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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8551-h.zip b/8551-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..717e536 --- /dev/null +++ b/8551-h.zip diff --git a/8551-h/8551-h.htm b/8551-h/8551-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0aa3e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/8551-h/8551-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8279 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> + +<head> + +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Seaboard Parish, Vol I, by George MacDonald +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 4% } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.contents {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 5% } + +p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; + letter-spacing: 4em ; + text-align: center } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Volume 1, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Seaboard Parish Volume 1 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8551] +Release Date: July, 2005 +First Posted: July 22, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOLUME 1 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al +Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1> +<br /><br /><br /> +THE SEABOARD PARISH +</h1> + +<p class="t2"> +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> +VOL. I. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> + I. <a href="#chap01">HOMILETIC</a><br /> + II. <a href="#chap02">CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY</a><br /> + III. <a href="#chap03">THE SICK CHAMBER</a><br /> + IV. <a href="#chap04">A SUNDAY EVENING</a><br /> + V. <a href="#chap05">MY DREAM</a><br /> + VI. <a href="#chap06">THE NEW BABY</a><br /> + VII. <a href="#chap07">ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING</a><br /> + VIII. <a href="#chap08">THEODORA'S DOOM</a><br /> + IX. <a href="#chap09">A SPRING CHAPTER</a><br /> + X. <a href="#chap10">AN IMPORTANT LETTER</a><br /> + XI. <a href="#chap11">CONNIE'S DREAM</a><br /> + XII. <a href="#chap12">THE JOURNEY</a><br /> + XIII. <a href="#chap13">WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED</a><br /> + XIV. <a href="#chap14">MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN</a><br /> + XV. <a href="#chap15">THE OLD CHURCH</a><br /> + XVI. <a href="#chap16">CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER</a><br /> + XVII. <a href="#chap17">MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER I. +</h3> + +<h3> +HOMILETIC. +</h3> + +<p> +Dear Friends,—I am beginning a new book like an old sermon; but, as +you know, I have been so accustomed to preach all my life, that +whatever I say or write will more or less take the shape of a sermon; +and if you had not by this time learned at least to bear with my +oddities, you would not have wanted any more of my teaching. And, +indeed, I did not think you would want any more. I thought I had bidden +you farewell. But I am seated once again at my writing-table, to write +for you—with a strange feeling, however, that I am in the heart of +some curious, rather awful acoustic contrivance, by means of which the +words which I have a habit of whispering over to myself as I write +them, are heard aloud by multitudes of people whom I cannot see or +hear. I will favour the fancy, that, by a sense of your presence, I may +speak the more truly, as man to man. +</p> + +<p> +But let me, for a moment, suppose that I am your grandfather, and that +you have all come to beg for a story; and that, therefore, as usually +happens in such cases, I am sitting with a puzzled face, indicating a +more puzzled mind. I know that there are a great many stories in the +holes and corners of my brain; indeed, here is one, there is one, +peeping out at me like a rabbit; but alas, like a rabbit, showing me +almost at the same instant the tail-end of it, and vanishing with a +contemptuous <i>thud</i> of its hind feet on the ground. For I must have +suitable regard to the desires of my children. It is a fine thing to be +able to give people what they want, if at the same time you can give +them what you want. To give people what they want, would sometimes be +to give them only dirt and poison. To give them what you want, might be +to set before them something of which they could not eat a mouthful. +What both you and I want, I am willing to think, is a dish of good +wholesome venison. Now I suppose my children around me are neither +young enough nor old enough to care about a fairy tale, go that will +not do. What they want is, I believe, something that I know about—that +has happened to myself. Well, I confess, that is the kind of thing I +like best to hear anybody talk to me about. Let anyone tell me +something that has happened to himself, especially if he will give me a +peep into how his heart took it, as it sat in its own little room with +the closed door, and that person will, so telling, absorb my attention: +he has something true and genuine and valuable to communicate. They are +mostly old people that can do so. Not that young people have nothing +happen to them; but that only when they grow old, are they able to see +things right, to disentangle confusions, and judge righteous judgment. +Things which at the time appeared insignificant or wearisome, then give +out the light that was in them, show their own truth, interest, and +influence: they are far enough off to be seen. It is not when we are +nearest to anything that we know best what it is. How I should like to +write a story for old people! The young are always having stories +written for them. Why should not the old people come in for a share? A +story without a young person in it at all! Nobody under fifty admitted! +It could hardly be a fairy tale, could it? Or a love story either? I am +not so sure about that. The worst of it would be, however, that hardly +a young person would read it. Now, we old people would not like that. +We can read young people's books and enjoy them: they would not try to +read old men's books or old women's books; they would be so sure of +their being dry. My dear old brothers and sisters, we know better, do +we not? We have nice old jokes, with no end of fun in them; only they +cannot see the fun. We have strange tales, that we know to be true, and +which look more and more marvellous every time we turn them over again; +only somehow they do not belong to the ways of this year—I was going +to say <i>week</i>,—and so the young people generally do not care to hear +them. I have had one pale-faced boy, to be sure, who will sit at his +mother's feet, and listen for hours to what took place before he was +born. To him his mother's wedding-gown was as old as Eve's coat of +skins. But then he was young enough not yet to have had a chance of +losing the childhood common to the young and the old. Ah! I should like +to write for you, old men, old women, to help you to read the past, to +help you to look for the future. Now is your salvation nearer than when +you believed; for, however your souls may be at peace, however your +quietness and confidence may give you strength, in the decay of your +earthly tabernacle, in the shortening of its cords, in the weakening of +its stakes, in the rents through which you see the stars, you have yet +your share in the cry of the creation after the sonship. But the one +thing I should keep saying to you, my companions in old age, would be, +"Friends, let us not grow old." Old age is but a mask; let us not call +the mask the face. Is the acorn old, because its cup dries and drops it +from its hold—because its skin has grown brown and cracks in the +earth? Then only is a man growing old when he ceases to have sympathy +with the young. That is a sign that his heart has begun to wither. And +that is a dreadful kind of old age. The heart needs never be old. +Indeed it should always be growing younger. Some of us feel younger, do +we not, than when we were nine or ten? It is not necessary to be able +to play at leapfrog to enjoy the game. There are young creatures whose +turn it is, and perhaps whose duty it would be, to play at leap-frog if +there was any necessity for putting the matter in that light; and for +us, we have the privilege, or if we will not accept the privilege, then +I say we have the duty, of enjoying their leap-frog. But if we must +withdraw in a measure from sociable relations with our fellows, let it +be as the wise creatures that creep aside and wrap themselves up and +lay themselves by that their wings may grow and put on the lovely hues +of their coming resurrection. Such a withdrawing is in the name of +youth. And while it is pleasant—no one knows how pleasant except him +who experiences it—to sit apart and see the drama of life going on +around him, while his feelings are calm and free, his vision clear, and +his judgment righteous, the old man must ever be ready, should the +sweep of action catch him in its skirts, to get on his tottering old +legs, and go with brave heart to do the work of a true man, none the +less true that his hands tremble, and that he would gladly return to +his chimney-corner. If he is never thus called out, let him examine +himself, lest he should be falling into the number of those that say, +"I go, sir," and go not; who are content with thinking beautiful things +in an Atlantis, Oceana, Arcadia, or what it may be, but put not forth +one of their fingers to work a salvation in the earth. Better than such +is the man who, using just weights and a true balance, sells good +flour, and never has a thought of his own. +</p> + +<p> +I have been talking—to my reader is it? or to my supposed group of +grandchildren? I remember—to my companions in old age. It is time I +returned to the company who are hearing my whispers at the other side +of the great thundering gallery. I take leave of my old friends with +one word: We have yet a work to do, my friends; but a work we shall +never do aright after ceasing to understand the new generation. We are +not the men, neither shall wisdom die with us. The Lord hath not +forsaken his people because the young ones do not think just as the old +ones choose. The Lord has something fresh to tell them, and is getting +them ready to receive his message. When we are out of sympathy with the +young, then I think our work in this world is over. It might end more +honourably. +</p> + +<p> +Now, readers in general, I have had time to consider what to tell you +about, and how to begin. My story will be rather about my family than +myself now. I was as it were a little withdrawn, even by the time of +which I am about to write. I had settled into a gray-haired, quite +elderly, yet active man—young still, in fact, to what I am now. But +even then, though my faith had grown stronger, life had grown sadder, +and needed all my stronger faith; for the vanishing of beloved faces, +and the trials of them that are dear, will make even those that look +for a better country both for themselves and their friends, sad, though +it will be with a preponderance of the first meaning of the word <i>sad</i>, +which was <i>settled</i>, <i>thoughtful</i>. +</p> + +<p> +I am again seated in the little octagonal room, which I have made my +study because I like it best. It is rather a shame, for my books cover +over every foot of the old oak panelling. But they make the room all +the pleasanter to the eye, and after I am gone, there is the old oak, +none the worse, for anyone who prefers it to books. +</p> + +<p> +I intend to use as the central portion of my present narrative the +history of a year during part of which I took charge of a friend's +parish, while my brother-in-law, Thomas Weir, who was and is still my +curate, took the entire charge of Marshmallows. What led to this will +soon appear. I will try to be minute enough in my narrative to make my +story interesting, although it will cost me suffering to recall some of +the incidents I have to narrate. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER II. +</h3> + +<h3> +CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY. +</h3> + +<p> +Was it from observation of nature in its association with human nature, +or from artistic feeling alone, that Shakspere so often represents +Nature's mood as in harmony with the mood of the principal actors in +his drama? I know I have so often found Nature's mood in harmony with +my own, even when she had nothing to do with forming mine, that in +looking back I have wondered at the fact. There may, however, be some +self-deception about it. At all events, on the morning of my +Constance's eighteenth birthday, a lovely October day with a golden +east, clouds of golden foliage about the ways, and an air that seemed +filled with the ether of an <i>aurum potabile</i>, there came yet an +occasional blast of wind, which, without being absolutely cold, smelt +of winter, and made one draw one's shoulders together with the sense of +an unfriendly presence. I do not think Constance felt it at all, +however, as she stood on the steps in her riding-habit, waiting till +the horses made their appearance. It had somehow grown into a custom +with us that each of the children, as his or her birthday came round, +should be king or queen for that day, and, subject to the veto of +father and mother, should have everything his or her own way. Let me +say for them, however, that in the matter of choosing the dinner, which +of course was included in the royal prerogative, I came to see that it +was almost invariably the favourite dishes of others of the family that +were chosen, and not those especially agreeable to the royal palate. +Members of families where children have not been taught from their +earliest years that the great privilege of possession is the right to +bestow, may regard this as an improbable assertion; but others will +know that it might well enough be true, even if I did not say that so +it was. But there was always the choice of some individual treat, which +was determined solely by the preference of the individual in authority. +Constance had chosen "a long ride with papa." +</p> + +<p> +I suppose a parent may sometimes be right when he speaks with +admiration of his own children. The probability of his being correct is +to be determined by the amount of capacity he has for admiring other +people's children. However this may be in my own case, I venture to +assert that Constance did look very lovely that morning. She was fresh +as the young day: we were early people—breakfast and prayers were +over, and it was nine o'clock as she stood on the steps and I +approached her from the lawn. +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa! isn't it jolly?" she said merrily. +</p> + +<p> +"Very jolly indeed, my dear," I answered, delighted to hear the word +from the lips of my gentle daughter. She very seldom used a slang word, +and when she did, she used it like a lady. Shall I tell you what she +was like? Ah! you could not see her as I saw her that morning if I did. +I will, however, try to give you a general idea, just in order that you +and I should not be picturing to ourselves two very different persons +while I speak of her. +</p> + +<p> +She was rather little, and so slight that she looked tall. I have often +observed that the impression of height is an affair of proportion, and +has nothing to do with feet and inches. She was rather fair in +complexion, with her mother's blue eyes, and her mother's long dark +wavy hair. She was generally playful, and took greater liberties with +me than any of the others; only with her liberties, as with her slang, +she knew instinctively when, where, and how much. For on the borders of +her playfulness there seemed ever to hang a fringe of thoughtfulness, +as if she felt that the present moment owed all its sparkle and +brilliance to the eternal sunlight. And the appearance was not in the +least a deceptive one. The eternal was not far from her—none the +farther that she enjoyed life like a bird, that her laugh was merry, +that her heart was careless, and that her voice rang through the +house—a sweet soprano voice—singing snatches of songs (now a street +tune she had caught from a London organ, now an air from Handel or +Mozart), or that she would sometimes tease her elder sister about her +solemn and anxious looks; for Wynnie, the eldest, had to suffer for her +grandmother's sins against her daughter, and came into the world with a +troubled little heart, that was soon compelled to flee for refuge to +the rock that was higher than she. Ah! my Constance! But God was good +to you and to us in you. +</p> + +<p> +"Where shall we go, Connie?" I said, and the same moment the sound of +the horses' hoofs reached us. +</p> + +<p> +"Would it be too far to go to Addicehead?" she returned. +</p> + +<p> +"It is a long ride," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Too much for the pony?" +</p> + +<p> +"O dear, no—not at all. I was thinking of you, not of the pony." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm quite as able to ride as the pony is to carry me, papa. And I want +to get something for Wynnie. Do let us go." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, my dear," I said, and raised her to the saddle—if I may +say <i>raised</i>, for no bird ever hopped more lightly from one twig to +another than she sprung from the ground on her pony's back. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment I was beside her, and away we rode. +</p> + +<p> +The shadows were still long, the dew still pearly on the spiders' webs, +as we trotted out of our own grounds into a lane that led away towards +the high road. Our horses were fresh and the air was exciting; so we +turned from the hard road into the first suitable field, and had a +gallop to begin with. Constance was a good horse-woman, for she had +been used to the saddle longer than she could remember. She was now +riding a tall well-bred pony, with plenty of life—rather too much, I +sometimes thought, when I was out with Wynnie; but I never thought so +when I was with Constance. Another field or two sufficiently quieted +both animals—I did not want to have all our time taken up with their +frolics—and then we began to talk. +</p> + +<p> +"You are getting quite a woman now, Connie, my dear," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Quite an old grannie, papa," she answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Old enough to think about what's coming next," I said gravely. +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa! And you are always telling us that we must not think about +the morrow, or even the next hour. But, then, that's in the pulpit," +she added, with a sly look up at me from under the drooping feather of +her pretty hat. +</p> + +<p> +"You know very well what I mean, you puss," I answered. "And I don't +say one thing in the pulpit and another out of it." +</p> + +<p> +She was at my horse's shoulder with a bound, as if Spry, her pony, had +been of one mind and one piece with her. She was afraid she had +offended me. She looked up into mine with as anxious a face as ever I +saw upon Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"O, thank you, papa!" she said when I smiled. "I thought I had been +rude. I didn't mean it, indeed I didn't. But I do wish you would make +it a little plainer to me. I do think about things sometimes, though +you would hardly believe it." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you want made plainer, my child?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"When we're to think, and when we're not to think," she answered. +</p> + +<p> +I remember all of this conversation because of what came so soon after. +</p> + +<p> +"If the known duty of to-morrow depends on the work of to-day," I +answered, "if it cannot be done right except you think about it and lay +your plans for it, then that thought is to-day's business, not +to-morrow's." +</p> + +<p> +"Dear papa, some of your explanations are more difficult than the +things themselves. May I be as impertinent as I like on my birthday?" +she asked suddenly, again looking up in my face. +</p> + +<p> +We were walking now, and she had a hold of my horse's mane, so as to +keep her pony close up. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear, as impertinent as you like—not an atom more, mind." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, papa, I sometimes wish you wouldn't explain things so much. I +seem to understand you all the time you are preaching, but when I try +the text afterwards by myself, I can't make anything of it, and I've +forgotten every word you said about it." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps that is because you have no right to understand it." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought all Protestants had a right to understand every word of the +Bible," she returned. +</p> + +<p> +"If they can," I rejoined. "But last Sunday, for instance, I did not +expect anybody there to understand a certain bit of my sermon, except +your mamma and Thomas Weir." +</p> + +<p> +"How funny! What part of it was that?" +</p> + +<p> +"O! I'm not going to tell you. You have no right to understand it. But +most likely you thought you understood it perfectly, and it appeared to +you, in consequence, very commonplace." +</p> + +<p> +"In consequence of what?" +</p> + +<p> +"In consequence of your thinking you understood it." +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa dear! you're getting worse and worse. It's not often I ask you +anything—and on my birthday too! It is really too bad of you to +bewilder my poor little brains in this way." +</p> + +<p> +"I will try to make you see what I mean, my pet. No talk about an idea +that you never had in your head at all, can make you have that idea. If +you had never seen a horse, no description even, not to say no amount +of remark, would bring the figure of a horse before your mind. Much +more is this the case with truths that belong to the convictions and +feelings of the heart. Suppose a man had never in his life asked God +for anything, or thanked God for anything, would his opinion as to what +David meant in one of his worshipping psalms be worth much? The whole +thing would be beyond him. If you have never known what it is to have +care of any kind upon you, you cannot understand what our Lord means +when he tells us to take no thought for the morrow." +</p> + +<p> +"But indeed, papa, I am very full of care sometimes, though not perhaps +about to-morrow precisely. But that does not matter, does it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly not. Tell me what you are full of care about, my child, and +perhaps I can help you." +</p> + +<p> +"You often say, papa, that half the misery in this world comes from +idleness, and that you do not believe that in a world where God is at +work every day, Sundays not excepted, it could have been intended that +women any more than men should have nothing to do. Now what am I to do? +What have I been sent into the world for? I don't see it; and I feel +very useless and wrong sometimes." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not think there is very much to complain of you in that respect, +Connie. You, and your sister as well, help me very much in my parish. +You take much off your mother's hands too. And you do a good deal for +the poor. You teach your younger brothers and sister, and meantime you +are learning yourselves." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, but that's not work." +</p> + +<p> +"It is work. And it is the work that is given you to do at present. And +you would do it much better if you were to look at it in that light. +Not that I have anything to complain of." +</p> + +<p> +"But I don't want to stop at home and lead an easy, comfortable life, +when there are so many to help everywhere in the world." +</p> + +<p> +"Is there anything better in doing something where God has not placed +you, than in doing it where he has placed you?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, papa. But my sisters are quite enough for all you have for us to +do at home. Is nobody ever to go away to find the work meant for her? +You won't think, dear papa, that I want to get away from home, will +you?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, my dear. I believe that you are really thinking about duty. And +now comes the moment for considering the passage to which you began by +referring:—What God may hereafter require of you, you must not give +yourself the least trouble about. Everything he gives you to do, you +must do as well as ever you can, and that is the best possible +preparation for what he may want you to do next. If people would but do +what they have to do, they would always find themselves ready for what +came next. And I do not believe that those who follow this rule are +ever left floundering on the sea-deserted sands of inaction, unable to +find water enough to swim in." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, dear papa. That's a little sermon all to myself, and I +think I shall understand it even when I think about it afterwards. Now +let's have a trot." +</p> + +<p> +"There is one thing more I ought to speak about though, Connie. It is +not your moral nature alone you ought to cultivate. You ought to make +yourself as worth God's making as you possibly can. Now I am a little +doubtful whether you keep up your studies at all." +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her pretty shoulders playfully, looking up in my face +again. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't like dry things, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Nobody does." +</p> + +<p> +"Nobody!" she exclaimed. "How do the grammars and history-books come to +be written then?" +</p> + +<p> +In talking to me, somehow, the child always put on a more childish tone +than when she talked to anyone else. I am certain there was no +affection in it, though. Indeed, how could she be affected with her +fault-finding old father? +</p> + +<p> +"No. Those books are exceedingly interesting to the people that make +them. Dry things are just things that you do not know enough about to +care for them. And all you learn at school is next to nothing to what +you have to learn." +</p> + +<p> +"What must I do then?" she asked with a sigh. "Must I go all over my +French Grammar again? O dear! I do hate it so!" +</p> + +<p> +"If you will tell me something you like, Connie, instead of something +you don't like, I may be able to give you advice. Is there nothing you +are fond of?" I continued, finding that she remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know anything in particular—that is, I don't know anything in +the way of school-work that I really liked. I don't mean that I didn't +try to do what I had to do, for I did. There was just one thing I +liked—the poetry we had to learn once a week. But I suppose gentlemen +count that silly—don't they?" +</p> + +<p> +"On the contrary, my dear, I would make that liking of yours the +foundation of all your work. Besides, I think poetry the grandest thing +God has given us—though perhaps you and I might not quite agree about +what poetry was poetry enough to be counted an especial gift of God. +Now, what poetry do you like best?" +</p> + +<p> +"Mrs. Hemans's, I think, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, very well, to begin with. 'There is,' as Mr. Carlyle said to a +friend of mine—'There is a thin vein of true poetry in Mrs. Hemans.' +But it is time you had done with thin things, however good they may be. +Most people never get beyond spoon-meat—in this world, at least, and +they expect nothing else in the world to come. I must take you in hand +myself, and see what I can do for you. It is wretched to see capable +enough creatures, all for want of a little guidance, bursting with +admiration of what owes its principal charm to novelty of form, gained +at the cost of expression and sense. Not that that applies to Mrs. +Hemans. She is simple enough, only diluted to a degree. But I hold that +whatever mental food you take should be just a little too strong for +you. That implies trouble, necessitates growth, and involves delight." +</p> + +<p> +"I sha'n't mind how difficult it is if you help me, papa. But it is +anything but satisfactory to go groping on without knowing what you are +about." +</p> + +<p> +I ought to have mentioned that Constance had been at school for two +years, and had only been home a month that very day, in order to +account for my knowing so little about her tastes and habits of mind. +We went on talking a little more in the same way, and if I were writing +for young people only, I should be tempted to go on a little farther +with the account of what we said to each other; for it might help some +of them to see that the thing they like best should, circumstances and +conscience permitting, be made the centre from which they start to +learn; that they should go on enlarging their knowledge all round from +that one point at which God intended them to begin. But at length we +fell into a silence, a very happy one on my part; for I was more than +delighted to find that this one too of my children was following after +the truth—wanting to do what was right, namely, to obey the word of +the Lord, whether openly spoken to all, or to herself in the voice of +her own conscience and the light of that understanding which is the +candle of the Lord. I had often said to myself in past years, when I +had found myself in the company of young ladies who announced their +opinions—probably of no deeper origin than the prejudices of their +nurses—as if these distinguished them from all the world besides; who +were profound upon passion and ignorant of grace; who had not a notion +whether a dress was beautiful, but only whether it was of the newest +cut—I had often said to myself: "What shall I do if my daughters come +to talk and think like that—if thinking it can be called?" but being +confident that instruction for which the mind is not prepared only lies +in a rotting heap, producing all kinds of mental evils correspondent to +the results of successive loads of food which the system cannot +assimilate, my hope had been to rouse wise questions in the minds of my +children, in place of overwhelming their digestions with what could be +of no instruction or edification without the foregoing appetite. Now my +Constance had begun to ask me questions, and it made me very happy. We +had thus come a long way nearer to each other; for however near the +affection of human animals may bring them, there are abysses between +soul and soul—the souls even of father and daughter—over which they +must pass to meet. And I do not believe that any two human beings alive +know yet what it is to love as love is in the glorious will of the +Father of lights. +</p> + +<p> +I linger on with my talk, for I shrink from what I must relate. +</p> + +<p> +We were going at a gentle trot, silent, along a woodland path—a brown, +soft, shady road, nearly five miles from home, our horses scattering +about the withered leaves that lay thick upon it. A good deal of +underwood and a few large trees had been lately cleared from the place. +There were many piles of fagots about, and a great log lying here and +there along the side of the path. One of these, when a tree, had been +struck by lightning, and had stood till the frosts and rains had bared +it of its bark. Now it lay white as a skeleton by the side of the path, +and was, I think, the cause of what followed. All at once my daughter's +pony sprang to the other side of the road, shying sideways; unsettled +her so, I presume; then rearing and plunging, threw her from the saddle +across one of the logs of which I have spoken. I was by her side in a +moment. To my horror she lay motionless. Her eyes were closed, and when +I took her up in my arms she did not open them. I laid her on the moss, +and got some water and sprinkled her face. Then she revived a little; +but seemed in much pain, and all at once went off into another faint. I +was in terrible perplexity. +</p> + +<p> +Presently a man who, having been cutting fagots at a little distance, +had seen the pony careering through the wood, came up and asked what he +could do to help me. I told him to take my horse, whose bridle I had +thrown over the latch of a gate, and ride to Oldcastle Hall, and ask +Mrs. Walton to come with the carriage as quickly as possible. "Tell +her," I said, "that her daughter has had a fall from her pony, and is +rather shaken. Ride as hard as you can go." +</p> + +<p> +The man was off in a moment; and there I sat watching my poor child, +for what seemed to be a dreadfully long time before the carriage +arrived. She had come to herself quite, but complained of much pain in +her back; and, to my distress, I found that she could not move herself +enough to make the least change of her position. She evidently tried to +keep up as well as she could; but her face expressed great suffering: +it was dreadfully pale, and looked worn with a month's illness. All my +fear was for her spine. +</p> + +<p> +At length I caught sight of the carriage, coming through the wood as +fast as the road would allow, with the woodman on the box, directing +the coachman. It drew up, and my wife got out. She was as pale as +Constance, but quiet and firm, her features composed almost to +determination. I had never seen her look like that before. She asked no +questions: there was time enough for that afterwards. She had brought +plenty of cushions and pillows, and we did all we could to make an easy +couch for the poor girl; but she moaned dreadfully as we lifted her +into the carriage. We did our best to keep her from being shaken; but +those few miles were the longest journey I ever made in my life. +</p> + +<p> +When we reached home at length, we found that Ethel, or, as we commonly +called her, using the other end of her name, Wynnie—for she was named +after her mother—had got a room on the ground-floor, usually given to +visitors, ready for her sister; and we were glad indeed not to have to +carry her up the stairs. Before my wife left, she had sent the groom +off to Addicehead for both physician and surgeon. A young man who had +settled at Marshmallows as general practitioner a year or two before, +was waiting for us when we arrived. He helped us to lay her upon a +mattress in the position in which she felt the least pain. But why +should I linger over the sorrowful detail? All agreed that the poor +child's spine was seriously injured, and that probably years of +suffering were before her. Everything was done that could be done; but +she was not moved from that room for nine months, during which, though +her pain certainly grew less by degrees, her want of power to move +herself remained almost the same. +</p> + +<p> +When I had left her at last a little composed, with her mother seated +by her bedside, I called my other two daughters—Wynnie, the eldest, +and Dorothy, the youngest, whom I found seated on the floor outside, +one on each side of the door, weeping—into my study, and said to them: +"My darlings, this is very sad; but you must remember that it is God's +will; and as you would both try to bear it cheerfully if it had fallen +to your lot to bear, you must try to be cheerful even when it is your +sister's part to endure." +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa! poor Connie!" cried Dora, and burst into fresh tears. +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie said nothing, but knelt down by my knee, and laid her cheek upon +it. +</p> + +<p> +"Shall I tell you what Constance said to me just before I left the +room?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Please do, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"She whispered, 'You must try to bear it, all of you, as well as you +can. I don't mind it very much, only for you.' So, you see, if you want +to make her comfortable, you must not look gloomy and troubled. Sick +people like to see cheerful faces about them; and I am sure Connie will +not suffer nearly so much if she finds that she does not make the +household gloomy." +</p> + +<p> +This I had learned from being ill myself once or twice since my +marriage. My wife never came near me with a gloomy face, and I had +found that it was quite possible to be sympathetic with those of my +flock who were ill without putting on a long face when I went to see +them. Of course, I do not mean that I could, or that it was desirable +that I should, look cheerful when any were in great pain or mental +distress. But in ordinary conditions of illness a cheerful countenance +is as a message of <i>all's well</i>, which may surely be carried into a +sick chamber by the man who believes that the heart of a loving Father +is at the centre of things, that he is light all about the darkness, +and that he will not only bring good out of evil at last, but will be +with the sufferer all the time, making endurance possible, and pain +tolerable. There are a thousand alleviations that people do not often +think of, coming from God himself. Would you not say, for instance, +that time must pass very slowly in pain? But have you never observed, +or has no one ever made the remark to you, how strangely fast, even in +severe pain, the time passes after all? +</p> + +<p> +"We will do all we can, will we not," I went on, "to make her as +comfortable as possible? You, Dora, must attend to your little +brothers, that your mother may not have too much to think about now +that she will have Connie to nurse." +</p> + +<p> +They could not say much, but they both kissed me, and went away leaving +me to understand clearly enough that they had quite understood me. I +then returned to the sick chamber, where I found that the poor child +had fallen asleep. +</p> + +<p> +My wife and I watched by her bedside on alternate nights, until the +pain had so far subsided, and the fever was so far reduced, that we +could allow Wynnie to take a share in the office. We could not think of +giving her over to the care of any but one of ourselves during the +night. Her chief suffering came from its being necessary that she +should keep nearly one position on her back, because of her spine, +while the external bruise and the swelling of the muscles were in +consequence so painful, that it needed all that mechanical contrivance +could do to render the position endurable. But these outward conditions +were greatly ameliorated before many days were over. +</p> + +<p> +This is a dreary beginning of my story, is it not? But sickness of all +kinds is such a common thing in the world, that it is well sometimes to +let our minds rest upon it, lest it should take us altogether at +unawares, either in ourselves or our friends, when it comes. If it were +not a good thing in the end, surely it would not be; and perhaps before +I have done my readers will not be sorry that my tale began so +gloomily. The sickness in Judaea eighteen hundred and thirty-five years +ago, or thereabouts, has no small part in the story of him who came to +put all things under our feet. Praise be to him for evermore! +</p> + +<p> +It soon became evident to me that that room was like a new and more +sacred heart to the house. At first it radiated gloom to the remotest +corners; but soon rays of light began to appear mingling with the +gloom. I could see that bits of news were carried from it to the +servants in the kitchen, in the garden, in the stable, and over the way +to the home-farm. Even in the village, and everywhere over the parish, +I was received more kindly, and listened to more willingly, because of +the trouble I and my family were in; while in the house, although we +had never been anything else than a loving family, it was easy to +discover that we all drew more closely together in consequence of our +common anxiety. Previous to this, it had been no unusual thing to see +Wynnie and Dora impatient with each other; for Dora was none the less a +wild, somewhat lawless child, that she was a profoundly affectionate +one. She rather resembled her cousin Judy, in fact—whom she called +Aunt Judy, and with whom she was naturally a great favourite. Wynnie, +on the other hand, was sedate, and rather severe—more severe, I must +in justice say, with herself than with anyone else. I had sometimes +wished, it is true, that her mother, in regard to the younger children, +were more like her; but there I was wrong. For one of the great goods +that come of having two parents, is that the one balances and rectifies +the motions of the other. No one is good but God. No one holds the +truth, or can hold it, in one and the same thought, but God. Our human +life is often, at best, but an oscillation between the extremes which +together make the truth; and it is not a bad thing in a family, that +the pendulums of father and mother should differ in movement so far, +that when the one is at one extremity of the swing, the other should be +at the other, so that they meet only in the point of <i>indifference</i>, in +the middle; that the predominant tendency of the one should not be the +predominant tendency of the other. I was a very strict +disciplinarian—too much so, perhaps, sometimes: Ethelwyn, on the other +hand, was too much inclined, I thought, to excuse everything. I was +law, she was grace. But grace often yielded to law, and law sometimes +yielded to grace. Yet she represented the higher; for in the ultimate +triumph of grace, in the glad performance of the command from love of +what is commanded, the law is fulfilled: the law is a schoolmaster to +bring us to Christ. I must say this for myself, however, that, although +obedience was the one thing I enforced, believing it the one thing upon +which all family economy primarily depends, yet my object always was to +set my children free from my law as soon as possible; in a word, to +help them to become, as soon as it might be, a law unto themselves. +Then they would need no more of mine. Then I would go entirely over to +the mother's higher side, and become to them, as much as in me lay, no +longer law and truth, but grace and truth. But to return to my +children—it was soon evident not only that Wynnie had grown more +indulgent to Dora's vagaries, but that Dora was more submissive to +Wynnie, while the younger children began to obey their eldest sister +with a willing obedience, keeping down their effervescence within +doors, and letting it off only out of doors, or in the out-houses. +</p> + +<p> +When Constance began to recover a little, then the sacredness of that +chamber began to show itself more powerfully, radiating on all sides a +yet stronger influence of peace and goodwill. It was like a fountain of +gentle light, quieting and bringing more or less into tune all that +came within the circle of its sweetness. This brings me to speak again +of my lovely child. For surely a father may speak thus of a child of +God. He cannot regard his child as his even as a book he has written +may be his. A man's child is his because God has said to him, "Take +this child and nurse it for me." She is God's making; God's marvellous +invention, to be tended and cared for, and ministered unto as one of +his precious things; a young angel, let me say, who needs the air of +this lower world to make her wings grow. And while he regards her thus, +he will see all other children in the same light, and will not dare to +set up his own against others of God's brood with the new-budding +wings. The universal heart of truth will thus rectify, while it +intensifies, the individual feeling towards one's own; and the man who +is most free from poor partisanship in regard to his own family, will +feel the most individual tenderness for the lovely human creatures whom +God has given into his own especial care and responsibility. Show me +the man who is tender, reverential, gracious towards the children of +other men, and I will show you the man who will love and tend his own +best, to whose heart his own will flee for their first refuge after +God, when they catch sight of the cloud in the wind. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER III. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE SICK CHAMBER. +</h3> + +<p> +In the course of a month there was a good deal more of light in the +smile with which my darling greeted me when I entered her room in the +morning. Her pain was greatly gone, but the power of moving her limbs +had not yet even begun to show itself. +</p> + +<p> +One day she received me with a still happier smile than I had yet seen +upon her face, put out her thin white hand, took mine and kissed it, +and said, "Papa," with a lingering on the last syllable. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it, my pet?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"I am so happy!" +</p> + +<p> +"What makes you so happy?" I asked again. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know," she answered. "I haven't thought about it yet. But +everything looks so pleasant round me. Is it nearly winter yet, papa? +I've forgotten all about how the time has been going." +</p> + +<p> +"It is almost winter, my dear. There is hardly a leaf left on the +trees—just two or three disconsolate yellow ones that want to get away +down to the rest. They go fluttering and fluttering and trying to break +away, but they can't." +</p> + +<p> +"That is just as I felt a little while ago. I wanted to die and get +away, papa; for I thought I should never be well again, and I should be +in everybody's way.—I am afraid I shall not get well, after all," she +added, and the light clouded on her sweet face. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my darling, we are in God's hands. We shall never get tired of +you, and you must not get tired of us. Would you get tired of nursing +me, if I were ill?" +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa!" And the tears began to gather in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"Then you must think we are not able to love so well as you." +</p> + +<p> +"I know what you mean. I did not think of it that way. I will never +think so about it again. I was only thinking how useless I was." +</p> + +<p> +"There you are quite mistaken, my dear. No living creature ever was +useless. You've got plenty to do there." +</p> + +<p> +"But what have I got to do? I don't feel able for anything," she said; +and again the tears came in her eyes, as if I had been telling her to +get up and she could not. +</p> + +<p> +"A great deal of our work," I answered, "we do without knowing what it +is. But I'll tell you what you have got to do: you have got to believe +in God, and in everybody in this house." +</p> + +<p> +"I do, I do. But that is easy to do," she returned. +</p> + +<p> +"And do you think that the work God gives us to do is never easy? Jesus +says his yoke is easy, his burden is light. People sometimes refuse to +do God's work just because it is easy. This is, sometimes, because they +cannot believe that easy work is his work; but there may be a very bad +pride in it: it may be because they think that there is little or no +honour to be got in that way; and therefore they despise it. Some again +accept it with half a heart, and do it with half a hand. But, however +easy any work may be, it cannot be well done without taking thought +about it. And such people, instead of taking thought about their work, +generally take thought about the morrow, in which no work can be done +any more than in yesterday. The Holy Present!—I think I must make one +more sermon about it—although you, Connie," I said, meaning it for a +little joke, "do think that I have said too much about it already." +</p> + +<p> +"Papa, papa! do forgive me. This is a judgment on me for talking to you +as I did that dreadful morning. But I was so happy that I was +impertinent." +</p> + +<p> +"You silly darling!" I said. "A judgment! God be angry with you for +that! Even if it had been anything wrong, which it was not, do you +think God has no patience? No, Connie. I will tell you what seems to me +much more likely. You wanted something to do; and so God gave you +something to do." +</p> + +<p> +"Lying in bed and doing nothing!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Just lying in bed, and doing his will." +</p> + +<p> +"If I could but feel that I was doing his will!" +</p> + +<p> +"When you do it, then you will feel you are doing it." +</p> + +<p> +"I know you are coming to something, papa. Please make haste, for my +back is getting so bad." +</p> + +<p> +"I've tired you, my pet. It was very thoughtless of me. I will tell you +the rest another time," I said, rising. +</p> + +<p> +"No, no. It will make me much worse not to hear it all now." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I will tell you. Be still, my darling, I won't be long. In the +time of the old sacrifices, when God so kindly told his ignorant +children to do something for him in that way, poor people were told to +bring, not a bullock or a sheep, for that was more than they could get, +but a pair of turtledoves, or two young pigeons. But now, as Crashaw +the poet says, 'Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.' God wanted to +teach people to offer themselves. Now, you are poor, my pet, and you +cannot offer yourself in great things done for your fellow-men, which +was the way Jesus did. But you must remember that the two young pigeons +of the poor were just as acceptable to God as the fat bullock of the +rich. Therefore you must say to God something like this:—'O heavenly +Father, I have nothing to offer thee but my patience. I will bear thy +will, and so offer my will a burnt-offering unto thee. I will be as +useless as thou pleasest.' Depend upon it, my darling, in the midst of +all the science about the world and its ways, and all the ignorance of +God and his greatness, the man or woman who can thus say, <i>Thy will be +done</i>, with the true heart of giving up is nearer the secret of things +than the geologist and theologian. And now, my darling, be quiet in +God's name." +</p> + +<p> +She held up her mouth to kiss me, but did not speak, and I left her, +and sent Dora to sit with her. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, when I went into her room again, having been out in my +parish all the morning, I began to unload my budget of small events. +Indeed, we all came in like pelicans with stuffed pouches to empty them +in her room, as if she had been the only young one we had, and we must +cram her with news. Or, rather, she was like the queen of the +commonwealth sending out her messages into all parts, and receiving +messages in return. I might call her the brain of the house; but I have +used similes enough for a while. +</p> + +<p> +After I had done talking, she said— +</p> + +<p> +"And you have been to the school too, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. I go to the school almost every day. I fancy in such a school as +ours the young people get more good than they do in church. You know I +had made a great change in the Sunday-school just before you came home." +</p> + +<p> +"I heard of that, papa. You won't let any of the little ones go to +school on the Sunday." +</p> + +<p> +"No. It is too much for them. And having made this change, I feel the +necessity of being in the school myself nearly every day, that I may do +something direct for the little ones." +</p> + +<p> +"And you'll have to take me up soon, as you promised, you know, +papa—just before Sprite threw me." +</p> + +<p> +"As soon as you like, my dear, after you are able to read again." +</p> + +<p> +"O, you must begin before that, please.—You could spare time to read a +little to me, couldn't you?" she said doubtfully, as if she feared she +was asking too much. +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly, my dear; and I will begin to think about it at once." +</p> + +<p> +It was in part the result of this wish of my child's that it became the +custom to gather in her room on Sunday evenings. She was quite unable +for any kind of work such as she would have had me commence with her, +but I used to take something to read to her every now and then, and +always after our early tea on Sundays. +</p> + +<p> +What a thing it is to have one to speak and think about and try to find +out and understand, who is always and altogether and perfectly good! +Such a centre that is for all our thoughts and words and actions and +imaginations! It is indeed blessed to be human beings with Jesus Christ +for the centre of humanity. +</p> + +<p> +In the papers wherein I am about to record the chief events of the +following years of my life, I shall give a short account of what passed +at some of these assemblies in my child's room, in the hope that it may +give my friends something, if not new, yet fresh to think about. For +God has so made us that everyone who thinks at all thinks in a way that +must be more or less fresh to everyone else who thinks, if he only have +the gift of setting forth his thoughts so that we can see what they are. +</p> + +<p> +I hope my readers will not be alarmed at this, and suppose that I am +about to inflict long sermons upon them. I am not. I do hope, as I say, +to teach them something; but those whom I succeed in so teaching will +share in the delight it will give me to write about what I love most. +</p> + +<p> +As far as I can remember, I will tell how this Sunday-evening class +began. I was sitting by Constance's bed. The fire was burning brightly, +and the twilight had deepened so nearly into night that it was +reflected back from the window, for the curtains had not yet been +drawn. There was no light in the room but that of the fire. +</p> + +<p> +Now Constance was in the way of asking often what kind of day or night +it was, for there never was a girl more a child of nature than she. Her +heart seemed to respond at once to any and every mood of the world +around her. To her the condition of air, earth, and sky was news, and +news of poetic interest too. "What is it like?" she would often say, +without any more definite shaping of the question. This same evening +she said: +</p> + +<p> +"What is it like, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is growing dark," I answered, "as you can see. It is a still +evening, and what they call a black frost. The trees are standing as +still as if they were carved out of stone, and would snap off +everywhere if the wind were to blow. The ground is dark, and as hard as +if it were of cast iron. A gloomy night rather, my dear. It looks as if +there were something upon its mind that made it sullenly thoughtful; +but the stars are coming out one after another overhead, and the sky +will be all awake soon. A strange thing the life that goes on all +night, is it not? The life of owlets, and mice, and beasts of prey, and +bats, and stars," I said, with no very categorical arrangement, "and +dreams, and flowers that don't go to sleep like the rest, but send out +their scent all night long. Only those are gone now. There are no +scents abroad, not even of the earth in such a frost as this." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think it looks sometimes, papa, as if God turned his back on +the world, or went farther away from it for a while?" +</p> + +<p> +"Tell me a little more what you mean, Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, this night now, this dark, frozen, lifeless night, which you +have been describing to me, isn't like God at all—is it?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, it is not. I see what you mean now." +</p> + +<p> +"It is just as if he had gone away and said, 'Now you shall see what +you can do without me.' +</p> + +<p> +"Something like that. But do you know that English people—at least I +think so—enjoy the changeful weather of their country much more upon +the whole than those who have fine weather constantly? You see it is +not enough to satisfy God's goodness that he should give us all things +richly to enjoy, but he must make us able to enjoy them as richly as he +gives them. He has to consider not only the gift, but the receiver of +the gift. He has to make us able to take the gift and make it our own, +as well as to give us the gift. In fact, it is not real giving, with +the full, that is, the divine, meaning of giving, without it. He has to +give us to the gift as well as give the gift to us. Now for this, a +break, an interruption is good, is invaluable, for then we begin to +think about the thing, and do something in the matter ourselves. The +wonder of God's teaching is that, in great part, he makes us not merely +learn, but teach ourselves, and that is far grander than if he only +made our minds as he makes our bodies." +</p> + +<p> +"I think I understand you, papa. For since I have been ill, you would +wonder, if you could see into me, how even what you tell me about the +world out of doors gives me more pleasure than I think I ever had when +I could go about in it just as I liked." +</p> + +<p> +"It wouldn't do that, though, you know, if you hadn't had the other +first. The pleasure you have comes as much from your memory as from my +news." +</p> + +<p> +"I see that, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Now can you tell me anything in history that confirms what I have been +saying?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know anything about history, papa. The only thing that comes +into my head is what you were saying yourself the other day about +Milton's blindness." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, yes. I had not thought of that. Do you know, I do believe that God +wanted a grand poem from that man, and therefore blinded him that he +might be able to write it. But he had first trained him up to the +point—given him thirty years in which he had not to provide the bread +of a single day, only to learn and think; then set him to teach boys; +then placed him at Cromwell's side, in the midst of the tumultuous +movement of public affairs, into which the late student entered with +all his heart and soul; and then last of all he cast the veil of a +divine darkness over him, sent him into a chamber far more retired than +that in which he laboured at Cambridge, and set him like the +nightingale to sing darkling. The blackness about him was just the +great canvas which God gave him to cover with forms of light and music. +Deep wells of memory burst upwards from below; the windows of heaven +were opened from above; from both rushed the deluge of song which +flooded his soul, and which he has poured out in a great river to us." +</p> + +<p> +"It was rather hard for poor Milton, though, wasn't it, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Wait till he says so, my dear. We are sometimes too ready with our +sympathy, and think things a great deal worse than those who have to +undergo them. Who would not be glad to be struck with <i>such</i> blindness +as Milton's?" +</p> + +<p> +"Those that do not care about his poetry, papa," answered Constance, +with a deprecatory smile. +</p> + +<p> +"Well said, my Connie. And to such it never can come. But, if it please +God, you will love Milton before you are about again. You can't love +one you know nothing about." +</p> + +<p> +"I have tried to read him a little." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I daresay. You might as well talk of liking a man whose face you +had never seen, because you did not approve of the back of his coat. +But you and Milton together have led me away from a far grander +instance of what we had been talking about. Are you tired, darling?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not the least, papa. You don't mind what I said about Milton?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not at all, my dear. I like your honesty. But I should mind very much +if you thought, with your ignorance of Milton, that your judgment of +him was more likely to be right than mine, with my knowledge of him." +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa! I am only sorry that I am not capable of appreciating him." +</p> + +<p> +"There you are wrong again. I think you are quite capable of +appreciating him. But you cannot appreciate what you have never seen. +You think of him as dry, and think you ought to be able to like dry +things. Now he is not dry, and you ought not to be able to like dry +things. You have a figure before you in your fancy, which is dry, and +which you call Milton. But it is no more Milton than your dull-faced +Dutch doll, which you called after her, was your merry Aunt Judy. But +here comes your mamma; and I haven't said what I wanted to say yet." +</p> + +<p> +"But surely, husband, you can say it all the same," said my wife. "I +will go away if you can't." +</p> + +<p> +"I can say it all the better, my love. Come and sit down here beside +me. I was trying to show Connie—" +</p> + +<p> +"You did show me, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I was showing Connie that a gift has sometimes to be taken away +again before we can know what it is worth, and so receive it right." +</p> + +<p> +Ethelwyn sighed. She was always more open to the mournful than the +glad. Her heart had been dreadfully wrung in her youth. +</p> + +<p> +"And I was going on to give her the greatest instance of it in human +history. As long as our Lord was with his disciples, they could not see +him right: he was too near them. Too much light, too many words, too +much revelation, blinds or stupefies. The Lord had been with them long +enough. They loved him dearly, and yet often forgot his words almost as +soon as he said them. He could not get it into them, for instance, that +he had not come to be a king. Whatever he said, they shaped it over +again after their own fancy; and their minds were so full of their own +worldly notions of grandeur and command, that they could not receive +into their souls the gift of God present before their eyes. Therefore +he was taken away, that his Spirit, which was more himself than his +bodily presence, might come into them—that they might receive the gift +of God into their innermost being. After he had gone out of their +sight, and they might look all around and down in the grave and up in +the air, and not see him anywhere—when they thought they had lost him, +he began to come to them again from the other side—from the inside. +They found that the image of him which his presence with them had +printed in light upon their souls, began to revive in the dark of his +absence; and not that only, but that in looking at it without the +overwhelming of his bodily presence, lines and forms and meanings began +to dawn out of it which they had never seen before. And his words came +back to them, no longer as they had received them, but as he meant +them. The spirit of Christ filling their hearts and giving them new +power, made them remember, by making them able to understand, all that +he had said to them. They were then always saying to each other, 'You +remember how;' whereas before, they had been always staring at each +other with astonishment and something very near incredulity, while he +spoke to them. So that after he had gone away, he was really nearer to +them than he had been before. The meaning of anything is more than its +visible presence. There is a soul in everything, and that soul is the +meaning of it. The soul of the world and all its beauty has come nearer +to you, my dear, just because you are separated from it for a time." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, dear papa. I do like to get a little sermon all to myself +now and then. That is another good of being ill." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't mean me to have a share in it, then, Connie, do you?" said +my wife, smiling at her daughter's pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +"O, mamma! I should have thought you knew all papa had got to say by +this time. I daresay he has given you a thousand sermons all to +yourself." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you suppose, Connie, that I came into the world with just a +boxful of sermons, and after I had taken them all out there were no +more. I should be sorry to think I should not have a good many new +things to say by this time next year." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, papa, I wish I could be sure of knowing more next year." +</p> + +<p> +"Most people do learn, whether they will or not. But the kind of +learning is very different in the two cases." +</p> + +<p> +"But I want to ask you one question, papa: do you think that we should +not know Jesus better now if he were to come and let us see him—as he +came to the disciples so long, long ago? I wish it were not so long +ago." +</p> + +<p> +"As to the time, it makes no difference whether it was last year or two +thousand years ago. The whole question is how much we understand, and +understanding, obey him. And I do not think we should be any nearer +that if he came amongst us bodily again. If we should, he would come. I +believe we should be further off it." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think, then," said Connie, in an almost despairing tone, as if +I were the prophet of great evil, "that we shall never, never, never +see him?" +</p> + +<p> +"That is <i>quite</i> another thing, my Connie. That is the heart of my +hopes by day and my dreams by night. To behold the face of Jesus seems +to me the one thing to be desired. I do not know that it is to be +prayed for; but I think it will be given us as the great bounty of God, +so soon as ever we are capable of it. That sight of the face of Jesus +is, I think, what is meant by his glorious appearing, but it will come +as a consequence of his spirit in us, not as a cause of that spirit in +us. The pure in heart shall see God. The seeing of him will be the sign +that we are like him, for only by being like him can we see him as he +is. All the time that he was with them, the disciples never saw him as +he was. You must understand a man before you can see and read his face +aright; and as the disciples did not understand our Lord's heart, they +could neither see nor read his face aright. But when we shall be fit to +look that man in the face, God only knows." +</p> + +<p> +"Then do you think, papa, that we, who have never seen him, could know +him better than the disciples? I don't mean, of course, better than +they knew him after he was taken away from them, but better than they +knew him while he was still with them?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly I do, my dear." +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa! Is it possible? Why don't we all, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because we won't take the trouble; that is the reason." +</p> + +<p> +"O, what a grand thing to think! That would be worth living—worth +being ill for. But how? how? Can't you help me? Mayn't one human being +help another?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is the highest duty one human being owes to another. But whoever +wants to learn must pray, and think, and, above all, obey—that is +simply, do what Jesus says." +</p> + +<p> +There followed a little silence, and I could hear my child sobbing. And +the tears stood in; my wife's eyes—tears of gladness to hear her +daughter's sobs. +</p> + +<p> +"I will try, papa," Constance said at last. "But you <i>will</i> help me?" +</p> + +<p> +"That I will, my love. I will help you in the best way I know; by +trying to tell you what I have heard and learned about him—heard and +learned of the Father, I hope and trust. It is coming near to the time +when he was born;—but I have spoken quite as long as you are able to +bear to-night." +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, papa. Do go on." +</p> + +<p> +"No, my dear; no more to-night. That would be to offend against the +very truth I have been trying to set forth to you. But next Sunday—you +have plenty to think about till then—I will talk to you about the baby +Jesus; and perhaps I may find something more to help you by that time, +besides what I have got to say now." +</p> + +<p> +"But," said my wife, "don't you think, Connie, this is too good to keep +all to ourselves? Don't you think we ought to have Wynnie and Dora in?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, yes, mamma. Do let us have them in. And Harry and Charlie too." +</p> + +<p> +"I fear they are rather young yet," I said. "Perhaps it might do them +harm." +</p> + +<p> +"It would be all the better for us to have them anyhow," said Ethelwyn, +smiling. +</p> + +<p> +"How do you mean, my dear?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because you will say things more simply if you have them by you. +Besides, you always say such things to children as delight grown +people, though they could never get them out of you." +</p> + +<p> +It was a wife's speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it. +</p> + +<p> +"Well," I said, "I don't mind them coming in, but I don't promise to +say anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment +they wish it." +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly," answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IV. +</h3> + +<h3> +A SUNDAY EVENING. +</h3> + +<p> +When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to +church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took +care to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she +might be quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again +with my Bible in my hand, I found all our little company assembled. +There was a glorious fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones +were seated on the rug before it, one on each side of their mother; +Wynnie sat by the further side of the bed, for she always avoided any +place or thing she thought another might like; and Dora sat by the +further chimney-corner, leaving the space between the fire and my chair +open that I might see and share the glow. +</p> + +<p> +"The wind is very high, papa," said Constance, as I seated myself +beside her. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has +blown harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?" +</p> + +<p> +"I am afraid I do like it. When it roars like that in the chimneys, and +shakes the windows with a great rush as if it <i>would</i> get into the +house and tear us to pieces, and then goes moaning away into the woods +and grumbles about in them till it grows savage again, and rushes up at +us with fresh fury, I am afraid I delight in it. I feel so safe in the +very jaws of danger." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, you are quite poetic, Connie," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't laugh at me, Wynnie. Mind I'm an invalid, and I can't bear to be +laughed at," returned Connie, half laughing herself, and a little more +than a quarter crying. +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie rose and kissed her, whispered something to her which made her +laugh outright, and then sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +"But tell me, Connie," I said, "why you are <i>afraid</i> you enjoy hearing +the wind about the house." +</p> + +<p> +"Because it must be so dreadful for those that are out in it." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps not quite so bad as we think. You must not suppose that God +has forgotten them, or cares less for them than for you because they +are out in the wind." +</p> + +<p> +"But if we thought like that, papa," said Wynnie, "shouldn't we come to +feel that their sufferings were none of our business?" +</p> + +<p> +"If our benevolence rests on the belief that God is less loving than +we, it will come to a bad end somehow before long, Wynnie." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course, I could not think that," she returned. +</p> + +<p> +"Then your kindness would be such that you dared not, in God's name, +think hopefully for those you could not help, lest you should, +believing in his kindness, cease to help those whom you could help! +Either God intended that there should be poverty and suffering, or he +did not. If he did not intend it—for similar reasons to those for +which he allows all sorts of evils—then there is nothing between but +that we should sell everything that we have and give it away to the +poor." +</p> + +<p> +"Then why don't we?" said Wynnie, looking truth itself in my face. +</p> + +<p> +"Because that is not God's way, and we should do no end of harm by so +doing. We should make so many more of those who will not help +themselves who will not be set free from themselves by rising above +themselves. We are not to gratify our own benevolence at the expense of +its object—not to save our own souls as we fancy, by putting other +souls into more danger than God meant for them." +</p> + +<p> +"It sounds hard doctrine from your lips, papa," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"Many things will look hard in so many words, which yet will be found +kindness itself when they are interpreted by a higher theory. If the +one thing is to let people have everything they want, then of course +everyone ought to be rich. I have no doubt such a man as we were +reading of in the papers the other day, who saw his servant girl drown +without making the least effort to save her, and then bemoaned the loss +of her labour for the coming harvest, thinking himself ill-used in her +death, would hug his own selfishness on hearing my words, and say, 'All +right, parson! Every man for himself! I made my own money, and they may +make theirs!' <i>You</i> know that is not exactly the way I should think or +act with regard to my neighbour. But if it were only that I have seen +such noble characters cast in the mould of poverty, I should be +compelled to regard poverty as one of God's powers in the world for +raising the children of the kingdom, and to believe that it was not +because it could not be helped that our Lord said, 'The poor ye have +always with you.' But what I wanted to say was, that there can be no +reason why Connie should not enjoy what God has given her, although he +has not thought fit to give as much to everybody; and above all, that +we shall not help those right whom God gives us to help, if we do not +believe that God is caring for every one of them as much as he is +caring for every one of us. There was once a baby born in a stable, +because his poor mother could get no room in a decent house. Where she +lay I can hardly think. They must have made a bed of hay and straw for +her in the stall, for we know the baby's cradle was the manger. Had God +forsaken them? or would they not have been more <i>comfortable</i>, if that +was the main thing, somewhere else? Ah! if the disciples, who were +being born about the same time of fisher-fathers and cottage-mothers, +to get ready for him to call and teach by the time he should be thirty +years of age—if they had only been old enough, and had known that he +was coming—would they not have got everything ready for him? They +would have clubbed their little savings together, and worked day and +night, and some rich women would have helped them, and they would have +dressed the baby in fine linen, and got him the richest room their +money would get, and they would have made the gold that the wise men +brought into a crown for his little head, and would have burnt the +frankincense before him. And so our little manger-baby would have been +taken away from us. No more the stable-born Saviour—no more the poor +Son of God born for us all, as strong, as noble, as loving, as +worshipful, as beautiful as he was poor! And we should not have learned +that God does not care for money; that if he does not give more of it +it is not that it is scarce with him, or that he is unkind, but that he +does not value it himself. And if he sent his own son to be not merely +brought up in the house of the carpenter of a little village, but to be +born in the stable of a village inn, we need not suppose because a man +sleeps under a haystack and is put in prison for it next day, that God +does not care for him." +</p> + +<p> +"But why did Jesus come so poor, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"That he might be just a human baby. That he might not be distinguished +by this or by that accident of birth; that he might have nothing but a +mother's love to welcome him, and so belong to everybody; that from the +first he might show that the kingdom of God and the favour of God lie +not in these external things at all—that the poorest little one, born +in the meanest dwelling, or in none at all, is as much God's own and +God's care as if he came in a royal chamber with colour and shine all +about him. Had Jesus come amongst the rich, riches would have been more +worshipped than ever. See how so many that count themselves good +Christians honour possession and family and social rank, and I doubt +hardly get rid of them when they are all swept away from them. The +furthest most of such reach is to count Jesus an exception, and +therefore not despise him. See how, even in the services of the church, +as they call them, they will accumulate gorgeousness and cost. Had I my +way, though I will never seek to rouse men's thoughts about such +external things, I would never have any vessel used in the eucharist +but wooden platters and wooden cups." +</p> + +<p> +"But are we not to serve him with our best?" said my wife. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, with our very hearts and souls, with our wills, with our absolute +being. But all external things should be in harmony with the spirit of +his revelation. And if God chose that his Son should visit the earth in +homely fashion, in homely fashion likewise should be everything that +enforces and commemorates that revelation. All church-forms should be +on the other side from show and expense. Let the money go to build +decent houses for God's poor, not to give them his holy bread and wine +out of silver and gold and precious stones—stealing from the +significance of the <i>content</i> by the meretricious grandeur of the +<i>continent</i>. I would send all the church-plate to fight the devil with +his own weapons in our overcrowded cities, and in our villages where +the husbandmen are housed like swine, by giving them room to be clean +and decent air from heaven to breathe. When the people find the clergy +thus in earnest, they will follow them fast enough, and the money will +come in like salt and oil upon the sacrifice. I would there were a few +of our dignitaries that could think grandly about things, even as Jesus +thought—even as God thought when he sent him. There are many of them +willing to stand any amount of persecution about trifles: the same +enthusiasm directed by high thoughts about the kingdom of heaven as +within men and not around them, would redeem a vast region from that +indifference which comes of judging the gospel of God by the church of +Christ with its phylacteries and hems." +</p> + +<p> +"There is one thing," said Wynnie, after a pause, "that I have often +thought about—why it was necessary for Jesus to come as a baby: he +could not do anything for so long." +</p> + +<p> +"First, I would answer, Wynnie, that if you would tell me why it is +necessary for all of us to come as babies, it would be less necessary +for me to tell you why he came so: whatever was human must be his. But +I would say next, Are you sure that he could not do anything for so +long? Does a baby do nothing? Ask mamma there. Is it for nothing that +the mother lifts up such heartfuls of thanks to God for the baby on her +knee? Is it nothing that the baby opens such fountains of love in +almost all the hearts around? Ah! you do not think how much every baby +has to do with the saving of the world—the saving of it from +selfishness, and folly, and greed. And for Jesus, was he not going to +establish the reign of love in the earth? How could he do better than +begin from babyhood? He had to lay hold of the heart of the world. How +could he do better than begin with his mother's—the best one in it. +Through his mother's love first, he grew into the world. It was first +by the door of all the holy relations of the family that he entered the +human world, laying hold of mother, father, brothers, sisters, all his +friends; then by the door of labour, for he took his share of his +father's work; then, when he was thirty years of age, by the door of +teaching; by kind deeds, and sufferings, and through all by obedience +unto the death. You must not think little of the grand thirty years +wherein he got ready for the chief work to follow. You must not think +that while he was thus preparing for his public ministrations, he was +not all the time saving the world even by that which he was in the +midst of it, ever laying hold of it more and more. These were things +not so easy to tell. And you must remember that our records are very +scanty. It is a small biography we have of a man who became—to say +nothing more—the Man of the world—the Son of Man. No doubt it is +enough, or God would have told us more; but surely we are not to +suppose that there was nothing significant, nothing of saving power in +that which we are not told.—Charlie, wouldn't you have liked to see +the little baby Jesus?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that I would. I would have given him my white rabbit with the +pink eyes." +</p> + +<p> +"That is what the great painter Titian must have thought, Charlie; for +he has painted him playing with a white rabbit,—not such a pretty one +as yours." +</p> + +<p> +"I would have carried him about all day," said Dora, "as little Henny +Parsons does her baby-brother." +</p> + +<p> +"Did he have any brother or sister to carry him about, papa?" asked +Harry. +</p> + +<p> +"No, my boy; for he was the eldest. But you may be pretty sure he +carried about his brothers and sisters that came after him." +</p> + +<p> +"Wouldn't he take care of them, just!" said Charlie. +</p> + +<p> +"I wish I had been one of them," said Constance. +</p> + +<p> +"You are one of them, my Connie. Now he is so great and so strong that +he can carry father and mother and all of us in his bosom." +</p> + +<p> +Then we sung a child's hymn in praise of the God of little children, +and the little ones went to bed. Constance was tired now, and we left +her with Wynnie. We too went early to bed. +</p> + +<p> +About midnight my wife and I awoke together—at least neither knew +which waked the other. The wind was still raving about the house, with +lulls between its charges. +</p> + +<p> +"There's a child crying!" said my wife, starting up. +</p> + +<p> +I sat up too, and listened. +</p> + +<p> +"There is some creature," I granted. +</p> + +<p> +"It is an infant," insisted my wife. "It can't be either of the boys." +</p> + +<p> +I was out of bed in a moment, and my wife the same instant. We hurried +on some of our clothes, going to the windows and listening as we did +so. We seemed to hear the wailing through the loudest of the wind, and +in the lulls were sure of it. But it grew fainter as we listened. The +night was pitch dark. I got a lantern, and hurried out. I went round +the house till I came under our bed-room windows, and there listened. I +heard it, but not so clearly as before. I set out as well as I could +judge in the direction of the sound. I could find nothing. My lantern +lighted only a few yards around me, and the wind was so strong that it +blew through every chink, and threatened momently to blow it out. My +wife was by my side before I knew she was coming. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear!" I said, "it is not fit for you to be out." +</p> + +<p> +"It is as fit for me as for a child, anyhow," she said. "Do listen." +</p> + +<p> +It was certainly no time for expostulation. All the mother was awake in +Ethelwyn's bosom. It would have been cruelty to make her go in, though +she was indeed ill-fitted to encounter such a night-wind. +</p> + +<p> +Another wail reached us. It seemed to come from a thicket at one corner +of the lawn. We hurried thither. Again a cry, and we knew we were much +nearer to it. Searching and searching we went. +</p> + +<p> +"There it is!" Ethelwyn almost screamed, as the feeble light of the +lantern fell on a dark bundle of something under a bush. She caught at +it. It gave another pitiful wail—the poor baby of some tramp, rolled +up in a dirty, ragged shawl, and tied round with a bit of string, as if +it had been a parcel of clouts. She set off running with it to the +house, and I followed, much fearing she would miss her way in the dark, +and fall. I could hardly get up with her, so eager was she to save the +child. She darted up to her own room, where the fire was not yet out. +</p> + +<p> +"Run to the kitchen, Harry, and get some hot water. Take the two jugs +there—you can empty them in the sink: you won't know where to find +anything. There will be plenty in the boiler." +</p> + +<p> +By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the +child's covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before +the fire. The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and +motionless. We had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as +if I had been a nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath. +</p> + +<p> +"Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child." +</p> + +<p> +"You made me throw away the cold water," I said, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +"There's some in the bottles," she returned. "Make haste." +</p> + +<p> +I did try to make haste, but I could not be quick enough to satisfy +Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +"The child will be dead," she cried, "before we get it in the water." +</p> + +<p> +She had its rags off in a moment—there was very little to remove after +the shawl. How white the little thing was, though dreadfully neglected! +It was a girl—not more than a few weeks old, we agreed. Her little +heart was still beating feebly; and as she was a well-made, apparently +healthy infant, we had every hope of recovering her. And we were not +disappointed. She began to move her little legs and arms with short, +convulsive motions. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know where the dairy is, Harry?" asked my wife, with no great +compliment to my bumps of locality, which I had always flattered myself +were beyond the average in development. +</p> + +<p> +"I think I do," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Could you tell which was this night's milk, now?" +</p> + +<p> +"There will be less cream on it," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Bring a little of that and some more hot water. I've got some sugar +here. I wish we had a bottle." +</p> + +<p> +I executed her commands faithfully. By the time I returned the child +was lying on her lap clean and dry—a fine baby I thought. Ethelwyn +went on talking to her, and praising her as if she had not only been +the finest specimen of mortality in the world, but her own child to +boot. She got her to take a few spoonfuls of milk and water, and then +the little thing fell fast asleep. +</p> + +<p> +Ethelwyn's nursing days were not so far gone by that she did not know +where her baby's clothes were. She gave me the child, and going to a +wardrobe in the room brought out some night-things, and put them on. I +could not understand in the least why the sleeping darling must be +indued with little chemise, and flannel, and nightgown, and I do not +know what all, requiring a world of nice care, and a hundred turnings +to and fro, now on its little stomach, now on its back, now sitting up, +now lying down, when it would have slept just as well, and I venture to +think much more comfortably, if laid in blankets and well covered over. +But I had never ventured to interfere with any of my own children, +devoutly believing up to this moment, though in a dim unquestioning +way, that there must be some hidden feminine wisdom in the whole +process; and now that I had begun to question it, I found that my +opportunity had long gone by, if I had ever had one. And after all +there may be some reason for it, though I confess I do strongly suspect +that all these matters are so wonderfully complicated in order that the +girl left in the woman may have her heart's content of playing with her +doll; just as the woman hid in the girl expends no end of lovely +affection upon the dull stupidity of wooden cheeks and a body of +sawdust. But it was a delight to my heart to see how Ethelwyn could not +be satisfied without treating the foundling in precisely the same +fashion as one of her own. And if this was a necessary preparation for +what, should follow, I would be the very last to complain of it. +</p> + +<p> +We went to bed again, and the forsaken child of some half-animal +mother, now perhaps asleep in some filthy lodging for tramps, lay in my +Ethelwyn's bosom. I loved her the more for it; though, I confess, it +would have been very painful to me had she shown it possible for her to +treat the baby otherwise, especially after what we had been talking +about that same evening. +</p> + +<p> +So we had another child in the house, and nobody knew anything about it +but ourselves two. The household had never been disturbed by all the +going and coming. After everything had been done for her, we had a good +laugh over the whole matter, and then Ethelwyn fell a-crying. +</p> + +<p> +"Pray for the poor thing, Harry," she sobbed, "before you come to bed." +</p> + +<p> +I knelt down, and said: +</p> + +<p> +"O Lord our Father, this is as much thy child and as certainly sent to +us as if she had been born of us. Help us to keep the child for thee. +Take thou care of thy own, and teach us what to do with her, and how to +order our ways towards her." +</p> + +<p> +Then I said to Ethelwyn, +</p> + +<p> +"We will not say one word more about it tonight. You must try to go to +sleep. I daresay the little thing will sleep till the morning, and I am +sure I shall if she does. Good-night, my love. You are a true mother. +Mind you go to sleep." +</p> + +<p> +"I am half asleep already, Harry. Good-night," she returned. +</p> + +<p> +I know nothing more about anything till I in the morning, except that I +had a dream, which I have not made up my mind yet whether I shall tell +or not. We slept soundly—God's baby and all. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER V. +</h3> + +<h3> +MY DREAM. +</h3> + +<p> +I think I will tell the dream I had. I cannot well account for the +beginning of it: the end will appear sufficiently explicable to those +who are quite satisfied that they get rid of the mystery of a thing +when they can associate it with something else with which they are +familiar. Such do not care to see that the thing with which they +associate it may be as mysterious as the other. For although use too +often destroys marvel, it cannot destroy the marvellous. The origin of +our thoughts is just as wonderful as the origin of our dreams. +</p> + +<p> +In my dream I found myself in a pleasant field full of daisies and +white clover. The sun was setting. The wind was going one way, and the +shadows another. I felt rather tired, I neither knew nor thought why. +With an old man's prudence, I would not sit down upon the grass, but +looked about for a more suitable seat. Then I saw, for often in our +dreams there is an immediate response to our wishes, a long, rather +narrow stone lying a few yards from me. I wondered how it could have +come there, for there were no mountains or rocks near: the field was +part of a level country. Carelessly, I sat down upon it astride, and +watched the setting of the sun. Somehow I fancied that his light was +more sorrowful than the light of the setting sun should be, and I began +to feel very heavy at the heart. No sooner had the last brilliant spark +of his light vanished, than I felt the stone under me begin to move. +With the inactivity of a dreamer, however, I did not care to rise, but +wondered only what would come next. My seat, after several strange +tumbling motions, seemed to rise into the air a little way, and then I +found that I was astride of a gaunt, bony horse—a skeleton horse +almost, only he had a gray skin on him. He began, apparently with pain, +as if his joints were all but too stiff to move, to go forward in the +direction in which he found himself. I kept my seat. Indeed, I never +thought of dismounting. I was going on to meet what might come. Slowly, +feebly, trembling at every step, the strange steed went, and as he went +his joints seemed to become less stiff, and he went a little faster. +All at once I found that the pleasant field had vanished, and that we +were on the borders of a moor. Straight forward the horse carried me, +and the moor grew very rough, and he went stumbling dreadfully, but +always recovering himself. Every moment it seemed as if he would fall +to rise no more, but as often he found fresh footing. At length the +surface became a little smoother, and he began a horrible canter which +lasted till he reached a low, broken wall, over which he half walked, +half fell into what was plainly an ancient neglected churchyard. The +mounds were low and covered with rank grass. In some parts, hollows had +taken the place of mounds. Gravestones lay in every position except the +level or the upright, and broken masses of monuments were scattered +about. My horse bore me into the midst of it, and there, slow and stiff +as he had risen, he lay down again. Once more I was astride of a long +narrow stone. And now I found that it was an ancient gravestone which I +knew well in a certain Sussex churchyard, the top of it carved into the +rough resemblance of a human skeleton—that of a man, tradition said, +who had been killed by a serpent that came out of a bottomless pool in +the next field. How long I sat there I do not know; but at last I saw +the faint gray light of morning begin to appear in front of me. The +horse of death had carried me eastward. The dawn grew over the top of a +hill that here rose against the horizon. But it was a wild dreary +dawn—a blot of gray first, which then stretched into long lines of +dreary yellow and gray, looking more like a blasted and withered sunset +than a fresh sunrise. And well it suited that waste, wide, deserted +churchyard, if churchyard I ought to call it where no church was to be +seen—only a vast hideous square of graves. Before me I noticed +especially one old grave, the flat stone of which had broken in two and +sunk in the middle. While I sat with my eyes fixed on this stone, it +began to move; the crack in the middle closed, then widened again as +the two halves of the stone were lifted up, and flung outward, like the +two halves of a folding door. From the grave rose a little child, +smiling such perfect contentment as if he had just come from kissing +his mother. His little arms had flung the stones apart, and as he stood +on the edge of the grave next to me, they remained outspread from the +action for a moment, as if blessing the sleeping people. Then he came +towards me with the same smile, and took my hand. I rose, and he led me +away over another broken wall towards the hill that lay before us. And +as we went the sun came nearer, the pale yellow bars flushed into +orange and rosy red, till at length the edges of the clouds were swept +with an agony of golden light, which even my dreamy eyes could not +endure, and I awoke weeping for joy. +</p> + +<p> +This waking woke my wife, who said in some alarm: +</p> + +<p> +"What is the matter, husband?" +</p> + +<p> +So I told her my dream, and how in my sleep my gladness had overcome me. +</p> + +<p> +"It was this little darling that set you dreaming so," she said, and +turning, put the baby in my arms. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VI. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE NEW BABY. +</h3> + +<p> +I will not attempt to describe the astonishment of the members of our +household, each in succession, as the news of the child spread. Charlie +was heard shouting across the stable-yard to his brother: +</p> + +<p> +"Harry, Harry! Mamma has got a new baby. Isn't it jolly?" +</p> + +<p> +"Where did she get it?" cried Harry in return. +</p> + +<p> +"In the parsley-bed, I suppose," answered Charlie, and was nearer right +than usual, for the information on which his conclusion was founded had +no doubt been imparted as belonging to the history of the human race. +</p> + +<p> +But my reader can easily imagine the utter bewilderment of those of the +family whose knowledge of human affairs would not allow of their +curiosity being so easily satisfied as that of the boys. In them was +exemplified that confusion of the intellectual being which is produced +by the witness of incontestable truth to a thing incredible—in which +case the probability always is, that the incredibility results from +something in the mind of the hearer falsely associated with and +disturbing the true perception of the thing to which witness is borne. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was the astonishment confined to the family, for it spread over the +parish that Mrs. Walton had got another baby. And so, indeed, she had. +And seldom has baby met with a more hearty welcome than this baby met +with from everyone of our family. They hugged it first, and then asked +questions. And that, I say, is the right way of receiving every good +gift of God. Ask what questions you will, but when you see that the +gift is a good one, make sure that you take it. There is plenty of time +for you to ask questions afterwards. Then the better you love the gift, +the more ready you will be to ask, and the more fearless in asking. +</p> + +<p> +The truth, however, soon became known. And then, strange to relate, we +began to receive visits of condolence. O, that poor baby! how it was +frowned upon, and how it had heads shaken over it, just because it was +not Ethelwyn's baby! It could not help that, poor darling! +</p> + +<p> +"Of course, you'll give information to the police," said, I am sorry to +say, one of my brethren in the neighbourhood, who had the misfortune to +be a magistrate as well. +</p> + +<p> +"Why?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Why! That they may discover the parents, to be sure." +</p> + +<p> +"Wouldn't it be as hard a matter to prove the parentage, as it would be +easy to suspect it?" I asked. "And just think what it would be to give +the baby to a woman who not only did not want her, but who was not her +mother. But if her own mother came to claim her now, I don't say I +would refuse her, but I should think twice about giving her up after +she had once abandoned her for a whole night in the open air. In fact I +don't want the parents." +</p> + +<p> +"But you don't want the child." +</p> + +<p> +"How do you know that?" I returned—rather rudely, I am afraid, for I +am easily annoyed at anything that seems to me heartless—about +children especially. +</p> + +<p> +"O! of course, if you want to have an orphan asylum of your own, no one +has a right to interfere. But you ought to consider other people." +</p> + +<p> +"That is just what I thought I was doing," I answered; but he went on +without heeding my reply— +</p> + +<p> +"We shall all be having babies left at our doors, and some of us are +not so fond of them as you are. Remember, you are your brother's +keeper." +</p> + +<p> +"And my sister's too," I answered. "And if the question lies between +keeping a big, burly brother like you, and a tiny, wee sister like +that, I venture to choose for myself." +</p> + +<p> +"She ought to go to the workhouse," said the magistrate—a friendly, +good-natured man enough in ordinary—and rising, he took his hat and +departed. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +This man had no children. So he was—or was not, so much to blame. +Which? <i>I</i> say the latter. +</p> + +<p> +Some of Ethelwyn's friends were no less positive about her duty in the +affair. I happened to go into the drawing-room during the visit of one +of them—Miss Bowdler. +</p> + +<p> +"But, my dear Mrs. Walton," she was saying, "you'll be having all the +tramps in England leaving their babies at your door." +</p> + +<p> +"The better for the babies," interposed I, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +"But you don't think of your wife, Mr. Walton." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't I? I thought I did," I returned dryly. +</p> + +<p> +"Depend upon it, you'll repent it." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope I shall never repent of anything but what is bad." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! but, really! it's not a thing to be made game of." +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly not. The baby shall be treated with all due respect in this +house." +</p> + +<p> +"What a provoking man you are! You know what I mean well enough." +</p> + +<p> +"As well as I choose to know—certainly," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +This lady was one of my oldest parishioners, and took liberties for +which she had no other justification, except indeed an unhesitating +belief in the superior rectitude of whatever came into her own head can +be counted as one. When she was gone, my wife turned to me with a +half-comic, half-anxious look, and said: +</p> + +<p> +"But it would be rather alarming, Harry, if this were to get abroad, +and we couldn't go out at the door in the morning without being in +danger of stepping on a baby on the door-step." +</p> + +<p> +"You might as well have said, when you were going to be married, 'If +God should send me twenty children, whatever should I do?' He who sent +us this one can surely prevent any more from coming than he wants to +come. All that we have to think of is to do right—not the consequences +of doing right. But leaving all that aside, you must not suppose that +wandering mothers have not even the attachment of animals to their +offspring. There are not so many that are willing to part with babies +as all that would come to. If you believe that God sent this one, that +is enough for the present. If he should send another, we should know by +that that we had to take it in." +</p> + +<p> +My wife said the baby was a beauty. I could see that she was a plump, +well-to-do baby; and being by nature no particular lover of babies as +babies—that is, feeling none of the inclination of mothers and nurses +and elder sisters to eat them, or rather, perhaps, loving more for what +I believed than what I saw—that was all I could pretend to discover. +But even the aforementioned elderly parishioner was compelled to allow +before three months were over that little Theodora—for we turned the +name of my youngest daughter upside down for her—"was a proper child." +To none, however, did she seem to bring so much delight as to our dear +Constance. Oftener than not, when I went into her room, I found the +sleepy, useless little thing lying beside her on the bed, and her +staring at it with such loving eyes! How it began, I do not know, but +it came at last to be called Connie's Dora, or Miss Connie's baby, all +over the house, and nothing pleased Connie better. Not till she saw +this did her old nurse take quite kindly to the infant; for she +regarded her as an interloper, who had no right to the tenderness which +was lavished upon her. But she had no sooner given in than the baby +began to grow dear to her as well as to the rest. In fact, the house +was ere long full of nurses. The staff included everyone but myself, +who only occasionally, at the entreaty of some one or other of the +younger ones, took her in my arms. +</p> + +<p> +But before she was three months old, anxious thoughts began to intrude, +all centering round the question in what manner the child was to be +brought up. Certainly there was time enough to think of this, as +Ethelwyn constantly reminded me; but what made me anxious was that I +could not discover the principle that ought to guide me. Now no one can +tell how soon a principle in such a case will begin, even +unconsciously, to operate; and the danger was that the moment when it +ought to begin to operate would be long past before the principle was +discovered, except I did what I could now to find it out. I had again +and again to remind myself that there was no cause for anxiety; for +that I might certainly claim the enlightenment which all who want to do +right are sure to receive; but still I continued uneasy just from +feeling a vacancy where a principle ought to have been. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VII. +</h3> + +<h3> +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. +</h3> + +<p> +During all this time Connie made no very perceptible progress—in the +recovery of her bodily powers, I mean, for her heart and mind advanced +remarkably. We held our Sunday-evening assemblies in her room pretty +regularly, my occasional absence in the exercise of my duties alone +interfering with them. In connection with one of these, I will show how +I came at length to make up my mind as to what I would endeavour to +keep before me as my object in the training of little Theodora, always +remembering that my preparation might be used for a very different end +from what I purposed. If my intention was right, the fact that it might +be turned aside would not trouble me. +</p> + +<p> +We had spoken a good deal together about the infancy and childhood of +Jesus, about the shepherds, and the wise men, and the star in the east, +and the children of Bethlehem. I encouraged the thoughts of all the +children to rest and brood upon the fragments that are given us, and, +believing that the imagination is one of the most powerful of all the +faculties for aiding the growth of truth in the mind, I would ask them +questions as to what they thought he might have said or done in +ordinary family occurrences, thus giving a reality in their minds to +this part of his history, and trying to rouse in them a habit of +referring their conduct to the standard of his. If we do not thus +employ our imagination on sacred things, his example can be of no use +to us except in exactly corresponding circumstances—and when can such +occur from one end to another of our lives? The very effort to think +how he would have done, is a wonderful purifier of the conscience, and, +even if the conclusion arrived at should not be correct from lack of +sufficient knowledge of his character and principles, it will be better +than any that can be arrived at without this inquiry. Besides, the +asking of such questions gave me good opportunity, through the answers +they returned, of seeing what their notions of Jesus and of duty were, +and thus of discovering how to help the dawn of the light in their +growing minds. Nor let anyone fear that such employment of the divine +gift of imagination will lead to foolish vagaries and useless +inventions; while the object is to discover the right way—the +truth—there is little danger of that. Besides, there I was to help +hereby in the actual training of their imaginations to truth and +wisdom. To aid in this, I told them some of the stories that were +circulated about him in the early centuries of the church, but which +the church has rejected as of no authority; and I showed them how some +of them could not be true, because they were so unlike those words and +actions which we had the best of reasons for receiving as true; and how +one or two of them might be true—though, considering the company in +which we found them, we could say nothing for certain concerning them. +And such wise things as those children said sometimes! It is marvellous +how children can reach the heart of the truth at once. Their utterances +are sometimes entirely concordant with the results arrived at through +years of thought by the earnest mind—results which no mind would ever +arrive at save by virtue of the child-like in it. +</p> + +<p> +Well, then, upon this evening I read to them the story of the boy Jesus +in the temple. Then I sought to make the story more real to them by +dwelling a little on the growing fears of his parents as they went from +group to group of their friends, tracing back the road towards +Jerusalem and asking every fresh company they knew if they had seen +their boy, till at length they were in great trouble when they could +not find him even in Jerusalem. Then came the delight of his mother +when she did find him at last, and his answer to what she said. Now, +while I thus lingered over the simple story, my children had put many +questions to me about Jesus being a boy, and not seeming to know things +which, if he was God, he must have known, they thought. To some of +these I had just to reply that I did not understand myself, and +therefore could not teach them; to others, that I could explain them, +but that they were not yet, some of them, old enough to receive and +understand my explanation; while others I did my best to answer as +simply as I could. But at this point we arrived at a question put by +Wynnie, to answer which aright I considered of the greatest importance. +Wynnie said: +</p> + +<p> +"That is just one of the things about Jesus that have always troubled +me, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"What is, my dear?" I said; for although I thought I knew well enough +what she meant, I wished her to set it forth in her own words, both for +her own sake, and the sake of the others, who would probably understand +the difficulty much better if she presented it herself. +</p> + +<p> +"I mean that he spoke to his mother—" +</p> + +<p> +"Why don't you say <i>mamma</i>, Wynnie?" said Charlie. "She was his own +mamma, wasn't she, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear; but don't you know that the shoemaker's children down in +the village always call their mamma <i>mother</i>?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; but they are shoemaker's children." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Jesus was one of that class of people. He was the son of a +carpenter. He called his mamma, <i>mother</i>. But, Charlie, <i>mother</i> is the +more beautiful word of the two, by a great deal, I think. <i>Lady</i> is a +very pretty word; but <i>woman</i> is a very beautiful word. Just so with +<i>mamma</i> and <i>mother</i>. <i>Mamma</i> is pretty, but <i>mother</i> is beautiful." +</p> + +<p> +"Why don't we always say <i>mother</i> then?" +</p> + +<p> +"Just because it is the most beautiful, and so we keep it for +Sundays—that is, for the more solemn times of life. We don't want it +to get common to us with too much use. We may think it as much as we +like; thinking does not spoil it; but saying spoils many things, and +especially beautiful words. Now we must let Wynnie finish what she was +saying." +</p> + +<p> +"I was saying, papa, that I can't help feeling as if—I know it can't +be true—but I feel as if Jesus spoke unkindly to his mother when he +said that to her." +</p> + +<p> +I looked at the page and read the words, "How is it that ye sought me? +wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" And I sat +silent for a while. +</p> + +<p> +"Why don't you speak, papa?" said Harry. +</p> + +<p> +"I am sitting wondering at myself, Harry," I said. "Long after I was +your age, Wynnie, I remember quite well that those words troubled me as +they now trouble you. But when I read them over now, they seemed to me +so lovely that I could hardly read them aloud. I can recall the fact +that they troubled me, but the mode of the fact I scarcely can recall. +I can hardly see now wherein lay the hurt or offence the words gave me. +And why is that? Simply because I understand them now, and I did not +understand them then. I took them as uttered with a tone of reproof; +now I hear them as uttered with a tone of loving surprise. But really I +cannot feel sure what it was that I did not like. And I am confident it +is so with a great many things that we reject. We reject them simply +because we do not understand them. Therefore, indeed, we cannot with +truth be said to reject them at all. It is some false appearance that +we reject. Some of the grandest things in the whole realm of truth look +repellent to us, and we turn away from them, simply because we are +not—to use a familiar phrase—we are not up to them. They appear to +us, therefore, to be what they are not. Instruction sounds to the proud +man like reproof; illumination comes on the vain man like scorn; the +manifestation of a higher condition of motive and action than his own, +falls on the self-esteeming like condemnation; but it is consciousness +and conscience working together that produce this impression; the +result is from the man himself, not from the higher source. From the +truth comes the power, but the shape it assumes to the man is from the +man himself." +</p> + +<p> +"You are quite beyond me now, papa," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear," I answered, "I will return to the words of the boy +Jesus, instead of talking more about them; and when I have shown you +what they mean, I think you will allow that that feeling you have about +them is all and altogether an illusion." +</p> + +<p> +"There is one thing first," said Connie, "that I want to understand. +You said the words of Jesus rather indicated surprise. But how could he +be surprised at anything? If he was God, he must have known everything." +</p> + +<p> +"He tells us himself that he did not know everything. He says once that +even <i>he</i> did not know one thing—only the Father knew it." +</p> + +<p> +"But how could that be if he was God?" +</p> + +<p> +"My dear, that is one of the things that it seems to me impossible I +should understand. Certainly I think his trial as a man would not have +been perfect had he known everything. He too had to live by faith in +the Father. And remember that for the Divine Sonship on earth perfect +knowledge was not necessary, only perfect confidence, absolute +obedience, utter holiness. There is a great tendency in our sinful +natures to put knowledge and power on a level with goodness. It was one +of the lessons of our Lord's life that they are not so; that the one +grand thing in humanity is faith in God; that the highest in God is his +truth, his goodness, his rightness. But if Jesus was a real man, and no +mere appearance of a man, is it any wonder that, with a heart full to +the brim of the love of God, he should be for a moment surprised that +his mother, whom he loved so dearly, the best human being he knew, +should not have taken it as a matter of course that if he was not with +her, he must be doing something his Father wanted him to do? For this +is just what his answer means. To turn it into the ordinary speech of +our day, it is just this: 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know +that I must of course be doing something my Father had given me to do?' +Just think of the quiet sweetness of confidence in this. And think what +a life his must have been up to that twelfth year of his, that such an +expostulation with his mother was justified. It must have had reference +to a good many things that had passed before then, which ought to have +been sufficient to make Mary conclude that her missing boy must be +about God's business somewhere. If her heart had been as full of God +and God's business as his, she would not have been in the least uneasy +about him. And here is the lesson of his whole life: it was all his +Father's business. The boy's mind and hands were full of it. The man's +mind and hands were full of it. And the risen conqueror was full of it +still. For the Father's business is everything, and includes all work +that is worth doing. We may say in a full grand sense, that there is +nothing but the Father and his business." +</p> + +<p> +"But we have so many things to do that are not his business," said +Wynnie, with a sigh of oppression. +</p> + +<p> +"Not one, my darling. If anything is not his business, you not only +have not to do it, but you ought not to do it. Your words come from the +want of spiritual sight. We cannot see the truth in common things—the +will of God in little everyday affairs, and that is how they become so +irksome to us. Show a beautiful picture, one full of quiet imagination +and deep thought, to a common-minded man; he will pass it by with some +slight remark, thinking it very ordinary and commonplace. That is +because he is commonplace. Because our minds are so commonplace, have +so little of the divine imagination in them, therefore we do not +recognise the spiritual meaning and worth, we do not perceive the +beautiful will of God, in the things required of us, though they are +full of it. But if we do them we shall thus make acquaintance with +them, and come to see what is in them. The roughest kernel amongst them +has a tree of life in its heart." +</p> + +<p> +"I wish he would tell me something to do," said Charlie. "Wouldn't I do +it!" +</p> + +<p> +I made no reply, but waited for an opportunity which I was pretty sure +was at hand, while I carried the matter a little further. +</p> + +<p> +"But look here, Wynnie; listen to this," I said, "'And he went down +with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.' Was that +not doing his Father's business too? Was it not doing the business of +his Father in heaven to honour his father and his mother, though he +knew that his days would not be long in that land? Did not his whole +teaching, his whole doing, rest on the relation of the Son to the +Father and surely it was doing his Father's business then to obey his +parents—to serve them, to be subject to them. It is true that the +business God gives a man to do may be said to be the peculiar walk in +life into which he is led, but that is only as distinguishing it from +another man's peculiar business. God gives us all our business, and the +business which is common to humanity is more peculiarly God's business +than that which is one man's and not another's—because it lies nearer +the root, and is essential. It does not matter whether a man is a +farmer or a physician, but it greatly matters whether he is a good son, +a good husband, and so on. O my children!" I said, "if the world could +but be brought to believe—the world did I say?—if the best men in the +world could only see, as God sees it, that service is in itself the +noblest exercise of human powers, if they could see that God is the +hardest worker of all, and that his nobility are those who do the most +service, surely it would alter the whole aspect of the church. Menial +offices, for instance, would soon cease to be talked of with that +contempt which shows that there is no true recognition of the fact that +the same principle runs through the highest duty and the lowest—that +the lowest work which God gives a man to do must be in its nature +noble, as certainly noble as the highest. This would destroy +condescension, which is the rudeness, yes, impertinence, of the higher, +as it would destroy insolence, which is the rudeness of the lower. He +who recognised the dignity of his own lower office, would thereby +recognise the superiority of the higher office, and would be the last +either to envy or degrade it. He would see in it his own—only higher, +only better, and revere it. But I am afraid I have wearied you, my +children." +</p> + +<p> +"O, no, papa!" said the elder ones, while the little ones gaped and +said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +"I know I am in danger of doing so when I come to speak upon this +subject: it has such a hold of my heart and mind!—Now, Charlie, my +boy, go to bed." +</p> + +<p> +But Charlie was very comfortable before the fire, on the rug, and did +not want to go. First one shoulder went up, and then the other, and the +corners of his mouth went down, as if to keep the balance true. He did +not move to go. I gave him a few moments to recover himself, but as the +black frost still endured, I thought it was time to hold up a mirror to +him. When he was a very little boy, he was much in the habit of getting +out of temper, and then as now, he made a face that was hideous to +behold; and to cure him of this, I used to make him carry a little +mirror about his neck, that the means might be always at hand of +showing himself to him: it was a sort of artificial conscience which, +by enabling him to see the picture of his own condition, which the face +always is, was not unfrequently operative in rousing his real +conscience, and making him ashamed of himself. But now the mirror I +wanted to hold up to him was a past mood, in the light of which the +present would show what it was. +</p> + +<p> +"Charlie," I said, "a little while ago you were wishing that God would +give you something to do. And now when he does, you refuse at once, +without even thinking about it." +</p> + +<p> +"How do you know that God wants me to go to bed?" said Charlie, with +something of surly impertinence, which I did not meet with reproof at +once because there was some sense along with the impudence. +</p> + +<p> +"I know that God wants you to do what I tell you, and to do it +pleasantly. Do you think the boy Jesus would have put on such a face as +that—I wish I had the little mirror to show it to you—when his mother +told him it was time to go to bed?" +</p> + +<p> +And now Charlie began to look ashamed. I left the truth to work in him, +because I saw it was working. Had I not seen that, I should have +compelled him to go at once, that he might learn the majesty of law. +But now that his own better self, the self enlightened of the light +that lighteneth every man that cometh into the world, was working, time +might well be afforded it to work its perfect work. I went on talking +to the others. In the space of not more than one minute, he rose and +came to me, looking both good and ashamed, and held up his face to kiss +me, saying, "Goodnight, papa." I bade him good-night, and kissed him +more tenderly than usual, that he might know that it was all right +between us. I required no formal apology, no begging of my pardon, as +some parents think right. It seemed enough to me that his heart was +turned. It is a terrible thing to run the risk of changing humility +into humiliation. Humiliation is one of the proudest conditions in the +human world. When he felt that it would be a relief to say more +explicitly, "Father, I have sinned," then let him say it; but not till +then. To compel manifestation is one surest way to check feeling. +</p> + +<p> +My readers must not judge it silly to record a boy's unwillingness to +go to bed. It is precisely the same kind of disobedience that some of +them are guilty of themselves, and that in things not one whit more +important than this, only those things happen to be <i>their</i> wish at the +moment, and not Charlie's, and so gain their superiority. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THEODORA'S DOOM. +</h3> + +<p> +Try not to get weary, respected reader, of so much of what I am afraid +most people will call tiresome preaching. But I know if you get +anything practicable out of it, you will not be so soon tired of it. I +promise you more story by and by. Only an old man, like an old horse, +must be allowed to take very much his own way—go his own pace, I +should have said. I am afraid there must be a little more of a similar +sort in this chapter. +</p> + +<p> +On the Monday morning I set out to visit one or two people whom the +severity of the weather had kept from church on the Sunday. The last +severe frost, as it turned out, of the season, was possessing the +earth. The sun was low in the wintry sky, and what seemed a very cold +mist up in the air hid him from the earth. I was walking along a path +in a field close by a hedge. A tree had been cut down, and lay upon the +grass. A short distance from it lay its own figure marked out in +hoar-frost. There alone was there any hoar-frost on the field; the rest +was all of the loveliest tenderest green. I will not say the figure was +such an exact resemblance as a photograph would have been; still it was +an indubitable likeness. It appeared to the hasty glance that not a +branch not a knot of the upper side of the tree at least was left +unrepresented in shining and glittering whiteness upon the green grass. +It was very pretty, and, I confess, at first, very puzzling. I walked +on, meditating on the phenomenon, till at length I found out its cause. +The hoar-frost had been all over the field in the morning. The sun had +been shining for a time, and had melted the frost away, except where he +could only cast a shadow. As he rose and rose, the shadow of the tree +had shortened and come nearer and nearer to its original, growing more +and more like as it came nearer, while the frost kept disappearing as +the shadow withdrew its protection. When the shadow extended only to a +little way from the tree, the clouds came and covered the sun, and +there were no more shadows, only one great one of the clouds. Then the +frost shone out in the shape of the vanished shadow. It lay at a little +distance from the tree, because the tree having been only partially +lopped, some great stumps of boughs held it up from the ground, and +thus, when the sun was low, his light had shone a little way through +beneath, as well as over the trunk. +</p> + +<p> +My reader needs not be afraid; I am not going to "moralise this +spectacle with a thousand similes." I only tell it him as a very pretty +phenomenon. But I confess I walked on moralising it. Any new thing in +nature—I mean new in regard to my knowledge, of course—always made me +happy; and I was full of the quiet pleasure it had given me and of the +thoughts it had brought me, when, as I was getting over a stile, whom +should I see in the next field, coming along the footpath, but the lady +who had made herself so disagreeable about Theodora. The sight was +rather a discord in my feeling at that moment; perhaps it would have +been so at any moment. But I prepared myself to meet her in the +strength of the good humour which nature had just bestowed upon me. For +I fear the failing will go with me to the grave that I am very ready to +be annoyed, even to the loss of my temper, at the urgings of ignoble +prudence. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-morning, Miss Bowdler," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-morning, Mr. Walton," she returned "I am afraid you thought me +impertinent the other week; but you know by this time it is only my +way." +</p> + +<p> +"As such I take it," I answered with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +She did not seem quite satisfied that I did not defend her from her own +accusation; but as it was a just one, I could not do so. Therefore she +went on to repeat the offence by way of justification. +</p> + +<p> +"It was all for Mrs. Walton's sake. You ought to consider her, Mr. +Walton. She has quite enough to do with that dear Connie, who is likely +to be an invalid all her days—too much to take the trouble of a +beggar's brat as well." +</p> + +<p> +"Has Mrs. Walton been complaining to you about it, Miss Bowdler?" I +asked. +</p> + +<p> +"O dear, no!" she answered. "She is far too good to complain of +anything. That's just why her friends must look after her a bit, Mr. +Walton." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I beg you won't speak disrespectfully of my little Theodora." +</p> + +<p> +"O dear me! no. Not at all. I don't speak disrespectfully of her." +</p> + +<p> +"Even amongst the class of which she comes, 'a beggar's brat' would be +regarded as bad language." +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Mr. Walton! If you <i>will</i> take offence—" +</p> + +<p> +"I do take offence. And you know there is One who has given especial +warning against offending the little ones." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Bowdler walked away in high displeasure—let me hope in conviction +of sin as well. She did not appear in church for the next two Sundays. +Then she came again. But she called very seldom at the Hall after this, +and I believe my wife was not sorry. +</p> + +<p> +Now whether it came in any way from what that lady had said as to my +wife's trouble with Constance and Theodora together, I can hardly tell; +but, before I had reached home, I had at last got a glimpse of +something like the right way, as it appeared to me, of bringing up +Theodora. When I went into the house, I looked for my wife to have a +talk with her about it; but, indeed, it always necessary to find her +every time I got home. I found her in Connie's room as I had expected. +Now although we were never in the habit of making mysteries of things +in which there was no mystery, and talked openly before our children, +and the more openly the older they grew, yet there were times when we +wanted to have our talks quite alone, especially when we had not made +up our minds about something. So I asked Ethelwyn to walk out with me. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm afraid I can't just this moment, husband," she answered. She was +in the way of using that form of address, for she said it meant +everything without saying it aloud. "I can't just this moment, for +there is no one at liberty to stay with Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"O, never mind me, mamma," said Connie cheerfully. "Theodora will take +care of me," and she looked fondly at the child, who was lying by her +side fast asleep. +</p> + +<p> +"There!" I said. And both, looked up surprised, for neither knew what I +meant. "I will tell you afterwards," I said, laughing. "Come along, +Ethel." +</p> + +<p> +"You can ring the bell, you know, Connie, if you should want anything, +or your baby should wake up and be troublesome. You won't want me long, +will you, husband?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not sure about that. You must tell Susan to watch for the bell." +</p> + +<p> +Susan was the old nurse. +</p> + +<p> +Ethel put on her hooded cloak, and we went out together. I took her +across to the field where I had seen the hoary shadow. The sun had not +shone out, and I hoped it would be there to gladden her dear eyes as it +had gladdened mine; but it was gone. The warmth of the sun, without his +direct rays, had melted it away, as sacred influences will sometimes do +with other shadows, without the mind knowing any more than the grass +how the shadow departed. There, reader! I have got a bit of a moral in +about it before you knew what I was doing. But I was sorry my wife +could see it only through my eyes and words. Then I told her about Miss +Bowdler, and what she had said. Ethel was very angry at her +impertinence in speaking so to me. That was a wife's feeling, you know, +and perhaps excusable in the first impression of the thing. +</p> + +<p> +"She seems to think," she said, "that she was sent into the world to +keep other people right instead of herself. I am very glad you set her +down, as the maids say." +</p> + +<p> +"O, I don't think there's much harm in her," I returned, which was easy +generosity, seeing my wife was taking my part. "Indeed, I am not sure +that we are not both considerably indebted to her; for it was after I +met her that a thought came into my head as to how we ought to do with +Theodora." +</p> + +<p> +"Still troubling yourself about that, husband?" +</p> + +<p> +"The longer the difficulty lasts, the more necessary is it that it +should be met," I answered. "Our measures must begin sometime, and +when, who can tell? We ought to have them in our heads, or they will +never begin at all." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I confess they are rather of a general nature at +present—belonging to humanity rather than the individual, as you would +say—consisting chiefly in washing, dressing, feeding, and apostrophe, +varied with lullabying. But our hearts are a better place for our +measures than our heads, aren't they?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly; I walk corrected. Only there's no fear about your heart. +I'm not quite so sure about your head." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, husband. But with you for a head it doesn't matter, does +it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know that. People should always strengthen the weaker part, +for no chain is stronger than its weakest link; no fortification +stronger than its most assailable point. But, seriously, wife, I trust +your head nearly, though not quite, as much as your heart. Now to go to +business. There's one thing we have both made up our minds about—that +there is to be no concealment with the child. God's fact must be known +by her. It would be cruel to keep the truth from her, even if it were +not sure to come upon her with a terrible shock some day. She must know +from the first, by hearing it talked of—not by solemn and private +communication—that she came out of the shrubbery. That's settled, is +it not?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly. I see that to be the right way," responded Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, are we bound to bring her up exactly as our own, or are we not?" +</p> + +<p> +"We are bound to do as well for her as for our own." +</p> + +<p> +"Assuredly. But if we brought her up just as our own, would that, the +facts being as they are, be to do as well for her as for our own?" +</p> + +<p> +"I doubt it; for other people would not choose to receive her as we +have done." +</p> + +<p> +"That is true. She would be continually reminded of her origin. Not +that that in itself would be any evil; but as they would do it by +excluding or neglecting her, or, still worse, by taking liberties with +her, it would be a great pain. But keeping that out of view, would it +be good for herself, knowing what she will know, to be thus brought up? +Would it not be kinder to bring her up in a way that would make it +easier for her to relieve the gratitude which I trust she will feel, +not for our sakes—I hope we are above doing anything for the sake of +the gratitude which will be given for it, and which is so often far +beyond the worth of the thing done—" +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Alas! the gratitude of men<br /> + Hath oftener left me mourning,"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +said Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! you understand that now, my Ethel!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, thank you, I do." +</p> + +<p> +"But we must wish for gratitude for others' sake, though we may be +willing to go without it for our own. Indeed, gratitude is often just +as painful as Wordsworth there represents it. It makes us so ashamed; +makes us think how much more we <i>might</i> have done; how lovely a thing +it is to give in return for such common gifts as ours; how needy the +man or woman must be in whom a trifle awakes so much emotion." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; but we must not in justice think that it is merely that our +little doing seems great to them: it is the kindness shown them +therein, for which, often, they are more grateful than for the gift, +though they can't show the difference in their thanks." +</p> + +<p> +"And, indeed, are not aware of it themselves, though it is so. And yet, +the same remarks hold good about the kindness as about the gift. But to +return to Theodora. If we put her in a way of life that would be +recognisant of whence she came, and how she had been brought thence, +might it not be better for her? Would it not be building on the truth? +Would she not be happier for it?" +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"You are putting general propositions, while all the time you have +something particular and definite in your own mind; and that is not +fair to my place in the conference," said Ethel. "In fact, you think +you are trying to approach me wisely, in order to persuade, I will not +say <i>wheedle</i>, me into something. It's a good thing you have the +harmlessness of the dove, Harry, for you've got the other thing." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, I will be as plain as ever I can be, only premising that +what you call the cunning of the serpent—" +</p> + +<p> +"Wisdom, Harry, not cunning." +</p> + +<p> +"Is only that I like to give my arguments before my proposition. But +here it is—bare and defenceless, only—let me warn you—with a whole +battery behind it: it is, to bring up little Theodora as a servant to +Constance." +</p> + +<p> +My wife laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"Well," she said, "for one who says so much about not thinking of the +morrow, you do look rather far forward." +</p> + +<p> +"Not with any anxiety, however, if only I know that I am doing right." +</p> + +<p> +"But just think: the child is about three months old." +</p> + +<p> +"Well; Connie will be none the worse that she is being trained for her. +I don't say that she is to commence her duties at once." +</p> + +<p> +"But Connie may be at the head of a house of her own long before that." +</p> + +<p> +"The training won't be lost to the child though. But I much fear, my +love, that Connie will never be herself again. There is no sign of it. +And Turner does not give much hope." +</p> + +<p> +"O Harry, Harry, don't say so! I can't bear it. To think of the darling +child lying like that all her life!" +</p> + +<p> +"It is sad, indeed; but no such awful misfortune surely, Ethel. Haven't +you seen, as well as I, that the growth of that child's nature since +her accident has been marvellous? Ten times rather would I have her +lying there such as she is, than have her well and strong and silly, +with her bonnets inside instead of outside her head." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, but she needn't have been like that. Wynnie never will." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, but God does all things not only well, but best, absolutely +best. But just think what it would be in any circumstances to have a +maid that had begun to wait upon her from the first days that she was +able to toddle after something to fetch it for her." +</p> + +<p> +"Won't it be like making a slave of her?" +</p> + +<p> +"Won't it be like giving her a divine freedom from the first? The lack +of service is the ruin of humanity." +</p> + +<p> +"But we can't train her then like one of our own." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not? Could we not give her all the love and all the teaching?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because it would not be fair to give her the education of a lady, and +then make a servant of her." +</p> + +<p> +"You forget that the service would be part of her training from the +first; and she would know no change of position in it. When we tell her +that she was found in the shrubbery, we will add that we think God sent +her to take care of Constance. I do not believe myself that you can +have perfect service except from a lady. Do not forget the true notion +of service as the essence of Christianity, yea, of divinity. It is not +education that unfits for service: it is the want of it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I know that the reading girls I have had, have, as a rule, +served me worse than the rest." +</p> + +<p> +"Would you have called one of those girls educated? Or even if they had +been educated, as any of them might well have been, better than +nine-tenths of the girls that go to boarding-schools, you must remember +that they had never been taught service—the highest accomplishment of +all. To that everything aids, when any true feeling of it is there. But +for service of this high sort, the education must begin with the +beginning of the dawn of will. How often have you wished that you had +servants who would believe in you, and serve you with the same truth +with which you regarded them! The servants born in a man's house in the +old times were more like his children than his servants. Here is a +chance for you, as it were of a servant born in your own house. Connie +loves the child: the child will love Connie, and find her delight in +serving her like a little cherub. Not one of the maids to whom you have +referred had ever been taught to think service other than an +unavoidable necessity, the end of life being to serve yourself, not to +serve others; and hence most of them would escape from it by any +marriage almost that they had a chance of making. I don't say all +servants are like that; but I do think that most of them are. I know +very well that most mistresses are as much to blame for this result as +the servants are; but we are not talking about them. Servants nowadays +despise work, and yet are forced to do it—a most degrading condition +to be in. But they would not be in any better condition if delivered +from the work. The lady who despises work is in as bad a condition as +they are. The only way to set them free is to get them to regard +service not only as their duty, but as therefore honourable, and +besides and beyond this, in its own nature divine. In America, the very +name of servant is repudiated as inconsistent with human dignity. There +is <i>no</i> dignity but of service. How different the whole notion of +training is now from what it was in the middle ages! Service was +honourable then. No doubt we have made progress as a whole, but in some +things we have degenerated sadly. The first thing taught then was how +to serve. No man could rise to the honour of knighthood without +service. A nobleman's son even had to wait on his father, or to go into +the family of another nobleman, and wait upon him as a page, standing +behind his chair at dinner. This was an honour. No notion of +degradation was in it. It was a necessary step to higher honour. And +what was the next higher honour? To be set free from service? No. To +serve in the harder service of the field; to be a squire to some noble +knight; to tend his horse, to clean his armour, to see that every rivet +was sound, every buckle true, every strap strong; to ride behind him, +and carry his spear, and if more than one attacked him, to rush to his +aid. This service was the more honourable because it was harder, and +was the next step to higher honour yet. And what was this higher +honour? That of knighthood. Wherein did this knighthood consist? The +very word means simply <i>service</i>. And for what was the knight thus +waited upon by his squire? That he might be free to do as he pleased? +No, but that he might be free to be the servant of all. By being a +squire first, the servant of one, he learned to rise to the higher +rank, that of servant of all. His horse was tended, this armour +observed, his sword and spear and shield held to his hand, that he +might have no trouble looking after himself, but might be free, strong, +unwearied, to shoot like an arrow to the rescue of any and every one +who needed his ready aid. There was a grand heart of Christianity in +that old chivalry, notwithstanding all its abuses which must be no more +laid to its charge than the burning of Jews and heretics to +Christianity. It was the lack of it, not the presence of it that +occasioned the abuses that coexisted with it. Train our Theodora as a +holy child-servant, and there will be no need to restrain any impulse +of wise affection from pouring itself forth upon her. My firm belief is +that we should then love and honour her far more than if we made her +just like one of our own." +</p> + +<p> +"But what if she should turn out utterly unfit for it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! then would come an obstacle. But it will not come till that +discovery is made." +</p> + +<p> +"But if we should be going wrong all the time?" +</p> + +<p> +"Now, there comes the kind of care that never troubles me, and which I +so strongly object to. It won't hurt her anyhow. And we ought always to +act upon the ideal; it is the only safe ground of action. When that +which contradicts and resists, and would ruin our ideal, opposes us, +then we must take measures; but not till then can we take measures, or +know what measures it may be necessary to take. But the ideal itself is +the only thing worth striving after. Remember what our Lord himself +said: 'Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven +is perfect.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I will think about it, Harry. There is time enough." +</p> + +<p> +"Plenty. No time only not to think about it. The more you think about +it the better. If a thing be a good thing, the more you think about it +the better it will look; for its real nature will go on coming out and +showing itself. I cannot doubt that you will soon see how good it is." +</p> + +<p> +We then went home. It was only two days after that my wife said to me— +</p> + +<p> +"I am more than reconciled to your plan, husband. It seems to me +delightful." +</p> + +<p> +When we reentered Connie's room, we found that her baby had just waked, +and she had managed to get one arm under her, and was trying to comfort +her, for she was crying. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IX. +</h3> + +<h3> +A SPRING CHAPTER. +</h3> + +<p> +More especially now in my old age, I find myself "to a lingering motion +bound." I would, if I might, tell a tale day by day, hour by hour, +following the movement of the year in its sweet change of seasons. This +may not be, but I will indulge myself now so far as to call this a +spring chapter, and so pass to the summer, when my reader will see why +I have called my story "The Seaboard Parish." +</p> + +<p> +I was out one day amongst my people, and I found two precious things: +one, a lovely little fact, the other a lovely little primrose. This was +a pinched, dwarfish thing, for the spring was but a baby herself, and +so could not mother more than a brave-hearted weakling. The frost lay +all about it under the hedge, but its rough leaves kept it just warm +enough, and hardly. Now, I should never have pulled the little darling; +it would have seemed a kind of small sacrilege committed on the church +of nature, seeing she had but this one; only with my sickly cub at +home, I felt justified in ravening like a beast of prey. I even went so +far in my greed as to dig up the little plant with my fingers, and bear +it, leaves and all, with a lump of earth about it to keep it alive, +home to my little woman—a present from the outside world which she +loved so much. And as I went there dawned upon me the recollection of a +little mirror in which, if I could find it, she would see it still more +lovely than in a direct looking at itself. So I set myself to find it; +for it lay in fragments in the drawers and cabinets of my memory. And +before I got home I had found all the pieces and put them together; and +then it was a lovely little sonnet which a friend of mine had written +and allowed me to see many years before. I was in the way of writing +verses myself; but I should have been proud to have written this one. I +never could have done that. Yet, as far as I knew, it had never seen +the light through the windows of print. It was with some difficulty +that I got it all right; but I thought I had succeeded very nearly, if +not absolutely, and I said it over and over, till I was sure I should +not spoil its music or its meaning by halting in the delivery of it. +</p> + +<p> +"Look here, my Connie, what I have brought you," I said. +</p> + +<p> +She held out her two white, half-transparent hands, took it as if it +had been a human baby and looked at it lovingly till the tears came in +her eyes. She would have made a tender picture, as she then lay, with +her two hands up, holding the little beauty before her eyes. Then I +said what I have already written about the mirror, and repeated the +sonnet to her. Here it is, and my readers will owe me gratitude for it. +My friend had found the snowdrop in February, and in frost. Indeed he +told me that there was a tolerable sprinkling of snow upon the ground: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "I know not what among the grass thou art,<br /> + Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower,<br /> + Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power<br /> + To send thine image through them to the heart;<br /> + But when I push the frosty leaves apart,<br /> + And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower,<br /> + Thou growest up within me from that hour,<br /> + And through the snow I with the spring depart.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,<br /> + Pale Beauty, of thy second life within.<br /> + There is a wind that cometh for thy death,<br /> + But thou a life immortal dost begin,<br /> + Where, in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell<br /> + Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"Will you say it again, papa?" said Connie; "I do not quite understand +it." +</p> + +<p> +"I will, my dear. But I will do something better as well. I will go and +write it out for you, as soon as I have given you something else that I +have brought." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I +may read it quite easily." +</p> + +<p> +I promised, and repeated the poem. +</p> + +<p> +"I understand it a little better," she said; "but the meaning is just +like the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give +it me in writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what +else you have brought me." +</p> + +<p> +I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the +plant and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only +expressed satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat +down with us. +</p> + +<p> +"I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning," I said. "She feels the +loss of her mother very much, poor thing." +</p> + +<p> +"How old was she, papa?" asked Connie. +</p> + +<p> +"She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, +and her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old +lady, you know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat +on the tablecloth. 'Mr. Shafton,' she said, 'was one of the old school; +he would never have done that. I don't know what the world is coming +to.'" +</p> + +<p> +My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad +manners. +</p> + +<p> +"What did you say, papa?" they asked. +</p> + +<p> +"I begged her pardon, and lifted it instantly. 'O, it's all right now, +my dear,' she said, 'when you've taken it up again. But I like good +manners, though I live in a cottage now.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Had she seen better days, then?" asked Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"She was a farmer's daughter, and a farmer's widow. I suppose the chief +difference in her mode of life was that she lived in a cottage instead +of a good-sized farmhouse." +</p> + +<p> +"But what is the story you have to tell us?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'm coming to that when you have done with your questions." +</p> + +<p> +"We have done, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"After talking awhile, during which she went bustling a little about +the cottage, in order to hide her feelings, as I thought, for she has a +good deal of her mother's sense of dignity about her,—but I want your +mother to hear the story. Run and fetch her, Wynnie." +</p> + +<p> +"O, do make haste, Wynnie," said Connie. +</p> + +<p> +When Ethelwyn came, I went on. +</p> + +<p> +"Miss Aylmer was bustling a little about the cottage, putting things to +rights. All at once she gave a cry of surprise, and said, 'Here it is, +at last!' She had taken up a stuff dress of her mother's, and was +holding it in one hand, while with the other she drew from the +pocket—what do you think?" +</p> + +<p> +Various guesses were hazarded. +</p> + +<p> +"No, no—nothing like it. I know you <i>could</i> never guess. Therefore it +would not be fair to keep you trying. A great iron horseshoe. The old +woman of ninety years had in the pocket of the dress that she was +wearing at the very moment when she died, for her death was sudden, an +iron horseshoe." +</p> + +<p> +"What did it mean? Could her daughter explain it?" +</p> + +<p> +"That she proceeded at once to do. 'Do you remember, sir,' she said, +'how that horseshoe used to hang on a nail over the chimneypiece?' 'I +do remember having observed it there,' I answered; 'for once when I +took notice of it, I said to your mother, laughing, "I hope you are not +afraid of witches, Mrs. Aylmer?" And she looked a little offended, and +assured me to the contrary.' 'Well,' her daughter went on, 'about three +months ago, I missed it. My mother would not tell me anything about it. +And here it is! I can hardly think she can have carried it about all +that time without me finding it out, but I don't know. Here it is, +anyhow. Perhaps when she felt death drawing nearer, she took it from +somewhere where she had hidden it, and put it in her pocket. If I had +found it in time, I would have put it in her coffin.' 'But why?' I +asked. 'Do tell me the story about it, if you know it.' 'I know it +quite well, for she told me all about it once. It is the shoe of a +favourite mare of my father's—one he used to ride when he went +courting my mother. My grandfather did not like to have a young man +coming about the house, and so he came after the old folks were gone to +bed. But he had a long way to come, and he rode that mare. She had to +go over some stones to get to the stable, and my mother used to spread +straw there, for it was under the window of my grandfather's room, that +her shoes mightn't make a noise and wake him. And that's one of the +shoes,' she said, holding it up to me. 'When the mare died, my mother +begged my father for the one off her near forefoot, where she had so +often stood and patted her neck when my father was mounted to ride home +again.'" +</p> + +<p> +"But it was very naughty of her, wasn't it," said Wynnie, "to do that +without her father's knowledge?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't say it was right, my dear. But in looking at what is wrong, we +ought to look for the beginning of the wrong; and possibly we might +find that in this case farther back. If, for instance, a father isn't a +father, we must not be too hard in blaming the child for not being a +child. The father's part has to come first, and teach the child's part. +Now, if I might guess from what I know of the old lady, in whom +probably it was much softened, her father was very possibly a hard, +unreasoning, and unreasonable man—such that it scarcely ever came into +the daughter's head that she had anything else to do with regard to him +than beware of the consequences of letting him know that she had a +lover. The whole thing, I allow, was wrong; but I suspect the father +was first to blame, and far more to blame than the daughter. And that +is the more likely from the high character of the old dame, and the +romantic way in which she clung to the memory of the courtship. A true +heart only does not grow old. And I have, therefore, no doubt that the +marriage was a happy one. Besides, I daresay it was very much the +custom of the country where they were, and that makes some difference." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'm sure, papa, you wouldn't like any of us to go and do like +that," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"Assuredly not, my dear," I answered, laughing. "Nor have I any fear of +it. But shall I tell you what I think would be one of the chief things +to trouble me if you did?" +</p> + +<p> +"If you like, papa. But it sounds rather dreadful to hear such an <i>if</i>" +said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"It would be to think how much I had failed of being such a father to +you as I ought to be, and as I wished to be, if it should prove at all +possible for you to do such a thing." +</p> + +<p> +"It's too dreadful to talk about, papa," said Wynnie; and the subject +was dropped. +</p> + +<p> +She was a strange child, this Wynnie of ours. Whereas most people are +in danger of thinking themselves in the right, or insisting that they +are whether they think so or not, she was always thinking herself in +the wrong. Nay more, she always expected to find herself in the wrong. +If the perpetrator of any mischief was inquired after, she always +looked into her own bosom to see whether she could not with justice +aver that she was the doer of the deed. I believe she felt at that +moment as if she had been deceiving me already, and deserved to be +driven out of the house. This came of an over-sensitiveness, +accompanied by a general dissatisfaction with herself, which was not +upheld by a sufficient faith in the divine sympathy, or sufficient +confidence of final purification. She never spared herself; and if she +was a little severe on the younger ones sometimes, no one was yet more +indulgent to them. She would eat all their hard crusts for them, always +give them the best and take the worst for herself. If there was any +part in the dish that she was helping that she thought nobody would +like, she invariably assigned it to her own share. It looked like a +determined self-mortification sometimes; but that was not it. She did +not care for her own comfort enough to feel it any mortification; +though I observed that when her mother or I helped her to anything +nice, she ate it with as much relish as the youngest of the party. And +her sweet smile was always ready to meet the least kindness that was +offered her. Her obedience was perfect, and had been so for very many +years, as far as we could see. Indeed, not since she was the merest +child had there been any contest between us. Now, of course, there was +no demand of obedience: she was simply the best earthly friend that her +father and mother had. It often caused me some passing anxiety to think +that her temperament, as well as her devotion to her home, might cause +her great suffering some day; but when those thoughts came, I just gave +her to God to take care of. Her mother sometimes said to her that she +would make an excellent wife for a poor man. She would brighten up +greatly at this, taking it for a compliment of the best sort. And she +did not forget it, as the sequel will show. She would choose to sit +with one candle lit when there were two on the table, wasting her eyes +to save the candles. "Which will you have for dinner to-day, papa, +roast beef or boiled?" she asked me once, when her mother was too +unwell to attend to the housekeeping. And when I replied that I would +have whichever she liked best—"The boiled beef lasts longest, I +think," she said. Yet she was not only as liberal and kind as any to +the poor, but she was, which is rarer, and perhaps more important for +the final formation of a character, carefully just to everyone with +whom she had any dealings. Her sense of law was very strong. Law with +her was something absolute, and not to be questioned. In her childhood +there was one lady to whom for years she showed a decided aversion, and +we could not understand it, for it was the most inoffensive Miss +Boulderstone. When she was nearly grown up, one of us happening to +allude to the fact, she volunteered an explanation. Miss Boulderstone +had happened to call one day when Wynnie, then between three and four +was in disgrace—<i>in the corner</i>, in fact. Miss Boulderstone interceded +for her; and this was the whole front of her offending. +</p> + +<p> +"I <i>was</i> so angry!" she said. "'As if my papa did not know best when I +ought to come out of the corner!' I said to myself. And I couldn't bear +her for ever so long after that." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Boulderstone, however, though not very interesting, was quite a +favourite before she died. She left Wynnie—for she and her brother +were the last of their race—a death's-head watch, which had been in +the family she did not know how long. I think it is as old as Queen +Elizabeth's time. I took it to London to a skilful man, and had it as +well repaired as its age would admit of; and it has gone ever since, +though not with the greatest accuracy; for what could be expected of an +old death's-head, the most transitory thing in creation? Wynnie wears +it to this day, and wouldn't part with it for the best watch in the +world. +</p> + +<p> +I tell the reader all this about my daughter that he may be the more +able to understand what will follow in due time. He will think that as +yet my story has been nothing but promises. Let him only hope that I +will fulfil them, and I shall be content. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Boulderstone did not long outlive his sister. Though the old +couple, for they were rather old before they died, if, indeed, they +were not born old, which I strongly suspect, being the last of a +decaying family that had not left the land on which they were born for +a great many generations—though the old people had not, of what the +French call sentiments, one between them, they were yet capable of a +stronger and, I had almost said, more romantic attachment, than many +couples who have married from love; for the lady's sole trouble in +dying was what her brother <i>would</i> do without her; and from the day of +her death, he grew more and more dull and seemingly stupid. Nothing +gave him any pleasure but having Wynnie to dinner with him. I knew that +it must be very dull for her, but she went often, and I never heard her +complain of it, though she certainly did look fagged—not <i>bored</i>, +observe, but fagged—showing that she had been exerting herself to meet +the difficulties of the situation. When the good man died, we found +that he had left all his money in my hands, in trust for the poor of +the parish, to be applied in any way I thought best. This involved me +in much perplexity, for nothing is more difficult than to make money +useful to the poor. But I was very glad of it, notwithstanding. +</p> + +<p> +My own means were not so large as my readers may think. The property my +wife brought me was much encumbered. With the help of her private +fortune, and the income of several years (not my income from the +church, it may be as well to say), I succeeded in clearing off the +encumbrances. But even then there remained much to be done, if I would +be the good steward that was not to be ashamed at his Lord's coming. +First of all there were many cottages to be built for the labourers on +the estate. If the farmers would not, or could not, help, I must do it; +for to provide decent dwellings for them, was clearly one of the divine +conditions in the righteous tenure of property, whatever the human +might be; for it was not for myself alone, or for myself chiefly, that +this property was given to me; it was for those who lived upon it. +Therefore I laid out what money I could, not only in getting all the +land clearly in its right relation to its owner, but in doing the best +I could for those attached to it who could not help themselves. And +when I hint to my reader that I had some conscience in paying my +curate, though, as they had no children, they did not require so much +as I should otherwise have felt compelled to give them, he will easily +see that as my family grew up I could not have so much to give away of +my own as I should have liked. Therefore this trust of the good Mr. +Boulderstone was the more acceptable to me. +</p> + +<p> +One word more ere I finish this chapter.—I should not like my friends +to think that I had got tired of our Christmas gatherings, because I +have made no mention of one this year. It had been pretermitted for the +first time, because of my daughter's illness. It was much easier to +give them now than when I lived at the vicarage, for there was plenty +of room in the old hall. But my curate, Mr. Weir, still held a similar +gathering there every Easter. +</p> + +<p> +Another one word more about him. Some may wonder why I have not +mentioned him or my sister, especially in connection with Connie's +accident. The fact was, that he had taken, or rather I had given him, a +long holiday. Martha had had several disappointing illnesses, and her +general health had suffered so much in consequence that there was even +some fear of her lungs, and a winter in the south of France had been +strongly recommended. Upon this I came in with more than a +recommendation, and insisted that they should go. They had started in +the beginning of October, and had not returned up to the time of which +I am now about to write—somewhere in the beginning of the month of +April. But my sister was now almost quite well, and I was not sorry to +think that I should soon have a little more leisure for such small +literary pursuits as I delighted in—to my own enrichment, and +consequently to the good of my parishioners and friends. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER X. +</h3> + +<h3> +AN IMPORTANT LETTER. +</h3> + +<p> +It was, then, in the beginning of April that I received one morning an +epistle from an old college friend of mine, with whom I had renewed my +acquaintance of late, through the pleasure which he was kind enough to +say he had derived from reading a little book of mine upon the relation +of the mind of St. Paul to the gospel story. His name was Shepherd—a +good name for a clergyman. In his case both Christian name and +patronymic might remind him well of his duty. David Shepherd ought to +be a good clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as I had read the letter, I went with it open in my hand to +find my wife. +</p> + +<p> +"Here is Shepherd," I said, "with a clerical sore-throat, and forced to +give up his duty for a whole summer. He writes to ask me whether, as he +understands I have a curate as good as myself—that is what the old +fellow says—it might not suit me to take my family to his place for +the summer. He assures me I should like it, and that it would do us all +good. His house, he says, is large enough to hold us, and he knows I +should not like to be without duty wherever I was. And so on Read the +letter for yourself, and turn it over in your mind. Weir will come back +so fresh and active that it will be no oppression to him to take the +whole of the duty here. I will run and ask Turner whether it would be +safe to move Connie, and whether the sea-air would be good for her." +</p> + +<p> +"One would think you were only twenty, husband—you make up your mind +so quickly, and are in such a hurry." +</p> + +<p> +The fact was, a vision of the sea had rushed in upon me. It was many +years since I had seen the sea, and the thought of looking on it once +more, in its most glorious show, the Atlantic itself, with nothing +between us and America, but the round of the ridgy water, had excited +me so that my wife's reproof, if reproof it was, was quite necessary to +bring me to my usually quiet and sober senses. I laughed, begged old +grannie's pardon, and set off to see Turner notwithstanding, leaving +her to read and ponder Shepherd's letter. +</p> + +<p> +"What do you think, Turner?" I said, and told him the case. He looked +rather grave. +</p> + +<p> +"When would you think of going?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"About the beginning of June." +</p> + +<p> +"Nearly two months," he said, thoughtfully. "And Miss Connie was not +the worse for getting on the sofa yesterday?" +</p> + +<p> +"The better, I do think." +</p> + +<p> +"Has she had any increase of pain since?" +</p> + +<p> +"None, I quite believe; for I questioned her as to that." +</p> + +<p> +He thought again. He was a careful man, although young. +</p> + +<p> +"It is a long journey." +</p> + +<p> +"She could make it by easy stages." +</p> + +<p> +"It would certainly do her good to breathe the sea-air and have such a +thorough change in every way—if only it could be managed without +fatigue and suffering. I think, if you can get her up every day between +this and that, we shall be justified in trying it at least. The sooner +you get her out of doors the better too; but the weather is scarcely +fit for that yet." +</p> + +<p> +"A good deal will depend on how she is inclined, I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. But in her case you must not mind that too much. An invalid's +instincts as to eating and drinking are more to be depended upon than +those of a healthy person; but it is not so, I think with regard to +anything involving effort. That she must sometimes be urged to. She +must not judge that by inclination. I have had, in my short practice, +two patients, who considered themselves <i>bedlars</i>, as you will find the +common people in the part you are going to, call them—bedridden, that +is. One of them I persuaded to make the attempt to rise, and although +her sense of inability was anything but feigned, and she will be a +sufferer to the end of her days, yet she goes about the house without +much inconvenience, and I suspect is not only physically but morally +the better for it. The other would not consent to try, and I believe +lies there still." +</p> + +<p> +"The will has more to do with most things than people generally +suppose," I said. "Could you manage, now, do you think, supposing we +resolve to make the experiment, to accompany us the first stage or two?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is very likely I could. Only you must not depend upon me. I cannot +tell beforehand. You yourself would teach me that I must not be a +respecter of persons, you know." +</p> + +<p> +I returned to my wife. She was in Connie's room. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you think of it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Of what?" she asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, of Shepherd's letter, of course," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"I've been ordering the dinner since, Harry." +</p> + +<p> +"The dinner!" I returned with some show of contempt, for I knew my wife +was only teasing me. "What's the dinner to the Atlantic?" +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean by the Atlantic, papa?" said Connie, from whose +roguish eyes I could see that her mother had told her all about it, and +that <i>she</i> was not disinclined to get up, if only she could. +</p> + +<p> +"The Atlantic, my dear, is the name given to that portion of the waters +of the globe which divides Europe from America. I will fetch you the +Universal Gazetteer, if you would like to consult it on the subject." +</p> + +<p> +"O papa!" laughed Connie; "you know what I mean." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; and you know what I mean too, you squirrel!" +</p> + +<p> +"But do you really mean, papa," she said "that you will take me to the +Atlantic?" +</p> + +<p> +"If you will only oblige me by getting Well enough to go as soon as +possible." +</p> + +<p> +The poor child half rose on her elbow, but sank back again with a moan, +which I took for a cry of pain. I was beside her in a moment. +</p> + +<p> +"My darling! You have hurt yourself!" +</p> + +<p> +"O no, papa. I felt for the moment as if I could get up if I liked. But +I soon found that I hadn't any back or legs. O! what a plague I am to +you!" +</p> + +<p> +"On the contrary, you are the nicest plaything in the world, Connie. +One always knows where to find you." +</p> + +<p> +She half laughed and half cried, and the two halves made a very +bewitching whole. +</p> + +<p> +"But," I went on, "I mean to try whether my dolly won't bear moving. +One thing is clear, I can't go without it. Do you think you could be +got on the sofa to-day without hurting you?" +</p> + +<p> +"I am sure I could, papa. I feel better today than I have felt yet. +Mamma, do send for Susan, and get me up before dinner." +</p> + +<p> +When I went in after a couple of hours or so, I found her lying on the +conch, propped up with pillows. She lay looking out of the window on +the lawn at the back of the house. A smile hovered about her bloodless +lips, and the blue of her eyes, though very gray, looked sunny. Her +white face showed the whiter because her dark brown hair was all about +it. We had had to cut her hair, but it had grown to her neck again. +</p> + +<p> +"I have been trying to count the daisies on the lawn," she said. +</p> + +<p> +"What a sharp sight you must have, child!" +</p> + +<p> +"I see them all as clear as if they were enamelled on that table before +me." +</p> + +<p> +I was not so anxious to get rid of the daisies as some people are. +Neither did I keep the grass quite so close shaved. +</p> + +<p> +"But," she went on, "I could not count them, for it gave me the fidgets +in my feet." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't say so!" I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me with some surprise, but concluding that I was only +making a little of my mild fun at her expense, she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Isn't it a wonderful fact?" she said. +</p> + +<p> +"It is a fact, my dear, that I feel ready to go on my knees and thank +God for. I may be wrong, but I take it as a sign that you are beginning +to recover a little. But we mustn't make too much of it, lest I should +be mistaken," I added, checking myself, for I feared exciting her too +much. +</p> + +<p> +But she lay very still; only the tears rose slowly and lay shimmering +in her eyes. After about five minutes, during which we were both +silent,— +</p> + +<p> +"O papa!" she said, "to think of ever walking out with you again, and +feeling the wind on my face! I can hardly believe it possible." +</p> + +<p> +"It is so mild, I think you might have half that pleasure at once," I +answered.. +</p> + +<p> +And I opened the window, let the spring air gently move her hair for +one moment, and then shut it again. Connie breathed deep, and said +after a little pause,— +</p> + +<p> +"I had no idea how delightful it was. To think that I have been in the +way of breathing that every moment for so many years and never thought +about it!" +</p> + +<p> +"It is not always just like that in this climate. But I ought not to +have made that remark when I wanted to make this other: that I suspect +we shall find some day that the loss of the human paradise consists +chiefly in the closing of the human eyes; that at least far more of it +than people think remains about us still, only we are so filled with +foolish desires and evil cares, that we cannot see or hear, cannot even +smell or taste the pleasant things round about us. We have need to pray +in regard to the right receiving of the things of the senses even, +'Lord, open thou our hearts to understand thy word;' for each of these +things is as certainly a word of God as Jesus is the Word of God. He +has made nothing in vain. All is for our teaching. Shall I tell you +what such a breath of fresh air makes me think of?" +</p> + +<p> +"It comes to me," said Connie, "like forgiveness when I was a little +girl and was naughty. I used to feel just like that." +</p> + +<p> +"It is the same kind of thing I feel," I said—"as if life from the +Spirit of God were coming into my soul: I think of the wind that +bloweth where it listeth. Wind and spirit are the same word in the +Greek; and the Latin word <i>spirit</i> comes even nearer to what we are +saying, for it is the wind as <i>breathed</i>. And now, Connie, I will tell +you—and you will see how I am growing able to talk to you like quite +an old friend—what put me in such a delight with Mr. Shepherd's letter +and so exposed me to be teased by mamma and you. As I read it, there +rose up before me a vision of one sight of the sea which I had when I +was a young man, long before I saw your mamma. I had gone out for a +walk along some high downs. But I ought to tell you that I had been +working rather hard at Cambridge, and the life seemed to be all gone +out of me. Though my holidays had come, they did not feel quite like +holidays—not as holidays used to feel when I was a boy. Even when +walking along those downs with the scents of sixteen grasses or so in +my brain, like a melody with the odour of the earth for the +accompaniment upon which it floated, and with just enough of wind to +stir them up and set them in motion, I could not feel at all. I +remembered something of what I had used to feel in such places, but +instead of believing in that, I doubted now whether it had not been all +a trick that I played myself—a fancied pleasure only. I was walking +along, then, with the sea behind me. It was a warm, cloudy day—I had +had no sunshine since I came out. All at once I turned—I don't know +why. There lay the gray sea, but not as I had seen it last, not all +gray. It was dotted, spotted, and splashed all over with drops, pools, +and lakes of light, of all shades of depth, from a light shimmer of +tremulous gray, through a half light that turned the prevailing lead +colour into translucent green that seemed to grow out of its +depths—through this, I say, to brilliant light, deepening and +deepening till my very soul was stung by the triumph of the intensity +of its molten silver. There was no sun upon me. But there were breaks +in the clouds over the sea, through which, the air being filled with +vapour, I could see the long lines of the sun-rays descending on the +waters like rain—so like a rain of light that the water seemed to +plash up in light under their fall. I questioned the past no more; the +present seized upon me, and I knew that the past was true, and that +nature was more lovely, more awful in her loveliness than I could +grasp. It was a lonely place: I fell on my knees, and worshipped the +God that made the glory and my soul." +</p> + +<p> +While I spoke Connie's tears had been flowing quietly. +</p> + +<p> +"And mamma and I were making fun while you were seeing such things as +those!" she said pitifully. +</p> + +<p> +"You didn't hurt them one bit, my darling—neither mamma nor you. If I +had been the least cross about it, as I should have been when I was as +young as at the time of which I was thinking, that would have ruined +the vision entirely. But your merriment only made me enjoy it more. +And, my Connie, I hope you will see the Atlantic before long; and if +one vision should come as brilliant as that, we shall be fortunate +indeed, if we went all the way to the west to see that only." +</p> + +<p> +"O papa! I dare hardly think of it—it is too delightful. But do you +think we shall really go?" +</p> + +<p> +"I do. Here comes your mamma—I am going to say to Shepherd, my dear, +that I will take his parish in hand, and if I cannot, after all, go +myself, will find some one, so that he need be in no anxiety from the +uncertainty which must hang over our movements even till the experiment +itself is made." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, husband. I am quite satisfied." +</p> + +<p> +And as I watched Connie, I saw that hope and expectation did much to +prepare her. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XI. +</h3> + +<h3> +CONNIE'S DREAM. +</h3> + +<p> +Mr. Turner, being a good mechanic as well as surgeon, proceeded to +invent, and with his own hands in a great measure construct, a kind of +litter, which, with a water-bed laid upon it, could be placed in our +own carriage for Connie to lie upon, and from that lifted, without +disturbing her, and placed in a similar manner in the railway carriage. +He had laid Connie repeatedly upon it before he was satisfied that the +arrangement of the springs, &c., was successful. But at length she +declared that it was perfect, and that she would not mind being carried +across the Arabian desert on a camel's back with that under her. +</p> + +<p> +As the season advanced, she continued to improve. I shall never forget +the first time she was carried out upon the lawn. If you can imagine an +infant coming into the world capable of the observation and delight of +a child of eight or ten, you will have some idea of how Connie received +the new impressions of everything around her. They were almost too much +for her at first, however. She who had been used to scamper about like +a wild thing on a pony, found the delight of a breath of wind almost +more than she could bear. After she was laid down she closed her eyes, +and the smile that flickered about her mouth was of a sort that +harmonised entirely with the two great tears that crept softly out from +under her eyelids, and sank, rather than ran, down her cheeks. She lay +so that she faced a rich tract of gently receding upland, plentifully +wooded to the horizon's edge, and through the wood peeped the white and +red houses of a little hamlet, with the square tower of its church just +rising above the trees. A kind of frame was made to the whole picture +by the nearer trees of our own woods, through an opening in which, +evidently made or left for its sake, the distant prospect was visible. +It was a morning in early summer, when the leaves were not quite +full-grown but almost, and their green was shining and pure as the blue +of the sky, when the air had no touch of bitterness or of lassitude, +but was thoroughly warm, and yet filled the lungs with the reviving as +of a draught of cold water. We had fastened the carriage umbrella to +the sofa, so that it should shade her perfectly without obscuring her +prospect; and behind this we all crept, leaving her to come to herself +without being looked at, for emotion is a shy and sacred thing and +should be tenderly hidden by those who are near. The bees kept very +<i>beesy</i> all about us. To see one huge fellow, as big as three ordinary +ones with pieces of red and yellow about him, as if he were the beadle +of all bee-dom, and overgrown in consequence—to see him, I say, down +in a little tuft of white clover, rolling about in it, hardly able to +move for fatness, yet bumming away as if his business was to express +the delight of the whole creation—was a sight! Then there were the +butterflies, so light that they seemed to tumble up into the air, and +get down again with difficulty. They bewildered me with their +inscrutable variations of purpose. "If I could but see once, for an +hour, into the mind of a butterfly," I thought, "it would be to me +worth all the natural history I ever read. If I could but see why he +changes his mind so often and so suddenly—what he saw about that +flower to make him seek it—then why, on a nearer approach, he should +decline further acquaintance with it, and go rocking away through the +air, to do the same fifty times over again—it would give me an insight +into all animal and vegetable life that ages of study could not bring +me up to." I was thinking all this behind my daughter's umbrella, while +a lark, whose body had melted quite away in the heavenly spaces, was +scattering bright beads of ringing melody straight down upon our heads; +while a cock was crowing like a clarion from the home-farm, as if in +defiance of the golden glitter of his silent brother on the roof of the +stable; while a little stream that scampered down the same slope as the +lawn lay upon, from a well in the stable-yard, mingled its sweet +undertone of contentment with the jubilation of the lark and the +business-like hum of the bees; and while white clouds floated in the +majesty of silence across the blue deeps of the heavens. The air was so +full of life and reviving, that it seemed like the crude substance that +God might take to make babies' souls of—only the very simile smells of +materialism, and therefore I do not like it. +</p> + +<p> +"Papa," said Connie at length, and I was beside her in a moment. Her +face looked almost glorified with delight: there was a hush of that awe +upon it which is perhaps one of the deepest kinds of delight. She put +out her thin white hand, took hold of a button of my coat, drew me down +towards her, and said in a whisper: +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think God is here, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I do, my darling," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Doesn't <i>he</i> enjoy this?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear. He wouldn't make us enjoy it if he did not enjoy it. It +would be to deceive us to make us glad and blessed, while our Father +did not care about it, or how it came to us. At least it would amount +to making us no longer his children." +</p> + +<p> +"I am so glad you think so. I do. And I shall enjoy it so much more +now." +</p> + +<p> +She could hardly finish her sentence, but burst out sobbing so that I +was afraid she would hurt herself. I saw, however, that it was best to +leave her to quiet herself, and motioned to the rest to keep back and +let her recover as she could. The emotion passed off in a summer +shower, and when I went round once more, her face was shining just like +a wet landscape after the sun has come out and Nature has begun to make +gentle game of her own past sorrows. In a little while, she was +merry—merrier, notwithstanding her weakness, than I think I had ever +seen her before. +</p> + +<p> +"Look at that comical sparrow," she said. "Look how he cocks his head +first on one side and then on the other. Does he want us to see him? Is +he bumptious, or what?" +</p> + +<p> +"I hardly know, my dear. I think sparrows are very like schoolboys; and +I suspect that if we understood the one class thoroughly, we should +understand the other. But I confess I do not yet understand either." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps you will when Charlie and Harry are old enough to go to +school," said Connie. +</p> + +<p> +"It is my only chance of making any true acquaintance with the +sparrows," I answered. "Look at them now," I exclaimed, as a little +crowd of them suddenly appeared where only one had stood a moment +before, and exploded in objurgation and general unintelligible +excitement. After some obscure fluttering of wings and pecking, they +all vanished except two, which walked about in a dignified manner, +trying apparently to seem quite unconscious each of the other's +presence. +</p> + +<p> +"I think it was a political meeting of some sort," said Connie, +laughing merrily. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, they have this advantage over us," I answered, "that they get +through their business whatever it may be, with considerably greater +expedition than we get through ours." +</p> + +<p> +A short silence followed, during which Connie lay contemplating +everything. +</p> + +<p> +"What do you think we girls are like, then, papa?" she asked at length. +"Don't say you don't know, now." +</p> + +<p> +"I ought to know something more about you than I do about schoolboys. +And I think I do know a little about girls—not much though. They +puzzle me a good deal sometimes. I know what a great-hearted woman is, +Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"You can't help doing that, papa," interrupted Connie, adding with her +old roguishness, "You mustn't pass yourself off for very knowing for +that. By the time Wynnie is quite grown up, your skill will be tried." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope I shall understand her then, and you too, Connie." +</p> + +<p> +A shadow, just like the shadow of one of those white clouds above us, +passed over her face, and she said, trying to smile: +</p> + +<p> +"I shall never grow up, papa. If I live, I shall only be a girl at +best—a creature you can't understand." +</p> + +<p> +"On the contrary, Connie, I think I understand you almost as well as +mamma. But there isn't so much to understand yet, you know, as there +will be." +</p> + +<p> +Her merriment returned. +</p> + +<p> +"Tell me what girls are like, then, or I shall sulk all day because you +say there isn't so much in me as in mamma." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I think, if the boys are like sparrows, the girls are like +swallows. Did you ever watch them before rain, Connie, skimming about +over the lawn as if it were water, low towards its surface, but never +alighting? You never see them grubbing after worms. Nothing less than +things with wings like themselves will satisfy them. They will be +obliged to the earth only for a little mud to build themselves nests +with. For the rest, they live in the air, and on the creatures of the +air. And then, when they fancy the air begins to be uncivil, sending +little shoots of cold through their warm feathers, they vanish. They +won't stand it. They're off to a warmer climate, and you never know +till you find they're not there any more. There, Connie!" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know, papa, whether you are making game of us or not. If you +are not, then I wish all you say were quite true of us. If you are then +I think it is not quite like you to be satirical." +</p> + +<p> +"I am no believer in satire, Connie. And I didn't mean any. The +swallows are lovely creatures, and there would be no harm if the girls +were a little steadier than the swallows. Further satire than that I am +innocent of." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't mind that much, papa. Only I'm steady enough, and no thanks to +me for it," she added with a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +"Connie," I said, "it's all for the sake of your wings that you're kept +in your nest." +</p> + +<p> +She did not stay out long this first day, for the life the air gave her +soon tired her weak body. But the next morning she was brighter and +better, and longing to get up and go out again. When she was once more +laid on her couch on the lawn, in the midst of the world of light and +busy-ness, in which the light was the busiest of all, she said to me: +</p> + +<p> +"Papa, I had such a strange dream last night: shall I tell it you?" +</p> + +<p> +"If you please, my dear. I am very fond of dreams that have any sense +in them—or even of any that have good nonsense in them. I woke this +morning, saying to myself, 'Dante, the poet, must have been a +respectable man, for he was permitted by the council of Florence to +carry the Nicene Creed and the Multiplication Table in his coat of +arms.' Now tell me your dream." +</p> + +<p> +Connie laughed. All the household tried to make Connie laugh, and +generally succeeded. It was quite a triumph to Charlie or Harry, and +was sure to be recounted with glee at the next meal, when he succeeded +in making Connie laugh. +</p> + +<p> +"Mine wasn't a dream to make me laugh. It was too dreadful at first, +and too delightful afterwards. I suppose it was getting out for the +first time yesterday that made me dream it. I thought I was lying quite +still, without breathing even, with my hands straight down by my sides +and my eyes closed. I did not choose to open them, for I knew that if I +did I should see nothing but the inside of the lid of my coffin. I did +not mind it much at first, for I was very quiet, and not uncomfortable. +Everything was as silent as it should be, for I was ten feet and a half +under the surface of the earth in the churchyard. Old Sogers was not +far from me on one side, and that was a comfort; only there was a thick +wall of earth between. But as the time went on, I began to get +uncomfortable. I could not help thinking how long I should have to wait +for the resurrection. Somehow I had forgotten all that you teach us +about that. Perhaps it was a punishment—the dream—for forgetting it." +</p> + +<p> +"Silly child! Your dream is far better than your reflections." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'll go on with my dream. I lay a long time till I got very +tired, and wanted to get up, O, so much! But still I lay, and although +I tried, I could not move hand or foot. At last I burst out crying. I +was ashamed of crying in my coffin, but I couldn't bear it any longer. +I thought I was quite disgraced, for everybody was expected to be +perfectly quiet and patient down there. But the moment I began to cry, +I heard a sound. And when I listened it was the sound of spades and +pickaxes. It went on and on, and came nearer and nearer. And then—it +was so strange—I was dreadfully frightened at the idea of the light +and the wind, and of the people seeing me in my coffin and my +night-dress, and tried to persuade myself that it was somebody else +they were digging for, or that they were only going to lay another +coffin over mine. And I thought that if it was you, papa, I shouldn't +mind how long I lay there, for I shouldn't feel a bit lonely, even +though we could not speak a word to each other all the time. But the +sounds came on, nearer and nearer, and at last a pickaxe struck, with a +blow that jarred me all through, upon the lid of the coffin, right over +my head. +</p> + +<p> +"'Here she is, poor thing!' I heard a sweet voice say. +</p> + +<p> +"'I'm so glad we've found her,' said another voice. +</p> + +<p> +"'She couldn't bear it any longer,' said a third more pitiful voice +than either of the others. 'I heard her first,' it went on. 'I was away +up in Orion, when I thought I heard a woman crying that oughtn't to be +crying. And I stopped and listened. And I heard her again. Then I knew +that it was one of the buried ones, and that she had been buried long +enough, and was ready for the resurrection. So as any business can wait +except that, I flew here and there till I fell in with the rest of you.' +</p> + +<p> +"I think, papa, that this must have been because of what you were +saying the other evening about the mysticism of St. Paul; that while he +defended with all his might the actual resurrection of Christ and the +resurrection of those he came to save, he used it as meaning something +more yet, as a symbol for our coming out of the death of sin into the +life of truth. Isn't that right, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear; I believe so. But I want to hear your dream first, and +then your way of accounting for it." +</p> + +<p> +"There isn't much more of it now." +</p> + +<p> +"There must be the best of it." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; I allow that. Well, while they spoke—it was a wonderfully clear +and connected dream: I never had one like it for that, or for anything +else—they were clearing away the earth and stones from the top of my +coffin. And I lay trembling and expecting to be looked at, like a thing +in a box as I was, every moment. But they lifted me, coffin and all, +out of the grave, for I felt the motion of it up. Then they set it +down, and I heard them taking the lid off. But after the lid was off, +it did not seem to make much difference to me. I could not open my +eyes. I saw no light, and felt no wind blowing upon me. But I heard +whispering about me. Then I felt warm, soft hands washing my face, and +then I felt wafts of wind coming on my face, and thought they came from +the waving of wings. And when they had washed my eyes, the air came +upon them so sweet and cool! and I opened them, I thought, and here I +was lying on this couch, with butterflies and bees flitting and buzzing +about me, the brook singing somewhere near me, and a lark up in the +sky. But there were no angels—only plenty of light and wind and living +creatures. And I don't think I ever knew before what happiness meant. +Wasn't it a resurrection, papa, to come out of the grave into such a +world as this?" +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed it was, my darling—and a very beautiful and true dream. There +is no need for me to moralise it to you, for you have done so for +yourself already. But not only do I think that the coming out of sin +into goodness, out of unbelief into faith in God, is like your dream; +but I do expect that no dream of such delight can come up to the sense +of fresh life and being that we shall have when we get on the higher +body after this one won't serve our purpose any longer, and is worn out +and cast aside. The very ability of the mind, whether of itself, or by +some inspiration of the Almighty, to dream such things, is a proof of +our capacity for such things, a proof, I think, that for such things we +were made. Here comes in the chance for faith in God—the confidence in +his being and perfection that he would not have made us capable without +meaning to fill that capacity. If he is able to make us capable, that +is the harder half done already. The other he can easily do. And if he +is love he will do it. You should thank God for that dream, Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"I was afraid to do that, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"That is as much as to fear that there is one place to which David +might have fled, where God would not find him—the most terrible of all +thoughts." +</p> + +<p> +"Where do you mean, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Dreamland, my dear. If it is right to thank God for a beautiful +thought—I mean a thought of strength and grace giving you fresh life +and hope—why should you be less bold to thank him when such thoughts +arise in plainer shape—take such vivid forms to your mind that they +seem to come through the doors of the eyes into the vestibule of the +brain, and thence into the inner chambers of the soul?" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE JOURNEY. +</h3> + +<p> +For more than two months Charlie and Harry had been preparing for the +journey. The moment they heard of the prospect of it, they began to +prepare, accumulate, and pack stores both for the transit and the +sojourn. First of all there was an extensive preparation of +ginger-beer, consisting, as I was informed in confidence, of brown +sugar, ground ginger, and cold water. This store was, however, as near +as I can judge, exhausted and renewed about twelve times before the day +of departure arrived; and when at last the auspicious morning dawned, +they remembered with dismay that they had drunk the last drop two days +before, and there was none in stock. Then there was a wonderful and +more successful hoarding of marbles, of a variety so great that my +memory refuses to bear the names of the different kinds, which, I +think, must have greatly increased since the time when I too was a boy, +when some marbles—one of real, white marble with red veins +especially—produced in my mind something of the delight that a work of +art produces now. These were carefully deposited in one of the many +divisions of a huge old hair-trunk, which they had got their uncle +Weir, who could use his father's tools with pleasure if not to profit, +to fit up for them with a multiplicity of boxes, and cupboards, and +drawers, and trays, and slides, that was quite bewildering. In this +same box was stowed also a quantity of hair, the gleanings of all the +horse-tails upon the premises. This was for making fishing-tackle, with +a vague notion on the part of Harry that it was to be employed in +catching whales and crocodiles. Then all their favourite books were +stowed away in the same chest, in especial a packet of a dozen penny +books, of which I think I could give a complete list now. For one +afternoon as I searched about in the lumber-room after a set of old +library steps, which I wanted to get repaired, I came upon the chest, +and opening it, discovered my boys' hoard, and in it this packet of +books. I sat down on the top of the chest and read them all through, +from Jack the Giant-killer down to Hop o' my Thumb without rising, and +this in the broad daylight, with the yellow sunshine nestling beside me +on the rose-coloured silken seat, richly worked, of a large +stately-looking chair with three golden legs. Yes I could tell you all +those stories, not to say the names of them, over yet. Only I knew +every one of them before; finding now that they had fared like good +vintages, for if they had lost something in potency, they had gained +much in flavour. Harry could not read these, and Charlie not very well, +but they put confidence in them notwithstanding, in virtue of the red, +blue, and yellow prints. Then there was a box of sawdust, the design of +which I have not yet discovered; a huge ball of string; a rabbit's +skin; a Noah's ark; an American clock, that refused to go for all the +variety of treatment they gave it; a box of lead-soldiers, and twenty +other things, amongst which was a huge gilt ball having an eagle of +brass with outspread wings on the top of it. +</p> + +<p> +Great was their consternation and dismay when they found that this +magazine could not be taken in the post-chaise in which they were to +follow us to the station. A good part of our luggage had been sent on +before us, but the boys had intended the precious box to go with +themselves. Knowing well, however, how little they would miss it, and +with what shouts of south-sea discovery they would greet the forgotten +treasure when they returned, I insisted on the lumbering article being +left in peace. So that, as man goeth treasureless to his grave, +whatever he may have accumulated before the fatal moment, they had to +set off for the far country without chest or ginger-beer—not therefore +altogether so desolate and unprovided for as they imagined. The +abandoned treasure was forgotten the moment the few tears it had +occasioned were wiped away. +</p> + +<p> +It was the loveliest of mornings when we started upon our journey. The +sun shone, the wind was quiet, and everything was glad. The swallows +were twittering from the corbels they had added to the adornment of the +dear old house. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sorry to leave the swallows behind," said Wynnie, as she stepped +into the carriage after her mother. Connie, of course, was already +there, eager and strong-hearted for the journey. +</p> + +<p> +We set off. Connie was in delight with everything, especially with all +forms of animal life and enjoyment that we saw on the road. She seemed +to enter into the spirit of the cows feeding on the rich green grass of +the meadows, of the donkeys eating by the roadside, of the horses we +met bravely diligent at their day's work, as they trudged along the +road with wagon or cart behind them. I sat by the coachman, but so that +I could see her face by the slightest turning of my head. I knew by its +expression that she gave a silent blessing to the little troop of a +brown-faced gipsy family, which came out of a dingy tent to look at the +passing carriage. A fleet of ducklings in a pool, paddling along under +the convoy of the parent duck, next attracted her. +</p> + +<p> +"Look; look. Isn't that delicious?" she cried. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think I should like it though," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"What shouldn't you like, Wynnie?" asked her mother. +</p> + +<p> +"To be in the water and not feel it wet. Those feathers!" +</p> + +<p> +"They feel it with their legs and their webby toes," said Connie. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that is some consolation," answered Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"And if you were a duck, you would feel the good of your feathers in +winter, when you got into your cold bath of a morning." +</p> + +<p> +I give all this chat for the sake of showing how Connie's illness had +not in the least withdrawn her from nature and her sympathies—had +rather, as it were, made all the fibres of her being more delicate and +sympathetic, so that the things around her could enter her soul even +more easily than before, and what had seemed to shut her out had in +reality brought her into closer contact with the movements of all +vitality. +</p> + +<p> +We had to pass through the village to reach the railway station. +Everybody almost was out to bid us good-bye. I did not want, for +Connie's sake chiefly, to have any scene, but recalling something I had +forgotten to say to one of my people, I stopped the carriage to speak +to him. The same instant there was a crowd of women about us. But +Connie was the centre of all their regards. They hardly looked at her +mother or sister. Had she been a martyr who had stood the test and +received her aureole, she could hardly have been more regarded. The +common use of the word martyr is a curious instance of how words get +degraded. The sufferings involved in martyrdom, and not the pure will +giving occasion to that suffering, is fixed upon by the common mind as +the martyrdom. The witness-bearing is lost sight of, except we can +suppose that "a martyr to the toothache" means a witness of the fact of +the toothache and its tortures. But while <i>martyrdom</i> really means a +bearing for the sake of the truth, yet there is a way in which any +suffering, even that we have brought upon ourselves, may become +martyrdom. When it is so borne that the sufferer therein bears witness +to the presence and fatherhood of God, in quiet, hopeful submission to +his will, in gentle endurance, and that effort after cheerfulness which +is not seldom to be seen where the effort is hardest to make; more than +all, perhaps, and rarest of all, when it is accepted as the just and +merciful consequence of wrong-doing, and is endured humbly, and with +righteous shame, as the cleansing of the Father's hand, indicating that +repentance unto life which lifts the sinner out of his sins, and makes +him such that the holiest men of old would talk to him with gladness +and respect, then indeed it may be called a martyrdom. This latter +could not be Connie's case, but the former was hers, and so far she +might be called a martyr, even as the old women of the village +designated her. +</p> + +<p> +After we had again started, our ears were invaded with shouts from the +post-chaise behind us, in which Charlie and Harry, their grief at the +abandoned chest forgotten as if it had never been, were yelling in the +exuberance of their gladness. Dora, more staid as became her years, was +trying to act the matron with them in vain, and old nursie had enough +to do with Miss Connie's baby to heed what the young gentlemen were +about, so long as explosions of noise was all the mischief. Walter, the +man-servant, who had been with us ten years, and was the main prop of +the establishment, looking after everything and putting his hand to +everything, with an indefinite charge ranging from the nursery to the +wine-cellar, and from the corn-bin to the pig-trough, and who, as we +could not possibly get on without him, sat on the box of the +post-chaise beside the driver from the Griffin, rather connived, I +fear, than otherwise at the noise of the youngsters. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-bye, Marshmallows," they were shouting at the top of their +voices, as if they had just been released from a prison, where they had +spent a wretched childhood; and, as it could hardly offend anybody's +ears on the open country road I allowed them to shout till they were +tired, which condition fortunately arrived before we reached the +station, so that there was no occasion for me to interfere. I always +sought to give them as much liberty as could be afforded them. +</p> + +<p> +At the station we found Weir waiting to see us off, with my sister, now +in wonderful health. Turner was likewise there, and ready to accompany +us a good part of the way. But beyond the valuable assistance he lent +us in moving Connie, no occasion arose for the exercise of his +professional skill. She bore the journey wonderfully, slept not +unfrequently, and only at the end showed herself at length wearied. We +stopped three times on the way: first at Salisbury, where the streams +running through the streets delighted her. There we remained one whole +day, but sent the children and servants, all but my wife's maid, on +before us, under the charge of Walter. This left us more at our ease. +At Exeter, we stopped only the night, for Connie found herself quite +able to go on the next morning. Here Turner left us, and we missed him +very much. Connie looked a little out of spirits after his departure, +but soon recovered herself. The next night we spent at a small town on +the borders of Devonshire, which was the limit of our railway +travelling. Here we remained for another whole day, for the remnant of +the journey across part of Devonshire and Cornwall to the shore must be +posted, and was a good five hours' work. We started about eleven +o'clock, full of spirits at the thought that we had all but +accomplished the only part of the undertaking about which we had had +any uneasiness. Connie was quite merry. The air was thoroughly warm. We +had an open carriage with a hood. Wynnie sat opposite her mother, Dora +and Eliza the maid in the rumble, and I by the coachman. The road being +very hilly, we had four horses; and with four horses, sunshine, a +gentle wind, hope and thankfulness, who would not be happy? +</p> + +<p> +There is a strange delight in motion, which I am not sure that I +altogether understand. The hope of the end as bringing fresh enjoyment +has something to do with it, no doubt; the accompaniments of the +motion, the change of scene, the mystery that lies beyond the next hill +or the next turn in the road, the breath of the summer wind, the scent +of the pine-trees especially, and of all the earth, the tinkling jangle +of the harness as you pass the trees on the roadside, the life of the +horses, the glitter and the shadow, the cottages and the roses and the +rosy faces, the scent of burning wood or peat from the chimneys, these +and a thousand other things combine to make such a journey delightful. +But I believe it needs something more than this—something even closer +to the human life—to account for the pleasure that motion gives us. I +suspect it is its living symbolism; the hidden relations which it bears +to the eternal soul in its aspirations and longings—ever following +after, ever attaining, never satisfied. Do not misunderstand me, my +reader. A man, you will allow, perhaps, may be content although he is +not and cannot be happy: I feel inclined to turn all this the other +way, saying that a man ought always to be happy, never to be content. +You will see I do not say <i>contented</i>; I say <i>content</i>. Here comes in +his faith: his life is hid with Christ in God, measureless, unbounded. +All things are his, to become his by blessed lovely gradations of gift, +as his being enlarges to receive; and if ever the shadow of his own +necessary incompleteness falls upon the man, he has only to remember +that in God's idea he is complete, only his life is hid from himself +with Christ in God the Infinite. If anyone accuses me here of +mysticism, I plead guilty with gladness: I only hope it may be of that +true mysticism which, inasmuch as he makes constant use of it, St. Paul +would understand at once. I leave it, however. +</p> + +<p> +I think I must have been the very happiest of the party myself. No +doubt I was younger much than I am now, but then I was quite +middle-aged, with full confession thereof in gray hairs and wrinkles. +Why should not a man be happy when he is growing old, so long as his +faith strengthens the feeble knees which chiefly suffer in the process +of going down the hill? True, the fever heat is over, and the oil burns +more slowly in the lamp of life; but if there is less fervour, there is +more pervading warmth; if less of fire, more of sunshine; there is less +smoke and more light. Verily, youth is good, but old age is better—to +the man who forsakes not his youth when his youth forsakes him. The +sweet visitings of nature do not depend upon youth or romance, but upon +that quiet spirit whose meekness inherits the earth. The smell of that +field of beans gives me more delight now than ever it could have given +me when I was a youth. And if I ask myself why I find it is simply +because I have more faith now than I had then. It came to me then as an +accident of nature—a passing pleasure flung to me only as the dogs' +share of the crumbs. Now I believe that God <i>means</i> that odour of the +bean-field; that when Jesus smelled such a scent about Jerusalem or in +Galilee, he thought of his Father. And if God means it, it is mine, +even if I should never smell it again. The music of the spheres is mine +if old age should make me deaf as the adder. Am I mystical again, +reader? Then I hope you are too, or will be before you have done with +this same beautiful mystical life of ours. More and more nature becomes +to me one of God's books of poetry—not his grandest—that is +history—but his loveliest, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +And ought I not to have been happy when all who were with me were +happy? I will not run the risk of wearying even my contemplative reader +by describing to him the various reflexes of happiness that shone from +the countenances behind me in the carriage, but I will try to hit each +off in a word, or a single simile. My Ethelwyn's face was bright with +the brightness of a pale silvery moon that has done her harvest work, +and, a little weary, lifts herself again into the deeper heavens from +stooping towards the earth. Wynnie's face was bright with the +brightness of the morning star, ever growing pale and faint over the +amber ocean that brightens at the sun's approach; for life looked to +Wynnie severe in its light, and somewhat sad because severe. Connie's +face was bright with the brightness of a lake in the rosy evening, the +sound of the river flowing in and the sound of the river flowing forth +just audible, but itself still, and content to be still and mirror the +sunset. Dora's was bright with the brightness of a marigold that +follows the sun without knowing it; and Eliza's was bright with the +brightness of a half-blown cabbage rose, radiating good-humour. This +last is not a good simile, but I cannot find a better. I confess +failure, and go on. +</p> + +<p> +After stopping once to bait, during which operation Connie begged to be +carried into the parlour of the little inn that she might see the china +figures that were certain to be on the chimney-piece, as indeed they +were, where she drank a whole tumbler of new milk before we lifted her +to carry her back, we came upon a wide high moorland country the roads +through which were lined with gorse in full golden bloom, while patches +of heather all about were showing their bells, though not yet in their +autumnal outburst of purple fire. Here I began to be reminded of +Scotland, in which I had travelled a good deal between the ages of +twenty and five-and-twenty. The further I went the stronger I felt the +resemblance. The look of the fields, the stone fences that divided +them, the shape and colour and materials of the houses, the aspect of +the people, the feeling of the air, and of the earth and sky generally, +made me imagine myself in a milder and more favoured Scotland. The west +wind was fresh, but had none of that sharp edge which one can so often +detect in otherwise warm winds blowing under a hot sun. Though she had +already travelled so many miles, Connie brightened up within a few +minutes after we got on this moor; and we had not gone much farther +before a shout from the rumble informed us that keen-eyed little Dora +had discovered the Atlantic: a dip in the high coast revealed it blue +and bright. We soon lost sight of it again, but in Connie's eyes it +seemed to linger still. As often as I looked round, the blue of them +seemed the reflection of the sea in their little convex mirrors. +Ethelwyn's eyes, too, were full of it, and a flush on her generally +pale cheek showed that she too expected the ocean. After a few miles +along this breezy expanse, we began to descend towards the sea-level. +Down the winding of a gradual slope, interrupted by steep descents, we +approached this new chapter in our history. We came again upon a few +trees here and there, all with their tops cut off in a plane inclined +upwards away from the sea. For the sea-winds, like a sweeping scythe, +bend the trees all away towards the land, and keep their tops mown with +their sharp rushing, keen with salt spray off the crests of the broken +waves. Then we passed through some ancient villages, with streets +narrow, and steep and sharp-angled, that needed careful driving and the +frequent pressure of the break upon the wheel. And now the sea shone +upon us with nearer greeting, and we began to fancy we could hear its +talk with the shore. At length we descended a sharp hill, reached the +last level, drove over a bridge and down the line of the stream, saw +the land vanish in the sea—a wide bay; then drove over another wooden +drawbridge, and along the side of a canal in which lay half-a-dozen +sloops and schooners. Then came a row of pretty cottages; then a gate, +and an ascent, and ere we reached the rectory, we were aware of its +proximity by loud shouts, and the sight of Charlie and Harry scampering +along the top of a stone wall to meet us. This made their mother +nervous, but she kept quiet, knowing that unrestrained anxiety is +always in danger of bringing about the evil it fears. A moment after, +we drew up at a long porch, leading through the segment of a circle to +the door of the house. The journey was over. We got down in the little +village of Kilkhaven, in the county of Cornwall. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap13"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED. +</h3> + +<p> +We carried Connie in first of all, of course, and into the room which +nurse had fixed upon for her—the best in the house, of course, again. +She did seem tired now, and no wonder. She had a cup of tea at once, +and in half an hour dinner was ready, of which we were all very glad. +After dinner I went up to Connie's room. There I found her fast asleep +on the sofa, and Wynnie as fast asleep on the floor beside her. The +drive and the sea air had had the same effect on both of them. But +pleased as I was to see Connie sleeping so sweetly, I was even more +pleased to see Wynnie asleep on the floor. What a wonderful +satisfaction it may give to a father and mother to see this or that +child asleep! It is when her kittens are asleep that the cat creeps +away to look after her own comforts. Our cat chose to have her kittens +in my study once, and as I would not have her further disturbed than to +give them another cushion to lie on in place of that which belonged to +my sofa, I had many opportunities of watching them as I wrote, or +prepared my sermons. But I must not talk about the cat and her kittens +now. When parents see their children asleep, especially if they have +been suffering in any way, they breathe more freely; a load is lifted +off their minds; their responsibility seems over; the children have +gone back to their Father, and he alone is looking after them for a +while. Now, I had not been comfortable about Wynnie for some time, and +especially during our journey, and still more especially during the +last part of our journey. There was something amiss with her. She +seemed constantly more or less dejected, as if she had something to +think about that was too much for her, although, to tell the truth, I +really believe now that she had not quite enough to think about. Some +people can thrive tolerably without much thought: at least, they both +live comfortably without it, and do not seem to be capable of effecting +it if it were required of them; while for others a large amount of +mental and spiritual operation is necessary for the health of both body +and mind, and when the matter or occasion for so much is not afforded +them, the consequence is analogous to what follows when a healthy +physical system is not supplied with sufficient food: the oxygen, the +source of life, begins to consume the life itself; it tears up the +timbers of the house to burn against the cold. Or, to use a different +simile, when the Moses-rod of circumstance does not strike the rock and +make the waters flow, such a mind—one that must think to live—will go +digging into itself, and is in danger of injuring the very fountain of +thought, by drawing away its living water into ditches and stagnant +pools. This was, I say, the case in part with my Wynnie, although I did +not understand it at that moment. She did not look quite happy, did not +always meet a smile with a smile, looked almost reprovingly upon the +frolics of the little brother-imps, and though kindness itself when any +real hurt or grief befell them, had reverted to her old, somewhat +dictatorial manner, of which I have already spoken as interrupted by +Connie's accident. To her mother and me she was service itself, only +service without the smile which is as the flame of the sacrifice and +makes it holy. So we were both a little uneasy about her, for we did +not understand her. On the journey she had seemed almost annoyed at +Connie's ecstasies, and said to Dora many times: "Do be quiet, Dora;" +although there was not a single creature but ourselves within hearing, +and poor Connie seemed only delighted with the child's explosions. So I +was—but although I say <i>so</i>, I hardly know why I was pleased to see +her thus, except it was from a vague belief in the anodyne of slumber. +But this pleasure did not last long; for as I stood regarding my two +treasures, even as if my eyes had made her uncomfortable, she suddenly +opened hers, and started to her feet, with the words, "I beg your +pardon, papa," looking almost guiltily round her, and putting up her +hair hurriedly, as if she had committed an impropriety in being caught +untidy. This was fresh sign of a condition of mind that was not healthy. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear," I said, "what do you beg my pardon for? I was so pleased to +see you asleep! and you look as if you thought I were going to scold +you." +</p> + +<p> +"O papa," she said, laying her head on my shoulder, "I am afraid I must +be very naughty. I so often feel now as if I were doing something +wrong, or rather as if you would think I was doing something wrong. I +am sure there must be something wicked in me somewhere, though I do not +clearly know what it is. When I woke up now, I felt as if I had +neglected something, and you had come to find fault with me. <i>Is</i> there +anything, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing whatever, my child. But you cannot be well when you feel like +that." +</p> + +<p> +"I am perfectly well, so far as I know. I was so cross to Dora to-day! +Why shouldn't I feel happy when everybody else is? I must be wicked, +papa." +</p> + +<p> +Here Connie woke up. +</p> + +<p> +"There now! I've waked Connie," Wynnie resumed. "I'm always doing +something I ought not to do. Please go to sleep again, Connie, and take +that sin off my poor conscience." +</p> + +<p> +"What nonsense is Wynnie talking about being wicked?" asked Connie. +</p> + +<p> +"It isn't nonsense, Connie. You know I am." +</p> + +<p> +"I know nothing of the sort, Wynnie. If it were me now! And yet I don't +<i>feel</i> wicked." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear children," I said, "we must all pray to God for his Spirit, +and then we shall feel just as we ought to feel. It is not for anyone +to say to himself how he ought to feel at any given moment; still less +for one man to say to another how he ought to feel; that is in the +former case to do as St. Paul says he had learned to give up doing—to +judge our own selves, which ought to be left to God; in the latter case +it is to do what our Lord has told us expressly we are not to do—to +judge other people. You get your bonnet, Wynnie, and come out with me. +I am going to explore a little of this desert island upon which we have +been cast away. And you, Connie, just to please Wynnie, must try and go +to sleep again." +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie ran for her bonnet, a little afraid perhaps that I was going to +talk seriously to her, but showing no reluctance anyhow to accompany me. +</p> + +<p> +Now I wonder whether it will be better to tell what we saw, or only +what we talked about, and give what we saw in the shape in which we +reported it to Connie, when we came back into her room, bearing, like +the spies who went to search the land, our bunch of grapes, that is, of +sweet news of nature, to her who could not go to gather them for +herself. It think it will be the best plan to take part of both plans. +</p> + +<p> +When we left the door of the house, we went up the few steps of a stair +leading on to the downs, against and amidst, and indeed <i>in</i>, the +rocks, buttressing the sea-edge of which our new abode was built. A +life for a big-winged angel seemed waiting us upon those downs. The +wind still blew from the west, both warm and strong—I mean +strength-giving—and the wind was the first thing we were aware of. The +ground underfoot was green and soft and springy, and sprinkled all over +with the bright flowers, chiefly yellow, that live amidst the short +grasses of the downs, the shadows of whose unequal surface were now +beginning to be thrown east, for the sun was going seawards. I stood +up, stretched out my arms, threw back my shoulders and my head, and +filled my chest with a draught of the delicious wind, feeling +thereafter like a giant refreshed with wine. Wynnie stood apparently +unmoved amidst the life-nectar, thoughtful, and turning her eyes hither +and thither. +</p> + +<p> +"That makes me feel young again," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"I wish it would make me feel old then," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean, my child?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because then I should have a chance of knowing what it is like to feel +young," she answered rather enigmatically. I did not reply. We were +walking up the brow which hid the sea from us. The smell of the +down-turf was indescribable in its homely delicacy; and by the time we +had reached the top, almost every sense was filled with its own +delight. The top of the hill was the edge of the great shore-cliff; and +the sun was hanging on the face of the mightier sky-cliff opposite, and +the sea stretched for visible miles and miles along the shore on either +hand, its wide blue mantle fringed with lovely white wherever it met +the land, and scalloped into all fantastic curves, according to the +whim of the nether fires which had formed its bed; and the rush of the +waves, as they bore the rising tide up on the shore, was the one music +fit for the whole. Ear and eye, touch and smell, were alike invaded +with blessedness. I ought to have kept this to give my reader in +Connie's room; but he shall share with her presently. The sense of +space—of mighty room for life and growth—filled my soul, and I +thanked God in my heart. The wind seemed to bear that growth into my +soul, even as the wind of God first breathed into man's nostrils the +breath of life, and the sun was the pledge of the fulfilment of every +aspiration. I turned and looked at Wynnie. She stood pleased but +listless amidst that which lifted me into the heaven of the Presence. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you enjoy all this grandeur, Wynnie?" +</p> + +<p> +"I told you I was very wicked, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"And I told you not to say so, Wynnie." +</p> + +<p> +"You see I cannot enjoy it, papa. I wonder why it is." +</p> + +<p> +"I suspect it is because you haven't room, Wynnie." +</p> + +<p> +"I know you mean something more than I know, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"I mean, my dear, that it is not because you are wicked, but because +you do not know God well enough, and therefore your being, which can +only live in him, is 'cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in.' It is only +in him that the soul has room. In knowing him is life and its gladness. +The secret of your own heart you can never know; but you can know Him +who knows its secret. Look up, my darling; see the heavens and the +earth. You do not feel them, and I do not call upon you to feel them. +It would be both useless and absurd to do so. But just let them look at +you for a moment, and then tell me whether it must not be a blessed +life that creates such a glory as this All." +</p> + +<p> +She stood silent for a moment, looked up at the sky, looked round on +the earth, looked far across the sea to the setting sun, and then +turned her eyes upon me. They were filled with tears, but whether from +feeling, or sorrow that she could not feel, I would not inquire. I made +haste to speak again. +</p> + +<p> +"As this world of delight surrounds and enters your bodily frame, so +does God surround your soul and live in it. To be at home with the +awful source of your being, through the child-like faith which he not +only permits, but requires, and is ever teaching you, or rather seeking +to rouse up in you, is the only cure for such feelings as those that +trouble you. Do not say it is too high for you. God made you in his own +image, therefore capable of understanding him. For this final end he +sent his Son, that the Father might with him come into you, and dwell +with you. Till he does so, the temple of your soul is vacant; there is +no light behind the veil, no cloudy pillar over it; and the priests, +your thoughts, feelings, loves, and desires, moan, and are +troubled—for where is the work of the priest when the God is not +there? When He comes to you, no mystery, no unknown feeling, will any +longer distress you. You will say, 'He knows, though I do not.' And you +will be at the secret of the things he has made. You will feel what +they are, and that which his will created in gladness you will receive +in joy. One glimmer of the present God in this glory would send you +home singing. But do not think I blame you, Wynnie, for feeling sad. I +take it rather as the sign of a large life in you, that will not be +satisfied with little things. I do not know when or how it may please +God to give you the quiet of mind that you need; but I tell you that I +believe it is to be had; and in the mean time, you must go on doing +your work, trusting in God even for this. Tell him to look at your +sorrow, ask him to come and set it right, making the joy go up in your +heart by his presence. I do not know when this may be, I say, but you +must have patience, and till he lays his hand on your head, you must be +content to wash his feet with your tears. Only he will be better +pleased if your faith keep you from weeping and from going about your +duties mournful. Try to be brave and cheerful for the sake of Christ, +and for the sake of your confidence in the beautiful teaching of God, +whose course and scope you cannot yet understand. Trust, my daughter, +and let that give you courage and strength." +</p> + +<p> +Now the sky and the sea and the earth must have made me able to say +these things to her; but I knew that, whatever the immediate occasion +of her sadness, such was its only real cure. Other things might, in +virtue of the will of God that was in them, give her occupation and +interest enough for a time, but nothing would do finally, but God +himself. Here I was sure I was safe; here I knew lay the hunger of +humanity. Humanity may, like other vital forms, diseased systems, fix +on this or that as the object not merely of its desire but of its need: +it can never be stilled by less than the bread of life—the very +presence in the innermost nature of the Father and the Son. +</p> + +<p> +We walked on together. Wynnie made me no reply, but, weeping silently, +clung to my arm. We walked a long way by the edge of the cliffs, beheld +the sun go down, and then turned and went home. When we reached the +house, Wynnie left me, saying only, "Thank you, papa. I think it is all +true. I will try to be a better girl." +</p> + +<p> +I went straight to Connie's room: she was lying as I saw her last, +looking out of her window. +</p> + +<p> +"Connie," I said, "Wynnie and I have had such a treat—such a sunset!" +</p> + +<p> +"I've seen a little of the light of it on the waves in the bay there, +but the high ground kept me from seeing the sunset itself. Did it set +in the sea?" +</p> + +<p> +"You do want the General Gazetteer, after all, Connie. Is that water +the Atlantic, or is it not? And if it be, where on earth could the sun +set but in it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course, papa. What a goose I am! But don't make game of +me—<i>please</i>. I am too deliciously happy to be made game of to-night." +</p> + +<p> +"I won't make game of you, my darling. I will tell you about the +sunset—the colours of it, at least. This must be one of the best +places in the whole world to see sunsets." +</p> + +<p> +"But you have had no tea, papa. I thought you would come and have your +tea with me. But you were so long, that mamma would not let me wait any +longer." +</p> + +<p> +"O, never mind the tea, my dear. But Wynnie has had none. You've got a +tea-caddy of your own, haven't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, and a teapot; and there's the kettle on the hob—for I can't do +without a little fire in the evenings." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I'll make some tea for Wynnie and myself, and tell you at the +same time about the sunset. I never saw such colours. I cannot tell you +what it was like while the sun was yet going down, for the glory of it +has burned the memory of it out of me. But after the sun was down, the +sky remained thinking about him; and the thought of the sky was in +delicate translucent green on the horizon, just the colour of the earth +etherealised and glorified—a broad band; then came another broad band +of pale rose-colour; and above that came the sky's own eternal blue, +pale likewise, but so sure and changeless. I never saw the green and +the blue divided and harmonised by the rose-colour before. It was a +wonderful sight. If it is warm enough to-morrow, we will carry you out +on the height, that you may see what the evening will bring." +</p> + +<p> +"There is one thing about sunsets," returned Connie—"two things, that +make me rather sad—about themselves, not about anything else. Shall I +tell you them?" +</p> + +<p> +"Do, my love. There are few things more precious to learn than the +effects of Nature upon individual minds. And there is not a feeling of +yours, my child, that is not of value to me." +</p> + +<p> +"You are so kind, papa! I am so glad of my accident. I think I should +never have known how good you are but for that. But my thoughts seem so +little worth after you say so much about them." +</p> + +<p> +"Let me be judge of that, my dear." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, one thing is, that we shall never, never, never, see the same +sunset again." +</p> + +<p> +"That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same +thing over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on +doing something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done +showing himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same +thing again." +</p> + +<p> +"But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I +forget it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them +fast in my memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as +they fade out of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my +mind and leave it as if they had never been there—except perhaps two +or three. Now, though I did not see this one, yet, after you have +talked about it, I shall never forget <i>it</i>." +</p> + +<p> +"It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have +their influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory—in your +very being, Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is +only an idea, hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an +imperfect instrument. For its right work, perhaps it is needful that it +should forget in part. But there are grounds for believing that nothing +is ever really forgotten. I think that, when we have a higher existence +than we have now, when we are clothed with that spiritual body of which +St. Paul speaks, you will be able to recall any sunset you have ever +seen with an intensity proportioned to the degree of regard and +attention you gave it when it was present to you. But here comes Wynnie +to see how you are.—I've been making some tea for you, Wynnie, my +love." +</p> + +<p> +"O, thank you, papa—I shall be so glad of some tea!" said Wynnie, the +paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more +plainly. She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the +better for it. +</p> + +<p> +The same moment my wife came in. "Why didn't you send for me, Harry, to +get your tea?" she said. +</p> + +<p> +"I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and +seasons. But I knew you must be busy." +</p> + +<p> +"I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the +unpacking, and twenty different things," said Ethelwyn. "We shall be so +comfortable! It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?" +</p> + +<p> +"Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life," returned Wynnie. "You +would think the shore had been built for the sake of the show—just for +a platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be +rather dangerous for the children." +</p> + +<p> +"I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see +something of the colours on the water, but not much more." +</p> + +<p> +"O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is +so big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in +winter," said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if +not apprehensive. +</p> + +<p> +But I must not keep my reader longer upon mere family chat. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap14"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIV. +</h3> + +<h3> +MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN. +</h3> + +<p> +Our dining-room was one story below the level at which we had entered +the parsonage; for, as I have said, the house was built into the face +of the cliff, just where it sunk nearly to the level of the shores of +the bay. While at dinner, on the evening of our arrival, I kept looking +from the window, of course, and I saw before me, first a little bit of +garden, mostly in turf, then a low stone wall; beyond, over the top of +the wall, the blue water of the bay; then beyond the water, all alive +with light and motion, the rocks and sand-hills of the opposite side of +the little bay, not a quarter of a mile across. I could likewise see +where the shore went sweeping out and away to the north, with rock +after rock standing far into the water, as if gazing over the awful +wild, where there was nothing to break the deathly waste between +Cornwall and Newfoundland. But for the moment I did not regard the huge +power lying outside so much as the merry blue bay between me and those +rocks and sand-hills. If I moved my head a little to the right, I saw, +over the top of the low wall already mentioned, and apparently quite +close to it the slender yellow masts of a schooner, her mainsail +hanging loose from the gaff, whose peak was lowered. We must, I +thought, be on the very harbour-quay. When I went out for my walk with +Wynnie, I had turned from the bay, and gone to the brow of the cliffs +overhanging the open sea on our own side of it. +</p> + +<p> +When I came down to breakfast in the same room next morning, I stared. +The blue had changed to yellow. The life of the water was gone. Nothing +met my eyes but a wide expanse of dead sand. You could walk straight +across the bay to the hills opposite. From the look of the rocks, from +the perpendicular cliffs on the coast, I had almost, without thinking, +concluded that we were on the shore of a deep-water bay. It was +high-water, or nearly so, then; and now, when I looked westward, it was +over a long reach of sands, on the far border of which the white fringe +of the waves was visible, as if there was their <i>hitherto</i>, and further +towards us they could not come. Beyond the fringe lay the low hill of +the Atlantic. To add to my confusion, when I looked to the right, that +is, up the bay towards the land, there was no schooner there. I went +out at the window, which opened from the room upon the little lawn, to +look, and then saw in a moment how it was. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know, my dear," I said to my wife, "we are just at the mouth of +that canal we saw as we came along? There are gates and a lock just +outside there. The schooner that was under this window last night must +have gone in with the tide. She is lying in the basin above now." +</p> + +<p> +"O, yes, papa," Charlie and Harry broke in together. "We saw it go up +this morning. We've been out ever so long. It was so funny," Charlie +went on—everything was <i>funny</i> with Charlie—"to see it rise up like a +Jack-in-the-box, and then slip into the quiet water through the other +gates!" +</p> + +<p> +And when I thought about the waves tumbling and breaking away out +there, and the wide yellow sands between, it was wonderful—which was +what Charlie meant by funny—to see the little vessel lying so many +feet above it all, in a still plenty of repose, gathering strength, one +might fancy to rush out again, when its time was come, into the turmoil +beyond, and dash its way through the breasts of the billows. +</p> + +<p> +After breakfast we had prayers, as usual, and after a visit to Connie, +whom I found tired, but wonderfully well, I went out for a walk by +myself, to explore the neighbourhood, find the church, and, in a word, +do something to shake myself into my new garments. The day was +glorious. I wandered along a green path, in the opposite direction from +our walk the evening before, with a fir-wood on my right hand, and a +belt of feathery tamarisks on my left, behind which lay gardens sloping +steeply to a lower road, where stood a few pretty cottages. Turning a +corner, I came suddenly in sight of the church, on the green down above +me—a sheltered yet commanding situation; for, while the hill rose +above it, protecting it from the east, it looked down the bay, and the +Atlantic lay open before it. All the earth seemed to lie behind it, and +all its gaze to be fixed on the symbol of the infinite. It stood as the +church ought to stand, leading men up the mount of vision, to the verge +of the eternal, to send them back with their hearts full of the +strength that springs from hope, by which alone the true work of the +world can be done. And when I saw it I rejoiced to think that once more +I was favoured with a church that had a history. Of course it is a +happy thing to see new churches built wherever there is need of such; +but to the full idea of the building it is necessary that it should be +one in which the hopes and fears, the cares and consolations, the loves +and desires of our forefathers should have been roofed; where the +hearts of those through whom our country has become that which it +is—from whom not merely the life-blood of our bodies, but the +life-blood of our spirits, has come down to us, whose existence and +whose efforts have made it possible for us to be that which we +are—have before us worshipped that Spirit from whose fountain the +whole torrent of being flows, who ever pours fresh streams into the +wearying waters of humanity, so ready to settle down into a stagnant +repose. Therefore I would far rather, when I may, worship in an old +church, whose very stones are a history of how men strove to realise +the infinite, compelling even the powers of nature into the task—as I +soon found on the very doorway of this church, where the ripples of the +outspread ocean, and grotesque imaginations of the monsters of its +deeps, fixed, as it might seem, for ever in stone, gave a distorted +reflex, from the little mirror of the artist's mind, of that mighty +water, so awful, so significant to the human eye, which yet lies in the +hollow of the Father's palm, like the handful that the weary traveller +lifts from the brook by the way. It is in virtue of the truth that went +forth in such and such like attempts that we are able to hold our +portion of the infinite reality which God only knows. They have founded +our Church for us, and such a church as this will stand for the symbol +of it; for here we too can worship the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of +Jacob—the God of Sidney, of Hooker, of Herbert. This church of +Kilkhaven, old and worn, rose before me a history in stone—so beaten +and swept about by the "wild west wind," +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "For whose path the Atlantic's level powers<br /> + Cleave themselves into chasms,"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and so streamed upon, and washed, and dissolved, by the waters lifted +from the sea and borne against it on the upper tide of the wind, that +you could almost fancy it one of those churches that have been buried +for ages beneath the encroaching waters, lifted again, by some mighty +revulsion of nature's heart, into the air of the sweet heavens, there +to stand marked for ever with the tide-flows of the nether +world—scooped, and hollowed, and worn like aeonian rocks that have +slowly, but for ever, responded to the swirl and eddy of the wearing +waters. So, from the most troublous of times, will the Church of our +land arise, in virtue of what truth she holds, and in spite, if she +rises at all, of the worldliness of those who, instead of seeking her +service, have sought and gained the dignities which, if it be good that +she have it in her power to bestow them, need the corrective of a +sharply wholesome persecution which of late times she has not known. +But God knows, and the fire will come in its course—first in the form +of just indignation, it may be, against her professed servants, and +then in the form of the furnace seven times heated, in which the true +builders shall yet walk unhurt save as to their mortal part. +</p> + +<p> +I looked about for some cottage where the sexton might be supposed to +live, and spied a slated roof, nearly on a level with the road, at a +little distance in front of me. I could at least inquire there. Before +I reached it, however, an elderly woman came out and approached me. She +was dressed in a white cap and a dark-coloured gown. On her face lay a +certain repose which attracted me. She looked as if she had suffered +but had consented to it, and therefore could smile. Her smile lay near +the surface. A kind word was enough to draw it up from the well where +it lay shimmering: you could always see the smile there, whether it was +born or not. But even when she smiled, in the very glimmering of that +moonbeam, you could see the deep, still, perhaps dark, waters under. O! +if one could but understand what goes on in the souls that have no +words, perhaps no inclination, to set it forth! What had she endured? +How had she learned to have that smile always near? What had consoled +her, and yet left her her grief—turned it, perhaps, into hope? Should +I ever know? +</p> + +<p> +She drew near me, as if she would have passed me, as she would have +done, had I not spoken. I think she came towards me to give me the +opportunity of speaking if I wished, but she would not address me. +</p> + +<p> +"Good morning," I said. "Can you tell me where to find the sexton?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir," she answered, with a gleam of the smile brightening +underneath her old skin, as it were, "I be all the sexton you be likely +to find this mornin', sir. My husband, he be gone out to see one o' +Squire Tregarva's hounds as was took ill last night. So if you want to +see the old church, sir, you'll have to be content with an old woman to +show you, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall be quite content, I assure you," I answered. "Will you go and +get the key?" +</p> + +<p> +"I have the key in my pocket, sir; for I thought that would be what +you'd be after, sir. And by the time you come to my age, sir, you'll +learn to think of your old bones, sir. I beg your pardon for making so +free. For mayhap, says I to myself, he be the gentleman as be come to +take Mr. Shepherd's duty for him. Be ye now, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +All this was said in a slow sweet subdued tone, nearly of one pitch. +You would have felt that she claimed the privilege of age with a kind +of mournful gaiety, but was careful, and anxious even, not to presume +upon it, and, therefore, gentle as a young girl. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," I answered. "My name is Walton I have come to take the place of +my friend Mr. Shepherd; and, of course, I want to see the church." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, she be a bee-utiful old church. Some things, I think, sir, grows +more beautiful the older they grows. But it ain't us, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not so sure of that," I said. "What do you mean?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir, there's my little grandson in the cottage there: he'll +never be so beautiful again. Them children du be the loves. But we all +grows uglier as we grows older. Churches don't seem to, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not so sure about all that," I said again. +</p> + +<p> +"They did say, sir, that I was a pretty girl once. I'm not much to look +at now." +</p> + +<p> +And she smiled with such a gracious amusement, that I felt at once that +if there was any vanity left in this memory of her past loveliness, it +was sweet as the memory of their old fragrance left in the withered +leaves of the roses. +</p> + +<p> +"But it du not matter, du it, sir? Beauty is only skin-deep." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't believe that," I answered. "Beauty is as deep as the heart at +least." +</p> + +<p> +"Well to be sure, my old husband du say I be as handsome in his eyes as +ever I be. But I beg your pardon, sir, for talkin' about myself. I +believe it was the old church—she set us on to it." +</p> + +<p> +"The old church didn't lead you into any harm then," I answered. "The +beauty that is in the heart will shine out of the face again some +day—be sure of that. And after all, there is just the same kind of +beauty in a good old face that there is in an old church. You can't say +the church is so trim and neat as it was the day that the first blast +of the organ filled it as with, a living soul. The carving is not quite +so sharp, the timbers are not quite so clean. There is a good deal of +mould and worm-eating and cobwebs about the old place. Yet both you and +I think it more beautiful now than it was then. Well, I believe it is, +as nearly as possible, the same with an old face. It has got stained, +and weather-beaten, and worn; but if the organ of truth has been +playing on inside the temple of the Lord, which St. Paul says our +bodies are, there is in the old face, though both form and complexion +are gone, just the beauty of the music inside. The wrinkles and the +brownness can't spoil it. A light shines through it all—that of the +indwelling spirit. I wish we all grew old like the old churches." +</p> + +<p> +She did not reply, but I thought I saw in her face that she understood +my mysticism. We had been walking very slowly, had passed through the +quaint lych-gate, and now the old woman had got the key in the lock of +the door, whose archway was figured and fashioned as I have described +above, with a dozen mouldings or more, most of them "carved so +curiously." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap15"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XV. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE OLD CHURCH. +</h3> + +<p> +The awe that dwells in churches fell upon me as I crossed the +threshold—an awe I never fail to feel—heightened in many cases, no +doubt, by the sense of antiquity and of art, but an awe which I have +felt all the same in crossing the threshold of an old Puritan +conventicle, as the place where men worship and have worshipped the God +of their fathers, although for art there was only the science of common +bricklaying, and for beauty staring ugliness. To the involuntary fancy, +the air of petition and of holy need seems to linger in the place, and +the uncovered head acknowledges the sacred symbols of human inspiration +and divine revealing. But this was no ordinary church into which I +followed the gentlewoman who was my guide. As entering I turned my eyes +eastward, a flush of subdued glory invaded them from the chancel, all +the windows of which were of richly stained glass, and the roof of +carved oak lavishly gilded. I had my thoughts about this chancel, and +thence about chancels generally which may appear in another part of my +story. Now I have to do only with the church, not with the cogitations +to which it gave rise. But I will not trouble my reader with even what +I could tell him of the blending and contradicting of styles and modes +of architectural thought in the edifice. Age is to the work of +contesting human hands a wonderful harmoniser of differences. As nature +brings into harmony all fractures of her frame, and even positive +intrusions upon her realm, clothes and discolours them, in the old +sense of the word, so that at length there is no immediate shock at +sight of that which in itself was crude, and is yet coarse, so the +various architecture of this building had been gone over after the +builders by the musical hand of Eld, with wonder of delicate transition +and change of key, that one could almost fancy the music of its +exquisite organ had been at work <i>informing</i> the building, half melting +the sutures, wearing the sharpness, and blending the angles, until in +some parts there was but the gentle flickering of the original +conception left, all its self-assertion vanished under the file of the +air and the gnawing of the worm. True, the hand of the restorer had +been busy, but it had wrought lovingly and gently, and wherein it had +erred, the same influences of nature, though as yet their effects were +invisible, were already at work—of the many making one. I will not +trouble my reader, I say, with any architectural description, which, +possibly even more than a detailed description of natural beauty +dissociated from human feeling, would only weary him, even if it were +not unintelligible. When we are reading a poem, we do not first of all +examine the construction and dwell on the rhymes and rhythms; all that +comes after, if we find that the poem itself is so good that its parts +are therefore worth examining, as being probably good in themselves, +and elucidatory of the main work. There were carvings on the ends of +the benches all along the aisle on both sides, well worth examination, +and some of them even of description; but I shall not linger on these. +A word only about the columns: they supported arches of different +fashion on the opposite sides, but they were themselves similar in +matter and construction, both remarkable. They were of coarse granite +of the country, chiselled, but very far from smooth, not to say +polished. Each pillar was a single stone with chamfered sides. +</p> + +<p> +Walking softly through the ancient house, forgetting in the many +thoughts that arose within me that I had a companion, I came at length +into the tower, the basement of which was open, forming part of the +body of the church. There hung many ropes through holes in a ceiling +above, for bell-ringing was encouraged and indeed practised by my +friend Shepherd. And as I regarded them, I thought within myself how +delightful it would be if in these days as in those of Samuel, the word +of God was precious; so that when it came to the minister of his +people—a fresh vision of his glory, a discovery of his meaning—he +might make haste to the church, and into the tower, lay hold of the +rope that hung from the deepest-toned bell of all, and constrain it by +the force of strong arms to utter its voice of call, "Come hither, come +hear, my people, for God hath spoken;" and from the streets or the +lanes would troop the eager folk; the plough be left in the furrow, the +cream in the churn; and the crowding people bring faces into the +church, all with one question upon them—"What hath the Lord spoken?" +But now it would be answer sufficient to such a call to say, "But what +will become of the butter?" or, "An hour's ploughing will be lost." And +the clergy—how would they bring about such a time? They do not even +believe that God has a word to his people through them. They think that +his word is petrified for use in the Bible and Prayer-book; that the +wise men of old heard so much of the word of God, and have so set it +down, that there is no need for any more words of the Lord coming to +the prophets of a land; therefore they look down upon the +prophesying—that is, the preaching of the word—make light of it, the +best of them, say these prayers are everything, or all but everything: +<i>their</i> hearts are not set upon hearing what God the Lord will speak +that they may speak it abroad to his people again. Therefore it is no +wonder if the church bells are obedient only to the clock, are no +longer subject to the spirit of the minister, and have nothing to do in +telegraphing between heaven and earth. They make little of this part of +their duty; and no wonder, if what is to be spoken must remain such as +they speak. They put the Church for God, and the prayers which are the +word of man to God, for the word of God to man. But when the prophets +see no vision, how should they have any word to speak? +</p> + +<p> +These thoughts were passing through my mind when my eye fell upon my +guide. She was seated against the south wall of the tower, on a stool, +I thought, or small table. While I was wandering about the church she +had taken her stocking and wires out of her pocket, and was now +knitting busily. How her needles did go! Her eyes never regarded them, +however, but, fixed on the slabs that paved the tower at a yard or two +from her feet, seemed to be gazing far out to sea, for they had an +infinite objectless outlook. To try her, I took for the moment the +position of an accuser. +</p> + +<p> +"So you don't mind working in church?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +When I spoke she instantly rose, her eyes turned as from the far +sea-waves to my face, and light came out of them. With a smile she +answered— +</p> + +<p> +"The church knows me, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"But what has that to do with it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think she minds it. We are told to be diligent in business, +you know, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, but it does not say in church and out of church. You could be +diligent somewhere else, couldn't you?" +</p> + +<p> +As soon as I said this, I began to fear she would think I meant it. But +she only smiled and said, "It won't hurt she, sir; and my good man, who +does all he can to keep her tidy, is out at toes and heels, and if I +don't keep he warm he'll be laid up, and then the church won't be kep' +nice, sir, till he's up again." +</p> + +<p> +I was tempted to go on. +</p> + +<p> +"But you could have sat down outside—there are some nice gravestones +near—and waited till I came out." +</p> + +<p> +"But what's the church for, sir? The sun's werry hot to-day, sir; and +Mr. Shepherd, he say, sir, that the church is like the shadow of a +great rock in a weary land. So, you see, if I was to sit out in the +sun, instead of comin' in here to the cool o' the shadow, I wouldn't be +takin' the church at her word. It does my heart good to sit in the old +church, sir. There's a something do seem to come out o' the old walls +and settle down like the cool o' the day upon my old heart that's +nearly tired o' crying, and would fain keep its eyes dry for the rest +o' the journey. My old man's stockin' won't hurt the church, sir, and, +bein' a good deed as I suppose it is, it's none the worse for the +place. I think, if He was to come by wi' the whip o' small cords, I +wouldn't be afeared of his layin' it upo' my old back. Do you think he +would, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +Thus driven to speak as I thought, I made haste to reply, more +delighted with the result of my experiment than I cared to let her know. +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed I do not. I was only talking. It is but selfish, cheating, or +ill-done work that the church's Master drives away. All our work ought +to be done in the shadow of the church." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought you be only having a talk about it, sir," she said, smiling +her sweet old smile. "Nobody knows what this old church is to me." +</p> + +<p> +Now the old woman had a good husband, apparently: the sorrows which had +left their mark even upon her smile, must have come from her family, I +thought. +</p> + +<p> +"You have had a family?" I said, interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +"I've had thirteen," she answered. "Six bys and seven maidens." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, you are rich!" I returned. "And where are they all?" +</p> + +<p> +"Four maidens be lying in the churchyard, sir; two be married, and one +be down in the mill, there." +</p> + +<p> +"And your boys?" +</p> + +<p> +"One of them be lyin' beside his sisters—drownded afore my eyes, sir. +Three o' them be at sea, and two o' them in it, sir." +</p> + +<p> +At sea! I thought. What a wide <i>where</i>! As vague to the imagination, +almost, as <i>in the other world</i>. How a mother's thoughts must go +roaming about the waste, like birds that have lost their nest, to find +them! +</p> + +<p> +As this thought kept me silent for a few moments, she resumed. +</p> + +<p> +"It be no wonder, be it, sir? that I like to creep into the church with +my knitting. Many's the stormy night, when my husband couldn't keep +still, but would be out on the cliffs or on the breakwater, for no good +in life, but just to hear the roar of the waves that he could only see +by the white of them, with the balls o' foam flying in his face in the +dark—many's the such a night that I have left the house after he was +gone, with this blessed key in my hand, and crept into the old church +here, and sat down where I'm sittin' now—leastways where I was sittin' +when your reverence spoke to me—and hearkened to the wind howling +about the place. The church windows never rattle, sir—like the cottage +windows, as I suppose you know, sir. Somehow, I feel safe in the +church." +</p> + +<p> +"But if you had sons at sea," said I, again wishing to draw her out, +"it would not he of much good to you to feel safe yourself, so long as +they were in danger." +</p> + +<p> +"O! yes, it be, sir. What's the good of feeling safe yourself but it +let you know other people be safe too? It's when you don't feel safe +yourself that you feel other people ben't safe." +</p> + +<p> +"But," I said—and such confidence I had from what she had already +uttered, that I was sure the experiment was not a cruel one—"some of +your sons <i>were</i> drowned for all that you say about their safety." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir," she answered, with a sigh, "I trust they're none the less +safe for that. It would be a strange thing for an old woman like me, +well-nigh threescore and ten, to suppose that safety lay in not being +drownded. Why, they might ha' been cast on a desert island, and wasted +to skin an' bone, and got home again wi' the loss of half the wits they +set out with. Wouldn't that ha' been worse than being drownded right +off? And that wouldn't ha' been the worst, either. The church she seem +to tell me all the time, that for all the roaring outside, there be +really no danger after all. What matter if they go to the bottom? What +is the bottom of the sea, sir? You bein' a clergyman can tell that, +sir. I shouldn't ha' known it if I hadn't had bys o' my own at sea, +sir. But you can tell, sir, though you ain't got none there." +</p> + +<p> +And though she was putting her parson to his catechism, the smile that +returned on her face was as modest as if she had only been listening to +his instruction. I had not long to look for my answer. +</p> + +<p> +"The hollow of his hand," I said, and said no more. +</p> + +<p> +"I thought you would know it, sir," she returned, with a little glow of +triumph in her tone. "Well, then, that's just what the church tells me +when I come in here in the stormy nights. I bring my knitting then too, +sir, for I can knit in the dark as well as in the light almost; and +when they come home, if they do come home, they're none the worse that +I went to the old church to pray for them. There it goes roaring about +them poor dears, all out there; and their old mother sitting still as a +stone almost in the quiet old church, a caring for them. And then it do +come across me, sir, that God be a sitting in his own house at home, +hearing all the noise and all the roaring in which his children are +tossed about in the world, watching it all, letting it drown some o' +them and take them back to him, and keeping it from going too far with +others of them that are not quite ready for that same. I have my +thoughts, you see, sir, though I be an old woman; and not nice to look +at." +</p> + +<p> +I had come upon a genius. How nature laughs at our schools sometimes! +Education, so-called, is a fine thing, and might be a better thing; but +there is an education, that of life, which, when seconded by a pure +will to learn, leaves the schools behind, even as the horse of the +desert would leave behind the slow pomposity of the common-fed goose. +For life is God's school, and they that will listen to the Master there +will learn at God's speed. For one moment, I am ashamed to say, I was +envious of Shepherd, and repined that, now old Rogers was gone, I had +no such glorious old stained-glass window in my church to let in the +eternal upon my light-thirsty soul. I must say for myself that the +feeling lasted but for a moment, and that no sooner had the shadow of +it passed and the true light shined after it, than I was heartily +ashamed of it. Why should not Shepherd have the old woman as well as I? +True, Shepherd was more of what would now be called a ritualist than I; +true, I thought my doctrine simpler and therefore better than his; but +was this any reason why I should have all the grand people to minister +to in my parish! Recovering myself, I found her last words still in my +ears. +</p> + +<p> +"You are very nice to look at," I said. "You must not find fault with +the work of God, because you would like better to be young and pretty +than to be as you now are. Time and time's rents and furrows are all +his making and his doing. God makes nothing ugly." +</p> + +<p> +"Are you quite sure of that, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +I paused. Such a question from such a woman "must give us pause." And, +as I paused, the thought of certain animals flashed into my mind and I +could not insist that God had never made anything ugly. +</p> + +<p> +"No. I am not sure of it," I answered. For of all things my soul +recoiled from, any professional pretence of knowing more than I did +know seemed to me the most repugnant to the spirit and mind of the +Master, whose servants we are, or but the servants of mere priestly +delusion and self-seeking. "But if he does," I went on to say, "it must +be that we may see what it is like, and therefore not like it." +</p> + +<p> +Then, unwilling all at once to plunge with her into such an abyss as +the question opened, I turned the conversation to an object on which my +eyes had been for some time resting half-unconsciously. It was the sort +of stool or bench on which my guide had been sitting. I now thought it +was some kind of box or chest. It was curiously carved in old oak, very +much like the ends of the benches and book-boards. +</p> + +<p> +"What is that you were sitting on?" I asked. "A chest or what?" +</p> + +<p> +"It be there when we come to this place, and that be nigh fifty years +agone, sir. But what it be, you'll be better able to tell than I be, +sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps a chest for holding the communion-plate in old time," I said. +"But how should it then come to be banished to the tower?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir; it can't be that. It be some sort of ancient musical piano, I +be thinking." +</p> + +<p> +I stooped and saw that its lid was shaped like the cover of an organ. +With some difficulty I opened it; and there, to be sure, was a row of +huge keys, fit for the fingers of a Cyclops. I pressed upon them, one +after another, but no sound followed. They were stiff to the touch; and +once down, so they mostly remained until lifted again. I looked if +there was any sign of a bellows, thinking it must have been some +primitive kind of reed-instrument, like what we call a seraphine or +harmonium now-a-days. But there was no hole through which there could +have been any communication with or from a bellows, although there +might have been a small one inside. There were, however, a dozen little +round holes in the fixed part of the top, which might afford some clue +to the mystery of its former life. I could not find any way of reaching +the inside of it, so strongly was it put together; therefore I was +left, I thought, to the efforts of my imagination alone for any hope of +discovery with regard to the instrument, seeing further observation was +impossible. But here I found that I was mistaken in two important +conclusions, the latter of which depended on the former. The first of +these was that it was an instrument: it was only one end of an +instrument; therefore, secondly, there might be room for observation +still. But I found this out by accident, which has had a share in most +discoveries, and which, meaning a something that falls into our hands +unlocked for, is so far an unobjectionable word even to the man who +does not believe in chance. I had for the time given up the question as +insoluble, and was gazing about the place, when, glancing up at the +holes in the ceiling through which the bell-ropes went, I spied two or +three thick wires hanging through the same ceiling close to the wall, +and right over the box with the keys. The vague suspicion of a +discovery dawned upon me. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you got the key of the tower?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir. But I'll run home for it at once," she answered. And rising, +she went out in haste. +</p> + +<p> +"Run!" thought I, looking after her. "It is a word of the will and the +feeling, not of the body." But I was mistaken. The dear old creature +had no sooner got outside of the church-yard, within which, I presume, +she felt that she must be decorous, than she did run, and ran well too. +I was on the point of starting after her at full speed, to prevent her +from hurting herself, but reflecting that her own judgment ought to be +as good as mine in such a case, I returned, and sitting down on her +seat, awaited her reappearance, gazing at the ceiling. There I either +saw or imagined I saw signs of openings corresponding in number and +position with those in the lid under me. In about three minutes the old +woman returned, panting but not distressed, with a great crooked old +key in her hand. Why are all the keys of a church so crooked? I did not +ask her that question, though. What I said to her, was— +</p> + +<p> +"You shouldn't run like that. I am in no hurry." +</p> + +<p> +"Be you not, sir? I thought, by the way you spoke, you be taken with a +longing to get a-top o' the tower, and see all about you like. For you +see, sir, fond as I be of the old church, I du feel sometimes as if +she'd smother me; and then nothing will do but I must get at the top of +the old tower. And then, what with the sun, if there be any sun, and +what with the fresh air which there always be up there, sir,—it du +always be fresh up there, sir," she repeated, "I come back down again +blessing the old church for its tower." +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke she was toiling up the winding staircase after me, where +there was just room enough for my shoulders to get through by turning +themselves a little across the lie of the steps. They were very high, +but she kept up with me bravely, bearing out her statement that she was +no stranger to them. As I ascended, however, I was not thinking of her, +but of what she had said. Strange to tell, the significance of the +towers or spires of our churches had never been clear to me before. +True, I was quite awake to their significance, at least to that of the +spires, as fingers pointing ever upwards to +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "regions mild of calm and serene air,<br /> + Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot,<br /> + Which men call Earth;"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +but I had not thought of their symbolism as lifting one up above the +church itself into a region where no church is wanted because the Lord +God almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it. +</p> + +<p> +Happy church indeed, if it destroys the need of itself by lifting men +up into the eternal kingdom! Would that I and all her servants lived +pervaded with the sense of this her high end, her one high calling! We +need the church towers to remind us that the mephitic airs in the +church below are from the churchyard at its feet, which so many take +for the church, worshipping over the graves and believing in death—or +at least in the material substance over which alone death hath power. +Thus the church, even in her corruption, lifts us out of her +corruption, sending us up her towers and her spires to admonish us that +she too lives in the air of truth: that her form too must pass away, +while the truth that is embodied in her lives beyond forms and customs +and prejudices, shining as the stars for ever and ever. He whom the +church does not lift up above the church is not worthy to be a +doorkeeper therein. +</p> + +<p> +Such thoughts passed through me, satisfied me, and left me peaceful, so +that before I had reached the top, I was thanking the Lord—not for his +church-tower, but for his sexton's wife. The old woman was a jewel. If +her husband was like her, which was too much to expect—if he believed +in her, it would be enough, quite—then indeed the little child, who +answered on being questioned thereanent, as the Scotch would say, that +the three orders of ministers in the church were the parson, clerk, and +sexton, might not be so far wrong in respect of this individual case. +So in the ascent, and the thinking associated therewith, I forgot all +about the special object for which I had requested the key of the +tower, and led the way myself up to the summit, where stepping out of a +little door, which being turned only heavenwards had no pretence for, +or claim upon a curiously crooked key, but opened to the hand laid upon +the latch, I thought of the words of the judicious Hooker, that "the +assembling of the church to learn" was "the receiving of angels +descended from above;" and in such a whimsical turn as our thoughts +will often take when we are not heeding them, I wondered for a moment +whether that was why the upper door was left on the latch, forgetting +that that could not be of much use, if the door in the basement was +kept locked with the crooked key. But the whole suggested something +true about my own heart and that of my fellows, if not about the +church: Revelation is not enough, the open trap-door is not enough, if +the door of the heart is not open likewise. +</p> + +<p> +As soon, however, as I stepped out upon the roof of the tower, I forgot +again all that had thus passed through my mind, swift as a dream. For, +filling the west, lay the ocean beneath, with a dark curtain of storm +hanging in perpendicular lines over part of its horizon, and on the +other side was the peaceful solid land, with its numberless shades of +green, its heights and hollows, its farms and wooded vales—there was +not much wood—its scattered villages and country dwellings, lighted +and shadowed by the sun and the clouds. Beyond lay the blue heights of +Dartmoor. And over all, bathing us as it passed, moved the wind, the +life-bearing spirit of the whole, the servant of the sun. The old woman +stood beside me, silently enjoying my enjoyment, with a still smile +that seemed to say in kindly triumph, "Was I not right about the tower +and the wind that dwells among its pinnacles?" I drank deep of the +universal flood, the outspread peace, the glory of the sun, and the +haunting shadow of the sea that lay beyond like the visual image of the +eternal silence—as it looks to us—that rounds our little earthly life. +</p> + +<p> +There were a good many trees in the church-yard, and as I looked down, +the tops of them in their richest foliage hid all the graves directly +below me, except a single flat stone looking up through an opening in +the leaves, which seemed to have been just made for it to let it see +the top of the tower. Upon the stone a child was seated playing with a +few flowers she had gathered, not once looking up to the gilded vanes +that rose from the four pinnacles at the corners of the tower. I turned +to the eastern side, and looked over upon the church roof. It lay far +below—looking very narrow and small, but long, with the four ridges of +four steep roofs stretching away to the eastern end. It was in +excellent repair, for the parish was almost all in one lord's +possession, and he was proud of his church: between them he and Mr. +Shepherd had made it beautiful to behold and strong to endure. +</p> + +<p> +When I turned to look again, the little child was gone. Some butterfly +fancy had seized her, and she was away. A little lamb was in her place, +nibbling at the grass that grew on the side of the next mound. And when +I looked seaward there was a sloop, like a white-winged sea-bird, +rounding the end of a high projecting rock from the south, to bear up +the little channel that led to the gates of the harbour canal. Out of +the circling waters it had flown home, not from a long voyage, but +hardly the less welcome therefore to those that waited and looked for +her signal from the barrier rock. +</p> + +<p> +Reentering by the angels' door to descend the narrow cork-screw stair, +so dark and cool, I caught a glimpse, one turn down, by the feeble +light that came through its chinks after it was shut behind us, of a +tiny maiden-hair fern growing out of the wall. I stopped, and said to +the old woman— +</p> + +<p> +"I have a sick daughter at home, or I wouldn't rob your tower of this +lovely little thing." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir, what eyes you have! I never saw the thing before. Do take +it home to miss. It'll do her good to see it. I be main sorry to hear +you've got a sick maiden. She ben't a bedlar, be she, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +I was busy with my knife getting out all the roots I could without +hurting them, and before I had succeeded I had remembered Turner's +using the word. +</p> + +<p> +"Not quite that," I answered, "but she can't even sit up, and must be +carried everywhere." +</p> + +<p> +"Poor dear! Everyone has their troubles, sir. The sea's been mine." +</p> + +<p> +She continued talking and asking kind questions about Connie as we went +down the stair. Not till she opened a little door I had passed without +observing it as we came up, was I reminded of my first object in +ascending the tower. For this door revealed a number of bells hanging +in silent power in the brown twilight of the place. I entered +carefully, for there were only some planks laid upon the joists to keep +one's feet from going through the ceiling. In a few moments I had +satisfied myself that my conjecture about the keys below was correct. +The small iron rods I had seen from beneath hung down from this place. +There were more of them hanging shorter above, and there was yet enough +of a further mechanism remaining to prove that those keys, by means of +the looped and cranked rods, had been in connection with hammers, one +of them indeed remaining also, which struck the bells, so that a tune +could be played upon them as upon any other keyed instrument. This was +the first contrivance of the kind I had ever seen, though I have heard +of it in other churches since. +</p> + +<p> +"If I could find a clever blacksmith in the neighbourhood, now," I said +to myself, "I would get this all repaired, so that it should not +interfere with the bell-ringing when the ringers were to be had, and +yet Shepherd could play a psalm tune to his parish at large when he +pleased." For Shepherd was a very fair musician, and gave a good deal +of time to the organ. "It's a grand notion, to think of him sitting +here in the gloom, with that great musical instrument towering above +him, whence he sends forth the voice of gladness, almost of song to his +people, while they are mowing the grass, binding the sheaves, or gazing +abroad over the stormy ocean in doubt, anxiety, and fear. 'There's the +parson at his bells,' they would say, and stop and listen; and some +phrase might sink into their hearts, waking some memory, or giving +birth to some hope or faint aspiration. I will see what can be done." +Having come to this conclusion, I left the abode of the bells, +descended to the church, bade my conductress good morning, saying I +would visit her soon in her own house, and bore home to my child the +spoil which, without kirk-rapine, I had torn from the wall of the +sanctuary. By this time the stormy veil had lifted from the horizon, +and the sun was shining in full power without one darkening cloud. +</p> + +<p> +Ere I left the churchyard I would have a glance at the stone which ever +seemed to lie gazing up at the tower. I soon found it, because it was +the only one in that quarter from which I could see the top of the +tower. It recorded the life and death of an aged pair who had been +married fifty years, concluding with the couplet— +</p> + +<p> +"A long time this may seem to be, But it did not seem long to we." +</p> + +<p> +The whole story of a human life lay in that last verse. True, it was +not good grammar; but they had got through fifty years of wedded life +probably without any knowledge of grammar to harmonise or to shorten +them, and I daresay, had they been acquainted with the lesson he had +put into their dumb mouths, they would have been aware of no ground of +quarrel with the poetic stone-cutter, who most likely had thrown the +verses in when he made his claim for the stone and the cutting. Having +learnt this one by heart, I went about looking for anything more in the +shape of sepulchral flora that might interest or amuse my crippled +darling; nor had I searched long before I found one, the sole but +triumphant recommendation of which was the thorough "puzzle-headedness" +of its construction. I quite reckoned on seeing Connie trying to make +it out, looking as bewildered over its excellent grammar, as the poet +of the other ought to have looked over his rhymes, ere he gave in to +the use of the nominative after a preposition. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "If you could view the heavenly shore,<br /> + Where heart's content you hope to find,<br /> + You would not murmur were you gone before,<br /> + But grieve that you are left behind."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap16"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XVI. +</h3> + +<h3> +CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER. +</h3> + +<p> +As I walked home, the rush of the rising tide was in my ears. To my +fancy, the ocean, awaking from a swoon in which its life had ebbed to +its heart, was sending that life abroad to its extremities, and waves +breaking in white were the beats of its reviving pulse, the flashes of +returning light. But so gentle was its motion, and so lovely its hue, +that I could not help contrasting it with its reflex in the mind of her +who took refuge from the tumult of its noises in the hollow of the old +church. To her, let it look as blue as the sky, as peaceful and as +moveless, it was a wild, reckless, false, devouring creature, a prey to +its own moods, and to that of the blind winds which, careless of +consequences, urged it to raving fury. Only, while the sea took this +form to her imagination, she believed in that which held the sea, and +knew that, when it pleased God to part his confining fingers, there +would he no more sea. +</p> + +<p> +When I reached home, I went straight to Connie's room. Now the house +was one of a class to every individual of which, whatever be its style +or shape, I instantly become attached almost as if it possessed a +measure of the life which it has sheltered. This class of human +dwellings consists of the houses that have <i>grown</i>. They have not been, +built after a straight-up-and-down model of uninteresting convenience +or money-loving pinchedness. They must have had some plan, good, bad, +or indifferent, as the case may be, at first, I suppose; but that plan +they have left far behind, having grown with the necessities or +ambitions of succeeding possessors, until the fact that they have a +history is as plainly written on their aspect as on that of any you or +daughter of Adam. These are the houses which the fairies used to haunt, +and if there is any truth in ghost-stories, the houses which ghosts +will yet haunt; and hence perhaps the sense of soothing comfort which +pervades us when we cross their thresholds. You do not know, the moment +you have cast a glance about the hall, where the dining-room, +drawing-room, and best bedroom are. You have got it all to find out, +just as the character of a man; and thus had I to find out this house +of my friend Shepherd. It had formerly been a kind of manor-house, +though altogether unlike any other manor-house I ever saw; for after +exercising all my constructive ingenuity reversed in pulling it to +pieces in my mind, I came to the conclusion that the germ-cell of it +was a cottage of the simplest sort which had grown by the addition of +other cells, till it had reached the development in which we found it. +</p> + +<p> +I have said that the dining-room was almost on the level of the shore. +Certainly some of the flat stones that coped the low wall in front of +it were thrown into the garden before the next winter by the waves. But +Connie's room looked out on a little flower-garden almost on the downs, +only sheltered a little by the rise of a short grassy slope above it. +This, however, left the prospect, from her window down the bay and out +to sea, almost open. To reach this room I had now to go up but one +simple cottage stair; for the door of the house entered on the first +floor, that is, as regards the building, midway between heaven and +earth. It had a large bay-window; and in this window Connie was lying +on her couch, with the lower sash wide open, through which the breeze +entered, smelling of sea-weed tempered with sweet grasses and the +wall-flowers and stocks that were in the little plot under it. I +thought I could see an improvement in her already. Certainly she looked +very happy. +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa!" she said, "isn't it delightful?" +</p> + +<p> +"What is, my dear?" +</p> + +<p> +"O, everything. The wind, and the sky, and the sea, and the smell of +the flowers. Do look at that sea-bird. His wings are like the barb of a +terrible arrow. How he goes undulating, neck and body, up and down as +he flies. I never felt before that a bird moves his wings. It always +looked as if the wings flew with the bird. But I see the effort in him." +</p> + +<p> +"An easy effort, though, I should certainly think." +</p> + +<p> +"No doubt. But I see that he chooses and means to fly, and so does it. +It makes one almost reconciled to the idea of wings. Do angels really +have wings, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is generally so represented, I think, in the Bible. But whether it +is meant as a natural fact about them, is more than I take upon me to +decide. For one thing, I should have to examine whether in simple +narrative they are ever represented with them, as, I think, in records +of visions they are never represented without them. But wings are very +beautiful things, and I do not exactly see why you should need +reconciling to them." +</p> + +<p> +Connie gave a little shrug of her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't like the notion of them growing out at my shoulder-blades. And +however would you get on your clothes? If you put them over your wings, +they would be of no use, and would, besides, make you hump-backed; and +if you did not, everything would have to be buttoned round the roots of +them. You could not do it yourself, and even on Wynnie I don't think I +could bear to touch the things—I don't mean the feathers, but the +skinny, folding-up bits of them." +</p> + +<p> +I laughed at her fastidious fancy. +</p> + +<p> +"You want to fly, I suppose?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"O, yes; I should like that." +</p> + +<p> +"And you don't want to have wings?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I shouldn't mind the wings exactly; but however would one be +able to keep them nice?" +</p> + +<p> +"There you go; starting from one thing to another, like a real bird +already. When you can't answer one thing, off to another, and, from +your new perch on the hawthorn, talk as if you were still on the +topmost branch of the lilac!" +</p> + +<p> +"O, yes, papa! That's what I've heard you say to mamma twenty times." +</p> + +<p> +"And did I ever say to your mamma anything but the truth? or to you +either, you puss?" +</p> + +<p> +I had not yet discovered that when I used this epithet to my Connie, +she always thought she had gone too far. She looked troubled. I +hastened to relieve her. +</p> + +<p> +"When women have wings," I said, "their logic will be good." +</p> + +<p> +"How do you make that out, papa?" she asked, a little re-assured. +</p> + +<p> +"Because then every shadow of feeling that turns your speech aside from +the straight course will be recognised in that speech; the whole +utterance will be instinct not only with the meaning of what you are +thinking, but with the reflex of the forces in you that make the +utterance take this or that shape; just as to a perfect palate, the +source and course of a stream would be revealed in every draught of its +water. +</p> + +<p> +"I have just a glimmering of your meaning, papa. Would you like to have +wings?" +</p> + +<p> +"I should like to fly like a bird, to swim like a fish, to gallop like +a horse, to creep like a serpent, but I suspect the good of all these +is to be got without doing any of them." +</p> + +<p> +"I know what you mean now, but I can't put it in words." +</p> + +<p> +"I mean by a perfect sympathy with the creatures that do these things: +what it may please God to give to ourselves, we can quite comfortably +leave to him. A higher stratum of the same kind is the need we feel of +knowing our fellow-creatures through and through, of walking into and +out of their worlds as if we were, because we are, perfectly at home in +them.—But I am talking what the people who do not understand such +things lump all together as mysticism, which is their name for a kind +of spiritual ash-pit, whither they consign dust and stones, never +asking whether they may not be gold-dust and rubies, all in a +heap.—You had better begin to think about getting out, Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"Think about it, papa! I have been thinking about it ever since +daylight." +</p> + +<p> +"I will go and see what your mother is doing then, and if she is ready +to go out with us." +</p> + +<p> +In a few moments all was arranged. Without killing more than a snail or +two, which we could not take time to beware of, Walter and I—finding +that the window did not open down to the ground in French fashion, for +which there were two good reasons, one the fierceness of the winds in +winter, the other, the fact that the means of egress were elsewise +provided—lifted the sofa, Connie and all, out over the window-sill, +and then there was only a little door in the garden-wall to get her +through before we found ourselves upon the down. I think the ascent of +this hill was the first experience I had—a little to my humiliation, +nothing to my sorrow—that I was descending another hill. I had to set +down the precious burden rather oftener before we reached the brow of +the cliffs than would have been necessary ten years before. But this +was all right, and the newly-discovered weakness then was strength to +the power which carries me about on my two legs now. It is all right +still. I shall be stronger by and by. +</p> + +<p> +We carried her high enough for her to see the brilliant waters lying +many feet below her, with the sea-birds of which we had talked winging +their undulating way between heaven and ocean. It is when first you +have a chance of looking a bird in the face on the wing that you know +what the marvel of flight is. There it hangs or rests, which you +please, borne up, as far as eye or any of the senses can witness, by +its own will alone. This Connie, quicker than I in her observation of +nature, had already observed. Seated on the warm grass by her side, +while neither talked, but both regarded the blue spaces, I saw one of +those same barb-winged birds rest over my head, regarding me from +above, as if doubtful whether I did not afford some claim to his theory +of treasure-trove. I knew at once that what Connie had been saying to +me just before was true. +</p> + +<p> +She lay silent a long time. I too was silent. At length I spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"Are you longing to be running about amongst the rocks, my Connie?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, papa; not a bit. I don't know how it is, but I don't think I ever +wished much for anything I knew I could not have. I am enjoying +everything more than I can tell you. I wish Wynnie were as happy as I +am." +</p> + +<p> +"Why? Do you think she's not happy, my dear?" +</p> + +<p> +"That doesn't want any thinking, papa. You can see that." +</p> + +<p> +"I am afraid you're right, Connie. What do you think is the cause of +it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think it is because she can't wait. She's always going out to meet +things; and then when they're not there waiting for her, she thinks +they're nowhere. But I always think her way is finer than mine. If +everybody were like me, there wouldn't be much done in the world, would +there, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"At all events, my dear, your way is wise for you, and I am glad you do +not judge your sister." +</p> + +<p> +"Judge Wynnie, papa! That would be cool impudence. She's worth ten of +me. Don't you think, papa," she added, after a pause, "that if Mary had +said the smallest word against Martha, as Martha did against Mary, +Jesus would have had a word to say on Martha's side next?" +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed I do, my dear. And I think that did not sit very long without +asking Jesus if she mightn't go and help her sister. There is but one +thing needful—that is, the will of God; and when people love that +above everything, they soon come to see that to everything else there +are two sides, and that only the will of God gives fair play, as we +call it, to both of them." +</p> + +<p> +Another silence followed. Then Connie spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"Is it not strange, papa, that the only thine here that makes me want +to get up to look, is nothing of all the grand things round about me? I +am just lying like the convex mirror in the school-room at home, +letting them all paint themselves in me." +</p> + +<p> +"What is it then that makes you wish to get up and go and see?" I asked +with real curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you see down there—away across the bay—amongst the rocks at the +other side, a man sitting sketching?" +</p> + +<p> +I looked for some time before I could discover him. +</p> + +<p> +"Your sight is good, Connie: I see the man, but I could not tell what +he was doing." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you see him lifting his head every now and then for a moment, +and then keeping it down for a longer while?" +</p> + +<p> +"I cannot distinguish that. But then I am shortsighted rather, you +know." +</p> + +<p> +"I wonder how you see so many little things that nobody else seems to +notice, then, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"That is because I have trained myself to observe. The degree of power +in the sight is of less consequence than the habit of seeing. But you +have not yet told me what it is that makes you desirous of getting up." +</p> + +<p> +"I want to look over his shoulder, and see what he is doing. Is it not +strange that in the midst of all this plenty of beautifulness, I should +want to rise to look at a few lines and scratches, or smears of colour, +upon a bit of paper?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, my dear; I don't think it is strange. There a new element of +interest is introduced—the human. No doubt there is deep humanity in +all this around us. No doubt all the world, in all its moods, is human, +as those for whose abode and instruction it was made. No doubt, it +would be void of both beauty and significance to our eyes, were it not +that it is one crowd of pictures of the human mind, blended in one +living fluctuating whole. But these meanings are there in solution as +it were. The individual is a centre of crystallisation to this +solution. Around him meanings gather, are separated from other +meanings; and if he be an artist, by which I mean true painter, true +poet, or true musician, as the case may be he so isolates and +represents them, that we see them—not what nature shows to us, but +what nature has shown, to him, determined by his nature and choice. +With it is mingled therefore so much of his own individuality, +manifested both in this choice and certain modifications determined by +his way of working, that you have not only a representation of an +aspect of nature, as far as that may be with limited powers and +materials, but a revelation of the man's own mind and nature. +Consequently there is a human interest in every true attempt to +reproduce nature, an interest of individuality which does not belong to +nature herself, who is for all and every man. You have just been saying +that you were lying there like a convex mirror reflecting all nature +around you. Every man is such a convex mirror; and his drawing, if he +can make one, is an attempt to show what is in this little mirror of +his, kindled there by the grand world outside. And the human mirrors +being all differently formed, vary infinitely in what they would thus +represent of the same scene. I have been greatly interested in looking +alternately over the shoulders of two artists, both sketching in colour +the same, absolutely the same scene, both trying to represent it with +all the truth in their power. How different, notwithstanding, the two +representations came out!" +</p> + +<p> +"I think I understand you, papa. But look a little farther off. Don't +you see over the top of another rock a lady's bonnet. I do believe +that's Wynnie. I know she took her box of water-colours out with her +this morning, just before you came home. Dora went with her." +</p> + +<p> +"Can't you tell by her ribbons, Connie? You seem sharp-sighted enough +to see her face if she would show it. I don't even see the bonnet. If I +were like some people I know, I should feel justified in denying its +presence, attributing the whole to your fancy, and refusing anything to +superiority of vision." +</p> + +<p> +"That wouldn't be like you, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope not; for I have no fancy for being shut up in my own blindness, +when other people offer me their eyes to eke out the defects of my own +with. But here comes mamma at last." +</p> + +<p> +Connie's face brightened as if she had not seen her mother for a +fortnight. My Ethelwyn always brought the home gladness that her name +signified with her. She was a centre of radiating peace. +</p> + +<p> +"Mamma, don't you think that's Wynnie's bonnet over that black rock +there, just beyond where you see that man drawing?" +</p> + +<p> +"You absurd child! How should I know Wynnie's bonnet at this distance?" +</p> + +<p> +"Can't you see the little white feather you gave her out of your +wardrobe just before we left? She put it in this morning before she +went out." +</p> + +<p> +"I think I do see something white. But I want you to look out there, +towards what they call the Chapel Rock, at the other end of that long +mound they call the breakwater. You will soon see a boat appear full of +the coast-guard. I saw them going on board just as I left the house to +come up to you. Their officer came down with his sword, and each of the +men had a cutlass. I wonder what it can mean." +</p> + +<p> +We looked. But before the boat made its appearance, Connie cried out— +</p> + +<p> +"Look there! What a big boat that is rowing for the land, away +northwards there!" +</p> + +<p> +I turned my eyes in the direction she indicated, and saw a long boat +with some half-dozen oars, full of men, rowing hard, apparently for +some spot on the shore at a considerable distance to the north of our +bay. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah!" I said, "that boat has something to do with the coast-guard and +their cutlasses. You'll see that, as soon as they get out of the bay, +they will row in the same direction." +</p> + +<p> +So it was. Our boat appeared presently from under the concealment of +the heights on which we were, and made at full speed after the other +boat. +</p> + +<p> +"Surely they can't be smugglers," I said. "I thought all that was over +and done with." +</p> + +<p> +In the course of another twenty minutes, during which we watched their +progress, both boats had disappeared behind the headland to the +northward. Then, thinking Connie had had nearly enough of the sea air +for her first experience of its influences, I went and fetched Walter, +and we carried her back as we had brought her. She had not been in the +shadow of her own room for five minutes before she was fast asleep. +</p> + +<p> +It was now nearly time for our early dinner. We always dined early when +we could, that we might eat along with our children. We were both +convinced that the only way to make them behave like ladies and +gentlemen was to have them always with us at meals. We had seen very +unpleasant results in the children of those who allowed them to dine +with no other supervision than the nursery afforded: they were a +constant anxiety and occasional horror to those whom they +visited—snatching like monkeys, and devouring like jackals, as +selfishly as if they were mere animals. +</p> + +<p> +"O! we've seen such a nice gentleman!" said Dora, becoming lively under +the influence of her soup. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you, Dora? Where?" +</p> + +<p> +"Sitting on the rocks, taking a portrait of the sea." +</p> + +<p> +"What makes you say he was a nice gentleman?" +</p> + +<p> +"He had such beautiful boots!" answered Dora, at which there was a +great laugh about the table. +</p> + +<p> +"O! we must run and tell Connie that," said Harry. "It will make her +laugh." +</p> + +<p> +"What will you tell Connie, then, Harry?" +</p> + +<p> +"O! what was it, Charlie? I've forgotten." +</p> + +<p> +Another laugh followed at Harry's expense now, and we were all very +merry, when Dora, who sat opposite to the window, called out, clapping +her hands— +</p> + +<p> +"There's Niceboots again! There's Niceboots again!" +</p> + +<p> +The same moment the head of a young man appeared over the wall that +separated the garden from the little beach that lay by the entrance of +the canal. I saw at once that he must be more than ordinarily tall to +show his face, for he was not close to the wall. It was a dark +countenance, with a long beard, which few at that time wore, though now +it is getting not uncommon, even in my own profession—a noble, +handsome face, a little sad, with downbent eyes, which, released from +their more immediate duty towards nature, had now bent themselves upon +the earth. +</p> + +<p> +"Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose he's contemplating his boots," said Wynnie, with apparent +maliciousness. +</p> + +<p> +"That's too bad of you, Wynnie," I said, and the child blushed. +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora's wise +discrimination," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"He is a fine-looking fellow," said I, "and ought, with that face and +head, to be able to paint good pictures." +</p> + +<p> +"I should like to see what he has done," said Wynnie; "for, by the way +we were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing." +</p> + +<p> +"And what was that then, Wynnie?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"A rock," she answered, "that you could not see from where you were +sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff." +</p> + +<p> +"Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she +could look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you." +</p> + +<p> +"Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us." +</p> + +<p> +"Space, you see, in removing things from the beholder, seems always to +bring them nearer to each other, and the most differing things are +classed under one name by the man who knows nothing about them. But +what sort of a rock was it you were trying to draw?" +</p> + +<p> +"A strange-looking, conical rock, that stands alone in front of one of +the ridges that project from the shore into the water. Three sea-birds, +with long white wings, were flying about it, and the little waves of +the rising tide were beating themselves against it and breaking in +white plashes. So the rock stood between the blue and white below and +the blue and white above; for, though there were no clouds, the birds +gave the touches of white to the upper sea." +</p> + +<p> +"Now, Dora," I said, "I don't know if you are old enough to understand +me; but sometimes little people are long in understanding, just because +the older people think they can't, and don't try them.—Do you see, +Dora, why I want you to learn to draw? Look how Wynnie sees things. +That is, in a great measure, because she draws things, and has, by +that, learned to watch in order to find out. It is a great thing to +have your eyes open." +</p> + +<p> +Dora's eyes were large, and she opened them to their full width, as if +she would take in the universe at their little doors. Whether that +indicated that she did not in the least understand what I had been +saying, or that she was in sympathy with it, I cannot tell. +</p> + +<p> +"Now let us go up to Connie, and tell her about the rock and everything +else you have seen since you went out. We are all her messengers sent +out to discover things, and bring back news of them." +</p> + +<p> +After a little talk with Connie, I retired to the study, which was on +the same floor as her room completing, indeed, the whole of that part +of the house, which, seen from without, looked like a separate +building; for it had a roof of its own, and stood higher up the rock +than the rest of the dwelling. Here I began to glance over the books. +To have the run of another man's library, especially if it has all been +gathered by himself, is like having a pass-key into the chambers of his +thought. Only, one must be wary, when he opens them, what marks on the +books he takes for those of the present owner. A mistake here would +breed considerable confusion and falsehood in any judgment formed from +the library. I found, however, one thing plain enough, that Shepherd +had kept up that love for an older English literature, which had been +one of the cords to draw us towards each other when we were students +together. There had been one point on which we especially agreed—that +a true knowledge of the present, in literature, as in everything else, +could only be founded upon a knowledge of what had gone before; +therefore, that any judgment, in regard to the literature of the +present day, was of no value which was not guided and influenced by a +real acquaintance with the best of what had gone before, being liable +to be dazzled and misled by novelty of form and other qualities which, +whatever might be the real worth of the substance, were, in themselves, +purely ephemeral. I had taken down a last-century edition of the poems +of the brothers Fletcher, and, having begun to read a lovely passage in +"Christ's Victory and Triumph," had gone into what I can only call an +intellectual rage, at the impudence of the editor, who had altered +innumerable words and phrases to suit the degenerate taste of his own +time,—when a knock came to the door, and Charlie entered, breathless +with eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +"There's the boat with the men with the swords in it, and another boat +behind them, twice as big." +</p> + +<p> +I hurried out upon the road, and there, close under our windows, were +the two boats we had seen in the morning, landing their crews on the +little beach. The second boat was full of weather-beaten men, in all +kinds of attire, some in blue jerseys, some in red shirts, some in +ragged coats. One man, who looked their superior, was dressed in blue +from head to foot. +</p> + +<p> +"What's the matter?" I asked the officer of the coast-guard, a sedate, +thoughtful-looking man. +</p> + +<p> +"Vessel foundered, sir," he answered. "Sprung a leak on Sunday morning. +She was laden with iron, and in a heavy ground swell it shifted and +knocked a hole in her. The poor fellows are worn out with the pump and +rowing, upon little or nothing to eat." +</p> + +<p> +They were trooping past us by this time, looking rather dismal, though +not by any means abject. +</p> + +<p> +"What are you going to do with them now?" +</p> + +<p> +"They'll be taken in by the people. We'll get up a little subscription +for them, but they all belong to the society the sailors have for +sending the shipwrecked to their homes, or where they want to go." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, here's something to help," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, sir. They'll be very glad of it." +</p> + +<p> +"And if there's anything wanted that I can do for them, you must let me +know." +</p> + +<p> +"I will, sir. But I don't think there will be any occasion to trouble +you. You are our new clergyman, I believe." +</p> + +<p> +"Not exactly that. Only for a little while, till my friend Mr. Shepherd +is able to come back to you." +</p> + +<p> +"We don't want to lose Mr. Shepherd, sir. He's what they call high in +these parts, but he's a great favourite with all the poor people, +because you see he understands them as if he was of the same flesh and +blood with themselves—as, for that matter, I suppose we all are." +</p> + +<p> +"If we weren't there would be nothing to say at all. Will any of these +men be at church to-morrow, do you suppose? I am afraid sailors are not +much in the way of going to church?" +</p> + +<p> +"I am afraid not. You see they are all anxious to get home. Most likely +they'll be all travelling to-morrow. It's a pity. It would be a good +chance for saying something to them that they might think of again. But +I often think that, perhaps—it's only my own fancy, and I don't set it +up for anything—that sailors won't be judged exactly like other +people. They're so knocked about, you see, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course not. Nobody will be judged like any other body. To his own +Master, who knows all about him, every man stands or falls. Depend upon +it, God likes fair play, to use a homely phrase, far better than any +sailor of them all. But that's not exactly the question. It seems to me +the question is this: shall we, who know what a blessed thing life is +because we know what God is like, who can trust in him with all our +hearts because he is the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the friend of +sinners, shall we not try all we can to let them, too, know the +blessedness of trusting in their Father in heaven? If we could only get +them to say the Lord's prayer, <i>meaning</i> it, think what that would be! +Look here! This can't be called bribery, for they are in want of it, +and it will show them I am friendly. Here's another sovereign. Give +them my compliments, and say that if any of them happen to be in +Kilkhaven tomorrow, I shall be quite pleased to welcome them to church. +Tell them I will give them of my best there if they will come. Make the +invitation merrily, you know. No long faces and solemn speech. I will +give them the solemn speech when they come to church. But even there I +hope God will keep the long face far from me. That is fittest for fear +and suffering. And the house of God is the casket that holds the +antidote against all fear and most suffering. But I am preaching my +sermon on Saturday instead of Sunday, and keeping you from your +ministration to the poor fellows. Good-bye." +</p> + +<p> +"I will give them your message as near as I can," he said, and we shook +hands and parted. +</p> + +<p> +This was the first experience we had of the might and battle of the +ocean. To our eyes it lay quiet as a baby asleep. On that Sunday +morning there had been no commotion here. Yet now at last, on the +Saturday morning, home come the conquered and spoiled of the sea. As if +with a mock she takes all they have, and flings them on shore again, +with her weeds, and her shells, and her sand. Before the winter was +over we had learned—how much more of that awful power that surrounds +the habitable earth! By slow degrees the sense of its might grew upon +us, first by the vision of its many aspects and moods, and then by more +awful things that followed; for there are few coasts upon which the sea +rages so wildly as upon this, the whole force of the Atlantic breaking +upon it. Even when there is no storm within perhaps hundreds of miles, +when all is still as a church on the land, the storm that raves +somewhere out upon the vast waste, will drive the waves in upon the +shore with such fury that not even a lifeboat could make its way +through their yawning hollows, and their fierce, shattered, and +tumbling crests. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap17"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XVII. +</h3> + +<h3> +MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH. +</h3> + +<p> +In the hope that some of the shipwrecked mariners might be present in +the church the next day, I proceeded to consider my morning's sermon +for the occasion. There was no difficulty in taking care at the same +time that it should be suitable to the congregation, whether those +sailors were there or not. I turned over in my mind several subjects. I +thought, for instance, of showing them how this ocean that lay watchful +and ready all about our island, all about the earth, was but a visible +type or symbol of two other oceans, one very still, the other very +awful and fierce; in fact, that three oceans surrounded us: one of the +known world; one of the unseen world, that is, of death; one of the +spirit—the devouring ocean of evil—and might I not have added yet +another, encompassing and silencing all the rest—that of truth! The +visible ocean seemed to make war upon the land, and the dwellers +thereon. Restrained by the will of God and by him made subject more and +more to the advancing knowledge of those who were created to rule over +it, it was yet like a half-tamed beast ever ready to break loose and +devour its masters. Of course this would have been but one aspect or +appearance of it—for it was in truth all service; but this was the +aspect I knew it must bear to those, seafaring themselves or not, to +whom I had to speak. Then I thought I might show, that its power, like +that of all things that man is ready to fear, had one barrier over +which no commotion, no might of driving wind, could carry it, beyond +which its loudest waves were dumb—the barrier of death. Hitherto and +no further could its power reach. It could kill the body. It could dash +in pieces the last little cock-boat to which the man clung, but thus it +swept the man beyond its own region into the second sea of stillness, +which we call death, out upon which the thoughts of those that are left +behind can follow him only in great longings, vague conjectures, and +mighty faith. Then I thought I could show them how, raving in fear, or +lying still in calm deceit, there lay about the life of man a far more +fearful ocean than that which threatened his body; for this would cast, +could it but get a hold of him, both body and soul into hell—the sea +of evil, of vice, of sin, of wrong-doing—they might call it by what +name they pleased. This made war against the very essence of life, +against God who is the truth, against love, against fairness, against +fatherhood, motherhood, sisterhood, brotherhood, manhood, womanhood, +against tenderness and grace and beauty, gathering into one pulp of +festering death all that is noble, lovely, worshipful in the human +nature made so divine that the one fearless man, the Lord Jesus Christ, +shared it with us. This, I thought I might make them understand, was +the only terrible sea, the only hopeless ocean from whose awful shore +we must shrink and flee, the end of every voyage upon whose bosom was +the bottom of its filthy waters, beyond the reach of all that is +thought or spoken in the light, beyond life itself, but for the hand +that reaches down from the upper ocean of truth, the hand of the +Redeemer of men. I thought, I say, for a while, that I could make this, +not definite, but very real to them. But I did not feel quite confident +about it. Might they not in the symbolism forget the thing symbolised? +And would not the symbol itself be ready to fade quite from their +memory, or to return only in the vaguest shadow? And with the thought I +perceived a far more excellent way. For the power of the truth lies of +course in its revelation to the mind, and while for this there are a +thousand means, none are so mighty as its embodiment in human beings +and human life. There it is itself alive and active. And amongst these, +what embodiment comes near to that in him who was perfect man in virtue +of being at the root of the secret of humanity, in virtue of being the +eternal Son of God? We are his sons in time: he is his Son in eternity, +of whose sea time is but the broken sparkle. Therefore, I would talk to +them about—but I will treat my reader now as if he were not my reader, +but one of my congregation on that bright Sunday, my first in the +Seaboard Parish, with the sea outside the church, flashing in the +sunlight. +</p> + +<p> +While I stood at the lectern, which was in front of the altar-screen, I +could see little of my congregation, partly from my being on a level +with them, partly from the necessity for keeping my eyes and thoughts +upon that which I read. When, however, I rose from prayer in the +pulpit; then I felt, as usual with me, that I was personally present +for personal influence with my people, and then I saw, to my great +pleasure, that one long bench nearly in the middle of the church was +full of such sunburnt men as could not be mistaken for any but +mariners, even if their torn and worn garments had not revealed that +they must be the very men about whom we had been so much interested. +Not only were they behaving with perfect decorum, but their rough faces +wore an aspect of solemnity which I do not suppose was by any means +their usual aspect. +</p> + +<p> +I gave them no text. I had one myself, which was the necessary thing. +They should have it by and by. +</p> + +<p> +"Once upon a time," I said, "a man went up a mountain, and stayed there +till it was dark, and stayed on. Now, a man who finds himself on a +mountain as the sun is going down, especially if he is alone, makes +haste to get down before it is dark. But this man went up when the sun +was going down, and, as I say, continued there for a good long while +after it was dark. You will want to know why. I will tell you. He +wished to be alone. He hadn't a house of his own. He never had all the +time he lived. He hadn't even a room of his own into which he could go, +and bolt the door of it. True, he had kind friends, who gave him a bed: +but they were all poor people, and their houses were small, and very +likely they had large families, and he could not always find a quiet +place to go into. And I dare say, if he had had a room, he would have +been a little troubled with the children constantly coming to find him; +for however much he loved them—and no man was ever so fond of children +as he was—he needed to be left quiet sometimes. So, upon this +occasion, he went up the mountain just to be quiet. He had been all day +with a crowd of people, and he felt that it was time to be alone. For +he had been talking with men all day, which tires and sometimes +confuses a man's thoughts, and now he wanted to talk with God—for that +makes a man strong, and puts all the confusion in order again, and lets +a man know what he is about. So he went to the top of the hill. That +was his secret chamber. It had no door; but that did not matter—no one +could see him but God. There he stayed for hours—sometimes, I suppose, +kneeling in his prayer to God; sometimes sitting, tired with his own +thinking, on a stone; sometimes walking about, looking forward to what +would come next—not anxious about it, but contemplating it. For just +before he came up here, some of the people who had been with him wanted +to make him a king; and this would not do—this was not what God wanted +of him, and therefore he got rid of them, and came up here to talk to +God. It was so quiet up here! The earth had almost vanished. He could +see just the bare hilltop beneath him, a glimmer below, and the sky and +the stars over his head. The people had all gone away to their own +homes, and perhaps next day would hardly think about him at all, busy +catching fish, or digging their gardens, or making things for their +houses. But he knew that God would not forget him the next day any more +than this day, and that God had sent him not to be the king that these +people wanted him to be, but their servant. So, to make his heart +strong, I say, he went up into the mountain alone to have a talk with +his Father. How quiet it all was up here, I say, and how noisy it had +been down there a little while ago! But God had been in the noise then +as much as he was in the quiet now—the only difference being that he +could not then be alone with him. I need not tell you who this man +was—it was the king of men, the servant of men, the Lord Jesus Christ, +the everlasting son of our Father in heaven. +</p> + +<p> +"Now this mountain on which he was praying had a small lake at the foot +of it—that is, about thirteen miles long, and five miles broad. Not +wanting even his usual companions to be with him this evening—partly, +I presume, because they were of the same mind as those who desired to +take him by force and make him a king—he had sent them away in their +boat, to go across this water to the other side, where were their homes +and their families. Now, it was not pitch dark either on the +mountain-top or on the water down below; yet I doubt if any other man +than he would have been keen-eyed enough to discover that little boat +down in the middle of the lake, much distressed by the west wind that +blew right in their teeth. But he loved every man in it so much, that I +think even as he was talking to his Father, his eyes would now and then +go looking for and finding it—watching it on its way across to the +other side. You must remember that it was a little boat; and there are +often tremendous storms upon these small lakes with great mountains +about them. For the wind will come all at once, rushing down through +the clefts in as sudden a squall as ever overtook a sailor at sea. And +then, you know, there is no sea-room. If the wind get the better of +them, they are on the shore in a few minutes, whichever way the wind +may blow. He saw them worn out at the oar, toiling in rowing, for the +wind was contrary unto them. So the time for loneliness and prayer was +over, and the time to go down out of his secret chamber and help his +brethren was come. He did not need to turn and say good-bye to his +Father, as if he dwelt on that mountain-top alone: his Father was down +there on the lake as well. He went straight down. Could not his Father, +if he too was down on the lake, help them without him? Yes. But he +wanted him to do it, that they might see that he did it. Otherwise they +would only have thought that the wind fell and the waves lay down, +without supposing for a moment that their Master or his Father had had +anything to do with it. They would have done just as people do +now-a-days: they think that the help comes of itself, instead of by the +will of him who determined from the first that men should be helped. So +the Master went down the hill. When he reached the border of the lake, +the wind being from the other side, he must have found the waves +breaking furiously upon the rocks. But that made no difference to him. +He looked out as he stood alone on the edge amidst the rushing wind and +the noise of the water, out over the waves under the clear, starry sky, +saw where the tiny boat was tossed about like a nutshell, and set out." +</p> + +<p> +The mariners had been staring at me up to this point, leaning forward +on their benches, for sailors are nearly as fond of a good yarn as they +are of tobacco; and I heard afterwards that they had voted parson's +yarn a good one. Now, however, I saw one of them, probably more +ignorant than the others, cast a questioning glance at his neighbour. +It was not returned, and he fell again into a listening attitude. He +had no idea of what was coming. He probably thought parson had +forgotten to say how Jesus had come by a boat. +</p> + +<p> +"The companions of our Lord had not been willing to go away and leave +him behind. Now, I dare say, they wished more than ever that he had +been with them—not that they thought he could do anything with a +storm, only that somehow they would have been less afraid with his face +to look at. They had seen him cure men of dreadful diseases; they had +seen him turn water into wine—some of them; they had seen him feed +five thousand people the day before with five loaves and two small +fishes; but had one of their number suggested that if he had been with +them, they would have been safe from the storm, they would not have +talked any nonsense about the laws of nature, not having learned that +kind of nonsense, but they would have said that was quite a different +thing—altogether too much to expect or believe: <i>nobody</i> could make +the wind mind what it was about, or keep the water from drowning you if +you fell into it and couldn't swim; or such-like. +</p> + +<p> +"At length, when they were nearly worn out, taking feebler and feebler +strokes, sometimes missing the water altogether, at other times burying +their oars in it up to the handles—as they rose on the crest of a huge +wave, one of them gave a cry, and they all stopped rowing and stared, +leaning forward to peer through the darkness. And through the spray +which the wind tore from the tops of the waves and scattered before it +like dust, they saw, perhaps a hundred yards or so from the boat, +something standing up from the surface of the water. It seemed to move +towards them. It was a shape like a man. They all cried out with fear, +as was natural, for they thought it must be a ghost." +</p> + +<p> +How the faces of the sailors strained towards me at this part of the +story! I was afraid one of them especially was on the point of getting +up to speak, as we have heard of sailors doing in church. I went on. +</p> + +<p> +"But then, over the noise of the wind and the waters came the voice +they knew so well. It said, 'Be of good cheer: it is I. Be not afraid.' +I should think, between wonder and gladness, they hardly knew for some +moments where they were or what they were about. Peter was the first to +recover himself apparently. In the first flush of his delight he felt +strong and full of courage. 'Lord, if it be thou,' he said, 'bid me +come unto thee on the water.' Jesus just said, 'Come;' and Peter +unshipped his oar, and scrambled over the gunwale on to the sea. But +when he let go his hold of the boat, and began to look about him, and +saw how the wind was tearing the water, and how it tossed and raved +between him and Jesus, he began to be afraid. And as soon as he began +to be afraid he began to sink; but he had, notwithstanding his fear, +just sense enough to do the one sensible thing; he cried out, 'Lord, +save me.' And Jesus put out his hand, and took hold of him, and lifted +him up out of the water, and said to him, 'O thou of little faith, +wherefore didst thou doubt? And then they got into the boat, and the +wind fell all at once, and altogether. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, you will not think that Peter was a coward, will you? It wasn't +that he hadn't courage, but that he hadn't enough of it. And why was it +that he hadn't enough of it? Because he hadn't faith enough. Peter was +always very easily impressed with the look of things. It wasn't at all +likely that a man should be able to walk on the water; and yet Peter +found himself standing on the water: you would have thought that when +once he found himself standing on the water, he need not be afraid of +the wind and the waves that lay between him and Jesus. But they looked +so ugly that the fearfulness of them took hold of his heart, and his +courage went. You would have thought that the greatest trial of his +courage was over when he got out of the boat, and that there was +comparatively little more ahead of him. Yet the sight of the waves and +the blast of the boisterous wind were too much for him. I will tell you +how I fancy it was; and I think there are several instances of the same +kind of thing in Peter's life. When he got out of the boat, and found +himself standing on the water, he began to think much of himself for +being able to do so, and fancy himself better and greater than his +companions, and an especial favourite of God above them. Now, there is +nothing that kills faith sooner than pride. The two are directly +against each other. The moment that Peter grew proud, and began to +think about himself instead of about his Master, he began to lose his +faith, and then he grew afraid, and then he began to sink—and that +brought him to his senses. Then he forgot himself and remembered his +Master, and then the hand of the Lord caught him, and the voice of the +Lord gently rebuked him for the smallness of his faith, asking, +'Wherefore didst thou doubt?' I wonder if Peter was able to read his +own heart sufficiently well to answer that <i>wherefore</i>. I do not think +it likely at this period of his history. But God has immeasurable +patience, and before he had done teaching Peter, even in this life, he +had made him know quite well that pride and conceit were at the root of +all his failures. Jesus did not point it out to him now. Faith was the +only thing that would reveal that to him, as well as cure him of it; +and was, therefore, the only thing he required of him in his rebuke. I +suspect Peter was helped back into the boat by the eager hands of his +companions already in a humbler state of mind than when he left it; but +before his pride would be quite overcome, it would need that same voice +of loving-kindness to call him Satan, and the voice of the cock to +bring to his mind his loud boast, and his sneaking denial; nay, even +the voice of one who had never seen the Lord till after his death, but +was yet a readier disciple than he—the voice of St. Paul, to rebuke +him because he dissembled, and was not downright honest. But at the +last even he gained the crown of martyrdom, enduring all extremes, +nailed to the cross like his Master, rather than deny his name. This +should teach us to distrust ourselves, and yet have great hope for +ourselves, and endless patience with other people. But to return to the +story and what the story itself teaches us. +</p> + +<p> +"If the disciples had known that Jesus saw them from the top of the +mountain, and was watching them all the time, would they have been +frightened at the storm, as I have little doubt they were, for they +were only fresh-water fishermen, you know? Well, to answer my own +question"—I went on in haste, for I saw one or two of the sailors with +an audible answer hovering on their lips—"I don't know that, as they +then were, it would have made so much difference to them; for none of +them had risen much above the look of the things nearest them yet. But +supposing you, who know something about him, were alone on the sea, and +expecting your boat to be swamped every moment—if you found out all at +once, that he was looking down at you from some lofty hilltop, and +seeing all round about you in time and space too, would you be afraid? +He might mean you to go to the bottom, you know. Would you mind going +to the bottom with him looking at you? I do not think I should mind it +myself. But I must take care lest I be boastful like Peter. +</p> + +<p> +"Why should we be afraid of anything with him looking at us who is the +Saviour of men? But we are afraid of him instead, because we do not +believe that he is what he says he is—the Saviour of men. We do not +believe what he offers us is salvation. We think it is slavery, and +therefore continue slaves. Friends, I will speak to you who think you +do believe in him. I am not going to say that you do not believe in +him; but I hope I am going to make you say to yourselves that you too +deserve to have those words of the Saviour spoken to you that were +spoken to Peter, 'O ye of little faith!' Floating on the sea of your +troubles, all kinds of fears and anxieties assailing you, is He not on +the mountain-top? Sees he not the little boat of your fortunes tossed +with the waves and the contrary wind? Assuredly he will come to you +walking on the waters. It may not be in the way you wish, but if not, +you will say at last, 'This is better.' It may be that he will come in +a form that will make you cry out for fear in the weakness of your +faith, as the disciples cried out—not believing any more than they +did, that it can be he. But will not each of you arouse his courage +that to you also he may say, as to the woman with the sick daughter +whose confidence he so sorely tried, 'Great is thy faith'? Will you not +rouse yourself, I say, that you may do him justice, and cast off the +slavery of your own dread? O ye of little faith, wherefore will ye +doubt? Do not think that the Lord sees and will not come. Down the +mountain assuredly he will come, and you are now as safe in your +troubles as the disciples were in theirs with Jesus looking on. They +did not know it, but it was so: the Lord was watching them. And when +you look back upon your past lives, cannot you see some instances of +the same kind—when you felt and acted as if the Lord had forgotten +you, and found afterwards that he had been watching you all the time? +</p> + +<p> +"But the reason why you do not trust him more is that you obey him so +little. If you would only, ask what God would have you to do, you would +soon find your confidence growing. It is because you are proud, and +envious, and greedy after gain, that you do not trust him more. Ah! +trust him if it were only to get rid of these evil things, and be clean +and beautiful in heart. +</p> + +<p> +"O sailors with me on the ocean of life, will you, knowing that he is +watching you from his mountain-top, do and say the things that hurt, +and wrong, and disappoint him? Sailors on the waters that surround this +globe, though there be no great mountain that overlooks the little lake +on which you float, not the less does he behold you, and care for you, +and watch over you. Will you do that which is unpleasing, distressful +to him? Will you be irreverent, cruel, coarse? Will you say evil +things, lie, and delight in vile stories and reports, with his eye on +you, watching your ship on its watery ways, ever ready to come over the +waves to help you? It is a fine thing, sailors, to fear nothing; but it +would be far finer to fear nothing <i>because</i> he is above all, and over +all, and in you all. For his sake and for his love, give up everything +bad, and take him for your captain. He will be both captain and pilot +to you, and steer you safe into the port of glory. Now to God the +Father," &c. +</p> + +<p> +This is very nearly the sermon I preached that first Sunday morning. I +followed it up with a short enforcement in the afternoon. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="finis"> +END OF VOL. I. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Volume 1, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOLUME 1 *** + +***** This file should be named 8551-h.htm or 8551-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8551/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Seaboard Parish Volume 1 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8551] +Release Date: July, 2005 +First Posted: July 22, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOLUME 1 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al +Haines. + + + + + + + + + + +THE SEABOARD PARISH + +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. + +VOL. I. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. + + + I. HOMILETIC + II. CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY + III. THE SICK CHAMBER + IV. A SUNDAY EVENING + V. MY DREAM + VI. THE NEW BABY + VII. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING + VIII. THEODORA'S DOOM + IX. A SPRING CHAPTER + X. AN IMPORTANT LETTER + XI. CONNIE'S DREAM + XII. THE JOURNEY + XIII. WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED + XIV. MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN + XV. THE OLD CHURCH + XVI. CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER + XVII. MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +HOMILETIC. + + +Dear Friends,--I am beginning a new book like an old sermon; but, as +you know, I have been so accustomed to preach all my life, that +whatever I say or write will more or less take the shape of a sermon; +and if you had not by this time learned at least to bear with my +oddities, you would not have wanted any more of my teaching. And, +indeed, I did not think you would want any more. I thought I had bidden +you farewell. But I am seated once again at my writing-table, to write +for you--with a strange feeling, however, that I am in the heart of +some curious, rather awful acoustic contrivance, by means of which the +words which I have a habit of whispering over to myself as I write +them, are heard aloud by multitudes of people whom I cannot see or +hear. I will favour the fancy, that, by a sense of your presence, I may +speak the more truly, as man to man. + +But let me, for a moment, suppose that I am your grandfather, and that +you have all come to beg for a story; and that, therefore, as usually +happens in such cases, I am sitting with a puzzled face, indicating a +more puzzled mind. I know that there are a great many stories in the +holes and corners of my brain; indeed, here is one, there is one, +peeping out at me like a rabbit; but alas, like a rabbit, showing me +almost at the same instant the tail-end of it, and vanishing with a +contemptuous _thud_ of its hind feet on the ground. For I must have +suitable regard to the desires of my children. It is a fine thing to be +able to give people what they want, if at the same time you can give +them what you want. To give people what they want, would sometimes be +to give them only dirt and poison. To give them what you want, might be +to set before them something of which they could not eat a mouthful. +What both you and I want, I am willing to think, is a dish of good +wholesome venison. Now I suppose my children around me are neither +young enough nor old enough to care about a fairy tale, go that will +not do. What they want is, I believe, something that I know about--that +has happened to myself. Well, I confess, that is the kind of thing I +like best to hear anybody talk to me about. Let anyone tell me +something that has happened to himself, especially if he will give me a +peep into how his heart took it, as it sat in its own little room with +the closed door, and that person will, so telling, absorb my attention: +he has something true and genuine and valuable to communicate. They are +mostly old people that can do so. Not that young people have nothing +happen to them; but that only when they grow old, are they able to see +things right, to disentangle confusions, and judge righteous judgment. +Things which at the time appeared insignificant or wearisome, then give +out the light that was in them, show their own truth, interest, and +influence: they are far enough off to be seen. It is not when we are +nearest to anything that we know best what it is. How I should like to +write a story for old people! The young are always having stories +written for them. Why should not the old people come in for a share? A +story without a young person in it at all! Nobody under fifty admitted! +It could hardly be a fairy tale, could it? Or a love story either? I am +not so sure about that. The worst of it would be, however, that hardly +a young person would read it. Now, we old people would not like that. +We can read young people's books and enjoy them: they would not try to +read old men's books or old women's books; they would be so sure of +their being dry. My dear old brothers and sisters, we know better, do +we not? We have nice old jokes, with no end of fun in them; only they +cannot see the fun. We have strange tales, that we know to be true, and +which look more and more marvellous every time we turn them over again; +only somehow they do not belong to the ways of this year--I was going +to say _week_,--and so the young people generally do not care to hear +them. I have had one pale-faced boy, to be sure, who will sit at his +mother's feet, and listen for hours to what took place before he was +born. To him his mother's wedding-gown was as old as Eve's coat of +skins. But then he was young enough not yet to have had a chance of +losing the childhood common to the young and the old. Ah! I should like +to write for you, old men, old women, to help you to read the past, to +help you to look for the future. Now is your salvation nearer than when +you believed; for, however your souls may be at peace, however your +quietness and confidence may give you strength, in the decay of your +earthly tabernacle, in the shortening of its cords, in the weakening of +its stakes, in the rents through which you see the stars, you have yet +your share in the cry of the creation after the sonship. But the one +thing I should keep saying to you, my companions in old age, would be, +"Friends, let us not grow old." Old age is but a mask; let us not call +the mask the face. Is the acorn old, because its cup dries and drops it +from its hold--because its skin has grown brown and cracks in the +earth? Then only is a man growing old when he ceases to have sympathy +with the young. That is a sign that his heart has begun to wither. And +that is a dreadful kind of old age. The heart needs never be old. +Indeed it should always be growing younger. Some of us feel younger, do +we not, than when we were nine or ten? It is not necessary to be able +to play at leapfrog to enjoy the game. There are young creatures whose +turn it is, and perhaps whose duty it would be, to play at leap-frog if +there was any necessity for putting the matter in that light; and for +us, we have the privilege, or if we will not accept the privilege, then +I say we have the duty, of enjoying their leap-frog. But if we must +withdraw in a measure from sociable relations with our fellows, let it +be as the wise creatures that creep aside and wrap themselves up and +lay themselves by that their wings may grow and put on the lovely hues +of their coming resurrection. Such a withdrawing is in the name of +youth. And while it is pleasant--no one knows how pleasant except him +who experiences it--to sit apart and see the drama of life going on +around him, while his feelings are calm and free, his vision clear, and +his judgment righteous, the old man must ever be ready, should the +sweep of action catch him in its skirts, to get on his tottering old +legs, and go with brave heart to do the work of a true man, none the +less true that his hands tremble, and that he would gladly return to +his chimney-corner. If he is never thus called out, let him examine +himself, lest he should be falling into the number of those that say, +"I go, sir," and go not; who are content with thinking beautiful things +in an Atlantis, Oceana, Arcadia, or what it may be, but put not forth +one of their fingers to work a salvation in the earth. Better than such +is the man who, using just weights and a true balance, sells good +flour, and never has a thought of his own. + +I have been talking--to my reader is it? or to my supposed group of +grandchildren? I remember--to my companions in old age. It is time I +returned to the company who are hearing my whispers at the other side +of the great thundering gallery. I take leave of my old friends with +one word: We have yet a work to do, my friends; but a work we shall +never do aright after ceasing to understand the new generation. We are +not the men, neither shall wisdom die with us. The Lord hath not +forsaken his people because the young ones do not think just as the old +ones choose. The Lord has something fresh to tell them, and is getting +them ready to receive his message. When we are out of sympathy with the +young, then I think our work in this world is over. It might end more +honourably. + +Now, readers in general, I have had time to consider what to tell you +about, and how to begin. My story will be rather about my family than +myself now. I was as it were a little withdrawn, even by the time of +which I am about to write. I had settled into a gray-haired, quite +elderly, yet active man--young still, in fact, to what I am now. But +even then, though my faith had grown stronger, life had grown sadder, +and needed all my stronger faith; for the vanishing of beloved faces, +and the trials of them that are dear, will make even those that look +for a better country both for themselves and their friends, sad, though +it will be with a preponderance of the first meaning of the word _sad_, +which was _settled_, _thoughtful_. + +I am again seated in the little octagonal room, which I have made my +study because I like it best. It is rather a shame, for my books cover +over every foot of the old oak panelling. But they make the room all +the pleasanter to the eye, and after I am gone, there is the old oak, +none the worse, for anyone who prefers it to books. + +I intend to use as the central portion of my present narrative the +history of a year during part of which I took charge of a friend's +parish, while my brother-in-law, Thomas Weir, who was and is still my +curate, took the entire charge of Marshmallows. What led to this will +soon appear. I will try to be minute enough in my narrative to make my +story interesting, although it will cost me suffering to recall some of +the incidents I have to narrate. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY. + + +Was it from observation of nature in its association with human nature, +or from artistic feeling alone, that Shakspere so often represents +Nature's mood as in harmony with the mood of the principal actors in +his drama? I know I have so often found Nature's mood in harmony with +my own, even when she had nothing to do with forming mine, that in +looking back I have wondered at the fact. There may, however, be some +self-deception about it. At all events, on the morning of my +Constance's eighteenth birthday, a lovely October day with a golden +east, clouds of golden foliage about the ways, and an air that seemed +filled with the ether of an _aurum potabile_, there came yet an +occasional blast of wind, which, without being absolutely cold, smelt +of winter, and made one draw one's shoulders together with the sense of +an unfriendly presence. I do not think Constance felt it at all, +however, as she stood on the steps in her riding-habit, waiting till +the horses made their appearance. It had somehow grown into a custom +with us that each of the children, as his or her birthday came round, +should be king or queen for that day, and, subject to the veto of +father and mother, should have everything his or her own way. Let me +say for them, however, that in the matter of choosing the dinner, which +of course was included in the royal prerogative, I came to see that it +was almost invariably the favourite dishes of others of the family that +were chosen, and not those especially agreeable to the royal palate. +Members of families where children have not been taught from their +earliest years that the great privilege of possession is the right to +bestow, may regard this as an improbable assertion; but others will +know that it might well enough be true, even if I did not say that so +it was. But there was always the choice of some individual treat, which +was determined solely by the preference of the individual in authority. +Constance had chosen "a long ride with papa." + +I suppose a parent may sometimes be right when he speaks with +admiration of his own children. The probability of his being correct is +to be determined by the amount of capacity he has for admiring other +people's children. However this may be in my own case, I venture to +assert that Constance did look very lovely that morning. She was fresh +as the young day: we were early people--breakfast and prayers were +over, and it was nine o'clock as she stood on the steps and I +approached her from the lawn. + +"O, papa! isn't it jolly?" she said merrily. + +"Very jolly indeed, my dear," I answered, delighted to hear the word +from the lips of my gentle daughter. She very seldom used a slang word, +and when she did, she used it like a lady. Shall I tell you what she +was like? Ah! you could not see her as I saw her that morning if I did. +I will, however, try to give you a general idea, just in order that you +and I should not be picturing to ourselves two very different persons +while I speak of her. + +She was rather little, and so slight that she looked tall. I have often +observed that the impression of height is an affair of proportion, and +has nothing to do with feet and inches. She was rather fair in +complexion, with her mother's blue eyes, and her mother's long dark +wavy hair. She was generally playful, and took greater liberties with +me than any of the others; only with her liberties, as with her slang, +she knew instinctively when, where, and how much. For on the borders of +her playfulness there seemed ever to hang a fringe of thoughtfulness, +as if she felt that the present moment owed all its sparkle and +brilliance to the eternal sunlight. And the appearance was not in the +least a deceptive one. The eternal was not far from her--none the +farther that she enjoyed life like a bird, that her laugh was merry, +that her heart was careless, and that her voice rang through the +house--a sweet soprano voice--singing snatches of songs (now a street +tune she had caught from a London organ, now an air from Handel or +Mozart), or that she would sometimes tease her elder sister about her +solemn and anxious looks; for Wynnie, the eldest, had to suffer for her +grandmother's sins against her daughter, and came into the world with a +troubled little heart, that was soon compelled to flee for refuge to +the rock that was higher than she. Ah! my Constance! But God was good +to you and to us in you. + +"Where shall we go, Connie?" I said, and the same moment the sound of +the horses' hoofs reached us. + +"Would it be too far to go to Addicehead?" she returned. + +"It is a long ride," I answered. + +"Too much for the pony?" + +"O dear, no--not at all. I was thinking of you, not of the pony." + +"I'm quite as able to ride as the pony is to carry me, papa. And I want +to get something for Wynnie. Do let us go." + +"Very well, my dear," I said, and raised her to the saddle--if I may +say _raised_, for no bird ever hopped more lightly from one twig to +another than she sprung from the ground on her pony's back. + +In a moment I was beside her, and away we rode. + +The shadows were still long, the dew still pearly on the spiders' webs, +as we trotted out of our own grounds into a lane that led away towards +the high road. Our horses were fresh and the air was exciting; so we +turned from the hard road into the first suitable field, and had a +gallop to begin with. Constance was a good horse-woman, for she had +been used to the saddle longer than she could remember. She was now +riding a tall well-bred pony, with plenty of life--rather too much, I +sometimes thought, when I was out with Wynnie; but I never thought so +when I was with Constance. Another field or two sufficiently quieted +both animals--I did not want to have all our time taken up with their +frolics--and then we began to talk. + +"You are getting quite a woman now, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"Quite an old grannie, papa," she answered. + +"Old enough to think about what's coming next," I said gravely. + +"O, papa! And you are always telling us that we must not think about +the morrow, or even the next hour. But, then, that's in the pulpit," +she added, with a sly look up at me from under the drooping feather of +her pretty hat. + +"You know very well what I mean, you puss," I answered. "And I don't +say one thing in the pulpit and another out of it." + +She was at my horse's shoulder with a bound, as if Spry, her pony, had +been of one mind and one piece with her. She was afraid she had +offended me. She looked up into mine with as anxious a face as ever I +saw upon Wynnie. + +"O, thank you, papa!" she said when I smiled. "I thought I had been +rude. I didn't mean it, indeed I didn't. But I do wish you would make +it a little plainer to me. I do think about things sometimes, though +you would hardly believe it." + +"What do you want made plainer, my child?" I asked. + +"When we're to think, and when we're not to think," she answered. + +I remember all of this conversation because of what came so soon after. + +"If the known duty of to-morrow depends on the work of to-day," I +answered, "if it cannot be done right except you think about it and lay +your plans for it, then that thought is to-day's business, not +to-morrow's." + +"Dear papa, some of your explanations are more difficult than the +things themselves. May I be as impertinent as I like on my birthday?" +she asked suddenly, again looking up in my face. + +We were walking now, and she had a hold of my horse's mane, so as to +keep her pony close up. + +"Yes, my dear, as impertinent as you like--not an atom more, mind." + +"Well, papa, I sometimes wish you wouldn't explain things so much. I +seem to understand you all the time you are preaching, but when I try +the text afterwards by myself, I can't make anything of it, and I've +forgotten every word you said about it." + +"Perhaps that is because you have no right to understand it." + +"I thought all Protestants had a right to understand every word of the +Bible," she returned. + +"If they can," I rejoined. "But last Sunday, for instance, I did not +expect anybody there to understand a certain bit of my sermon, except +your mamma and Thomas Weir." + +"How funny! What part of it was that?" + +"O! I'm not going to tell you. You have no right to understand it. But +most likely you thought you understood it perfectly, and it appeared to +you, in consequence, very commonplace." + +"In consequence of what?" + +"In consequence of your thinking you understood it." + +"O, papa dear! you're getting worse and worse. It's not often I ask you +anything--and on my birthday too! It is really too bad of you to +bewilder my poor little brains in this way." + +"I will try to make you see what I mean, my pet. No talk about an idea +that you never had in your head at all, can make you have that idea. If +you had never seen a horse, no description even, not to say no amount +of remark, would bring the figure of a horse before your mind. Much +more is this the case with truths that belong to the convictions and +feelings of the heart. Suppose a man had never in his life asked God +for anything, or thanked God for anything, would his opinion as to what +David meant in one of his worshipping psalms be worth much? The whole +thing would be beyond him. If you have never known what it is to have +care of any kind upon you, you cannot understand what our Lord means +when he tells us to take no thought for the morrow." + +"But indeed, papa, I am very full of care sometimes, though not perhaps +about to-morrow precisely. But that does not matter, does it?" + +"Certainly not. Tell me what you are full of care about, my child, and +perhaps I can help you." + +"You often say, papa, that half the misery in this world comes from +idleness, and that you do not believe that in a world where God is at +work every day, Sundays not excepted, it could have been intended that +women any more than men should have nothing to do. Now what am I to do? +What have I been sent into the world for? I don't see it; and I feel +very useless and wrong sometimes." + +"I do not think there is very much to complain of you in that respect, +Connie. You, and your sister as well, help me very much in my parish. +You take much off your mother's hands too. And you do a good deal for +the poor. You teach your younger brothers and sister, and meantime you +are learning yourselves." + +"Yes, but that's not work." + +"It is work. And it is the work that is given you to do at present. And +you would do it much better if you were to look at it in that light. +Not that I have anything to complain of." + +"But I don't want to stop at home and lead an easy, comfortable life, +when there are so many to help everywhere in the world." + +"Is there anything better in doing something where God has not placed +you, than in doing it where he has placed you?" + +"No, papa. But my sisters are quite enough for all you have for us to +do at home. Is nobody ever to go away to find the work meant for her? +You won't think, dear papa, that I want to get away from home, will +you?" + +"No, my dear. I believe that you are really thinking about duty. And +now comes the moment for considering the passage to which you began by +referring:--What God may hereafter require of you, you must not give +yourself the least trouble about. Everything he gives you to do, you +must do as well as ever you can, and that is the best possible +preparation for what he may want you to do next. If people would but do +what they have to do, they would always find themselves ready for what +came next. And I do not believe that those who follow this rule are +ever left floundering on the sea-deserted sands of inaction, unable to +find water enough to swim in." + +"Thank you, dear papa. That's a little sermon all to myself, and I +think I shall understand it even when I think about it afterwards. Now +let's have a trot." + +"There is one thing more I ought to speak about though, Connie. It is +not your moral nature alone you ought to cultivate. You ought to make +yourself as worth God's making as you possibly can. Now I am a little +doubtful whether you keep up your studies at all." + +She shrugged her pretty shoulders playfully, looking up in my face +again. + +"I don't like dry things, papa." + +"Nobody does." + +"Nobody!" she exclaimed. "How do the grammars and history-books come to +be written then?" + +In talking to me, somehow, the child always put on a more childish tone +than when she talked to anyone else. I am certain there was no +affection in it, though. Indeed, how could she be affected with her +fault-finding old father? + +"No. Those books are exceedingly interesting to the people that make +them. Dry things are just things that you do not know enough about to +care for them. And all you learn at school is next to nothing to what +you have to learn." + +"What must I do then?" she asked with a sigh. "Must I go all over my +French Grammar again? O dear! I do hate it so!" + +"If you will tell me something you like, Connie, instead of something +you don't like, I may be able to give you advice. Is there nothing you +are fond of?" I continued, finding that she remained silent. + +"I don't know anything in particular--that is, I don't know anything in +the way of school-work that I really liked. I don't mean that I didn't +try to do what I had to do, for I did. There was just one thing I +liked--the poetry we had to learn once a week. But I suppose gentlemen +count that silly--don't they?" + +"On the contrary, my dear, I would make that liking of yours the +foundation of all your work. Besides, I think poetry the grandest thing +God has given us--though perhaps you and I might not quite agree about +what poetry was poetry enough to be counted an especial gift of God. +Now, what poetry do you like best?" + +"Mrs. Hemans's, I think, papa." + +"Well, very well, to begin with. 