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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/8552-8.txt b/8552-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c195738 --- /dev/null +++ b/8552-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5977 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2, 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 Vol. 2 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8552] +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 VOL. 2 *** + + + + +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. II. + + + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. + + + I. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING + II. NICEBOOTS + III. THE BLACKSMITH + IV. THE LIFE-BOAT + V. MR. PERCIVALE + VI. THE SHADOW OF DEATH + VII. AT THE FARM + VIII. THE KEEVE + IX. THE WALK TO CHURCH + X. THE OLD CASTLE + XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE + XII. A SMALL ADVENTURE + XIII. THE HARVEST + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + + +In the evening we met in Connie's room, as usual, to have our talk. And +this is what came out of it. + +The window was open. The sun was in the west. We sat a little aside out +of the course of his radiance, and let him look full into the room. +Only Wynnie sat back in a dark corner, as if she would get out of his +way. Below him the sea lay bluer than you could believe even when you +saw it--blue with a delicate yet deep silky blue, the exquisiteness of +which was thrown up by the brilliant white lines of its lapping on the +high coast, to the northward. We had just sat down, when Dora broke out +with-- + +"I saw Niceboots at church. He did stare at you, papa, as if he had +never heard a sermon before." + +"I daresay he never heard such a sermon before!" said Connie, with the +perfect confidence of inexperience and partiality--not to say +ignorance, seeing she had not heard the sermon herself. + +Here Wynnie spoke from her dark corner, apparently forcing herself to +speak, and thereby giving what seemed an unpleasant tone to what she +said. + +"Well, papa, I don't know what to think. You are always telling us to +trust in Him; but how can we, if we are not good?" + +"The first good thing you can do is to look up to him. That is the +beginning of trust in him, and the most sensible thing that it is +possible for us to do. That is faith." + +"But it's no use sometimes." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you--I mean I--can't feel good, or care about it at all." + +"But is that any ground for saying that it is no use--that he does not +heed you? that he disregards the look cast up to him? that, till the +heart goes with the will, he who made himself strong to be the helper +of the weak, who pities most those who are most destitute--and who so +destitute as those who do not love what they want to love--except, +indeed, those who don't want to love?--that, till you are well on +towards all right by earnestly seeking it, he won't help you? You are +to judge him from yourself, are you?--forgetting that all the misery in +you is just because you have not got his grand presence with you?" + +I spoke so earnestly as to be somewhat incoherent in words. But my +reader will understand. Wynnie was silent. Connie, as if partly to help +her sister, followed on the same side. + +"I don't know exactly how to say what I mean, papa, but I wish I could +get this lovely afternoon, all full of sunshine and blue, into unity +with all that you teach us about Jesus Christ. I wish this beautiful +day came in with my thought of him, like the frame--gold and red and +blue--that you have to that picture of him at home. Why doesn't it?" + +"Just because you have not enough of faith in him, my dear. You do not +know him well enough yet. You do not yet believe that he means you all +gladness, heartily, honestly, thoroughly." + +"And no suffering, papa?" + +"I did not say that, my dear. There you are on your couch and can't +move. But he does mean you such gladness, such a full sunny air and +blue sea of blessedness that this suffering shall count for little in +it; nay more, shall be taken in for part, and, like the rocks that +interfere with the roll of the sea, flash out the white that glorifies +and intensifies the whole--to pass away by and by, I trust, none the +less. What a chance you have, my Connie, of believing in him, of +offering upon his altar!" + +"But," said my wife, "are not these feelings in a great measure +dependent upon the state of one's health? I find it so different when +the sunshine is inside me as well as outside me." + +"Not a doubt of it, my dear. But that is only the more reason for +rising above all that. From the way some people speak of physical +difficulties--I don't mean you, wife--you would think that they were +not merely the inevitable which they are, but the insurmountable which +they are not. That they are physical and not spiritual is not only a +great consolation, but a strong argument for overcoming them. For all +that is physical is put, or is in the process of being put, under the +feet of the spiritual. Do not mistake me. I do not say you can make +yourself feel merry or happy when you are in a physical condition which +is contrary to such mental condition. But you can withdraw from it--not +all at once; but by practice and effort you can learn to withdraw from +it, refusing to allow your judgments and actions to be ruled by it. You +can climb up out of the fogs, and sit quiet in the sunlight on the +hillside of faith. You cannot be merry down below in the fog, for there +is the fog; but you can every now and then fly with the dove-wings of +the soul up into the clear, to remind yourself that all this passes +away, is but an accident, and that the sun shines always, although it +may not at any given moment be shining on you. 'What does that matter?' +you will learn to say. 'It is enough for me to know that the sun does +shine, and that this is only a weary fog that is round about me for the +moment. I shall come out into the light beyond presently.' This is +faith--faith in God, who is the light, and is all in all. I believe +that the most glorious instances of calmness in suffering are thus +achieved; that the sufferers really do not suffer what one of us would +if thrown into their physical condition without the refuge of their +spiritual condition as well; for they have taken refuge in the inner +chamber. Out of the spring of their life a power goes forth that +quenches the flames of the furnace of their suffering, so far at least +that it does not touch the deep life, cannot make them miserable, does +not drive them from the possession of their soul in patience, which is +the divine citadel of the suffering. Do you understand me, Connie?" + +"I do, papa. I think perfectly." + +"Still less, then, is the fact that the difficulty is physical to be +used as an excuse for giving way to ill-temper, and, in fact, leaving +ourselves to be tossed and shaken by every tremble of our nerves. That +is as if a man should give himself into the hands and will and caprice +of an organ-grinder, to work upon him, not with the music of the +spheres, but with the wretched growling of the streets." + +"But," said Wynnie, "I have heard you yourself, papa, make excuse for +people's ill-temper on this very ground, that they were out of health. +Indeed," she went on, half-crying, "I have heard you do so for myself, +when you did not know that I was within hearing." + +"Yes, my dear, most assuredly. It is no fiction, but a real difference +that lies between excusing ourselves and excusing other people. No +doubt the same excuse is just for ourselves that is just for other +people. But we can do something to put ourselves right upon a higher +principle, and therefore we should not waste our time in excusing, or +even in condemning ourselves, but make haste up the hill. Where we +cannot work--that is, in the life of another--we have time to make all +the excuse we can. Nay more; it is only justice there. We are not bound +to insist on our own rights, even of excuse; the wisest thing often is +to forego them. But we are bound by heaven, earth, and hell to give +them to other people. And, besides, what a comfort to ourselves to be +able to say, 'It is true So-and-so was cross to-day. But it wasn't in +the least that he wasn't friendly, or didn't like me; it was only that +he had eaten something that hadn't agreed with him. I could see it in +his eye. He had one of his headaches.' Thus, you see, justice to our +neighbour, and comfort to ourselves, is one and the same thing. But it +would be a sad thing to have to think that when we found ourselves in +the same ungracious condition, from whatever cause, we had only to +submit to it, saying, 'It is a law of nature,' as even those who talk +most about laws will not do, when those laws come between them and +their own comfort. They are ready enough then to call in the aid of +higher laws, which, so far from being contradictory, overrule the lower +to get things into something like habitable, endurable condition. It +may be a law of nature; but what has the Law of the Spirit of Life to +_propound anent_ it? as the Scotch lawyers would say." + +A little pause followed, during which I hope some of us were thinking. +That Wynnie, at least, was, her next question made evident. + +"What you say about a law of nature and a law of the Spirit makes me +think again how that walking on the water has always been a puzzle to +me." + +"It could hardly be other, seeing that we cannot possibly understand +it," I answered. + +"But I find it so hard to believe. Can't you say something, papa, to +help me to believe it?" + +"I think if you admit what goes before, you will find there is nothing +against reason in the story." + +"Tell me, please, what you mean." + +"If all things were made by Jesus, the Word of God, would it be +reasonable that the water that he had created should be able to drown +him?" + +"It might drown his body." + +"It would if he had not the power over it still, to prevent it from +laying hold of him. But just think for a moment. God is a Spirit. +Spirit is greater than matter. Spirit makes matter. Think what it was +for a human body to have such a divine creative power dwelling in it as +that which dwelt in the human form of Jesus! What power, and influence, +and utter rule that spirit must have over the body in which it dwells! +We cannot imagine how much; but if we have so much power over our +bodies, how much more must the pure, divine Jesus, have had over his! I +suspect this miracle was wrought, not through anything done to the +water, but through the power of the spirit over the body of Jesus, +which was all obedient thereto. I am not explaining the miracle, for +that I cannot do. One day I think it will be plain common sense to us. +But now I am only showing you what seems to me to bring us a step +nearer to the essential region of the miracle, and so far make it +easier to believe. If we look at the history of our Lord, we shall find +that, true real human body as his was, it was yet used by his spirit +after a fashion in which we cannot yet use our bodies. And this is only +reasonable. Let me give you an instance. You remember how, on the Mount +of Transfiguration, that body shone so that the light of it illuminated +all his garments. You do not surely suppose that this shine was +external--physical light, as we say, _merely?_ No doubt it was physical +light, for how else would their eyes have seen it? But where did it +come from? What was its source? I think it was a natural outburst of +glory from the mind of Jesus, filled with the perfect life of communion +with his Father--the light of his divine blessedness taking form in +physical radiance that permeated and glorified all that surrounded him. +As the body is the expression of the soul, as the face of Jesus himself +was the expression of the being, the thought, the love of Jesus in like +manner this radiance was the natural expression of his gladness, even +in the face of that of which they had been talking--Moses, Elias, and +he--namely, the decease that he should accomplish at Jerusalem. Again, +after his resurrection, he convinced the hands, as well as eyes, of +doubting Thomas, that he was indeed there in the body; and yet that +body could appear and disappear as the Lord willed. All this is full of +marvel, I grant you; but probably far more intelligible to us in a +further state of existence than some of the most simple facts with +regard to our own bodies are to us now, only that we are so used to +them that we never think how unintelligible they really are." + +"But then about Peter, papa? What you have been saying will not apply +to Peter's body, you know." + +"I confess there is more difficulty there. But if you can suppose that +such power were indwelling in Jesus, you cannot limit the sphere of its +action. As he is the head of the body, his church, in all spiritual +things, so I firmly believe, however little we can understand about it, +is he in all natural things as well. Peter's faith in him brought even +Peter's body within the sphere of the outgoing power of the Master. Do +you suppose that because Peter ceased to be brave and trusting, +therefore Jesus withdrew from him some sustaining power, and allowed +him to sink? I do not believe it. I believe Peter's sinking followed +naturally upon his loss of confidence. Thus he fell away from the life +of the Master; was no longer, in that way I mean, connected with the +Head, was instantly under the dominion of the natural law of +gravitation, as we call it, and began to sink. Therefore the Lord must +take other means to save him. He must draw nigh to him in a bodily +manner. The pride of Peter had withdrawn him from the immediate +spiritual influence of Christ, conquering his matter; and therefore the +Lord must come over the stormy space between, come nearer to him in the +body, and from his own height of safety above the sphere of the natural +law, stretch out to him the arm of physical aid, lift him up, lead him +to the boat. The whole salvation of the human race is figured in this +story. It is all Christ, my love.--Does this help you to believe at +all?" + +"I think it does, papa. But it wants thinking over a good deal. I +always find as I think, that lighter bits shine out here and there in a +thing I have no hope of understanding altogether. That always helps me +to believe that the rest might be understood too, if I were only clever +enough." + +"Simple enough, not clever enough, my dear." + +"But there's one thing," said my wife, "that is more interesting to me +than what you have been talking about. It is the other instances in the +life of St. Peter in which you said he failed in a similar manner from +pride or self-satisfaction." + +"One, at least, seems to me very clear. You have often remarked to me, +Ethel, how little praise servants can stand; how almost invariably +after you have commended the diligence or skill of any of your +household, as you felt bound to do, one of the first visible results +was either a falling away in the performance by which she had gained +the praise, or a more or less violent access, according to the nature +of the individual, of self-conceit, soon breaking out in bad temper or +impertinence. Now you will see precisely the same kind of thing in +Peter." + +Here I opened my New Testament, and read fragmentarily, "'But whom say +ye that I am?... Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.... +Blessed art thou, Simon.... My Father hath revealed that unto thee. I +will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.... I must suffer +many things, and be killed, and be raised again the third day.... Be it +far from thee, Lord. This shall not be unto thee.... Get thee behind +me, Satan. Thou art an offence unto me.' Just contemplate the change +here in the words of our Lord. 'Blessed art thou.' 'Thou art an offence +unto me.' Think what change has passed on Peter's mood before the +second of these words could be addressed to him to whom the first had +just been spoken. The Lord had praised him. Peter grew self-sufficient, +even to the rebuking of him whose praise had so uplifted him. But it is +ever so. A man will gain a great moral victory: glad first, then +uplifted, he will fall before a paltry temptation. I have sometimes +wondered, too, whether his denial of our Lord had anything to do with +his satisfaction with himself for making that onslaught upon the high +priest's servant. It was a brave thing and a faithful to draw a single +sword against a multitude. In his fiery eagerness and inexperience, the +blow, well meant to cleave Malchus's head, missed, and only cut off his +ear; but Peter had herein justified his confident saying that he would +not deny him. He was not one to deny his Lord who had been the first to +confess him! Yet ere the cock had crowed, ere the morning had dawned, +the vulgar grandeur of the palace of the high priest (for let it be art +itself, it was vulgar grandeur beside that grandeur which it caused +Peter to deny), and the accusing tone of a maid-servant, were enough to +make him quail whom the crowd with lanterns, and torches, and weapons, +had only roused to fight. True, he was excited then, and now he was +cold in the middle of the night, with Jesus gone from his sight a +prisoner, and for the faces of friends that had there surrounded him +and strengthened him with their sympathy, now only the faces of those +who were, or whom at least Peter thought to be on the other side, +looking at him curiously, as a strange intruder into their domains. +Alas, that the courage which led him to follow the Lord should have +thus led him, not to deny him, but into the denial of him! Yet why +should I say _alas?_ If the denial of our Lord lay in his heart a +possible thing, only prevented by his being kept in favourable +circumstances for confessing him, it was a thousand times better that +he should deny him, and thus know what a poor weak thing that heart of +his was, trust it no more, and give it up to the Master to make it +strong, and pure, and grand. For such an end the Lord was willing to +bear all the pain of Peter's denial. O, the love of that Son of Man, +who in the midst of all the wretched weaknesses of those who surrounded +him, loved the best in them, and looked forward to his own victory for +them that they might become all that they were meant to be--like him; +that the lovely glimmerings of truth and love that were in them +now--the breakings forth of the light that lighteneth every man--might +grow into the perfect human day; loving them even the more that they +were so helpless, so oppressed, so far from that ideal which was their +life, and which all their dim desires were reaching after!" + +Here I ceased, and a little overcome with the great picture in my soul +to which I had been able only to give the poorest expression, rose, and +retired to my own room. There I could only fall on my knees and pray +that the Lord Christ, who had died for me, might have his own way with +me--that it might be worth his while to have done what he did and what +he was doing now for me. To my Elder Brother, my Lord, and my God, I +gave myself yet again, confidently, because he cared to have me, and my +very breath was his. I _would_ be what he wanted, who knew all about +it, and had done everything that I might be a son of God--a living +glory of gladness. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +NICEBOOTS. + + +The next morning the captain of the lost vessel called upon me early to +thank me for himself and his men. He was a fine honest-looking burly +fellow, dressed in blue from head to heel. He might have sat for a +portrait of Chaucer's shipman, as far as his hue and the first look of +him went. It was clear that "in many a tempest had his beard be shake," +and certainly "the hote somer had made his hew all broun;" but farther +the likeness would hardly go, for the "good fellow" which Chaucer +applies with such irony to the shipman of his time, who would filch +wine, and drown all the captives he made in a sea-fight, was clearly +applicable in good earnest to this shipman. Still, I thought I had +something to bring against him, and therefore before we parted I said +to him-- + +"They tell me, captain, that your vessel was not seaworthy, and that +you could not but have known that." + +"She was my own craft, sir, and I judged her fit for several voyages +more. If she had been A 1 she couldn't have been mine; and a man must +do what he can for his family." + +"But you were risking your life, you know." + +"A few chances more or less don't much signify to a sailor, sir. There +ain't nothing to be done without risk. You'll find an old tub go voyage +after voyage, and she beyond bail, and a clipper fresh off the stocks +go down in the harbour. It's all in the luck, sir, I assure you." + +"Well, if it were your own life I should have nothing to say, seeing +you have a family to look after; but what about the poor fellows who +made the voyage with you? Did they know what kind of a vessel they were +embarking in?" + +"Wherever the captain's ready to go he'll always find men ready to +follow him. Bless you, sir, they never asks no questions. If a sailor +was always to be thinking of the chances, he'd never set his foot off +shore." + +"Still, I don't think it's right they shouldn't know." + +"I daresay they knowed all about the old brig as well as I did myself. +You gets to know all about a craft just as you do about her captain. +She's got a character of her own, and she can't hide it long, any more +than you can hide yours, sir, begging your pardon." + +"I daresay that's all correct, but still I shouldn't like anyone to say +to me, 'You ought to have told me, captain.' Therefore, you see, I'm +telling you, captain, and now I'm clear.