy the Lord +had His own power to fall back upon. But that would have been to Him +just the one dreadful thing. That His Father should forget Him!—no +power in Himself could make up for that. He feared nothing for Himself; +and never once employed His divine power to save Him from His human +fate. Let God do that for Him if He saw fit. He did not come into the +world to take care of Himself. That would not be in any way divine. To +fall back on Himself, God failing Him—how could that make it easy for +Him to avoid care? The very idea would be torture. That would be to +declare heaven void, and the world without a God. He would not even +pray to His Father for what He knew He should have if He did ask it. He +would just wait His will. + +“But see how the fact of His own power adds tenfold significance to the +fact that He trusted in God. We see that this power would not serve His +need—His need not being to be fed and clothed, but to be one with the +Father, to be fed by His hand, clothed by His care. This was what the +Lord wanted—and we need, alas! too often without wanting it. He never +once, I repeat, used His power for Himself. That was not his business. +He did not care about it. His life was of no value to Him but as His +Father cared for it. God would mind all that was necessary for Him, and +He would mind the work His Father had given Him to do. And, my friends, +this is just the one secret of a blessed life, the one thing every man +comes into this world to learn. With what authority it comes to us from +the lips of Him who knew all about it, and ever did as He said! + +“Now you see that He took no thought for the morrow. And, in the name +of the holy child Jesus, I call upon you, this Christmas day, to cast +care to the winds, and trust in God; to receive the message of peace +and good-will to men; to yield yourselves to the Spirit of God, that +you may be taught what He wants you to know; to remember that the one +gift promised without reserve to those who ask it—the one gift worth +having—the gift which makes all other gifts a thousand-fold in value, +is the gift of the Holy Spirit, the spirit of the child Jesus, who will +take of the things of Jesus, and show them to you—make you understand +them, that is—so that you shall see them to be true, and love Him with +all your heart and soul, and your neighbour as yourselves.” + +And here, having finished my sermon, I will give my reader some lines +with which he may not be acquainted, from a writer of the Elizabethan +time. I had meant to introduce them into my sermon, but I was so +carried away with my subject that I forgot them. For I always preached +extempore, which phrase I beg my reader will not misinterpret as +meaning ON THE SPUR OF THE MOMENT, OF WITHOUT THE DUE PREPARATION OF +MUCH THOUGHT. + +“O man! thou image of thy Maker’s good, +What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy blood +His Spirit is that built thee? What dull sense +Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence +Who made the morning, and who placed the light +Guide to thy labours; who called up the night, +And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers, +In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers; +Who gave thee knowledge; who so trusted thee +To let thee grow so near Himself, the Tree? +Must He then be distrusted? Shall His frame +Discourse with Him why thus and thus I am? +He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all; +Nay even thy servants, when devotions call. +Oh! canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, +To seek a saving[1] influence, and lose Him? +Can stars protect thee? Or can poverty, +Which is the light to heaven, put out His eye! +He is my star; in Him all truth I find, +All influence, all fate. And when my mind +Is furnished with His fulness, my poor story +Shall outlive all their age, and all their glory. +The hand of danger cannot fall amiss, +When I know what, and in whose power, it is, +Nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan: +A holy hermit is a mind alone. + +* * * * + +Affliction, when I know it, is but this, +A deep alloy whereby man tougher is +To bear the hammer; and the deeper still, +We still arise more image of His will; +Sickness, an humorous cloud ’twixt us and light; +And death, at longest, but another night.” + + + [1] Many, in those days, believed in astrology. + + +I had more than ordinary attention during my discourse, at one point in +which I saw the down-bent head of Catherine Weir sink yet lower upon +her hands. After a moment, however, she sat more erect than before, +though she never lifted her eyes to meet mine. I need not assure my +reader that she was not present to my mind when I spoke the words that +so far had moved her. Indeed, had I thought of her, I could not have +spoken them. + +As I came out of the church, my people crowded about me with +outstretched hands and good wishes. One woman, the aged wife of a more +aged labourer, who could not get near me, called from the outskirts of +the little crowd— + +“May the Lord come and see ye every day, sir. And may ye never know the +hunger and cold as me and Tomkins has come through.” + +“Amen to the first of your blessing, Mrs Tomkins, and hearty thanks to +you. But I daren’t say AMEN to the other part of it, after what I’ve +been preaching, you know.” + +“But there’ll be no harm if I say it for ye, sir?” + +“No, for God will give me what is good, even if your kind heart should +pray against it.” + +“Ah, sir, ye don’t know what it is to be hungry AND cold.” + +“Neither shall you any more, if I can help it.” + +“God bless ye, sir. But we’re pretty tidy just in the meantime.” + +I walked home, as usual on Sunday mornings, by the road. It was a +lovely day. The sun shone so warm that you could not help thinking of +what he would be able to do before long—draw primroses and buttercups +out of the earth by force of sweet persuasive influences. But in the +shadows lay fine webs and laces of ice, so delicately lovely that one +could not but be glad of the cold that made the water able to please +itself by taking such graceful forms. And I wondered over again for the +hundredth time what could be the principle which, in the wildest, most +lawless, fantastically chaotic, apparently capricious work of nature, +always kept it beautiful. The beauty of holiness must be at the heart +of it somehow, I thought. Because our God is so free from stain, so +loving, so unselfish, so good, so altogether what He wants us to be, so +holy, therefore all His works declare Him in beauty; His fingers can +touch nothing but to mould it into loveliness; and even the play of His +elements is in grace and tenderness of form. + +And then I thought how the sun, at the farthest point from us, had +begun to come back towards us; looked upon us with a hopeful smile; was +like the Lord when He visited His people as a little one of themselves, +to grow upon the earth till it should blossom as the rose in the light +of His presence. “Ah! Lord,” I said, in my heart, “draw near unto Thy +people. It is spring-time with Thy world, but yet we have cold winds +and bitter hail, and pinched voices forbidding them that follow Thee +and follow not with us. Draw nearer, Sun of Righteousness, and make the +trees bourgeon, and the flowers blossom, and the voices grow mellow and +glad, so that all shall join in praising Thee, and find thereby that +harmony is better than unison. Let it be summer, O Lord, if it ever may +be summer in this court of the Gentiles. But Thou hast told us that Thy +kingdom cometh within us, and so Thy joy must come within us too. Draw +nigh then, Lord, to those to whom Thou wilt draw nigh; and others +beholding their welfare will seek to share therein too, and seeing +their good works will glorify their Father in heaven.” + +So I walked home, hoping in my Saviour, and wondering to think how +pleasant I had found it to be His poor servant to this people. Already +the doubts which had filled my mind on that first evening of gloom, +doubts as to whether I had any right to the priest’s office, had +utterly vanished, slain by the effort to perform the priest’s duty. I +never thought about the matter now.—And how can doubt ever be fully met +but by action? Try your theory; try your hypothesis; or if it is not +worth trying, give it up, pull it down. And I hoped that if ever a +cloud should come over me again, however dark and dismal it might be, I +might be able, notwithstanding, to rejoice that the sun was shining on +others though not on me, and to say with all my heart to my Father in +heaven, “Thy will be done.” + +When I reached my own study, I sat down by a blazing fire, and poured +myself out a glass of wine; for I had to go out again to see some of my +poor friends, and wanted some luncheon first.—It is a great thing to +have the greetings of the universe presented in fire and food. Let me, +if I may, be ever welcomed to my room in winter by a glowing hearth, in +summer by a vase of flowers; if I may not, let me then think how nice +they would be, and bury myself in my work. I do not think that the road +to contentment lies in despising what we have not got. Let us +acknowledge all good, all delight that the world holds, and be content +without it. But this we can never be except by possessing the one +thing, without which I do not merely say no man ought to be content, +but no man CAN be content—the Spirit of the Father. + +If any young people read my little chronicle, will they not be inclined +to say, “The vicar has already given us in this chapter hardly anything +but a long sermon; and it is too bad of him to go on preaching in his +study after we saw him safe out of the pulpit”? Ah, well! just one +word, and I drop the preaching for a while. My word is this: I may +speak long-windedly, and even inconsiderately as regards my young +readers; what I say may fail utterly to convey what I mean; I may be +actually stupid sometimes, and not have a suspicion of it; but what I +mean is true; and if you do not know it to be true yet, some of you at +least suspect it to be true, and some of you hope it is true; and when +you all see it as I mean it and as you can take it, you will rejoice +with a gladness you know nothing about now. There, I have done for a +little while. I won’t pledge myself for more, I assure you. For to +speak about such things is the greatest delight of my age, as it was of +my early manhood, next to that of loving God and my neighbour. For as +these are THE two commandments of life, so they are in themselves THE +pleasures of life. But there I am at it again. I beg your pardon now, +for I have already inadvertently broken my promise. + +I had allowed myself a half-hour before the fire with my glass of wine +and piece of bread, and I soon fell into a dreamy state called REVERIE, +which I fear not a few mistake for THINKING, because it is the nearest +approach they ever make to it. And in this reverie I kept staring about +my book-shelves. I am an old man now, and you do not know my name; and +if you should ever find it out, I shall very soon hide it under some +daisies, I hope, and so escape; and therefore, I am going to be +egotistic in the most unpardonable manner. I am going to tell you one +of my faults, for it continues, I fear, to be one of my faults still, +as it certainly was at the period of which I am now writing. I am very +fond of books. Do not mistake me. I do not mean that I love reading. I +hope I do. That is no fault—a virtue rather than a fault. But, as the +old meaning of the word FOND was FOOLISH, I use that word: I am +foolishly fond of the bodies of books as distinguished from their +souls, or thought-element. I do not say I love their bodies as DIVIDED +from their souls; I do not say I should let a book stand upon my +shelves for which I felt no respect, except indeed it happened to be +useful to me in some inferior way. But I delight in seeing books about +me, books even of which there seems to be no prospect that I shall have +time to read a single chapter before I lay this old head down for the +last time. Nay, more: I confess that if they are nicely bound, so as to +glow and shine in such a fire-light as that by which I was then +sitting, I like them ever so much the better. Nay, more yet—and this +comes very near to showing myself worse than I thought I was when I +began to tell you my fault: there are books upon my shelves which +certainly at least would not occupy the place of honour they do occupy, +had not some previous owner dressed them far beyond their worth, making +modern apples of Sodom of them. Yet there I let them stay, because they +are pleasant to the eye, although certainly not things to be desired to +make one wise. I could say a great deal more about the matter, pro and +con, but it would be worse than a sermon, I fear. For I suspect that by +the time books, which ought to be loved for the truth that is in them, +of one sort or another, come to be loved as articles of furniture, the +mind has gone through a process more than analogous to that which the +miser’s mind goes through—namely, that of passing from the respect of +money because of what it can do, to the love of money because it is +money. I have not yet reached the furniture stage, and I do not think I +ever shall. I would rather burn them all. Meantime, I think one +safeguard is to encourage one’s friends to borrow one’s books—not to +offer individual books, which is much the same as OFFERING advice. That +will probably take some of the shine off them, and put a few +thumb-marks in them, which both are very wholesome towards the +arresting of the furniture declension. For my part, thumb-marks I find +very obnoxious—far more so than the spoiling of the binding.—I know +that some of my readers, who have had sad experience of the sort, will +be saying in themselves, “He might have mentioned a surer antidote +resulting from this measure, than either rubbed Russia or dirty +GLOVE-marks even—that of utter disappearance and irreparable loss.” But +no; that has seldom happened to me—because I trust my pocketbook, and +never my memory, with the names of those to whom the individual books +are committed.—There, then, is a little bit of practical advice in both +directions for young book-lovers. + +Again I am reminded that I am getting old. What digressions! + +Gazing about on my treasures, the thought suddenly struck me that I had +never done as I had promised Judy; had never found out what her aunt’s +name meant in Anglo-Saxon. I would do so now. I got down my dictionary, +and soon discovered that Ethelwyn meant Home-joy, or Inheritance. + +“A lovely meaning,” I said to myself. + +And then I went off into another reverie, with the composition of which +I shall not trouble my reader; and with the mention of which I had, +perhaps, no right to occupy the fragment of his time spent in reading +it, seeing I did not intend to tell him how it was made up. I will tell +him something else instead. + +Several families had asked me to take my Christmas dinner with them; +but, not liking to be thus limited, I had answered each that I would +not, if they would excuse me, but would look in some time or other in +the course of the evening. + +When my half-hour was out, I got up and filled my pockets with little +presents for my poor people, and set out to find them in their own +homes. + +I was variously received, but unvaryingly with kindness; and my little +presents were accepted, at least in most instances, with a gratitude +which made me ashamed of them and of myself too for a few moments. Mrs. +Tomkins looked as if she had never seen so much tea together before, +though there was only a couple of pounds of it; and her husband +received a pair of warm trousers none the less cordially that they were +not quite new, the fact being that I found I did not myself need such +warm clothing this winter as I had needed the last. I did not dare to +offer Catherine Weir anything, but I gave her little boy a box of +water-colours—in remembrance of the first time I saw him, though I said +nothing about that. His mother did not thank me. She told little Gerard +to do so, however, and that was something. And, indeed, the boy’s +sweetness would have been enough for both. + +Gerard—an unusual name in England; specially not to be looked for in +the class to which she belonged. + +When I reached Old Rogers’s cottage, whither I carried a few yards of +ribbon, bought by myself, I assure my lady friends, with the special +object that the colour should be bright enough for her taste, and pure +enough of its kind for mine, as an offering to the good dame, and a +small hymn-book, in which were some hymns of my own making, for the +good man— + +But do forgive me, friends, for actually describing my paltry presents. +I can dare to assure you it comes from a talking old man’s love of +detail, and from no admiration of such small givings as those. You see +I trust you, and I want to stand well with you. I never could be +indifferent to what people thought of me; though I have had to fight +hard to act as freely as if I were indifferent, especially when upon +occasion I found myself approved of. It is more difficult to walk +straight then, than when men are all against you.—As I have already +broken a sentence, which will not be past setting for a while yet, I +may as well go on to say here, lest any one should remark that a +clergyman ought not to show off his virtues, nor yet teach his people +bad habits by making them look out for presents—that my income not only +seemed to me disproportioned to the amount of labour necessary in the +parish, but certainly was larger than I required to spend upon myself; +and the miserly passion for books I contrived to keep a good deal in +check; for I had no fancy for gliding devil-wards for the sake of a few +books after all. So there was no great virtue—was there?—in easing my +heart by giving a few of the good things people give their children to +my poor friends, whose kind reception of them gave me as much pleasure +as the gifts gave them. They valued the kindness in the gift, and to +look out for kindness will not make people greedy. + +When I reached the cottage, I found not merely Jane there with her +father and mother, which was natural on Christmas Day, seeing there +seemed to be no company at the Hall, but my little Judy as well, +sitting in the old woman’s arm-chair, (not that she used it much, but +it was called hers,) and looking as much at home as—as she did in the +pond. + +“Why, Judy!” I exclaimed, “you here?” + +“Yes. Why not, Mr Walton?” she returned, holding out her hand without +rising, for the chair was such a large one, and she was set so far back +in it that the easier way was not to rise, which, seeing she was not +greatly overburdened with reverence, was not, I presume, a cause of +much annoyance to the little damsel. + +“I know no reason why I shouldn’t see a Sandwich Islander here. Yet I +might express surprise if I did find one, might I not?” + +Judy pretended to pout, and muttered something about comparing her to a +cannibal. But Jane took up the explanation. + +“Mistress had to go off to London with her mother to-day, sir, quite +unexpected, on some banking business, I fancy, from what I—I beg your +pardon, sir. They’re gone anyhow, whatever the reason may be; and so I +came to see my father and mother, and Miss Judy would come with me.” + +“She’s very welcome,” said Mrs Rogers. + +“How could I stay up there with nobody but Jacob, and that old wolf +Sarah? I wouldn’t be left alone with her for the world. She’d have me +in the Bishop’s Pool before you came back, Janey dear.” + +“That wouldn’t matter much to you, would it, Judy?” I said. + +“She’s a white wolf, that old Sarah, I know?” was all her answer. + +“But what will the old lady say when she finds you brought the young +lady here?” asked Mrs Rogers. + +“I didn’t bring her, mother. She would come.” + +“Besides, she’ll never know it,” said Judy. + +I did not see that it was my part to read Judy a lecture here, though +perhaps I might have done so if I had had more influence over her than +I had. I wanted to gain some influence over her, and knew that the way +to render my desire impossible of fulfilment would be, to find fault +with what in her was a very small affair, whatever it might be in one +who had been properly brought up. Besides, a clergyman is not a moral +policeman. So I took no notice of the impropriety. + +“Had they actually to go away on the morning of Christmas Day?” I said. + +“They went anyhow, whether they had to do it or not, sir,” answered +Jane. + +“Aunt Ethelwyn didn’t want to go till to-morrow,” said Judy. “She said +something about coming to church this morning. But grannie said they +must go at once. It was very cross of old grannie. Think what a +Christmas Day to me without auntie, and with Sarah! But I don’t mean to +go home till it’s quite dark. I mean to stop here with dear Old +Rogers—that I do.” The latch was gently lifted, and in came young +Brownrigg. So I thought it was time to leave my best Christmas wishes +and take myself away. Old Rogers came with me to the mill-stream as +usual. + +“It ’mazes me, sir,” he said, “a gentleman o’ your age and bringin’ up +to know all that you tould us this mornin’. It ’ud be no wonder now for +a man like me, come to be the shock o’ corn fully ripe—leastways yallow +and white enough outside if there bean’t much more than milk inside it +yet,—it ’ud be no mystery for a man like me who’d been brought up hard, +and tossed about well-nigh all the world over—why, there’s scarce a +wave on the Atlantic but knows Old Rogers!” + +He made the parenthesis with a laugh, and began anew. + +“It ’ud be a shame of a man like me not to know all as you said this +mornin’, sir—leastways I don’t mean able to say it right off as you do, +sir; but not to know it, after the Almighty had been at such pains to +beat it into my hard head just to trust in Him and fear nothing and +nobody—captain, bosun, devil, sunk rock, or breakers ahead; but just to +mind Him and stand by halliard, brace, or wheel, or hang on by the +leeward earing for that matter. For, you see, what does it signify +whether I go to the bottom or not, so long as I didn’t skulk? or +rather,” and here the old man took off his hat and looked up, “so long +as the Great Captain has His way, and things is done to His mind? But +how ever a man like you, goin’ to the college, and readin’ books, and +warm o’ nights, and never, by your own confession this blessed mornin’, +sir, knowin’ what it was to be downright hungry, how ever you come to +know all those things, is just past my comprehension, except by a +double portion o’ the Spirit, sir. And that’s the way I account for it, +sir.” + +Although I knew enough about a ship to understand the old man, I am not +sure that I have properly represented his sea-phrase. But that is of +small consequence, so long as I give his meaning. And a meaning can +occasionally be even better CONVEYED by less accurate words. + +“I will try to tell you how I come to know about these things as I do,” +I returned. “How my knowledge may stand the test of further and severer +trials remains to be seen. But if I should fail any time, old friend, +and neither trust in God nor do my duty, what I have said to you +remains true all the same.” + +“That it do, sir, whoever may come short.” + +“And more than that: failure does not necessarily prove any one to be a +hypocrite of no faith. He may be still a man of little faith.” + +“Surely, surely, sir. I remember once that my faith broke down—just for +one moment, sir. And then the Lord gave me my way lest I should +blaspheme Him in thy wicked heart.” + +“How was that, Rogers?” + +“A scream came from the quarter-deck, and then the cry: ‘Child +overboard!’ There was but one child, the captain’s, aboard. I was +sitting just aft the foremast, herring-boning a split in a spare jib. I +sprang to the bulwark, and there, sure enough, was the child, going +fast astarn, but pretty high in the water. How it happened I can’t +think to this day, sir, but I suppose my needle, in the hurry, had got +into my jacket, so as to skewer it to my jersey, for we were far south +of the line at the time, sir, and it was cold. However that may be, as +soon as I was overboard, which you may be sure didn’t want the time I +take tellin’ of it, I found that I ought to ha’ pulled my jacket off +afore I gave the bulwark the last kick. So I rose on the water, and +began to pull it over my head—for it was wide, and that was the easiest +way, I thought, in the water. But when I had got it right over my head, +there it stuck. And there was I, blind as a Dutchman in a fog, and in +as strait a jacket as ever poor wretch in Bedlam, for I could only just +wag my flippers. Mr Walton, I believe I swore—the Lord forgive me!—but +it was trying. And what was far worse, for one moment I disbelieved in +Him; and I do say that’s worse than swearing—in a hurry I mean. And +that moment something went, the jacket was off, and there was I feelin’ +as if every stroke I took was as wide as the mainyard. I had no time to +repent, only to thank God. And wasn’t it more than I deserved, sir? Ah! +He can rebuke a man for unbelief by giving him the desire of his heart. +And that’s a better rebuke than tying him up to the gratings.” + +“And did you save the child?” + +“Oh yes, sir.” + +“And wasn’t the captain pleased?” + +“I believe he was, sir. He gave me a glass o’ grog, sir. But you was a +sayin’ of something, sir, when I interrupted of you.” + +“I am very glad you did interrupt me.” + +“I’m not though, sir. I Ve lost summat I’ll never hear more.” + +“No, you shan’t lose it. I was going to tell you how I think I came to +understand a little about the things I was talking of to-day.” + +“That’s it, sir; that’s it. Well, sir, if you please?” + +“You’ve heard of Sir Philip Sidney, haven’t you, Old Rogers?” + +“He was a great joker, wasn’t he, sir?” + +“No, no; you’re thinking of Sydney Smith, Rogers.” + +“It may be, sir. I am an ignorant man.” + +“You are no more ignorant than you ought to be.—But it is time you +should know him, for he was just one of your sort. I will come down +some evening and tell you about him.” + +I may as well mention here that this led to week-evening lectures in +the barn, which, with the help of Weir the carpenter, was changed into +a comfortable room, with fixed seats all round it, and plenty of +cane-chairs besides—for I always disliked forms in the middle of a +room. The object of these lectures was to make the people acquainted +with the true heroes of their own country—men great in themselves. And +the kind of choice I made may be seen by those who know about both, +from the fact that, while my first two lectures were on Philip Sidney, +I did not give one whole lecture even to Walter Raleigh, grand fellow +as he was. I wanted chiefly to set forth the men that could rule +themselves, first of all, after a noble fashion. But I have not +finished these lectures yet, for I never wished to confine them to the +English heroes; I am going on still, old man as I am—not however +without retracing passed ground sometimes, for a new generation has +come up since I came here, and there is a new one behind coming up now +which I may be honoured to present in its turn to some of this grand +company—this cloud of witnesses to the truth in our own and other +lands, some of whom subdued kingdoms, and others were tortured to +death, for the same cause and with the same result. + +“Meantime,” I went on, “I only want to tell you one little thing he +says in a letter to a younger brother whom he wanted to turn out as +fine a fellow as possible. It is about horses, or rather, riding—for +Sir Philip was the best horseman in Europe in his day, as, indeed, all +things taken together, he seems to have really been the most +accomplished man generally of his time in the world. Writing to this +brother he says—” + +I could not repeat the words exactly to Old Rogers, but I think it +better to copy them exactly, in writing this account of our talk: + +“At horsemanship, when you exercise it, read Crison Claudio, and a book +that is called La Gloria del Cavallo, withal that you may join the +thorough contemplation of it with the exercise; and so shall you profit +more in a month than others in a year.” + +“I think I see what you mean, sir. I had got to learn it all without +book, as it were, though you know I had my old Bible, that my mother +gave me, and without that I should not have learned it at all.” + +“I only mean it comparatively, you know. You have had more of the +practice, and I more of the theory. But if we had not both had both, we +should neither of us have known anything about the matter. I never was +content without trying at least to understand things; and if they are +practical things, and you try to practise them at the same time as far +as you do understand them, there is no end to the way in which the one +lights up the other. I suppose that is how, without your experience, I +have more to say about such things than you could expect. You know +besides that a small matter in which a principle is involved will +reveal the principle, if attended to, just as well as a great one +containing the same principle. The only difference, and that a most +important one, is that, though I’ve got my clay and my straw together, +and they stick pretty well as yet, my brick, after all, is not half so +well baked as yours, old friend, and it may crumble away yet, though I +hope not.” + +“I pray God to make both our bricks into stones of the New Jerusalem, +sir. I think I understand you quite well. To know about a thing is of +no use, except you do it. Besides, as I found out when I went to sea, +you never can know a thing till you do do it, though I thought I had a +tidy fancy about some things beforehand. It’s better not to be quite +sure that all your seams are caulked, and so to keep a look-out on the +bilge-pump; isn’t it, sir?” + +During the most of this conversation, we were standing by the +mill-water, half frozen over. The ice from both sides came towards the +middle, leaving an empty space between, along which the dark water +showed itself, hurrying away as if in fear of its life from the white +death of the frost. The wheel stood motionless, and the drip from the +thatch of the mill over it in the sun, had frozen in the shadow into +icicles, which hung in long spikes from the spokes and the floats, +making the wheel—soft green and mossy when it revolved in the gentle +sun-mingled summer-water—look like its own gray skeleton now. The sun +was getting low, and I should want all my time to see my other friends +before dinner, for I would not willingly offend Mrs Pearson on +Christmas Day by being late, especially as I guessed she was using +extraordinary skill to prepare me a more than comfortable meal. + +“I must go, Old Rogers,” I said; “but I will leave you something to +think about till we meet again. Find out why our Lord was so much +displeased with the disciples, whom He knew to be ignorant men, for not +knowing what He meant when He warned them against the leaven of the +Pharisees. I want to know what you think about it. You’ll find the +story told both in the sixteenth chapter of St Matthew and the eighth +of St Mark.” + +“Well, sir, I’ll try; that is, if you will tell me what you think about +it afterwards, so as to put me right, if I’m wrong.” + +“Of course I will, if I can find out an explanation to satisfy me. But +it is not at all clear to me now. In fact, I do not see the connecting +links of our Lord’s logic in the rebuke He gives them.” + +“How am I to find out then, sir—knowing nothing of logic at all?” said +the old man, his rough worn face summered over with his child-like +smile. + +“There are many things which a little learning, while it cannot really +hide them, may make you less ready to see all at once,” I answered, +shaking hands with Old Rogers, and then springing across the brook with +my carpet-bag in my hand. + +By the time I had got through the rest of my calls, the fogs were +rising from the streams and the meadows to close in upon my first +Christmas Day in my own parish. How much happier I was than when I came +such a few months before! The only pang I felt that day was as I passed +the monsters on the gate leading to Oldcastle Hall. Should I be +honoured to help only the poor of the flock? Was I to do nothing for +the rich, for whom it is, and has been, and doubtless will be so hard +to enter into the kingdom of heaven? And it seemed to me at the moment +that the world must be made for the poor: they had so much more done +for them to enable them to inherit it than the rich had.—To these +people at the Hall, I did not seem acceptable. I might in time do +something with Judy, but the old lady was still so dreadfully repulsive +to me that it troubled my conscience to feel how I disliked her. Mr +Stoddart seemed nothing more than a dilettante in religion, as well as +in the arts and sciences—music always excepted; while for Miss +Oldcastle, I simply did not understand her yet. And she was so +beautiful! I thought her more, beautiful every time I saw her. But I +never appeared to make the least progress towards any real acquaintance +with her thoughts and feelings.—It seemed to me, I say, for a moment, +coming from the houses of the warm-hearted poor, as if the rich had not +quite fair play, as it were—as if they were sent into the world chiefly +for the sake of the cultivation of the virtues of the poor, and without +much chance for the cultivation of their own. I knew better than this +you know, my reader; but the thought came, as thoughts will come +sometimes. It vanished the moment I sought to lay hands upon it, as if +it knew quite well it had no business there. But certainly I did +believe that it was more like the truth to say the world was made for +the poor than to say that it was made for the rich. And therefore I +longed the more to do something for these whom I considered the rich of +my flock; for it was dreadful to think of their being poor inside +instead of outside. + +Perhaps my reader will say, and say with justice, that I ought to have +been as anxious about poor Farmer Brownrigg as about the beautiful +lady. But the farmer had given me good reason to hope some progress in +him after the way he had given in about Jane Rogers. Positively I had +caught his eye during the sermon that very day. And, besides—but I will +not be a hypocrite; and seeing I did not certainly take the same +interest in Mr Brownrigg, I will at least be honest and confess it. As +far as regards the discharge of my duties, I trust I should have +behaved impartially had the necessity for any choice arisen. But my +feelings were not quite under my own control. And we are nowhere, told +to love everybody alike, only to love every one who comes within our +reach as ourselves. + +I wonder whether my old friend Dr Duncan was right. He had served on +shore in Egypt under General Abercrombie, and had of course, after the +fighting was over on each of the several occasions—the French being +always repulsed—exercised his office amongst the wounded left on the +field of battle.—“I do not know,” he said, “whether I did right or not; +but I always took the man I came to first—French or English.”—I only +know that my heart did not wait for the opinion of my head on the +matter. I loved the old man the more that he did as he did. But as a +question of casuistry, I am doubtful about its answer. + +This digression is, I fear, unpardonable. + +I made Mrs Pearson sit down with me to dinner, for Christmas Day was +not one to dine alone upon. And I have ever since had my servants to +dine with me on Christmas Day. + +Then I went out again, and made another round of visits, coming in for +a glass of wine at one table, an orange at another, and a hot chestnut +at a third. Those whom I could not see that day, I saw on the following +days between it and the new year. And so ended my Christmas holiday +with my people. + +But there is one little incident which I ought to relate before I close +this chapter, and which I am ashamed of having so nearly forgotten. + +When we had finished our dinner, and I was sitting alone drinking a +class of claret before going out again, Mrs Pearson came in and told me +that little Gerard Weir wanted to see me. I asked her to show him in; +and the little fellow entered, looking very shy, and clinging first to +the door and then to the wall. + +“Come, my dear boy,” I said, “and sit down by me.” + +He came directly and stood before me. + +“Would you like a little wine and water?” I said; for unhappily there +was no dessert, Mrs Pearson knowing that I never eat such things. + +“No, thank you, sir; I never tasted wine.” + +“I did not press him to take it. + +“Please, sir,” he went on after a pause, putting his nand in his +pocket, “mother gave me some goodies, and I kept them till I saw you +come back, and here they are, sir.” + +Does any reader doubt what I did or said upon this? + +I said, “Thank you, my darling,” and I ate them up every one of them, +that he might see me eat them before he left the house. And the dear +child went off radiant. + +If anybody cannot understand why I did so, I beg him to consider the +matter. If then he cannot come to a conclusion concerning it, I doubt +if any explanation of mine would greatly subserve his enlightenment. +Meantime, I am forcibly restraining myself from yielding to the +temptation to set forth my reasons, which would result in a half-hour’s +sermon on the Jewish dispensation, including the burnt offering, and +the wave and heave offerings, with an application to the ignorant +nurses and mothers of English babies, who do the best they can to make +original sin an actual fact by training children down in the way they +should not go. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +THE AVENUE. + + +It will not appear strange that I should linger so long upon the first +few months of my association with a people who, now that I am an old +man, look to me like my own children. For those who were then older +than myself are now “old dwellers in those high countries” where there +is no age, only wisdom; and I shall soon go to them. How glad I shall +be to see my Old Rogers again, who, as he taught me upon earth, will +teach me yet more, I thank my God, in heaven! But I must not let the +reverie which always gathers about the feather-end of my pen the moment +I take it up to write these recollections, interfere with the work +before me. + +After this Christmas-tide, I found myself in closer relationship to my +parishioners. No doubt I was always in danger of giving unknown offence +to those who were ready to fancy that I neglected them, and did not +distribute my FAVOURS equally. But as I never took offence, the offence +I gave was easily got rid of. A clergyman, of all men, should be slow +to take offence, for if he does, he will never be free or strong to +reprove sin. And it must sometimes be his duty to speak severely to +those, especially the good, who are turning their faces the wrong way. +It is of little use to reprove the sinner, but it is worth while +sometimes to reprove those who have a regard for righteousness, however +imperfect they may be. “Reprove not a scorner, lest he hate thee; +rebuke a wise man, and he will love thee.” + +But I took great care about INTERFERING; though I would interfere upon +request—not always, however, upon the side whence the request came, and +more seldom still upon either side. The clergyman must never be a +partisan. When our Lord was requested to act as umpire between two +brothers, He refused. But He spoke and said, “Take heed, and beware of +covetousness.” Now, though the best of men is unworthy to loose the +latchet of His shoe, yet the servant must be as his Master. Ah me! +while I write it, I remember that the sinful woman might yet do as she +would with His sacred feet. I bethink me: Desert may not touch His +shoe-tie: Love may kiss His feet. + +I visited, of course, at the Hall, as at the farmhouses in the country, +and the cottages in the village. I did not come to like Mrs Oldcastle +better. And there was one woman in the house whom I disliked still +more: that Sarah whom Judy had called in my hearing a white wolf. Her +face was yet whiter than that of her mistress, only it was not smooth +like hers; for its whiteness came apparently from the small-pox, which +had so thickened the skin that no blood, if she had any, could shine +through. I seldom saw her—only, indeed, caught a glimpse of her now and +then as I passed through the house. + +Nor did I make much progress with Mr Stoddart. He had always something +friendly to say, and often some theosophical theory to bring forward, +which, I must add, never seemed to me to mean, or, at least, to reveal, +anything. He was a great reader of mystical books, and yet the man’s +nature seemed cold. It was sunshiny, but not sunny. His intellect was +rather a lambent flame than a genial warmth. He could make things, but +he could not grow anything. And when I came to see that he had had more +than any one else to do with the education of Miss Oldcastle, I +understood her a little better, and saw that her so-called education +had been in a great measure repression—of a negative sort, no doubt, +but not therefore the less mischievous. For to teach speculation +instead of devotion, mysticism instead of love, word instead of deed, +is surely ruinously repressive to the nature that is meant for +sunbright activity both of heart and hand. My chief perplexity +continued to be how he could play the organ as he did. + +My reader will think that I am always coming round to Miss Oldcastle; +but if he does, I cannot help it. I began, I say, to understand her a +little better. She seemed to me always like one walking in a “watery +sunbeam,” without knowing that it was but the wintry pledge of a summer +sun at hand. She took it, or was trying to take it, for THE sunlight; +trying to make herself feel all the glory people said was in the light, +instead of making haste towards the perfect day. I found afterwards +that several things had combined to bring about this condition; and I +know she will forgive me, should I, for the sake of others, endeavour +to make it understood by and by. + +I have not much more to tell my readers about this winter. As but of a +whole changeful season only one day, or, it may be, but one moment in +which the time seemed to burst into its own blossom, will cling to the +memory; so of the various interviews with my friends, and the whole +flow of the current of my life, during that winter, nothing more of +nature or human nature occurs to me worth recording. I will pass on to +the summer season as rapidly as I may, though the early spring will +detain me with the relation of just a single incident. + +I was on my way to the Hall to see Mr Stoddart. I wanted to ask him +whether something could not be done beyond his exquisite playing to +rouse the sense of music in my people. I believed that nothing helps +you so much to feel as the taking of what share may, from the nature of +the thing, be possible to you; because, for one reason, in order to +feel, it is necessary that the mind should rest upon the matter, +whatever it is. The poorest success, provided the attempt has been +genuine, will enable one to enter into any art ten times better than +before. Now I had, I confess, little hope of moving Mr Stoddart in the +matter; but if I should succeed, I thought it would do himself more +good to mingle with his humble fellows in the attempt to do them a +trifle of good, than the opening of any number of intellectual windows +towards the circumambient truth. + +It was just beginning to grow dusk. The wind was blustering in gusts +among the trees, swaying them suddenly and fiercely like a keen +passion, now sweeping them all one way as if the multitude of tops +would break loose and rush away like a wild river, and now subsiding as +suddenly, and allowing them to recover themselves and stand upright, +with tones and motions of indignant expostulation. There was just one +cold bar of light in the west, and the east was one gray mass, while +overhead the stars were twinkling. The grass and all the ground about +the trees were very wet. The time seemed more dreary somehow than the +winter. Rigour was past, and tenderness had not come. For the wind was +cold without being keen, and bursting from the trees every now and then +with a roar as of a sea breaking on distant sands, whirled about me as +if it wanted me to go and join in its fierce play. + +Suddenly I saw, to my amazement, in a walk that ran alongside of the +avenue, Miss Oldcastle struggling against the wind, which blew straight +down the path upon her. The cause of my amazement was twofold. First, I +had supposed her with her mother in London, whither their journeys had +been not infrequent since Christmas-tide; and next—why should she be +fighting with the wind, so far from the house, with only a shawl drawn +over her head? + +The reader may wonder how I should know her in this attire in the dusk, +and where there was not the smallest probability of finding her. +Suffice it to say that I did recognise her at once; and passing between +two great tree-trunks, and through an opening in some under-wood, was +by her side in a moment. But the noise of the wind had prevented her +from hearing my approach, and when I uttered her name, she started +violently, and, turning, drew herself up very haughtily, in part, I +presume, to hide her tremor.—She was always a little haughty with me, I +must acknowledge. Could there have been anything in my address, however +unconscious of it I was, that made her fear I was ready to become +intrusive? Or might it not be that, hearing of my footing with my +parishioners generally, she was prepared to resent any assumption of +clerical familiarity with her; and so, in my behaviour, any poor +innocent “bush was supposed a bear.” For I need not tell my reader that +nothing was farther from my intention, even with the lowliest of my +flock, than to presume upon my position as clergyman. I think they all +GAVE me the relation I occupied towards them personally.—But I had +never seen her look so haughty as now. If I had been watching her very +thoughts she could hardly have looked more indignant. + +“I beg your pardon,” I said, distressed; “I have startled you +dreadfully.” + +“Not in the least,” she replied, but without moving, and still with a +curve in her form like the neck of a frayed horse. + +I thought it better to leave apology, which was evidently disagreeable +to her, and speak of indifferent things. + +“I was on my way to call on Mr Stoddart,” I said. + +“You will find him at home, I believe.” + +“I fancied you and Mrs Oldcastle in London.” + +“We returned yesterday.” + +Still she stood as before. I made a movement in the direction of the +house. She seemed as if she would walk in the opposite direction. + +“May I not walk with you to the house?” + +“I am not going in just yet.” + +“Are you protected enough for such a night?” + +“I enjoy the wind.” + +I bowed and walked on; for what else could I do? + +I cannot say that I enjoyed leaving her behind me in the gathering +dark, the wind blowing her about with no more reverence than if she had +been a bush of privet. Nor was it with a light heart that I bore her +repulse as I slowly climbed the hill to the house. However, a little +personal mortification is wholesome—though I cannot say either that I +derived much consolation from the reflection. + +Sarah opened the glass door, her black, glossy, restless eyes looking +out of her white face from under gray eyebrows. I knew at once by her +look beyond me that she had expected to find me accompanied by her +young mistress. I did not volunteer any information, as my reader may +suppose. + +I found, as I had feared, that, although Mr. Stoddart seemed to listen +with some interest to what I said, I could not bring him to the point +of making any practical suggestion, or of responding to one made by me; +and I left him with the conviction that he would do nothing to help me. +Yet during the whole of our interview he had not opposed a single word +I said. He was like clay too much softened with water to keep the form +into which it has been modelled. He would take SOME kind of form +easily, and lose it yet more easily. I did not show all my +dissatisfaction, however, for that would only have estranged us; and it +is not required, nay, it may be wrong, to show all you feel or think: +what is required of us is, not to show what we do not feel or think; +for that is to be false. + +I left the house in a gloomy mood. I know I ought to have looked up to +God and said: “These things do not reach to Thee, my Father. Thou art +ever the same; and I rise above my small as well as my great troubles +by remembering Thy peace, and Thy unchangeable Godhood to me and all +Thy creatures.” But I did not come to myself all at once. The thought +of God had not come, though it was pretty sure to come before I got +home. I was brooding over the littleness of all I could do; and feeling +that sickness which sometimes will overtake a man in the midst of the +work he likes best, when the unpleasant parts of it crowd upon him, and +his own efforts, especially those made from the will without sustaining +impulse, come back upon him with a feeling of unreality, decay, and +bitterness, as if he had been unnatural and untrue, and putting himself +in false relations by false efforts for good. I know this all came from +selfishness—thinking about myself instead of about God and my +neighbour. But so it was.—And so I was walking down the avenue, where +it was now very dark, with my head bent to the ground, when I in my +turn started at the sound of a woman’s voice, and looking up, saw by +the starlight the dim form of Miss Oldcastle standing before me. + +She spoke first. + +“Mr Walton, I was very rude to you. I beg your pardon.” + +“Indeed, I did not think so. I only thought what a blundering awkward +fellow I was to startle you as I did. You have to forgive me.” + +“I fancy”—and here I know she smiled, though how I know I do not +know—“I fancy I have made that even,” she said, pleasantly; “for you +must confess I startled you now.” + +“You did; but it was in a very different way. I annoyed you with my +rudeness. You only scattered a swarm of bats that kept flapping their +skinny wings in my face.” + +“What do you mean? There are no bats at this time of the year.” + +“Not outside. In ‘winter and rough weather’ they creep inside, you +know.” + +“Ah! I ought to understand you. But I did not think you were ever like +that. I thought you were too good.” + +“I wish I were. I hope to be some day. I am not yet, anyhow. And I +thank you for driving the bats away in the meantime.” + +“You make me the more ashamed of myself to think that perhaps my +rudeness had a share in bringing them.—Yours is no doubt thankless +labour sometimes.” + +She seemed to make the last remark just to prevent the conversation +from returning to her as its subject. And now all the bright portions +of my work came up before me. + +“You are quite mistaken in that, Miss Oldcastle. On the contrary, the +thanks I get are far more than commensurate with the labour. Of course +one meets with a disappointment sometimes, but that is only when they +don’t know what you mean. And how should they know what you mean till +they are different themselves?—You remember what Wordsworth says on +this very subject in his poem of Simon Lee?”— + +“I do not know anything of Wordsworth.” + +“‘I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds + With coldness still returning; +Alas! the gratitude of men + Hath oftener left me mourning.’” + + +“I do not quite see what he means.” + +“May I recommend you to think about it? You will be sure to find it out +for yourself, and that will be ten times more satisfactory than if I +were to explain it to you. And, besides, you will never forget it, if +you do.” + +“Will you repeat the lines again?” + +I did so. + +All this time the wind had been still. Now it rose with a slow gush in +the trees. Was it fancy? Or, as the wind moved the shrubbery, did I see +a white face? And could it be the White Wolf, as Judy called her? + +I spoke aloud: + +“But it is cruel to keep you standing here in such a night. You must be +a real lover of nature to walk in the dark wind.” + +“I like it. Good night.” + +So we parted. I gazed into the darkness after her, though she +disappeared at the distance of a yard or two; and would have stood +longer had I not still suspected the proximity of Judy’s Wolf, which +made me turn and go home, regardless now of Mr Stoddart’s DOUGHINESS. + +I met Miss Oldcastle several times before the summer, but her old +manner remained, or rather had returned, for there had been nothing of +it in the tone of her voice in that interview, if INTERVIEW it could be +called where neither could see more than the other’s outline. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +YOUNG WEIR. + + +By slow degrees the summer bloomed. Green came instead of white; +rainbows instead of icicles. The grounds about the Hall seemed the +incarnation of a summer which had taken years to ripen to its +perfection. The very grass seemed to have aged into perfect youth in +that “haunt of ancient peace;” for surely nowhere else was such thick, +delicate-bladed, delicate-coloured grass to be seen. Gnarled old trees +of may stood like altars of smoking perfume, or each like one +million-petalled flower of upheaved whiteness—or of tender rosiness, as +if the snow which had covered it in winter had sunk in and gathered +warmth from the life of the tree, and now crept out again to adorn the +summer. The long loops of the laburnum hung heavy with gold towards the +sod below; and the air was full of the fragrance of the young leaves of +the limes. Down in the valley below, the daisies shone in all the +meadows, varied with the buttercup and the celandine; while in damp +places grew large pimpernels, and along the sides of the river, the +meadow-sweet stood amongst the reeds at the very edge of the water, +breathing out the odours of dreamful sleep. The clumsy pollards were +each one mass of undivided green. The mill wheel had regained its +knotty look, with its moss and its dip and drip, as it yielded to the +slow water, which would have let it alone, but that there was no other +way out of the land to the sea. + +I used now to wander about in the fields and woods, with a book in my +hand, at which I often did not look the whole day, and which yet I +liked to have with me. And I seemed somehow to come back with most upon +those days in which I did not read. In this manner I prepared almost +all my sermons that summer. But, although I prepared them thus in the +open country, I had another custom, which perhaps may appear strange to +some, before I preached them. This was, to spend the Saturday evening, +not in my study, but in the church. This custom of mine was known to +the sexton and his wife, and the church was always clean and ready for +me after about mid-day, so that I could be alone there as soon as I +pleased. It would take more space than my limits will afford to explain +thoroughly why I liked to do this. But I will venture to attempt a +partial explanation in a few words. + +This fine old church in which I was honoured to lead the prayers of my +people, was not the expression of the religious feeling of my time. +There was a gloom about it—a sacred gloom, I know, and I loved it; but +such gloom as was not in my feeling when I talked to my flock. I +honoured the place; I rejoiced in its history; I delighted to think +that even by the temples made with hands outlasting these bodies of +ours, we were in a sense united to those who in them had before us +lifted up holy hands without wrath or doubting; and with many more who, +like us, had lifted up at least prayerful hands without hatred or +despair. The place soothed me, tuned me to a solemn mood—one of +self-denial, and gentle gladness in all sober things. But, had I been +an architect, and had I had to build a church—I do not in the least +know how I should have built it—I am certain it would have been very +different from this. Else I should be a mere imitator, like all the +church-architects I know anything about in the present day. For I +always found the open air the most genial influence upon me for the +production of religious feeling and thought. I had been led to try +whether it might not be so with me by the fact that our Lord seemed so +much to delight in the open air, and late in the day as well as early +in the morning would climb the mountain to be alone with His Father. I +found that it helped to give a reality to everything that I thought +about, if I only contemplated it under the high untroubled blue, with +the lowly green beneath my feet, and the wind blowing on me to remind +me of the Spirit that once moved on the face of the waters, bringing +order out of disorder and light out of darkness, and was now seeking +every day a fuller entrance into my heart, that there He might work the +one will of the Father in heaven. + +My reader will see then that there was, as it were, not so much a +discord, as a lack of harmony between the surroundings wherein my +thoughts took form, or, to use a homelier phrase, my sermon was +studied, and the surroundings wherein I had to put these forms into the +garments of words, or preach that sermon. I therefore sought to bridge +over this difference (if I understood music, I am sure I could find an +expression exactly fitted to my meaning),—to find an easy passage +between the open-air mood and the church mood, so as to be able to +bring into the church as much of the fresh air, and the tree-music, and +the colour-harmony, and the gladness over all, as might be possible; +and, in order to this, I thought all my sermon over again in the +afternoon sun as it shone slantingly through the stained window over +Lord Eagleye’s tomb, and in the failing light thereafter and the +gathering dusk of the twilight, pacing up and down the solemn old +place, hanging my thoughts here on a crocket, there on a corbel; now on +the gable-point over which Weir’s face would gaze next morning, and now +on the aspiring peaks of the organ. I thus made the place a cell of +thought and prayer. And when the next day came, I found the forms +around me so interwoven with the forms of my thought, that I felt +almost like one of the old monks who had built the place, so little did +I find any check to my thought or utterance from its unfitness for the +expression of my individual modernism. But not one atom the more did I +incline to the evil fancy that God was more in the past than in the +present; that He is more within the walls of the church, than in the +unwalled sky and earth; or seek to turn backwards one step from a +living Now to an entombed and consecrated Past. + +One lovely Saturday, I had been out all the morning. I had not walked +far, for I had sat in the various places longer than I had walked, my +path lying through fields and copses, crossing a country road only now +and then. I had my Greek Testament with me, and I read when I sat, and +thought when I walked. I remember well enough that I was going to +preach about the cloud of witnesses, and explain to my people that this +did not mean persons looking at, witnessing our behaviour—not so could +any addition be made to the awfulness of the fact that the eye of God +was upon us—but witnesses to the truth, people who did what God wanted +them to do, come of it what might, whether a crown or a rack, scoffs or +applause; to behold whose witnessing might well rouse all that was +human and divine in us to chose our part with them and their Lord.—When +I came home, I had an early dinner, and then betook myself to my +Saturday’s resort.—I had never had a room large enough to satisfy me +before. Now my study was to my mind. + +All through the slowly-fading afternoon, the autumn of the day, when +the colours are richest and the shadows long and lengthening, I paced +my solemn old-thoughted church. Sometimes I went up into the pulpit and +sat there, looking on the ancient walls which had grown up under men’s +hands that men might be helped to pray by the visible symbol of unity +which the walls gave, and that the voice of the Spirit of God might be +heard exhorting men to forsake the evil and choose the good. And I +thought how many witnesses to the truth had knelt in those ancient +pews. For as the great church is made up of numberless communities, so +is the great shining orb of witness-bearers made up of millions of +lesser orbs. All men and women of true heart bear individual testimony +to the truth of God, saying, “I have trusted and found Him faithful.” +And the feeble light of the glowworm is yet light, pure, and good, and +with a loveliness of its own. “So, O Lord,” I said, “let my light shine +before men.” And I felt no fear of vanity in such a prayer, for I knew +that the glory to come of it is to God only—“that men may glorify their +Father in heaven.” And I knew that when we seek glory for ourselves, +the light goes out, and the Horror that dwells in darkness breathes +cold upon our spirits. And I remember that just as I thought thus, my +eye was caught first by a yellow light that gilded the apex of the +font-cover, which had been wrought like a flame or a bursting blossom: +it was so old and worn, I never could tell which; and then by a red +light all over a white marble tablet in the wall—the red of life on the +cold hue of the grave. And this red light did not come from any work of +man’s device, but from the great window of the west, which little +Gerard Weir wanted to help God to paint. I must have been in a happy +mood that Saturday afternoon, for everything pleased me and made me +happier; and all the church-forms about me blended and harmonised +graciously with the throne and footstool of God which I saw through the +windows. And I lingered on till the night had come; till the church +only gloomed about me, and had no shine; and then I found my spirit +burning up the clearer, as a lamp which has been flaming all the day +with light unseen becomes a glory in the room when the sun is gone +down. + +At length I felt tired, and would go home. Yet I lingered for a few +moments in the vestry, thinking what hymns would harmonize best with +the things I wanted to make my people think about. It was now almost +quite dark out of doors—at least as dark as it would be. + +Suddenly through the gloom I thought I heard a moan and a sob. I sat +upright in my chair and listened. But I heard nothing more, and +concluded I had deceived myself. After a few moments, I rose to go home +and have some tea, and turn my mind rather away from than towards the +subject of witness-bearing any more for that night, lest I should burn +the fuel of it out before I came to warm the people with it, and should +have to blow its embers instead of flashing its light and heat upon +them in gladness. So I left the church by my vestry-door, which I +closed behind me, and took my way along the path through the clustering +group of graves. + +Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it. And there lay +something dark upon one of the grassy mounds. I approached it, but it +did not move. I spoke. + +“Can I be of any use to you?” I said. + +“No,” returned an almost inaudible voice. + +Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that no one had been +buried there very lately, and if the grief were for the loss of the +dead, it was more than probably aroused to fresh vigour by recent +misfortune. + +I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, “Come with me, and +let us see what can be done for you.” + +I then saw that it was a youth—perhaps scarcely more than a boy. And as +soon as I saw that, I knew that his grief could hardly be incurable. He +returned no answer, but rose at once to his feet, and submitted to be +led away. I took him the shortest road to my house through the +shrubbery, brought him into the study, made him sit down in my +easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine; for the dew had been falling +heavily, and his clothes were quite dank. But when the wine came, he +refused to take any. + +“But you want it,” I said. + +“No, sir, I don’t, indeed.” + +“Take some for my sake, then.” + +“I would rather not, sir.” + +“Why?” + +“I promised my father a year ago, when I left home that I would not +drink anything stronger than water.[sic] And I can’t break my promise +now.” + +“Where is your home?” + +“In the village, sir.” + +“That wasn’t your father’s grave I found you upon, was it?” + +“No, sir. It was my mother’s.” + +“Then your father is still alive?” + +“Yes, sir. You know him very well—Thomas Weir.” + +“Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?” + +“Yes, sir,” answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob. + +“Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, and +would tell you you might trust me.” + +“I don’t doubt it, sir. But you won’t believe me any more than my +father.” + +By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his countenance. +He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown. His dress was very +decent. His face was pale and thin, and revealed a likeness to his +father. He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could +judge, betokened, along with the whole of his expression, an honest and +sensitive nature. I found him very attractive, and was therefore the +more emboldened to press for the knowledge of his story. + +“I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could. And +if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in great +danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of its own.” + +“I thought so till to-night,” he answered. “But if my father would not +believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?” + +“Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be able +to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to be unfair.” + +“No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me.” + +Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There was a +certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicated +thought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that, whatever +I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me the truth. + +“Come, try me,” I said. + +“I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning.” + +“Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and you may +take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for I dare +say you have not made any promise about that.” + +A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to feel +a little more comfortable. + +“When did you arrive from London?” I asked. + +“About two hours ago, I suppose.” + +“Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty of +toast. We are both hungry.” + +Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do her +duty. + +When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eager way +in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing for some +time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not let him say a +word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful to see how he ate. +Few troubles will destroy a growing lad’s hunger; and indeed it has +always been to me a marvel how the feelings and the appetites affect +each other. I have known grief actually make people, and not sensual +people at all, quite hungry. At last I thought I had better not offer +him any more. + +After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the candles out; and +the moon, which had risen, nearly full, while we were at tea, shone +into the room. I had thought that he might possibly find it easier to +tell his story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shame in the +recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce him to the despair +of Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate his deed, but not +his deed and himself together, he exclaimed, + +“To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself.” + + +So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told his tale. The moon +lighted up his pale face as he told it, and gave rather a wild +expression to his eyes, eager to find faith in me.