'There is,' as Mr. Carlyle said to a +friend of mine--'There is a thin vein of true poetry in Mrs. Hemans.' +But it is time you had done with thin things, however good they may be. +Most people never get beyond spoon-meat--in this world, at least, and +they expect nothing else in the world to come. I must take you in hand +myself, and see what I can do for you. It is wretched to see capable +enough creatures, all for want of a little guidance, bursting with +admiration of what owes its principal charm to novelty of form, gained +at the cost of expression and sense. Not that that applies to Mrs. +Hemans. She is simple enough, only diluted to a degree. But I hold that +whatever mental food you take should be just a little too strong for +you. That implies trouble, necessitates growth, and involves delight." + +"I sha'n't mind how difficult it is if you help me, papa. But it is +anything but satisfactory to go groping on without knowing what you are +about." + +I ought to have mentioned that Constance had been at school for two +years, and had only been home a month that very day, in order to +account for my knowing so little about her tastes and habits of mind. +We went on talking a little more in the same way, and if I were writing +for young people only, I should be tempted to go on a little farther +with the account of what we said to each other; for it might help some +of them to see that the thing they like best should, circumstances and +conscience permitting, be made the centre from which they start to +learn; that they should go on enlarging their knowledge all round from +that one point at which God intended them to begin. But at length we +fell into a silence, a very happy one on my part; for I was more than +delighted to find that this one too of my children was following after +the truth--wanting to do what was right, namely, to obey the word of +the Lord, whether openly spoken to all, or to herself in the voice of +her own conscience and the light of that understanding which is the +candle of the Lord. I had often said to myself in past years, when I +had found myself in the company of young ladies who announced their +opinions--probably of no deeper origin than the prejudices of their +nurses--as if these distinguished them from all the world besides; who +were profound upon passion and ignorant of grace; who had not a notion +whether a dress was beautiful, but only whether it was of the newest +cut--I had often said to myself: "What shall I do if my daughters come +to talk and think like that--if thinking it can be called?" but being +confident that instruction for which the mind is not prepared only lies +in a rotting heap, producing all kinds of mental evils correspondent to +the results of successive loads of food which the system cannot +assimilate, my hope had been to rouse wise questions in the minds of my +children, in place of overwhelming their digestions with what could be +of no instruction or edification without the foregoing appetite. Now my +Constance had begun to ask me questions, and it made me very happy. We +had thus come a long way nearer to each other; for however near the +affection of human animals may bring them, there are abysses between +soul and soul--the souls even of father and daughter--over which they +must pass to meet. And I do not believe that any two human beings alive +know yet what it is to love as love is in the glorious will of the +Father of lights. + +I linger on with my talk, for I shrink from what I must relate. + +We were going at a gentle trot, silent, along a woodland path--a brown, +soft, shady road, nearly five miles from home, our horses scattering +about the withered leaves that lay thick upon it. A good deal of +underwood and a few large trees had been lately cleared from the place. +There were many piles of fagots about, and a great log lying here and +there along the side of the path. One of these, when a tree, had been +struck by lightning, and had stood till the frosts and rains had bared +it of its bark. Now it lay white as a skeleton by the side of the path, +and was, I think, the cause of what followed. All at once my daughter's +pony sprang to the other side of the road, shying sideways; unsettled +her so, I presume; then rearing and plunging, threw her from the saddle +across one of the logs of which I have spoken. I was by her side in a +moment. To my horror she lay motionless. Her eyes were closed, and when +I took her up in my arms she did not open them. I laid her on the moss, +and got some water and sprinkled her face. Then she revived a little; +but seemed in much pain, and all at once went off into another faint. I +was in terrible perplexity. + +Presently a man who, having been cutting fagots at a little distance, +had seen the pony careering through the wood, came up and asked what he +could do to help me. I told him to take my horse, whose bridle I had +thrown over the latch of a gate, and ride to Oldcastle Hall, and ask +Mrs. Walton to come with the carriage as quickly as possible. "Tell +her," I said, "that her daughter has had a fall from her pony, and is +rather shaken. Ride as hard as you can go." + +The man was off in a moment; and there I sat watching my poor child, +for what seemed to be a dreadfully long time before the carriage +arrived. She had come to herself quite, but complained of much pain in +her back; and, to my distress, I found that she could not move herself +enough to make the least change of her position. She evidently tried to +keep up as well as she could; but her face expressed great suffering: +it was dreadfully pale, and looked worn with a month's illness. All my +fear was for her spine. + +At length I caught sight of the carriage, coming through the wood as +fast as the road would allow, with the woodman on the box, directing +the coachman. It drew up, and my wife got out. She was as pale as +Constance, but quiet and firm, her features composed almost to +determination. I had never seen her look like that before. She asked no +questions: there was time enough for that afterwards. She had brought +plenty of cushions and pillows, and we did all we could to make an easy +couch for the poor girl; but she moaned dreadfully as we lifted her +into the carriage. We did our best to keep her from being shaken; but +those few miles were the longest journey I ever made in my life. + +When we reached home at length, we found that Ethel, or, as we commonly +called her, using the other end of her name, Wynnie--for she was named +after her mother--had got a room on the ground-floor, usually given to +visitors, ready for her sister; and we were glad indeed not to have to +carry her up the stairs. Before my wife left, she had sent the groom +off to Addicehead for both physician and surgeon. A young man who had +settled at Marshmallows as general practitioner a year or two before, +was waiting for us when we arrived. He helped us to lay her upon a +mattress in the position in which she felt the least pain. But why +should I linger over the sorrowful detail? All agreed that the poor +child's spine was seriously injured, and that probably years of +suffering were before her. Everything was done that could be done; but +she was not moved from that room for nine months, during which, though +her pain certainly grew less by degrees, her want of power to move +herself remained almost the same. + +When I had left her at last a little composed, with her mother seated +by her bedside, I called my other two daughters--Wynnie, the eldest, +and Dorothy, the youngest, whom I found seated on the floor outside, +one on each side of the door, weeping--into my study, and said to them: +"My darlings, this is very sad; but you must remember that it is God's +will; and as you would both try to bear it cheerfully if it had fallen +to your lot to bear, you must try to be cheerful even when it is your +sister's part to endure." + +"O, papa! poor Connie!" cried Dora, and burst into fresh tears. + +Wynnie said nothing, but knelt down by my knee, and laid her cheek upon +it. + +"Shall I tell you what Constance said to me just before I left the +room?" I asked. + +"Please do, papa." + +"She whispered, 'You must try to bear it, all of you, as well as you +can. I don't mind it very much, only for you.' So, you see, if you want +to make her comfortable, you must not look gloomy and troubled. Sick +people like to see cheerful faces about them; and I am sure Connie will +not suffer nearly so much if she finds that she does not make the +household gloomy." + +This I had learned from being ill myself once or twice since my +marriage. My wife never came near me with a gloomy face, and I had +found that it was quite possible to be sympathetic with those of my +flock who were ill without putting on a long face when I went to see +them. Of course, I do not mean that I could, or that it was desirable +that I should, look cheerful when any were in great pain or mental +distress. But in ordinary conditions of illness a cheerful countenance +is as a message of _all's well_, which may surely be carried into a +sick chamber by the man who believes that the heart of a loving Father +is at the centre of things, that he is light all about the darkness, +and that he will not only bring good out of evil at last, but will be +with the sufferer all the time, making endurance possible, and pain +tolerable. There are a thousand alleviations that people do not often +think of, coming from God himself. Would you not say, for instance, +that time must pass very slowly in pain? But have you never observed, +or has no one ever made the remark to you, how strangely fast, even in +severe pain, the time passes after all? + +"We will do all we can, will we not," I went on, "to make her as +comfortable as possible? You, Dora, must attend to your little +brothers, that your mother may not have too much to think about now +that she will have Connie to nurse." + +They could not say much, but they both kissed me, and went away leaving +me to understand clearly enough that they had quite understood me. I +then returned to the sick chamber, where I found that the poor child +had fallen asleep. + +My wife and I watched by her bedside on alternate nights, until the +pain had so far subsided, and the fever was so far reduced, that we +could allow Wynnie to take a share in the office. We could not think of +giving her over to the care of any but one of ourselves during the +night. Her chief suffering came from its being necessary that she +should keep nearly one position on her back, because of her spine, +while the external bruise and the swelling of the muscles were in +consequence so painful, that it needed all that mechanical contrivance +could do to render the position endurable. But these outward conditions +were greatly ameliorated before many days were over. + +This is a dreary beginning of my story, is it not? But sickness of all +kinds is such a common thing in the world, that it is well sometimes to +let our minds rest upon it, lest it should take us altogether at +unawares, either in ourselves or our friends, when it comes. If it were +not a good thing in the end, surely it would not be; and perhaps before +I have done my readers will not be sorry that my tale began so +gloomily. The sickness in Judaea eighteen hundred and thirty-five years +ago, or thereabouts, has no small part in the story of him who came to +put all things under our feet. Praise be to him for evermore! + +It soon became evident to me that that room was like a new and more +sacred heart to the house. At first it radiated gloom to the remotest +corners; but soon rays of light began to appear mingling with the +gloom. I could see that bits of news were carried from it to the +servants in the kitchen, in the garden, in the stable, and over the way +to the home-farm. Even in the village, and everywhere over the parish, +I was received more kindly, and listened to more willingly, because of +the trouble I and my family were in; while in the house, although we +had never been anything else than a loving family, it was easy to +discover that we all drew more closely together in consequence of our +common anxiety. Previous to this, it had been no unusual thing to see +Wynnie and Dora impatient with each other; for Dora was none the less a +wild, somewhat lawless child, that she was a profoundly affectionate +one. She rather resembled her cousin Judy, in fact--whom she called +Aunt Judy, and with whom she was naturally a great favourite. Wynnie, +on the other hand, was sedate, and rather severe--more severe, I must +in justice say, with herself than with anyone else. I had sometimes +wished, it is true, that her mother, in regard to the younger children, +were more like her; but there I was wrong. For one of the great goods +that come of having two parents, is that the one balances and rectifies +the motions of the other. No one is good but God. No one holds the +truth, or can hold it, in one and the same thought, but God. Our human +life is often, at best, but an oscillation between the extremes which +together make the truth; and it is not a bad thing in a family, that +the pendulums of father and mother should differ in movement so far, +that when the one is at one extremity of the swing, the other should be +at the other, so that they meet only in the point of _indifference_, in +the middle; that the predominant tendency of the one should not be the +predominant tendency of the other. I was a very strict +disciplinarian--too much so, perhaps, sometimes: Ethelwyn, on the other +hand, was too much inclined, I thought, to excuse everything. I was +law, she was grace. But grace often yielded to law, and law sometimes +yielded to grace. Yet she represented the higher; for in the ultimate +triumph of grace, in the glad performance of the command from love of +what is commanded, the law is fulfilled: the law is a schoolmaster to +bring us to Christ. I must say this for myself, however, that, although +obedience was the one thing I enforced, believing it the one thing upon +which all family economy primarily depends, yet my object always was to +set my children free from my law as soon as possible; in a word, to +help them to become, as soon as it might be, a law unto themselves. +Then they would need no more of mine. Then I would go entirely over to +the mother's higher side, and become to them, as much as in me lay, no +longer law and truth, but grace and truth. But to return to my +children--it was soon evident not only that Wynnie had grown more +indulgent to Dora's vagaries, but that Dora was more submissive to +Wynnie, while the younger children began to obey their eldest sister +with a willing obedience, keeping down their effervescence within +doors, and letting it off only out of doors, or in the out-houses. + +When Constance began to recover a little, then the sacredness of that +chamber began to show itself more powerfully, radiating on all sides a +yet stronger influence of peace and goodwill. It was like a fountain of +gentle light, quieting and bringing more or less into tune all that +came within the circle of its sweetness. This brings me to speak again +of my lovely child. For surely a father may speak thus of a child of +God. He cannot regard his child as his even as a book he has written +may be his. A man's child is his because God has said to him, "Take +this child and nurse it for me." She is God's making; God's marvellous +invention, to be tended and cared for, and ministered unto as one of +his precious things; a young angel, let me say, who needs the air of +this lower world to make her wings grow. And while he regards her thus, +he will see all other children in the same light, and will not dare to +set up his own against others of God's brood with the new-budding +wings. The universal heart of truth will thus rectify, while it +intensifies, the individual feeling towards one's own; and the man who +is most free from poor partisanship in regard to his own family, will +feel the most individual tenderness for the lovely human creatures whom +God has given into his own especial care and responsibility. Show me +the man who is tender, reverential, gracious towards the children of +other men, and I will show you the man who will love and tend his own +best, to whose heart his own will flee for their first refuge after +God, when they catch sight of the cloud in the wind. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE SICK CHAMBER. + + +In the course of a month there was a good deal more of light in the +smile with which my darling greeted me when I entered her room in the +morning. Her pain was greatly gone, but the power of moving her limbs +had not yet even begun to show itself. + +One day she received me with a still happier smile than I had yet seen +upon her face, put out her thin white hand, took mine and kissed it, +and said, "Papa," with a lingering on the last syllable. + +"What is it, my pet?" I asked. + +"I am so happy!" + +"What makes you so happy?" I asked again. + +"I don't know," she answered. "I haven't thought about it yet. But +everything looks so pleasant round me. Is it nearly winter yet, papa? +I've forgotten all about how the time has been going." + +"It is almost winter, my dear. There is hardly a leaf left on the +trees--just two or three disconsolate yellow ones that want to get away +down to the rest. They go fluttering and fluttering and trying to break +away, but they can't." + +"That is just as I felt a little while ago. I wanted to die and get +away, papa; for I thought I should never be well again, and I should be +in everybody's way.--I am afraid I shall not get well, after all," she +added, and the light clouded on her sweet face. + +"Well, my darling, we are in God's hands. We shall never get tired of +you, and you must not get tired of us. Would you get tired of nursing +me, if I were ill?" + +"O, papa!" And the tears began to gather in her eyes. + +"Then you must think we are not able to love so well as you." + +"I know what you mean. I did not think of it that way. I will never +think so about it again. I was only thinking how useless I was." + +"There you are quite mistaken, my dear. No living creature ever was +useless. You've got plenty to do there." + +"But what have I got to do? I don't feel able for anything," she said; +and again the tears came in her eyes, as if I had been telling her to +get up and she could not. + +"A great deal of our work," I answered, "we do without knowing what it +is. But I'll tell you what you have got to do: you have got to believe +in God, and in everybody in this house." + +"I do, I do. But that is easy to do," she returned. + +"And do you think that the work God gives us to do is never easy? Jesus +says his yoke is easy, his burden is light. People sometimes refuse to +do God's work just because it is easy. This is, sometimes, because they +cannot believe that easy work is his work; but there may be a very bad +pride in it: it may be because they think that there is little or no +honour to be got in that way; and therefore they despise it. Some again +accept it with half a heart, and do it with half a hand. But, however +easy any work may be, it cannot be well done without taking thought +about it. And such people, instead of taking thought about their work, +generally take thought about the morrow, in which no work can be done +any more than in yesterday. The Holy Present!--I think I must make one +more sermon about it--although you, Connie," I said, meaning it for a +little joke, "do think that I have said too much about it already." + +"Papa, papa! do forgive me. This is a judgment on me for talking to you +as I did that dreadful morning. But I was so happy that I was +impertinent." + +"You silly darling!" I said. "A judgment! God be angry with you for +that! Even if it had been anything wrong, which it was not, do you +think God has no patience? No, Connie. I will tell you what seems to me +much more likely. You wanted something to do; and so God gave you +something to do." + +"Lying in bed and doing nothing!" + +"Yes. Just lying in bed, and doing his will." + +"If I could but feel that I was doing his will!" + +"When you do it, then you will feel you are doing it." + +"I know you are coming to something, papa. Please make haste, for my +back is getting so bad." + +"I've tired you, my pet. It was very thoughtless of me. I will tell you +the rest another time," I said, rising. + +"No, no. It will make me much worse not to hear it all now." + +"Well, I will tell you. Be still, my darling, I won't be long. In the +time of the old sacrifices, when God so kindly told his ignorant +children to do something for him in that way, poor people were told to +bring, not a bullock or a sheep, for that was more than they could get, +but a pair of turtledoves, or two young pigeons. But now, as Crashaw +the poet says, 'Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.' God wanted to +teach people to offer themselves. Now, you are poor, my pet, and you +cannot offer yourself in great things done for your fellow-men, which +was the way Jesus did. But you must remember that the two young pigeons +of the poor were just as acceptable to God as the fat bullock of the +rich. Therefore you must say to God something like this:--'O heavenly +Father, I have nothing to offer thee but my patience. I will bear thy +will, and so offer my will a burnt-offering unto thee. I will be as +useless as thou pleasest.' Depend upon it, my darling, in the midst of +all the science about the world and its ways, and all the ignorance of +God and his greatness, the man or woman who can thus say, _Thy will be +done_, with the true heart of giving up is nearer the secret of things +than the geologist and theologian. And now, my darling, be quiet in +God's name." + +She held up her mouth to kiss me, but did not speak, and I left her, +and sent Dora to sit with her. + +In the evening, when I went into her room again, having been out in my +parish all the morning, I began to unload my budget of small events. +Indeed, we all came in like pelicans with stuffed pouches to empty them +in her room, as if she had been the only young one we had, and we must +cram her with news. Or, rather, she was like the queen of the +commonwealth sending out her messages into all parts, and receiving +messages in return. I might call her the brain of the house; but I have +used similes enough for a while. + +After I had done talking, she said-- + +"And you have been to the school too, papa?" + +"Yes. I go to the school almost every day. I fancy in such a school as +ours the young people get more good than they do in church. You know I +had made a great change in the Sunday-school just before you came home." + +"I heard of that, papa. You won't let any of the little ones go to +school on the Sunday." + +"No. It is too much for them. And having made this change, I feel the +necessity of being in the school myself nearly every day, that I may do +something direct for the little ones." + +"And you'll have to take me up soon, as you promised, you know, +papa--just before Sprite threw me." + +"As soon as you like, my dear, after you are able to read again." + +"O, you must begin before that, please.--You could spare time to read a +little to me, couldn't you?" she said doubtfully, as if she feared she +was asking too much. + +"Certainly, my dear; and I will begin to think about it at once." + +It was in part the result of this wish of my child's that it became the +custom to gather in her room on Sunday evenings. She was quite unable +for any kind of work such as she would have had me commence with her, +but I used to take something to read to her every now and then, and +always after our early tea on Sundays. + +What a thing it is to have one to speak and think about and try to find +out and understand, who is always and altogether and perfectly good! +Such a centre that is for all our thoughts and words and actions and +imaginations! It is indeed blessed to be human beings with Jesus Christ +for the centre of humanity. + +In the papers wherein I am about to record the chief events of the +following years of my life, I shall give a short account of what passed +at some of these assemblies in my child's room, in the hope that it may +give my friends something, if not new, yet fresh to think about. For +God has so made us that everyone who thinks at all thinks in a way that +must be more or less fresh to everyone else who thinks, if he only have +the gift of setting forth his thoughts so that we can see what they are. + +I hope my readers will not be alarmed at this, and suppose that I am +about to inflict long sermons upon them. I am not. I do hope, as I say, +to teach them something; but those whom I succeed in so teaching will +share in the delight it will give me to write about what I love most. + +As far as I can remember, I will tell how this Sunday-evening class +began. I was sitting by Constance's bed. The fire was burning brightly, +and the twilight had deepened so nearly into night that it was +reflected back from the window, for the curtains had not yet been +drawn. There was no light in the room but that of the fire. + +Now Constance was in the way of asking often what kind of day or night +it was, for there never was a girl more a child of nature than she. Her +heart seemed to respond at once to any and every mood of the world +around her. To her the condition of air, earth, and sky was news, and +news of poetic interest too. "What is it like?" she would often say, +without any more definite shaping of the question. This same evening +she said: + +"What is it like, papa?" + +"It is growing dark," I answered, "as you can see. It is a still +evening, and what they call a black frost. The trees are standing as +still as if they were carved out of stone, and would snap off +everywhere if the wind were to blow. The ground is dark, and as hard as +if it were of cast iron. A gloomy night rather, my dear. It looks as if +there were something upon its mind that made it sullenly thoughtful; +but the stars are coming out one after another overhead, and the sky +will be all awake soon. A strange thing the life that goes on all +night, is it not? The life of owlets, and mice, and beasts of prey, and +bats, and stars," I said, with no very categorical arrangement, "and +dreams, and flowers that don't go to sleep like the rest, but send out +their scent all night long. Only those are gone now. There are no +scents abroad, not even of the earth in such a frost as this." + +"Don't you think it looks sometimes, papa, as if God turned his back on +the world, or went farther away from it for a while?" + +"Tell me a little more what you mean, Connie." + +"Well, this night now, this dark, frozen, lifeless night, which you +have been describing to me, isn't like God at all--is it?" + +"No, it is not. I see what you mean now." + +"It is just as if he had gone away and said, 'Now you shall see what +you can do without me.' + +"Something like that. But do you know that English people--at least I +think so--enjoy the changeful weather of their country much more upon +the whole than those who have fine weather constantly? You see it is +not enough to satisfy God's goodness that he should give us all things +richly to enjoy, but he must make us able to enjoy them as richly as he +gives them. He has to consider not only the gift, but the receiver of +the gift. He has to make us able to take the gift and make it our own, +as well as to give us the gift. In fact, it is not real giving, with +the full, that is, the divine, meaning of giving, without it. He has to +give us to the gift as well as give the gift to us. Now for this, a +break, an interruption is good, is invaluable, for then we begin to +think about the thing, and do something in the matter ourselves. The +wonder of God's teaching is that, in great part, he makes us not merely +learn, but teach ourselves, and that is far grander than if he only +made our minds as he makes our bodies." + +"I think I understand you, papa. For since I have been ill, you would +wonder, if you could see into me, how even what you tell me about the +world out of doors gives me more pleasure than I think I ever had when +I could go about in it just as I liked." + +"It wouldn't do that, though, you know, if you hadn't had the other +first. The pleasure you have comes as much from your memory as from my +news." + +"I see that, papa." + +"Now can you tell me anything in history that confirms what I have been +saying?" + +"I don't know anything about history, papa. The only thing that comes +into my head is what you were saying yourself the other day about +Milton's blindness." + +"Ah, yes. I had not thought of that. Do you know, I do believe that God +wanted a grand poem from that man, and therefore blinded him that he +might be able to write it. But he had first trained him up to the +point--given him thirty years in which he had not to provide the bread +of a single day, only to learn and think; then set him to teach boys; +then placed him at Cromwell's side, in the midst of the tumultuous +movement of public affairs, into which the late student entered with +all his heart and soul; and then last of all he cast the veil of a +divine darkness over him, sent him into a chamber far more retired than +that in which he laboured at Cambridge, and set him like the +nightingale to sing darkling. The blackness about him was just the +great canvas which God gave him to cover with forms of light and music. +Deep wells of memory burst upwards from below; the windows of heaven +were opened from above; from both rushed the deluge of song which +flooded his soul, and which he has poured out in a great river to us." + +"It was rather hard for poor Milton, though, wasn't it, papa?" + +"Wait till he says so, my dear. We are sometimes too ready with our +sympathy, and think things a great deal worse than those who have to +undergo them. Who would not be glad to be struck with _such_ blindness +as Milton's?" + +"Those that do not care about his poetry, papa," answered Constance, +with a deprecatory smile. + +"Well said, my Connie. And to such it never can come. But, if it please +God, you will love Milton before you are about again. You can't love +one you know nothing about." + +"I have tried to read him a little." + +"Yes, I daresay. You might as well talk of liking a man whose face you +had never seen, because you did not approve of the back of his coat. +But you and Milton together have led me away from a far grander +instance of what we had been talking about. Are you tired, darling?" + +"Not the least, papa. You don't mind what I said about Milton?" + +"Not at all, my dear. I like your honesty. But I should mind very much +if you thought, with your ignorance of Milton, that your judgment of +him was more likely to be right than mine, with my knowledge of him." + +"O, papa! I am only sorry that I am not capable of appreciating him." + +"There you are wrong again. I think you are quite capable of +appreciating him. But you cannot appreciate what you have never seen. +You think of him as dry, and think you ought to be able to like dry +things. Now he is not dry, and you ought not to be able to like dry +things. You have a figure before you in your fancy, which is dry, and +which you call Milton. But it is no more Milton than your dull-faced +Dutch doll, which you called after her, was your merry Aunt Judy. But +here comes your mamma; and I haven't said what I wanted to say yet." + +"But surely, husband, you can say it all the same," said my wife. "I +will go away if you can't." + +"I can say it all the better, my love. Come and sit down here beside +me. I was trying to show Connie--" + +"You did show me, papa." + +"Well, I was showing Connie that a gift has sometimes to be taken away +again before we can know what it is worth, and so receive it right." + +Ethelwyn sighed. She was always more open to the mournful than the +glad. Her heart had been dreadfully wrung in her youth. + +"And I was going on to give her the greatest instance of it in human +history. As long as our Lord was with his disciples, they could not see +him right: he was too near them. Too much light, too many words, too +much revelation, blinds or stupefies. The Lord had been with them long +enough. They loved him dearly, and yet often forgot his words almost as +soon as he said them. He could not get it into them, for instance, that +he had not come to be a king. Whatever he said, they shaped it over +again after their own fancy; and their minds were so full of their own +worldly notions of grandeur and command, that they could not receive +into their souls the gift of God present before their eyes. Therefore +he was taken away, that his Spirit, which was more himself than his +bodily presence, might come into them--that they might receive the gift +of God into their innermost being. After he had gone out of their +sight, and they might look all around and down in the grave and up in +the air, and not see him anywhere--when they thought they had lost him, +he began to come to them again from the other side--from the inside. +They found that the image of him which his presence with them had +printed in light upon their souls, began to revive in the dark of his +absence; and not that only, but that in looking at it without the +overwhelming of his bodily presence, lines and forms and meanings began +to dawn out of it which they had never seen before. And his words came +back to them, no longer as they had received them, but as he meant +them. The spirit of Christ filling their hearts and giving them new +power, made them remember, by making them able to understand, all that +he had said to them. They were then always saying to each other, 'You +remember how;' whereas before, they had been always staring at each +other with astonishment and something very near incredulity, while he +spoke to them. So that after he had gone away, he was really nearer to +them than he had been before. The meaning of anything is more than its +visible presence. There is a soul in everything, and that soul is the +meaning of it. The soul of the world and all its beauty has come nearer +to you, my dear, just because you are separated from it for a time." + +"Thank you, dear papa. I do like to get a little sermon all to myself +now and then. That is another good of being ill." + +"You don't mean me to have a share in it, then, Connie, do you?" said +my wife, smiling at her daughter's pleasure. + +"O, mamma! I should have thought you knew all papa had got to say by +this time. I daresay he has given you a thousand sermons all to +yourself." + +"Then you suppose, Connie, that I came into the world with just a +boxful of sermons, and after I had taken them all out there were no +more. I should be sorry to think I should not have a good many new +things to say by this time next year." + +"Well, papa, I wish I could be sure of knowing more next year." + +"Most people do learn, whether they will or not. But the kind of +learning is very different in the two cases." + +"But I want to ask you one question, papa: do you think that we should +not know Jesus better now if he were to come and let us see him--as he +came to the disciples so long, long ago? I wish it were not so long +ago." + +"As to the time, it makes no difference whether it was last year or two +thousand years ago. The whole question is how much we understand, and +understanding, obey him. And I do not think we should be any nearer +that if he came amongst us bodily again. If we should, he would come. I +believe we should be further off it." + +"Do you think, then," said Connie, in an almost despairing tone, as if +I were the prophet of great evil, "that we shall never, never, never +see him?" + +"That is _quite_ another thing, my Connie. That is the heart of my +hopes by day and my dreams by night. To behold the face of Jesus seems +to me the one thing to be desired. I do not know that it is to be +prayed for; but I think it will be given us as the great bounty of God, +so soon as ever we are capable of it. That sight of the face of Jesus +is, I think, what is meant by his glorious appearing, but it will come +as a consequence of his spirit in us, not as a cause of that spirit in +us. The pure in heart shall see God. The seeing of him will be the sign +that we are like him, for only by being like him can we see him as he +is. All the time that he was with them, the disciples never saw him as +he was. You must understand a man before you can see and read his face +aright; and as the disciples did not understand our Lord's heart, they +could neither see nor read his face aright. But when we shall be fit to +look that man in the face, God only knows." + +"Then do you think, papa, that we, who have never seen him, could know +him better than the disciples? I don't mean, of course, better than +they knew him after he was taken away from them, but better than they +knew him while he was still with them?" + +"Certainly I do, my dear." + +"O, papa! Is it possible? Why don't we all, then?" + +"Because we won't take the trouble; that is the reason." + +"O, what a grand thing to think! That would be worth living--worth +being ill for. But how? how? Can't you help me? Mayn't one human being +help another?" + +"It is the highest duty one human being owes to another. But whoever +wants to learn must pray, and think, and, above all, obey--that is +simply, do what Jesus says." + +There followed a little silence, and I could hear my child sobbing. And +the tears stood in; my wife's eyes--tears of gladness to hear her +daughter's sobs. + +"I will try, papa," Constance said at last. "But you _will_ help me?" + +"That I will, my love. I will help you in the best way I know; by +trying to tell you what I have heard and learned about him--heard and +learned of the Father, I hope and trust. It is coming near to the time +when he was born;--but I have spoken quite as long as you are able to +bear to-night." + +"No, no, papa. Do go on." + +"No, my dear; no more to-night. That would be to offend against the +very truth I have been trying to set forth to you. But next Sunday--you +have plenty to think about till then--I will talk to you about the baby +Jesus; and perhaps I may find something more to help you by that time, +besides what I have got to say now." + +"But," said my wife, "don't you think, Connie, this is too good to keep +all to ourselves? Don't you think we ought to have Wynnie and Dora in?" + +"Yes, yes, mamma. Do let us have them in. And Harry and Charlie too." + +"I fear they are rather young yet," I said. "Perhaps it might do them +harm." + +"It would be all the better for us to have them anyhow," said Ethelwyn, +smiling. + +"How do you mean, my dear?" + +"Because you will say things more simply if you have them by you. +Besides, you always say such things to children as delight grown +people, though they could never get them out of you." + +It was a wife's speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it. + +"Well," I said, "I don't mind them coming in, but I don't promise to +say anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment +they wish it." + +"Certainly," answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A SUNDAY EVENING. + + +When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to +church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took +care to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she +might be quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again +with my Bible in my hand, I found all our little company assembled. +There was a glorious fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones +were seated on the rug before it, one on each side of their mother; +Wynnie sat by the further side of the bed, for she always avoided any +place or thing she thought another might like; and Dora sat by the +further chimney-corner, leaving the space between the fire and my chair +open that I might see and share the glow. + +"The wind is very high, papa," said Constance, as I seated myself +beside her. + +"Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has +blown harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?" + +"I am afraid I do like it. When it roars like that in the chimneys, and +shakes the windows with a great rush as if it _would_ get into the +house and tear us to pieces, and then goes moaning away into the woods +and grumbles about in them till it grows savage again, and rushes up at +us with fresh fury, I am afraid I delight in it. I feel so safe in the +very jaws of danger." + +"Why, you are quite poetic, Connie," said Wynnie. + +"Don't laugh at me, Wynnie. Mind I'm an invalid, and I can't bear to be +laughed at," returned Connie, half laughing herself, and a little more +than a quarter crying. + +Wynnie rose and kissed her, whispered something to her which made her +laugh outright, and then sat down again. + +"But tell me, Connie," I said, "why you are _afraid_ you enjoy hearing +the wind about the house." + +"Because it must be so dreadful for those that are out in it." + +"Perhaps not quite so bad as we think. You must not suppose that God +has forgotten them, or cares less for them than for you because they +are out in the wind." + +"But if we thought like that, papa," said Wynnie, "shouldn't we come to +feel that their sufferings were none of our business?" + +"If our benevolence rests on the belief that God is less loving than +we, it will come to a bad end somehow before long, Wynnie." + +"Of course, I could not think that," she returned. + +"Then your kindness would be such that you dared not, in God's name, +think hopefully for those you could not help, lest you should, +believing in his kindness, cease to help those whom you could help! +Either God intended that there should be poverty and suffering, or he +did not. If he did not intend it--for similar reasons to those for +which he allows all sorts of evils--then there is nothing between but +that we should sell everything that we have and give it away to the +poor." + +"Then why don't we?" said Wynnie, looking truth itself in my face. + +"Because that is not God's way, and we should do no end of harm by so +doing. We should make so many more of those who will not help +themselves who will not be set free from themselves by rising above +themselves. We are not to gratify our own benevolence at the expense of +its object--not to save our own souls as we fancy, by putting other +souls into more danger than God meant for them." + +"It sounds hard doctrine from your lips, papa," said Wynnie. + +"Many things will look hard in so many words, which yet will be found +kindness itself when they are interpreted by a higher theory. If the +one thing is to let people have everything they want, then of course +everyone ought to be rich. I have no doubt such a man as we were +reading of in the papers the other day, who saw his servant girl drown +without making the least effort to save her, and then bemoaned the loss +of her labour for the coming harvest, thinking himself ill-used in her +death, would hug his own selfishness on hearing my words, and say, 'All +right, parson! Every man for himself! I made my own money, and they may +make theirs!' _You_ know that is not exactly the way I should think or +act with regard to my neighbour. But if it were only that I have seen +such noble characters cast in the mould of poverty, I should be +compelled to regard poverty as one of God's powers in the world for +raising the children of the kingdom, and to believe that it was not +because it could not be helped that our Lord said, 'The poor ye have +always with you.' But what I wanted to say was, that there can be no +reason why Connie should not enjoy what God has given her, although he +has not thought fit to give as much to everybody; and above all, that +we shall not help those right whom God gives us to help, if we do not +believe that God is caring for every one of them as much as he is +caring for every one of us. There was once a baby born in a stable, +because his poor mother could get no room in a decent house. Where she +lay I can hardly think. They must have made a bed of hay and straw for +her in the stall, for we know the baby's cradle was the manger. Had God +forsaken them? or would they not have been more _comfortable_, if that +was the main thing, somewhere else? Ah! if the disciples, who were +being born about the same time of fisher-fathers and cottage-mothers, +to get ready for him to call and teach by the time he should be thirty +years of age--if they had only been old enough, and had known that he +was coming--would they not have got everything ready for him? They +would have clubbed their little savings together, and worked day and +night, and some rich women would have helped them, and they would have +dressed the baby in fine linen, and got him the richest room their +money would get, and they would have made the gold that the wise men +brought into a crown for his little head, and would have burnt the +frankincense before him. And so our little manger-baby would have been +taken away from us. No more the stable-born Saviour--no more the poor +Son of God born for us all, as strong, as noble, as loving, as +worshipful, as beautiful as he was poor! And we should not have learned +that God does not care for money; that if he does not give more of it +it is not that it is scarce with him, or that he is unkind, but that he +does not value it himself. And if he sent his own son to be not merely +brought up in the house of the carpenter of a little village, but to be +born in the stable of a village inn, we need not suppose because a man +sleeps under a haystack and is put in prison for it next day, that God +does not care for him." + +"But why did Jesus come so poor, papa?" + +"That he might be just a human baby. That he might not be distinguished +by this or by that accident of birth; that he might have nothing but a +mother's love to welcome him, and so belong to everybody; that from the +first he might show that the kingdom of God and the favour of God lie +not in these external things at all--that the poorest little one, born +in the meanest dwelling, or in none at all, is as much God's own and +God's care as if he came in a royal chamber with colour and shine all +about him. Had Jesus come amongst the rich, riches would have been more +worshipped than ever. See how so many that count themselves good +Christians honour possession and family and social rank, and I doubt +hardly get rid of them when they are all swept away from them. The +furthest most of such reach is to count Jesus an exception, and +therefore not despise him. See how, even in the services of the church, +as they call them, they will accumulate gorgeousness and cost. Had I my +way, though I will never seek to rouse men's thoughts about such +external things, I would never have any vessel used in the eucharist +but wooden platters and wooden cups." + +"But are we not to serve him with our best?" said my wife. + +"Yes, with our very hearts and souls, with our wills, with our absolute +being. But all external things should be in harmony with the spirit of +his revelation. And if God chose that his Son should visit the earth in +homely fashion, in homely fashion likewise should be everything that +enforces and commemorates that revelation. All church-forms should be +on the other side from show and expense. Let the money go to build +decent houses for God's poor, not to give them his holy bread and wine +out of silver and gold and precious stones--stealing from the +significance of the _content_ by the meretricious grandeur of the +_continent_. I would send all the church-plate to fight the devil with +his own weapons in our overcrowded cities, and in our villages where +the husbandmen are housed like swine, by giving them room to be clean +and decent air from heaven to breathe. When the people find the clergy +thus in earnest, they will follow them fast enough, and the money will +come in like salt and oil upon the sacrifice. I would there were a few +of our dignitaries that could think grandly about things, even as Jesus +thought--even as God thought when he sent him. There are many of them +willing to stand any amount of persecution about trifles: the same +enthusiasm directed by high thoughts about the kingdom of heaven as +within men and not around them, would redeem a vast region from that +indifference which comes of judging the gospel of God by the church of +Christ with its phylacteries and hems." + +"There is one thing," said Wynnie, after a pause, "that I have often +thought about--why it was necessary for Jesus to come as a baby: he +could not do anything for so long." + +"First, I would answer, Wynnie, that if you would tell me why it is +necessary for all of us to come as babies, it would be less necessary +for me to tell you why he came so: whatever was human must be his. But +I would say next, Are you sure that he could not do anything for so +long? Does a baby do nothing? Ask mamma there. Is it for nothing that +the mother lifts up such heartfuls of thanks to God for the baby on her +knee? Is it nothing that the baby opens such fountains of love in +almost all the hearts around? Ah! you do not think how much every baby +has to do with the saving of the world--the saving of it from +selfishness, and folly, and greed. And for Jesus, was he not going to +establish the reign of love in the earth? How could he do better than +begin from babyhood? He had to lay hold of the heart of the world. How +could he do better than begin with his mother's--the best one in it. +Through his mother's love first, he grew into the world. It was first +by the door of all the holy relations of the family that he entered the +human world, laying hold of mother, father, brothers, sisters, all his +friends; then by the door of labour, for he took his share of his +father's work; then, when he was thirty years of age, by the door of +teaching; by kind deeds, and sufferings, and through all by obedience +unto the death. You must not think little of the grand thirty years +wherein he got ready for the chief work to follow. You must not think +that while he was thus preparing for his public ministrations, he was +not all the time saving the world even by that which he was in the +midst of it, ever laying hold of it more and more. These were things +not so easy to tell. And you must remember that our records are very +scanty. It is a small biography we have of a man who became--to say +nothing more--the Man of the world--the Son of Man. No doubt it is +enough, or God would have told us more; but surely we are not to +suppose that there was nothing significant, nothing of saving power in +that which we are not told.--Charlie, wouldn't you have liked to see +the little baby Jesus?" + +"Yes, that I would. I would have given him my white rabbit with the +pink eyes." + +"That is what the great painter Titian must have thought, Charlie; for +he has painted him playing with a white rabbit,--not such a pretty one +as yours." + +"I would have carried him about all day," said Dora, "as little Henny +Parsons does her baby-brother." + +"Did he have any brother or sister to carry him about, papa?" asked +Harry. + +"No, my boy; for he was the eldest. But you may be pretty sure he +carried about his brothers and sisters that came after him." + +"Wouldn't he take care of them, just!" said Charlie. + +"I wish I had been one of them," said Constance. + +"You are one of them, my Connie. Now he is so great and so strong that +he can carry father and mother and all of us in his bosom." + +Then we sung a child's hymn in praise of the God of little children, +and the little ones went to bed. Constance was tired now, and we left +her with Wynnie. We too went early to bed. + +About midnight my wife and I awoke together--at least neither knew +which waked the other. The wind was still raving about the house, with +lulls between its charges. + +"There's a child crying!" said my wife, starting up. + +I sat up too, and listened. + +"There is some creature," I granted. + +"It is an infant," insisted my wife. "It can't be either of the boys." + +I was out of bed in a moment, and my wife the same instant. We hurried +on some of our clothes, going to the windows and listening as we did +so. We seemed to hear the wailing through the loudest of the wind, and +in the lulls were sure of it. But it grew fainter as we listened. The +night was pitch dark. I got a lantern, and hurried out. I went round +the house till I came under our bed-room windows, and there listened. I +heard it, but not so clearly as before. I set out as well as I could +judge in the direction of the sound. I could find nothing. My lantern +lighted only a few yards around me, and the wind was so strong that it +blew through every chink, and threatened momently to blow it out. My +wife was by my side before I knew she was coming. + +"My dear!" I said, "it is not fit for you to be out." + +"It is as fit for me as for a child, anyhow," she said. "Do listen." + +It was certainly no time for expostulation. All the mother was awake in +Ethelwyn's bosom. It would have been cruelty to make her go in, though +she was indeed ill-fitted to encounter such a night-wind. + +Another wail reached us. It seemed to come from a thicket at one corner +of the lawn. We hurried thither. Again a cry, and we knew we were much +nearer to it. Searching and searching we went. + +"There it is!" Ethelwyn almost screamed, as the feeble light of the +lantern fell on a dark bundle of something under a bush. She caught at +it. It gave another pitiful wail--the poor baby of some tramp, rolled +up in a dirty, ragged shawl, and tied round with a bit of string, as if +it had been a parcel of clouts. She set off running with it to the +house, and I followed, much fearing she would miss her way in the dark, +and fall. I could hardly get up with her, so eager was she to save the +child. She darted up to her own room, where the fire was not yet out. + +"Run to the kitchen, Harry, and get some hot water. Take the two jugs +there--you can empty them in the sink: you won't know where to find +anything. There will be plenty in the boiler." + +By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the +child's covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before +the fire. The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and +motionless. We had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as +if I had been a nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath. + +"Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child." + +"You made me throw away the cold water," I said, laughing. + +"There's some in the bottles," she returned. "Make haste." + +I did try to make haste, but I could not be quick enough to satisfy +Ethelwyn. + +"The child will be dead," she cried, "before we get it in the water." + +She had its rags off in a moment--there was very little to remove after +the shawl. How white the little thing was, though dreadfully neglected! +It was a girl--not more than a few weeks old, we agreed. Her little +heart was still beating feebly; and as she was a well-made, apparently +healthy infant, we had every hope of recovering her. And we were not +disappointed. She began to move her little legs and arms with short, +convulsive motions. + +"Do you know where the dairy is, Harry?" asked my wife, with no great +compliment to my bumps of locality, which I had always flattered myself +were beyond the average in development. + +"I think I do," I answered. + +"Could you tell which was this night's milk, now?" + +"There will be less cream on it," I answered. + +"Bring a little of that and some more hot water. I've got some sugar +here. I wish we had a bottle." + +I executed her commands faithfully. By the time I returned the child +was lying on her lap clean and dry--a fine baby I thought. Ethelwyn +went on talking to her, and praising her as if she had not only been +the finest specimen of mortality in the world, but her own child to +boot. She got her to take a few spoonfuls of milk and water, and then +the little thing fell fast asleep. + +Ethelwyn's nursing days were not so far gone by that she did not know +where her baby's clothes were. She gave me the child, and going to a +wardrobe in the room brought out some night-things, and put them on. I +could not understand in the least why the sleeping darling must be +indued with little chemise, and flannel, and nightgown, and I do not +know what all, requiring a world of nice care, and a hundred turnings +to and fro, now on its little stomach, now on its back, now sitting up, +now lying down, when it would have slept just as well, and I venture to +think much more comfortably, if laid in blankets and well covered over. +But I had never ventured to interfere with any of my own children, +devoutly believing up to this moment, though in a dim unquestioning +way, that there must be some hidden feminine wisdom in the whole +process; and now that I had begun to question it, I found that my +opportunity had long gone by, if I had ever had one. And after all +there may be some reason for it, though I confess I do strongly suspect +that all these matters are so wonderfully complicated in order that the +girl left in the woman may have her heart's content of playing with her +doll; just as the woman hid in the girl expends no end of lovely +affection upon the dull stupidity of wooden cheeks and a body of +sawdust. But it was a delight to my heart to see how Ethelwyn could not +be satisfied without treating the foundling in precisely the same +fashion as one of her own. And if this was a necessary preparation for +what, should follow, I would be the very last to complain of it. + +We went to bed again, and the forsaken child of some half-animal +mother, now perhaps asleep in some filthy lodging for tramps, lay in my +Ethelwyn's bosom. I loved her the more for it; though, I confess, it +would have been very painful to me had she shown it possible for her to +treat the baby otherwise, especially after what we had been talking +about that same evening. + +So we had another child in the house, and nobody knew anything about it +but ourselves two. The household had never been disturbed by all the +going and coming. After everything had been done for her, we had a good +laugh over the whole matter, and then Ethelwyn fell a-crying. + +"Pray for the poor thing, Harry," she sobbed, "before you come to bed." + +I knelt down, and said: + +"O Lord our Father, this is as much thy child and as certainly sent to +us as if she had been born of us. Help us to keep the child for thee. +Take thou care of thy own, and teach us what to do with her, and how to +order our ways towards her." + +Then I said to Ethelwyn, + +"We will not say one word more about it tonight. You must try to go to +sleep. I daresay the little thing will sleep till the morning, and I am +sure I shall if she does. Good-night, my love. You are a true mother. +Mind you go to sleep." + +"I am half asleep already, Harry. Good-night," she returned. + +I know nothing more about anything till I in the morning, except that I +had a dream, which I have not made up my mind yet whether I shall tell +or not. We slept soundly--God's baby and all. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +MY DREAM. + + +I think I will tell the dream I had. I cannot well account for the +beginning of it: the end will appear sufficiently explicable to those +who are quite satisfied that they get rid of the mystery of a thing +when they can associate it with something else with which they are +familiar. Such do not care to see that the thing with which they +associate it may be as mysterious as the other. For although use too +often destroys marvel, it cannot destroy the marvellous. The origin of +our thoughts is just as wonderful as the origin of our dreams. + +In my dream I found myself in a pleasant field full of daisies and +white clover. The sun was setting. The wind was going one way, and the +shadows another. I felt rather tired, I neither knew nor thought why. +With an old man's prudence, I would not sit down upon the grass, but +looked about for a more suitable seat. Then I saw, for often in our +dreams there is an immediate response to our wishes, a long, rather +narrow stone lying a few yards from me. I wondered how it could have +come there, for there were no mountains or rocks near: the field was +part of a level country. Carelessly, I sat down upon it astride, and +watched the setting of the sun. Somehow I fancied that his light was +more sorrowful than the light of the setting sun should be, and I began +to feel very heavy at the heart. No sooner had the last brilliant spark +of his light vanished, than I felt the stone under me begin to move. +With the inactivity of a dreamer, however, I did not care to rise, but +wondered only what would come next. My seat, after several strange +tumbling motions, seemed to rise into the air a little way, and then I +found that I was astride of a gaunt, bony horse--a skeleton horse +almost, only he had a gray skin on him. He began, apparently with pain, +as if his joints were all but too stiff to move, to go forward in the +direction in which he found himself. I kept my seat. Indeed, I never +thought of dismounting. I was going on to meet what might come. Slowly, +feebly, trembling at every step, the strange steed went, and as he went +his joints seemed to become less stiff, and he went a little faster. +All at once I found that the pleasant field had vanished, and that we +were on the borders of a moor. Straight forward the horse carried me, +and the moor grew very rough, and he went stumbling dreadfully, but +always recovering himself. Every moment it seemed as if he would fall +to rise no more, but as often he found fresh footing. At length the +surface became a little smoother, and he began a horrible canter which +lasted till he reached a low, broken wall, over which he half walked, +half fell into what was plainly an ancient neglected churchyard. The +mounds were low and covered with rank grass. In some parts, hollows had +taken the place of mounds. Gravestones lay in every position except the +level or the upright, and broken masses of monuments were scattered +about. My horse bore me into the midst of it, and there, slow and stiff +as he had risen, he lay down again. Once more I was astride of a long +narrow stone. And now I found that it was an ancient gravestone which I +knew well in a certain Sussex churchyard, the top of it carved into the +rough resemblance of a human skeleton--that of a man, tradition said, +who had been killed by a serpent that came out of a bottomless pool in +the next field. How long I sat there I do not know; but at last I saw +the faint gray light of morning begin to appear in front of me. The +horse of death had carried me eastward. The dawn grew over the top of a +hill that here rose against the horizon. But it was a wild dreary +dawn--a blot of gray first, which then stretched into long lines of +dreary yellow and gray, looking more like a blasted and withered sunset +than a fresh sunrise. And well it suited that waste, wide, deserted +churchyard, if churchyard I ought to call it where no church was to be +seen--only a vast hideous square of graves. Before me I noticed +especially one old grave, the flat stone of which had broken in two and +sunk in the middle. While I sat with my eyes fixed on this stone, it +began to move; the crack in the middle closed, then widened again as +the two halves of the stone were lifted up, and flung outward, like the +two halves of a folding door. From the grave rose a little child, +smiling such perfect contentment as if he had just come from kissing +his mother. His little arms had flung the stones apart, and as he stood +on the edge of the grave next to me, they remained outspread from the +action for a moment, as if blessing the sleeping people. Then he came +towards me with the same smile, and took my hand. I rose, and he led me +away over another broken wall towards the hill that lay before us. And +as we went the sun came nearer, the pale yellow bars flushed into +orange and rosy red, till at length the edges of the clouds were swept +with an agony of golden light, which even my dreamy eyes could not +endure, and I awoke weeping for joy. + +This waking woke my wife, who said in some alarm: + +"What is the matter, husband?" + +So I told her my dream, and how in my sleep my gladness had overcome me. + +"It was this little darling that set you dreaming so," she said, and +turning, put the baby in my arms. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE NEW BABY. + + +I will not attempt to describe the astonishment of the members of our +household, each in succession, as the news of the child spread. Charlie +was heard shouting across the stable-yard to his brother: + +"Harry, Harry! Mamma has got a new baby. Isn't it jolly?" + +"Where did she get it?" cried Harry in return. + +"In the parsley-bed, I suppose," answered Charlie, and was nearer right +than usual, for the information on which his conclusion was founded had +no doubt been imparted as belonging to the history of the human race. + +But my reader can easily imagine the utter bewilderment of those of the +family whose knowledge of human affairs would not allow of their +curiosity being so easily satisfied as that of the boys. In them was +exemplified that confusion of the intellectual being which is produced +by the witness of incontestable truth to a thing incredible--in which +case the probability always is, that the incredibility results from +something in the mind of the hearer falsely associated with and +disturbing the true perception of the thing to which witness is borne. + +Nor was the astonishment confined to the family, for it spread over the +parish that Mrs. Walton had got another baby. And so, indeed, she had. +And seldom has baby met with a more hearty welcome than this baby met +with from everyone of our family. They hugged it first, and then asked +questions. And that, I say, is the right way of receiving every good +gift of God. Ask what questions you will, but when you see that the +gift is a good one, make sure that you take it. There is plenty of time +for you to ask questions afterwards. Then the better you love the gift, +the more ready you will be to ask, and the more fearless in asking. + +The truth, however, soon became known. And then, strange to relate, we +began to receive visits of condolence. O, that poor baby! how it was +frowned upon, and how it had heads shaken over it, just because it was +not Ethelwyn's baby! It could not help that, poor darling! + +"Of course, you'll give information to the police," said, I am sorry to +say, one of my brethren in the neighbourhood, who had the misfortune to +be a magistrate as well. + +"Why?" I asked. + +"Why! That they may discover the parents, to be sure." + +"Wouldn't it be as hard a matter to prove the parentage, as it would be +easy to suspect it?" I asked. "And just think what it would be to give +the baby to a woman who not only did not want her, but who was not her +mother. But if her own mother came to claim her now, I don't say I +would refuse her, but I should think twice about giving her up after +she had once abandoned her for a whole night in the open air. In fact I +don't want the parents." + +"But you don't want the child." + +"How do you know that?" I returned--rather rudely, I am afraid, for I +am easily annoyed at anything that seems to me heartless--about +children especially. + +"O! of course, if you want to have an orphan asylum of your own, no one +has a right to interfere. But you ought to consider other people." + +"That is just what I thought I was doing," I answered; but he went on +without heeding my reply-- + +"We shall all be having babies left at our doors, and some of us are +not so fond of them as you are. Remember, you are your brother's +keeper." + +"And my sister's too," I answered. "And if the question lies between +keeping a big, burly brother like you, and a tiny, wee sister like +that, I venture to choose for myself." + +"She ought to go to the workhouse," said the magistrate--a friendly, +good-natured man enough in ordinary--and rising, he took his hat and +departed. + + +This man had no children. So he was--or was not, so much to blame. +Which? _I_ say the latter. + +Some of Ethelwyn's friends were no less positive about her duty in the +affair. I happened to go into the drawing-room during the visit of one +of them--Miss Bowdler. + +"But, my dear Mrs. Walton," she was saying, "you'll be having all the +tramps in England leaving their babies at your door." + +"The better for the babies," interposed I, laughing. + +"But you don't think of your wife, Mr. Walton." + +"Don't I? I thought I did," I returned dryly. + +"Depend upon it, you'll repent it." + +"I hope I shall never repent of anything but what is bad." + +"Ah! but, really! it's not a thing to be made game of." + +"Certainly not. The baby shall be treated with all due respect in this +house." + +"What a provoking man you are! You know what I mean well enough." + +"As well as I choose to know--certainly," I answered. + +This lady was one of my oldest parishioners, and took liberties for +which she had no other justification, except indeed an unhesitating +belief in the superior rectitude of whatever came into her own head can +be counted as one. When she was gone, my wife turned to me with a +half-comic, half-anxious look, and said: + +"But it would be rather alarming, Harry, if this were to get abroad, +and we couldn't go out at the door in the morning without being in +danger of stepping on a baby on the door-step." + +"You might as well have said, when you were going to be married, 'If +God should send me twenty children, whatever should I do?' He who sent +us this one can surely prevent any more from coming than he wants to +come. All that we have to think of is to do right--not the consequences +of doing right. But leaving all that aside, you must not suppose that +wandering mothers have not even the attachment of animals to their +offspring. There are not so many that are willing to part with babies +as all that would come to. If you believe that God sent this one, that +is enough for the present. If he should send another, we should know by +that that we had to take it in." + +My wife said the baby was a beauty. I could see that she was a plump, +well-to-do baby; and being by nature no particular lover of babies as +babies--that is, feeling none of the inclination of mothers and nurses +and elder sisters to eat them, or rather, perhaps, loving more for what +I believed than what I saw--that was all I could pretend to discover. +But even the aforementioned elderly parishioner was compelled to allow +before three months were over that little Theodora--for we turned the +name of my youngest daughter upside down for her--"was a proper child." +To none, however, did she seem to bring so much delight as to our dear +Constance. Oftener than not, when I went into her room, I found the +sleepy, useless little thing lying beside her on the bed, and her +staring at it with such loving eyes! How it began, I do not know, but +it came at last to be called Connie's Dora, or Miss Connie's baby, all +over the house, and nothing pleased Connie better. Not till she saw +this did her old nurse take quite kindly to the infant; for she +regarded her as an interloper, who had no right to the tenderness which +was lavished upon her. But she had no sooner given in than the baby +began to grow dear to her as well as to the rest. In fact, the house +was ere long full of nurses. The staff included everyone but myself, +who only occasionally, at the entreaty of some one or other of the +younger ones, took her in my arms. + +But before she was three months old, anxious thoughts began to intrude, +all centering round the question in what manner the child was to be +brought up. Certainly there was time enough to think of this, as +Ethelwyn constantly reminded me; but what made me anxious was that I +could not discover the principle that ought to guide me. Now no one can +tell how soon a principle in such a case will begin, even +unconsciously, to operate; and the danger was that the moment when it +ought to begin to operate would be long past before the principle was +discovered, except I did what I could now to find it out. I had again +and again to remind myself that there was no cause for anxiety; for +that I might certainly claim the enlightenment which all who want to do +right are sure to receive; but still I continued uneasy just from +feeling a vacancy where a principle ought to have been. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + + +During all this time Connie made no very perceptible progress--in the +recovery of her bodily powers, I mean, for her heart and mind advanced +remarkably. We held our Sunday-evening assemblies in her room pretty +regularly, my occasional absence in the exercise of my duties alone +interfering with them. In connection with one of these, I will show how +I came at length to make up my mind as to what I would endeavour to +keep before me as my object in the training of little Theodora, always +remembering that my preparation might be used for a very different end +from what I purposed. If my intention was right, the fact that it might +be turned aside would not trouble me. + +We had spoken a good deal together about the infancy and childhood of +Jesus, about the shepherds, and the wise men, and the star in the east, +and the children of Bethlehem. I encouraged the thoughts of all the +children to rest and brood upon the fragments that are given us, and, +believing that the imagination is one of the most powerful of all the +faculties for aiding the growth of truth in the mind, I would ask them +questions as to what they thought he might have said or done in +ordinary family occurrences, thus giving a reality in their minds to +this part of his history, and trying to rouse in them a habit of +referring their conduct to the standard of his. If we do not thus +employ our imagination on sacred things, his example can be of no use +to us except in exactly corresponding circumstances--and when can such +occur from one end to another of our lives? The very effort to think +how he would have done, is a wonderful purifier of the conscience, and, +even if the conclusion arrived at should not be correct from lack of +sufficient knowledge of his character and principles, it will be better +than any that can be arrived at without this inquiry. Besides, the +asking of such questions gave me good opportunity, through the answers +they returned, of seeing what their notions of Jesus and of duty were, +and thus of discovering how to help the dawn of the light in their +growing minds. Nor let anyone fear that such employment of the divine +gift of imagination will lead to foolish vagaries and useless +inventions; while the object is to discover the right way--the +truth--there is little danger of that. Besides, there I was to help +hereby in the actual training of their imaginations to truth and +wisdom. To aid in this, I told them some of the stories that were +circulated about him in the early centuries of the church, but which +the church has rejected as of no authority; and I showed them how some +of them could not be true, because they were so unlike those words and +actions which we had the best of reasons for receiving as true; and how +one or two of them might be true--though, considering the company in +which we found them, we could say nothing for certain concerning them. +And such wise things as those children said sometimes! It is marvellous +how children can reach the heart of the truth at once. Their utterances +are sometimes entirely concordant with the results arrived at through +years of thought by the earnest mind--results which no mind would ever +arrive at save by virtue of the child-like in it. + +Well, then, upon this evening I read to them the story of the boy Jesus +in the temple. Then I sought to make the story more real to them by +dwelling a little on the growing fears of his parents as they went from +group to group of their friends, tracing back the road towards +Jerusalem and asking every fresh company they knew if they had seen +their boy, till at length they were in great trouble when they could +not find him even in Jerusalem. Then came the delight of his mother +when she did find him at last, and his answer to what she said. Now, +while I thus lingered over the simple story, my children had put many +questions to me about Jesus being a boy, and not seeming to know things +which, if he was God, he must have known, they thought. To some of +these I had just to reply that I did not understand myself, and +therefore could not teach them; to others, that I could explain them, +but that they were not yet, some of them, old enough to receive and +understand my explanation; while others I did my best to answer as +simply as I could. But at this point we arrived at a question put by +Wynnie, to answer which aright I considered of the greatest importance. +Wynnie said: + +"That is just one of the things about Jesus that have always troubled +me, papa." + +"What is, my dear?" I said; for although I thought I knew well enough +what she meant, I wished her to set it forth in her own words, both for +her own sake, and the sake of the others, who would probably understand +the difficulty much better if she presented it herself. + +"I mean that he spoke to his mother--" + +"Why don't you say _mamma_, Wynnie?" said Charlie. "She was his own +mamma, wasn't she, papa?" + +"Yes, my dear; but don't you know that the shoemaker's children down in +the village always call their mamma _mother_?" + +"Yes; but they are shoemaker's children." + +"Well, Jesus was one of that class of people. He was the son of a +carpenter. He called his mamma, _mother_. But, Charlie, _mother_ is the +more beautiful word of the two, by a great deal, I think. _Lady_ is a +very pretty word; but _woman_ is a very beautiful word. Just so with +_mamma_ and _mother_. _Mamma_ is pretty, but _mother_ is beautiful." + +"Why don't we always say _mother_ then?" + +"Just because it is the most beautiful, and so we keep it for +Sundays--that is, for the more solemn times of life. We don't want it +to get common to us with too much use. We may think it as much as we +like; thinking does not spoil it; but saying spoils many things, and +especially beautiful words. Now we must let Wynnie finish what she was +saying." + +"I was saying, papa, that I can't help feeling as if--I know it can't +be true--but I feel as if Jesus spoke unkindly to his mother when he +said that to her." + +I looked at the page and read the words, "How is it that ye sought me? +wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" And I sat +silent for a while. + +"Why don't you speak, papa?" said Harry. + +"I am sitting wondering at myself, Harry," I said. "Long after I was +your age, Wynnie, I remember quite well that those words troubled me as +they now trouble you. But when I read them over now, they seemed to me +so lovely that I could hardly read them aloud. I can recall the fact +that they troubled me, but the mode of the fact I scarcely can recall. +I can hardly see now wherein lay the hurt or offence the words gave me. +And why is that? Simply because I understand them now, and I did not +understand them then. I took them as uttered with a tone of reproof; +now I hear them as uttered with a tone of loving surprise. But really I +cannot feel sure what it was that I did not like. And I am confident it +is so with a great many things that we reject. We reject them simply +because we do not understand them. Therefore, indeed, we cannot with +truth be said to reject them at all. It is some false appearance that +we reject. Some of the grandest things in the whole realm of truth look +repellent to us, and we turn away from them, simply because we are +not--to use a familiar phrase--we are not up to them. They appear to +us, therefore, to be what they are not. Instruction sounds to the proud +man like reproof; illumination comes on the vain man like scorn; the +manifestation of a higher condition of motive and action than his own, +falls on the self-esteeming like condemnation; but it is consciousness +and conscience working together that produce this impression; the +result is from the man himself, not from the higher source. From the +truth comes the power, but the shape it assumes to the man is from the +man himself." + +"You are quite beyond me now, papa," said Wynnie. + +"Well, my dear," I answered, "I will return to the words of the boy +Jesus, instead of talking more about them; and when I have shown you +what they mean, I think you will allow that that feeling you have about +them is all and altogether an illusion." + +"There is one thing first," said Connie, "that I want to understand. +You said the words of Jesus rather indicated surprise. But how could he +be surprised at anything? If he was God, he must have known everything." + +"He tells us himself that he did not know everything. He says once that +even _he_ did not know one thing--only the Father knew it." + +"But how could that be if he was God?" + +"My dear, that is one of the things that it seems to me impossible I +should understand. Certainly I think his trial as a man would not have +been perfect had he known everything. He too had to live by faith in +the Father. And remember that for the Divine Sonship on earth perfect +knowledge was not necessary, only perfect confidence, absolute +obedience, utter holiness. There is a great tendency in our sinful +natures to put knowledge and power on a level with goodness. It was one +of the lessons of our Lord's life that they are not so; that the one +grand thing in humanity is faith in God; that the highest in God is his +truth, his goodness, his rightness. But if Jesus was a real man, and no +mere appearance of a man, is it any wonder that, with a heart full to +the brim of the love of God, he should be for a moment surprised that +his mother, whom he loved so dearly, the best human being he knew, +should not have taken it as a matter of course that if he was not with +her, he must be doing something his Father wanted him to do? For this +is just what his answer means. To turn it into the ordinary speech of +our day, it is just this: 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know +that I must of course be doing something my Father had given me to do?' +Just think of the quiet sweetness of confidence in this. And think what +a life his must have been up to that twelfth year of his, that such an +expostulation with his mother was justified. It must have had reference +to a good many things that had passed before then, which ought to have +been sufficient to make Mary conclude that her missing boy must be +about God's business somewhere. If her heart had been as full of God +and God's business as his, she would not have been in the least uneasy +about him. And here is the lesson of his whole life: it was all his +Father's business. The boy's mind and hands were full of it. The man's +mind and hands were full of it. And the risen conqueror was full of it +still. For the Father's business is everything, and includes all work +that is worth doing. We may say in a full grand sense, that there is +nothing but the Father and his business." + +"But we have so many things to do that are not his business," said +Wynnie, with a sigh of oppression. + +"Not one, my darling. If anything is not his business, you not only +have not to do it, but you ought not to do it. Your words come from the +want of spiritual sight. We cannot see the truth in common things--the +will of God in little everyday affairs, and that is how they become so +irksome to us. Show a beautiful picture, one full of quiet imagination +and deep thought, to a common-minded man; he will pass it by with some +slight remark, thinking it very ordinary and commonplace. That is +because he is commonplace. Because our minds are so commonplace, have +so little of the divine imagination in them, therefore we do not +recognise the spiritual meaning and worth, we do not perceive the +beautiful will of God, in the things required of us, though they are +full of it. But if we do them we shall thus make acquaintance with +them, and come to see what is in them. The roughest kernel amongst them +has a tree of life in its heart." + +"I wish he would tell me something to do," said Charlie. "Wouldn't I do +it!" + +I made no reply, but waited for an opportunity which I was pretty sure +was at hand, while I carried the matter a little further. + +"But look here, Wynnie; listen to this," I said, "'And he went down +with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.' Was that +not doing his Father's business too? Was it not doing the business of +his Father in heaven to honour his father and his mother, though he +knew that his days would not be long in that land? Did not his whole +teaching, his whole doing, rest on the relation of the Son to the +Father and surely it was doing his Father's business then to obey his +parents--to serve them, to be subject to them. It is true that the +business God gives a man to do may be said to be the peculiar walk in +life into which he is led, but that is only as distinguishing it from +another man's peculiar business. God gives us all our business, and the +business which is common to humanity is more peculiarly God's business +than that which is one man's and not another's--because it lies nearer +the root, and is essential. It does not matter whether a man is a +farmer or a physician, but it greatly matters whether he is a good son, +a good husband, and so on. O my children!" I said, "if the world could +but be brought to believe--the world did I say?--if the best men in the +world could only see, as God sees it, that service is in itself the +noblest exercise of human powers, if they could see that God is the +hardest worker of all, and that his nobility are those who do the most +service, surely it would alter the whole aspect of the church. Menial +offices, for instance, would soon cease to be talked of with that +contempt which shows that there is no true recognition of the fact that +the same principle runs through the highest duty and the lowest--that +the lowest work which God gives a man to do must be in its nature +noble, as certainly noble as the highest. This would destroy +condescension, which is the rudeness, yes, impertinence, of the higher, +as it would destroy insolence, which is the rudeness of the lower. He +who recognised the dignity of his own lower office, would thereby +recognise the superiority of the higher office, and would be the last +either to envy or degrade it. He would see in it his own--only higher, +only better, and revere it. But I am afraid I have wearied you, my +children." + +"O, no, papa!" said the elder ones, while the little ones gaped and +said nothing. + +"I know I am in danger of doing so when I come to speak upon this +subject: it has such a hold of my heart and mind!--Now, Charlie, my +boy, go to bed." + +But Charlie was very comfortable before the fire, on the rug, and did +not want to go. First one shoulder went up, and then the other, and the +corners of his mouth went down, as if to keep the balance true. He did +not move to go. I gave him a few moments to recover himself, but as the +black frost still endured, I thought it was time to hold up a mirror to +him. When he was a very little boy, he was much in the habit of getting +out of temper, and then as now, he made a face that was hideous to +behold; and to cure him of this, I used to make him carry a little +mirror about his neck, that the means might be always at hand of +showing himself to him: it was a sort of artificial conscience which, +by enabling him to see the picture of his own condition, which the face +always is, was not unfrequently operative in rousing his real +conscience, and making him ashamed of himself. But now the mirror I +wanted to hold up to him was a past mood, in the light of which the +present would show what it was. + +"Charlie," I said, "a little while ago you were wishing that God would +give you something to do. And now when he does, you refuse at once, +without even thinking about it." + +"How do you know that God wants me to go to bed?" said Charlie, with +something of surly impertinence, which I did not meet with reproof at +once because there was some sense along with the impudence. + +"I know that God wants you to do what I tell you, and to do it +pleasantly. Do you think the boy Jesus would have put on such a face as +that--I wish I had the little mirror to show it to you--when his mother +told him it was time to go to bed?" + +And now Charlie began to look ashamed. I left the truth to work in him, +because I saw it was working. Had I not seen that, I should have +compelled him to go at once, that he might learn the majesty of law. +But now that his own better self, the self enlightened of the light +that lighteneth every man that cometh into the world, was working, time +might well be afforded it to work its perfect work. I went on talking +to the others. In the space of not more than one minute, he rose and +came to me, looking both good and ashamed, and held up his face to kiss +me, saying, "Goodnight, papa." I bade him good-night, and kissed him +more tenderly than usual, that he might know that it was all right +between us. I required no formal apology, no begging of my pardon, as +some parents think right. It seemed enough to me that his heart was +turned. It is a terrible thing to run the risk of changing humility +into humiliation. Humiliation is one of the proudest conditions in the +human world. When he felt that it would be a relief to say more +explicitly, "Father, I have sinned," then let him say it; but not till +then. To compel manifestation is one surest way to check feeling. + +My readers must not judge it silly to record a boy's unwillingness to +go to bed. It is precisely the same kind of disobedience that some of +them are guilty of themselves, and that in things not one whit more +important than this, only those things happen to be _their_ wish at the +moment, and not Charlie's, and so gain their superiority. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THEODORA'S DOOM. + + +Try not to get weary, respected reader, of so much of what I am afraid +most people will call tiresome preaching. But I know if you get +anything practicable out of it, you will not be so soon tired of it. I +promise you more story by and by. Only an old man, like an old horse, +must be allowed to take very much his own way--go his own pace, I +should have said. I am afraid there must be a little more of a similar +sort in this chapter. + +On the Monday morning I set out to visit one or two people whom the +severity of the weather had kept from church on the Sunday. The last +severe frost, as it turned out, of the season, was possessing the +earth. The sun was low in the wintry sky, and what seemed a very cold +mist up in the air hid him from the earth. I was walking along a path +in a field close by a hedge. A tree had been cut down, and lay upon the +grass. A short distance from it lay its own figure marked out in +hoar-frost. There alone was there any hoar-frost on the field; the rest +was all of the loveliest tenderest green. I will not say the figure was +such an exact resemblance as a photograph would have been; still it was +an indubitable likeness. It appeared to the hasty glance that not a +branch not a knot of the upper side of the tree at least was left +unrepresented in shining and glittering whiteness upon the green grass. +It was very pretty, and, I confess, at first, very puzzling. I walked +on, meditating on the phenomenon, till at length I found out its cause. +The hoar-frost had been all over the field in the morning. The sun had +been shining for a time, and had melted the frost away, except where he +could only cast a shadow. As he rose and rose, the shadow of the tree +had shortened and come nearer and nearer to its original, growing more +and more like as it came nearer, while the frost kept disappearing as +the shadow withdrew its protection. When the shadow extended only to a +little way from the tree, the clouds came and covered the sun, and +there were no more shadows, only one great one of the clouds. Then the +frost shone out in the shape of the vanished shadow. It lay at a little +distance from the tree, because the tree having been only partially +lopped, some great stumps of boughs held it up from the ground, and +thus, when the sun was low, his light had shone a little way through +beneath, as well as over the trunk. + +My reader needs not be afraid; I am not going to "moralise this +spectacle with a thousand similes." I only tell it him as a very pretty +phenomenon. But I confess I walked on moralising it. Any new thing in +nature--I mean new in regard to my knowledge, of course--always made me +happy; and I was full of the quiet pleasure it had given me and of the +thoughts it had brought me, when, as I was getting over a stile, whom +should I see in the next field, coming along the footpath, but the lady +who had made herself so disagreeable about Theodora. The sight was +rather a discord in my feeling at that moment; perhaps it would have +been so at any moment. But I prepared myself to meet her in the +strength of the good humour which nature had just bestowed upon me. For +I fear the failing will go with me to the grave that I am very ready to +be annoyed, even to the loss of my temper, at the urgings of ignoble +prudence. + +"Good-morning, Miss Bowdler," I said. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Walton," she returned "I am afraid you thought me +impertinent the other week; but you know by this time it is only my +way." + +"As such I take it," I answered with a smile. + +She did not seem quite satisfied that I did not defend her from her own +accusation; but as it was a just one, I could not do so. Therefore she +went on to repeat the offence by way of justification. + +"It was all for Mrs. Walton's sake. You ought to consider her, Mr. +Walton. She has quite enough to do with that dear Connie, who is likely +to be an invalid all her days--too much to take the trouble of a +beggar's brat as well." + +"Has Mrs. Walton been complaining to you about it, Miss Bowdler?" I +asked. + +"O dear, no!" she answered. "She is far too good to complain of +anything. That's just why her friends must look after her a bit, Mr. +Walton." + +"Then I beg you won't speak disrespectfully of my little Theodora." + +"O dear me! no. Not at all. I don't speak disrespectfully of her." + +"Even amongst the class of which she comes, 'a beggar's brat' would be +regarded as bad language." + +"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Mr. Walton! If you _will_ take offence--" + +"I do take offence. And you know there is One who has given especial +warning against offending the little ones." + +Miss Bowdler walked away in high displeasure--let me hope in conviction +of sin as well. She did not appear in church for the next two Sundays. +Then she came again. But she called very seldom at the Hall after this, +and I believe my wife was not sorry. + +Now whether it came in any way from what that lady had said as to my +wife's trouble with Constance and Theodora together, I can hardly tell; +but, before I had reached home, I had at last got a glimpse of +something like the right way, as it appeared to me, of bringing up +Theodora. When I went into the house, I looked for my wife to have a +talk with her about it; but, indeed, it always necessary to find her +every time I got home. I found her in Connie's room as I had expected. +Now although we were never in the habit of making mysteries of things +in which there was no mystery, and talked openly before our children, +and the more openly the older they grew, yet there were times when we +wanted to have our talks quite alone, especially when we had not made +up our minds about something. So I asked Ethelwyn to walk out with me. + +"I'm afraid I can't just this moment, husband," she answered. She was +in the way of using that form of address, for she said it meant +everything without saying it aloud. "I can't just this moment, for +there is no one at liberty to stay with Connie." + +"O, never mind me, mamma," said Connie cheerfully. "Theodora will take +care of me," and she looked fondly at the child, who was lying by her +side fast asleep. + +"There!" I said. And both, looked up surprised, for neither knew what I +meant. "I will tell you afterwards," I said, laughing. "Come along, +Ethel." + +"You can ring the bell, you know, Connie, if you should want anything, +or your baby should wake up and be troublesome. You won't want me long, +will you, husband?" + +"I'm not sure about that. You must tell Susan to watch for the bell." + +Susan was the old nurse. + +Ethel put on her hooded cloak, and we went out together. I took her +across to the field where I had seen the hoary shadow. The sun had not +shone out, and I hoped it would be there to gladden her dear eyes as it +had gladdened mine; but it was gone. The warmth of the sun, without his +direct rays, had melted it away, as sacred influences will sometimes do +with other shadows, without the mind knowing any more than the grass +how the shadow departed. There, reader! I have got a bit of a moral in +about it before you knew what I was doing. But I was sorry my wife +could see it only through my eyes and words. Then I told her about Miss +Bowdler, and what she had said. Ethel was very angry at her +impertinence in speaking so to me. That was a wife's feeling, you know, +and perhaps excusable in the first impression of the thing. + +"She seems to think," she said, "that she was sent into the world to +keep other people right instead of herself. I am very glad you set her +down, as the maids say." + +"O, I don't think there's much harm in her," I returned, which was easy +generosity, seeing my wife was taking my part. "Indeed, I am not sure +that we are not both considerably indebted to her; for it was after I +met her that a thought came into my head as to how we ought to do with +Theodora." + +"Still troubling yourself about that, husband?" + +"The longer the difficulty lasts, the more necessary is it that it +should be met," I answered. "Our measures must begin sometime, and +when, who can tell? We ought to have them in our heads, or they will +never begin at all." + +"Well, I confess they are rather of a general nature at +present--belonging to humanity rather than the individual, as you would +say--consisting chiefly in washing, dressing, feeding, and apostrophe, +varied with lullabying. But our hearts are a better place for our +measures than our heads, aren't they?" + +"Certainly; I walk corrected. Only there's no fear about your heart. +I'm not quite so sure about your head." + +"Thank you, husband. But with you for a head it doesn't matter, does +it?" + +"I don't know that. People should always strengthen the weaker part, +for no chain is stronger than its weakest link; no fortification +stronger than its most assailable point. But, seriously, wife, I trust +your head nearly, though not quite, as much as your heart. Now to go to +business. There's one thing we have both made up our minds about--that +there is to be no concealment with the child. God's fact must be known +by her. It would be cruel to keep the truth from her, even if it were +not sure to come upon her with a terrible shock some day. She must know +from the first, by hearing it talked of--not by solemn and private +communication--that she came out of the shrubbery. That's settled, is +it not?" + +"Certainly. I see that to be the right way," responded Ethelwyn. + +"Now, are we bound to bring her up exactly as our own, or are we not?" + +"We are bound to do as well for her as for our own." + +"Assuredly. But if we brought her up just as our own, would that, the +facts being as they are, be to do as well for her as for our own?" + +"I doubt it; for other people would not choose to receive her as we +have done." + +"That is true. She would be continually reminded of her origin. Not +that that in itself would be any evil; but as they would do it by +excluding or neglecting her, or, still worse, by taking liberties with +her, it would be a great pain. But keeping that out of view, would it +be good for herself, knowing what she will know, to be thus brought up? +Would it not be kinder to bring her up in a way that would make it +easier for her to relieve the gratitude which I trust she will feel, +not for our sakes--I hope we are above doing anything for the sake of +the gratitude which will be given for it, and which is so often far +beyond the worth of the thing done--" + + "Alas! the gratitude of men + Hath oftener left me mourning," + +said Ethel. + +"Ah! you understand that now, my Ethel!" + +"Yes, thank you, I do." + +"But we must wish for gratitude for others' sake, though we may be +willing to go without it for our own. Indeed, gratitude is often just +as painful as Wordsworth there represents it. It makes us so ashamed; +makes us think how much more we _might_ have done; how lovely a thing +it is to give in return for such common gifts as ours; how needy the +man or woman must be in whom a trifle awakes so much emotion." + +"Yes; but we must not in justice think that it is merely that our +little doing seems great to them: it is the kindness shown them +therein, for which, often, they are more grateful than for the gift, +though they can't show the difference in their thanks." + +"And, indeed, are not aware of it themselves, though it is so. And yet, +the same remarks hold good about the kindness as about the gift. But to +return to Theodora. If we put her in a way of life that would be +recognisant of whence she came, and how she had been brought thence, +might it not be better for her? Would it not be building on the truth? +Would she not be happier for it?" + + +"You are putting general propositions, while all the time you have +something particular and definite in your own mind; and that is not +fair to my place in the conference," said Ethel. "In fact, you think +you are trying to approach me wisely, in order to persuade, I will not +say _wheedle_, me into something. It's a good thing you have the +harmlessness of the dove, Harry, for you've got the other thing." + +"Well, then, I will be as plain as ever I can be, only premising that +what you call the cunning of the serpent--" + +"Wisdom, Harry, not cunning." + +"Is only that I like to give my arguments before my proposition. But +here it is--bare and defenceless, only--let me warn you--with a whole +battery behind it: it is, to bring up little Theodora as a servant to +Constance." + +My wife laughed. + +"Well," she said, "for one who says so much about not thinking of the +morrow, you do look rather far forward." + +"Not with any anxiety, however, if only I know that I am doing right." + +"But just think: the child is about three months old." + +"Well; Connie will be none the worse that she is being trained for her. +I don't say that she is to commence her duties at once." + +"But Connie may be at the head of a house of her own long before that." + +"The training won't be lost to the child though. But I much fear, my +love, that Connie will never be herself again. There is no sign of it. +And Turner does not give much hope." + +"O Harry, Harry, don't say so! I can't bear it. To think of the darling +child lying like that all her life!" + +"It is sad, indeed; but no such awful misfortune surely, Ethel. Haven't +you seen, as well as I, that the growth of that child's nature since +her accident has been marvellous? Ten times rather would I have her +lying there such as she is, than have her well and strong and silly, +with her bonnets inside instead of outside her head." + +"Yes, but she needn't have been like that. Wynnie never will." + +"Well, but God does all things not only well, but best, absolutely +best. But just think what it would be in any circumstances to have a +maid that had begun to wait upon her from the first days that she was +able to toddle after something to fetch it for her." + +"Won't it be like making a slave of her?" + +"Won't it be like giving her a divine freedom from the first? The lack +of service is the ruin of humanity." + +"But we can't train her then like one of our own." + +"Why not? Could we not give her all the love and all the teaching?" + +"Because it would not be fair to give her the education of a lady, and +then make a servant of her." + +"You forget that the service would be part of her training from the +first; and she would know no change of position in it. When we tell her +that she was found in the shrubbery, we will add that we think God sent +her to take care of Constance. I do not believe myself that you can +have perfect service except from a lady. Do not forget the true notion +of service as the essence of Christianity, yea, of divinity. It is not +education that unfits for service: it is the want of it." + +"Well, I know that the reading girls I have had, have, as a rule, +served me worse than the rest." + +"Would you have called one of those girls educated? Or even if they had +been educated, as any of them might well have been, better than +nine-tenths of the girls that go to boarding-schools, you must remember +that they had never been taught service--the highest accomplishment of +all. To that everything aids, when any true feeling of it is there. But +for service of this high sort, the education must begin with the +beginning of the dawn of will. How often have you wished that you had +servants who would believe in you, and serve you with the same truth +with which you regarded them! The servants born in a man's house in the +old times were more like his children than his servants. Here is a +chance for you, as it were of a servant born in your own house. Connie +loves the child: the child will love Connie, and find her delight in +serving her like a little cherub. Not one of the maids to whom you have +referred had ever been taught to think service other than an +unavoidable necessity, the end of life being to serve yourself, not to +serve others; and hence most of them would escape from it by any +marriage almost that they had a chance of making. I don't say all +servants are like that; but I do think that most of them are. I know +very well that most mistresses are as much to blame for this result as +the servants are; but we are not talking about them. Servants nowadays +despise work, and yet are forced to do it--a most degrading condition +to be in. But they would not be in any better condition if delivered +from the work. The lady who despises work is in as bad a condition as +they are. The only way to set them free is to get them to regard +service not only as their duty, but as therefore honourable, and +besides and beyond this, in its own nature divine. In America, the very +name of servant is repudiated as inconsistent with human dignity. There +is _no_ dignity but of service. How different the whole notion of +training is now from what it was in the middle ages! Service was +honourable then. No doubt we have made progress as a whole, but in some +things we have degenerated sadly. The first thing taught then was how +to serve. No man could rise to the honour of knighthood without +service. A nobleman's son even had to wait on his father, or to go into +the family of another nobleman, and wait upon him as a page, standing +behind his chair at dinner. This was an honour. No notion of +degradation was in it. It was a necessary step to higher honour. And +what was the next higher honour? To be set free from service? No. To +serve in the harder service of the field; to be a squire to some noble +knight; to tend his horse, to clean his armour, to see that every rivet +was sound, every buckle true, every strap strong; to ride behind him, +and carry his spear, and if more than one attacked him, to rush to his +aid. This service was the more honourable because it was harder, and +was the next step to higher honour yet. And what was this higher +honour? That of knighthood. Wherein did this knighthood consist? The +very word means simply _service_. And for what was the knight thus +waited upon by his squire? That he might be free to do as he pleased? +No, but that he might be free to be the servant of all. By being a +squire first, the servant of one, he learned to rise to the higher +rank, that of servant of all. His horse was tended, this armour +observed, his sword and spear and shield held to his hand, that he +might have no trouble looking after himself, but might be free, strong, +unwearied, to shoot like an arrow to the rescue of any and every one +who needed his ready aid. There was a grand heart of Christianity in +that old chivalry, notwithstanding all its abuses which must be no more +laid to its charge than the burning of Jews and heretics to +Christianity. It was the lack of it, not the presence of it that +occasioned the abuses that coexisted with it. Train our Theodora as a +holy child-servant, and there will be no need to restrain any impulse +of wise affection from pouring itself forth upon her. My firm belief is +that we should then love and honour her far more than if we made her +just like one of our own." + +"But what if she should turn out utterly unfit for it?" + +"Ah! then would come an obstacle. But it will not come till that +discovery is made." + +"But if we should be going wrong all the time?" + +"Now, there comes the kind of care that never troubles me, and which I +so strongly object to. It won't hurt her anyhow. And we ought always to +act upon the ideal; it is the only safe ground of action. When that +which contradicts and resists, and would ruin our ideal, opposes us, +then we must take measures; but not till then can we take measures, or +know what measures it may be necessary to take. But the ideal itself is +the only thing worth striving after. Remember what our Lord himself +said: 'Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven +is perfect.'" + +"Well, I will think about it, Harry. There is time enough." + +"Plenty. No time only not to think about it. The more you think about +it the better. If a thing be a good thing, the more you think about it +the better it will look; for its real nature will go on coming out and +showing itself. I cannot doubt that you will soon see how good it is." + +We then went home. It was only two days after that my wife said to me-- + +"I am more than reconciled to your plan, husband. It seems to me +delightful." + +When we reentered Connie's room, we found that her baby had just waked, +and she had managed to get one arm under her, and was trying to comfort +her, for she was crying. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A SPRING CHAPTER. + + +More especially now in my old age, I find myself "to a lingering motion +bound." I would, if I might, tell a tale day by day, hour by hour, +following the movement of the year in its sweet change of seasons. This +may not be, but I will indulge myself now so far as to call this a +spring chapter, and so pass to the summer, when my reader will see why +I have called my story "The Seaboard Parish." + +I was out one day amongst my people, and I found two precious things: +one, a lovely little fact, the other a lovely little primrose. This was +a pinched, dwarfish thing, for the spring was but a baby herself, and +so could not mother more than a brave-hearted weakling. The frost lay +all about it under the hedge, but its rough leaves kept it just warm +enough, and hardly. Now, I should never have pulled the little darling; +it would have seemed a kind of small sacrilege committed on the church +of nature, seeing she had but this one; only with my sickly cub at +home, I felt justified in ravening like a beast of prey. I even went so +far in my greed as to dig up the little plant with my fingers, and bear +it, leaves and all, with a lump of earth about it to keep it alive, +home to my little woman--a present from the outside world which she +loved so much. And as I went there dawned upon me the recollection of a +little mirror in which, if I could find it, she would see it still more +lovely than in a direct looking at itself. So I set myself to find it; +for it lay in fragments in the drawers and cabinets of my memory. And +before I got home I had found all the pieces and put them together; and +then it was a lovely little sonnet which a friend of mine had written +and allowed me to see many years before. I was in the way of writing +verses myself; but I should have been proud to have written this one. I +never could have done that. Yet, as far as I knew, it had never seen +the light through the windows of print. It was with some difficulty +that I got it all right; but I thought I had succeeded very nearly, if +not absolutely, and I said it over and over, till I was sure I should +not spoil its music or its meaning by halting in the delivery of it. + +"Look here, my Connie, what I have brought you," I said. + +She held out her two white, half-transparent hands, took it as if it +had been a human baby and looked at it lovingly till the tears came in +her eyes. She would have made a tender picture, as she then lay, with +her two hands up, holding the little beauty before her eyes. Then I +said what I have already written about the mirror, and repeated the +sonnet to her. Here it is, and my readers will owe me gratitude for it. +My friend had found the snowdrop in February, and in frost. Indeed he +told me that there was a tolerable sprinkling of snow upon the ground: + + "I know not what among the grass thou art, + Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower, + Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power + To send thine image through them to the heart; + But when I push the frosty leaves apart, + And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower, + Thou growest up within me from that hour, + And through the snow I with the spring depart. + + I have no words. But fragrant is the breath, + Pale Beauty, of thy second life within. + There is a wind that cometh for thy death, + But thou a life immortal dost begin, + Where, in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell + Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!" + +"Will you say it again, papa?" said Connie; "I do not quite understand +it." + +"I will, my dear. But I will do something better as well. I will go and +write it out for you, as soon as I have given you something else that I +have brought." + +"Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I +may read it quite easily." + +I promised, and repeated the poem. + +"I understand it a little better," she said; "but the meaning is just +like the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give +it me in writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what +else you have brought me." + +I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the +plant and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only +expressed satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat +down with us. + +"I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning," I said. "She feels the +loss of her mother very much, poor thing." + +"How old was she, papa?" asked Connie. + +"She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, +and her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old +lady, you know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat +on the tablecloth. 'Mr. Shafton,' she said, 'was one of the old school; +he would never have done that. I don't know what the world is coming +to.'" + +My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad +manners. + +"What did you say, papa?" they asked. + +"I begged her pardon, and lifted it instantly. 'O, it's all right now, +my dear,' she said, 'when you've taken it up again. But I like good +manners, though I live in a cottage now.'" + +"Had she seen better days, then?" asked Wynnie. + +"She was a farmer's daughter, and a farmer's widow. I suppose the chief +difference in her mode of life was that she lived in a cottage instead +of a good-sized farmhouse." + +"But what is the story you have to tell us?" + +"I'm coming to that when you have done with your questions." + +"We have done, papa." + +"After talking awhile, during which she went bustling a little about +the cottage, in order to hide her feelings, as I thought, for she has a +good deal of her mother's sense of dignity about her,--but I want your +mother to hear the story. Run and fetch her, Wynnie." + +"O, do make haste, Wynnie," said Connie. + +When Ethelwyn came, I went on. + +"Miss Aylmer was bustling a little about the cottage, putting things to +rights. All at once she gave a cry of surprise, and said, 'Here it is, +at last!' She had taken up a stuff dress of her mother's, and was +holding it in one hand, while with the other she drew from the +pocket--what do you think?" + +Various guesses were hazarded. + +"No, no--nothing like it. I know you _could_ never guess. Therefore it +would not be fair to keep you trying. A great iron horseshoe. The old +woman of ninety years had in the pocket of the dress that she was +wearing at the very moment when she died, for her death was sudden, an +iron horseshoe." + +"What did it mean? Could her daughter explain it?" + +"That she proceeded at once to do. 'Do you remember, sir,' she said, +'how that horseshoe used to hang on a nail over the chimneypiece?' 'I +do remember having observed it there,' I answered; 'for once when I +took notice of it, I said to your mother, laughing, "I hope you are not +afraid of witches, Mrs. Aylmer?" And she looked a little offended, and +assured me to the contrary.' 'Well,' her daughter went on, 'about three +months ago, I missed it. My mother would not tell me anything about it. +And here it is! I can hardly think she can have carried it about all +that time without me finding it out, but I don't know. Here it is, +anyhow. Perhaps when she felt death drawing nearer, she took it from +somewhere where she had hidden it, and put it in her pocket. If I had +found it in time, I would have put it in her coffin.' 'But why?' I +asked. 'Do tell me the story about it, if you know it.' 'I know it +quite well, for she told me all about it once. It is the shoe of a +favourite mare of my father's--one he used to ride when he went +courting my mother. My grandfather did not like to have a young man +coming about the house, and so he came after the old folks were gone to +bed. But he had a long way to come, and he rode that mare. She had to +go over some stones to get to the stable, and my mother used to spread +straw there, for it was under the window of my grandfather's room, that +her shoes mightn't make a noise and wake him. And that's one of the +shoes,' she said, holding it up to me. 'When the mare died, my mother +begged my father for the one off her near forefoot, where she had so +often stood and patted her neck when my father was mounted to ride home +again.'" + +"But it was very naughty of her, wasn't it," said Wynnie, "to do that +without her father's knowledge?" + +"I don't say it was right, my dear. But in looking at what is wrong, we +ought to look for the beginning of the wrong; and possibly we might +find that in this case farther back. If, for instance, a father isn't a +father, we must not be too hard in blaming the child for not being a +child. The father's part has to come first, and teach the child's part. +Now, if I might guess from what I know of the old lady, in whom +probably it was much softened, her father was very possibly a hard, +unreasoning, and unreasonable man--such that it scarcely ever came into +the daughter's head that she had anything else to do with regard to him +than beware of the consequences of letting him know that she had a +lover. The whole thing, I allow, was wrong; but I suspect the father +was first to blame, and far more to blame than the daughter. And that +is the more likely from the high character of the old dame, and the +romantic way in which she clung to the memory of the courtship. A true +heart only does not grow old. And I have, therefore, no doubt that the +marriage was a happy one. Besides, I daresay it was very much the +custom of the country where they were, and that makes some difference." + +"Well, I'm sure, papa, you wouldn't like any of us to go and do like +that," said Wynnie. + +"Assuredly not, my dear," I answered, laughing. "Nor have I any fear of +it. But shall I tell you what I think would be one of the chief things +to trouble me if you did?" + +"If you like, papa. But it sounds rather dreadful to hear such an _if_" +said Wynnie. + +"It would be to think how much I had failed of being such a father to +you as I ought to be, and as I wished to be, if it should prove at all +possible for you to do such a thing." + +"It's too dreadful to talk about, papa," said Wynnie; and the subject +was dropped. + +She was a strange child, this Wynnie of ours. Whereas most people are +in danger of thinking themselves in the right, or insisting that they +are whether they think so or not, she was always thinking herself in +the wrong. Nay more, she always expected to find herself in the wrong. +If the perpetrator of any mischief was inquired after, she always +looked into her own bosom to see whether she could not with justice +aver that she was the doer of the deed. I believe she felt at that +moment as if she had been deceiving me already, and deserved to be +driven out of the house. This came of an over-sensitiveness, +accompanied by a general dissatisfaction with herself, which was not +upheld by a sufficient faith in the divine sympathy, or sufficient +confidence of final purification. She never spared herself; and if she +was a little severe on the younger ones sometimes, no one was yet more +indulgent to them. She would eat all their hard crusts for them, always +give them the best and take the worst for herself. If there was any +part in the dish that she was helping that she thought nobody would +like, she invariably assigned it to her own share. It looked like a +determined self-mortification sometimes; but that was not it. She did +not care for her own comfort enough to feel it any mortification; +though I observed that when her mother or I helped her to anything +nice, she ate it with as much relish as the youngest of the party. And +her sweet smile was always ready to meet the least kindness that was +offered her. Her obedience was perfect, and had been so for very many +years, as far as we could see. Indeed, not since she was the merest +child had there been any contest between us. Now, of course, there was +no demand of obedience: she was simply the best earthly friend that her +father and mother had. It often caused me some passing anxiety to think +that her temperament, as well as her devotion to her home, might cause +her great suffering some day; but when those thoughts came, I just gave +her to God to take care of. Her mother sometimes said to her that she +would make an excellent wife for a poor man. She would brighten up +greatly at this, taking it for a compliment of the best sort. And she +did not forget it, as the sequel will show. She would choose to sit +with one candle lit when there were two on the table, wasting her eyes +to save the candles. "Which will you have for dinner to-day, papa, +roast beef or boiled?" she asked me once, when her mother was too +unwell to attend to the housekeeping. And when I replied that I would +have whichever she liked best--"The boiled beef lasts longest, I +think," she said. Yet she was not only as liberal and kind as any to +the poor, but she was, which is rarer, and perhaps more important for +the final formation of a character, carefully just to everyone with +whom she had any dealings. Her sense of law was very strong. Law with +her was something absolute, and not to be questioned. In her childhood +there was one lady to whom for years she showed a decided aversion, and +we could not understand it, for it was the most inoffensive Miss +Boulderstone. When she was nearly grown up, one of us happening to +allude to the fact, she volunteered an explanation. Miss Boulderstone +had happened to call one day when Wynnie, then between three and four +was in disgrace--_in the corner_, in fact. Miss Boulderstone interceded +for her; and this was the whole front of her offending. + +"I _was_ so angry!" she said. "'As if my papa did not know best when I +ought to come out of the corner!' I said to myself. And I couldn't bear +her for ever so long after that." + +Miss Boulderstone, however, though not very interesting, was quite a +favourite before she died. She left Wynnie--for she and her brother +were the last of their race--a death's-head watch, which had been in +the family she did not know how long. I think it is as old as Queen +Elizabeth's time. I took it to London to a skilful man, and had it as +well repaired as its age would admit of; and it has gone ever since, +though not with the greatest accuracy; for what could be expected of an +old death's-head, the most transitory thing in creation? Wynnie wears +it to this day, and wouldn't part with it for the best watch in the +world. + +I tell the reader all this about my daughter that he may be the more +able to understand what will follow in due time. He will think that as +yet my story has been nothing but promises. Let him only hope that I +will fulfil them, and I shall be content. + +Mr. Boulderstone did not long outlive his sister. Though the old +couple, for they were rather old before they died, if, indeed, they +were not born old, which I strongly suspect, being the last of a +decaying family that had not left the land on which they were born for +a great many generations--though the old people had not, of what the +French call sentiments, one between them, they were yet capable of a +stronger and, I had almost said, more romantic attachment, than many +couples who have married from love; for the lady's sole trouble in +dying was what her brother _would_ do without her; and from the day of +her death, he grew more and more dull and seemingly stupid. Nothing +gave him any pleasure but having Wynnie to dinner with him. I knew that +it must be very dull for her, but she went often, and I never heard her +complain of it, though she certainly did look fagged--not _bored_, +observe, but fagged--showing that she had been exerting herself to meet +the difficulties of the situation. When the good man died, we found +that he had left all his money in my hands, in trust for the poor of +the parish, to be applied in any way I thought best. This involved me +in much perplexity, for nothing is more difficult than to make money +useful to the poor. But I was very glad of it, notwithstanding. + +My own means were not so large as my readers may think. The property my +wife brought me was much encumbered. With the help of her private +fortune, and the income of several years (not my income from the +church, it may be as well to say), I succeeded in clearing off the +encumbrances. But even then there remained much to be done, if I would +be the good steward that was not to be ashamed at his Lord's coming. +First of all there were many cottages to be built for the labourers on +the estate. If the farmers would not, or could not, help, I must do it; +for to provide decent dwellings for them, was clearly one of the divine +conditions in the righteous tenure of property, whatever the human +might be; for it was not for myself alone, or for myself chiefly, that +this property was given to me; it was for those who lived upon it. +Therefore I laid out what money I could, not only in getting all the +land clearly in its right relation to its owner, but in doing the best +I could for those attached to it who could not help themselves. And +when I hint to my reader that I had some conscience in paying my +curate, though, as they had no children, they did not require so much +as I should otherwise have felt compelled to give them, he will easily +see that as my family grew up I could not have so much to give away of +my own as I should have liked. Therefore this trust of the good Mr. +Boulderstone was the more acceptable to me. + +One word more ere I finish this chapter.