--Have a glass of wine before +you go," I concluded, ringing the bell. + +"Thank you, sir. I'll turn over what you've been saying, and anyhow I +take it kind of you." + +So we parted. I have never seen him since, and shall not, most likely, +in this world. But he looked like a man that could understand why and +wherefore I spoke as I did. And I had the advantage of having had a +chance of doing something for him first of all. Let no man who wants to +do anything for the soul of a man lose a chance of doing something for +his body. He ought to be willing, and ready, which is more than +willing, to do that whether or not; but there are those who need this +reminder. Of many a soul Jesus laid hold by healing the suffering the +body brought upon it. No one but himself can tell how much the nucleus +of the church was composed of and by those who had received health from +his hands, loving-kindness from the word of his mouth. My own opinion +is that herein lay the very germ of the kernel of what is now the +ancient, was then the infant church; that from them, next to the +disciples themselves, went forth the chief power of life in love, for +they too had seen the Lord, and in their own humble way could preach +and teach concerning him. What memories of him theirs must have been! + +Things went on very quietly, that is, as I mean now, from the +view-point of a historian, without much to record bearing notably upon +after events, for the greater part of the next week. I wandered about +my parish, making acquaintance with different people in an outside sort +of way, only now and then finding an opportunity of seeing into their +souls except by conclusion. But I enjoyed endlessly the aspects of the +country. It was not picturesque except in parts. There was little wood +and there were no hills, only undulations, though many of them were +steep enough even from a pedestrian's point of view. Neither, however, +were there any plains except high moorland tracts. But the impression +of the whole country was large, airy, sunshiny, and it was clasped in +the arms of the infinite, awful, yet how bountiful sea--if one will +look at the ocean in its world-wide, not to say its eternal aspects, +and not out of the fears of a hidebound love of life! The sea and the +sky, I must confess, dwarfed the earth, made it of small account beside +them; but who could complain of such an influence? At least, not I. + +My children bathed in this sea every day, and gathered strength and +knowledge from it. It was, as I have indicated, a dangerous coast to +bathe upon. The sweep of the tides varied with the varying sands that +were cast up. There was now in one place, now in another, a strong +_undertow_, as they called it--a reflux, that is, of the inflowing +waters, which was quite sufficient to carry those who could not swim +out into the great deep, and rendered much exertion necessary, even in +those who could, to regain the shore. But there was a fine strong +Cornish woman to take charge of the ladies and the little boys, and +she, watching the ways of the wild monster, knew the when and the +where, and all about it. + +Connie got out upon the downs every day. She improved in health +certainly, and we thought a little even in her powers of motion. The +weather continued superb. What rain there was fell at night, just +enough for Nature to wash her face with and so look quite fresh in the +morning. We contrived a dinner on the sands on the other side of the +bay, for the Friday of this same week. + +The morning rose gloriously. Harry and Charlie were turning the house +upside down, to judge by their noise, long before I was in the humour +to get up, for I had been reading late the night before. I never made +much objection to mere noise, knowing that I could stop it the moment I +pleased, and knowing, which was of more consequence, that so far from +there being anything wrong in making a noise, the sea would make noise +enough in our ears before we left Kilkhaven. The moment, however, that +I heard a thread of whining or a burst of anger in the noise, I would +interfere at once--treating these just as things that must be dismissed +at once. Harry and Charlie were, I say, to use their own form of +speech, making such a row that morning, however, that I was afraid of +some injury to the house or furniture, which were not our own. So I +opened my door and called out-- + +"Harry! Charlie! What on earth are you about?" + +"Nothing, papa," answered Charlie. "Only it's so jolly!" + +"What is jolly, my boy?" I asked. + +"O, I don't know, papa! It's _so_ jolly!" + +"Is it the sunshine?" thought I; "and the wind? God's world all over? +The God of gladness in the hearts of the lads? Is it that? No wonder, +then, that they cannot tell yet what it is!" + +I withdrew into my room; and so far from seeking to put an end to the +noise--I knew Connie did not mind it--listened to it with a kind of +reverence, as the outcome of a gladness which the God of joy had +kindled in their hearts. Soon after, however, I heard certain dim +growls of expostulation from Harry, and having, from experience, ground +for believing that the elder was tyrannising over the younger, I +stopped that and the noise together, sending Charlie to find out where +the tide would be between one and two o'clock, and Harry to run to the +top of the hill, and find out the direction of the wind. Before I was +dressed, Charlie was knocking at my door with the news that it would be +half-tide about one; and Harry speedily followed with the discovery +that the wind was north-east by south-west, which of course determined +that the sun would shine all day. + +As the dinner-hour drew near, the servants went over, with Walter at +their head, to choose a rock convenient for a table, under the shelter +of the rocks on the sands across the bay. Thither, when Walter +returned, we bore our Connie, carrying her litter close by the edge of +the retreating tide, which sometimes broke in a ripple of music under +her, wetting our feet with innocuous rush. The child's delight was +extreme, as she thus skimmed the edge of the ocean, with the little +ones gambolling about her, and her mamma and Wynnie walking quietly on +the landward side, for she wished to have no one between her and the +sea. + +After scrambling with difficulty over some rocky ledges, and stopping +at Connie's request, to let her look into a deep pool in the sand, +which somehow or other retained the water after the rest had retreated, +we set her down near the mouth of a cave, in the shadow of a rock. And +there was our dinner nicely laid for us on a flat rock in front of the +cave. The cliffs rose behind us, with curiously curved and variously +angled strata. The sun in his full splendour threw dark shadows on the +brilliant yellow sand, more and more of which appeared as the bright +blue water withdrew itself, now rippling over it as if it meant to hide +it all up again, now uncovering more as it withdrew for another rush. +Before we had finished our dinner, the foremost wavelets appeared so +far away over the plain of the sand, that it seemed a long walk to the +edge that had been almost at our feet a little while ago. Between us +and it lay a lovely desert of glittering sand. + +When even Charlie and Harry had arrived at the conclusion that it was +time to stop eating, we left the shadow and went out into the sun, +carrying Connie and laying her down in the midst of "the ribbed +sea-sand," which was very ribby to-day. On a shawl a little way off +from her lay her baby, crowing and kicking with the same jollity that +had possessed the boys ever since the morning. I wandered about with +Wynnie on the sands, picking up amongst other things strange creatures +in thin shells ending in vegetable-like tufts, if I remember rightly. +My wife sat on the end of Connie's litter, and Dora and the boys, a +little way off, were trying how far the full force of three wooden +spades could, in digging a hole, keep ahead of the water which was ever +tumbling in the sand from the sides of the same. Behind, the servants +were busy washing the plates in a pool, and burying the fragments of +the feast; for I made it a rule wherever we went that the fair face of +nature was not to be defiled. I have always taken the part of +excursionists in these latter days of running to and fro, against those +who complain that the loveliest places are being destroyed by their +inroads. But there is one most offensive, even disgusting habit amongst +them--that of leaving bones, fragments of meat pies, and worse than +all, pieces of greasy paper about the place, which I cannot excuse, or +at least defend. Even the surface of Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes +will be defiled with these floating abominations--not abominations at +all if they are decently burned or buried when done with, but certainly +abominations when left to be cast hither and thither in the wind, over +the grass, or on the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for days after +those who have thus left their shame behind them have returned to their +shops or factories. I forgive them for trampling down the grass and the +ferns. That cannot be helped, and in comparison of the good they get, +is not to be considered at all. But why should they leave such a savage +trail behind them as this, forgetting too that though they have done +with the spot, there are others coming after them to whom these +remnants must be an offence? + +At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of +rock, rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came +suddenly upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with +a small easel before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had +his back towards us, so that we saw at once what he was painting. + +"O, papa!" cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round. + +"I beg your pardon," I said. "We came over from the other side, and did +not see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much." + +"Not in the least," he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke. + +I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had +been making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay +on the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the +same direction now. + +"Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?" + +"Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember +that most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage," he +answered. + +I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark. + +"Here is no common man," I said to myself, and responded to him in +something of a similar style. + +"I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings +themselves, as well as their works," I said aloud. + +The painter looked at me, and I looked at him. + +"We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume," +he said. + +"But," I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his +easel, "your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to +nothing--perhaps I ought to say nothing at all--this picture must have +long ago passed the chaotic stage." + +"It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it," he returned. "I +hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather +pleasing, my own fancy at present." + +"Apparently," I remarked, "you had the conical rock outside the hay for +your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards +it. How is that?" + +"I will soon explain," he answered. "The moment I saw this rock, it +reminded me of Dante's Purgatory." + +"Ah, you are a reader of Dante?" I said. "In the original, I hope." + +"Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going +with that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never +knew what intensity _per se_ was till I began to read Dante." + +"That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture." + +"Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it +suggest the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given +of the place _ab extra_ by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth +canto of the Inferno. Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet +it has certain mountain forms about it. I have put it at a much greater +distance, you see, and have sought to make it look a solitary mountain +in the midst of a great water. You will discover even now that the +circles of the Purgatory are suggested without any approach, I think, +to artificial structure; and there are occasional hints at figures, +which you cannot definitely detach from the rocks--which, by the way, +you must remember, were in one part full of sculptures. I have kept the +mountain near enough, however, to indicate the great expanse of wild +flowers on the top, which Matilda was so busy gathering. I want to +indicate too the wind up there in the terrestrial paradise, ever and +always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. Walton?"--for the young man, +getting animated, began to talk as if we had known each other for some +time--and here he repeated the purport of Dante's words in English: + + "An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow, + With no more strength than in a soft wind lies, + Smote peacefully against me on the brow. + By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise, + Did every one bend thitherward to where + The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise." + +"I thought you said you did not use translations?" + +"I thought it possible that--Miss Walton (?)" interrogatively +this--"might not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem +pedantic." + +"She won't lag far behind, I flatter myself," I returned. "Whose +translation do you quote?" + +He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly: + +"I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself." + +"It has the merit of being near the original at least," I returned; +"and that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can +possess." + +"Then," the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further +remark upon his verses, "you see those white things in the air above?" +Here he turned to Wynnie. "Miss Walton will remember--I think she was +making a drawing of the rock at the same time I was--how the seagulls, +or some such birds--only two or three of them--kept flitting about the +top of it?" + +"I remember quite well," answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me. + +"Yes," I interposed; "my daughter, in describing what she had been +attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For +she said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to +get loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, +and risen in triumph into the air." + +Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, +looked at Wynnie almost with a start. + +"How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!" he said. +"Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the +free souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind +of purgatory anyhow--is it not, Mr. Walton?" + +"Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work +is--whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious +stones." + +"You see," resumed the painter, "if anybody only glanced at my little +picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, +and began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and +Beatrice on their way to the sphere of the moon." + +"In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of +corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what +group of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the +things of nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?" + +"I am no theologian," said the painter, turning away, I thought +somewhat coldly. + +But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she +thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for +her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my +way of it: here might be something new. + +"If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be +happy," he said, turning again towards me. + +But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I +received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not +wish to make more marked than his own towards my last observation. + +"You are very kind," I said; "but Miss Walton does not presume to be an +artist." + +I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie's countenance. When I turned to +Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had +said something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste +to make amends. + +"We are just going to have some coffee," I said, "for my servants, I +see, have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to +introduce you to Mrs. Walton?" + +"With much pleasure," he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he +spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a +fine-built, black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes +notwithstanding, a rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But +there was an air of suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, +did not in the least interfere with the manliness of his countenance, +or of its expression. + +"But," I said, "how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet +know your name." + +I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr. +Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied, + +"My name is Percivale--Charles Percivale." + +"A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur's Round Table?" + +"I cannot count quite so far back," he answered, "as that--not quite to +the Conquest," he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. +"I do come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale." + +We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves +towards the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and +Wynnie lingering behind. + +"O, do look here papa!" she cried, from some little distance. + +We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet. +Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles, +which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and +passing out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and +not always, I do not know. But there they were--and such colours! deep +rose and grassy green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, +yet brilliant and intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were +of a solid-looking burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on +behind translucent crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth +turning to see; and so I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on +vanishing, one by one. Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and +was nowhere. + +We walked away again towards the rest of our party. + +"Don't you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones +you ever saw, papa?" + +"Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, +God seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal." + +"And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?' she said +interrogatively. + +"Many--perhaps most flowers are," I granted. "And did you ever see such +curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?" + +"I think not--in the cirrhous clouds at least--the frozen ones. But +what are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?" + +"O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end +with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to +answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one +of us should ask you some day." + +"No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my +children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children +should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or +that by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have +found out some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your +catechism, Wynnie. Now for your puzzle!" + +"It's not a funny question, papa; it's a very serious one. I can't +think why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful +things wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be +no more. Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?" + +"In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we +will not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the +more material loveliness of which you have been speaking--though, in +truth, no loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; +it is, I think, because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all +beautiful things vanish quickly." + +"I do not understand you, papa." + +"I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr. +Percivale will excuse me." + +"On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the +answer." + +"Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something +like them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to +love the body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die +continually, that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is +full of beautiful things, but God has saved many men from loving the +mere bodies of them, by making them poor; and more still by reminding +them that if they be as rich as Croesus all their lives, they will be +as poor as Diogenes--poorer, without even a tub--when this world, with +all its pictures, scenery, books, and--alas for some +Christians!--bibles even, shall have vanished away." + +"Why do you say _alas_, papa--if they are Christians especially?" + +"I say _alas_ only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean such +as are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving +themselves any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the +anise and cummin, and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These +worship the body of the truth, and forget the soul of it. If the +flowers were not perishable, we should cease to contemplate their +beauty, either blinded by the passion for hoarding the bodies of them, +or dulled by the hebetude of commonplaceness that the constant presence +of them would occasion. To compare great things with small, the flowers +wither, the bubbles break, the clouds and sunsets pass, for the very +same holy reason, in the degree of its application to them, for which +the Lord withdrew from his disciples and ascended again to his +Father--that the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Soul of things, +might come to them and abide with them, and so the Son return, and the +Father be revealed. The flower is not its loveliness, and its +loveliness we must love, else we shall only treat them as flower-greedy +children, who gather and gather, and fill hands and baskets, from a +mere desire of acquisition, excusable enough in them, but the same in +kind, however harmless in mode, and degree, and object, as the avarice +of the miser. Therefore God, that we may always have them, and ever +learn to love their beauty, and yet more their truth, sends the +beneficent winter that we may think about what we have lost, and +welcome them when they come again with greater tenderness and love, +with clearer eyes to see, and purer hearts to understand, the spirit +that dwells in them. We cannot do without the 'winter of our +discontent.' Shakspere surely saw that when he makes Titania say, in _A +Midsummer Night's Dream_: + + 'The human mortals want their winter here'-- + +namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter +the line seem to have been capable of understanding its import." + +"I think I understand you a little," answered Wynnie. Then, changing +her tone, "I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn't I?" + +"Yes, my child; but with this difference--I found the answer to meet my +own necessities, not yours." + +"And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it." + +"Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you +give away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right +to offer any spiritual dish to his neighbour." + +Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had +presented him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects +by a somewhat stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation +into a farewell, and, either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having +changed his mind, withdrew, a little to my disappointment, for, +notwithstanding his lack of response where some things he said would +have led me to expect it, I had begun to feel much interested in him. + +He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her +digging, with an eager look on her sunny face. + +"Hasn't he got nice boots, papa?" + +"Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I +never saw his boots." + +"I did, then," returned the child; "and I never saw such nice boots." + +"I accept the statement willingly," I replied; and we heard no more of +the boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did I +see himself again for some days--not in fact till next Sunday--though +why he should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, +especially when I knew him better. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE BLACKSMITH. + + +The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. +It was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on the +first to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the +village, I soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have +no doubt, could shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any +greater delicacy of touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I +heard of a young smith who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of +miles distant, but still within the parish. In the afternoon I set out +to find him. To my surprise, he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking +man, with a huge frame, which appeared worn rather than naturally thin, +and large eyes that looked at the anvil as if it was the horizon of the +world. He had got a horse-shoe in his tongs when I entered. +Notwithstanding the fire that glowed on the hearth, and the sparks that +flew like a nimbus in eruption from about his person, the place looked +very dark to me entering from the glorious blaze of the almost noontide +sun, and felt cool after the deep lane through which I had come, and +which had seemed a very reservoir of sunbeams. I could see the smith by +the glow of his horse-shoe; but all between me and the shoe was dark. + +"Good-morning," I said. "It is a good thing to find a man by his work. +I heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the +glow of your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire." + +He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly +as if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip. + +"I don't know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in +weather like this," he answered. + +"If I did not," I returned, "that would be the fault of my weakness, +and would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine +thing to work in fire." + +"Well, you may be right," he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the +horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next +let the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his +head for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. "It does +not much matter to me," he went on, "if I only get through my work and +have done with it. No man shall say I shirked what I'd got to do. And +then when it's over there won't be a word to say agen me, or--" + +He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying +in a somewhat dreary patch, if the word _dreary_ can be truly used with +respect to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor. + +"I hope you are not ill," I said. + +He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam +one of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and +put it on the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it +in the fire, and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. "This man +will do for my work," I said to myself; "though I should not wonder +from the look of him if it was the last piece of work he ever did under +the New Jerusalem." The smith's words broke in on my meditations. + +"When I was a little boy," he said, "I once wanted to stay at home from +school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. +I told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped +her at her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in +the afternoon the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he +asked me what was the matter with me, and my mother answered for me +that I had a bad head, and he looked at me; and as my head was quite +well by this time, I could not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, +I suppose, sir, for I can't account for what he said any other way; and +he turned to me, and he said to me, solemn-like, 'Is your head bad +enough to send you to the Lord Jesus to make you whole?' I could not +speak a word, partly from bashfulness, I suppose, for I was but ten +years old. So he followed it up, as they say: 'Then you ought to be at +school,' says he. I said nothing, because I couldn't. But never since +then have I given in as long as I could stand. And I can stand now, and +lift my hammer, too," he said, as he took the horse-shoe from the +forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a nimbus of coruscating +iron. + +"You are just the man I want," I said. "I've got a job for you, down to +Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts." + +"What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha' thought the +church was all spick and span by this time." + +"I see you know who I am," I said. + +"Of course I do," he answered. "I don't go to church myself, being +brought up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is +known the next day all over it." + +"You won't mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?" I +asked. + +"Not I, sir. If I've read right, it's the fault of the Church that we +don't pull all alongside. You turned us out, sir; we didn't go out of +ourselves. At least, if all they say is true, which I can't be sure of, +you know, in this world." + +"You are quite right there though," I answered. "And in doing so, the +Church had the worst of it--as all that judge and punish their +neighbours have. But you have been the worse for it, too: all of which +is to be laid to the charge of the Church. For there is not one +clergyman I know--mind, I say, that I know--who would have made such a +cruel speech to a boy as that the Methodist parson made to you." + +"But it did me good, sir?" + +"Are you sure of that? I am not. Are you sure, first of all, it did not +make you proud? Are you sure it has not made you work beyond your +strength--I don't mean your strength of arm, for clearly that is all +that could be wished, but of your chest, your lungs? Is there not some +danger of your leaving someone who is dependent on you too soon +unprovided for? Is there not some danger of your having worked as if +God were a hard master?--of your having worked fiercely, indignantly, +as if he wronged you by not caring for you, not understanding you?" + +He returned me no answer, but hammered momently on his anvil. Whether +he felt what I meant, or was offended at my remark, I could not then +tell. I thought it best to conclude the interview with business. + +"I have a delicate little job that wants nice handling, and I fancy you +are just the man to do it to my mind," I said. + +"What is it, sir?" he asked, in a friendly manner enough. + +"If you will excuse me, I would rather show it to you than talk about +it," I returned. + +"As you please, sir. When do you want me?" + +"The first hour you can come." + +"To-morrow morning?" + +"If you feel inclined." + +"For that matter, I'd rather go to bed." + +"Come to me instead: it's light work." + +"I will, sir--at ten o'clock." + +"If you please." + +And so it was arranged. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE LIFE-BOAT. + + +The next day rose glorious. Indeed, early as the sun rose, I saw him +rise--saw him, from the down above the house, over the land to the east +and north, ascend triumphant into his own light, which had prepared the +way for him; while the clouds that hung over the sea glowed out with a +faint flush, as anticipating the hour when the west should clasp the +declining glory in a richer though less dazzling splendour, and shine +out the bride of the bridegroom east, which behold each other from afar +across the intervening world, and never mingle but in the sight of the +eyes. The clear pure light of the morning made me long for the truth in +my heart, which alone could make me pure and clear as the morning, tune +me up to the concert-pitch of the nature around me. And the wind that +blew from the sunrise made me hope in the God who had first breathed +into my nostrils the breath of life, that he would at length so fill me +with his breath, his wind, his spirit, that I should think only his +thoughts and live his life, finding therein my own life, only glorified +infinitely. + +After breakfast and prayers, I would go to the church to await the +arrival of my new acquaintance the smith. In order to obtain entrance, +I had, however, to go to the cottage of the sexton. This was not my +first visit there, so that I may now venture to take my reader with me. +To reach the door, I had to cross a hollow by a bridge, built, for the +sake of the road, over what had once been the course of a rivulet from +the heights above. Now it was a kind of little glen, or what would in +Scotland be called a den, I think, grown with grass and wild flowers +and ferns, some of them, rare and fine. The roof of the cottage came +down to the road, and, until you came quite near, you could not but +wonder where the body that supported this head could be. But you soon +saw that the ground fell suddenly away, leaving a bank against which +the cottage was built. Crossing a garden of the smallest, the principal +flowers of which were the stonecrop on its walls, by a flag-paved path, +you entered the building, and, to your surprise, found yourself, not in +a little cottage kitchen, as you expected, but in a waste-looking +space, that seemed to have forgotten the use for which it had been +built. There was a sort of loft along one side of it, and it was heaped +with indescribable lumber-looking stuff with here and there a hint at +possible machinery. The place had been a mill for grinding corn, and +its wheel had been driven by the stream which had run for ages in the +hollow of which I have already spoken. But when the canal came to be +constructed, the stream had to be turned aside from its former course, +and indeed was now employed upon occasion to feed the canal; so that +the mill of necessity had fallen into disuse and decay. Crossing this +floor, you entered another door, and turning sharp to the left, went +down a few steps of a ladder-sort of stair, and after knocking your hat +against a beam, emerged in the comfortable quaint little cottage +kitchen you had expected earlier. A cheerful though small fire burns in +the grate--for even here the hearth-fire has vanished from the records +of cottage-life--and is pleasant here even in the height of summer, +though it is counted needful only for cooking purposes. The ceiling, +which consists only of the joists and the boards that floor the bedroom +above, is so low, that necessity, if not politeness, would compel you +to take off your already-bruised hat. Some of these joists, you will +find, are made further useful by supporting each a shelf, before which +hangs a little curtain of printed cotton, concealing the few stores and +postponed eatables of the house--forming, in fact, both store-room and +larder of the family. On the walls hang several coloured prints, and +within a deep glazed frame the figure of a ship in full dress, carved +in rather high relief in sycamore. + +As I now entered, Mrs. Coombes rose from a high-backed settle near the +fire, and bade me good-morning with a courtesy. + +"What a lovely day it is, Mrs. Coombes! It is so bright over the sea," +I said, going to the one little window which looked out on the great +Atlantic, "that one almost expects a great merchant navy to come +sailing into Kilkhaven--sunk to the water's edge with silks, and ivory, +and spices, and apes, and peacocks, like the ships of Solomon that we +read about--just as the sun gets up to the noonstead." + +Before I record her answer, I turn to my reader, who in the spirit +accompanies me, and have a little talk with him. I always make it a +rule to speak freely with the less as with the more educated of my +friends. I never _talk down_ to them, except I be expressly explaining +something to them. The law of the world is as the law of the family. +Those children grow much the faster who hear all that is going on in +the house. Reaching ever above themselves, they arrive at an +understanding at fifteen, which, in the usual way of things, they would +not reach before five-and-twenty or thirty; and this in a natural way, +and without any necessary priggishness, except such as may belong to +their parents. Therefore I always spoke to the poor and uneducated as +to my own people,--freely, not much caring whether I should be quite +understood or not; for I believed in influences not to be measured by +the measure of the understanding. + +But what was the old woman's answer? It was this: + +"I know, sir. And when I was as young as you"--I was not so very young, +my reader may well think--"I thought like that about the sea myself. +Everything come from the sea. For my boy Willie he du bring me home the +beautifullest parrot and the talkingest you ever see, and the red shawl +all worked over with flowers: I'll show it to you some day, sir, when +you have time. He made that ship you see in the frame there, sir, all +with his own knife, out on a bit o' wood that he got at the Marishes, +as they calls it, sir--a bit of an island somewheres in the great sea. +But the parrot's gone dead like the rest of them, sir.