—I have not much of +the dramatic in me, I know; and I am rather a flat teller of stories on +that account. I shall not, therefore, seeing there is no necessity for +it, attempt to give the tale in his own words. But, indeed, when I +think of it, they did not differ so much from the form of my own, for +he had, I presume, lost his provincialisms, and being, as I found +afterwards, a reader of the best books that came in his way, had not +caught up many cockneyisms instead. + +He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs——& Co., large +silk-mercers, linen-drapers, etc., etc., in London; for all the trades +are mingled now. His work at first was to accompany one of the carts +which delivered the purchases of the day; but, I presume because he +showed himself to be a smart lad, they took him at length into the shop +to wait behind the counter. This he did not like so much, but, as it +was considered a rise in life, made no objection to the change. + +He seemed to himself to get on pretty well. He soon learned all the +marks on the goods intended to be understood by the shopmen, and within +a few months believed that he was found generally useful. He had as yet +had no distinct department allotted to him, but was moved from place to +place, according as the local pressure of business might demand. + +“I confess,” he said, “that I was not always satisfied with what was +going on about me. I mean I could not help doubting if everything was +done on the square, as they say. But nothing came plainly in my way, +and so I could honestly say it did not concern me. I took care to be +straightforward for my part, and, knowing only the prices marked for +the sale of the goods, I had nothing to do with anything else. But one +day, while I was showing a lady some handkerchiefs which were marked as +mouchoirs de Paris—I don’t know if I pronounce it right, sir—she said +she did not believe they were French cambric; and I, knowing nothing +about it, said nothing. But, happening to look up while we both stood +silent, the lady examining the handkerchiefs, and I doing nothing till +she should have made up her mind, I caught sight of the eyes of the +shop-walker, as they call the man who shows customers where to go for +what they want, and sees that they are attended to. He is a fat man, +dressed in black, with a great gold chain, which they say in the shop +is only copper gilt. But that doesn’t matter, only it would be the +liker himself. He was standing staring at me. I could not tell what to +make of it; but from that day I often caught him watching me, as if I +had been a customer suspected of shop-lifting. Still I only thought he +was very disagreeable, and tried to forget him. + +“One day—the day before yesterday—two ladies, an old lady and a young +one, came into the shop, and wanted to look at some shawls. It was +dinner-time, and most of the men were in the house at their dinner. The +shop-walker sent me to them, and then, I do believe, though I did not +see him, stood behind a pillar to watch me, as he had been in the way +of doing more openly. I thought I had seen the ladies before, and +though I could not then tell where, I am now almost sure they were Mrs +and Miss Oldcastle, of the Hall. They wanted to buy a cashmere for the +young lady. I showed them some. They wanted better. I brought the best +we had, inquiring, that I might make no mistake. They asked the price. +I told them. They said they were not good enough, and wanted to see +some more. I told them they were the best we had. They looked at them +again; said they were sorry, but the shawls were not good enough, and +left the shop without buying anything. I proceeded to take the shawls +up-stairs again, and, as I went, passed the shop walker, whom I had not +observed while I was attending to the ladies. ‘YOU’re for no good, +young man!’ he said with a nasty sneer. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr +B.?’ I asked, for his sneer made me angry. ‘You’ll know before +to-morrow,’ he answered, and walked away. That same evening, as we were +shutting up shop, I was sent for to the principal’s room. The moment I +entered, he said, ‘You won’t suit us, young man, I find. You had better +pack up your box to-night, and be off to-morrow. There’s your quarter’s +salary.’ ‘What have I done?’ I asked in astonishment, and yet with a +vague suspicion of the matter. ‘It’s not what you’ve done, but what you +don’t do,’ he answered. ‘Do you think we can afford to keep you here +and pay you wages to send people away from the shop without buying? If +you do, you’re mistaken, that’s all. You may go.’ ‘But what could I +do?’ I said. ‘I suppose that spy, B—-,’—I believe I said so, sir. ‘Now, +now, young man, none of your sauce!’ said Mr—-. ‘Honest people don’t +think about spies.’ ‘I thought it was for honesty you were getting rid +of me,’ I said. Mr—-rose to his feet, his lips white, and pointed to +the door. ‘Take your money and be off. And mind you don’t refer to me +for a character. After such impudence I couldn’t in conscience give you +one.’ Then, calming down a little when he saw I turned to go, ‘You had +better take to your hands again, for your head will never keep you. +There, be off!’ he said, pushing the money towards me, and turning his +back to me. I could not touch it. ‘Keep the money, Mr—-,’ I said. +‘It’ll make up for what you’ve lost by me.’ And I left the room at once +without waiting for an answer. + +“While I was packing my box, one of my chums came in, and I told him +all about it. He is rather a good fellow that, sir; but he laughed, and +said, ‘What a fool you are, Weir! YOU’ll never make your daily bread, +and you needn’t think it. If you knew what I know, you’d have known +better. And it’s very odd it was about shawls, too. I’ll tell you. As +you’re going away, you won’t let it out. Mr—-’ (that was the same who +had just turned me away) ‘was serving some ladies himself, for he +wasn’t above being in the shop, like his partner. They wanted the best +Indian shawl they could get. None of those he showed them were good +enough, for the ladies really didn’t know one from another. They always +go by the price you ask, and Mr—-knew that well enough. He had sent me +up-stairs for the shawls, and as I brought them he said, “These are the +best imported, madam.” There were three ladies; and one shook her head, +and another shook her head, and they all shook their heads. And then +Mr—-was sorry, I believe you, that he had said they were the best. But +you won’t catch him in a trap! He’s too old a fox for that.’ I’m +telling you, sir, what Johnson told me. ‘He looked close down at the +shawls, as if he were short-sighted, though he could see as far as any +man. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” said he, “you’re right. I am quite +wrong. What a stupid blunder to make! And yet they did deceive me. +Here, Johnson, take these shawls away. How could you be so stupid? I +will fetch the thing you want myself, ladies.” So I went with him. He +chose out three or four shawls, of the nicest patterns, from the very +same lot, marked in the very same way, folded them differently, and +gave them to me to carry down. “Now, ladies, here they are!” he said. +“These are quite a different thing, as you will see; and, indeed, they +cost half as much again.” In five minutes they had bought two of them, +and paid just half as much more than he had asked for them the first +time. That’s Mr—-! and that’s what you should have done if you had +wanted to keep your place.’—But I assure you, sir, I could not help +being glad to be out of it.” + +“But there is nothing in all this to be miserable about,” I said. “You +did your duty.” + +“It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I don’t want to be +idle, I’m sure.” + +“Does your father think you do?” + +“I don’t know what he thinks. He won’t speak to me. I told my story—as +much of it as he would let me, at least—but he wouldn’t listen to me. +He only said he knew better than that. I couldn’t bear it. He always +was rather hard upon us. I’m sure if you hadn’t been so kind to me, +sir, I don’t know what I should have done by this time. I haven’t +another friend in the world.” + +“Yes, you have. Your Father in heaven is your friend.” + +“I don’t know that, sir. I’m not good enough.” + +“That’s quite true. But you would never have done your duty if He had +not been with you.” + +“DO you think so, sir?” he returned, eagerly. + +“Indeed, I do. Everything good comes from the Father of lights. Every +one that walks in any glimmering of light walks so far in HIS light. +For there is no light—only darkness—comes from below. And man apart +from God can generate no light. He’s not meant to be separated from +God, you see. And only think then what light He can give you if you +will turn to Him and ask for it. What He has given you should make you +long for more; for what you have is not enough—ah! far from it.” + +“I think I understand. But I didn’t feel good at all in the matter. I +didn’t see any other way of doing.” + +“So much the better. We ought never to feel good. We are but +unprofitable servants at best. There is no merit in doing your duty; +only you would have been a poor wretched creature not to do as you did. +And now, instead of making yourself miserable over the consequences of +it, you ought to bear them like a man, with courage and hope, thanking +God that He has made you suffer for righteousness’ sake, and denied you +the success and the praise of cheating. I will go to your father at +once, and find out what he is thinking about it. For no doubt Mr—-has +written to him with his version of the story. Perhaps he will be more +inclined to believe you when he finds that I believe you.” + +“Oh, thank you, sir!” cried the lad, and jumped up from his seat to go +with me. + +“No,” I said; “you had better stay where you are. I shall be able to +speak more freely if you are not present. Here is a book to amuse +yourself with. I do not think I shall be long gone.” + +But I was longer gone than I thought I should be. + +When I reached the carpenter’s house, I found, to my surprise, that he +was still at work. By the light of a single tallow candle placed beside +him on the bench, he was ploughing away at a groove. His pale face, of +which the lines were unusually sharp, as I might have expected after +what had occurred, was the sole object that reflected the light of the +candle to my eyes as I entered the gloomy place. He looked up, but +without even greeting me, dropped his face again and went on with his +work. + +“What!” I said, cheerily,—for I believed that, like Gideon’s pitcher, I +held dark within me the light that would discomfit his Midianites, +which consciousness may well make the pitcher cheery inside, even while +the light as yet is all its own—worthless, till it break out upon the +world, and cease to illuminate only glazed pitcher-sides—“What!” I +said, “working so late?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“It is not usual with you, I know.” + +“It’s all a humbug!” he said fiercely, but coldly notwithstanding, as +he stood erect from his work, and turned his white face full on me—of +which, however, the eyes drooped—“It’s all a humbug; and I don’t mean +to be humbugged any more.” + +“Am I a humbug?” I returned, not quite taken by surprise. + +“I don’t say that. Don’t make a personal thing of it, sir. You’re taken +in, I believe, like the rest of us. Tell me that a God governs the +world! What have I done, to be used like this?” + +I thought with myself how I could retort for his young son: “What has +he done to be used like this?” But that was not my way, though it might +work well enough in some hands. Some men are called to be prophets. I +could only “stand and wait.” + +“It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance,” I said, “of what you +mean. I know all about it.” + +“Do you? He has been to you, has he? But you don’t know all about it, +sir. The impudence of the young rascal!” + +He paused for a moment. + +“A man like me!” he resumed, becoming eloquent in his indignation, and, +as I thought afterwards, entirely justifying what Wordsworth says about +the language of the so-called uneducated,—“A man like me, who was as +proud of his honour as any aristocrat in the country—prouder than any +of them would grant me the right to be!” + +“Too proud of it, I think—not too careful of it,” I said. But I was +thankful he did not heed me, for the speech would only have irritated +him. He went on. + +“Me to be treated like this! One child a ...” + +Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he tried again. + +“And the other a ...” + +Instead of finishing the sentence, however, he drove his plough +fiercely through the groove, splitting off some inches of the wall of +it at the end. + +“If any one has treated you so,” I said, “it must be the devil, not +God.” + +“But if there was a God, he could have prevented it all.” + +“Mind what I said to you once before: He hasn’t done yet. And there is +another enemy in His way as bad as the devil—I mean our SELVES. When +people want to walk their own way without God, God lets them try it. +And then the devil gets a hold of them. But God won’t let him keep +them. As soon as they are ‘wearied in the greatness of their way,’ they +begin to look about for a Saviour. And then they find God ready to +pardon, ready to help, not breaking the bruised reed—leading them to +his own self manifest—with whom no man can fear any longer, Jesus +Christ, the righteous lover of men—their elder brother—what we call BIG +BROTHER, you know—one to help them and take their part against the +devil, the world, and the flesh, and all the rest of the wicked powers. +So you see God is tender—just like the prodigal son’s father—only with +this difference, that God has millions of prodigals, and never gets +tired of going out to meet them and welcome them back, every one as if +he were the only prodigal son He had ever had. There’s a father indeed! +Have you been such a father to your son?” + +“The prodigal didn’t come with a pack of lies. He told his father the +truth, bad as it was.” + +“How do you know that your son didn’t tell you the truth? All the young +men that go from home don’t do as the prodigal did. Why should you not +believe what he tells you?” + +“I’m not one to reckon without my host. Here’s my bill.” + +And so saying, he handed me a letter. I took it and read:— + +“SIR,—It has become our painful duty to inform you that your son has +this day been discharged from the employment of Messrs—-and Co., his +conduct not being such as to justify the confidence hitherto reposed in +him. It would have been contrary to the interests of the establishment +to continue him longer behind the counter, although we are not prepared +to urge anything against him beyond the fact that he has shown himself +absolutely indifferent to the interests of his employers. We trust that +the chief blame will be found to lie with certain connexions of a kind +easy to be formed in large cities, and that the loss of his situation +may be punishment sufficient, if not for justice, yet to make him +consider his ways and be wise. We enclose his quarter’s salary, which +the young man rejected with insult, and, + + +“We remain, &c., + “—— and Co.” + + +“And,” I exclaimed, “this is what you found your judgment of your own +son upon! You reject him unheard, and take the word of a stranger! I +don’t wonder you cannot believe in your Father when you behave so to +your son. I don’t say your conclusion is false, though I don’t believe +it. But I do say the grounds you go upon are anything but sufficient.” + +“You don’t mean to tell me that a man of Mr—-’s standing, who has one +of the largest shops in London, and whose brother is Mayor of +Addicehead, would slander a poor lad like that!” + +“Oh you mammon-worshipper!” I cried. “Because a man has one of the +largest shops in London, and his brother is Mayor of Addicehead, you +take his testimony and refuse your son’s! I did not know the boy till +this evening; but I call upon you to bring back to your memory all that +you have known of him from his childhood, and then ask yourself whether +there is not, at least, as much probability of his having remained +honest as of the master of a great London shop being infallible in his +conclusions—at which conclusions, whatever they be, I confess no man +can wonder, after seeing how readily his father listens to his +defamation.” + +I spoke with warmth. Before I had done, the pale face of the carpenter +was red as fire; for he had been acting contrary to all his own +theories of human equality, and that in a shameful manner. Still, +whether convinced or not, he would not give in. He only drove away at +his work, which he was utterly destroying. His mouth was closed so +tight, he looked as if he had his jaw locked; and his eyes gleamed over +the ruined board with a light which seemed to me to have more of +obstinacy in it than contrition. + +“Ah, Thomas!” I said, taking up the speech once more, “if God had +behaved to us as you have behaved to your boy—be he innocent, be he +guilty—there’s not a man or woman of all our lost race would have +returned to Him from the time of Adam till now. I don’t wonder that you +find it difficult to believe in Him.” + +And with those words I left the shop, determined to overwhelm the +unbeliever with proof, and put him to shame before his own soul, +whence, I thought, would come even more good to him than to his son. +For there was a great deal of self-satisfaction mixed up with the man’s +honesty, and the sooner that had a blow the better—it might prove a +death-blow in the long run. It was pride that lay at the root of his +hardness. He visited the daughter’s fault upon the son. His daughter +had disgraced him; and he was ready to flash into wrath with his son +upon any imputation which recalled to him the torture he had undergone +when his daughter’s dishonour came first to the light. Her he had never +forgiven, and now his pride flung his son out after her upon the first +suspicion. His imagination had filled up all the blanks in the wicked +insinuations of Mr—-. He concluded that he had taken money to spend in +the worst company, and had so disgraced him beyond forgiveness. His +pride paralysed his love. He thought more about himself than about his +children. His own shame outweighed in his estimation the sadness of +their guilt. It was a less matter that they should be guilty, than that +he, their father, should be disgraced. + +Thinking over all this, and forgetting how late it was, I found myself +half-way up the avenue of the Hall. I wanted to find out whether young +Weir’s fancy that the ladies he had failed in serving, or rather whom +he had really served with honesty, were Mrs and Miss Oldcastle, was +correct. What a point it would be if it was! I should not then be +satisfied except I could prevail on Miss Oldcastle to accompany me to +Thomas Weir, and shame the faithlessness out of him. So eager was I +after certainty, that it was not till I stood before the house that I +saw clearly the impropriety of attempting anything further that night. +One light only was burning in the whole front, and that was on the +first floor. + +Glancing up at it, I knew not why, as I turned to go down the hill +again, I saw a corner of the blind drawn aside and a face peeping +out—whose, I could not tell. This was uncomfortable—for what could be +taking me there at such a time? But I walked steadily away, certain I +could not escape recognition, and determining to refer to this +ill-considered visit when I called the next day. I would not put it off +till Monday, I was resolved. + +I lingered on the bridge as I went home. Not a light was to be seen in +the village, except one over Catherine Weir’s shop. There were not many +restless souls in my parish—not so many as there ought to be. Yet +gladly would I see the troubled in peace—not a moment, though, before +their troubles should have brought them where the weary and heavy-laden +can alone find rest to their souls—finding the Father’s peace in the +Son—the Father himself reconciling them to Himself. + +How still the night was! My soul hung, as it were, suspended in +stillness; for the whole sphere of heaven seemed to be about me, the +stars above shining as clear below in the mirror of the all but +motionless water. It was a pure type of the “rest that remaineth”—rest, +the one immovable centre wherein lie all the stores of might, whence +issue all forces, all influences of making and moulding. “And, indeed,” +I said to myself, “after all the noise, uproar, and strife that there +is on the earth, after all the tempests, earthquakes, and volcanic +outbursts, there is yet more of peace than of tumult in the world. How +many nights like this glide away in loveliness, when deep sleep hath +fallen upon men, and they know neither how still their own repose, nor +how beautiful the sleep of nature! Ah, what must the stillness of the +kingdom be? When the heavenly day’s work is done, with what a gentle +wing will the night come down! But I bethink me, the rest there, as +here, will be the presence of God; and if we have Him with us, the +battle-field itself will be—if not quiet, yet as full of peace as this +night of stars.” So I spoke to myself, and went home. + +I had little immediate comfort to give my young guest, but I had plenty +of hope. I told him he must stay in the house to-morrow; for it would +be better to have the reconciliation with his father over before he +appeared in public. So the next day neither Weir was at church. + +As soon as the afternoon service was over, I went once more to the +Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room—a great faded room, in which +the prevailing colour was a dingy gold, hence called the yellow +drawing-room when the house had more than one. It looked down upon the +lawn, which, although little expense was now laid out on any of the +ornamental adjuncts of the Hall, was still kept very nice. There sat +Mrs Oldcastle reading, with her face to the house. A little way farther +on, Miss Oldcastle sat, with a book on her knee, but her gaze fixed on +the wide-spread landscape before her, of which, however, she seemed to +be as inobservant as of her book. I caught glimpses of Judy flitting +hither and thither among the trees, never a moment in one place. + +Fearful of having an interview with the old lady alone, which was not +likely to lead to what I wanted, I stepped from a window which was +open, out upon the terrace, and thence down the steps to the lawn +below. The servant had just informed Mrs Oldcastle of my visit when I +came near. She drew herself up in her chair, and evidently chose to +regard my approach as an intrusion. + +“I did not expect a visit from you to-day, Mr Walton, you will allow me +to say.” + +“I am doing Sunday work,” I answered. “Will you kindly tell me whether +you were in London on Thursday last? But stay, allow me to ask Miss +Oldcastle to join us.” + +Without waiting for answer, I went to Miss Oldcastle, and begged her to +come and listen to something in which I wanted her help. She rose +courteously though without cordiality, and accompanied me to her +mother, who sat with perfect rigidity, watching us. + +“Again let me ask,” I said, “if you were in London on Thursday.” + +Though I addressed the old lady, the answer came from her daughter. + +“Yes, we were.” + +“Were you in—-& Co.’s, in—-Street?” + +But now before Miss Oldcastle could reply, her mother interposed. + +“Are we charged with shoplifting, Mr Walton? Really, one is not +accustomed to such cross-questioning—except from a lawyer.” + +“Have patience with me for a moment,” I returned. “I am not going to be +mysterious for more than two or three questions. Please tell me whether +you were in that shop or not.” + +“I believe we were,” said the mother. + +“Yes, certainly,” said the daughter. + +“Did you buy anything?” + +“No. We—” Miss Oldcastle began. + +“Not a word more,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Come with me at once.” + +“What DO you mean, Mr Walton?” said the mother, with a sort of cold +indignation, while the daughter looked surprised, but said nothing. + +“I beg your pardon for my impetuosity; but much is in your power at +this moment. The son of one of my parishioners has come home in +trouble. His father, Thomas Weir—” + +“Ah!” said Mrs Oldcastle, in a tone considerably at strife with +refinement. But I took no notice. + +“His father will not believe his story. The lad thinks you were the +ladies in serving whom he got into trouble. I am so confident he tells +the truth, that I want Miss Oldcastle to be so kind as to accompany me +to Weir’s house—” + +“Really, Mr Walton, I am astonished at your making such a request!” +exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle, with suitable emphasis on every salient +syllable, while her white face flushed with anger. “To ask Miss +Oldcastle to accompany you to the dwelling of the ringleader of all the +canaille of the neighbourhood!” + +“It is for the sake of justice,” I interposed. + +“That is no concern of ours. Let them fight it out between them, I am +sure any trouble that comes of it is no more than they all deserve. A +low family—men and women of them.” + +“I assure you, I think very differently.” + +“I daresay you do.” + +“But neither your opinion nor mine has anything to do with the matter.” + +Here I turned to Miss Oldcastle and went on— + +“It is a chance which seldom occurs in one’s life, Miss Oldcastle—a +chance of setting wrong right by a word; and as a minister of the +gospel of truth and love, I beg you to assist me with your presence to +that end.” + +I would have spoken more strongly, but I knew that her word given to me +would be enough without her presence. At the same time, I felt not only +that there would be a propriety in her taking a personal interest in +the matter, but that it would do her good, and tend to create a favour +towards each other in some of my flock between whom at present there +seemed to be nothing in common. + +But at my last words, Mrs Oldcastle rose to her feet no longer red—now +whiter than her usual whiteness with passion. + +“You dare to persist! You take advantage of your profession to persist +in dragging my daughter into a vile dispute between mechanics of the +lowest class—against the positive command of her only parent! Have you +no respect for her position in society?—for her sex? MISTER WALTON, you +act in a manner unworthy of your cloth.” + +I had stood looking in her eyes with as much self-possession as I could +muster. And I believe I should have borne it all quietly, but for that +last word. + +If there is one epithet I hate more than another, it is that execrable +word CLOTH—used for the office of a clergyman. I have no time to set +forth its offence now. If my reader cannot feel it, I do not care to +make him feel it. Only I am sorry to say it overcame my temper. + +“Madam,” I said, “I owe nothing to my tailor. But I owe God my whole +being, and my neighbour all I can do for him. ‘He that loveth not his +brother is a murderer,’ or murderess, as the case may be.” + +At that word MURDERESS, her face became livid, and she turned away +without reply. By this time her daughter was half way to the house. She +followed her. And here was I left to go home, with the full knowledge +that, partly from trying to gain too much, and partly from losing my +temper, I had at best but a mangled and unsatisfactory testimony to +carry back to Thomas Weir. Of course I walked away—round the end of the +house and down the avenue; and the farther I went the more mortified I +grew. It was not merely the shame of losing my temper, though that was +a shame—and with a woman too, merely because she used a common +epithet!—but I saw that it must appear very strange to the carpenter +that I was not able to give a more explicit account of some sort, what +I had learned not being in the least decisive in the matter. It only +amounted to this, that Mrs and Miss Oldcastle were in the shop on the +very day on which Weir was dismissed. It proved that so much of what he +had told me was correct—nothing more. And if I tried to better the +matter by explaining how I had offended them, would it not deepen the +very hatred I had hoped to overcome? In fact, I stood convicted before +the tribunal of my own conscience of having lost all the certain good +of my attempt, in part at least from the foolish desire to produce a +conviction OF Weir rather than IN Weir, which should be triumphant +after a melodramatic fashion, and—must I confess it?—should PUNISH him +for not believing in his son when _I_ did; forgetting in my miserable +selfishness that not to believe in his son was an unspeakably worse +punishment in itself than any conviction or consequent shame brought +about by the most overwhelming of stage-effects. I assure my reader, I +felt humiliated. + +Now I think humiliation is a very different condition of mind from +humility. Humiliation no man can desire: it is shame and torture. +Humility is the true, right condition of humanity—peaceful, divine. And +yet a man may gladly welcome humiliation when it comes, if he finds +that with fierce shock and rude revulsion it has turned him right +round, with his face away from pride, whither he was travelling, and +towards humility, however far away upon the horizon’s verge she may sit +waiting for him. To me, however, there came a gentle and not therefore +less effective dissolution of the bonds both of pride and humiliation; +and before Weir and I met, I was nearly as anxious to heal his wounded +spirit, as I was to work justice for his son. + +I was walking slowly, with burning cheek and downcast eyes, the one of +conflict, the other of shame and defeat, away from the great house, +which seemed to be staring after me down the avenue with all its +window-eyes, when suddenly my deliverance came. At a somewhat sharp +turn, where the avenue changed into a winding road, Miss Oldcastle +stood waiting for me, the glow of haste upon her cheek, and the +firmness of resolution upon her lips. Once more I was startled by her +sudden presence, but she did not smile. + +“Mr Walton, what do you want me to do? I would not willing refuse, if +it is, as you say, really my duty to go with you.” + +“I cannot be positive about that,” I answered. “I think I put it too +strongly. But it would be a considerable advantage, I think, if you +WOULD go with me and let me ask you a few questions in the presence of +Thomas Weir. It will have more effect if I am able to tell him that I +have only learned as yet that you were in the shop on that day, and +refer him to you for the rest.” + +“I will go.” + +“A thousand thanks. But how did you manage to—?” + +Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the question. + +“You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding mamma’s objection to my +going?” + +“I confess I am. I should not have been surprised at Judy’s doing so, +now.” + +She was silent for a moment. + +“Do you think obedience to parents is to last for ever? The honour is, +of course. But I am surely old enough to be right in following my +conscience at least.” + +“You mistake me. That is not the difficulty at all. Of course you ought +to do what is right against the highest authority on earth, which I +take to be just the parental. What I am surprised at is your courage.” + +“Not because of its degree, only that it is mine!” + +And she sighed.—She was quite right, and I did not know what to answer. +But she resumed. + +“I know I am cowardly. But if I cannot dare, I can bear. Is it not +strange?—With my mother looking at me, I dare not say a word, dare +hardly move against her will. And it is not always a good will. I +cannot honour my mother as I would. But the moment her eyes are off me, +I can do anything, knowing the consequences perfectly, and just as +regardless of them; for, as I tell you, Mr Walton, I can endure; and +you do not know what that might COME to mean with my mother. Once she +kept me shut up in my room, and sent me only bread and water, for a +whole week to the very hour. Not that I minded that much, but it will +let you know a little of my position in my own home. That is why I +walked away before her. I saw what was coming.” + +And Miss Oldcastle drew herself up with more expression of pride than I +had yet seen in her, revealing to me that perhaps I had hitherto quite +misunderstood the source of her apparent haughtiness. I could not reply +for indignation. My silence must have been the cause of what she said +next. + +“Ah! you think I have no right to speak so about my own mother! Well! +well! But indeed I would not have done so a month ago.” + +“If I am silent, Miss Oldcastle, it is that my sympathy is too strong +for me. There are mothers and mothers. And for a mother not to be a +mother is too dreadful.” + +She made no reply. I resumed. + +“It will seem cruel, perhaps;—certainly in saying it, I lay myself open +to the rejoinder that talk is SO easy;—still I shall feel more honest +when I have said it: the only thing I feel should be altered in your +conduct—forgive me—is that you should DARE your mother. Do not think, +for it is an unfortunate phrase, that my meaning is a vulgar one. If it +were, I should at least know better than to utter it to you. What I +mean is, that you ought to be able to be and do the same before your +mother’s eyes, that you are and do when she is out of sight. I mean +that you should look in your mother’s eyes, and do what is RIGHT.” + +“I KNOW that—know it WELL.” (She emphasized the words as I do.) “But +you do not know what a spell she casts upon me; how impossible it is to +do as you say.” + +“Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not. You will never be free till you +do so.” + +“You are too hard upon me. Besides, though you will scarcely be able to +believe it now, I DO honour her, and cannot help feeling that by doing +as I do, I avoid irreverence, impertinence, rudeness—whichever is the +right word for what I mean.” + +“I understand you perfectly. But the truth is more than propriety of +behaviour, even to a parent; and indeed has in it a deeper reverence, +or the germ of it at least, than any adherence to the mere code of +respect. If you once did as I want you to do, you would find that in +reality you both revered and loved your mother more than you do now.” + +“You may be right. But I am certain you speak without any real idea of +the difficulty.” + +“That may be. And yet what I say remains just as true.” + +“How could I meet VIOLENCE, for instance?” + +“Impossible!” + +She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some minutes. At length +she said, + +“My mother’s self-will amounts to madness, I do believe. I have yet to +learn where she would stop of herself.” + +“All self-will is madness,” I returned—stupidly enough For what is the +use of making general remarks when you have a terrible concrete before +you? “To want one’s own way just and only because it is one’s own way +is the height of madness.” + +“Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered as if it were sense, +it makes it no easier to know that it is madness.” + +“Does your uncle give you no help?” + +“He! Poor man! He is as frightened at her as I am. He dares not even go +away. He did not know what he was coming to when he came to Oldcastle +Hall. Dear uncle! I owe him a great deal. But for any help of that +sort, he is of no more use than a child. I believe mamma looks upon him +as half an idiot. He can do anything or everything but help one to +live, to BE anything. Oh me! I AM so tired!” + +And the PROUD lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not incorrectly, +burst out crying. + +What was I to do? I did not know in the least. What I said, I do not +even now know. But by this time we were at the gate, and as soon as we +had passed the guardian monstrosities, we found the open road an +effectual antidote to tears. When we came within sight of the old house +where Weir lived, Miss Oldcastle became again a little curious as to +what I required of her. + +“Trust me,” I said. “There is nothing mysterious about it. Only I +prefer the truth to come out fresh in the ears of the man most +concerned.” + +“I do trust you,” she answered. And we knocked at the house-door. + +Thomas Weir himself opened the door, with a candle in his hand. He +looked very much astonished to see his lady-visitor. He asked us, +politely enough, to walk up-stairs, and ushered us into the large room +I have already described. There sat the old man, as I had first seen +him, by the side of the fire. He received us with more than +politeness—with courtesy; and I could not help glancing at Miss +Oldcastle to see what impression this family of “low, free-thinking +republicans” made upon her. It was easy to discover that the impression +was of favourable surprise. But I was as much surprised at her +behaviour as she was at theirs. Not a haughty tone was to be heard in +her voice; not a haughty movement to be seen in her form. She accepted +the chair offered her, and sat down, perfectly at home, by the +fireside, only that she turned towards me, waiting for what explanation +I might think proper to give. + +Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir broke the silence. + +“I’ve been telling Tom, sir, as I’ve told him many a time afore, as how +he’s a deal too hard with his children.” + +“Father!” interrupted Thomas, angrily. + +“Have patience a bit, my boy,” persisted the old man, turning again +towards me.—“Now, sir, he won’t even hear young Tom’s side of the +story; and I say that boy won’t tell him no lie if he’s the same boy he +went away.” + +“I tell you, father,” again began Thomas; but this time I interposed, +to prevent useless talk beforehand. + +“Thomas,” I said, “listen to me. I have heard your son’s side of the +story. Because of something he said I went to Miss Oldcastle, and asked +her whether she was in his late master’s shop last Thursday. That is +all I have asked her, and all she has told me is that she was. I know +no more than you what she is going to reply to my questions now, but I +have no doubt her answers will correspond to your son’s story.” + +I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose answers amounted to +this:—That they had wanted to buy a shawl; that they had seen none good +enough; that they had left the shop without buying anything; and that +they had been waited upon by a young man, who, while perfectly polite +and attentive to their wants, did not seem to have the ways or manners +of a London shop-lad. + +I then told them the story as young Tom had related it to me, and asked +if his sister was not in the house and might not go to fetch him. But +she was with her sister Catherine. + +“I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I ought to go home now,” +said Miss Oldcastle. + +“Certainly,” I answered. “I will take you home at once. I am greatly +obliged to you for coming.” + +“Indeed, sir,” said the old man, rising with difficulty, “we’re obliged +both to you and the lady more than we can tell. To take such a deal of +trouble for us! But you see, sir, you’re one of them as thinks a man’s +got his duty to do one way or another, whether he be clergyman or +carpenter. God bless you, Miss. You’re of the right sort, which you’ll +excuse an old man, Miss, as’ll never see ye again till ye’ve got the +wings as ye ought to have.” + +Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly, and answered nothing, but shook +hands with them both, and bade them good-night. Weir could not speak a +word; he could hardly even lift his eyes. But a red spot glowed on each +of his pale cheeks, making him look very like his daughter Catherine, +and I could see Miss Oldcastle wince and grow red too with the grip he +gave her hand. But she smiled again none the less sweetly. + +“I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to my house and bring +the boy with me,” I said, as we left. + +It was some time before either of us spoke. The sun was setting, the +sky the earth and the air lovely with rosy light, and the world full of +that peculiar calm which belongs to the evening of the day of rest. +Surely the world ought to wake better on the morrow. + +“Not very dangerous people, those, Miss Oldcastle?” I said, at last. + +“I thank you very much for taking me to see them,” she returned, +cordially. + +“You won’t believe all you may happen to hear against the working +people now?” + +“I never did.” + +“There are ill-conditioned, cross-grained, low-minded, selfish, +unbelieving people amongst them. God knows it. But there are ladies and +gentlemen amongst them too.” + +“That old man is a gentleman.” + +“He is. And the only way to teach them all to be such, is to be such to +them. The man who does not show himself a gentleman to the working +people—why should I call them the poor? some of them are better off +than many of the rich, for they can pay their debts, and do it—” + +I had forgot the beginning of my sentence. + +“You were saying that the man who does not show himself a gentleman to +the poor—” + +“Is no gentleman at all—only a gentle without the man; and if you +consult my namesake old Izaak, you will find what that is.” + +“I will look. I know your way now. You won’t tell me anything I can +find out for myself.” + +“Is it not the best way?” + +“Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much more than you look +for.” + +“Certainly that has been my own experience.” + +“Are you a descendant of Izaak Walton?” + +“No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have so much of his spirit +that I can do two things like him.” + +“Tell me.” + +“Live in the country, though I was not brought up in it; and know a +good man when I see him.” + +“I am very glad you asked me to go to-night.” + +“If people only knew their own brothers and sisters, the kingdom of +heaven would not be far off.” + +I do not think Miss Oldcastle quite liked this, for she was silent +thereafter; though I allow that her silence was not conclusive. And we +had now come close to the house. + +“I wish I could help you,” I said. + +“In what?” + +“To bear what I fear is waiting you.” + +“I told you I was equal to that. It is where we are unequal that we +want help. You may have to give it me some day—who knows?” + +I left her most unwillingly in the porch, just as Sarah (the white +wolf) had her hand on the door, rejoicing in my heart, however, over +her last words. + +My reader will not be surprised, after all this, if, before I get very +much further with my story, I have to confess that I loved Miss +Oldcastle. + +When young Tom and I entered the room, his grandfather rose and +tottered to meet him. His father made one step towards him and then +hesitated. Of all conditions of the human mind, that of being ashamed +of himself must have been the strangest to Thomas Weir. The man had +never in his life, I believe, done anything mean or dishonest, and +therefore he had had less frequent opportunities than most people of +being ashamed of himself. Hence his fall had been from another +pinnacle—that of pride. When a man thinks it such a fine thing to have +done right, he might almost as well have done wrong, for it shows he +considers right something EXTRA, not absolutely essential to human +existence, not the life of a man. I call it Thomas Weir’s fall; for +surely to behave in an unfatherly manner to both daughter and son—the +one sinful, and therefore needing the more tenderness—the other +innocent, and therefore claiming justification—and to do so from pride, +and hurt pride, was fall enough in one history, worse a great deal than +many sins that go by harder names; for the world’s judgment of wrong +does not exactly correspond with the reality. And now if he was humbled +in the one instance, there would be room to hope he might become humble +in the other. But I had soon to see that, for a time, his pride, driven +from its entrenchment against his son, only retreated, with all its +forces, into the other against his daughter. + +Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far that he held out +his hand and said:— + +“Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones.” + +But I stepped between. + +“Thomas Weir,” I said, “I have too great a regard for you—and you know +I dare not flatter you—to let you off this way, or rather leave you to +think you have done your duty when you have not done the half of it. +You have done your son a wrong, a great wrong. How can you claim to be +a gentleman—I say nothing of being a Christian, for therein you make no +claim—how, I say, can you claim to act like a gentleman, if, having +done a man wrong—his being your own son has nothing to do with the +matter one way or other, except that it ought to make you see your duty +more easily—having done him wrong, why don’t you beg his pardon, I say, +like a man?” + +He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped hurriedly forward, and +catching his father’s hand in both of his, cried out: + +“My father shan’t beg my pardon. I beg yours, father, for everything I +ever did to displease you, but I WASN’T to blame in this. I wasn’t, +indeed.” + +“Tom, I beg your pardon,” said the hard man, overcome at last. “And +now, sir,” he added, turning to me, “will you let by-gones be by-gones +between my boy and me?” + +There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone. + +“With all my heart,” I replied. “But I want just a word with you in the +shop before I go.” + +“Certainly,” he answered, stiffly; and I bade the old and the young man +good night, and followed him down stairs. + +“Thomas, my friend,” I said, when we got into the shop, laying my hand +on his shoulder, “will you after this say that God has dealt hardly +with you? There’s a son for any man God ever made to give thanks for on +his knees! Thomas, you have a strong sense of fair play in your heart, +and you GIVE fair play neither to your own son nor yet to God himself. +You close your doors and brood over your own miseries, and the wrongs +people have done you; whereas, if you would but open those doors, you +might come out into the light of God’s truth, and see that His heart is +as clear as sunlight towards you. You won’t believe this, and therefore +naturally you can’t quite believe that there is a God at all; for, +indeed, a being that was not all light would be no God at all. If you +would but let Him teach you, you would find your perplexities melt away +like the snow in spring, till you could hardly believe you had ever +felt them. No arguing will convince you of a God; but let Him once come +in, and all argument will be tenfold useless to convince you that there +is no God. Give God justice. Try Him as I have said.—Good night.” + +He did not return my farewell with a single word. But the grasp of his +strong rough hand was more earnest and loving even than usual. I could +not see his face, for it was almost dark; but, indeed, I felt that it +was better I could not see it. + +I went home as peaceful in my heart as the night whose curtains God had +drawn about the earth that it might sleep till the morrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +MY PUPIL. + + +Although I do happen to know how Miss Oldcastle fared that night after +I left her, the painful record is not essential to my story. Besides, I +have hitherto recorded only those things “quorum pars magna”—or minima, +as the case may be—“fui.” There is one exception, old Weir’s story, for +the introduction of which my reader cannot yet see the artistic reason. +For whether a story be real in fact, or only real in meaning, there +must always be an idea, or artistic model in the brain, after which it +is fashioned: in the latter case one of invention, in the former case +one of choice. + +In the middle of the following week I was returning from a visit I had +paid to Tomkins and his wife, when I met, in the only street of the +village, my good and honoured friend Dr Duncan. Of course I saw him +often—and I beg my reader to remember that this is no diary, but only a +gathering together of some of the more remarkable facts of my history, +admitting of being ideally grouped—but this time I recall distinctly +because the interview bore upon many things. + +“Well, Dr Duncan,” I said, “busy as usual fighting the devil.” + +“Ah, my dear Mr Walton,” returned the doctor—and a kind word from him +went a long way into my heart—“I know what you mean. You fight the +devil from the inside, and I fight him from the outside. My chance is a +poor one.” + +“It would be, perhaps, if you were confined to outside remedies. But +what an opportunity your profession gives you of attacking the enemy +from the inside as well! And you have this advantage over us, that no +man can say it belongs to your profession to say such things, and +THEREFORE disregard them.” + +“Ah, Mr Walton, I have too great a respect for your profession to dare +to interfere with it. The doctor in ‘Macbeth,’ you know, could + +‘not minister to a mind diseased, +Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, +Raze out the written troubles of the brain, +And with some sweet oblivious antidote +Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff +Which weighs upon the heart.’” + + +“What a memory you have! But you don’t think I can do that any more +than you?” + +“You know the best medicine to give, anyhow. I wish I always did. But +you see we have no _theriaca_ now.” + +“Well, we have. For the Lord says, ‘Come unto me, and I will give you +rest.’” + +“There! I told you! That will meet all diseases.” + +“Strangely now, there comes into my mind a line of Chaucer, with which +I will make a small return for your quotation from Shakespeare; you +have mentioned theriaca; and I, without thinking of this line, quoted +our Lord’s words. Chaucer brings the two together, for the word triacle +is merely a corruption of theriaca, the unfailing cure for every thing. + +‘Crist, which that is to every harm triacle.’” + + +“That is delightful: I thank you. And that is in Chaucer?” + +“Yes. In the Man-of-Law’s Tale.” + +“Shall I tell you how I was able to quote so correctly from +Shakespeare? I have just come from referring to the passage. And I +mention that because I want to tell you what made me think of the +passage. I had been to see poor Catherine Weir. I think she is not long +for this world. She has a bad cough, and I fear her lungs are going.” + +“I am concerned to hear that. I considered her very delicate, and am +not surprised. But I wish, I do wish, I had got a little hold of her +before, that I might be of some use to her now. Is she in immediate +danger, do you think?” + +“No. I do not think so. But I have no expectation of her recovery. Very +likely she will just live through the winter and die in the spring. +Those patients so often go as the flowers come! All her coughing, poor +woman, will not cleanse her stuffed bosom. The perilous stuff weighs on +her heart, as Shakespeare says, as well as on her lungs.” + +“Ah, dear! What is it, doctor, that weighs upon her heart? Is it shame, +or what is it? for she is so uncommunicative that I hardly know +anything at all about her yet.” + +“I cannot tell. She has the faculty of silence.” + +“But do not think I complain that she has not made me her confessor. I +only mean that if she would talk at all, one would have a chance of +knowing something of the state of her mind, and so might give her some +help.” + +“Perhaps she will break down all at once, and open her mind to you. I +have not told her she is dying. I think a medical man ought at least to +be quite sure before he dares to say such a thing. I have known a long +life injured, to human view at least, by the medical verdict in youth +of ever imminent death.” + +“Certainly one has no right to say what God is going to do with any one +till he knows it beyond a doubt. Illness has its own peculiar mission, +independent of any association with coming death, and may often work +better when mingled with the hope of life. I mean we must take care of +presumption when we measure God’s plans by our theories. But could you +not suggest something, Doctor Duncan, to guide me in trying to do my +duty by her?” + +“I cannot. You see you don’t know what she is THINKING; and till you +know that, I presume you will agree with me that all is an aim in the +dark. How can I prescribe, without SOME diagnosis? It is just one of +those few cases in which one would like to have the authority of the +Catholic priests to urge confession with. I do not think anything will +save her life, as we say, but you have taught some of us to think of +the life that belongs to the spirit as THE life; and I do believe +confession would do everything for that.” + +“Yes, if made to God. But I will grant that communication of one’s +sorrows or even sins to a wise brother of mankind may help to a deeper +confession to the Father in heaven. But I have no wish for AUTHORITY in +the matter. Let us see whether the Spirit of God working in her may not +be quite as powerful for a final illumination of her being as the fiat +confessio of a priest. I have no confidence in FORCING in the moral or +spiritual garden. A hothouse development must necessarily be a sickly +one, rendering the plant unfit for the normal life of the open air. +Wait. We must not hurry things. She will perhaps come to me of herself +before long. But I will call and inquire after her.” + +We parted; and I went at once to Catherine Weir’s shop. She received me +much as usual, which was hardly to be called receiving at all. Perhaps +there was a doubtful shadow, not of more cordiality, but of less +repulsion in it. Her eyes were full of a stony brilliance, and the +flame of the fire that was consuming her glowed upon her cheeks more +brightly, I thought, than ever; but that might be fancy, occasioned by +what the doctor had said about her. Her hand trembled, but her +demeanour was perfectly calm. + +“I am sorry to hear you are complaining, Miss Weir,” I said. + +“I suppose Dr Duncan told you so, sir. But I am quite well. I did not +send for him. He called of himself, and wanted to persuade me I was +ill.” + +I understood that she felt injured by his interference. + +“You should attend to his advice, though. He is a prudent man, and not +in the least given to alarming people without cause.” + +She returned no answer. So I tried another subject. + +“What a fine fellow your brother is!” + +“Yes; he grows very much.” + +“Has your father found another place for him yet?” + +“I don’t know. My father never tells me about any of his doings.” + +“But don’t you go and talk to him, sometimes?” + +“No. He does not care to see me.” + +“I am going there now: will you come with me?” + +“Thank you. I never go where I am not wanted.” + +“But it is not right that father and daughter should live as you do. +Suppose he may not have been so kind to you as he ought, you should not +cherish resentment against him for it. That only makes matters worse, +you know.” + +“I never said to human being that he had been unkind to me.” + +“And yet you let every person in the village know it.” + +“How?” + +Her eye had no longer the stony glitter. It flashed now. + +“You are never seen together. You scarcely speak when you meet. Neither +of you crosses the other’s threshold.” + +“It is not my fault.” + +“It is not ALL your fault, I know. But do you think you can go to a +heaven at last where you will be able to keep apart from each other, he +in his house and you in your house, without any sign that it was +through this father on earth that you were born into the world which +the Father in heaven redeemed by the gift of His own Son?” + +She was silent; and, after a pause, I went on. + +“I believe, in my heart, that you love your father. I could not believe +otherwise of you. And you will never be happy till you have made it up +with him. Have you done him no wrong?” + +At these words, her face turned white—with anger, I could see—all but +those spots on her cheek-bones, which shone out in dreadful contrast to +the deathly paleness of the rest of her face. Then the returning blood +surged violently from her heart, and the red spots were lost in one +crimson glow. She opened her lips to speak, but apparently changing her +mind, turned and walked haughtily out of the shop and closed the door +behind her. + +I waited, hoping she would recover herself and return; but, after ten +minutes had passed, I thought it better to go away. + +As I had told her, I was going to her father’s shop. + +There I was received very differently. There was a certain softness in +the manner of the carpenter which I had not observed before, with the +same heartiness in the shake of his hand which had accompanied my last +leave-taking. I had purposely allowed ten days to elapse before I +called again, to give time for the unpleasant feelings associated with +my interference to vanish. And now I had something in my mind about +young Tom. + +“Have you got anything for your boy yet, Thomas?” + +“Not yet, sir. There’s time enough. I don’t want to part with him just +yet. There he is, taking his turn at what’s going. Tom!” + +And from the farther end of the large shop, where I had not observed +him, now approached young Tom, in a canvas jacket, looking quite like a +workman. + +“Well, Tom, I am glad to find you can turn your hand to anything.” + +“I must be a stupid, sir, if I couldn’t handle my father’s tools,” +returned the lad. + +“I don’t know that quite. I am not just prepared to admit it for my own +sake. My father is a lawyer, and I never could read a chapter in one of +his books—his tools, you know.” + +“Perhaps you never tried, sir.” + +“Indeed, I did; and no doubt I could have done it if I had made up my +mind to it. But I never felt inclined to finish the page. And that +reminds me why I called to-day. Thomas, I know that lad of yours is +fond of reading. Can you spare him from his work for an hour or so +before breakfast?” + +“To-morrow, sir?” + +“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” I answered; “and there’s +Shakespeare for you.” + +“Of course, sir, whatever you wish,” said Thomas, with a perplexed +look, in which pleasure seemed to long for confirmation, and to be, +till that came, afraid to put its “native semblance on.” + +“I want to give him some direction in his reading. When a man is fond +of any tools, and can use them, it is worth while showing him how to +use them better.” + +“Oh, thank you, sir!” exclaimed Tom, his face beaming with delight. + +“That IS kind of you, sir! Tom, you’re a made man!” cried the father. + +“So,” I went on, “if you will let him come to me for an hour every +morning, till he gets another place, say from eight to nine, I will see +what I can do for him.” + +Tom’s face was as red with delight as his sister’s had been with anger. +And I left the shop somewhat consoled for the pain I had given +Catherine, which grieved me without making me sorry that I had +occasioned it. + +I had intended to try to do something from the father’s side towards a +reconciliation with his daughter. But no sooner had I made up my +proposal for Tom than I saw I had blocked up my own way towards my more +important end. For I could not bear to seem to offer to bribe him even +to allow me to do him good. Nor would he see that it was for his good +and his daughter’s—not at first. The first impression would be that I +had a PROFESSIONAL end to gain, that the reconciling of father and +daughter was a sort of parish business of mine, and that I had smoothed +the way to it by offering a gift—an intellectual one, true, but not, +therefore, the less a gift in the eyes of Thomas, who had a great +respect for books. This was just what would irritate such a man, and I +resolved to say nothing about it, but bide my time. + +When Tom came, I asked him if he had read any of Wordsworth. For I +always give people what I like myself, because that must be wherein I +can best help them. I was anxious, too, to find out what he was capable +of. And for this, anything that has more than a surface meaning will +do. I had no doubt about the lad’s intellect, and now I wanted to see +what there was deeper than the intellect in him. + +He said he had not. + +I therefore chose one of Wordsworth’s sonnets, not one of his best by +any means, but suitable for my purpose—the one entitled, “Composed +during a Storm.” This I gave him to read, telling him to let me know +when he considered that he had mastered the meaning of it, and sat down +to my own studies. I remember I was then reading the Anglo-Saxon +Gospels. I think it was fully half-an-hour before Tom rose and gently +approached my place. I had not been uneasy about the experiment after +ten minutes had passed, and after that time was doubled, I felt certain +of some measure of success. This may possibly puzzle my reader; but I +will explain. It was clear that Tom did not understand the sonnet at +first; and I was not in the least certain that he would come to +understand it by any exertion of his intellect, without further +experience. But what I was delighted to be made sure of was that Tom at +least knew that he did not know. For that is the very next step to +knowing. Indeed, it may be said to be a more valuable gift than the +other, being of general application; for some quick people will +understand many things very easily, but when they come to a thing that +is beyond their present reach, will fancy they see a meaning in it, or +invent one, or even—which is far worse—pronounce it nonsense; and, +indeed, show themselves capable of any device for getting out of the +difficulty, except seeing and confessing to themselves that they are +not able to understand it. Possibly this sonnet might be beyond Tom +now, but, at least, there was great hope that he saw, or believed, that +there must be something beyond him in it. I only hoped that he would +not fall upon some wrong interpretation, seeing he was brooding over it +so long. + +“Well, Tom,” I said, “have you made it out?” + +“I can’t say I have, sir. I’m afraid I’m very stupid, for I’ve tried +hard. I must just ask you to tell me what it means. But I must tell you +one thing, sir: every time I read it over—twenty times, I daresay—I +thought I was lying on my mother’s grave, as I lay that terrible night; +and then at the end there you were standing over me and saying, ‘Can I +do anything to help you?’” + +I was struck with astonishment. For here, in a wonderful manner, I saw +the imagination outrunning the intellect, and manifesting to the heart +what the brain could not yet understand. It indicated undeveloped gifts +of a far higher nature than those belonging to the mere power of +understanding alone. For there was a hidden sympathy of the deepest +kind between the life experience of the lad, and the embodiment of such +life experience on the part of the poet. But he went on: + +“I am sure, sir, I ought to have been at my prayers, then, but I +wasn’t; so I didn’t deserve you to come. But don’t you think God is +sometimes better to us than we deserve?” + +“He is just everything to us, Tom; and we don’t and can’t deserve +anything. Now I will try to explain the sonnet to you.” + +I had always had an impulse to teach; not for the teaching’s sake, for +that, regarded as the attempt to fill skulls with knowledge, had always +been to me a desolate dreariness; but the moment I saw a sign of +hunger, an indication of readiness to receive, I was invariably seized +with a kind of passion for giving. I now proceeded to explain the +sonnet. Having done so, nearly as well as I could, Tom said: + +“It is very strange, sir; but now that I have heard you say what the +poem means, I feel as if I had known it all the time, though I could +not say it.” + +Here at least was no common mind. The reader will not be surprised to +hear that the hour before breakfast extended into two hours after +breakfast as well. Nor did this take up too much of my time, for the +lad was capable of doing a great deal for himself under the sense of +help at hand. His father, so far from making any objection to the +arrangement, was delighted with it. Nor do I believe that the lad did +less work in the shop for it: I learned that he worked regularly till +eight o’clock every night. + +Now the good of the arrangement was this: I had the lad fresh in the +morning, clear-headed, with no mists from the valley of labour to cloud +the heights of understanding. From the exercise of the mind it was a +pleasant and relieving change to turn to bodily exertion. I am certain +that he both thought and worked better, because he both thought and +worked. Every literary man ought to be MECHANICAL (to use a +Shakespearean word) as well. But it would have been quite a different +matter, if he had come to me after the labour of the day. He would not +then have been able to think nearly so well. But LABOUR, SLEEP, +THOUGHT, LABOUR AGAIN, seems to me to be the right order with those +who, earning their bread by the sweat of the brow, would yet remember +that man shall not live by bread alone. Were it possible that our +mechanics could attend the institutions called by their name in the +morning instead of the evening, perhaps we should not find them so +ready to degenerate into places of mere amusement. I am not objecting +to the amusement; only to cease to educate in order to amuse is to +degenerate. Amusement is a good and sacred thing; but it is not on a +par with education; and, indeed, if it does not in any way further the +growth of the higher nature, it cannot be called good at all. + +Having exercised him in the analysis of some of the best portions of +our home literature,—I mean helped him to take them to pieces, that, +putting them together again, he might see what kind of things they +were—for who could understand a new machine, or find out what it was +meant for, without either actually or in his mind taking it to pieces? +(which pieces, however, let me remind my reader, are utterly useless, +except in their relation to the whole)—I resolved to try something +fresh with him. + +At this point I had intended to give my readers a theory of mine about +the teaching and learning of a language; and tell them how I had found +the trial of it succeed in the case of Tom Weir. But I think this would +be too much of a digression from the course of my narrative, and would, +besides, be interesting to those only who had given a good deal of +thought to subjects belonging to education. I will only say, therefore, +that, by the end of three months, my pupil, without knowing any other +Latin author, was able to read any part of the first book of the +AEneid—to read it tolerably in measure, and to enjoy the poetry of +it—and this not without a knowledge of the declensions and +conjugations. As to the syntax, I made the sentences themselves teach +him that. Now I know that, as an end, all this was of no great value; +but as a beginning, it was invaluable, for it made and KEPT him hungry +for more; whereas, in most modes of teaching, the beginnings are such +that without the pressure of circumstances, no boy, especially after an +interval of cessation, will return to them. Such is not Nature’s mode, +for the beginnings with her are as pleasant as the fruition, and that +without being less thorough than they can be. The knowledge a child +gains of the external world is the foundation upon which all his future +philosophy is built. Every discovery he makes is fraught with +pleasure—that is the secret of his progress, and the essence of my +theory: that learning should, in each individual case, as in the first +case, be DISCOVERY—bringing its own pleasure with it. Nor is this to be +confounded with turning study into play. It is upon the moon itself +that the infant speculates, after the moon itself—that he stretches out +his eager hands—to find in after years that he still wants her, but +that in science and poetry he has her a thousand-fold more than if she +had been handed him down to suck. + +So, after all, I have bored my reader with a shadow of my theory, +instead of a description. After all, again, the description would have +plagued him more, and that must be both his and my comfort. + +So through the whole of that summer and the following winter, I went on +teaching Tom Weir. He was a lad of uncommon ability, else he could not +have effected what I say he had within his first three months of Latin, +let my theory be not only perfect in itself, but true as well—true to +human nature, I mean. And his father, though his own book-learning was +but small, had enough of insight to perceive that his son was something +out of the common, and that any possible advantage he might lose by +remaining in Marshmallows was considerably more than counterbalanced by +the instruction he got from the vicar. Hence, I believe, it was that +not a word was said about another situation for Tom. And I was glad of +it; for it seemed to me that the lad had abilities equal to any +profession whatever. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +DR DUNCAN’S STORY. + + +On the next Sunday but one—which was surprising to me when I considered +the manner of our last parting—Catherine Weir was in church, for the +second time since I had come to the place. As it happened, only as +Spenser says— + +“It chanced—eternal God that chance did guide,” + + +—and why I say this, will appear afterwards—I had, in preaching upon, +that is, in endeavouring to enforce the Lord’s Prayer by making them +think about the meaning of the words they were so familiar with, come +to the petition, “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors;” +with which I naturally connected the words of our Lord that follow: +“For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also +forgive you; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will +your Father forgive your trespasses.” I need not tell my reader more of +what I said about this, than that I tried to show that even were it +possible with God to forgive an unforgiving man, the man himself would +not be able to believe for a moment that God did forgive him, and +therefore could get no comfort or help or joy of any kind from the +forgiveness; so essentially does hatred, or revenge, or contempt, or +anything that separates us from man, separate us from God too. To the +loving soul alone does the Father reveal Himself; for love alone can +understand Him. It is the peace-makers who are His children. + +This I said, thinking of no one more than another of my audience. But +as I closed my sermon, I could not help fancying that Mrs Oldcastle +looked at me with more than her usual fierceness. I forgot all about +it, however, for I never seemed to myself to have any hold of, or +relation to, that woman. I know I was wrong in being unable to feel my +relation to her because I disliked her. But not till years after did I +begin to understand how she felt, or recognize in myself a common +humanity with her. A sin of my own made me understand her condition. I +can hardly explain now; I will tell it when the time comes. When I +called upon her next, after the interview last related, she behaved +much as if she had forgotten all about it, which was not likely. + +In the end of the week after the sermon to which I have alluded, I was +passing the Hall-gate on my usual Saturday’s walk, when Judy saw me +from within, as she came out of the lodge. She was with me in a moment. + +“Mr Walton,” she said, “how could you preach at Grannie as you did last +Sunday?” + +“I did not preach at anybody, Judy.” + +“Oh, Mr Walton!” + +“You know I didn’t, Judy. You know that if I had, I would not say I had +not.” + +“Yes, yes; I know that perfectly,” she said, seriously. “But Grannie +thinks you did.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“By her face.” + +“That is all, is it?” + +“You don’t think Grannie would say so?” + +“No. Nor yet that you could know by her face what she was thinking.” + +“Oh! can’t I just? I can read her face—not so well as plain print; but, +let me see, as well as what Uncle Stoddart calls black-letter, at +least. I know she thought you were preaching at her; and her face said, +‘I shan’t forgive YOU, anyhow. I never forgive, and I won’t for all +your preaching.’ That’s what her face said.” + +“I am sure she would not say so, Judy,” I said, really not knowing what +to say. + +“Oh, no; she would not say so. She would say, ‘I always forgive, but I +never forget.’ That’s a favourite saying of hers.” + +“But, Judy, don’t you think it is rather hypocritical of you to say all +this to me about your grandmother when she is so kind to you, and you +seem such good friends with her?” + +She looked up in my face with an expression of surprise. + +“It is all TRUE, Mr Walton,” she said. + +“Perhaps. But you are saying it behind her back.” + +“I will go home and say it to her face directly.” + +She turned to go. + +“No, no, Judy. I did not mean that,” I said, taking her by the arm. + +“I won’t say you told me to do it. I thought there was no harm in +telling you. Grannie is kind to me, and I am kind to her. But Grannie +is afraid of my tongue, and I mean her to be afraid of it. It’s the +only way to keep her in order. Darling Aunt Winnie! it’s all she’s got +to defend her. If you knew how she treats her sometimes, you would be +cross with Grannie yourself, Mr Walton, for all your goodness and your +white surplice.” + +And to my yet greater surprise, the wayward girl burst out crying, and, +breaking away from me, ran through the gate, and out of sight amongst +the trees, without once looking back. + +I pursued my walk, my meditations somewhat discomposed by the recurring +question:—Would she go home and tell her grandmother what she had said +to me? And, if she did, would it not widen the breach upon the opposite +side of which I seemed to see Ethelwyn stand, out of the reach of my +help? + +I walked quickly on to reach a stile by means of which I should soon +leave the little world of Marshmallows quite behind me, and be alone +with nature and my Greek Testament. Hearing the sound of horse-hoofs on +the road from Addicehead, I glanced up from my pocket-book, in which I +had been looking over the thoughts that had at various moments passed +through my mind that week, in order to choose one (or more, if they +would go together) to be brooded over to-day for my people’s spiritual +diet to-morrow—I say I glanced up from my pocket-book, and saw a young +man, that is, if I could call myself young still, of distinguished +appearance, approaching upon a good serviceable hack. He turned into my +road and passed me. He was pale, with a dark moustache, and large dark +eyes; sat his horse well and carelessly; had fine features of the type +commonly considered Grecian, but thin, and expressive chiefly of +conscious weariness. He wore a white hat with crape upon it, white +gloves, and long, military-looking boots. All this I caught as he +passed me; and I remember them, because, looking after him, I saw him +stop at the lodge of the Hall, ring the bell, and then ride through the +gate. I confess I did not quite like this; but I got over the feeling +so far as to be able to turn to my Testament when I had reached and +crossed the stile. + +I came home another way, after one of the most delightful days I had +ever spent. Having reached the river in the course of my wandering, I +came down the side of it towards Old Rogers’s cottage, loitering and +looking, quiet in heart and soul and mind, because I had committed my +cares to Him who careth for us. The earth was round me—I was rooted, as +it were, in it, but the air of a higher life was about me. I was swayed +to and fro by the motions of a spiritual power; feelings and desires +and hopes passed through me, passed away, and returned; and still my +head rose into the truth, and the will of God was the regnant sunlight +upon it. I might change my place and condition; new feelings might come +forth, and old feelings retire into the lonely corners of my being; but +still my heart should be glad and strong in the one changeless thing, +in the truth that maketh free; still my head should rise into the +sunlight of God, and I should know that because He lived I should live +also, and because He was true I should remain true also, nor should any +change pass upon me that should make me mourn the decadence of +humanity. And then I found that I was gazing over the stump of an old +pollard, on which I was leaning, down on a great bed of white +water-lilies, that lay in the broad slow river, here broader and slower +than in most places. The slanting yellow sunlight shone through the +water down to the very roots anchored in the soil, and the water +swathed their stems with coolness and freshness, and a universal sense, +I doubt not, of watery presence and nurture. And there on their lovely +heads, as they lay on the pillow of the water, shone the life-giving +light of the summer sun, filling all the spaces between their outspread +petals of living silver with its sea of radiance, and making them gleam +with the whiteness which was born of them and the sun. And then came a +hand on my shoulder, and, turning, I saw the gray head and the white +smock of my old friend Rogers, and I was glad that he loved me enough +not to be afraid of the parson and the gentleman. + +“I’ve found it, sir, I do think,” he said, his brown furrowed old face +shining with a yet lovelier light than that which shone from the +blossoms of the water-lilies, though, after what I had been thinking +about them, it was no wonder that they seemed both to mean the same +thing,—both to shine in the light of His countenance. + +“Found what, Old Rogers?” I returned, raising myself, and laying my +hand in return on his shoulder. + +“Why He was displeased with the disciples for not knowing—” + +“What He meant about the leaven of the Pharisees,” I interrupted. “Yes, +yes, of course. Tell me then.” + +“I will try, sir. It was all dark to me for days. For it appeared to me +very nat’ral that, seeing they had no bread in the locker, and hearing +tell of leaven which they weren’t to eat, they should think it had +summat to do with their having none of any sort. But He didn’t seem to +think it was right of them to fall into the blunder. For why then? A +man can’t be always right. He may be like myself, a foremast-man with +no schoolin’ but what the winds and the waves puts into him, and I’m +thinkin’ those fishermen the Lord took to so much were something o’ +that sort. ‘How could they help it?’ I said to myself, sir. And from +that I came to ask myself, ‘Could they have helped it?’ If they +couldn’t, He wouldn’t have been vexed with them. Mayhap they ought to +ha’ been able to help it. And all at once, sir, this mornin’, it came +to me. I don’t know how, but it was give to me, anyhow. And I flung +down my rake, and I ran in to the old woman, but she wasn’t in the way, +and so I went back to my work again. But when I saw you, sir, a readin’ +upon the lilies o’ the field, leastways, the lilies o’ the water, I +couldn’t help runnin’ out to tell you. Isn’t it a satisfaction, sir, +when yer dead reckonin’ runs ye right in betwixt the cheeks of the +harbour? I see it all now.” + +“Well, I want to know, old Rogers. I’m not so old as you, and so I MAY +live longer; and every time I read that passage, I should like to be +able to say to myself, ‘Old Rogers gave me this.’” + +“I only hope I’m right, sir. It was just this: their heads was full of +their dinner because they didn’t know where it was to come from. But +they ought to ha’ known where it always come from. If their hearts had +been full of the dinner He gave the five thousand hungry men and women +and children, they wouldn’t have been uncomfortable about not having a +loaf. And so they wouldn’t have been set upon the wrong tack when He +spoke about the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees; and they would +have known in a moment what He meant. And if I hadn’t been too much of +the same sort, I wouldn’t have started saying it was but reasonable to +be in the doldrums because they were at sea with no biscuit in the +locker.” + +“You’re right; you must be right, old Rogers. It’s as plain as +possible,” I cried, rejoiced at the old man’s insight. “Thank you. I’ll +preach about it to-morrow. I thought I had got my sermon in Foxborough +Wood, but I was mistaken: you had got it.” + +But I was mistaken again. I had not got my sermon yet. + +I walked with him to his cottage and left him, after a greeting with +the “old woman.” Passing then through the village, and seeing by the +light of her candle the form of Catherine Weir behind her counter, I +went in. I thought old Rogers’s tobacco must be nearly gone, and I +might safely buy some more. Catherine’s manner was much the same as +usual. But as she was weighing my purchase, she broke out all at once: + +“It’s no use your preaching at me, Mr Walton. I cannot, I WILL not +forgive. I will do anything BUT forgive. And it’s no use.” + +“It is not I that say it, Catherine. It is the Lord himself.” + +I saw no great use in protesting my innocence, yet I thought it better +to add— + +“And I was not preaching AT you. I was preaching to you, as much as to +any one there, and no more.” + +Of this she took no notice, and I resumed: + +“Just think of what HE says; not what I say.” + +“I can’t help it. If He won’t forgive me, I must go without it. I can’t +forgive.” + +I saw that good and evil were fighting in her, and felt that no words +of mine could be of further avail at the moment. The words of our Lord +had laid hold of her; that was enough for this time. Nor dared I ask +her any questions. I had the feeling that it would hurt, not help. All +I could venture to say, was: + +“I won’t trouble you with talk, Catherine. Our Lord wants to talk to +you. It is not for me to interfere. But please to remember, if ever you +think I can serve you in any way, you have only to send for me.” + +She murmured a mechanical thanks, and handed me my parcel. I paid for +it, bade her good night, and left the shop. + +“O Lord,” I said in my heart, as I walked away, “what a labour Thou +hast with us all! Shall we ever, some day, be all, and quite, good like +Thee? Help me. Fill me with Thy light, that my work may all go to bring +about the gladness of Thy kingdom—the holy household of us brothers and +sisters—all Thy children.” + +And now I found that I wanted very much to see my friend Dr Duncan. He +received me with his stately cordiality, and a smile that went farther +than all his words of greeting. + +“Come now, Mr Walton, I am just going to sit down to my dinner, and you +must join me. I think there will be enough for us both. There is, I +believe, a chicken a-piece for us, and we can make up with cheese and a +glass of—would you believe it?—my own father’s port. He was fond of +port—the old man—though I never saw him with one glass more aboard than +the registered tonnage. He always sat light on the water. Ah, dear me! +I’m old myself now.” + +“But what am I to do with Mrs Pearson?” I said. “There’s some +chef-d’oeuvre of hers waiting for me by this time. She always treats me +particularly well on Saturdays and Sundays.” + +“Ah! then, you must not stop with me. You will fare better at home.” + +“But I should much prefer stopping with you. Couldn’t you send a +message for me?” + +“To be sure. My boy will run with it at once.” + +Now, what is the use of writing all this? I do not know. Only that even +a tete-a-tete dinner with an old friend, now that I am an old man +myself, has such a pearly halo about it in the mists of the past, that +every little circumstance connected with it becomes interesting, though +it may be quite unworthy of record. So, kind reader, let it stand. + +We sat down to our dinner, so simple and so well-cooked that it was +just what I liked. I wanted very much to tell my friend what had +occurred in Catherine’s shop, but I would not begin till we were safe +from interruption; and so we chatted away concerning many things, he +telling me about his seafaring life, and I telling him some of the few +remarkable things that had happened to me in the course of my +life-voyage. There is no man but has met with some remarkable things +that other people would like to know, and which would seem stranger to +them than they did at the time to the person to whom they happened. + +At length I brought our conversation round to my interview with +Catherine Weir. + +“Can you understand,” I said, “a woman finding it so hard to forgive +her own father?” + +“Are you sure it is her father?” he returned. + +“Surely she has not this feeling towards more than one. That she has it +towards her father, I know.” + +“I don’t know,” he answered. “I have known resentment preponderate over +every other feeling and passion—in the mind of a woman too. I once +heard of a good woman who cherished this feeling against a good man +because of some distrustful words he had once addressed to herself. She +had lived to a great age, and was expressing to her clergyman her +desire that God would take her away: she had been waiting a long time. +The clergyman—a very shrewd as well as devout man, and not without a +touch of humour, said: ‘Perhaps God doesn’t mean to let you die till +you’ve forgiven Mr—-.’ She was as if struck with a flash of thought, +sat silent during the rest of his visit, and when the clergyman called +the next day, he found Mr —— and her talking together very quietly over +a cup of tea. And she hadn’t long to wait after that, I was told, but +was gathered to her fathers—or went home to her children, whichever is +the better phrase.” + +“I wish I had had your experience, Dr Duncan,” I said. + +“I have not had so much experience as a general practitioner, because I +have been so long at sea. But I am satisfied that until a medical man +knows a good deal more about his patient than most medical men give +themselves the trouble to find out, his prescriptions will partake a +good deal more than is necessary of haphazard.—As to this question of +obstinate resentment, I know one case in which it is the ruling +presence of a woman’s life—the very light that is in her is resentment. +I think her possessed myself. + +“Tell me something about her.” + +“I will. But even to you I will mention no names. Not that I have her +confidence in the least. But I think it is better not. I was called to +attend a lady at a house where I had never yet been.” + +“Was it in—-?” I began, but checked myself. Dr Duncan smiled and went +on without remark. I could see that he told his story with great care, +lest, I thought, he should let anything slip that might give a clue to +the place or people. + +“I was led up into an old-fashioned, richly-furnished room. A great +wood-fire burned on the hearth. The bed was surrounded with heavy dark +curtains, in which the shadowy remains of bright colours were just +visible. In the bed lay one of the loveliest young creatures I had ever +seen. And, one on each side, stood two of the most dreadful-looking +women I had ever beheld. Still as death, while I examined my patient, +they stood, with moveless faces, one as white as the other. Only the +eyes of both of them were alive. One was evidently mistress, and the +other servant. The latter looked more self-contained than the former, +but less determined and possibly more cruel. That both could be unkind +at least, was plain enough. There was trouble and signs of inward +conflict in the eyes of the mistress. The maid gave no sign of any +inside to her at all, but stood watching her mistress. A child’s toy +was lying in a corner of the room.” + +I may here interrupt my friend’s story to tell my reader that I may be +mingling some of my own conclusions with what the good man told me of +his. For he will see well enough already that I had in a moment +attached his description to persons I knew, and, as it turned out, +correctly, though I could not be certain about it till the story had +advanced a little beyond this early stage of its progress. + +“I found the lady very weak and very feverish—a quick feeble pulse, now +bounding, and now intermitting—and a restlessness in her eye which I +felt contained the secret of her disorder. She kept glancing, as if +involuntarily, towards the door, which would not open for all her +looking, and I heard her once murmur to herself—for I was still quick +of hearing then—‘He won’t come!’ Perhaps I only saw her lips move to +those words—I cannot be sure, but I am certain she said them in her +heart. I prescribed for her as far as I could venture, but begged a +word with her mother. She went with me into an adjoining room. + +“‘The lady is longing for something,’ I said, not wishing to be so +definite as I could have been. + +“The mother made no reply. I saw her lips shut yet closer than before. + +“‘She is your daughter, is she not?’ + +“‘Yes,’—very decidedly. + +“‘Could you not find out what she wishes?’ + +“‘Perhaps I could guess.’ + +“‘I do not think I can do her any good till she has what she wants.’ + +“‘Is that your mode of prescribing, doctor?’ she said, tartly. + +“‘Yes, certainly,’ I answered—‘in the present case. Is she married?’ + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘Has she any children?’ + +“‘One daughter.’ + +“‘Let her see her, then.’ + +“‘She does not care to see her.’ + +“‘Where is her husband?’ + +“‘Excuse me, doctor; I did not send for you to ask questions, but to +give advice.’ + +“‘And I came to ask questions, in order that I might give advice. Do +you think a human being is like a clock, that can be taken to pieces, +cleaned, and put together again?’ + +“‘My daughter’s condition is not a fit subject for jesting.’ + +“‘Certainly not. Send for her husband, or the undertaker, whichever you +please,’ I said, forgetting my manners and my temper together, for I +was more irritable then than I am now, and there was something so +repulsive about the woman, that I felt as if I was talking to an evil +creature that for her own ends, though what I could not tell, was +tormenting the dying lady. + +“‘I understood you were a GENTLEMAN—of experience and breeding.’ + +“‘I am not in the question, madam. It is your daughter.’ + +“‘She shall take your prescription.’ + +“‘She must see her husband if it be possible.’ + +“‘It is not possible.’ + +“‘Why?’ + +“‘I say it is not possible, and that is enough. Good morning.’ + +“I could say no more at that time. I called the next day. She was just +the same, only that I knew she wanted to speak to me, and dared not, +because of the presence of the two women. Her troubled eyes seemed +searching mine for pity and help, and I could not tell what to do for +her. There are, indeed, as some one says, strongholds of injustice and +wrong into which no law can enter to help. + +“One afternoon, about a week after my first visit, I was sitting by her +bedside, wondering what could be done to get her out of the clutches of +these tormentors, who were, evidently to me, consuming her in the slow +fire of her own affections, when I heard a faint noise, a rapid foot in +the house so quiet before; heard doors open and shut, then a dull sound +of conflict of some sort. Presently a quick step came up the oak-stair. +The face of my patient flushed, and her eyes gleamed as if her soul +would come out of them. Weak as she was she sat up in bed, almost +without an effort, and the two women darted from the room, one after +the other. + +“‘My husband!’ said the girl—for indeed she was little more in age, +turning her face, almost distorted with eagerness, towards me. + +“‘Yes, my dear,’ I said, ‘I know. But you must be as still as you can, +else you will be very ill. Do keep quiet.’ + +“‘I will, I will,’ she gasped, stuffing her pocket-handkerchief +actually into her mouth to prevent herself from screaming, as if that +was what would hurt her. ‘But go to him. They will murder him.’ + +“That moment I heard a cry, and what sounded like an articulate +imprecation, but both from a woman’s voice; and the next, a young +man—as fine a fellow as I ever saw—dressed like a game-keeper, but +evidently a gentleman, walked into the room with a quietness that +strangely contrasted with the dreadful paleness of his face and with +his disordered hair; while the two women followed, as red as he was +white, and evidently in fierce wrath from a fruitless struggle with the +powerful youth. He walked gently up to his wife, whose outstretched +arms and face followed his face as he came round the bed to where she +was at the other side, till arms, and face, and head, fell into his +embrace. + +“I had gone to the mother. + +“‘Let us have no scene now,’ I said, ‘or her blood will be on your +head.’ + +“She took no notice of what I said, but stood silently glaring, not +gazing, at the pair. I feared an outburst, and had resolved, if it +came, to carry her at once from the room, which I was quite able to do +then, Mr Walton, though I don’t look like it now. But in a moment more +the young man, becoming uneasy at the motionlessness of his wife, +lifted up her head, and glanced in her face. Seeing the look of terror +in his, I hastened to him, and lifting her from him, laid her +down—dead. Disease of the heart, I believe. The mother burst into a +shriek—not of horror, or grief, or remorse, but of deadly hatred. + +“‘Look at your work!’ she cried to him, as he stood gazing in stupor on +the face of the girl. ‘You said she was yours, not mine; take her. You +may have her now you have killed her.’ + +“‘He may have killed her; but you have MURDERED her, madam,’ I said, as +I took the man by the arm, and led him away, yielding like a child. But +the moment I got him out of the house, he gave a groan, and, breaking +away from me, rushed down a road leading from the back of the house +towards the home-farm. I followed, but he had disappeared. I went on; +but before I could reach the farm, I heard the gallop of a horse, and +saw him tearing away at full speed along the London road. I never heard +more of him, or of the story. Some women can be secret enough, I assure +you.” + +I need not follow the rest of our conversation. I could hardly doubt +whose was the story I had heard. It threw a light upon several things +about which I had been perplexed. What a horror of darkness seemed to +hang over that family! What deeds of wickedness! But the reason was +clear: the horror came from within; selfishness, and fierceness of +temper were its source—no unhappy DOOM. The worship of one’s own will +fumes out around the being an atmosphere of evil, an altogether +abnormal condition of the moral firmament, out of which will break the +very flames of hell. The consciousness of birth and of breeding, +instead of stirring up to deeds of gentleness and “high emprise,” +becomes then but an incentive to violence and cruelty; and things which +seem as if they could not happen in a civilized country and a polished +age, are proved as possible as ever where the heart is unloving, the +feelings unrefined, self the centre, and God nowhere in the man or +woman’s vision. The terrible things that one reads in old histories, or +in modern newspapers, were done by human beings, not by demons. + +I did not let my friend know that I knew all that he concealed; but I +may as well tell my reader now, what I could not have told him then. I +know all the story now, and, as no better place will come, as far as I +can see, I will tell it at once, and briefly. + +Dorothy—a wonderful name, THE GIFT OF GOD, to be so treated, faring in +this, however, like many other of God’s gifts—Dorothy Oldcastle was the +eldest daughter of Jeremy and Sibyl Oldcastle, and the sister therefore +of Ethelwyn. Her father, who was an easy-going man, entirely under the +dominion of his wife, died when she was about fifteen, and her mother +sent her to school, with especial recommendation to the care of a +clergyman in the neighbourhood, whom Mrs Oldcastle knew; for, +somehow—and the fact is not so unusual as to justify especial inquiry +here—though she paid no attention to what our Lord or His apostles +said, nor indeed seemed to care to ask herself if what she did was +right, or what she accepted (I cannot say BELIEVED) was true, she had +yet a certain (to me all but incomprehensible) leaning to the clergy. I +think it belongs to the same kind of superstition which many of our own +day are turning to. Offered the Spirit of God for the asking, offered +it by the Lord himself, in the misery of their unbelief they betake +themselves to necromancy instead, and raise the dead to ask their +advice, AND FOLLOW IT, and will find some day that Satan had not +forgotten how to dress like an angel of light. Nay, he can be more +cunning with the demands of the time. We are clever: he will be +cleverer. Why should he dress and not speak like an angel of light? Why +should he not give good advice if that will help to withdraw people by +degrees from regarding the source of all good? He knows well enough +that good advice goes for little, but that what fills the heart and +mind goes for much. What religion is there in being convinced of a +future state? Is that to worship God? It is no more religion than the +belief that the sun will rise to-morrow is religion. It may be a source +of happiness to those who could not believe it before, but it is not +religion. Where religion comes that will certainly be likewise, but the +one is not the other. The devil can afford a kind of conviction of +that. It costs him little. But to believe that the spirits of the +departed are the mediators between God and us is essential paganism—to +call it nothing worse; and a bad enough name too since Christ has come +and we have heard and seen the only-begotten of the Father. Thus the +instinctive desire for the wonderful, the need we have of a revelation +from above us, denied its proper food and nourishment, turns in its +hunger to feed upon garbage. As a devout German says—I do not quote him +quite correctly—“Where God rules not, demons will.” Let us once see +with our spiritual eyes the Wonderful, the Counsellor, and surely we +shall not turn from Him to seek elsewhere the treasures of wisdom and +knowledge. + +Those who sympathize with my feeling in regard to this form of the +materialism of our day, will forgive this divergence. I submit to the +artistic blame of such as do not, and return to my story. + +Dorothy was there three or four years. I said I would be brief. She and +the clergyman’s son fell in love with each other. The mother heard of +it, and sent for her home. She had other views for her. Of course, in +such eyes, a daughter’s FANCY was, irrespective of its object +altogether, a thing to be sneered at. But she found, to her fierce +disdain, that she had not been able to keep all her beloved obstinacy +to herself: she had transmitted a portion of it to her daughter. But in +her it was combined with noble qualities, and, ceasing to be the evil +thing it was in her mother, became an honourable firmness, rendering +her able to withstand her mother’s stormy importunities. Thus Nature +had begun to right herself—the right in the daughter turning to meet +and defy the wrong in the mother, and that in the same strength of +character which the mother had misused for evil and selfish ends. And +thus the bad breed was broken. She was and would be true to her lover. +The consequent SCENES were dreadful. The spirit but not the will of the +girl was all but broken. She felt that she could not sustain the strife +long. By some means, unknown to my informant, her lover contrived to +communicate with her. He had, through means of relations who had great +influence with Government, procured a good appointment in India, +whither he must sail within a month. The end was that she left her +mother’s house. Mr Gladwyn was waiting for her near, and conducted her +to his father’s, who had constantly refused to aid Mrs Oldcastle by +interfering in the matter. They were married next day by the clergyman +of a neighbouring parish. But almost immediately she was taken so ill, +that it was impossible for her to accompany her husband, and she was +compelled to remain behind at the rectory, hoping to join him the +following year. + +Before the time arrived, she gave birth to my little friend Judy; and +her departure was again delayed by a return of her old complaint, +probably the early stages of the disease of which she died. Then, just +as she was about to set sail for India, news arrived that Mr Gladwyn +had had a sunstroke, and would have leave of absence and come home as +soon as he was able to be moved; so that instead of going out to join +him, she must wait for him where she was. His mother had been dead for +some time. His father, an elderly man of indolent habits, was found +dead in his chair one Sunday morning soon after the news had arrived of +the illness of his son, to whom he was deeply attached. And so the poor +young creature was left alone with her child, without money, and in +weak health. The old man left nothing behind him but his furniture and +books. And nothing could be done in arranging his affairs till the +arrival of his son, of whom the last accounts had been that he was +slowly recovering. In the meantime his wife was in want of money, +without a friend to whom she could apply. I presume that one of the few +parishioners who visited at the rectory had written to acquaint Mrs +Oldcastle with the condition in which her daughter was left, for, +influenced by motives of which I dare not take upon me to conjecture an +analysis, she wrote, offering her daughter all that she required in her +old home. Whether she fore-intended her following conduct, or old habit +returned with the return of her daughter, I cannot tell; but she had +not been more than a few days in the house before she began to +tyrannise over her, as in old times, and although Mrs Gladwyn’s health, +now always weak, was evidently failing in consequence, she either did +not see the cause, or could not restrain her evil impulses. At length +the news arrived of Mr Gladwyn’s departure for home. Perhaps then for +the first time the temptation entered her mind to take her revenge upon +him, by making her daughter’s illness a pretext for refusing him +admission to her presence. She told her she should not see him till she +was better, for that it would make her worse; persisted in her +resolution after his arrival; and effected, by the help of Sarah, that +he should not gain admittance to the house, keeping all the doors +locked except one. It was only by the connivance of Ethelwyn, then a +girl about fifteen, that he was admitted by the underground way, of +which she unlocked the upper door for his entrance. She had then guided +him as far as she dared, and directed him the rest of the way to his +wife’s room. + +My reader will now understand how it came about in the process of +writing these my recollections, that I have given such a long chapter +chiefly to that one evening spent with my good friend, Dr Duncan; for +he will see, as I have said, that what he told me opened up a good deal +to me. + +I had very little time for the privacy of the church that night. Dark +as it was, however, I went in before I went home: I had the key of the +vestry-door always in my pocket. I groped my way into the pulpit, and +sat down in the darkness, and thought. Nor did my personal interest in +Dr Duncan’s story make me forget poor Catherine Weir and the terrible +sore in her heart, the sore of unforgivingness. And I saw that of +herself she would not, could not, forgive to all eternity; that all the +pains of hell could not make her forgive, for that it was a divine +glory to forgive, and must come from God. And thinking of Mrs +Oldcastle, I saw that in ourselves we could be sure of no safety, not +from the worst and vilest sins; for who could tell how he might not +stupify himself by degrees, and by one action after another, each a +little worse than the former, till the very fires of Sinai would not +flash into eyes blinded with the incense arising to the golden calf of +his worship? A man may come to worship a devil without knowing it. Only +by being filled with a higher spirit than our own, which, having caused +our spirits, is one with our spirits, and is in them the present life +principle, are we or can we be safe from this eternal death of our +being. This spirit was fighting the evil spirit in Catherine Weir: how +was I to urge her to give ear to the good? If will would but side with +God, the forces of self, deserted by their leader, must soon quit the +field; and the woman—the kingdom within her no longer torn by +conflicting forces—would sit quiet at the feet of the Master, reposing +in that rest which He offered to those who could come to Him. Might she +not be roused to utter one feeble cry to God for help? That would be +one step towards the forgiveness of others. To ask something for +herself would be a great advance in such a proud nature as hers. And to +ask good heartily is the very next step to giving good heartily. + +Many thoughts such as these passed through my mind, chiefly associated +with her. For I could not think how to think about Mrs Oldcastle yet. +And the old church gloomed about me all the time. And I kept lifting up +my heart to the God who had cared to make me, and then drew me to be a +preacher to my fellows, and had surely something to give me to say to +them; for did He not choose so to work by the foolishness of +preaching?—Might not my humble ignorance work His will, though my wrath +could not work His righteousness? And I descended from the pulpit +thinking with myself, “Let Him do as He will. Here I am. I will say +what I see: let Him make it good.” + +And the next morning, I spoke about the words of our Lord: + +“If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, +how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them +that ask Him!” + +And I looked to see. And there Catherine Weir sat, looking me in the +face. + +There likewise sat Mrs Oldcastle, looking me in the face too. + +And Judy sat there, also looking me in the face, as serious as man +could wish grown woman to look. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +THE ORGAN. + + +One little matter I forgot to mention as having been talked about +between Dr Duncan and myself that same evening. I happened to refer to +Old Rogers. + +“What a fine old fellow that is!” said Dr Duncan. + +“Indeed he is,” I answered. “He is a great comfort and help to me. I +don’t think anybody but myself has an idea what there is in that old +man.” + +“The people in the village don’t quite like him, though, I find. He is +too ready to be down upon them when he sees things going amiss. The +fact is, they are afraid of him.” + +“Something as the Jews were afraid of John the Baptist, because he was +an honest man, and spoke not merely his own mind, but the mind of God +in it.” + +“Just so. I believe you’re quite right. Do you know, the other day, +happening to go into Weir’s shop to get him to do a job for me, I found +him and Old Rogers at close quarters in an argument? I could not well +understand the drift of it, not having been present at the beginning, +but I soon saw that, keen as Weir was, and far surpassing Rogers in +correctness of speech, and precision as well, the old sailor carried +too heavy metal for the carpenter. It evidently annoyed Weir; but such +was the good humour of Rogers, that he could not, for very shame, lose +his temper, the old man’s smile again and again compelling a response +on the thin cheeks of the other.” + +“I know how he would talk exactly,” I returned. “He has a kind of +loving banter with him, if you will allow me the expression, that is +irresistible to any man with a heart in his bosom. I am very glad to +hear there is anything like communion begun between them. Weir will get +good from him.” + +“My man-of-all-work is going to leave me. I wonder if the old man would +take his place?” + +“I do not know whether he is fit for it. But of one thing you may be +sure—if Old Rogers does not honestly believe he is fit for it, he will +not take it. And he will tell you why, too.” + +“Of that, however, I think I may be a better judge than he. There is +nothing to which a good sailor cannot turn his hand, whatever he may +think himself. You see, Mr Walton, it is not like a routine trade. +Things are never twice the same at sea. The sailor has a thousand +chances of using his judgment, if he has any to use; and that Old +Rogers has in no common degree. So I should have no fear of him. If he +won’t let me steer him, you must put your hand to the tiller for me.” + +“I will do what I can,” I answered; “for nothing would please me more +than to see him in your service. It would be much better for him, and +his wife too, than living by uncertain jobs as he does now.” + +The result of it all was, that Old Rogers consented to try for a month; +but when the end of the month came, nothing was said on either side, +and the old man remained. And I could see several little new comforts +about the cottage, in consequence of the regularity of his wages. + +Now I must report another occurrence in regular sequence. + +To my surprise, and, I must confess, not a little to my discomposure, +when I rose in the reading-desk on the day after this dinner with Dr +Duncan, I saw that the Hall-pew was full. Miss Oldcastle was there for +the first time, and, by her side, the gentleman whom the day before I +had encountered on horseback. He sat carelessly, easily, +contentedly—indifferently; for, although I never that morning looked up +from my Prayer-book, except involuntarily in the changes of posture, I +could not help seeing that he was always behind the rest of the +congregation, as if he had no idea of what was coming next, or did not +care to conform. Gladly would I, that day, have shunned the necessity +of preaching that was laid upon me. “But,” I said to myself, “shall the +work given me to do fare ill because of the perturbation of my spirit? +No harm is done, though I suffer; but much harm if one tone fails of +its force because I suffer.” I therefore prayed God to help me; and +feeling the right, because I felt the need, of looking to Him for aid, +I cast my care upon Him, kept my thoughts strenuously away from that +which discomposed me, and never turned my eyes towards the Hall-pew +from the moment I entered the pulpit. And partly, I presume, from the +freedom given by the sense of irresponsibility for the result, I being +weak and God strong, I preached, I think, a better sermon than I had +ever preached before. But when I got into the vestry I found that I +could scarcely stand for trembling; and I must have looked ill, for +when my attendant came in he got me a glass of wine without even asking +me if I would have it, although it was not my custom to take any there. +But there was one of my congregation that morning who suffered more +than I did from the presence of one of those who filled the Hall-pew. + +I recovered in a few moments from my weakness, but, altogether +disinclined to face any of my congregation, went out at my vestry-door, +and home through the shrubbery—a path I seldom used, because it had a +separatist look about it. When I got to my study, I threw myself on a +couch, and fell fast asleep. How often in trouble have I had to thank +God for sleep as for one of His best gifts! And how often when I have +awaked refreshed and calm, have I thought of poor Sir Philip Sidney, +who, dying slowly and patiently in the prime of life and health, was +sorely troubled in his mind to know how he had offended God, because, +having prayed earnestly for sleep, no sleep came in answer to his cry! + +I woke just in time for my afternoon service; and the inward peace in +which I found my heart was to myself a marvel and a delight. I felt +almost as if I was walking in a blessed dream come from a world of +serener air than this of ours. I found, after I was already in the +reading-desk, that I was a few minutes early; and while, with bowed +head, I was simply living in the consciousness of the presence of a +supreme quiet, the first low notes of the organ broke upon my stillness +with the sense of a deeper delight. Never before had I felt, as I felt +that afternoon, the triumph of contemplation in Handel’s rendering of +“I know that my Redeemer liveth.” And I felt how through it all ran a +cold silvery quiver of sadness, like the light in the east after the +sun is gone down, which would have been pain, but for the golden glow +of the west, which looks after the light of the world with a patient +waiting.—Before the music ceased, it had crossed my mind that I had +never before heard that organ utter itself in the language of Handel. +But I had no time to think more about it just then, for I rose to read +the words of our Lord, “I will arise and go to my Father.” + +There was no one in the Hall-pew; indeed it was a rare occurrence if +any one was there in the afternoon. + +But for all the quietness of my mind during that evening service, I +felt ill before I went to bed, and awoke in the morning with a +headache, which increased along with other signs of perturbation of the +system, until I thought it better to send for Dr Duncan. I have not yet +got so imbecile as to suppose that a history of the following six weeks +would be interesting to my readers—for during so long did I suffer from +low fever; and more weeks passed during which I was unable to meet my +flock. Thanks to the care of Mr Brownrigg, a clever young man in +priest’s orders, who was living at Addicehead while waiting for a +curacy, kindly undertook my duty for me, and thus relieved me from all +anxiety about supplying my place. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +THE CHURCH-RATE. + + +But I cannot express equal satisfaction in regard to everything that Mr +Brownrigg took upon his own responsibility, as my reader will see. He, +and another farmer, his neighbour, had been so often re-elected +churchwardens, that at last they seemed to have gained a prescriptive +right to the office, and the form of election fell into disuse; so much +so, that after Mr Summer’s death, which took place some year and a half +before I became Vicar of Marshmallows, Mr Brownrigg continued to +exercise the duty in his own single person, and nothing had as yet been +said about the election of a colleague. So little seemed to fall to the +duty of the churchwarden that I regarded the neglect as a trifle, and +was remiss in setting it right. I had, therefore, to suffer, as was +just. Indeed, Mr Brownrigg was not the man to have power in his hands +unchecked. + +I had so far recovered that I was able to rise about noon and go into +my study, though I was very weak, and had not yet been out, when one +morning Mrs Pearson came into the room and said,— + +“Please, sir, here’s young Thomas Weir in a great way about something, +and insisting upon seeing you, if you possibly can.” + +I had as yet seen very few of my friends, except the Doctor, and those +only for two or three minutes; but although I did not feel very fit for +seeing anybody just then, I could not but yield to his desire, +confident there must be a good reason for it, and so told Mrs Pearson +to show him in. + +“Oh, sir, I know you would be vexed if you hadn’t been told,” he +exclaimed, “and I am sure you will not be angry with me for troubling +you.” + +“What is the matter, Tom?” I said. “I assure you I shall not be angry +with you.” + +“There’s Farmer Brownrigg, at this very moment, taking away Mr +Templeton’s table because he won’t pay the church-rate.” + +“What church-rate?” I cried, starting up from the sofa. “I never heard +of a church-rate.” + +Now, before I go farther, it is necessary to explain some things. One +day before I was taken ill, I had had a little talk with Mr Brownrigg +about some repairs of the church which were necessary, and must be done +before another winter. I confess I was rather pleased; for I wanted my +people to feel that the church was their property, and that it was +their privilege, if they could regard it as a blessing to have the +church, to keep it in decent order and repair. So I said, in a +by-the-by way, to my churchwarden, “We must call a vestry before long, +and have this looked to.” Now my predecessor had left everything of the +kind to his churchwardens; and the inhabitants from their side had +likewise left the whole affair to the churchwardens. But Mr Brownrigg, +who, I must say, had taken more pains than might have been expected of +him to make himself acquainted with the legalities of his office, did +not fail to call a vestry, to which, as usual, no one had responded; +whereupon he imposed a rate according to his own unaided judgment. +This, I believe, he did during my illness, with the notion of pleasing +me by the discovery that the repairs had been already effected +according to my mind. Nor did any one of my congregation throw the +least difficulty in the churchwarden’s way.—And now I must refer to +another circumstance in the history of my parish. + +I think I have already alluded to the fact that there were Dissenters +in Marshmallows. There was a little chapel down a lane leading from the +main street of the village, in which there was service three times +every Sunday. People came to it from many parts of the parish, amongst +whom were the families of two or three farmers of substance, while the +village and its neighbourhood contributed a portion of the poorest of +the inhabitants. A year or two before I came, their minister died, and +they had chosen another, a very worthy man, of considerable erudition, +but of extreme views, as I heard, upon insignificant points, and moved +by a great dislike to national churches and episcopacy. This, I say, is +what I had made out about him from what I had heard; and my reader will +very probably be inclined to ask, “But why, with principles such as +yours, should you have only hearsay to go upon? Why did you not make +the honest man’s acquaintance? In such a small place, men should not +keep each other at arm’s length.” And any reader who says so, will say +right. All I have to suggest for myself is simply a certain shyness, +for which I cannot entirely account, but which was partly made up of +fear to intrude, or of being supposed to arrogate to myself the right +of making advances, partly of a dread lest we should not be able to get +on together, and so the attempt should result in something unpleasantly +awkward. I daresay, likewise, that the natural SHELLINESS of the +English had something to do with it. At all events, I had not made his +acquaintance. + +Mr Templeton, then, had refused, as a point of conscience, to pay the +church-rate when the collector went round to demand it; had been +summoned before a magistrate in consequence; had suffered a default; +and, proceedings being pushed from the first in all the pride of Mr +Brownrigg’s legality, had on this very day been visited by the +churchwarden, accompanied by a broker from the neighbouring town of +Addicehead, and at the very time when I was hearing of the fact was +suffering distraint of his goods. The porcine head of the churchwarden +was not on his shoulders by accident, nor without significance. + +But I did not wait to understand all this now. It was enough for me +that Tom bore witness to the fact that at that moment proceedings were +thus driven to extremity. I rang the bell for my boots, and, to the +open-mouthed dismay of Mrs Pearson, left the vicarage leaning on Tom’s +arm. But such was the commotion in my mind, that I had become quite +unconscious of illness or even feebleness. Hurrying on in more terror +than I can well express lest I should be too late, I reached Mr +Templeton’s house just as a small mahogany table was being hoisted into +a spring-cart which stood at the door. Breathless with haste, I was yet +able to call out,— + +“Put that table down directly.” + +At the same moment Mr Brownrigg appeared from within the door. He +approached with the self-satisfied look of a man who has done his duty, +and is proud of it. I think he had not heard me. + +“You see I’m prompt, Mr Walton,” he said. “But, bless my soul, how ill +you look!” + +Without answering him—for I was more angry with him than I ought to +have been—I repeated— + +“Put that table down, I tell you.” + +They did so. + +“Now,” I said, “carry it back into the house.” + +“Why, sir,” interposed Mr Brownrigg, “it’s all right.” + +“Yes,” I said, “as right as the devil would have it.” + +“I assure you, sir, I have done everything according to law.” + +“I’m not so sure of that. I believe I had the right to be chairman at +the vestry-meeting; but, instead of even letting me know, you took +advantage of my illness to hurry on matters to this shameful and wicked +excess.” + +I did the poor man wrong in this, for I believe he had hurried things +really to please me. His face had lengthened considerably by this time, +and its rubicund hue declined. + +“I did not think you would stand upon ceremony about it, sir. You never +seemed to care for business.” + +“If you talk about legality, so will I. Certainly YOU don’t stand upon +ceremony.” + +“I didn’t expect you would turn against your own churchwarden in the +execution of his duty, sir,” he said in an offended tone. “It’s bad +enough to have a meetin’-house in the place, without one’s own parson +siding with t’other parson as won’t pay a lawful church-rate.” + +“I would have paid the church-rate for the whole parish ten times over +before such a thing should have happened. I feel so disgraced, I am +ashamed to look Mr Templeton in the face. Carry that table into the +house again, directly.” + +“It’s my property, now,” interposed the broker. “I’ve bought it of the +churchwarden, and paid for it.” + +I turned to Mr Brownrigg. + +“How much did he give you for it?” I asked. + +“Twenty shillings,” returned he, sulkily, “and it won’t pay expenses.” + +“Twenty shillings!” I exclaimed; “for a table that cost three times as +much at least!—What do you expect to sell it for?” + +“That’s my business,” answered the broker. + +I pulled out my purse, and threw a sovereign and a half on the table, +saying— + +“FIFTY PER CENT. will be, I think, profit enough even on such a +transaction.” + +“I did not offer you the table,” returned the broker. “I am not bound +to sell except I please, and at my own price.” + +“Possibly. But I tell you the whole affair is illegal. And if you carry +away that table, I shall see what the law will do for me. I assure you +I will prosecute you myself. You take up that money, or I will. It will +go to pay counsel, I give you my word, if you do not take it to quench +strife.” + +I stretched out my hand. But the broker was before me. Without another +word, he pocketed the money, jumped into his cart with his man, and +drove off, leaving the churchwarden and the parson standing at the door +of the dissenting minister with his mahogany table on the path between +them. + +“Now, Mr Brownrigg,” I said, “lend me a hand to carry this table in +again.” + +He yielded, not graciously,—that could not be expected,—but in silence. + +“Oh! sir,” interposed young Tom, who had stood by during the dispute, +“let me take it. You’re not able to lift it.” + +“Nonsense! Tom. Keep away,” I said. “It is all the reparation I can +make.” + +And so Mr Brownrigg and I blundered into the little parlour with our +burden—not a great one, but I began to find myself failing. + +Mr Templeton sat in a Windsor chair in the middle of the room. +Evidently the table had been carried away from before him, leaving his +position uncovered. The floor was strewed with the books which had lain +upon it. He sat reading an old folio, as if nothing had happened. But +when we entered he rose. + +He was a man of middle size, about forty, with short black hair and +overhanging bushy eyebrows. His mouth indicated great firmness, not +unmingled with sweetness, and even with humour. He smiled as he rose, +but looked embarrassed, glancing first at the table, then at me, and +then at Mr Brownrigg, as if begging somebody to tell him what to say. +But I did not leave him a moment in this perplexity. + +“Mr Templeton,” I said, quitting the table, and holding out my hand, “I +beg your pardon for myself and my friend here, my churchwarden”—Mr +Brownrigg gave a grunt—“that you should have been annoyed like this. I +have—” + +Mr Templeton interrupted me. + +“I assure you it was a matter of conscience with me,” he said. “On no +other ground—” + +“I know it, I know it,” I said, interrupting him in my turn. “I beg +your pardon; and I have done my best to make amends for it. Offences +must come, you know, Mr Templeton; but I trust I have not incurred the +woe that follows upon them by means of whom they come, for I knew +nothing of it, and indeed was too ill—” + +Here my strength left me altogether, and I sat down. The room began to +whirl round me, and I remember nothing more till I knew that I was +lying on a couch, with Mrs Templeton bathing my forehead, and Mr +Templeton trying to get something into my mouth with a spoon. + +Ashamed to find myself in such circumstances, I tried to rise; but Mr +Templeton, laying his hand on mine, said— + +“My dear sir, add to your kindness this day, by letting my wife and me +minister to you.” + +Now, was not that a courteous speech? He went on— + +“Mr Brownrigg has gone for Dr Duncan, and will be back in a few +moments. I beg you will not exert yourself.” + +I yielded and lay still. Dr Duncan came. His carriage followed, and I +was taken home. Before we started, I said to Mr Brownrigg—for I could +not rest till I had said it— + +“Mr Brownrigg, I spoke in heat when I came up to you, and I am sure I +did you wrong. I am certain you had no improper motive in not making me +acquainted with your proceedings. You meant no harm to me. But you did +very wrong towards Mr Templeton. I will try to show you that when I am +well again; but—” + +“But you mustn’t talk more now,” said Dr Duncan. + +So I shook hands with Mr Brownrigg, and we parted. I fear, from what I +know of my churchwarden, that he went home with the conviction that he +had done perfectly right; and that the parson had made an apology for +interfering with a churchwarden who was doing his best to uphold the +dignity of Church and State. But perhaps I may be doing him wrong +again. + +I went home to a week more of bed, and a lengthened process of +recovery, during which many were the kind inquiries made after me by my +friends, and amongst them by Mr Templeton. + +And here I may as well sketch the result of that strange introduction +to the dissenting minister. + +After I was tolerably well again, I received a friendly letter from him +one day, expostulating with me on the inconsistency of my remaining +within the pale of the ESTABLISHED CHURCH. The gist of the letter lay +in these words:— + +“I confess it perplexes me to understand how to reconcile your +Christian and friendly behaviour to one whom most of your brethren +would consider as much beneath their notice as inferior to them in +social position, with your remaining the minister of a Church in which +such enormities as you employed your private influence to counteract in +my case, are not only possible, but certainly lawful, and recognized by +most of its members as likewise expedient.” + + +To this I replied:— + +“MY DEAR SIR,—I do not like writing letters, especially on subjects of +importance. There are a thousand chances of misunderstanding. Whereas, +in a personal interview, there is a possibility of controversy being +hallowed by communion. Come and dine with me to-morrow, at any hour +convenient to you, and make my apologies to Mrs Templeton for not +inviting her with you, on the ground that we want to have a long talk +with each other without the distracting influence which even her +presence would unavoidably occasion. + + +“I am,” &c. &c. + + +He accepted my invitation at once. During dinner we talked away, not +upon indifferent, but upon the most interesting subjects—connected with +the poor, and parish work, and the influence of the higher upon the +lower classes of society. At length we sat down on opposite sides of +the fire; and as soon as Mrs Pearson had shut the door, I said,— + +“You ask me, Mr Templeton, in your very kind letter—” and here I put my +hand in my pocket to find it. + +“I asked you,” interposed Mr Templeton, “how you could belong to a +Church which authorizes things of which you yourself so heartily +disapprove.” + +“And I answer you,” I returned, “that just to such a Church our Lord +belonged.” + +“I do not quite understand you.” + +“Our Lord belonged to the Jewish Church.” + +“But ours is His Church.” + +“Yes. But principles remain the same. I speak of Him as belonging to a +Church. His conduct would be the same in the same circumstances, +whatever Church He belonged to, because He would always do right. I +want, if you will allow me, to show you the principle upon which He +acted with regard to church-rates.” + +“Certainly. I beg your pardon for interrupting you.” + +“The Pharisees demanded a tribute, which, it is allowed, was for the +support of the temple and its worship. Our Lord did not refuse to +acknowledge their authority, notwithstanding the many ways in which +they had degraded the religious observances of the Jewish Church. He +acknowledged himself a child of the Church, but said that, as a child, +He ought to have been left to contribute as He pleased to the support +of its ordinances, and not to be compelled after such a fashion.” + +“There I have you,” exclaimed Mr Templeton. “He said they were wrong to +make the tribute, or church-rate, if it really was such, compulsory.” + +“I grant it: it is entirely wrong—a very unchristian proceeding. But +our Lord did not therefore desert the Church, as you would have me do. +HE PAID THE MONEY, lest He should offend. And not having it of His own, +He had to ask His Father for it; or, what came to the same thing, make +a servant of His Father, namely, a fish in the sea of Galilee, bring +Him the money. And there I have YOU, Mr Templeton. It is wrong to +compel, and wrong to refuse, the payment of a church-rate. I do not say +equally wrong: it is much worse to compel than to refuse.” + +“You are very generous,” returned Mr Templeton. “May I hope that you +will do me the credit to believe that if I saw clearly that they were +the same thing, I would not hesitate a moment to follow our Lord’s +example.” + +“I believe it perfectly. Therefore, however we may differ, we are in +reality at no strife.” + +“But is there not this difference, that our Lord was, as you say, a +child of the Jewish Church, which was indubitably established by God? +Now, if I cannot conscientiously belong to the so-called English +Church, why should I have to pay church-rate or tribute?” + +“Shall I tell you the argument the English Church might then use? The +Church might say, ‘Then you are a stranger, and no child; therefore, +like the kings of the earth, we MAY take tribute of you.’ So you see it +would come to this, that Dissenters alone should be COMPELLED to pay +church-rates.” + +We both laughed at this pushing of the argument to illegitimate +conclusions. Then I resumed: + +“But the real argument is that not for such faults should we separate +from each other; not for such faults, or any faults, so long as it is +the repository of the truth, should you separate from the Church.” + +“I will yield the point when you can show me the same ground for +believing the Church of England THE NATIONAL CHURCH, appointed such by +God, that I can show you, and you know already, for receiving the +Jewish Church as the appointment of God.” + +“That would involve a long argument, upon which, though I have little +doubt upon the matter myself, I cannot say I am prepared to enter at +this moment. Meantime, I would just ask you whether you are not +sufficiently a child of the Church of England, having received from it +a thousand influences for good, if in no other way, yet through your +fathers, to find it no great hardship, and not very unreasonable, to +pay a trifle to keep in repair one of the tabernacles in which our +forefathers worshipped together, if, as I hope you will allow, in some +imperfect measure God is worshipped, and the truth is preached in it?” + +“Most willingly would I pay the money. I object simply because the rate +is compulsory.” + +“And therein you have our Lord’s example to the contrary.” + +A silence followed; for I had to deal with an honest man, who was +thinking. I resumed:— + +“A thousand difficulties will no doubt come up to be considered in the +matter. Do not suppose I am anxious to convince you. I believe that our +Father, our Elder Brother, and the Spirit that proceedeth from them, is +teaching you, as I believe I too am being taught by the same. Why, +then, should I be anxious to convince you of anything? Will you not in +His good time come to see what He would have you see? I am relieved to +speak my mind, knowing He would have us speak our minds to each other; +but I do not want to proselytize. If you change your mind, you will +probably do so on different grounds from any I give you, on grounds +which show themselves in the course of your own search after the +foundations of truth in regard perhaps to some other question +altogether.” + +Again a silence followed. Then Mr Templeton spoke:— + +“Don’t think I am satisfied,” he said, “because I don’t choose to say +anything more till I have thought about it. I think you are wrong in +your conclusions about the Church, though surely you are right in +thinking we ought to have patience with each other. And now tell me +true, Mr Walton,—I’m a blunt kind of man, descended from an old +Puritan, one of Cromwell’s Ironsides, I believe, and I haven’t been to +a university like you, but I’m no fool either, I hope,—don’t be +offended at my question: wouldn’t you be glad to see me out of your +parish now?” + +I began to speak, but he went on. + +“Don’t you regard me as an interloper now—one who has no right to speak +because he does not belong to the Church?” + +“God forbid!” I answered. “If a word of mine would make you leave my +parish to-morrow, I dare not say it. I do not want to incur the rebuke +of our Lord—for surely the words ‘Forbid him not’ involved some rebuke. +Would it not be a fearful thing that one soul, because of a deed of +mine, should receive a less portion of elevation or comfort in his +journey towards his home? Are there not countless modes of saying the +truth? You have some of them. I hope I have some. People will hear you +who will not hear me. Preach to them in the name and love of God, Mr +Templeton. Speak that you do know and testify that you have seen. You +and I will help each other, in proportion as we serve the Master. I +only say that in separating from us you are in effect, and by your +conduct, saying to us, “Do not preach, for you follow not with us.” I +will not be guilty of the same towards you. Your fathers did the Church +no end of good by leaving it. But it is time to unite now.” + +Once more followed a silence. + +“If people could only meet, and look each other in the face,” said Mr +Templeton at length, “they might find there was not such a gulf between +them as they had fancied.” + +And so we parted. + +Now I do not write all this for the sake of the church-rate question. I +write it to commemorate the spirit in which Mr Templeton met me. For it +is of consequence that two men who love their Master should recognize +each that the other does so, and thereupon, if not before, should cease +to be estranged because of difference of opinion, which surely, +inevitable as offence, does not involve the same denunciation of woe. + +After this Mr Templeton and I found some opportunities of helping each +other. And many a time ere his death we consulted together about things +that befell. Once he came to me about a legal difficulty in connexion +with the deed of trust of his chapel; and although I could not help him +myself, I directed him to such help as was thorough and cost him +nothing. + +I need not say he never became a churchman, or that I never expected he +would. All his memories of a religious childhood, all the sources of +the influences which had refined and elevated him, were surrounded with +other associations than those of the Church and her forms. The Church +was his grandmother, not his mother, and he had not made any +acquaintance with her till comparatively late in life. + +But while I do not say that his intellectual objections to the Church +were less strong than they had been, I am sure that his feelings were +moderated, even changed towards her. And though this may seem of no +consequence to one who loves the Church more than the brotherhood, it +does not seem of little consequence to me who love the Church because +of the brotherhood of which it is the type and the restorer. + +It was long before another church-rate was levied in Marshmallows. And +when the circumstance did take place, no one dreamed of calling on Mr +Templeton for his share in it. But, having heard of it, he called +himself upon the churchwarden—Mr Brownrigg still—and offered the money +cheerfully. AND MR BROWRIGG REFUSED TO TAKE IT TILL HE HAD CONSULTED +ME! I told him to call on Mr Templeton, and say he would be much +obliged to him for his contribution, and give him a receipt for it. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +JUDY’S NEWS. + + +Perhaps my reader may be sufficiently interested in the person, who, +having once begun to tell his story, may possibly have allowed his +feelings, in concert with the comfortable confidence afforded by the +mask of namelessness, to run away with his pen, and so have babbled of +himself more than he ought—may be sufficiently interested, I say, in my +mental condition, to cast a speculative thought upon the state of my +mind, during my illness, with regard to Miss Oldcastle and the stranger +who was her mother’s guest at the Hall. Possibly, being by nature +gifted, as I have certainly discovered, with more of hope than is +usually mingled with the other elements composing the temperament of +humanity, I did not suffer quite so much as some would have suffered +during such an illness. But I have reason to fear that when I was +light-headed from fever, which was a not uncommon occurrence, +especially in the early mornings during the worst of my illness—when +Mrs Pearson had to sit up with me, and sometimes an old woman of the +village who was generally called in upon such occasions—I may have +talked a good deal of nonsense about Miss Oldcastle. For I remember +that I was haunted with visions of magnificent conventual ruins which I +had discovered, and which, no one seeming to care about them but +myself, I was left to wander through at my own lonely will. Would I +could see with the waking eye such a grandeur of Gothic arches and +“long-drawn aisles” as then arose upon my sick sense! Within was a +labyrinth of passages in the walls, and “long-sounding corridors,” and +sudden galleries, whence I looked down into the great church aching +with silence. Through these I was ever wandering, ever discovering new +rooms, new galleries, new marvels of architecture; ever disappointed +and ever dissatisfied, because I knew that in one room somewhere in the +forgotten mysteries of the pile sat Ethelwyn reading, never lifting +those sea-blue eyes of hers from the great volume on her knee, reading +every word, slowly turning leaf after leaf; knew that she would sit +there reading, till, one by one, every leaf in the huge volume was +turned, and she came to the last and read it from top to bottom—down to +the finis and the urn with a weeping willow over it; when she would +close the book with a sigh, lay it down on the floor, rise and walk +slowly away, and leave the glorious ruin dead to me as it had so long +been to every one else; knew that if I did not find her before that +terrible last page was read, I should never find her at all; but have +to go wandering alone all my life through those dreary galleries and +corridors, with one hope only left—that I might yet before I died find +the “palace-chamber far apart,” and see the read and forsaken volume +lying on the floor where she had left it, and the chair beside it upon +which she had sat so long waiting for some one in vain. + +And perhaps to words spoken under these impressions may partly be +attributed the fact, which I knew nothing of till long afterwards, that +the people of the village began to couple my name with that of Miss +Oldcastle. + +When all this vanished from me in the returning wave of health that +spread through my weary brain, I was yet left anxious and thoughtful. +There was no one from whom I could ask any information about the family +at the Hall, so that I was just driven to the best thing—to try to cast +my care upon Him who cared for my care. How often do we look upon God +as our last and feeblest resource! We go to Him because we have nowhere +else to go. And then we learn that the storms of life have driven us, +not upon the rocks, but into the desired haven; that we have been +compelled, as to the last remaining, so to the best, the only, the +central help, the causing cause of all the helps to which we had turned +aside as nearer and better. + +One day when, having considerably recovered from my second attack, I +was sitting reading in my study, who should be announced but my friend +Judy! + +“Oh, dear Mr Walton, I am so sorry you have been so ill!” exclaimed the +impulsive girl, taking my hand in both of hers, and sitting down beside +me. “I haven’t had a chance of coming to see you before; though we’ve +always managed—I mean auntie and I—to hear about you. I would have come +to nurse you, but it was no use thinking of it.” + +I smiled as I thanked her. + +“Ah! you think because I’m such a tom-boy, that I couldn’t nurse you. I +only wish I had had a chance of letting you see. I am so sorry for +you!” + +“But I’m nearly well now, Judy, and I have been taken good care of.” + +“By that frumpy old thing, Mrs Pearson, and—” + +“Mrs Pearson is a very kind woman, and an excellent nurse,” I said; but +she would not heed me. + +“And that awful old witch, Mother Goose. She was enough to give you bad +dreams all night she sat by you.” + +“I didn’t dream about Mother Goose, as you call her, Judy. I assure +you. But now I want to hear how everybody is at the Hall.” + +“What, grannie, and the white wolf, and all?” + +“As many as you please to tell me about.” + +“Well, grannie is gracious to everybody but auntie.” + +“Why isn’t she gracious to auntie?” + +“I don’t know. I only guess.” + +“Is your visitor gone?” + +“Yes, long ago. Do you know, I think grannie wants auntie to marry him, +and auntie doesn’t quite like it? But he’s very nice. He’s so funny! +He’ll be back again soon, I daresay. I don’t QUITE like him—not so well +as you by a whole half, Mr Walton. I wish you would marry auntie; but +that would never do. It would drive grannie out of her wits.” + +To stop the strange girl, and hide some confusion, I said: + +“Now tell me about the rest of them.” + +“Sarah comes next. She’s as white and as wolfy as ever. Mr Walton, I +hate that woman. She walks like a cat. I am sure she is bad.” + +“Did you ever think, Judy, what an awful thing it is to be bad? If you +did, I think you would be so sorry for her, you could not hate her.” + +At the same time, knowing what I knew now, and remembering that +impressions can date from farther back than the memory can reach, I was +not surprised to hear that Judy hated Sarah, though I could not believe +that in such a child the hatred was of the most deadly description. + +“I am afraid I must go on hating in the meantime,” said Judy. “I wish +some one would marry auntie, and turn Sarah away. But that couldn’t be, +so long as grannie lives.” + +“How is Mr Stoddart?” + +“There now! That’s one of the things auntie said I was to be sure to +tell you.” + +“Then your aunt knew you were coming to see me?” + +“Oh, yes, I told her. Not grannie, you know.—You mustn’t let it out.” + +“I shall be careful. How is Mr Stoddart, then?” + +“Not well at all. He was taken ill before you, and has been in bed and +by the fireside ever since. Auntie doesn’t know what to do with him, he +is so out of spirits.” + +“If to-morrow is fine, I shall go and see him.” + +“Thank you. I believe that’s just what auntie wanted. He won’t like it +at first, I daresay. But he’ll come to, and you’ll do him good. You do +everybody good you come near.” + +“I wish that were true, Judy. I fear it is not. What good did I ever do +you, Judy?” + +“Do me!” she exclaimed, apparently half angry at the question. “Don’t +you know I have been an altered character ever since I knew you?” + +And here the odd creature laughed, leaving me in absolute ignorance of +how to interpret her. But presently her eyes grew clearer, and I could +see the slow film of a tear gathering. + +“Mr Walton,” she said, “I HAVE been trying not to be selfish. You have +done me that much good.” + +“I am very glad, Judy. Don’t forget who can do you ALL good. There is +One who can not only show you what is right, but can make you able to +do and be what is right. You don’t know how much you have got to learn +yet, Judy; but there is that one Teacher ever ready to teach if you +will only ask Him.” + +Judy did not answer, but sat looking fixedly at the carpet. She was +thinking, though, I saw. + +“Who has played the organ, Judy, since your uncle was taken ill?” I +asked, at length. + +“Why, auntie, to be sure. Didn’t you hear?” + +“No,” I answered, turning almost sick at the idea of having been away +from church for so many Sundays while she was giving voice and +expression to the dear asthmatic old pipes. And I did feel very ready +to murmur, like a spoilt child that had not had his way. Think of HER +there, and me here! + +“Then,” I said to myself at last, “it must have been she that played I +know that my Redeemer liveth, that last time I was in church! And +instead of thanking God for that, here I am murmuring that He did not +give me more! And this child has just been telling me that I have +taught her to try not to be selfish. Certainly I should be ashamed of +myself.” + +“When was your uncle taken ill?” + +“I don’t exactly remember. But you will come and see him to-morrow? And +then we shall see you too. For we are always out and in of his room +just now.” + +“I will come if Dr Duncan will let me. Perhaps he will take me in his +carriage.” + +“No, no. Don’t you come with him. Uncle can’t bear doctors. He never +was ill in his life before, and he behaves to Dr Duncan just as if he +had made him ill. I wish I could send the carriage for you. But I +can’t, you know.” + +“Never mind, Judy. I shall manage somehow.—What is the name of the +gentleman who was staying with you?” + +“Don’t you know? Captain George Everard. He would change his name to +Oldcastle, you know.” + +What a foolish pain, like a spear-thrust, they sent through me—those +words spoken in such a taken-for-granted way! + +“He’s a relation—on grannie’s side mostly, I believe. But I never could +understand the explanation. What makes it harder is, that all the +husbands and wives in our family, for a hundred and fifty years, have +been more or less of cousins, or half-cousins, or second or third +cousins. Captain Everard has what grandmamma calls a neat little +property of his own from his mother, somewhere in Northumberland; for +he IS only a third son, one of a class grannie does not in general feel +very friendly to, I assure you, Mr Walton. But his second brother is +dead, and the eldest something the worse for the wear, as grannie says; +so that the captain comes just within sight of the coronet of an old +uncle who ought to have been dead long ago. Just the match for auntie!” + +“But you say auntie doesn’t like him.” + +“Oh! but you know that doesn’t matter,” returned Judy, with bitterness. +“What will grannie care for that? It’s nothing to anybody but auntie, +and she must get used to it. Nobody makes anything of her.” + +It was only after she had gone that I thought how astounding it would +have been to me to hear a girl of her age show such an acquaintance +with worldliness and scheming, had I not been personally so much +concerned about one of the objects of her remarks. She certainly was a +strange girl. But strange as she was it was a satisfaction to think +that the aunt had such a friend and ally in her wild niece. Evidently +she had inherited her father’s fearlessness; and if only it should turn +out that she had likewise inherited her mother’s firmness, she might +render the best possible service to her aunt against the oppression of +her wilful mother. + +“How were you able to get here to-day?” I asked, as she rose to go. + +“Grannie is in London, and the wolf is with her. Auntie wouldn’t leave +uncle.” + +“They have been a good deal in London of late, have they not?” + +“Yes. They say it’s about money of auntie’s. But I don’t understand. +_I_ think it’s that grannie wants to make the captain marry her; for +they sometimes see him when they go to London.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +THE INVALID. + + +The following day being very fine, I walked to Oldcastle Hall; but I +remember well how much slower I was forced to walk than I was willing. +I found to my relief that Mrs Oldcastle had not yet returned. I was +shown at once to Mr Stoddart’s library. There I found the two ladies in +attendance upon him. He was seated by a splendid fire, for the autumn +days were now chilly on the shady side, in the most luxurious of easy +chairs, with his furred feet buried in the long hair of the hearth-rug. +He looked worn and peevish. All the placidity of his countenance had +vanished. The smooth expanse of his forehead was drawn into fifty +wrinkles, like a sea over which the fretting wind has been blowing all +night. Nor was it only suffering that his face expressed. He looked +like a man who strongly suspected that he was ill-used. + +After salutation,— + +“You are well off, Mr Stoddart,” I said, “to have two such nurses.” + +“They are very kind,” sighed the patient + +“You would recommend Mrs Pearson and Mother Goose instead, would you +not, Mr Walton?” said Judy, her gray eyes sparkling with fun. + +“Judy, be quiet,” said the invalid, languidly and yet sharply. + +Judy reddened and was silent. + +“I am sorry to find you so unwell,” I said. + +“Yes; I am very ill,” he returned. + +Aunt and niece rose and left the room quietly. + +“Do you suffer much, Mr Stoddart?” + +“Much weariness, worse than pain. I could welcome death.” + +“I do not think, from what Dr Duncan says of you, that there is reason +to apprehend more than a lingering illness,” I said—to try him, I +confess. + +“I hope not indeed,” he exclaimed angrily, sitting up in his chair. +“What right has Dr Duncan to talk of me so?” + +“To a friend, you know,” I returned, apologetically, “who is much +interested in your welfare.” + +“Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man belongs to you both by +prescription.” + +“For my part I would rather talk about religion to a whole man than a +sick man. A sick man is not a WHOLE man. He is but part of a man, as it +were, for the time, and it is not so easy to tell what he can take.” + +“Thank you. I am obliged to you for my new position in the social +scale. Of the tailor species, I suppose.” + +I could not help wishing he were as far up as any man that does such +needful honest work. + +“My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I meant only a glance at the peculiar +relation of the words WHOLE and HEAL.” + +“I do not find etymology interesting at present.” + +“Not seated in such a library as this?” + +“No; I am ill.” + +Satisfied that, ill as he was, he might be better if he would, I +resolved to make another trial. + +“Do you remember how Ligarius, in Julius Caesar, discards his +sickness?— + +“‘I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand +Any exploit worthy the name of honour.’” + + +“I want to be well because I don’t like to be ill. But what there is in +this foggy, swampy world worth being well for, I’m sure I haven’t found +out yet.” + +“If you have not, it must be because you have never tried to find out. +But I’m not going to attack you when you are not able to defend +yourself. We shall find a better time for that. But can’t I do +something for you? Would you like me to read to you for half an hour?” + +“No, thank you. The girls tire me out with reading to me. I hate the +very sound of their voices.” + +“I have got to-day’s Times in my pocket.” + +“I’ve heard all the news already.” + +“Then I think I shall only bore you if I stay.” + +He made me no answer. I rose. He just let me take his hand, and +returned my good morning as if there was nothing good in the world, +least of all this same morning. + +I found the ladies in the outer room. Judy was on her knees on the +floor occupied with a long row of books. How the books had got there I +wondered; but soon learned the secret which I had in vain asked of the +butler on my first visit—namely, how Mr Stoddart reached the volumes +arranged immediately under the ceiling, in shelves, as my reader may +remember, that looked like beams radiating from the centre. For Judy +rose from the floor, and proceeded to put in motion a mechanical +arrangement concealed in one of the divisions of the book-shelves along +the wall; and I now saw that there were strong cords reaching from the +ceiling, and attached to the shelf or rather long box sideways open +which contained the books. + +“Do take care, Judy,” said Ethelwyn. “You know it is very venturous of +you to let that shelf down, when uncle is as jealous of his books as a +hen of her chickens. I oughtn’t to have let you touch the cords.” + +“You couldn’t help it, auntie, dear; for I had the shelf half-way down +before you saw me,” returned Judy, proceeding to raise the books to +their usual position under the ceiling. + +But in another moment, either from Judy’s awkwardness, or from the +gradual decay and final fracture of some cord, down came the whole +shelf with a thundering noise, and the books were scattered hither and +thither in confusion about the floor. Ethelwyn was gazing in dismay, +and Judy had built up her face into a defiant look, when the door of +the inner room opened and Mr Stoddart appeared. His brow was already +flushed; but when he saw the condition of his idols, (for the lust of +the eye had its full share in his regard for his books,) he broke out +in a passion to which he could not have given way but for the weak +state of his health. + +“How DARE you?” he said, with terrible emphasis on the word DARE. +“Judy, I beg you will not again show yourself in my apartment till I +send for you.” + +“And then,” said Judy, leaving the room, “I am not in the least likely +to be otherwise engaged.” + +“I am very sorry, uncle,” began Miss Oldcastle. + +But Mr Stoddart had already retreated and banged the door behind him. +So Miss Oldcastle and I were left standing together amid the ruins. + +She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. She smiled in +return. + +“I assure you,” she said, “uncle is not a bit like himself.” + +“And I fear in trying to rouse him, I have done him no good,—only made +him more irritable,” I said. “But he will be sorry when he comes to +himself, and so we must take the reversion of his repentance now, and +think nothing more of the matter than if he had already said he was +sorry. Besides, when books are in the case, I, for one, must not be too +hard upon my unfortunate neighbour.” + +“Thank you, Mr Walton. I am so much obliged to you for taking my +uncle’s part. He has been very good to me; and that dear Judy is +provoking sometimes. I am afraid I help to spoil her; but you would +hardly believe how good she really is, and what a comfort she is to +me—with all her waywardness.” + +“I think I understand Judy,” I replied; “and I shall be more mistaken +than I am willing to confess I have ever been before, if she does not +turn out a very fine woman. The marvel to me is that with all the +various influences amongst which she is placed here, she is not really, +not seriously, spoiled after all. I assure you I have the greatest +regard for, as well as confidence in, my friend Judy.” + +Ethelwyn—Miss Oldcastle, I should say—gave me such a pleased look that +I was well recompensed—if justice should ever talk of recompense—for my +defence of her niece. + +“Will you come with me?” she said; “for I fear our talk may continue to +annoy Mr Stoddart. His hearing is acute at all times, and has been +excessively so since his illness.” + +“I am at your service,” I returned, and followed her from the room. + +“Are you still as fond of the old quarry as you used to be, Miss +Oldcastle?” I said, as we caught a glimpse of it from the window of a +long passage we were going through. + +“I think I am. I go there most days. I have not been to-day, though. +Would you like to go down?” + +“Very much,” I said. + +“Ah! I forgot, though. You must not go; it is not a fit place for an +invalid.” + +“I cannot call myself an invalid now.” + +“Your face, I am sorry to say, contradicts your words.” + +And she looked so kindly at me, that I almost broke out into thanks for +the mere look. + +“And indeed,” she went on, “it is too damp down there, not to speak of +the stairs.” + +By this time we had reached the little room in which I was received the +first time I visited the Hall. There we found Judy. + +“If you are not too tired already, I should like to show you my little +study. It has, I think, a better view than any other room in the +house,” said Miss Oldcastle. + +“I shall be delighted,” I replied. + +“Come, Judy,” said her aunt. + +“You don’t want me, I am sure, auntie.” + +“I do, Judy, really. You mustn’t be cross to us because uncle has been +cross to you. Uncle is not well, you know, and isn’t a bit like +himself; and you know you should not have meddled with his machinery.” + +And Miss Oldcastle put her arm round Judy, and kissed her. Whereupon +Judy jumped from her seat, threw her book down, and ran to one of the +several doors that opened from the room. This disclosed a little +staircase, almost like a ladder, only that it wound about, up which we +climbed, and reached a charming little room, whose window looked down +upon the Bishop’s Basin, glimmering slaty through the tops of the trees +between. It was panelled in small panels of dark oak, like the room +below, but with more of carving. Consequently it was sombre, and its +sombreness was unrelieved by any mirror. I gazed about me with a kind +of awe. I would gladly have carried away the remembrance of everything +and its shadow.—Just opposite the window was a small space of +brightness formed by the backs of nicely-bound books. Seeing that these +attracted my eye— + +“Those are almost all gifts from my uncle,” said Miss Oldcastle. “He is +really very kind, and you will not think of him as you have seen him +to-day ?” + +“Indeed I will not,” I replied. + +My eye fell upon a small pianoforte. + +“Do sit down,” said Miss Oldcastle.—“You have been very ill, and I +could do nothing for you who have been so kind to me.” + +She spoke as if she had wanted to say this. + +“I only wish I had a chance of doing anything for you,” I said, as I +took a chair in the window. “But if I had done all I ever could hope to +do, you have repaid me long ago, I think.” + +“How? I do not know what you mean, Mr Walton. I have never done you the +least service.” + +“Tell me first, did you play the organ in church that afternoon +when—after—before I was taken ill—I mean the same day you had—a friend +with you in the pew in the morning ?” + +I daresay my voice was as irregular as my construction. I ventured just +one glance. Her face was flushed. But she answered me at once. + +“I did.” + +“Then I am in your debt more than you know or I can tell you.” + +“Why, if that is all, I have played the organ every Sunday since uncle +was taken ill,” she said, smiling. + +“I know that now. And I am very glad I did not know it till I was +better able to bear the disappointment. But it is only for what I heard +that I mean now to acknowledge my obligation. Tell me, Miss +Oldcastle,—what is the most precious gift one person can give another?” + +She hesitated; and I, fearing to embarrass her, answered for her. + +“It must be something imperishable,—something which in its own nature +IS. If instead of a gem, or even of a flower, we could cast the gift of +a lovely thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving, as +the angels, I suppose, must give. But you did more and better for me +than that. I had been troubled all the morning; and you made me know +that my Redeemer liveth. I did not know you were playing, mind, though +I felt a difference. You gave me more trust in God; and what other gift +so great could one give? I think that last impression, just as I was +taken ill, must have helped me through my illness. Often when I was +most oppressed, ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth’ would rise up in the +troubled air of my mind, and sung by a voice which, though I never +heard you sing, I never questioned to be yours.” + +She turned her face towards me: those sea-blue eyes were full of tears. + +“I was troubled myself,” she said, with a faltering voice, “when I +sang—I mean played—that. I am so glad it did somebody good! I fear it +did not do me much.—I will sing it to you now, if you like.” + +And she rose to get the music. But that instant Judy, who, I then +found, had left the room, bounded into it, with the exclamation,— + +“Auntie, auntie! here’s grannie!” + +Miss Oldcastle turned pale. I confess I felt embarrassed, as if I had +been caught in something underhand. + +“Is she come in?” asked Miss Oldcastle, trying to speak with +indifference. + +“She is just at the door,—must be getting out of the fly now. What +SHALL we do?” + +“What DO you mean, Judy?” said her aunt. + +“Well you know, auntie, as well as I do, that grannie will look as +black as a thunder-cloud to find Mr Walton here; and if she doesn’t +speak as loud, it will only be because she can’t. _I_ don’t care for +myself, but you know on whose head the storm will fall. Do, dear Mr +Walton, come down the back-stair. Then she won’t be a bit the wiser. +I’ll manage it all.” + +Here was a dilemma for me; either to bring suffering on her, to save +whom I would have borne any pain, or to creep out of the house as if I +were and ought to be ashamed of myself. I believe that had I been in +any other relation to my fellows, I would have resolved at once to lay +myself open to the peculiarly unpleasant reproach of sneaking out of +the house, rather than that she should innocently suffer for my being +innocently there. But I was a clergyman; and I felt, more than I had +ever felt before, that therefore I could not risk ever the appearance +of what was mean. Miss Oldcastle, however, did not leave it to me to +settle the matter. All that I have just written had but flashed through +my mind when she said:— + +“Judy, for shame to propose such a thing to Mr Walton! I am very sorry +that he may chance to have an unpleasant meeting with mamma; but we +can’t help it. Come, Judy, we will show Mr Walton out together.” + +“It wasn’t for Mr Walton’s sake,” returned Judy, pouting. “You are very +troublesome, auntie dear. Mr Walton, she is so hard to take care of! +and she’s worse since you came. I shall have to give her up some day. +Do be generous, Mr Walton, and take my side—that is, auntie’s.” + +“I am afraid, Judy, I must thank your aunt for taking the part of my +duty against my inclination. But this kindness, at least,” I said to +Miss Oldcastle, “I can never hope to return.” + +It was a stupid speech, but I could not be annoyed that I had made it. + +“All obligations are not burdens to be got rid of, are they?” she +replied, with a sweet smile on such a pale troubled face, that I was +more moved for her, deliberately handing her over to the torture for +the truth’s sake, than I care definitely to confess. + +Thereupon, Miss Oldcastle led the way down the stairs, I followed, and +Judy brought up the rear. The affair was not so bad as it might have +been, inasmuch as, meeting the mistress of the house in no penetralia +of the same, I insisted on going out alone, and met Mrs Oldcastle in +the hall only. She held out no hand to greet me. I bowed, and said I +was sorry to find Mr Stoddart so far from well. + +“I fear he is far from well,” she returned; “certainly in my opinion +too ill to receive visitors.” + +So saying, she bowed and passed on. I turned and walked out, not +ill-pleased, as my readers will believe, with my visit. + +From that day I recovered rapidly, and the next Sunday had the pleasure +of preaching to my flock; Mr Aikin, the gentleman already mentioned as +doing duty for me, reading prayers. I took for my subject one of our +Lord’s miracles of healing, I forget which now, and tried to show my +people that all healing and all kinds of healing come as certainly and +only from His hand as those instances in which He put forth His bodily +hand and touched the diseased, and told them to be whole. + +And as they left the church the organ played, “Comfort ye, comfort ye, +my people, saith your God.” + +I tried hard to prevent my new feelings from so filling my mind as to +make me fail of my duty towards my flock. I said to myself, “Let me be +the more gentle, the more honourable, the more tender, towards these my +brothers and sisters, forasmuch as they are her brothers and sisters +too.” I wanted to do my work the better that I loved her. + +Thus week after week passed, with little that I can remember worthy of +record. I seldom saw Miss Oldcastle, and during this period never +alone. True, she played the organ still, for Mr Stoddart continued too +unwell to resume his ministry of sound, but I never made any attempt to +see her as she came to or went from the organ-loft. I felt that I ought +not, or at least that it was better not, lest an interview should +trouble my mind, and so interfere with my work, which, if my calling +meant anything real, was a consideration of vital import. But one thing +I could not help noting—that she seemed, by some intuition, to know the +music I liked best; and great help she often gave me by so uplifting my +heart upon the billows of the organ-harmony, that my thinking became +free and harmonious, and I spoke, as far as my own feeling was +concerned, like one upheld on the unseen wings of ministering cherubim. +How it might be to those who heard me, or what the value of the +utterance in itself might be, I cannot tell. I only speak of my own +feelings, I say. + +Does my reader wonder why I did not yet make any further attempt to +gain favour in the lady’s eyes? He will see, if he will think for a +moment. First of all, I could not venture until she had seen more of +me; and how to enjoy more of her society while her mother was so +unfriendly, both from instinctive dislike to me, and because of the +offence I had given her more than once, I did not know; for I feared +that to call oftener might only occasion measures upon her part to +prevent me from seeing her daughter at all; and I could not tell how +far such measures might expedite the event I most dreaded, or add to +the discomfort to which Miss Oldcastle was already so much exposed. +Meantime I heard nothing of Captain Everard; and the comfort that +flowed from such a negative source was yet of a very positive +character. At the same time—will my reader understand me?—I was in some +measure deterred from making further advances by the doubt whether her +favour for Captain Everard might not be greater than Judy had +represented it. For I had always shrunk, I can hardly say with +invincible dislike, for I had never tried to conquer it, from rivalry +of every kind: it was, somehow, contrary to my nature. Besides, Miss +Oldcastle was likely to be rich some day—apparently had money of her +own even now; and was it a weakness? was it not a weakness?—I cannot +tell—I writhed at the thought of being supposed to marry for money, and +being made the object of such remarks as, “Ah! you see! That’s the way +with the clergy! They talk about poverty and faith, pretending to +despise riches and to trust in God; but just put money in their way, +and what chance will a poor girl have beside a rich one! It’s all very +well in the pulpit. It’s their business to talk so. But does one of +them believe what he says? or, at least, act upon it?” I think I may be +a little excused for the sense of creeping cold that passed over me at +the thought of such remarks as these, accompanied by compressed lips +and down-drawn corners of the mouth, and reiterated nods of the head of +KNOWINGNESS. But I mention this only as a repressing influence, to +which I certainly should not have been such a fool as to yield, had I +seen the way otherwise clear. For a man by showing how to use money, or +rather simply by using money aright, may do more good than by refusing +to possess it, if it comes to him in an entirely honourable way, that +is, in such a case as mine, merely as an accident of his history. But I +was glad to feel pretty sure that if I should be so blessed as to marry +Miss Oldcastle—which at the time whereof I now write, seemed far too +gorgeous a castle in the clouds ever to descend to the earth for me to +enter it—the POOR of my own people would be those most likely to +understand my position and feelings, and least likely to impute to me +worldly motives, as paltry as they are vulgar, and altogether unworthy +of a true man. + +So the time went on. I called once or twice on Mr Stoddart, and found +him, as I thought, better. But he would not allow that he was. Dr +Duncan said he was better, and would be better still, if he would only +believe it and exert himself. + +He continued in the same strangely irritable humour. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +MOOD AND WILL. + + +Winter came apace. When we look towards winter from the last borders of +autumn, it seems as if we could not encounter it, and as if it never +would go over. So does threatened trouble of any kind seem to us as we +look forward upon its miry ways from the last borders of the pleasant +greensward on which we have hitherto been walking. But not only do both +run their course, but each has its own alleviations, its own pleasures; +and very marvellously does the healthy mind fit itself to the new +circumstances; while to those who will bravely take up their burden and +bear it, asking no more questions than just, “Is this my burden?” a +thousand ministrations of nature and life will come with gentle +comfortings. Across a dark verdureless field will blow a wind through +the heart of the winter which will wake in the patient mind not a +memory merely, but a prophecy of the spring, with a glimmer of crocus, +or snow-drop, or primrose; and across the waste of tired endeavour will +a gentle hope, coming he knows not whence, breathe springlike upon the +heart of the man around whom life looks desolate and dreary. Well do I +remember a friend of mine telling me once—he was then a labourer in the +field of literature, who had not yet begun to earn his penny a day, +though he worked hard—telling me how once, when a hope that had kept +him active for months was suddenly quenched—a book refused on which he +had spent a passion of labour—the weight of money that must be paid and +could not be had, pressing him down like the coffin-lid that had lately +covered the ONLY friend to whom he could have applied confidently for +aid—telling me, I say, how he stood at the corner of a London street, +with the rain, dripping black from the brim of his hat, the dreariest +of atmospheres about him in the closing afternoon of the City, when the +rich men were going home, and the poor men who worked for them were +longing to follow; and how across this waste came energy and hope into +his bosom, swelling thenceforth with courage to fight, and yield no ear +to suggested failure. And the story would not be complete—though it is +for the fact of the arrival of unexpected and apparently unfounded HOPE +that I tell it—if I did not add, that, in the morning, his wife gave +him a letter which their common trouble of yesterday had made her +forget, and which had lain with its black border all night in the +darkness unopened, waiting to tell him how the vanished friend had not +forgotten him on her death-bed, but had left him enough to take him out +of all those difficulties, and give him strength and time to do far +better work than the book which had failed of birth.—Some of my readers +may doubt whether I am more than “a wandering voice,” but whatever I +am, or may be thought to be, my friend’s story is true. + +And all this has come out of the winter that I, in the retrospect of my +history, am looking forward to. It came, with its fogs, and dripping +boughs, and sodden paths, and rotting leaves, and rains, and skies of +weary gray; but also with its fierce red suns, shining aslant upon +sheets of manna-like hoarfrost, and delicate ice-films over prisoned +waters, and those white falling chaoses of perfect forms—called +snow-storms—those confusions confounded of infinite symmetries. + +And when the hard frost came, it brought a friend to my door. It was Mr +Stoddart. + +He entered my room with something of the countenance Naaman must have +borne, after his flesh had come again like unto the flesh of a little +child. He did not look ashamed, but his pale face looked humble and +distressed. Its somewhat self-satisfied placidity had vanished, and +instead of the diffused geniality which was its usual expression, it +now showed traces of feeling as well as plain signs of suffering. I +gave him as warm a welcome as I could, and having seated him +comfortably by the fire, and found that he would take no refreshment, +began to chat about the day’s news, for I had just been reading the +newspaper. But he showed no interest beyond what the merest politeness +required. I would try something else. + +“The cold weather, which makes so many invalids creep into bed, seems +to have brought you out into the air, Mr Stoddart,” I said. + +“It has revived me, certainly.” + +“Indeed, one must believe that winter and cold are as beneficent, +though not so genial, as summer and its warmth. Winter kills many a +disease and many a noxious influence. And what is it to have the fresh +green leaves of spring instead of the everlasting brown of some +countries which have no winter!” + +I talked thus, hoping to rouse him to conversation, and I was +successful. + +“I feel just as if I were coming out of a winter. Don’t you think +illness is a kind of human winter?” + +“Certainly—more or less stormy. With some a winter of snow and hail and +piercing winds; with others of black frosts and creeping fogs, with now +and then a glimmer of the sun.” + +“The last is more like mine. I feel as if I had been in a wet hole in +the earth.” + +“And many a man,” I went on, “the foliage of whose character had been +turning brown and seared and dry, rattling rather than rustling in the +faint hot wind of even fortunes, has come out of the winter of a weary +illness with the fresh delicate buds of a new life bursting from the +sun-dried bark.” + +“I wish it would be so with me. I know you mean me. But I don’t feel my +green leaves coming.” + +“Facts are not always indicated by feelings.” + +“Indeed, I hope not; nor yet feelings indicated by facts.” + +“I do not quite understand you.” + +“Well, Mr Walton, I will explain myself. I have come to tell you how +sorry and ashamed I am that I behaved so badly to you every time you +came to see me.” + +“Oh, nonsense!” I said. “It was your illness, not you.” + +“At least, my dear sir, the facts of my behaviour did not really +represent my feelings towards you.” + +“I know that as well as you do. Don’t say another word about it. You +had the best excuse for being cross; I should have had none for being +offended.” + +“It was only the outside of me.” + +“Yes, yes; I acknowledge it heartily.” + +“But that does not settle the matter between me and myself, Mr Walton; +although, by your goodness, it settles it between me and you. It is +humiliating to think that illness should so completely ‘overcrow’ me, +that I am no more myself—lose my hold, in fact, of what I call ME—so +that I am almost driven to doubt my personal identity.” + +“You are fond of theories, Mr Stoddart—perhaps a little too much so.” + +“Perhaps.” + +“Will you listen to one of mine?” + +“With pleasure.” + +“It seems to me sometimes—I know it is a partial representation—as if +life were a conflict between the inner force of the spirit, which lies +in its faith in the unseen—and the outer force of the world, which lies +in the pressure of everything it has to show us. The material, +operating upon our senses, is always asserting its existence; and if +our inner life is not equally vigorous, we shall be moved, urged, what +is called actuated, from without, whereas all our activity ought to be +from within. But sickness not only overwhelms the mind, but, vitiating +all the channels of the senses, causes them to represent things as they +are not, of which misrepresentations the presence, persistency, and +iteration seduce the man to act from false suggestions instead of from +what he knows and believes.” + +“Well, I understand all that. But what use am I to make of your +theory?” + +“I am delighted, Mr Stoddart, to hear you put the question. That is +always the point.—The inward holy garrison, that of faith, which holds +by the truth, by sacred facts, and not by appearances, must be +strengthened and nourished and upheld, and so enabled to resist the +onset of the powers without. A friend’s remonstrance may appear an +unkindness—a friend’s jest an unfeelingness—a friend’s visit an +intrusion; nay, to come to higher things, during a mere headache it +will appear as if there was no truth in the world, no reality but that +of pain anywhere, and nothing to be desired but deliverance from it. +But all such impressions caused from without—for, remember, the body +and its innermost experiences are only OUTSIDE OF THE MAN—have to be +met by the inner confidence of the spirit, resting in God and resisting +every impulse to act according to that which APPEARS TO IT instead of +that which IT BELIEVES. Hence, Faith is thus allegorically represented: +but I had better give you Spenser’s description of her—Here is the +‘Fairy Queen’:— + +‘She was arrayed all in lily white, +And in her right hand bore a cup of gold, +With wine and water filled up to the height, +In which a serpent did himself enfold, +That horror made to all that did behold; +But she no whit did change her constant mood.’ + + +This serpent stands for the dire perplexity of things about us, at +which yet Faith will not blench, acting according to what she believes, +and not what shows itself to her by impression and appearance.” + +“I admit all that you say,” returned Mr Stoddart. “But still the +practical conclusion—which I understand to be, that the inward garrison +must be fortified—is considerably incomplete unless we buttress it with +the final HOW. How is it to be fortified? For, + +‘I have as much of this in art as you, +But yet my nature could not bear it so.’ + + +(You see I read Shakespeare as well as you, Mr Walton.) I daresay, from +a certain inclination to take the opposite side, and a certain dislike +to the dogmatism of the clergy—I speak generally—I may have appeared to +you indifferent, but I assure you that I have laboured much to withdraw +my mind from the influence of money, and ambition, and pleasure, and to +turn it to the contemplation of spiritual things. Yet on the first +attack of a depressing illness I cease to be a gentleman, I am rude to +ladies who do their best and kindest to serve me, and I talk to the +friend who comes to cheer and comfort me as if he were an idle vagrant +who wanted to sell me a worthless book with the recommendation of the +pretence that he wrote it himself. Now that I am in my right mind, I am +ashamed of myself, ashamed that it should be possible for me to behave +so, and humiliated yet besides that I have no ground of assurance that, +should my illness return to-morrow, I should not behave in the same +manner the day after. I want to be ALWAYS in my right mind. When I am +not, I know I am not, and yet yield to the appearance of being.” + +“I understand perfectly what you mean, for I fancy I know a little more +of illness than you do. Shall I tell you where I think the fault of +your self-training lies?” + +“That is just what I want. The things which it pleased me to +contemplate when I was well, gave me no pleasure when I was ill. +Nothing seemed the same.” + +“If we were always in a right mood, there would be no room for the +exercise of the will. We should go by our mood and inclination only. +But that is by the by.—Where you have been wrong is—that you have +sought to influence your feelings only by thought and argument with +yourself—and not also by contact with your fellows. Besides the ladies +of whom you have spoken, I think you have hardly a friend in this +neighbourhood but myself. One friend cannot afford you half experience +enough to teach you the relations of life and of human needs. At best, +under such circumstances, you can only have right theories: practice +for realising them in yourself is nowhere. It is no more possible for a +man in the present day to retire from his fellows into the cave of his +religion, and thereby leave the world of his own faults and follies +behind, than it was possible for the eremites of old to get close to +God in virtue of declining the duties which their very birth of human +father and mother laid upon them. I do not deny that you and the +eremite may both come NEARER to God, in virtue of whatever is true in +your desires and your worship; ‘but if a man love not his brother whom +he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?’—which surely +means to imply at least that to love our neighbour is a great help +towards loving God. How this love is to come about without intercourse, +I do not see. And how without this love we are to bear up from within +against the thousand irritations to which, especially in sickness, our +unavoidable relations with humanity will expose us, I cannot tell +either.” + +“But,” returned Mr Stoddart, “I had had a true regard for you, and some +friendly communication with you. If human intercourse were what is +required in my case, how should I fail just with respect to the only +man with whom I had held such intercourse?” + +“Because the relations in which you stood with me were those of the +individual, not of the race. You like me, because I am fortunate enough +to please you—to be a gentleman, I hope—to be a man of some education, +and capable of understanding, or at least docile enough to try to +understand, what you tell me of your plans and pursuits. But you do not +feel any relation to me on the ground of my humanity—that God made me, +and therefore I am your brother. It is not because we grow out of the +same stem, but merely because my leaf is a little like your own that +you draw to me. Our Lord took on Him the nature of man: you will only +regard your individual attractions. Disturb your liking and your love +vanishes.” + +“You are severe.” + +“I don’t mean really vanishes, but disappears for the time. Yet you +will confess you have to wait till, somehow, you know not how, it comes +back again—of itself, as it were.” + +“Yes, I confess. To my sorrow, I find it so.” + +“Let me tell you the truth, Mr Stoddart. You seem to me to have been +hitherto only a dilettante or amateur in spiritual matters. Do not +imagine I mean a hypocrite. Very far from it. The word amateur itself +suggests a real interest, though it may be of a superficial nature. But +in religion one must be all there. You seem to me to have taken much +interest in unusual forms of theory, and in mystical speculations, to +which in themselves I make no objection. But to be content with those, +instead of knowing God himself, or to substitute a general amateur +friendship towards the race for the love of your neighbour, is a +mockery which will always manifest itself to an honest mind like yours +in such failure and disappointment in your own character as you are now +lamenting, if not indeed in some mode far more alarming, because gross +and terrible.” + +“Am I to understand you, then, that intercourse with one’s neighbours +ought to take the place of meditation?” + +“By no means: but ought to go side by side with it, if you would have +at once a healthy mind to judge and the means of either verifying your +speculations or discovering their falsehood.” + +“But where am I to find such friends besides yourself with whom to hold +spiritual communion?” + +“It is the communion of spiritual deeds, deeds of justice, of mercy, of +humility—the kind word, the cup of cold water, the visitation in +sickness, the lending of money—not spiritual conference or talk, that I +mean: the latter will come of itself where it is natural. You would +soon find that it is not only to those whose spiritual windows are of +the same shape as your own that you are neighbour: there is one poor +man in my congregation who knows more—practically, I mean, too—of +spirituality of mind than any of us. Perhaps you could not teach him +much, but he could teach you. At all events, our neighbours are just +those round about us. And the most ignorant man in a little place like +Marshmallows, one like you with leisure ought to know and understand, +and have some good influence upon: he is your brother whom you are +bound to care for and elevate—I do not mean socially, but really, in +himself—if it be possible. You ought at least to get into some simple +human relation with him, as you would with the youngest and most +ignorant of your brothers and sisters born of the same father and +mother; approaching him, not with pompous lecturing or fault-finding, +still less with that abomination called condescension, but with the +humble service of the elder to the younger, in whatever he may be +helped by you without injury to him. Never was there a more injurious +mistake than that it is the business of the clergy only to have the +care of souls.” + +“But that would be endless. It would leave me no time for myself.” + +“Would that be no time for yourself spent in leading a noble, Christian +life; in verifying the words of our Lord by doing them; in building +your house on the rock of action instead of the sands of theory; in +widening your own being by entering into the nature, thoughts, +feelings, even fancies of those around you? In such intercourse you +would find health radiating into your own bosom; healing sympathies +springing up in the most barren acquaintance; channels opened for the +in-rush of truth into your own mind; and opportunities afforded for the +exercise of that self-discipline, the lack of which led to the failures +which you now bemoan. Soon then would you have cause to wonder how much +some of your speculations had fallen into the background, simply +because the truth, showing itself grandly true, had so filled and +occupied your mind that it left no room for anxiety about such +questions as, while secured in the interest all reality gives, were yet +dwarfed by the side of it. Nothing, I repeat, so much as humble +ministration to your neighbours, will help you to that perfect love of +God which casteth out fear; nothing but the love of God—that God +revealed in Christ—will make you able to love your neighbour aright; +and the Spirit of God, which alone gives might for any good, will by +these loves, which are life, strengthen you at last to believe in the +light even in the midst of darkness; to hold the resolution formed in +health when sickness has altered the appearance of everything around +you; and to feel tenderly towards your fellow, even when you yourself +are plunged in dejection or racked with pain.—But,” I said, “I fear I +have transgressed the bounds of all propriety by enlarging upon this +matter as I have done. I can only say I have spoken in proportion to my +feeling of its weight and truth.” + +“I thank you, heartily,” returned Mr Stoddart, rising. “And I promise +you at least to think over what you have been saying—I hope to be in my +old place in the organ-loft next Sunday.” + +So he was. And Miss Oldcastle was in the pew with her mother. Nor did +she go any more to Addicehead to church. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR. + + +As the winter went on, it was sad to look on the evident though slow +decline of Catherine Weir. It seemed as if the dead season was dragging +her to its bosom, to lay her among the leaves of past summers. She was +still to be found in the shop, or appeared in it as often as the bell +suspended over the door rang to announce the entrance of a customer; +but she was terribly worn, and her step indicated much weakness. Nor +had the signs of restless trouble diminished as these tide-marks +indicated ebbing strength. There was the same dry fierce fire in her +eyes; the same forceful compression of her lips; the same evidences of +brooding over some one absorbing thought or feeling. She seemed to me, +and to Dr Duncan as well, to be dying of resentment. Would nobody do +anything for her? I thought. Would not her father help her? He had got +more gentle now; whence I had reason to hope that Christian principles +and feelings had begun to rise and operate in him; while surely the +influence of his son must, by this time, have done something not only +to soften his character generally, but to appease the anger he had +cherished towards the one ewe-lamb, against which, having wandered away +into the desert place, he had closed and barred the door of the +sheep-fold. I would go and see him, and try what could be done for her. + +I may be forgiven here if I make the remark that I cannot help thinking +that what measure of success I had already had with my people, was +partly owing to this, that when I thought of a thing and had concluded +it might do, I very seldom put off the consequent action. I found I was +wrong sometimes, and that the particular action did no good; but thus +movement was kept up in my operative nature, preventing it from sinking +towards the inactivity to which I was but too much inclined. Besides, +to find out what will not do, is a step towards finding out what will +do. Moreover, an attempt in itself unsuccessful may set something or +other in motion that will help. + +My present attempt turned out one of my failures, though I cannot think +that it would have been better left unmade. + +A red rayless sun, which one might have imagined sullen and +disconsolate because he could not make the dead earth smile into +flowers, was looking through the frosty fog of the winter morning as I +walked across the bridge to find Thomas Weir in his workshop. The +poplars stood like goblin sentinels, with black heads, upon which the +long hair stood on end, all along the dark cold river. Nature looked +like a life out of which the love has vanished. I turned from it and +hastened on. + +Thomas was busy working with a spoke-sheave at the spoke of a +cart-wheel. How curiously the smallest visual fact will sometimes keep +its place in the memory, when it cannot with all earnestness of +endeavour recall a thought—a far more important fact! That will come +again only when its time comes first. + +“A cold morning, Thomas,” I called from the door. + +“I can always keep myself warm, sir,” returned Thomas, cheerfully. + +“What are you doing, Tom?” I said, going up to him first. + +“A little job for myself, sir. I’m making a few bookshelves.” + +“I want to have a little talk with your father. Just step out in a +minute or so, and let me have half-an-hour.” + +“Yes, sir, certainly.” + +I then went to the other end of the shop, for, curiously, as it seemed +to me, although father and son were on the best of terms, they always +worked as far from each other as the shop would permit, and it was a +very large room. + +“It is not easy always to keep warm through and through, Thomas,” I +said. + +I suppose my tone revealed to his quick perceptions that “more was +meant than met the ear.” He looked up from his work, his tool filled +with an uncompleted shaving. + +“And when the heart gets cold,” I went on, “it is not easily warmed +again. The fire’s hard to light there, Thomas.” + +Still he looked at me, stooping over his work, apparently with a +presentiment of what was coming. + +“I fear there is no way of lighting it again, except the blacksmith’s +way.” + +“Hammering the iron till it is red-hot, you mean, sir?” + +“I do. When a man’s heart has grown cold, the blows of affliction must +fall thick and heavy before the fire can be got that will light +it.—When did you see your daughter Catherine, Thomas?” + +His head dropped, and he began to work as if for bare life. Not a word +came from the form now bent over his tool as if he had never lifted +himself up since he first began in the morning. I could just see that +his face was deadly pale, and his lips compressed like those of one of +the violent who take the kingdom of heaven by force. But it was for no +such agony of effort that his were thus closed. He went on working till +the silence became so lengthened that it seemed settled into the +endless. I felt embarrassed. To break a silence is sometimes as hard as +to break a spell. What Thomas would have done or said if he had not had +this safety-valve of bodily exertion, I cannot even imagine. + +“Thomas,” I said, at length, laying my hand on his shoulder, “you are +not going to part company with me, I hope?” + +“You drive a man too far, sir. I’ve given in more to you than ever I +did to man, sir; and I don’t know that I oughtn’t to be ashamed of it. +But you don’t know where to stop. If we lived a thousand years you +would be driving a man on to the last. And there’s no good in that, +sir. A man must be at peace somewhen.” + +“The question is, Thomas, whether I would be driving you ON or BACK. +You and I too MUST go on or back. I want to go on myself, and to make +you go on too. I don’t want to be parted from you now or then.” + +“That’s all very well, sir, and very kind, I don’t doubt; but, as I +said afore, a man must be at peace SOMEWHEN.” + +“That’s what I want so much that I want you to go on. Peace! I trust in +God we shall both have it one day, SOMEWHEN, as you say. Have you got +this peace so plentifully now that you are satisfied as you are? You +will never get it but by going on.” + +“I do not think there is any good got in stirring a puddle. Let +by-gones be by-gones. You make a mistake, sir, in rousing an anger +which I would willingly let sleep.” + +“Better a wakeful anger, and a wakeful conscience with it, than an +anger sunk into indifference, and a sleeping dog of a conscience that +will not bark. To have ceased to be angry is not one step nearer to +your daughter. Better strike her, abuse her, with the chance of a kiss +to follow. Ah, Thomas, you are like Jonas with his gourd.” + +“I don’t see what that has to do with it.” + +“I will tell you. You are fierce in wrath at the disgrace to your +family. Your pride is up in arms. You don’t care for the misery of your +daughter, who, the more wrong she has done, is the more to be pitied by +a father’s heart. Your pride, I say, is all that you care about. The +wrong your daughter has done, you care nothing about; or you would have +taken her to your arms years ago, in the hope that the fervour of your +love would drive the devil out of her and make her repent. I say it is +not the wrong, but the disgrace you care for. The gourd of your pride +is withered, and yet you will water it with your daughter’s misery.” + +“Go out of my shop,” he cried; “or I may say what I should be sorry +for.” + +I turned at once and left him. I found young Tom round the corner, +leaning against the wall, and reading his Virgil. + +“Don’t speak to your father, Tom,” I said, “for a while. I’ve put him +out of temper. He will be best left alone.” + +He looked frightened. + +“There’s no harm done, Tom, my boy. I’ve been talking to him about your +sister. He must have time to think over what I have said to him.” + +“I see, sir; I see.” + +“Be as attentive to him as you can.” + +“I will, sir.” + +It was not alone resentment at my interference that had thus put the +poor fellow beside himself, I was certain: I had called up all the old +misery—set the wound bleeding again. Shame was once more wide awake and +tearing at his heart. That HIS daughter should have done so! For she +had been his pride. She had been the belle of the village, and very +lovely; but having been apprenticed to a dressmaker in Addicehead, had, +after being there about a year and a half, returned home, apparently in +a decline. After the birth of her child, however, she had, to her own +disappointment, and no doubt to that of her father as well, begun to +recover. What a time of wretchedness it must have been to both of them +until she left his house, one can imagine. Most likely the misery of +the father vented itself in greater unkindness than he felt, which, +sinking into the proud nature she had derived from him, roused such a +resentment as rarely if ever can be thoroughly appeased until Death +comes in to help the reconciliation. How often has an old love blazed +up again under the blowing of his cold breath, and sent the spirit warm +at heart into the regions of the unknown! She never would utter a word +to reveal the name or condition of him by whom she had been wronged. To +his child, as long as he drew his life from her, she behaved with +strange alternations of dislike and passionate affection; after which +season the latter began to diminish in violence, and the former to +become more fixed, till at length, by the time I had made their +acquaintance, her feelings seemed to have settled into what would have +been indifference but for the constant reminder of her shame and her +wrong together, which his very presence necessarily was. + +They were not only the gossips of the village who judged that the fact +of Addicehead’s being a garrison town had something to do with the fate +that had befallen her; a fate by which, in its very spring-time, when +its flowers were loveliest, and hope was strongest for its summer, her +life was changed into the dreary wind-swept, rain-sodden moor. The man +who can ACCEPT such a sacrifice from a woman,—I say nothing of WILING +it from her—is, in his meanness, selfishness, and dishonour, +contemptible as the Pharisee who, with his long prayers, devours the +widow’s house. He leaves her desolate, while he walks off free. Would +to God a man like the great-hearted, pure-bodied Milton, a man whom +young men are compelled to respect, would in this our age, utter such a +word as, making “mad the guilty,” if such grace might be accorded them, +would “appal the free,” lest they too should fall into such a mire of +selfish dishonour! + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR. + + +About this time my father was taken ill, and several journeys to London +followed. It is only as vicar that I am writing these memorials—for +such they should be called, rather than ANNALS, though certainly the +use of the latter word has of late become vague enough for all +convenience—therefore I have said nothing about my home-relations; but +I must just mention here that I had a half-sister, about half my own +age, whose anxiety during my father’s illness rendered my visits more +frequent than perhaps they would have been from my own. But my sister +was right in her anxiety. My father grew worse, and in December he +died. I will not eulogize one so dear to me. That he was no common man +will appear from the fact of his unconventionality and justice in +leaving his property to my sister, saying in his will that he had done +all I could require of him, in giving me a good education; and that, +men having means in their power which women had not, it was unjust to +the latter to make them, without a choice, dependent upon the former. +After the funeral, my sister, feeling it impossible to remain in the +house any longer, begged me to take her with me. So, after arranging +affairs, we set out, and reached Marshmallows on New Year’s Day. + +My sister being so much younger than myself, her presence in my house +made very little change in my habits. She came into my ways without any +difficulty, so that I did not experience the least restraint from +having to consider her. And I soon began to find her of considerable +service among the poor and sick of my flock, the latter class being +more numerous this winter on account of the greater severity of the +weather. + +I now began to note a change in the habits of Catherine Weir. As far as +I remember, I had never up to this time seen her out of her own house, +except in church, at which she had been a regular attendant for many +weeks. Now, however, I began to meet her when and where I least +expected—I do not say often, but so often as to make me believe she +went wandering about frequently. It was always at night, however, and +always in stormy weather. The marvel was, not that a sick woman could +be there—for a sick woman may be able to do anything; but that she +could do so more than once—that was the marvel. At the same time, I +began to miss her from church. + +Possibly my reader may wonder how I came to have the chance of meeting +any one again and again at night and in stormy weather. I can relieve +him from the difficulty. Odd as it will appear to some readers, I had +naturally a predilection for rough weather. I think I enjoyed fighting +with a storm in winter nearly as much as lying on the grass under a +beech-tree in summer. Possibly this assertion may seem strange to one +likewise who has remarked the ordinary peaceableness of my disposition. +But he may have done me the justice to remark at the same time, that I +have some considerable pleasure in fighting the devil, though none in +fighting my fellow-man, even in the ordinary form of disputation in +which it is not heart’s blood, but soul’s blood, that is so often shed. +Indeed there are many controversies far more immoral, as to the manner +in which they are conducted, than a brutal prize-fight. There is, +however, a pleasure of its own in conflict; and I have always +experienced a certain indescribable, though I believe not at all +unusual exaltation, even in struggling with a well-set, thoroughly +roused storm of wind and snow or rain. The sources of this by no means +unusual delight, I will not stay to examine, indicating only that I +believe the sources are deep.