--I should not like my friends +to think that I had got tired of our Christmas gatherings, because I +have made no mention of one this year. It had been pretermitted for the +first time, because of my daughter's illness. It was much easier to +give them now than when I lived at the vicarage, for there was plenty +of room in the old hall. But my curate, Mr. Weir, still held a similar +gathering there every Easter. + +Another one word more about him. Some may wonder why I have not +mentioned him or my sister, especially in connection with Connie's +accident. The fact was, that he had taken, or rather I had given him, a +long holiday. Martha had had several disappointing illnesses, and her +general health had suffered so much in consequence that there was even +some fear of her lungs, and a winter in the south of France had been +strongly recommended. Upon this I came in with more than a +recommendation, and insisted that they should go. They had started in +the beginning of October, and had not returned up to the time of which +I am now about to write--somewhere in the beginning of the month of +April. But my sister was now almost quite well, and I was not sorry to +think that I should soon have a little more leisure for such small +literary pursuits as I delighted in--to my own enrichment, and +consequently to the good of my parishioners and friends. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +AN IMPORTANT LETTER. + + +It was, then, in the beginning of April that I received one morning an +epistle from an old college friend of mine, with whom I had renewed my +acquaintance of late, through the pleasure which he was kind enough to +say he had derived from reading a little book of mine upon the relation +of the mind of St. Paul to the gospel story. His name was Shepherd--a +good name for a clergyman. In his case both Christian name and +patronymic might remind him well of his duty. David Shepherd ought to +be a good clergyman. + +As soon as I had read the letter, I went with it open in my hand to +find my wife. + +"Here is Shepherd," I said, "with a clerical sore-throat, and forced to +give up his duty for a whole summer. He writes to ask me whether, as he +understands I have a curate as good as myself--that is what the old +fellow says--it might not suit me to take my family to his place for +the summer. He assures me I should like it, and that it would do us all +good. His house, he says, is large enough to hold us, and he knows I +should not like to be without duty wherever I was. And so on Read the +letter for yourself, and turn it over in your mind. Weir will come back +so fresh and active that it will be no oppression to him to take the +whole of the duty here. I will run and ask Turner whether it would be +safe to move Connie, and whether the sea-air would be good for her." + +"One would think you were only twenty, husband--you make up your mind +so quickly, and are in such a hurry." + +The fact was, a vision of the sea had rushed in upon me. It was many +years since I had seen the sea, and the thought of looking on it once +more, in its most glorious show, the Atlantic itself, with nothing +between us and America, but the round of the ridgy water, had excited +me so that my wife's reproof, if reproof it was, was quite necessary to +bring me to my usually quiet and sober senses. I laughed, begged old +grannie's pardon, and set off to see Turner notwithstanding, leaving +her to read and ponder Shepherd's letter. + +"What do you think, Turner?" I said, and told him the case. He looked +rather grave. + +"When would you think of going?" he asked. + +"About the beginning of June." + +"Nearly two months," he said, thoughtfully. "And Miss Connie was not +the worse for getting on the sofa yesterday?" + +"The better, I do think." + +"Has she had any increase of pain since?" + +"None, I quite believe; for I questioned her as to that." + +He thought again. He was a careful man, although young. + +"It is a long journey." + +"She could make it by easy stages." + +"It would certainly do her good to breathe the sea-air and have such a +thorough change in every way--if only it could be managed without +fatigue and suffering. I think, if you can get her up every day between +this and that, we shall be justified in trying it at least. The sooner +you get her out of doors the better too; but the weather is scarcely +fit for that yet." + +"A good deal will depend on how she is inclined, I suppose." + +"Yes. But in her case you must not mind that too much. An invalid's +instincts as to eating and drinking are more to be depended upon than +those of a healthy person; but it is not so, I think with regard to +anything involving effort. That she must sometimes be urged to. She +must not judge that by inclination. I have had, in my short practice, +two patients, who considered themselves _bedlars_, as you will find the +common people in the part you are going to, call them--bedridden, that +is. One of them I persuaded to make the attempt to rise, and although +her sense of inability was anything but feigned, and she will be a +sufferer to the end of her days, yet she goes about the house without +much inconvenience, and I suspect is not only physically but morally +the better for it. The other would not consent to try, and I believe +lies there still." + +"The will has more to do with most things than people generally +suppose," I said. "Could you manage, now, do you think, supposing we +resolve to make the experiment, to accompany us the first stage or two?" + +"It is very likely I could. Only you must not depend upon me. I cannot +tell beforehand. You yourself would teach me that I must not be a +respecter of persons, you know." + +I returned to my wife. She was in Connie's room. + +"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you think of it?" + +"Of what?" she asked. + +"Why, of Shepherd's letter, of course," I answered. + +"I've been ordering the dinner since, Harry." + +"The dinner!" I returned with some show of contempt, for I knew my wife +was only teasing me. "What's the dinner to the Atlantic?" + +"What do you mean by the Atlantic, papa?" said Connie, from whose +roguish eyes I could see that her mother had told her all about it, and +that _she_ was not disinclined to get up, if only she could. + +"The Atlantic, my dear, is the name given to that portion of the waters +of the globe which divides Europe from America. I will fetch you the +Universal Gazetteer, if you would like to consult it on the subject." + +"O papa!" laughed Connie; "you know what I mean." + +"Yes; and you know what I mean too, you squirrel!" + +"But do you really mean, papa," she said "that you will take me to the +Atlantic?" + +"If you will only oblige me by getting Well enough to go as soon as +possible." + +The poor child half rose on her elbow, but sank back again with a moan, +which I took for a cry of pain. I was beside her in a moment. + +"My darling! You have hurt yourself!" + +"O no, papa. I felt for the moment as if I could get up if I liked. But +I soon found that I hadn't any back or legs. O! what a plague I am to +you!" + +"On the contrary, you are the nicest plaything in the world, Connie. +One always knows where to find you." + +She half laughed and half cried, and the two halves made a very +bewitching whole. + +"But," I went on, "I mean to try whether my dolly won't bear moving. +One thing is clear, I can't go without it. Do you think you could be +got on the sofa to-day without hurting you?" + +"I am sure I could, papa. I feel better today than I have felt yet. +Mamma, do send for Susan, and get me up before dinner." + +When I went in after a couple of hours or so, I found her lying on the +conch, propped up with pillows. She lay looking out of the window on +the lawn at the back of the house. A smile hovered about her bloodless +lips, and the blue of her eyes, though very gray, looked sunny. Her +white face showed the whiter because her dark brown hair was all about +it. We had had to cut her hair, but it had grown to her neck again. + +"I have been trying to count the daisies on the lawn," she said. + +"What a sharp sight you must have, child!" + +"I see them all as clear as if they were enamelled on that table before +me." + +I was not so anxious to get rid of the daisies as some people are. +Neither did I keep the grass quite so close shaved. + +"But," she went on, "I could not count them, for it gave me the fidgets +in my feet." + +"You don't say so!" I exclaimed. + +She looked at me with some surprise, but concluding that I was only +making a little of my mild fun at her expense, she laughed. + +"Yes. Isn't it a wonderful fact?" she said. + +"It is a fact, my dear, that I feel ready to go on my knees and thank +God for. I may be wrong, but I take it as a sign that you are beginning +to recover a little. But we mustn't make too much of it, lest I should +be mistaken," I added, checking myself, for I feared exciting her too +much. + +But she lay very still; only the tears rose slowly and lay shimmering +in her eyes. After about five minutes, during which we were both +silent,-- + +"O papa!" she said, "to think of ever walking out with you again, and +feeling the wind on my face! I can hardly believe it possible." + +"It is so mild, I think you might have half that pleasure at once," I +answered.. + +And I opened the window, let the spring air gently move her hair for +one moment, and then shut it again. Connie breathed deep, and said +after a little pause,-- + +"I had no idea how delightful it was. To think that I have been in the +way of breathing that every moment for so many years and never thought +about it!" + +"It is not always just like that in this climate. But I ought not to +have made that remark when I wanted to make this other: that I suspect +we shall find some day that the loss of the human paradise consists +chiefly in the closing of the human eyes; that at least far more of it +than people think remains about us still, only we are so filled with +foolish desires and evil cares, that we cannot see or hear, cannot even +smell or taste the pleasant things round about us. We have need to pray +in regard to the right receiving of the things of the senses even, +'Lord, open thou our hearts to understand thy word;' for each of these +things is as certainly a word of God as Jesus is the Word of God. He +has made nothing in vain. All is for our teaching. Shall I tell you +what such a breath of fresh air makes me think of?" + +"It comes to me," said Connie, "like forgiveness when I was a little +girl and was naughty. I used to feel just like that." + +"It is the same kind of thing I feel," I said--"as if life from the +Spirit of God were coming into my soul: I think of the wind that +bloweth where it listeth. Wind and spirit are the same word in the +Greek; and the Latin word _spirit_ comes even nearer to what we are +saying, for it is the wind as _breathed_. And now, Connie, I will tell +you--and you will see how I am growing able to talk to you like quite +an old friend--what put me in such a delight with Mr. Shepherd's letter +and so exposed me to be teased by mamma and you. As I read it, there +rose up before me a vision of one sight of the sea which I had when I +was a young man, long before I saw your mamma. I had gone out for a +walk along some high downs. But I ought to tell you that I had been +working rather hard at Cambridge, and the life seemed to be all gone +out of me. Though my holidays had come, they did not feel quite like +holidays--not as holidays used to feel when I was a boy. Even when +walking along those downs with the scents of sixteen grasses or so in +my brain, like a melody with the odour of the earth for the +accompaniment upon which it floated, and with just enough of wind to +stir them up and set them in motion, I could not feel at all. I +remembered something of what I had used to feel in such places, but +instead of believing in that, I doubted now whether it had not been all +a trick that I played myself--a fancied pleasure only. I was walking +along, then, with the sea behind me. It was a warm, cloudy day--I had +had no sunshine since I came out. All at once I turned--I don't know +why. There lay the gray sea, but not as I had seen it last, not all +gray. It was dotted, spotted, and splashed all over with drops, pools, +and lakes of light, of all shades of depth, from a light shimmer of +tremulous gray, through a half light that turned the prevailing lead +colour into translucent green that seemed to grow out of its +depths--through this, I say, to brilliant light, deepening and +deepening till my very soul was stung by the triumph of the intensity +of its molten silver. There was no sun upon me. But there were breaks +in the clouds over the sea, through which, the air being filled with +vapour, I could see the long lines of the sun-rays descending on the +waters like rain--so like a rain of light that the water seemed to +plash up in light under their fall. I questioned the past no more; the +present seized upon me, and I knew that the past was true, and that +nature was more lovely, more awful in her loveliness than I could +grasp. It was a lonely place: I fell on my knees, and worshipped the +God that made the glory and my soul." + +While I spoke Connie's tears had been flowing quietly. + +"And mamma and I were making fun while you were seeing such things as +those!" she said pitifully. + +"You didn't hurt them one bit, my darling--neither mamma nor you. If I +had been the least cross about it, as I should have been when I was as +young as at the time of which I was thinking, that would have ruined +the vision entirely. But your merriment only made me enjoy it more. +And, my Connie, I hope you will see the Atlantic before long; and if +one vision should come as brilliant as that, we shall be fortunate +indeed, if we went all the way to the west to see that only." + +"O papa! I dare hardly think of it--it is too delightful. But do you +think we shall really go?" + +"I do. Here comes your mamma--I am going to say to Shepherd, my dear, +that I will take his parish in hand, and if I cannot, after all, go +myself, will find some one, so that he need be in no anxiety from the +uncertainty which must hang over our movements even till the experiment +itself is made." + +"Very well, husband. I am quite satisfied." + +And as I watched Connie, I saw that hope and expectation did much to +prepare her. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CONNIE'S DREAM. + + +Mr. Turner, being a good mechanic as well as surgeon, proceeded to +invent, and with his own hands in a great measure construct, a kind of +litter, which, with a water-bed laid upon it, could be placed in our +own carriage for Connie to lie upon, and from that lifted, without +disturbing her, and placed in a similar manner in the railway carriage. +He had laid Connie repeatedly upon it before he was satisfied that the +arrangement of the springs, &c., was successful. But at length she +declared that it was perfect, and that she would not mind being carried +across the Arabian desert on a camel's back with that under her. + +As the season advanced, she continued to improve. I shall never forget +the first time she was carried out upon the lawn. If you can imagine an +infant coming into the world capable of the observation and delight of +a child of eight or ten, you will have some idea of how Connie received +the new impressions of everything around her. They were almost too much +for her at first, however. She who had been used to scamper about like +a wild thing on a pony, found the delight of a breath of wind almost +more than she could bear. After she was laid down she closed her eyes, +and the smile that flickered about her mouth was of a sort that +harmonised entirely with the two great tears that crept softly out from +under her eyelids, and sank, rather than ran, down her cheeks. She lay +so that she faced a rich tract of gently receding upland, plentifully +wooded to the horizon's edge, and through the wood peeped the white and +red houses of a little hamlet, with the square tower of its church just +rising above the trees. A kind of frame was made to the whole picture +by the nearer trees of our own woods, through an opening in which, +evidently made or left for its sake, the distant prospect was visible. +It was a morning in early summer, when the leaves were not quite +full-grown but almost, and their green was shining and pure as the blue +of the sky, when the air had no touch of bitterness or of lassitude, +but was thoroughly warm, and yet filled the lungs with the reviving as +of a draught of cold water. We had fastened the carriage umbrella to +the sofa, so that it should shade her perfectly without obscuring her +prospect; and behind this we all crept, leaving her to come to herself +without being looked at, for emotion is a shy and sacred thing and +should be tenderly hidden by those who are near. The bees kept very +_beesy_ all about us. To see one huge fellow, as big as three ordinary +ones with pieces of red and yellow about him, as if he were the beadle +of all bee-dom, and overgrown in consequence--to see him, I say, down +in a little tuft of white clover, rolling about in it, hardly able to +move for fatness, yet bumming away as if his business was to express +the delight of the whole creation--was a sight! Then there were the +butterflies, so light that they seemed to tumble up into the air, and +get down again with difficulty. They bewildered me with their +inscrutable variations of purpose. "If I could but see once, for an +hour, into the mind of a butterfly," I thought, "it would be to me +worth all the natural history I ever read. If I could but see why he +changes his mind so often and so suddenly--what he saw about that +flower to make him seek it--then why, on a nearer approach, he should +decline further acquaintance with it, and go rocking away through the +air, to do the same fifty times over again--it would give me an insight +into all animal and vegetable life that ages of study could not bring +me up to." I was thinking all this behind my daughter's umbrella, while +a lark, whose body had melted quite away in the heavenly spaces, was +scattering bright beads of ringing melody straight down upon our heads; +while a cock was crowing like a clarion from the home-farm, as if in +defiance of the golden glitter of his silent brother on the roof of the +stable; while a little stream that scampered down the same slope as the +lawn lay upon, from a well in the stable-yard, mingled its sweet +undertone of contentment with the jubilation of the lark and the +business-like hum of the bees; and while white clouds floated in the +majesty of silence across the blue deeps of the heavens. The air was so +full of life and reviving, that it seemed like the crude substance that +God might take to make babies' souls of--only the very simile smells of +materialism, and therefore I do not like it. + +"Papa," said Connie at length, and I was beside her in a moment. Her +face looked almost glorified with delight: there was a hush of that awe +upon it which is perhaps one of the deepest kinds of delight. She put +out her thin white hand, took hold of a button of my coat, drew me down +towards her, and said in a whisper: + +"Don't you think God is here, papa?" + +"Yes, I do, my darling," I answered. + +"Doesn't _he_ enjoy this?" + +"Yes, my dear. He wouldn't make us enjoy it if he did not enjoy it. It +would be to deceive us to make us glad and blessed, while our Father +did not care about it, or how it came to us. At least it would amount +to making us no longer his children." + +"I am so glad you think so. I do. And I shall enjoy it so much more +now." + +She could hardly finish her sentence, but burst out sobbing so that I +was afraid she would hurt herself. I saw, however, that it was best to +leave her to quiet herself, and motioned to the rest to keep back and +let her recover as she could. The emotion passed off in a summer +shower, and when I went round once more, her face was shining just like +a wet landscape after the sun has come out and Nature has begun to make +gentle game of her own past sorrows. In a little while, she was +merry--merrier, notwithstanding her weakness, than I think I had ever +seen her before. + +"Look at that comical sparrow," she said. "Look how he cocks his head +first on one side and then on the other. Does he want us to see him? Is +he bumptious, or what?" + +"I hardly know, my dear. I think sparrows are very like schoolboys; and +I suspect that if we understood the one class thoroughly, we should +understand the other. But I confess I do not yet understand either." + +"Perhaps you will when Charlie and Harry are old enough to go to +school," said Connie. + +"It is my only chance of making any true acquaintance with the +sparrows," I answered. "Look at them now," I exclaimed, as a little +crowd of them suddenly appeared where only one had stood a moment +before, and exploded in objurgation and general unintelligible +excitement. After some obscure fluttering of wings and pecking, they +all vanished except two, which walked about in a dignified manner, +trying apparently to seem quite unconscious each of the other's +presence. + +"I think it was a political meeting of some sort," said Connie, +laughing merrily. + +"Well, they have this advantage over us," I answered, "that they get +through their business whatever it may be, with considerably greater +expedition than we get through ours." + +A short silence followed, during which Connie lay contemplating +everything. + +"What do you think we girls are like, then, papa?" she asked at length. +"Don't say you don't know, now." + +"I ought to know something more about you than I do about schoolboys. +And I think I do know a little about girls--not much though. They +puzzle me a good deal sometimes. I know what a great-hearted woman is, +Connie." + +"You can't help doing that, papa," interrupted Connie, adding with her +old roguishness, "You mustn't pass yourself off for very knowing for +that. By the time Wynnie is quite grown up, your skill will be tried." + +"I hope I shall understand her then, and you too, Connie." + +A shadow, just like the shadow of one of those white clouds above us, +passed over her face, and she said, trying to smile: + +"I shall never grow up, papa. If I live, I shall only be a girl at +best--a creature you can't understand." + +"On the contrary, Connie, I think I understand you almost as well as +mamma. But there isn't so much to understand yet, you know, as there +will be." + +Her merriment returned. + +"Tell me what girls are like, then, or I shall sulk all day because you +say there isn't so much in me as in mamma." + +"Well, I think, if the boys are like sparrows, the girls are like +swallows. Did you ever watch them before rain, Connie, skimming about +over the lawn as if it were water, low towards its surface, but never +alighting? You never see them grubbing after worms. Nothing less than +things with wings like themselves will satisfy them. They will be +obliged to the earth only for a little mud to build themselves nests +with. For the rest, they live in the air, and on the creatures of the +air. And then, when they fancy the air begins to be uncivil, sending +little shoots of cold through their warm feathers, they vanish. They +won't stand it. They're off to a warmer climate, and you never know +till you find they're not there any more. There, Connie!" + +"I don't know, papa, whether you are making game of us or not. If you +are not, then I wish all you say were quite true of us. If you are then +I think it is not quite like you to be satirical." + +"I am no believer in satire, Connie. And I didn't mean any. The +swallows are lovely creatures, and there would be no harm if the girls +were a little steadier than the swallows. Further satire than that I am +innocent of." + +"I don't mind that much, papa. Only I'm steady enough, and no thanks to +me for it," she added with a sigh. + +"Connie," I said, "it's all for the sake of your wings that you're kept +in your nest." + +She did not stay out long this first day, for the life the air gave her +soon tired her weak body. But the next morning she was brighter and +better, and longing to get up and go out again. When she was once more +laid on her couch on the lawn, in the midst of the world of light and +busy-ness, in which the light was the busiest of all, she said to me: + +"Papa, I had such a strange dream last night: shall I tell it you?" + +"If you please, my dear. I am very fond of dreams that have any sense +in them--or even of any that have good nonsense in them. I woke this +morning, saying to myself, 'Dante, the poet, must have been a +respectable man, for he was permitted by the council of Florence to +carry the Nicene Creed and the Multiplication Table in his coat of +arms.' Now tell me your dream." + +Connie laughed. All the household tried to make Connie laugh, and +generally succeeded. It was quite a triumph to Charlie or Harry, and +was sure to be recounted with glee at the next meal, when he succeeded +in making Connie laugh. + +"Mine wasn't a dream to make me laugh. It was too dreadful at first, +and too delightful afterwards. I suppose it was getting out for the +first time yesterday that made me dream it. I thought I was lying quite +still, without breathing even, with my hands straight down by my sides +and my eyes closed. I did not choose to open them, for I knew that if I +did I should see nothing but the inside of the lid of my coffin. I did +not mind it much at first, for I was very quiet, and not uncomfortable. +Everything was as silent as it should be, for I was ten feet and a half +under the surface of the earth in the churchyard. Old Sogers was not +far from me on one side, and that was a comfort; only there was a thick +wall of earth between. But as the time went on, I began to get +uncomfortable. I could not help thinking how long I should have to wait +for the resurrection. Somehow I had forgotten all that you teach us +about that. Perhaps it was a punishment--the dream--for forgetting it." + +"Silly child! Your dream is far better than your reflections." + +"Well, I'll go on with my dream. I lay a long time till I got very +tired, and wanted to get up, O, so much! But still I lay, and although +I tried, I could not move hand or foot. At last I burst out crying. I +was ashamed of crying in my coffin, but I couldn't bear it any longer. +I thought I was quite disgraced, for everybody was expected to be +perfectly quiet and patient down there. But the moment I began to cry, +I heard a sound. And when I listened it was the sound of spades and +pickaxes. It went on and on, and came nearer and nearer. And then--it +was so strange--I was dreadfully frightened at the idea of the light +and the wind, and of the people seeing me in my coffin and my +night-dress, and tried to persuade myself that it was somebody else +they were digging for, or that they were only going to lay another +coffin over mine. And I thought that if it was you, papa, I shouldn't +mind how long I lay there, for I shouldn't feel a bit lonely, even +though we could not speak a word to each other all the time. But the +sounds came on, nearer and nearer, and at last a pickaxe struck, with a +blow that jarred me all through, upon the lid of the coffin, right over +my head. + +"'Here she is, poor thing!' I heard a sweet voice say. + +"'I'm so glad we've found her,' said another voice. + +"'She couldn't bear it any longer,' said a third more pitiful voice +than either of the others. 'I heard her first,' it went on. 'I was away +up in Orion, when I thought I heard a woman crying that oughtn't to be +crying. And I stopped and listened. And I heard her again. Then I knew +that it was one of the buried ones, and that she had been buried long +enough, and was ready for the resurrection. So as any business can wait +except that, I flew here and there till I fell in with the rest of you.' + +"I think, papa, that this must have been because of what you were +saying the other evening about the mysticism of St. Paul; that while he +defended with all his might the actual resurrection of Christ and the +resurrection of those he came to save, he used it as meaning something +more yet, as a symbol for our coming out of the death of sin into the +life of truth. Isn't that right, papa?" + +"Yes, my dear; I believe so. But I want to hear your dream first, and +then your way of accounting for it." + +"There isn't much more of it now." + +"There must be the best of it." + +"Yes; I allow that. Well, while they spoke--it was a wonderfully clear +and connected dream: I never had one like it for that, or for anything +else--they were clearing away the earth and stones from the top of my +coffin. And I lay trembling and expecting to be looked at, like a thing +in a box as I was, every moment. But they lifted me, coffin and all, +out of the grave, for I felt the motion of it up. Then they set it +down, and I heard them taking the lid off. But after the lid was off, +it did not seem to make much difference to me. I could not open my +eyes. I saw no light, and felt no wind blowing upon me. But I heard +whispering about me. Then I felt warm, soft hands washing my face, and +then I felt wafts of wind coming on my face, and thought they came from +the waving of wings. And when they had washed my eyes, the air came +upon them so sweet and cool! and I opened them, I thought, and here I +was lying on this couch, with butterflies and bees flitting and buzzing +about me, the brook singing somewhere near me, and a lark up in the +sky. But there were no angels--only plenty of light and wind and living +creatures. And I don't think I ever knew before what happiness meant. +Wasn't it a resurrection, papa, to come out of the grave into such a +world as this?" + +"Indeed it was, my darling--and a very beautiful and true dream. There +is no need for me to moralise it to you, for you have done so for +yourself already. But not only do I think that the coming out of sin +into goodness, out of unbelief into faith in God, is like your dream; +but I do expect that no dream of such delight can come up to the sense +of fresh life and being that we shall have when we get on the higher +body after this one won't serve our purpose any longer, and is worn out +and cast aside. The very ability of the mind, whether of itself, or by +some inspiration of the Almighty, to dream such things, is a proof of +our capacity for such things, a proof, I think, that for such things we +were made. Here comes in the chance for faith in God--the confidence in +his being and perfection that he would not have made us capable without +meaning to fill that capacity. If he is able to make us capable, that +is the harder half done already. The other he can easily do. And if he +is love he will do it. You should thank God for that dream, Connie." + +"I was afraid to do that, papa." + +"That is as much as to fear that there is one place to which David +might have fled, where God would not find him--the most terrible of all +thoughts." + +"Where do you mean, papa?" + +"Dreamland, my dear. If it is right to thank God for a beautiful +thought--I mean a thought of strength and grace giving you fresh life +and hope--why should you be less bold to thank him when such thoughts +arise in plainer shape--take such vivid forms to your mind that they +seem to come through the doors of the eyes into the vestibule of the +brain, and thence into the inner chambers of the soul?" + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE JOURNEY. + + +For more than two months Charlie and Harry had been preparing for the +journey. The moment they heard of the prospect of it, they began to +prepare, accumulate, and pack stores both for the transit and the +sojourn. First of all there was an extensive preparation of +ginger-beer, consisting, as I was informed in confidence, of brown +sugar, ground ginger, and cold water. This store was, however, as near +as I can judge, exhausted and renewed about twelve times before the day +of departure arrived; and when at last the auspicious morning dawned, +they remembered with dismay that they had drunk the last drop two days +before, and there was none in stock. Then there was a wonderful and +more successful hoarding of marbles, of a variety so great that my +memory refuses to bear the names of the different kinds, which, I +think, must have greatly increased since the time when I too was a boy, +when some marbles--one of real, white marble with red veins +especially--produced in my mind something of the delight that a work of +art produces now. These were carefully deposited in one of the many +divisions of a huge old hair-trunk, which they had got their uncle +Weir, who could use his father's tools with pleasure if not to profit, +to fit up for them with a multiplicity of boxes, and cupboards, and +drawers, and trays, and slides, that was quite bewildering. In this +same box was stowed also a quantity of hair, the gleanings of all the +horse-tails upon the premises. This was for making fishing-tackle, with +a vague notion on the part of Harry that it was to be employed in +catching whales and crocodiles. Then all their favourite books were +stowed away in the same chest, in especial a packet of a dozen penny +books, of which I think I could give a complete list now. For one +afternoon as I searched about in the lumber-room after a set of old +library steps, which I wanted to get repaired, I came upon the chest, +and opening it, discovered my boys' hoard, and in it this packet of +books. I sat down on the top of the chest and read them all through, +from Jack the Giant-killer down to Hop o' my Thumb without rising, and +this in the broad daylight, with the yellow sunshine nestling beside me +on the rose-coloured silken seat, richly worked, of a large +stately-looking chair with three golden legs. Yes I could tell you all +those stories, not to say the names of them, over yet. Only I knew +every one of them before; finding now that they had fared like good +vintages, for if they had lost something in potency, they had gained +much in flavour. Harry could not read these, and Charlie not very well, +but they put confidence in them notwithstanding, in virtue of the red, +blue, and yellow prints. Then there was a box of sawdust, the design of +which I have not yet discovered; a huge ball of string; a rabbit's +skin; a Noah's ark; an American clock, that refused to go for all the +variety of treatment they gave it; a box of lead-soldiers, and twenty +other things, amongst which was a huge gilt ball having an eagle of +brass with outspread wings on the top of it. + +Great was their consternation and dismay when they found that this +magazine could not be taken in the post-chaise in which they were to +follow us to the station. A good part of our luggage had been sent on +before us, but the boys had intended the precious box to go with +themselves. Knowing well, however, how little they would miss it, and +with what shouts of south-sea discovery they would greet the forgotten +treasure when they returned, I insisted on the lumbering article being +left in peace. So that, as man goeth treasureless to his grave, +whatever he may have accumulated before the fatal moment, they had to +set off for the far country without chest or ginger-beer--not therefore +altogether so desolate and unprovided for as they imagined. The +abandoned treasure was forgotten the moment the few tears it had +occasioned were wiped away. + +It was the loveliest of mornings when we started upon our journey. The +sun shone, the wind was quiet, and everything was glad. The swallows +were twittering from the corbels they had added to the adornment of the +dear old house. + +"I'm sorry to leave the swallows behind," said Wynnie, as she stepped +into the carriage after her mother. Connie, of course, was already +there, eager and strong-hearted for the journey. + +We set off. Connie was in delight with everything, especially with all +forms of animal life and enjoyment that we saw on the road. She seemed +to enter into the spirit of the cows feeding on the rich green grass of +the meadows, of the donkeys eating by the roadside, of the horses we +met bravely diligent at their day's work, as they trudged along the +road with wagon or cart behind them. I sat by the coachman, but so that +I could see her face by the slightest turning of my head. I knew by its +expression that she gave a silent blessing to the little troop of a +brown-faced gipsy family, which came out of a dingy tent to look at the +passing carriage. A fleet of ducklings in a pool, paddling along under +the convoy of the parent duck, next attracted her. + +"Look; look. Isn't that delicious?" she cried. + +"I don't think I should like it though," said Wynnie. + +"What shouldn't you like, Wynnie?" asked her mother. + +"To be in the water and not feel it wet. Those feathers!" + +"They feel it with their legs and their webby toes," said Connie. + +"Yes, that is some consolation," answered Wynnie. + +"And if you were a duck, you would feel the good of your feathers in +winter, when you got into your cold bath of a morning." + +I give all this chat for the sake of showing how Connie's illness had +not in the least withdrawn her from nature and her sympathies--had +rather, as it were, made all the fibres of her being more delicate and +sympathetic, so that the things around her could enter her soul even +more easily than before, and what had seemed to shut her out had in +reality brought her into closer contact with the movements of all +vitality. + +We had to pass through the village to reach the railway station. +Everybody almost was out to bid us good-bye. I did not want, for +Connie's sake chiefly, to have any scene, but recalling something I had +forgotten to say to one of my people, I stopped the carriage to speak +to him. The same instant there was a crowd of women about us. But +Connie was the centre of all their regards. They hardly looked at her +mother or sister. Had she been a martyr who had stood the test and +received her aureole, she could hardly have been more regarded. The +common use of the word martyr is a curious instance of how words get +degraded. The sufferings involved in martyrdom, and not the pure will +giving occasion to that suffering, is fixed upon by the common mind as +the martyrdom. The witness-bearing is lost sight of, except we can +suppose that "a martyr to the toothache" means a witness of the fact of +the toothache and its tortures. But while _martyrdom_ really means a +bearing for the sake of the truth, yet there is a way in which any +suffering, even that we have brought upon ourselves, may become +martyrdom. When it is so borne that the sufferer therein bears witness +to the presence and fatherhood of God, in quiet, hopeful submission to +his will, in gentle endurance, and that effort after cheerfulness which +is not seldom to be seen where the effort is hardest to make; more than +all, perhaps, and rarest of all, when it is accepted as the just and +merciful consequence of wrong-doing, and is endured humbly, and with +righteous shame, as the cleansing of the Father's hand, indicating that +repentance unto life which lifts the sinner out of his sins, and makes +him such that the holiest men of old would talk to him with gladness +and respect, then indeed it may be called a martyrdom. This latter +could not be Connie's case, but the former was hers, and so far she +might be called a martyr, even as the old women of the village +designated her. + +After we had again started, our ears were invaded with shouts from the +post-chaise behind us, in which Charlie and Harry, their grief at the +abandoned chest forgotten as if it had never been, were yelling in the +exuberance of their gladness. Dora, more staid as became her years, was +trying to act the matron with them in vain, and old nursie had enough +to do with Miss Connie's baby to heed what the young gentlemen were +about, so long as explosions of noise was all the mischief. Walter, the +man-servant, who had been with us ten years, and was the main prop of +the establishment, looking after everything and putting his hand to +everything, with an indefinite charge ranging from the nursery to the +wine-cellar, and from the corn-bin to the pig-trough, and who, as we +could not possibly get on without him, sat on the box of the +post-chaise beside the driver from the Griffin, rather connived, I +fear, than otherwise at the noise of the youngsters. + +"Good-bye, Marshmallows," they were shouting at the top of their +voices, as if they had just been released from a prison, where they had +spent a wretched childhood; and, as it could hardly offend anybody's +ears on the open country road I allowed them to shout till they were +tired, which condition fortunately arrived before we reached the +station, so that there was no occasion for me to interfere. I always +sought to give them as much liberty as could be afforded them. + +At the station we found Weir waiting to see us off, with my sister, now +in wonderful health. Turner was likewise there, and ready to accompany +us a good part of the way. But beyond the valuable assistance he lent +us in moving Connie, no occasion arose for the exercise of his +professional skill. She bore the journey wonderfully, slept not +unfrequently, and only at the end showed herself at length wearied. We +stopped three times on the way: first at Salisbury, where the streams +running through the streets delighted her. There we remained one whole +day, but sent the children and servants, all but my wife's maid, on +before us, under the charge of Walter. This left us more at our ease. +At Exeter, we stopped only the night, for Connie found herself quite +able to go on the next morning. Here Turner left us, and we missed him +very much. Connie looked a little out of spirits after his departure, +but soon recovered herself. The next night we spent at a small town on +the borders of Devonshire, which was the limit of our railway +travelling. Here we remained for another whole day, for the remnant of +the journey across part of Devonshire and Cornwall to the shore must be +posted, and was a good five hours' work. We started about eleven +o'clock, full of spirits at the thought that we had all but +accomplished the only part of the undertaking about which we had had +any uneasiness. Connie was quite merry. The air was thoroughly warm. We +had an open carriage with a hood. Wynnie sat opposite her mother, Dora +and Eliza the maid in the rumble, and I by the coachman. The road being +very hilly, we had four horses; and with four horses, sunshine, a +gentle wind, hope and thankfulness, who would not be happy? + +There is a strange delight in motion, which I am not sure that I +altogether understand. The hope of the end as bringing fresh enjoyment +has something to do with it, no doubt; the accompaniments of the +motion, the change of scene, the mystery that lies beyond the next hill +or the next turn in the road, the breath of the summer wind, the scent +of the pine-trees especially, and of all the earth, the tinkling jangle +of the harness as you pass the trees on the roadside, the life of the +horses, the glitter and the shadow, the cottages and the roses and the +rosy faces, the scent of burning wood or peat from the chimneys, these +and a thousand other things combine to make such a journey delightful. +But I believe it needs something more than this--something even closer +to the human life--to account for the pleasure that motion gives us. I +suspect it is its living symbolism; the hidden relations which it bears +to the eternal soul in its aspirations and longings--ever following +after, ever attaining, never satisfied. Do not misunderstand me, my +reader. A man, you will allow, perhaps, may be content although he is +not and cannot be happy: I feel inclined to turn all this the other +way, saying that a man ought always to be happy, never to be content. +You will see I do not say _contented_; I say _content_. Here comes in +his faith: his life is hid with Christ in God, measureless, unbounded. +All things are his, to become his by blessed lovely gradations of gift, +as his being enlarges to receive; and if ever the shadow of his own +necessary incompleteness falls upon the man, he has only to remember +that in God's idea he is complete, only his life is hid from himself +with Christ in God the Infinite. If anyone accuses me here of +mysticism, I plead guilty with gladness: I only hope it may be of that +true mysticism which, inasmuch as he makes constant use of it, St. Paul +would understand at once. I leave it, however. + +I think I must have been the very happiest of the party myself. No +doubt I was younger much than I am now, but then I was quite +middle-aged, with full confession thereof in gray hairs and wrinkles. +Why should not a man be happy when he is growing old, so long as his +faith strengthens the feeble knees which chiefly suffer in the process +of going down the hill? True, the fever heat is over, and the oil burns +more slowly in the lamp of life; but if there is less fervour, there is +more pervading warmth; if less of fire, more of sunshine; there is less +smoke and more light. Verily, youth is good, but old age is better--to +the man who forsakes not his youth when his youth forsakes him. The +sweet visitings of nature do not depend upon youth or romance, but upon +that quiet spirit whose meekness inherits the earth. The smell of that +field of beans gives me more delight now than ever it could have given +me when I was a youth. And if I ask myself why I find it is simply +because I have more faith now than I had then. It came to me then as an +accident of nature--a passing pleasure flung to me only as the dogs' +share of the crumbs. Now I believe that God _means_ that odour of the +bean-field; that when Jesus smelled such a scent about Jerusalem or in +Galilee, he thought of his Father. And if God means it, it is mine, +even if I should never smell it again. The music of the spheres is mine +if old age should make me deaf as the adder. Am I mystical again, +reader? Then I hope you are too, or will be before you have done with +this same beautiful mystical life of ours. More and more nature becomes +to me one of God's books of poetry--not his grandest--that is +history--but his loveliest, perhaps. + +And ought I not to have been happy when all who were with me were +happy? I will not run the risk of wearying even my contemplative reader +by describing to him the various reflexes of happiness that shone from +the countenances behind me in the carriage, but I will try to hit each +off in a word, or a single simile. My Ethelwyn's face was bright with +the brightness of a pale silvery moon that has done her harvest work, +and, a little weary, lifts herself again into the deeper heavens from +stooping towards the earth. Wynnie's face was bright with the +brightness of the morning star, ever growing pale and faint over the +amber ocean that brightens at the sun's approach; for life looked to +Wynnie severe in its light, and somewhat sad because severe. Connie's +face was bright with the brightness of a lake in the rosy evening, the +sound of the river flowing in and the sound of the river flowing forth +just audible, but itself still, and content to be still and mirror the +sunset. Dora's was bright with the brightness of a marigold that +follows the sun without knowing it; and Eliza's was bright with the +brightness of a half-blown cabbage rose, radiating good-humour. This +last is not a good simile, but I cannot find a better. I confess +failure, and go on. + +After stopping once to bait, during which operation Connie begged to be +carried into the parlour of the little inn that she might see the china +figures that were certain to be on the chimney-piece, as indeed they +were, where she drank a whole tumbler of new milk before we lifted her +to carry her back, we came upon a wide high moorland country the roads +through which were lined with gorse in full golden bloom, while patches +of heather all about were showing their bells, though not yet in their +autumnal outburst of purple fire. Here I began to be reminded of +Scotland, in which I had travelled a good deal between the ages of +twenty and five-and-twenty. The further I went the stronger I felt the +resemblance. The look of the fields, the stone fences that divided +them, the shape and colour and materials of the houses, the aspect of +the people, the feeling of the air, and of the earth and sky generally, +made me imagine myself in a milder and more favoured Scotland. The west +wind was fresh, but had none of that sharp edge which one can so often +detect in otherwise warm winds blowing under a hot sun. Though she had +already travelled so many miles, Connie brightened up within a few +minutes after we got on this moor; and we had not gone much farther +before a shout from the rumble informed us that keen-eyed little Dora +had discovered the Atlantic: a dip in the high coast revealed it blue +and bright. We soon lost sight of it again, but in Connie's eyes it +seemed to linger still. As often as I looked round, the blue of them +seemed the reflection of the sea in their little convex mirrors. +Ethelwyn's eyes, too, were full of it, and a flush on her generally +pale cheek showed that she too expected the ocean. After a few miles +along this breezy expanse, we began to descend towards the sea-level. +Down the winding of a gradual slope, interrupted by steep descents, we +approached this new chapter in our history. We came again upon a few +trees here and there, all with their tops cut off in a plane inclined +upwards away from the sea. For the sea-winds, like a sweeping scythe, +bend the trees all away towards the land, and keep their tops mown with +their sharp rushing, keen with salt spray off the crests of the broken +waves. Then we passed through some ancient villages, with streets +narrow, and steep and sharp-angled, that needed careful driving and the +frequent pressure of the break upon the wheel. And now the sea shone +upon us with nearer greeting, and we began to fancy we could hear its +talk with the shore. At length we descended a sharp hill, reached the +last level, drove over a bridge and down the line of the stream, saw +the land vanish in the sea--a wide bay; then drove over another wooden +drawbridge, and along the side of a canal in which lay half-a-dozen +sloops and schooners. Then came a row of pretty cottages; then a gate, +and an ascent, and ere we reached the rectory, we were aware of its +proximity by loud shouts, and the sight of Charlie and Harry scampering +along the top of a stone wall to meet us. This made their mother +nervous, but she kept quiet, knowing that unrestrained anxiety is +always in danger of bringing about the evil it fears. A moment after, +we drew up at a long porch, leading through the segment of a circle to +the door of the house. The journey was over. We got down in the little +village of Kilkhaven, in the county of Cornwall. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED. + + +We carried Connie in first of all, of course, and into the room which +nurse had fixed upon for her--the best in the house, of course, again. +She did seem tired now, and no wonder. She had a cup of tea at once, +and in half an hour dinner was ready, of which we were all very glad. +After dinner I went up to Connie's room. There I found her fast asleep +on the sofa, and Wynnie as fast asleep on the floor beside her. The +drive and the sea air had had the same effect on both of them. But +pleased as I was to see Connie sleeping so sweetly, I was even more +pleased to see Wynnie asleep on the floor. What a wonderful +satisfaction it may give to a father and mother to see this or that +child asleep! It is when her kittens are asleep that the cat creeps +away to look after her own comforts. Our cat chose to have her kittens +in my study once, and as I would not have her further disturbed than to +give them another cushion to lie on in place of that which belonged to +my sofa, I had many opportunities of watching them as I wrote, or +prepared my sermons. But I must not talk about the cat and her kittens +now. When parents see their children asleep, especially if they have +been suffering in any way, they breathe more freely; a load is lifted +off their minds; their responsibility seems over; the children have +gone back to their Father, and he alone is looking after them for a +while. Now, I had not been comfortable about Wynnie for some time, and +especially during our journey, and still more especially during the +last part of our journey. There was something amiss with her. She +seemed constantly more or less dejected, as if she had something to +think about that was too much for her, although, to tell the truth, I +really believe now that she had not quite enough to think about. Some +people can thrive tolerably without much thought: at least, they both +live comfortably without it, and do not seem to be capable of effecting +it if it were required of them; while for others a large amount of +mental and spiritual operation is necessary for the health of both body +and mind, and when the matter or occasion for so much is not afforded +them, the consequence is analogous to what follows when a healthy +physical system is not supplied with sufficient food: the oxygen, the +source of life, begins to consume the life itself; it tears up the +timbers of the house to burn against the cold. Or, to use a different +simile, when the Moses-rod of circumstance does not strike the rock and +make the waters flow, such a mind--one that must think to live--will go +digging into itself, and is in danger of injuring the very fountain of +thought, by drawing away its living water into ditches and stagnant +pools. This was, I say, the case in part with my Wynnie, although I did +not understand it at that moment. She did not look quite happy, did not +always meet a smile with a smile, looked almost reprovingly upon the +frolics of the little brother-imps, and though kindness itself when any +real hurt or grief befell them, had reverted to her old, somewhat +dictatorial manner, of which I have already spoken as interrupted by +Connie's accident. To her mother and me she was service itself, only +service without the smile which is as the flame of the sacrifice and +makes it holy. So we were both a little uneasy about her, for we did +not understand her. On the journey she had seemed almost annoyed at +Connie's ecstasies, and said to Dora many times: "Do be quiet, Dora;" +although there was not a single creature but ourselves within hearing, +and poor Connie seemed only delighted with the child's explosions. So I +was--but although I say _so_, I hardly know why I was pleased to see +her thus, except it was from a vague belief in the anodyne of slumber. +But this pleasure did not last long; for as I stood regarding my two +treasures, even as if my eyes had made her uncomfortable, she suddenly +opened hers, and started to her feet, with the words, "I beg your +pardon, papa," looking almost guiltily round her, and putting up her +hair hurriedly, as if she had committed an impropriety in being caught +untidy. This was fresh sign of a condition of mind that was not healthy. + +"My dear," I said, "what do you beg my pardon for? I was so pleased to +see you asleep! and you look as if you thought I were going to scold +you." + +"O papa," she said, laying her head on my shoulder, "I am afraid I must +be very naughty. I so often feel now as if I were doing something +wrong, or rather as if you would think I was doing something wrong. I +am sure there must be something wicked in me somewhere, though I do not +clearly know what it is. When I woke up now, I felt as if I had +neglected something, and you had come to find fault with me. _Is_ there +anything, papa?" + +"Nothing whatever, my child. But you cannot be well when you feel like +that." + +"I am perfectly well, so far as I know. I was so cross to Dora to-day! +Why shouldn't I feel happy when everybody else is? I must be wicked, +papa." + +Here Connie woke up. + +"There now! I've waked Connie," Wynnie resumed. "I'm always doing +something I ought not to do. Please go to sleep again, Connie, and take +that sin off my poor conscience." + +"What nonsense is Wynnie talking about being wicked?" asked Connie. + +"It isn't nonsense, Connie. You know I am." + +"I know nothing of the sort, Wynnie. If it were me now! And yet I don't +_feel_ wicked." + +"My dear children," I said, "we must all pray to God for his Spirit, +and then we shall feel just as we ought to feel. It is not for anyone +to say to himself how he ought to feel at any given moment; still less +for one man to say to another how he ought to feel; that is in the +former case to do as St. Paul says he had learned to give up doing--to +judge our own selves, which ought to be left to God; in the latter case +it is to do what our Lord has told us expressly we are not to do--to +judge other people. You get your bonnet, Wynnie, and come out with me. +I am going to explore a little of this desert island upon which we have +been cast away. And you, Connie, just to please Wynnie, must try and go +to sleep again." + +Wynnie ran for her bonnet, a little afraid perhaps that I was going to +talk seriously to her, but showing no reluctance anyhow to accompany me. + +Now I wonder whether it will be better to tell what we saw, or only +what we talked about, and give what we saw in the shape in which we +reported it to Connie, when we came back into her room, bearing, like +the spies who went to search the land, our bunch of grapes, that is, of +sweet news of nature, to her who could not go to gather them for +herself. It think it will be the best plan to take part of both plans. + +When we left the door of the house, we went up the few steps of a stair +leading on to the downs, against and amidst, and indeed _in_, the +rocks, buttressing the sea-edge of which our new abode was built. A +life for a big-winged angel seemed waiting us upon those downs. The +wind still blew from the west, both warm and strong--I mean +strength-giving--and the wind was the first thing we were aware of. The +ground underfoot was green and soft and springy, and sprinkled all over +with the bright flowers, chiefly yellow, that live amidst the short +grasses of the downs, the shadows of whose unequal surface were now +beginning to be thrown east, for the sun was going seawards. I stood +up, stretched out my arms, threw back my shoulders and my head, and +filled my chest with a draught of the delicious wind, feeling +thereafter like a giant refreshed with wine. Wynnie stood apparently +unmoved amidst the life-nectar, thoughtful, and turning her eyes hither +and thither. + +"That makes me feel young again," I said. + +"I wish it would make me feel old then," said Wynnie. + +"What do you mean, my child?" + +"Because then I should have a chance of knowing what it is like to feel +young," she answered rather enigmatically. I did not reply. We were +walking up the brow which hid the sea from us. The smell of the +down-turf was indescribable in its homely delicacy; and by the time we +had reached the top, almost every sense was filled with its own +delight. The top of the hill was the edge of the great shore-cliff; and +the sun was hanging on the face of the mightier sky-cliff opposite, and +the sea stretched for visible miles and miles along the shore on either +hand, its wide blue mantle fringed with lovely white wherever it met +the land, and scalloped into all fantastic curves, according to the +whim of the nether fires which had formed its bed; and the rush of the +waves, as they bore the rising tide up on the shore, was the one music +fit for the whole. Ear and eye, touch and smell, were alike invaded +with blessedness. I ought to have kept this to give my reader in +Connie's room; but he shall share with her presently. The sense of +space--of mighty room for life and growth--filled my soul, and I +thanked God in my heart. The wind seemed to bear that growth into my +soul, even as the wind of God first breathed into man's nostrils the +breath of life, and the sun was the pledge of the fulfilment of every +aspiration. I turned and looked at Wynnie. She stood pleased but +listless amidst that which lifted me into the heaven of the Presence. + +"Don't you enjoy all this grandeur, Wynnie?" + +"I told you I was very wicked, papa." + +"And I told you not to say so, Wynnie." + +"You see I cannot enjoy it, papa. I wonder why it is." + +"I suspect it is because you haven't room, Wynnie." + +"I know you mean something more than I know, papa." + +"I mean, my dear, that it is not because you are wicked, but because +you do not know God well enough, and therefore your being, which can +only live in him, is 'cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in.' It is only +in him that the soul has room. In knowing him is life and its gladness. +The secret of your own heart you can never know; but you can know Him +who knows its secret. Look up, my darling; see the heavens and the +earth. You do not feel them, and I do not call upon you to feel them. +It would be both useless and absurd to do so. But just let them look at +you for a moment, and then tell me whether it must not be a blessed +life that creates such a glory as this All." + +She stood silent for a moment, looked up at the sky, looked round on +the earth, looked far across the sea to the setting sun, and then +turned her eyes upon me. They were filled with tears, but whether from +feeling, or sorrow that she could not feel, I would not inquire. I made +haste to speak again. + +"As this world of delight surrounds and enters your bodily frame, so +does God surround your soul and live in it. To be at home with the +awful source of your being, through the child-like faith which he not +only permits, but requires, and is ever teaching you, or rather seeking +to rouse up in you, is the only cure for such feelings as those that +trouble you. Do not say it is too high for you. God made you in his own +image, therefore capable of understanding him. For this final end he +sent his Son, that the Father might with him come into you, and dwell +with you. Till he does so, the temple of your soul is vacant; there is +no light behind the veil, no cloudy pillar over it; and the priests, +your thoughts, feelings, loves, and desires, moan, and are +troubled--for where is the work of the priest when the God is not +there? When He comes to you, no mystery, no unknown feeling, will any +longer distress you. You will say, 'He knows, though I do not.' And you +will be at the secret of the things he has made. You will feel what +they are, and that which his will created in gladness you will receive +in joy. One glimmer of the present God in this glory would send you +home singing. But do not think I blame you, Wynnie, for feeling sad. I +take it rather as the sign of a large life in you, that will not be +satisfied with little things. I do not know when or how it may please +God to give you the quiet of mind that you need; but I tell you that I +believe it is to be had; and in the mean time, you must go on doing +your work, trusting in God even for this. Tell him to look at your +sorrow, ask him to come and set it right, making the joy go up in your +heart by his presence. I do not know when this may be, I say, but you +must have patience, and till he lays his hand on your head, you must be +content to wash his feet with your tears. Only he will be better +pleased if your faith keep you from weeping and from going about your +duties mournful. Try to be brave and cheerful for the sake of Christ, +and for the sake of your confidence in the beautiful teaching of God, +whose course and scope you cannot yet understand. Trust, my daughter, +and let that give you courage and strength." + +Now the sky and the sea and the earth must have made me able to say +these things to her; but I knew that, whatever the immediate occasion +of her sadness, such was its only real cure. Other things might, in +virtue of the will of God that was in them, give her occupation and +interest enough for a time, but nothing would do finally, but God +himself. Here I was sure I was safe; here I knew lay the hunger of +humanity. Humanity may, like other vital forms, diseased systems, fix +on this or that as the object not merely of its desire but of its need: +it can never be stilled by less than the bread of life--the very +presence in the innermost nature of the Father and the Son. + +We walked on together. Wynnie made me no reply, but, weeping silently, +clung to my arm. We walked a long way by the edge of the cliffs, beheld +the sun go down, and then turned and went home. When we reached the +house, Wynnie left me, saying only, "Thank you, papa. I think it is all +true. I will try to be a better girl." + +I went straight to Connie's room: she was lying as I saw her last, +looking out of her window. + +"Connie," I said, "Wynnie and I have had such a treat--such a sunset!" + +"I've seen a little of the light of it on the waves in the bay there, +but the high ground kept me from seeing the sunset itself. Did it set +in the sea?" + +"You do want the General Gazetteer, after all, Connie. Is that water +the Atlantic, or is it not? And if it be, where on earth could the sun +set but in it?" + +"Of course, papa. What a goose I am! But don't make game of +me--_please_. I am too deliciously happy to be made game of to-night." + +"I won't make game of you, my darling. I will tell you about the +sunset--the colours of it, at least. This must be one of the best +places in the whole world to see sunsets." + +"But you have had no tea, papa. I thought you would come and have your +tea with me. But you were so long, that mamma would not let me wait any +longer." + +"O, never mind the tea, my dear. But Wynnie has had none. You've got a +tea-caddy of your own, haven't you?" + +"Yes, and a teapot; and there's the kettle on the hob--for I can't do +without a little fire in the evenings." + +"Then I'll make some tea for Wynnie and myself, and tell you at the +same time about the sunset. I never saw such colours. I cannot tell you +what it was like while the sun was yet going down, for the glory of it +has burned the memory of it out of me. But after the sun was down, the +sky remained thinking about him; and the thought of the sky was in +delicate translucent green on the horizon, just the colour of the earth +etherealised and glorified--a broad band; then came another broad band +of pale rose-colour; and above that came the sky's own eternal blue, +pale likewise, but so sure and changeless. I never saw the green and +the blue divided and harmonised by the rose-colour before. It was a +wonderful sight. If it is warm enough to-morrow, we will carry you out +on the height, that you may see what the evening will bring." + +"There is one thing about sunsets," returned Connie--"two things, that +make me rather sad--about themselves, not about anything else. Shall I +tell you them?" + +"Do, my love. There are few things more precious to learn than the +effects of Nature upon individual minds. And there is not a feeling of +yours, my child, that is not of value to me." + +"You are so kind, papa! I am so glad of my accident. I think I should +never have known how good you are but for that. But my thoughts seem so +little worth after you say so much about them." + +"Let me be judge of that, my dear." + +"Well, one thing is, that we shall never, never, never, see the same +sunset again." + +"That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same +thing over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on +doing something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done +showing himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same +thing again." + +"But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I +forget it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them +fast in my memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as +they fade out of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my +mind and leave it as if they had never been there--except perhaps two +or three. Now, though I did not see this one, yet, after you have +talked about it, I shall never forget _it_." + +"It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have +their influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory--in your +very being, Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is +only an idea, hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an +imperfect instrument. For its right work, perhaps it is needful that it +should forget in part. But there are grounds for believing that nothing +is ever really forgotten. I think that, when we have a higher existence +than we have now, when we are clothed with that spiritual body of which +St. Paul speaks, you will be able to recall any sunset you have ever +seen with an intensity proportioned to the degree of regard and +attention you gave it when it was present to you. But here comes Wynnie +to see how you are.--I've been making some tea for you, Wynnie, my +love." + +"O, thank you, papa--I shall be so glad of some tea!" said Wynnie, the +paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more +plainly. She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the +better for it. + +The same moment my wife came in. "Why didn't you send for me, Harry, to +get your tea?" she said. + +"I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and +seasons. But I knew you must be busy." + +"I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the +unpacking, and twenty different things," said Ethelwyn. "We shall be so +comfortable! It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?" + +"Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life," returned Wynnie. "You +would think the shore had been built for the sake of the show--just for +a platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be +rather dangerous for the children." + +"I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see +something of the colours on the water, but not much more." + +"O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is +so big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in +winter," said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if +not apprehensive. + +But I must not keep my reader longer upon mere family chat. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN. + + +Our dining-room was one story below the level at which we had entered +the parsonage; for, as I have said, the house was built into the face +of the cliff, just where it sunk nearly to the level of the shores of +the bay. While at dinner, on the evening of our arrival, I kept looking +from the window, of course, and I saw before me, first a little bit of +garden, mostly in turf, then a low stone wall; beyond, over the top of +the wall, the blue water of the bay; then beyond the water, all alive +with light and motion, the rocks and sand-hills of the opposite side of +the little bay, not a quarter of a mile across. I could likewise see +where the shore went sweeping out and away to the north, with rock +after rock standing far into the water, as if gazing over the awful +wild, where there was nothing to break the deathly waste between +Cornwall and Newfoundland. But for the moment I did not regard the huge +power lying outside so much as the merry blue bay between me and those +rocks and sand-hills. If I moved my head a little to the right, I saw, +over the top of the low wall already mentioned, and apparently quite +close to it the slender yellow masts of a schooner, her mainsail +hanging loose from the gaff, whose peak was lowered. We must, I +thought, be on the very harbour-quay. When I went out for my walk with +Wynnie, I had turned from the bay, and gone to the brow of the cliffs +overhanging the open sea on our own side of it. + +When I came down to breakfast in the same room next morning, I stared. +The blue had changed to yellow. The life of the water was gone. Nothing +met my eyes but a wide expanse of dead sand. You could walk straight +across the bay to the hills opposite. From the look of the rocks, from +the perpendicular cliffs on the coast, I had almost, without thinking, +concluded that we were on the shore of a deep-water bay. It was +high-water, or nearly so, then; and now, when I looked westward, it was +over a long reach of sands, on the far border of which the white fringe +of the waves was visible, as if there was their _hitherto_, and further +towards us they could not come. Beyond the fringe lay the low hill of +the Atlantic. To add to my confusion, when I looked to the right, that +is, up the bay towards the land, there was no schooner there. I went +out at the window, which opened from the room upon the little lawn, to +look, and then saw in a moment how it was. + +"Do you know, my dear," I said to my wife, "we are just at the mouth of +that canal we saw as we came along? There are gates and a lock just +outside there. The schooner that was under this window last night must +have gone in with the tide. She is lying in the basin above now." + +"O, yes, papa," Charlie and Harry broke in together. "We saw it go up +this morning. We've been out ever so long. It was so funny," Charlie +went on--everything was _funny_ with Charlie--"to see it rise up like a +Jack-in-the-box, and then slip into the quiet water through the other +gates!" + +And when I thought about the waves tumbling and breaking away out +there, and the wide yellow sands between, it was wonderful--which was +what Charlie meant by funny--to see the little vessel lying so many +feet above it all, in a still plenty of repose, gathering strength, one +might fancy to rush out again, when its time was come, into the turmoil +beyond, and dash its way through the breasts of the billows. + +After breakfast we had prayers, as usual, and after a visit to Connie, +whom I found tired, but wonderfully well, I went out for a walk by +myself, to explore the neighbourhood, find the church, and, in a word, +do something to shake myself into my new garments. The day was +glorious. I wandered along a green path, in the opposite direction from +our walk the evening before, with a fir-wood on my right hand, and a +belt of feathery tamarisks on my left, behind which lay gardens sloping +steeply to a lower road, where stood a few pretty cottages. Turning a +corner, I came suddenly in sight of the church, on the green down above +me--a sheltered yet commanding situation; for, while the hill rose +above it, protecting it from the east, it looked down the bay, and the +Atlantic lay open before it. All the earth seemed to lie behind it, and +all its gaze to be fixed on the symbol of the infinite. It stood as the +church ought to stand, leading men up the mount of vision, to the verge +of the eternal, to send them back with their hearts full of the +strength that springs from hope, by which alone the true work of the +world can be done. And when I saw it I rejoiced to think that once more +I was favoured with a church that had a history. Of course it is a +happy thing to see new churches built wherever there is need of such; +but to the full idea of the building it is necessary that it should be +one in which the hopes and fears, the cares and consolations, the loves +and desires of our forefathers should have been roofed; where the +hearts of those through whom our country has become that which it +is--from whom not merely the life-blood of our bodies, but the +life-blood of our spirits, has come down to us, whose existence and +whose efforts have made it possible for us to be that which we +are--have before us worshipped that Spirit from whose fountain the +whole torrent of being flows, who ever pours fresh streams into the +wearying waters of humanity, so ready to settle down into a stagnant +repose. Therefore I would far rather, when I may, worship in an old +church, whose very stones are a history of how men strove to realise +the infinite, compelling even the powers of nature into the task--as I +soon found on the very doorway of this church, where the ripples of the +outspread ocean, and grotesque imaginations of the monsters of its +deeps, fixed, as it might seem, for ever in stone, gave a distorted +reflex, from the little mirror of the artist's mind, of that mighty +water, so awful, so significant to the human eye, which yet lies in the +hollow of the Father's palm, like the handful that the weary traveller +lifts from the brook by the way. It is in virtue of the truth that went +forth in such and such like attempts that we are able to hold our +portion of the infinite reality which God only knows. They have founded +our Church for us, and such a church as this will stand for the symbol +of it; for here we too can worship the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of +Jacob--the God of Sidney, of Hooker, of Herbert. This church of +Kilkhaven, old and worn, rose before me a history in stone--so beaten +and swept about by the "wild west wind," + + "For whose path the Atlantic's level powers + Cleave themselves into chasms," + +and so streamed upon, and washed, and dissolved, by the waters lifted +from the sea and borne against it on the upper tide of the wind, that +you could almost fancy it one of those churches that have been buried +for ages beneath the encroaching waters, lifted again, by some mighty +revulsion of nature's heart, into the air of the sweet heavens, there +to stand marked for ever with the tide-flows of the nether +world--scooped, and hollowed, and worn like aeonian rocks that have +slowly, but for ever, responded to the swirl and eddy of the wearing +waters. So, from the most troublous of times, will the Church of our +land arise, in virtue of what truth she holds, and in spite, if she +rises at all, of the worldliness of those who, instead of seeking her +service, have sought and gained the dignities which, if it be good that +she have it in her power to bestow them, need the corrective of a +sharply wholesome persecution which of late times she has not known. +But God knows, and the fire will come in its course--first in the form +of just indignation, it may be, against her professed servants, and +then in the form of the furnace seven times heated, in which the true +builders shall yet walk unhurt save as to their mortal part. + +I looked about for some cottage where the sexton might be supposed to +live, and spied a slated roof, nearly on a level with the road, at a +little distance in front of me. I could at least inquire there. Before +I reached it, however, an elderly woman came out and approached me. She +was dressed in a white cap and a dark-coloured gown. On her face lay a +certain repose which attracted me. She looked as if she had suffered +but had consented to it, and therefore could smile. Her smile lay near +the surface. A kind word was enough to draw it up from the well where +it lay shimmering: you could always see the smile there, whether it was +born or not. But even when she smiled, in the very glimmering of that +moonbeam, you could see the deep, still, perhaps dark, waters under. O! +if one could but understand what goes on in the souls that have no +words, perhaps no inclination, to set it forth! What had she endured? +How had she learned to have that smile always near? What had consoled +her, and yet left her her grief--turned it, perhaps, into hope? Should +I ever know? + +She drew near me, as if she would have passed me, as she would have +done, had I not spoken. I think she came towards me to give me the +opportunity of speaking if I wished, but she would not address me. + +"Good morning," I said. "Can you tell me where to find the sexton?" + +"Well, sir," she answered, with a gleam of the smile brightening +underneath her old skin, as it were, "I be all the sexton you be likely +to find this mornin', sir. My husband, he be gone out to see one o' +Squire Tregarva's hounds as was took ill last night. So if you want to +see the old church, sir, you'll have to be content with an old woman to +show you, sir." + +"I shall be quite content, I assure you," I answered. "Will you go and +get the key?" + +"I have the key in my pocket, sir; for I thought that would be what +you'd be after, sir. And by the time you come to my age, sir, you'll +learn to think of your old bones, sir. I beg your pardon for making so +free. For mayhap, says I to myself, he be the gentleman as be come to +take Mr. Shepherd's duty for him. Be ye now, sir?" + +All this was said in a slow sweet subdued tone, nearly of one pitch. +You would have felt that she claimed the privilege of age with a kind +of mournful gaiety, but was careful, and anxious even, not to presume +upon it, and, therefore, gentle as a young girl. + +"Yes," I answered. "My name is Walton I have come to take the place of +my friend Mr. Shepherd; and, of course, I want to see the church." + +"Well, she be a bee-utiful old church. Some things, I think, sir, grows +more beautiful the older they grows. But it ain't us, sir." + +"I'm not so sure of that," I said. "What do you mean?" + +"Well, sir, there's my little grandson in the cottage there: he'll +never be so beautiful again. Them children du be the loves. But we all +grows uglier as we grows older. Churches don't seem to, sir." + +"I'm not so sure about all that," I said again. + +"They did say, sir, that I was a pretty girl once. I'm not much to look +at now." + +And she smiled with such a gracious amusement, that I felt at once that +if there was any vanity left in this memory of her past loveliness, it +was sweet as the memory of their old fragrance left in the withered +leaves of the roses. + +"But it du not matter, du it, sir? Beauty is only skin-deep." + +"I don't believe that," I answered. "Beauty is as deep as the heart at +least." + +"Well to be sure, my old husband du say I be as handsome in his eyes as +ever I be. But I beg your pardon, sir, for talkin' about myself. I +believe it was the old church--she set us on to it." + +"The old church didn't lead you into any harm then," I answered. "The +beauty that is in the heart will shine out of the face again some +day--be sure of that. And after all, there is just the same kind of +beauty in a good old face that there is in an old church. You can't say +the church is so trim and neat as it was the day that the first blast +of the organ filled it as with, a living soul. The carving is not quite +so sharp, the timbers are not quite so clean. There is a good deal of +mould and worm-eating and cobwebs about the old place. Yet both you and +I think it more beautiful now than it was then. Well, I believe it is, +as nearly as possible, the same with an old face. It has got stained, +and weather-beaten, and worn; but if the organ of truth has been +playing on inside the temple of the Lord, which St. Paul says our +bodies are, there is in the old face, though both form and complexion +are gone, just the beauty of the music inside. The wrinkles and the +brownness can't spoil it. A light shines through it all--that of the +indwelling spirit. I wish we all grew old like the old churches." + +She did not reply, but I thought I saw in her face that she understood +my mysticism. We had been walking very slowly, had passed through the +quaint lych-gate, and now the old woman had got the key in the lock of +the door, whose archway was figured and fashioned as I have described +above, with a dozen mouldings or more, most of them "carved so +curiously." + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +THE OLD CHURCH. + + +The awe that dwells in churches fell upon me as I crossed the +threshold--an awe I never fail to feel--heightened in many cases, no +doubt, by the sense of antiquity and of art, but an awe which I have +felt all the same in crossing the threshold of an old Puritan +conventicle, as the place where men worship and have worshipped the God +of their fathers, although for art there was only the science of common +bricklaying, and for beauty staring ugliness. To the involuntary fancy, +the air of petition and of holy need seems to linger in the place, and +the uncovered head acknowledges the sacred symbols of human inspiration +and divine revealing. But this was no ordinary church into which I +followed the gentlewoman who was my guide. As entering I turned my eyes +eastward, a flush of subdued glory invaded them from the chancel, all +the windows of which were of richly stained glass, and the roof of +carved oak lavishly gilded. I had my thoughts about this chancel, and +thence about chancels generally which may appear in another part of my +story. Now I have to do only with the church, not with the cogitations +to which it gave rise. But I will not trouble my reader with even what +I could tell him of the blending and contradicting of styles and modes +of architectural thought in the edifice. Age is to the work of +contesting human hands a wonderful harmoniser of differences. As nature +brings into harmony all fractures of her frame, and even positive +intrusions upon her realm, clothes and discolours them, in the old +sense of the word, so that at length there is no immediate shock at +sight of that which in itself was crude, and is yet coarse, so the +various architecture of this building had been gone over after the +builders by the musical hand of Eld, with wonder of delicate transition +and change of key, that one could almost fancy the music of its +exquisite organ had been at work _informing_ the building, half melting +the sutures, wearing the sharpness, and blending the angles, until in +some parts there was but the gentle flickering of the original +conception left, all its self-assertion vanished under the file of the +air and the gnawing of the worm. True, the hand of the restorer had +been busy, but it had wrought lovingly and gently, and wherein it had +erred, the same influences of nature, though as yet their effects were +invisible, were already at work--of the many making one. I will not +trouble my reader, I say, with any architectural description, which, +possibly even more than a detailed description of natural beauty +dissociated from human feeling, would only weary him, even if it were +not unintelligible. When we are reading a poem, we do not first of all +examine the construction and dwell on the rhymes and rhythms; all that +comes after, if we find that the poem itself is so good that its parts +are therefore worth examining, as being probably good in themselves, +and elucidatory of the main work. There were carvings on the ends of +the benches all along the aisle on both sides, well worth examination, +and some of them even of description; but I shall not linger on these. +A word only about the columns: they supported arches of different +fashion on the opposite sides, but they were themselves similar in +matter and construction, both remarkable. They were of coarse granite +of the country, chiselled, but very far from smooth, not to say +polished. Each pillar was a single stone with chamfered sides. + +Walking softly through the ancient house, forgetting in the many +thoughts that arose within me that I had a companion, I came at length +into the tower, the basement of which was open, forming part of the +body of the church. There hung many ropes through holes in a ceiling +above, for bell-ringing was encouraged and indeed practised by my +friend Shepherd. And as I regarded them, I thought within myself how +delightful it would be if in these days as in those of Samuel, the word +of God was precious; so that when it came to the minister of his +people--a fresh vision of his glory, a discovery of his meaning--he +might make haste to the church, and into the tower, lay hold of the +rope that hung from the deepest-toned bell of all, and constrain it by +the force of strong arms to utter its voice of call, "Come hither, come +hear, my people, for God hath spoken;" and from the streets or the +lanes would troop the eager folk; the plough be left in the furrow, the +cream in the churn; and the crowding people bring faces into the +church, all with one question upon them--"What hath the Lord spoken?" +But now it would be answer sufficient to such a call to say, "But what +will become of the butter?" or, "An hour's ploughing will be lost." And +the clergy--how would they bring about such a time? They do not even +believe that God has a word to his people through them. They think that +his word is petrified for use in the Bible and Prayer-book; that the +wise men of old heard so much of the word of God, and have so set it +down, that there is no need for any more words of the Lord coming to +the prophets of a land; therefore they look down upon the +prophesying--that is, the preaching of the word--make light of it, the +best of them, say these prayers are everything, or all but everything: +_their_ hearts are not set upon hearing what God the Lord will speak +that they may speak it abroad to his people again. Therefore it is no +wonder if the church bells are obedient only to the clock, are no +longer subject to the spirit of the minister, and have nothing to do in +telegraphing between heaven and earth. They make little of this part of +their duty; and no wonder, if what is to be spoken must remain such as +they speak. They put the Church for God, and the prayers which are the +word of man to God, for the word of God to man. But when the prophets +see no vision, how should they have any word to speak? + +These thoughts were passing through my mind when my eye fell upon my +guide. She was seated against the south wall of the tower, on a stool, +I thought, or small table. While I was wandering about the church she +had taken her stocking and wires out of her pocket, and was now +knitting busily. How her needles did go! Her eyes never regarded them, +however, but, fixed on the slabs that paved the tower at a yard or two +from her feet, seemed to be gazing far out to sea, for they had an +infinite objectless outlook. To try her, I took for the moment the +position of an accuser. + +"So you don't mind working in church?" I said. + +When I spoke she instantly rose, her eyes turned as from the far +sea-waves to my face, and light came out of them. With a smile she +answered-- + +"The church knows me, sir." + +"But what has that to do with it?" + +"I don't think she minds it. We are told to be diligent in business, +you know, sir." + +"Yes, but it does not say in church and out of church. You could be +diligent somewhere else, couldn't you?" + +As soon as I said this, I began to fear she would think I meant it. But +she only smiled and said, "It won't hurt she, sir; and my good man, who +does all he can to keep her tidy, is out at toes and heels, and if I +don't keep he warm he'll be laid up, and then the church won't be kep' +nice, sir, till he's up again." + +I was tempted to go on. + +"But you could have sat down outside--there are some nice gravestones +near--and waited till I came out." + +"But what's the church for, sir? The sun's werry hot to-day, sir; and +Mr. Shepherd, he say, sir, that the church is like the shadow of a +great rock in a weary land. So, you see, if I was to sit out in the +sun, instead of comin' in here to the cool o' the shadow, I wouldn't be +takin' the church at her word. It does my heart good to sit in the old +church, sir. There's a something do seem to come out o' the old walls +and settle down like the cool o' the day upon my old heart that's +nearly tired o' crying, and would fain keep its eyes dry for the rest +o' the journey. My old man's stockin' won't hurt the church, sir, and, +bein' a good deed as I suppose it is, it's none the worse for the +place. I think, if He was to come by wi' the whip o' small cords, I +wouldn't be afeared of his layin' it upo' my old back. Do you think he +would, sir?" + +Thus driven to speak as I thought, I made haste to reply, more +delighted with the result of my experiment than I cared to let her know. + +"Indeed I do not. I was only talking. It is but selfish, cheating, or +ill-done work that the church's Master drives away. All our work ought +to be done in the shadow of the church." + +"I thought you be only having a talk about it, sir," she said, smiling +her sweet old smile. "Nobody knows what this old church is to me." + +Now the old woman had a good husband, apparently: the sorrows which had +left their mark even upon her smile, must have come from her family, I +thought. + +"You have had a family?" I said, interrogatively. + +"I've had thirteen," she answered. "Six bys and seven maidens." + +"Why, you are rich!" I returned. "And where are they all?" + +"Four maidens be lying in the churchyard, sir; two be married, and one +be down in the mill, there." + +"And your boys?" + +"One of them be lyin' beside his sisters--drownded afore my eyes, sir. +Three o' them be at sea, and two o' them in it, sir." + +At sea! I thought. What a wide _where_! As vague to the imagination, +almost, as _in the other world_. How a mother's thoughts must go +roaming about the waste, like birds that have lost their nest, to find +them! + +As this thought kept me silent for a few moments, she resumed. + +"It be no wonder, be it, sir? that I like to creep into the church with +my knitting. Many's the stormy night, when my husband couldn't keep +still, but would be out on the cliffs or on the breakwater, for no good +in life, but just to hear the roar of the waves that he could only see +by the white of them, with the balls o' foam flying in his face in the +dark--many's the such a night that I have left the house after he was +gone, with this blessed key in my hand, and crept into the old church +here, and sat down where I'm sittin' now--leastways where I was sittin' +when your reverence spoke to me--and hearkened to the wind howling +about the place. The church windows never rattle, sir--like the cottage +windows, as I suppose you know, sir. Somehow, I feel safe in the +church." + +"But if you had sons at sea," said I, again wishing to draw her out, +"it would not he of much good to you to feel safe yourself, so long as +they were in danger." + +"O! yes, it be, sir. What's the good of feeling safe yourself but it +let you know other people be safe too? It's when you don't feel safe +yourself that you feel other people ben't safe." + +"But," I said--and such confidence I had from what she had already +uttered, that I was sure the experiment was not a cruel one--"some of +your sons _were_ drowned for all that you say about their safety." + +"Well, sir," she answered, with a sigh, "I trust they're none the less +safe for that. It would be a strange thing for an old woman like me, +well-nigh threescore and ten, to suppose that safety lay in not being +drownded. Why, they might ha' been cast on a desert island, and wasted +to skin an' bone, and got home again wi' the loss of half the wits they +set out with. Wouldn't that ha' been worse than being drownded right +off? And that wouldn't ha' been the worst, either. The church she seem +to tell me all the time, that for all the roaring outside, there be +really no danger after all. What matter if they go to the bottom? What +is the bottom of the sea, sir? You bein' a clergyman can tell that, +sir. I shouldn't ha' known it if I hadn't had bys o' my own at sea, +sir. But you can tell, sir, though you ain't got none there." + +And though she was putting her parson to his catechism, the smile that +returned on her face was as modest as if she had only been listening to +his instruction. I had not long to look for my answer. + +"The hollow of his hand," I said, and said no more. + +"I thought you would know it, sir," she returned, with a little glow of +triumph in her tone. "Well, then, that's just what the church tells me +when I come in here in the stormy nights. I bring my knitting then too, +sir, for I can knit in the dark as well as in the light almost; and +when they come home, if they do come home, they're none the worse that +I went to the old church to pray for them. There it goes roaring about +them poor dears, all out there; and their old mother sitting still as a +stone almost in the quiet old church, a caring for them. And then it do +come across me, sir, that God be a sitting in his own house at home, +hearing all the noise and all the roaring in which his children are +tossed about in the world, watching it all, letting it drown some o' +them and take them back to him, and keeping it from going too far with +others of them that are not quite ready for that same. I have my +thoughts, you see, sir, though I be an old woman; and not nice to look +at." + +I had come upon a genius. How nature laughs at our schools sometimes! +Education, so-called, is a fine thing, and might be a better thing; but +there is an education, that of life, which, when seconded by a pure +will to learn, leaves the schools behind, even as the horse of the +desert would leave behind the slow pomposity of the common-fed goose. +For life is God's school, and they that will listen to the Master there +will learn at God's speed. For one moment, I am ashamed to say, I was +envious of Shepherd, and repined that, now old Rogers was gone, I had +no such glorious old stained-glass window in my church to let in the +eternal upon my light-thirsty soul. I must say for myself that the +feeling lasted but for a moment, and that no sooner had the shadow of +it passed and the true light shined after it, than I was heartily +ashamed of it. Why should not Shepherd have the old woman as well as I? +True, Shepherd was more of what would now be called a ritualist than I; +true, I thought my doctrine simpler and therefore better than his; but +was this any reason why I should have all the grand people to minister +to in my parish! Recovering myself, I found her last words still in my +ears. + +"You are very nice to look at," I said. "You must not find fault with +the work of God, because you would like better to be young and pretty +than to be as you now are. Time and time's rents and furrows are all +his making and his doing. God makes nothing ugly." + +"Are you quite sure of that, sir?" + +I paused. Such a question from such a woman "must give us pause." And, +as I paused, the thought of certain animals flashed into my mind and I +could not insist that God had never made anything ugly. + +"No. I am not sure of it," I answered. For of all things my soul +recoiled from, any professional pretence of knowing more than I did +know seemed to me the most repugnant to the spirit and mind of the +Master, whose servants we are, or but the servants of mere priestly +delusion and self-seeking. "But if he does," I went on to say, "it must +be that we may see what it is like, and therefore not like it." + +Then, unwilling all at once to plunge with her into such an abyss as +the question opened, I turned the conversation to an object on which my +eyes had been for some time resting half-unconsciously. It was the sort +of stool or bench on which my guide had been sitting. I now thought it +was some kind of box or chest. It was curiously carved in old oak, very +much like the ends of the benches and book-boards. + +"What is that you were sitting on?" I asked. "A chest or what?" + +"It be there when we come to this place, and that be nigh fifty years +agone, sir. But what it be, you'll be better able to tell than I be, +sir." + +"Perhaps a chest for holding the communion-plate in old time," I said. +"But how should it then come to be banished to the tower?" + +"No, sir; it can't be that. It be some sort of ancient musical piano, I +be thinking." + +I stooped and saw that its lid was shaped like the cover of an organ. +With some difficulty I opened it; and there, to be sure, was a row of +huge keys, fit for the fingers of a Cyclops. I pressed upon them, one +after another, but no sound followed. They were stiff to the touch; and +once down, so they mostly remained until lifted again. I looked if +there was any sign of a bellows, thinking it must have been some +primitive kind of reed-instrument, like what we call a seraphine or +harmonium now-a-days. But there was no hole through which there could +have been any communication with or from a bellows, although there +might have been a small one inside. There were, however, a dozen little +round holes in the fixed part of the top, which might afford some clue +to the mystery of its former life. I could not find any way of reaching +the inside of it, so strongly was it put together; therefore I was +left, I thought, to the efforts of my imagination alone for any hope of +discovery with regard to the instrument, seeing further observation was +impossible. But here I found that I was mistaken in two important +conclusions, the latter of which depended on the former. The first of +these was that it was an instrument: it was only one end of an +instrument; therefore, secondly, there might be room for observation +still. But I found this out by accident, which has had a share in most +discoveries, and which, meaning a something that falls into our hands +unlocked for, is so far an unobjectionable word even to the man who +does not believe in chance. I had for the time given up the question as +insoluble, and was gazing about the place, when, glancing up at the +holes in the ceiling through which the bell-ropes went, I spied two or +three thick wires hanging through the same ceiling close to the wall, +and right over the box with the keys. The vague suspicion of a +discovery dawned upon me. + +"Have you got the key of the tower?" I asked. + +"No, sir. But I'll run home for it at once," she answered. And rising, +she went out in haste. + +"Run!" thought I, looking after her. "It is a word of the will and the +feeling, not of the body." But I was mistaken. The dear old creature +had no sooner got outside of the church-yard, within which, I presume, +she felt that she must be decorous, than she did run, and ran well too. +I was on the point of starting after her at full speed, to prevent her +from hurting herself, but reflecting that her own judgment ought to be +as good as mine in such a case, I returned, and sitting down on her +seat, awaited her reappearance, gazing at the ceiling. There I either +saw or imagined I saw signs of openings corresponding in number and +position with those in the lid under me. In about three minutes the old +woman returned, panting but not distressed, with a great crooked old +key in her hand. Why are all the keys of a church so crooked? I did not +ask her that question, though. What I said to her, was-- + +"You shouldn't run like that. I am in no hurry." + +"Be you not, sir? I thought, by the way you spoke, you be taken with a +longing to get a-top o' the tower, and see all about you like. For you +see, sir, fond as I be of the old church, I du feel sometimes as if +she'd smother me; and then nothing will do but I must get at the top of +the old tower. And then, what with the sun, if there be any sun, and +what with the fresh air which there always be up there, sir,--it du +always be fresh up there, sir," she repeated, "I come back down again +blessing the old church for its tower." + +As she spoke she was toiling up the winding staircase after me, where +there was just room enough for my shoulders to get through by turning +themselves a little across the lie of the steps. They were very high, +but she kept up with me bravely, bearing out her statement that she was +no stranger to them. As I ascended, however, I was not thinking of her, +but of what she had said. Strange to tell, the significance of the +towers or spires of our churches had never been clear to me before. +True, I was quite awake to their significance, at least to that of the +spires, as fingers pointing ever upwards to + + "regions mild of calm and serene air, + Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, + Which men call Earth;" + +but I had not thought of their symbolism as lifting one up above the +church itself into a region where no church is wanted because the Lord +God almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it. + +Happy church indeed, if it destroys the need of itself by lifting men +up into the eternal kingdom! Would that I and all her servants lived +pervaded with the sense of this her high end, her one high calling! We +need the church towers to remind us that the mephitic airs in the +church below are from the churchyard at its feet, which so many take +for the church, worshipping over the graves and believing in death--or +at least in the material substance over which alone death hath power. +Thus the church, even in her corruption, lifts us out of her +corruption, sending us up her towers and her spires to admonish us that +she too lives in the air of truth: that her form too must pass away, +while the truth that is embodied in her lives beyond forms and customs +and prejudices, shining as the stars for ever and ever. He whom the +church does not lift up above the church is not worthy to be a +doorkeeper therein. + +Such thoughts passed through me, satisfied me, and left me peaceful, so +that before I had reached the top, I was thanking the Lord--not for his +church-tower, but for his sexton's wife. The old woman was a jewel. If +her husband was like her, which was too much to expect--if he believed +in her, it would be enough, quite--then indeed the little child, who +answered on being questioned thereanent, as the Scotch would say, that +the three orders of ministers in the church were the parson, clerk, and +sexton, might not be so far wrong in respect of this individual case. +So in the ascent, and the thinking associated therewith, I forgot all +about the special object for which I had requested the key of the +tower, and led the way myself up to the summit, where stepping out of a +little door, which being turned only heavenwards had no pretence for, +or claim upon a curiously crooked key, but opened to the hand laid upon +the latch, I thought of the words of the judicious Hooker, that "the +assembling of the church to learn" was "the receiving of angels +descended from above;" and in such a whimsical turn as our thoughts +will often take when we are not heeding them, I wondered for a moment +whether that was why the upper door was left on the latch, forgetting +that that could not be of much use, if the door in the basement was +kept locked with the crooked key. But the whole suggested something +true about my own heart and that of my fellows, if not about the +church: Revelation is not enough, the open trap-door is not enough, if +the door of the heart is not open likewise. + +As soon, however, as I stepped out upon the roof of the tower, I forgot +again all that had thus passed through my mind, swift as a dream. For, +filling the west, lay the ocean beneath, with a dark curtain of storm +hanging in perpendicular lines over part of its horizon, and on the +other side was the peaceful solid land, with its numberless shades of +green, its heights and hollows, its farms and wooded vales--there was +not much wood--its scattered villages and country dwellings, lighted +and shadowed by the sun and the clouds. Beyond lay the blue heights of +Dartmoor. And over all, bathing us as it passed, moved the wind, the +life-bearing spirit of the whole, the servant of the sun. The old woman +stood beside me, silently enjoying my enjoyment, with a still smile +that seemed to say in kindly triumph, "Was I not right about the tower +and the wind that dwells among its pinnacles?" I drank deep of the +universal flood, the outspread peace, the glory of the sun, and the +haunting shadow of the sea that lay beyond like the visual image of the +eternal silence--as it looks to us--that rounds our little earthly life. + +There were a good many trees in the church-yard, and as I looked down, +the tops of them in their richest foliage hid all the graves directly +below me, except a single flat stone looking up through an opening in +the leaves, which seemed to have been just made for it to let it see +the top of the tower. Upon the stone a child was seated playing with a +few flowers she had gathered, not once looking up to the gilded vanes +that rose from the four pinnacles at the corners of the tower. I turned +to the eastern side, and looked over upon the church roof. It lay far +below--looking very narrow and small, but long, with the four ridges of +four steep roofs stretching away to the eastern end. It was in +excellent repair, for the parish was almost all in one lord's +possession, and he was proud of his church: between them he and Mr. +Shepherd had made it beautiful to behold and strong to endure. + +When I turned to look again, the little child was gone. Some butterfly +fancy had seized her, and she was away. A little lamb was in her place, +nibbling at the grass that grew on the side of the next mound. And when +I looked seaward there was a sloop, like a white-winged sea-bird, +rounding the end of a high projecting rock from the south, to bear up +the little channel that led to the gates of the harbour canal. Out of +the circling waters it had flown home, not from a long voyage, but +hardly the less welcome therefore to those that waited and looked for +her signal from the barrier rock. + +Reentering by the angels' door to descend the narrow cork-screw stair, +so dark and cool, I caught a glimpse, one turn down, by the feeble +light that came through its chinks after it was shut behind us, of a +tiny maiden-hair fern growing out of the wall. I stopped, and said to +the old woman-- + +"I have a sick daughter at home, or I wouldn't rob your tower of this +lovely little thing." + +"Well, sir, what eyes you have! I never saw the thing before. Do take +it home to miss. It'll do her good to see it. I be main sorry to hear +you've got a sick maiden. She ben't a bedlar, be she, sir?" + +I was busy with my knife getting out all the roots I could without +hurting them, and before I had succeeded I had remembered Turner's +using the word. + +"Not quite that," I answered, "but she can't even sit up, and must be +carried everywhere." + +"Poor dear! Everyone has their troubles, sir. The sea's been mine." + +She continued talking and asking kind questions about Connie as we went +down the stair. Not till she opened a little door I had passed without +observing it as we came up, was I reminded of my first object in +ascending the tower. For this door revealed a number of bells hanging +in silent power in the brown twilight of the place. I entered +carefully, for there were only some planks laid upon the joists to keep +one's feet from going through the ceiling. In a few moments I had +satisfied myself that my conjecture about the keys below was correct. +The small iron rods I had seen from beneath hung down from this place. +There were more of them hanging shorter above, and there was yet enough +of a further mechanism remaining to prove that those keys, by means of +the looped and cranked rods, had been in connection with hammers, one +of them indeed remaining also, which struck the bells, so that a tune +could be played upon them as upon any other keyed instrument. This was +the first contrivance of the kind I had ever seen, though I have heard +of it in other churches since. + +"If I could find a clever blacksmith in the neighbourhood, now," I said +to myself, "I would get this all repaired, so that it should not +interfere with the bell-ringing when the ringers were to be had, and +yet Shepherd could play a psalm tune to his parish at large when he +pleased." For Shepherd was a very fair musician, and gave a good deal +of time to the organ. "It's a grand notion, to think of him sitting +here in the gloom, with that great musical instrument towering above +him, whence he sends forth the voice of gladness, almost of song to his +people, while they are mowing the grass, binding the sheaves, or gazing +abroad over the stormy ocean in doubt, anxiety, and fear. 'There's the +parson at his bells,' they would say, and stop and listen; and some +phrase might sink into their hearts, waking some memory, or giving +birth to some hope or faint aspiration. I will see what can be done." +Having come to this conclusion, I left the abode of the bells, +descended to the church, bade my conductress good morning, saying I +would visit her soon in her own house, and bore home to my child the +spoil which, without kirk-rapine, I had torn from the wall of the +sanctuary. By this time the stormy veil had lifted from the horizon, +and the sun was shining in full power without one darkening cloud. + +Ere I left the churchyard I would have a glance at the stone which ever +seemed to lie gazing up at the tower. I soon found it, because it was +the only one in that quarter from which I could see the top of the +tower. It recorded the life and death of an aged pair who had been +married fifty years, concluding with the couplet-- + +"A long time this may seem to be, But it did not seem long to we." + +The whole story of a human life lay in that last verse. True, it was +not good grammar; but they had got through fifty years of wedded life +probably without any knowledge of grammar to harmonise or to shorten +them, and I daresay, had they been acquainted with the lesson he had +put into their dumb mouths, they would have been aware of no ground of +quarrel with the poetic stone-cutter, who most likely had thrown the +verses in when he made his claim for the stone and the cutting. Having +learnt this one by heart, I went about looking for anything more in the +shape of sepulchral flora that might interest or amuse my crippled +darling; nor had I searched long before I found one, the sole but +triumphant recommendation of which was the thorough "puzzle-headedness" +of its construction. I quite reckoned on seeing Connie trying to make +it out, looking as bewildered over its excellent grammar, as the poet +of the other ought to have looked over his rhymes, ere he gave in to +the use of the nominative after a preposition. + + "If you could view the heavenly shore, + Where heart's content you hope to find, + You would not murmur were you gone before, + But grieve that you are left behind." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER. + + +As I walked home, the rush of the rising tide was in my ears. To my +fancy, the ocean, awaking from a swoon in which its life had ebbed to +its heart, was sending that life abroad to its extremities, and waves +breaking in white were the beats of its reviving pulse, the flashes of +returning light. But so gentle was its motion, and so lovely its hue, +that I could not help contrasting it with its reflex in the mind of her +who took refuge from the tumult of its noises in the hollow of the old +church. To her, let it look as blue as the sky, as peaceful and as +moveless, it was a wild, reckless, false, devouring creature, a prey to +its own moods, and to that of the blind winds which, careless of +consequences, urged it to raving fury. Only, while the sea took this +form to her imagination, she believed in that which held the sea, and +knew that, when it pleased God to part his confining fingers, there +would he no more sea. + +When I reached home, I went straight to Connie's room. Now the house +was one of a class to every individual of which, whatever be its style +or shape, I instantly become attached almost as if it possessed a +measure of the life which it has sheltered. This class of human +dwellings consists of the houses that have _grown_. They have not been, +built after a straight-up-and-down model of uninteresting convenience +or money-loving pinchedness. They must have had some plan, good, bad, +or indifferent, as the case may be, at first, I suppose; but that plan +they have left far behind, having grown with the necessities or +ambitions of succeeding possessors, until the fact that they have a +history is as plainly written on their aspect as on that of any you or +daughter of Adam. These are the houses which the fairies used to haunt, +and if there is any truth in ghost-stories, the houses which ghosts +will yet haunt; and hence perhaps the sense of soothing comfort which +pervades us when we cross their thresholds. You do not know, the moment +you have cast a glance about the hall, where the dining-room, +drawing-room, and best bedroom are. You have got it all to find out, +just as the character of a man; and thus had I to find out this house +of my friend Shepherd. It had formerly been a kind of manor-house, +though altogether unlike any other manor-house I ever saw; for after +exercising all my constructive ingenuity reversed in pulling it to +pieces in my mind, I came to the conclusion that the germ-cell of it +was a cottage of the simplest sort which had grown by the addition of +other cells, till it had reached the development in which we found it. + +I have said that the dining-room was almost on the level of the shore. +Certainly some of the flat stones that coped the low wall in front of +it were thrown into the garden before the next winter by the waves. But +Connie's room looked out on a little flower-garden almost on the downs, +only sheltered a little by the rise of a short grassy slope above it. +This, however, left the prospect, from her window down the bay and out +to sea, almost open. To reach this room I had now to go up but one +simple cottage stair; for the door of the house entered on the first +floor, that is, as regards the building, midway between heaven and +earth. It had a large bay-window; and in this window Connie was lying +on her couch, with the lower sash wide open, through which the breeze +entered, smelling of sea-weed tempered with sweet grasses and the +wall-flowers and stocks that were in the little plot under it. I +thought I could see an improvement in her already. Certainly she looked +very happy. + +"O, papa!" she said, "isn't it delightful?" + +"What is, my dear?" + +"O, everything. The wind, and the sky, and the sea, and the smell of +the flowers. Do look at that sea-bird. His wings are like the barb of a +terrible arrow. How he goes undulating, neck and body, up and down as +he flies. I never felt before that a bird moves his wings. It always +looked as if the wings flew with the bird. But I see the effort in him." + +"An easy effort, though, I should certainly think." + +"No doubt. But I see that he chooses and means to fly, and so does it. +It makes one almost reconciled to the idea of wings. Do angels really +have wings, papa?" + +"It is generally so represented, I think, in the Bible. But whether it +is meant as a natural fact about them, is more than I take upon me to +decide. For one thing, I should have to examine whether in simple +narrative they are ever represented with them, as, I think, in records +of visions they are never represented without them. But wings are very +beautiful things, and I do not exactly see why you should need +reconciling to them." + +Connie gave a little shrug of her shoulders. + +"I don't like the notion of them growing out at my shoulder-blades. And +however would you get on your clothes? If you put them over your wings, +they would be of no use, and would, besides, make you hump-backed; and +if you did not, everything would have to be buttoned round the roots of +them. You could not do it yourself, and even on Wynnie I don't think I +could bear to touch the things--I don't mean the feathers, but the +skinny, folding-up bits of them." + +I laughed at her fastidious fancy. + +"You want to fly, I suppose?" I said. + +"O, yes; I should like that." + +"And you don't want to have wings?" + +"Well, I shouldn't mind the wings exactly; but however would one be +able to keep them nice?" + +"There you go; starting from one thing to another, like a real bird +already. When you can't answer one thing, off to another, and, from +your new perch on the hawthorn, talk as if you were still on the +topmost branch of the lilac!" + +"O, yes, papa! That's what I've heard you say to mamma twenty times." + +"And did I ever say to your mamma anything but the truth? or to you +either, you puss?" + +I had not yet discovered that when I used this epithet to my Connie, +she always thought she had gone too far. She looked troubled. I +hastened to relieve her. + +"When women have wings," I said, "their logic will be good." + +"How do you make that out, papa?" she asked, a little re-assured. + +"Because then every shadow of feeling that turns your speech aside from +the straight course will be recognised in that speech; the whole +utterance will be instinct not only with the meaning of what you are +thinking, but with the reflex of the forces in you that make the +utterance take this or that shape; just as to a perfect palate, the +source and course of a stream would be revealed in every draught of its +water. + +"I have just a glimmering of your meaning, papa. Would you like to have +wings?" + +"I should like to fly like a bird, to swim like a fish, to gallop like +a horse, to creep like a serpent, but I suspect the good of all these +is to be got without doing any of them." + +"I know what you mean now, but I can't put it in words." + +"I mean by a perfect sympathy with the creatures that do these things: +what it may please God to give to ourselves, we can quite comfortably +leave to him. A higher stratum of the same kind is the need we feel of +knowing our fellow-creatures through and through, of walking into and +out of their worlds as if we were, because we are, perfectly at home in +them.