--Where am I? and +what am I talking about?" she added, looking down at her knitting as if +she had dropped a stitch, or rather as if she had forgotten what she +was making, and therefore what was to come next. + +"You were telling me how you used to think of the sea--" + +"When I was as young as you. I remember, sir. Well, that lasted a long +time--lasted till my third boy fell asleep in the wide water; for it du +call it falling asleep, don't it, sir?" + +"The Bible certainly does," I answered. + +"It's the Bible I be meaning, of course," she returned. "Well, after +that, but I don't know what began it, only I did begin to think about +the sea as something that took away things and didn't bring them no +more. And somehow or other she never look so blue after that, and she +give me the shivers. But now, sir, she always looks to me like one o' +the shining ones that come to fetch the pilgrims. You've heard tell of +the _Pilgrim's Progress_, I daresay, sir, among the poor people; for +they du say it was written by a tinker, though there be a power o' good +things in it that I think the gentlefolk would like if they knowed it." + +"I do know the book--nearly as well as I know the Bible," I answered; +"and the shining ones are very beautiful in it. I am glad you can think +of the sea that way." + +"It's looking in at the window all day as I go about the house," she +answered, "and all night too when I'm asleep; and if I hadn't learned +to think of it that way, it would have driven me mad, I du believe. I +was forced to think that way about it, or not think at all. And that +wouldn't be easy, with the sound of it in your ears the last thing at +night and the first thing in the morning." + +"The truth of things is indeed the only refuge from the look of +things," I replied. "But now I want the key of the church, if you will +trust me with it, for I have something to do there this morning; and +the key of the tower as well, if you please." + +With her old smile, ripened only by age, she reached the ponderous keys +from the nail where they hung, and gave them into my hand. I left her +in the shadow of her dwelling, and stepped forth into the sunlight. The +first thing I observed was the blacksmith waiting for me at the church +door. + +Now that I saw him in the full light of day, and now that he wore his +morning face upon which the blackness of labour had not yet gathered, I +could see more plainly how far he was from well. There was a flush on +his thin cheek by which the less used exercise of walking revealed his +inward weakness, and the light in his eyes had something of the +far-country in them--"the light that never was on sea or shore." But +his speech was cheerful, for he had been walking in the light of this +world, and that had done something to make the light within him shine a +little more freely. + +"How do you find yourself to-day?" I asked. + +"Quite well, sir, I thank you," he answered. "A day like this does a +man good. But," he added, and his countenance fell, "the heart knoweth +its own bitterness." + +"It may know it too much," I returned, "just because it refuses to let +a stranger intermeddle therewith." + +He made no reply. I turned the key in the great lock, and the +iron-studded oak opened and let us into the solemn gloom. + +It did not require many minutes to make the man understand what I +wanted of him. + +"We must begin at the bells and work down," he said. + +So we went up into the tower, where, with the help of a candle I +fetched for him from the cottage, he made a good many minute +measurements; found that carpenter's work was necessary for the +adjustment of the hammers and cranks and the leading of the rods, +undertook the management of the whole, and in the course of an hour and +a half went home to do what had to be done before any fixing could be +commenced, assuring me that he had no doubt of bringing the job to a +satisfactory conclusion, although the force of the blow on the bell +would doubtless have to be regulated afterwards by repeated trials. + +"In a fortnight, I hope you will be able to play a tune to the parish, +sir," he added, as he took his leave. + +I resolved, if possible, to know more of the man, and find out his +trouble, if haply I might be able to give him any comfort, for I was +all but certain that there was a deeper cause for his gloom than the +state of his health. + +When he was gone I stood with the key of the church in my hand, and +looked about me. Nature at least was in glorious health--sunshine in +her eyes, light fantastic cloud-images passing through her brain, her +breath coming and going in soft breezes perfumed with the scents of +meadows and wild flowers, and her green robe shining in the motions of +her gladness. I turned to lock the church door, though in my heart I +greatly disapproved of locking the doors of churches, and only did so +now because it was not my church, and I had no business to force my +opinions upon other customs. But when I turned I received a kind of +questioning shock. There was the fallen world, as men call it, shining +in glory and gladness, because God was there; here was the way into the +lost Paradise, yea, the door into an infinitely higher Eden than that +ever had or ever could have been, iron-clamped and riveted, gloomy and +low-browed like the entrance to a sepulchre, and surrounded with the +grim heads of grotesque monsters of the deep. What did it mean? Here +was contrast enough to require harmonising, or if that might not be, +then accounting for. Perhaps it was enough to say that although God +made both the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of grace, yet the +symbol of the latter was the work of man, and might not altogether +correspond to God's idea of the matter. I turned away thoughtful, and +went through the churchyard with my eye on the graves. + +As I left the churchyard, still looking to the earth, the sound of +voices reached my ear. I looked up. There, down below me, at the foot +of the high bank on which I stood, lay a gorgeous shining thing upon +the bosom of the canal, full of men, and surrounded by men, women, and +children, delighting in its beauty. I had never seen such a thing +before, but I knew at once, as by instinct, which of course it could +not have been, that it was the life-boat. But in its gorgeous colours, +red and white and green, it looked more like the galley that bore +Cleopatra to Actium. Nor, floating so light on the top of the water, +and broad in the beam withal, curved upward and ornamented at stern and +stem, did it look at all like a creature formed to battle with the +fierce elements. A pleasure-boat for floating between river banks it +seemed, drawn by swans mayhap, and regarded in its course by fair eyes +from green terrace-walks, or oriel windows of ancient houses on verdant +lawns. Ten men sat on the thwarts, and one in the stern by the yet +useless rudder, while men and boys drew the showy thing by a rope +downward to the lock-gates. The men in the boat, wore blue jerseys, but +you could see little of the colour for strange unshapely things that +they wore above them, like an armour cut out of a row of organ pipes. +They were their cork-jackets; for every man had to be made into a +life-boat himself. I descended the bank, and stood on the edge of the +canal as it drew near. Then I saw that every oar was loosely but firmly +fastened to the rowlock, so that it could be dropped and caught again +in a moment; and that the gay sides of the unwieldy-looking creature +were festooned with ropes from the gunwale, for the men to lay hold of +when she capsized, for the earlier custom of fastening the men to their +seats had been quite given up, because their weight under the water +might prevent the boat from righting itself again, and the men could +not come to the surface. Now they had a better chance in their freedom, +though why they should not be loosely attached to the boat, I do not +quite see. + +They towed the shining thing through the upper gate of the lock, and +slowly she sank from my sight, and for some moments was no more to be +seen, for I had remained standing where first she passed me. All at +once there she was beyond the covert of the lock-head, abroad and free, +fleeting from the strokes of ten swift oars over the still waters of +the bay towards the waves that roared further out where the +ground-swell was broken by the rise of the sandy coast. There was no +vessel in danger now, as the talk of the spectators informed me; it was +only for exercise and show that they went out. It seemed all child's +play for a time; but when they got among the broken waves, then it +looked quite another thing. The motion of the waters laid hold upon +her, and soon tossed her fearfully, now revealing the whole of her +capacity on the near side of one of their slopes, now hiding her whole +bulk in one of their hollows beyond. She, careless as a child in the +troubles of the world, floated about amongst them with what appeared +too much buoyancy for the promise of a safe return. Again and again she +was driven from her course towards the low rocks on the other side of +the bay, and again and again, returned to disport herself, like a +sea-animal, as it seemed, upon the backs of the wild, rolling, and +bursting billows. + +"Can she go no further?" I asked of the captain of the coastguard, whom +I found standing by my side. + +"Not without some danger," he answered. + +"What, then, must it be in a storm!" I remarked. + +"Then of course," he returned, "they must take their chance. But there +is no good in running risks for nothing. That swell is quite enough for +exercise." + +"But is it enough to accustom them to face the danger that will come?" +I asked. + +"With danger comes courage," said the old sailor. + +"Were you ever afraid?" + +"No, sir. I don't think I ever was afraid. Yes, I believe I was once +for one moment, no more, when I fell from the maintop-gallant yard, and +felt myself falling. But it was soon over, for I only fell into the +maintop. I was expecting the smash on deck when I was brought up there. +But," he resumed, "I don't care much about the life-boat. My rockets +are worth a good deal more, as you may see, sir, before the winter is +over; for seldom does a winter pass without at least two or three +wrecks close by here on this coast. The full force of the Atlantic +breaks here, sir. I _have_ seen a life-boat--not that one--_she's_ done +nothing yet--pitched stern over stem; not capsized, you know, sir, in +the ordinary way, but struck by a wave behind while she was just +hanging in the balance on the knife-edge of a wave, and flung a +somerset, as I say, stern over stem, and four of her men lost." + +While we spoke I saw on the pier-head the tall figure of the painter +looking earnestly at the boat. I thought he was regarding it chiefly +from an artistic point of view, but I became aware before long that +that would not have been consistent with the character of Charles +Percivale. He had been, I learned afterwards, a crack oarsman at +Oxford, and had belonged to the University boat, so that he had some +almost class-sympathy with the doings of the crew. + +In a little while the boat sped swiftly back, entered the lock, was +lifted above the level of the storm-heaved ocean, and floated up the +smooth canal calmly as if she had never known what trouble was. Away up +to the pretty little Tudor-fashioned house in which she lay--one could +almost fancy dreaming of storms to come--she went, as softly as if +moved only by her "own sweet will," in the calm consolation for her +imprisonment of having tried her strength, and found therein good hope +of success for the time when she should rush to the rescue of men from +that to which, as a monster that begets monsters, she a watching +Perseis, lay ready to offer battle. The poor little boat lying in her +little house watching the ocean, was something signified in my eyes, +and not less so after what came in the course of changing seasons and +gathered storms. + +All this time I had the keys in my hand, and now went back to the +cottage to restore them to their place upon the wall. When I entered +there was a young woman of a sweet interesting countenance talking to +Mrs. Coombes. Now as it happened, I had never yet seen the daughter who +lived with her, and thought this was she. + +"I've found your daughter at last then?" I said, approaching them. + +"Not yet, sir. She goes out to work, and her hands be pretty full at +present. But this be almost my daughter, sir," she added. "This is my +next daughter, Mary Trehern, from the south. She's got a place near by, +to be near her mother that is to be, that's me." + +Mary was hanging her head and blushing, as the old woman spoke. + +"I understand," I said. "And when are you going to get your new mother, +Mary? Soon I hope." + +But she gave me no reply--only hung her head lower and blushed deeper. + +Mrs. Coombes spoke for her. + +"She's shy, you see, sir. But if she was to speak her mind, she would +ask you whether you wouldn't marry her and Willie when he comes home +from his next voyage." + +Mary's hands were trembling now, and she turned half away. + +"With all my heart," I said. + +The girl tried to turn towards me, but could not. I looked at her face +a little more closely. Through all its tremor, there was a look of +constancy that greatly pleased me. I tried to make her speak. + +"When do you expect Willie home?" I said. + +She made a little gasp and murmur, but no articulate words came. + +"Don't be frightened, Mary," said her mother, as I found she always +called her. "The gentleman won't be sharp with you." + +She lifted a pair of soft brown eyes with one glance and a smile, and +then sank them again. + +"He'll be home in about a month, we think," answered the mother. "She's +a good ship he's aboard of, and makes good voyages." + +"It is time to think about the bans, then," I said. + +"If you please, sir," said the mother. + +"Just come to me about it, and I will attend to it--when you think +proper." + +I thought I could hear a murmured "Thank you, sir," from the girl, but +I could not be certain that she spoke. I shook hands with them, and +went for a stroll on the other side of the bay. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +MR. PERCIVALE. + + +When I reached home I found that Connie was already on her watch-tower. +For while I was away, they had carried her out that she might see the +life-boat. I followed her, and found the whole family about her couch, +and with them Mr. Percivale, who was showing her some sketches that he +had made in the neighbourhood. Connie knew nothing of drawing; but she +seemed to me always to catch the feeling of a thing. Her remarks +therefore were generally worth listening to, and Mr. Percivale was +evidently interested in them. Wynnie stood behind Connie, looking over +her shoulder at the drawing in her hand. + +"How do you get that shade of green?" I heard her ask as I came up. + +And then Mr. Percivale proceeded to tell her; from which beginning they +went on to other things, till Mr. Percivale said-- + +"But it is hardly fair, Miss Walton; to criticise my work while you +keep your own under cover." + +"I wasn't criticising, Mr. Percivale; was I, Connie?" + +"I didn't hear her make a single remark, Mr. Percivale," said Connie, +taking her sister's side. + +To my surprise they were talking away with the young man as if they had +known him for years, and my wife was seated at the foot of the couch, +apparently taking no exception to the suddenness of the intimacy. I am +afraid, when I think of it, that a good many springs would be missing +from the world's history if they might not flow till the papas gave +their wise consideration to everything about the course they were to +take. + +"I think, though," added Connie, "it is only fair that Mr. Percivale +_should_ see your work, Wynnie." + +"Then I will fetch my portfolio, if Mr. Percivale will promise to +remember that I have no opinion of it. At the same time, if I could do +what I wanted to do, I think I should not be ashamed of showing my +drawings even to him." + +And now I was surprised to find how like grown women my daughters could +talk. To me they always spoke like the children they were; but when I +heard them now it seemed as if they had started all at once into ladies +experienced in the ways of society. There they were chatting lightly, +airily, and yet decidedly, a slight tone of badinage interwoven, with a +young man of grace and dignity, whom they had only seen once before, +and who had advanced no farther, with Connie at least, than a stately +bow. They had, however, been a whole hour together before I arrived, +and their mother had been with them all the while, which gives great +courage to good girls, while, I am told, it shuts the mouths of those +who are sly. But then it must be remembered that there are as great +differences in mothers as in girls. And besides, I believe wise girls +have an instinct about men that all the experience of other men cannot +overtake. But yet again, there are many girls foolish enough to mistake +a mere impulse for instinct, and vanity for insight. + +As Wynnie spoke, she turned and went back to the house to fetch some of +her work. Now, had she been going a message for me, she would have gone +like the wind; but on this occasion she stepped along in a stately +manner, far from devoid of grace, but equally free from frolic or +eagerness. And I could not help noting as well that Mr. Percivale's +eyes followed her. What I felt or fancied is of no consequence to +anybody. I do not think, even if I were writing an autobiography, I +should be forced to tell _all_ about myself. But an autobiography is +further from my fancy, however much I may have trenched upon its +limits, than any other form of literature with which I am acquainted. + +She was not long in returning, however, though she came back with the +same dignified motion. + +"There is nothing really worth either showing or concealing," she said +to Mr. Percivale, as she handed him the portfolio, to help himself, as +it were. She then turned away, as if a little feeling of shyness had +come over her, and began to look for something to do about Connie. I +could see that, although she had hitherto been almost indifferent about +the merit of her drawings, she had a new-born wish that they might not +appear altogether contemptible in the eyes of Mr. Percivale. And I saw, +too, that Connie's wide eyes were taking in everything. It was +wonderful how Connie's deprivations had made her keen in observing. Now +she hastened to her sister's rescue even from such a slight +inconvenience as the shadow of embarrassment in which she found +herself--perhaps from having seen some unusual expression in my face, +of which I was unconscious, though conscious enough of what might have +occasioned such. + +"Give me your hand, Wynnie," said Connie, "and help me to move one inch +further on my side.--I may move just that much on my side, mayn't I, +papa?" + +"I think you had better not, my dear, if you can do without it," I +answered; for the doctor's injunctions had been strong. + +"Very well, papa; but I feel as if it would do me good." + +"Mr. Turner will be here next week, you know; and you must try to stick +to his rules till he comes to see you. Perhaps he will let you relax a +little." + +Connie smiled very sweetly and lay still, while Wynnie stood holding +her hand. + +Meantime Mr. Percivale, having received the drawings, had walked away +with them towards what they called the storm tower--a little building +standing square to the points of the compass, from little windows, in +which the coastguard could see with their telescopes along the coast on +both sides and far out to sea. This tower stood on the very edge of the +cliff, but behind it there was a steep descent, to reach which +apparently he went round the tower and disappeared. He evidently wanted +to make a leisurely examination of the drawings--somewhat formidable +for Wynnie, I thought. At the same time, it impressed me favourably +with regard to the young man that he was not inclined to pay a set of +stupid and untrue compliments the instant the portfolio was opened, +but, on the contrary, in order to speak what was real about them, would +take the trouble to make himself in some adequate measure acquainted +with them. I therefore, to Wynnie's relief, I fear, strolled after him, +seeing no harm in taking a peep at his person, while he was taking a +peep at my daughter's mind. I went round the tower to the other side, +and there saw him at a little distance below me, but further out on a +great rock that overhung the sea, connected with the cliff by a long +narrow isthmus, a few yards lower than the cliff itself, only just +broad enough to admit of a footpath along its top, and on one side +going sheer down with a smooth hard rock-face to the sands below. The +other side was less steep, and had some grass upon it. But the path was +too narrow, and the precipice too steep, for me to trust my head with +the business of guiding my feet along it. So I stood and saw him from +the mainland--saw his head at least bent over the drawings; saw how +slowly he turned from one to the other; saw how, after having gone over +them once, he turned to the beginning and went over them again, even +more slowly than before; saw how he turned the third time to the first. +Then, getting tired, I went back to the group on the down; caught sight +of Charlie and Harry turning heels over head down the slope toward the +house; found that my wife had gone home--in fact, that only Connie and +Wynnie were left. The sun had disappeared under a cloud, and the sea +had turned a little slaty; the yellow flowers in the short down-grass +no longer caught the eye with their gold, and the wind that bent their +tops had just the suspicion of an edge in it. And Wynnie's face looked +a little cloudy too, I thought, and I feared that it was my fault. I +fancied there was just a tinge of beseeching in Connie's eye, as I +looked at her, thinking there might be danger for her in the +sunlessness of the wind. But I do not know that all this, even the +clouding of the sun, may not have come out of my own mind, the result +of my not being quite satisfied with myself because of the mood I had +been in. My feeling had altered considerably in the mean time. + +"Run, Wynnie, and ask Mr. Percivale, with my compliments, to come and +lunch with us," I said--more to let her see I was not displeased, +however I might have looked, than for any other reason. She +went--sedately as before. + +Almost as soon as she was gone, I saw that I had put her in a +difficulty. For I had discovered, very soon after coming into these +parts, that her head was no more steady than my own on high places, for +she up had never been used to such in our own level country, except, +indeed, on the stair that led down to the old quarry and the well, +where, I can remember now, she always laid her hand on the balustrade +with some degree of tremor, although she had been in the way of going +up and down from childhood. But if she could not cross that narrow and +really dangerous isthmus, still less could she call to a man she had +never seen but once, across the