—I was now quite well, and had no reason +to fear bad consequences from the indulgence of this surely innocent +form of the love of strife. + +But I find I must give another reason as well, if I would be thoroughly +honest with my reader. The fact was, that as I had recovered strength, +I had become more troubled and restless about Miss Oldcastle. I could +not see how I was to make any progress towards her favour. There seemed +a barrier as insurmountable as intangible between her and me. The will +of one woman came between and parted us, and that will was as the magic +line over which no effort of will or strength could enable the +enchanted knight to make a single stride. And this consciousness of +being fettered by insensible and infrangible bonds, this need of doing +something with nothing tangible in the reach of the outstretched hand, +so worked upon my mind, that it naturally sought relief, as often as +the elemental strife arose, by mingling unconstrained with the tumult +of the night.—Will my readers find it hard to believe that this +disquietude of mind should gradually sink away as the hours of Saturday +glided down into night, and the day of my best labour drew nigh? Or +will they answer, “We believe it easily; for then you could at least +see the lady, and that comforted you?” Whatever it was that quieted me, +not the less have I to thank God for it. + +All might have been so different. What a fearful thing would it have +been for me to have found my mind so full of my own cares, that I was +unable to do God’s work and bear my neighbour’s burden! But even then I +would have cried to Him, and said, “I know Thee that Thou art NOT a +hard master.” + +Now, however, that I have quite accounted, as I believe, by the +peculiarity both of my disposition and circumstances, for unusual +wanderings under conditions when most people consider themselves +fortunate within doors, I must return to Catherine Weir, the +eccentricity of whose late behaviour, being in the particulars +discussed identical with that of mine, led to the necessity for the +explanation of my habits given above. + +One January afternoon, just as twilight was folding her gray cloak +about her, and vanishing in the night, the wind blowing hard from the +south-west, melting the snow under foot, and sorely disturbing the +dignity of the one grand old cedar which stood before my study window, +and now filled my room with the great sweeps of its moaning, I felt as +if the elements were calling me, and rose to obey the summons. My +sister was, by this time, so accustomed to my going out in all +weathers, that she troubled me with no expostulation. My spirits began +to rise the moment I was in the wind. Keen, and cold, and unsparing, it +swept through the leafless branches around me, with a different hiss +for every tree that bent, and swayed, and tossed in its torrent. I made +my way to the gate and out upon the road, and then, turning to the +right, away from the village, I sought a kind of common, open and +treeless, the nearest approach to a moor that there was in the county, +I believe, over which a wind like this would sweep unstayed by house, +or shrub, or fence, the only shelter it afforded lying in the +inequalities of its surface. + +I had walked with my head bent low against the blast, for the better +part of a mile, fighting for every step of the way, when, coming to a +deep cut in the common, opening at right angles from the road, whence +at some time or other a large quantity of sand had been carted, I +turned into its defence to recover my breath, and listen to the noise +of the wind in the fierce rush of its sea over the open channel of the +common. And I remember I was thinking with myself: “If the air would +only become faintly visible for a moment, what a sight it would be of +waste grandeur with its thousands of billowing eddies, and +self-involved, conflicting, and swallowing whirlpools from the +sea-bottom of this common!” when, with my imagination resting on the +fancied vision, I was startled by such a moan as seemed about to break +into a storm of passionate cries, but was followed by the words: + +“O God! I cannot bear it longer. Hast thou NO help for me?” + +Instinctively almost I knew that Catherine Weir was beside me, though I +could not see where she was. In a moment more, however, I thought I +could distinguish through the darkness—imagination no doubt filling up +the truth of its form—a figure crouching in such an attitude of +abandoned despair as recalled one of Flaxman’s outlines, the body bent +forward over the drawn-up knees, and the face thus hidden even from the +darkness. I could not help saying to myself, as I took a step or two +towards her, “What is thy trouble to hers!” + +I may here remark that I had come to the conclusion, from pondering +over her case, that until a yet deeper and bitterer resentment than +that which she bore to her father was removed, it would be of no use +attacking the latter. For the former kept her in a state of hostility +towards her whole race: with herself at war she had no gentle thoughts, +no love for her kind; but ever + +“She fed her wound with fresh-renewed bale” + +from every hurt that she received from or imagined to be offered her by +anything human. So I had resolved that the next time I had an +opportunity of speaking to her, I would make an attempt to probe the +evil to its root, though I had but little hope, I confess, of doing any +good. And now when I heard her say, “Hast thou NO help for me?” I went +near her with the words: + +“God has, indeed, help for His own offspring. Has He not suffered that +He might help? But you have not yet forgiven.” + +When I began to speak, she gave a slight start: she was far too +miserable to be terrified at anything. Before I had finished, she stood +erect on her feet, facing me with the whiteness of her face glimmering +through the blackness of the night. + +“I ask Him for peace,” she said, “and He sends me more torment.” + +And I thought of Ahab when he said, “Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?” + +“If we had what we asked for always, we should too often find it was +not what we wanted, after all.” + +“You will not leave me alone,” she said. “It is too bad.” + +Poor woman! It was well for her she could pray to God in her trouble; +for she could scarcely endure a word from her fellow-man. She, +despairing before God, was fierce as a tigress to her fellow-sinner who +would stretch a hand to help her out of the mire, and set her beside +him on the rock which he felt firm under his own feet. + +“I will not leave you alone, Catherine,” I said, feeling that I must at +length assume another tone of speech with her who resisted gentleness. +“Scorn my interference as you will,” I said, “I have yet to give an +account of you. And I have to fear lest my Master should require your +blood at my hands. I did not follow you here, you may well believe me; +but I have found you here, and I must speak.” + +All this time the wind was roaring overhead. But in the hollow was +stillness, and I was so near her, that I could hear every word she +said, although she spoke in a low compressed tone. + +“Have you a right to persecute me,” she said, “because I am unhappy?” + +“I have a right, and, more than a right, I have a duty to aid your +better self against your worse. You, I fear, are siding with your worse +self.” + +“You judge me hard. I have had wrongs that—” + +And here she stopped in a way that let me know she WOULD say no more. + +“That you have had wrongs, and bitter wrongs, I do not for a moment +doubt. And him who has done you most wrong, you will not forgive.” + +“No.” + +“No. Not even for the sake of Him who, hanging on the tree, after all +the bitterness of blows and whipping, and derision, and rudest gestures +and taunts, even when the faintness of death was upon Him, cried to His +Father to forgive their cruelty. He asks you to forgive the man who +wronged you, and you will not—not even for Him! Oh, Catherine, +Catherine!” + +“It is very easy to talk, Mr Walton,” she returned with forced but cool +scorn. + +“Tell me, then,” I said, “have YOU nothing to repent of? Have YOU done +no wrong in this same miserable matter?” + +“I do not understand you, sir,” she said, freezingly, petulantly, not +sure, perhaps, or unwilling to believe, that I meant what I did mean. + +I was fully resolved to be plain with her now. + +“Catherine Weir,” I said, “did not God give you a house to keep fair +and pure for Him? Did you keep it such?” + +“He told me lies,” she cried fiercely, with a cry that seemed to pierce +through the storm over our heads, up towards the everlasting justice. +“He lied, and I trusted. For his sake I sinned, and he threw me from +him.” + +“You gave him what was not yours to give. What right had you to cast +your pearl before a swine? But dare you say it was ALL FOR HIS SAKE you +did it? Was it ALL self-denial? Was there no self-indulgence?” + +She made a broken gesture of lifting her hands to her head, let them +drop by her side, and said nothing. + +“You knew you were doing wrong. You felt it even more than he did. For +God made you with a more delicate sense of purity, with a shrinking +from the temptation, with a womanly foreboding of disgrace, to help you +to hold the cup of your honour steady, which yet you dropped on the +ground. Do not seek refuge in the cant about a woman’s weakness. The +strength of the woman is as needful to her womanhood as the strength of +the man is to his manhood; and a woman is just as strong as she will +be. And now, instead of humbling yourself before your Father in heaven, +whom you have wronged more even than your father on earth, you rage +over your injuries and cherish hatred against him who wronged you. But +I will go yet further, and show you, in God’s name, that you wronged +your seducer. For you were his keeper, as he was yours. What if he had +found a noble-hearted girl who also trusted him entirely—just until she +knew she ought not to listen to him a moment longer? who, when his love +showed itself less than human, caring but for itself, rose in the +royalty of her maidenhood, and looked him in the face? Would he not +have been ashamed before her, and so before himself, seeing in the +glass of her dignity his own contemptibleness? But instead of such a +woman he found you, who let him do as he would. No redemption for him +in you. And now he walks the earth the worse for you, defiled by your +spoil, glorying in his poor victory over you, despising all women for +your sake, unrepentant and proud, ruining others the easier that he has +already ruined you.” + +“He does! he does!” she shrieked; “but I will have my revenge. I can +and I will.” + +And, darting past me, she rushed out into the storm. I followed, and +could just see that she took the way to the village. Her dim shape went +down the wind before me into the darkness. I followed in the same +direction, fast and faster, for the wind was behind me, and a vague +fear which ever grew in my heart urged me to overtake her. What had I +done? To what might I not have driven her? And although all I had said +was true, and I had spoken from motives which, as far as I knew my own +heart, I could not condemn, yet, as I sped after her, there came a +reaction of feeling from the severity with which I had displayed her +own case against her. “Ah! poor sister,” I thought, “was it for me thus +to reproach thee who had suffered already so fiercely? If the Spirit +speaking in thy heart could not win thee, how should my words of hard +accusation, true though they were, every one of them, rouse in thee +anything but the wrath that springs from shame? Should I not have tried +again, and yet again, to waken thy love; and then a sweet and healing +shame, like that of her who bathed the Master’s feet with her tears, +would have bred fresh love, and no wrath.” + +But again I answered for myself, that my heart had not been the less +tender towards her that I had tried to humble her, for it was that she +might slip from under the net of her pride. Even when my tongue spoke +the hardest things I could find, my heart was yearning over her. If I +could but make her feel that she too had been wrong, would not the +sense of common wrong between them help her to forgive? And with the +first motion of willing pardon, would not a spring of tenderness, +grief, and hope, burst from her poor old dried-up heart, and make it +young and fresh once more! Thus I reasoned with myself as I followed +her back through the darkness. + +The wind fell a little as we came near the village, and the rain began +to come down in torrents. There must have been a moon somewhere behind +the clouds, for the darkness became less dense, and I began to fancy I +could again see the dim shape which had rushed from me. I increased my +speed, and became certain of it. Suddenly, her strength giving way, or +her foot stumbling over something in the road, she fell to the earth +with a cry. + +I was beside her in a moment. She was insensible. I did what I could +for her, and in a few minutes she began to come to herself. + +“Where am I? Who is it?” she asked, listlessly. + +When she found who I was, she made a great effort to rise, and +succeeded. + +“You must take my arm,” I said, “and I will help you to the vicarage.” + +“I will go home,” she answered. + +“Lean on me now, at least; for you must get somewhere.” + +“What does it matter?” she said, in such a tone of despair, that it +went to my very heart. + +A wild half-cry, half-sob followed, and then she took my arm, and said +nothing more. Nor did I trouble her with any words, except, when we +readied the gate, to beg her to come into the vicarage instead of going +home. But she would not listen to me, and so I took her home. + +She pulled the key of the shop from her pocket. Her hand trembled so +that I took it from her, and opened the door. A candle with a long +snuff was flickering on the counter; and stretched out on the counter, +with his head about a foot from the candle, lay little Gerard, fast +asleep. + +“Ah, little darling!” I said in my heart, “this is not much like +painting the sky yet. But who knows?” And as I uttered the commonplace +question in my mind, in my mind it was suddenly changed into the half +of a great dim prophecy by the answer which arose to it there, for the +answer was “God.” + +I lifted the little fellow in my arms. He had fallen asleep weeping, +and his face was dirty, and streaked with the channels of his tears. +Catherine had snuffed the candle, and now stood with it in her hand, +waiting for me to go. But, without heeding her, I bore my child to the +door that led to their dwelling. I had never been up those stairs +before, and therefore knew nothing of the way. But without offering any +opposition, his mother followed, and lighted me. What a sad face of +suffering and strife it was upon which that dim light fell! She set the +candle down upon the table of a small room at the top of the stairs, +which might have been comfortable enough but that it was neglected and +disordered; and now I saw that she did not even have her child to sleep +with her, for his crib stood in a corner of this their sitting-room. + +I sat down on a haircloth couch, and proceeded to undress little +Gerard, trying as much as I could not to wake him. In this I was almost +successful. Catherine stood staring at me without saying a word. She +looked dazed, perhaps from the effects of her fall. But she brought me +his nightgown notwithstanding. Just as I had finished putting it on, +and was rising to lay him in his crib, he opened his eyes, and looked +at me; then gave a hurried look round, as if for his mother; then threw +his arms about my neck and kissed me. I laid him down and the same +moment he was fast asleep. In the morning it would not be even a dream +to him. + +“Now,” I thought, “you are safe for the night, poor fatherless child. +Even your mother’s hardness will not make you sad now. Perhaps the +heavenly Father will send you loving dreams.” + +I turned to Catherine, and bade her good-night. She just put her hand +in mine; but, instead of returning my leave-taking, said: + +“Do not fancy you will get the better of me, Mr Walton, by being kind +to that boy. I will have my revenge, and I know how. I am only waiting +my time. When he is just going to drink, I will dash it from his hand. +I will. At the altar I will.” + +Her eyes were flashing almost with madness, and she made fierce +gestures with her arm. I saw that argument was useless. + +“You loved him once, Catherine,” I said. “Love him again. Love him +better. Forgive him. Revenge is far worse than anything you have done +yet.” + +“What do I care? Why should I care?” + +And she laughed terribly. + +I made haste to leave the room and the house; but I lingered for nearly +an hour about the place before I could make up my mind to go home, so +much was I afraid lest she should do something altogether insane. + +But at length I saw the candle appear in the shop, which was some +relief to my anxiety; and reflecting that her one consuming thought of +revenge was some security for her conduct otherwise, I went home. + +That night my own troubles seemed small to me, and I did not brood over +them at all. My mind was filled with the idea of the sad misery which, +rather than in which, that poor woman was; and I prayed for her as for +a desolate human world whose sun had deserted the heavens, whose fair +fields, rivers, and groves were hardening into the frost of death, and +all their germs of hope becoming but portions of the lifeless mass. “If +I am sorrowful,” I said, “God lives none the less. And His will is +better than mine, yea, is my hidden and perfected will. In Him is my +life. His will be done. What, then, is my trouble compared to hers? I +will not sink into it and be selfish.” + +In the morning my first business was to inquire after her. I found her +in the shop, looking very ill, and obstinately reserved. Gerard sat in +a corner, looking as far from happy as a child of his years could look. +As I left the shop he crept out with me. + +“Gerard, come back,” cried his mother. + +“I will not take him away,” I said. + +The boy looked up in my face, as if he wanted to whisper to me, and I +stooped to listen. + +“I dreamed last night,” said the boy, “that a big angel with white +wings came and took me out of my bed, and carried me high, high up—so +high that I could not dream any more.” + +“We shall be carried up so high one day, Gerard, my boy, that we shall +not want to dream any more. For we shall be carried up to God himself. +Now go back to your mother.” + +He obeyed at once, and I went on through the village. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR. + + +I wanted just to pass the gate, and look up the road towards Oldcastle +Hall. I thought to see nothing but the empty road between the leafless +trees, lying there like a dead stream that would not bear me on to the +“sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice” that lay beyond. But just as I +reached the gate, Miss Oldcastle came out of the lodge, where I learned +afterwards the woman that kept the gate was ill. + +When she saw me she stopped, and I entered hurriedly, and addressed +her. But I could say nothing better than the merest commonplaces. For +her old manner, which I had almost forgotten, a certain coldness +shadowed with haughtiness, whose influence I had strongly felt when I +began to make her acquaintance, had returned. I cannot make my reader +understand how this could be blended with the sweetness in her face and +the gentleness of her manners; but there the opposites were, and I +could feel them both. There was likewise a certain drawing of herself +away from me, which checked the smallest advance on my part; so that—I +wonder at it now, but so it was—after a few words of very ordinary +conversation, I bade her good morning and went away, feeling like “a +man forbid”—as if I had done her some wrong, and she had chidden me for +it. What a stone lay in my breast! I could hardly breathe for it. What +could have caused her to change her manner towards me? I had made no +advance; I could not have offended her. Yet there she glided up the +road, and here stood I, outside the gate. That road was now a flowing +river that bore from me the treasure of the earth, while my boat was +spell-bound, and could not follow. I would run after her, fall at her +feet, and intreat to know wherein I had offended her. But there I stood +enchanted, and there she floated away between the trees; till at length +she turned the slow sweep, and I, breathing deep as she vanished from +my sight, turned likewise, and walked back the dreary way to the +village. And now I knew that I had never been miserable in my life +before. And I knew, too, that I had never loved her as I loved her now. + +But, as I had for the last ten years of my life been striving to be a +right will, with a thousand failures and forgetfulnesses every one of +those years, while yet the desire grew stronger as hope recovered from +every failure, I would now try to do my work as if nothing had happened +to incapacitate me for it. So I went on to fulfil the plan with which I +had left home, including, as it did, a visit to Thomas Weir, whom I had +not seen in his own shop since he had ordered me out of it. This, as +far as I was concerned, was more accidental than intentional. I had, +indeed, abstained from going to him for a while, in order to give him +time TO COME ROUND; but then circumstances which I have recorded +intervened to prevent me; so that as yet no advance had been made on my +part any more than on his towards a reconciliation; which, however, +could have been such only on one side, for I had not been in the least +offended by the way he had behaved to me, and needed no reconciliation. +To tell the truth, I was pleased to find that my words had had force +enough with him to rouse his wrath. Anything rather than indifference! +That the heart of the honest man would in the end right me, I could not +doubt; in the meantime I would see whether a friendly call might not +improve the state of affairs. Till he yielded to the voice within him, +however, I could not expect that our relation to each other would be +quite restored. As long as he resisted his conscience, and knew that I +sided with his conscience, it was impossible he should regard me with +peaceful eyes, however much he might desire to be friendly with me. + +I found him busy, as usual, for he was one of the most diligent men I +have ever known. But his face was gloomy, and I thought or fancied that +the old scorn had begun once more to usurp the expression of it. Young +Tom was not in the shop. + +“It is a long time since I saw you, now, Thomas.” + +“I can hardly wonder at that,” he returned, as if he were trying to do +me justice; but his eyes dropped, and he resumed his work, and said no +more. I thought it better to make no reference to the past even by +assuring him that it was not from resentment that I had been a +stranger. + +“How is Tom?” I asked. + +“Well enough,” he returned. Then, with a smile of peevishness not +unmingled with contempt, he added: “He’s getting too uppish for me. I +don’t think the Latin agrees with him.” + +I could not help suspecting at once how the matter stood—namely, that +the father, unhappy in his conduct to his daughter, and unable to make +up his mind to do right with regard to her, had been behaving +captiously and unjustly to his son, and so had rendered himself more +miserable than ever. + +“Perhaps he finds it too much for him without me,” I said, evasively; +“but I called to-day partly to inform him that I am quite ready now to +recommence our readings together; after which I hope you will find the +Latin agree with him better.” + +“I wish you would let him alone, sir—I mean, take no more trouble about +him. You see I can’t do as you want me; I wasn’t made to go another +man’s way; and so it’s very hard—more than I can bear—to be under so +much obligation to you.” + +“But you mistake me altogether, Thomas. It is for the lad’s own sake +that I want to go on reading with him. And you won’t interfere between +him and any use I can be of to him. I assure you, to have you go my way +instead of your own is the last thing I could wish, though I confess I +do wish very much that you would choose the right way for your own +way.” + +He made me no answer, but maintained a sullen silence. + +“Thomas,” I said at length, “I had thought you were breaking every bond +of Satan that withheld you from entering into the kingdom of heaven; +but I fear he has strengthened his bands and holds you now as much a +captive as ever. So it is not even your own way you are walking in, but +his.” + +“It’s no use your trying to frighten me. I don’t believe in the devil.” + +“It is God I want you to believe in. And I am not going to dispute with +you now about whether there is a devil or not. In a matter of life and +death we have no time for settling every disputed point.” + +“Life or death! What do you mean?” + +“I mean that whether you believe there is a devil or not, you KNOW +there is an evil power in your mind dragging you down. I am not +speaking in generals; I mean NOW, and you know as to what I mean it. +And if you yield to it, that evil power, whatever may be your theory +about it, will drag you down to death. It is a matter of life or death, +I repeat, not of theory about the devil.” + +“Well, I always did say, that if you once give a priest an inch he’ll +take an ell; and I am sorry I forgot it for once.” + +Having said this, he shut up his mouth in a manner that indicated +plainly enough he would not open it again for some time. This, more +than his speech, irritated me, and with a mere “good morning,” I walked +out of the shop. + +No sooner was I in the open air than I knew that I too, I as well as +poor Thomas Weir, was under a spell; knew that I had gone to him before +I had recovered sufficiently from the mingled disappointment and +mortification of my interview with Miss Oldcastle; that while I spoke +to him I was not speaking with a whole heart; that I had been +discharging a duty as if I had been discharging a musket; that, +although I had spoken the truth, I had spoken it ungraciously and +selfishly. + +I could not bear it. I turned instantly and went back into the shop. + +“Thomas, my friend,” I said, holding out my hand, “I beg your pardon. I +was wrong. I spoke to you as I ought not. I was troubled in my own +mind, and that made me lose my temper and be rude to you, who are far +more troubled than I am. Forgive me!” + +He did not take my hand at first, but stared at me as if, not +comprehending me, he supposed that I was backing up what I had said +last with more of the same sort. But by the time I had finished he saw +what I meant; his countenance altered and looked as if the evil spirit +were about to depart from him; he held out his hand, gave mine a great +grasp, dropped his head, went on with his work, and said never a word. + +I went out of the shop once more, but in a greatly altered mood. + +On the way home, I tried to find out how it was that I had that morning +failed so signally. I had little virtue in keeping my temper, because +it was naturally very even; therefore I had the more shame in losing +it. I had borne all my uneasiness about Miss Oldcastle without, as far +as I knew, transgressing in this fashion till this very morning. Were +great sorrows less hurtful to the temper than small disappointments? +Yes, surely. But Shakespeare represents Brutus, after hearing of the +sudden death of his wife, as losing his temper with Cassius to a degree +that bewildered the latter, who said he did not know that Brutus could +have been so angry. Is this consistent with the character of the +stately-minded Brutus, or with the dignity of sorrow? It is. For the +loss of his wife alone would have made him only less irritable; but the +whole weight of an army, with its distracting cares and conflicting +interests, pressed upon him; and the battle of an empire was to be +fought at daybreak, so that he could not be alone with his grief. +Between the silence of death in his mind, and the roar of life in his +brain, he became irritable. + +Looking yet deeper into it, I found that till this morning I had +experienced no personal mortification with respect to Miss Oldcastle. +It was not the mere disappointment of having no more talk with her, for +the sight of her was a blessing I had not in the least expected, that +had worked upon me, but the fact that she had repelled or seemed to +repel me. And thus I found that self was at the root of the wrong I had +done to one over whose mental condition, especially while I was telling +him the unwelcome truth, I ought to have been as tender as a mother +over her wounded child. I could not say that it was wrong to feel +disappointed or even mortified; but something was wrong when one whose +especial business it was to serve his people in the name of Him who was +full of grace and truth, made them suffer because of his own inward +pain. + +No sooner had I settled this in my mind than my trouble returned with a +sudden pang. Had I actually seen her that morning, and spoken to her, +and left her with a pain in my heart? What if that face of hers was +doomed ever to bring with it such a pain—to be ever to me no more than +a lovely vision radiating grief? If so, I would endure in silence and +as patiently as I could, trying to make up for the lack of brightness +in my own fate by causing more brightness in the fate of others. I +would at least keep on trying to do my work. + +That moment I felt a little hand poke itself into mine. I looked down, +and there was Gerard Weir looking up in my face. I found myself in the +midst of the children coming out of school, for it was Saturday, and a +half-holiday. He smiled in my face, and I hope I smiled in his; and so, +hand in hand, we went on to the vicarage, where I gave him up to my +sister. But I cannot convey to my reader any notion of the quietness +that entered my heart with the grasp of that childish hand. I think it +was the faith of the boy in me that comforted me, but I could not help +thinking of the words of our Lord about receiving a child in His name, +and so receiving Him. By the time we reached the vicarage my heart was +very quiet. As the little child held by my hand, so I seemed to be +holding by God’s hand. And a sense of heart-security, as well as +soul-safety, awoke in me; and I said to myself,—Surely He will take +care of my heart as well as of my mind and my conscience. For one +blessed moment I seemed to be at the very centre of things, looking out +quietly upon my own troubled emotions as upon something outside of +me—apart from me, even as one from the firm rock may look abroad upon +the vexed sea. And I thought I then knew something of what the apostle +meant when he said, “Your life is hid with Christ in God.” I knew that +there was a deeper self than that which was thus troubled. + +I had not had my usual ramble this morning, and was otherwise ill +prepared for the Sunday. So I went early into the church; but finding +that the sexton’s wife had not yet finished lighting the stove, I sat +down by my own fire in the vestry. + +Suppose I am sitting there now while I say one word for our +congregations in winter. I was very particular in having the church +well warmed before Sunday. I think some parsons must neglect seeing +after this matter on principle, because warmth may make a weary +creature go to sleep here and there about the place: as if any healing +doctrine could enter the soul while it is on the rack of the frost. The +clergy should see—for it is their business—that their people have no +occasion to think of their bodies at all while they are in church. They +have enough ado to think of the truth. When our Lord was feeding even +their bodies, He made them all sit down on the grass. It is worth +noticing that there was much grass in the place—a rare thing I should +think in those countries—and therefore, perhaps, it was chosen by Him +for their comfort in feeding their souls and bodies both. If I may +judge from experiences of my own, one of the reasons why some churches +are of all places the least likely for anything good to be found in, +is, that they are as wretchedly cold to the body as they are to the +soul—too cold every way for anything to grow in them. Edelweiss, +“Noble-white”—as they call a plant growing under the snow on some of +the Alps—could not survive the winter in such churches. There is small +welcome in a cold house. And the clergyman, who is the steward, should +look to it. It is for him to give his Master’s friends a welcome to his +Master’s house—for the welcome of a servant is precious, and now-a-days +very rare. + +And now Mrs Stone must have finished. I go into the old church which +looks as if it were quietly waiting for its people. No. She has not +done yet. Never mind.—How full of meaning the vaulted roof looks! as +if, having gathered a soul of its own out of the generations that have +worshipped here for so long, it had feeling enough to grow hungry for a +psalm before the end of the week. + +Some such half-foolish fancy was now passing through my tranquillized +mind or rather heart—for the mind would have rejected it at once—when +to my—what shall I call it?—not amazement, for the delight was too +strong for amazement—the old organ woke up and began to think aloud. As +if it had been brooding over it all the week in the wonderful +convolutions of its wooden brain, it began to sigh out the Agnus Dei of +Mozart’s twelfth mass upon the air of the still church, which lay swept +and garnished for the Sunday.—How could it be? I know now; and I +guessed then; and my guess was right; and my reader must be content to +guess too. I took no step to verify my conjecture, for I felt that I +was upon my honour, but sat in one of the pews and listened, till the +old organ sobbed itself into silence. Then I heard the steps of the +sexton’s wife vanish from the church, heard her lock the door, and knew +that I was alone in the ancient pile, with the twilight growing thick +about me, and felt like Sir Galahad, when, after the “rolling +organ-harmony,” he heard “wings flutter, voices hover clear.” In a +moment the mood changed; and I was sorry, not that the dear organ was +dead for the night, but actually felt gently-mournful that the +wonderful old thing never had and never could have a conscious life of +its own. So strangely does the passion—which I had not invented, +reader, whoever thou art that thinkest love and a church do not well +harmonize—so strangely, I say, full to overflowing of its own vitality, +does it radiate life, that it would even of its own superabundance +quicken into blessed consciousness the inanimate objects around it, +thinking what they would feel had they a consciousness correspondent to +their form, were their faculties moved from within themselves instead +of from the will and operation of humanity. + +I lingered on long in the dark church, as my reader knows I had done +often before. Nor did I move from the seat I had first taken till I +left the sacred building. And there I made my sermon for the next +morning. And herewith I impart it to my reader. But he need not be +afraid of another such as I have already given him, for I impart it +only in its original germ, its concentrated essence of sermon—these +four verses: + +Had I the grace to win the grace + Of some old man complete in lore, +My face would worship at his face, + Like childhood seated on the floor. + +Had I the grace to win the grace + Of childhood, loving shy, apart, +The child should find a nearer place, + And teach me resting on my heart. + +Had I the grace to win the grace + Of maiden living all above, +My soul would trample down the base, + That she might have a man to love. + +A grace I have no grace to win + Knocks now at my half-open door: +Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in, + Thy grace divine is all and more. + + +This was what I made for myself. I told my people that God had created +all our worships, reverences, tendernesses, loves. That they had come +out of His heart, and He had made them in us because they were in Him +first. That otherwise He would not have cared to make them. That all +that we could imagine of the wise, the lovely, the beautiful, was in +Him, only infinitely more of them than we could not merely imagine, but +understand, even if He did all He could to explain them to us, to make +us understand them. That in Him was all the wise teaching of the best +man ever known in the world and more; all the grace and gentleness and +truth of the best child and more; all the tenderness and devotion of +the truest type of womankind and more; for there is a love that passeth +the love of woman, not the love of Jonathan to David, though David said +so: but the love of God to the men and women whom He has made. +Therefore, we must be all God’s; and all our aspirations, all our +worships, all our honours, all our loves, must centre in Him, the Best. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +AN ANGEL UNAWARES. + + +Feeling rather more than the usual reaction so well-known to clergymen +after the concentrated duties of the Sunday, I resolved on Monday to +have the long country walk I had been disappointed of on the Saturday +previous. It was such a day as it seems impossible to describe except +in negatives. It was not stormy, it was not rainy, it was not sunshiny, +it was not snowy, it was not frosty, it was not foggy, it was not +clear, it was nothing but cloudy and quiet and cold and generally +ungenial, with just a puff of wind now and then to give an assertion to +its ungeniality. I should not in the least have cared to tell what sort +the day was, had it not been an exact representation of my own mind. It +was not the day that made me such as itself. The weather could always +easily influence the surface of my mind, my external mood, but it could +never go much further. The smallest pleasure would break through the +conditions that merely came of such a day. But this morning my whole +mind and heart seemed like the day. The summer was thousands of miles +off on the other side of the globe. Ethelwyn, up at the old house there +across the river, seemed millions of miles away. The summer MIGHT come +back; she never would come nearer: it was absurd to expect it. For in +such moods stupidity constantly arrogates to itself the qualities and +claims of insight. In fact, it passes itself off for common sense, +making the most dreary ever appear the most reasonable. In such moods a +man might almost be persuaded that it was ridiculous to expect any such +poetic absurdity as the summer, with its diamond mornings and its opal +evenings, ever to come again; nay, to think that it ever had had any +existence except in the fancies of the human heart—one of its castles +in the air. The whole of life seemed faint and foggy, with no red in it +anywhere; and when I glanced at my present relations in Marshmallows, I +could not help finding several circumstances to give some appearance of +justice to this appearance of things. I seemed to myself to have done +no good. I had driven Catherine Weir to the verge of suicide, while at +the same time I could not restrain her from the contemplation of some +dire revenge. I had lost the man upon whom I had most reckoned as a +seal of my ministry, namely, Thomas Weir. True there was Old Rogers; +but Old Rogers was just as good before I found him. I could not dream +of having made him any better. And so I went on brooding over all the +disappointing portions of my labour, all the time thinking about +myself, instead of God and the work that lay for me to do in the days +to come. + +“Nobody,” I said, “but Old Rogers understands me. Nobody would care, as +far as my teaching goes, if another man took my place from next Sunday +forward. And for Miss Oldcastle, her playing the Agnus Dei on Saturday +afternoon, even if she intended that I should hear it, could only +indicate at most that she knew how she had behaved to me in the +morning, and thought she had gone too far and been unkind, or perhaps +was afraid lest she should be accountable for any failure I might make +in my Sunday duties, and therefore felt bound to do something to +restore my equanimity.” + +Choosing, though without consciously intending to do so, the dreariest +path to be found, I wandered up the side of the slow black river, with +the sentinel pollards looking at themselves in its gloomy mirror, just +as I was looking at myself in the mirror of my circumstances. They +leaned in all directions, irregular as the headstones in an ancient +churchyard. In the summer they looked like explosions of green leaves +at the best; now they looked like the burnt-out cases of the summer’s +fireworks. How different, too, was the river from the time when a whole +fleet of shining white lilies lay anchored among their own broad green +leaves upon its clear waters, filled with sunlight in every pore, as +they themselves would fill the pores of a million-caverned sponge! But +I could not even recall the past summer as beautiful. I seemed to care +for nothing. The first miserable afternoon at Marshmallows looked now +as if it had been the whole of my coming relation to the place seen +through a reversed telescope. And here I was IN it now. + +The walk along the side was tolerably dry, although the river was +bank-full. But when I came to the bridge I wanted to cross—a wooden +one—I found that the approach to it had been partly undermined and +carried away, for here the river had overflowed its banks in one of the +late storms; and all about the place was still very wet and swampy. I +could therefore get no farther in my gloomy walk, and so turned back +upon my steps. Scarcely had I done so, when I saw a man coming hastily +towards me from far upon the straight line of the river walk. I could +not mistake him at any distance. It was Old Rogers. I felt both ashamed +and comforted when I recognized him. + +“Well, Old Rogers,” I said, as soon as he came within hail, trying to +speak cheerfully, “you cannot get much farther this way—without wading +a bit, at least.” + +“I don’t want to go no farther now, sir. I came to find you.” + +“Nothing amiss, I hope?” + +“Nothing as I knows on, sir. I only wanted to have a little chat with +you. I told master I wanted to leave for an hour or so. He allus lets +me do just as I like.” + +“But how did you know where to find me?” + +“I saw you come this way. You passed me right on the bridge, and didn’t +see me, sir. So says I to myself, ‘Old Rogers, summat’s amiss wi’ +parson to-day. He never went by me like that afore. This won’t do. You +just go and see.’ So I went home and told master, and here I be, sir. +And I hope you’re noways offended with the liberty of me.” + +“Did I really pass you on the bridge?” I said, unable to understand it. + +“That you did, sir. I knowed parson must be a goodish bit in his own +in’ards afore he would do that.” + +“I needn’t tell you I didn’t see you, Old Rogers.” + +“I could tell you that, sir. I hope there’s nothing gone main wrong, +sir. Miss is well, sir, I hope?” + +“Quite well, I thank you. No, my dear fellow, nothing’s gone main +wrong, as you say. Some of my running tackle got jammed a bit, that’s +all. I’m a little out of spirits, I believe.” + +“Well, sir, don’t you be afeard I’m going to be troublesome. Don’t +think I want to get aboard your ship, except you fling me a rope. +There’s a many things you mun ha’ to think about that an ignorant man +like me couldn’t take up if you was to let ’em drop. And being a +gentleman, I do believe, makes the matter worse betuxt us. And there’s +many a thing that no man can go talkin’ about to any but only the Lord +himself. Still you can’t help us poor folks seeing when there’s summat +amiss, and we can’t help havin’ our own thoughts any more than the +sailor’s jackdaw that couldn’t speak. And sometimes we may be nearer +the mark than you would suppose, for God has made us all of one blood, +you know.” + +“What ARE you driving at, Old Rogers?” I said with a smile, which was +none the less true that I suspected he had read some of the worst +trouble of my heart. For why should I mind an honourable man like him +knowing what oppressed me, though, as things went, I certainly should +not, as he said, choose to tell it to any but one? + +“I don’t want to say what I was driving at, if it was anything but +this—that I want to put to the clumsy hand of a rough old tar, with a +heart as soft as the pitch that makes his hand hard—to trim your sails +a bit, sir, and help you to lie a point closer to the wind. You’re not +just close-hauled, sir.” + +“Say on, Old Rogers. I understand you, and I will listen with all my +heart, for you have a good right to speak.” + +And Old Rogers spoke thus:— + +“Oncet upon a time, I made a voyage in a merchant barque. We were +becalmed in the South Seas. And weary work it wur, a doin’ of nothin’ +from day to day. But when the water began to come up thick from the +bottom of the water-casks, it was wearier a deal. Then a thick fog came +on, as white as snow a’most, and we couldn’t see more than a few yards +ahead or on any side of us. But the fog didn’t keep the heat off; it +only made it worse, and the water was fast going done. The short +allowance grew shorter and shorter, and the men, some of them, were +half-mad with thirst, and began to look bad at one another. I kept up +my heart by looking ahead inside me. For days and days the fog hung +about us as if the air had been made o’ flocks o’ wool. The captain +took to his berth, and several of the crew to their hammocks, for it +was just as hot on deck as anywhere else. The mate lay on a sparesail +on the quarter-deck, groaning. I had a strong suspicion that the +schooner was drifting, and hove the lead again and again, but could +find no bottom. Some of the men got hold of the spirits, and THAT +didn’t quench their thirst. It drove them clean mad. I had to knock one +of them down myself with a capstan bar, for he ran at the mate with his +knife. At last I began to lose all hope. And still I was sure the +schooner was slowly drifting. My head was like to burst, and my tongue +was like a lump of holystone in my mouth. Well, one morning, I had +just, as I thought, lain down on the deck to breathe my last, hoping I +should die before I went quite mad with thirst, when all at once the +fog lifted, like the foot of a sail. I sprung to my feet. There was the +blue sky overhead; but the terrible burning sun was there. A moment +more and a light air blew on my cheek, and, turning my face to it as if +it had been the very breath of God, there was an island within half a +mile, and I saw the shine of water on the face of a rock on the shore. +I cried out, ‘Land on the weather-quarter! Water in sight!’ In a moment +more a boat was lowered, and in a few minutes the boat’s crew, of which +I was one, were lying, clothes and all, in a little stream that came +down from the hills above.—There, Mr Walton! that’s what I wanted to +say to you.” + +This is as near the story of my old friend as my limited knowledge of +sea affairs allows me to report it. + +“I understand you quite, Old Rogers, and I thank you heartily,” I said. + +“No doubt,” resumed he, “King Solomon was quite right, as he always +was, I suppose, in what he SAID, for his wisdom mun ha’ laid mostly in +the tongue—right, I say, when he said, ‘Boast not thyself of to-morrow; +for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth;’ but I can’t help +thinking there’s another side to it. I think it would be as good advice +to a man on the other tack, whose boasting lay far to windward, and he +close on a lee-shore wi’ breakers—it wouldn’t be amiss to say to him, +‘Don’t strike your colours to the morrow; for thou knowest not what a +day may bring forth.’ There’s just as many good days as bad ones; as +much fair weather as foul in the days to come. And if a man keeps up +heart, he’s all the better for that, and none the worse when the evil +day does come. But, God forgive me! I’m talking like a heathen. As if +there was any chance about what the days would bring forth. No, my +lad,” said the old sailor, assuming the dignity of his superior years +under the inspiration of the truth, “boast nor trust nor hope in the +morrow. Boast and trust and hope in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him, +who is the health of thy countenance and thy God.” + +I could but hold out my hand. I had nothing to say. For he had spoken +to me as an angel of God. + +The old man was silent for some moments: his emotion needed time to +still itself again. Nor did he return to the subject. He held out his +hand once more, saying— + +“Good day, sir. I must go back to my work.” + +“I will go back with you,” I returned. + +And so we walked back side by side to the village, but not a word did +we speak the one to the other, till we shook hands and parted upon the +bridge, where we had first met. Old Rogers went to his work, and I +lingered upon the bridge. I leaned upon the low parapet, and looked up +the stream as far as the mists creeping about the banks, and hovering +in thinnest veils over the surface of the water, would permit. Then I +turned and looked down the river crawling on to the sweep it made out +of sight just where Mr Brownrigg’s farm began to come down to its +banks. Then I looked to the left, and there stood my old church, as +quiet in the dreary day, though not so bright, as in the sunshine: even +the graves themselves must look yet more “solemn sad” in a wintry day +like this, than they look when the sunlight that infolds them proclaims +that God is not the God of the dead but of the living. One of the great +battles that we have to fight in this world—for twenty great battles +have to be fought all at once and in one—is the battle with +appearances. I turned me to the right, and there once more I saw, as on +that first afternoon, the weathercock that watched the winds over the +stables at Oldcastle Hall. It had caught just one glimpse of the sun +through some rent in the vapours, and flung it across to me, ere it +vanished again amid the general dinginess of the hour. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +TWO PARISHIONERS. + + +I HAVE said, near the beginning of my story, that my parish was a large +one: how is it that I have mentioned but one of the great families in +it, and have indeed confined my recollections entirely to the village +and its immediate neighbourhood? Will my reader have patience while I +explain this to him a little? First, as he may have observed, my +personal attraction is towards the poor rather than the rich. I was +made so. I can generally get nearer the poor than the rich. But I say +GENERALLY, for I have known a few rich people quite as much to my mind +as the best of the poor. Thereupon, of course, their education would +give them the advantage with me in the possibilities of communion. But +when the heart is right, and there is a good stock of common sense as +well,—a gift predominant, as far as I am aware, in no one class over +another, education will turn the scale very gently with me. And then +when I reflect that some of these poor people would have made nobler +ladies and gentlemen than all but two or three I know, if they had only +had the opportunity, there is a reaction towards the poor, something +like a feeling of favour because they have not had fair play—a feeling +soon modified, though not altered, by the reflection that they are such +because God who loves them better than we do, has so ordered their lot, +and by the recollection that not only was our Lord himself poor, but He +said the poor were blessed. And let me just say in passing that I not +only believe it because He said it, but I believe it because I see that +it is so. I think sometimes that the world must have been especially +created for the poor, and that particular allowances will be made for +the rich because they are born into such disadvantages, and with their +wickednesses and their miseries, their love of spiritual dirt and +meanness, subserve the highest growth and emancipation of the poor, +that they may inherit both the earth and the kingdom of heaven. + +But I have been once more wandering from my subject. + +Thus it was that the people in the village lying close to my door +attracted most of my attention at first; of which attention those more +immediately associated with the village, as, for instance, the +inhabitants of the Hall, came in for a share, although they did not +belong to the same class. + +Again, the houses of most of the gentlefolk lay considerably apart from +the church and from each other. Many of them went elsewhere to church, +and I did not feel bound to visit those, for I had enough to occupy me +without, and had little chance of getting a hold of them to do them +good. Still there were one or two families which I would have visited +oftener, I confess, had I been more interested in them, or had I had a +horse. Therefore, I ought to have bought a horse sooner than I did. +Before this winter was over, however, I did buy one, partly to please +Dr Duncan, who urged me to it for the sake of my health, partly because +I could then do my duty better, and partly, I confess, from having been +very fond of an old mare of my father’s, when I was a boy, living, +after my mother’s death, at a farm of his in B—shire. Happening to come +across a gray mare very much like her, I bought her at once. + +I think it was the very day after the events recorded in my last +chapter that I mounted her to pay a visit to two rich maiden ladies, +whose carriage stopped at the Lych-gate most Sundays when the weather +was favourable, but whom I had called upon only once since I came to +the parish. I should not have thought this visit worth mentioning, +except for the conversation I had with them, during which a hint or two +were dropped which had an influence in colouring my thoughts for some +time after. + +I was shown with much ceremony by a butler, as old apparently as his +livery of yellow and green, into the presence of the two ladies, one of +whom sat in state reading a volume of the Spectator. She was very tall, +and as square as the straight long-backed chair upon which she sat. A +fat asthmatic poodle lay at her feet upon the hearth-rug. The other, a +little lively gray-haired creature, who looked like a most ancient girl +whom no power of gathering years would ever make old, was standing upon +a high chair, making love to a demoniacal-looking cockatoo in a gilded +cage. As I entered the room, the latter all but jumped from her perch +with a merry though wavering laugh, and advanced to meet me. + +“Jonathan, bring the cake and wine,” she cried to the retreating +servant. + +The former rose with a solemn stiff-backedness, which was more amusing +than dignified, and extended her hand as I approached her, without +moving from her place. + +“We were afraid, Mr Walton,” said the little lady, “that you had +forgotten we were parishioners of yours.” + +“That I could hardly do,” I answered, “seeing you are such regular +attendants at church. But I confess I have given you ground for your +rebuke, Miss Crowther. I bought a horse, however, the other day, and +this is the first use I have put him to.” + +“We’re charmed to see you. It is very good of you not to forget such +uninteresting girls as we are.” + +“You forget, Jemima,” interposed her sister, in a feminine bass, “that +time is always on the wing. I should have thought we were both +decidedly middle-aged, though you are the elder by I will not say how +many years.” + +“All but ten years, Hester. I remember rocking you in your cradle +scores of times. But somehow, Mr Walton, I can’t help feeling as if she +were my elder sister. She is so learned, you see; and I don’t read +anything but the newspapers.” + +“And your Bible, Jemima. Do yourself justice.” + +“That’s a matter of course, sister. But this is not the way to +entertain Mr Walton.” + +“The gentlemen used to entertain the ladies when I was young, Jemima. I +do not know how it may have been when you were.” + +“Much the same, I believe, sister. But if you look at Mr Walton, I +think you will see that he is pretty much entertained as it is.” + +“I agree with Miss Hester,” I said. “It is the duty of gentlemen to +entertain ladies. But it is so much the kinder of ladies when they +surpass their duty, and condescend to entertain gentlemen.” + +“What can surpass duty, Mr Walton? I confess I do not agree with your +doctrines upon that point.” + +“I do not quite understand you, Miss Hester,” I returned. + +“Why, Mr Walton—I hope you will not think me rude, but it always seems +to me—and it has given me much pain, when I consider that your +congregation is chiefly composed of the lower classes, who may be +greatly injured by such a style of preaching. I must say I think so, Mr +Walton. Only perhaps you are one of those who think a lady’s opinion on +such matters is worth nothing.” + +“On the contrary, I respect an opinion just as far as the lady or +gentleman who holds it seems to me qualified to have formed it first. +But you have not yet told me what you think so objectionable in my +preaching.” + +“You always speak as if faith in Christ was something greater than +duty. Now I think duty the first thing.” + +“I quite agree with you, Miss Crowther. For how can I, or any +clergyman, urge a man to that which is not his duty? But tell me, is +not faith in Christ a duty? Where you have mistaken me is, that you +think I speak of faith as higher than duty, when indeed I speak of +faith as higher than any OTHER duty. It is the highest duty of man. I +do not say the duty he always sees clearest, or even sees at all. But +the fact is, that when that which is a duty becomes the highest delight +of a man, the joy of his very being, he no more thinks or needs to +think about it as a duty. What would you think of the love of a son +who, when an appeal was made to his affections, should say, ‘Oh yes, I +love my mother dearly: it is my duty, of course?’” + +“That sounds very plausible, Mr Walton; but still I cannot help feeling +that you preach faith and not works. I do not say that you are not to +preach faith, of course; but you know faith without works is dead.” + +“Now, really, Hester,” interposed Miss Jemima, “I cannot think how it +is, but, for my part, I should have said that Mr Walton was constantly +preaching works. He’s always telling you to do something or other. I +know I always come out of the church with something on my mind; and +I’ve got to work it off somehow before I’m comfortable.” + +And here Miss Jemima got up on the chair again, and began to flirt with +the cockatoo once more, but only in silent signs. + +I cannot quite recall how this part of the conversation drew to a +close. But I will tell a fact or two about the sisters which may +possibly explain how it was that they took up such different notions of +my preaching. The elder scarce left the house, but spent almost the +whole of her time in reading small dingy books of eighteenth century +literature. She believed in no other; thought Shakespeare sentimental +where he was not low, and Bacon pompous; Addison thoroughly respectable +and gentlemanly. Pope was the great English poet, incomparably before +Milton. The “Essay on Man” contained the deepest wisdom; the “Rape of +the Lock” the most graceful imagination to be found in the language. +The “Vicar of Wakefield” was pretty, but foolish; while in philosophy, +Paley was perfect, especially in his notion of happiness, which she had +heard objected to, and therefore warmly defended. Somehow or other, +respectability—in position, in morals, in religion, in conduct—was +everything. The consequence was that her very nature was old-fashioned, +and had nothing in it of that lasting youth which is the birthright—so +often despised—of every immortal being. But I have already said more +about her than her place in my story justifies. + +Miss Crowther, on the contrary, whose eccentricities did not lie on the +side of respectability, had gone on shocking the stiff proprieties of +her younger sister till she could be shocked no more, and gave in as to +the hopelessness of fate. She had had a severe disappointment in youth, +had not only survived it, but saved her heart alive out of it, losing +only, as far as appeared to the eyes of her neighbours at least, any +remnant of selfish care about herself; and she now spent the love which +had before been concentrated upon one object, upon every living thing +that came near her, even to her sister’s sole favourite, the wheezing +poodle. She was very odd, it must be confessed, with her gray hair, her +clear gray eye with wrinkled eyelids, her light step, her laugh at once +girlish and cracked; darting in and out of the cottages, scolding this +matron with a lurking smile in every tone, hugging that baby, boxing +the ears of the other little tyrant, passing this one’s rent, and +threatening that other with awful vengeances, but it was a very lovely +oddity. Their property was not large, and she knew every living thing +on the place down to the dogs and pigs. And Miss Jemima, as the people +always called her, transferring the MISS CROWTHER of primogeniture to +the younger, who kept, like King Henry IV.,— + +“Her presence, like a robe pontifical, +Ne’er seen but wonder’d at,” + + +was the actual queen of the neighbourhood; for, though she was the very +soul of kindness, she was determined to have her own way, and had it. + +Although I did not know all this at the time, such were the two ladies +who held these different opinions about my preaching; the one who did +nothing but read Messrs Addison, Pope, Paley, and Co., considering that +I neglected the doctrine of works as the seal of faith, and the one who +was busy helping her neighbours from morning to night, finding little +in my preaching, except incentive to benevolence. + +The next point where my recollection can take up the conversation, is +where Miss Hester made the following further criticism on my pulpit +labours. + +“You are too anxious to explain everything, Mr Walton.” + +I pause in my recording, to do my critic the justice of remarking that +what she said looks worse on paper than it sounded from her lips; for +she was a gentlewoman, and the tone has much to do with the impression +made by the intellectual contents of all speech. + +“Where can be the use of trying to make uneducated people see the +grounds of everything?” she said. “It is enough that this or that is in +the Bible.” + +“Yes; but there is just the point. What is in the Bible? Is it this or +that?” + +“You are their spiritual instructor: tell them what is in the Bible.” + +“But you have just been objecting to my mode of representing what is in +the Bible.” + +“It will be so much the worse, if you add argument to convince them of +what is incorrect.” + +“I doubt that. Falsehood will expose itself the sooner that honest +argument is used to support it.” + +“You cannot expect them to judge of what you tell them.” + +“The Bible urges upon us to search and understand.” + +“I grant that for those whose business it is, like yourself.” + +“Do you think, then, that the Church consists of a few privileged to +understand, and a great many who cannot understand, and therefore need +not be taught?” + +“I said you had to teach them.” + +“But to teach is to make people understand.” + +“I don’t think so. If you come to that, how much can the wisest of us +understand? You remember what Pope says,— + +‘Superior beings, when of late they saw +A mortal man unfold all Nature’s law, +Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, +And show’d a Newton as we show an ape’?” + + +“I do not know the passage. Pope is not my Bible. I should call such +superior beings very inferior beings indeed.” + +“Do you call the angels inferior beings?” + +“Such angels, certainly.” + +“He means the good angels, of course.” + +“And I say the good angels could never behave like that, for contempt +is one of the lowest spiritual conditions in which any being can place +himself. Our Lord says, ‘Take heed that ye despise not one of these +little ones, for their angels do always behold the face of my Father, +who is in heaven.’” + +“Now will you even say that you understand that passage?” + +“Practically, well enough; just as the poorest man of my congregation +may understand it. I am not to despise one of the little ones. Pope +represents the angels as despising a Newton even.” + +“And you despise Pope.” + +“I hope not. I say he was full of despising, and therefore, if for no +other reason, a small man.” + +“Surely you do not jest at his bodily infirmities?” + +“I had forgotten them quite.” + +“In every other sense he was a great man.” + +“I cannot allow it. He was intellectually a great man, but morally a +small man.” + +“Such refinements are not easily followed.” + +“I will undertake to make the poorest woman in my congregation +understand that.” + +“Why don’t you try your friend Mrs Oldcastle, then? It might do her a +little good,” said Miss Hester, now becoming, I thought, a little +spiteful at hearing her favourite treated so unceremoniously. I found +afterwards that there was some kindness in it, however. + +“I should have very little influence with Mrs Oldcastle if I were to +make the attempt. But I am not called upon to address my flock +individually upon every point of character.” + +“I thought she was an intimate friend of yours.” + +“Quite the contrary. We are scarcely friendly.” + +“I am very glad to hear it,” said Miss Jemima, who had been silent +during the little controversy that her sister and I had been carrying +on. “We have been quite misinformed. The fact is, we thought we might +have seen more of you if it had not been for her. And as very few +people of her own position in society care to visit her, we thought it +a pity she should be your principal friend in the parish.” + +“Why do they not visit her more?” + +“There are strange stories about her, which it is as well to leave +alone. They are getting out of date too. But she is not a fit woman to +be regarded as the clergyman’s friend. There!” said Miss Jemima, as if +she had wanted to relieve her bosom of a burden, and had done it. + +“I think, however, her religious opinions would correspond with your +own, Mr Walton,” said Miss Hester. + +“Possibly,” I answered, with indifference; “I don’t care much about +opinion.” + +“Her daughter would be a nice girl, I fancy, if she weren’t kept down +by her mother. She looks scared, poor thing! And they say she’s not +quite—the thing, you know,” said Miss Jemima. + +“What DO you mean, Miss Crowther?” + +She gently tapped her forehead with a forefinger. + +I laughed. I thought it was not worth my while to enter as the champion +of Miss Oldcastle’s sanity. + +“They are, and have been, a strange family as far back as I can +remember; and my mother used to say the same. I am glad she comes to +our church now. You mustn’t let her set her cap at you, though, Mr +Walton. It wouldn’t do at all. She’s pretty enough, too!” + +“Yes,” I returned, “she is rather pretty. But I don’t think she looks +as if she had a cap to set at anybody.” + +I rose to go, for I did not relish any further pursuit of the +conversation in the same direction. + +I rode home slowly, brooding on the lovely marvel, that out of such a +rough ungracious stem as the Oldcastle family, should have sprung such +a delicate, pale, winter-braved flower, as Ethelwyn. And I prayed that +I might be honoured to rescue her from the ungenial soil and atmosphere +to which the machinations of her mother threatened to confine her for +the rest of a suffering life. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +SATAN CAST OUT. + + +I was within a mile of the village, returning from my visit to the +Misses Crowther, when my horse, which was walking slowly along the soft +side of the road, lifted his head, and pricked up his ears at the +sound, which he heard first, of approaching hoofs. The riders soon came +in sight—Miss Oldcastle, Judy, and Captain Everard. Miss Oldcastle I +had never seen on horseback before. Judy was on a little white pony she +used to gallop about the fields near the Hall. The Captain was laughing +and chatting gaily as they drew near, now to the one, now to the other. +Being on my own side of the road I held straight on, not wishing to +stop or to reveal the signs of a distress which had almost overwhelmed +me. I felt as cold as death, or rather as if my whole being had been +deprived of vitality by a sudden exhaustion around me of the ethereal +element of life. I believe I did not alter my bearing, but remained +with my head bent, for I had been thinking hard just before, till we +were on the point of meeting, when I lifted my hat to Miss Oldcastle +without drawing bridle, and went on. The Captain returned my +salutation, and likewise rode on. I could just see, as they passed me, +that Miss Oldcastle’s pale face was flushed even to scarlet, but she +only bowed and kept alongside of her companion. I thought I had escaped +conversation, and had gone about twenty yards farther, when I heard the +clatter of Judy’s pony behind me, and up she came at full gallop. + +“Why didn’t you stop to speak to us, Mr Walton?” she said. “I pulled +up, but you never looked at me. We shall be cross all the rest of the +day, because you cut us so. What have we done?” + +“Nothing, Judy, that I know of,” I answered, trying to speak +cheerfully. “But I do not know your companion, and I was not in the +humour for an introduction.” + +She looked hard at me with her keen gray eyes; and I felt as if the +child was seeing through me. + +“I don’t know what to make of it, Mr Walton. You’re very different +somehow from what you used to be. There’s something wrong somewhere. +But I suppose you would all tell me it’s none of my business. So I +won’t ask questions. Only I wish I could do anything for you.” + +I felt the child’s kindness, but could only say— + +“Thank you, Judy. I am sure I should ask you if there were anything you +could do for me. But you’ll be left behind.” + +“No fear of that. My Dobbin can go much faster than their big horses. +But I see you don’t want me, so good-bye.” + +She turned her pony’s head as she spoke, jumped the ditch at the side +of the road, and flew after them along the grass like a swallow. I +likewise roused my horse and went off at a hard trot, with the vain +impulse so to shake off the tormenting thoughts that crowded on me like +gadflies. But this day was to be one of more trial still. + +As I turned a corner, almost into the street of the village, Tom Weir +was at my side. He had evidently been watching for me. His face was so +pale, that I saw in a moment something had happened. + +“What is the matter, Tom?” I asked, in some alarm. + +He did not reply for a moment, but kept unconsciously stroking my +horse’s neck, and staring at me “with wide blue eyes.” + +“Come, Tom,” I repeated, “tell me what is the matter.” + +I could see his bare throat knot and relax, like the motion of a +serpent, before he could utter the words. + +“Kate has killed her little boy, sir.” + +He followed them with a stifled cry—almost a scream, and hid his face +in his hands. + +“God forbid!” I exclaimed, and struck my heels in my horse’s sides, +nearly overturning poor Tom in my haste. + +“She’s mad, sir; she’s mad,” he cried, as I rode off. + +“Come after me,” I said, “and take the mare home. I shan’t be able to +leave your sister.” + +Had I had a share, by my harsh words, in driving the woman beyond the +bounds of human reason and endurance? The thought was dreadful. But I +must not let my mind rest on it now, lest I should be unfitted for what +might have to be done. Before I reached the door, I saw a little crowd +of the villagers, mostly women and children, gathered about it. I got +off my horse, and gave him to a woman to hold till Tom should come up. +With a little difficulty, I prevailed on the rest to go home at once, +and not add to the confusions and terrors of the unhappy affair by the +excitement of their presence. As soon as they had yielded to my +arguments, I entered the shop, which to my annoyance I found full of +the neighbours. These likewise I got rid of as soon as possible, and +locking the door behind them, went up to the room above. + +To my surprise, I found no one there. On the hearth and in the fender +lay two little pools of blood. All in the house was utterly still. It +was very dreadful. I went to the only other door. It was not bolted as +I had expected to find it. I opened it, peeped in, and entered. On the +bed lay the mother, white as death, but with her black eyes wide open, +staring at the ceiling: and on her arm lay little Gerard, as white, +except where the blood had flowed from the bandage that could not +confine it, down his sweet deathlike face. His eyes were fast closed, +and he had no sign of life about him. I shut the door behind me, and +approached the bed. When Catherine caught sight of me, she showed no +surprise or emotion of any kind. Her lips, with automaton-like +movement, uttered the words— + +“I have done it at last. I am ready. Take me away. I shall be hanged. I +don’t care. I confess it. Only don’t let the people stare at me.” + +Her lips went on moving, but I could hear no more till suddenly she +broke out— + +“Oh! my baby! my baby!” and gave a cry of such agony as I hope never to +hear again while I live. + +At this moment I heard a loud knocking at the shop-door, which was the +only entrance to the house, and remembering that I had locked it, I +went down to see who was there. I found Thomas Weir, the father, +accompanied by Dr Duncan, whom, as it happened, he had had some +difficulty in finding. Thomas had sped to his daughter the moment he +heard the rumour of what had happened, and his fierceness in clearing +the shop had at least prevented the neighbours, even in his absence, +from intruding further. + +We went up together to Catherine’s room. Thomas said nothing to me +about what had happened, and I found it difficult even to conjecture +from his countenance what thoughts were passing through his mind. + +Catherine looked from one to another of us, as if she did not know the +one from the other. She made no motion to rise from her bed, nor did +she utter a word, although her lips would now and then move as if +moulding a sentence. When Dr Duncan, after looking at the child, +proceeded to take him from her, she gave him one imploring look, and +yielded with a moan; then began to stare hopelessly at the ceiling +again. The doctor carried the child into the next room, and the +grandfather followed. + +“You see what you have driven me to!” cried Catherine, the moment I was +left alone with her. “I hope you are satisfied.” + +The words went to my very soul. But when I looked at her, her eyes were +wandering about over the ceiling, and I had and still have difficulty +in believing that she spoke the words, and that they were not an +illusion of my sense, occasioned by the commotion of my own feelings. I +thought it better, however, to leave her, and join the others in the +sitting-room. The first thing I saw there was Thomas on his knees, with +a basin of water, washing away the blood of his grandson from his +daughter’s floor. The very sight of the child had hitherto been +nauseous to him, and his daughter had been beyond the reach of his +forgiveness. Here was the end of it—the blood of the one shed by the +hand of the other, and the father of both, who had disdained both, on +his knees, wiping it up. Dr Duncan was giving the child brandy; for he +had found that he had been sick, and that the loss of blood was the +chief cause of his condition. The blood flowed from a wound on the +head, extending backwards from the temple, which had evidently been +occasioned by a fall upon the fender, where the blood lay both inside +and out; and the doctor took the sickness as a sign that the brain had +not been seriously injured by the blow. In a few minutes he said— + +“I think he’ll come round.” + +“Will it be safe to tell his mother so?” I asked. + +“Yes: I think you may.” + +I hastened to her room. + +“Your little darling is not dead, Catherine. He is coming to.” + +She THREW herself off the bed at my feet, caught them round with her +arms, and cried— + +“I will forgive him. I will do anything you like. I forgive George +Everard. I will go and ask my father to forgive me.” + +I lifted her in my arms—how light she was!—and laid her again on the +bed, where she burst into tears, and lay sobbing and weeping. I went to +the other room. Little Gerard opened his eyes and closed them again, as +I entered. The doctor had laid him in his own crib. He said his pulse +was improving. I beckoned to Thomas. He followed me. + +“She wants to ask you to forgive her,” I said. “Do not, in God’s name, +wait till she asks you, but go and tell her that you forgive her.” + +“I dare not say I forgive her,” he answered. “I have more need to ask +her to forgive me.” + +I took him by the hand, and led him into her room. She feebly lifted +her arms towards him. Not a word was said on either side. I left them +in each other’s embrace. The hard rocks had been struck with the rod, +and the waters of life had flowed forth from each, and had met between. + +I have more than once known this in the course of my experience—the ice +and snow of a long estrangement suddenly give way, and the boiling +geyser-floods of old affection rush from the hot deeps of the heart. I +think myself that the very lastingness and strength of animosity have +their origin sometimes in the reality of affection: the love lasts all +the while, freshly indignant at every new load heaped upon it; till, at +last, a word, a look, a sorrow, a gladness, sets it free; and, +forgetting all its claims, it rushes irresistibly towards its ends. +Thus was it with Thomas and Catherine Weir. + +When I rejoined Dr Duncan, I found little Gerard asleep, and breathing +quietly. + +“What do you know of this sad business, Mr Walton?” said the doctor. + +“I should like to ask the same question of you,” I returned. “Young Tom +told me that his sister had murdered the child. That is all I know.” + +“His father told me the same; and that is all I know. Do you believe +it?” + +“At least we have no evidence about it. It is tolerably certain neither +of those two could have been present. They must have received it by +report. We must wait till she is able to explain the thing herself.” + +“Meantime,” said Dr Duncan, “all I believe is, that she struck the +child, and that he fell upon the fender.” + +I may as well inform my reader that, as far as Catherine could give an +account of the transaction, this conjecture was corroborated. But the +smallest reminder of it evidently filled her with such a horror of +self-loathing, that I took care to avoid the subject entirely, after +the attempt at explanation which she made at my request. She could not +remember with any clearness what had happened. All she remembered was +that she had been more miserable than ever in her life before; that the +child had come to her, as he seldom did, with some childish request or +other; that she felt herself seized with intense hatred of him; and the +next thing she knew was that his blood was running in a long red finger +towards her. Then it seemed as if that blood had been drawn from her +own over-charged heart and brain; she knew what she had done, though +she did not know how she had done it; and the tide of her ebbed +affection flowed like the returning waters of the Solway. But beyond +her restored love, she remembered nothing more that happened till she +lay weeping with the hope that the child would yet live. Probably more +particulars returned afterwards, but I took care to ask no more +questions. In the increase of illness that followed, I more than once +saw her shudder while she slept, and thought she was dreaming what her +waking memory had forgotten; and once she started awake, crying, “I +have murdered him again.” + +To return to that first evening:—When Thomas came from his daughter’s +room, he looked like a man from whom the bitterness of evil had passed +away. To human eyes, at least, it seemed as if self had been utterly +slain in him. His face had that child-like expression in its paleness, +and the tearfulness without tears haunting his eyes, which reminds one +of the feeling of an evening in summer between which and the sultry day +preceding it has fallen the gauzy veil of a cooling shower, with a +rainbow in the east. + +“She is asleep,” he said. + +“How is it your daughter Mary is not here?” I asked. + +“She was taken with a fit the moment she heard the bad news, sir. I +left her with nobody but father. I think I must go and look after her +now. It’s not the first she’s had neither, though I never told any one +before. You won’t mention it, sir. It makes people look shy at you, you +know, sir.” + +“Indeed, I won’t mention it.—Then she mustn’t sit up, and two nurses +will be wanted here. You and I must take it to-night, Thomas. You’ll +attend to your daughter, if she wants anything, and I know this little +darling won’t be frightened if he comes to himself, and sees me beside +him.” + +“God bless you, sir,” said Thomas, fervently. + +And from that hour to this there has never been a coolness between us. + +“A very good arrangement,” said Dr Duncan; “only I feel as if I ought +to have a share in it.” + +“No, no,” I said. “We do not know who may want you. Besides, we are +both younger than you.” + +“I will come over early in the morning then, and see how you are going +on.” + +As soon as Thomas returned with good news of Mary’s recovery, I left +him, and went home to tell my sister, and arrange for the night. We +carried back with us what things we could think of to make the two +patients as comfortable as possible; for, as regarded Catherine, now +that she would let her fellows help her, I was even anxious that she +should feel something of that love about her which she had so long +driven from her door. I felt towards her somewhat as towards a new-born +child, for whom this life of mingled weft must be made as soft as its +material will admit of; or rather, as if she had been my own sister, as +indeed she was, returned from wandering in weary and miry ways, to +taste once more the tenderness of home. I wanted her to read the love +of God in the love that even I could show her. And, besides, I must +confess that, although the result had been, in God’s great grace, so +good, my heart still smote me for the severity with which I had spoken +the truth to her; and it was a relief to myself to endeavour to make +some amends for having so spoken to her. But I had no intention of +going near her that night, for I thought the less she saw of me the +better, till she should be a little stronger, and have had time, with +the help of her renewed feelings, to get over the painful associations +so long accompanying the thought of me. So I took my place beside +Gerard, and watched through the night. The little fellow repeatedly +cried out in that terror which is so often the consequence of the loss +of blood; but when I laid my hand on him, he smiled without waking, and +lay quite still again for a while. Once or twice he woke up, and looked +so bewildered that I feared delirium; but a little jelly composed him, +and he fell fast asleep again. He did not seem even to have headache +from the blow. + +But when I was left alone with the child, seated in a chair by the +fire, my only light, how my thoughts rushed upon the facts bearing on +my own history which this day had brought before me! Horror it was to +think of Miss Oldcastle even as only riding with the seducer of +Catherine Weir. There was torture in the thought of his touching her +hand; and to think that before the summer came once more, he might be +her husband! I will not dwell on the sufferings of that night more than +is needful; for even now, in my old age, I cannot recall without +renewing them. But I must indicate one train of thought which kept +passing through my mind with constant recurrence:—Was it fair to let +her marry such a man in ignorance? Would she marry him if she knew what +I knew of him? Could I speak against my rival?—blacken him even with +the truth—the only defilement that can really cling? Could I for my own +dignity do so? And was she therefore to be sacrificed in ignorance? +Might not some one else do it instead of me? But if I set it agoing, +was it not precisely the same thing as if I did it myself, only more +cowardly? There was but one way of doing it, and that was—with the full +and solemn consciousness that it was and must be a barrier between us +for ever. If I could give her up fully and altogether, then I might +tell her the truth which was to preserve her from marrying such a man +as my rival. And I must do so, sooner than that she, my very dream of +purity and gentle truth, should wed defilement. But how bitter to cast +away my CHANCE! as I said, in the gathering despair of that black +night. And although every time I said it—for the same words would come +over and over as in a delirious dream—I repeated yet again to myself +that wonderful line of Spenser,— + +“It chanced—eternal God that chance did guide,” + + +yet the words never grew into spirit in me; they remained “words, +words, words,” and meant nothing to my feeling—hardly even to my +judgment meant anything at all. Then came another bitter thought, the +bitterness of which was wicked: it flashed upon me that my own +earnestness with Catherine Weir, in urging her to the duty of +forgiveness, would bear a main part in wrapping up in secrecy that evil +thing which ought not to be hid. For had she not vowed—with the same +facts before her which now threatened to crush my heart into a lump of +clay—to denounce the man at the very altar? Had not the revenge which I +had ignorantly combated been my best ally? And for one brief, black, +wicked moment I repented that I had acted as I had acted. The next I +was on my knees by the side of the sleeping child, and had repented +back again in shame and sorrow. Then came the consolation that if I +suffered hereby, I suffered from doing my duty. And that was well. + +Scarcely had I seated myself again by the fire when the door of the +room opened softly, and Thomas appeared. + +“Kate is very strange, sir,” he said, “and wants to see you.” + +I rose at once. + +“Perhaps, then, you had better stay with Gerard.” + +“I will, sir; for I think she wants to speak to you alone.” + +I entered her chamber. A candle stood on a chest of drawers, and its +light fell on her face, once more flushed in those two spots with the +glow of the unseen fire of disease. Her eyes, too, glittered again, but +the fierceness was gone, and only the suffering remained. I drew a +chair beside her, and took her hand. She yielded it willingly, even +returned the pressure of kindness which I offered to the thin trembling +fingers. + +“You are too good, sir,” she said. “I want to tell you all. He promised +to marry me, I believed him. But I did very wrong. And I have been a +bad mother, for I could not keep from seeing his face in Gerard’s. +Gerard was the name he told me to call him when I had to write to him, +and so I named the little darling Gerard. How is he, sir?” + +“Doing nicely,” I replied. “I do not think you need be at all uneasy +about him now.” + +“Thank God. I forgive his father now with all my heart. I feel it +easier since I saw how wicked I could be myself. And I feel it easier, +too, that I have not long to live. I forgive him with all my heart, and +I will take no revenge. I will not tell one who he is. I have never +told any one yet. But I will tell you. His name is George +Everard—Captain Everard. I came to know him when I was apprenticed at +Addicehead. I would not tell you, sir, if I did not know that you will +not tell any one. I know you so well that I will not ask you not. I saw +him yesterday, and it drove me wild. But it is all over now. My heart +feels so cool now. Do you think God will forgive me?” + +Without one word of my own, I took out my pocket Testament and read +these words:— + +“For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also +forgive you.” + +Then I read to her, from the seventh chapter of St Luke’s Gospel, the +story of the woman who was a sinner and came to Jesus in Simon’s house, +that she might see how the Lord himself thought and felt about such. +When I had finished, I found that she was gently weeping, and so I left +her, and resumed my place beside the boy. I told Thomas that he had +better not go near her just yet. So we sat in silence together for a +while, during which I felt so weary and benumbed, that I neither cared +to resume my former train of thought, nor to enter upon the new one +suggested by the confession of Catherine. I believe I must have fallen +asleep in my chair, for I suddenly returned to consciousness at a cry +from Gerard. I started up, and there was the child fast asleep, but +standing on his feet in his crib, pushing with his hands from before +him, as if resisting some one, and crying— + +“Don’t. Don’t. Go away, man. Mammy! Mr Walton!” + +I took him in my arms, and kissed him, and laid him down again; and he +lay as still as if he had never moved. At the same moment, Thomas came +again into the room. + +“I am sorry to be so troublesome, sir,” he said; “but my poor daughter +says there is one thing more she wanted to say to you.” + +I returned at once. As soon as I entered the room, she said eagerly:— + +“I forgive him—I forgive him with all my heart; but don’t let him take +Gerard.” + +I assured her I would do my best to prevent any such attempt on his +part, and making her promise to try to go to sleep, left her once more. +Nor was either of the patients disturbed again during the night. Both +slept, as it appeared, refreshingly. + +In the morning, that is, before eight o’clock, the old doctor made his +welcome appearance, and pronounced both quite as well as he had +expected to find them. In another hour, he had sent young Tom to take +my place, and my sister to take his father’s. I was determined that +none of the gossips of the village should go near the invalid if I +could help it; for, though such might be kind-hearted and estimable +women, their place was not by such a couch as that of Catherine Weir. I +enjoined my sister to be very gentle in her approaches to her, to be +careful even not to seem anxious to serve her, and so to allow her to +get gradually accustomed to her presence, not showing herself for the +first day more than she could help, and yet taking good care she should +have everything she wanted. Martha seemed to understand me perfectly; +and I left her in charge with the more confidence that I knew Dr Duncan +would call several times in the course of the day. As for Tom, I had +equal assurance that he would attend to orders; and as Gerard was very +fond of him, I dismissed all anxiety about both, and allowed my mind to +return with fresh avidity to the contemplation of its own cares, and +fears, and perplexities. + +It was of no use trying to go to sleep, so I set out for a walk. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +THE MAN AND THE CHILD. + + +It was a fine frosty morning, the invigorating influences of which, +acting along with the excitement following immediately upon a sleepless +night, overcame in a great measure the depression occasioned by the +contemplation of my circumstances. Disinclined notwithstanding for any +more pleasant prospect, I sought the rugged common where I had so +lately met Catherine Weir in the storm and darkness, and where I had +stood without knowing it upon the very verge of the precipice down +which my fate was now threatening to hurl me. I reached the same chasm +in which I had sought a breathing space on that night, and turning into +it, sat down upon a block of sand which the frost had detached from the +wall above. And now the tumult began again in my mind, revolving around +the vortex of a new centre of difficulty. + +For, first of all, I found my mind relieved by the fact that, having +urged Catherine to a line of conduct which had resulted in +confession,—a confession which, leaving all other considerations of my +office out of view, had the greater claim upon my secrecy that it was +made in confidence in my uncovenanted honour,—I was not, could not be +at liberty to disclose the secret she confided to me, which, disclosed +by herself, would have been the revenge from which I had warned her, +and at the same time my deliverance. I was relieved I say at first, by +this view of the matter, because I might thus keep my own chance of +some favourable turn; whereas, if I once told Miss Oldcastle, I must +give her up for ever, as I had plainly seen in the watch of the +preceding night. But my love did not long remain skulking thus behind +the hedge of honour. Suddenly I woke and saw that I was unworthy of the +honour of loving her, for that I was glad to be compelled to risk her +well-being for the chance of my own happiness; a risk which involved +infinitely more wretchedness to her than the loss of my dearest hopes +to me; for it is one thing for a man not to marry the woman he loves, +and quite another for a woman to marry a man she cannot ever respect. +Had I not been withheld partly by my obligation to Catherine, partly by +the feeling that I ought to wait and see what God would do, I should +have risen that moment and gone straight to Oldcastle Hall, that I +might plunge at once into the ocean of my loss, and encounter, with the +full sense of honourable degradation, every misconstruction that might +justly be devised of my conduct. For that I had given her up first +could never be known even to her in this world. I could only save her +by encountering and enduring and cherishing her scorn. At least so it +seemed to me at the time; and, although I am certain the other higher +motives had much to do in holding me back, I am equally certain that +this awful vision of the irrevocable fate to follow upon the deed, had +great influence, as well, in inclining me to suspend action. + +I was still sitting in the hollow, when I heard the sound of horses’ +hoofs in the distance, and felt a foreboding of what would appear. I +was only a few yards from the road upon which the sand-cleft opened, +and could see a space of it sufficient to show the persons even of +rapid riders. The sounds drew nearer. I could distinguish the step of a +pony and the steps of two horses besides. Up they came and swept +past—Miss Oldcastle upon Judy’s pony, and Mr Stoddart upon her horse; +with the captain upon his own. How grateful I felt to Mr Stoddart! And +the hope arose in me that he had accompanied them at Miss Oldcastle’s +request. + +I had had no fear of being seen, sitting as I was on the side from +which they came. One of the three, however, caught a glimpse of me, and +even in the moment ere she vanished I fancied I saw the lily-white grow +rosy-red. But it must have been fancy, for she could hardly have been +quite pale upon horseback on such a keen morning. + +I could not sit any longer. As soon as I ceased to hear the sound of +their progress, I rose and walked home—much quieter in heart and mind +than when I set out. + +As I entered by the nearer gate of the vicarage, I saw Old Rogers enter +by the farther. He did not see me, but we met at the door. I greeted +him. + +“I’m in luck,” he said, “to meet yer reverence just coming home. How’s +poor Miss Weir to-day, sir?” + +“She was rather better, when I left her this morning, than she had been +through the night. I have not heard since. I left my sister with her. I +greatly doubt if she will ever get up again. That’s between ourselves, +you know. Come in.” + +“Thank you, sir. I wanted to have a little talk with you.—You don’t +believe what they say—that she tried to kill the poor little fellow?” +he asked, as soon as the study door was closed behind us. + +“If she did, she was out of her mind for the moment. But I don’t +believe it.” + +And thereupon I told him what both his master and I thought about it. +But I did not tell him what she had said confirmatory of our +conclusions. + +“That’s just what I came to myself, sir, turning the thing over in my +old head. But there’s dreadful things done in the world, sir. There’s +my daughter been a-telling of me—” + +I was instantly breathless attention. What he chose to tell me I felt +at liberty to hear, though I would not have listened to Jane herself.—I +must here mention that she and Richard were not yet married, old Mr +Brownrigg not having yet consented to any day his son wished to fix; +and that she was, therefore, still in her place of attendance upon Miss +Oldcastle. + +“—There’s been my daughter a-telling of me,” said Rogers, “that the old +lady up at the Hall there is tormenting the life out of that daughter +of hers—she don’t look much like hers, do she, sir?—wanting to make her +marry a man of her choosing. I saw him go past o’ horseback with her +yesterday, and I didn’t more than half like the looks on him. He’s too +like a fair-spoken captain I sailed with once, what was the hardest man +I ever sailed with. His own way was everything, even after he saw it +wouldn’t do. Now, don’t you think, sir, somebody or other ought to +interfere? It’s as bad as murder that, and anybody has a right to do +summat to perwent it.” + +“I don’t know what can be done, Rogers. I CAN’T interfere.” + +The old man was silent. Evidently he thought I might interfere if I +pleased. I could see what he was thinking. Possibly his daughter had +told him something more than he chose to communicate to me. I could not +help suspecting the mode in which he judged I might interfere. But I +could see no likelihood before me but that of confusion and +precipitation. In a word, I had not a plain path to follow. + +“Old Rogers,” I said, “I can almost guess what you mean. But I am in +more difficulty with regard to what you suggest than I can easily +explain to you. I need not tell you, however, that I will turn the +whole matter over in my mind.” + +“The prey ought to be taken from the lion somehow, if it please God,” +returned the old man solemnly. “The poor young lady keeps up as well as +she can before her mother; but Jane do say there’s a power o’ crying +done in her own room.” + +Partly to hide my emotion, partly with the sudden resolve to do +something, if anything could be done, I said:— + +“I will call on Mr Stoddart this evening. I may hear something from him +to suggest a mode of action.” + +“I don’t think you’ll get anything worth while from Mr Stoddart. He +takes things a deal too easy like. He’ll be this man’s man and that +man’s man both at oncet. I beg your pardon, sir. But HE won’t help us.” + +“That’s all I can think of at present, though,” I said; whereupon the +man-of-war’s man, with true breeding, rose at once, and took a kindly +leave. + +I was in the storm again. She suffering, resisting, and I standing +aloof! But what could I do? She had repelled me—she would repel me. +Were I to dare to speak, and so be refused, the separation would be +final. She had said that the day might come when she would ask help +from me: she had made no movement towards the request. I would gladly +die to serve her—yea, more gladly far than live, if that service was to +separate us. But what to do I could not see. Still, just to do +something, even if a useless something, I would go and see Mr Stoddart +that evening. I was sure to find him alone, for he never dined with the +family, and I might possibly catch a glimpse of Miss Oldcastle. + +I found little Gerard so much better, though very weak, and his mother +so quiet, notwithstanding great feverishness, that I might safely leave +them to the care of Mary, who had quite recovered from her attack, and +her brother Tom. So there was something off my mind for the present. + +The heavens were glorious with stars,—Arcturus and his host, the +Pleiades, Orion, and all those worlds that shine out when ours is dark; +but I did not care for them. Let them shine: they could not shine into +me. I tried with feeble effort to lift my eyes to Him who is above the +stars, and yet holds the sea, yea, the sea of human thought and +trouble, in the hollow of His hand. How much sustaining, although no +conscious comforting, I got from that region + +“Where all men’s prayers to Thee raised +Return possessed of what they pray Thee.” + + +I cannot tell. It was not a time favourable to the analysis of +feeling—still less of religious feeling. But somehow things did seem a +little more endurable before I reached the house. + +I was passing across the hall, following the “white wolf” to Mr +Stoddart’s room, when the drawing-room door opened, and Miss Oldcastle +came half out, but seeing me drew back instantly. A moment after, +however, I heard the sound of her dress following us. Light as was her +step, every footfall seemed to be upon my heart. I did not dare to look +round, for dread of seeing her turn away from me. I felt like one under +a spell, or in an endless dream; but gladly would I have walked on for +ever in hope, with that silken vortex of sound following me. Soon, +however, it ceased. She had turned aside in some other direction, and I +passed on to Mr Stoddart’s room. + +He received me kindly, as he always did; but his smile flickered +uneasily. He seemed in some trouble, and yet pleased to see me. + +“I am glad you have taken to horseback,” I said. “It gives me hope that +you will be my companion sometimes when I make a round of my parish. I +should like you to see some of our people. You would find more in them +to interest you than perhaps you would expect.” + +I thus tried to seem at ease, as I was far from feeling. + +“I am not so fond of riding as I used to be,” returned Mr Stoddart. + +“Did you like the Arab horses in India?” + +“Yes, after I got used to their careless ways. That horse you must have +seen me on the other day, is very nearly a pure Arab. He belongs to +Captain Everard, and carries Miss Oldcastle beautifully. I was quite +sorry to take him from her, but it was her own doing. She would have me +go with her. I think I have lost much firmness since I was ill.” + +“If the loss of firmness means the increase of kindness, I do not think +you will have to lament it,” I answered. “Does Captain Everard make a +long stay?” + +“He stays from day to day. I wish he would go. I don’t know what to do. +Mrs Oldcastle and he form one party in the house; Miss Oldcastle and +Judy another; and each is trying to gain me over. I don’t want to +belong to either. If they would only let me alone!” + +“What do they want of you, Mr Stoddart?” + +“Mrs Oldcastle wants me to use my influence with Ethelwyn, to persuade +her to behave differently to Captain Everard. The old lady has set her +heart on their marriage, and Ethelwyn, though she dares not break with +him, she is so much afraid of her mother, yet keeps him somehow at +arm’s length. Then Judy is always begging me to stand up for her aunt. +But what’s the use of my standing up for her if she won’t stand up for +herself; she never says a word to me about it herself. It’s all Judy’s +doing. How am I to know what she wants?” + +“I thought you said just now she asked you to ride with her?” + +“So she did, but nothing more. She did not even press it, only the +tears came in her eyes when I refused, and I could not bear that; so I +went against my will. I don’t want to make enemies. I am sure I don’t +see why she should stand out. He’s a very good match in point of +property and family too.” + +“Perhaps she does not like him?” I forced myself to say. + +“Oh! I suppose not, or she would not be so troublesome. But she could +arrange all that if she were inclined to be agreeable to her friends. +After all I have done for her! Well, one must not look to be repaid for +anything one does for others. I used to be very fond of her: I am +getting quite tired of her miserable looks.” + +And what had this man done for her, then? He had, for his own +amusement, taught her Hindostanee; he had given her some insight into +the principles of mechanics, and he had roused in her some taste for +the writings of the Mystics. But for all that regarded the dignity of +her humanity and her womanhood, if she had had no teaching but what he +gave her, her mind would have been merely “an unweeded garden that +grows to seed.” And now he complained that in return for his pains she +would not submit to the degradation of marrying a man she did not love, +in order to leave him in the enjoyment of his own lazy and cowardly +peace. Really he was a worse man than I had thought him. Clearly he +would not help to keep her in the right path, not even interfere to +prevent her from being pushed into the wrong one. But perhaps he was +only expressing his own discomfort, not giving his real judgment, and I +might be censuring him too hardly. + +“What will be the result, do you suppose?” I asked. + +“I can’t tell. Sooner or later she will have to give in to her mother. +Everybody does. She might as well yield with a good grace.” + +“She must do what she thinks right,” I said. “And you, Mr Stoddart, +ought to help her to do what is right. You surely would not urge her to +marry a man she did not love.” + +“Well, no; not exactly urge her. And yet society does not object to it. +It is an acknowledged arrangement, common enough.” + +“Society is scarcely an interpreter of the divine will. Society will +honour vile things enough, so long as the doer has money sufficient to +clothe them in a grace not their own. There is a God’s-way of doing +everything in the world, up to marrying, or down to paying a bill.” + +“Yes, yes, I know what you would say; and I suppose you are right. I +will not urge any opinion of mine. Besides, we shall have a little +respite soon, for he must join his regiment in a day or two.” + +It was some relief to hear this. But I could not with equanimity +prosecute a conversation having Miss Oldcastle for the subject of it, +and presently took my leave. + +As I walked through one of the long passages, but dimly lighted, +leading from Mr Stoddart’s apartment to the great staircase, I started +at a light touch on my arm. It was from Judy’s hand. + +“Dear Mr Walton——” she said, and stopped. + +For at the same moment appeared at the farther end of the passage +towards which I had been advancing, a figure of which little more than +a white face was visible; and the voice of Sarah, through whose +softness always ran a harsh thread that made it unmistakable, said, + +“Miss Judy, your grandmamma wants you.” + +Judy took her hand from my arm, and with an almost martial stride the +little creature walked up to the speaker, and stood before her +defiantly. I could see them quite well in the fuller light at the end +of the passage, where there stood a lamp. I followed slowly that I +might not interrupt the child’s behaviour, which moved me strangely in +contrast with the pusillanimity I had so lately witnessed in Mr +Stoddart. + +“Sarah,” she said, “you know you are telling a lie. Grannie does _not_ +want me. You have _not_ been in the dining-room since I left it one +moment ago. Do you think, you _bad_ woman, _I_ am going to be afraid of +you? I know you better than you think. Go away directly, or I will make +you.” + +She stamped her little foot, and the “white wolf” turned and walked +away without a word. + +If the mothers among my readers are shocked at the want of decorum in +my friend Judy, I would just say, that valuable as propriety of +demeanour is, truth of conduct is infinitely more precious. Glad should +I be to think that the even tenor of my children’s good manners could +never be interrupted, except by such righteous indignation as carried +Judy beyond the strict bounds of good breeding. Nor could I find it in +my heart to rebuke her wherein she had been wrong. In the face of her +courage and uprightness, the fault was so insignificant that it would +have been giving it an altogether undue importance to allude to it at +all, and might weaken her confidence in my sympathy with her rectitude. +When I joined her she put her hand in mine, and so walked with me down +the stair and out at the front door. + +“You will take cold, Judy, going out like that,” I said. + +“I am in too great a passion to take cold,” she answered. “But I have +no time to talk about that creeping creature.—Auntie DOESN’T like +Captain Everard; and grannie keeps insisting on it that she shall have +him whether she likes him or not. Now do tell me what you think.” + +“I do not quite understand you, my child.” + +“I know auntie would like to know what you think. But I know she will +never ask you herself. So _I_ am asking you whether a lady ought to +marry a gentleman she does not like, to please her mother.” + +“Certainly not, Judy. It is often wicked, and at best a mistake.” + +“Thank you, Mr Walton. I will tell her. She will be glad to hear that +you say so, I know.” + +“Mind you tell her you asked me, Judy. I should not like her to think I +had been interfering, you know.” + +“Yes, yes; I know quite well. I will take care. Thank you. He’s going +to-morrow. Good night.” + +She bounded into the house again, and I walked away down the avenue. I +saw and felt the stars now, for hope had come again in my heart, and I +thanked the God of hope. “Our minds are small because they are +faithless,” I said to myself. “If we had faith in God, as our Lord +tells us, our hearts would share in His greatness and peace. For we +should not then be shut up in ourselves, but would walk abroad in Him.” +And with a light step and a light heart I went home. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +OLD MRS TOMKINS. + + +Very severe weather came, and much sickness followed, chiefly amongst +the poorer people, who can so ill keep out the cold. Yet some of my +well-to-do parishioners were laid up likewise—amongst others Mr +Boulderstone, who had an attack of pleurisy. I had grown quite attached +to Mr Boulderstone by this time, not because he was what is called +interesting, for he was not; not because he was clever, for he was not; +not because he was well-read, for he was not; not because he was +possessed of influence in the parish, though he had that influence; but +simply because he was true; he was what he appeared, felt what he +professed, did what he said; appearing kind, and feeling and acting +kindly. Such a man is rare and precious, were he as stupid as the Welsh +giant in “Jack the Giant-Killer.” I could never see Mr Boulderstone a +mile off, but my heart felt the warmer for the sight. + +Even in his great pain he seemed to forget himself as he received me, +and to gain comfort from my mere presence. I could not help regarding +him as a child of heaven, to be treated with the more reverence that he +had the less aid to his goodness from his slow understanding. It seemed +to me that the angels might gather with reverence around such a man, to +watch the gradual and tardy awakening of the intellect in one in whom +the heart and the conscience had been awake from the first. The latter +safe, they at least would see well that there was no fear for the +former. Intelligence is a consequence of love; nor is there any true +intelligence without it. + +But I could not help feeling keenly the contrast when I went from his +warm, comfortable, well-defended chamber, in which every appliance that +could alleviate suffering or aid recovery was at hand, like a castle +well appointed with arms and engines against the inroads of winter and +his yet colder ally Death,—when, I say, I went from his chamber to the +cottage of the Tomkinses, and found it, as it were, lying open and bare +to the enemy. What holes and cracks there were about the door, through +which the fierce wind rushed at once into the room to attack the aged +feet and hands and throats! There were no defences of threefold +draperies, and no soft carpet on the brick floor,—only a small rug +which my sister had carried them laid down before a weak-eyed little +fire, that seemed to despair of making anything of it against the huge +cold that beleaguered and invaded the place. True, we had had the +little cottage patched up. The two Thomas Weirs had been at work upon +it for a whole day and a half in the first of the cold weather this +winter; but it was like putting the new cloth on the old garment, for +fresh places had broken out, and although Mrs Tomkins had fought the +cold well with what rags she could spare, and an old knife, yet such +razor-edged winds are hard to keep out, and here she was now, lying in +bed, and breathing hard, like the sore-pressed garrison which had +retreated to its last defence, the keep of the castle. Poor old Tomkins +sat shivering over the little fire. + +“Come, come, Tomkins! this won’t do,” I said, as I caught up a broken +shovel that would have let a lump as big as one’s fist through a hole +in the middle of it. “Why don’t you burn your coals in weather like +this? Where do you keep them?” + +It made my heart ache to see the little heap in a box hardly bigger +than the chest of tea my sister brought from London with her. I threw +half of it on the fire at once. + +“Deary me, Mr Walton! you ARE wasteful, sir. The Lord never sent His +good coals to be used that way.” + +“He did though, Tomkins,” I answered. “And He’ll send you a little more +this evening, after I get home. Keep yourself warm, man. This world’s +cold in winter, you know.” + +“Indeed, sir, I know that. And I’m like to know it worse afore long. +She’s going,” he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb +towards the bed where his wife lay. + +I went to her. I had seen her several times within the last few weeks, +but had observed nothing to make me consider her seriously ill. I now +saw at a glance that Tomkins was right. She had not long to live. + +“I am sorry to see you suffering so much, Mrs Tomkins,” I said. + +“I don’t suffer so wery much, sir; though to be sure it be hard to get +the breath into my body, sir. And I do feel cold-like, sir.” + +“I’m going home directly, and I’ll send you down another blanket. It’s +much colder to-day than it was yesterday.” + +“It’s not weather-cold, sir, wi’ me. It’s grave-cold, sir. Blankets +won’t do me no good, sir. I can’t get it out of my head how perishing +cold I shall be when I’m under the mould, sir; though I oughtn’t to +mind it when it’s the will o’ God. It’s only till the resurrection, +sir.” + +“But it’s not the will of God, Mrs Tomkins.” + +“Ain’t it, sir? Sure I thought it was.” + +“You believe in Jesus Christ, don’t you, Mrs Tomkins?” + +“That I do, sir, with all my heart and soul.” + +“Well, He says that whosoever liveth and believeth in Him shall never +die.” + +“But, you know, sir, everybody dies. I MUST die, and be laid in the +churchyard, sir. And that’s what I don’t like.” + +“But I say that is all a mistake. YOU won’t die. Your body will die, +and be laid away out of sight; but you will be awake, alive, more alive +than you are now, a great deal.” + +And here let me interrupt the conversation to remark upon the great +mistake of teaching children that they have souls. The consequence is, +that they think of their souls as of something which is not themselves. +For what a man HAS cannot be himself. Hence, when they are told that +their souls go to heaven, they think of their SELVES as lying in the +grave. They ought to be taught that they have bodies; and that their +bodies die; while they themselves live on. Then they will not think, as +old Mrs Tomkins did, that THEY will be laid in the grave. It is making +altogether too much of the body, and is indicative of an evil tendency +to materialism, that we talk as if we POSSESSED souls, instead of BEING +souls. We should teach our children to think no more of their bodies +when dead than they do of their hair when it is cut off, or of their +old clothes when they have done with them. + +“Do you really think so, sir?” + +“Indeed I do. I don’t know anything about where you will be. But you +will be with God—in your Father’s house, you know. And that is enough, +is it not?” + +“Yes, surely, sir. But I wish you was to be there by the bedside of me +when I was a-dyin’. I can’t help bein’ summat skeered at it. It don’t +come nat’ral to me, like. I ha’ got used to this old bed here, cold as +it has been—many’s the night—wi’ my good man there by the side of me.” + +“Send for me, Mrs Tomkins, any moment, day or night, and I’ll be with +you directly.” + +“I think, sir, if I had a hold ov you i’ the one hand, and my man +there, the Lord bless him, i’ the other, I could go comfortable.” + +“I’ll come the minute you send for me—just to keep you in mind that a +better friend than I am is holding you all the time, though you mayn’t +feel His hands. If it is some comfort to have hold of a human friend, +think that a friend who is more than man, a divine friend, has a hold +of you, who knows all your fears and pains, and sees how natural they +are, and can just with a word, or a touch, or a look into your soul, +keep them from going one hair’s-breadth too far. He loves us up to all +our need, just because we need it, and He is all love to give.” + +“But I can’t help thinking, sir, that I wouldn’t be troublesome. He has +such a deal to look after! And I don’t see how He can think of +everybody, at every minute, like. I don’t mean that He will let +anything go wrong. But He might forget an old body like me for a +minute, like.” + +“You would need to be as wise as He is before you could see how He does +it. But you must believe more than you can understand. It is only +common sense to do so. Think how nonsensical it would be to suppose +that one who could make everything, and keep the whole going as He +does, shouldn’t be able to help forgetting. It would be unreasonable to +think that He must forget because you couldn’t understand how He could +remember. I think it is as hard for Him to forget anything as it is for +us to remember everything; for forgetting comes of weakness, and from +our not being finished yet, and He is all strength and all perfection.” + +“Then you think, sir, He never forgets anything?” + +I knew by the trouble that gathered on the old woman’s brow what kind +of thought was passing through her mind. But I let her go on, thinking +so to help her the better. She paused for one moment only, and then +resumed—much interrupted by the shortness of her breathing. + +“When I was brought to bed first,” she said, “it was o’ twins, sir. And +oh! sir, it was VERY hard. As I said to my man after I got my head up a +bit, ‘Tomkins,’ says I, ‘you don’t know what it is to have TWO on ’em +cryin’ and cryin’, and you next to nothin’ to give ’em; till their +cryin’ sticks to your brain, and ye hear ’em when they’re fast asleep, +one on each side o’ you.’ Well, sir, I’m ashamed to confess it even to +you; and what the Lord can think of me, I don’t know.” + +“I would rather confess to Him than to the best friend I ever had,” I +said; “I am so sure that He will make every excuse for me that ought to +be made. And a friend can’t always do that. He can’t know all about it. +And you can’t tell him all, because you don’t know all yourself. He +does.” + +“But I would like to tell YOU, sir. Would you believe it, sir, I wished +’em dead? Just to get the wailin’ of them out o’ my head, I wished ’em +dead. In the courtyard o’ the squire’s house, where my Tomkins worked +on the home-farm, there was an old draw-well. It wasn’t used, and there +was a lid to it, with a hole in it, through which you could put a good +big stone. And Tomkins once took me to it, and, without tellin’ me what +it was, he put a stone in, and told me to hearken. And I hearkened, but +I heard nothing,—as I told him so. ‘But,’ says he, ‘hearken, lass.’ And +in a little while there come a blast o’ noise like from somewheres. +‘What’s that, Tomkins?’ I said. ‘That’s the ston’,’ says he, ‘a +strikin’ on the water down that there well.’ And I turned sick at the +thought of it. And it’s down there that I wished the darlin’s that God +had sent me; for there they’d be quiet.” + +“Mothers are often a little out of their minds at such times, Mrs +Tomkins. And so were you.” + +“I don’t know, sir. But I must tell you another thing. The Sunday afore +that, the parson had been preachin’ about ‘Suffer little children,’ you +know, sir, ‘to come unto me.’ I suppose that was what put it in my +head; but I fell asleep wi’ nothin’ else in my head but the cries o’ +the infants and the sound o’ the ston’ in the draw-well. And I dreamed +that I had one o’ them under each arm, cryin’ dreadful, and was walkin’ +across the court the way to the draw-well; when all at once a man come +up to me and held out his two hands, and said, ‘Gie me my childer.’ And +I was in a terrible fear. And I gave him first one and then the +t’other, and he took them, and one laid its head on one shoulder of +him, and t’other upon t’other, and they stopped their cryin’, and fell +fast asleep; and away he walked wi’ them into the dark, and I saw him +no more. And then I awoke cryin’, I didn’t know why. And I took my +twins to me, and my breasts was full, if ye’ll excuse me, sir. And my +heart was as full o’ love to them. And they hardly cried worth +mentionin’ again. But afore they was two year old, they both died o’ +the brown chytis, sir. And I think that He took them.” + +“He did take them, Mrs Tomkins; and you’ll see them again soon.” + +“But, if He never forgets anything——” + +“I didn’t say that. I think He can do what He pleases. And if He +pleases to forget anything, then He can forget it. And I think that is +what He does with our sins—that is, after He has got them away from us, +once we are clean from them altogether. It would be a dreadful thing if +He forgot them before that, and left them sticking fast to us and +defiling us. How then should we ever be made clean?—What else does the +prophet Isaiah mean when he says, ‘Thou hast cast my sins behind Thy +back?’ Is not that where He does not choose to see them any more? They +are not pleasant to Him to think of any more than to us. It is as if He +said—‘I will not think of that any more, for my sister will never do it +again,’ and so He throws it behind His back.” + +“They ARE good words, sir. I could not bear Him to think of me and my +sins both at once.” + +I could not help thinking of the words of Macbeth, “To know my deed, +’twere best not know myself.” + +The old woman lay quiet after this, relieved in mind, though not in +body, by the communication she had made with so much difficulty, and I +hastened home to send some coals and other things, and then call upon +Dr Duncan, lest he should not know that his patient was so much worse +as I had found her. + +From Dr Duncan’s I went to see old Samuel Weir, who likewise was +ailing. The bitter weather was telling chiefly upon the aged. I found +him in bed, under the old embroidery. No one was in the room with him. +He greeted me with a withered smile, sweet and true, although no flash +of white teeth broke forth to light up the welcome of the aged head. + +“Are you not lonely, Mr Weir?” + +“No, sir. I don’t know as ever I was less lonely. I’ve got my stick, +you see, sir,” he said, pointing to a thorn stick which lay beside him. + +“I do not quite understand you,” I returned, knowing that the old man’s +gently humorous sayings always meant something. + +“You see, sir, when I want anything, I’ve only got to knock on the +floor, and up comes my son out of the shop. And then again, when I +knock at the door of the house up there, my Father opens it and looks +out. So I have both my son on earth and my Father in heaven, and what +can an old man want more?” + +“What, indeed, could any one want more?” + +“It’s very strange,” the old man resumed after a pause, “but as I lie +here, after I’ve had my tea, and it is almost dark, I begin to feel as +if I was a child again.—They say old age is a second childhood; but +before I grew so old, I used to think that meant only that a man was +helpless and silly again, as he used to be when he was a child: I never +thought it meant that a man felt like a child again, as light-hearted +and untroubled as I do now.” + +“Well, I suspect that is not what people do mean when they say so. But +I am very glad—you don’t know how pleased it makes me to hear that you +feel so. I will hope to fare in the same way when my time comes.” + +“Indeed, I hope you will, sir; for I am main and happy. Just before you +came in now, I had really forgotten that I was a toothless old man, and +thought I was lying here waiting for my mother to come in and say +good-night to me before I went to sleep. Wasn’t that curious, when I +never saw my mother, as I told you before, sir?” + +“It was very curious.” + +“But I have no end of fancies. Only when I begin to think about it, I +can always tell when they are fancies, and they never put me out. +There’s one I see often—a man down on his knees at that cupboard nigh +the floor there, searching and searching for somewhat. And I wish he +would just turn round his face once for a moment that I might see him. +I have a notion always it’s my own father.” + +“How do you account for that fancy, now, Mr Weir?” + +“I’ve often thought about it, sir, but I never could account for it. +I’m none willing to think it’s a ghost; for what’s the good of it? I’ve +turned out that cupboard over and over, and there’s nothing there I +don’t know.” + +“You’re not afraid of it, are you?” + +“No, sir. Why should I be? I never did it no harm. And God can surely +take care of me from all sorts.” + +My readers must not think anything is going to come out of this strange +illusion of the old man’s brain. I questioned him a little more about +it, and came simply to the conclusion, that when he was a child he had +found the door open and had wandered into the house, at the time +uninhabited, had peeped in at the door of the same room where he now +lay, and had actually seen a man in the position he described, half in +the cupboard, searching for something. His mind had kept the impression +after the conscious memory had lost its hold of the circumstance, and +now revived it under certain physical conditions. It was a glimpse out +of one of the many stories which haunted the old mansion. But there he +lay like a child, as he said, fearless even of such usurpations upon +his senses. + +I think instances of quiet unSELFconscious faith are more common than +is generally supposed. Few have along with it the genial communicative +impulse of old Samuel Weir, which gives the opportunity of seeing into +their hidden world. He seemed to have been, and to have remained, a +child, in the best sense of the word. He had never had much trouble +with himself, for he was of a kindly, gentle, trusting nature; and his +will had never been called upon to exercise any strong effort to enable +him to walk in the straight path. Nor had his intellect, on the other +hand, while capable enough, ever been so active as to suggest +difficulties to his faith, leaving him, even theoretically, far nearer +the truth than those who start objections for their own sakes, liking +to feel themselves in a position of supposed antagonism to the +generally acknowledged sources of illumination. For faith is in itself +a light that lightens even the intellect, and hence the shield of the +complete soldier of God, the shield of faith, is represented by Spenser +as “framed all of diamond, perfect, pure, and clean,” (the power of the +diamond to absorb and again radiate light being no poetic fiction, but +a well-known scientific fact,) whose light falling upon any enchantment +or false appearance, destroys it utterly: for + +“all that was not such as seemed in sight, +Before that shield did fade, and suddaine fall.” + + +Old Rogers had passed through a very much larger experience. Many more +difficulties had come to him, and he had met them in his own fashion +and overcome them. For while there is such a thing as truth, the mind +that can honestly beget a difficulty must at the same time be capable +of receiving that light of the truth which annihilates the difficulty, +or at least of receiving enough to enable it to foresee vaguely some +solution, for a full perception of which the intellect may not be as +yet competent. By every such victory Old Rogers had enlarged his being, +ever becoming more childlike and faithful; so that, while the +childlikeness of Weir was the childlikeness of a child, that of Old +Rogers was the childlikeness of a man, in which submission to God is +not only a gladness, but a conscious will and choice. But as the safety +of neither depended on his own feelings, but on the love of God who was +working in him, we may well leave all such differences of nature and +education to the care of Him who first made the men different, and then +brought different conditions out of them. The one thing is, whether we +are letting God have His own way with us, following where He leads, +learning the lessons He gives us. + +I wished that Mr Stoddart had been with me during these two visits. +Perhaps he might have seen that the education of life was a marvellous +thing, and, even in the poorest intellectual results, far more full of +poetry and wonder than the outcome of that constant watering with the +watering-pot of self-education which, dissociated from the duties of +life and the influences of his fellows, had made of him what he was. +But I doubt if he would have seen it. + +A week had elapsed from the night I had sat up with Gerard Weir, and +his mother had not risen from her bed, nor did it seem likely she would +ever rise again. On a Friday I went to see her, just as the darkness +was beginning to gather. The fire of life was burning itself out fast. +It glowed on her cheeks, it burned in her hands, it blazed in her eyes. +But the fever had left her mind. That was cool, oh, so cool, now! Those +fierce tropical storms of passion had passed away, and nothing of life +was lost. Revenge had passed away, but revenge is of death, and deadly. +Forgiveness had taken its place, and forgiveness is the giving, and so +the receiving of life. Gerard, his dear little head starred with +sticking-plaster, sat on her bed, looking as quietly happy as child +could look, over a wooden horse with cylindrical body and jointless +legs, covered with an eruption of red and black spots.—Is it the +ignorance or the imagination of children that makes them so easily +pleased with the merest hint at representation? I suspect the one helps +the other towards that most desirable result, satisfaction.