--But I am talking what the people who do not understand such +things lump all together as mysticism, which is their name for a kind +of spiritual ash-pit, whither they consign dust and stones, never +asking whether they may not be gold-dust and rubies, all in a +heap.--You had better begin to think about getting out, Connie." + +"Think about it, papa! I have been thinking about it ever since +daylight." + +"I will go and see what your mother is doing then, and if she is ready +to go out with us." + +In a few moments all was arranged. Without killing more than a snail or +two, which we could not take time to beware of, Walter and I--finding +that the window did not open down to the ground in French fashion, for +which there were two good reasons, one the fierceness of the winds in +winter, the other, the fact that the means of egress were elsewise +provided--lifted the sofa, Connie and all, out over the window-sill, +and then there was only a little door in the garden-wall to get her +through before we found ourselves upon the down. I think the ascent of +this hill was the first experience I had--a little to my humiliation, +nothing to my sorrow--that I was descending another hill. I had to set +down the precious burden rather oftener before we reached the brow of +the cliffs than would have been necessary ten years before. But this +was all right, and the newly-discovered weakness then was strength to +the power which carries me about on my two legs now. It is all right +still. I shall be stronger by and by. + +We carried her high enough for her to see the brilliant waters lying +many feet below her, with the sea-birds of which we had talked winging +their undulating way between heaven and ocean. It is when first you +have a chance of looking a bird in the face on the wing that you know +what the marvel of flight is. There it hangs or rests, which you +please, borne up, as far as eye or any of the senses can witness, by +its own will alone. This Connie, quicker than I in her observation of +nature, had already observed. Seated on the warm grass by her side, +while neither talked, but both regarded the blue spaces, I saw one of +those same barb-winged birds rest over my head, regarding me from +above, as if doubtful whether I did not afford some claim to his theory +of treasure-trove. I knew at once that what Connie had been saying to +me just before was true. + +She lay silent a long time. I too was silent. At length I spoke. + +"Are you longing to be running about amongst the rocks, my Connie?" + +"No, papa; not a bit. I don't know how it is, but I don't think I ever +wished much for anything I knew I could not have. I am enjoying +everything more than I can tell you. I wish Wynnie were as happy as I +am." + +"Why? Do you think she's not happy, my dear?" + +"That doesn't want any thinking, papa. You can see that." + +"I am afraid you're right, Connie. What do you think is the cause of +it?" + +"I think it is because she can't wait. She's always going out to meet +things; and then when they're not there waiting for her, she thinks +they're nowhere. But I always think her way is finer than mine. If +everybody were like me, there wouldn't be much done in the world, would +there, papa?" + +"At all events, my dear, your way is wise for you, and I am glad you do +not judge your sister." + +"Judge Wynnie, papa! That would be cool impudence. She's worth ten of +me. Don't you think, papa," she added, after a pause, "that if Mary had +said the smallest word against Martha, as Martha did against Mary, +Jesus would have had a word to say on Martha's side next?" + +"Indeed I do, my dear. And I think that did not sit very long without +asking Jesus if she mightn't go and help her sister. There is but one +thing needful--that is, the will of God; and when people love that +above everything, they soon come to see that to everything else there +are two sides, and that only the will of God gives fair play, as we +call it, to both of them." + +Another silence followed. Then Connie spoke. + +"Is it not strange, papa, that the only thine here that makes me want +to get up to look, is nothing of all the grand things round about me? I +am just lying like the convex mirror in the school-room at home, +letting them all paint themselves in me." + +"What is it then that makes you wish to get up and go and see?" I asked +with real curiosity. + +"Do you see down there--away across the bay--amongst the rocks at the +other side, a man sitting sketching?" + +I looked for some time before I could discover him. + +"Your sight is good, Connie: I see the man, but I could not tell what +he was doing." + +"Don't you see him lifting his head every now and then for a moment, +and then keeping it down for a longer while?" + +"I cannot distinguish that. But then I am shortsighted rather, you +know." + +"I wonder how you see so many little things that nobody else seems to +notice, then, papa." + +"That is because I have trained myself to observe. The degree of power +in the sight is of less consequence than the habit of seeing. But you +have not yet told me what it is that makes you desirous of getting up." + +"I want to look over his shoulder, and see what he is doing. Is it not +strange that in the midst of all this plenty of beautifulness, I should +want to rise to look at a few lines and scratches, or smears of colour, +upon a bit of paper?" + +"No, my dear; I don't think it is strange. There a new element of +interest is introduced--the human. No doubt there is deep humanity in +all this around us. No doubt all the world, in all its moods, is human, +as those for whose abode and instruction it was made. No doubt, it +would be void of both beauty and significance to our eyes, were it not +that it is one crowd of pictures of the human mind, blended in one +living fluctuating whole. But these meanings are there in solution as +it were. The individual is a centre of crystallisation to this +solution. Around him meanings gather, are separated from other +meanings; and if he be an artist, by which I mean true painter, true +poet, or true musician, as the case may be he so isolates and +represents them, that we see them--not what nature shows to us, but +what nature has shown, to him, determined by his nature and choice. +With it is mingled therefore so much of his own individuality, +manifested both in this choice and certain modifications determined by +his way of working, that you have not only a representation of an +aspect of nature, as far as that may be with limited powers and +materials, but a revelation of the man's own mind and nature. +Consequently there is a human interest in every true attempt to +reproduce nature, an interest of individuality which does not belong to +nature herself, who is for all and every man. You have just been saying +that you were lying there like a convex mirror reflecting all nature +around you. Every man is such a convex mirror; and his drawing, if he +can make one, is an attempt to show what is in this little mirror of +his, kindled there by the grand world outside. And the human mirrors +being all differently formed, vary infinitely in what they would thus +represent of the same scene. I have been greatly interested in looking +alternately over the shoulders of two artists, both sketching in colour +the same, absolutely the same scene, both trying to represent it with +all the truth in their power. How different, notwithstanding, the two +representations came out!" + +"I think I understand you, papa. But look a little farther off. Don't +you see over the top of another rock a lady's bonnet. I do believe +that's Wynnie. I know she took her box of water-colours out with her +this morning, just before you came home. Dora went with her." + +"Can't you tell by her ribbons, Connie? You seem sharp-sighted enough +to see her face if she would show it. I don't even see the bonnet. If I +were like some people I know, I should feel justified in denying its +presence, attributing the whole to your fancy, and refusing anything to +superiority of vision." + +"That wouldn't be like you, papa." + +"I hope not; for I have no fancy for being shut up in my own blindness, +when other people offer me their eyes to eke out the defects of my own +with. But here comes mamma at last." + +Connie's face brightened as if she had not seen her mother for a +fortnight. My Ethelwyn always brought the home gladness that her name +signified with her. She was a centre of radiating peace. + +"Mamma, don't you think that's Wynnie's bonnet over that black rock +there, just beyond where you see that man drawing?" + +"You absurd child! How should I know Wynnie's bonnet at this distance?" + +"Can't you see the little white feather you gave her out of your +wardrobe just before we left? She put it in this morning before she +went out." + +"I think I do see something white. But I want you to look out there, +towards what they call the Chapel Rock, at the other end of that long +mound they call the breakwater. You will soon see a boat appear full of +the coast-guard. I saw them going on board just as I left the house to +come up to you. Their officer came down with his sword, and each of the +men had a cutlass. I wonder what it can mean." + +We looked. But before the boat made its appearance, Connie cried out-- + +"Look there! What a big boat that is rowing for the land, away +northwards there!" + +I turned my eyes in the direction she indicated, and saw a long boat +with some half-dozen oars, full of men, rowing hard, apparently for +some spot on the shore at a considerable distance to the north of our +bay. + +"Ah!" I said, "that boat has something to do with the coast-guard and +their cutlasses. You'll see that, as soon as they get out of the bay, +they will row in the same direction." + +So it was. Our boat appeared presently from under the concealment of +the heights on which we were, and made at full speed after the other +boat. + +"Surely they can't be smugglers," I said. "I thought all that was over +and done with." + +In the course of another twenty minutes, during which we watched their +progress, both boats had disappeared behind the headland to the +northward. Then, thinking Connie had had nearly enough of the sea air +for her first experience of its influences, I went and fetched Walter, +and we carried her back as we had brought her. She had not been in the +shadow of her own room for five minutes before she was fast asleep. + +It was now nearly time for our early dinner. We always dined early when +we could, that we might eat along with our children. We were both +convinced that the only way to make them behave like ladies and +gentlemen was to have them always with us at meals. We had seen very +unpleasant results in the children of those who allowed them to dine +with no other supervision than the nursery afforded: they were a +constant anxiety and occasional horror to those whom they +visited--snatching like monkeys, and devouring like jackals, as +selfishly as if they were mere animals. + +"O! we've seen such a nice gentleman!" said Dora, becoming lively under +the influence of her soup. + +"Have you, Dora? Where?" + +"Sitting on the rocks, taking a portrait of the sea." + +"What makes you say he was a nice gentleman?" + +"He had such beautiful boots!" answered Dora, at which there was a +great laugh about the table. + +"O! we must run and tell Connie that," said Harry. "It will make her +laugh." + +"What will you tell Connie, then, Harry?" + +"O! what was it, Charlie? I've forgotten." + +Another laugh followed at Harry's expense now, and we were all very +merry, when Dora, who sat opposite to the window, called out, clapping +her hands-- + +"There's Niceboots again! There's Niceboots again!" + +The same moment the head of a young man appeared over the wall that +separated the garden from the little beach that lay by the entrance of +the canal. I saw at once that he must be more than ordinarily tall to +show his face, for he was not close to the wall. It was a dark +countenance, with a long beard, which few at that time wore, though now +it is getting not uncommon, even in my own profession--a noble, +handsome face, a little sad, with downbent eyes, which, released from +their more immediate duty towards nature, had now bent themselves upon +the earth. + +"Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought." + +"I suppose he's contemplating his boots," said Wynnie, with apparent +maliciousness. + +"That's too bad of you, Wynnie," I said, and the child blushed. + +"I didn't mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora's wise +discrimination," said Wynnie. + +"He is a fine-looking fellow," said I, "and ought, with that face and +head, to be able to paint good pictures." + +"I should like to see what he has done," said Wynnie; "for, by the way +we were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing." + +"And what was that then, Wynnie?" I asked. + +"A rock," she answered, "that you could not see from where you were +sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff." + +"Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she +could look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you." + +"Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us." + +"Space, you see, in removing things from the beholder, seems always to +bring them nearer to each other, and the most differing things are +classed under one name by the man who knows nothing about them. But +what sort of a rock was it you were trying to draw?" + +"A strange-looking, conical rock, that stands alone in front of one of +the ridges that project from the shore into the water. Three sea-birds, +with long white wings, were flying about it, and the little waves of +the rising tide were beating themselves against it and breaking in +white plashes. So the rock stood between the blue and white below and +the blue and white above; for, though there were no clouds, the birds +gave the touches of white to the upper sea." + +"Now, Dora," I said, "I don't know if you are old enough to understand +me; but sometimes little people are long in understanding, just because +the older people think they can't, and don't try them.--Do you see, +Dora, why I want you to learn to draw? Look how Wynnie sees things. +That is, in a great measure, because she draws things, and has, by +that, learned to watch in order to find out. It is a great thing to +have your eyes open." + +Dora's eyes were large, and she opened them to their full width, as if +she would take in the universe at their little doors. Whether that +indicated that she did not in the least understand what I had been +saying, or that she was in sympathy with it, I cannot tell. + +"Now let us go up to Connie, and tell her about the rock and everything +else you have seen since you went out. We are all her messengers sent +out to discover things, and bring back news of them." + +After a little talk with Connie, I retired to the study, which was on +the same floor as her room completing, indeed, the whole of that part +of the house, which, seen from without, looked like a separate +building; for it had a roof of its own, and stood higher up the rock +than the rest of the dwelling. Here I began to glance over the books. +To have the run of another man's library, especially if it has all been +gathered by himself, is like having a pass-key into the chambers of his +thought. Only, one must be wary, when he opens them, what marks on the +books he takes for those of the present owner. A mistake here would +breed considerable confusion and falsehood in any judgment formed from +the library. I found, however, one thing plain enough, that Shepherd +had kept up that love for an older English literature, which had been +one of the cords to draw us towards each other when we were students +together. There had been one point on which we especially agreed--that +a true knowledge of the present, in literature, as in everything else, +could only be founded upon a knowledge of what had gone before; +therefore, that any judgment, in regard to the literature of the +present day, was of no value which was not guided and influenced by a +real acquaintance with the best of what had gone before, being liable +to be dazzled and misled by novelty of form and other qualities which, +whatever might be the real worth of the substance, were, in themselves, +purely ephemeral. I had taken down a last-century edition of the poems +of the brothers Fletcher, and, having begun to read a lovely passage in +"Christ's Victory and Triumph," had gone into what I can only call an +intellectual rage, at the impudence of the editor, who had altered +innumerable words and phrases to suit the degenerate taste of his own +time,--when a knock came to the door, and Charlie entered, breathless +with eagerness. + +"There's the boat with the men with the swords in it, and another boat +behind them, twice as big." + +I hurried out upon the road, and there, close under our windows, were +the two boats we had seen in the morning, landing their crews on the +little beach. The second boat was full of weather-beaten men, in all +kinds of attire, some in blue jerseys, some in red shirts, some in +ragged coats. One man, who looked their superior, was dressed in blue +from head to foot. + +"What's the matter?" I asked the officer of the coast-guard, a sedate, +thoughtful-looking man. + +"Vessel foundered, sir," he answered. "Sprung a leak on Sunday morning. +She was laden with iron, and in a heavy ground swell it shifted and +knocked a hole in her. The poor fellows are worn out with the pump and +rowing, upon little or nothing to eat." + +They were trooping past us by this time, looking rather dismal, though +not by any means abject. + +"What are you going to do with them now?" + +"They'll be taken in by the people. We'll get up a little subscription +for them, but they all belong to the society the sailors have for +sending the shipwrecked to their homes, or where they want to go." + +"Well, here's something to help," I said. + +"Thank you, sir. They'll be very glad of it." + +"And if there's anything wanted that I can do for them, you must let me +know." + +"I will, sir. But I don't think there will be any occasion to trouble +you. You are our new clergyman, I believe." + +"Not exactly that. Only for a little while, till my friend Mr. Shepherd +is able to come back to you." + +"We don't want to lose Mr. Shepherd, sir. He's what they call high in +these parts, but he's a great favourite with all the poor people, +because you see he understands them as if he was of the same flesh and +blood with themselves--as, for that matter, I suppose we all are." + +"If we weren't there would be nothing to say at all. Will any of these +men be at church to-morrow, do you suppose? I am afraid sailors are not +much in the way of going to church?" + +"I am afraid not. You see they are all anxious to get home. Most likely +they'll be all travelling to-morrow. It's a pity. It would be a good +chance for saying something to them that they might think of again. But +I often think that, perhaps--it's only my own fancy, and I don't set it +up for anything--that sailors won't be judged exactly like other +people. They're so knocked about, you see, sir." + +"Of course not. Nobody will be judged like any other body. To his own +Master, who knows all about him, every man stands or falls. Depend upon +it, God likes fair play, to use a homely phrase, far better than any +sailor of them all. But that's not exactly the question. It seems to me +the question is this: shall we, who know what a blessed thing life is +because we know what God is like, who can trust in him with all our +hearts because he is the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the friend of +sinners, shall we not try all we can to let them, too, know the +blessedness of trusting in their Father in heaven? If we could only get +them to say the Lord's prayer, _meaning_ it, think what that would be! +Look here! This can't be called bribery, for they are in want of it, +and it will show them I am friendly. Here's another sovereign. Give +them my compliments, and say that if any of them happen to be in +Kilkhaven tomorrow, I shall be quite pleased to welcome them to church. +Tell them I will give them of my best there if they will come. Make the +invitation merrily, you know. No long faces and solemn speech. I will +give them the solemn speech when they come to church. But even there I +hope God will keep the long face far from me. That is fittest for fear +and suffering. And the house of God is the casket that holds the +antidote against all fear and most suffering. But I am preaching my +sermon on Saturday instead of Sunday, and keeping you from your +ministration to the poor fellows. Good-bye." + +"I will give them your message as near as I can," he said, and we shook +hands and parted. + +This was the first experience we had of the might and battle of the +ocean. To our eyes it lay quiet as a baby asleep. On that Sunday +morning there had been no commotion here. Yet now at last, on the +Saturday morning, home come the conquered and spoiled of the sea. As if +with a mock she takes all they have, and flings them on shore again, +with her weeds, and her shells, and her sand. Before the winter was +over we had learned--how much more of that awful power that surrounds +the habitable earth! By slow degrees the sense of its might grew upon +us, first by the vision of its many aspects and moods, and then by more +awful things that followed; for there are few coasts upon which the sea +rages so wildly as upon this, the whole force of the Atlantic breaking +upon it. Even when there is no storm within perhaps hundreds of miles, +when all is still as a church on the land, the storm that raves +somewhere out upon the vast waste, will drive the waves in upon the +shore with such fury that not even a lifeboat could make its way +through their yawning hollows, and their fierce, shattered, and +tumbling crests. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH. + + +In the hope that some of the shipwrecked mariners might be present in +the church the next day, I proceeded to consider my morning's sermon +for the occasion. There was no difficulty in taking care at the same +time that it should be suitable to the congregation, whether those +sailors were there or not. I turned over in my mind several subjects. I +thought, for instance, of showing them how this ocean that lay watchful +and ready all about our island, all about the earth, was but a visible +type or symbol of two other oceans, one very still, the other very +awful and fierce; in fact, that three oceans surrounded us: one of the +known world; one of the unseen world, that is, of death; one of the +spirit--the devouring ocean of evil--and might I not have added yet +another, encompassing and silencing all the rest--that of truth! The +visible ocean seemed to make war upon the land, and the dwellers +thereon. Restrained by the will of God and by him made subject more and +more to the advancing knowledge of those who were created to rule over +it, it was yet like a half-tamed beast ever ready to break loose and +devour its masters. Of course this would have been but one aspect or +appearance of it--for it was in truth all service; but this was the +aspect I knew it must bear to those, seafaring themselves or not, to +whom I had to speak. Then I thought I might show, that its power, like +that of all things that man is ready to fear, had one barrier over +which no commotion, no might of driving wind, could carry it, beyond +which its loudest waves were dumb--the barrier of death. Hitherto and +no further could its power reach. It could kill the body. It could dash +in pieces the last little cock-boat to which the man clung, but thus it +swept the man beyond its own region into the second sea of stillness, +which we call death, out upon which the thoughts of those that are left +behind can follow him only in great longings, vague conjectures, and +mighty faith. Then I thought I could show them how, raving in fear, or +lying still in calm deceit, there lay about the life of man a far more +fearful ocean than that which threatened his body; for this would cast, +could it but get a hold of him, both body and soul into hell--the sea +of evil, of vice, of sin, of wrong-doing--they might call it by what +name they pleased. This made war against the very essence of life, +against God who is the truth, against love, against fairness, against +fatherhood, motherhood, sisterhood, brotherhood, manhood, womanhood, +against tenderness and grace and beauty, gathering into one pulp of +festering death all that is noble, lovely, worshipful in the human +nature made so divine that the one fearless man, the Lord Jesus Christ, +shared it with us. This, I thought I might make them understand, was +the only terrible sea, the only hopeless ocean from whose awful shore +we must shrink and flee, the end of every voyage upon whose bosom was +the bottom of its filthy waters, beyond the reach of all that is +thought or spoken in the light, beyond life itself, but for the hand +that reaches down from the upper ocean of truth, the hand of the +Redeemer of men. I thought, I say, for a while, that I could make this, +not definite, but very real to them. But I did not feel quite confident +about it. Might they not in the symbolism forget the thing symbolised? +And would not the symbol itself be ready to fade quite from their +memory, or to return only in the vaguest shadow? And with the thought I +perceived a far more excellent way. For the power of the truth lies of +course in its revelation to the mind, and while for this there are a +thousand means, none are so mighty as its embodiment in human beings +and human life. There it is itself alive and active. And amongst these, +what embodiment comes near to that in him who was perfect man in virtue +of being at the root of the secret of humanity, in virtue of being the +eternal Son of God? We are his sons in time: he is his Son in eternity, +of whose sea time is but the broken sparkle. Therefore, I would talk to +them about--but I will treat my reader now as if he were not my reader, +but one of my congregation on that bright Sunday, my first in the +Seaboard Parish, with the sea outside the church, flashing in the +sunlight. + +While I stood at the lectern, which was in front of the altar-screen, I +could see little of my congregation, partly from my being on a level +with them, partly from the necessity for keeping my eyes and thoughts +upon that which I read. When, however, I rose from prayer in the +pulpit; then I felt, as usual with me, that I was personally present +for personal influence with my people, and then I saw, to my great +pleasure, that one long bench nearly in the middle of the church was +full of such sunburnt men as could not be mistaken for any but +mariners, even if their torn and worn garments had not revealed that +they must be the very men about whom we had been so much interested. +Not only were they behaving with perfect decorum, but their rough faces +wore an aspect of solemnity which I do not suppose was by any means +their usual aspect. + +I gave them no text. I had one myself, which was the necessary thing. +They should have it by and by. + +"Once upon a time," I said, "a man went up a mountain, and stayed there +till it was dark, and stayed on. Now, a man who finds himself on a +mountain as the sun is going down, especially if he is alone, makes +haste to get down before it is dark. But this man went up when the sun +was going down, and, as I say, continued there for a good long while +after it was dark. You will want to know why. I will tell you. He +wished to be alone. He hadn't a house of his own. He never had all the +time he lived. He hadn't even a room of his own into which he could go, +and bolt the door of it. True, he had kind friends, who gave him a bed: +but they were all poor people, and their houses were small, and very +likely they had large families, and he could not always find a quiet +place to go into. And I dare say, if he had had a room, he would have +been a little troubled with the children constantly coming to find him; +for however much he loved them--and no man was ever so fond of children +as he was--he needed to be left quiet sometimes. So, upon this +occasion, he went up the mountain just to be quiet. He had been all day +with a crowd of people, and he felt that it was time to be alone. For +he had been talking with men all day, which tires and sometimes +confuses a man's thoughts, and now he wanted to talk with God--for that +makes a man strong, and puts all the confusion in order again, and lets +a man know what he is about. So he went to the top of the hill. That +was his secret chamber. It had no door; but that did not matter--no one +could see him but God. There he stayed for hours--sometimes, I suppose, +kneeling in his prayer to God; sometimes sitting, tired with his own +thinking, on a stone; sometimes walking about, looking forward to what +would come next--not anxious about it, but contemplating it. For just +before he came up here, some of the people who had been with him wanted +to make him a king; and this would not do--this was not what God wanted +of him, and therefore he got rid of them, and came up here to talk to +God. It was so quiet up here! The earth had almost vanished. He could +see just the bare hilltop beneath him, a glimmer below, and the sky and +the stars over his head. The people had all gone away to their own +homes, and perhaps next day would hardly think about him at all, busy +catching fish, or digging their gardens, or making things for their +houses. But he knew that God would not forget him the next day any more +than this day, and that God had sent him not to be the king that these +people wanted him to be, but their servant. So, to make his heart +strong, I say, he went up into the mountain alone to have a talk with +his Father. How quiet it all was up here, I say, and how noisy it had +been down there a little while ago! But God had been in the noise then +as much as he was in the quiet now--the only difference being that he +could not then be alone with him. I need not tell you who this man +was--it was the king of men, the servant of men, the Lord Jesus Christ, +the everlasting son of our Father in heaven. + +"Now this mountain on which he was praying had a small lake at the foot +of it--that is, about thirteen miles long, and five miles broad. Not +wanting even his usual companions to be with him this evening--partly, +I presume, because they were of the same mind as those who desired to +take him by force and make him a king--he had sent them away in their +boat, to go across this water to the other side, where were their homes +and their families. Now, it was not pitch dark either on the +mountain-top or on the water down below; yet I doubt if any other man +than he would have been keen-eyed enough to discover that little boat +down in the middle of the lake, much distressed by the west wind that +blew right in their teeth. But he loved every man in it so much, that I +think even as he was talking to his Father, his eyes would now and then +go looking for and finding it--watching it on its way across to the +other side. You must remember that it was a little boat; and there are +often tremendous storms upon these small lakes with great mountains +about them. For the wind will come all at once, rushing down through +the clefts in as sudden a squall as ever overtook a sailor at sea. And +then, you know, there is no sea-room. If the wind get the better of +them, they are on the shore in a few minutes, whichever way the wind +may blow. He saw them worn out at the oar, toiling in rowing, for the +wind was contrary unto them. So the time for loneliness and prayer was +over, and the time to go down out of his secret chamber and help his +brethren was come. He did not need to turn and say good-bye to his +Father, as if he dwelt on that mountain-top alone: his Father was down +there on the lake as well. He went straight down. Could not his Father, +if he too was down on the lake, help them without him? Yes. But he +wanted him to do it, that they might see that he did it. Otherwise they +would only have thought that the wind fell and the waves lay down, +without supposing for a moment that their Master or his Father had had +anything to do with it. They would have done just as people do +now-a-days: they think that the help comes of itself, instead of by the +will of him who determined from the first that men should be helped. So +the Master went down the hill. When he reached the border of the lake, +the wind being from the other side, he must have found the waves +breaking furiously upon the rocks. But that made no difference to him. +He looked out as he stood alone on the edge amidst the rushing wind and +the noise of the water, out over the waves under the clear, starry sky, +saw where the tiny boat was tossed about like a nutshell, and set out." + +The mariners had been staring at me up to this point, leaning forward +on their benches, for sailors are nearly as fond of a good yarn as they +are of tobacco; and I heard afterwards that they had voted parson's +yarn a good one. Now, however, I saw one of them, probably more +ignorant than the others, cast a questioning glance at his neighbour. +It was not returned, and he fell again into a listening attitude. He +had no idea of what was coming. He probably thought parson had +forgotten to say how Jesus had come by a boat. + +"The companions of our Lord had not been willing to go away and leave +him behind. Now, I dare say, they wished more than ever that he had +been with them--not that they thought he could do anything with a +storm, only that somehow they would have been less afraid with his face +to look at. They had seen him cure men of dreadful diseases; they had +seen him turn water into wine--some of them; they had seen him feed +five thousand people the day before with five loaves and two small +fishes; but had one of their number suggested that if he had been with +them, they would have been safe from the storm, they would not have +talked any nonsense about the laws of nature, not having learned that +kind of nonsense, but they would have said that was quite a different +thing--altogether too much to expect or believe: _nobody_ could make +the wind mind what it was about, or keep the water from drowning you if +you fell into it and couldn't swim; or such-like. + +"At length, when they were nearly worn out, taking feebler and feebler +strokes, sometimes missing the water altogether, at other times burying +their oars in it up to the handles--as they rose on the crest of a huge +wave, one of them gave a cry, and they all stopped rowing and stared, +leaning forward to peer through the darkness. And through the spray +which the wind tore from the tops of the waves and scattered before it +like dust, they saw, perhaps a hundred yards or so from the boat, +something standing up from the surface of the water. It seemed to move +towards them. It was a shape like a man. They all cried out with fear, +as was natural, for they thought it must be a ghost." + +How the faces of the sailors strained towards me at this part of the +story! I was afraid one of them especially was on the point of getting +up to speak, as we have heard of sailors doing in church. I went on. + +"But then, over the noise of the wind and the waters came the voice +they knew so well. It said, 'Be of good cheer: it is I. Be not afraid.' +I should think, between wonder and gladness, they hardly knew for some +moments where they were or what they were about. Peter was the first to +recover himself apparently. In the first flush of his delight he felt +strong and full of courage. 'Lord, if it be thou,' he said, 'bid me +come unto thee on the water.' Jesus just said, 'Come;' and Peter +unshipped his oar, and scrambled over the gunwale on to the sea. But +when he let go his hold of the boat, and began to look about him, and +saw how the wind was tearing the water, and how it tossed and raved +between him and Jesus, he began to be afraid. And as soon as he began +to be afraid he began to sink; but he had, notwithstanding his fear, +just sense enough to do the one sensible thing; he cried out, 'Lord, +save me.' And Jesus put out his hand, and took hold of him, and lifted +him up out of the water, and said to him, 'O thou of little faith, +wherefore didst thou doubt? And then they got into the boat, and the +wind fell all at once, and altogether. + +"Now, you will not think that Peter was a coward, will you? It wasn't +that he hadn't courage, but that he hadn't enough of it. And why was it +that he hadn't enough of it? Because he hadn't faith enough. Peter was +always very easily impressed with the look of things. It wasn't at all +likely that a man should be able to walk on the water; and yet Peter +found himself standing on the water: you would have thought that when +once he found himself standing on the water, he need not be afraid of +the wind and the waves that lay between him and Jesus. But they looked +so ugly that the fearfulness of them took hold of his heart, and his +courage went. You would have thought that the greatest trial of his +courage was over when he got out of the boat, and that there was +comparatively little more ahead of him. Yet the sight of the waves and +the blast of the boisterous wind were too much for him. I will tell you +how I fancy it was; and I think there are several instances of the same +kind of thing in Peter's life. When he got out of the boat, and found +himself standing on the water, he began to think much of himself for +being able to do so, and fancy himself better and greater than his +companions, and an especial favourite of God above them. Now, there is +nothing that kills faith sooner than pride. The two are directly +against each other. The moment that Peter grew proud, and began to +think about himself instead of about his Master, he began to lose his +faith, and then he grew afraid, and then he began to sink--and that +brought him to his senses. Then he forgot himself and remembered his +Master, and then the hand of the Lord caught him, and the voice of the +Lord gently rebuked him for the smallness of his faith, asking, +'Wherefore didst thou doubt?' I wonder if Peter was able to read his +own heart sufficiently well to answer that _wherefore_. I do not think +it likely at this period of his history. But God has immeasurable +patience, and before he had done teaching Peter, even in this life, he +had made him know quite well that pride and conceit were at the root of +all his failures. Jesus did not point it out to him now. Faith was the +only thing that would reveal that to him, as well as cure him of it; +and was, therefore, the only thing he required of him in his rebuke. I +suspect Peter was helped back into the boat by the eager hands of his +companions already in a humbler state of mind than when he left it; but +before his pride would be quite overcome, it would need that same voice +of loving-kindness to call him Satan, and the voice of the cock to +bring to his mind his loud boast, and his sneaking denial; nay, even +the voice of one who had never seen the Lord till after his death, but +was yet a readier disciple than he--the voice of St. Paul, to rebuke +him because he dissembled, and was not downright honest. But at the +last even he gained the crown of martyrdom, enduring all extremes, +nailed to the cross like his Master, rather than deny his name. This +should teach us to distrust ourselves, and yet have great hope for +ourselves, and endless patience with other people. But to return to the +story and what the story itself teaches us. + +"If the disciples had known that Jesus saw them from the top of the +mountain, and was watching them all the time, would they have been +frightened at the storm, as I have little doubt they were, for they +were only fresh-water fishermen, you know? Well, to answer my own +question"--I went on in haste, for I saw one or two of the sailors with +an audible answer hovering on their lips--"I don't know that, as they +then were, it would have made so much difference to them; for none of +them had risen much above the look of the things nearest them yet. But +supposing you, who know something about him, were alone on the sea, and +expecting your boat to be swamped every moment--if you found out all at +once, that he was looking down at you from some lofty hilltop, and +seeing all round about you in time and space too, would you be afraid? +He might mean you to go to the bottom, you know. Would you mind going +to the bottom with him looking at you? I do not think I should mind it +myself. But I must take care lest I be boastful like Peter. + +"Why should we be afraid of anything with him looking at us who is the +Saviour of men? But we are afraid of him instead, because we do not +believe that he is what he says he is--the Saviour of men. We do not +believe what he offers us is salvation. We think it is slavery, and +therefore continue slaves. Friends, I will speak to you who think you +do believe in him. I am not going to say that you do not believe in +him; but I hope I am going to make you say to yourselves that you too +deserve to have those words of the Saviour spoken to you that were +spoken to Peter, 'O ye of little faith!' Floating on the sea of your +troubles, all kinds of fears and anxieties assailing you, is He not on +the mountain-top? Sees he not the little boat of your fortunes tossed +with the waves and the contrary wind? Assuredly he will come to you +walking on the waters. It may not be in the way you wish, but if not, +you will say at last, 'This is better.' It may be that he will come in +a form that will make you cry out for fear in the weakness of your +faith, as the disciples cried out--not believing any more than they +did, that it can be he. But will not each of you arouse his courage +that to you also he may say, as to the woman with the sick daughter +whose confidence he so sorely tried, 'Great is thy faith'? Will you not +rouse yourself, I say, that you may do him justice, and cast off the +slavery of your own dread? O ye of little faith, wherefore will ye +doubt? Do not think that the Lord sees and will not come. Down the +mountain assuredly he will come, and you are now as safe in your +troubles as the disciples were in theirs with Jesus looking on. They +did not know it, but it was so: the Lord was watching them. And when +you look back upon your past lives, cannot you see some instances of +the same kind--when you felt and acted as if the Lord had forgotten +you, and found afterwards that he had been watching you all the time? + +"But the reason why you do not trust him more is that you obey him so +little. If you would only, ask what God would have you to do, you would +soon find your confidence growing. It is because you are proud, and +envious, and greedy after gain, that you do not trust him more. Ah! +trust him if it were only to get rid of these evil things, and be clean +and beautiful in heart. + +"O sailors with me on the ocean of life, will you, knowing that he is +watching you from his mountain-top, do and say the things that hurt, +and wrong, and disappoint him? Sailors on the waters that surround this +globe, though there be no great mountain that overlooks the little lake +on which you float, not the less does he behold you, and care for you, +and watch over you. Will you do that which is unpleasing, distressful +to him? Will you be irreverent, cruel, coarse? Will you say evil +things, lie, and delight in vile stories and reports, with his eye on +you, watching your ship on its watery ways, ever ready to come over the +waves to help you? It is a fine thing, sailors, to fear nothing; but it +would be far finer to fear nothing _because_ he is above all, and over +all, and in you all. For his sake and for his love, give up everything +bad, and take him for your captain. He will be both captain and pilot +to you, and steer you safe into the port of glory. Now to God the +Father," &c. + +This is very nearly the sermon I preached that first Sunday morning. I +followed it up with a short enforcement in the afternoon. + + + +END OF VOL. I. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Volume 1, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOLUME 1 *** + +***** This file should be named 8551.txt or 8551.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8551/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Seaboard Parish Volume 1 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8551] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 22, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOLUME 1 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +THE SEABOARD PARISH + +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. + +VOL. I. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. + + + + + I. HOMILETIC + II. CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY + III. THE SICK CHAMBER + IV. A SUNDAY EVENING + V. MY DREAM + VI. THE KEW BABY + VII. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING +VIII. THEODORA'S DOOM + IX. A SPRING CHAPTER + X. AN IMPORTANT LETTER + XI. CONNIE'S DREAM + XII. THE JOURNEY +XIII. WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED + XIV. MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN + XV. THE OLD CHURCH + XVI. CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER +XVII. MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +HOMILETIC. + + +Dear Friends,--I am beginning a new book like an old sermon; but, as you +know, I have been so accustomed to preach all my life, that whatever I say +or write will more or less take the shape of a sermon; and if you had not +by this time learned at least to bear with my oddities, you would not have +wanted any more of my teaching. And, indeed, I did not think you would want +any more. I thought I had bidden you farewell. But I am seated once again +at my writing-table, to write for you--with a strange feeling, however, +that I am in the heart of some curious, rather awful acoustic contrivance, +by means of which the words which I have a habit of whispering over to +myself as I write them, are heard aloud by multitudes of people whom I +cannot see or hear. I will favour the fancy, that, by a sense of your +presence, I may speak the more truly, as man to man. + +But let me, for a moment, suppose that I am your grandfather, and that you +have all come to beg for a story; and that, therefore, as usually happens +in such cases, I am sitting with a puzzled face, indicating a more puzzled +mind. I know that there are a great many stories in the holes and corners +of my brain; indeed, here is one, there is one, peeping out at me like a +rabbit; but alas, like a rabbit, showing me almost at the same instant the +tail-end of it, and vanishing with a contemptuous _thud_ of its hind +feet on the ground. For I must have suitable regard to the desires of my +children. It is a fine thing to be able to give people what they want, if +at the same time you can give them what you want. To give people what they +want, would sometimes be to give them only dirt and poison. To give them +what you want, might be to set before them something of which they could +not eat a mouthful. What both you and I want, I am willing to think, is a +dish of good wholesome venison. Now I suppose my children around me are +neither young enough nor old enough to care about a fairy tale, go +that will not do. What they want is, I believe, something that I know +about--that has happened to myself. Well, I confess, that is the kind of +thing I like best to hear anybody talk to me about. Let anyone tell me +something that has happened to himself, especially if he will give me a +peep into how his heart took it, as it sat in its own little room with the +closed door, and that person will, so telling, absorb my attention: he has +something true and genuine and valuable to communicate. They are mostly old +people that can do so. Not that young people have nothing happen to them; +but that only when they grow old, are they able to see things right, to +disentangle confusions, and judge righteous judgment. Things which at the +time appeared insignificant or wearisome, then give out the light that was +in them, show their own truth, interest, and influence: they are far enough +off to be seen. It is not when we are nearest to anything that we know best +what it is. How I should like to write a story for old people! The young +are always having stories written for them. Why should not the old people +come in for a share? A story without a young person in it at all! Nobody +under fifty admitted! It could hardly be a fairy tale, could it? Or a +love story either? I am not so sure about that. The worst of it would be, +however, that hardly a young person would read it. Now, we old people would +not like that. We can read young people's books and enjoy them: they would +not try to read old men's books or old women's books; they would be so sure +of their being dry. My dear old brothers and sisters, we know better, do we +not? We have nice old jokes, with no end of fun in them; only they cannot +see the fun. We have strange tales, that we know to be true, and which look +more and more marvellous every time we turn them over again; only +somehow they do not belong to the ways of this year--I was going to say +_week_,--and so the young people generally do not care to hear them. I have +had one pale-faced boy, to be sure, who will sit at his mother's feet, and +listen for hours to what took place before he was born. To him his mother's +wedding-gown was as old as Eve's coat of skins. But then he was young +enough not yet to have had a chance of losing the childhood common to the +young and the old. Ah! I should like to write for you, old men, old women, +to help you to read the past, to help you to look for the future. Now is +your salvation nearer than when you believed; for, however your souls may +be at peace, however your quietness and confidence may give you strength, +in the decay of your earthly tabernacle, in the shortening of its cords, in +the weakening of its stakes, in the rents through which you see the stars, +you have yet your share in the cry of the creation after the sonship. But +the one thing I should keep saying to you, my companions in old age, would +be, "Friends, let us not grow old." Old age is but a mask; let us not call +the mask the face. Is the acorn old, because its cup dries and drops it +from its hold--because its skin has grown brown and cracks in the earth? +Then only is a man growing old when he ceases to have sympathy with the +young. That is a sign that his heart has begun to wither. And that is a +dreadful kind of old age. The heart needs never be old. Indeed it should +always be growing younger. Some of us feel younger, do we not, than when +we were nine or ten? It is not necessary to be able to play at leapfrog to +enjoy the game. There are young creatures whose turn it is, and perhaps +whose duty it would be, to play at leap-frog if there was any necessity for +putting the matter in that light; and for us, we have the privilege, or if +we will not accept the privilege, then I say we have the duty, of enjoying +their leap-frog. But if we must withdraw in a measure from sociable +relations with our fellows, let it be as the wise creatures that creep +aside and wrap themselves up and lay themselves by that their wings may +grow and put on the lovely hues of their coming resurrection. Such a +withdrawing is in the name of youth. And while it is pleasant--no one knows +how pleasant except him who experiences it--to sit apart and see the drama +of life going on around him, while his feelings are calm and free, his +vision clear, and his judgment righteous, the old man must ever be ready, +should the sweep of action catch him in its skirts, to get on his tottering +old legs, and go with brave heart to do the work of a true man, none the +less true that his hands tremble, and that he would gladly return to his +chimney-corner. If he is never thus called out, let him examine himself, +lest he should be falling into the number of those that say, "I go, sir," +and go not; who are content with thinking beautiful things in an Atlantis, +Oceana, Arcadia, or what it may be, but put not forth one of their fingers +to work a salvation in the earth. Better than such is the man who, using +just weights and a true balance, sells good flour, and never has a thought +of his own. + +I have been talking--to my reader is it? or to my supposed group of +grandchildren? I remember--to my companions in old age. It is time I +returned to the company who are hearing my whispers at the other side of +the great thundering gallery. I take leave of my old friends with one word: +We have yet a work to do, my friends; but a work we shall never do aright +after ceasing to understand the new generation. We are not the men, neither +shall wisdom die with us. The Lord hath not forsaken his people because the +young ones do not think just as the old ones choose. The Lord has something +fresh to tell them, and is getting them ready to receive his message. When +we are out of sympathy with the young, then I think our work in this world +is over. It might end more honourably. + +Now, readers in general, I have had time to consider what to tell you +about, and how to begin. My story will be rather about my family than +myself now. I was as it were a little withdrawn, even by the time of which +I am about to write. I had settled into a gray-haired, quite elderly, yet +active man--young still, in fact, to what I am now. But even then, though +my faith had grown stronger, life had grown sadder, and needed all my +stronger faith; for the vanishing of beloved faces, and the trials of them +that are dear, will make even those that look for a better country both for +themselves and their friends, sad, though it will be with a preponderance +of the first meaning of the word _sad_, which was _settled_, _thoughtful_. + +I am again seated in the little octagonal room, which I have made my study +because I like it best. It is rather a shame, for my books cover over every +foot of the old oak panelling. But they make the room all the pleasanter +to the eye, and after I am gone, there is the old oak, none the worse, for +anyone who prefers it to books. + +I intend to use as the central portion of my present narrative the history +of a year during part of which I took charge of a friend's parish, while +my brother-in-law, Thomas Weir, who was and is still my curate, took the +entire charge of Marshmallows. What led to this will soon appear. I will +try to be minute enough in my narrative to make my story interesting, +although it will cost me suffering to recall some of the incidents I have +to narrate. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY. + + + + + +Was it from observation of nature in its association with human nature, or +from artistic feeling alone, that Shakspere so often represents Nature's +mood as in harmony with the mood of the principal actors in his drama? I +know I have so often found Nature's mood in harmony with my own, even +when she had nothing to do with forming mine, that in looking back I have +wondered at the fact. There may, however, be some self-deception about it. +At all events, on the morning of my Constance's eighteenth birthday, a +lovely October day with a golden east, clouds of golden foliage about the +ways, and an air that seemed filled with the ether of an _aurum potabile_, +there came yet an occasional blast of wind, which, without being absolutely +cold, smelt of winter, and made one draw one's shoulders together with the +sense of an unfriendly presence. I do not think Constance felt it at all, +however, as she stood on the steps in her riding-habit, waiting till the +horses made their appearance. It had somehow grown into a custom with us +that each of the children, as his or her birthday came round, should be +king or queen for that day, and, subject to the veto of father and mother, +should have everything his or her own way. Let me say for them, however, +that in the matter of choosing the dinner, which of course was included +in the royal prerogative, I came to see that it was almost invariably the +favourite dishes of others of the family that were chosen, and not those +especially agreeable to the royal palate. Members of families where +children have not been taught from their earliest years that the great +privilege of possession is the right to bestow, may regard this as an +improbable assertion; but others will know that it might well enough be +true, even if I did not say that so it was. But there was always the choice +of some individual treat, which was determined solely by the preference of +the individual in authority. Constance had chosen "a long ride with papa." + +I suppose a parent may sometimes be right when he speaks with admiration of +his own children. The probability of his being correct is to be determined +by the amount of capacity he has for admiring other people's children. +However this may be in my own case, I venture to assert that Constance did +look very lovely that morning. She was fresh as the young day: we were +early people--breakfast and prayers were over, and it was nine o'clock as +she stood on the steps and I approached her from the lawn. + +"O, papa! isn't it jolly?" she said merrily. + +"Very jolly indeed, my dear," I answered, delighted to hear the word from +the lips of my gentle daughter. She very seldom used a slang word, and when +she did, she used it like a lady. Shall I tell you what she was like? Ah! +you could not see her as I saw her that morning if I did. I will, however, +try to give you a general idea, just in order that you and I should not be +picturing to ourselves two very different persons while I speak of her. + +She was rather little, and so slight that she looked tall. I have often +observed that the impression of height is an affair of proportion, and has +nothing to do with feet and inches. She was rather fair in complexion, +with her mother's blue eyes, and her mother's long dark wavy hair. She +was generally playful, and took greater liberties with me than any of the +others; only with her liberties, as with her slang, she knew instinctively +when, where, and how much. For on the borders of her playfulness there +seemed ever to hang a fringe of thoughtfulness, as if she felt that the +present moment owed all its sparkle and brilliance to the eternal sunlight. +And the appearance was not in the least a deceptive one. The eternal was +not far from her--none the farther that she enjoyed life like a bird, that +her laugh was merry, that her heart was careless, and that her voice rang +through the house--a sweet soprano voice--singing snatches of songs (now a +street tune she had caught from a London organ, now an air from Handel +or Mozart), or that she would sometimes tease her elder sister about her +solemn and anxious looks; for Wynnie, the eldest, had to suffer for her +grandmother's sins against her daughter, and came into the world with a +troubled little heart, that was soon compelled to flee for refuge to the +rock that was higher than she. Ah! my Constance! But God was good to you +and to us in you. + +"Where shall we go, Connie?" I said, and the same moment the sound of the +horses' hoofs reached us. + +"Would it be too far to go to Addicehead?" she returned. + +"It is a long ride," I answered. + +"Too much for the pony?" + +"O dear, no--not at all. I was thinking of you, not of the pony." + +"I'm quite as able to ride as the pony is to carry me, papa. And I want to +get something for Wynnie. Do let us go." + +"Very well, my dear," I said, and raised her to the saddle--if I may say +_raised_, for no bird ever hopped more lightly from one twig to another +than she sprung from the ground on her pony's back. + +In a moment I was beside her, and away we rode. + +The shadows were still long, the dew still pearly on the spiders' webs, as +we trotted out of our own grounds into a lane that led away towards the +high road. Our horses were fresh and the air was exciting; so we turned +from the hard road into the first suitable field, and had a gallop to begin +with. Constance was a good horse-woman, for she had been used to the saddle +longer than she could remember. She was now riding a tall well-bred pony, +with plenty of life--rather too much, I sometimes thought, when I was out +with Wynnie; but I never thought so when I was with Constance. Another +field or two sufficiently quieted both animals--I did not want to have all +our time taken up with their frolics--and then we began to talk. + +"You are getting quite a woman now, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"Quite an old grannie, papa," she answered. + +"Old enough to think about what's coming next," I said gravely. + +"O, papa! And you are always telling us that we must not think about the +morrow, or even the next hour. But, then, that's in the pulpit," she added, +with a sly look up at me from under the drooping feather of her pretty hat. + +"You know very well what I mean, you puss," I answered. "And I don't say +one thing in the pulpit and another out of it." + +She was at my horse's shoulder with a bound, as if Spry, her pony, had been +of one mind and one piece with her. She was afraid she had offended me. She +looked up into mine with as anxious a face as ever I saw upon Wynnie. + +"O, thank you, papa!" she said when I smiled. "I thought I had been rude. I +didn't mean it, indeed I didn't. But I do wish you would make it a little +plainer to me. I do think about things sometimes, though you would hardly +believe it." + +"What do you want made plainer, my child?" I asked. + +"When we're to think, and when we're not to think," she answered. + +I remember all of this conversation because of what came so soon after. + +"If the known duty of to-morrow depends on the work of to-day," I answered, +"if it cannot be done right except you think about it and lay your plans +for it, then that thought is to-day's business, not to-morrow's." + +"Dear papa, some of your explanations are more difficult than the things +themselves. May I be as impertinent as I like on my birthday?" she asked +suddenly, again looking up in my face. + +We were walking now, and she had a hold of my horse's mane, so as to keep +her pony close up. + +"Yes, my dear, as impertinent as you like--not an atom more, mind." + +"Well, papa, I sometimes wish you wouldn't explain things so much. I seem +to understand you all the time you are preaching, but when I try the text +afterwards by myself, I can't make anything of it, and I've forgotten every +word you said about it." + +"Perhaps that is because you have no right to understand it." + +"I thought all Protestants had a right to understand every word of the +Bible," she returned. + +"If they can," I rejoined. "But last Sunday, for instance, I did not expect +anybody there to understand a certain bit of my sermon, except your mamma +and Thomas Weir." + +"How funny! What part of it was that?" + +"O! I'm not going to tell you. You have no right to understand it. But most +likely you thought you understood it perfectly, and it appeared to you, in +consequence, very commonplace." + +"In consequence of what?" + +"In consequence of your thinking you understood it." + +"O, papa dear! you're getting worse and worse. It's not often I ask you +anything--and on my birthday too! It is really too bad of you to bewilder +my poor little brains in this way." + +"I will try to make you see what I mean, my pet. No talk about an idea that +you never had in your head at all, can make you have that idea. If you had +never seen a horse, no description even, not to say no amount of remark, +would bring the figure of a horse before your mind. Much more is this the +case with truths that belong to the convictions and feelings of the heart. +Suppose a man had never in his life asked God for anything, or thanked +God for anything, would his opinion as to what David meant in one of his +worshipping psalms be worth much? The whole thing would be beyond him. If +you have never known what it is to have care of any kind upon you, you +cannot understand what our Lord means when he tells us to take no thought +for the morrow." + +"But indeed, papa, I am very full of care sometimes, though not perhaps +about to-morrow precisely. But that does not matter, does it?" + +"Certainly not. Tell me what you are full of care about, my child, and +perhaps I can help you." + +"You often say, papa, that half the misery in this world comes from +idleness, and that you do not believe that in a world where God is at work +every day, Sundays not excepted, it could have been intended that women any +more than men should have nothing to do. Now what am I to do? What have I +been sent into the world for? I don't see it; and I feel very useless and +wrong sometimes." + +"I do not think there is very much to complain of you in that respect, +Connie. You, and your sister as well, help me very much in my parish. You +take much off your mother's hands too. And you do a good deal for the poor. +You teach your younger brothers and sister, and meantime you are learning +yourselves." + +"Yes, but that's not work." + +"It is work. And it is the work that is given you to do at present. And you +would do it much better if you were to look at it in that light. Not that I +have anything to complain of." + +"But I don't want to stop at home and lead an easy, comfortable life, when +there are so many to help everywhere in the world." + +"Is there anything better in doing something where God has not placed you, +than in doing it where he has placed you?" + +"No, papa. But my sisters are quite enough for all you have for us to do at +home. Is nobody ever to go away to find the work meant for her? You won't +think, dear papa, that I want to get away from home, will you?" + +"No, my dear. I believe that you are really thinking about duty. And +now comes the moment for considering the passage to which you began by +referring:--What God may hereafter require of you, you must not give +yourself the least trouble about. Everything he gives you to do, you must +do as well as ever you can, and that is the best possible preparation for +what he may want you to do next. If people would but do what they have to +do, they would always find themselves ready for what came next. And I do +not believe that those who follow this rule are ever left floundering on +the sea-deserted sands of inaction, unable to find water enough to swim +in." + +"Thank you, dear papa. That's a little sermon all to myself, and I think I +shall understand it even when I think about it afterwards. Now let's have a +trot." + +"There is one thing more I ought to speak about though, Connie. It is not +your moral nature alone you ought to cultivate. You ought to make yourself +as worth God's making as you possibly can. Now I am a little doubtful +whether you keep up your studies at all." + +She shrugged her pretty shoulders playfully, looking up in my face again. + +"I don't like dry things, papa." + +"Nobody does." + +"Nobody!" she exclaimed. "How do the grammars and history-books come to be +written then?" + +In talking to me, somehow, the child always put on a more childish tone +than when she talked to anyone else. I am certain there was no affection in +it, though. Indeed, how could she be affected with her fault-finding old +father? + +"No. Those books are exceedingly interesting to the people that make them. +Dry things are just things that you do not know enough about to care for +them. And all you learn at school is next to nothing to what you have to +learn." + +"What must I do then?" she asked with a sigh. "Must I go all over my French +Grammar again? O dear! I do hate it so!" + +"If you will tell me something you like, Connie, instead of something you +don't like, I may be able to give you advice. Is there nothing you are fond +of?" I continued, finding that she remained silent. + +"I don't know anything in particular--that is, I don't know anything in the +way of school-work that I really liked. I don't mean that I didn't try +to do what I had to do, for I did. There was just one thing I liked--the +poetry we had to learn once a week. But I suppose gentlemen count that +silly--don't they?" + +"On the contrary, my dear, I would make that liking of yours the foundation +of all your work. Besides, I think poetry the grandest thing God has given +us--though perhaps you and I might not quite agree about what poetry was +poetry enough to be counted an especial gift of God. Now, what poetry do +you like best?" + +"Mrs. Hemans's, I think, papa." + +"Well, very well, to begin with. 'There is,' as Mr. Carlyle said to a +friend of mine--'There is a thin vein of true poetry in Mrs. Hemans.' But +it is time you had done with thin things, however good they may be. Most +people never get beyond spoon-meat--in this world, at least, and they +expect nothing else in the world to come. I must take you in hand myself, +and see what I can do for you. It is wretched to see capable enough +creatures, all for want of a little guidance, bursting with admiration of +what owes its principal charm to novelty of form, gained at the cost of +expression and sense. Not that that applies to Mrs. Hemans. She is simple +enough, only diluted to a degree. But I hold that whatever mental food you +take should be just a little too strong for you. That implies trouble, +necessitates growth, and involves delight." + +"I sha'n't mind how difficult it is if you help me, papa. But it is +anything but satisfactory to go groping on without knowing what you are +about." + +I ought to have mentioned that Constance had been at school for two years, +and had only been home a month that very day, in order to account for my +knowing so little about her tastes and habits of mind. We went on talking a +little more in the same way, and if I were writing for young people only, +I should be tempted to go on a little farther with the account of what we +said to each other; for it might help some of them to see that the thing +they like best should, circumstances and conscience permitting, be made the +centre from which they start to learn; that they should go on enlarging +their knowledge all round from that one point at which God intended them to +begin. But at length we fell into a silence, a very happy one on my part; +for I was more than delighted to find that this one too of my children was +following after the truth--wanting to do what was right, namely, to obey +the word of the Lord, whether openly spoken to all, or to herself in the +voice of her own conscience and the light of that understanding which is +the candle of the Lord. I had often said to myself in past years, when +I had found myself in the company of young ladies who announced their +opinions--probably of no deeper origin than the prejudices of their +nurses--as if these distinguished them from all the world besides; who were +profound upon passion and ignorant of grace; who had not a notion whether a +dress was beautiful, but only whether it was of the newest cut--I had often +said to myself: "What shall I do if my daughters come to talk and think +like that--if thinking it can be called?" but being confident that +instruction for which the mind is not prepared only lies in a rotting +heap, producing all kinds of mental evils correspondent to the results of +successive loads of food which the system cannot assimilate, my hope had +been to rouse wise questions in the minds of my children, in place of +overwhelming their digestions with what could be of no instruction or +edification without the foregoing appetite. Now my Constance had begun to +ask me questions, and it made me very happy. We had thus come a long way +nearer to each other; for however near the affection of human animals may +bring them, there are abysses between soul and soul--the souls even of +father and daughter--over which they must pass to meet. And I do not +believe that any two human beings alive know yet what it is to love as love +is in the glorious will of the Father of lights. + +I linger on with my talk, for I shrink from what I must relate. + +We were going at a gentle trot, silent, along a woodland path--a brown, +soft, shady road, nearly five miles from home, our horses scattering about +the withered leaves that lay thick upon it. A good deal of underwood and +a few large trees had been lately cleared from the place. There were many +piles of fagots about, and a great log lying here and there along the side +of the path. One of these, when a tree, had been struck by lightning, and +had stood till the frosts and rains had bared it of its bark. Now it lay +white as a skeleton by the side of the path, and was, I think, the cause of +what followed. All at once my daughter's pony sprang to the other side of +the road, shying sideways; unsettled her so, I presume; then rearing and +plunging, threw her from the saddle across one of the logs of which I have +spoken. I was by her side in a moment. To my horror she lay motionless. Her +eyes were closed, and when I took her up in my arms she did not open them. +I laid her on the moss, and got some water and sprinkled her face. Then she +revived a little; but seemed in much pain, and all at once went off into +another faint. I was in terrible perplexity. + +Presently a man who, having been cutting fagots at a little distance, had +seen the pony careering through the wood, came up and asked what he could +do to help me. I told him to take my horse, whose bridle I had thrown over +the latch of a gate, and ride to Oldcastle Hall, and ask Mrs. Walton to +come with the carriage as quickly as possible. "Tell her," I said, "that +her daughter has had a fall from her pony, and is rather shaken. Ride as +hard as you can go." + +The man was off in a moment; and there I sat watching my poor child, for +what seemed to be a dreadfully long time before the carriage arrived. She +had come to herself quite, but complained of much pain in her back; and, +to my distress, I found that she could not move herself enough to make the +least change of her position. She evidently tried to keep up as well as she +could; but her face expressed great suffering: it was dreadfully pale, and +looked worn with a month's illness. All my fear was for her spine. + +At length I caught sight of the carriage, coming through the wood as +fast as the road would allow, with the woodman on the box, directing the +coachman. It drew up, and my wife got out. She was as pale as Constance, +but quiet and firm, her features composed almost to determination. I had +never seen her look like that before. She asked no questions: there was +time enough for that afterwards. She had brought plenty of cushions and +pillows, and we did all we could to make an easy couch for the poor girl; +but she moaned dreadfully as we lifted her into the carriage. We did our +best to keep her from being shaken; but those few miles were the longest +journey I ever made in my life. + +When we reached home at length, we found that Ethel, or, as we commonly +called her, using the other end of her name, Wynnie--for she was named +after her mother--had got a room on the ground-floor, usually given to +visitors, ready for her sister; and we were glad indeed not to have to +carry her up the stairs. Before my wife left, she had sent the groom off to +Addicehead for both physician and surgeon. A young man who had settled at +Marshmallows as general practitioner a year or two before, was waiting for +us when we arrived. He helped us to lay her upon a mattress in the position +in which she felt the least pain. But why should I linger over the +sorrowful detail? All agreed that the poor child's spine was seriously +injured, and that probably years of suffering were before her. Everything +was done that could be done; but she was not moved from that room for nine +months, during which, though her pain certainly grew less by degrees, her +want of power to move herself remained almost the same. + +When I had left her at last a little composed, with her mother seated by +her bedside, I called my other two daughters--Wynnie, the eldest, and +Dorothy, the youngest, whom I found seated on the floor outside, one on +each side of the door, weeping--into my study, and said to them: "My +darlings, this is very sad; but you must remember that it is God's will; +and as you would both try to bear it cheerfully if it had fallen to your +lot to bear, you must try to be cheerful even when it is your sister's part +to endure." + +"O, papa! poor Connie!" cried Dora, and burst into fresh tears. + +Wynnie said nothing, but knelt down by my knee, and laid her cheek upon it. + +"Shall I tell you what Constance said to me just before I left the room?" I +asked. + +"Please do, papa." + +"She whispered, 'You must try to bear it, all of you, as well as you can. +I don't mind it very much, only for you.' So, you see, if you want to make +her comfortable, you must not look gloomy and troubled. Sick people like to +see cheerful faces about them; and I am sure Connie will not suffer nearly +so much if she finds that she does not make the household gloomy." + +This I had learned from being ill myself once or twice since my marriage. +My wife never came near me with a gloomy face, and I had found that it +was quite possible to be sympathetic with those of my flock who were ill +without putting on a long face when I went to see them. Of course, I do not +mean that I could, or that it was desirable that I should, look cheerful +when any were in great pain or mental distress. But in ordinary conditions +of illness a cheerful countenance is as a message of _all's well_, which +may surely be carried into a sick chamber by the man who believes that the +heart of a loving Father is at the centre of things, that he is light all +about the darkness, and that he will not only bring good out of evil +at last, but will be with the sufferer all the time, making endurance +possible, and pain tolerable. There are a thousand alleviations that people +do not often think of, coming from God himself. Would you not say, for +instance, that time must pass very slowly in pain? But have you never +observed, or has no one ever made the remark to you, how strangely fast, +even in severe pain, the time passes after all? + +"We will do all we can, will we not," I went on, "to make her as +comfortable as possible? You, Dora, must attend to your little brothers, +that your mother may not have too much to think about now that she will +have Connie to nurse." + +They could not say much, but they both kissed me, and went away leaving +me to understand clearly enough that they had quite understood me. I then +returned to the sick chamber, where I found that the poor child had fallen +asleep. + +My wife and I watched by her bedside on alternate nights, until the pain +had so far subsided, and the fever was so far reduced, that we could allow +Wynnie to take a share in the office. We could not think of giving her +over to the care of any but one of ourselves during the night. Her chief +suffering came from its being necessary that she should keep nearly one +position on her back, because of her spine, while the external bruise and +the swelling of the muscles were in consequence so painful, that it needed +all that mechanical contrivance could do to render the position endurable. +But these outward conditions were greatly ameliorated before many days were +over. + +This is a dreary beginning of my story, is it not? But sickness of all +kinds is such a common thing in the world, that it is well sometimes to +let our minds rest upon it, lest it should take us altogether at unawares, +either in ourselves or our friends, when it comes. If it were not a good +thing in the end, surely it would not be; and perhaps before I have done my +readers will not be sorry that my tale began so gloomily. The sickness in +Judaea eighteen hundred and thirty-five years ago, or thereabouts, has no +small part in the story of him who came to put all things under our feet. +Praise be to him for evermore! + +It soon became evident to me that that room was like a new and more sacred +heart to the house. At first it radiated gloom to the remotest corners; but +soon rays of light began to appear mingling with the gloom. I could see +that bits of news were carried from it to the servants in the kitchen, in +the garden, in the stable, and over the way to the home-farm. Even in the +village, and everywhere over the parish, I was received more kindly, and +listened to more willingly, because of the trouble I and my family were in; +while in the house, although we had never been anything else than a loving +family, it was easy to discover that we all drew more closely together in +consequence of our common anxiety. Previous to this, it had been no unusual +thing to see Wynnie and Dora impatient with each other; for Dora was +none the less a wild, somewhat lawless child, that she was a profoundly +affectionate one. She rather resembled her cousin Judy, in fact--whom +she called Aunt Judy, and with whom she was naturally a great favourite. +Wynnie, on the other hand, was sedate, and rather severe--more severe, I +must in justice say, with herself than with anyone else. I had sometimes +wished, it is true, that her mother, in regard to the younger children, +were more like her; but there I was wrong. For one of the great goods that +come of having two parents, is that the one balances and rectifies the +motions of the other. No one is good but God. No one holds the truth, or +can hold it, in one and the same thought, but God. Our human life is often, +at best, but an oscillation between the extremes which together make the +truth; and it is not a bad thing in a family, that the pendulums of father +and mother should differ in movement so far, that when the one is at one +extremity of the swing, the other should be at the other, so that they meet +only in the point of _indifference_, in the middle; that the predominant +tendency of the one should not be the predominant tendency of the other. +I was a very strict disciplinarian--too much so, perhaps, sometimes: +Ethelwyn, on the other hand, was too much inclined, I thought, to excuse +everything. I was law, she was grace. But grace often yielded to law, and +law sometimes yielded to grace. Yet she represented the higher; for in the +ultimate triumph of grace, in the glad performance of the command from love +of what is commanded, the law is fulfilled: the law is a schoolmaster to +bring us to Christ. I must say this for myself, however, that, although +obedience was the one thing I enforced, believing it the one thing upon +which all family economy primarily depends, yet my object always was to set +my children free from my law as soon as possible; in a word, to help them +to become, as soon as it might be, a law unto themselves. Then they would +need no more of mine. Then I would go entirely over to the mother's higher +side, and become to them, as much as in me lay, no longer law and truth, +but grace and truth. But to return to my children--it was soon evident not +only that Wynnie had grown more indulgent to Dora's vagaries, but that Dora +was more submissive to Wynnie, while the younger children began to +obey their eldest sister with a willing obedience, keeping down their +effervescence within doors, and letting it off only out of doors, or in the +out-houses. + +When Constance began to recover a little, then the sacredness of that +chamber began to show itself more powerfully, radiating on all sides a yet +stronger influence of peace and goodwill. It was like a fountain of gentle +light, quieting and bringing more or less into tune all that came within +the circle of its sweetness. This brings me to speak again of my lovely +child. For surely a father may speak thus of a child of God. He cannot +regard his child as his even as a book he has written may be his. A man's +child is his because God has said to him, "Take this child and nurse it +for me." She is God's making; God's marvellous invention, to be tended +and cared for, and ministered unto as one of his precious things; a young +angel, let me say, who needs the air of this lower world to make her wings +grow. And while he regards her thus, he will see all other children in the +same light, and will not dare to set up his own against others of God's +brood with the new-budding wings. The universal heart of truth will thus +rectify, while it intensifies, the individual feeling towards one's own; +and the man who is most free from poor partisanship in regard to his own +family, will feel the most individual tenderness for the lovely human +creatures whom God has given into his own especial care and responsibility. +Show me the man who is tender, reverential, gracious towards the children +of other men, and I will show you the man who will love and tend his own +best, to whose heart his own will flee for their first refuge after God, +when they catch sight of the cloud in the wind. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE SICK CHAMBER. + + + + + +In the course of a month there was a good deal more of light in the smile +with which my darling greeted me when I entered her room in the morning. +Her pain was greatly gone, but the power of moving her limbs had not yet +even begun to show itself. + +One day she received me with a still happier smile than I had yet seen upon +her face, put out her thin white hand, took mine and kissed it, and said, +"Papa," with a lingering on the last syllable. + +"What is it, my pet?" I asked. + +"I am so happy!" + +"What makes you so happy?" I asked again. + +"I don't know," she answered. "I haven't thought about it yet. But +everything looks so pleasant round me. Is it nearly winter yet, papa? I've +forgotten all about how the time has been going." + +"It is almost winter, my dear. There is hardly a leaf left on the +trees--just two or three disconsolate yellow ones that want to get away +down to the rest. They go fluttering and fluttering and trying to break +away, but they can't." + +"That is just as I felt a little while ago. I wanted to die and get away, +papa; for I thought I should never be well again, and I should be in +everybody's way.--I am afraid I shall not get well, after all," she added, +and the light clouded on her sweet face. + +"Well, my darling, we are in God's hands. We shall never get tired of you, +and you must not get tired of us. Would you get tired of nursing me, if I +were ill?" + +"O, papa!" And the tears began to gather in her eyes. + +"Then you must think we are not able to love so well as you." + +"I know what you mean. I did not think of it that way. I will never think +so about it again. I was only thinking how useless I was." + +"There you are quite mistaken, my dear. No living creature ever was +useless. You've got plenty to do there." + +"But what have I got to do? I don't feel able for anything," she said; and +again the tears came in her eyes, as if I had been telling her to get up +and she could not. + +"A great deal of our work," I answered, "we do without knowing what it is. +But I'll tell you what you have got to do: you have got to believe in God, +and in everybody in this house." + +"I do, I do. But that is easy to do," she returned. + +"And do you think that the work God gives us to do is never easy? Jesus +says his yoke is easy, his burden is light. People sometimes refuse to do +God's work just because it is easy. This is, sometimes, because they cannot +believe that easy work is his work; but there may be a very bad pride in +it: it may be because they think that there is little or no honour to be +got in that way; and therefore they despise it. Some again accept it with +half a heart, and do it with half a hand. But, however easy any work may +be, it cannot be well done without taking thought about it. And such +people, instead of taking thought about their work, generally take thought +about the morrow, in which no work can be done any more than in yesterday. +The Holy Present!--I think I must make one more sermon about it--although +you, Connie," I said, meaning it for a little joke, "do think that I have +said too much about it already." + +"Papa, papa! do forgive me. This is a judgment on me for talking to you as +I did that dreadful morning. But I was so happy that I was impertinent." + +"You silly darling!" I said. "A judgment! God be angry with you for that! +Even if it had been anything wrong, which it was not, do you think God has +no patience? No, Connie. I will tell you what seems to me much more likely. +You wanted something to do; and so God gave you something to do." + +"Lying in bed and doing nothing!" + +"Yes. Just lying in bed, and doing his will." + +"If I could but feel that I was doing his will!" + +"When you do it, then you will feel you are doing it." + +"I know you are coming to something, papa. Please make haste, for my back +is getting so bad." + +"I've tired you, my pet. It was very thoughtless of me. I will tell you the +rest another time," I said, rising. + +"No, no. It will make me much worse not to hear it all now." + +"Well, I will tell you. Be still, my darling, I won't be long. In the time +of the old sacrifices, when God so kindly told his ignorant children to +do something for him in that way, poor people were told to bring, not a +bullock or a sheep, for that was more than they could get, but a pair of +turtledoves, or two young pigeons. But now, as Crashaw the poet says, +'Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.' God wanted to teach people to +offer themselves. Now, you are poor, my pet, and you cannot offer yourself +in great things done for your fellow-men, which was the way Jesus did. +But you must remember that the two young pigeons of the poor were just as +acceptable to God as the fat bullock of the rich. Therefore you must say to +God something like this:--'O heavenly Father, I have nothing to offer +thee but my patience. I will bear thy will, and so offer my will a +burnt-offering unto thee. I will be as useless as thou pleasest.' Depend +upon it, my darling, in the midst of all the science about the world and +its ways, and all the ignorance of God and his greatness, the man or woman +who can thus say, _Thy will be done_, with the true heart of giving up is +nearer the secret of things than the geologist and theologian. And now, my +darling, be quiet in God's name." + +She held up her mouth to kiss me, but did not speak, and I left her, and +sent Dora to sit with her. + +In the evening, when I went into her room again, having been out in my +parish all the morning, I began to unload my budget of small events. +Indeed, we all came in like pelicans with stuffed pouches to empty them in +her room, as if she had been the only young one we had, and we must cram +her with news. Or, rather, she was like the queen of the commonwealth +sending out her messages into all parts, and receiving messages in return. +I might call her the brain of the house; but I have used similes enough for +a while. + +After I had done talking, she said-- + +"And you have been to the school too, papa?" + +"Yes. I go to the school almost every day. I fancy in such a school as ours +the young people get more good than they do in church. You know I had made +a great change in the Sunday-school just before you came home." + +"I heard of that, papa. You won't let any of the little ones go to school +on the Sunday." + +"No. It is too much for them. And having made this change, I feel the +necessity of being in the school myself nearly every day, that I may do +something direct for the little ones." + +"And you'll have to take me up soon, as you promised, you know, papa--just +before Sprite threw me." + +"As soon as you like, my dear, after you are able to read again." + +"O, you must begin before that, please.--You could spare time to read a +little to me, couldn't you?" she said doubtfully, as if she feared she was +asking too much. + +"Certainly, my dear; and I will begin to think about it at once." + +It was in part the result of this wish of my child's that it became the +custom to gather in her room on Sunday evenings. She was quite unable for +any kind of work such as she would have had me commence with her, but I +used to take something to read to her every now and then, and always after +our early tea on Sundays. + +What a thing it is to have one to speak and think about and try to find out +and understand, who is always and altogether and perfectly good! Such a +centre that is for all our thoughts and words and actions and imaginations! +It is indeed blessed to be human beings with Jesus Christ for the centre of +humanity. + +In the papers wherein I am about to record the chief events of the +following years of my life, I shall give a short account of what passed at +some of these assemblies in my child's room, in the hope that it may give +my friends something, if not new, yet fresh to think about. For God has so +made us that everyone who thinks at all thinks in a way that must be more +or less fresh to everyone else who thinks, if he only have the gift of +setting forth his thoughts so that we can see what they are. + +I hope my readers will not be alarmed at this, and suppose that I am about +to inflict long sermons upon them. I am not. I do hope, as I say, to teach +them something; but those whom I succeed in so teaching will share in the +delight it will give me to write about what I love most. + +As far as I can remember, I will tell how this Sunday-evening class began. +I was sitting by Constance's bed. The fire was burning brightly, and the +twilight had deepened so nearly into night that it was reflected back from +the window, for the curtains had not yet been drawn. There was no light in +the room but that of the fire. + +Now Constance was in the way of asking often what kind of day or night it +was, for there never was a girl more a child of nature than she. Her heart +seemed to respond at once to any and every mood of the world around her. +To her the condition of air, earth, and sky was news, and news of poetic +interest too. "What is it like?" she would often say, without any more +definite shaping of the question. This same evening she said: + +"What is it like, papa?" + +"It is growing dark," I answered, "as you can see. It is a still evening, +and what they call a black frost. The trees are standing as still as if +they were carved out of stone, and would snap off everywhere if the wind +were to blow. The ground is dark, and as hard as if it were of cast iron. A +gloomy night rather, my dear. It looks as if there were something upon its +mind that made it sullenly thoughtful; but the stars are coming out one +after another overhead, and the sky will be all awake soon. A strange thing +the life that goes on all night, is it not? The life of owlets, and mice, +and beasts of prey, and bats, and stars," I said, with no very categorical +arrangement, "and dreams, and flowers that don't go to sleep like the rest, +but send out their scent all night long. Only those are gone now. There are +no scents abroad, not even of the earth in such a frost as this." + +"Don't you think it looks sometimes, papa, as if God turned his back on the +world, or went farther away from it for a while?" + +"Tell me a little more what you mean, Connie." + +"Well, this night now, this dark, frozen, lifeless night, which you have +been describing to me, isn't like God at all--is it?" + +"No, it is not. I see what you mean now." + +"It is just as if he had gone away and said, 'Now you shall see what you +can do without me.' + +"Something like that. But do you know that English people--at least I think +so--enjoy the changeful weather of their country much more upon the whole +than those who have fine weather constantly? You see it is not enough to +satisfy God's goodness that he should give us all things richly to enjoy, +but he must make us able to enjoy them as richly as he gives them. He has +to consider not only the gift, but the receiver of the gift. He has to make +us able to take the gift and make it our own, as well as to give us the +gift. In fact, it is not real giving, with the full, that is, the divine, +meaning of giving, without it. He has to give us to the gift as well as +give the gift to us. Now for this, a break, an interruption is good, is +invaluable, for then we begin to think about the thing, and do something in +the matter ourselves. The wonder of God's teaching is that, in great part, +he makes us not merely learn, but teach ourselves, and that is far grander +than if he only made our minds as he makes our bodies." + +"I think I understand you, papa. For since I have been ill, you would +wonder, if you could see into me, how even what you tell me about the world +out of doors gives me more pleasure than I think I ever had when I could go +about in it just as I liked." + +"It wouldn't do that, though, you know, if you hadn't had the other first. +The pleasure you have comes as much from your memory as from my news." + +"I see that, papa." + +"Now can you tell me anything in history that confirms what I have been +saying?" + +"I don't know anything about history, papa. The only thing that comes into +my head is what you were saying yourself the other day about Milton's +blindness." + +"Ah, yes. I had not thought of that. Do you know, I do believe that God +wanted a grand poem from that man, and therefore blinded him that he might +be able to write it. But he had first trained him up to the point--given +him thirty years in which he had not to provide the bread of a single day, +only to learn and think; then set him to teach boys; then placed him at +Cromwell's side, in the midst of the tumultuous movement of public affairs, +into which the late student entered with all his heart and soul; and then +last of all he cast the veil of a divine darkness over him, sent him into a +chamber far more retired than that in which he laboured at Cambridge, and +set him like the nightingale to sing darkling. The blackness about him was +just the great canvas which God gave him to cover with forms of light and +music. Deep wells of memory burst upwards from below; the windows of heaven +were opened from above; from both rushed the deluge of song which flooded +his soul, and which he has poured out in a great river to us." + +"It was rather hard for poor Milton, though, wasn't it, papa?" + +"Wait till he says so, my dear. We are sometimes too ready with our +sympathy, and think things a great deal worse than those who have to +undergo them. Who would not be glad to be struck with _such_ blindness as +Milton's?" + +"Those that do not care about his poetry, papa," answered Constance, with a +deprecatory smile. + +"Well said, my Connie. And to such it never can come. But, if it please +God, you will love Milton before you are about again. You can't love one +you know nothing about." + +"I have tried to read him a little." + +"Yes, I daresay. You might as well talk of liking a man whose face you had +never seen, because you did not approve of the back of his coat. But you +and Milton together have led me away from a far grander instance of what we +had been talking about. Are you tired, darling?" + +"Not the least, papa. You don't mind what I said about Milton?" + +"Not at all, my dear. I like your honesty. But I should mind very much if +you thought, with your ignorance of Milton, that your judgment of him was +more likely to be right than mine, with my knowledge of him." + +"O, papa! I am only sorry that I am not capable of appreciating him." + +"There you are wrong again. I think you are quite capable of appreciating +him. But you cannot appreciate what you have never seen. You think of him +as dry, and think you ought to be able to like dry things. Now he is not +dry, and you ought not to be able to like dry things. You have a figure +before you in your fancy, which is dry, and which you call Milton. But it +is no more Milton than your dull-faced Dutch doll, which you called after +her, was your merry Aunt Judy. But here comes your mamma; and I haven't +said what I wanted to say yet." + +"But surely, husband, you can say it all the same," said my wife. "I will +go away if you can't." + +"I can say it all the better, my love. Come and sit down here beside me. I +was trying to show Connie--" + +"You did show me, papa." + +"Well, I was showing Connie that a gift has sometimes to be taken away +again before we can know what it is worth, and so receive it right." + +Ethelwyn sighed. She was always more open to the mournful than the glad. +Her heart had been dreadfully wrung in her youth. + +"And I was going on to give her the greatest instance of it in human +history. As long as our Lord was with his disciples, they could not see +him right: he was too near them. Too much light, too many words, too much +revelation, blinds or stupefies. The Lord had been with them long enough. +They loved him dearly, and yet often forgot his words almost as soon as he +said them. He could not get it into them, for instance, that he had not +come to be a king. Whatever he said, they shaped it over again after their +own fancy; and their minds were so full of their own worldly notions of +grandeur and command, that they could not receive into their souls the gift +of God present before their eyes. Therefore he was taken away, that his +Spirit, which was more himself than his bodily presence, might come into +them--that they might receive the gift of God into their innermost being. +After he had gone out of their sight, and they might look all around and +down in the grave and up in the air, and not see him anywhere--when they +thought they had lost him, he began to come to them again from the other +side--from the inside. They found that the image of him which his presence +with them had printed in light upon their souls, began to revive in the +dark of his absence; and not that only, but that in looking at it without +the overwhelming of his bodily presence, lines and forms and meanings began +to dawn out of it which they had never seen before. And his words came back +to them, no longer as they had received them, but as he meant them. The +spirit of Christ filling their hearts and giving them new power, made them +remember, by making them able to understand, all that he had said to them. +They were then always saying to each other, 'You remember how;' whereas +before, they had been always staring at each other with astonishment and +something very near incredulity, while he spoke to them. So that after he +had gone away, he was really nearer to them than he had been before. The +meaning of anything is more than its visible presence. There is a soul in +everything, and that soul is the meaning of it. The soul of the world +and all its beauty has come nearer to you, my dear, just because you are +separated from it for a time." + +"Thank you, dear papa. I do like to get a little sermon all to myself now +and then. That is another good of being ill." + +"You don't mean me to have a share in it, then, Connie, do you?" said my +wife, smiling at her daughter's pleasure. + +"O, mamma! I should have thought you knew all papa had got to say by this +time. I daresay he has given you a thousand sermons all to yourself." + +"Then you suppose, Connie, that I came into the world with just a boxful of +sermons, and after I had taken them all out there were no more. I should be +sorry to think I should not have a good many new things to say by this time +next year." + +"Well, papa, I wish I could he sure of knowing more next year." + +"Most people do learn, whether they will or not. But the kind of learning +is very different in the two cases." + +"But I want to ask you one question, papa: do you think that we should not +know Jesus better now if he were to come and let us see him--as he came to +the disciples so long, long ago? I wish it were not so long ago." + +"As to the time, it makes no difference whether it was last year or two +thousand years ago. The whole question is how much we understand, and +understanding, obey him. And I do not think we should be any nearer that if +he came amongst us bodily again. If we should, he would come. I believe we +should be further off it." + +"Do you think, then," said Connie, in an almost despairing tone, as if I +were the prophet of great evil, "that we shall never, never, never see +him?" + +"That is _quite_ another thing, my Connie. That is the heart of my hopes by +day and my dreams by night. To behold the face of Jesus seems to me the one +thing to be desired. I do not know that it is to be prayed for; but I think +it will be given us as the great bounty of God, so soon as ever we are +capable of it. That sight of the face of Jesus is, I think, what is meant +by his glorious appearing, but it will come as a consequence of his spirit +in us, not as a cause of that spirit in us. The pure in heart shall see +God. The seeing of him will be the sign that we are like him, for only by +being like him can we see him as he is. All the time that he was with them, +the disciples never saw him as he was. You must understand a man before you +can see and read his face aright; and as the disciples did not understand +our Lord's heart, they could neither see nor read his face aright. But when +we shall be fit to look that man in the face, God only knows." + +"Then do you think, papa, that we, who have never seen him, could know him +better than the disciples? I don't mean, of course, better than they knew +him after he was taken away from them, but better than they knew him while +he was still with them?" + +"Certainly I do, my dear." + +"O, papa! Is it possible? Why don't we all, then?" + +"Because we won't take the trouble; that is the reason." + +"O, what a grand thing to think! That would be worth living--worth being +ill for. But how? how? Can't you help me? Mayn't one human being help +another?" + +"It is the highest duty one human being owes to another. But whoever wants +to learn must pray, and think, and, above all, obey--that is simply, do +what Jesus says." + +There followed a little silence, and I could hear my child sobbing. And the +tears stood in; my wife's eyes--tears of gladness to hear her daughter's +sobs. + +"I will try, papa," Constance said at last. "But you _will_ help me?" + +"That I will, my love. I will help you in the best way I know; by trying to +tell you what I have heard and learned about him--heard and learned of the +Father, I hope and trust. It is coming near to the time when he was born;-- +but I have spoken quite as long as you are able to bear to-night." + +"No, no, papa. Do go on." + +"No, my dear; no more to-night. That would be to offend against the very +truth I have been trying to set forth to you. But next Sunday--you have +plenty to think about till then--I will talk to you about the baby Jesus; +and perhaps I may find something more to help you by that time, besides +what I have got to say now." + +"But," said my wife, "don't you think, Connie, this is too good to keep all +to ourselves? Don't you think we ought to have Wynnie and Dora in?" + +"Yes, yes, mamma. Do let us have them in. And Harry and Charlie too." + +"I fear they are rather young yet," I said. "Perhaps it might do them +harm." + +"It would be all the better for us to have them anyhow," said Ethelwyn, +smiling. + +"How do you mean, my dear?" + +"Because you will say things more simply if you have them by you. Besides, +you always say such things to children as delight grown people, though they +could never get them out of you." + +It was a wife's speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it. + +"Well," I said, "I don't mind them coming in, but I don't promise to say +anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment they +wish it." + +"Certainly," answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A SUNDAY EVENING. + + + + + +When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to +church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took care +to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she might be +quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again with my Bible +in my hand, I found all our little company assembled. There was a glorious +fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones were seated on the rug +before it, one on each side of their mother; Wynnie sat by the further side +of the bed, for she always avoided any place or thing she thought another +might like; and Dora sat by the further chimney-corner, leaving the space +between the fire and my chair open that I might see and share the glow. + +"The wind is very high, papa," said Constance, as I seated myself beside +her. + +"Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has blown +harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?" + +"I am afraid I do like it. When it roars like that in the chimneys, and +shakes the windows with a great rush as if it _would_ get into the house +and tear us to pieces, and then goes moaning away into the woods and +grumbles about in them till it grows savage again, and rushes up at us with +fresh fury, I am afraid I delight in it. I feel so safe in the very jaws of +danger." + +"Why, you are quite poetic, Connie," said Wynnie. + +"Don't laugh at me, Wynnie. Mind I'm an invalid, and I can't bear to be +laughed at," returned Connie, half laughing herself, and a little more than +a quarter crying. + +Wynnie rose and kissed her, whispered something to her which made her laugh +outright, and then sat down again. + +"But tell me, Connie," I said, "why you are _afraid_ you enjoy hearing the +wind about the house." + +"Because it must be so dreadful for those that are out in it." + +"Perhaps not quite so bad as we think. You must not suppose that God has +forgotten them, or cares less for them than for you because they are out in +the wind." + +"But if we thought like that, papa," said Wynnie, "shouldn't we come to +feel that their sufferings were none of our business?" + +"If our benevolence rests on the belief that God is less loving than we, it +will come to a bad end somehow before long, Wynnie." + +"Of course, I could not think that," she returned. + +"Then your kindness would be such that you dared not, in God's name, think +hopefully for those you could not help, lest you should, believing in his +kindness, cease to help those whom you could help! Either God intended that +there should be poverty and suffering, or he did not. If he did not +intend it--for similar reasons to those for which he allows all sorts of +evils--then there is nothing between but that we should sell everything +that we have and give it away to the poor." + +"Then why don't we?" said Wynnie, looking truth itself in my face. + +"Because that is not God's way, and we should do no end of harm by so +doing. We should make so many more of those who will not help themselves +who will not be set free from themselves by rising above themselves. We are +not to gratify our own benevolence at the expense of its object--not to +save our own souls as we fancy, by putting other souls into more danger +than God meant for them." + +"It sounds hard doctrine from your lips, papa," said Wynnie. + +"Many things will look hard in so many words, which yet will be found +kindness itself when they are interpreted by a higher theory. If the one +thing is to let people have everything they want, then of course everyone +ought to be rich. I have no doubt such a man as we were reading of in the +papers the other day, who saw his servant girl drown without making the +least effort to save her, and then bemoaned the loss of her labour for the +coming harvest, thinking himself ill-used in her death, would hug his own +selfishness on hearing my words, and say, 'All right, parson! Every man for +himself! I made my own money, and they may make theirs!' _You_ know that is +not exactly the way I should think or act with regard to my neighbour. But +if it were only that I have seen such noble characters cast in the mould of +poverty, I should be compelled to regard poverty as one of God's powers in +the world for raising the children of the kingdom, and to believe that it +was not because it could not be helped that our Lord said, 'The poor ye +have always with you.' But what I wanted to say was, that there can be no +reason why Connie should not enjoy what God has given her, although he has +not thought fit to give as much to everybody; and above all, that we shall +not help those right whom God gives us to help, if we do not believe that +God is caring for every one of them as much as he is caring for every one +of us. There was once a baby born in a stable, because his poor mother +could get no room in a decent house. Where she lay I can hardly think. They +must have made a bed of hay and straw for her in the stall, for we know the +baby's cradle was the manger. Had God forsaken them? or would they not have +been more _comfortable_, if that was the main thing, somewhere else? Ah! if +the disciples, who were being born about the same time of fisher-fathers +and cottage-mothers, to get ready for him to call and teach by the time he +should be thirty years of age--if they had only been old enough, and had +known that he was coming--would they not have got everything ready for him? +They would have clubbed their little savings together, and worked day and +night, and some rich women would have helped them, and they would have +dressed the baby in fine linen, and got him the richest room their money +would get, and they would have made the gold that the wise men brought into +a crown for his little head, and would have burnt the frankincense before +him. And so our little manger-baby would have been taken away from us. No +more the stable-born Saviour--no more the poor Son of God born for us all, +as strong, as noble, as loving, as worshipful, as beautiful as he was poor! +And we should not have learned that God does not care for money; that if he +does not give more of it it is not that it is scarce with him, or that he +is unkind, but that he does not value it himself. And if he sent his own +son to be not merely brought up in the house of the carpenter of a little +village, but to be born in the stable of a village inn, we need not suppose +because a man sleeps under a haystack and is put in prison for it next day, +that God does not care for him." + +"But why did Jesus come so poor, papa?" + +"That he might be just a human baby. That he might not be distinguished +by this or by that accident of birth; that he might have nothing but a +mother's love to welcome him, and so belong to everybody; that from the +first he might show that the kingdom of God and the favour of God lie not +in these external things at all--that the poorest little one, born in the +meanest dwelling, or in none at all, is as much God's own and God's care +as if he came in a royal chamber with colour and shine all about him. Had +Jesus come amongst the rich, riches would have been more worshipped +than ever. See how so many that count themselves good Christians honour +possession and family and social rank, and I doubt hardly get rid of them +when they are all swept away from them. The furthest most of such reach is +to count Jesus an exception, and therefore not despise him. See how, even +in the services of the church, as they call them, they will accumulate +gorgeousness and cost. Had I my way, though I will never seek to rouse +men's thoughts about such external things, I would never have any vessel +used in the eucharist but wooden platters and wooden cups." + +"But are we not to serve him with our best?" said my wife. + +"Yes, with our very hearts and souls, with our wills, with our absolute +being. But all external things should be in harmony with the spirit of his +revelation. And if God chose that his Son should visit the earth in homely +fashion, in homely fashion likewise should be everything that enforces and +commemorates that revelation. All church-forms should be on the other side +from show and expense. Let the money go to build decent houses for God's +poor, not to give them his holy bread and wine out of silver and gold and +precious stones--stealing from the significance of the _content_ by the +meretricious grandeur of the _continent_. I would send all the church-plate +to fight the devil with his own weapons in our overcrowded cities, and in +our villages where the husbandmen are housed like swine, by giving them +room to be clean and decent air from heaven to breathe. When the people +find the clergy thus in earnest, they will follow them fast enough, and the +money will come in like salt and oil upon the sacrifice. I would there were +a few of our dignitaries that could think grandly about things, even as +Jesus thought--even as God thought when he sent him. There are many of +them willing to stand any amount of persecution about trifles: the same +enthusiasm directed by high thoughts about the kingdom of heaven as within +men and not around them, would redeem a vast region from that indifference +which comes of judging the gospel of God by the church of Christ with its +phylacteries and hems." + +"There is one thing," said Wynnie, after a pause, "that I have often +thought about--why it was necessary for Jesus to come as a baby: he could +not do anything for so long." + +"First, I would answer, Wynnie, that if you would tell me why it is +necessary for all of us to come as babies, it would be less necessary for +me to tell you why he came so: whatever was human must be his. But I would +say next, Are you sure that he could not do anything for so long? Does a +baby do nothing? Ask mamma there. Is it for nothing that the mother lifts +up such heartfuls of thanks to God for the baby on her knee? Is it nothing +that the baby opens such fountains of love in almost all the hearts around? +Ah! you do not think how much every baby has to do with the saving of the +world--the saving of it from selfishness, and folly, and greed. And for +Jesus, was he not going to establish the reign of love in the earth? How +could he do better than begin from babyhood? He had to lay hold of +the heart of the world. How could he do better than begin with his +mother's--the best one in it. Through his mother's love first, he grew into +the world. It was first by the door of all the holy relations of the family +that he entered the human world, laying hold of mother, father, brothers, +sisters, all his friends; then by the door of labour, for he took his share +of his father's work; then, when he was thirty years of age, by the door of +teaching; by kind deeds, and sufferings, and through all by obedience unto +the death. You must not think little of the grand thirty years wherein he +got ready for the chief work to follow. You must not think that while he +was thus preparing for his public ministrations, he was not all the time +saving the world even by that which he was in the midst of it, ever laying +hold of it more and more. These were things not so easy to tell. And you +must remember that our records are very scanty. It is a small biography we +have of a man who became--to say nothing more--the Man of the world--the +Son of Man. No doubt it is enough, or God would have told us more; but +surely we are not to suppose that there was nothing significant, nothing +of saving power in that which we are not told.