intervening chasm. I therefore set off +after her, leaving Connie lying there in loneliness, between the sea +and the sky. But when I got to the other side of the little tower, +instead of finding her standing hesitating on the brink of action, +there she was on the rock beyond. Mr. Percivale had risen, and was +evidently giving an answer to my invitation; at least, the next moment +she turned to come back, and he followed. I stood trembling almost to +see her cross the knife-back of that ledge. If I had not been almost +fascinated, I should have turned and left them to come together, lest +the evil fancy should cross her mind that I was watching them, for it +was one thing to watch him with her drawings, and quite another to +watch him with herself. But I stood and stared as she crossed. In the +middle of the path, however--up to which point she had been walking +with perfect steadiness and composure--she lifted her eyes--by what +influence I cannot tell--saw me, looked as if she saw ghost, half +lifted her arms, swayed as if she would fall, and, indeed, was falling +over the precipice when Percivale, who was close behind her caught her +in his arms, almost too late for both of them. So nearly down was she +already, that her weight bent him over the rocky side, till it seemed +as if he must yield, or his body snap. For he bent from the waist, and +looked as if his feet only kept a hold on the ground. It was all over +in a moment, but in that moment it made a sun-picture on my brain, +which returns, ever and again, with such vivid agony that I cannot hope +to get rid of it till I get rid of the brain itself in which lies the +impress. In another moment they were at my side--she with a wan, +terrified smile, he in a ruddy alarm. I was unable to speak, and could +only, with trembling steps, lead the way from the dreadful spot. I +reproached myself afterwards for my want of faith in God; but I had not +had time to correct myself yet. Without a word on their side either, +they followed me. Before we reached Connie, I recovered myself +sufficiently to say, "Not a word to Connie," and they understood me. I +told Wynnie to run to the house, and send Walter to help me to carry +Connie home. She went, and, until Walter came, I talked to Mr. +Percivale as if nothing had happened. And what made me feel yet more +friendly towards him was, that he did not do as some young men wishing +to ingratiate themselves would have done: he did not offer to help me +to carry Connie home. I saw that the offer rose in his mind, and that +he repressed it. He understood that I must consider such a permission +as a privilege not to be accorded to the acquaintance of a day; that I +must know him better before I could allow the weight of my child to +rest on his strength. I was even grateful to him for this knowledge of +human nature. But he responded cordially to my invitation to lunch with +us, and walked by my side as Walter and I bore the precious burden home. + +During our meal, he made himself quite agreeable; talked well on the +topics of the day, not altogether as a man who had made up his mind, +but not the less, rather the more, as a man who had thought about them, +and one who did not find it so easy to come to a conclusion as most +people do--or possibly as not feeling the necessity of coming to a +conclusion, and therefore preferring to allow the conclusion to grow +instead of constructing one for immediate use. This I rather liked than +otherwise. His behaviour, I need hardly say, after what I have told of +him already, was entirely that of a gentleman; and his education was +good. But what I did not like was, that as often as the conversation +made a bend in the direction of religious matters, he was sure to bend +it away in some other direction as soon as ever he laid his next hold +upon it. This, however, might have various reasons to account for it, +and I would wait. + +After lunch, as we rose from the table, he took Wynnie's portfolio from +the side-table where he had laid it, and with no more than a bow and +thanks returned it to her. She, I thought, looked a little +disappointed, though she said as lightly as she could: + +"I am afraid you have not found anything worthy of criticism in my poor +attempts, Mr. Percivale?" + +"On the contrary, I shall be most happy to tell you what I think of +them if you would like to hear the impression they have made upon me," +he replied, holding out his hand to take the portfolio again. + +"I shall be greatly obliged to you," she said, returning it, "for I +have had no one to help me since I left school, except a book called +_Modern Painters_, which I think has the most beautiful things in it I +ever read, but which I lay down every now and then with a kind of +despair, as if I never could do anything worth doing. How long the next +volume is in coming! Do you know the author, Mr. Percivale?" + +"I wish I did. He has given me much help. I do not say I can agree with +everything he writes; but when I do not, I have such a respect for him +that I always feel as if he must be right whether he seems to me to be +right or not. And if he is severe, it is with the severity of love that +will speak only the truth." + +This last speech fell on my ear like the tone of a church bell. "That +will do, my friend," thought I. But I said nothing to interrupt. + +By this time he had laid the portfolio open on the side-table, and +placed a chair in front of it for my daughter. Then seating himself by +her side, but without the least approach to familiarity, he began to +talk to her about her drawings, praising, in general, the feeling, but +finding fault with the want of nicety in the execution--at least so it +appeared to me from what I could understand of the conversation. + +"But," said my daughter, "it seems to me that if you get the feeling +right, that is the main thing." + +"No doubt," returned Mr. Percivale; "so much the main thing that any +imperfection or coarseness or untruth which interferes with it becomes +of the greatest consequence." + +"But can it really interfere with the feeling?" + +"Perhaps not with most people, simply because most people observe so +badly that their recollections of nature are all blurred and blotted +and indistinct, and therefore the imperfections we are speaking of do +not affect them. But with the more cultivated it is otherwise. It is +for them you ought to work, for you do not thereby lose the others. +Besides, the feeling is always intensified by the finish, for that +belongs to the feeling too, and must, I should think, have some +influence even where it is not noted." + +"But is it not a hopeless thing to attempt the finish of nature?" + +"Not at all; to the degree, that is, in which you can represent +anything else of nature. But in this drawing now you have no +representative of, nothing to hint at or recall the feeling of the +exquisiteness of nature's finish. Why should you not at least have +drawn a true horizon-line there? Has the absolute truth of the meeting +of sea and sky nothing to do with the feeling which such a landscape +produces? I should have thought you would have learned that, if +anything, from Mr. Ruskin." + +Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or +despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or +rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was +anything but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was +doing his best to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess +I was not altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just +uncover my sin, and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. +The negative reason was that I had not yet learned to love him. The +only cure for jealousy is love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie's +behaving so childishly. Her face flushed, the tears came in her eyes, +and she rose, saying, with a little choke in her voice-- + +"I see it's no use trying. I won't intrude any more into things I am +incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me +how presumptuous I have been." + +The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not +attempt to answer her. Indeed she gave him no time. He could only +spring after her to open the door for her. A more than respectful bow +as she left the room was his only adieu. But when he turned his face +again towards me, it expressed even a degree of consternation. + +"I fear," he said, approaching me with an almost military step, much at +variance with the shadow upon his countenance, "I fear I have been rude +to Miss Walton, but nothing was farther--" + +"You mistake entirely, Mr. Percivale. I heard all you were saying, and +you were not in the least rude. On the contrary, I consider you were +very kind to take the trouble with her you did. Allow me to make the +apology for my daughter which I am sure she will wish made when she +recovers from the disappointment of finding more obstacles in the way +of her favourite pursuit than she had previously supposed. She is only +too ready to lose heart, and she paid too little attention to your +approbation and too much--in proportion, I mean--to your--criticism. +She felt discouraged and lost her temper, but more with herself and her +poor attempts, I venture to assure you, than with your remarks upon +them. She is too much given to despising her own efforts." + +"But I must have been to blame if I caused any such feeling with regard +to those drawings, for I assure you they contain great promise." + +"I am glad you think so. That I should myself be of the same opinion +can be of no consequence." + +"Miss Walton at least sees what ought to be represented. All she needs +is greater severity in the quality of representation. And that would +have grown without any remark from onlookers. Only a friendly criticism +is sometimes a great help. It opens the eyes a little sooner than they +would have opened of themselves. And time," he added, with a half sigh +and with an appeal in his tone, as if he would justify himself to my +conscience, "is half the battle in this world. It is over so soon." + +"No sooner than it ought to be," I rejoined. + +"So it may appear to you," he returned; "for you, I presume to +conjecture, have worked hard and done much. I may or may not have +worked hard--sometimes I think I have, sometimes I think I have +not--but I certainly have done little. Here I am nearly thirty, and +have made no mark on the world yet." + +"I don't know that that is of so much consequence," I said. "I have +never hoped for more than to rub out a few of the marks already made." + +"Perhaps you are right," he returned. "Every man has something he can +do, and more, I suppose, that he can't do. But I have no right to turn +a visit into a visitation. Will you please tell Miss Walton that I am +very sorry I presumed on the privileges of a drawing-master, and gave +her pain. It was so far from my intention that it will be a lesson to +me for the future." + +With these words he took his leave, and I could not help being greatly +pleased both with them and with his bearing. He was clearly anything +but a common man. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SHADOW OP DEATH. + + +When Wynnie appeared at dinner she looked ashamed of herself, and her +face betrayed that she had been crying. But I said nothing, for I had +confidence that all she needed was time to come to herself, that the +voice that speaks louder than any thunder might make its stillness +heard. And when I came home from my walk the next morning I found Mr. +Percivale once more in the group about Connie, and evidently on the +best possible terms with all. The same afternoon Wynnie went out +sketching with Dora. I had no doubt that she had made some sort of +apology to Mr. Percivale; but I did not make the slightest attempt to +discover what had passed between them, for though it is of all things +desirable that children should be quite open with their parents, I was +most anxious to lay upon them no burden of obligation. For such burden +lies against the door of utterance, and makes it the more difficult to +open. It paralyses the speech of the soul. What I desired was that they +should trust me so that faith should overcome all difficulty that might +lie in the way of their being open with me. That end is not to be +gained by any urging of admonition. Against such, growing years at +least, if nothing else, will bring a strong reaction. Nor even, if so +gained would the gain be at all of the right sort. The openness would +not be faith. Besides, a parent must respect the spiritual person of +his child, and approach it with reverence, for that too looks the +Father in the face, and has an audience with him into which no earthly +parent can enter even if he dared to desire it. Therefore I trusted my +child. And when I saw that she looked at me a little shyly when we next +met, I only sought to show her the more tenderness and confidence, +telling her all about my plans with the bells, and my talks with the +smith and Mrs. Coombes. She listened with just such interest as I had +always been accustomed to see in her, asking such questions, and making +such remarks as I might have expected, but I still felt that there was +the thread of a little uneasiness through the web of our +intercourse,--such a thread of a false colour as one may sometimes find +wandering through the labour of the loom, and seek with pains to draw +from the woven stuff. But it was for Wynnie to take it out, not for me. +And she did not leave it long. For as she bade me good-night in my +study, she said suddenly, yet with hesitating openness, + +"Papa, I told Mr. Percivale that I was sorry I had behaved so badly +about the drawings." + +"You did right, my child," I replied. At the same moment a pang of +anxiety passed through me lest under the influence of her repentance +she should have said anything more than becoming. But I banished the +doubt instantly as faithlessness in the womanly instincts of my child. +For we men are always so ready and anxious to keep women right, like +the wretched creature, Laertes, in _Hamlet_, who reads his sister such +a lesson on her maidenly duties, but declines almost with contempt to +listen to a word from her as to any co-relative obligation on his side! + +And here I may remark in regard to one of the vexed questions of the +day--the rights of women--that what women demand it is not for men to +withhold. It is not their business to lay the law for women. That women +must lay down for themselves. I confess that, although I must herein +seem to many of my readers old-fashioned and conservative, I should not +like to see any woman I cared much for either in parliament or in an +anatomical class-room; but on the other hand I feel that women must be +left free to settle that matter. If it is not good, good women will +find it out and recoil from it. If it is good then God give them good +speed. One thing they _have_ a right to--a far wider and more valuable +education than they have been in the way of receiving. When the mothers +are well taught the generations will grow in knowledge at a fourfold +rate. But still the teaching of life is better than all the schools, +and common sense than all learning. This common sense is a rare gift, +scantier in none than in those who lay claim to it on the ground of +following commonplace, worldly, and prudential maxims. But I must +return to my Wynnie. + +"And what did Mr. Percivale say?" I resumed, for she was silent. + +"He took the blame all on himself, papa." + +"Like a gentleman," I said. + +"But I could not leave it so, you know, papa, because that was not the +truth." + +"Well?" + +"I told him that I had lost my temper from disappointment; that I had +thought I did not care for my drawings because I was so far from +satisfied with them, but when he made me feel that they were worth +nothing, then I found from the vexation I felt that I had cared for +them. But I do think, papa, I was more ashamed of having shown them, +and vexed with myself, than cross with him. But I was very silly." + +"Well, and what did he say?" + +"He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of +that, for what could he do?" + +"You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least." + +"Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much." + +"He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution of +your efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching +apparatus this afternoon." + +"Yes," she answered shyly. "He was so kind that somehow I got heart to +try again. He's very nice, isn't he?" + +My answer was not quite ready. + +"Don't you like him, papa?" + +"Well--I like him--yes. But we must not be in haste with our judgments, +you know. I have had very little opportunity of seeing into him. There +is much in him that I like, but--" + +"But what? please, papa." + +"To tell the truth then, Wynnie, for I can speak my mind to you, my +child, there is a certain shyness of approaching the subject of +religion; so that I have my fears lest he should belong to any of these +new schools of a fragmentary philosophy which acknowledge no source of +truth but the testimony of the senses and the deductions made therefrom +by the intellect." + +"But is not that a hasty conclusion, papa?" + +"That is a hasty question, my dear. I have come to no conclusion. I was +only speaking confidentially about my fears." + +"Perhaps, papa, it's only that he's not sure enough, and is afraid of +appearing to profess more than he believes. I'm sure, if that's it, I +have the greatest sympathy with him." + +I looked at her, and saw the tears gathering fast in her eyes. + +"Pray to God on the chance of his hearing you, my darling, and go to +sleep," I said. "I will not think hardly of you because you cannot be +so sure as I am. How could you be? You have not had my experience. +Perhaps you are right about Mr. Percivale too. But it would be an +awkward thing to get intimate with him, you know, and then find out +that we did not like him after all. You couldn't like a man much, could +you, who did not believe in anything greater than himself, anything +marvellous, grand, beyond our understanding--who thought that he had +come out of the dirt and was going back to the dirt?" + +"I could, papa, if he tried to do his duty notwithstanding--for I'm +sure I couldn't. I should cry myself to death." + +"You are right, my child. I should honour him too. But I should be very +sorry for him. For he would be so disappointed in himself." + +I do not know whether this was the best answer to make, but I had +little time to think. + +"But you don't know that he's like that." + +"I do not, my dear. And more, I will not associate the idea with him +till I know for certain. We will leave it to ignorant old ladies who +lay claim to an instinct for theology to jump at conclusions, and +reserve ours--as even such a man as we have been supposing might well +teach us--till we have sufficient facts from which to draw them. Now go +to bed, my child." + +"Good-night then, dear papa," she said, and left me with a kiss. + +I was not altogether comfortable after this conversation. I had tried +to be fair to the young man both in word and thought, but I could not +relish the idea of my daughter falling in love with him, which looked +likely enough, before I knew more about him, and found that _more_ good +and hope-giving. There was but one rational thing left to do, and that +was to cast my care on him that careth for us--on the Father who loved +my child more than even I could love her--and loved the young man too, +and regarded my anxiety, and would take its cause upon himself. After I +had lifted up my heart to him I was at ease, read a canto of Dante's +_Paradise_, and then went to bed. The prematurity of a conversation +with my wife, in which I found that she was very favourably impressed +with Mr. Percivale, must be pardoned to the forecasting hearts of +fathers and mothers. + +As I went out for my walk the next morning, I caught sight of the +sexton, with whom as yet I had had but little communication, busily +trimming some of the newer graves in the churchyard. I turned in +through the nearer gate, which was fashioned like a lych-gate, with +seats on the sides and a stone table in the centre, but had no roof. +The one on the other side of the church was roofed, but probably they +had found that here no roof could resist the sea-blasts in winter. The +top of the wall where the roof should have rested, was simply covered +with flat slates to protect it from the rain. + +"Good-morning, Coombes," I said. + +He turned up a wizened, humorous old face, the very type of a +gravedigger's, and with one hand leaning on the edge of the green +mound, upon which he had been cropping with a pair of shears the too +long and too thin grass, touched his cap with the other, and bade me a +cheerful good-morning in return. + +"You're making things tidy," I said. + +"It take time to make them all comfortable, you see, sir," he returned, +taking up his shears again and clipping away at the top and sides of +the mound. + +"You mean the dead, Coombes?" + +"Yes, sir; to be sure, sir." + +"You don't think it makes much difference to their comfort, do you, +whether the grass is one length or another upon their graves?" + +"Well no, sir. I don't suppose it makes _much_ difference to them. But +it look more comfortable, you know. And I like things to look +comfortable. Don't you, sir?" + +"To be sure I do, Coombes. And you are quite right. The resting-place +of the body, although the person it belonged to be far away, should be +respected." + +"That's what I think, though I don't get no credit for it. I du believe +the people hereabouts thinks me only a single hair better than a Jack +Ketch. But I'm sure I du my best to make the poor things comfortable." + +He seemed unable to rid his mind of the idea that the comfort of the +departed was dependent upon his ministrations. + +"The trouble I have with them sometimes! There's now this same one as +lies here, old Jonathan Giles. He have the gout so bad! and just as I +come within a couple o' inches o' the right depth, out come the edge of +a great stone in the near corner at the foot of the bed. Thinks I, +he'll never lie comfortable with that same under his gouty toe. But the +trouble I had to get out that stone! I du assure you, sir, it took me +nigh half the day.