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diff --git a/5773-h/5773-h.htm b/5773-h/5773-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa2ed82 --- /dev/null +++ b/5773-h/5773-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,22246 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, by George MacDonald</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, by George MacDonald</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: George MacDonald</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 1, 2002 [eBook #5773]<br /> +[Most recently updated: August 5, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD ***</div> + +<h1>Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by George Macdonald, LL. D.</h2> + +<h4>New York</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE COFFIN.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. VISITORS FROM THE HALL.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. OLDCASTLE HALL.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. THE BISHOP’S BASIN.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. WHAT I PREACHED.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. THE ORGANIST.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. MY CHRISTMAS PARTY.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. THE AVENUE.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. YOUNG WEIR.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. MY PUPIL.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. DR DUNCAN’S STORY.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. THE ORGAN.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. THE CHURCH-RATE.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. JUDY’S NEWS.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. THE INVALID.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. MOOD AND WILL.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. AN ANGEL UNAWARES.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. TWO PARISHIONERS.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. SATAN CAST OUT.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. THE MAN AND THE CHILD.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. OLD MRS TOMKINS.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. CALM AND STORM.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. A SERMON TO MYSELF.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. THE NEXT THING.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. OLD ROGERS’S THANKSGIVING.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. TOM’S STORY.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“I beg yer pardon, sir; but be you the new vicar?” +</p> + +<p> +I turned instantly and answered, “I am. Do you want me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, if ye’ll not take it +amiss.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to see yer face, sir, if you’ll not take it amiss.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, you be the new vicar. You kindly told me so when I axed +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, you’ll see my face on Sunday in church—that is, +if you happen to be there.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” I said, “you’ll see my face in church on +Sunday, if you happen to be there.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know parson that’s gone, sir?” he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Auntie, I think I should like to be a painter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” returned his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Because, then,” answered the child, “I could help God to +paint the sky.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My old woman would like to shake hands with you, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be in to see you soon,” I said, as I shook hands with her. +“I shall find out where you live.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> +MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Come and see mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where, my dear?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In the shop there,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it your mother’s shop?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the little fellow had brought me in, he shrunk away through a +half-open door that revealed a stair behind. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is too ready to make advances to strangers, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +She said this in an incisive tone. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +No reply for a moment. Then just “Indeed!” and nothing more. +</p> + +<p> +I could not understand it. +</p> + +<p> +But a jar on a shelf, marked TOBACCO, rescued me from the most pressing portion +of the perplexity, namely, what to say next. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you give me a quarter of a pound of tobacco?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +For nothing was left me but to walk away with my parcel in my pocket. +</p> + +<p> +The little boy did not show himself again. I had hoped to find him outside. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That must be Old Rogers’s cottage?” I said to the miller. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” he answered, looking a little sheepish. +</p> + +<p> +“Was that his daughter—that nice-looking young woman you were +talking to?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, it was.” +</p> + +<p> +And he stole a shy pleased look at me out of the corners of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +This gave a great help to his budding confidence. He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She doesn’t live with them, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I imagine. I am just going to see him. Good morning.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t ask you to do any of the more ornamental part,” I +said,—“only plain digging and hoeing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather be excused, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I made you think”— +</p> + +<p> +“I thought nothing, sir. I thank you kindly, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you I want the work done, and I must employ some one else if +you don’t undertake it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, my back’s bad now—no, sir, I won’t tell a +story about it. I would just rather not, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stick to that, Rogers,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, Rogers, Simmons shall have the job.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank ye, sir,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +That I didn’t smoke myself was no reason why I should not help Old Rogers +to smoke. So I pulled out the tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +“You smoke, don’t you, Rogers?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I can’t deny it. It’s not much I spend on baccay, +anyhow. Is it, dame? +</p> + +<p> +“No, that it bean’t,” answered his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t think there’s any harm in smoking a pipe, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the least,” I answered, with emphasis. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Cause as how,” interrupted his wife, “you spend the +money on tea for me, instead. You wicked old man to tell stories!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how did you settle the question, Rogers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I followed my own old chart, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right. One mustn’t mind too much what other people +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s not exactly what I mean, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean then? I should like to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?’” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you think He would say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, I thought He would say, ‘Old Rogers, have yer baccay; +only mind ye don’t grumble when you ‘aint got none.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +As I said nothing, the old man resumed— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You see I had it for you in my pocket.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that IS good o’ you, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Rogers, that’ll last you a month!” exclaimed his wife, +looking nearly as pleased as himself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I went away, resolved that Old Rogers should have no chance of +“grumbling” for want of tobacco, if I could help it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> +THE COFFIN.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As my shadow fell across and darkened his work, he lifted his head and saw me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I come in?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, sir,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad I have happened to come upon you by accident,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean,” I said, “that the work was +unpleasant—only sad. It must always be painful to make a coffin.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither is that coffin,” said I, as if by a sudden inspiration. +</p> + +<p> +The man seemed taken aback, as Old Rogers might have said. He looked at the +coffin and then looked at me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as +one day,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad to hear you say so,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I see, sir. Then you will allow there is some room for doubting +whether He made the world at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I will, sir; God knows.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there are things, you must allow, so plainly wrong!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I can’t tell, of course, nor anybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! maybe. But you can’t be sure of it, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask for whom you are making that coffin?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a sister of my own, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry to hear that.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no occasion. I can’t say I’m sorry, though she +was one of the best women I ever knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you not sorry, then? Life’s a good thing in the main, you +will allow.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know he’s glad of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been drunk every night since she died.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he’s the worse for losing her?” +</p> + +<p> +“He may well be. Crying like a hypocrite, too, over his own work!” +</p> + +<p> +“A fool he must be. A hypocrite, perhaps not. A hypocrite is a terrible +name to give. Perhaps her death will do him good.” +</p> + +<p> +“He doesn’t deserve to be done any good to. I would have made this +coffin for him with a world of pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This has been a fine old room once,” I said, looking round the +workshop. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been looking at it,” I said, going nearer. +</p> + +<p> +“It represents the four quarters of the world, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +Here he stopped suddenly, and his face grew very red. As suddenly he +resumed— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Here followed another pause. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very foolish of me to talk so to a stranger,” he +resumed. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sharp-eyed, sir. My father says they were plain enough in his +young days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your father alive, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/> +VISITORS FROM THE HALL.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When they were seated in the drawing-room, I said to the old lady— +</p> + +<p> +“I remember seeing you in church on Sunday morning. It is very kind of +you to call so soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The deadness melted a little from Mrs Oldcastle’s face, as she turned +with half a smile to her grandchild, and said— +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Pet. But you know that cannot be an interesting fact to Mr. +Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The former expression, or rather non-expression, returned; this time +unaccompanied by a bow. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And here the girl pretended to pout, but with a sparkle in her bright gray eye. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least,” I answered. “I think I like it rather +better on the whole. But that’s not why I wear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind grannie, Mr. Walton. <i>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that it is necessary to read any good books but the +good book,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“There, grannie!” exclaimed Miss Gladwyn, triumphantly. +“I’m so glad I’ve got Mr Walton on my side!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Walton is not so old as I am, my dear, and has much to learn +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got a headache to-day, grannie?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Pet. Be quiet. I wish to ask Mr Walton WHY he wears the +surplice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Simply,” I replied, “because I was told the people had been +accustomed to it under my predecessor.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that can be no good reason for doing what is not right—that +people have been accustomed to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to have principles of your own, Mr Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They may believe that too soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think any one can believe the truth too soon.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who put him in the mill?” +</p> + +<p> +“His own father, to whom it belongs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it seems to me a very good match for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, grannie! And the rich have to look down on the +poor.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my dear. I did not say that. The rich have to be KIND to the +poor.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, grannie, why did you marry Mr Oldcastle?” +</p> + +<p> +“What does the child mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Stoddart says you refused ever so many offers when you were a +girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And grandpapa was the ugliest and the richest of them +all—wasn’t he, grannie? and Colonel Markham the handsomest and the +poorest?” +</p> + +<p> +A flush of anger crimsoned the old lady’s pale face. It looked dead no +longer. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue,” she said. “You are rude.” +</p> + +<p> +And Miss Gladwyn did hold her tongue, but nothing else, for she was laughing +all over. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> shan’t say anything more about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m on your side, Mr Walton,” said the girl, with a sweet +comical smile, as she squeezed my hand once more. +</p> + +<p> +I led them to the carriage, and it was with a feeling of relief that I saw it +drive off. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/> +OLDCASTLE HALL.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen nothing yet to make me uneasy on that score. But certainly +my testimony is of no weight yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine is. I have proved them. The poor of this neighbourhood are very +deficient in gratitude.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grannie,——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear of any disdainful reception of kindness,” I +said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And meantime she was served out, wasn’t she? With her sick boy at +home, and nothing to give him?” said Miss Gladwyn. +</p> + +<p> +“She made her own bed, and had to lie on it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think a little kindness might have had more effect in +bringing her to see that she was wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But to return to Oldcastle Hall. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a beautiful old house,” I said. “There must be +strange places about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Oldcastle had not time to reply, or at least did not reply, before Miss +Gladwyn said— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” she said, holding back one of the dingy heavy curtains +with her small childish hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Before I had time to answer, she was off again. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you see auntie down there?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t see her. I have been trying very hard, but I +can’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, auntie is under the trees on the opposite side from that stone. Do +you see her yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“You are a saucy child.” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon Miss Gladwyn laughed merrily. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t your grandmamma afraid to let you run up and down here, Miss +Gladwyn?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?’” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me! what a peculiar child!” I said to myself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask you a question, Miss Gladwyn?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes! I see her now.—What does your aunt call you, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what you must call me—my own name, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Judy.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“I wish yours was Punch.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Judy?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be such fun, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it would be odd, I must confess. What is your aunt’s +name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, such a funny name!—much funnier than Judy: Ethelwyn. It sounds +as if it ought to mean something, doesn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It is an Anglo-Saxon word, without doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not sure about that. I will try to find out when I go +home—if you would like to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that I should. I should like to know everything about auntie +Ethelwyn. Isn’t it pretty?” +</p> + +<p> +“So pretty that I should like to know something more about Aunt Ethelwyn. +What is her other name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ethelwyn Oldcastle, to be sure. What else could it be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you know, for anything I knew, Judy, it might have been Gladwyn. +She might have been your father’s sister.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You remember your mother, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” she said, pulling me by the hand, “you a clergyman, +and laugh at the Catechism! I didn’t know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not laughing at the Catechism, Judy. I’m only laughing +at the idea of putting Catechism questions to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You KNOW I didn’t mean it,” she said, with some indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“I know now,” I answered. “But you haven’t let me put +the only question I wanted to put.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“How old are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twelve. Come along.” +</p> + +<p> +And away we went down the rest of the stair. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +There she sat, intent on her book. As we drew near she looked up and rose, but +did not come forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt Winnie, here’s Mr. Walton,” said Judy. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” I said, bewildered, and not half comprehending, “where +is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you help me out, Mr Walton? You said you could +swim.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I did not,” I answered coolly. “You talked so fast, you +did not give me time to say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very cold,” she returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out, Judy dear,” said her aunt. “Run home and change +your clothes. There’s a dear.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be very much astonished at the little creature, Mr +Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“I find her very interesting. Quite a study.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There is one of the ladies. +</p> + +<p> +But the other—how shall I attempt to describe her? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your surprise was the more natural that the place itself is not properly +natural, as you must have discovered.” +</p> + +<p> +This was rather a remarkable speech for a young lady to make. I answered— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +Here I saw a change pass upon her face: it grew almost pallid. But her large +blue eyes were still fixed on mine. +</p> + +<p> +“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 “— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you feel ill, Miss Oldcastle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” she answered, more quickly than she had yet spoken. +</p> + +<p> +“This place must be damp,” I said. “I fear you have taken +cold.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a strong spring down there,” she said. “Is it not a +dreadful place? Such a depth!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I answered; “but it has not the horror of dirty water; +it is as clear as crystal. How does the surplus escape?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the opposite side of the hill you came up there is a well, with a +strong stream from it into the river.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Look again, against the wall of the pond,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I see a kind of arch or opening in the side,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot say I do,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“No. Except you know where it is—and even then—it is not so +easy to find it. I find it by certain trees.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Provided, no doubt,” I said, “in case of siege, to procure +water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most likely; but not, therefore, confined to that purpose. There are +more dreadful stories than I can bear to think of”—- +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever been down the stair you speak of?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t she a beauty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who? your grandmamma?” I returned. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/> +THE BISHOP’S BASIN.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A savage place, as holy and enchanted<br/> +As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted<br/> +By woman wailing for her demon lover.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a long time since you was here last, sir,” he said, but +without a smile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” I answered, “I wanted to know something about all my +people, before I paid a second visit to any of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, sir. Don’t suppose I meant to complain. Only to let you +know you was welcome, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m blithe to see ye, sir,” said he. “Sit ye down, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I only hope what you say may be true—about me, I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I find Thomas quite open to reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say you have a guess though, by this time, Mr. Weir,” I +said; “and I think I have a guess too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, if he’d only give in, I think he would be far happier. +But he can’t see his way clear.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not sure that I rightly understand you,” said the old +man, looking bewildered and curious. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange!” I said, involuntarily almost. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true enough,” I said. “Then your father and +mother—?” +</p> + +<p> +And here I hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Were never married, sir,” said the old man promptly, as if he +would relieve me from an embarrassing position. “<i>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” I said, “he may find some good come out of that +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, who knows, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did she get into the trouble? Who is the father of her child?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I asked no more questions. But, after a short pause, the old man went on. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean Oldcastle Hall?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“’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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least,” I answered. “Quite the contrary. Pray +tell it out your own way. You won’t tire me, I assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +So the old man went on. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what was that cry in the house?” I asked “And what +became of the black woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should the woman have left you on the stair, instead of drowning +you in the well at the bottom?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But why should I tell such a story at all? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But surely you did not believe such an extravagant tale? The old man was +in his dotage, to begin with.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But the whole tale has such a melodramatic air!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br/> +WHAT I PREACHED.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +For Mrs Oldcastle, I never saw her change countenance or even expression at +anything—I mean in church. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br/> +THE ORGANIST.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that gentleman,” I asked, “who came out just +now?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is Mr Stoddart, sir,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +I thought I had heard the name in the neighbourhood before. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it he who plays the organ?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That he do, sir. He’s played our organ for the last ten year, ever +since he come to live at the Hall.” +</p> + +<p> +“What Hall?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why the Hall, to be sure,—Oldcastle Hall, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +And then it dawned on my recollection that I had heard Judy mention her uncle +Stoddart. But how could he be her uncle? +</p> + +<p> +“Is he a relation of the family?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Stoddart never calls upon any one, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not complaining of Mr Stoddart,” I answered, wishing to put +the man at his ease. +</p> + +<p> +“But nobody calls upon Mr Stoddart,” he returned. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s very unkind of somebody, surely,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“But he doesn’t want anybody to call upon him, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He had played an exquisite voluntary in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Give my message exactly, if you please,” I said, as I followed the +man into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How does Mr Stoddart reach those books?” I asked my conductor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have found me at last, Mr Walton, and I am glad to see you,” +he said. +</p> + +<p> +He led me into an inner room, much larger than the one I had passed through. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are no stranger to me. I have heard you read prayers, and I have +heard you preach.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have heard you play; so you are no stranger to me either.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I obeyed, and waited for the rest of his word. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What a number of books you have!” I observed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right. Now try again.” +</p> + +<p> +Again I was successful, although I doubted. +</p> + +<p> +“And now for the last,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Once more I was right. +</p> + +<p> +“There is your guinea,” said he, a little mortified. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Stoddart looked relieved. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no claim upon it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I took the guinea, and put it in my purse. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, I daresay. You are more sure about it than I am +though.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us agree where we can,” I said, “first of all; and that +will make us able to disagree, where we must, without quarrelling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good,” he said—“Would you like to see my work +shop?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very much, indeed,” I answered, heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you take any pleasure in applied mechanics?” +</p> + +<p> +“I used to do so as a boy. But of course I have little time now for +anything of the sort.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! of course.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What a nice way of getting up-stairs!” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I obeyed, and began to look about me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What an accumulation of ways and means you have about you!” I +said; “and all, apparently, to different ends.” +</p> + +<p> +“All to the same end, if my object were understood.” +</p> + +<p> +“I presume I must ask no questions as to that object?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is not necessary, uncle,” said Miss Oldcastle, closing her +book. +</p> + +<p> +I was by her instantly. She slipped the quarto from her knee, and took my +offered hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you fond of old books?” I said, not having anything better to +say. +</p> + +<p> +“Some old books,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask what book you were reading?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will answer you—under protest,” she said, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I withdraw the question at once,” I returned. +</p> + +<p> +“I will answer it notwithstanding. It is a volume of Jacob Behmen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you understand him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think so. Indeed, I am sure you are wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she returned, without any response to what I +said. “I should always like things perfect myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless,” I answered; and thought it better to try another +direction. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And how is Miss Judy?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“A little savage, as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the worse for her wetting, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! dear no. There never was health to equal that child’s. It +belongs to her savage nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Judy?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Grannie wants you,” said Judy. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Oldcastle left the room, and Judy turned to me. “How do you do, Mr +Walton?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite well, thank you, Judy,” I answered. “Your uncle admits +you to his workshop, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed. He would feel rather dull, sometimes, without me. +Wouldn’t you, Uncle Stoddart?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just as the horses in the field would feel dull without the gad-fly, +Judy,” said Mr Stoddart, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what speech I shall make next to drive you away, Mr +Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Here he took a drawing from a shelf, explanatory of his plan. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not that with the unavoidable remnant of air, however,” I ventured +to suggest. +</p> + +<p> +“That is just my weak point,” he answered. “But that will be +so very small!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but enough to deprive the top of PERPETUAL motion.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He threw down his file on the bench. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear you are right,” he said. “But you will allow it would +have made a very pretty machine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty, I will allow,” I answered, “as distinguished from +beautiful. For I can never dissociate beauty from use.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean, then, that whatever is poetical is useless?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you assert that whatever is useful is beautiful?” he retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then a gallows must be beautiful because it subserves the noble end of +ridding the world of malefactors?” he returned, promptly. +</p> + +<p> +I had to think for a moment before I could reply. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see anything noble in the end,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I see. You don’t approve of capital punishments.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is very like my machine. It may exercise the faculties +without subserving any immediate progress.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pleasure,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“And is pleasure good or bad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes the one, sometimes the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“In itself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not, then, by your very profession, more or less an enemy of +pleasure?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary, I believe that pleasure is good, and does good, and +urges to good. CARE is the evil thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange doctrine for a clergyman.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you believe in God?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope in God I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can you then think that He would not destroy evil at such a cheap +and pleasant rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +I went back to the original question. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“You put plenty of poetry yourself into that voluntary you played last +Sunday. I am so much obliged to you for it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! that fugue. You liked it, did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“More than I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know those two lines of Milton in which he describes such a +performance on the organ?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Can you repeat them?” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘His volant touch,<br/> +Instinct through all proportions, low and high,<br/> +Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.’” +</p> + +<p> +“That is wonderfully fine. Thank you. That is better than my fugue by a +good deal. You have cancelled the obligation.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all.—Shall I tell you what I was thinking of while playing +that fugue?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like much to hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And empty-hearted, too?” I asked; but he went on without heeding +me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange!” I said; “for I felt so full of hope while you +played, that I never doubted it was hope you meant to express.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very pretty,” said Mr Stoddart, and said no more. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.) +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing amiss at home, Jane?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, thank you,” answered Jane, and burst out crying. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, then? Is your——” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing’s the matter with nobody, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something is the matter with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. But I’m quite well.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Jane; and, dropping a courtesy, +walked on with her basket. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I met Jane,” I said, “and she looked unhappy; so I came on +to hear what was the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“You oughtn’t to be troubled with our small affairs,” said +Mrs. Rogers. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to know,” I said, “if you don’t +want to tell me. But can I be of any use?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you can, sir,—leastways, I’m afraid +not,” said the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she ain’t his wife yet,” said Mrs Rogers to her husband, +whose drift was not yet evident. +</p> + +<p> +“No more she can be, ’cept he leaves his father for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what’ll become of them then, without the mill?” +</p> + +<p> +“You and me never had no mill, old ’oman,” said Rogers; +“yet here we be, very nearly ripe now,—ain’t us, wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“Medlar-like, Old Rogers, I doubt,—rotten before we’re +ripe,” replied his wife, quoting a more humorous than refined proverb. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“To grind ’em in, old ’oman?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Rogers turned to me, who was listening with real interest, and much +amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Strange confusion—or, ought I not rather to say?—ordinary and +commonplace confusion of ideas! +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think,” I said, “any one can go too far in the +right way.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why talk of starving?” I said. “Can’t Dick work? +Who could think of starting that nonsense?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she hasn’t got her at home now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, whatever he liked to be sure. But then, you see, Dick’s not +my Rogers.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your daughter thinks about him much in the same way as you did about +this dear old man here when he was young.” +</p> + +<p> +“Young people may be in the wrong, <i>I</i> see nothing in Dick +Brownrigg.” +</p> + +<p> +“But young people may be right sometimes, and old people may be wrong +sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t be wrong about Rogers.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but you may be wrong about Dick.