—But he +dropped it when he saw me, in a way so abandoning that—comparing small +things with great—it called to my mind those lines of Milton:— + +“From his slack hand the garland wreathed for Eve, +Down dropt, and all the faded roses shed.” + + +The quiet child FLUNG himself upon my neck, and the mother’s face +gleamed with pleasure. + +“Dear boy!” I said, “I am very glad to see you so much better.” + +For this was the first time he had shown such a revival of energy. He +had been quite sweet when he saw me, but, until this evening, listless. + +“Yes,” he said, “I am quite well now.” And he put his hand up to his +head. + +“Does it ache?” + +“Not much now. The doctor says I had a bad fall.” + +“So you had, my child. But you will soon be well again.” + +The mother’s face was turned aside, yet I could see one tear forcing +its way from under her closed eyelid. + +“Oh, I don’t mind it,” he answered. “Mammy is so kind to me! She lets +me sit on her bed as long as I like.” + +“That IS nice. But just run to auntie in the next room. I think your +mammy would like to talk to me for a little while.” + +The child hurried off the bed, and ran with overflowing obedience. + +“I can even think of HIM now,” said the mother, “without going into a +passion. I hope God will forgive him. _I_ do. I think He will forgive +me.” + +“Did you ever hear,” I asked, “of Jesus refusing anybody that wanted +kindness from Him? He wouldn’t always do exactly what they asked Him, +because that would sometimes be of no use, and sometimes would even be +wrong; but He never pushed them away from Him, never repulsed their +approach to Him. For the sake of His disciples, He made the +Syrophenician woman suffer a little while, but only to give her such +praise afterwards and such a granting of her prayer as is just +wonderful.” + +She said nothing for a little while; then murmured, + +“Shall I have to be ashamed to all eternity? I do not want not to be +ashamed; but shall I never be able to be like other people—in heaven I +mean?” + +“If He is satisfied with you, you need not think anything more about +yourself. If He lets you once kiss His feet, you won’t care to think +about other people’s opinion of you even in heaven. But things will go +very differently there from here. For everybody there will be more or +less ashamed of himself, and will think worse of himself than he does +of any one else. If trouble about your past life were to show itself on +your face there, they would all run to comfort you, trying to make the +best of it, and telling you that you must think about yourself as He +thinks about you; for what He thinks is the rule, because it is the +infallible right way. But perhaps rather, they would tell you to leave +that to Him who has taken away our sins, and not trouble yourself any +more about it. But to tell the truth, I don’t think such thoughts will +come to you at all when once you have seen the face of Jesus Christ. +You will be so filled with His glory and goodness and grace, that you +will just live in Him and not in yourself at all.” + +“Will He let us tell Him anything we please?” + +“He lets you do that now: surely He will not be less our God, our +friend there.” + +“Oh, I don’t mind how soon He takes me now! Only there’s that poor +child that I’ve behaved so badly to! I wish I could take him with me. I +have no time to make it up to him here.” + +“You must wait till he comes. He won’t think hardly of you. There’s no +fear of that.” + +“What will become of him, though? I can’t bear the idea of burdening my +father with him.” + +“Your father will be glad to have him, I know. He will feel it a +privilege to do something for your sake. But the boy will do him good. +If he does not want him, I will take him myself.” + +“Oh! thank you, thank you, sir.” + +A burst of tears followed. + +“He has often done me good,” I said. + +“Who, sir? My father?” + +“No. Your son.” + +“I don’t quite understand what you mean, sir.” + +“I mean just what I say. The words and behaviour of your lovely boy +have both roused and comforted my heart again and again.” + +She burst again into tears. + +“That is good to hear. To think of your saying that! The poor little +innocent! Then it isn’t all punishment?” + +“If it were ALL punishment, we should perish utterly. He is your +punishment; but look in what a lovely loving form your punishment has +come, and say whether God has been good to you or not.” + +“If I had only received my punishment humbly, things would have been +very different now. But I do take it—at least I want to take it—just as +He would have me take it. I will bear anything He likes. I suppose I +must die?” + +“I think He means you to die now. You are ready for it now, I think. +You have wanted to die for a long time; but you were not ready for it +before.” + +“And now I want to live for my boy. But His will be done.” + +“Amen. There is no such prayer in the universe as that. It means +everything best and most beautiful. Thy will, O God, evermore be done.” + +She lay silent. A tap came to the chamber-door. It was Mary, who nursed +her sister and attended to the shop. + +“If you please, sir, here’s a little girl come to say that Mrs Tomkins +is dying, and wants to see you.” + +“Then I must say good-night to you, Catherine. I will see you to-morrow +morning. Think about old Mrs Tomkins; she’s a good old soul; and when +you find your heart drawn to her in the trouble of death, then lift it +up to God for her, that He will please to comfort and support her, and +make her happier than health—stronger than strength, taking off the old +worn garment of her body, and putting upon her the garment of +salvation, which will be a grand new body, like that the Saviour had +when He rose again.” + +“I will try. I will think about her.” + +For I thought this would be a help to prepare her for her own death. In +thinking lovingly about others, we think healthily about ourselves. And +the things she thought of for the comfort of Mrs Tomkins, would return +to comfort herself in the prospect of her own end, when perhaps she +might not be able to think them out for herself. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +CALM AND STORM. + + +But of the two, Catherine had herself to go first. Again and again was +I sent for to say farewell to Mrs Tomkins, and again and again I +returned home leaying her asleep, and for the time better. But on a +Saturday evening, as I sat by my vestry-fire, pondering on many things, +and trying to make myself feel that they were as God saw them and not +as they appeared to me, young Tom came to me with the news that his +sister seemed much worse, and his father would be much obliged if I +would go and see her. I sent Tom on before, because I wished to follow +alone. + +It was a brilliant starry night; no moon, no clouds, no wind, nothing +but stars. They seemed to lean down towards the earth, as I have seen +them since in more southern regions. It was, indeed, a glorious night. +That is, I knew it was; I did not feel that it was. For the death which +I went to be near, came, with a strange sense of separation, between me +and the nature around me. I felt as if nature knew nothing, felt +nothing, meant nothing, did not belong to humanity at all; for here was +death, and there shone the stars. I was wrong, as I knew afterwards. + +I had had very little knowledge of the external shows of death. Strange +as it may appear, I had never yet seen a fellow-creature pass beyond +the call of his fellow-mortals. I had not even seen my father die. And +the thought was oppressive to me. “To think,” I said to myself, as I +walked over the bridge to the village-street—“to think that the one +moment the person is here, and the next—who shall say WHERE? for we +know nothing of the region beyond the grave! Not even our risen Lord +thought fit to bring back from Hades any news for the human family +standing straining their eyes after their brothers and sisters that +have vanished in the dark. Surely it is well, all well, although we +know nothing, save that our Lord has been there, knows all about it, +and does not choose to tell us. Welcome ignorarance then! the ignorance +in which he chooses to leave us. I would rather not know, if He gave me +my choice, but preferred that I should not know.” And so the oppression +passed from me, and I was free. + +But little as I knew of the signs of the approach of death, I was +certain, the moment I saw Catherine, that the veil that hid the “silent +land” had begun to lift slowly between her and it. And for a moment I +almost envied her that she was so soon to see and know that after which +our blindness and ignorance were wondering and hungering. She could +hardly speak. She looked more patient than calm. There was no light in +the room but that of the fire, which flickered flashing and fading, now +lighting up the troubled eye, and now letting a shadow of the coming +repose fall gently over it. Thomas sat by the fire with the child on +his knee, both looking fixedly into the glow. Gerard’s natural mood was +so quiet and earnest, that the solemnity about him did not oppress him. +He looked as if he were present at some religious observance of which +he felt more than he understood, and his childish peace was in no wise +inharmonious with the awful silence of the coming change. He was no +more disquieted at the presence of death than the stars were. + +And this was the end of the lovely girl—to leave the fair world still +young, because a selfish man had seen that she was fair! No time can +change the relation of cause and effect. The poison that operates ever +so slowly is yet poison, and yet slays. And that man was now murdering +her, with weapon long-reaching from out of the past. But no, thank God! +this was not the end of her. Though there is woe for that man by whom +the offence cometh, yet there is provision for the offence. There is +One who bringeth light out of darkness, joy out of sorrow, humility out +of wrong. Back to the Father’s house we go with the sorrows and sins +which, instead of inheriting the earth, we gathered and heaped upon our +weary shoulders, and a different Elder Brother from that angry one who +would not receive the poor swine-humbled prodigal, takes the burden +from our shoulders, and leads us into the presence of the Good. + +She put out her hand feebly, let it lie in mine, looked as if she +wanted me to sit down by her bedside, and when I did so, closed her +eyes. She said nothing. Her father was too much troubled to meet me +without showing the signs of his distress, and his was a nature that +ever sought concealment for its emotion; therefore he sat still. But +Gerard crept down from his knee, came to me, clambered up on mine, and +laid his little hand upon his mother’s, which I was holding. She opened +her eyes, looked at the child, shut them again, and tears came out from +between the closed lids. + +“Has Gerard ever been baptized?” I asked her. + +Her lips indicated a NO. + +“Then I will be his godfather. And that will be a pledge to you that I +will never lose sight of him.” + +She pressed my hand, and the tears came faster. + +Believing with all my heart that the dying should remember their dying +Lord, and that the “Do this in remembrance of me” can never be better +obeyed than when the partaker is about to pass, supported by the God of +his faith, through the same darkness which lay before our Lord when He +uttered the words and appointed the symbol, we kneeled, Thomas and I, +and young Tom, who had by this time joined us with his sister Mary, +around the bed, and partook with the dying woman of the signs of that +death, wherein our Lord gave Himself entirely to us, to live by His +death, and to the Father of us all in holiest sacrifice as the +high-priest of us His people, leading us to the altar of a like +self-abnegation. Upon what that bread and that wine mean, the sacrifice +of our Lord, the whole world of humanity hangs. It is the redemption of +men. + +After she had received the holy sacrament, she lay still as before. I +heard her murmur once, “Lord, I do not deserve it. But I do love Thee.” +And about two hours after, she quietly breathed her last. We all +kneeled, and I thanked the Father of us aloud that He had taken her to +Himself. Gerard had been fast asleep on his aunt’s lap, and she had put +him to bed a little before. Surely he slept a deeper sleep than his +mother’s; for had she not awaked even as she fell asleep? + +When I came out once more, I knew better what the stars meant. They +looked to me now as if they knew all about death, and therefore could +not be sad to the eyes of men; as if that unsympathetic look they wore +came from this, that they were made like the happy truth, and not like +our fears. + +But soon the solemn feeling of repose, the sense that the world and all +its cares would thus pass into nothing, vanished in its turn. For a +moment I had been, as it were, walking on the shore of the Eternal, +where the tide of time had left me in its retreat. Far away across the +level sands I heard it moaning, but I stood on the firm ground of +truth, and heeded it not. In a few moments more it was raving around +me; it had carried me away from my rest, and I was filled with the +noise of its cares. + +For when I returned home, my sister told me that Old Rogers had called, +and seemed concerned not to find me at home. He would have gone to find +me, my sister said, had I been anywhere but by a deathbed. He would not +leave any message, however, saying he would call in the morning. + +I thought it better to go to his house. The stars were still shining as +brightly as before, but a strong foreboding of trouble filled my mind, +and once more the stars were far away, and lifted me no nearer to “Him +who made the seven stars and Orion.” When I examined myself, I could +give no reason for my sudden fearfulness, save this: that as I went to +Catherine’s house, I had passed Jane Rogers on her way to her father’s, +and having just greeted her, had gone on; but, as it now came back upon +me, she had looked at me strangely—that is, with some significance in +her face which conveyed nothing to me; and now her father had been to +seek me: it must have something to do with Miss Oldcastle. + +But when I came to the cottage, it was dark and still, and I could not +bring myself to rouse the weary man from his bed. Indeed it was past +eleven, as I found to my surprise on looking at my watch. So I turned +and lingered by the old mill, and fell a pondering on the profusion of +strength that rushed past the wheel away to the great sea, doing +nothing. “Nature,” I thought, “does not demand that power should always +be force. Power itself must repose. He that believeth shall—not make +haste, says the Bible. But it needs strength to be still. Is my faith +not strong enough to be still?” I looked up to the heavens once more, +and the quietness of the stars seemed to reproach me. “We are safe up +here,” they seemed to say: “we shine, fearless and confident, for the +God who gave the primrose its rough leaves to hide it from the blast of +uneven spring, hangs us in the awful hollows of space. We cannot fall +out of His safety. Lift up your eyes on high, and behold! Who hath +created these things—that bringeth out their host by number! He calleth +them all by names. By the greatness of His might, for that He is strong +in power, not one faileth. Why sayest thou, O Jacob! and speakest, O +Israel! my way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over +from my God?” + +The night was very still; there was, I thought, no one awake within +miles of me. The stars seemed to shine into me the divine reproach of +those glorious words. “O my God!” I cried, and fell on my knees by the +mill-door. + +What I tried to say more I will not say here. I MAY say that I cried to +God. What I said to Him ought not, cannot be repeated to another. + +When I opened my eyes I saw the door of the mill was open too, and +there in the door, his white head glimmering, stood Old Rogers, with a +look on his face as if he had just come down from the mount. I started +to my feet, with that strange feeling of something like shame that +seizes one at the very thought of other eyes than those of the Father. +The old man came forward, and bowed his head with an unconscious +expression of humble dignity, but would have passed me without speech, +leaving the mill-door open behind him. I could not bear to part with +him thus. + +“Won’t you speak to me, Rogers?” I said. + +He turned at once with evident pleasure. + +“I beg your pardon, sir. I was ashamed of having intruded on you, and I +thought you would rather be left alone. I thought—I thought—-” +hesitated the old man, “that you might like to go into the mill, for +the night’s cold out o’ doors.” + +“Thank you, Rogers. I won’t now. I thought you had been in bed. How do +you come to be out so late?” + +“You see, sir, when I’m in any trouble, it’s no use to go to bed. I +can’t sleep. I only keep the old ’oman wakin’. And the key o’ the mill +allus hangin’ at the back o’ my door, and knowin’ it to be a good place +to—to—shut the door in, I came out as soon as she was asleep; but I +little thought to see you, sir.” + +“I came to find you, not thinking how the time went. Catherine Weir is +gone home.” + +“I am right glad to hear it, poor woman. And perhaps something will +come out now that will help us.” + +“I do not quite understand you,” I said, with hesitation. + +But Rogers made no reply. + +“I am sorry to hear you are in trouble to-night. Can I help you?” I +resumed. + +“If you can help yourself, sir, you can help me. But I have no right to +say so. Only, if a pair of old eyes be not blind, a man may pray to God +about anything he sees. I was prayin’ hard about you in there, sir, +while you was on your knees o’ the other side o’ the door.” + +I could partly guess what the old man meant, and I could not ask him +for further explanation. + +“What did you want to see me about?” I inquired. + +He hesitated for a moment. + +“I daresay it was very foolish of me, sir. But I just wanted to tell +you that—our Jane was down here from the Hall this arternoon——” + +“I passed her on the bridge. Is she quite well?” + +“Yes, yes, sir. You know that’s not the point.” + +The old man’s tone seemed to reprove me for vain words, and I held my +peace. + +“The captain’s there again.” + +An icy spear seemed to pass through my heart. I could make no reply. +The same moment a cold wind blew on me from the open door of the mill. + +Although Lear was of course right when he said, + +“The tempest in my mind +Doth from my senses take all feeling else +Save what beats there,” + + +yet it is also true, that sometimes, in the midst of its greatest pain, +the mind takes marvellous notice of the smallest things that happen +around it. This involves a law of which illustrations could be +plentifully adduced from Shakespeare himself, namely, that the +intellectual part of the mind can go on working with strange +independence of the emotional. + +From the door of the mill, as from a sepulchral tavern, blew a cold +wind like the very breath of death upon me, just when that pang shot, +in absolute pain, through my heart. For a wind had arisen from behind +the mill, and we were in its shelter save where a window behind and the +door beside me allowed free passage to the first of the coming storm. + +I believed I turned away from the old man without a word. He made no +attempt to detain me. Whether he went back into his closet, the old +mill, sacred in the eyes of the Father who honours His children, even +as the church wherein many prayers went up to Him, or turned homewards +to his cottage and his sleeping wife, I cannot tell. The first I +remember after that cold wind is, that I was fighting with that wind, +gathered even to a storm, upon the common where I had dealt so severely +with her who had this very night gone into that region into which, as +into a waveless sea, all the rivers of life rush and are silent. Is it +the sea of death? No. The sea of life—a life too keen, too refined, for +our senses to know it, and therefore we call it death—because we cannot +lay hold upon it. + +I will not dwell upon my thoughts as I wandered about over that waste. +The wind had risen to a storm charged with fierce showers of stinging +hail, which gave a look of gray wrath to the invisible wind as it swept +slanting by, and then danced and scudded along the levels. The next +point in that night of pain is when I found myself standing at the iron +gate of Oldcastle Hall. I had left the common, passed my own house and +the church, crossed the river, walked through the village, and was +restored to self-consciousness—that is, I knew that I was there—only +when first I stood in the shelter of one of those great pillars and the +monster on its top. Finding the gate open, for they were not precise +about having it fastened, I pushed it and entered. The wind was roaring +in the trees as I think I have never heard it roar since; for the hail +clashed upon the bare branches and twigs, and mingled an unearthly hiss +with the roar. In the midst of it the house stood like a tomb, dark, +silent, without one dim light to show that sleep and not death ruled +within. I could have fancied that there were no windows in it, that it +stood, like an eyeless skull, in that gaunt forest of skeleton trees, +empty and desolate, beaten by the ungenial hail, the dead rain of the +country of death. I passed round to the other side, stepping gently +lest some ear might be awake—as if any ear, even that of Judy’s white +wolf, could have heard the loudest step in such a storm. I heard the +hailstones crush between my feet and the soft grass of the lawn, but I +dared not stop to look up at the back of the house. I went on to the +staircase in the rock, and by its rude steps, dangerous in the flapping +of such storm-wings as swept about it that night, descended to the +little grove below, around the deep-walled pool. Here the wind did not +reach me. It roared overhead, but, save an occasional sigh, as if of +sympathy with their suffering brethren abroad in the woild, the hermits +of this cell stood upright and still around the sleeping water. But my +heart was a well in which a storm boiled and raged; and all that +“pother o’er my head” was peace itself compared to what I felt. I sat +down on the seat at the foot of a tree, where I had first seen Miss +Oldcastle reading. And then I looked up to the house. Yes, there was a +light there! It must be in her window. She then could not rest any more +than I. Sleep was driven from her eyes because she must wed the man she +would not; while sleep was driven from mine because I could not marry +the woman I would. Was that it? No. My heart acquitted me, in part at +least, of thinking only of my own sorrow in the presence of her greater +distress. Gladly would I have given her up for ever, without a hope, to +redeem her from such a bondage. “But it would be to marry another some +day,” suggested the tormentor within. And then the storm, which had a +little abated, broke out afresh in my soul. But before I rose from her +seat I was ready even for that—at least I thought so—if only I might +deliver her from the all but destruction that seemed to be impending +over her. The same moment in which my mind seemed to have arrived at +the possibility of such a resolution, I rose almost involuntarily, and +glancing once more at the dull light in her window—for I did not doubt +that it was her window, though it was much too dark to discern, the +shape of the house—almost felt my way to the stair, and climbed again +into the storm. + +But I was quieter now, and able to go home. It must have been nearly +morning, though at this season of the year the morning is undefined, +when I reached my own house. My sister had gone to bed, for I could +always let myself in; nor, indeed, did any one in Marshmailows think +the locking of the door at night an imperative duty. + +When I fell asleep, I was again in the old quarry, staring into the +deep well. I thought Mrs Oldcastle was murdering her daughter in the +house above, while I was spell-bound to the spot, where, if I stood +long enough, I should see her body float into the well from the +subterranean passage, the opening of which was just below where I +stood. I was thus confusing and reconstructing the two dreadful stories +of the place—that told me by old Weir, about the circumstances of his +birth; and that told me by Dr Duncan, about Mrs Oldcastle’s treatment +of her elder daughter. But as a white hand and arm appeared in the +water below me, sorrow and pity more than horror broke the bonds of +sleep, and I awoke to less trouble than that of my dreams, only because +that which I feared had not yet come. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +A SERMON TO MYSELF. + + +It was the Sabbath morn. But such a Sabbath! The day seemed all wan +with weeping, and gray with care. The wind dashed itself against the +casement, laden with soft heavy sleet. The ground, the bushes, the very +outhouses seemed sodden with the rain. The trees, which looked stricken +as if they could die of grief, were yet tormented with fear, for the +bare branches went streaming out in the torrent of the wind, as +cowering before the invisible foe. The first thing I knew when I awoke +was the raving of that wind. I could lie in bed not a moment longer. I +could not rest. But how was I to do the work of my office? When a man’s +duty looks like an enemy, dragging him into the dark mountains, he has +no less to go with it than when, like a friend with loving face, it +offers to lead him along green pastures by the river-side. I had little +power over my feelings; I could not prevent my mind from mirroring +itself in the nature around me; but I could address myself to the work +I had to do. “My God!” was all the prayer I could pray ere I descended +to join my sister at the breakfast-table. But He knew what lay behind +the one word. + +Martha could not help seeing that something was the matter. I saw by +her looks that she could read so much in mine. But her eyes alone +questioned me, and that only by glancing at me anxiously from, time to +time. I was grateful to her for saying nothing. It is a fine thing in +friendship to know when to be silent. + +The prayers were before me, in the hands of all my friends, and in the +hearts of some of them; and if I could not enter into them as I would, +I could yet read them humbly before God as His servant to help the +people to worship as one flock. But how was I to preach? I had been in +difficulty before now, but never in so much. How was I to teach others, +whose mind was one confusion? The subject on which I was pondering when +young Weir came to tell me his sister was dying, had retreated as if +into the far past; it seemed as if years had come between that time and +this, though but one black night had rolled by. To attempt to speak +upon that would have been vain, for I had nothing to say on the matter +now. And if I could have recalled my former thoughts, I should have +felt a hypocrite as I delivered them, so utterly dissociated would they +have been from anything that I was thinking or feeling now. Here would +have been my visible form and audible voice, uttering that as present +to me now, as felt by me now, which I did think and feel yesterday, but +which, although I believed it, was not present to my feeling or heart, +and must wait the revolution of months, or it might be of years, before +I should feel it again, before I should be able to exhort my people +about it with the fervour of a present faith. But, indeed, I could not +even recall what I had thought and felt. Should I then tell them that I +could not speak to them that morning?—There would be nothing wrong in +that. But I felt ashamed of yielding to personal trouble when the +truths of God were all about me, although I could not feel them. Might +not some hungry soul go away without being satisfied, because I was +faint and down-hearted? I confess I had a desire likewise to avoid +giving rise to speculation and talk about myself, a desire which, +although not wrong, could neither have strengthened me to speak the +truth, nor have justified me in making the attempt.—What was to be +done? + +All at once the remembrance crossed my mind of a sermon I had preached +before upon the words of St Paul: “Thou therefore which teachest +another, teachest thou not thyself?” a subject suggested by the fact +that on the preceding Sunday I had especially felt, in preaching to my +people, that I was exhorting myself whose necessity was greater than +theirs—at least I felt it to be greater than I could know theirs to be. +And now the converse of the thought came to me, and I said to myself, +“Might I not try the other way now, and preach to myself? In teaching +myself, might I not teach others? Would it not hold? I am very troubled +and faithless now. If I knew that God was going to lay the full weight +of this grief upon me, yet if I loved Him with all my heart, should I +not at least be more quiet? There would not be a storm within me then, +as if the Father had descended from the throne of the heavens, and +‘chaos were come again.’ Let me expostulate with myself in my heart, +and the words of my expostulation will not be the less true with my +people.” + +All this passed through my mind as I sat in my study after breakfast, +with the great old cedar roaring before my window. It was within an +hour of church-time. I took my Bible, read and thought, got even some +comfort already, and found myself in my vestry not quite unwilling to +read the prayers and speak to my people. + +There were very few present. The day was one of the worst—violently +stormy, which harmonized somewhat with my feelings; and, to my further +relief, the Hall pew was empty. Instead of finding myself a mere +minister to the prayers of others, I found, as I read, that my heart +went out in crying to God for the divine presence of His Spirit. And if +I thought more of myself in my prayers than was well, yet as soon as I +was converted, would I not strengthen my brethren? And the sermon I +preached to myself and through myself to my people, was that which the +stars had preached to me, and thereby driven me to my knees by the +mill-door. I took for my text, “The glory of the Lord shall be +revealed;” and then I proceeded to show them how the glory of the Lord +was to be revealed. I preached to myself that throughout this fortieth +chapter of the prophecies of Isaiah, the power of God is put side by +side with the weakness of men, not that He, the perfect, may glory over +His feeble children; not that He may say to them—“Look how mighty I am, +and go down upon your knees and worship”—for power alone was never yet +worthy of prayer; but that he may say thus: “Look, my children, you +will never be strong but with MY strength. I have no other to give you. +And that you can get only by trusting in me. I cannot give it you any +other way. There is no other way. But can you not trust in me? Look how +strong I am. You wither like the grass. Do not fear. Let the grass +wither. Lay hold of my word, that which I say to you out of my truth, +and that will be life in you that the blowing of the wind that withers +cannot reach. I am coming with my strong hand and my judging arm to do +my work. And what is the work of my strong hand and ruling arm? To feed +my flock like a shepherd, to gather the lambs with my arm, and carry +them in my bosom, and gently lead those that are with young. I have +measured the waters in the hollow of my hand, and held the mountains in +my scales, to give each his due weight, and all the nations, so strong +and fearful in your eyes, are as nothing beside my strength and what I +can do. Do not think of me as of an image that your hands can make, a +thing you can choose to serve, and for which you can do things to win +its favour. I am before and above the earth, and over your life, and +your oppressors I will wither with my breath. I come to you with help. +I need no worship from you. But I say love me, for love is life, and I +love you. Look at the stars I have made. I know every one of them. Not +one goes wrong, because I keep him right. Why sayest thou, O Jacob, and +speakest, O Israel—my way is HID from the Lord, and my judgment is +passed over from my God! I give POWER to the FAINT, and to them that +have no might, plenty of strength.” + +“Thus,” I went on to say, “God brings His strength to destroy our +weakness by making us strong. This is a God indeed! Shall we not trust +Him?” + +I gave my people this paraphrase of the chapter, to help them to see +the meanings which their familiarity with the words, and their +non-familiarity with the modes of Eastern thought, and the forms of +Eastern expression, would unite to prevent them from catching more than +broken glimmerings of. And then I tried to show them that it was in the +commonest troubles of life, as well as in the spiritual fears and +perplexities that came upon them, that they were to trust in God; for +God made the outside as well as the inside, and they altogether +belonged to Him; and that when outside things, such as pain or loss of +work, or difficulty in getting money, were referred to God and His +will, they too straightway became spiritual affairs, for nothing in the +world could any longer appear common or unclean to the man who saw God +in everything. But I told them they must not be too anxious to be +delivered from that which troubled them: but they ought to be anxious +to have the presence of God with them to support them, and make them +able in patience to possess their souls; and so the trouble would work +its end—the purification of their minds, that the light and gladness of +God and all His earth, which the pure in heart and the meek alone could +inherit, might shine in upon them. And then I repeated to them this +portion of a prayer out of one of Sir Philip Sidney’s books:— + +“O Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace what sorrow Thou +wilt have me suffer. Only thus much let me crave of Thee, (let my +craving, O Lord, be accepted of Thee, since even that proceeds from +Thee,) let me crave, even by the noblest title, which in my greatest +affliction I may give myself, that I am Thy creature, and by Thy +goodness (which is Thyself) that Thou wilt suffer some beam of Thy +majesty so to shine into my mind, that it may still depend confidently +on Thee.” + + +All the time I was speaking, the rain, mingled with sleet, was dashing +against the windows, and the wind was howling over the graves all +about. But the dead were not troubled by the storm; and over my head, +from beam to beam of the roof, now resting on one, now flitting to +another, a sparrow kept flying, which had taken refuge in the church +till the storm should cease and the sun shine out in the great temple. +“This,” I said aloud, “is what the church is for: as the sparrow finds +there a house from the storm, so the human heart escapes thither to +hear the still small voice of God when its faith is too weak to find +Him in the storm, and in the sorrow, and in the pain.” And while I +spoke, a dim watery gleam fell on the chancel-floor, and the comfort of +the sun awoke in my heart. Nor let any one call me superstitious for +taking that pale sun-ray of hope as sent to me; for I received it as +comfort for the race, and for me as one of the family, even as the bow +that was set in the cloud, a promise to the eyes of light for them that +sit in darkness. As I write, my eye falls upon the Bible on the table +by my side, and I read the words, “For the Lord God is a sun and +shield, the Lord will give grace and glory.” And I lift my eyes from my +paper and look abroad from my window, and the sun is shining in its +strength. The leaves are dancing in the light wind that gives them each +its share of the sun, and my trouble has passed away for ever, like the +storm of that night and the unrest of that strange Sabbath. + +Such comforts would come to us oftener from Nature, if we really +believed that our God was the God of Nature; that when He made, or +rather when He makes, He means; that not His hands only, but His heart +too, is in the making of those things; that, therefore, the influences +of Nature upon human minds and hearts are because He intended them. And +if we believe that our God is everywhere, why should we not think Him +present even in the coincidences that sometimes seem so strange? For, +if He be in the things that coincide, He must be in the coincidence of +those things. + +Miss Oldcastle told me once that she could not take her eyes off a +butterfly which was flitting about in the church all the time I was +speaking of the resurrection of the dead. I told the people that in +Greek there was one word for the soul and for a butterfly—Psyche; that +I thought as the light on the rain made the natural symbol of mercy—the +rainbow, so the butterfly was the type in nature, and made to the end, +amongst other ends, of being such a type—of the resurrection of the +human body; that its name certainly expressed the hope of the Greeks in +immortality, while to us it speaks likewise of a glorified body, +whereby we shall know and love each other with our eyes as well as our +hearts.—My sister saw the butterfly too, but only remembered that she +had seen it when it was mentioned in her hearing: on her the sight made +no impression; she saw no coincidence. + +I descended from the pulpit comforted by the sermon I had preached to +myself. But I was glad to feel justified in telling my people that, in +consequence of the continued storm, for there had been no more of +sunshine than just that watery gleam, there would be no service in the +afternoon, and that I would instead visit some of my sick poor, whom +the weather might have discomposed in their worn dwellings. + +The people were very slow in dispersing. There was so much putting on +of clogs, gathering up of skirts over the head, and expanding of +umbrellas, soon to be taken down again as worse than useless in the +violence of the wind, that the porches were crowded, and the few left +in the church detained till the others made way. I lingered with these. +They were all poor people. + +“I am sorry you will have such a wet walk home,” I said to Mrs Baird, +the wife of old Reginald Baird, the shoemaker, a little wizened +creature, with more wrinkles than hairs, who the older and more +withered she grew, seemed like the kernels of some nuts only to grow +the sweeter. + +“It’s very good of you to let us off this afternoon, sir. Not as I +minds the wet: it finds out the holes in people’s shoes, and gets my +husband into more work.” + +This was in fact the response of the shoemaker’s wife to my sermon. If +we look for responses after our fashion instead of after people’s own +fashion, we ought to be disappointed. Any recognition of truth, +whatever form it may take, whether that of poetic delight, intellectual +corroboration, practical commonplace; or even vulgar aphorism, must be +welcomed by the husbandmen of the God of growth. A response which jars +against the peculiar pitch of our mental instrument, must not therefore +be turned away from with dislike. Our mood of the moment is not that by +which the universe is tuned into its harmonies. We must drop our +instrument and listen to the other, and if we find that the player upon +it is breathing after a higher expression, is, after his fashion, +striving to embody something he sees of the same truth the utterance of +which called forth this his answer, let us thank God and take courage. +God at least is pleased: and if our refinement and education take away +from our pleasure, it is because of something low, false, and selfish, +not divine in a word, that is mingled with that refinement and that +education. If the shoemaker’s wife’s response to the prophet’s grand +poem about the care of God over His creatures, took the form of +acknowledgment for the rain that found out the holes in the people’s +shoes, it was the more genuine and true, for in itself it afforded +proof that it was not a mere reflex of the words of the prophet, but +sprung from the experience and recognition of the shoemaker’s wife. Nor +was there anything necessarily selfish in it, for if there are holes in +people’s shoes, the sooner they are found out the better. + +While I was talking to Mrs Baird, Mr Stoddart, whose love for the old +organ had been stronger than his dislike to the storm, had come down +into the church, and now approached me. + +“I never saw you in the church before, Mr Stoddart,” I said, “though I +have heard you often enough. You use your own private door always.” + +“I thought to go that way now, but there came such a fierce burst of +wind and rain in my face, that my courage failed me, and I turned +back—like the sparrow—for refuge in the church.” + +“A thought strikes me,” I said. “Come home with me, and have some +lunch, and then we will go together to see some of my poor people. I +have often wished to ask you.” + +His face fell. + +“It is such a day!” he answered, remonstratingly, but not positively +refusing. It was not his way ever to refuse anything positively. + +“So it was when you set out this morning,” I returned; “but you would +not deprive us of the aid of your music for the sake of a charge of +wind, and a rattle of rain-drops.” + +“But I shan’t be of any use. You are going, and that is enough.” + +“I beg your pardon. Your very presence will be of use. Nothing yet +given him or done for him by his fellow, ever did any man so much good +as the recognition of the brotherhood by the common signs of friendship +and sympathy. The best good of given money depends on the degree to +which it is the sign of that friendship and sympathy. Our Lord did not +make little of visiting: ‘I was sick, and ye visited me.’ ‘Inasmuch as +ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.’ Of +course, if the visitor goes professionally and not humanly,—as a mere +religious policeman, that is—whether he only distributes tracts with +condescending words, or gives money liberally because he thinks he +ought, the more he does not go the better, for he only does harm to +them and himself too.” + +“But I cannot pretend to feel any of the interest you consider +essential: why then should I go?” + +“To please me, your friend. That is a good human reason. You need not +say a word—you must not pretend anything. Go as my companion, not as +their visitor. Will you come?” + +“I suppose I must.” + +“You must, then. Thank you. You will help me. I have seldom a +companion.” + +So when the storm-fit had abated for the moment, we hurried to the +vicarage, had a good though hasty lunch, (to which I was pleased to see +Mr Stoddart do justice; for it is with man as with beast, if you want +work out of him, he must eat well—and it is the one justification of +eating well, that a man works well upon it,) and set out for the +village. The rain was worse than ever. There was no sleet, and the wind +was not cold, but the windows of heaven were opened, and if the +fountains of the great deep were not broken up, it looked like it, at +least, when we reached the bridge and saw how the river had spread out +over all the low lands on its borders. We could not talk much as we +went along. + +“Don’t you find some pleasure in fighting the wind?” I said. + +“I have no doubt I should,” answered Mr Stoddart, “if I thought I were +going to do any good; but as it is, to tell the truth, I would rather +be by my own fire with my folio Dante on the reading desk.” + +“Well, I would rather help the poorest woman in creation, than +contemplate the sufferings of the greatest and wickedest,” I said. + +“There are two things you forget,” returned Mr Stoddart. “First, that +the poem of Dante is not nearly occupied with the sufferings of the +wicked; and next, that what I have complained of in this +expedition—which as far as I am concerned, I would call a wild goose +chase, were it not that it is your doing and not mine—is that I am not +going to help anybody.” + +“You would have the best of the argument entirely,” I replied, “if your +expectation was sure to turn out correct.” + +As I spoke, we had come within a few yards of the Tomkins’s cottage, +which lay low down from the village towards the river, and I saw that +the water was at the threshold. I turned to Mr Stoddart, who, to do him +justice, had not yet grumbled in the least. + +“Perhaps you had better go home, after all,” I said; “for you must wade +into Tomkins’s if you go at all. Poor old man! what can he be doing, +with his wife dying, and the river in his house!” + +“You have constituted yourself my superior officer, Mr Walton. I never +turned my back on my leader yet. Though I confess I wish I could see +the enemy a little clearer.” + +“There is the enemy,” I said, pointing to the water, and walking into +it. + +Mr Stoddart followed me without a moment’s hesitation. + +When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a small stream of +water running straight from the door to the fire on the hearth, which +it had already drowned. The old man was sitting by his wife’s bedside. +Life seemed rapidly going from the old woman. She lay breathing very +hard. + +“Oh, sir,” said the old man, as he rose, almost crying, “you’re come at +last!” + +“Did you send for me?” I asked. + +“No, sir. I had nobody to send. Leastways, I asked the Lord if He +wouldn’t fetch you. I been prayin’ hard for you for the last hour. I +couldn’t leave her to come for you. And I do believe the wind ’ud ha’ +blown me off my two old legs.” + +“Well, I am come, you see. I would have come sooner, but I had no idea +you would be flooded.” + +“It’s not that I mind, sir, though it IS cold sin’ the fire went. But +she IS goin’ now, sir. She ha’n’t spoken a word this two hours and +more, and her breathin’s worse and worse. She don’t know me now, sir.” + +A moan of protestation came from the dying woman. + +“She does know you, and loves you too, Tomkins,” I said. “And you’ll +both know each other better by and by.” + +The old woman made a feeble motion with her hand. I took it in mine. It +was cold and deathlike. The rain was falling in large slow drops from +the roof upon the bedclothes. But she would be beyond the reach of all +the region storms before long, and it did not matter much. + +“Look if you can find a basin or plate, Mr Stoddart, and put it to +catch the drop here,” I said. + +For I wanted to give him the first chance of being useful. + +“There’s one in the press there,” said the old man, rising feebly. + +“Keep your seat,” said Mr Stoddart. “I’ll get it.” + +And he got a basin from the cupboard, and put it on the bed to catch +the drop. + +The old woman held my hand in hers; but by its motion I knew that she +wanted something; and guessing what it was from what she had said +before, I made her husband sit on the bed on the other side of her and +take hold of her other hand, while I took his place on the chair by the +bedside. This seemed to content her. So I went and whispered to Mr +Stoddart, who had stood looking on disconsolately:— + +“You heard me say I would visit some of my sick people this afternoon. +Some will be expecting me with certainty. You must go instead of me, +and tell them that I cannot come, because old Mrs Tomkins is dying; but +I will see them soon.” + +He seemed rather relieved at the commission. I gave him the necessary +directions to find the cottages, and he left me. + +I may mention here that this was the beginning of a relation between Mr +Stoddart and the poor of the parish—a very slight one indeed, at first, +for it consisted only in his knowing two or three of them, so as to ask +after their health when he met them, and give them an occasional +half-crown. But it led to better things before many years had passed. +It seems scarcely more than yesterday—though it is twenty years +ago—that I came upon him in the avenue, standing in dismay over the +fragments of a jug of soup which he had dropped, to the detriment of +his trousers as well as the loss of his soup. “What am I to do?” he +said. “Poor Jones expects his soup to-day.”—“Why, go back and get some +more.”—“But what will cook say?” The poor man was more afraid of the +cook than he would have been of a squadron of cavalry. “Never mind the +cook. Tell her you must have some more as soon as it can be got ready.” +He stood uncertain for a moment. Then his face brightened. “I will tell +her I want my luncheon. I always have soup. And I’ll get out through +the greenhouse, and carry it to Jones.”—“Very well,” I said; “that will +do capitally.” And I went on, without caring to disturb my satisfaction +by determining whether the devotion of his own soup arose more from +love to Jones, or fear of the cook. He was a great help to me in the +latter part of his life, especially after I lost good Dr Duncan, and my +beloved friend Old Rogers. He was just one of those men who make +excellent front-rank men, but are quite unfit for officers. He could do +what he was told without flinching, but he always required to be told. + +I resumed my seat by the bedside, where the old woman was again +moaning. As soon as I took her hand she ceased, and so I sat till it +began to grow dark. + +“Are you there, sir?” she would murmur. + +“Yes, I am here. I have a hold of your hand.” + +“I can’t feel you, sir.” + +“But you can hear me. And you can hear God’s voice in your heart. I am +here, though you can’t feel me. And God is here, though you can’t see +Him.” + +She would be silent for a while, and then murmur again— + +“Are you there, Tomkins?” + +“Yes, my woman, I’m here,” answered the old man to one of these +questions; “but I wish I was there instead, wheresomever it be as +you’re goin’, old girl.” + +And all that I could hear of her answer was, “Bym by; bym by.” + +Why should I linger over the death-bed of an illiterate woman, old and +plain, dying away by inches? Is it only that she died with a hold of my +hand, and that therefore I am interested in the story? I trust not. I +was interested in HER. Why? Would my readers be more interested if I +told them of the death of a young lovely creature, who said touching +things, and died amidst a circle of friends, who felt that the very +light of life was being taken away from them? It was enough for me that +here was a woman with a heart like my own; who needed the same +salvation I needed; to whom the love of God was the one blessed thing; +who was passing through the same dark passage into the light that the +Lord had passed through before her, that I had to pass through after +her. She had no theories—at least, she gave utterance to none; she had +few thoughts of her own—and gave still fewer of them expression; you +might guess at a true notion in her mind, but an abstract idea she +could scarcely lay hold of; her speech was very common; her manner +rather brusque than gentle; but she could love; she could forget +herself; she could be sorry for what she did or thought wrong; she +could hope; she could wish to be better; she could admire good people; +she could trust in God her Saviour. And now the loving God-made human +heart in her was going into a new school that it might begin a fresh +beautiful growth. She was old, I have said, and plain; but now her old +age and plainness were about to vanish, and all that had made her youth +attractive to young Tomkins was about to return to her, only rendered +tenfold more beautiful by the growth of fifty years of learning +according to her ability. God has such patience in working us into +vessels of honour! in teaching us to be children! And shall we find the +human heart in which the germs of all that is noblest and loveliest and +likest to God have begun to grow and manifest themselves uninteresting, +because its circumstances have been narrow, bare, and poverty-stricken, +though neither sordid nor unclean; because the woman is old and +wrinkled and brown, as if these were more than the transient accidents +of humanity; because she has neither learned grammar nor philosophy; +because her habits have neither been delicate nor self-indulgent? To +help the mind of such a woman to unfold to the recognition of the +endless delights of truth; to watch the dawn of the rising intelligence +upon the too still face, and the transfiguration of the whole form, as +the gentle rusticity vanishes in yet gentler grace, is a labour and a +delight worth the time and mind of an archangel. Our best living poet +says—but no; I will not quote. It is a distinct wrong that befalls the +best books to have many of their best words quoted till in their own +place and connexion they cease to have force and influence. The meaning +of the passage is that the communication of truth is one of the +greatest delights the human heart can experience. Surely this is true. +Does not the teaching of men form a great part of the divine gladness? + +Therefore even the dull approaches of death are full of deep +significance and warm interest to one who loves his fellows, who +desires not to be distinguished by any better fate than theirs; and +shrinks from the pride of supposing that his own death, or that of the +noblest of the good, is more precious in the sight of God than that of +“one of the least of these little ones.” + +At length, after a long silence, the peculiar sounds of obstructed +breathing indicated the end at hand. The jaw fell, and the eyes were +fixed. The old man closed the mouth and the eyes of his old companion, +weeping like a child, and I prayed aloud, giving thanks to God for +taking her to Himself. It went to my heart to leave the old man alone +with the dead; but it was better to let him be alone for a while, ere +the women should come to do the last offices for the abandoned form. + +I went to Old Rogers, told him the state in which I had left poor +Tomkins, and asked him what was to be done. + +“I’ll go and bring him home, sir, directly. He can’t be left there.” + +“But how can you bring him in such a night?” + +“Let me see, sir. I must think. Would your mare go in a cart, do you +think?” + +“Quite quietly. She brought a load of gravel from the common a few days +ago. But where’s your cart? I haven’t got one.” + +“There’s one at Weir’s to be repaired, sir. It wouldn’t be stealing to +borrow it.” + +How he managed with Tomkins I do not know. I thought it better to leave +all the rest to him. He only said afterwards, that he could hardly get +the old man away from the body. But when I went in next day, I found +Tomkins sitting, disconsolate, but as comfortable as he could be, in +the easy chair by the side of the fire. Mrs Rogers was bustling about +cheerily. The storm had died in the night. The sun was shining. It was +the first of the spring weather. The whole country was gleaming with +water. But soon it would sink away, and the grass be the thicker for +its rising. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. +A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. + + +My reader will easily believe that I returned home that Sunday evening +somewhat jaded, nor will he be surprised if I say that next morning I +felt disinclined to leave my bed. I was able, however, to rise and go, +as I have said, to Old Rogers’s cottage. + +But when I came home, I could no longer conceal from myself that I was +in danger of a return of my last attack. I had been sitting for hours +in wet clothes, with my boots full of water, and now I had to suffer +for it. But as I was not to blame in the matter, and had no choice +offered me whether I should be wet or dry while I sat by the dying +woman, I felt no depression at the prospect of the coming illness. +Indeed, I was too much depressed from other causes, from mental strife +and hopelessness, to care much whether I was well or ill. I could have +welcomed death in the mood in which I sometimes felt myself during the +next few days, when I was unable to leave my bed, and knew that Captain +Everard was at the Hall, and knew nothing besides. For no voice reached +me from that quarter any more than if Oldcastle Hall had been a region +beyond the grave. Miss Oldcastle seemed to have vanished from my ken as +much as Catherine Weir and Mrs Tomkins—yes, more—for there was only +death between these and me; whereas, there was something far worse—I +could not always tell what—that rose ever between Miss Oldcastle and +myself, and paralysed any effort I might fancy myself on the point of +making for her rescue. + +One pleasant thing happened. On the Thursday, I think it was, I felt +better. My sister came into my room and said that Miss Crowther had +called, and wanted to see me. + +“Which Miss Crowther is it?” I asked. + +“The little lady that looks like a bird, and chirps when she talks.” + +Of course I was no longer in any doubt as to which of them it was. + +“You told her I had a bad cold, did you not?” + +“Oh, yes. But she says if it is only a cold, it will do you no harm to +see her.” + +“But you told her I was in bed, didn’t you?” + +“Of course. But it makes no difference. She says she’s used to seeing +sick folk in bed; and if you don’t mind seeing her, she doesn’t mind +seeing you.” + +“Well, I suppose I must see her,” I said. + +So my sister made me a little tidier, and introduced Miss Crowther. + +“O dear Mr Walton, I am SO sorry! But you’re not very ill, are you?” + +“I hope not, Miss Jemima. Indeed, I begin to think this morning that I +am going to get off easier than I expected.” + +“I am glad of that. Now listen to me. I won’t keep you, and it is a +matter of some importance. I hear that one of your people is dead, a +young woman of the name of Weir, who has left a little boy behind her. +Now, I have been wanting for a long time to adopt a child——” + +“But,” I interrupted her, “What would Miss Hester say?” + +“My sister is not so very dreadful as perhaps you think her, Mr Walton; +and besides, when I do want my own way very particularly, which is not +often, for there are not so many things that it’s worth while insisting +upon—but when I DO want my own way, I always have it. I then stand upon +my right of—what do you call it?—primo—primogeniture—that’s it! Well, I +think I know something of this child’s father. I am sorry to say I +don’t know much good of him, and that’s the worse for the boy. Still——” + +“The boy is an uncommonly sweet and lovable child, whoever was his +father,” I interposed. + +“I am very glad to hear it. I am the more determined to adopt him. What +friends has he?” + +“He has a grandfather, and an uncle and aunt, and will have a +godfather—that’s me—in a few days, I hope.” + +“I am very glad to hear it. There will be no opposition on the part of +the relatives, I presume?” + +“I am not so sure of that. I fear I shall object for one, Miss Jemima.” + +“You? I didn’t expect that of you, Mr Walton, I must say.” + +And there was a tremor in the old lady’s voice more of disappointment +and hurt than of anger. + +“I will think it over, though, and talk about it to his grandfather, +and we shall find out what’s best, I do hope. You must not think I +should not like you to have him.” + +“Thank you, Mr Walton. Then I won’t stay longer now. But I warn you I +will call again very soon, if you don’t come to see me. Good morning.” + +And the dear old lady shook hands with me and left me rather hurriedly, +turning at the door, however, to add— + +“Mind, I’ve set my heart upon having the boy, Mr Walton. I’ve seen him +often.” + +What could have made Miss Crowther take such a fancy to the boy? I +could not help associating it with what I had heard of her youthful +disappointment, but never having had my conjectures confirmed, I will +say no more about them. Of course I talked the matter over with Thomas +Weir; but, as I had suspected, I found that he was now as unwilling to +part with the boy as he had formerly disliked the sight of him. Nor did +I press the matter at all, having a belief that the circumstances of +one’s natal position are not to be rudely handled or thoughtlessly +altered, besides that I thought Thomas and his daughter ought to have +all the comfort and good that were to be got from the presence of the +boy whose advent had occasioned them so much trouble and sorrow, yea, +and sin too. But I did not give a positive and final refusal to Miss +Crowther. I only said “for the present;” for I did not feel at liberty +to go further. I thought that such changes might take place as would +render the trial of such a new relationship desirable; as, indeed, it +turned out in the end, though I cannot tell the story now, but must +keep it for a possible future. + +I have, I think, entirely as yet, followed, in these memoirs, the plan +of relating either those things only at which I was present, or, if +other things, only in the same mode in which I heard them. I will now +depart from this plan—for once. Years passed before some of the +following facts were reported to me, but it is only here that they +could be interesting to my readers. + +At the very time Miss Crowther was with me, as nearly as I can guess, +Old Rogers turned into Thomas Weir’s workshop. The usual, on the +present occasion somewhat melancholy, greetings having passed between +them, Old Rogers said— + +“Don’t you think, Mr Weir, there’s summat the matter wi’ parson?” + +“Overworked,” returned Weir. “He’s lost two, ye see, and had to see +them both safe over, as I may say, within the same day. He’s got a bad +cold, I’m sorry to hear, besides. Have ye heard of him to-day?” + +“Yes, yes; he’s badly, and in bed. But that’s not what I mean. There’s +summat on his mind,” said Old Rogers. + +“Well, I don’t think it’s for you or me to meddle with parson’s mind,” +returned Weir. + +“I’m not so sure o’ that,” persisted Rogers. “But if I had thought, Mr +Weir, as how you would be ready to take me up short for mentionin’ of +the thing, I wouldn’t ha’ opened my mouth to you about +parson—leastways, in that way, I mean.” + +“But what way DO you mean, Old Rogers?” + +“Why, about his in’ards, you know.” + +“I’m no nearer your meanin’ yet.” + +“Well, Mr Weir, you and me’s two old fellows, now—leastways I’m a deal +older than you. But that doesn’t signify to what I want to say.” + +And here Old Rogers stuck fast—according to Weir’s story. + +“It don’t seem easy to say no how, Old Rogers,” said Weir. + +“Well, it ain’t. So I must just let it go by the run, and hope the +parson, who’ll never know, would forgive me if he did.” + +“Well, then, what is it?” + +“It’s my opinion that that parson o’ ours—you see, we knows about it, +Mr Weir, though we’re not gentlefolks—leastways, I’m none.” + +“Now, what DO you mean, Old Rogers?” + +“Well, I means this—as how parson’s in love. There, that’s paid out.” + +“Suppose he was, I don’t see yet what business that is of yours or mine +either.” + +“Well, I do. I’d go to Davie Jones for that man.” + +A heathenish expression, perhaps; but Weir assured me, with much +amusement in his tone, that those were the very words Old Rogers used. +Leaving the expression aside, will the reader think for a moment on the +old man’s reasoning? My condition WAS his business; for he was ready to +die for me! Ah! love does indeed make us all each other’s keeper, just +as we were intended to be. + +“But what CAN we do?” returned Weir. + +Perhaps he was the less inclined to listen to the old man, that he was +busy with a coffin for his daughter, who was lying dead down the +street. And so my poor affairs were talked of over the coffin-planks. +Well, well, it was no bad omen. + +“I tell you what, Mr Weir, this here’s a serious business. And it seems +to me it’s not shipshape o’ you to go on with that plane o’ yours, when +we’re talkin’ about parson.” + +“Well, Old Rogers, I meant no offence. Here goes. NOW, what have you to +say? Though if it’s offence to parson you’re speakin’ of, I know, if I +were parson, who I’d think was takin’ the greatest liberty, me wi’ my +plane, or you wi’ your fancies.” + +“Belay there, and hearken.” + +So Old Rogers went into as many particulars as he thought fit, to prove +that his suspicion as to the state of my mind was correct; which +particulars I do not care to lay in a collected form before my reader, +he being in no need of such a summing up to give his verdict, seeing +the parson has already pleaded guilty. When he had finished, + +“Supposing all you say, Old Rogers,” remarked Thomas, “I don’t yet see +what WE’VE got to do with it. Parson ought to know best what he’s +about.” + +“But my daughter tells me,” said Rogers, “that Miss Oldcastle has no +mind to marry Captain Everard. And she thinks if parson would only +speak out he might have a chance.” + +Weir made no reply, and was silent so long, with his head bent, that +Rogers grew impatient. + +“Well, man, ha’ you nothing to say now—not for your best friend—on +earth, I mean—and that’s parson? It may seem a small matter to you, but +it’s no small matter to parson.” + +“Small to me!” said Weir, and taking up his tool, a constant recourse +with him when agitated, he began to plane furiously. + +Old Rogers now saw that there was more in it than he had thought, and +held his peace and waited. After a minute or two of fierce activity, +Thomas lifted up a face more white than the deal board he was planing, +and said, + +“You should have come to the point a little sooner, Old Rogers.” + +He then laid down his plane, and went out of the workshop, leaving +Rogers standing there in bewilderment. But he was not gone many +minutes. He returned with a letter in his hand. + +“There,” he said, giving it to Rogers. + +“I can’t read hand o’ write,” returned Rogers. “I ha’ enough ado with +straight-foret print But I’ll take it to parson.” + +“On no account,” returned Thomas, emphatically “That’s not what I gave +it you for. Neither you nor parson has any right to read that letter; +and I don’t want either of you to read it. Can Jane read writing?” + +“I don’t know as she can, for, you see, what makes lasses take to +writin’ is when their young man’s over the seas, leastways not in the +mill over the brook.” + +“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Thomas, and taking the letter from +Rogers’s hand, he left the shop again. + +He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an envelope, +addressed to Miss Oldcastle. + +“Now, you tell your Jane to give that to Miss Oldcastle from me—mind, +from ME; and she must give it into her own hands, and let no one else +see it. And I must have it again. Mind you tell her all that, Old +Rogers.” + +“I will. It’s for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to know on’t. And +you’re to have it again all safe when done with.” + +“Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it?” + +“I think I can. I ought to, anyhow. But she can’t know anythink in the +letter now, Mr Weir.” + +“I know that; but Marshmallows is a talkin’ place. And poor Kate ain’t +right out o’ hearin’ yet.—You’ll come and see her buried to-morrow, +won’t ye, Old Rogers?” + +“I will, Thomas. You’ve had a troubled life, but thank God the sun came +out a bit before she died.” + +“That’s true, Rogers. It’s all right, I do think, though I grumbled +long and sore. But Jane mustn’t speak of that letter.” + +“No. That she shan’t.” + +“I’ll tell you some day what’s in it. But I can’t bear to talk about it +yet.” + +And so they parted. + +I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my dead out of my +sight or to comfort my living the next Sunday. I got help from +Addicehead, however, and the dead bodies were laid aside in the ancient +wardrobe of the tomb. They were both buried by my vestry-door, +Catherine where I had found young Tom lying, namely, in the grave of +her mother, and old Mrs Tomkins on the other side of the path. + +On Sunday, Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and she carried it to +the Hall. It was not till she had to wait on her mistress before +leaving her for the night that she found an opportunity of giving it +into her own hands. + +Then when her bell rang, Jane went up to her room, and found her so +pale and haggard that she was frightened. She had thrown herself back +on the couch, with her hands lying by her sides, as if she cared for +nothing in this world or out of it. But when Jane entered, she started +and sat up, and tried to look like herself. Her face, however, was so +pitiful, that honest-hearted Jane could not help crying, upon which the +responsive sisterhood overcame the proud lady, and she cried too. Jane +had all but forgotten the letter, of the import of which she had no +idea, for her father had taken care to rouse no suspicions in her mind. +But when she saw her cry, the longing to give her something, which +comes to us all when we witness trouble—for giving seems to mean +everything—brought to her mind the letter she had undertaken to deliver +to her. Now she had no notion, as I have said, that the letter had +anything to do with her present perplexity, but she hoped it might +divert her thoughts for a moment, which is all that love at a distance +can look for sometimes. + +“Here is a letter,” said Jane, “that Mr Weir the carpenter gave to my +father to give to me to bring to you, miss.” + +“What is it about, Jane?” she asked listlessly. + +Then a sudden flash broke from her eyes, and she held out her hand +eagerly to take it. She opened it and read it with changing colour, but +when she had finished it, her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes glowing +like fire. + +“The wretch,” she said, and threw the letter from her into the middle +of the floor. + +Jane, who remembered the injunctions of her father as to the safety and +return of the letter, stooped to pick it up: but had hardly raised +herself when the door opened, and in came Mrs Oldcastle. The moment she +saw her mother, Ethelwyn rose, and advancing to meet her, said, + +“Mother, I will NOT marry that man. You may do what you please with me, +but I WILL NOT.” + +“Heigho!” exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle with spread nostrils, and turning +suddenly upon Jane, snatched the letter out of her hand. + +She opened and read it, her face getting more still and stony as she +read. Miss Oldcastle stood and looked at her mother with cheeks now +pale but with still flashing eyes. The moment her mother had finished +the letter, she walked swiftly to the fire, tearing the letter as she +went, and thrust it between the bars, pushing it in fiercely with the +poker, and muttering— + +“A vile forgery of those low Chartist wretches! As if he would ever +have looked at one of THEIR women! A low conspiracy to get money from a +gentleman in his honourable position!” + +And for the first time since she went to the Hall, Jane said, there was +colour in that dead white face. + +She turned once more, fiercer than ever, upon Jane, and in a tone of +rage under powerful repression, began:— + +“You leave the house—THIS INSTANT.” + +The last two words, notwithstanding her self-command, rose to a scream. +And she came from the fire towards Jane, who stood trembling near the +door, with such an expression on her countenance that absolute fear +drove her from the room before she knew what she was about. The locking +of the door behind her let her know that she had abandoned her young +mistress to the madness of her mother’s evil temper and disposition. +But it was too late. She lingered by the door and listened, but beyond +an occasional hoarse tone of suppressed energy, she heard nothing. At +length the lock—as suddenly turned, and she was surprised by Mrs +Oldcastle, if not in a listening attitude, at least where she had no +right to be after the dismissal she had received. + +Opposite Miss Oldcastle’s bedroom was another, seldom used, the door of +which was now standing open. Instead of speaking to Jane, Mrs Oldcastle +gave her a violent push, which drove her into this room. Thereupon she +shut the door and locked it. Jane spent the whole of the night in that +room, in no small degree of trepidation as to what might happen next. +But she heard no noise all the rest of the night, part of which, +however, was spent in sound sleep, for Jane’s conscience was in no ways +disturbed as to any part she had played in the current events. + +It was not till the morning that she examined the door, to see if she +could not manage to get out and escape from the house, for she shared +with the rest of the family an indescribable fear of Mrs Oldcastle and +her confidante, the White Wolf. But she found it was of no use: the +lock was at least as strong as the door. Being a sensible girl and +self-possessed, as her parents’ child ought to be, she made no noise, +but waited patiently for what might come. At length, hearing a step in +the passage, she tapped gently at the door and called, “Who’s there?” +The cook’s voice answered. + +“Let me out,” said Jane. “The door’s locked.” The cook tried, but found +there was no key. Jane told her how she came there, and the cook +promised to get her out as soon as she could. Meantime all she could do +for her was to hand her a loaf of bread on a stick from the next +window. It had been long dark before some one unlocked the door, and +left her at liberty to go where she pleased, of which she did not fail +to make immediate use. + +Unable to find her young mistress, she packed her box, and, leaving it +behind her, escaped to her father. As soon as she had told him the +story, he came straight to me. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. +THE NEXT THING. + + +As I sat in my study, in the twilight of that same day, the door was +hurriedly opened, and Judy entered. She looked about the room with a +quick glance to see that we were alone, then caught my hand in both of +hers, and burst out crying. + +“Why, Judy!” I said, “what IS the matter?” But the sobs would not allow +her to answer. I was too frightened to put any more questions, and so +stood silent—my chest feeling like an empty tomb that waited for death +to fill it. At length with a strong effort she checked the succession +of her sobs, and spoke. + +“They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost already,” said the +child, again bursting into tears. + +“Tell me, Judy, what CAN I do for her?” + +“You must find out, Mr Walton. If you loved her as much as I do, you +would find out what to do.” + +“But she will not let me do anything for her.” + +“Yes, she will. She says you promised to help her some day.” + +“Did she send you, then?” + +“No. She did not send me.” + +“Then how—what—what can I do!” + +“Oh, you exact people! You must have everything square and in print +before you move. If it had been me now, wouldn’t I have been off like a +shot! Do get your hat, Mr Walton.” + +“Come, then, Judy. I will go at once.—Shall I see her?” + +And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing her from her +persecutors, though I had not yet the smallest idea how it was to be +effected. + +“We will talk about that as we go,” said Judy, authoritatively. + +In a moment more we were in the open air. It was a still night, with an +odour of damp earth, and a hint of green buds in it. A pale half-moon +hung in the sky, now and then hidden by the clouds that swept across +it, for there was wind in the heavens, though upon earth all was still. +I offered Judy my arm, but she took my hand, and we walked on without a +word till we had got through the village and out upon the road. + +“Now, Judy,” I said at last, “tell me what they are doing to your +aunt?” + +“I don’t know what they are doing. But I am sure she will die.” + +“Is she ill?” + +“She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave her room. Grannie must +have frightened her dreadfully. Everybody is frightened at her but me, +and I begin to be frightened too. And what will become of auntie then?” + +“But what can her mother do to her?” + +“I don’t know. I think it is her determination to have her own way that +makes auntie afraid she will get it somehow; and she says now she will +rather die than marry Captain Everard. Then there is no one allowed to +wait on her but Sarah, and I know the very sight of her is enough to +turn auntie sick almost. What has become of Jane I don’t know. I +haven’t seen her all day, and the servants are whispering together more +than usual. Auntie can’t eat what Sarah brings her, I am sure; else I +should almost fancy she was starving herself to death to keep clear of +that Captain Everard.” + +“Is he still at the Hall?” + +“Yes. But I don’t think it is altogether his fault. Grannie won’t let +him go. I don’t believe he knows how determined auntie is not to marry +him. Only, to be sure, though grannie never lets her have more than +five shillings in her pocket at a time, she will be worth something +when she is married.” + +“Nothing can make her worth more than she is, Judy,” I said, perhaps +with some discontent in my tone. + +“That’s as you and I think, Mr Walton; not as grannie and the captain +think at all. I daresay he would not care much more than grannie +whether she was willing or not, so long as she married him.” + +“But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we reach the Hall; else +my coming will be of no use.” + +“Of course. I know how much I can do, and you must arrange the rest +with her. I will take you to the little room up-stairs—we call it the +octagon. That you know is just under auntie’s room. They will be at +dinner—the captain and grannie. I will leave you there, and tell auntie +that you want to see her.” + +“But, Judy,—-” + +“Don’t you want to see her, Mr Walton?” + +“Yes, I do; more than you can think.” + +“Then I will tell her so.” + +“But will she come to me?” + +“I don’t know. We have to find that out.” + +“Very well. I leave myself in your hands.” + +I was now perfectly collected. All my dubitation and distress were +gone, for I had something to do, although what I could not yet tell. +That she did not love Captain Everard was plain, and that she had as +yet resisted her mother was also plain, though it was not equally +certain that she would, if left at her mercy, go on to resist her. This +was what I hoped to strengthen her to do. I saw nothing more within my +reach as yet. But from what I knew of Miss Oldcastle, I saw plainly +enough that no greater good could be done for her than this enabling to +resistance. Self-assertion was so foreign to her nature, that it needed +a sense of duty to rouse her even to self-defence. As I have said +before, she was clad in the mail of endurance, but was utterly without +weapons. And there was a danger of her conduct and then of her mind +giving way at last, from the gradual inroads of weakness upon the thews +which she left unexercised. In respect of this, I prayed heartily that +I might help her. + +Judy and I scarcely spoke to each other from the moment we entered the +gate till I found myself at a side door which I had never observed till +now. It was fastened, and Judy told me to wait till she went in and +opened it. The moon was now quite obscured, and I was under no +apprehension of discovery. While I stood there I could not help +thinking of Dr Duncan’s story, and reflecting that the daughter was now +returning the kindness shown to the mother. + +I had not to wait long before the door opened behind me noiselessly, +and I stepped into the dark house. Judy took me by the hand, and led me +along a passage, and then up a stair into the little drawing-room. +There was no light. She led me to a seat at the farther end, and +opening a door close beside me, left me in the dark. + +There I sat so long that I fell into a fit of musing, broken ever by +startled expectation. Castle after castle I built up; castle after +castle fell to pieces in my hands. Still she did not come. At length I +got so restless and excited that only the darkness kept me from +starting up and pacing the room. Still she did not come, and partly +from weakness, partly from hope deferred, I found myself beginning to +tremble all over. Nor could I control myself. As the trembling +increased, I grew alarmed lest I should become unable to carry out all +that might be necessary. + +Suddenly from out of the dark a hand settled on my arm. I looked up and +could just see the whiteness of a face. Before I could speak, a voice +said brokenly, in a half-whisper:— + +“WILL you save me, Mr Walton? But you’re trembling; you are ill; you +ought not to have come to me. I will get you something.” + +And she moved to go, but I held her. All my trembling was gone in a +moment. Her words, so careful of me even in her deep misery, went to my +heart and gave me strength. The suppressed feelings of many months +rushed to my lips. What I said I do not know, but I know that I told +her I loved her. And I know that she did not draw her hand from mine +when I said so. + +But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling. + +“Forgive me,” I said, “I am selfishness itself to speak to you thus +now, to take advantage of your misery to make you listen to mine. But, +at least, it will make you sure that if all I am, all I have will save +you—” + +“But I am saved already,” she interposed, “if you love me—for I love +you.” + +And for some moments there were no words to speak. I stood holding her +hand, conscious only of God and her. At last I said: + +“There is no time now but for action. Nor do I see anything but to go +with me at once. Will you come home to my sister? Or I will take you +wherever you please.” + +“I will go with you anywhere you think best. Only take me away.” + +“Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we will settle all +about it as we go.” + +She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle came to the door. + +“No lights here!” she said. “Sarah, bring candles, and tell Captain +Everard, when he will join us, to come to the octagon room. Where can +that little Judy be? The child gets more and more troublesome, I do +think. I must take her in hand.” + +I had been in great perplexity how to let her know that I was there; +for to announce yourself to a lady by a voice out of the darkness of +her boudoir, or to wait for candles to discover you where she thought +she was quite alone—neither is a pleasant way of presenting yourself to +her consciousness. But I was helped out of the beginning into the +middle of my difficulties, once more by that blessed little Judy. I did +not know she was in the room till I heard her voice. Nor do I yet know +how much she had heard of the conversation between her aunt and myself; +for although I sometimes see her look roguish even now that she is a +middle-aged woman with many children, when anything is said which might +be supposed to have a possible reference to that night, I have never +cared to ask her. + +“Here I am, grannie,” said her voice. “But I won’t be taken in hand by +you or any one else. I tell you that. So mind. And Mr Walton is here, +too, and Aunt Ethelwyn is going out with him for a long walk.” + +“What do you mean, you silly child?” + +“I mean what I say,” and “Miss Judy speaks the truth,” fell together +from her lips and mine. + +“Mr Walton,” began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, “it is scarcely like a +gentleman to come where you are not wanted—-” + +Here Judy interrupted her. + +“I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton WAS wanted—very much wanted. I +went and fetched him.” + +But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding. + +“—-and to be sitting in my room in the dark too!” + +“That couldn’t be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah with candles.” + +“Sarah,” said Mrs Oldcastle, “ask Captain Everard to be kind enough to +step this way.” + +“Yes, ma’am,” answered Sarah, with an untranslatable look at me as she +set down the candles. + +We could now see each other. Knowing words to be but idle breath, I +would not complicate matters by speech, but stood silent, regarding Mrs +Oldcastle. She on her part did not flinch, but returned my look with +one both haughty and contemptuous. In a few moments, Captain Everard +entered, bowed slightly, and looked to Mrs Oldcastle as if for an +explanation. Whereupon she spoke, but to me. + +“Mr Walton,” she said, “will you explain to Captain Everard to what we +owe the UNEXPECTED pleasure of a visit from you?” + +“Captain Everard has no claim to any explanation from me. To you, Mrs +Oldcastle, I would have answered, had you asked me, that I was waiting +for Miss Oldcastle.” + +“Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr Walton insists upon seeing +her at once.” + +“That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be here presently,” I +said. + +Mrs Oldcastle turned slightly livid with wrath. She was always white, +as I have said: the change I can describe only by the word I have used, +indicating a bluish darkening of the whiteness. She walked towards the +door beside me. I stepped between her and it. + +“Pardon me, Mrs Oldcastle. That is the way to Miss Oldcastle’s room. I +am here to protect her.” + +Without saying a word she turned and looked at Captain Everard. He +advanced with a long stride of determination. But ere he reached me, +the door behind me opened, and Miss Oldcastle appeared in her bonnet +and shawl, carrying a small bag in her hand. Seeing how things were, +the moment she entered, she put her hand on my arm, and stood fronting +the enemy with me. Judy was on my right, her eyes flashing, and her +cheek as red as a peony, evidently prepared to do battle a toute +outrance for her friends. + +“Miss Oldcastle, go to your room instantly, I COMMAND you,” said her +mother; and she approached as if to remove her hand from my arm. I put +my other arm between her and her daughter. + +“No, Mrs Oldcastle,” I said. “You have lost all a mother’s rights by +ceasing to behave like a mother, Miss Oldcastle will never more do +anything in obedience to your commands, whatever she may do in +compliance with your wishes.” + +“Allow me to remark,” said Captain Everard, with attempted nonchalance, +“that that is strange doctrine for your cloth.” + +“So much the worse for my cloth, then,” I answered, “and the better for +yours if it leads you to act more honourably.” + +Still keeping himself entrenched in the affectation of a supercilious +indifference, he smiled haughtily, and gave a look of dramatic appeal +to Mrs Oldcastle. + +“At least,” said that lady, “do not disgrace yourself, Ethelwyn, by +leaving the house in this unaccountable manner at night and on foot. If +you WILL leave the protection of your mother’s roof, wait at least till +tomorrow.” + +“I would rather spend the night in the open air than pass another under +your roof, mother. You have been a strange mother to me—and Dorothy +too!” + +“At least do not put your character in question by going in this +unmaidenly fashion. People will talk to your prejudice—and Mr Walton’s +too.” + +Ethelwyn smiled.—She was now as collected as I was, seeming to have +cast off all her weakness. My heart was uplifted more than I can +say.—She knew her mother too well to be caught by the change in her +tone. + +I had not hitherto interrupted her once when she took the answer upon +herself, for she was not one to be checked when she chose to speak. But +now she answered nothing, only looked at me, and I understood her, of +course. + +“They will hardly have time to do so, I trust, before it will be out of +their power. It rests with Miss Oldcastle herself to say when that +shall be.” + +As if she had never suspected that such was the result of her scheming, +Mrs Oldcastle’s demeanour changed utterly. The form of her visage was +altered. She made a spring at her daughter, and seized her by the arm. + +“Then I forbid it,” she screamed; “and I WILL be obeyed. I stand on my +rights. Go to your room, you minx.” + +“There is no law human or divine to prevent her from marrying whom she +will. How old are you, Ethelwyn?” + +I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was. + +“Twenty-seven,” answered Miss Oldcastle. + +“Is it possible you can be so foolish, Mrs Oldcastle, as to think you +have the slightest hold on your daughter’s freedom? Let her arm go.” + +But she kept her grasp. + +“You hurt me, mother,” said Miss Oldcastle. + +“Hurt you? you smooth-faced hypocrite! I will hurt you then!” + +But I took Mrs Oldcastle’s arm in my hand, and she let go her hold. + +“How dare you touch a woman?” she said. + +“Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to torture her own +daughter.” + +Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying,— + +“The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time for the military to +interfere.” + +“Well put, Captain Everard,” I said. “Our side will disperse if you +will only leave room for us to go.” + +“Possibly _I_ may have something to say in the matter.” + +“Say on.” + +“This lady has jilted me.” + +“Have you, Ethelwyn?” + +“I have not.” + +“Then, Captain Everard, you lie.” + +“You dare to tell me so?” + +And he strode a pace nearer. + +“It needs no daring. I know you too well; and so does another who +trusted you and found you false as hell.” + +“You presume on your cloth, but—” he said, lifting his hand. + +“You may strike me, presuming on my cloth,” I answered; “and I will not +return your blow. Insult me as you will, and I will bear it. Call me +coward, and I will say nothing. But lay one hand on me to prevent me +from doing my duty, and I knock you down—or find you more of a man than +I take you for.” + +It was either conscience or something not so good that made a coward of +him. He turned on his heel. + +“I really am not sufficiently interested in the affair to oppose you. +You may take the girl for me. Both your cloth and the presence of +ladies protect your insolence. I do not like brawling where one cannot +fight. You shall hear from me before long, Mr Walton.” + +“No, Captain Everard, I shall not hear from you. You know you dare not +write to me. I know that of you which, even on the code of the +duellist, would justify any gentleman in refusing to meet you. Stand +out of my way!” + +I advanced with Miss Oldcastle on my arm. He drew back; and we left the +room. + +As we reached the door, Judy bounded after us, threw her arms round her +aunt’s neck, then round mine, kissing us both, and returned to her +place on the sofa. Mrs Oldcastle gave a scream, and sunk fainting on a +chair. It was a last effort to detain her daughter and gain time. Miss +Oldcastle would have returned, but I would not permit her. + +“No,” I said; “she will be better without you. Judy, ring the bell for +Sarah.” + +“How dare you give orders in my house?” exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle, +sitting bolt upright in the chair, and shaking her fist at us. Then +assuming the heroic, she added, “From this moment she is no daughter of +mine. Nor can you touch one farthing of her money, sir. You have +married a beggar after all, and that you’ll both know before long.” + +“Thy money perish with thee!” I said, and repented the moment I had +said it. It sounded like an imprecation, and I know I had no +correspondent feeling; for, after all, she was the mother of my +Ethelwyn. But the allusion to money made me so indignant, that the +words burst from me ere I could consider their import. + +The cool wind greeted us like the breath of God, as we left the house +and closed the door behind us. The moon was shining from the edge of a +vaporous mountain, which gradually drew away from her, leaving her +alone in the midst of a lake of blue. But we had not gone many paces +from the house when Miss Oldcastle began to tremble violently, and +could scarcely get along with all the help I could give her. Nor, for +the space of six weeks did one word pass between us about the painful +occurrences of that evening. For all that time she was quite unable to +bear it. + +When we managed at last to reach the vicarage, I gave her in charge to +my sister, with instructions to help her to bed at once, while I went +for Dr Duncan. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +OLD ROGERS’S THANKSGIVING. + + +I found the old man seated at his dinner, which he left immediately +when he heard that Miss Oldcastle needed his help. In a few words I +told him, as we went, the story of what had befallen at the Hall, to +which he listened with the interest of a boy reading a romance, asking +twenty questions about the particulars which I hurried over. Then he +shook me warmly by the hand, saying— + +“You have fairly won her, Walton, and I am as glad of it as I could be +of anything I can think of. She is well worth all you must have +suffered. This will at length remove the curse from that wretched +family. You have saved her from perhaps even a worse fate than her +sister’s.” + +“I fear she will be ill, though,” I said, “after all that she has gone +through.” + +But I did not even suspect how ill she would be. + +As soon as I heard Dr Duncan’s opinion of her, which was not very +definite, a great fear seized upon me that I was destined to lose her +after all. This fear, however, terrible as it was, did not torture me +like the fear that had preceded it. I could oftener feel able to say, +“Thy will be done” than I could before. + +Dr Duncan was hardly out of the house when Old Rogers arrived, and was +shown into the study. He looked excited. I allowed him to tell out his +story, which was his daughter’s of course, without interruption. He +ended by saying:— + +“Now, sir, you really must do summat. This won’t do in a Christian +country. We ain’t aboard ship here with a nor’-easter a-walkin’ the +quarter-deck.” + +“There’s no occasion, my dear old fellow, to do anything.” + +He was taken aback. + +“Well, I don’t understand you, Mr Walton. You’re the last man I’d have +expected to hear argufy for faith without works. It’s right to trust in +God; but if you don’t stand to your halliards, your craft ’ll miss +stays, and your faith ’ll be blown out of the bolt-ropes in the turn of +a marlinspike.” + +I suspect there was some confusion in the figure, but the old man’s +meaning was plain enough. Nor would I keep him in a moment more of +suspense. + +“Miss Oldcastle is in the house, Old Rogers,” I said. + +“What house, sir?” returned the old man, his gray eyes opening wider as +he spoke. + +“This house, to be sure.” + +I shall never forget the look the old man cast upwards, or the reality +given to it by the ordinarily odd sailor-fashion of pulling his +forelock, as he returned inward thanks to the Father of all for His +kindness to his friend. And never in my now wide circle of readers +shall I find one, the most educated and responsive, who will listen to +my story with a more gracious interest than that old man showed as I +recounted to him the adventures of the evening. There were few to whom +I could have told them: to Old Rogers I felt that it was right and +natural and dignified to tell the story even of my love’s victory. + +How then am I able to tell it to the world as now? I can easily explain +the seeming inconsistency. It is not merely that I am speaking, as I +have said before, from behind a screen, or as clothed in the coat of +darkness of an anonymous writer; but I find that, as I come nearer and +nearer to the invisible world, all my brothers and sisters grow dearer +and dearer to me; I feel towards them more and more as the children of +my Father in heaven; and although some of them are good children and +some naughty children, some very lovable and some hard to love, yet I +never feel that they are below me, or unfit to listen to the story even +of my love, if they only care to listen; and if they do not care, there +is no harm done, except they read it. Even should they, and then scoff +at what seemed and seems to me the precious story, I have these +defences: first, that it was not for them that I cast forth my precious +pearls, for precious to me is the significance of every fact in my +history—not that it is mine, for I have only been as clay in the hands +of the potter, but that it is God’s, who made my history as it seemed +and was good to Him; and second, that even should they trample them +under their feet, they cannot well get at me to rend me. And more, the +nearer I come to the region beyond, the more I feel that in that land a +man needs not shrink from uttering his deepest thoughts, inasmuch as he +that understands them not will not therefore revile him.—“But you are +not there yet. You are in the land in which the brother speaketh evil +of that which he understandeth not.”—True, friend; too true. But I only +do as Dr Donne did in writing that poem in his sickness, when he +thought he was near to the world of which we speak: I rehearse now, +that I may find it easier then. + +“Since I am coming to that holy room, + Where, with the choir of saints for evermore, +I shall be made thy music, as I come, + I tune the instrument here at the door; + And what I must do then, think here before.” + + +When Rogers had thanked God, he rose, took my hand, and said:— + +“Mr Walton, you WILL preach now. I thank God for the good we shall all +get from the trouble you have gone through.” + +“I ought to be the better for it,” I answered. + +“You WILL be the better for it,” he returned. “I believe I’ve allus +been the better for any trouble as ever I had to go through with. I +couldn’t quite say the same for every bit of good luck I had; +leastways, I consider trouble the best luck a man can have. And I wish +you a good night, sir. Thank God! again.” + +“But, Rogers, you don’t mean it would be good for us to have bad luck +always, do you? You shouldn’t be pleased at what’s come to me now, in +that case.” + +“No, sir, sartinly not.” + +“How can you say, then, that bad luck is the best luck?” + +“I mean the bad luck that comes to us—not the bad luck that doesn’t +come. But you’re right, sir. Good luck or bad luck’s both best when HE +sends ’em, as He allus does. In fac’, sir, there is no bad luck but +what comes out o’ the man hisself. The rest’s all good.” + +But whether it was the consequence of a reaction from the mental strain +I had suffered, or the depressing effect of Miss Oldcastle’s illness +coming so close upon the joy of winning her; or that I was more +careless and less anxious to do my duty than I ought to have been—I +greatly fear that Old Rogers must have been painfully disappointed in +the sermons which I did preach for several of the following Sundays. He +never even hinted at such a fact, but I felt it much myself. A man has +often to be humbled through failure, especially after success. I do not +clearly know how my failures worked upon me; but I think a man may +sometimes get spiritual good without being conscious of the point of +its arrival, or being able to trace the process by which it was wrought +in him. I believe that my failures did work some humility in me, and a +certain carelessness of outward success even in spiritual matters, so +far as the success affected me, provided only the will of God was done +in the dishonour of my weakness. And I think, but I am not sure, that +soon after I approached this condition of mind, I began to preach +better. But still I found for some time that however much the subject +of my sermon interested me in my study or in the church or vestry on +the Saturday evening; nay, even although my heart was full of fervour +during the prayers and lessons; no sooner had I begun to speak than the +glow died out of the sky of my thoughts; a dull clearness of the +intellectual faculties took its place; and I was painfully aware that +what I could speak without being moved myself was not the most likely +utterance to move the feelings of those who only listened. Still a man +may occasionally be used by the Spirit of God as the inglorious +“trumpet of a prophecy” instead of being inspired with the life of the +Word, and hence speaking out of a full heart in testimony of that which +he hath known and seen. + +I hardly remember when or how I came upon the plan, but now, as often +as I find myself in such a condition, I turn away from any attempt to +produce a sermon; and, taking up one of the sayings of our Lord which +He himself has said “are spirit and are life,” I labour simply to make +the people see in it what I see in it; and when I find that thus my own +heart is warmed, I am justified in the hope that the hearts of some at +least of my hearers are thereby warmed likewise. + +But no doubt the fact that the life of Miss Oldcastle seemed to tremble +in the balance, had something to do with those results of which I may +have already said too much. My design had been to go at once to London +and make preparation for as early a wedding as she would consent to; +but the very day after I brought her home, life and not marriage was +the question. Dr Duncan looked very grave, and although he gave me all +the encouragement he could, all his encouragement did not amount to +much. There was such a lack of vitality about her! The treatment to +which she had been for so long a time subjected had depressed her till +life was nearly quenched from lack of hope. Nor did the sudden change +seem able to restore the healthy action of what the old physicians +called the animal spirits. Possibly the strong reaction paralysed their +channels, and thus prevented her gladness from reaching her physical +nature so as to operate on its health. Her whole complaint appeared in +excessive weakness. Finding that she fainted after every little +excitement, I left her for four weeks entirely to my sister and Dr +Duncan, during which time she never saw me; and it was long before I +could venture to stay in her room more than a minute or two. But as the +summer approached she began to show signs of reviving life, and by the +end of May was able to be wheeled into the garden in a chair. + +During her aunt’s illness, Judy came often to the vicarage. But Miss +Oldcastle was unable to see her any more than myself without the +painful consequence which I have mentioned. So the dear child always +came to me in the study, and through her endless vivacity infected me +with some of her hope. For she had no fears whatever about her aunt’s +recovery. + +I had had some painful apprehensions as to the treatment Judy herself +might meet with from her grandmother, and had been doubtful whether I +ought not to have carried her off as well as her aunt; but the first +time she came, which was the next day, she set my mind at rest on that +subject. + +“But does your grannie know where you are come?” I had asked her. + +“So well, Mr Walton,” she replied, “that there was no occasion to tell +her. Why shouldn’t I rebel as well as Aunt Wynnie, I wonder?” she +added, looking archness itself. + +“How does she bear it?” + +“Bear what, Mr Walton?” + +“The loss of your aunt.” + +“You don’t think grannie cares about that, do you! She’s vexed enough +at the loss of Captain Everard,—Do you know, I think he had too much +wine yesterday, or he wouldn’t have made quite such a fool of himself.” + +“I fear he hadn’t had quite enough to give him courage, Judy. I daresay +he was brave enough once, but a bad conscience soon destroys a man’s +courage.” + +“Why do you call it a bad conscience, Mr Walton? I should have thought +that a bad conscience was one that would let a girl go on anyhow and +say nothing about it to make her uncomfortable.” + +“You are quite right, Judy; that is the worst kind of conscience, +certainly. But tell me, how does Mrs Oldcastle bear it?” + +“You asked me that already.” + +Somehow Judy’s words always seem more pert upon paper than they did +upon her lips. Her naivete, the twinkling light in her eyes, and the +smile flitting about her mouth, always modified greatly the expression +of her words. + +“—Grannie never says a word about you or auntie either.” + +“But you said she was vexed: how do you know that?” + +“Because ever since the captain went away this morning, she won’t speak +a word to Sarah even.” + +“Are you not afraid of her locking you up some day or other?” + +“Not a bit of it. Grannie won’t touch me. And you shouldn’t tempt me to +run away from her like auntie. I won’t. Grannie is a naughty old lady, +and I don’t believe anybody loves her but me—not Sarah, I’m certain. +Therefore I can’t leave her, and I won’t leave her, Mr Walton, whatever +you may say about her.” + +“Indeed, I don’t want you to leave her, Judy.” + +And Judy did not leave her as long as she lived. And the old lady’s +love to that child was at least one redeeming point in her fierce +character. No one can tell how mucn good it may have done her before +she died—though but a few years passed before her soul was required of +her. Before that time came, however, a quarrel took place between her +and Sarah, which quarrel I incline to regard as a hopeful sign. And to +this day Judy has never heard how her old grannie treated her mother. +When she learns it now from these pages I think she will be glad that +she did not know it before her death. + +The old lady would see neither doctor nor parson; nor would she hear of +sending for her daughter. The only sign of softening that she gave was +that once she folded her granddaughter in her arms and wept long and +bitterly. Perhaps the thought of her dying child came back upon her, +along with the reflection that the only friend she had was the child of +that marriage which she had persecuted to dissolution. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +TOM’S STORY. + + +My reader will perceive that this part of my story is drawing to a +close. It embraces but a brief period of my life, and I have plenty +more behind not altogether unworthy of record. But the portions of any +man’s life most generally interesting are those in which, while the +outward history is most stirring, it derives its chief significance +from accompanying conflict within. It is not the rapid change of +events, or the unusual concourse of circumstances that alone can +interest the thoughtful mind; while, on the other hand, internal change +and tumult can be ill set forth to the reader, save they be accompanied +and in part, at least, occasioned by outward events capable of +embodying and elucidating the things that are of themselves unseen. For +man’s life ought to be a whole; and not to mention the spiritual +necessities of our nature—to leave the fact alone that a man is a mere +thing of shreds and patches until his heart is united, as the Psalmist +says, to fear the name of God—to leave these considerations aside, I +say, no man’s life is fit for representation as a work of art save in +proportion as there has been a significant relation between his outer +and inner life, a visible outcome of some sort of harmony between them. +Therefore I chose the portion in which I had suffered most, and in +which the outward occurrences of my own life had been most interesting, +for the fullest representation; while I reserve for a more occasional +and fragmentary record many things in the way of experience, thought, +observation, and facts in the history both of myself and individuals of +my flock, which admit of, and indeed require, a more individual +treatment than would be altogether suitable to a continuous story. But +before I close this part of my communications with those whom I count +my friends, for till they assure me of the contrary I mean to flatter +myself with considering my readers generally as such, I must gather up +the ends of my thread, and dispose them in such a manner that they +shall neither hang too loose, nor yet refuse length enough for what my +friend Rogers would call splicing. + +It was yet summer when Miss Oldcastle and I were married. It was to me +a day awful in its gladness. She was now quite well, and no shadow hung +upon her half-moon forehead. We went for a fortnight into Wales, and +then returned to the vicarage and the duties of the parish, in which my +wife was quite ready to assist me. + +Perhaps it would help the wives of some clergymen out of some +difficulties, and be their protection against some reproaches, if they +would at once take the position with regard to the parishioners which +Mrs Walton took, namely, that of their servant, but not in her own +right—in her husband’s. She saw, and told them so, that the best thing +she could do for them was to help me, that she held no office whatever +in the parish, and they must apply to me when anything went amiss. Had +she not constantly refused to be a “judge or a divider,” she would have +been constantly troubled with quarrels too paltry to be referred to me, +and which were the sooner forgotten that the litigants were not drawn +on further and further into the desert of dispute by the mirage of a +justice that could quench no thirst. Only when any such affair was +brought before me, did she use her good offices to bring about a right +feeling between the contending parties, generally next-door neighbours, +and mostly women, who, being at home all day, found their rights clash +in a manner that seldom happened with those that worked in the fields. +Whatever her counsel could do, however, had full scope through me, who +earnestly sought it. And whatever she gave the poor, she gave as a +private person, out of her own pocket. She never administered the +communion offering—that is, after finding out, as she soon did, that it +was a source of endless dispute between some of the recipients, who +regarded it as their common property, and were never satisfied with +what they received. This is the case in many country parishes, I fear. +As soon as I came to know it, I simply told the recipients that, +although the communion offering belonged to them, yet the distribution +of it rested entirely with me; and that I would distribute it neither +according to their fancied merits nor the degree of friendship I felt +for them, but according to the best judgment I could form as to their +necessities; and if any of them thought these were underrated, they +were quite at liberty to make a fresh representation of them to me; but +that I, who knew more about their neighbours than it was likely they +did, and was not prejudiced by the personal regards which they could +hardly fail to be influenced by, was more likely than they were to +arrive at an equitable distribution of the money—upon my principles if +not on theirs. And at the same time I tried to show them that a very +great part of the disputes in the world came from our having a very +keen feeling of our own troubles, and a very dull feeling of our +neighbour’s; for if the case was reversed, and our neighbour’s +condition became ours, ten to one our judgment would be reversed +likewise. And I think some of them got some sense out of what I said. +But I ever found the great difficulty in my dealing with my people to +be the preservation of the authority which was needful for service; for +when the elder serve the younger—and in many cases it is not age that +determines seniority—they must not forget that without which the +service they offer will fail to be received as such by those to whom it +is offered. At the same time they must ever take heed that their claim +to authority be founded on the truth, and not on ecclesiastical or +social position. Their standing in the church accredits their offer of +service: the service itself can only be accredited by the Truth and the +Lord of Truth, who is the servant of all. + +But it cost both me and my wife some time and some suffering before we +learned how to deport ourselves in these respects. + +In the same manner she avoided the too near, because unprofitable, +approaches of a portion of the richer part of the community. For from +her probable position in time to come, rather than her position in time +past, many of the fashionable people in the county began to call upon +her—in no small degree to her annoyance, simply from the fact that she +and they had so little in common. So, while she performed all towards +them that etiquette demanded, she excused herself from the closer +intimacy which some of them courted, on the ground of the many duties +which naturally fell to the parson’s wife in a country parish like +ours; and I am sure that long before we had gained the footing we now +have, we had begun to reap the benefits of this mode of regarding our +duty in the parish as one, springing from the same source, and tending +to the same end. The parson’s wife who takes to herself authority in +virtue of her position, and the parson’s wife who disclaims all +connexion with the professional work of her husband, are equally out of +place in being parsons’ wives. The one who refuses to serve denies her +greatest privilege; the one who will be a mistress receives the greater +condemnation. When the wife is one with her husband, and the husband is +worthy, the position will soon reveal itself. + +But there cannot be many clergymen’s wives amongst my readers; and I +may have occupied more space than reasonable with this “large +discourse.” I apologize, and, there is room to fear, go on to do the +same again. + +As I write I am seated in that little octagonal room overlooking the +quarry, with its green lining of trees, and its deep central well. It +is my study now. My wife is not yet too old to prefer the little room +in which she thought and suffered so much, to every other, although the +stair that leads to it is high and steep. Nor do I object to her +preference because there is no ready way to reach it save through this: +I see her the oftener. And although I do not like any one to look over +my shoulder while I write—it disconcerts me somehow—yet the moment the +sheet is finished and flung on the heap, it is her property, as the +print, reader, is yours. I hear her step overhead now. She is opening +her window. Now I hear her door close; and now her foot is on the +stair. + +“Come in, love. I have just finished another sheet. There it is. What +shall I end the book with? What shall I tell the friends with whom I +have been conversing so often and so long for the last thing ere for a +little while I bid them good-bye?” + +And Ethelwyn bends her smooth forehead—for she has a smooth forehead +still, although the hair that crowns it is almost white—over the last +few sheets; and while she reads, I will tell those who will read, one +of the good things that come of being married. It is, that there is one +face upon which the changes come without your seeing them; or rather, +there is one face which you can still see the same through all the +shadows which years have gathered and heaped upon it. No, stay; I have +got a better way of putting it still: there is one face whose final +beauty you can see the mere clearly as the bloom of youth departs, and +the loveliness of wisdom and the beauty of holiness take its place; for +in it you behold all that you loved before, veiled, it is true, but +glowing with gathered brilliance under the veil (“Stop one moment, my +dear”) from which it will one day shine out like the moon from under a +cloud, when a stream of the upper air floats it from off her face. + +“Now, Ethelwyn, I am ready. What shall I write about next?” + +“I don’t think you have told them anywhere about Tom.” + +“No more I have. I meant to do so. But I am ashamed of it.” + +“The more reason to tell it.” + +“You are quite right. I will go on with it at once. But you must not +stand there behind me. When I was a child, I could always confess best +when I hid my face with my hands.” + +“Besides,” said Ethelwyn, without seeming to hear what I said, “I do +not want to have people saying that the vicar has made himself out so +good that nobody can believe in him.” + +“That would be a great fault in my book, Ethelwyn. What does it come +from in me? Let me see. I do not think I want to appear better than I +am; but it sounds hypocritical to make merely general confessions, and +it is indecorous to make particular ones. Besides, I doubt if it is +good to write much about bad things even in the way of confession—-” + +“Well, well, never mind justifying it,” said Ethelwyn. “_I_ don’t want +any justification. But here is a chance for you. The story will, I +think, do good, and not harm. You had better tell it, I do think. So if +you are inclined, I will go away at once, and let you go on without +interruption. You will have it finished before dinner, and Tom is +coming, and you can tell him what you have done.” + +So, reader, now my wife has left me, I will begin. It shall not be a +long story. + +As soon as my wife and I had settled down at home, and I had begun to +arrange my work again, it came to my mind that for a long time I had +been doing very little for Tom Weir. I could not blame myself much for +this, and I was pretty sure neither he nor his father blamed me at all; +but I now saw that it was time we should recommence something definite +in the way of study. When he came to my house the next morning, and I +proceeded to acquaint myself with what he had been doing, I found to my +great pleasure that he had made very considerable progress both in +Latin and Mathematics, and I resolved that I would now push him a +little. I found this only brought out his mettle; and his progress, as +it seemed to me, was extraordinary. Nor was this all. There were such +growing signs of goodness in addition to the uprightness which had +first led to our acquaintance, that although I carefully abstained from +making the suggestion to him, I was more than pleased when I +discovered, from some remark he made, that he would gladly give himself +to the service of the Church. At the same time I felt compelled to be +the more cautious in anything I said, from the fact that the prospect +of the social elevation which would be involved in the change might be +a temptation to him, as no doubt it has been to many a man of humble +birth. However, as I continued to observe him closely, my conviction +was deepened that he was rarely fitted for ministering to his fellows; +and soon it came to speech between his father and me, when I found that +Thomas, so far from being unfavourably inclined to the proposal, was +prepared to spend the few savings of his careful life upon his +education. To this, however, I could not listen, because there was his +daughter Mary, who was very delicate, and his grandchild too, for whom +he ought to make what little provision he could. I therefore took the +matter in my own hands, and by means of a judicious combination of +experience and what money I could spare, I managed, at less expense +than most parents suppose to be unavoidable, to maintain my young +friend at Oxford till such time as he gained a fellowship. I felt +justified in doing so in part from the fact that some day or other Mrs +Walton would inherit the Oldcastle property, as well as come into +possession of certain moneys of her own, now in the trust of her mother +and two gentlemen in London, which would be nearly sufficient to free +the estate from incumbrance, although she could not touch it as long as +her mother lived and chose to refuse her the use of it, at least +without a law-suit, with which neither of us was inclined to have +anything to do. But I did not lose a penny by the affair. For of the +very first money Tom received after he had got his fellowship, he +brought the half to me, and continued to do so until he had repaid me +every shilling I had spent upon him. As soon as he was in deacon’s +orders, he came to assist me for a while as curate, and I found him a +great help and comfort. He occupied the large room over his father’s +shop which had been his grandfather’s: he had been dead for some years. + +I was now engaged on a work which I had been contemplating for a long +time, upon the development of the love of Nature as shown in the +earlier literature of the Jews and Greeks, through that of the Romans, +Italians, and other nations, with the Anglo-Saxon for a fresh +starting-point, into its latest forms in Gray, Thomson, Cowper, Crabbe, +Wordsworth, Keats, and Tennyson; and Tom supplied me with much of the +time which I bestowed upon this object, and I was really grateful to +him. But, in looking back, and trying to account to myself for the +snare into which I fell, I see plainly enough that I thought too much +of what I had done for Tom, and too little of the honour God had done +me in allowing me to help Tom. I took the high-dais-throne over him, +not consciously, I believe, but still with a contemptible +condescension, not of manner but of heart, so delicately refined by the +innate sophistry of my selfishness, that the better nature in me called +it only fatherly friendship, and did not recognize it as that +abominable thing so favoured of all those that especially worship +themselves. But I abuse my fault instead of confessing it. + +One evening, a gentle tap came to my door, and Tom entered. He looked +pale and anxious, and there was an uncertainty about his motions which +I could not understand. + +“What is the matter, Tom?” I asked. + +“I wanted to say something to you, sir,” answered Tom. + +“Say on,” I returned, cheerily. + +“It is not so easy to say, sir,” rejoined Tom, with a faint smile. +“Miss Walton, sir—” + +“Well, what of her? There’s nothing happened to her? She was here a few +minutes ago—though, now I think of it—” + +Here a suspicion of the truth flashed on me, and struck me dumb. I am +now covered with shame to think how, when the thing approached myself +on that side, it swept away for the moment all my fine theories about +the equality of men in Christ their Head. How could Tom Weir, whose +father was a joiner, who had been a lad in a London shop himself, dare +to propose marrying my sister? Instead of thinking of what he really +was, my regard rested upon this and that stage through which he had +passed to reach his present condition. In fact, I regarded him rather +as of my making than of God’s. + +Perhaps it might do something to modify the scorn of all classes for +those beneath them, to consider that, by regarding others thus, they +justify those above them in looking down upon them in their turn. In +London shops, I am credibly informed, the young women who serve in the +show-rooms, or behind the counters, are called LADIES, and talk of the +girls who make up the articles for sale as PERSONS. To the learned +professions, however, the distinction between the shopwomen and +milliners is, from their superior height, unrecognizable; while doctors +and lawyers are again, I doubt not, massed by countesses and other +blue-blooded realities, with the literary lions who roar at soirees and +kettle-drums, or even with chiropodists and violin-players! But I am +growing scornful at scorn, and forget that I too have been scornful. +Brothers, sisters, all good men and true women, let the Master seat us +where He will. Until he says, “Come up higher,” let us sit at the foot +of the board, or stand behind, honoured in waiting upon His guests. All +that kind of thing is worth nothing in the kingdom; and nothing will be +remembered of us but the Master’s judgment. + +I have known a good churchwoman who would be sweet as a sister to the +abject poor, but offensively condescending to a shopkeeper or a +dissenter, exactly as if he was a Pariah, and she a Brahmin. I have +known good people who were noble and generous towards their so-called +inferiors and full of the rights of the race—until it touched their own +family, and just no longer. Yea I, who had talked like this for years, +at once, when Tom Weir wanted to marry my sister, lost my faith in the +broad lines of human distinction judged according to appearances in +which I did not even believe, and judged not righteous judgment. + +“For,” reasoned the world in me, “is it not too bad to drag your wife +in for such an alliance? Has she not lowered herself enough already? +Has she not married far below her accredited position in society? Will +she not feel injured by your family if she see it capable of forming +such a connexion?” + +What answer I returned to Tom I hardly know. I remember that the poor +fellow’s face fell, and that he murmured something which I did not +heed. And then I found myself walking in the garden under the great +cedar, having stepped out of the window almost unconsciously, and left +Tom standing there alone. It was very good of him ever to forgive me. + +Wandering about in the garden, my wife saw me from her window, and met +me as I turned a corner in the shrubbery. + +And now I am going to have my revenge upon her in a way she does not +expect, for making me tell the story: I will tell her share in it. + +“What is the matter with you, Henry?” she asked. + +“Oh, not much,” I answered. “Only that Weir has been making me rather +uncomfortable.” + +“What has he been doing?” she inquired, in some alarm. “It is not +possible he has done anything wrong.” + +My wife trusted him as much as I did. + +“No—o—o,” I answered. “Not anything exactly wrong.” + +“It must be very nearly wrong, Henry, to make you look so miserable.” + +I began to feel ashamed and more uncomfortable. + +“He has been falling in love with Martha,” I said; “and when I put one +thing to another, I fear he may have made her fall in love with him +too.” My wife laughed merrily. + +“Whal a wicked curate!” + +“Well, but you know it is not exactly agreeable.” + +“Why?” + +“You know why well enough.” + +“At least, I am not going to take it for granted. Is he not a good +man?” + +“Yes.” + +“Is he not a well-educated man?” + +“As well as myself—for his years.” + +“Is he not clever?” + +“One of the cleverest fellows I ever met” + +“Is he not a gentleman?” + +“I have not a fault to find with his manners.” + +“Nor with his habits?” my wife went on. + +“No.” + +“Nor with his ways of thinking?” + +“No.—But, Ethelwyn, you know what I mean quite well. His family, you +know.” + +“Well, is his father not a respectable man?” + +“Oh, yes, certainly. Thoroughly respectable.” + +“He wouldn’t borrow money of his tailor instead of paying for his +clothes, would he?” + +“Certainly not” + +“And if he were to die to-day he would carry no debts to heaven with +him?” + +“I believe not.” + +“Does he bear false witness against his neighbour?” + +“No. He scorns a lie as much as any man I ever knew.” + +“Which of the commandments is it in particular that he breaks, then?” + +“None that I know of; excepting that no one can keep them yet that is +only human. He tries to keep every one of them I do believe.” + +“Well, I think Tom very fortunate in having such a father. I wish my +mother had been as good.” + +“That is all true, and yet—” + +“And yet, suppose a young man you liked had had a fashionable father +who had ruined half a score of trades-people by his extravagance—would +you object to him because of his family?” + +“Perhaps not.” + +“Then, with you, position outweighs honesty—in fathers, at least.” + +To this I was not ready with an answer, and my wife went on. + +“It might be reasonable if you did though, from fear lest he should +turn out like his father.—But do you know why I would not accept your +offer of taking my name when I should succeed to the property?” + +“You said you liked mine better,” I answered. + +“So I did. But I did not tell you that I was ashamed that my good +husband should take a name which for centuries had been borne by +hard-hearted, worldly minded people, who, to speak the truth of my +ancestors to my husband, were neither gentle nor honest, nor +high-minded.” + +“Still, Ethelwyn, you know there is something in it, though it is not +so easy to say what. And you avoid that. I suppose Martha has been +talking you over to her side.” + +“Harry,” my wife said, with a shade of solemnity, “I am almost ashamed +of you for the first time. And I will punish you by telling you the +truth. Do you think I had nothing of that sort to get over when I began +to find that I was thinking a little more about you than was quite +convenient under the circumstances? Your manners, dear Harry, though +irreproachable, just had not the tone that I had been accustomed to. +There was a diffidence about you also that did not at first advance you +in my regard.” + +“Yes, yes,” I answered, a little piqued, “I dare say. I have no doubt +you thought me a boor.” + +“Dear Harry!” + +“I beg your pardon, wifie. I know you didn’t. But it is quite bad +enough to have brought you down to my level, without sinking you still +lower.” + +“Now there you are wrong, Harry. And that is what I want to show you. I +found that my love to you would not be satisfied with making an +exception in your favour. I must see what force there really was in the +notions I had been bred in.” + +“Ah!” I said. “I see. You looked for a principle in what you had +thought was an exception.” + +“Yes,” returned my wife; “and I soon found one. And the next step was +to throw away all false judgment in regard to such things. And so I can +see more clearly than you into the right of the matter.—Would you +hesitate a moment between Tom Weir and the dissolute son of an earl, +Harry?” + +“You know I would not.” + +“Well, just carry out the considerations that suggests, and you will +find that where there is everything personally noble, pure, simple, and +good, the lowliness of a man’s birth is but an added honour to him; for +it shows that his nobility is altogether from within him, and therefore +is his own. It cannot then have been put on him by education or +imitation, as many men’s manners are, who wear their good breeding like +their fine clothes, or as the Pharisee his prayers, to be seen of men.” + +“But his sister?” + +“Harry, Harry! You were preaching last Sunday about the way God thinks +of things. And you said that was the only true way of thinking about +them. Would the Mary that poured the ointment on Jesus’s head have +refused to marry a good man because he was the brother of that Mary who +poured it on His feet? Have you thought what God would think of Tom for +a husband to Martha?” + +I did not answer, for conscience had begun to speak. When I lifted my +eyes from the ground, thinking Ethelwyn stood beside me, she was gone. +I felt as if she were dead, to punish me for my pride. But still I +could not get over it, though I was ashamed to follow and find her. I +went and got my hat instead, and strolled out. + +What was it that drew me towards Thomas Weir’s shop? I think it must +have been incipient repentance—a feeling that I had wronged the man. +But just as I turned the corner, and the smell of the wood reached me, +the picture so often associated in my mind with such a scene of human +labour, rose before me. I saw the Lord of Life bending over His bench, +fashioning some lowly utensil for some housewife of Nazareth. And He +would receive payment for it too; for He at least could see no disgrace +in the order of things that His Father had appointed. It is the vulgar +mind that looks down on the earning and worships the inheriting of +money. How infinitely more poetic is the belief that our Lord did His +work like any other honest man, than that straining after His +glorification in the early centuries of the Church by the invention of +fables even to the disgrace of his father! They say that Joseph was a +bad carpenter, and our Lord had to work miracles to set the things +right which he had made wrong! To such a class of mind as invented +these fables do those belong who think they honour our Lord when they +judge anything human too common or too unclean for Him to have done. + +And the thought sprung up at once in my mind—“If I ever see our Lord +face to face, how shall I feel if He says to me; ‘Didst thou do well to +murmur that thy sister espoused a certain man for that in his youth he +had earned his bread as I earned mine? Where was then thy right to say +unto me, Lord, Lord?’” + +I hurried into the workshop. + +“Has Tom told you about it?” I said. + +“Yes, sir. And I told him to mind what he was about; for he was not a +gentleman, and you was, sir.” + +“I hope I am. And Tom is as much a gentleman as I have any claim to +be.” + +Thomas Weir held out his hand. + +“Now, sir, I do believe you mean in my shop what you say in your +pulpit; and there is ONE Christian in the world at least.—But what will +your good lady say? She’s higher-born than you—no offence, sir.” + +“Ah, Thomas, you shame me. I am not so good as you think me. It was my +wife that brought me to reason about it.” + +“God bless her.” + +“Amen. I’m going to find Tom.” + +At the same moment Tom entered the shop, with a very melancholy face. +He started when he saw me, and looked confused. + +“Tom, my boy,” I said, “I behaved very badly to you. I am sorry for it. +Come back with me, and have a walk with my sister. I don’t think she’ll +be sorry to see you.” + +His face brightened up at once, and we left the shop together. +Evidently with a great effort Tom was the first to speak. + +“I know, sir, how many difficulties my presumption must put you in.” + +“Not another word about it, Tom. You are blameless. I wish I were. If +we only act as God would have us, other considerations may look after +themselves—or, rather, He will look after them. The world will never be +right till the mind of God is the measure of things, and the will of +God the law of things. In the kingdom of Heaven nothing else is +acknowledged. And till that kingdom come, the mind and will of God +must, with those that look for that kingdom, over-ride every other way +of thinking, feeling, and judging. I see it more plainly than ever I +did. Take my sister, in God’s name, Tom, and be good to her.” + +Tom went to find Martha, and I to find Ethelwyn. + +“It is all right,” I said, “even to the shame I feel at having needed +your reproof.” + +“Don’t think of that. God gives us all time to come to our right minds, +you know,” answered my wife. + +“But how did you get on so far a-head of me, wifie?” + +Ethelwyn laughed. + +“Why,” she said, “I only told you back again what you have been telling +me for the last seven or eight years.” + +So to me the message had come first, but my wife had answered first +with the deed. + +And now I have had my revenge on her. + +Next to her and my children, Tom has been my greatest comfort for many +years. He is still my curate, and I do not think we shall part till +death part us for a time. My sister is worth twice what she was before, +though they have no children. We have many, and they have taught me +much. + +Thomas Weir is now too old to work any longer. He occupies his father’s +chair in the large room of the old house. The workshop I have had +turned into a school-room, of the external condition of which his +daughter takes good care, while a great part of her brother Tom’s time +is devoted to the children; for he and I agree that, where it can be +done, the pastoral care ought to be at least equally divided between +the sheep and the lambs. For the sooner the children are brought under +right influences—I do not mean a great deal of religious speech, but +the right influences of truth and honesty, and an evident regard to +what God wants of us—not only are they the more easily wrought upon, +but the sooner do they recognize those influences as right and good. +And while Tom quite agrees with me that there must not be much talk +about religion, he thinks that there must be just the more acting upon +religion; and that if it be everywhere at hand in all things taught and +done, it will be ready to show itself to every one who looks for it. +And besides that action is more powerful than speech in the inculcation +of religion, Tom says there is no such corrective of sectarianism of +every kind as the repression of speech and the encouragement of action. + +Besides being a great help to me and everybody else almost in +Marshmallows, Tom has distinguished himself in the literary world; and +when I read his books I am yet prouder of my brother-in-law. I am only +afraid that Martha is not good enough for him. But she certainly +improves, as I have said already. + +Jane Rogers was married to young Brownrigg about a year after we were +married. The old man is all but confined to the chimney-corner now, and +Richard manages the farm, though not quite to his father’s +satisfaction, of course. But they are doing well notwithstanding. The +old mill has been superseded by one of new and rare device, built by +Richard; but the old cottage where his wife’s parents lived has slowly +mouldered back to the dust. + +For the old people have been dead for many years. + +Often in the summer days as I go to or come from the vestry, I sit down +for a moment on the turf that covers my old friend, and think that +every day is mouldering away this body of mine till it shall fall a +heap of dust into its appointed place. But what is that to me? It is to +me the drawing nigh of the fresh morning of life, when I shall be young +and strong again, glad in the presence of the wise and beloved dead, +and unspeakably glad in the presence of my God, which I have now but +hope to possess far more hereafter. + +I will not take a solemn leave of my friends just yet. For I hope to +hold a little more communion with them ere I go hence. I know that my +mental faculty is growing weaker, but some power yet remains; and I say +to myself, “Perhaps this is the final trial of your faith—to trust in +God to take care of your intellect for you, and to believe, in +weakness, the truths He revealed to you in strength. Remember that +Truth depends not upon your seeing it, and believe as you saw when your +sight was at its best. For then you saw that the Truth was beyond all +you could see.” Thus I try to prepare for dark days that may come, but +which cannot come without God in them. + +And meantime I hope to be able to communicate some more of the good +things experience and thought have taught me, and it may be some more +of the events that have befallen my friends and myself in our +pilgrimage. So, kind readers, God be with you. That is the older and +better form of GOOD-BYE. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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