--But this be one of the nicest places to lie in all +up and down the coast--a nice gravelly soil, you see, sir; dry, and +warm, and comfortable. Them poor things as comes out of the sea must +quite enjoy the change, sir." + +There was something grotesque in the man's persistence in regarding the +objects of his interest from this point of view. It was a curious way +for the humanity that was in him to find expression; but I did not like +to let him go on thus. It was so much opposed to all that I believed +and felt about the change from this world to the next! + +"But, Coombes," I said, "why will you go on talking as if it made an +atom of difference to the dead bodies where they were buried? They care +no more about it than your old coat would care where it was thrown +after you had done with it." + +He turned and regarded his coat where it hung beside him on the +headstone of the same grave at which he was working, shook his head +with a smile that seemed to hint a doubt whether the said old coat +would be altogether so indifferent to its treatment when, it was past +use as I had implied. Then he turned again to his work, and after a +moment's silence began to approach me from another side. I confess he +had the better of me before I was aware of what he was about. + +"The church of Boscastle stands high on the cliff. You've been to +Boscastle, sir?" + +I told him I had not yet, but hoped to go before the summer was over. + +"Ah, you should see Boscastle, sir. It's a wonderful place. That's +where I was born, sir. When I was a by that church was haunted, sir. +It's a damp place, and the wind in it awful. I du believe it stand +higher than any church in the country, and have got more wind in it of +a stormy night than any church whatsomever. Well, they said it was +haunted; and sure enough every now and then there was a knocking heard +down below. And this always took place of a stormy night, as if there +was some poor thing down in the low wouts (_vaults_), and he wasn't +comfortable and wanted to get out. Well, one night it was so plain and +so fearful it was that the sexton he went and took the blacksmith and a +ship's carpenter down to the harbour, and they go up together, and they +hearken all over the floor, and they open one of the old family wouts +that belongs to the Penhaligans, and they go down with a light. Now the +wind it was a-blowing all as usual, only worse than common. And there +to be sure what do they see but the wout half-full of sea-water, and +nows and thens a great spout coming in through a hole in the rock; for +it was high-water and a wind off the sea, as I tell you. And there was +a coffin afloat on the water, and every time the spout come through, it +set it knocking agen the side o' the wout, and that was the ghost." + +"What a horrible idea!" I said, with a half-shudder at the unrest of +the dead. + +The old man uttered a queer long-drawn sound,--neither a chuckle, a +crow, nor a laugh, but a mixture of all three,--and turned himself yet +again to the work which, as he approached the end of his narration, he +had suspended, that he might make his story _tell_, I suppose, by +looking me in the face. And as he turned he said, "I thought you would +like to be comfortable then as well as other people, sir." + +I could not help laughing to see how the cunning old fellow had caught +me. I have not yet been able to find out how much of truth there was in +his story. From the twinkle of his eye I cannot help suspecting that if +he did not invent the tale, he embellished it, at least, in order to +produce the effect which he certainly did produce. Humour was clearly +his predominant disposition, the reflex of which was to be seen, after +a mild lunar fashion, on the countenance of his wife. Neither could I +help thinking with pleasure, as I turned away, how the merry little old +man would enjoy telling his companions how he had posed the new parson. +Very welcome was he to his laugh for my part. Yet I gladly left the +churchyard, with its sunshine above and its darkness below. Indeed I +had to look up to the glittering vanes on the four pinnacles of the +church-tower, dwelling aloft in the clean sunny air, to get the feeling +of the dark vault, and the floating coffin, and the knocking heard in +the windy church, out of my brain. But the thing that did free me was +the reflection with what supreme disregard the disincarcerated spirit +would look upon any possible vicissitudes of its abandoned vault. For +in proportion as the body of man's revelation ceases to be in harmony +with the spirit that dwells therein, it becomes a vault, a prison, from +which it must be freedom to escape at length. The house we like best +would be a prison of awful sort if doors and windows were built up. +Man's abode, as age begins to draw nigh, fares thus. Age is in fact the +mason that builds up the doors and the windows, and death is the angel +that breaks the prison-house and lets the captives free. Thus I got +something out of the sexton's horrible story. + +But before the week was over, death came near indeed--in far other +fashion than any funereal tale could have brought it. + +One day, after lunch, I had retired to my study, and was dozing in my +chair, for the day was hot, when I was waked by Charlie rushing into +the room with the cry, "Papa, papa, there's a man drowning." + +I started up, and hurried down to the drawing-room, which looked out +over the bay. I could see nothing but people running about on the edge +of the quiet waves. No sign of human being was on--the water. But the +one boat belonging to the pilot was coming out from the shelter of the +lock of the canal where it usually lay, and my friend of the coastguard +was running down from the tower on the cliff with ropes in his hand. He +would not stop the boat even for the moment it would need to take him +on board, but threw them in and urged to haste. I stood at the window +and watched. Every now and then I fancied I saw something white heaved +up on the swell of a wave, and as often was satisfied that I had but +fancied it. The boat seemed to be floating about lazily, if not idly. +The eagerness to help made it appear as if nothing was going on. Could +it, after all, have been a false alarm? Was there, after all, no +insensible form swinging about in the sweep of those waves, with life +gradually oozing away? Long, long as it seemed to me, I watched, and +still the boat kept moving from place to place, so far out that I could +see nothing distinctly of the motions of its crew. At length I saw +something. Yes; a long white thing rose from the water slowly, and was +drawn into the boat. It rowed swiftly to the shore. There was but one +place fit to land upon,--a little patch of sand, nearly covered at +high-water, but now lying yellow in the sun, under the window at which +I stood, and immediately under our garden-wall. Thither the boat shot +along; and there my friend of the coastguard, earnest and sad, was +waiting to use, though without hope, every appliance so well known to +him from the frequent occurrence of such necessity in the course of his +watchful duties along miles and miles of stormy coast. + +I will not linger over the sad details of vain endeavour. The honoured +head of a family, he had departed and left a good name behind him. But +even in the midst of my poor attentions to the quiet, speechless, +pale-faced wife, who sat at the head of the corpse, I could not help +feeling anxious about the effect on my Connie. It was impossible to +keep the matter concealed from her. The undoubted concern on the faces +of the two boys was enough to reveal that something serious and painful +had occurred; while my wife and Wynnie, and indeed the whole household, +were busy in attending to every remotest suggestion of aid that reached +them from the little crowd gathered about the body. At length it was +concluded, on the verdict of the medical man who had been sent for, +that all further effort was useless. The body was borne away, and I led +the poor lady to her lodging, and remained there with her till I found +that, as she lay on the sofa, the sleep that so often dogs the steps of +sorrow had at length thrown its veil over her consciousness, and put +her for the time to rest. There is a gentle consolation in the firmness +of the grasp of the inevitable, known but to those who are led through +the valley of the shadow. I left her with her son and daughter, and +returned to my own family. They too were of course in the skirts of the +cloud. Had they only heard of the occurrence, it would have had little +effect; but death had appeared to them. Everyone but Connie had seen +the dead lying there; and before the day was over, I wished that she +too had seen the dead. For I found from what she said at intervals, and +from the shudder that now and then passed through her, that her +imagination was at work, showing but the horrors that belong to death; +for the enfolding peace that accompanies it can be known but by sight +of the dead. When I spoke to her, she seemed, and I suppose for the +time felt tolerably quiet and comfortable; but I could see that the +words she had heard fall in the going and coming, and the +communications of Charlie and Harry to each other, had made as it were +an excoriation on her fancy, to which her consciousness was ever +returning. And now I became more grateful than I had yet been for the +gift of that gipsy-child. For I felt no anxiety about Connie so long as +she was with her. The presence even of her mother could not relieve +her, for she and Wynnie were both clouded with the same awe, and its +reflex in Connie was distorted by her fancy. But the sweet ignorance of +the baby, which rightly considered is more than a type or symbol of +faith, operated most healingly; for she appeared in her sweet merry +ways--no baby was ever more filled with the mere gladness of life than +Connie's baby--to the mood in which they all were, like a little sunny +window in a cathedral crypt, telling of a whole universe of sunshine +and motion beyond those oppressed pillars and low-groined arches. And +why should not the baby know best? I believe the babies do know best. I +therefore favoured her having the child more than I might otherwise +have thought good for her, being anxious to get the dreary, unhealthy +impression healed as soon as possible, lest it should, in the delicate +physical condition in which she was, turn to a sore. + +But my wife suffered for a time nearly as much as Connie. As long as +she was going about the house or attending to the wants of her family, +she was free; but no sooner did she lay her head on the pillow than in +rushed the cry of the sea, fierce, unkind, craving like a wild beast. +Again and again she spoke of it to me, for it came to her mingled with +the voice of the tempter, saying, "_Cruel chance_," over and over +again. For although the two words contradict each other when put +together thus, each in its turn would assert itself. + +A great part of the doubt in the world comes from the fact that there +are in it so many more of the impressible as compared with the +originating minds. Where the openness to impression is balanced by the +power of production, the painful questions of the world are speedily +met by their answers; where such is not the case, there are often long +periods of suffering till the child-answer of truth is brought to the +birth. Hence the need for every impressible mind to be, by reading or +speech, held in living association with an original mind able to combat +those suggestions of doubt and even unbelief, which the look of things +must often occasion--a look which comes from our inability to gain +other than fragmentary visions of the work that the Father worketh +hitherto. When the kingdom of heaven is at hand, one sign thereof will +be that all clergymen will be more or less of the latter sort, and mere +receptive goodness, no more than education and moral character, will be +considered sufficient reason for a man's occupying the high position of +an instructor of his fellows. But even now this possession of original +power is not by any means to be limited to those who make public show +of the same. In many a humble parish priest it shows itself at the +bedside of the suffering, or in the admonition of the closet, although +as yet there are many of the clergy who, so far from being able to +console wisely, are incapable of understanding the condition of those +that need consolation. + +"It is all a fancy, my dear," I said to her. "There is nothing more +terrible in this than in any other death. On the contrary, I can hardly +imagine a less fearful one. A big wave falls on the man's head and +stuns him, and without further suffering he floats gently out on the +sea of the unknown." + +"But it is so terrible for those left behind!" + +"Had you seen the face of his widow, so gentle, so loving, so resigned +in its pallor, you would not have thought it so _terrible_." + +But though she always seemed satisfied, and no doubt felt nearly so, +after any conversation of the sort, yet every night she would call out +once and again, "O, that sea, out there!" I was very glad indeed when +Mr. Turner, who had arranged to spend a short holiday with us, arrived. + +He was concerned at the news I gave him of the shock both Connie and +her mother had received, and counselled an immediate change, that time +might, in the absence of surrounding associations, obliterate something +of the impression that had been made. The consequence was, that we +resolved to remove our household, for a short time, to some place not +too far off to permit of my attending to my duties at Kilkhaven, but +out of the sight and sound of the sea. It was Thursday when Mr. Turner +arrived, and he spent the next two days in inquiring and looking about +for a suitable spot to which we might repair as early in the week as +possible. + +On the Saturday the blacksmith was busy in the church-tower, and I went +in to see how he was getting on. + +"You had a sad business here the last week, sir," he said, after we had +done talking about the repairs. + +"A very sad business indeed," I answered. + +"It was a warning to us all," he said. + +"We may well take it so," I returned. "But it seems to me that we are +too ready to think of such remarkable things only by themselves, +instead of being roused by them to regard everything, common and +uncommon, as ordered by the same care and wisdom." + +"One of our local preachers made a grand use of it." + +I made no reply. He resumed. + +"They tell me you took no notice of it last Sunday, sir." + +"I made no immediate allusion to it, certainly. But I preached under +the influence of it. And I thought it better that those who could +reflect on the matter should be thus led to think for themselves than +that they should be subjected to the reception of my thoughts and +feelings about it; for in the main it is life and not death that we +have to preach." + +"I don't quite understand you, sir. But then you don't care much for +preaching in your church." + +"I confess," I answered, "that there has been much indifference on that +point. I could, however, mention to you many and grand exceptions. +Still there is, even in some of the best in the church, a great amount +of disbelief in the efficacy of preaching. And I allow that a great +deal of what is called preaching, partakes of its nature only in the +remotest degree. But, while I hold a strong opinion of its value--that +is, where it is genuine--I venture just to suggest that the nature of +the preaching to which the body you belong to has resorted, has had +something to do, by way of a reaction, in driving the church to the +other extreme." + +"How do you mean that, sir?" + +"You try to work upon people's feelings without reference to their +judgment. Anyone who can preach what you call rousing sermons is +considered a grand preacher amongst you, and there is a great danger of +his being led thereby to talk more nonsense than sense. And then when +the excitement goes off, there is no seed left in the soil to grow in +peace, and they are always craving after more excitement." + +"Well, there is the preacher to rouse them up again." + +"And the consequence is that they continue like children--the good +ones, I mean--and have hardly a chance of making a calm, deliberate +choice of that which is good; while those who have been only excited +and nothing more, are hardened and seared by the recurrence of such +feeling as is neither aroused by truth nor followed by action." + +"You daren't talk like that if you knew the kind of people in this +country that the Methodists, as you call them, have got a hold of. They +tell me it was like hell itself down in those mines before Wesley come +among them." + +"I should be a fool or a bigot to doubt that the Wesleyans have done +incalculable good in the country. And that not alone to the people who +never went to church. The whole Church of England is under obligations +to Methodism such as no words can overstate." + +"I wonder you can say such things against them, then." + +"Now there you show the evil of thinking too much about the party you +belong to. It makes a man touchy; and then he fancies when another is +merely, it may be, analysing a difference, or insisting strongly on +some great truth, that he is talking against his party." + +"But you said, sir, that our clergy don't care about moving our +judgments, only our feelings. Now I know preachers amongst us of whom +that would be anything but true." + +"Of course there must be. But there is what I say--your party-feeling +makes you touchy. A man can't always be saying in the press of +utterance, '_Of course there are exceptions_.' That is understood. I +confess I do not know much about your clergy, for I have not had the +opportunity. But I do know this, that some of the best and most liberal +people I have ever known have belonged to your community." + +"They do gather a deal of money for good purposes." + +"Yes. But that was not what I meant by _liberal_. It is far easier to +give money than to be generous in judgment. I meant by _liberal_, able +to see the good and true in people that differ from you--glad to be +roused to the reception of truth in God's name from whatever quarter it +may come, and not readily finding offence where a remark may have +chanced to be too sweeping or unguarded. But I see that I ought to be +more careful, for I have made you, who certainly are not one of the +quarrelsome people I have been speaking of, misunderstand me." + +"I beg your pardon, sir. I was hasty. But I do think I am more ready to +lose my temper since--" + +Here he stopped. A fit of coughing came on, and, to my concern, was +followed by what I saw plainly could be the result only of a rupture in +the lungs. I insisted on his dropping his work and coming home with me, +where I made him rest the remainder of the day and all Sunday, sending +word to his mother that I could not let him go home. When we left on +the Monday morning, we took him with us in the carriage hired for the +journey, and set him down at his mother's, apparently no worse than +usual. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AT THE FARM. + + +Leaving the younger members of the family at home with the servants, we +set out for a farmhouse, some twenty miles off, which Turner had +discovered for us. Connie had stood the journey down so well, and was +now so much stronger, that we had no anxiety about her so far as +regarded the travelling. Through deep lanes with many cottages, and +here and there a very ugly little chapel, over steep hills, up which +Turner and Wynnie and I walked, and along sterile moors we drove, +stopping at roadside inns, and often besides to raise Connie and let +her look about upon the extended prospect, so that it was drawing +towards evening before we arrived at our destination. On the way Turner +had warned us that we were not to expect a beautiful country, although +the place was within reach of much that was remarkable. Therefore we +were not surprised when we drew up at the door of a bare-looking, +shelterless house, with scarcely a tree in sight, and a stretch of +undulating fields on every side. + +"A dreary place in winter, Turner," I said, after we had seen Connie +comfortably deposited in the nice white-curtained parlour, smelling of +dried roses even in the height of the fresh ones, and had strolled out +while our tea--dinner was being got ready for us. + +"Not a doubt of it; but just the place I wanted for Miss Connie," he +replied. "We are high above the sea, and the air is very bracing, and +not, at this season, too cold. A month later I should not on any +account have brought her here." + +"I think even now there is a certain freshness in the wind that calls +up a kind of will in the nerves to meet it." + +"That is precisely what I wanted for you all. You observe there is no +rasp in its touch, however. There are regions in this island of ours +where even in the hottest day in summer you would frequently discover a +certain unfriendly edge in the air, that would set you wondering +whether the seasons had not changed since you were a boy, and used to +lie on the grass half the idle day." + +"I often do wonder whether it may not be so, but I always come to the +conclusion that even this is but an example of the involuntary tendency +of the mind of man towards the ideal. He forgets all that comes between +and divides the hints of perfection scattered here and there along the +scope of his experience. I especially remember one summer day in my +childhood, which has coloured all my ideas of summer and bliss and +fulfilment of content. It is made up of only mossy grass, and the scent +of the earth and wild flowers, and hot sun, and perfect sky--deep and +blue, and traversed by blinding white clouds. I could not have been +more than five or six, I think, from the kind of dress I wore, the very +pearl buttons of which, encircled on their face with a ring of +half-spherical hollows, have their undeniable relation in my memory to +the heavens and the earth, to the march of the glorious clouds, and the +tender scent of the rooted flowers; and, indeed, when I think of it, +must, by the delight they gave me, have opened my mind the more to the +enjoyment of the eternal paradise around me. What a thing it is to +please a child!" + +"I know what you mean perfectly," answered Turner. "It is as I get +older that I understand what Wordsworth says about childhood. It is +indeed a mercy that we were not born grown men, with what we consider +our wits about us. They are blinding things those wits we gather. I +fancy that the single thread by which God sometimes keeps hold of a man +is such an impression of his childhood as that of which you have been +speaking." + +"I do not doubt it; for conscience is so near in all those memories to +which you refer. The whole surrounding of them is so at variance with +sin! A sense of purity, not in himself, for the child is not feeling +that he is pure, is all about him; and when afterwards the condition +returns upon him,--returns when he is conscious of so much that is evil +and so much that is unsatisfied in him,--it brings with it a longing +after the high clear air of moral well-being." + +"Do you think, then, that it is only by association that nature thus +impresses us? that she has no power of meaning these things?" + +"Not at all. No doubt there is something in the recollection of the +associations of childhood to strengthen the power of nature upon us; +but the power is in nature herself, else it would be but a poor weak +thing to what it is. There _is_ purity and state in that sky. There +_is_ a peace now in this wide still earth--not so very beautiful, you +own--and in that overhanging blue, which my heart cries out that it +needs and cannot be well till it gains--gains in the truth, gains in +God, who is the power of truth, the living and causing truth. There is +indeed a rest that remaineth, a rest pictured out even here this night, +to rouse my dull heart to desire it and follow after it, a rest that +consists in thinking the thoughts of Him who is the Peace because the +Unity, in being filled with that spirit which now pictures itself forth +in this repose of the heavens and the earth." + +"True," said Turner, after a pause. "I must think more about such +things. The science the present day is going wild about will not give +us that rest." + +"No; but that rest will do much to give you that science. A man with +this repose in his heart will do more by far, other capabilities being +equal, to find out the laws that govern things. For all law is living +rest." + +"What you have been saying," resumed Turner, after another pause, +"reminds me much of one of Wordsworth's poems. I do not mean the famous +ode." + +"You mean the 'Ninth Evening Voluntary,' I know--one of his finest and +truest and deepest poems. It begins, 'Had this effulgence disappeared.'" + +"Yes, that is the one I mean. I shall read it again when I go home. But +you don't agree with Wordsworth, do you, about our having had an +existence previous to this?" + +He gave a little laugh as he asked the question. + +"Not in the least. But an opinion held by such men as Plato, Origen, +and Wordsworth, is not to be laughed at, Mr. Turner. It cannot be in +its nature absurd. I might have mentioned Shelley as holding it, too, +had his opinion been worth anything." + +"Then you don't think much of Shelley?" + +"I think his _feeling_ most valuable; his _opinion_ nearly worthless." + +"Well, perhaps I had no business to laugh, at it; but--" + +"Do not suppose for a moment that I even lean to it. I dislike it. It +would make me unhappy to think there was the least of sound argument +for it. But I respect the men who have held it, and know there must be +_something_ good in it, else they could not have held it." + +"Are you able then to sympathise with that ode of Wordsworth's? Does it +not depend for all its worth on the admission of this theory?" + +"Not in the least. Is it necessary to admit that we must have had a +conscious life before this life to find meaning in the words,-- + + 'But trailing clouds of glory do we come + From God who is our home'? + +Is not all the good in us his image? Imperfect and sinful as we are, is +not all the foundation of our being his image? Is not the sin all ours, +and the life in us all God's? We cannot be the creatures of God without +partaking of his nature. Every motion of our conscience, every +admiration of what is pure and noble, is a sign and a result of this. +Is not every self-accusation a proof of the presence of his spirit? +That comes not of ourselves--that is not without him. These are the +clouds of glory we come trailing from him. All feelings of beauty and +peace and loveliness and right and goodness, we trail with us from our +home. God is the only home of the human soul. To interpret in this +manner what Wordsworth says, will enable us to enter into perfect +sympathy with all that grandest of his poems. I do not say this is what +he meant; but I think it includes what he meant by being greater and +wider than what he meant. Nor am I guilty of presumption in saying so, +for surely the idea that we are born of God is a greater idea than that +we have lived with him a life before this life. But Wordsworth is not +the first among our religious poets to give us at least what is +valuable in the notion. I came upon a volume amongst my friend +Shepherd's books, with which I had made no acquaintance before--Henry +Vaughan's poems. I brought it with me, for it has finer lines, I almost +think, than any in George Herbert, though not so fine poems by any +means as his best. When we go into the house I will read one of them to +you." + +"Thank you," said Turner. "I wish I could have such talk once a week. +The shades of the prison-house, you know, Mr. Walton, are always trying +to close about us, and shut out the vision of the glories we have come +from, as Wordsworth says." + +"A man," I answered, "who ministers to the miserable necessities of his +fellows has even more need than another to believe in the light and the +gladness--else a poor Job's comforter will he be. _I_ don't want to be +treated like a musical snuff-box." + +The doctor laughed. + +"No man can _prove_," he said, "that there is not a being inside the +snuff-box, existing in virtue of the harmony of its parts, comfortable +when they go well, sick when they go badly, and dying when it is +dismembered, or even when it stops." + +"No," I answered. "No man can prove it. But no man can convince a human +being of it. And just as little can anyone convince me that my +conscience, making me do sometimes what I _don't_ like, comes from a +harmonious action of the particles of my brain. But it is time we went +in, for by the law of things in general, I being ready for my dinner, +my dinner ought to be ready for me." + +"A law with more exceptions than instances, I fear," said Turner. + +"I doubt that," I answered. "The readiness is everything, and that we +constantly blunder in. But we had better see whether we are really +ready for it, by trying whether it is ready for us." + +Connie went to bed early, as indeed we all did, and she was rather +better than worse the next morning. My wife, for the first time for +many nights, said nothing about the crying of the sea. The following +day Turner and I set out to explore the neighbourhood. The rest +remained quietly at home. + +It was, as I have said, a high bare country. The fields lay side by +side, parted from each other chiefly, as so often in Scotland, by stone +walls; and these stones being of a laminated nature, the walls were not +unfrequently built by laying thin plates on their edges, which gave a +neatness to them not found in other parts of the country as far as I am +aware. In the middle of the fields came here and there patches of yet +unreclaimed moorland. + +Now in a region like this, beauty must be looked for below the surface. +There is a probability of finding hollows of repose, sunken spots of +loveliness, hidden away altogether from the general aspect of +sternness, or perhaps sterility, that meets the eye in glancing over +the outspread landscape; just as in the natures of stern men you may +expect to find, if opportunity should be afforded you, sunny spots of +tender verdure, kept ever green by that very sternness which is turned +towards the common gaze--thus existent because they are below the +surface, and not laid bare to the sweep of the cold winds that roam the +world. How often have not men started with amaze at the discovery of +some feminine sweetness, some grace of protection in the man whom they +had judged cold and hard and rugged, inaccessible to the more genial +influences of humanity! It may be that such men are only fighting +against the wind, and keep their hearts open to the sun. + +I knew this; and when Turner and I set out that morning to explore, I +expected to light upon some instance of it--some mine or other in which +nature had hidden away rare jewels; but I was not prepared to find such +as I did find. With our hearts full of a glad secret we returned home, +but we said nothing about it, in order that Ethelwyn and Wynnie might +enjoy the discovery even as we had enjoyed it. + +There was another grand fact with regard to the neighbourhood about +which we judged it better to be silent for a few days, that the inland +influences might be free to work. We were considerably nearer the ocean +than my wife and daughters supposed, for we had made a great round in +order to arrive from the land-side. We were, however, out of the sound +of its waves, which broke all along the shore, in this part, at the +foot of tremendous cliffs. What cliffs they were we shall soon find. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE KEEVE. + + +"Now, my dear! now, Wynnie!" I said, after prayers the next morning, +"you must come out for a walk as soon as ever you can get your bonnets +on." + +"But we can't leave Connie, papa," objected Wynnie. + +"O, yes, you can, quite well. There's nursie to look after her. What do +you say, Connie?" + +For, for some time now, Connie had been able to get up so early, that +it was no unusual thing to have prayers in her room. + +"I am entirely independent of help from my family," returned Connie +grandiloquently. "I am a woman of independent means," she added. "If +you say another word, I will rise and leave the room." + +And she made a movement as if she would actually do as she had said. +Seized with an involuntary terror, I rushed towards her, and the +impertinent girl burst out laughing in my face--threw herself back on +her pillows, and laughed delightedly. + +"Take care, papa," she said. "I carry a terrible club for rebellious +people." Then, her mood changing, she added, as if to suppress the +tears gathering in her eyes, "I am the queen--of luxury and +self-will--and I won't have anybody come near me till dinner-time. I +mean to enjoy myself." + +So the matter was settled, and we went out for our walk. Ethelwyn was +not such a good walker as she had been; but even if she had retained +the strength of her youth, we should not have got on much the better +for it--so often did she and Wynnie stop to grub ferns out of the +chinks and roots of the stone-walls. Now, I admire ferns as much as +anybody--that is, not, I fear, so much as my wife and daughter, but +quite enough notwithstanding--but I do not quite enjoy being pulled up +like a fern at every turn. + +"Now, my dear, what is the use of stopping to torture that harmless +vegetable?" I say, but say in vain. "It is much more beautiful where it +is than it will be anywhere where you can put it. Besides, you know +they never come to anything with you. They _always_ die." + +Thereupon my wife reminds me of this fern and that fern, gathered in +such and such places, and now in such and such corners of the garden or +the greenhouse, or under glass-shades in this or that room, of the very +existence of which I am ignorant, whether from original inattention, or +merely from forgetfulness, I do not know. Certainly, out of their own +place I do not care much for them. + +At length, partly by the inducement I held out to them of a much +greater variety of ferns where we were bound, I succeeded in getting +them over the two miles in little more than two hours. After passing +from the lanes into the fields, our way led downwards till we reached a +very steep large slope, with a delightful southern exposure, and +covered with the sweetest down-grasses. It was just the place to lie +in, as on the edge of the earth, and look abroad upon the universe of +air and floating worlds. + +"Let us have a rest here, Ethel," I said. "I am sure this is much more +delightful than uprooting ferns. What an awful thing to think that here +we are on this great round tumbling ball of a world, held by the feet, +and lifting up the head into infinite space--without choice or wish of +our own--compelled to think and to be, whether we will or not! Just God +must know it to be very good, or he would not have taken it in his +hands to make individual lives without a possible will of theirs. He +must be our Father, or we are wretched creatures--the slaves of a fatal +necessity! Did it ever strike you, Turner, that each one of us stands +on the apex of the world? With a sphere, you know, it must be so. And +thus is typified, as it seems to me, that each one of us must look up +for himself to find God, and then look abroad to find his fellows." + +"I think I know what you mean," was all Turner's reply. + +"No doubt," I resumed, "the apprehension of this truth has, in +otherwise ill-ordered minds, given rise to all sorts of fierce and +grotesque fanaticism. But the minds which have thus conceived the +truth, would have been immeasurably worse without it; nay, this truth +affords at last the only possible door out of the miseries of their own +chaos, whether inherited or the result of their own misconduct." + +"What's that in the grass?" cried Wynnie, in a tone of alarm. + +I looked where she indicated, and saw a slow-worm, or blind-worm, lying +basking in the sun. I rose and went towards it. + +"Here's your stick," said Turner. + +"What for?" I asked. "Why should I kill it? It is perfectly harmless, +and, to my mind, beautiful." + +I took it in my hands, and brought it to my wife. She gave an +involuntary shudder as it came near her. + +"I assure you it is harmless," I said, "though it has a forked tongue." +And I opened its mouth as I spoke. "I do not think the serpent form is +essentially ugly." + +"It makes me feel ugly," said Wynnie. + +"I allow I do not quite understand the mystery of it," I said. "But you +never saw lovelier ornamentation than these silvery scales, with all +the neatness of what you ladies call a set pattern, and none of the +stiffness, for there are not two of them the same in form. And you +never saw lovelier curves than this little patient creature, which does +not even try to get away from me, makes with the queer long thin body +of him." + +"I wonder how it can look after its tail, it is so far off," said +Wynnie. + +"It does though--better than you ladies look after your long dresses. I +wonder whether it is descended from creatures that once had feet, and +did not make a good use of them. Perhaps they had wings even, and would +not use them at all, and so lost them. Its ancestors may have had +poison-fangs; it is innocent enough. But it is a terrible thing to be +all feet, is it not? There is an awful significance in the condemnation +of the serpent--'On thy belly shalt thou go, and eat dust.' But it is +better to talk of beautiful things. _My_ soul at least has dropped from +its world apex. Let us go on. Come, wife. Come, Turner." + +They did not seem willing to rise. But the glen drew me. I rose, and my +wife followed my example with the help of my hand. She returned to the +subject, however, as we descended the slope. + +"Is it possible that in the course of ever so many ages wings and feet +should be both lost?" she said. + +"The most presumptuous thing in the world is to pronounce on the +possible and the impossible. I do not know what is possible and what is +impossible. I can only tell a little of what is true and what is +untrue. But I do say this, that between the condition of many decent +members of society and that for the sake of which God made them, there +is a gulf quite as vast as that between a serpent and a bird. I get +peeps now and then into the condition of my own heart, which, for the +moment, make it seem impossible that I should ever rise into a true +state of nature--that is, into the simplicity of God's will concerning +me. The only hope for ourselves and for others lies in him--in the +power the creating spirit has over the spirits he has made." + +By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and +slippery to admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We +turned, therefore, down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was +but a narrow cleft, and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which +we now saw the tops of trees, and from which we heard the rush of +water. Nor had we gone far in this direction before we came upon a gate +in a stone wall, which led into what seemed a neglected garden. We +entered, and found a path turning and winding, among small trees, and +luxuriant ferns, and great stones, and fragments of ruins down towards +the bottom of the chasm. The noise of falling water increased as we +went on, and at length, after some scrambling and several sharp turns, +we found ourselves with a nearly precipitous wall on each side, clothed +with shrubs and ivy, and creeping things of the vegetable world. Up +this cleft there was no advance. The head of it was a precipice down +which shot the stream from the vale above, pouring out of a deep slit +it had itself cut in the rock as with a knife. Halfway down, it tumbled +into a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing from a chasm in its +side, which left part of the lip of the basin standing like the arch of +a vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, whence it crept as +if half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the