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does the young man say to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he says, like a man, he can work for her as well’s the mill, +and he’s ready, if she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see you across the stream, sir,” said the old man, +following me out of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I can, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you turn away from me, as I passed half-an-hour ago, +Richard?” I said, cheerily. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t think you saw me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But supposing I hadn’t?—But I won’t tease you. I know +all about it. Can I do anything for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t mind if I were to try?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. You can’t make matters worse. No more can you make them +any better, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say I shall talk to him; but I may try it, if I find a +fitting opportunity.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s seen her over and over.” +</p> + +<p> +“But seeing isn’t always believing.” +</p> + +<p> +“It certainly isn’t with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, and thank you kindly, sir.—Ain’t I to see Jane in +the meantime?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br/> +MY CHRISTMAS PARTY.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How many am I to provide for, sir?” she said, with an injured air. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall want help,” she said, at length. +</p> + +<p> +“As much as you like, Mrs. Pearson. I can trust you entirely.” +</p> + +<p> +Her face brightened; and the end showed that I had not trusted her amiss. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How is your mistress, Jane?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite well, sir, thank you. I only wish she was here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish she were. But perhaps she will come next year.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think she will. I am almost sure she would have liked to come +to-night; for I heard her say”—— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir!” returned Jane, blushing a dark crimson; “it +wasn’t anything particular.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I will, sir, if I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sing that Christmas carol I heard you sing last night to your +mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know any one was listening, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you did not. I came to the door with your father, and we stood +and listened.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked very frightened. But I would not have asked her had I not known that +she could sing like a bird. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I shall make a fool of myself,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“We should all be willing to run that risk for the sake of others,” +I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I will try then, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +So she sang, and her clear voice soon silenced the speech all round. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Babe Jesus lay on Mary’s lap;<br/> +Â Â Â Â The sun shone in His hair:<br/> +And so it was she saw, mayhap,<br/> +Â Â Â Â The crown already there.<br/> +<br/> +“For she sang: ‘Sleep on, my little King!<br/> +Â Â Â Â Bad Herod dares not come;<br/> +Before Thee, sleeping, holy thing,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Wild winds would soon be dumb.<br/> +<br/> +“‘I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet,<br/> +Â Â Â Â My King, so long desired;<br/> +Thy hands shall never be soil’d, my sweet,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Thy feet shall never be tired.<br/> +<br/> +“‘For Thou art the King of men, my son;<br/> +Â Â Â Â Thy crown I see it plain;<br/> +And men shall worship Thee, every one,<br/> +Â Â Â Â And cry, Glory! Amen.”<br/> +<br/> +“Babe Jesus open’d His eyes so wide!<br/> +Â Â Â Â At Mary look’d her Lord.<br/> +And Mary stinted her song and sigh’d.<br/> +Â Â Â Â Babe Jesus said never a word.” +</p> + +<p> +When Jane had done singing, I asked her where she had learned the carol; and +she answered,— +</p> + +<p> +“My mistress gave it me. There was a picture to it of the Baby on his +mother’s knee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw it,” I said. “Where did you get the tune?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must have quite a gift of song, Jane!” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“My father and mother can both sing.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sing us a song, Old Rogers,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I rose and said to the assembly: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very nearly too old,” said the doctor; “but I will +try.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“There is a plough that has no share,<br/> +But a coulter that parteth keen and fair.<br/> +But the furrows they rise<br/> +To a terrible size,<br/> +Or ever the plough hath touch’d them there.<br/> +’Gainst horses and plough in wrath they shake:<br/> +The horses are fierce; but the plough will break.<br/> +<br/> +“And the seed that is dropt in those furrows of fear,<br/> +Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear.<br/> +Down it drops plumb,<br/> +Where no spring times come;<br/> +And here there needeth no harrowing gear:<br/> +Wheat nor poppy nor any leaf<br/> +Will cover this naked ground of grief.<br/> +<br/> +“But a harvest-day will come at last<br/> +When the watery winter all is past;<br/> +The waves so gray<br/> +Will be shorn away<br/> +By the angels’ sickles keen and fast;<br/> +And the buried harvest of the sea<br/> +Stored in the barns of eternity.” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +For I had long thought that the way to make indifferent things bad, was for +good people not to do them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you dance, Old Rogers?” I said, as I placed his +daughter in a seat beside him. +</p> + +<p> +“Did your honour ever see an elephant go up the futtock-shrouds?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I never did.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have thought, Rogers, that you would have known better by this +time, than make such an apology to ME.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +I turned, and addressed Mr Boulderstone. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You got into the spirit of it because you wanted to help me, and I thank +you heartily.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The dear fellow was the most formal man I had ever met. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you dance, Mr Brownrigg?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll find you a partner, if you will put yourself in my +hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind trusting myself to you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Come along, my lass, and let’s have a hop together.” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed very sweetly. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be too shy,” I whispered to her as she passed me. +</p> + +<p> +And the churchwarden danced very heartily with the lady’s-maid. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Give us a kiss, my girl, and let bygones be bygones.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And here is my sheet of Carols:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE.<br/> +<br/> +O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace!<br/> +O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light!<br/> +Most lively image of thy Father’s face,<br/> +Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might,<br/> +Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight,<br/> +How can we Thee requite for all this good?<br/> +Or what can prize that Thy most precious blood?<br/> +<br/> +Yet nought Thou ask’st in lieu of all this love,<br/> +But love of us, for guerdon of Thy paine:<br/> +Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove?<br/> +Had He required life of us againe,<br/> +Had it beene wrong to ask His owne with gaine?<br/> +He gave us life, He it restored lost;<br/> +Then life were least, that us so little cost.<br/> +<br/> +But He our life hath left unto us free,<br/> +Free that was thrall, and blessed that was bann’d;<br/> +Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee,<br/> +As He himselfe hath lov’d us afore-hand,<br/> +And bound therto with an eternall band,<br/> +Him first to love that us so dearely bought,<br/> +And next our brethren, to His image wrought.<br/> +<br/> +Him first to love great right and reason is,<br/> +Who first to us our life and being gave,<br/> +And after, when we fared had amisse,<br/> +Us wretches from the second death did save;<br/> +And last, the food of life, which now we have,<br/> +Even He Himselfe, in His dear sacrament,<br/> +To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent.<br/> +<br/> +Then next, to love our brethren, that were made<br/> +Of that selfe mould, and that self Maker’s hand,<br/> +That we, and to the same againe shall fade,<br/> +Where they shall have like heritage of land,<br/> +However here on higher steps we stand,<br/> +Which also were with self-same price redeemed<br/> +That we, however of us light esteemed.<br/> +<br/> +Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth! out of thy soyle,<br/> +In which thou wallowest like to filthy swyne,<br/> +And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle,<br/> +Unmindfull of that dearest Lord of thyne;<br/> +Lift up to Him thy heavie clouded eyne,<br/> +That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold,<br/> +And read, through love, His mercies manifold.<br/> +<br/> +Beginne from first, where He encradled was<br/> +In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay,<br/> +Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse,<br/> +And in what rags, and in how base array,<br/> +The glory of our heavenly riches lay,<br/> +When Him the silly shepheards came to see,<br/> +Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee.<br/> +<br/> +From thence reade on the storie of His life,<br/> +His humble carriage, His unfaulty wayes,<br/> +His cancred foes, His fights, His toyle, His strife,<br/> +His paines, His povertie, His sharpe assayes,<br/> +Through which He past His miserable dayes,<br/> +Offending none, and doing good to all,<br/> +Yet being malist both by great and small.<br/> +<br/> +With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind,<br/> +Thou must Him love, and His beheasts embrace;<br/> +All other loves, with which the world doth blind<br/> +Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base,<br/> +Thou must renounce and utterly displace,<br/> +And give thy selfe unto Him full and free,<br/> +That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee.<br/> +<br/> +Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee<br/> +With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil,<br/> +And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see<br/> +Th’ idee of His pure glorie present still<br/> +Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill<br/> +With sweet enragement of celestial love,<br/> +Kindled through sight of those faire things above. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Spencer +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.<br/> +<br/> +Behold a silly tender Babe,<br/> +Â Â Â Â In freezing winter night,<br/> +In homely manger trembling lies;<br/> +Â Â Â Â Alas! a piteous sight.<br/> +<br/> +The inns are full, no man will yield<br/> +Â Â Â Â This little Pilgrim bed;<br/> +But forced He is with silly beasts<br/> +Â Â Â Â In crib to shroud His head.<br/> +<br/> +Despise Him not for lying there,<br/> +Â Â Â Â First what He is inquire;<br/> +An orient pearl is often found<br/> +Â Â Â Â In depth of dirty mire.<br/> +<br/> +Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Nor beast that by Him feed;<br/> +Weigh not his mother’s poor attire,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Nor Joseph’s simple weed.<br/> +<br/> +This stable is a Prince’s court,<br/> +Â Â Â Â The crib His chair of state;<br/> +The beasts are parcel of His pomp,<br/> +Â Â Â Â The wooden dish His plate.<br/> +<br/> +The persons in that poor attire<br/> +Â Â Â Â His royal liveries wear;<br/> +The Prince himself is come from heaven—<br/> +Â Â Â Â This pomp is praised there.<br/> +<br/> +With joy approach, O Christian wight!<br/> +Â Â Â Â Do homage to thy King;<br/> +And highly praise this humble pomp<br/> +Â Â Â Â Which He from heaven doth bring. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +SOUTHWELL. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS.<br/> +<br/> +1. Where is this blessed Babe<br/> +That hath made<br/> +All the world so full of joy<br/> +And expectation;<br/> +That glorious Boy<br/> +That crowns each nation<br/> +With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?<br/> +<br/> +2. Where should He be but in the throng,<br/> +And among<br/> +His angel-ministers, that sing<br/> +And take wing<br/> +Just as may echo to His voice,<br/> +And rejoice,<br/> +When wing and tongue and all<br/> +May so procure their happiness?<br/> +<br/> +3. But He hath other waiters now.<br/> +A poor cow,<br/> +An ox and mule stand and behold,<br/> +And wonder<br/> +That a stable should enfold<br/> +Him that can thunder.<br/> +<br/> +Chorus. O what a gracious God have we!<br/> +How good! How great! Even as our misery. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Jeremy Taylor. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A SONG OF PRAISE FOR THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.<br/> +<br/> +Away, dark thoughts; awake, my joy;<br/> +Â Â Â Â Awake, my glory; sing;<br/> +Sing songs to celebrate the birth<br/> +Â Â Â Â Of Jacob’s God and King.<br/> +O happy night, that brought forth light,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Which makes the blind to see!<br/> +The day spring from on high came down<br/> +Â Â Â Â To cheer and visit thee.<br/> +<br/> +The wakeful shepherds, near their flocks,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Were watchful for the morn;<br/> +But better news from heaven was brought,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Your Saviour Christ is born.<br/> +In Bethlem-town the infant lies,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Within a place obscure,<br/> +O little Bethlem, poor in walls,<br/> +Â Â Â Â But rich in furniture!<br/> +<br/> +Since heaven is now come down to earth,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Hither the angels fly!<br/> +Hark, how the heavenly choir doth sing<br/> +Â Â Â Â Glory to God on High!<br/> +The news is spread, the church is glad,<br/> +Â Â Â Â SIMEON, o’ercome with joy,<br/> +Sings with the infant in his arms,<br/> +Â Â Â Â NOW LET THY SERVANT DIE.<br/> +<br/> +Wise men from far beheld the star,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Which was their faithful guide,<br/> +Until it pointed forth the Babe,<br/> +Â Â Â Â And Him they glorified.<br/> +Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing—<br/> +Â Â Â Â Shall we our Christ deny?<br/> +He’s born for us, and we for Him:<br/> +Â Â Â Â GLORY TO GOD ON HIGH. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +JOHN MASON. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br/> +SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +The Gospel according to St Matthew, the sixth chapter, and part of the +twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth verses:— +</p> + +<p> +“‘YE CANNOT SERVE GOD AND MAMMON. THEREFORE I SAY TO YOU, TAKE NO +THOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘YE CANNOT SERVE GOD AND MAMMON. THEREFORE I SAY UNTO YOU, TAKE NO +THOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“O man! thou image of thy Maker’s good,<br/> +What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy blood<br/> +His Spirit is that built thee? What dull sense<br/> +Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence<br/> +Who made the morning, and who placed the light<br/> +Guide to thy labours; who called up the night,<br/> +And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers,<br/> +In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers;<br/> +Who gave thee knowledge; who so trusted thee<br/> +To let thee grow so near Himself, the Tree?<br/> +Must He then be distrusted? Shall His frame<br/> +Discourse with Him why thus and thus I am?<br/> +He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all;<br/> +Nay even thy servants, when devotions call.<br/> +Oh! canst thou be so stupid then, so dim,<br/> +To seek a saving<a href="#fn1" name="fnref1" id="fnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> influence, and lose Him?<br/> +Can stars protect thee? Or can poverty,<br/> +Which is the light to heaven, put out His eye!<br/> +He is my star; in Him all truth I find,<br/> +All influence, all fate. And when my mind<br/> +Is furnished with His fulness, my poor story<br/> +Shall outlive all their age, and all their glory.<br/> +The hand of danger cannot fall amiss,<br/> +When I know what, and in whose power, it is,<br/> +Nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan:<br/> +A holy hermit is a mind alone.<br/> +<br/> +* * * *<br/> +<br/> +Affliction, when I know it, is but this,<br/> +A deep alloy whereby man tougher is<br/> +To bear the hammer; and the deeper still,<br/> +We still arise more image of His will;<br/> +Sickness, an humorous cloud ’twixt us and light;<br/> +And death, at longest, but another night.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn1" id="fn1"></a> <a href="#fnref1">[1]</a> +Many, in those days, believed in astrology. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there’ll be no harm if I say it for ye, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, for God will give me what is good, even if your kind heart should +pray against it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sir, ye don’t know what it is to be hungry AND cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither shall you any more, if I can help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless ye, sir. But we’re pretty tidy just in the +meantime.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Again I am reminded that I am getting old. What digressions! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A lovely meaning,” I said to myself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Gerard—an unusual name in England; specially not to be looked for in the +class to which she belonged. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Judy!” I exclaimed, “you here?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Judy pretended to pout, and muttered something about comparing her to a +cannibal. But Jane took up the explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s very welcome,” said Mrs Rogers. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That wouldn’t matter much to you, would it, Judy?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a white wolf, that old Sarah, I know?” was all her +answer. +</p> + +<p> +“But what will the old lady say when she finds you brought the young lady +here?” asked Mrs Rogers. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t bring her, mother. She would come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, she’ll never know it,” said Judy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Had they actually to go away on the morning of Christmas Day?” I +said. +</p> + +<p> +“They went anyhow, whether they had to do it or not, sir,” answered +Jane. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He made the parenthesis with a laugh, and began anew. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That it do, sir, whoever may come short.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How was that, Rogers?