--Charlie, wouldn't you have +liked to see the little baby Jesus?" + +"Yes, that I would. I would have given him my white rabbit with the pink +eyes." + +"That is what the great painter Titian must have thought, Charlie; for he +has painted him playing with a white rabbit,--not such a pretty one as +yours." + +"I would have carried him about all day," said Dora, "as little Henny +Parsons does her baby-brother." + +"Did he have any brother or sister to carry him about, papa?" asked Harry. + +"No, my boy; for he was the eldest. But you may be pretty sure he carried +about his brothers and sisters that came after him." + +"Wouldn't he take care of them, just!" said Charlie. + +"I wish I had been one of them," said Constance. + +"You are one of them, my Connie. Now he is so great and so strong that he +can carry father and mother and all of us in his bosom." + +Then we sung a child's hymn in praise of the God of little children, and +the little ones went to bed. Constance was tired now, and we left her with +Wynnie. We too went early to bed. + +About midnight my wife and I awoke together--at least neither knew which +waked the other. The wind was still raving about the house, with lulls +between its charges. + +"There's a child crying!" said my wife, starting up. + +I sat up too, and listened. + +"There is some creature," I granted. + +"It is an infant," insisted my wife. "It can't be either of the boys." + +I was out of bed in a moment, and my wife the same instant. We hurried on +some of our clothes, going to the windows and listening as we did so. We +seemed to hear the wailing through the loudest of the wind, and in the +lulls were sure of it. But it grew fainter as we listened. The night was +pitch dark. I got a lantern, and hurried out. I went round the house till I +came under our bed-room windows, and there listened. I heard it, but not so +clearly as before. I set out as well as I could judge in the direction of +the sound. I could find nothing. My lantern lighted only a few yards around +me, and the wind was so strong that it blew through every chink, and +threatened momently to blow it out. My wife was by my side before I knew +she was coming. + +"My dear!" I said, "it is not fit for you to be out." + +"It is as fit for me as for a child, anyhow," she said. "Do listen." + +It was certainly no time for expostulation. All the mother was awake in +Ethelwyn's bosom. It would have been cruelty to make her go in, though she +was indeed ill-fitted to encounter such a night-wind. + +Another wail reached us. It seemed to come from a thicket at one corner of +the lawn. We hurried thither. Again a cry, and we knew we were much nearer +to it. Searching and searching we went. + +"There it is!" Ethelwyn almost screamed, as the feeble light of the lantern +fell on a dark bundle of something under a bush. She caught at it. It gave +another pitiful wail--the poor baby of some tramp, rolled up in a dirty, +ragged shawl, and tied round with a bit of string, as if it had been a +parcel of clouts. She set off running with it to the house, and I followed, +much fearing she would miss her way in the dark, and fall. I could hardly +get up with her, so eager was she to save the child. She darted up to her +own room, where the fire was not yet out. + +"Run to the kitchen, Harry, and get some hot water. Take the two jugs +there--you can empty them in the sink: you won't know where to find +anything. There will be plenty in the boiler." + +By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the child's +covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before the fire. +The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and motionless. We +had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as if I had been a +nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath. + +"Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child." + +"You made me throw away the cold water," I said, laughing. + +"There's some in the bottles," she returned. "Make haste." + +I did try to make haste, but I could not be quick enough to satisfy +Ethelwyn. + +"The child will be dead," she cried, "before we get it in the water." + +She had its rags off in a moment--there was very little to remove after the +shawl. How white the little thing was, though dreadfully neglected! It was +a girl--not more than a few weeks old, we agreed. Her little heart was +still beating feebly; and as she was a well-made, apparently healthy +infant, we had every hope of recovering her. And we were not disappointed. +She began to move her little legs and arms with short, convulsive motions. + +"Do you know where the dairy is, Harry?" asked my wife, with no great +compliment to my bumps of locality, which I had always flattered myself +were beyond the average in development. + +"I think I do," I answered. + +"Could you tell which was this night's milk, now?" + +"There will be less cream on it," I answered. + +"Bring a little of that and some more hot water. I've got some sugar here. +I wish we had a bottle." + +I executed her commands faithfully. By the time I returned the child was +lying on her lap clean and dry--a fine baby I thought. Ethelwyn went on +talking to her, and praising her as if she had not only been the finest +specimen of mortality in the world, but her own child to boot. She got her +to take a few spoonfuls of milk and water, and then the little thing fell +fast asleep. + +Ethelwyn's nursing days were not so far gone by that she did not know where +her baby's clothes were. She gave me the child, and going to a wardrobe +in the room brought out some night-things, and put them on. I could not +understand in the least why the sleeping darling must be indued with little +chemise, and flannel, and nightgown, and I do not know what all, requiring +a, world of nice care, and a hundred turnings to and fro, now on its little +stomach, now on its back, now sitting up, now lying down, when it would +have slept just as well, and I venture to think much more comfortably, +if laid in blankets and well covered over. But I had never ventured to +interfere with any of my own children, devoutly believing up to this +moment, though in a dim unquestioning way, that there must be some hidden +feminine wisdom in the whole process; and now that I had begun to question +it, I found that my opportunity had long gone by, if I had ever had one. +And after all there may be some reason for it, though I confess I do +strongly suspect that all these matters are so wonderfully complicated +in order that the girl left in the woman may have her heart's content of +playing with her doll; just as the woman hid in the girl expends no end of +lovely affection upon the dull stupidity of wooden cheeks and a body of +sawdust. But it was a delight to my heart to see how Ethelwyn could not be +satisfied without treating the foundling in precisely the same fashion as +one of her own. And if this was a necessary preparation for what, should +follow, I would be the very last to complain of it. + +We went to bed again, and the forsaken child of some half-animal mother, +now perhaps asleep in some filthy lodging for tramps, lay in my Ethelwyn's +bosom. I loved her the more for it; though, I confess, it would have been +very painful to me had she shown it possible for her to treat the baby +otherwise, especially after what we had been talking about that same +evening. + +So we had another child in the house, and nobody knew anything about it but +ourselves two. The household had never been disturbed by all the going and +coming. After everything had been done for her, we had a good laugh over +the whole matter, and then Ethelwyn fell a-crying. + +"Pray for the poor thing, Harry," she sobbed, "before you come to bed." + +I knelt down, and said: + +"O Lord our Father, this is as much thy child and as certainly sent to us +as if she had been born of us. Help us to keep the child for thee. Take +thou care of thy own, and teach us what to do with her, and how to order +our ways towards her." + +Then I said to Ethelwyn, + +"We will not say one word more about it tonight. You must try to go to +sleep. I daresay the little thing will sleep till the morning, and I am +sure I shall if she does. Good-night, my love. You are a true mother. Mind +you go to sleep." + +"I am half asleep already, Harry. Good-night," she returned. + +I know nothing more about anything till I in the morning, except that I had +a dream, which I have not made up my mind yet whether I shall tell or not. +We slept soundly--God's baby and all. + + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +MY DREAM. + + + + + +I think I will tell the dream I had. I cannot well account for the +beginning of it: the end will appear sufficiently explicable to those who +are quite satisfied that they get rid of the mystery of a thing when they +can associate it with something else with which they are familiar. Such +do not care to see that the thing with which they associate it may be as +mysterious as the other. For although use too often destroys marvel, it +cannot destroy the marvellous. The origin of our thoughts is just as +wonderful as the origin of our dreams. + +In my dream I found myself in a pleasant field full of daisies and white +clover. The sun was setting. The wind was going one way, and the shadows +another. I felt rather tired, I neither knew nor thought why. With an old +man's prudence, I would not sit down upon the grass, but looked about for +a more suitable seat. Then I saw, for often in our dreams there is an +immediate response to our wishes, a long, rather narrow stone lying a few +yards from me. I wondered how it could have come there, for there were no +mountains or rocks near: the field was part of a level country. Carelessly, +I sat down upon it astride, and watched the setting of the sun. Somehow I +fancied that his light was more sorrowful than the light of the setting sun +should be, and I began to feel very heavy at the heart. No sooner had the +last brilliant spark of his light vanished, than I felt the stone under me +begin to move. With the inactivity of a dreamer, however, I did not care +to rise, but wondered only what would come next. My seat, after several +strange tumbling motions, seemed to rise into the air a little way, and +then I found that I was astride of a gaunt, bony horse--a skeleton horse +almost, only he had a gray skin on him. He began, apparently with pain, +as if his joints were all but too stiff to move, to go forward in the +direction in which he found himself. I kept my seat. Indeed, I never +thought of dismounting. I was going on to meet what might come. Slowly, +feebly, trembling at every step, the strange steed went, and as he went his +joints seemed to become less stiff, and he went a little faster. All at +once I found that the pleasant field had vanished, and that we were on the +borders of a moor. Straight forward the horse carried me, and the moor +grew very rough, and he went stumbling dreadfully, but always recovering +himself. Every moment it seemed as if he would fall to rise no more, but +as often he found fresh footing. At length the surface became a little +smoother, and he began a horrible canter which lasted till he reached +a low, broken wall, over which he half walked, half fell into what was +plainly an ancient neglected churchyard. The mounds were low and covered +with rank grass. In some parts, hollows had taken the place of mounds. +Gravestones lay in every position except the level or the upright, and +broken masses of monuments were scattered about. My horse bore me into the +midst of it, and there, slow and stiff as he had risen, he lay down again. +Once more I was astride of a long narrow stone. And now I found that it was +an ancient gravestone which I knew well in a certain Sussex churchyard, the +top of it carved into the rough resemblance of a human skeleton--that of a +man, tradition said, who had been killed by a serpent that came out of a +bottomless pool in the next field. How long I sat there I do not know; but +at last I saw the faint gray light of morning begin to appear in front of +me. The horse of death had carried me eastward. The dawn grew over the top +of a hill that here rose against the horizon. But it was a wild dreary +dawn--a blot of gray first, which then stretched into long lines of dreary +yellow and gray, looking more like a blasted and withered sunset than a +fresh sunrise. And well it suited that waste, wide, deserted churchyard, if +churchyard I ought to call it where no church was to be seen--only a vast +hideous square of graves. Before me I noticed especially one old grave, the +flat stone of which had broken in two and sunk in the middle. While I sat +with my eyes fixed on this stone, it began to move; the crack in the middle +closed, then widened again as the two halves of the stone were lifted up, +and flung outward, like the two halves of a folding door. From the grave +rose a little child, smiling such perfect contentment as if he had just +come from kissing his mother. His little arms had flung the stones apart, +and as he stood on the edge of the grave next to me, they remained +outspread from the action for a moment, as if blessing the sleeping people. +Then he came towards me with the same smile, and took my hand. I rose, and +he led me away over another broken wall towards the hill that lay before +us. And as we went the sun came nearer, the pale yellow bars flushed into +orange and rosy red, till at length the edges of the clouds were swept with +an agony of golden light, which even my dreamy eyes could not endure, and I +awoke weeping for joy. + +This waking woke my wife, who said in some alarm: + +"What is the matter, husband?" + +So I told her my dream, and how in my sleep my gladness had overcome me. + +"It was this little darling that set you dreaming so," she said, and +turning, put the baby in my arms. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE NEW BABY. + + + + + +I will not attempt to describe the astonishment of the members of our +household, each in succession, as the news of the child spread. Charlie was +heard shouting across the stable-yard to his brother: + +"Harry, Harry! Mamma has got a new baby. Isn't it jolly?" + +"Where did she get it?" cried Harry in return. + +"In the parsley-bed, I suppose," answered Charlie, and was nearer right +than usual, for the information on which his conclusion was founded had no +doubt been imparted as belonging to the history of the human race. + +But my reader can easily imagine the utter bewilderment of those of the +family whose knowledge of human affairs would not allow of their curiosity +being so easily satisfied as that of the boys. In them was exemplified that +confusion of the intellectual being which is produced by the witness of +incontestable truth to a thing incredible--in which case the probability +always is, that the incredibility results from something in the mind of the +hearer falsely associated with and disturbing the true perception of the +thing to which witness is borne. + +Nor was the astonishment confined to the family, for it spread over the +parish that Mrs. Walton had got another baby. And so, indeed, she had. And +seldom has baby met with a more hearty welcome than this baby met with from +everyone of our family. They hugged it first, and then asked questions. And +that, I say, is the right way of receiving every good gift of God. Ask what +questions you will, but when you see that the gift is a good one, make +sure that you take it. There is plenty of time for you to ask questions +afterwards. Then the better you love the gift, the more ready you will be +to ask, and the more fearless in asking. + +The truth, however, soon became known. And then, strange to relate, we +began to receive visits of condolence. O, that poor baby! how it was +frowned upon, and how it had heads shaken over it, just because it was not +Ethelwyn's baby! It could not help that, poor darling! + +"Of course, you'll give information to the police," said, I am sorry to +say, one of my brethren in the neighbourhood, who had the misfortune to be +a magistrate as well. + +"Why?" I asked. + +"Why! That they may discover the parents, to be sure." + +"Wouldn't it be as hard a matter to prove the parentage, as it would be +easy to suspect it?" I asked. "And just think what it would be to give the +baby to a woman who not only did not want her, but who was not her mother. +But if her own mother came to claim her now, I don't say I would refuse +her, but I should think twice about giving her up after she had once +abandoned her for a whole night in the open air. In fact I don't want the +parents." + +"But you don't want the child." + +"How do you know that?" I returned--rather rudely, I am afraid, for I am +easily annoyed at anything that seems to me heartless--about children +especially. + +"O! of course, if you want to have an orphan asylum of your own, no one has +a right to interfere. But you ought to consider other people." + +"That is just what I thought I was doing," I answered; but he went on +without heeding my reply-- + +"We shall all be having babies left at our doors, and some of us are not so +fond of them as you are. Remember, you are your brother's keeper." + +"And my sister's too," I answered. "And if the question lies between +keeping a big, burly brother like you, and a tiny, wee sister like that, I +venture to choose for myself." + +"She ought to go to the workhouse," said the magistrate--a friendly, +good-natured man enough in ordinary--and rising, he took his hat and +departed. + + +This man had no children. So he was--or was not, so much to blame. Which? +_I_ say the latter. + +Some of Ethelwyn's friends were no less positive about her duty in the +affair. I happened to go into the drawing-room during the visit of one of +them--Miss Bowdler. + +"But, my dear Mrs. Walton," she was saying, "you'll be having all the +tramps in England leaving their babies at your door." + +"The better for the babies," interposed I, laughing. + +"But you don't think of your wife, Mr. Walton." + +"Don't I? I thought I did," I returned dryly. + +"Depend upon it, you'll repent it." + +"I hope I shall never repent of anything but what is bad." + +"Ah! but, really! it's not a thing to be made game of." + +"Certainly not. The baby shall be treated with all due respect in this +house." + +"What a provoking man you are! You know what I mean well enough." + +"As well as I choose to know--certainly," I answered. + +This lady was one of my oldest parishioners, and took liberties for which +she had no other justification, except indeed an unhesitating belief in the +superior rectitude of whatever came into her own head can be counted +as one. When she was gone, my wife turned to me with a half-comic, +half-anxious look, and said: + +"But it would be rather alarming, Harry, if this were to get abroad, and +we couldn't go out at the door in the morning without being in danger of +stepping on a baby on the door-step." + +"You might as well have said, when you were going to be married, 'If God +should send me twenty children, whatever should I do?' He who sent us this +one can surely prevent any more from coming than he wants to come. All that +we have to think of is to do right--not the consequences of doing right. +But leaving all that aside, you must not suppose that wandering mothers +have not even the attachment of animals to their offspring. There are not +so many that are willing to part with babies as all that would come to. If +you believe that God sent this one, that is enough for the present. If he +should send another, we should know by that that we had to take it in." + +My wife said the baby was a beauty. I could see that she was a plump, +well-to-do baby; and being by nature no particular lover of babies as +babies--that is, feeling none of the inclination of mothers and nurses +and elder sisters to eat them, or rather, perhaps, loving more for what I +believed than what I saw--that was all I could pretend to discover. But +even the aforementioned elderly parishioner was compelled to allow before +three months were over that little Theodora--for we turned the name of +my youngest daughter upside down for her--"was a proper child." To none, +however, did she seem to bring so much delight as to our dear Constance. +Oftener than not, when I went into her room, I found the sleepy, useless +little thing lying beside her on the bed, and her staring at it with such +loving eyes! How it began, I do not know, but it came at last to be called +Connie's Dora, or Miss Connie's baby, all over the house, and nothing +pleased Connie better. Not till she saw this did her old nurse take quite +kindly to the infant; for she regarded her as an interloper, who had no +right to the tenderness which was lavished upon her. But she had no sooner +given in than the baby began to grow dear to her as well as to the rest. In +fact, the house was ere long full of nurses. The staff included everyone +but myself, who only occasionally, at the entreaty of some one or other of +the younger ones, took her in my arms. + +But before she was three months old, anxious thoughts began to intrude, all +centering round the question in what manner the child was to be brought up. +Certainly there was time enough to think of this, as Ethelwyn constantly +reminded me; but what made me anxious was that I could not discover the +principle that ought to guide me. Now no one can tell how soon a principle +in such a case will begin, even unconsciously, to operate; and the danger +was that the moment when it ought to begin to operate would be long past +before the principle was discovered, except I did what I could now to find +it out. I had again and again to remind myself that there was no cause for +anxiety; for that I might certainly claim the enlightenment which all who +want to do right are sure to receive; but still I continued uneasy just +from feeling a vacancy where a principle ought to have been. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + + + + + +During all this time Connie made no very perceptible progress--in the +recovery of her bodily powers, I mean, for her heart and mind advanced +remarkably. We held our Sunday-evening assemblies in her room pretty +regularly, my occasional absence in the exercise of my duties alone +interfering with them. In connection with one of these, I will show how +I came at length to make up my mind as to what I would endeavour to +keep before me as my object in the training of little Theodora, always +remembering that my preparation might be used for a very different end +from what I purposed. If my intention was right, the fact that it might be +turned aside would not trouble me. + +We had spoken a good deal together about the infancy and childhood of +Jesus, about the shepherds, and the wise men, and the star in the east, and +the children of Bethlehem. I encouraged the thoughts of all the children to +rest and brood upon the fragments that are given us, and, believing that +the imagination is one of the most powerful of all the faculties for aiding +the growth of truth in the mind, I would ask them questions as to what they +thought he might have said or done in ordinary family occurrences, thus +giving a reality in their minds to this part of his history, and trying to +rouse in them a habit of referring their conduct to the standard of his. If +we do not thus employ our imagination on sacred things, his example can be +of no use to us except in exactly corresponding circumstances--and when can +such occur from one end to another of our lives? The very effort to think +how he would have done, is a wonderful purifier of the conscience, and, +even if the conclusion arrived at should not be correct from lack of +sufficient knowledge of his character and principles, it will be better +than any that can be arrived at without this inquiry. Besides, the asking +of such questions gave me good opportunity, through the answers they +returned, of seeing what their notions of Jesus and of duty were, and thus +of discovering how to help the dawn of the light in their growing minds. +Nor let anyone fear that such employment of the divine gift of imagination +will lead to foolish vagaries and useless inventions; while the object is +to discover the right way--the truth--there is little danger of that. +Besides, there I was to help hereby in the actual training of their +imaginations to truth and wisdom. To aid in this, I told them some of +the stories that were circulated about him in the early centuries of the +church, but which the church has rejected as of no authority; and I showed +them how some of them could not be true, because they were so unlike those +words and actions which we had the best of reasons for receiving as true; +and how one or two of them might be true--though, considering the company +in which we found them, we could say nothing for certain concerning them. +And such wise things as those children said sometimes! It is marvellous how +children can reach the heart of the truth at once. Their utterances are +sometimes entirely concordant with the results arrived at through years of +thought by the earnest mind--results which no mind would ever arrive at +save by virtue of the child-like in it. + +Well, then, upon this evening I read to them the story of the boy Jesus in +the temple. Then I sought to make the story more real to them by dwelling a +little on the growing fears of his parents as they went from group to group +of their friends, tracing back the road towards Jerusalem and asking every +fresh company they knew if they had seen their boy, till at length they +were in great trouble when they could not find him even in Jerusalem. Then +came the delight of his mother when she did find him at last, and his +answer to what she said. Now, while I thus lingered over the simple story, +my children had put many questions to me about Jesus being a boy, and not +seeming to know things which, if he was God, he must have known, they +thought. To some of these I had just to reply that I did not understand +myself, and therefore could not teach them; to others, that I could explain +them, but that they were not yet, some of them, old enough to receive and +understand my explanation; while others I did my best to answer as simply +as I could. But at this point we arrived at a question put by Wynnie, to +answer which aright I considered of the greatest importance. Wynnie said: + +"That is just one of the things about Jesus that have always troubled me, +papa." + +"What is, my dear?" I said; for although I thought I knew well enough what +she meant, I wished her to set it forth in her own words, both for her own +sake, and the sake of the others, who would probably understand the +difficulty much better if she presented it herself. + +"I mean that he spoke to his mother--" + +"Why don't you say _mamma_, Wynnie?" said Charlie. "She was his own mamma, +wasn't she, papa?" + +"Yes, my dear; but don't you know that the shoemaker's children down in the +village always call their mamma _mother_?" + +"Yes; but they are shoemaker's children." + +"Well, Jesus was one of that class of people. He was the son of a +carpenter. He called his mamma, _mother_. But, Charlie, _mother_ is the +more beautiful word of the two, by a great deal, I think. _Lady_ is a very +pretty word; but _woman_ is a very beautiful word. Just so with _mamma_ and +_mother_. _Mamma_ is pretty, but _mother_ is beautiful." + +"Why don't we always say _mother_ then?" + +"Just because it is the most beautiful, and so we keep it for Sundays--that +is, for the more solemn times of life. We don't want it to get common to us +with too much use. We may think it as much as we like; thinking does not +spoil it; but saying spoils many things, and especially beautiful words. +Now we must let Wynnie finish what she was saying." + +"I was saying, papa, that I can't help feeling as if--I know it can't be +true--but I feel as if Jesus spoke unkindly to his mother when he said that +to her." + +I looked at the page and read the words, "How is it that ye sought me? wist +ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" And I sat silent for a +while. + +"Why don't you speak, papa?" said Harry. + +"I am sitting wondering at myself, Harry," I said. "Long after I was your +age, Wynnie, I remember quite well that those words troubled me as they now +trouble you. But when I read them over now, they seemed to me so lovely +that I could hardly read them aloud. I can recall the fact that they +troubled me, but the mode of the fact I scarcely can recall. I can hardly +see now wherein lay the hurt or offence the words gave me. And why is that? +Simply because I understand them now, and I did not understand them then. +I took them as uttered with a tone of reproof; now I hear them as uttered +with a tone of loving surprise. But really I cannot feel sure what it was +that I did not like. And I am confident it is so with a great many things +that we reject. We reject them simply because we do not understand them. +Therefore, indeed, we cannot with truth be said to reject them at all. It +is some false appearance that we reject. Some of the grandest things in +the whole realm of truth look repellent to us, and we turn away from them, +simply because we are not--to use a familiar phrase--we are not up to them. +They appear to us, therefore, to be what they are not. Instruction sounds +to the proud man like reproof; illumination comes on the vain man like +scorn; the manifestation of a higher condition of motive and action +than his own, falls on the self-esteeming like condemnation; but it is +consciousness and conscience working together that produce this impression; +the result is from the man himself, not from the higher source. From the +truth comes the power, but the shape it assumes to the man is from the man +himself." + +"You are quite beyond me now, papa," said Wynnie. + +"Well, my dear," I answered, "I will return to the words of the boy Jesus, +instead of talking more about them; and when I have shown you what they +mean, I think you will allow that that feeling you have about them is all +and altogether an illusion." + +"There is one thing first," said Connie, "that I want to understand. You +said the words of Jesus rather indicated surprise. But how could he be +surprised at anything? If he was God, he must have known everything." + +"He tells us himself that he did not know everything. He says once that +even _he_ did not know one thing--only the Father knew it." + +"But how could that be if he was God?" + +"My dear, that is one of the things that it seems to me impossible I should +understand. Certainly I think his trial as a man would not have been +perfect had he known everything. He too had to live by faith in the Father. +And remember that for the Divine Sonship on earth perfect knowledge was not +necessary, only perfect confidence, absolute obedience, utter holiness. +There is a great tendency in our sinful natures to put knowledge and power +on a level with goodness. It was one of the lessons of our Lord's life that +they are not so; that the one grand thing in humanity is faith in God; that +the highest in God is his truth, his goodness, his rightness. But if Jesus +was a real man, and no mere appearance of a man, is it any wonder that, +with a heart full to the brim of the love of God, he should be for a moment +surprised that his mother, whom he loved so dearly, the best human being +he knew, should not have taken it as a matter of course that if he was not +with her, he must be doing something his Father wanted him to do? For this +is just what his answer means. To turn it into the ordinary speech of our +day, it is just this: 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know that I must +of course be doing something my Father had given me to do?' Just think of +the quiet sweetness of confidence in this. And think what a life his must +have been up to that twelfth year of his, that such an expostulation with +his mother was justified. It must have had reference to a good many things +that had passed before then, which ought to have been sufficient to make +Mary conclude that her missing boy must be about God's business somewhere. +If her heart had been as full of God and God's business as his, she would +not have been in the least uneasy about him. And here is the lesson of his +whole life: it was all his Father's business. The boy's mind and hands +were full of it. The man's mind and hands were full of it. And the risen +conqueror was full of it still. For the Father's business is everything, +and includes all work that is worth doing. We may say in a full grand +sense, that there is nothing but the Father and his business." + +"But we have so many things to do that are not his business," said Wynnie, +with a sigh of oppression. + +"Not one, my darling. If anything is not his business, you not only have +not to do it, but you ought not to do it. Your words come from the want of +spiritual sight. We cannot see the truth in common things--the will of God +in little everyday affairs, and that is how they become so irksome to us. +Show a beautiful picture, one full of quiet imagination and deep thought, +to a common-minded man; he will pass it by with some slight remark, +thinking it very ordinary and commonplace. That is because he is +commonplace. Because our minds are so commonplace, have so little of the +divine imagination in them, therefore we do not recognise the spiritual +meaning and worth, we do not perceive the beautiful will of God, in the +things required of us, though they are full of it. But if we do them we +shall thus make acquaintance with them, and come to see what is in them. +The roughest kernel amongst them has a tree of life in its heart." + +"I wish he would tell me something to do," said Charlie. "Wouldn't I do +it!" + +I made no reply, but waited for an opportunity which I was pretty sure was +at hand, while I carried the matter a little further. + +"But look here, Wynnie; listen to this," I said, "'And he went down with +them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.' Was that not doing +his Father's business too? Was it not doing the business of his Father in +heaven to honour his father and his mother, though he knew that his days +would not be long in that land? Did not his whole teaching, his whole +doing, rest on the relation of the Son to the Father and surely it was +doing his Father's business then to obey his parents--to serve them, to be +subject to them. It is true that the business God gives a man to do may be +said to be the peculiar walk in life into which he is led, but that is only +as distinguishing it from another man's peculiar business. God gives us +all our business, and the business which is common to humanity is +more peculiarly God's business than that which is one man's and not +another's--because it lies nearer the root, and is essential. It does not +matter whether a man is a farmer or a physician, but it greatly matters +whether he is a good son, a good husband, and so on. O my children!" I +said, "if the world could but be brought to believe--the world did I say?-- +if the best men in the world could only see, as God sees it, that service +is in itself the noblest exercise of human powers, if they could see that +God is the hardest worker of all, and that his nobility are those who do +the most service, surely it would alter the whole aspect of the church. +Menial offices, for instance, would soon cease to be talked of with that +contempt which shows that there is no true recognition of the fact that +the same principle runs through the highest duty and the lowest--that the +lowest work which God gives a man to do must be in its nature noble, as +certainly noble as the highest. This would destroy condescension, which +is the rudeness, yes, impertinence, of the higher, as it would destroy +insolence, which is the rudeness of the lower. He who recognised the +dignity of his own lower office, would thereby recognise the superiority of +the higher office, and would be the last either to envy or degrade it. He +would see in it his own--only higher, only better, and revere it. But I am +afraid I have wearied you, my children." + +"O, no, papa!" said the elder ones, while the little ones gaped and said +nothing. + +"I know I am in danger of doing so when I come to speak upon this subject: +it has such a hold of my heart and mind!--Now, Charlie, my boy, go to bed." + +But Charlie was very comfortable before the fire, on the rug, and did not +want to go. First one shoulder went up, and then the other, and the corners +of his mouth went down, as if to keep the balance true. He did not move to +go. I gave him a few moments to recover himself, but as the black frost +still endured, I thought it was time to hold up a mirror to him. When he +was a very little boy, he was much in the habit of getting out of temper, +and then as now, he made a face that was hideous to behold; and to cure him +of this, I used to make him carry a little mirror about his neck, that the +means might be always at hand of showing himself to him: it was a sort of +artificial conscience which, by enabling him to see the picture of his own +condition, which the face always is, was not unfrequently operative in +rousing his real conscience, and making him ashamed of himself. But now the +mirror I wanted to hold up to him was a past mood, in the light of which +the present would show what it was. + +"Charlie," I said, "a little while ago you were wishing that God would give +you something to do. And now when he does, you refuse at once, without even +thinking about it." + +"How do you know that God wants me to go to bed?" said Charlie, with +something of surly impertinence, which I did not meet with reproof at once +because there was some sense along with the impudence. + +"I know that God wants you to do what I tell you, and to do it pleasantly. +Do you think the boy Jesus would have put on such a face as that--I wish I +had the little mirror to show it to you--when his mother told him it was +time to go to bed?" + +And now Charlie began to look ashamed. I left the truth to work in him, +because I saw it was working. Had I not seen that, I should have compelled +him to go at once, that he might learn the majesty of law. But now that his +own better self, the self enlightened of the light that lighteneth every +man that cometh into the world, was working, time might well be afforded it +to work its perfect work. I went on talking to the others. In the space of +not more than one minute, he rose and came to me, looking both good and +ashamed, and held up his face to kiss me, saying, "Goodnight, papa." I bade +him good-night, and kissed him more tenderly than usual, that he might know +that it was all right between us. I required no formal apology, no begging +of my pardon, as some parents think right. It seemed enough to me that +his heart was turned. It is a terrible thing to run the risk of changing +humility into humiliation. Humiliation is one of the proudest conditions +in the human world. When he felt that it would be a relief to say more +explicitly, "Father, I have sinned," then let him say it; but not till +then. To compel manifestation is one surest way to check feeling. + +My readers must not judge it silly to record a boy's unwillingness to go to +bed. It is precisely the same kind of disobedience that some of them are +guilty of themselves, and that in things not one whit more important than +this, only those things happen to be _their_ wish at the moment, and not +Charlie's, and so gain their superiority. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THEODORA'S DOOM. + + + + + +Try not to get weary, respected reader, of so much of what I am afraid +most people will call tiresome preaching. But I know if you get anything +practicable out of it, you will not be so soon tired of it. I promise you +more story by and by. Only an old man, like an old horse, must be allowed +to take very much his own way--go his own pace, I should have said. I am +afraid there must be a little more of a similar sort in this chapter. + +On the Monday morning I set out to visit one or two people whom the +severity of the weather had kept from church on the Sunday. The last severe +frost, as it turned out, of the season, was possessing the earth. The sun +was low in the wintry sky, and what seemed a very cold mist up in the air +hid him from the earth. I was walking along a path in a field close by a +hedge. A tree had been cut down, and lay upon the grass. A short distance +from it lay its own figure marked out in hoar-frost. There alone was there +any hoar-frost on the field; the rest was all of the loveliest tenderest +green. I will not say the figure was such an exact resemblance as a +photograph would have been; still it was an indubitable likeness. It +appeared to the hasty glance that not a branch not a knot of the upper +side of the tree at least was left unrepresented in shining and glittering +whiteness upon the green grass. It was very pretty, and, I confess, at +first, very puzzling. I walked on, meditating on the phenomenon, till at +length I found out its cause. The hoar-frost had been all over the field in +the morning. The sun had been shining for a time, and had melted the frost +away, except where he could only cast a shadow. As he rose and rose, +the shadow of the tree had shortened and come nearer and nearer to its +original, growing more and more like as it came nearer, while the frost +kept disappearing as the shadow withdrew its protection. When the shadow +extended only to a little way from the tree, the clouds came and covered +the sun, and there were no more shadows, only one great one of the clouds. +Then the frost shone out in the shape of the vanished shadow. It lay at a +little distance from the tree, because the tree having been only partially +lopped, some great stumps of boughs held it up from the ground, and thus, +when the sun was low, his light had shone a little way through beneath, as +well as over the trunk. + +My reader needs not be afraid; I am not going to "moralise this spectacle +with a thousand similes." I only tell it him as a very pretty phenomenon. +But I confess I walked on moralising it. Any new thing in nature--I mean +new in regard to my knowledge, of course--always made me happy; and I was +full of the quiet pleasure it had given me and of the thoughts it had +brought me, when, as I was getting over a stile, whom should I see in the +next field, coming along the footpath, but the lady who had made herself so +disagreeable about Theodora. The sight was rather a discord in my feeling +at that moment; perhaps it would have been so at any moment. But I prepared +myself to meet her in the strength of the good humour which nature had just +bestowed upon me. For I fear the failing will go with me to the grave +that I am very ready to be annoyed, even to the loss of my temper, at the +urgings of ignoble prudence. + +"Good-morning, Miss Bowdler," I said. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Walton," she returned "I am afraid you thought me +impertinent the other week; but you know by this time it is only my way." + +"As such I take it," I answered with a smile. + +She did not seem quite satisfied that I did not defend her from her own +accusation; but as it was a just one, I could not do so. Therefore she went +on to repeat the offence by way of justification. + +"It was all for Mrs. Walton's sake. You ought to consider her, Mr. Walton. +She has quite enough to do with that dear Connie, who is likely to be an +invalid all her days--too much to take the trouble of a beggar's brat as +well." + +"Has Mrs. Walton been complaining to you about it, Miss Bowdler?" I asked. + +"O dear, no!" she answered. "She is far too good to complain of anything. +That's just why her friends must look after her a bit, Mr. Walton." + +"Then I beg you won't speak disrespectfully of my little Theodora." + +"O dear me! no. Not at all. I don't speak disrespectfully of her." + +"Even amongst the class of which she comes, 'a beggar's brat' would be +regarded as bad language." + +"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Mr. Walton! If you _will_ take offence--" + +"I do take offence. And you know there is One who has given especial +warning against offending the little ones." + +Miss Bowdler walked away in high displeasure--let me hope in conviction of +sin as well. She did not appear in church for the next two Sundays. Then +she came again. But she called very seldom at the Hall after this, and I +believe my wife was not sorry. + +Now whether it came in any way from what that lady had said as to my wife's +trouble with Constance and Theodora together, I can hardly tell; but, +before I had reached home, I had at last got a glimpse of something like +the right way, as it appeared to me, of bringing up Theodora. When I went +into the house, I looked for my wife to have a talk with her about it; but, +indeed, it always necessary to find her every time I got home. I found her +in Connie's room as I had expected. Now although we were never in the habit +of making mysteries of things in which there was no mystery, and talked +openly before our children, and the more openly the older they grew, yet +there were times when we wanted to have our talks quite alone, especially +when we had not made up our minds about something. So I asked Ethelwyn to +walk out with me. + +"I'm afraid I can't just this moment, husband," she answered. She was in +the way of using that form of address, for she said it meant everything +without saying it aloud. "I can't just this moment, for there is no one at +liberty to stay with Connie." + +"O, never mind me, mamma," said Connie cheerfully. "Theodora will take care +of me," and she looked fondly at the child, who was lying by her side fast +asleep. + +"There!" I said. And both, looked up surprised, for neither knew what I +meant. "I will tell you afterwards," I said, laughing. "Come along, Ethel." + +"You can ring the bell, you know, Connie, if you should want anything, or +your baby should wake up and be troublesome. You won't want me long, will +you, husband?" + +"I'm not sure about that. You must tell Susan to watch for the bell." + +Susan was the old nurse. + +Ethel put on her hooded cloak, and we went out together. I took her across +to the field where I had seen the hoary shadow. The sun had not shone out, +and I hoped it would be there to gladden her dear eyes as it had gladdened +mine; but it was gone. The warmth of the sun, without his direct rays, had +melted it away, as sacred influences will sometimes do with other shadows, +without the mind knowing any more than the grass how the shadow departed. +There, reader! I have got a bit of a moral in about it before you knew what +I was doing. But I was sorry my wife could see it only through my eyes and +words. Then I told her about Miss Bowdler, and what she had said. Ethel +was very angry at her impertinence in speaking so to me. That was a wife's +feeling, you know, and perhaps excusable in the first impression of the +thing. + +"She seems to think," she said, "that she was sent into the world to keep +other people right instead of herself. I am very glad you set her down, as +the maids say." + +"O, I don't think there's much harm in her," I returned, which was easy +generosity, seeing my wife was taking my part. "Indeed, I am not sure that +we are not both considerably indebted to her; for it was after I met her +that a thought came into my head as to how we ought to do with Theodora." + +"Still troubling yourself about that, husband?" + +"The longer the difficulty lasts, the more necessary is it that it should +be met," I answered. "Our measures must begin sometime, and when, who can +tell? We ought to have them in our heads, or they will never begin at all." + +"Well, I confess they are rather of a general nature at present--belonging +to humanity rather than the individual, as you would say--consisting +chiefly in washing, dressing, feeding, and apostrophe, varied with +lullabying. But our hearts are a better place for our measures than our +heads, aren't they?" + +"Certainly; I walk corrected. Only there's no fear about your heart. I'm +not quite so sure about your head." + +"Thank you, husband. But with you for a head it doesn't matter, does it?" + +"I don't know that. People should always strengthen the weaker part, for no +chain is stronger than its weakest link; no fortification stronger than +its most assailable point. But, seriously, wife, I trust your head nearly, +though not quite, as much as your heart. Now to go to business. There's +one thing we have both made up our minds about--that there is to be no +concealment with the child. God's fact must be known by her. It would be +cruel to keep the truth from her, even if it were not sure to come upon her +with a terrible shock some day. She must know from the first, by hearing it +talked of--not by solemn and private communication--that she came out of +the shrubbery. That's settled, is it not?" + +"Certainly. I see that to be the right way," responded Ethelwyn. + +"Now, are we bound to bring her up exactly as our own, or are we not?" + +"We are bound to do as well for her as for our own." + +"Assuredly. But if we brought her up just as our own, would that, the facts +being as they are, be to do as well for her as for our own?" + +"I doubt it; for other people would not choose to receive her as we have +done." + +"That is true. She would be continually reminded of her origin. Not that +that in itself would be any evil; but as they would do it by excluding or +neglecting her, or, still worse, by taking liberties with her, it would be +a great pain. But keeping that out of view, would it be good for herself, +knowing what she will know, to be thus brought up? Would it not be kinder +to bring her up in a way that would make it easier for her to relieve the +gratitude which I trust she will feel, not for our sakes--I hope we are +above doing anything for the sake of the gratitude which will be given for +it, and which is so often far beyond the worth of the thing done--" + + "Alas! the gratitude of men + Hath oftener left me mourning," + +said Ethel. + +"Ah! you understand that now, my Ethel!" + +"Yes, thank you, I do." + +"But we must wish for gratitude for others' sake, though we may be willing +to go without it for our own. Indeed, gratitude is often just as painful as +Wordsworth there represents it. It makes us so ashamed; makes us think how +much more we _might_ have done; how lovely a thing it is to give in return +for such common gifts as ours; how needy the man or woman must be in whom a +trifle awakes so much emotion." + +"Yes; but we must not in justice think that it is merely that our little +doing seems great to them: it is the kindness shown them therein, for +which, often, they are more grateful than for the gift, though they can't +show the difference in their thanks." + +"And, indeed, are not aware of it themselves, though it is so. And yet, the +same remarks hold good about the kindness as about the gift. But to return +to Theodora. If we put her in a way of life that would be recognisant of +whence she came, and how she had been brought thence, might it not be +better for her? Would it not be building on the truth? Would she not be +happier for it?" + + +"You are putting general propositions, while all the time you have +something particular and definite in your own mind; and that is not fair to +my place in the conference," said Ethel. "In fact, you think you are trying +to approach me wisely, in order to persuade, I will not say _wheedle_, me +into something. It's a good thing you have the harmlessness of the dove, +Harry, for you've got the other thing." + +"Well, then, I will be as plain as ever I can be, only premising that what +you call the cunning of the serpent--" + +"Wisdom, Harry, not cunning." + +"Is only that I like to give my arguments before my proposition. But here +it is--bare and defenceless, only--let me warn you--with a whole battery +behind it: it is, to bring up little Theodora as a servant to Constance." + +My wife laughed. + +"Well," she said, "for one who says so much about not thinking of the +morrow, you do look rather far forward." + +"Not with any anxiety, however, if only I know that I am doing right." + +"But just think: the child is about three months old." + +"Well; Connie will be none the worse that she is being trained for her. I +don't say that she is to commence her duties at once." + +"But Connie may be at the head of a house of her own long before that." + +"The training won't be lost to the child though. But I much fear, my love, +that Connie will never be herself again. There is no sign of it. And Turner +does not give much hope." + +"O Harry, Harry, don't say so! I can't bear it. To think of the darling +child lying like that all her life!" + +"It is sad, indeed; but no such awful misfortune surely, Ethel. Haven't +you seen, as well as I, that the growth of that child's nature since her +accident has been marvellous? Ten times rather would I have her lying there +such as she is, than have her well and strong and silly, with her bonnets +inside instead of outside her head." + +"Yes, but she needn't have been like that. Wynnie never will." + +"Well, but God does all things not only well, but best, absolutely best. +But just think what it would be in any circumstances to have a maid that +had begun to wait upon her from the first days that she was able to toddle +after something to fetch it for her." + +"Won't it be like making a slave of her?" + +"Won't it be like giving her a divine freedom from the first? The lack of +service is the ruin of humanity." + +"But we can't train her then like one of our own." + +"Why not"? Could we not give her all the love and all the teaching?" + +"Because it would not be fair to give her the education of a lady, and then +make a servant of her." + +"You forget that the service would be part of her training from the first; +and she would know no change of position in it. When we tell her that she +was found in the shrubbery, we will add that we think God sent her to +take care of Constance. I do not believe myself that you can have perfect +service except from a lady. Do not forget the true notion of service as the +essence of Christianity, yea, of divinity. It is not education that unfits +for service: it is the want of it." + +"Well, I know that the reading girls I have had, have, as a rule, served me +worse than the rest." + +"Would you have called one of those girls educated? Or even if they had +been educated, as any of them might well have been, better than nine-tenths +of the girls that go to boarding-schools, you must remember that they had +never been taught service--the highest accomplishment of all. To that +everything aids, when any true feeling of it is there. But for service of +this high sort, the education must begin with the beginning of the dawn of +will. How often have you wished that you had servants who would believe in +you, and serve you with the same truth with which you regarded them! The +servants born in a man's house in the old times were more like his children +than his servants. Here is a chance for you, as it were of a servant born +in your own house. Connie loves the child: the child will love Connie, and +find her delight in serving her like a little cherub. Not one of the maids +to whom you have referred had ever been taught to think service other than +an unavoidable necessity, the end of life being to serve yourself, not to +serve others; and hence most of them would escape from it by any marriage +almost that they had a chance of making. I don't say all servants are like +that; but I do think that most of them are. I know very well that most +mistresses are as much to blame for this result as the servants are; but +we are not talking about them. Servants nowadays despise work, and yet are +forced to do it--a most degrading condition to be in. But they would not be +in any better condition if delivered from the work. The lady who despises +work is in as bad a condition as they are. The only way to set them free +is to get them to regard service not only as their duty, but as therefore +honourable, and besides and beyond this, in its own nature divine. In +America, the very name of servant is repudiated as inconsistent with human +dignity. There is _no_ dignity but of service. How different the whole +notion of training is now from what it was in the middle ages! Service was +honourable then. No doubt we have made progress as a whole, but in some +things we have degenerated sadly. The first thing taught then was how to +serve. No man could rise to the honour of knighthood without service. A +nobleman's son even had to wait on his father, or to go into the family of +another nobleman, and wait upon him as a page, standing behind his chair at +dinner. This was an honour. No notion of degradation was in it. It was a +necessary step to higher honour. And what was the next higher honour? To be +set free from service? No. To serve in the harder service of the field; to +be a squire to some noble knight; to tend his horse, to clean his armour, +to see that every rivet was sound, every buckle true, every strap strong; +to ride behind him, and carry his spear, and if more than one attacked him, +to rush to his aid. This service was the more honourable because it was +harder, and was the next step to higher honour yet. And what was this +higher honour? That of knighthood. Wherein did this knighthood consist? The +very word means simply _service_. And for what was the knight thus waited +upon by his squire? That he might be free to do as he pleased? No, but that +he might be free to be the servant of all. By being a squire first, the +servant of one, he learned to rise to the higher rank, that of servant of +all. His horse was tended, this armour observed, his sword and spear and +shield held to his hand, that he might have no trouble looking after +himself, but might be free, strong, unwearied, to shoot like an arrow to +the rescue of any and every one who needed his ready aid. There was a grand +heart of Christianity in that old chivalry, notwithstanding all its abuses +which must be no more laid to its charge than the burning of Jews and +heretics to Christianity. It was the lack of it, not the presence of it +that occasioned the abuses that coexisted with it. Train our Theodora as a +holy child-servant, and there will be no need to restrain any impulse of +wise affection from pouring itself forth upon her. My firm belief is that +we should then love and honour her far more than if we made her just like +one of our own." + +"But what if she should turn out utterly unfit for it?" + +"Ah! then would come an obstacle. But it will not come till that discovery +is made." + +"But if we should be going wrong all the time?" + +"Now, there comes the kind of care that never troubles me, and which I so +strongly object to. It won't hurt her anyhow. And we ought always to act +upon the ideal; it is the only safe ground of action. When that which +contradicts and resists, and would ruin our ideal, opposes us, then we +must take measures; but not till then can we take measures, or know what +measures it may be necessary to take. But the ideal itself is the only +thing worth striving after. Remember what our Lord himself said: 'Be ye +therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.'" + +"Well, I will think about it, Harry. There is time enough." + +"Plenty. No time only not to think about it. The more you think about it +the better. If a thing be a good thing, the more you think about it the +better it will look; for its real nature will go on coming out and showing +itself. I cannot doubt that you will soon see how good it is." + +We then went home. It was only two days after that my wife said to me-- + +"I am more than reconciled to your plan, husband. It seems to me +delightful." + +When we reentered Connie's room, we found that her baby had just waked, and +she had managed to get one arm under her, and was trying to comfort her, +for she was crying. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A SPRING CHAPTER. + + + + + +More especially now in my old age, I find myself "to a lingering motion +bound." I would, if I might, tell a tale day by day, hour by hour, +following the movement of the year in its sweet change of seasons. This +may not be, but I will indulge myself now so far as to call this a spring +chapter, and so pass to the summer, when my reader will see why I have +called my story "The Seaboard Parish." + +I was out one day amongst my people, and I found two precious things: +one, a lovely little fact, the other a lovely little primrose. This was +a pinched, dwarfish thing, for the spring was but a baby herself, and so +could not mother more than a brave-hearted weakling. The frost lay all +about it under the hedge, but its rough leaves kept it just warm enough, +and hardly. Now, I should never have pulled the little darling; it would +have seemed a kind of small sacrilege committed on the church of nature, +seeing she had but this one; only with my sickly cub at home, I felt +justified in ravening like a beast of prey. I even went so far in my greed +as to dig up the little plant with my fingers, and bear it, leaves and all, +with a lump of earth about it to keep it alive, home to my little woman--a +present from the outside world which she loved so much. And as I went there +dawned upon me the recollection of a little mirror in which, if I could +find it, she would see it still more lovely than in a direct looking at +itself. So I set myself to find it; for it lay in fragments in the drawers +and cabinets of my memory. And before I got home I had found all the pieces +and put them together; and then it was a lovely little sonnet which a +friend of mine had written and allowed me to see many years before. I was +in the way of writing verses myself; but I should have been proud to have +written this one. I never could have done that. Yet, as far as I knew, it +had never seen the light through the windows of print. It was with some +difficulty that I got it all right; but I thought I had succeeded very +nearly, if not absolutely, and I said it over and over, till I was sure I +should not spoil its music or its meaning by halting in the delivery of it. + +"Look here, my Connie, what I have brought you," I said. + +She held out her two white, half-transparent hands, took it as if it had +been a human baby and looked at it lovingly till the tears came in her +eyes. She would have made a tender picture, as she then lay, with her two +hands up, holding the little beauty before her eyes. Then I said what I +have already written about the mirror, and repeated the sonnet to her. Here +it is, and my readers will owe me gratitude for it. My friend had found +the snowdrop in February, and in frost. Indeed he told me that there was a +tolerable sprinkling of snow upon the ground: + + "I know not what among the grass thou art, + Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower, + Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power + To send thine image through them to the heart; + But when I push the frosty leaves apart, + And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower, + Thou growest up within me from that hour, + And through the snow I with the spring depart. + + I have no words. But fragrant is the breath, + Pale Beauty, of thy second life within. + There is a wind that cometh for thy death, + But thou a life immortal dost begin, + Where, in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell + Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!" + +"Will you say it again, papa?" said Connie; "I do not quite understand it." + +"I will, my dear. But I will do something better as well. I will go and +write it out for you, as soon as I have given you something else that I +have brought." + +"Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I may +read it quite easily." + +I promised, and repeated the poem. + +"I understand it a little better," she said; "but the meaning is just like +the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give it me in +writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what else you +have brought me." + +I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the plant +and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only expressed +satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat down with us. + +"I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning," I said. "She feels the loss +of her mother very much, poor thing." + +"How old was she, papa?" asked Connie. + +"She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, and +her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old lady, +you know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat on the +tablecloth. 'Mr. Shafton,' she said, 'was one of the old school; he would +never have done that. I don't know what the world is coming to.'" + +My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad +manners. + +"What did you say, papa?" they asked. + +"I begged her pardon, and lifted it instantly. 'O, it's all right now, my +dear,' she said, 'when you've taken it up again. But I like good manners, +though I live in a cottage now.'" + +"Had she seen better days, then?" asked Wynnie. + +"She was a farmer's daughter, and a farmer's widow. I suppose the chief +difference in her mode of life was that she lived in a cottage instead of a +good-sized farmhouse." + +"But what is the story you have to tell us?" + +"I'm coming to that when you have done with your questions." + +"We have done, papa." + +"After talking awhile, during which she went bustling a little about the +cottage, in order to hide her feelings, as I thought, for she has a good +deal of her mother's sense of dignity about her,--but I want your mother to +hear the story. Run and fetch her, Wynnie." + +"O, do make haste, Wynnie," said Connie. + +When Ethelwyn came, I went on. + +"Miss Aylmer was bustling a little about the cottage, putting things to +rights. All at once she gave a cry of surprise, and said, 'Here it is, at +last!' She had taken up a stuff dress of her mother's, and was holding it +in one hand, while with the other she drew from the pocket--what do you +think?" + +Various guesses were hazarded. + +"No, no--nothing like it. I know you _could_ never guess. Therefore it +would not be fair to keep you trying. A great iron horseshoe. The old woman +of ninety years had in the pocket of the dress that she was wearing at the +very moment when she died, for her death was sudden, an iron horseshoe." + +"What did it mean? Could her daughter explain it?" + +"That she proceeded at once to do. 'Do you remember, sir,' she said, +'how that horseshoe used to hang on a nail over the chimneypiece?' 'I do +remember having observed it there,' I answered; 'for once when I took +notice of it, I said to your mother, laughing, "I hope you are not afraid +of witches, Mrs. Aylmer?" And she looked a little offended, and assured me +to the contrary.' 'Well,' her daughter went on, 'about three months ago, I +missed it. My mother would not tell me anything about it. And here it is! +I can hardly think she can have carried it about all that time without me +finding it out, but I don't know. Here it is, anyhow. Perhaps when she felt +death drawing nearer, she took it from somewhere where she had hidden it, +and put it in her pocket. If I had found it in time, I would have put it +in her coffin.' 'But why?' I asked. 'Do tell me the story about it, if you +know it.' 'I know it quite well, for she told me all about it once. It is +the shoe of a favourite mare of my father's--one he used to ride when he +went courting my mother. My grandfather did not like to have a young man +coming about the house, and so he came after the old folks were gone to +bed. But he had a long way to come, and he rode that mare. She had to go +over some stones to get to the stable, and my mother used to spread straw +there, for it was under the window of my grandfather's room, that her shoes +mightn't make a noise and wake him. And that's one of the shoes,' she said, +holding it up to me. 'When the mare died, my mother begged my father for +the one off her near forefoot, where she had so often stood and patted her +neck when my father was mounted to ride home again.'" + +"But it was very naughty of her, wasn't it," said Wynnie, "to do that +without her father's knowledge?" + +"I don't say it was right, my dear. But in looking at what is wrong, we +ought to look for the beginning of the wrong; and possibly we might find +that in this case farther back. If, for instance, a father isn't a father, +we must not be too hard in blaming the child for not being a child. The +father's part has to come first, and teach the child's part. Now, if I +might guess from what I know of the old lady, in whom probably it was +much softened, her father was very possibly a hard, unreasoning, and +unreasonable man--such that it scarcely ever came into the daughter's head +that she had anything else to do with regard to him than beware of the +consequences of letting him know that she had a lover. The whole thing, I +allow, was wrong; but I suspect the father was first to blame, and far +more to blame than the daughter. And that is the more likely from the high +character of the old dame, and the romantic way in which she clung to the +memory of the courtship. A true heart only does not grow old. And I have, +therefore, no doubt that the marriage was a happy one. Besides, I daresay +it was very much the custom of the country where they were, and that makes +some difference." + +"Well, I'm sure, papa, you wouldn't like any of us to go and do like that," +said Wynnie. + +"Assuredly not, my dear," I answered, laughing. "Nor have I any fear of +it. But shall I tell you what I think would be one of the chief things to +trouble me if you did?" + +"If you like, papa. But it sounds rather dreadful to hear such an _if_" +said Wynnie. + +"It would be to think how much I had failed of being such a father to you +as I ought to be, and as I wished to be, if it should prove at all possible +for you to do such a thing." + +"It's too dreadful to talk about, papa," said Wynnie; and the subject was +dropped. + +She was a strange child, this Wynnie of ours. Whereas most people are in +danger of thinking themselves in the right, or insisting that they are +whether they think so or not, she was always thinking herself in the +wrong. Nay more, she always expected to find herself in the wrong. If the +perpetrator of any mischief was inquired after, she always looked into her +own bosom to see whether she could not with justice aver that she was the +doer of the deed. I believe she felt at that moment as if she had been +deceiving me already, and deserved to be driven out of the house. This came +of an over-sensitiveness, accompanied by a general dissatisfaction with +herself, which was not upheld by a sufficient faith in the divine sympathy, +or sufficient confidence of final purification. She never spared herself; +and if she was a little severe on the younger ones sometimes, no one was +yet more indulgent to them. She would eat all their hard crusts for them, +always give them the best and take the worst for herself. If there was any +part in the dish that she was helping that she thought nobody would like, +she invariably assigned it to her own share. It looked like a determined +self-mortification sometimes; but that was not it. She did not care for her +own comfort enough to feel it any mortification; though I observed that +when her mother or I helped her to anything nice, she ate it with as much +relish as the youngest of the party. And her sweet smile was always ready +to meet the least kindness that was offered her. Her obedience was perfect, +and had been so for very many years, as far as we could see. Indeed, not +since she was the merest child had there been any contest between us. +Now, of course, there was no demand of obedience: she was simply the best +earthly friend that her father and mother had. It often caused me some +passing anxiety to think that her temperament, as well as her devotion to +her home, might cause her great suffering some day; but when those thoughts +came, I just gave her to God to take care of. Her mother sometimes said +to her that she would make an excellent wife for a poor man. She would +brighten up greatly at this, taking it for a compliment of the best sort. +And she did not forget it, as the sequel will show. She would choose to sit +with one candle lit when there were two on the table, wasting her eyes to +save the candles. "Which will you have for dinner to-day, papa, roast beef +or boiled?" she asked me once, when her mother was too unwell to attend to +the housekeeping. And when I replied that I would have whichever she liked +best--"The boiled beef lasts longest, I think," she said. Yet she was not +only as liberal and kind as any to the poor, but she was, which is rarer, +and perhaps more important for the final formation of a character, +carefully just to everyone with whom she had any dealings. Her sense of +law was very strong. Law with her was something absolute, and not to be +questioned. In her childhood there was one lady to whom for years she +showed a decided aversion, and we could not understand it, for it was the +most inoffensive Miss Boulderstone. When she was nearly grown up, one of +us happening to allude to the fact, she volunteered an explanation. Miss +Boulderstone had happened to call one day when Wynnie, then between three +and four was in disgrace--_in the corner_, in fact. Miss Boulderstone +interceded for her; and this was the whole front of her offending. + +"I _was_ so angry!" she said. "'As if my papa did not know best when I +ought to come out of the corner!' I said to myself. And I couldn't bear her +for ever so long after that." + +Miss Boulderstone, however, though not very interesting, was quite a +favourite before she died. She left Wynnie--for she and her brother were +the last of their race--a death's-head watch, which had been in the family +she did not know how long. I think it is as old as Queen Elizabeth's time. +I took it to London to a skilful man, and had it as well repaired as +its age would admit of; and it has gone ever since, though not with the +greatest accuracy; for what could be expected of an old death's-head, +the most transitory thing in creation? Wynnie wears it to this day, and +wouldn't part with it for the best watch in the world. + +I tell the reader all this about my daughter that he may be the more able +to understand what will follow in due time. He will think that as yet my +story has been nothing but promises. Let him only hope that I will fulfil +them, and I shall be content. + +Mr. Boulderstone did not long outlive his sister. Though the old couple, +for they were rather old before they died, if, indeed, they were not born +old, which I strongly suspect, being the last of a decaying family that had +not left the land on which they were born for a great many generations-- +though the old people had not, of what the French call sentiments, one +between them, they were yet capable of a stronger and, I had almost said, +more romantic attachment, than many couples who have married from love; for +the lady's sole trouble in dying was what her brother _would_ do without +her; and from the day of her death, he grew more and more dull and +seemingly stupid. Nothing gave him any pleasure but having Wynnie to dinner +with him. I knew that it must be very dull for her, but she went often, and +I never heard her complain of it, though she certainly did look fagged--not +_bored_, observe, but fagged--showing that she had been exerting herself to +meet the difficulties of the situation. When the good man died, we found +that he had left all his money in my hands, in trust for the poor of the +parish, to be applied in any way I thought best. This involved me in much +perplexity, for nothing is more difficult than to make money useful to the +poor. But I was very glad of it, notwithstanding. + +My own means were not so large as my readers may think. The property my +wife brought me was much encumbered. With the help of her private fortune, +and the income of several years (not my income from the church, it may be +as well to say), I succeeded in clearing off the encumbrances. But even +then there remained much to be done, if I would be the good steward that +was not to be ashamed at his Lord's coming. First of all there were many +cottages to be built for the labourers on the estate. If the farmers would +not, or could not, help, I must do it; for to provide decent dwellings for +them, was clearly one of the divine conditions in the righteous tenure of +property, whatever the human might be; for it was not for myself alone, or +for myself chiefly, that this property was given to me; it was for those +who lived upon it. Therefore I laid out what money I could, not only in +getting all the land clearly in its right relation to its owner, but +in doing the best I could for those attached to it who could not help +themselves. And when I hint to my reader that I had some conscience in +paying my curate, though, as they had no children, they did not require so +much as I should otherwise have felt compelled to give them, he will easily +see that as my family grew up I could not have so much to give away of +my own as I should have liked. Therefore this trust of the good Mr. +Boulderstone was the more acceptable to me. + +One word more ere I finish this chapter.--I should not like my friends to +think that I had got tired of our Christmas gatherings, because I have made +no mention of one this year. It had been pretermitted for the first time, +because of my daughter's illness. It was much easier to give them now than +when I lived at the vicarage, for there was plenty of room in the old hall. +But my curate, Mr. Weir, still held a similar gathering there every Easter. + +Another one word more about him. Some may wonder why I have not mentioned +him or my sister, especially in connection with Connie's accident. The fact +was, that he had taken, or rather I had given him, a long holiday. Martha +had had several disappointing illnesses, and her general health had +suffered so much in consequence that there was even some fear of her lungs, +and a winter in the south of France had been strongly recommended. Upon +this I came in with more than a recommendation, and insisted that they +should go. They had started in the beginning of October, and had not +returned up to the time of which I am now about to write--somewhere in the +beginning of the month of April. But my sister was now almost quite well, +and I was not sorry to think that I should soon have a little more leisure +for such small literary pursuits as I delighted in--to my own enrichment, +and consequently to the good of my parishioners and friends. + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +AN IMPORTANT LETTER. + + + + + +It was, then, in the beginning of April that I received one morning an +epistle from an old college friend of mine, with whom I had renewed my +acquaintance of late, through the pleasure which he was kind enough to say +he had derived from reading a little book of mine upon the relation of the +mind of St. Paul to the gospel story. His name was Shepherd--a good name +for a clergyman. In his case both Christian name and patronymic might +remind him well of his duty. David Shepherd ought to be a good clergyman. + +As soon as I had read the letter, I went with it open in my hand to find my +wife. + +"Here is Shepherd," I said, "with a clerical sore-throat, and forced to +give up his duty for a whole summer. He writes to ask me whether, as he +understands I have a curate as good as myself--that is what the old fellow +says--it might not suit me to take my family to his place for the summer. +He assures me I should like it, and that it would do us all good. His +house, he says, is large enough to hold us, and he knows I should not like +to be without duty wherever I was. And so on Read the letter for yourself, +and turn it over in your mind. Weir will come back so fresh and active that +it will be no oppression to him to take the whole of the duty here. I will +run and ask Turner whether it would be safe to move Connie, and whether the +sea-air would be good for her." + +"One would think you were only twenty, husband--you make up your mind so +quickly, and are in such a hurry." + +The fact was, a vision of the sea had rushed in upon me. It was many years +since I had seen the sea, and the thought of looking on it once more, in +its most glorious show, the Atlantic itself, with nothing between us and +America, but the round of the ridgy water, had excited me so that my wife's +reproof, if reproof it was, was quite necessary to bring me to my usually +quiet and sober senses. I laughed, begged old grannie's pardon, and set off +to see Turner notwithstanding, leaving her to read and ponder Shepherd's +letter. + +"What do you think, Turner?" I said, and told him the case. He looked +rather grave. + +"When would you think of going?" he asked. + +"About the beginning of June." + +"Nearly two months," he said, thoughtfully. "And Miss Connie was not the +worse for getting on the sofa yesterday?" + +"The better, I do think." + +"Has she had any increase of pain since?" + +"None, I quite believe; for I questioned her as to that." + +He thought again. He was a careful man, although young. + +"It is a long journey." + +"She could make it by easy stages." + +"It would certainly do her good to breathe the sea-air and have such a +thorough change in every way--if only it could be managed without fatigue +and suffering. I think, if you can get her up every day between this and +that, we shall be justified in trying it at least. The sooner you get her +out of doors the better too; but the weather is scarcely fit for that yet." + +"A good deal will depend on how she is inclined, I suppose." + +"Yes. But in her case you must not mind that too much. An invalid's +instincts as to eating and drinking are more to be depended upon than those +of a healthy person; but it is not so, I think with regard to anything +involving effort. That she must sometimes be urged to. She must not judge +that by inclination. I have had, in my short practice, two patients, who +considered themselves _bedlars_, as you will find the common people in +the part you are going to, call them--bedridden, that is. One of them I +persuaded to make the attempt to rise, and although her sense of inability +was anything but feigned, and she will be a sufferer to the end of her +days, yet she goes about the house without much inconvenience, and I +suspect is not only physically but morally the better for it. The other +would not consent to try, and I believe lies there still." + +"The will has more to do with most things than people generally suppose," +I said. "Could you manage, now, do you think, supposing we resolve to make +the experiment, to accompany us the first stage or two?" + +"It is very likely I could. Only you must not depend upon me. I cannot tell +beforehand. You yourself would teach me that I must not be a respecter of +persons, you know." + +I returned to my wife. She was in Connie's room. + +"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you think of it?" + +"Of what?" she asked. + +"Why, of Shepherd's letter, of course," I answered. + +"I've been ordering the dinner since, Harry." + +"The dinner!" I returned with some show of contempt, for I knew my wife was +only teasing me. "What's the dinner to the Atlantic?" + +"What do you mean by the Atlantic, papa?" said Connie, from whose roguish +eyes I could see that her mother had told her all about it, and that _she_ +was not disinclined to get up, if only she could. + +"The Atlantic, my dear, is the name given to that portion of the waters of +the globe which divides Europe from America. I will fetch you the Universal +Gazetteer, if you would like to consult it on the subject." + +"O papa!" laughed Connie; "you know what I mean." + +"Yes; and you know what I mean too, you squirrel!" + +"But do you really mean, papa," she said "that you will take me to the +Atlantic?" + +"If you will only oblige me by getting Well enough to go as soon as +possible." + +The poor child half rose on her elbow, but sank back again with a moan, +which I took for a cry of pain. I was beside her in a moment. + +"My darling! You have hurt yourself!" + +"O no, papa. I felt for the moment as if I could get up if I liked. But I +soon found that I hadn't any back or legs. O! what a plague I am to you!" + +"On the contrary, you are the nicest plaything in the world, Connie. One +always knows where to find you." + +She half laughed and half cried, and the two halves made a very bewitching +whole. + +"But," I went on, "I mean to try whether my dolly won't bear moving. One +thing is clear, I can't go without it. Do you think you could be got on the +sofa to-day without hurting you?" + +"I am sure I could, papa. I feel better today than I have felt yet. Mamma, +do send for Susan, and get me up before dinner." + +When I went in after a couple of hours or so, I found her lying on the +conch, propped up with pillows. She lay looking out of the window on the +lawn at the back of the house. A smile hovered about her bloodless lips, +and the blue of her eyes, though very gray, looked sunny. Her white face +showed the whiter because her dark brown hair was all about it. We had had +to cut her hair, but it had grown to her neck again. + +"I have been trying to count the daisies on the lawn," she said. + +"What a sharp sight you must have, child!" + +"I see them all as clear as if they were enamelled on that table before +me." + +I was not so anxious to get rid of the daisies as some people are. Neither +did I keep the grass quite so close shaved. + +"But," she went on, "I could not count them, for it gave me the fidgets in +my feet." + +"You don't say so!" I exclaimed. + +She looked at me with some surprise, but concluding that I was only making +a little of my mild fun at her expense, she laughed. + +"Yes. Isn't it a wonderful fact?" she said. + +"It is a fact, my dear, that I feel ready to go on my knees and thank God +for. I may be wrong, but I take it as a sign that you are beginning to +recover a little. But we mustn't make too much of it, lest I should be +mistaken," I added, checking myself, for I feared exciting her too much. + +But she lay very still; only the tears rose slowly and lay shimmering in +her eyes. After about five minutes, during which we were both silent,-- + +"O papa!" she said, "to think of ever walking out with you again, and +feeling the wind on my face! I can hardly believe it possible." + +"It is so mild, I think you might have half that pleasure at once," I +answered.. + +And I opened the window, let the spring air gently move her hair for one +moment, and then shut it again. Connie breathed deep, and said after a +little pause,-- + +"I had no idea how delightful it was. To think that I have been in the way +of breathing that every moment for so many years and never thought about +it!" + +"It is not always just like that in this climate. But I ought not to have +made that remark when I wanted to make this other: that I suspect we shall +find some day that the loss of the human paradise consists chiefly in the +closing of the human eyes; that at least far more of it than people think +remains about us still, only we are so filled with foolish desires and evil +cares, that we cannot see or hear, cannot even smell or taste the pleasant +things round about us. We have need to pray in regard to the right +receiving of the things of the senses even, 'Lord, open thou our hearts to +understand thy word;' for each of these things is as certainly a word of +God as Jesus is the Word of God. He has made nothing in vain. All is for +our teaching. Shall I tell you what such a breath of fresh air makes me +think of?" + +"It comes to me," said Connie, "like forgiveness when I was a little girl +and was naughty. I used to feel just like that." + +"It is the same kind of thing I feel," I said--"as if life from the Spirit +of God were coming into my soul: I think of the wind that bloweth where it +listeth. Wind and spirit are the same word in the Greek; and the Latin word +_spirit_ comes even nearer to what we are saying, for it is the wind as +_breathed_. And now, Connie, I will tell you--and you will see how I am +growing able to talk to you like quite an old friend--what put me in such a +delight with Mr. Shepherd's letter and so exposed me to be teased by mamma +and you. As I read it, there rose up before me a vision of one sight of the +sea which I had when I was a young man, long before I saw your mamma. I had +gone out for a walk along some high downs. But I ought to tell you that I +had been working rather hard at Cambridge, and the life seemed to be all +gone out of me. Though my holidays had come, they did not feel quite like +holidays--not as holidays used to feel when I was a boy. Even when walking +along those downs with the scents of sixteen grasses or so in my brain, +like a melody with the odour of the earth for the accompaniment upon which +it floated, and with just enough of wind to stir them up and set them in +motion, I could not feel at all. I remembered something of what I had used +to feel in such places, but instead of believing in that, I doubted now +whether it had not been all a trick that I played myself--a fancied +pleasure only. I was walking along, then, with the sea behind me. It was +a warm, cloudy day--I had had no sunshine since I came out. All at once I +turned--I don't know why. There lay the gray sea, but not as I had seen +it last, not all gray. It was dotted, spotted, and splashed all over with +drops, pools, and lakes of light, of all shades of depth, from a light +shimmer of tremulous gray, through a half light that turned the prevailing +lead colour into translucent green that seemed to grow out of its depths-- +through this, I say, to brilliant light, deepening and deepening till my +very soul was stung by the triumph of the intensity of its molten silver. +There was no sun upon me. But there were breaks in the clouds over the sea, +through which, the air being filled with vapour, I could see the long lines +of the sun-rays descending on the waters like rain--so like a rain of light +that the water seemed to plash up in light under their fall. I questioned +the past no more; the present seized upon me, and I knew that the past was +true, and that nature was more lovely, more awful in her loveliness than I +could grasp. It was a lonely place: I fell on my knees, and worshipped the +God that made the glory and my soul." + +While I spoke Connie's tears had been flowing quietly. + +"And mamma and I were making fun while you were seeing such things as +those!" she said pitifully. + +"You didn't hurt them one bit, my darling--neither mamma nor you. If I had +been the least cross about it, as I should have been when I was as young +as at the time of which I was thinking, that would have ruined the vision +entirely. But your merriment only made me enjoy it more. And, my Connie, I +hope you will see the Atlantic before long; and if one vision should come +as brilliant as that, we shall be fortunate indeed, if we went all the way +to the west to see that only." + +"O papa! I dare hardly think of it--it is too delightful. But do you think +we shall really go?" + +"I do. Here comes your mamma--I am going to say to Shepherd, my dear, that +I will take his parish in hand, and if I cannot, after all, go myself, will +find some one, so that he need be in no anxiety from the uncertainty which +must hang over our movements even till the experiment itself is made." + +"Very well, husband. I am quite satisfied." + +And as I watched Connie, I saw that hope and expectation did much to +prepare her. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CONNIE'S DREAM. + + + + + +Mr. Turner, being a good mechanic as well as surgeon, proceeded to invent, +and with his own hands in a great measure construct, a kind of litter, +which, with a water-bed laid upon it, could be placed in our own carriage +for Connie to lie upon, and from that lifted, without disturbing her, and +placed in a similar manner in the railway carriage. He had laid Connie +repeatedly upon it before he was satisfied that the arrangement of the +springs, &c., was successful. But at length she declared that it was +perfect, and that she would not mind being carried across the Arabian +desert on a camel's back with that under her. + +As the season advanced, she continued to improve. I shall never forget the +first time she was carried out upon the lawn. If you can imagine an infant +coming into the world capable of the observation and delight of a child +of eight or ten, you will have some idea of how Connie received the new +impressions of everything around her. They were almost too much for her at +first, however. She who had been used to scamper about like a wild thing on +a pony, found the delight of a breath of wind almost more than she could +bear. After she was laid down she closed her eyes, and the smile that +flickered about her mouth was of a sort that harmonised entirely with the +two great tears that crept softly out from under her eyelids, and sank, +rather than ran, down her cheeks. She lay so that she faced a rich tract +of gently receding upland, plentifully wooded to the horizon's edge, and +through the wood peeped the white and red houses of a little hamlet, with +the square tower of its church just rising above the trees. A kind of frame +was made to the whole picture by the nearer trees of our own woods, through +an opening in which, evidently made or left for its sake, the distant +prospect was visible. It was a morning in early summer, when the leaves +were not quite full-grown but almost, and their green was shining and pure +as the blue of the sky, when the air had no touch of bitterness or of +lassitude, but was thoroughly warm, and yet filled the lungs with the +reviving as of a draught of cold water. We had fastened the carriage +umbrella to the sofa, so that it should shade her perfectly without +obscuring her prospect; and behind this we all crept, leaving her to come +to herself without being looked at, for emotion is a shy and sacred thing +and should be tenderly hidden by those who are near. The bees kept very +_beesy_ all about us. To see one huge fellow, as big as three ordinary ones +with pieces of red and yellow about him, as if he were the beadle of all +bee-dom, and overgrown in consequence--to see him, I say, down in a little +tuft of white clover, rolling about in it, hardly able to move for fatness, +yet bumming away as if his business was to express the delight of the whole +creation--was a sight! Then there were the butterflies, so light that they +seemed to tumble up into the air, and get down again with difficulty. They +bewildered me with their inscrutable variations of purpose. "If I could but +see once, for an hour, into the mind of a butterfly," I thought, "it would +be to me worth all the natural history I ever read. If I could but see why +he changes his mind so often and so suddenly--what he saw about that flower +to make him seek it--then why, on a nearer approach, he should decline +further acquaintance with it, and go rocking away through the air, to do +the same fifty times over again--it would give me an insight into all +animal and vegetable life that ages of study could not bring me up to." I +was thinking all this behind my daughter's umbrella, while a lark, whose +body had melted quite away in the heavenly spaces, was scattering bright +beads of ringing melody straight down upon our heads; while a cock was +crowing like a clarion from the home-farm, as if in defiance of the golden +glitter of his silent brother on the roof of the stable; while a little +stream that scampered down the same slope as the lawn lay upon, from a well +in the stable-yard, mingled its sweet undertone of contentment with the +jubilation of the lark and the business-like hum of the bees; and while +white clouds floated in the majesty of silence across the blue deeps of the +heavens. The air was so full of life and reviving, that it seemed like the +crude substance that God might take to make babies' souls of--only the very +simile smells of materialism, and therefore I do not like it. + +"Papa," said Connie at length, and I was beside her in a moment. Her face +looked almost glorified with delight: there was a hush of that awe upon it +which is perhaps one of the deepest kinds of delight. She put out her thin +white hand, took hold of a button of my coat, drew me down towards her, and +said in a whisper: + +"Don't you think God is here, papa?" + +"Yes, I do, my darling," I answered. + +"Doesn't _he_ enjoy this?" + +"Yes, my dear. He wouldn't make us enjoy it if he did not enjoy it. It +would be to deceive us to make us glad and blessed, while our Father did +not care about it, or how it came to us. At least it would amount to making +us no longer his children." + +"I am so glad you think so. I do. And I shall enjoy it so much more now." + +She could hardly finish her sentence, but burst out sobbing so that I was +afraid she would hurt herself. I saw, however, that it was best to leave +her to quiet herself, and motioned to the rest to keep back and let her +recover as she could. The emotion passed off in a summer shower, and when I +went round once more, her face was shining just like a wet landscape after +the sun has come out and Nature has begun to make gentle game of her own +past sorrows. In a little while, she was merry--merrier, notwithstanding +her weakness, than I think I had ever seen her before. + +"Look at that comical sparrow," she said. "Look how he cocks his head +first on one side and then on the other. Does he want us to see him? Is he +bumptious, or what?" + +"I hardly know, my dear. I think sparrows are very like schoolboys; and +I suspect that if we understood the one class thoroughly, we should +understand the other. But I confess I do not yet understand either." + +"Perhaps you will when Charlie and Harry are old enough to go to school," +said Connie. + +"It is my only chance of making any true acquaintance with the sparrows," +I answered. "Look at them now," I exclaimed, as a little crowd of them +suddenly appeared where only one had stood a moment before, and exploded +in objurgation and general unintelligible excitement. After some obscure +fluttering of wings and pecking, they all vanished except two, which walked +about in a dignified manner, trying apparently to seem quite unconscious +each of the other's presence. + +"I think it was a political meeting of some sort," said Connie, laughing +merrily. + +"Well, they have this advantage over us," I answered, "that they get +through their business whatever it may be, with considerably greater +expedition than we get through ours." + +A short silence followed, during which Connie lay contemplating everything. + +"What do you think we girls are like, then, papa?" she asked at length. +"Don't say you don't know, now." + +"I ought to know something more about you than I do about schoolboys. And +I think I do know a little about girls--not much though. They puzzle me a +good deal sometimes. I know what a great-hearted woman is, Connie." + +"You can't help doing that, papa," interrupted Connie, adding with her old +roguishness, "You mustn't pass yourself off for very knowing for that. By +the time Wynnie is quite grown up, your skill will be tried." + +"I hope I shall understand her then, and you too, Connie." + +A shadow, just like the shadow of one of those white clouds above us, +passed over her face, and she said, trying to smile: + +"I shall never grow up, papa. If I live, I shall only be a girl at best--a +creature you can't understand." + +"On the contrary, Connie, I think I understand you almost as well as mamma. +But there isn't so much to understand yet, you know, as there will be." + +Her merriment returned. + +"Tell me what girls are like, then, or I shall sulk all day because you say +there isn't so much in me as in mamma." + +"Well, I think, if the boys are like sparrows, the girls are like swallows. +Did you ever watch them before rain, Connie, skimming about over the lawn +as if it were water, low towards its surface, but never alighting? You +never see them grubbing after worms. Nothing less than things with wings +like themselves will satisfy them. They will be obliged to the earth only +for a little mud to build themselves nests with. For the rest, they live in +the air, and on the creatures of the air. And then, when they fancy the +air begins to be uncivil, sending little shoots of cold through their +warm feathers, they vanish. They won't stand it. They're off to a warmer +climate, and you never know till you find they're not there any more. +There, Connie!" + +"I don't know, papa, whether you are making game of us or not. If you are +not, then I wish all you say were quite true of us. If you are then I think +it is not quite like you to be satirical." + +"I am no believer in satire, Connie. And I didn't mean any. The swallows +are lovely creatures, and there would be no harm if the girls were a little +steadier than the swallows. Further satire than that I am innocent of." + +"I don't mind that much, papa. Only I'm steady enough, and no thanks to me +for it," she added with a sigh. + +"Connie," I said, "it's all for the sake of your wings that you're kept in +your nest." + +She did not stay out long this first day, for the life the air gave her +soon tired her weak body. But the next morning she was brighter and better, +and longing to get up and go out again. When she was once more laid on her +couch on the lawn, in the midst of the world of light and busy-ness, in +which the light was the busiest of all, she said to me: + +"Papa, I had such a strange dream last night: shall I tell it you?" + +"If you please, my dear. I am very fond of dreams that have any sense in +them--or even of any that have good nonsense in them. I woke this morning, +saying to myself, 'Dante, the poet, must have been a respectable man, for +he was permitted by the council of Florence to carry the Nicene Creed and +the Multiplication Table in his coat of arms.' Now tell me your dream." + +Connie laughed. All the household tried to make Connie laugh, and generally +succeeded. It was quite a triumph to Charlie or Harry, and was sure to be +recounted with glee at the next meal, when he succeeded in making Connie +laugh. + +"Mine wasn't a dream to make me laugh. It was too dreadful at first, and +too delightful afterwards. I suppose it was getting out for the first time +yesterday that made me dream it. I thought I was lying quite still, without +breathing even, with my hands straight down by my sides and my eyes closed. +I did not choose to open them, for I knew that if I did I should see +nothing but the inside of the lid of my coffin. I did not mind it much +at first, for I was very quiet, and not uncomfortable. Everything was as +silent as it should be, for I was ten feet and a half under the surface of +the earth in the churchyard. Old Sogers was not far from me on one side, +and that was a comfort; only there was a thick wall of earth between. +But as the time went on, I began to get uncomfortable. I could not help +thinking how long I should have to wait for the resurrection. Somehow I +had forgotten all that you teach us about that. Perhaps it was a +punishment--the dream--for forgetting it." + +"Silly child! Your dream is far better than your reflections." + +"Well, I'll go on with my dream. I lay a long time till I got very tired, +and wanted to get up, O, so much! But still I lay, and although I tried, I +could not move hand or foot. At last I burst out crying. I was ashamed of +crying in my coffin, but I couldn't bear it any longer. I thought I was +quite disgraced, for everybody was expected to be perfectly quiet and +patient down there. But the moment I began to cry, I heard a sound. And +when I listened it was the sound of spades and pickaxes. It went on and on, +and came nearer and nearer. And then--it was so strange--I was dreadfully +frightened at the idea of the light and the wind, and of the people seeing +me in my coffin and my night-dress, and tried to persuade myself that it +was somebody else they were digging for, or that they were only going to +lay another coffin over mine. And I thought that if it was you, papa, I +shouldn't mind how long I lay there, for I shouldn't feel a bit lonely, +even though we could not speak a word to each other all the time. But the +sounds came on, nearer and nearer, and at last a pickaxe struck, with a +blow that jarred me all through, upon the lid of the coffin, right over my +head. + +"'Here she is, poor thing!' I heard a sweet voice say. + +"'I'm so glad we've found her,' said another voice. + +"'She couldn't bear it any longer,' said a third more pitiful voice than +either of the others. 'I heard her first,' it went on. 'I was away up in +Orion, when I thought I heard a woman crying that oughtn't to be crying. +And I stopped and listened. And I heard her again. Then I knew that it was +one of the buried ones, and that she had been buried long enough, and was +ready for the resurrection. So as any business can wait except that, I flew +here and there till I fell in with the rest of you.' + +"I think, papa, that this must have been because of what you were saying +the other evening about the mysticism of St. Paul; that while he defended +with all his might the actual resurrection of Christ and the resurrection +of those he came to save, he used it as meaning something more yet, as a +symbol for our coming out of the death of sin into the life of truth. Isn't +that right, papa?" + +"Yes, my dear; I believe so. But I want to hear your dream first, and then +your way of accounting for it." + +"There isn't much more of it now." + +"There must be the best of it." + +"Yes; I allow that. Well, while they spoke--it was a wonderfully clear +and connected dream: I never had one like it for that, or for anything +else--they were clearing away the earth and stones from the top of my +coffin. And I lay trembling and expecting to be looked at, like a thing in +a box as I was, every moment. But they lifted me, coffin and all, out of +the grave, for I felt the motion of it up. Then they set it down, and I +heard them taking the lid off. But after the lid was off, it did not seem +to make much difference to me. I could not open my eyes. I saw no light, +and felt no wind blowing upon me. But I heard whispering about me. Then I +felt warm, soft hands washing my face, and then I felt wafts of wind coming +on my face, and thought they came from the waving of wings. And when they +had washed my eyes, the air came upon them so sweet and cool! and I opened +them, I thought, and here I was lying on this couch, with butterflies and +bees flitting and buzzing about me, the brook singing somewhere near me, +and a lark up in the sky. But there were no angels--only plenty of light +and wind and living creatures. And I don't think I ever knew before what +happiness meant. Wasn't it a resurrection, papa, to come out of the grave +into such a world as this?" + +"Indeed it was, my darling--and a very beautiful and true dream. There is +no need for me to moralise it to you, for you have done so for yourself +already. But not only do I think that the coming out of sin into goodness, +out of unbelief into faith in God, is like your dream; but I do expect that +no dream of such delight can come up to the sense of fresh life and being +that we shall have when we get on the higher body after this one won't +serve our purpose any longer, and is worn out and cast aside. The very +ability of the mind, whether of itself, or by some inspiration of the +Almighty, to dream such things, is a proof of our capacity for such things, +a proof, I think, that for such things we were made. Here comes in the +chance for faith in God--the confidence in his being and perfection that he +would not have made us capable without meaning to fill that capacity. If he +is able to make us capable, that is the harder half done already. The other +he can easily do. And if he is love he will do it. You should thank God for +that dream, Connie." + +"I was afraid to do that, papa." + +"That is as much as to fear that there is one place to which David +might have fled, where God would not find him--the most terrible of all +thoughts." + +"Where do you mean, papa?" + +"Dreamland, my dear. If it is right to thank God for a beautiful thought--I +mean a thought of strength and grace giving you fresh life and hope--why +should you be less bold to thank him when such thoughts arise in plainer +shape--take such vivid forms to your mind that they seem to come through +the doors of the eyes into the vestibule of the brain, and thence into the +inner chambers of the soul?" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE JOURNEY. + + + + + +For more than two months Charlie and Harry had been preparing for the +journey. The moment they heard of the prospect of it, they began to +prepare, accumulate, and pack stores both for the transit and the sojourn. +First of all there was an extensive preparation of ginger-beer, consisting, +as I was informed in confidence, of brown sugar, ground ginger, and cold +water. This store was, however, as near as I can judge, exhausted and +renewed about twelve times before the day of departure arrived; and when at +last the auspicious morning dawned, they remembered with dismay that they +had drunk the last drop two days before, and there was none in stock. Then +there was a wonderful and more successful hoarding of marbles, of a variety +so great that my memory refuses to bear the names of the different kinds, +which, I think, must have greatly increased since the time when I too was +a boy, when some marbles--one of real, white marble with red veins +especially--produced in my mind something of the delight that a work of art +produces now. These were carefully deposited in one of the many divisions +of a huge old hair-trunk, which they had got their uncle Weir, who could +use his father's tools with pleasure if not to profit, to fit up for them +with a multiplicity of boxes, and cupboards, and drawers, and trays, and +slides, that was quite bewildering. In this same box was stowed also a +quantity of hair, the gleanings of all the horse-tails upon the premises. +This was for making fishing-tackle, with a vague notion on the part of +Harry that it was to be employed in catching whales and crocodiles. Then +all their favourite books were stowed away in the same chest, in especial +a packet of a dozen penny books, of which I think I could give a complete +list now. For one afternoon as I searched about in the lumber-room after a +set of old library steps, which I wanted to get repaired, I came upon the +chest, and opening it, discovered my boys' hoard, and in it this packet of +books. I sat down on the top of the chest and read them all through, from +Jack the Giant-killer down to Hop o' my Thumb without rising, and this in +the broad daylight, with the yellow sunshine nestling beside me on the +rose-coloured silken seat, richly worked, of a large stately-looking chair +with three golden legs. Yes I could tell you all those stories, not to say +the names of them, over yet. Only I knew every one of them before; finding +now that they had fared like good vintages, for if they had lost something +in potency, they had gained much in flavour. Harry could not read these, +and Charlie not very well, but they put confidence in them notwithstanding, +in virtue of the red, blue, and yellow prints. Then there was a box of +sawdust, the design of which I have not yet discovered; a huge ball of +string; a rabbit's skin; a Noah's ark; an American clock, that refused to +go for all the variety of treatment they gave it; a box of lead-soldiers, +and twenty other things, amongst which was a huge gilt ball having an eagle +of brass with outspread wings on the top of it. + +Great was their consternation and dismay when they found that this magazine +could not be taken in the post-chaise in which they were to follow us to +the station. A good part of our luggage had been sent on before us, but the +boys had intended the precious box to go with themselves. Knowing well, +however, how little they would miss it, and with what shouts of south-sea +discovery they would greet the forgotten treasure when they returned, I +insisted on the lumbering article being left in peace. So that, as man +goeth treasureless to his grave, whatever he may have accumulated before +the fatal moment, they had to set off for the far country without chest or +ginger-beer--not therefore altogether so desolate and unprovided for as +they imagined. The abandoned treasure was forgotten the moment the few +tears it had occasioned were wiped away. + +It was the loveliest of mornings when we started upon our journey. The +sun shone, the wind was quiet, and everything was glad. The swallows were +twittering from the corbels they had added to the adornment of the dear old +house. + +"I'm sorry to leave the swallows behind," said Wynnie, as she stepped into +the carriage after her mother. Connie, of course, was already there, eager +and strong-hearted for the journey. + +We set off. Connie was in delight with everything, especially with all +forms of animal life and enjoyment that we saw on the road. She seemed to +enter into the spirit of the cows feeding on the rich green grass of the +meadows, of the donkeys eating by the roadside, of the horses we met +bravely diligent at their day's work, as they trudged along the road with +wagon or cart behind them. I sat by the coachman, but so that I could see +her face by the slightest turning of my head. I knew by its expression +that she gave a silent blessing to the little troop of a brown-faced gipsy +family, which came out of a dingy tent to look at the passing carriage. A +fleet of ducklings in a pool, paddling along under the convoy of the parent +duck, next attracted her. + +"Look; look. Isn't that delicious?" she cried. + +"I don't think I should like it though," said Wynnie. + +"What shouldn't you like, Wynnie?" asked her mother. + +"To be in the water and not feel it wet. Those feathers!" + +"They feel it with their legs and their webby toes," said Connie. + +"Yes, that is some consolation," answered Wynnie. + +"And if you were a duck, you would feel the good of your feathers in +winter, when you got into your cold bath of a morning." + +I give all this chat for the sake of showing how Connie's illness had not +in the least withdrawn her from nature and her sympathies--had rather, as +it were, made all the fibres of her being more delicate and sympathetic, +so that the things around her could enter her soul even more easily than +before, and what had seemed to shut her out had in reality brought her into +closer contact with the movements of all vitality. + +We had to pass through the village to reach the railway station. Everybody +almost was out to bid us good-bye. I did not want, for Connie's sake +chiefly, to have any scene, but recalling something I had forgotten to +say to one of my people, I stopped the carriage to speak to him. The same +instant there was a crowd of women about us. But Connie was the centre of +all their regards. They hardly looked at her mother or sister. Had she been +a martyr who had stood the test and received her aureole, she could hardly +have been more regarded. The common use of the word martyr is a curious +instance of how words get degraded. The sufferings involved in martyrdom, +and not the pure will giving occasion to that suffering, is fixed upon by +the common mind as the martyrdom. The witness-bearing is lost sight of, +except we can suppose that "a martyr to the toothache" means a witness of +the fact of the toothache and its tortures. But while _martyrdom_ really +means a bearing for the sake of the truth, yet there is a way in which any +suffering, even that we have brought upon ourselves, may become martyrdom. +When it is so borne that the sufferer therein bears witness to the presence +and fatherhood of God, in quiet, hopeful submission to his will, in gentle +endurance, and that effort after cheerfulness which is not seldom to be +seen where the effort is hardest to make; more than all, perhaps, and +rarest of all, when it is accepted as the just and merciful consequence +of wrong-doing, and is endured humbly, and with righteous shame, as the +cleansing of the Father's hand, indicating that repentance unto life which +lifts the sinner out of his sins, and makes him such that the holiest men +of old would talk to him with gladness and respect, then indeed it may be +called a martyrdom. This latter could not be Connie's case, but the former +was hers, and so far she might be called a martyr, even as the old women of +the village designated her. + +After we had again started, our ears were invaded with shouts from the +post-chaise behind us, in which Charlie and Harry, their grief at the +abandoned chest forgotten as if it had never been, were yelling in the +exuberance of their gladness. Dora, more staid as became her years, was +trying to act the matron with them in vain, and old nursie had enough to +do with Miss Connie's baby to heed what the young gentlemen were about, so +long as explosions of noise was all the mischief. Walter, the man-servant, +who had been with us ten years, and was the main prop of the establishment, +looking after everything and putting his hand to everything, with an +indefinite charge ranging from the nursery to the wine-cellar, and from +the corn-bin to the pig-trough, and who, as we could not possibly get on +without him, sat on the box of the post-chaise beside the driver from +the Griffin, rather connived, I fear, than otherwise at the noise of the +youngsters. + +"Good-bye, Marshmallows," they were shouting at the top of their voices, +as if they had just been released from a prison, where they had spent a +wretched childhood; and, as it could hardly offend anybody's ears on the +open country road I allowed them to shout till they were tired, which +condition fortunately arrived before we reached the station, so that there +was no occasion for me to interfere. I always sought to give them as much +liberty as could be afforded them. + +At the station we found Weir waiting to see us off, with my sister, now in +wonderful health. Turner was likewise there, and ready to accompany us a +good part of the way. But beyond the valuable assistance he lent us in +moving Connie, no occasion arose for the exercise of his professional +skill. She bore the journey wonderfully, slept not unfrequently, and only +at the end showed herself at length wearied. We stopped three times on the +way: first at Salisbury, where the streams running through the streets +delighted her. There we remained one whole day, but sent the children and +servants, all but my wife's maid, on before us, under the charge of Walter. +This left us more at our ease. At Exeter, we stopped only the night, for +Connie found herself quite able to go on the next morning. Here Turner left +us, and we missed him very much. Connie looked a little out of spirits +after his departure, but soon recovered herself. The next night we spent +at a small town on the borders of Devonshire, which was the limit of our +railway travelling. Here we remained for another whole day, for the remnant +of the journey across part of Devonshire and Cornwall to the shore must be +posted, and was a good five hours' work. We started about eleven o'clock, +full of spirits at the thought that we had all but accomplished the only +part of the undertaking about which we had had any uneasiness. Connie was +quite merry. The air was thoroughly warm. We had an open carriage with +a hood. Wynnie sat opposite her mother, Dora and Eliza the maid in the +rumble, and I by the coachman. The road being very hilly, we had +four horses; and with four horses, sunshine, a gentle wind, hope and +thankfulness, who would not be happy? + +There is a strange delight in motion, which I am not sure that I altogether +understand. The hope of the end as bringing fresh enjoyment has something +to do with it, no doubt; the accompaniments of the motion, the change of +scene, the mystery that lies beyond the next hill or the next turn in +the road, the breath of the summer wind, the scent of the pine-trees +especially, and of all the earth, the tinkling jangle of the harness as you +pass the trees on the roadside, the life of the horses, the glitter and the +shadow, the cottages and the roses and the rosy faces, the scent of burning +wood or peat from the chimneys, these and a thousand other things combine +to make such a journey delightful. But I believe it needs something more +than this--something even closer to the human life--to account for the +pleasure that motion gives us. I suspect it is its living symbolism; the +hidden relations which it bears to the eternal soul in its aspirations and +longings--ever following after, ever attaining, never satisfied. Do not +misunderstand me, my reader. A man, you will allow, perhaps, may be content +although he is not and cannot be happy: I feel inclined to turn all this +the other way, saying that a man ought always to be happy, never to be +content. You will see I do not say _contented_; I say _content_. Here comes +in his faith: his life is hid with Christ in God, measureless, unbounded. +All things are his, to become his by blessed lovely gradations of gift, as +his being enlarges to receive; and if ever the shadow of his own necessary +incompleteness falls upon the man, he has only to remember that in God's +idea he is complete, only his life is hid from himself with Christ in God +the Infinite. If anyone accuses me here of mysticism, I plead guilty with +gladness: I only hope it may be of that true mysticism which, inasmuch as +he makes constant use of it, St. Paul would understand at once. I leave it, +however. + +I think I must have been the very happiest of the party myself. No doubt I +was younger much than I am now, but then I was quite middle-aged, with full +confession thereof in gray hairs and wrinkles. Why should not a man be +happy when he is growing old, so long as his faith strengthens the feeble +knees which chiefly suffer in the process of going down the hill? True, the +fever heat is over, and the oil burns more slowly in the lamp of life; but +if there is less fervour, there is more pervading warmth; if less of fire, +more of sunshine; there is less smoke and more light. Verily, youth is +good, but old age is better--to the man who forsakes not his youth when his +youth forsakes him. The sweet visitings of nature do not depend upon youth +or romance, but upon that quiet spirit whose meekness inherits the earth. +The smell of that field of beans gives me more delight now than ever it +could have given me when I was a youth. And if I ask myself why I find it +is simply because I have more faith now than I had then. It came to me then +as an accident of nature--a passing pleasure flung to me only as the dogs' +share of the crumbs. Now I believe that God _means_ that odour of the +bean-field; that when Jesus smelled such a scent about Jerusalem or in +Galilee, he thought of his Father. And if God means it, it is mine, even if +I should never smell it again. The music of the spheres is mine if old age +should make me deaf as the adder. Am I mystical again, reader? Then I hope +you are too, or will be before you have done with this same beautiful +mystical life of ours. More and more nature becomes to me one of God's +books of poetry--not his grandest--that is history--but his loveliest, +perhaps. + +And ought I not to have been happy when all who were with me were happy? +I will not run the risk of wearying even my contemplative reader by +describing to him the various reflexes of happiness that shone from the +countenances behind me in the carriage, but I will try to hit each off in a +word, or a single simile. My Ethelwyn's face was bright with the brightness +of a pale silvery moon that has done her harvest work, and, a little weary, +lifts herself again into the deeper heavens from stooping towards the +earth. Wynnie's face was bright with the brightness of the morning star, +ever growing pale and faint over the amber ocean that brightens at the +sun's approach; for life looked to Wynnie severe in its light, and somewhat +sad because severe. Connie's face was bright with the brightness of a lake +in the rosy evening, the sound of the river flowing in and the sound of the +river flowing forth just audible, but itself still, and content to be still +and mirror the sunset. Dora's was bright with the brightness of a marigold +that follows the sun without knowing it; and Eliza's was bright with the +brightness of a half-blown cabbage rose, radiating good-humour. This last +is not a good simile, but I cannot find a better. I confess failure, and go +on. + +After stopping once to bait, during which operation Connie begged to be +carried into the parlour of the little inn that she might see the china +figures that were certain to be on the chimney-piece, as indeed they were, +where she drank a whole tumbler of new milk before we lifted her to carry +her back, we came upon a wide high moorland country the roads through which +were lined with gorse in full golden bloom, while patches of heather all +about were showing their bells, though not yet in their autumnal outburst +of purple fire. Here I began to be reminded of Scotland, in which I had +travelled a good deal between the ages of twenty and five-and-twenty. The +further I went the stronger I felt the resemblance. The look of the fields, +the stone fences that divided them, the shape and colour and materials of +the houses, the aspect of the people, the feeling of the air, and of the +earth and sky generally, made me imagine myself in a milder and more +favoured Scotland. The west wind was fresh, but had none of that sharp edge +which one can so often detect in otherwise warm winds blowing under a hot +sun. Though she had already travelled so many miles, Connie brightened up +within a few minutes after we got on this moor; and we had not gone much +farther before a shout from the rumble informed us that keen-eyed little +Dora had discovered the Atlantic: a dip in the high coast revealed it blue +and bright. We soon lost sight of it again, but in Connie's eyes it seemed +to linger still. As often as I looked round, the blue of them seemed the +reflection of the sea in their little convex mirrors. Ethelwyn's eyes, too, +were full of it, and a flush on her generally pale cheek showed that she +too expected the ocean. After a few miles along this breezy expanse, we +began to descend towards the sea-level. Down the winding of a gradual +slope, interrupted by steep descents, we approached this new chapter in our +history. We came again upon a few trees here and there, all with their tops +cut off in a plane inclined upwards away from the sea. For the sea-winds, +like a sweeping scythe, bend the trees all away towards the land, and keep +their tops mown with their sharp rushing, keen with salt spray off the +crests of the broken waves. Then we passed through some ancient villages, +with streets narrow, and steep and sharp-angled, that needed careful +driving and the frequent pressure of the break upon the wheel. And now the +sea shone upon us with nearer greeting, and we began to fancy we could hear +its talk with the shore. At length we descended a sharp hill, reached the +last level, drove over a bridge and down the line of the stream, saw +the land vanish in the sea--a wide bay; then drove over another wooden +drawbridge, and along the side of a canal in which lay half-a-dozen sloops +and schooners. Then came a row of pretty cottages; then a gate, and an +ascent, and ere we reached the rectory, we were aware of its proximity by +loud shouts, and the sight of Charlie and Harry scampering along the top +of a stone wall to meet us. This made their mother nervous, but she kept +quiet, knowing that unrestrained anxiety is always in danger of bringing +about the evil it fears. A moment after, we drew up at a long porch, +leading through the segment of a circle to the door of the house. The +journey was over. We got down in the little village of Kilkhaven, in the +county of Cornwall. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED. + + + + + +We carried Connie in first of all, of course, and into the room which nurse +had fixed upon for her--the best in the house, of course, again. She did +seem tired now, and no wonder. She had a cup of tea at once, and in half an +hour dinner was ready, of which we were all very glad. After dinner I went +up to Connie's room. There I found her fast asleep on the sofa, and Wynnie +as fast asleep on the floor beside her. The drive and the sea air had +had the same effect on both of them. But pleased as I was to see Connie +sleeping so sweetly, I was even more pleased to see Wynnie asleep on the +floor. What a wonderful satisfaction it may give to a father and mother to +see this or that child asleep! It is when her kittens are asleep that the +cat creeps away to look after her own comforts. Our cat chose to have her +kittens in my study once, and as I would not have her further disturbed +than to give them another cushion to lie on in place of that which belonged +to my sofa, I had many opportunities of watching them as I wrote, or +prepared my sermons. But I must not talk about the cat and her kittens +now. When parents see their children asleep, especially if they have been +suffering in any way, they breathe more freely; a load is lifted off their +minds; their responsibility seems over; the children have gone back to +their Father, and he alone is looking after them for a while. Now, I had +not been comfortable about Wynnie for some time, and especially during our +journey, and still more especially during the last part of our journey. +There was something amiss with her. She seemed constantly more or less +dejected, as if she had something to think about that was too much for her, +although, to tell the truth, I really believe now that she had not quite +enough to think about. Some people can thrive tolerably without much +thought: at least, they both live comfortably without it, and do not seem +to be capable of effecting it if it were required of them; while for others +a large amount of mental and spiritual operation is necessary for the +health of both body and mind, and when the matter or occasion for so much +is not afforded them, the consequence is analogous to what follows when a +healthy physical system is not supplied with sufficient food: the oxygen, +the source of life, begins to consume the life itself; it tears up the +timbers of the house to burn against the cold. Or, to use a different +simile, when the Moses-rod of circumstance does not strike the rock and +make the waters flow, such a mind--one that must think to live--will go +digging into itself, and is in danger of injuring the very fountain of +thought, by drawing away its living water into ditches and stagnant pools. +This was, I say, the case in part with my Wynnie, although I did not +understand it at that moment. She did not look quite happy, did not always +meet a smile with a smile, looked almost reprovingly upon the frolics of +the little brother-imps, and though kindness itself when any real hurt or +grief befell them, had reverted to her old, somewhat dictatorial manner, +of which I have already spoken as interrupted by Connie's accident. To her +mother and me she was service itself, only service without the smile which +is as the flame of the sacrifice and makes it holy. So we were both a +little uneasy about her, for we did not understand her. On the journey she +had seemed almost annoyed at Connie's ecstasies, and said to Dora many +times: "Do be quiet, Dora;" although there was not a single creature but +ourselves within hearing, and poor Connie seemed only delighted with the +child's explosions. So I was--but although I say _so_, I hardly know why +I was pleased to see her thus, except it was from a vague belief in the +anodyne of slumber. But this pleasure did not last long; for as I stood +regarding my two treasures, even as if my eyes had made her uncomfortable, +she suddenly opened hers, and started to her feet, with the words, "I beg +your pardon, papa," looking almost guiltily round her, and putting up her +hair hurriedly, as if she had committed an impropriety in being caught +untidy. This was fresh sign of a condition of mind that was not healthy. + +"My dear," I said, "what do you beg my pardon for? I was so pleased to see +you asleep! and you look as if you thought I were going to scold you." + +"O papa," she said, laying her head on my shoulder, "I am afraid I must be +very naughty. I so often feel now as if I were doing something wrong, or +rather as if you would think I was doing something wrong. I am sure there +must be something wicked in me somewhere, though I do not clearly know what +it is. When I woke up now, I felt as if I had neglected something, and you +had come to find fault with me. _Is_ there anything, papa?" + +"Nothing whatever, my child. But you cannot be well when you feel like +that." + +"I am perfectly well, so far as I know. I was so cross to Dora to-day! Why +shouldn't I feel happy when everybody else is? I must be wicked, papa." + +Here Connie woke up. + +"There now! I've waked Connie," Wynnie resumed. "I'm always doing something +I ought not to do. Please go to sleep again, Connie, and take that sin off +my poor conscience." + +"What nonsense is Wynnie talking about being wicked?" asked Connie. + +"It isn't nonsense, Connie. You know I am." + +"I know nothing of the sort, Wynnie. If it were me now! And yet I don't +_feel_ wicked." + +"My dear children," I said, "we must all pray to God for his Spirit, and +then we shall feel just as we ought to feel. It is not for anyone to say to +himself how he ought to feel at any given moment; still less for one man to +say to another how he ought to feel; that is in the former case to do as +St. Paul says he had learned to give up doing--to judge our own selves, +which ought to be left to God; in the latter case it is to do what our Lord +has told us expressly we are not to do--to judge other people. You get +your bonnet, Wynnie, and come out with me. I am going to explore a little +of this desert island upon which we have been cast away. And you, Connie, +just to please Wynnie, must try and go to sleep again." + +Wynnie ran for her bonnet, a little afraid perhaps that I was going to talk +seriously to her, but showing no reluctance anyhow to accompany me. + +Now I wonder whether it will be better to tell what we saw, or only what we +talked about, and give what we saw in the shape in which we reported it to +Connie, when we came back into her room, bearing, like the spies who went +to search the land, our bunch of grapes, that is, of sweet news of nature, +to her who could not go to gather them for herself. It think it will be the +best plan to take part of both plans. + +When we left the door of the house, we went up the few steps of a stair +leading on to the downs, against and amidst, and indeed _in_, the rocks, +buttressing the sea-edge of which our new abode was built. A life for a +big-winged angel seemed waiting us upon those downs. The wind still blew +from the west, both warm and strong--I mean strength-giving--and the wind +was the first thing we were aware of. The ground underfoot was green and +soft and springy, and sprinkled all over with the bright flowers, chiefly +yellow, that live amidst the short grasses of the downs, the shadows of +whose unequal surface were now beginning to be thrown east, for the sun was +going seawards. I stood up, stretched out my arms, threw back my shoulders +and my head, and filled my chest with a draught of the delicious wind, +feeling thereafter like a giant refreshed with wine. Wynnie stood +apparently unmoved amidst the life-nectar, thoughtful, and turning her eyes +hither and thither. + +"That makes me feel young again," I said. + +"I wish it would make me feel old then," said Wynnie. + +"What do you mean, my child?" + +"Because then I should have a chance of knowing what it is like to feel +young," she answered rather enigmatically. I did not reply. We were walking +up the brow which hid the sea from us. The smell of the down-turf was +indescribable in its homely delicacy; and by the time we had reached the +top, almost every sense was filled with its own delight. The top of the +hill was the edge of the great shore-cliff; and the sun was hanging on the +face of the mightier sky-cliff opposite, and the sea stretched for visible +miles and miles along the shore on either hand, its wide blue mantle +fringed with lovely white wherever it met the land, and scalloped into +all fantastic curves, according to the whim of the nether fires which had +formed its bed; and the rush of the waves, as they bore the rising tide up +on the shore, was the one music fit for the whole. Ear and eye, touch and +smell, were alike invaded with blessedness. I ought to have kept this to +give my reader in Connie's room; but he shall share with her presently. The +sense of space--of mighty room for life and growth--filled my soul, and I +thanked God in my heart. The wind seemed to bear that growth into my soul, +even as the wind of God first breathed into man's nostrils the breath of +life, and the sun was the pledge of the fulfilment of every aspiration. I +turned and looked at Wynnie. She stood pleased but listless amidst that +which lifted me into the heaven of the Presence. + +"Don't you enjoy all this grandeur, Wynnie?" + +"I told you I was very wicked, papa." + +"And I told you not to say so, Wynnie." + +"You see I cannot enjoy it, papa. I wonder why it is." + +"I suspect it is because you haven't room, Wynnie." + +"I know you mean something more than I know, papa." + +"I mean, my dear, that it is not because you are wicked, but because you do +not know God well enough, and therefore your being, which can only live in +him, is 'cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in.' It is only in him that the +soul has room. In knowing him is life and its gladness. The secret of your +own heart you can never know; but you can know Him who knows its secret. +Look up, my darling; see the heavens and the earth. You do not feel them, +and I do not call upon you to feel them. It would be both useless and +absurd to do so. But just let them look at you for a moment, and then tell +me whether it must not be a blessed life that creates such a glory as this +All." + +She stood silent for a moment, looked up at the sky, looked round on the +earth, looked far across the sea to the setting sun, and then turned her +eyes upon me. They were filled with tears, but whether from feeling, or +sorrow that she could not feel, I would not inquire. I made haste to speak +again. + +"As this world of delight surrounds and enters your bodily frame, so does +God surround your soul and live in it. To be at home with the awful source +of your being, through the child-like faith which he not only permits, but +requires, and is ever teaching you, or rather seeking to rouse up in you, +is the only cure for such feelings as those that trouble you. Do not say it +is too high for you. God made you in his own image, therefore capable of +understanding him. For this final end he sent his Son, that the Father +might with him come into you, and dwell with you. Till he does so, the +temple of your soul is vacant; there is no light behind the veil, no cloudy +pillar over it; and the priests, your thoughts, feelings, loves, and +desires, moan, and are troubled--for where is the work of the priest when +the God is not there? When He comes to you, no mystery, no unknown feeling, +will any longer distress you. You will say, 'He knows, though I do not.' +And you will be at the secret of the things he has made. You will feel what +they are, and that which his will created in gladness you will receive +in joy. One glimmer of the present God in this glory would send you home +singing. But do not think I blame you, Wynnie, for feeling sad. I take it +rather as the sign of a large life in you, that will not be satisfied with +little things. I do not know when or how it may please God to give you the +quiet of mind that you need; but I tell you that I believe it is to be had; +and in the mean time, you must go on doing your work, trusting in God even +for this. Tell him to look at your sorrow, ask him to come and set it +right, making the joy go up in your heart by his presence. I do not know +when this may be, I say, but you must have patience, and till he lays his +hand on your head, you must be content to wash his feet with your tears. +Only he will be better pleased if your faith keep you from weeping and from +going about your duties mournful. Try to be brave and cheerful for the sake +of Christ, and for the sake of your confidence in the beautiful teaching of +God, whose course and scope you cannot yet understand. Trust, my daughter, +and let that give you courage and strength." + +Now the sky and the sea and the earth must have made me able to say these +things to her; but I knew that, whatever the immediate occasion of her +sadness, such was its only real cure. Other things might, in virtue of the +will of God that was in them, give her occupation and interest enough for a +time, but nothing would do finally, but God himself. Here I was sure I was +safe; here I knew lay the hunger of humanity. Humanity may, like other +vital forms, diseased systems, fix on this or that as the object not merely +of its desire but of its need: it can never be stilled by less than the +bread of life--the very presence in the innermost nature of the Father and +the Son. + +We walked on together. Wynnie made me no reply, but, weeping silently, +clung to my arm. We walked a long way by the edge of the cliffs, beheld +the sun go down, and then turned and went home. When we reached the house, +Wynnie left me, saying only, "Thank you, papa. I think it is all true. I +will try to be a better girl." + +I went straight to Connie's room: she was lying as I saw her last, looking +out of her window. + +"Connie," I said, "Wynnie and I have had such a treat--such a sunset!" + +"I've seen a little of the light of it on the waves in the bay there, but +the high ground kept me from seeing the sunset itself. Did it set in the +sea?" + +"You do want the General Gazetteer, after all, Connie. Is that water the +Atlantic, or is it not? And if it be, where on earth could the sun set but +in it?" + +"Of course, papa. What a goose I am! But don't make game of me--_please_. I +am too deliciously happy to be made game of to-night." + +"I won't make game of you, my darling. I will tell you about the +sunset--the colours of it, at least. This must be one of the best places in +the whole world to see sunsets." + +"But you have had no tea, papa. I thought you would come and have your +tea with me. But you were so long, that mamma would not let me wait any +longer." + +"O, never mind the tea, my dear. But Wynnie has had none. You've got a +tea-caddy of your own, haven't you?" + +"Yes, and a teapot; and there's the kettle on the hob--for I can't do +without a little fire in the evenings." + +"Then I'll make some tea for Wynnie and myself, and tell you at the same +time about the sunset. I never saw such colours. I cannot tell you what it +was like while the sun was yet going down, for the glory of it has burned +the memory of it out of me. But after the sun was down, the sky remained +thinking about him; and the thought of the sky was in delicate translucent +green on the horizon, just the colour of the earth etherealised and +glorified--a broad band; then came another broad band of pale rose-colour; +and above that came the sky's own eternal blue, pale likewise, but so sure +and changeless. I never saw the green and the blue divided and harmonised +by the rose-colour before. It was a wonderful sight. If it is warm enough +to-morrow, we will carry you out on the height, that you may see what the +evening will bring." + +"There is one thing about sunsets," returned Connie--"two things, that make +me rather sad--about themselves, not about anything else. Shall I tell you +them?" + +"Do, my love. There are few things more precious to learn than the effects +of Nature upon individual minds. And there is not a feeling of yours, my +child, that is not of value to me." + +"You are so kind, papa! I am so glad of my accident. I think I should never +have known how good you are but for that. But my thoughts seem so little +worth after you say so much about them." + +"Let me be judge of that, my dear." + +"Well, one thing is, that we shall never, never, never, see the same sunset +again." + +"That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same thing +over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on doing +something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done showing +himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same thing +again." + +"But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I forget +it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them fast in my +memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as they fade out +of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my mind and leave it +as if they had never been there--except perhaps two or three. Now, though +I did not see this one, yet, after you have talked about it, I shall never +forget _it_." + +"It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have their +influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory--in your very being, +Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is only an idea, +hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an imperfect instrument. For +its right work, perhaps it is needful that it should forget in part. But +there are grounds for believing that nothing is ever really forgotten. I +think that, when we have a higher existence than we have now, when we are +clothed with that spiritual body of which St. Paul speaks, you will be able +to recall any sunset you have ever seen with an intensity proportioned to +the degree of regard and attention you gave it when it was present to you. +But here comes Wynnie to see how you are.--I've been making some tea for +you, Wynnie, my love." + +"O, thank you, papa--I shall be so glad of some tea!" said Wynnie, the +paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more plainly. +She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the better for it. + +The same moment my wife came in. "Why didn't you send for me, Harry, to get +your tea?" she said. + +"I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and seasons. +But I knew you must be busy." + +"I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the unpacking, +and twenty different things," said Ethelwyn. "We shall be so comfortable! +It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?" + +"Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life," returned Wynnie. "You would +think the shore had been built for the sake of the show--just for a +platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be rather +dangerous for the children." + +"I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see something +of the colours on the water, but not much more." + +"O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is +so big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in +winter," said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if not +apprehensive. + +But I must not keep my reader longer upon mere family chat. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN. + + + + + +Our dining-room was one story below the level at which we had entered the +parsonage; for, as I have said, the house was built into the face of the +cliff, just where it sunk nearly to the level of the shores of the bay. +While at dinner, on the evening of our arrival, I kept looking from the +window, of course, and I saw before me, first a little bit of garden, +mostly in turf, then a low stone wall; beyond, over the top of the wall, +the blue water of the bay; then beyond the water, all alive with light and +motion, the rocks and sand-hills of the opposite side of the little bay, +not a quarter of a mile across. I could likewise see where the shore went +sweeping out and away to the north, with rock after rock standing far into +the water, as if gazing over the awful wild, where there was nothing to +break the deathly waste between Cornwall and Newfoundland. But for the +moment I did not regard the huge power lying outside so much as the merry +blue bay between me and those rocks and sand-hills. If I moved my head a +little to the right, I saw, over the top of the low wall already mentioned, +and apparently quite close to it the slender yellow masts of a schooner, +her mainsail hanging loose from the gaff, whose peak was lowered. We must, +I thought, be on the very harbour-quay. When I went out for my walk with +Wynnie, I had turned from the bay, and gone to the brow of the cliffs +overhanging the open sea on our own side of it. + +When I came down to breakfast in the same room next morning, I stared. The +blue had changed to yellow. The life of the water was gone. Nothing met my +eyes but a wide expanse of dead sand. You could walk straight across +the bay to the hills opposite. From the look of the rocks, from the +perpendicular cliffs on the coast, I had almost, without thinking, +concluded that we were on the shore of a deep-water bay. It was high-water, +or nearly so, then; and now, when I looked westward, it was over a long +reach of sands, on the far border of which the white fringe of the waves +was visible, as if there was their _hitherto_, and further towards us they +could not come. Beyond the fringe lay the low hill of the Atlantic. To add +to my confusion, when I looked to the right, that is, up the bay towards +the land, there was no schooner there. I went out at the window, which +opened from the room upon the little lawn, to look, and then saw in a +moment how it was. + +"Do you know, my dear," I said to my wife, "we are just at the mouth of +that canal we saw as we came along? There are gates and a lock just outside +there. The schooner that was under this window last night must have gone in +with the tide. She is lying in the basin above now." + +"O, yes, papa," Charlie and Harry broke in together. "We saw it go up +this morning. We've been out ever so long. It was so funny," Charlie +went on--everything was _funny_ with Charlie--"to see it rise up like a +Jack-in-the-box, and then slip into the quiet water through the other +gates!" + +And when I thought about the waves tumbling and breaking away out there, +and the wide yellow sands between, it was wonderful--which was what Charlie +meant by funny--to see the little vessel lying so many feet above it all, +in a still plenty of repose, gathering strength, one might fancy to rush +out again, when its time was come, into the turmoil beyond, and dash its +way through the breasts of the billows. + +After breakfast we had prayers, as usual, and after a visit to Connie, whom +I found tired, but wonderfully well, I went out for a walk by myself, to +explore the neighbourhood, find the church, and, in a word, do something to +shake myself into my new garments. The day was glorious. I wandered along +a green path, in the opposite direction from our walk the evening before, +with a fir-wood on my right hand, and a belt of feathery tamarisks on my +left, behind which lay gardens sloping steeply to a lower road, where stood +a few pretty cottages. Turning a corner, I came suddenly in sight of the +church, on the green down above me--a sheltered yet commanding situation; +for, while the hill rose above it, protecting it from the east, it looked +down the bay, and the Atlantic lay open before it. All the earth seemed to +lie behind it, and all its gaze to be fixed on the symbol of the infinite. +It stood as the church ought to stand, leading men up the mount of vision, +to the verge of the eternal, to send them back with their hearts full of +the strength that springs from hope, by which alone the true work of the +world can be done. And when I saw it I rejoiced to think that once more +I was favoured with a church that had a history. Of course it is a happy +thing to see new churches built wherever there is need of such; but to the +full idea of the building it is necessary that it should be one in which +the hopes and fears, the cares and consolations, the loves and desires of +our forefathers should have been roofed; where the hearts of those through +whom our country has become that which it is--from whom not merely the +life-blood of our bodies, but the life-blood of our spirits, has come down +to us, whose existence and whose efforts have made it possible for us to +be that which we are--have before us worshipped that Spirit from whose +fountain the whole torrent of being flows, who ever pours fresh streams +into the wearying waters of humanity, so ready to settle down into a +stagnant repose. Therefore I would far rather, when I may, worship in an +old church, whose very stones are a history of how men strove to realise +the infinite, compelling even the powers of nature into the task--as I +soon found on the very doorway of this church, where the ripples of the +outspread ocean, and grotesque imaginations of the monsters of its deeps, +fixed, as it might seem, for ever in stone, gave a distorted reflex, from +the little mirror of the artist's mind, of that mighty water, so awful, so +significant to the human eye, which yet lies in the hollow of the Father's +palm, like the handful that the weary traveller lifts from the brook by the +way. It is in virtue of the truth that went forth in such and such like +attempts that we are able to hold our portion of the infinite reality which +God only knows. They have founded our Church for us, and such a church as +this will stand for the symbol of it; for here we too can worship the +God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob--the God of Sidney, of Hooker, of +Herbert. This church of Kilkhaven, old and worn, rose before me a history +in stone--so beaten and swept about by the "wild west wind," + + "For whose path the Atlantic's level powers + Cleave themselves into chasms," + +and so streamed upon, and washed, and dissolved, by the waters lifted from +the sea and borne against it on the upper tide of the wind, that you could +almost fancy it one of those churches that have been buried for ages +beneath the encroaching waters, lifted again, by some mighty revulsion of +nature's heart, into the air of the sweet heavens, there to stand marked +for ever with the tide-flows of the nether world--scooped, and hollowed, +and worn like aeonian rocks that have slowly, but for ever, responded to +the swirl and eddy of the wearing waters. So, from the most troublous of +times, will the Church of our land arise, in virtue of what truth she +holds, and in spite, if she rises at all, of the worldliness of those who, +instead of seeking her service, have sought and gained the dignities which, +if it be good that she have it in her power to bestow them, need the +corrective of a sharply wholesome persecution which of late times she has +not known. But God knows, and the fire will come in its course--first in +the form of just indignation, it may be, against her professed servants, +and then in the form of the furnace seven times heated, in which the true +builders shall yet walk unhurt save as to their mortal part. + +I looked about for some cottage where the sexton might be supposed to live, +and spied a slated roof, nearly on a level with the road, at a little +distance in front of me. I could at least inquire there. Before I reached +it, however, an elderly woman came out and approached me. She was dressed +in a white cap and a dark-coloured gown. On her face lay a certain repose +which attracted me. She looked as if she had suffered but had consented to +it, and therefore could smile. Her smile lay near the surface. A kind word +was enough to draw it up from the well where it lay shimmering: you could +always see the smile there, whether it was born or not. But even when she +smiled, in the very glimmering of that moonbeam, you could see the deep, +still, perhaps dark, waters under. O! if one could but understand what +goes on in the souls that have no words, perhaps no inclination, to set it +forth! What had she endured? How had she learned to have that smile always +near? What had consoled her, and yet left her her grief--turned it, +perhaps, into hope? Should I ever know? + +She drew near me, as if she would have passed me, as she would have done, +had I not spoken. I think she came towards me to give me the opportunity of +speaking if I wished, but she would not address me. + +"Good morning," I said. "Can you tell me where to find the sexton?" + +"Well, sir," she answered, with a gleam of the smile brightening underneath +her old skin, as it were, "I be all the sexton you be likely to find this +mornin', sir. My husband, he be gone out to see one o' Squire Tregarva's +hounds as was took ill last night. So if you want to see the old church, +sir, you'll have to be content with an old woman to show you, sir." + +"I shall be quite content, I assure you," I answered. "Will you go and get +the key?" + +"I have the key in my pocket, sir; for I thought that would be what you'd +be after, sir. And by the time you come to my age, sir, you'll learn to +think of your old bones, sir. I beg your pardon for making so free. For +mayhap, says I to myself, he be the gentleman as be come to take Mr. +Shepherd's duty for him. Be ye now, sir?" + +All this was said in a slow sweet subdued tone, nearly of one pitch. You +would have felt that she claimed the privilege of age with a kind of +mournful gaiety, but was careful, and anxious even, not to presume upon it, +and, therefore, gentle as a young girl. + +"Yes," I answered. "My name is Walton I have come to take the place of my +friend Mr. Shepherd; and, of course, I want to see the church." + +"Well, she be a bee-utiful old church. Some things, I think, sir, grows +more beautiful the older they grows. But it ain't us, sir." + +"I'm not so sure of that," I said. "What do you mean?" + +"Well, sir, there's my little grandson in the cottage there: he'll never be +so beautiful again. Them children du be the loves. But we all grows uglier +as we grows older. Churches don't seem to, sir." + +"I'm not so sure about all that," I said again. + +"They did say, sir, that I was a pretty girl once. I'm not much to look at +now." + +And she smiled with such a gracious amusement, that I felt at once that if +there was any vanity left in this memory of her past loveliness, it was +sweet as the memory of their old fragrance left in the withered leaves of +the roses. + +"But it du not matter, du it, sir? Beauty is only skin-deep." + +"I don't believe that," I answered. "Beauty is as deep as the heart at +least." + +"Well to be sure, my old husband du say I be as handsome in his eyes as +ever I be. But I beg your pardon, sir, for talkin' about myself. I believe +it was the old church--she set us on to it." + +"The old church didn't lead you into any harm then," I answered. "The +beauty that is in the heart will shine out of the face again some day--be +sure of that. And after all, there is just the same kind of beauty in a +good old face that there is in an old church. You can't say the church is +so trim and neat as it was the day that the first blast of the organ filled +it as with, a living soul. The carving is not quite so sharp, the timbers +are not quite so clean. There is a good deal of mould and worm-eating and +cobwebs about the old place. Yet both you and I think it more beautiful now +than it was then. Well, I believe it is, as nearly as possible, the same +with an old face. It has got stained, and weather-beaten, and worn; but if +the organ of truth has been playing on inside the temple of the Lord, which +St. Paul says our bodies are, there is in the old face, though both form +and complexion are gone, just the beauty of the music inside. The wrinkles +and the brownness can't spoil it. A light shines through it all--that of +the indwelling spirit. I wish we all grew old like the old churches." + +She did not reply, but I thought I saw in her face that she understood my +mysticism. We had been walking very slowly, had passed through the quaint +lych-gate, and now the old woman had got the key in the lock of the door, +whose archway was figured and fashioned as I have described above, with a +dozen mouldings or more, most of them "carved so curiously." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +THE OLD CHURCH. + + + + + +The awe that dwells in churches fell upon me as I crossed the threshold--an +awe I never fail to feel--heightened in many cases, no doubt, by the sense +of antiquity and of art, but an awe which I have felt all the same in +crossing the threshold of an old Puritan conventicle, as the place where +men worship and have worshipped the God of their fathers, although for art +there was only the science of common bricklaying, and for beauty staring +ugliness. To the involuntary fancy, the air of petition and of holy need +seems to linger in the place, and the uncovered head acknowledges the +sacred symbols of human inspiration and divine revealing. But this was no +ordinary church into which I followed the gentlewoman who was my guide. As +entering I turned my eyes eastward, a flush of subdued glory invaded them +from the chancel, all the windows of which were of richly stained glass, +and the roof of carved oak lavishly gilded. I had my thoughts about this +chancel, and thence about chancels generally which may appear in another +part of my story. Now I have to do only with the church, not with the +cogitations to which it gave rise. But I will not trouble my reader with +even what I could tell him of the blending and contradicting of styles +and modes of architectural thought in the edifice. Age is to the work of +contesting human hands a wonderful harmoniser of differences. As nature +brings into harmony all fractures of her frame, and even positive +intrusions upon her realm, clothes and discolours them, in the old sense of +the word, so that at length there is no immediate shock at sight of that +which in itself was crude, and is yet coarse, so the various architecture +of this building had been gone over after the builders by the musical hand +of Eld, with wonder of delicate transition and change of key, that one +could almost fancy the music of its exquisite organ had been at work +_informing_ the building, half melting the sutures, wearing the sharpness, +and blending the angles, until in some parts there was but the gentle +flickering of the original conception left, all its self-assertion vanished +under the file of the air and the gnawing of the worm. True, the hand of +the restorer had been busy, but it had wrought lovingly and gently, and +wherein it had erred, the same influences of nature, though as yet their +effects were invisible, were already at work--of the many making one. I +will not trouble my reader, I say, with any architectural description, +which, possibly even more than a detailed description of natural beauty +dissociated from human feeling, would only weary him, even if it were not +unintelligible. When we are reading a poem, we do not first of all examine +the construction and dwell on the rhymes and rhythms; all that comes after, +if we find that the poem itself is so good that its parts are therefore +worth examining, as being probably good in themselves, and elucidatory of +the main work. There were carvings on the ends of the benches all along +the aisle on both sides, well worth examination, and some of them even +of description; but I shall not linger on these. A word only about the +columns: they supported arches of different fashion on the opposite +sides, but they were themselves similar in matter and construction, both +remarkable. They were of coarse granite of the country, chiselled, but very +far from smooth, not to say polished. Each pillar was a single stone with +chamfered sides. + +Walking softly through the ancient house, forgetting in the many thoughts +that arose within me that I had a companion, I came at length into the +tower, the basement of which was open, forming part of the body of the +church. There hung many ropes through holes in a ceiling above, for +bell-ringing was encouraged and indeed practised by my friend Shepherd. And +as I regarded them, I thought within myself how delightful it would be if +in these days as in those of Samuel, the word of God was precious; so that +when it came to the minister of his people--a fresh vision of his glory, a +discovery of his meaning--he might make haste to the church, and into the +tower, lay hold of the rope that hung from the deepest-toned bell of all, +and constrain it by the force of strong arms to utter its voice of call, +"Come hither, come hear, my people, for God hath spoken;" and from the +streets or the lanes would troop the eager folk; the plough be left in the +furrow, the cream in the churn; and the crowding people bring faces into +the church, all with one question upon them--"What hath the Lord spoken?" +But now it would be answer sufficient to such a call to say, "But what will +become of the butter?" or, "An hour's ploughing will be lost." And the +clergy--how would they bring about such a time? They do not even believe +that God has a word to his people through them. They think that his word is +petrified for use in the Bible and Prayer-book; that the wise men of old +heard so much of the word of God, and have so set it down, that there is +no need for any more words of the Lord coming to the prophets of a land; +therefore they look down upon the prophesying--that is, the preaching +of the word--make light of it, the best of them, say these prayers are +everything, or all but everything: _their_ hearts are not set upon hearing +what God the Lord will speak that they may speak it abroad to his people +again. Therefore it is no wonder if the church bells are obedient only to +the clock, are no longer subject to the spirit of the minister, and have +nothing to do in telegraphing between heaven and earth. They make little of +this part of their duty; and no wonder, if what is to be spoken must remain +such as they speak. They put the Church for God, and the prayers which are +the word of man to God, for the word of God to man. But when the prophets +see no vision, how should they have any word to speak? + +These thoughts were passing through my mind when my eye fell upon my guide. +She was seated against the south wall of the tower, on a stool, I thought, +or small table. While I was wandering about the church she had taken her +stocking and wires out of her pocket, and was now knitting busily. How her +needles did go! Her eyes never regarded them, however, but, fixed on the +slabs that paved the tower at a yard or two from her feet, seemed to be +gazing far out to sea, for they had an infinite objectless outlook. To try +her, I took for the moment the position of an accuser. + +"So you don't mind working in church?" I said. + +When I spoke she instantly rose, her eyes turned as from the far sea-waves +to my face, and light came out of them. With a smile she answered-- + +"The church knows me, sir." + +"But what has that to do with it?" + +"I don't think she minds it. We are told to be diligent in business, you +know, sir." + +"Yes, but it does not say in church and out of church. You could be +diligent somewhere else, couldn't you?" + +As soon as I said this, I began to fear she would think I meant it. But she +only smiled and said, "It won't hurt she, sir; and my good man, who does +all he can to keep her tidy, is out at toes and heels, and if I don't keep +he warm he'll be laid up, and then the church won't be kep' nice, sir, till +he's up again." + +I was tempted to go on. + +"But you could have sat down outside--there are some nice gravestones +near--and waited till I came out." + +"But what's the church for, sir? The sun's werry hot to-day, sir; and Mr. +Shepherd, he say, sir, that the church is like the shadow of a great rock +in a weary land. So, you see, if I was to sit out in the sun, instead of +comin' in here to the cool o' the shadow, I wouldn't be takin' the church +at her word. It does my heart good to sit in the old church, sir. There's +a something do seem to come out o' the old walls and settle down like the +cool o' the day upon my old heart that's nearly tired o' crying, and would +fain keep its eyes dry for the rest o' the journey. My old man's stockin' +won't hurt the church, sir, and, bein' a good deed as I suppose it is, it's +none the worse for the place. I think, if He was to come by wi' the whip o' +small cords, I wouldn't be afeared of his layin' it upo' my old back. Do +you think he would, sir?" + +Thus driven to speak as I thought, I made haste to reply, more delighted +with the result of my experiment than I cared to let her know. + +"Indeed I do not. I was only talking. It is but selfish, cheating, or +ill-done work that the church's Master drives away. All our work ought to +be done in the shadow of the church." + +"I thought you be only having a talk about it, sir," she said, smiling her +sweet old smile. "Nobody knows what this old church is to me." + +Now the old woman had a good husband, apparently: the sorrows which had +left their mark even upon her smile, must have come from her family, I +thought. + +"You have had a family?" I said, interrogatively. + +"I've had thirteen," she answered. "Six bys and seven maidens." + +"Why, you are rich!" I returned. "And where are they all?" + +"Four maidens be lying in the churchyard, sir; two be married, and one be +down in the mill, there." + +"And your boys?" + +"One of them be lyin' beside his sisters--drownded afore my eyes, sir. +Three o' them be at sea, and two o' them in it, sir." + +At sea! I thought. What a wide _where_! As vague to the imagination, +almost, as _in the other world_. How a mother's thoughts must go roaming +about the waste, like birds that have lost their nest, to find them! + +As this thought kept me silent for a few moments, she resumed. + +"It be no wonder, be it, sir? that I like to creep into the church with my +knitting. Many's the stormy night, when my husband couldn't keep still, but +would be out on the cliffs or on the breakwater, for no good in life, but +just to hear the roar of the waves that he could only see by the white of +them, with the balls o' foam flying in his face in the dark--many's the +such a night that I have left the house after he was gone, with this +blessed key in my hand, and crept into the old church here, and sat down +where I'm sittin' now--leastways where I was sittin' when your reverence +spoke to me--and hearkened to the wind howling about the place. The church +windows never rattle, sir--like the cottage windows, as I suppose you know, +sir. Somehow, I feel safe in the church." + +"But if you had sons at sea," said I, again wishing to draw her out, "it +would not he of much good to you to feel safe yourself, so long as they +were in danger." + +"O! yes, it be, sir. What's the good of feeling safe yourself but it let +you know other people be safe too? It's when you don't feel safe yourself +that you feel other people ben't safe." + +"But," I said--and such confidence I had from what she had already uttered, +that I was sure the experiment was not a cruel one--"some of your sons +_were_ drowned for all that you say about their safety." + +"Well, sir," she answered, with a sigh, "I trust they're none the less safe +for that. It would be a strange thing for an old woman like me, well-nigh +threescore and ten, to suppose that safety lay in not being drownded. Why, +they might ha' been cast on a desert island, and wasted to skin an' bone, +and got home again wi' the loss of half the wits they set out with. +Wouldn't that ha' been worse than being drownded right off? And that +wouldn't ha' been the worst, either. The church she seem to tell me all the +time, that for all the roaring outside, there be really no danger after +all. What matter if they go to the bottom? What is the bottom of the sea, +sir? You bein' a clergyman can tell that, sir. I shouldn't ha' known it if +I hadn't had bys o' my own at sea, sir. But you can tell, sir, though you +ain't got none there." + +And though she was putting her parson to his catechism, the smile that +returned on her face was as modest as if she had only been listening to his +instruction. I had not long to look for my answer. + +"The hollow of his hand," I said, and said no more. + +"I thought you would know it, sir," she returned, with a little glow of +triumph in her tone. "Well, then, that's just what the church tells me when +I come in here in the stormy nights. I bring my knitting then too, sir, for +I can knit in the dark as well as in the light almost; and when they come +home, if they do come home, they're none the worse that I went to the old +church to pray for them. There it goes roaring about them poor dears, all +out there; and their old mother sitting still as a stone almost in the +quiet old church, a caring for them. And then it do come across me, sir, +that God be a sitting in his own house at home, hearing all the noise +and all the roaring in which his children are tossed about in the world, +watching it all, letting it drown some o' them and take them back to him, +and keeping it from going too far with others of them that are not quite +ready for that same. I have my thoughts, you see, sir, though I be an old +woman; and not nice to look at." + +I had come upon a genius. How nature laughs at our schools sometimes! +Education, so-called, is a fine thing, and might be a better thing; but +there is an education, that of life, which, when seconded by a pure will +to learn, leaves the schools behind, even as the horse of the desert would +leave behind the slow pomposity of the common-fed goose. For life is God's +school, and they that will listen to the Master there will learn at God's +speed. For one moment, I am ashamed to say, I was envious of Shepherd, +and repined that, now old Rogers was gone, I had no such glorious +old stained-glass window in my church to let in the eternal upon my +light-thirsty soul. I must say for myself that the feeling lasted but for a +moment, and that no sooner had the shadow of it passed and the true light +shined after it, than I was heartily ashamed of it. Why should not Shepherd +have the old woman as well as I? True, Shepherd was more of what would +now be called a ritualist than I; true, I thought my doctrine simpler and +therefore better than his; but was this any reason why I should have all +the grand people to minister to in my parish! Recovering myself, I found +her last words still in my ears. + +"You are very nice to look at," I said. "You must not find fault with the +work of God, because you would like better to be young and pretty than to +be as you now are. Time and time's rents and furrows are all his making and +his doing. God makes nothing ugly." + +"Are you quite sure of that, sir?" + +I paused. Such a question from such a woman "must give us pause." And, as I +paused, the thought of certain animals flashed into my mind and I could not +insist that God had never made anything ugly. + +"No. I am not sure of it," I answered. For of all things my soul recoiled +from, any professional pretence of knowing more than I did know seemed to +me the most repugnant to the spirit and mind of the Master, whose servants +we are, or but the servants of mere priestly delusion and self-seeking. +"But if he does," I went on to say, "it must be that we may see what it is +like, and therefore not like it." + +Then, unwilling all at once to plunge with her into such an abyss as the +question opened, I turned the conversation to an object on which my eyes +had been for some time resting half-unconsciously. It was the sort of stool +or bench on which my guide had been sitting. I now thought it was some kind +of box or chest. It was curiously carved in old oak, very much like the +ends of the benches and book-boards. + +"What is that you were sitting on?" I asked. "A chest or what?" + +"It be there when we come to this place, and that be nigh fifty years +agone, sir. But what it be, you'll be better able to tell than I be, sir." + +"Perhaps a chest for holding the communion-plate in old time," I said. "But +how should it then come to be banished to the tower?" + +"No, sir; it can't be that. It be some sort of ancient musical piano, I be +thinking." + +I stooped and saw that its lid was shaped like the cover of an organ. With +some difficulty I opened it; and there, to be sure, was a row of huge keys, +fit for the fingers of a Cyclops. I pressed upon them, one after another, +but no sound followed. They were stiff to the touch; and once down, so they +mostly remained until lifted again. I looked if there was any sign of a +bellows, thinking it must have been some primitive kind of reed-instrument, +like what we call a seraphine or harmonium now-a-days. But there was no +hole through which there could have been any communication with or from a +bellows, although there might have been a small one inside. There were, +however, a dozen little round holes in the fixed part of the top, which +might afford some clue to the mystery of its former life. I could not find +any way of reaching the inside of it, so strongly was it put together; +therefore I was left, I thought, to the efforts of my imagination alone +for any hope of discovery with regard to the instrument, seeing further +observation was impossible. But here I found that I was mistaken in two +important conclusions, the latter of which depended on the former. The +first of these was that it was an instrument: it was only one end of an +instrument; therefore, secondly, there might be room for observation +still. But I found this out by accident, which has had a share in most +discoveries, and which, meaning a something that falls into our hands +unlocked for, is so far an unobjectionable word even to the man who +does not believe in chance. I had for the time given up the question as +insoluble, and was gazing about the place, when, glancing up at the holes +in the ceiling through which the bell-ropes went, I spied two or three +thick wires hanging through the same ceiling close to the wall, and right +over the box with the keys. The vague suspicion of a discovery dawned upon +me. + +"Have you got the key of the tower?" I asked. + +"No, sir. But I'll run home for it at once," she answered. And rising, she +went out in haste. + +"Run!" thought I, looking after her. "It is a word of the will and the +feeling, not of the body." But I was mistaken. The dear old creature had no +sooner got outside of the church-yard, within which, I presume, she felt +that she must be decorous, than she did run, and ran well too. I was on +the point of starting after her at full speed, to prevent her from hurting +herself, but reflecting that her own judgment ought to be as good as mine +in such a case, I returned, and sitting down on her seat, awaited her +reappearance, gazing at the ceiling. There I either saw or imagined I saw +signs of openings corresponding in number and position with those in the +lid under me. In about three minutes the old woman returned, panting but +not distressed, with a great crooked old key in her hand. Why are all the +keys of a church so crooked? I did not ask her that question, though. What +I said to her, was-- + +"You shouldn't run like that. I am in no hurry." + +"Be you not, sir? I thought, by the way you spoke, you be taken with a +longing to get a-top o' the tower, and see all about you like. For you +see, sir, fond as I be of the old church, I du feel sometimes as if she'd +smother me; and then nothing will do but I must get at the top of the old +tower. And then, what with the sun, if there be any sun, and what with the +fresh air which there always be up there, sir,--it du always be fresh up +there, sir," she repeated, "I come back down again blessing the old church +for its tower." + +As she spoke she was toiling up the winding staircase after me, where there +was just room enough for my shoulders to get through by turning themselves +a little across the lie of the steps. They were very high, but she kept +up with me bravely, bearing out her statement that she was no stranger to +them. As I ascended, however, I was not thinking of her, but of what she +had said. Strange to tell, the significance of the towers or spires of our +churches had never been clear to me before. True, I was quite awake to +their significance, at least to that of the spires, as fingers pointing +ever upwards to + + "regions mild of calm and serene air, + Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, + Which men call Earth;" + +but I had not thought of their symbolism as lifting one up above the +church itself into a region where no church is wanted because the Lord God +almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it. + +Happy church indeed, if it destroys the need of itself by lifting men up +into the eternal kingdom! Would that I and all her servants lived pervaded +with the sense of this her high end, her one high calling! We need the +church towers to remind us that the mephitic airs in the church below +are from the churchyard at its feet, which so many take for the church, +worshipping over the graves and believing in death--or at least in the +material substance over which alone death hath power. Thus the church, even +in her corruption, lifts us out of her corruption, sending us up her towers +and her spires to admonish us that she too lives in the air of truth: that +her form too must pass away, while the truth that is embodied in her lives +beyond forms and customs and prejudices, shining as the stars for ever and +ever. He whom the church does not lift up above the church is not worthy to +be a doorkeeper therein. + +Such thoughts passed through me, satisfied me, and left me peaceful, so +that before I had reached the top, I was thanking the Lord--not for his +church-tower, but for his sexton's wife. The old woman was a jewel. If her +husband was like her, which was too much to expect--if he believed in her, +it would be enough, quite--then indeed the little child, who answered on +being questioned thereanent, as the Scotch would say, that the three orders +of ministers in the church were the parson, clerk, and sexton, might not be +so far wrong in respect of this individual case. So in the ascent, and the +thinking associated therewith, I forgot all about the special object for +which I had requested the key of the tower, and led the way myself up to +the summit, where stepping out of a little door, which being turned only +heavenwards had no pretence for, or claim upon a curiously crooked key, +but opened to the hand laid upon the latch, I thought of the words of the +judicious Hooker, that "the assembling of the church to learn" was "the +receiving of angels descended from above;" and in such a whimsical turn as +our thoughts will often take when we are not heeding them, I wondered for +a moment whether that was why the upper door was left on the latch, +forgetting that that could not be of much use, if the door in the basement +was kept locked with the crooked key. But the whole suggested something +true about my own heart and that of my fellows, if not about the church: +Revelation is not enough, the open trap-door is not enough, if the door of +the heart is not open likewise. + +As soon, however, as I stepped out upon the roof of the tower, I forgot +again all that had thus passed through my mind, swift as a dream. For, +filling the west, lay the ocean beneath, with a dark curtain of storm +hanging in perpendicular lines over part of its horizon, and on the other +side was the peaceful solid land, with its numberless shades of green, +its heights and hollows, its farms and wooded vales--there was not much +wood--its scattered villages and country dwellings, lighted and shadowed by +the sun and the clouds. Beyond lay the blue heights of Dartmoor. And over +all, bathing us as it passed, moved the wind, the life-bearing spirit of +the whole, the servant of the sun. The old woman stood beside me, silently +enjoying my enjoyment, with a still smile that seemed to say in kindly +triumph, "Was I not right about the tower and the wind that dwells among +its pinnacles?" I drank deep of the universal flood, the outspread peace, +the glory of the sun, and the haunting shadow of the sea that lay beyond +like the visual image of the eternal silence--as it looks to us--that +rounds our little earthly life. + +There were a good many trees in the church-yard, and as I looked down, the +tops of them in their richest foliage hid all the graves directly below me, +except a single flat stone looking up through an opening in the leaves, +which seemed to have been just made for it to let it see the top of the +tower. Upon the stone a child was seated playing with a few flowers she had +gathered, not once looking up to the gilded vanes that rose from the four +pinnacles at the corners of the tower. I turned to the eastern side, and +looked over upon the church roof. It lay far below--looking very narrow and +small, but long, with the four ridges of four steep roofs stretching away +to the eastern end. It was in excellent repair, for the parish was almost +all in one lord's possession, and he was proud of his church: between them +he and Mr. Shepherd had made it beautiful to behold and strong to endure. + +When I turned to look again, the little child was gone. Some butterfly +fancy had seized her, and she was away. A little lamb was in her place, +nibbling at the grass that grew on the side of the next mound. And when I +looked seaward there was a sloop, like a white-winged sea-bird, rounding +the end of a high projecting rock from the south, to bear up the little +channel that led to the gates of the harbour canal. Out of the circling +waters it had flown home, not from a long voyage, but hardly the less +welcome therefore to those that waited and looked for her signal from the +barrier rock. + +Reentering by the angels' door to descend the narrow cork-screw stair, so +dark and cool, I caught a glimpse, one turn down, by the feeble light that +came through its chinks after it was shut behind us, of a tiny maiden-hair +fern growing out of the wall. I stopped, and said to the old woman-- + +"I have a sick daughter at home, or I wouldn't rob your tower of this +lovely little thing." + +"Well, sir, what eyes you have! I never saw the thing before. Do take it +home to miss. It'll do her good to see it. I be main sorry to hear you've +got a sick maiden. She ben't a bedlar, be she, sir?" + +I was busy with my knife getting out all the roots I could without hurting +them, and before I had succeeded I had remembered Turner's using the word. + +"Not quite that," I answered, "but she can't even sit up, and must be +carried everywhere." + +"Poor dear! Everyone has their troubles, sir. The sea's been mine." + +She continued talking and asking kind questions about Connie as we went +down the stair. Not till she opened a little door I had passed without +observing it as we came up, was I reminded of my first object in ascending +the tower. For this door revealed a number of bells hanging in silent power +in the brown twilight of the place. I entered carefully, for there were +only some planks laid upon the joists to keep one's feet from going through +the ceiling. In a few moments I had satisfied myself that my conjecture +about the keys below was correct. The small iron rods I had seen from +beneath hung down from this place. There were more of them hanging shorter +above, and there was yet enough of a further mechanism remaining to prove +that those keys, by means of the looped and cranked rods, had been in +connection with hammers, one of them indeed remaining also, which struck +the bells, so that a tune could be played upon them as upon any other keyed +instrument. This was the first contrivance of the kind I had ever seen, +though I have heard of it in other churches since. + +"If I could find a clever blacksmith in the neighbourhood, now," I said to +myself, "I would get this all repaired, so that it should not interfere +with the bell-ringing when the ringers were to be had, and yet Shepherd +could play a psalm tune to his parish at large when he pleased." For +Shepherd was a very fair musician, and gave a good deal of time to the +organ. "It's a grand notion, to think of him sitting here in the gloom, +with that great musical instrument towering above him, whence he sends +forth the voice of gladness, almost of song to his people, while they are +mowing the grass, binding the sheaves, or gazing abroad over the stormy +ocean in doubt, anxiety, and fear. 'There's the parson at his bells,' they +would say, and stop and listen; and some phrase might sink into their +hearts, waking some memory, or giving birth to some hope or faint +aspiration. I will see what can be done." Having come to this conclusion, I +left the abode of the bells, descended to the church, bade my conductress +good morning, saying I would visit her soon in her own house, and bore home +to my child the spoil which, without kirk-rapine, I had torn from the wall +of the sanctuary. By this time the stormy veil had lifted from the horizon, +and the sun was shining in full power without one darkening cloud. + +Ere I left the churchyard I would have a glance at the stone which ever +seemed to lie gazing up at the tower. I soon found it, because it was the +only one in that quarter from which I could see the top of the tower. It +recorded the life and death of an aged pair who had been married fifty +years, concluding with the couplet-- + +"A long time this may seem to be, But it did not seem long to we." + +The whole story of a human life lay in that last verse. True, it was not +good grammar; but they had got through fifty years of wedded life probably +without any knowledge of grammar to harmonise or to shorten them, and I +daresay, had they been acquainted with the lesson he had put into their +dumb mouths, they would have been aware of no ground of quarrel with the +poetic stone-cutter, who most likely had thrown the verses in when he made +his claim for the stone and the cutting. Having learnt this one by heart, I +went about looking for anything more in the shape of sepulchral flora that +might interest or amuse my crippled darling; nor had I searched long before +I found one, the sole but triumphant recommendation of which was the +thorough "puzzle-headedness" of its construction. I quite reckoned on +seeing Connie trying to make it out, looking as bewildered over its +excellent grammar, as the poet of the other ought to have looked over his +rhymes, ere he gave in to the use of the nominative after a preposition. + + "If you could view the heavenly shore, + Where heart's content you hope to find, + You would not murmur were you gone before, + But grieve that you are left behind." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER. + + + + + +As I walked home, the rush of the rising tide was in my ears. To my fancy, +the ocean, awaking from a swoon in which its life had ebbed to its heart, +was sending that life abroad to its extremities, and waves breaking in +white were the beats of its reviving pulse, the flashes of returning light. +But so gentle was its motion, and so lovely its hue, that I could not help +contrasting it with its reflex in the mind of her who took refuge from the +tumult of its noises in the hollow of the old church. To her, let it look +as blue as the sky, as peaceful and as moveless, it was a wild, reckless, +false, devouring creature, a prey to its own moods, and to that of the +blind winds which, careless of consequences, urged it to raving fury. Only, +while the sea took this form to her imagination, she believed in that which +held the sea, and knew that, when it pleased God to part his confining +fingers, there would he no more sea. + +When I reached home, I went straight to Connie's room. Now the house was +one of a class to every individual of which, whatever be its style or +shape, I instantly become attached almost as if it possessed a measure of +the life which it has sheltered. This class of human dwellings consists +of the houses that have _grown_. They have not been, built after a +straight-up-and-down model of uninteresting convenience or money-loving +pinchedness. They must have had some plan, good, bad, or indifferent, as +the case may be, at first, I suppose; but that plan they have left far +behind, having grown with the necessities or ambitions of succeeding +possessors, until the fact that they have a history is as plainly written +on their aspect as on that of any you or daughter of Adam. These are the +houses which the fairies used to haunt, and if there is any truth in +ghost-stories, the houses which ghosts will yet haunt; and hence perhaps +the sense of soothing comfort which pervades us when we cross their +thresholds. You do not know, the moment you have cast a glance about the +hall, where the dining-room, drawing-room, and best bedroom are. You have +got it all to find out, just as the character of a man; and thus had I to +find out this house of my friend Shepherd. It had formerly been a kind of +manor-house, though altogether unlike any other manor-house I ever saw; for +after exercising all my constructive ingenuity reversed in pulling it to +pieces in my mind, I came to the conclusion that the germ-cell of it was +a cottage of the simplest sort which had grown by the addition of other +cells, till it had reached the development in which we found it. + +I have said that the dining-room was almost on the level of the shore. +Certainly some of the flat stones that coped the low wall in front of +it were thrown into the garden before the next winter by the waves. But +Connie's room looked out on a little flower-garden almost on the downs, +only sheltered a little by the rise of a short grassy slope above it. This, +however, left the prospect, from her window down the bay and out to sea, +almost open. To reach this room I had now to go up but one simple cottage +stair; for the door of the house entered on the first floor, that is, as +regards the building, midway between heaven and earth. It had a large +bay-window; and in this window Connie was lying on her couch, with the +lower sash wide open, through which the breeze entered, smelling of +sea-weed tempered with sweet grasses and the wall-flowers and stocks that +were in the little plot under it. I thought I could see an improvement in +her already. Certainly she looked very happy. + +"O, papa!" she said, "isn't it delightful?" + +"What is, my dear?" + +"O, everything. The wind, and the sky, and the sea, and the smell of +the flowers. Do look at that sea-bird. His wings are like the barb of a +terrible arrow. How he goes undulating, neck and body, up and down as he +flies. I never felt before that a bird moves his wings. It always looked as +if the wings flew with the bird. But I see the effort in him." + +"An easy effort, though, I should certainly think." + +"No doubt. But I see that he chooses and means to fly, and so does it. It +makes one almost reconciled to the idea of wings. Do angels really have +wings, papa?" + +"It is generally so represented, I think, in the Bible. But whether it is +meant as a natural fact about them, is more than I take upon me to decide. +For one thing, I should have to examine whether in simple narrative they +are ever represented with them, as, I think, in records of visions they are +never represented without them. But wings are very beautiful things, and I +do not exactly see why you should need reconciling to them." + +Connie gave a little shrug of her shoulders. + +"I don't like the notion of them growing out at my shoulder-blades. And +however would you get on your clothes? If you put them over your wings, +they would be of no use, and would, besides, make you hump-backed; and if +you did not, everything would have to be buttoned round the roots of them. +You could not do it yourself, and even on Wynnie I don't think I could bear +to touch the things--I don't mean the feathers, but the skinny, folding-up +bits of them." + +I laughed at her fastidious fancy. + +"You want to fly, I suppose?" I said. + +"O, yes; I should like that." + +"And you don't want to have wings?" + +"Well, I shouldn't mind the wings exactly; but however would one be able to +keep them nice?" + +"There you go; starting from one thing to another, like a real bird +already. When you can't answer one thing, off to another, and, from your +new perch on the hawthorn, talk as if you were still on the topmost branch +of the lilac!" + +"O, yes, papa! That's what I've heard you say to mamma twenty times." + +"And did I ever say to your mamma anything but the truth? or to you either, +you puss?" + +I had not yet discovered that when I used this epithet to my Connie, she +always thought she had gone too far. She looked troubled. I hastened to +relieve her. + +"When women have wings," I said, "their logic will be good." + +"How do you make that out, papa?" she asked, a little re-assured. + +"Because then every shadow of feeling that turns your speech aside from the +straight course will be recognised in that speech; the whole utterance will +be instinct not only with the meaning of what you are thinking, but with +the reflex of the forces in you that make the utterance take this or that +shape; just as to a perfect palate, the source and course of a stream would +be revealed in every draught of its water. + +"I have just a glimmering of your meaning, papa. Would you like to have +wings?" + +"I should like to fly like a bird, to swim like a fish, to gallop like a +horse, to creep like a serpent, but I suspect the good of all these is to +be got without doing any of them." + +"I know what you mean now, but I can't put it in words." + +"I mean by a perfect sympathy with the creatures that do these things: what +it may please God to give to ourselves, we can quite comfortably leave to +him. A higher stratum of the same kind is the need we feel of knowing our +fellow-creatures through and through, of walking into and out of their +worlds as if we were, because we are, perfectly at home in them.--But I am +talking what the people who do not understand such things lump all together +as mysticism, which is their name for a kind of spiritual ash-pit, whither +they consign dust and stones, never asking whether they may not be +gold-dust and rubies, all in a heap.--You had better begin to think about +getting out, Connie." + +"Think about it, papa! I have been thinking about it ever since daylight." + +"I will go and see what your mother is doing then, and if she is ready to +go out with us." + +In a few moments all was arranged. Without killing more than a snail or +two, which we could not take time to beware of, Walter and I--finding that +the window did not open down to the ground in French fashion, for which +there were two good reasons, one the fierceness of the winds in winter, the +other, the fact that the means of egress were elsewise provided--lifted the +sofa, Connie and all, out over the window-sill, and then there was only a +little door in the garden-wall to get her through before we found ourselves +upon the down. I think the ascent of this hill was the first experience +I had--a little to my humiliation, nothing to my sorrow--that I was +descending another hill. I had to set down the precious burden rather +oftener before we reached the brow of the cliffs than would have +been necessary ten years before. But this was all right, and the +newly-discovered weakness then was strength to the power which carries me +about on my two legs now. It is all right still. I shall be stronger by and +by. + +We carried her high enough for her to see the brilliant waters lying many +feet below her, with the sea-birds of which we had talked winging their +undulating way between heaven and ocean. It is when first you have a chance +of looking a bird in the face on the wing that you know what the marvel of +flight is. There it hangs or rests, which you please, borne up, as far as +eye or any of the senses can witness, by its own will alone. This Connie, +quicker than I in her observation of nature, had already observed. Seated +on the warm grass by her side, while neither talked, but both regarded the +blue spaces, I saw one of those same barb-winged birds rest over my head, +regarding me from above, as if doubtful whether I did not afford some claim +to his theory of treasure-trove. I knew at once that what Connie had been +saying to me just before was true. + +She lay silent a long time. I too was silent. At length I spoke. + +"Are you longing to be running about amongst the rocks, my Connie?" + +"No, papa; not a bit. I don't know how it is, but I don't think I ever +wished much for anything I knew I could not have. I am enjoying everything +more than I can tell you. I wish Wynnie were as happy as I am." + +"Why? Do you think she's not happy, my dear?" + +"That doesn't want any thinking, papa. You can see that." + +"I am afraid you're right, Connie. What do you think is the cause of it?" + +"I think it is because she can't wait. She's always going out to meet +things; and then when they're not there waiting for her, she thinks they're +nowhere. But I always think her way is finer than mine. If everybody were +like me, there wouldn't be much done in the world, would there, papa?" + +"At all events, my dear, your way is wise for you, and I am glad you do not +judge your sister." + +"Judge Wynnie, papa! That would be cool impudence. She's worth ten of me. +Don't you think, papa," she added, after a pause, "that if Mary had said +the smallest word against Martha, as Martha did against Mary, Jesus would +have had a word to say on Martha's side next?" + +"Indeed I do, my dear. And I think that did not sit very long without +asking Jesus if she mightn't go and help her sister. There is but one +thing needful--that is, the will of God; and when people love that above +everything, they soon come to see that to everything else there are two +sides, and that only the will of God gives fair play, as we call it, to +both of them." + +Another silence followed. Then Connie spoke. + +"Is it not strange, papa, that the only thine here that makes me want to +get up to look, is nothing of all the grand things round about me? I am +just lying like the convex mirror in the school-room at home, letting them +all paint themselves in me." + +"What is it then that makes you wish to get up and go and see?" I asked +with real curiosity. + +"Do you see down there--away across the bay--amongst the rocks at the +other side, a man sitting sketching?" + +I looked for some time before I could discover him. + +"Your sight is good, Connie: I see the man, but I could not tell what he +was doing." + +"Don't you see him lifting his head every now and then for a moment, and +then keeping it down for a longer while?" + +"I cannot distinguish that. But then I am shortsighted rather, you know." + +"I wonder how you see so many little things that nobody else seems to +notice, then, papa." + +"That is because I have trained myself to observe. The degree of power in +the sight is of less consequence than the habit of seeing. But you have not +yet told me what it is that makes you desirous of getting up." + +"I want to look over his shoulder, and see what he is doing. Is it not +strange that in the midst of all this plenty of beautifulness, I should +want to rise to look at a few lines and scratches, or smears of colour, +upon a bit of paper?" + +"No, my dear; I don't think it is strange. There a new element of interest +is introduced--the human. No doubt there is deep humanity in all this +around us. No doubt all the world, in all its moods, is human, as those for +whose abode and instruction it was made. No doubt, it would be void of both +beauty and significance to our eyes, were it not that it is one crowd of +pictures of the human mind, blended in one living fluctuating whole. But +these meanings are there in solution as it were. The individual is a centre +of crystallisation to this solution. Around him meanings gather, are +separated from other meanings; and if he be an artist, by which I mean true +painter, true poet, or true musician, as the case may be he so isolates and +represents them, that we see them--not what nature shows to us, but what +nature has shown, to him, determined by his nature and choice. With it is +mingled therefore so much of his own individuality, manifested both in this +choice and certain modifications determined by his way of working, that you +have not only a representation of an aspect of nature, as far as that may +be with limited powers and materials, but a revelation of the man's own +mind and nature. Consequently there is a human interest in every true +attempt to reproduce nature, an interest of individuality which does not +belong to nature herself, who is for all and every man. You have just been +saying that you were lying there like a convex mirror reflecting all nature +around you. Every man is such a convex mirror; and his drawing, if he can +make one, is an attempt to show what is in this little mirror of his, +kindled there by the grand world outside. And the human mirrors being all +differently formed, vary infinitely in what they would thus represent of +the same scene. I have been greatly interested in looking alternately over +the shoulders of two artists, both sketching in colour the same, absolutely +the same scene, both trying to represent it with all the truth in their +power. How different, notwithstanding, the two representations came out!" + +"I think I understand you, papa. But look a little farther off. Don't you +see over the top of another rock a lady's bonnet. I do believe that's +Wynnie. I know she took her box of water-colours out with her this morning, +just before you came home. Dora went with her." + +"Can't you tell by her ribbons, Connie? You seem sharp-sighted enough to +see her face if she would show it. I don't even see the bonnet. If I were +like some people I know, I should feel justified in denying its presence, +attributing the whole to your fancy, and refusing anything to superiority +of vision." + +"That wouldn't be like you, papa." + +"I hope not; for I have no fancy for being shut up in my own blindness, +when other people offer me their eyes to eke out the defects of my own +with. But here comes mamma at last." + +Connie's face brightened as if she had not seen her mother for a fortnight. +My Ethelwyn always brought the home gladness that her name signified with +her. She was a centre of radiating peace. + +"Mamma, don't you think that's Wynnie's bonnet over that black rock there, +just beyond where you see that man drawing?" + +"You absurd child! How should I know Wynnie's bonnet at this distance?" + +"Can't you see the little white feather you gave her out of your wardrobe +just before we left? She put it in this morning before she went out." + +"I think I do see something white. But I want you to look out there, +towards what they call the Chapel Rock, at the other end of that long mound +they call the breakwater. You will soon see a boat appear full of the +coast-guard. I saw them going on board just as I left the house to come up +to you. Their officer came down with his sword, and each of the men had a +cutlass. I wonder what it can mean." + +We looked. But before the boat made its appearance, Connie cried out-- + +"Look there! What a big boat that is rowing for the land, away northwards +there!" + +I turned my eyes in the direction she indicated, and saw a long boat with +some half-dozen oars, full of men, rowing hard, apparently for some spot on +the shore at a considerable distance to the north of our bay. + +"Ah!" I said, "that boat has something to do with the coast-guard and their +cutlasses. You'll see that, as soon as they get out of the bay, they will +row in the same direction." + +So it was. Our boat appeared presently from under the concealment of the +heights on which we were, and made at full speed after the other boat. + +"Surely they can't be smugglers," I said. "I thought all that was over and +done with." + +In the course of another twenty minutes, during which we watched their +progress, both boats had disappeared behind the headland to the northward. +Then, thinking Connie had had nearly enough of the sea air for her first +experience of its influences, I went and fetched Walter, and we carried her +back as we had brought her. She had not been in the shadow of her own room +for five minutes before she was fast asleep. + +It was now nearly time for our early dinner. We always dined early when we +could, that we might eat along with our children. We were both convinced +that the only way to make them behave like ladies and gentlemen was to have +them always with us at meals. We had seen very unpleasant results in the +children of those who allowed them to dine with no other supervision than +the nursery afforded: they were a constant anxiety and occasional horror +to those whom they visited--snatching like monkeys, and devouring like +jackals, as selfishly as if they were mere animals. + +"O! we've seen such a nice gentleman!" said Dora, becoming lively under the +influence of her soup. + +"Have you, Dora? Where?" + +"Sitting on the rocks, taking a portrait of the sea." + +"What makes you say he was a nice gentleman?" + +"He had such beautiful boots!" answered Dora, at which there was a great +laugh about the table. + +"O! we must run and tell Connie that," said Harry. "It will make her +laugh." + +"What will you tell Connie, then, Harry?" + +"O! what was it, Charlie? I've forgotten." + +Another laugh followed at Harry's expense now, and we were all very merry, +when Dora, who sat opposite to the window, called out, clapping her hands-- + +"There's Niceboots again! There's Niceboots again!" + +The same moment the head of a young man appeared over the wall that +separated the garden from the little beach that lay by the entrance of the +canal. I saw at once that he must be more than ordinarily tall to show his +face, for he was not close to the wall. It was a dark countenance, with +a long beard, which few at that time wore, though now it is getting not +uncommon, even in my own profession--a noble, handsome face, a little sad, +with downbent eyes, which, released from their more immediate duty towards +nature, had now bent themselves upon the earth. + +"Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought." + +"I suppose he's contemplating his boots," said Wynnie, with apparent +maliciousness. + +"That's too bad of you, Wynnie," I said, and the child blushed. + +"I didn't mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora's wise +discrimination," said Wynnie. + +"He is a fine-looking fellow," said I, "and ought, with that face and head, +to be able to paint good pictures." + +"I should like to see what he has done," said Wynnie; "for, by the way we +were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing." + +"And what was that then, Wynnie?" I asked. + +"A rock," she answered, "that you could not see from where you were +sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff." + +"Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she could +look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you." + +"Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us." + +"Space, you see, in removing things from the beholder, seems always to +bring them nearer to each other, and the most differing things are classed +under one name by the man who knows nothing about them. But what sort of a +rock was it you were trying to draw?" + +"A strange-looking, conical rock, that stands alone in front of one of the +ridges that project from the shore into the water. Three sea-birds, with +long white wings, were flying about it, and the little waves of the rising +tide were beating themselves against it and breaking in white plashes. So +the rock stood between the blue and white below and the blue and white +above; for, though there were no clouds, the birds gave the touches of +white to the upper sea." + +"Now, Dora," I said, "I don't know if you are old enough to understand me; +but sometimes little people are long in understanding, just because the +older people think they can't, and don't try them.--Do you see, Dora, why I +want you to learn to draw? Look how Wynnie sees things. That is, in a great +measure, because she draws things, and has, by that, learned to watch in +order to find out. It is a great thing to have your eyes open." + +Dora's eyes were large, and she opened them to their full width, as if she +would take in the universe at their little doors. Whether that indicated +that she did not in the least understand what I had been saying, or that +she was in sympathy with it, I cannot tell. + +"Now let us go up to Connie, and tell her about the rock and everything +else you have seen since you went out. We are all her messengers sent out +to discover things, and bring back news of them." + +After a little talk with Connie, I retired to the study, which was on the +same floor as her room completing, indeed, the whole of that part of the +house, which, seen from without, looked like a separate building; for it +had a roof of its own, and stood higher up the rock than the rest of the +dwelling. Here I began to glance over the books. To have the run of another +man's library, especially if it has all been gathered by himself, is like +having a pass-key into the chambers of his thought. Only, one must be wary, +when he opens them, what marks on the books he takes for those of the +present owner. A mistake here would breed considerable confusion and +falsehood in any judgment formed from the library. I found, however, one +thing plain enough, that Shepherd had kept up that love for an older +English literature, which had been one of the cords to draw us towards each +other when we were students together. There had been one point on which we +especially agreed--that a true knowledge of the present, in literature, as +in everything else, could only be founded upon a knowledge of what had gone +before; therefore, that any judgment, in regard to the literature of the +present day, was of no value which was not guided and influenced by a real +acquaintance with the best of what had gone before, being liable to be +dazzled and misled by novelty of form and other qualities which, whatever +might be the real worth of the substance, were, in themselves, purely +ephemeral. I had taken down a last-century edition of the poems of the +brothers Fletcher, and, having begun to read a lovely passage in "Christ's +Victory and Triumph," had gone into what I can only call an intellectual +rage, at the impudence of the editor, who had altered innumerable words and +phrases to suit the degenerate taste of his own time,--when a knock came to +the door, and Charlie entered, breathless with eagerness. + +"There's the boat with the men with the swords in it, and another boat +behind them, twice as big." + +I hurried out upon the road, and there, close under our windows, were the +two boats we had seen in the morning, landing their crews on the little +beach. The second boat was full of weather-beaten men, in all kinds of +attire, some in blue jerseys, some in red shirts, some in ragged coats. One +man, who looked their superior, was dressed in blue from head to foot. + +"What's the matter?" I asked the officer of the coast-guard, a sedate, +thoughtful-looking man. + +"Vessel foundered, sir," he answered. "Sprung a leak on Sunday morning. She +was laden with iron, and in a heavy ground swell it shifted and knocked a +hole in her. The poor fellows are worn out with the pump and rowing, upon +little or nothing to eat." + +They were trooping past us by this time, looking rather dismal, though not +by any means abject. + +"What are you going to do with them now?" + +"They'll be taken in by the people. We'll get up a little subscription for +them, but they all belong to the society the sailors have for sending the +shipwrecked to their homes, or where they want to go." + +"Well, here's something to help," I said. + +"Thank you, sir. They'll be very glad of it." + +"And if there's anything wanted that I can do for them, you must let me +know." + +"I will, sir. But I don't think there will be any occasion to trouble you. +You are our new clergyman, I believe." + +"Not exactly that. Only for a little while, till my friend Mr. Shepherd is +able to come back to you." + +"We don't want to lose Mr. Shepherd, sir. He's what they call high in these +parts, but he's a great favourite with all the poor people, because you +see he understands them as if he was of the same flesh and blood with +themselves--as, for that matter, I suppose we all are." + +"If we weren't there would be nothing to say at all. Will any of these men +be at church to-morrow, do you suppose? I am afraid sailors are not much in +the way of going to church?" + +"I am afraid not. You see they are all anxious to get home. Most likely +they'll be all travelling to-morrow. It's a pity. It would be a good chance +for saying something to them that they might think of again. But I often +think that, perhaps--it's only my own fancy, and I don't set it up for +anything--that sailors won't be judged exactly like other people. They're +so knocked about, you see, sir." + +"Of course not. Nobody will be judged like any other body. To his own +Master, who knows all about him, every man stands or falls. Depend upon it, +God likes fair play, to use a homely phrase, far better than any sailor of +them all. But that's not exactly the question. It seems to me the question +is this: shall we, who know what a blessed thing life is because we know +what God is like, who can trust in him with all our hearts because he is +the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the friend of sinners, shall we not +try all we can to let them, too, know the blessedness of trusting in their +Father in heaven? If we could only get them to say the Lord's prayer, +_meaning_ it, think what that would be! Look here! This can't be called +bribery, for they are in want of it, and it will show them I am friendly. +Here's another sovereign. Give them my compliments, and say that if any +of them happen to be in Kilkhaven tomorrow, I shall be quite pleased to +welcome them to church. Tell them I will give them of my best there if they +will come. Make the invitation merrily, you know. No long faces and solemn +speech. I will give them the solemn speech when they come to church. But +even there I hope God will keep the long face far from me. That is fittest +for fear and suffering. And the house of God is the casket that holds the +antidote against all fear and most suffering. But I am preaching my sermon +on Saturday instead of Sunday, and keeping you from your ministration to +the poor fellows. Good-bye." + +"I will give them your message as near as I can," he said, and we shook +hands and parted. + +This was the first experience we had of the might and battle of the ocean. +To our eyes it lay quiet as a baby asleep. On that Sunday morning there had +been no commotion here. Yet now at last, on the Saturday morning, home come +the conquered and spoiled of the sea. As if with a mock she takes all they +have, and flings them on shore again, with her weeds, and her shells, and +her sand. Before the winter was over we had learned--how much more of that +awful power that surrounds the habitable earth! By slow degrees the sense +of its might grew upon us, first by the vision of its many aspects and +moods, and then by more awful things that followed; for there are few +coasts upon which the sea rages so wildly as upon this, the whole force of +the Atlantic breaking upon it. Even when there is no storm within perhaps +hundreds of miles, when all is still as a church on the land, the storm +that raves somewhere out upon the vast waste, will drive the waves in +upon the shore with such fury that not even a lifeboat could make its way +through their yawning hollows, and their fierce, shattered, and tumbling +crests. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH. + + + + + +In the hope that some of the shipwrecked mariners might be present in the +church the next day, I proceeded to consider my morning's sermon for the +occasion. There was no difficulty in taking care at the same time that it +should be suitable to the congregation, whether those sailors were there or +not. I turned over in my mind several subjects. I thought, for instance, +of showing them how this ocean that lay watchful and ready all about our +island, all about the earth, was but a visible type or symbol of two other +oceans, one very still, the other very awful and fierce; in fact, that +three oceans surrounded us: one of the known world; one of the unseen +world, that is, of death; one of the spirit--the devouring ocean of +evil--and might I not have added yet another, encompassing and silencing +all the rest--that of truth! The visible ocean seemed to make war upon the +land, and the dwellers thereon. Restrained by the will of God and by him +made subject more and more to the advancing knowledge of those who were +created to rule over it, it was yet like a half-tamed beast ever ready to +break loose and devour its masters. Of course this would have been but one +aspect or appearance of it--for it was in truth all service; but this was +the aspect I knew it must bear to those, seafaring themselves or not, to +whom I had to speak. Then I thought I might show, that its power, like that +of all things that man is ready to fear, had one barrier over which no +commotion, no might of driving wind, could carry it, beyond which its +loudest waves were dumb--the barrier of death. Hitherto and no further +could its power reach. It could kill the body. It could dash in pieces the +last little cock-boat to which the man clung, but thus it swept the man +beyond its own region into the second sea of stillness, which we call +death, out upon which the thoughts of those that are left behind can follow +him only in great longings, vague conjectures, and mighty faith. Then I +thought I could show them how, raving in fear, or lying still in calm +deceit, there lay about the life of man a far more fearful ocean than that +which threatened his body; for this would cast, could it but get a hold of +him, both body and soul into hell--the sea of evil, of vice, of sin, of +wrong-doing--they might call it by what name they pleased. This made war +against the very essence of life, against God who is the truth, against +love, against fairness, against fatherhood, motherhood, sisterhood, +brotherhood, manhood, womanhood, against tenderness and grace and beauty, +gathering into one pulp of festering death all that is noble, lovely, +worshipful in the human nature made so divine that the one fearless man, +the Lord Jesus Christ, shared it with us. This, I thought I might make them +understand, was the only terrible sea, the only hopeless ocean from whose +awful shore we must shrink and flee, the end of every voyage upon whose +bosom was the bottom of its filthy waters, beyond the reach of all that is +thought or spoken in the light, beyond life itself, but for the hand that +reaches down from the upper ocean of truth, the hand of the Redeemer of +men. I thought, I say, for a while, that I could make this, not definite, +but very real to them. But I did not feel quite confident about it. Might +they not in the symbolism forget the thing symbolised? And would not the +symbol itself be ready to fade quite from their memory, or to return +only in the vaguest shadow? And with the thought I perceived a far more +excellent way. For the power of the truth lies of course in its revelation +to the mind, and while for this there are a thousand means, none are so +mighty as its embodiment in human beings and human life. There it is itself +alive and active. And amongst these, what embodiment comes near to that in +him who was perfect man in virtue of being at the root of the secret of +humanity, in virtue of being the eternal Son of God? We are his sons in +time: he is his Son in eternity, of whose sea time is but the broken +sparkle. Therefore, I would talk to them about--but I will treat my reader +now as if he were not my reader, but one of my congregation on that bright +Sunday, my first in the Seaboard Parish, with the sea outside the church, +flashing in the sunlight. + +While I stood at the lectern, which was in front of the altar-screen, I +could see little of my congregation, partly from my being on a level with +them, partly from the necessity for keeping my eyes and thoughts upon that +which I read. When, however, I rose from prayer in the pulpit; then I felt, +as usual with me, that I was personally present for personal influence with +my people, and then I saw, to my great pleasure, that one long bench nearly +in the middle of the church was full of such sunburnt men as could not be +mistaken for any but mariners, even if their torn and worn garments had +not revealed that they must be the very men about whom we had been so much +interested. Not only were they behaving with perfect decorum, but their +rough faces wore an aspect of solemnity which I do not suppose was by any +means their usual aspect. + +I gave them no text. I had one myself, which was the necessary thing. They +should have it by and by. + +"Once upon a time," I said, "a man went up a mountain, and stayed there +till it was dark, and stayed on. Now, a man who finds himself on a mountain +as the sun is going down, especially if he is alone, makes haste to get +down before it is dark. But this man went up when the sun was going down, +and, as I say, continued there for a good long while after it was dark. You +will want to know why. I will tell you. He wished to be alone. He hadn't a +house of his own. He never had all the time he lived. He hadn't even a room +of his own into which he could go, and bolt the door of it. True, he had +kind friends, who gave him a bed: but they were all poor people, and their +houses were small, and very likely they had large families, and he could +not always find a quiet place to go into. And I dare say, if he had had a +room, he would have been a little troubled with the children constantly +coming to find him; for however much he loved them--and no man was ever so +fond of children as he was--he needed to be left quiet sometimes. So, upon +this occasion, he went up the mountain just to be quiet. He had been all +day with a crowd of people, and he felt that it was time to be alone. For +he had been talking with men all day, which tires and sometimes confuses a +man's thoughts, and now he wanted to talk with God--for that makes a man +strong, and puts all the confusion in order again, and lets a man know +what he is about. So he went to the top of the hill. That was his secret +chamber. It had no door; but that did not matter--no one could see him +but God. There he stayed for hours--sometimes, I suppose, kneeling in his +prayer to God; sometimes sitting, tired with his own thinking, on a stone; +sometimes walking about, looking forward to what would come next--not +anxious about it, but contemplating it. For just before he came up here, +some of the people who had been with him wanted to make him a king; and +this would not do--this was not what God wanted of him, and therefore he +got rid of them, and came up here to talk to God. It was so quiet up here! +The earth had almost vanished. He could see just the bare hilltop beneath +him, a glimmer below, and the sky and the stars over his head. The people +had all gone away to their own homes, and perhaps next day would hardly +think about him at all, busy catching fish, or digging their gardens, or +making things for their houses. But he knew that God would not forget him +the next day any more than this day, and that God had sent him not to be +the king that these people wanted him to be, but their servant. So, to make +his heart strong, I say, he went up into the mountain alone to have a talk +with his Father. How quiet it all was up here, I say, and how noisy it had +been down there a little while ago! But God had been in the noise then as +much as he was in the quiet now--the only difference being that he could +not then be alone with him. I need not tell you who this man was--it was +the king of men, the servant of men, the Lord Jesus Christ, the everlasting +son of our Father in heaven. + +"Now this mountain on which he was praying had a small lake at the foot of +it--that is, about thirteen miles long, and five miles broad. Not wanting +even his usual companions to be with him this evening--partly, I presume, +because they were of the same mind as those who desired to take him by +force and make him a king--he had sent them away in their boat, to go +across this water to the other side, where were their homes and their +families. Now, it was not pitch dark either on the mountain-top or on the +water down below; yet I doubt if any other man than he would have been +keen-eyed enough to discover that little boat down in the middle of the +lake, much distressed by the west wind that blew right in their teeth. But +he loved every man in it so much, that I think even as he was talking +to his Father, his eyes would now and then go looking for and finding +it--watching it on its way across to the other side. You must remember that +it was a little boat; and there are often tremendous storms upon these +small lakes with great mountains about them. For the wind will come all +at once, rushing down through the clefts in as sudden a squall as ever +overtook a sailor at sea. And then, you know, there is no sea-room. If +the wind get the better of them, they are on the shore in a few minutes, +whichever way the wind may blow. He saw them worn out at the oar, toiling +in rowing, for the wind was contrary unto them. So the time for loneliness +and prayer was over, and the time to go down out of his secret chamber and +help his brethren was come. He did not need to turn and say good-bye to +his Father, as if he dwelt on that mountain-top alone: his Father was down +there on the lake as well. He went straight down. Could not his Father, if +he too was down on the lake, help them without him? Yes. But he wanted him +to do it, that they might see that he did it. Otherwise they would only +have thought that the wind fell and the waves lay down, without supposing +for a moment that their Master or his Father had had anything to do with +it. They would have done just as people do now-a-days: they think that the +help comes of itself, instead of by the will of him who determined from the +first that men should be helped. So the Master went down the hill. When he +reached the border of the lake, the wind being from the other side, he must +have found the waves breaking furiously upon the rocks. But that made no +difference to him. He looked out as he stood alone on the edge amidst the +rushing wind and the noise of the water, out over the waves under the +clear, starry sky, saw where the tiny boat was tossed about like a +nutshell, and set out." + +The mariners had been staring at me up to this point, leaning forward on +their benches, for sailors are nearly as fond of a good yarn as they are of +tobacco; and I heard afterwards that they had voted parson's yarn a good +one. Now, however, I saw one of them, probably more ignorant than the +others, cast a questioning glance at his neighbour. It was not returned, +and he fell again into a listening attitude. He had no idea of what was +coming. He probably thought parson had forgotten to say how Jesus had come +by a boat. + +"The companions of our Lord had not been willing to go away and leave him +behind. Now, I dare say, they wished more than ever that he had been with +them--not that they thought he could do anything with a storm, only that +somehow they would have been less afraid with his face to look at. They had +seen him cure men of dreadful diseases; they had seen him turn water into +wine--some of them; they had seen him feed five thousand people the day +before with five loaves and two small fishes; but had one of their number +suggested that if he had been with them, they would have been safe from the +storm, they would not have talked any nonsense about the laws of nature, +not having learned that kind of nonsense, but they would have said that was +quite a different thing--altogether too much to expect or believe: _nobody_ +could make the wind mind what it was about, or keep the water from +drowning you if you fell into it and couldn't swim; or such-like. + +"At length, when they were nearly worn out, taking feebler and feebler +strokes, sometimes missing the water altogether, at other times burying +their oars in it up to the handles--as they rose on the crest of a huge +wave, one of them gave a cry, and they all stopped rowing and stared, +leaning forward to peer through the darkness. And through the spray which +the wind tore from the tops of the waves and scattered before it like dust, +they saw, perhaps a hundred yards or so from the boat, something standing +up from the surface of the water. It seemed to move towards them. It was a +shape like a man. They all cried out with fear, as was natural, for they +thought it must be a ghost." + +How the faces of the sailors strained towards me at this part of the story! +I was afraid one of them especially was on the point of getting up to +speak, as we have heard of sailors doing in church. I went on. + +"But then, over the noise of the wind and the waters came the voice they +knew so well. It said, 'Be of good cheer: it is I. Be not afraid.' I should +think, between wonder and gladness, they hardly knew for some moments where +they were or what they were about. Peter was the first to recover himself +apparently. In the first flush of his delight he felt strong and full of +courage. 'Lord, if it be thou,' he said, 'bid me come unto thee on the +water.' Jesus just said, 'Come;' and Peter unshipped his oar, and scrambled +over the gunwale on to the sea. But when he let go his hold of the boat, +and began to look about him, and saw how the wind was tearing the water, +and how it tossed and raved between him and Jesus, he began to be afraid. +And as soon as he began to be afraid he began to sink; but he had, +notwithstanding his fear, just sense enough to do the one sensible thing; +he cried out, 'Lord, save me.' And Jesus put out his hand, and took hold of +him, and lifted him up out of the water, and said to him, 'O thou of little +faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? And then they got into the boat, and the +wind fell all at once, and altogether. + +"Now, you will not think that Peter was a coward, will you? It wasn't that +he hadn't courage, but that he hadn't enough of it. And why was it that he +hadn't enough of it? Because he hadn't faith enough. Peter was always very +easily impressed with the look of things. It wasn't at all likely that +a man should be able to walk on the water; and yet Peter found himself +standing on the water: you would have thought that when once he found +himself standing on the water, he need not be afraid of the wind and the +waves that lay between him and Jesus. But they looked so ugly that the +fearfulness of them took hold of his heart, and his courage went. You would +have thought that the greatest trial of his courage was over when he got +out of the boat, and that there was comparatively little more ahead of him. +Yet the sight of the waves and the blast of the boisterous wind were too +much for him. I will tell you how I fancy it was; and I think there are +several instances of the same kind of thing in Peter's life. When he got +out of the boat, and found himself standing on the water, he began to think +much of himself for being able to do so, and fancy himself better and +greater than his companions, and an especial favourite of God above them. +Now, there is nothing that kills faith sooner than pride. The two are +directly against each other. The moment that Peter grew proud, and began +to think about himself instead of about his Master, he began to lose his +faith, and then he grew afraid, and then he began to sink--and that brought +him to his senses. Then he forgot himself and remembered his Master, and +then the hand of the Lord caught him, and the voice of the Lord gently +rebuked him for the smallness of his faith, asking, 'Wherefore didst thou +doubt?' I wonder if Peter was able to read his own heart sufficiently well +to answer that _wherefore_. I do not think it likely at this period of his +history. But God has immeasurable patience, and before he had done teaching +Peter, even in this life, he had made him know quite well that pride and +conceit were at the root of all his failures. Jesus did not point it out to +him now. Faith was the only thing that would reveal that to him, as well as +cure him of it; and was, therefore, the only thing he required of him in +his rebuke. I suspect Peter was helped back into the boat by the eager +hands of his companions already in a humbler state of mind than when he +left it; but before his pride would be quite overcome, it would need that +same voice of loving-kindness to call him Satan, and the voice of the cock +to bring to his mind his loud boast, and his sneaking denial; nay, even the +voice of one who had never seen the Lord till after his death, but was yet +a readier disciple than he--the voice of St. Paul, to rebuke him because he +dissembled, and was not downright honest. But at the last even he gained +the crown of martyrdom, enduring all extremes, nailed to the cross like +his Master, rather than deny his name. This should teach us to distrust +ourselves, and yet have great hope for ourselves, and endless patience with +other people. But to return to the story and what the story itself teaches +us. + +"If the disciples had known that Jesus saw them from the top of the +mountain, and was watching them all the time, would they have been +frightened at the storm, as I have little doubt they were, for they were +only fresh-water fishermen, you know? Well, to answer my own question"--I +went on in haste, for I saw one or two of the sailors with an audible +answer hovering on their lips--"I don't know that, as they then were, it +would have made so much difference to them; for none of them had risen much +above the look of the things nearest them yet. But supposing you, who know +something about him, were alone on the sea, and expecting your boat to be +swamped every moment--if you found out all at once, that he was looking +down at you from some lofty hilltop, and seeing all round about you in time +and space too, would you be afraid? He might mean you to go to the bottom, +you know. Would you mind going to the bottom with him looking at you? I do +not think I should mind it myself. But I must take care lest I be boastful +like Peter. + +"Why should we be afraid of anything with him looking at us who is the +Saviour of men? But we are afraid of him instead, because we do not believe +that he is what he says he is--the Saviour of men. We do not believe what +he offers us is salvation. We think it is slavery, and therefore continue +slaves. Friends, I will speak to you who think you do believe in him. I am +not going to say that you do not believe in him; but I hope I am going to +make you say to yourselves that you too deserve to have those words of the +Saviour spoken to you that were spoken to Peter, 'O ye of little faith!' +Floating on the sea of your troubles, all kinds of fears and anxieties +assailing you, is He not on the mountain-top? Sees he not the little boat +of your fortunes tossed with the waves and the contrary wind? Assuredly he +will come to you walking on the waters. It may not be in the way you wish, +but if not, you will say at last, 'This is better.' It may be that he will +come in a form that will make you cry out for fear in the weakness of your +faith, as the disciples cried out--not believing any more than they did, +that it can be he. But will not each of you arouse his courage that to you +also he may say, as to the woman with the sick daughter whose confidence he +so sorely tried, 'Great is thy faith'? Will you not rouse yourself, I say, +that you may do him justice, and cast off the slavery of your own dread? +O ye of little faith, wherefore will ye doubt? Do not think that the Lord +sees and will not come. Down the mountain assuredly he will come, and you +are now as safe in your troubles as the disciples were in theirs with Jesus +looking on. They did not know it, but it was so: the Lord was watching +them. And when you look back upon your past lives, cannot you see some +instances of the same kind--when you felt and acted as if the Lord had +forgotten you, and found afterwards that he had been watching you all the +time? + +"But the reason why you do not trust him more is that you obey him so +little. If you would only, ask what God would have you to do, you would +soon find your confidence growing. It is because you are proud, and +envious, and greedy after gain, that you do not trust him more. Ah! trust +him if it were only to get rid of these evil things, and be clean and +beautiful in heart. + +"O sailors with me on the ocean of life, will you, knowing that he is +watching you from his mountain-top, do and say the things that hurt, and +wrong, and disappoint him? Sailors on the waters that surround this globe, +though there be no great mountain that overlooks the little lake on which +you float, not the less does he behold you, and care for you, and watch +over you. Will you do that which is unpleasing, distressful to him? Will +you be irreverent, cruel, coarse? Will you say evil things, lie, and +delight in vile stories and reports, with his eye on you, watching your +ship on its watery ways, ever ready to come over the waves to help you? It +is a fine thing, sailors, to fear nothing; but it would be far finer to +fear nothing _because_ he is above all, and over all, and in you all. For +his sake and for his love, give up everything bad, and take him for your +captain. He will be both captain and pilot to you, and steer you safe into +the port of glory. Now to God the Father," &c. + +This is very nearly the sermon I preached that first Sunday morning. I +followed it up with a short enforcement in the afternoon. + +END OF VOL. I. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Volume 1, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOLUME 1 *** + +This file should be named spar110.txt or spar110.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, spar111.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, spar110a.txt + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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