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did you save the child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And wasn’t the captain pleased?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad you did interrupt me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not though, sir. I Ve lost summat I’ll never hear +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, sir; that’s it. Well, sir, if you please?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve heard of Sir Philip Sidney, haven’t you, Old +Rogers?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was a great joker, wasn’t he, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; you’re thinking of Sydney Smith, Rogers.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may be, sir. I am an ignorant man.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This digression is, I fear, unpardonable. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my dear boy,” I said, “and sit down by me.” +</p> + +<p> +He came directly and stood before me. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, sir; I never tasted wine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not press him to take it. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Does any reader doubt what I did or said upon this? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br/> +THE AVENUE.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” I said, distressed; “I have startled you +dreadfully.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least,” she replied, but without moving, and still with +a curve in her form like the neck of a frayed horse. +</p> + +<p> +I thought it better to leave apology, which was evidently disagreeable to her, +and speak of indifferent things. +</p> + +<p> +“I was on my way to call on Mr Stoddart,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“You will find him at home, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancied you and Mrs Oldcastle in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“We returned yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I not walk with you to the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going in just yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you protected enough for such a night?” +</p> + +<p> +“I enjoy the wind.” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed and walked on; for what else could I do? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She spoke first. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Walton, I was very rude to you. I beg your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean? There are no bats at this time of the year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not outside. In ‘winter and rough weather’ they creep +inside, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I ought to understand you. But I did not think you were ever like +that. I thought you were too good.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?”— +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know anything of Wordsworth.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds<br/> +Â Â Â Â With coldness still returning;<br/> +Alas! the gratitude of men<br/> +Â Â Â Â Hath oftener left me mourning.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite see what he means.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you repeat the lines again?” +</p> + +<p> +I did so. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +I spoke aloud: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like it. Good night.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br/> +YOUNG WEIR.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I be of any use to you?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” returned an almost inaudible voice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, “Come with me, and let +us see what can be done for you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But you want it,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I don’t, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take some for my sake, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather not, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is your home?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the village, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“That wasn’t your father’s grave I found you upon, was +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. It was my mother’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then your father is still alive?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. You know him very well—Thomas Weir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, and would +tell you you might trust me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t doubt it, sir. But you won’t believe me any more +than my father.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, try me,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to feel a +little more comfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“When did you arrive from London?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“About two hours ago, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty of +toast. We are both hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do her duty. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is nothing in all this to be miserable about,” I said. +“You did your duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I don’t want to +be idle, I’m sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does your father think you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you have. Your Father in heaven is your friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that, sir. I’m not good enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s quite true. But you would never have done your duty if He +had not been with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“DO you think so, sir?” he returned, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I understand. But I didn’t feel good at all in the matter. +I didn’t see any other way of doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you, sir!” cried the lad, and jumped up from his seat to +go with me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But I was longer gone than I thought I should be. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not usual with you, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I a humbug?” I returned, not quite taken by surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance,” I said, “of +what you mean. I know all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you? He has been to you, has he? But you don’t know all about +it, sir. The impudence of the young rascal!” +</p> + +<p> +He paused for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Me to be treated like this! One child a ...” +</p> + +<p> +Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he tried again. +</p> + +<p> +“And the other a ...” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If any one has treated you so,” I said, “it must be the +devil, not God.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if there was a God, he could have prevented it all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The prodigal didn’t come with a pack of lies. He told his father +the truth, bad as it was.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not one to reckon without my host. Here’s my +bill.” +</p> + +<p> +And so saying, he handed me a letter. I took it and read:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“We remain, &c.,<br/> +Â Â Â Â “—— and Co.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not expect a visit from you to-day, Mr Walton, you will allow me +to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Again let me ask,” I said, “if you were in London on +Thursday.” +</p> + +<p> +Though I addressed the old lady, the answer came from her daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we were.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you in—-& Co.’s, in—-Street?” +</p> + +<p> +But now before Miss Oldcastle could reply, her mother interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we charged with shoplifting, Mr Walton? Really, one is not +accustomed to such cross-questioning—except from a lawyer.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe we were,” said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, certainly,” said the daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you buy anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. We—” Miss Oldcastle began. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word more,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Come with me at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +“What DO you mean, Mr Walton?” said the mother, with a sort of cold +indignation, while the daughter looked surprised, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Mrs Oldcastle, in a tone considerably at strife with +refinement. But I took no notice. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is for the sake of justice,” I interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, I think very differently.” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay you do.” +</p> + +<p> +“But neither your opinion nor mine has anything to do with the +matter.” +</p> + +<p> +Here I turned to Miss Oldcastle and went on— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But at my last words, Mrs Oldcastle rose to her feet no longer red—now +whiter than her usual whiteness with passion. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go.” +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand thanks. But how did you manage to—?” +</p> + +<p> +Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the question. +</p> + +<p> +“You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding mamma’s objection +to my going?” +</p> + +<p> +“I confess I am. I should not have been surprised at Judy’s doing +so, now.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not because of its degree, only that it is mine!” +</p> + +<p> +And she sighed.—She was quite right, and I did not know what to answer. +But she resumed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She made no reply. I resumed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not. You will never be free till you do +so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may be right. But I am certain you speak without any real idea of +the difficulty.” +</p> + +<p> +“That may be. And yet what I say remains just as true.” +</p> + +<p> +“How could I meet VIOLENCE, for instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some minutes. At length she +said, +</p> + +<p> +“My mother’s self-will amounts to madness, I do believe. I have yet +to learn where she would stop of herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered as if it were sense, it +makes it no easier to know that it is madness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does your uncle give you no help?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And the PROUD lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not incorrectly, burst out +crying. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do trust you,” she answered. And we knocked at the house-door. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father!” interrupted Thomas, angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you, father,” again began Thomas; but this time I +interposed, to prevent useless talk beforehand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I ought to go home +now,” said Miss Oldcastle. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” I answered. “I will take you home at once. I am +greatly obliged to you for coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to my house and bring +the boy with me,” I said, as we left. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not very dangerous people, those, Miss Oldcastle?” I said, at +last. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you very much for taking me to see them,” she returned, +cordially. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t believe all you may happen to hear against the working +people now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never did.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That old man is a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +I had forgot the beginning of my sentence. +</p> + +<p> +“You were saying that the man who does not show himself a gentleman to +the poor—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will look. I know your way now. You won’t tell me anything I can +find out for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not the best way?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much more than you look +for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly that has been my own experience.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you a descendant of Izaak Walton?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have so much of his spirit +that I can do two things like him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Live in the country, though I was not brought up in it; and know a good +man when I see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad you asked me to go to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“If people only knew their own brothers and sisters, the kingdom of +heaven would not be far off.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could help you,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“In what?” +</p> + +<p> +“To bear what I fear is waiting you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far that he held out his hand +and said:— +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones.” +</p> + +<p> +But I stepped between. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped hurriedly forward, and catching +his father’s hand in both of his, cried out: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone. +</p> + +<p> +“With all my heart,” I replied. “But I want just a word with +you in the shop before I go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” he answered, stiffly; and I bade the old and the young +man good night, and followed him down stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br/> +MY PUPIL.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Dr Duncan,” I said, “busy as usual fighting the +devil.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘not minister to a mind diseased,<br/> +Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,<br/> +Raze out the written troubles of the brain,<br/> +And with some sweet oblivious antidote<br/> +Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff<br/> +Which weighs upon the heart.’” +</p> + +<p> +“What a memory you have! But you don’t think I can do that any more +than you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know the best medicine to give, anyhow. I wish I always did. But you +see we have no <i>theriaca</i> now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we have. For the Lord says, ‘Come unto me, and I will give +you rest.’” +</p> + +<p> +“There! I told you! That will meet all diseases.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Crist, which that is to every harm triacle.’” +</p> + +<p> +“That is delightful: I thank you. And that is in Chaucer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. In the Man-of-Law’s Tale.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell. She has the faculty of silence.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear you are complaining, Miss Weir,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I understood that she felt injured by his interference. +</p> + +<p> +“You should attend to his advice, though. He is a prudent man, and not in +the least given to alarming people without cause.” +</p> + +<p> +She returned no answer. So I tried another subject. +</p> + +<p> +“What a fine fellow your brother is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; he grows very much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has your father found another place for him yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. My father never tells me about any of his +doings.” +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t you go and talk to him, sometimes?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He does not care to see me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going there now: will you come with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. I never go where I am not wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never said to human being that he had been unkind to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you let every person in the village know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +Her eye had no longer the stony glitter. It flashed now. +</p> + +<p> +“You are never seen together. You scarcely speak when you meet. Neither +of you crosses the other’s threshold.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not my fault.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent; and, after a pause, I went on. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I waited, hoping she would recover herself and return; but, after ten minutes +had passed, I thought it better to go away. +</p> + +<p> +As I had told her, I was going to her father’s shop. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got anything for your boy yet, Thomas?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Tom, I am glad to find you can turn your hand to anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must be a stupid, sir, if I couldn’t handle my father’s +tools,” returned the lad. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you never tried, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” I answered; “and +there’s Shakespeare for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you, sir!” exclaimed Tom, his face beaming with delight. +</p> + +<p> +“That IS kind of you, sir! Tom, you’re a made man!” cried the +father. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He said he had not. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Tom,” I said, “have you made it out?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?’” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br/> +DR DUNCAN’S STORY.</h2> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“It chanced—eternal God that chance did guide,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Walton,” she said, “how could you preach at Grannie as +you did last Sunday?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not preach at anybody, Judy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr Walton!” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I didn’t, Judy. You know that if I had, I would not say I +had not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; I know that perfectly,” she said, seriously. “But +Grannie thinks you did.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“By her face.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t think Grannie would say so?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Nor yet that you could know by her face what she was +thinking.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure she would not say so, Judy,” I said, really not knowing +what to say. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no; she would not say so. She would say, ‘I always forgive, +but I never forget.’ That’s a favourite saying of hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up in my face with an expression of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all TRUE, Mr Walton,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. But you are saying it behind her back.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go home and say it to her face directly.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned to go. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Judy. I did not mean that,” I said, taking her by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Found what, Old Rogers?” I returned, raising myself, and laying my +hand in return on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Why He was displeased with the disciples for not knowing—” +</p> + +<p> +“What He meant about the leaven of the Pharisees,” I interrupted. +“Yes, yes, of course. Tell me then.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But I was mistaken again. I had not got my sermon yet. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not I that say it, Catherine. It is the Lord himself.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw no great use in protesting my innocence, yet I thought it better to +add— +</p> + +<p> +“And I was not preaching AT you. I was preaching to you, as much as to +any one there, and no more.” +</p> + +<p> +Of this she took no notice, and I resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“Just think of what HE says; not what I say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t help it. If He won’t forgive me, I must go without +it. I can’t forgive.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She murmured a mechanical thanks, and handed me my parcel. I paid for it, bade +her good night, and left the shop. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! then, you must not stop with me. You will fare better at +home.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I should much prefer stopping with you. Couldn’t you send a +message for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure. My boy will run with it at once.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At length I brought our conversation round to my interview with Catherine Weir. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you understand,” I said, “a woman finding it so hard to +forgive her own father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure it is her father?” he returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely she has not this feeling towards more than one. That she has it +towards her father, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had had your experience, Dr Duncan,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me something about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The lady is longing for something,’ I said, not wishing to +be so definite as I could have been. +</p> + +<p> +“The mother made no reply. I saw her lips shut yet closer than before. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She is your daughter, is she not?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes,’—very decidedly. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Could you not find out what she wishes?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Perhaps I could guess.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I do not think I can do her any good till she has what she +wants.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Is that your mode of prescribing, doctor?’ she said, +tartly. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, certainly,’ I answered—‘in the present +case. Is she married?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Has she any children?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘One daughter.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Let her see her, then.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘She does not care to see her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Where is her husband?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Excuse me, doctor; I did not send for you to ask questions, but +to give advice.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘My daughter’s condition is not a fit subject for +jesting.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I understood you were a GENTLEMAN—of experience and +breeding.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am not in the question, madam. It is your daughter.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘She shall take your prescription.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘She must see her husband if it be possible.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is not possible.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I say it is not possible, and that is enough. Good +morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My husband!’ said the girl—for indeed she was little +more in age, turning her face, almost distorted with eagerness, towards me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I had gone to the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Let us have no scene now,’ I said, ‘or her blood will +be on your head.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +And the next morning, I spoke about the words of our Lord: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And I looked to see. And there Catherine Weir sat, looking me in the face. +</p> + +<p> +There likewise sat Mrs Oldcastle, looking me in the face too. +</p> + +<p> +And Judy sat there, also looking me in the face, as serious as man could wish +grown woman to look. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br/> +THE ORGAN.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What a fine old fellow that is!” said Dr Duncan. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My man-of-all-work is going to leave me. I wonder if the old man would +take his place?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Now I must report another occurrence in regular sequence. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no one in the Hall-pew; indeed it was a rare occurrence if any one +was there in the afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br/> +THE CHURCH-RATE.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir, here’s young Thomas Weir in a great way about +something, and insisting upon seeing you, if you possibly can.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Tom?” I said. “I assure you I shall not +be angry with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s Farmer Brownrigg, at this very moment, taking away Mr +Templeton’s table because he won’t pay the church-rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“What church-rate?” I cried, starting up from the sofa. “I +never heard of a church-rate.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Put that table down directly.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You see I’m prompt, Mr Walton,” he said. “But, bless +my soul, how ill you look!” +</p> + +<p> +Without answering him—for I was more angry with him than I ought to have +been—I repeated— +</p> + +<p> +“Put that table down, I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +They did so. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” I said, “carry it back into the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir,” interposed Mr Brownrigg, “it’s all +right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I said, “as right as the devil would have it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, sir, I have done everything according to law.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think you would stand upon ceremony about it, sir. You never +seemed to care for business.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you talk about legality, so will I. Certainly YOU don’t stand +upon ceremony.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s my property, now,” interposed the broker. +“I’ve bought it of the churchwarden, and paid for it.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned to Mr Brownrigg. +</p> + +<p> +“How much did he give you for it?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty shillings,” returned he, sulkily, “and it won’t +pay expenses.” +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty shillings!” I exclaimed; “for a table that cost three +times as much at least!—What do you expect to sell it for?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my business,” answered the broker. +</p> + +<p> +I pulled out my purse, and threw a sovereign and a half on the table, +saying— +</p> + +<p> +“FIFTY PER CENT. will be, I think, profit enough even on such a +transaction.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not offer you the table,” returned the broker. “I am +not bound to sell except I please, and at my own price.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr Brownrigg,” I said, “lend me a hand to carry this +table in again.” +</p> + +<p> +He yielded, not graciously,—that could not be expected,—but in +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! sir,” interposed young Tom, who had stood by during the +dispute, “let me take it. You’re not able to lift it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! Tom. Keep away,” I said. “It is all the reparation +I can make.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Templeton interrupted me. +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you it was a matter of conscience with me,” he said. +“On no other ground—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Ashamed to find myself in such circumstances, I tried to rise; but Mr +Templeton, laying his hand on mine, said— +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir, add to your kindness this day, by letting my wife and me +minister to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, was not that a courteous speech? He went on— +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Brownrigg has gone for Dr Duncan, and will be back in a few moments. +I beg you will not exert yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“But you mustn’t talk more now,” said Dr Duncan. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And here I may as well sketch the result of that strange introduction to the +dissenting minister. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +To this I replied:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“I am,” &c. &c. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“You ask me, Mr Templeton, in your very kind letter—” and +here I put my hand in my pocket to find it. +</p> + +<p> +“I asked you,” interposed Mr Templeton, “how you could belong +to a Church which authorizes things of which you yourself so heartily +disapprove.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I answer you,” I returned, “that just to such a Church +our Lord belonged.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our Lord belonged to the Jewish Church.” +</p> + +<p> +“But ours is His Church.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. I beg your pardon for interrupting you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it perfectly. Therefore, however we may differ, we are in +reality at no strife.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +We both laughed at this pushing of the argument to illegitimate conclusions. +Then I resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most willingly would I pay the money. I object simply because the rate +is compulsory.” +</p> + +<p> +“And therein you have our Lord’s example to the contrary.” +</p> + +<p> +A silence followed; for I had to deal with an honest man, who was thinking. I +resumed:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Again a silence followed. Then Mr Templeton spoke:— +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I began to speak, but he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you regard me as an interloper now—one who has no +right to speak because he does not belong to the Church?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Once more followed a silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And so we parted. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br/> +JUDY’S NEWS.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled as I thanked her. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m nearly well now, Judy, and I have been taken good care +of.” +</p> + +<p> +“By that frumpy old thing, Mrs Pearson, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Pearson is a very kind woman, and an excellent nurse,” I said; +but she would not heed me. +</p> + +<p> +“And that awful old witch, Mother Goose. She was enough to give you bad +dreams all night she sat by you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, grannie, and the white wolf, and all?” +</p> + +<p> +“As many as you please to tell me about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, grannie is gracious to everybody but auntie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why isn’t she gracious to auntie?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. I only guess.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your visitor gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +To stop the strange girl, and hide some confusion, I said: +</p> + +<p> +“Now tell me about the rest of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is Mr Stoddart?” +</p> + +<p> +“There now! That’s one of the things auntie said I was to be sure +to tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then your aunt knew you were coming to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, I told her. Not grannie, you know.—You mustn’t let +it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be careful. How is Mr Stoddart, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If to-morrow is fine, I shall go and see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish that were true, Judy. I fear it is not. What good did I ever do +you, Judy?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Walton,” she said, “I HAVE been trying not to be selfish. +You have done me that much good.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Judy did not answer, but sat looking fixedly at the carpet. She was thinking, +though, I saw. +</p> + +<p> +“Who has played the organ, Judy, since your uncle was taken ill?” I +asked, at length. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, auntie, to be sure. Didn’t you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“When was your uncle taken ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come if Dr Duncan will let me. Perhaps he will take me in his +carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, Judy. I shall manage somehow.—What is the name of the +gentleman who was staying with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know? Captain George Everard. He would change his name +to Oldcastle, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +What a foolish pain, like a spear-thrust, they sent through me—those +words spoken in such a taken-for-granted way! +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you say auntie doesn’t like him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How were you able to get here to-day?” I asked, as she rose to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Grannie is in London, and the wolf is with her. Auntie wouldn’t +leave uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +“They have been a good deal in London of late, have they not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. They say it’s about money of auntie’s. But I +don’t understand. <i>I</i> think it’s that grannie wants to make +the captain marry her; for they sometimes see him when they go to +London.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br/> +THE INVALID.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +After salutation,— +</p> + +<p> +“You are well off, Mr Stoddart,” I said, “to have two such +nurses.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are very kind,” sighed the patient +</p> + +<p> +“You would recommend Mrs Pearson and Mother Goose instead, would you not, +Mr Walton?” said Judy, her gray eyes sparkling with fun. +</p> + +<p> +“Judy, be quiet,” said the invalid, languidly and yet sharply. +</p> + +<p> +Judy reddened and was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to find you so unwell,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I am very ill,” he returned. +</p> + +<p> +Aunt and niece rose and left the room quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suffer much, Mr Stoddart?” +</p> + +<p> +“Much weariness, worse than pain. I could welcome death.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not indeed,” he exclaimed angrily, sitting up in his chair. +“What right has Dr Duncan to talk of me so?” +</p> + +<p> +“To a friend, you know,” I returned, apologetically, “who is +much interested in your welfare.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man belongs to you both by +prescription.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. I am obliged to you for my new position in the social scale. +Of the tailor species, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not help wishing he were as far up as any man that does such needful +honest work. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I meant only a glance at the peculiar +relation of the words WHOLE and HEAL.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not find etymology interesting at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not seated in such a library as this?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I am ill.” +</p> + +<p> +Satisfied that, ill as he was, he might be better if he would, I resolved to +make another trial. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember how Ligarius, in Julius Caesar, discards his +sickness?— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand<br/> +Any exploit worthy the name of honour.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you. The girls tire me out with reading to me. I hate the very +sound of their voices.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have got to-day’s Times in my pocket.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard all the news already.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I think I shall only bore you if I stay.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then,” said Judy, leaving the room, “I am not in the +least likely to be otherwise engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry, uncle,” began Miss Oldcastle. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr Stoddart had already retreated and banged the door behind him. So Miss +Oldcastle and I were left standing together amid the ruins. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. She smiled in return. +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you,” she said, “uncle is not a bit like +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am at your service,” I returned, and followed her from the room. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I am. I go there most days. I have not been to-day, though. +Would you like to go down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very much,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I forgot, though. You must not go; it is not a fit place for an +invalid.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot call myself an invalid now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your face, I am sorry to say, contradicts your words.” +</p> + +<p> +And she looked so kindly at me, that I almost broke out into thanks for the +mere look. +</p> + +<p> +“And indeed,” she went on, “it is too damp down there, not to +speak of the stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be delighted,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Judy,” said her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t want me, I am sure, auntie.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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 ?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I will not,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +My eye fell upon a small pianoforte. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke as if she had wanted to say this. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How? I do not know what you mean, Mr Walton. I have never done you the +least service.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 ?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am in your debt more than you know or I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, if that is all, I have played the organ every Sunday since uncle +was taken ill,” she said, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated; and I, fearing to embarrass her, answered for her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her face towards me: those sea-blue eyes were full of tears. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Auntie, auntie! here’s grannie!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Oldcastle turned pale. I confess I felt embarrassed, as if I had been +caught in something underhand. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she come in?” asked Miss Oldcastle, trying to speak with +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“She is just at the door,—must be getting out of the fly now. What +SHALL we do?” +</p> + +<p> +“What DO you mean, Judy?” said her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a stupid speech, but I could not be annoyed that I had made it. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear he is far from well,” she returned; “certainly in my +opinion too ill to receive visitors.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, she bowed and passed on. I turned and walked out, not ill-pleased, +as my readers will believe, with my visit. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And as they left the church the organ played, “Comfort ye, comfort ye, my +people, saith your God.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He continued in the same strangely irritable humour. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br/> +MOOD AND WILL.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And when the hard frost came, it brought a friend to my door. It was Mr +Stoddart. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The cold weather, which makes so many invalids creep into bed, seems to +have brought you out into the air, Mr Stoddart,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“It has revived me, certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I talked thus, hoping to rouse him to conversation, and I was successful. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel just as if I were coming out of a winter. Don’t you think +illness is a kind of human winter?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The last is more like mine. I feel as if I had been in a wet hole in the +earth.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish it would be so with me. I know you mean me. But I don’t +feel my green leaves coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Facts are not always indicated by feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I hope not; nor yet feelings indicated by facts.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nonsense!” I said. “It was your illness, not you.” +</p> + +<p> +“At least, my dear sir, the facts of my behaviour did not really +represent my feelings towards you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was only the outside of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; I acknowledge it heartily.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are fond of theories, Mr Stoddart—perhaps a little too much +so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you listen to one of mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“With pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I understand all that. But what use am I to make of your +theory?” +</p> + +<p> +“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’:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘She was arrayed all in lily white,<br/> +And in her right hand bore a cup of gold,<br/> +With wine and water filled up to the height,<br/> +In which a serpent did himself enfold,<br/> +That horror made to all that did behold;<br/> +But she no whit did change her constant mood.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘I have as much of this in art as you,<br/> +But yet my nature could not bear it so.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +(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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are severe.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I confess. To my sorrow, I find it so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to understand you, then, that intercourse with one’s +neighbours ought to take the place of meditation?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where am I to find such friends besides yourself with whom to hold +spiritual communion?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that would be endless. It would leave me no time for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +So he was. And Miss Oldcastle was in the pew with her mother. Nor did she go +any more to Addicehead to church. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br/> +THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +My present attempt turned out one of my failures, though I cannot think that it +would have been better left unmade. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A cold morning, Thomas,” I called from the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I can always keep myself warm, sir,” returned Thomas, cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing, Tom?” I said, going up to him first. +</p> + +<p> +“A little job for myself, sir. I’m making a few bookshelves.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not easy always to keep warm through and through, Thomas,” I +said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And when the heart gets cold,” I went on, “it is not easily +warmed again. The fire’s hard to light there, Thomas.” +</p> + +<p> +Still he looked at me, stooping over his work, apparently with a presentiment +of what was coming. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear there is no way of lighting it again, except the +blacksmith’s way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hammering the iron till it is red-hot, you mean, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thomas,” I said, at length, laying my hand on his shoulder, +“you are not going to part company with me, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see what that has to do with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go out of my shop,” he cried; “or I may say what I should be +sorry for.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned at once and left him. I found young Tom round the corner, leaning +against the wall, and reading his Virgil. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see, sir; I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be as attentive to him as you can.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br/> +THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“O God! I cannot bear it longer. Hast thou NO help for me?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p> +“She fed her wound with fresh-renewed bale” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“God has, indeed, help for His own offspring. Has He not suffered that He +might help? But you have not yet forgiven.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask Him for peace,” she said, “and He sends me more +torment.” +</p> + +<p> +And I thought of Ahab when he said, “Hast thou found me, O mine +enemy?” +</p> + +<p> +“If we had what we asked for always, we should too often find it was not +what we wanted, after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not leave me alone,” she said. “It is too +bad.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a right to persecute me,” she said, “because I am +unhappy?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You judge me hard. I have had wrongs that—” +</p> + +<p> +And here she stopped in a way that let me know she WOULD say no more. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very easy to talk, Mr Walton,” she returned with forced but +cool scorn. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, then,” I said, “have YOU nothing to repent of? Have +YOU done no wrong in this same miserable matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand you, sir,” she said, freezingly, petulantly, +not sure, perhaps, or unwilling to believe, that I meant what I did mean. +</p> + +<p> +I was fully resolved to be plain with her now. +</p> + +<p> +“Catherine Weir,” I said, “did not God give you a house to +keep fair and pure for Him? Did you keep it such?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She made a broken gesture of lifting her hands to her head, let them drop by +her side, and said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He does! he does!” she shrieked; “but I will have my +revenge. I can and I will.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I? Who is it?” she asked, listlessly. +</p> + +<p> +When she found who I was, she made a great effort to rise, and succeeded. +</p> + +<p> +“You must take my arm,” I said, “and I will help you to the +vicarage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go home,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Lean on me now, at least; for you must get somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter?” she said, in such a tone of despair, that it +went to my very heart. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned to Catherine, and bade her good-night. She just put her hand in mine; +but, instead of returning my leave-taking, said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes were flashing almost with madness, and she made fierce gestures with +her arm. I saw that argument was useless. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do I care? Why should I care?” +</p> + +<p> +And she laughed terribly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gerard, come back,” cried his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not take him away,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +The boy looked up in my face, as if he wanted to whisper to me, and I stooped +to listen. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He obeyed at once, and I went on through the village. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br/> +THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a long time since I saw you, now, Thomas.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How is Tom?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He made me no answer, but maintained a sullen silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use your trying to frighten me. I don’t believe in +the devil.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Life or death! What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I could not bear it. I turned instantly and went back into the shop. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I went out of the shop once more, but in a greatly altered mood. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Had I the grace to win the grace<br/> +Â Â Â Â Of some old man complete in lore,<br/> +My face would worship at his face,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Like childhood seated on the floor.<br/> +<br/> +Had I the grace to win the grace<br/> +Â Â Â Â Of childhood, loving shy, apart,<br/> +The child should find a nearer place,<br/> +Â Â Â Â And teach me resting on my heart.<br/> +<br/> +Had I the grace to win the grace<br/> +Â Â Â Â Of maiden living all above,<br/> +My soul would trample down the base,<br/> +Â Â Â Â That she might have a man to love.<br/> +<br/> +A grace I have no grace to win<br/> +Â Â Â Â Knocks now at my half-open door:<br/> +Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Thy grace divine is all and more. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br/> +AN ANGEL UNAWARES.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to go no farther now, sir. I came to find you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing amiss, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how did you know where to find me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I really pass you on the bridge?” I said, unable to understand +it. +</p> + +<p> +“That you did, sir. I knowed parson must be a goodish bit in his own +in’ards afore he would do that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I needn’t tell you I didn’t see you, Old Rogers.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could tell you that, sir. I hope there’s nothing gone main +wrong, sir. Miss is well, sir, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say on, Old Rogers. I understand you, and I will listen with all my +heart, for you have a good right to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +And Old Rogers spoke thus:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +This is as near the story of my old friend as my limited knowledge of sea +affairs allows me to report it. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand you quite, Old Rogers, and I thank you heartily,” I +said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I could but hold out my hand. I had nothing to say. For he had spoken to me as +an angel of God. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Good day, sir. I must go back to my work.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go back with you,” I returned. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br/> +TWO PARISHIONERS.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But I have been once more wandering from my subject. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Jonathan, bring the cake and wine,” she cried to the retreating +servant. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We were afraid, Mr Walton,” said the little lady, “that you +had forgotten we were parishioners of yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re charmed to see you. It is very good of you not to forget +such uninteresting girls as we are.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your Bible, Jemima. Do yourself justice.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a matter of course, sister. But this is not the way to +entertain Mr Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“The gentlemen used to entertain the ladies when I was young, Jemima. I +do not know how it may have been when you were.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can surpass duty, Mr Walton? I confess I do not agree with your +doctrines upon that point.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you, Miss Hester,” I returned. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You always speak as if faith in Christ was something greater than duty. +Now I think duty the first thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And here Miss Jemima got up on the chair again, and began to flirt with the +cockatoo once more, but only in silent signs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Her presence, like a robe pontifical,<br/> +Ne’er seen but wonder’d at,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The next point where my recollection can take up the conversation, is where +Miss Hester made the following further criticism on my pulpit labours. +</p> + +<p> +“You are too anxious to explain everything, Mr Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but there is just the point. What is in the Bible? Is it this or +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are their spiritual instructor: tell them what is in the +Bible.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have just been objecting to my mode of representing what is in +the Bible.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be so much the worse, if you add argument to convince them of +what is incorrect.” +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt that. Falsehood will expose itself the sooner that honest +argument is used to support it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot expect them to judge of what you tell them.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Bible urges upon us to search and understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I grant that for those whose business it is, like yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said you had to teach them.” +</p> + +<p> +“But to teach is to make people understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think so. If you come to that, how much can the wisest of +us understand? You remember what Pope says,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Superior beings, when of late they saw<br/> +A mortal man unfold all Nature’s law,<br/> +Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape,<br/> +And show’d a Newton as we show an ape’?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know the passage. Pope is not my Bible. I should call such +superior beings very inferior beings indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you call the angels inferior beings?” +</p> + +<p> +“Such angels, certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“He means the good angels, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Now will you even say that you understand that passage?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you despise Pope.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not. I say he was full of despising, and therefore, if for no +other reason, a small man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you do not jest at his bodily infirmities?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had forgotten them quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“In every other sense he was a great man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot allow it. He was intellectually a great man, but morally a +small man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Such refinements are not easily followed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will undertake to make the poorest woman in my congregation understand +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought she was an intimate friend of yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite the contrary. We are scarcely friendly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do they not visit her more?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, however, her religious opinions would correspond with your own, +Mr Walton,” said Miss Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly,” I answered, with indifference; “I don’t +care much about opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What DO you mean, Miss Crowther?” +</p> + +<p> +She gently tapped her forehead with a forefinger. +</p> + +<p> +I laughed. I thought it was not worth my while to enter as the champion of Miss +Oldcastle’s sanity. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I returned, “she is rather pretty. But I don’t +think she looks as if she had a cap to set at anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +I rose to go, for I did not relish any further pursuit of the conversation in +the same direction. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br/> +SATAN CAST OUT.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked hard at me with her keen gray eyes; and I felt as if the child was +seeing through me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I felt the child’s kindness, but could only say— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Tom?” I asked, in some alarm. +</p> + +<p> +He did not reply for a moment, but kept unconsciously stroking my horse’s +neck, and staring at me “with wide blue eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Tom,” I repeated, “tell me what is the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +I could see his bare throat knot and relax, like the motion of a serpent, +before he could utter the words. +</p> + +<p> +“Kate has killed her little boy, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +He followed them with a stifled cry—almost a scream, and hid his face in +his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid!” I exclaimed, and struck my heels in my horse’s +sides, nearly overturning poor Tom in my haste. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s mad, sir; she’s mad,” he cried, as I rode off. +</p> + +<p> +“Come after me,” I said, “and take the mare home. I +shan’t be able to leave your sister.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her lips went on moving, but I could hear no more till suddenly she broke +out— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! my baby! my baby!” and gave a cry of such agony as I hope +never to hear again while I live. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You see what you have driven me to!” cried Catherine, the moment I +was left alone with her. “I hope you are satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“I think he’ll come round.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will it be safe to tell his mother so?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: I think you may.” +</p> + +<p> +I hastened to her room. +</p> + +<p> +“Your little darling is not dead, Catherine. He is coming to.” +</p> + +<p> +She THREW herself off the bed at my feet, caught them round with her arms, and +cried— +</p> + +<p> +“I will forgive him. I will do anything you like. I forgive George +Everard. I will go and ask my father to forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not say I forgive her,” he answered. “I have more +need to ask her to forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When I rejoined Dr Duncan, I found little Gerard asleep, and breathing quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you know of this sad business, Mr Walton?” said the +doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“His father told me the same; and that is all I know. Do you believe +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meantime,” said Dr Duncan, “all I believe is, that she +struck the child, and that he fell upon the fender.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“She is asleep,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“How is it your daughter Mary is not here?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, sir,” said Thomas, fervently. +</p> + +<p> +And from that hour to this there has never been a coolness between us. +</p> + +<p> +“A very good arrangement,” said Dr Duncan; “only I feel as if +I ought to have a share in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” I said. “We do not know who may want you. Besides, +we are both younger than you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come over early in the morning then, and see how you are going +on.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“It chanced—eternal God that chance did guide,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely had I seated myself again by the fire when the door of the room opened +softly, and Thomas appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Kate is very strange, sir,” he said, “and wants to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +I rose at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, then, you had better stay with Gerard.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, sir; for I think she wants to speak to you alone.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doing nicely,” I replied. “I do not think you need be at all +uneasy about him now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Without one word of my own, I took out my pocket Testament and read these +words:— +</p> + +<p> +“For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also +forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t. Don’t. Go away, man. Mammy! Mr Walton!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I returned at once. As soon as I entered the room, she said eagerly:— +</p> + +<p> +“I forgive him—I forgive him with all my heart; but don’t let +him take Gerard.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was of no use trying to go to sleep, so I set out for a walk. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br/> +THE MAN AND THE CHILD.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m in luck,” he said, “to meet yer reverence just +coming home. How’s poor Miss Weir to-day, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“If she did, she was out of her mind for the moment. But I don’t +believe it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what can be done, Rogers. I CAN’T +interfere.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Partly to hide my emotion, partly with the sudden resolve to do something, if +anything could be done, I said:— +</p> + +<p> +“I will call on Mr Stoddart this evening. I may hear something from him +to suggest a mode of action.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Where all men’s prayers to Thee raised<br/> +Return possessed of what they pray Thee.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He received me kindly, as he always did; but his smile flickered uneasily. He +seemed in some trouble, and yet pleased to see me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I thus tried to seem at ease, as I was far from feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so fond of riding as I used to be,” returned Mr Stoddart. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you like the Arab horses in India?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do they want of you, Mr Stoddart?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you said just now she asked you to ride with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she does not like him?” I forced myself to say. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What will be the result, do you suppose?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no; not exactly urge her. And yet society does not object to it. +It is an acknowledged arrangement, common enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Mr Walton——” she said, and stopped. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Judy, your grandmamma wants you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sarah,” she said, “you know you are telling a lie. Grannie +does <i>not</i> want me. You have <i>not</i> been in the dining-room since I +left it one moment ago. Do you think, you <i>bad</i> woman, <i>I</i> am going +to be afraid of you? I know you better than you think. Go away directly, or I +will make you.” +</p> + +<p> +She stamped her little foot, and the “white wolf” turned and walked +away without a word. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You will take cold, Judy, going out like that,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you, my child.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know auntie would like to know what you think. But I know she will +never ask you herself. So <i>I</i> am asking you whether a lady ought to marry +a gentleman she does not like, to please her mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not, Judy. It is often wicked, and at best a mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr Walton. I will tell her. She will be glad to hear that you +say so, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mind you tell her you asked me, Judy. I should not like her to think I +had been interfering, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; I know quite well. I will take care. Thank you. He’s +going to-morrow. Good night.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br/> +OLD MRS TOMKINS.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Deary me, Mr Walton! you ARE wasteful, sir. The Lord never sent His good +coals to be used that way.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to see you suffering so much, Mrs Tomkins,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going home directly, and I’ll send you down another +blanket. It’s much colder to-day than it was yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s not the will of God, Mrs Tomkins.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t it, sir? Sure I thought it was.” +</p> + +<p> +“You believe in Jesus Christ, don’t you, Mrs Tomkins?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I do, sir, with all my heart and soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, He says that whosoever liveth and believeth in Him shall never +die.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, you know, sir, everybody dies. I MUST die, and be laid in the +churchyard, sir. And that’s what I don’t like.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really think so, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Send for me, Mrs Tomkins, any moment, day or night, and I’ll be +with you directly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you think, sir, He never forgets anything?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mothers are often a little out of their minds at such times, Mrs +Tomkins. And so were you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He did take them, Mrs Tomkins; and you’ll see them again +soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, if He never forgets anything——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They ARE good words, sir. I could not bear Him to think of me and my +sins both at once.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not help thinking of the words of Macbeth, “To know my deed, +’twere best not know myself.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not lonely, Mr Weir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you,” I returned, knowing that the old +man’s gently humorous sayings always meant something. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, indeed, could any one want more?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was very curious.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you account for that fancy, now, Mr Weir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not afraid of it, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. Why should I be? I never did it no harm. And God can surely +take care of me from all sorts.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“all that was not such as seemed in sight,<br/> +Before that shield did fade, and suddaine fall.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“From his slack hand the garland wreathed for Eve,<br/> +Down dropt, and all the faded roses shed.” +</p> + +<p> +The quiet child FLUNG himself upon my neck, and the mother’s face gleamed +with pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear boy!” I said, “I am very glad to see you so much +better.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “I am quite well now.” And he put his +hand up to his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Does it ache?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not much now. The doctor says I had a bad fall.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you had, my child. But you will soon be well again.” +</p> + +<p> +The mother’s face was turned aside, yet I could see one tear forcing its +way from under her closed eyelid. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The child hurried off the bed, and ran with overflowing obedience. +</p> + +<p> +“I can even think of HIM now,” said the mother, “without +going into a passion. I hope God will forgive him. <i>I</i> do. I think He will +forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She said nothing for a little while; then murmured, +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will He let us tell Him anything we please?” +</p> + +<p> +“He lets you do that now: surely He will not be less our God, our friend +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must wait till he comes. He won’t think hardly of you. +There’s no fear of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What will become of him, though? I can’t bear the idea of +burdening my father with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! thank you, thank you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +A burst of tears followed. +</p> + +<p> +“He has often done me good,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Who, sir? My father?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Your son.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite understand what you mean, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean just what I say. The words and behaviour of your lovely boy have +both roused and comforted my heart again and again.” +</p> + +<p> +She burst again into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“That is good to hear. To think of your saying that! The poor little +innocent! Then it isn’t all punishment?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now I want to live for my boy. But His will be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She lay silent. A tap came to the chamber-door. It was Mary, who nursed her +sister and attended to the shop. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, sir, here’s a little girl come to say that Mrs +Tomkins is dying, and wants to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will try. I will think about her.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br/> +CALM AND STORM.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Has Gerard ever been baptized?” I asked her. +</p> + +<p> +Her lips indicated a NO. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will be his godfather. And that will be a pledge to you that I +will never lose sight of him.” +</p> + +<p> +She pressed my hand, and the tears came faster. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you speak to me, Rogers?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +He turned at once with evident pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Rogers. I won’t now. I thought you had been in bed. How +do you come to be out so late?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I came to find you, not thinking how the time went. Catherine Weir is +gone home.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am right glad to hear it, poor woman. And perhaps something will come +out now that will help us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you,” I said, with hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +But Rogers made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear you are in trouble to-night. Can I help you?” I +resumed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I could partly guess what the old man meant, and I could not ask him for +further explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you want to see me about?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I passed her on the bridge. Is she quite well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, sir. You know that’s not the point.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man’s tone seemed to reprove me for vain words, and I held my +peace. +</p> + +<p> +“The captain’s there again.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Although Lear was of course right when he said, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The tempest in my mind<br/> +Doth from my senses take all feeling else<br/> +Save what beats there,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br/> +A SERMON TO MYSELF.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +His face fell. +</p> + +<p> +“It is such a day!” he answered, remonstratingly, but not +positively refusing. It was not his way ever to refuse anything positively. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I shan’t be of any use. You are going, and that is +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I cannot pretend to feel any of the interest you consider essential: +why then should I go?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I must.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must, then. Thank you. You will help me. I have seldom a +companion.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you find some pleasure in fighting the wind?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I would rather help the poorest woman in creation, than +contemplate the sufferings of the greatest and wickedest,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would have the best of the argument entirely,” I replied, +“if your expectation was sure to turn out correct.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is the enemy,” I said, pointing to the water, and walking +into it. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Stoddart followed me without a moment’s hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir,” said the old man, as he rose, almost crying, +“you’re come at last!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you send for me?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am come, you see. I would have come sooner, but I had no idea +you would be flooded.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A moan of protestation came from the dying woman. +</p> + +<p> +“She does know you, and loves you too, Tomkins,” I said. “And +you’ll both know each other better by and by.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look if you can find a basin or plate, Mr Stoddart, and put it to catch +the drop here,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +For I wanted to give him the first chance of being useful. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s one in the press there,” said the old man, rising +feebly. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep your seat,” said Mr Stoddart. “I’ll get +it.” +</p> + +<p> +And he got a basin from the cupboard, and put it on the bed to catch the drop. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed rather relieved at the commission. I gave him the necessary +directions to find the cottages, and he left me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you there, sir?” she would murmur. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am here. I have a hold of your hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t feel you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She would be silent for a while, and then murmur again— +</p> + +<p> +“Are you there, Tomkins?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And all that I could hear of her answer was, “Bym by; bym by.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I went to Old Rogers, told him the state in which I had left poor Tomkins, and +asked him what was to be done. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go and bring him home, sir, directly. He can’t be left +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how can you bring him in such a night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see, sir. I must think. Would your mare go in a cart, do you +think?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s one at Weir’s to be repaired, sir. It wouldn’t +be stealing to borrow it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br/> +A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Which Miss Crowther is it?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“The little lady that looks like a bird, and chirps when she +talks.” +</p> + +<p> +Of course I was no longer in any doubt as to which of them it was. +</p> + +<p> +“You told her I had a bad cold, did you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. But she says if it is only a cold, it will do you no harm to +see her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you told her I was in bed, didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I suppose I must see her,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +So my sister made me a little tidier, and introduced Miss Crowther. +</p> + +<p> +“O dear Mr Walton, I am SO sorry! But you’re not very ill, are +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not, Miss Jemima. Indeed, I begin to think this morning that I am +going to get off easier than I expected.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” I interrupted her, “What would Miss Hester say?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“The boy is an uncommonly sweet and lovable child, whoever was his +father,” I interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad to hear it. I am the more determined to adopt him. What +friends has he?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has a grandfather, and an uncle and aunt, and will have a +godfather—that’s me—in a few days, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad to hear it. There will be no opposition on the part of +the relatives, I presume?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so sure of that. I fear I shall object for one, Miss +Jemima.” +</p> + +<p> +“You? I didn’t expect that of you, Mr Walton, I must say.” +</p> + +<p> +And there was a tremor in the old lady’s voice more of disappointment and +hurt than of anger. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And the dear old lady shook hands with me and left me rather hurriedly, turning +at the door, however, to add— +</p> + +<p> +“Mind, I’ve set my heart upon having the boy, Mr Walton. I’ve +seen him often.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think, Mr Weir, there’s summat the matter +wi’ parson?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; he’s badly, and in bed. But that’s not what I +mean. There’s summat on his mind,” said Old Rogers. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t think it’s for you or me to meddle with +parson’s mind,” returned Weir. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what way DO you mean, Old Rogers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, about his in’ards, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m no nearer your meanin’ yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And here Old Rogers stuck fast—according to Weir’s story. +</p> + +<p> +“It don’t seem easy to say no how, Old Rogers,” said Weir. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what DO you mean, Old Rogers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I means this—as how parson’s in love. There, +that’s paid out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose he was, I don’t see yet what business that is of yours or +mine either.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I do. I’d go to Davie Jones for that man.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But what CAN we do?” returned Weir. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Belay there, and hearken.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Weir made no reply, and was silent so long, with his head bent, that Rogers +grew impatient. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Small to me!” said Weir, and taking up his tool, a constant +recourse with him when agitated, he began to plane furiously. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“You should have come to the point a little sooner, Old Rogers.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he said, giving it to Rogers. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t read hand o’ write,” returned Rogers. “I +ha’ enough ado with straight-foret print But I’ll take it to +parson.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Thomas, and taking the +letter from Rogers’s hand, he left the shop again. +</p> + +<p> +He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an envelope, addressed to +Miss Oldcastle. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I can. I ought to, anyhow. But she can’t know anythink in +the letter now, Mr Weir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, Thomas. You’ve had a troubled life, but thank God the sun +came out a bit before she died.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. That she shan’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you some day what’s in it. But I can’t bear +to talk about it yet.” +</p> + +<p> +And so they parted. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is a letter,” said Jane, “that Mr Weir the carpenter +gave to my father to give to me to bring to you, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it about, Jane?” she asked listlessly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The wretch,” she said, and threw the letter from her into the +middle of the floor. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, I will NOT marry that man. You may do what you please with me, +but I WILL NOT.” +</p> + +<p> +“Heigho!” exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle with spread nostrils, and turning +suddenly upon Jane, snatched the letter out of her hand. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And for the first time since she went to the Hall, Jane said, there was colour +in that dead white face. +</p> + +<p> +She turned once more, fiercer than ever, upon Jane, and in a tone of rage under +powerful repression, began:— +</p> + +<p> +“You leave the house—THIS INSTANT.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br/> +THE NEXT THING.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost already,” said the +child, again bursting into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Judy, what CAN I do for her?” +</p> + +<p> +“You must find out, Mr Walton. If you loved her as much as I do, you +would find out what to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she will not let me do anything for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she will. She says you promised to help her some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she send you, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. She did not send me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then how—what—what can I do!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then, Judy. I will go at once.—Shall I see her?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We will talk about that as we go,” said Judy, authoritatively. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Judy,” I said at last, “tell me what they are doing to +your aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what they are doing. But I am sure she will +die.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But what can her mother do to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he still at the Hall?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing can make her worth more than she is, Judy,” I said, +perhaps with some discontent in my tone. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we reach the Hall; else my +coming will be of no use.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Judy,—-” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you want to see her, Mr Walton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do; more than you can think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will tell her so.” +</p> + +<p> +“But will she come to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. We have to find that out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I leave myself in your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“But I am saved already,” she interposed, “if you love +me—for I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go with you anywhere you think best. Only take me away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we will settle all about +it as we go.” +</p> + +<p> +She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle came to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, you silly child?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean what I say,” and “Miss Judy speaks the truth,” +fell together from her lips and mine. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Walton,” began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, “it is +scarcely like a gentleman to come where you are not wanted—-” +</p> + +<p> +Here Judy interrupted her. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton WAS wanted—very much wanted. +I went and fetched him.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding. +</p> + +<p> +“—-and to be sitting in my room in the dark too!” +</p> + +<p> +“That couldn’t be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah with +candles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sarah,” said Mrs Oldcastle, “ask Captain Everard to be kind +enough to step this way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am,” answered Sarah, with an untranslatable look at +me as she set down the candles. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Walton,” she said, “will you explain to Captain Everard +to what we owe the UNEXPECTED pleasure of a visit from you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr Walton insists upon seeing her +at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be here presently,” +I said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, Mrs Oldcastle. That is the way to Miss Oldcastle’s +room. I am here to protect her.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me to remark,” said Captain Everard, with attempted +nonchalance, “that that is strange doctrine for your cloth.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much the worse for my cloth, then,” I answered, “and the +better for yours if it leads you to act more honourably.” +</p> + +<p> +Still keeping himself entrenched in the affectation of a supercilious +indifference, he smiled haughtily, and gave a look of dramatic appeal to Mrs +Oldcastle. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I forbid it,” she screamed; “and I WILL be obeyed. I +stand on my rights. Go to your room, you minx.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no law human or divine to prevent her from marrying whom she +will. How old are you, Ethelwyn?” +</p> + +<p> +I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty-seven,” answered Miss Oldcastle. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But she kept her grasp. +</p> + +<p> +“You hurt me, mother,” said Miss Oldcastle. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurt you? you smooth-faced hypocrite! I will hurt you then!” +</p> + +<p> +But I took Mrs Oldcastle’s arm in my hand, and she let go her hold. +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you touch a woman?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to torture her own +daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying,— +</p> + +<p> +“The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time for the military to +interfere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well put, Captain Everard,” I said. “Our side will disperse +if you will only leave room for us to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly <i>I</i> may have something to say in the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say on.” +</p> + +<p> +“This lady has jilted me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you, Ethelwyn?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Captain Everard, you lie.” +</p> + +<p> +“You dare to tell me so?” +</p> + +<p> +And he strode a pace nearer. +</p> + +<p> +“It needs no daring. I know you too well; and so does another who trusted +you and found you false as hell.” +</p> + +<p> +“You presume on your cloth, but—” he said, lifting his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +It was either conscience or something not so good that made a coward of him. He +turned on his heel. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I advanced with Miss Oldcastle on my arm. He drew back; and we left the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I said; “she will be better without you. Judy, ring the +bell for Sarah.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br/> +OLD ROGERS’S THANKSGIVING.</h2> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear she will be ill, though,” I said, “after all that she +has gone through.” +</p> + +<p> +But I did not even suspect how ill she would be. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no occasion, my dear old fellow, to do anything.” +</p> + +<p> +He was taken aback. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Oldcastle is in the house, Old Rogers,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“What house, sir?” returned the old man, his gray eyes opening +wider as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“This house, to be sure.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Since I am coming to that holy room,<br/> +Â Â Â Â Where, with the choir of saints for evermore,<br/> +I shall be made thy music, as I come,<br/> +Â Â Â Â I tune the instrument here at the door;<br/> +Â Â Â Â And what I must do then, think here before.” +</p> + +<p> +When Rogers had thanked God, he rose, took my hand, and said:— +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Walton, you WILL preach now. I thank God for the good we shall all +get from the trouble you have gone through.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to be the better for it,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, sartinly not.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can you say, then, that bad luck is the best luck?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But does your grannie know where you are come?” I had asked her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How does she bear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bear what, Mr Walton?” +</p> + +<p> +“The loss of your aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, Judy; that is the worst kind of conscience, +certainly. But tell me, how does Mrs Oldcastle bear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me that already.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“—Grannie never says a word about you or auntie either.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you said she was vexed: how do you know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because ever since the captain went away this morning, she won’t +speak a word to Sarah even.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not afraid of her locking you up some day or other?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I don’t want you to leave her, Judy.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br/> +TOM’S STORY.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But it cost both me and my wife some time and some suffering before we learned +how to deport ourselves in these respects. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Ethelwyn, I am ready. What shall I write about next?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you have told them anywhere about Tom.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more I have. I meant to do so. But I am ashamed of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The more reason to tell it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—-” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, never mind justifying it,” said Ethelwyn. +“<i>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +So, reader, now my wife has left me, I will begin. It shall not be a long +story. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Tom?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to say something to you, sir,” answered Tom. +</p> + +<p> +“Say on,” I returned, cheerily. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not so easy to say, sir,” rejoined Tom, with a faint smile. +“Miss Walton, sir—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what of her? There’s nothing happened to her? She was here a +few minutes ago—though, now I think of it—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Wandering about in the garden, my wife saw me from her window, and met me as I +turned a corner in the shrubbery. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with you, Henry?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, not much,” I answered. “Only that Weir has been making +me rather uncomfortable.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has he been doing?” she inquired, in some alarm. “It is +not possible he has done anything wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +My wife trusted him as much as I did. +</p> + +<p> +“No—o—o,” I answered. “Not anything exactly +wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“It must be very nearly wrong, Henry, to make you look so +miserable.” +</p> + +<p> +I began to feel ashamed and more uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Whal a wicked curate!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but you know it is not exactly agreeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know why well enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“At least, I am not going to take it for granted. Is he not a good +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he not a well-educated man?” +</p> + +<p> +“As well as myself—for his years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he not clever?” +</p> + +<p> +“One of the cleverest fellows I ever met” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he not a gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not a fault to find with his manners.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor with his habits?” my wife went on. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor with his ways of thinking?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.—But, Ethelwyn, you know what I mean quite well. His family, +you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, is his father not a respectable man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, certainly. Thoroughly respectable.” +</p> + +<p> +“He wouldn’t borrow money of his tailor instead of paying for his +clothes, would he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not” +</p> + +<p> +“And if he were to die to-day he would carry no debts to heaven with +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does he bear false witness against his neighbour?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He scorns a lie as much as any man I ever knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which of the commandments is it in particular that he breaks, +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think Tom very fortunate in having such a father. I wish my +mother had been as good.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all true, and yet—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, with you, position outweighs honesty—in fathers, at +least.” +</p> + +<p> +To this I was not ready with an answer, and my wife went on. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You said you liked mine better,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” I answered, a little piqued, “I dare say. I have +no doubt you thought me a boor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Harry!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” I said. “I see. You looked for a principle in what you +had thought was an exception.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I would not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But his sister?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?’” +</p> + +<p> +I hurried into the workshop. +</p> + +<p> +“Has Tom told you about it?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. And I told him to mind what he was about; for he was not a +gentleman, and you was, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I am. And Tom is as much a gentleman as I have any claim to +be.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomas Weir held out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen. I’m going to find Tom.” +</p> + +<p> +At the same moment Tom entered the shop, with a very melancholy face. He +started when he saw me, and looked confused. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +His face brightened up at once, and we left the shop together. Evidently with a +great effort Tom was the first to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I know, sir, how many difficulties my presumption must put you +in.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Tom went to find Martha, and I to find Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all right,” I said, “even to the shame I feel at +having needed your reproof.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t think of that. God gives us all time to come to our right +minds, you know,” answered my wife. +</p> + +<p> +“But how did you get on so far a-head of me, wifie?” +</p> + +<p> +Ethelwyn laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” she said, “I only told you back again what you have +been telling me for the last seven or eight years.” +</p> + +<p> +So to me the message had come first, but my wife had answered first with the +deed. +</p> + +<p> +And now I have had my revenge on her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +For the old people have been dead for many years. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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