ravine. It was +a perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen such a +picturesque fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in effect. +The ladies were full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual reserve, +broke out in frantic exclamations of delight. + +We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the +precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of +force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with +an expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as if +sheer to the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself +brought up boiling and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered +hope of experience. Then we turned down the stream a little way, +crossed it by a plank, and stood again to regard it from the opposite +side. Small as the whole affair was--not more than about a hundred and +fifty feet in height--it was so full of variety that I saw it was all +my memory could do, if it carried away anything like a correct picture +of its aspect. I was contemplating it fixedly, when a little stifled +cry from Wynnie made me start and look round. Her face was flushed, yet +she was trying to look unconcerned. + +"I thought we were quite alone, papa," she said; "but I see a gentleman +sketching." + +I looked whither she indicated. A little way down, the bed of the +ravine widened considerably, and was no doubt filled with water in +rainy weather. Now it was swampy--full of reeds and willow bushes. But +on the opposite side of the stream, with a little canal from it going +all around it, lay a great flat rectangular stone, not more than a foot +above the level of the water, and upon a camp-stool in the centre of +this stone sat a gentleman sketching. I had no doubt that Wynnie had +recognised him at once. And I was annoyed, and indeed angry, to think +that Mr. Percivale had followed us here. But while I regarded him, he +looked up, rose very quietly, and, with his pencil in his hand, came +towards us. With no nearer approach to familiarity than a bow, and no +expression of either much pleasure or any surprise, he said-- + +"I have seen your party for some time, Mr. Walton--since you crossed +the stream; but I would not break in upon your enjoyment with the +surprise which my presence here must cause you." + +I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with +truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my +suspicion-- + +"I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the +pleasure of seeing you." + +This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing +himself. And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement; +for I could not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be +guilty of such a white lie as many a gentleman would have thought +justifiable on the occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little +stiff, for presently he said-- + +"If you will excuse me, I will return to my work." + +Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy +during the interview. + +"It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with +you--capable of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any +moment." + +"To tell the truth," he answered, "I am a little ashamed of being found +sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies. +But it is a change." + +"It is very beautiful here," I said, in a tone of contravention. + +"It is very pretty," he answered--"very lovely, if you will--not very +beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger regard. +Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this place +was fanciful--the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in her +large serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only +pretty, about which boys and guardsmen will rave--to me not very +interesting, save for its single lines." + +"Why, then, do you sketch the place?" + +"A very fair question," he returned, with a smile. "Just because it is +soothing from the very absence of beauty. I would far rather, however, +if I were only following my taste, take the barest bit of the moor +above, with a streak of the cold sky over it. That gives room." + +"You would like to put a skylark in it, wouldn't you?" + +"That I would if I knew how. I see you know what I mean. But the mere +romantic I never had much taste for; though if you saw the kind of +pictures I try to paint, you would not wonder that I take sketches of +places like this, while in my heart of hearts I do not care much for +them. They are so different, and just _therefore_ they are good for me. +I am not working now; I am only playing." + +"With a view to working better afterwards, I have no doubt," I answered. + +"You are right there, I hope," was his quiet reply, as he turned and +walked back to the island. + +He had not made a step towards joining us. He had only taken his hat +off to the ladies. He was gaining ground upon me rapidly. + +"Have you quarrelled with our new friend, Harry?" said my wife, as I +came up to her. + +She was sitting on a stone. Turner and Wynnie were farther off towards +the foot of the fall. + +"Not in the least," I answered, slightly outraged--I did not at first +know why--by the question. "He is only gone to his work, which is a +duty belonging both to the first and second tables of the law." + +"I hope you have asked him to come home to our early dinner, then," she +rejoined. + +"I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him." + +Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help +soon reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on +a visit to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near +enough, held out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in +a moment. After the usual greetings, which on her part, although very +quiet, like every motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial +and kind, she said, "When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might +I ask you to allow some friends of mine to call at your studio, and see +your paintings?" + +"With all my heart," answered Percivale. "I must warn you, however, +that I have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away +less happy than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures +twice." + +"I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour," +answered my wife. + +Percivale bowed--one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly +liked. + +"Any friend of yours--that is guarantee sufficient," he answered. + +There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid, +that you had not a doubt of its being genuine. + +"Will you come and take an early dinner with us?" said my wife. "My +invalid daughter will be very pleased to see you." + +"I will with pleasure," he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation, +as he glanced from Ethelwyn to me. + +"My wife speaks for us all," I said. "It will give us all pleasure." + +"I am only afraid it will break in upon your morning's work," remarked +Ethelwyn. + +"O, that is not of the least consequence," he rejoined. "In fact, as I +have just been saying to Mr. Walton, I am not working at all at +present. This is pure recreation." + +As he spoke he turned towards his easel, and began hastily to bundle up +his things. + +"We're not quite ready to go yet," said my wife, loath to leave the +lovely spot. "What a curious flat stone this is!" she added. + +"It is," said Percivale. "The man to whom the place belongs, a worthy +yeoman of the old school, says that this wider part of the channel must +have been the fish-pond, and that the portly monks stood on this stone +and fished in the pond." + +"Then was there a monastery here?" I asked. + +"Certainly. The ruins of the chapel, one of the smallest, are on the +top, just above the fall--rather a fearful place to look down from. I +wonder you did not observe them as you came. They say it had a silver +bell in the days of its glory, which now lies in a deep hole under the +basin, half-way between the top and bottom of the fall. But the old man +says that nothing will make him look, or let anyone else lift the huge +stone; for he is much better pleased to believe that it may be there, +than he would be to know it was not there; for certainly, if it were +found, it would not be left there long." + +As he spoke Percivale had continued packing his gear. He now led our +party up to the chapel, and thence down a few yards to the edge of the +chasm, where the water fell headlong. I turned away with that fear of +high places which is one of my many weaknesses; and when I turned again +towards the spot, there was Wynnie on the very edge, looking over into +the flash and tumult of the water below, but with a nervous grasp of +the hand of Percivale, who stood a little farther back. + +In going home, the painter led us by an easier way out of the valley, +left his little easel and other things at a cottage, and then walked on +in front between my wife and daughter, while Turner and I followed. He +seemed quite at his ease with them, and plenty of talk and laughter +rose on the way. I, however, was chiefly occupied with finding out +Turner's impression of Connie's condition. + +"She is certainly better," he said. "I wonder you do not see it as +plainly as I do. The pain is nearly gone from her spine, and she can +move herself a good deal more, I am certain, than she could when she +left. She asked me yesterday if she might not turn upon one side. 'Do +you think you could?' I asked.--'I think so,' she answered. 'At any +rate, I have often a great inclination to try; only papa said I had +better wait till you came.' I do think she might be allowed a little +more change of posture now." + +"Then you have really some hope of her final recovery?" + +"I have _hope_ most certainly. But what is hope in me, you must not +allow to become certainty in you. I am nearly sure, though, that she +can never be other than an invalid; that is, if I am to judge by what I +know of such cases." + +"I am thankful for the hope," I answered. "You need not be afraid of my +turning upon you, should the hope never pass into sight. I should do so +only if I found that you had been treating me irrationally--inspiring +me with hope which you knew to be false. The element of uncertainty is +essential to hope, and for all true hope, even as hope, man has to be +unspeakably thankful." + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE WALK TO CHURCH. + + +I was glad to be able to arrange with a young clergyman who was on a +visit to Kilkhaven, that he should take my duty for me the next Sunday, +for that was the only one Turner could spend with us. He and I and +Wynnie walked together two miles to church. It was a lovely morning, +with just a tint of autumn in the air. But even that tint, though all +else was of the summer, brought a shadow, I could see, on Wynnie's face. + +"You said you would show me a poem of--Vaughan, I think you said, was +the name of the writer. I am too ignorant of our older literature," +said Turner. + +"I have only just made acquaintance with him," I answered. "But I think +I can repeat the poem. You shall judge whether it is not like +Wordsworth's Ode. + + 'Happy those early days, when I + Shined in my angel infancy; + Before I understood the place + Appointed for my second race, + Or taught my soul to fancy ought + But a white, celestial thought; + When yet I had not walked above + A mile or two from my first love, + And looking back, at that short space, + Could see a glimpse of his bright face; + When on some gilded cloud or flower + My gazing soul would dwell an hour, + And in those weaker glories spy + Some shadows of eternity; + Before I taught my tongue to wound + My conscience with a sinful sound, + But felt through all this fleshly dress + Bright shoots of everlastingness. + O how I long to travel back----'" + +But here I broke down, for I could not remember the rest with even +approximate accuracy. + +"When did this Vaughan live?" asked Turner. + +"He was born, I find, in 1621--five years, that is, after Shakspere's +death, and when Milton was about thirteen years old. He lived to the +age of seventy-three, but seems to have been little known. In politics +he was on the Cavalier side. By the way, he was a medical man, like +you, Turner--an M.D. We'll have a glance at the little book when we go +back. Don't let me forget to show it you. A good many of your +profession have distinguished themselves in literature, and as profound +believers too." + +"I should have thought the profession had been chiefly remarkable for +such as believe only in the evidence of the senses." + +"As if having searched into the innermost recesses of the body, and not +having found a soul, they considered themselves justified in declaring +there was none." + +"Just so." + +"Well, that is true of the commonplace amongst them, I do believe. You +will find the exceptions have been men of fine minds and +characters--not such as he of whom Chaucer says, + + 'His study was but little on the Bible;' + +for if you look at the rest of the description of the man, you will +find that he was in alliance with his apothecary for their mutual +advantage, that he was a money-loving man, and that some of Chaucer's +keenest irony is spent on him in an off-hand, quiet manner. Compare the +tone in which he writes of the doctor of physic, with the profound +reverence wherewith he bows himself before the poor country-parson." + +Here Wynnie spoke, though with some tremor in her voice. + +"I never know, papa, what people mean by talking about childhood in +that way. I never seem to have been a bit younger and more innocent +than I am." + +"Don't you remember a time, Wynnie, when the things about you--the sky +and the earth, say--seemed to you much grander than they seem now? You +are old enough to have lost something." + +She thought for a little while before she answered. + +"My dreams were, I know. I cannot say so of anything else." + +I in my turn had to be silent, for I did not see the true answer, +though I was sure there was one somewhere, if I could only find it. All +I could reply, however, even after I had meditated a good while, +was--and perhaps, after all, it was the best thing I could have said: + +"Then you must make a good use of your dreams, my child." + +"Why, papa?" + +"Because they are the only memorials of childhood you have left." + +"How am I to make a good use of them? I don't know what to do with my +silly old dreams." + +But she gave a sigh as she spoke that testified her silly old dreams +had a charm for her still. + +"If your dreams, my child, have ever testified to you of a condition of +things beyond that which you see around you, if they have been to you +the hints of a wonder and glory beyond what visits you now, you must +not call them silly, for they are just what the scents of Paradise +borne on the air were to Adam and Eve as they delved and spun, +reminding them that they must aspire yet again through labour into that +childhood of obedience which is the only paradise of humanity--into +that oneness with the will of the Father, which our race, our +individual selves, need just as much as if we had personally fallen +with Adam, and from which we fall every time we are disobedient to the +voice of the Father within our souls--to the conscience which is his +making and his witness. If you have had no childhood, my Wynnie, yet +permit your old father to say that everything I see in you indicates +more strongly in you than in most people that it is this childhood +after which you are blindly longing, without which you find that life +is hardly to be endured. Thank God for your dreams, my child. In him +you will find that the essence of those dreams is fulfilled. We are +saved by hope, Turner. Never man hoped too much, or repented that he +had hoped. The plague is that we don't hope in God half enough. The +very fact that hope is strength, and strength the outcome, the body of +life, shows that hope is at one with life, with the very essence of +what says 'I am'--yea, of what doubts and says 'Am I?' and therefore is +reasonable to creatures who cannot even doubt save in that they live." + +By this time, for I have, of course, only given the outlines, or rather +salient points, of our conversation, we had reached the church, where, +if I found the sermon neither healing nor inspiring, I found the +prayers full of hope and consolation. They at least are safe beyond +human caprice, conceit, or incapacity. Upon them, too, the man who is +distressed at the thought of how little of the needful food he had been +able to provide for his people, may fall back for comfort, in the +thought that there at least was what ought to have done them good, what +it was well worth their while to go to church for. But I did think they +were too long for any individual Christian soul, to sympathise with +from beginning to end, that is, to respond to, like organ-tube to the +fingered key, in every touch of the utterance of the general Christian +soul. For my reader must remember that it is one thing to read prayers +and another to respond; and that I had had very few opportunities of +being in the position of the latter duty. I had had suspicions before, +and now they were confirmed--that the present crowding of services was +most inexpedient. And as I pondered on the matter, instead of trying to +go on praying after I had already uttered my soul, which is but a +heathenish attempt after much speaking, I thought how our Lord had +given us such a short prayer to pray, and I began to wonder when or how +the services came to be so heaped the one on the back of the other as +they now were. No doubt many people defended them; no doubt many people +could sit them out; but how many people could pray from beginning to +end of them I On this point we had some talk as we went home. Wynnie +was opposed to any change of the present use on the ground that we +should only have the longer sermons. + +"Still," I said, "I do not think even that so great an evil. A +sensitive conscience will not reproach itself so much for not listening +to the whole of a sermon, as for kneeling in prayer and not praying. I +think myself, however, that after the prayers are over, everyone should +be at liberty to go out and leave the sermon unheard, if he pleases. I +think the result would be in the end a good one both for parson and +people. It would break through the deadness of this custom, this use +and wont. Many a young mind is turned for life against the influences +of church-going--one of the most sacred influences when _pure_, that +is, un-mingled with non-essentials--just by the feeling that he _must_ +do so and so, that he must go through a certain round of duty. It is a +willing service that the Lord wants; no forced devotions are either +acceptable to him, or other than injurious to the worshipper, if such +he can be called." + +After an early dinner, I said to Turner--"Come out with me, and we will +read that poem of Vaughan's in which I broke down today." + +"O, papa!" said Connie, in a tone of injury, from the sofa. + +"What is it, my dear?" I asked. + +"Wouldn't it be as good for us as for Mr. Turner?" + +"Quite, my dear. Well, I will keep it for the evening, and meantime Mr. +Turner and I will go and see if we can find out anything about the +change in the church-service." + +For I had thrown into my bag as I left the rectory a copy of _The +Clergyman's Vade Mecum_--a treatise occupied with the externals of the +churchman's relations--in which I soon came upon the following passage: + +"So then it appears that the common practice of reading all three +together, is an innovation, and if an ancient or infirm clergyman do +read them at two or three several times, he is more strictly +conformable; however, this is much better than to omit any part of the +liturgy, or to read all three offices into one, as is now commonly +done, without any pause or distinction." + +"On the part of the clergyman, you see, Turner," I said, when I had +finished reading the whole passage to him. "There is no care taken of +the delicate women of the congregation, but only of the ancient or +infirm clergyman. And the logic, to say the least, is rather queer: is +it only in virtue of his antiquity and infirmity that he is to be +upheld in being more strictly conformable? The writer's honesty has its +heels trodden upon by the fear of giving offence. Nevertheless there +should perhaps be a certain slowness to admit change, even back to a +more ancient form." + +"I don't know that I can quite agree with you there," said Turner. "If +the form is better, no one should hesitate to advocate the change. If +it is worse, then slowness is not sufficient--utter obstinacy is the +right condition." + +"You are right, Turner. For the right must be the rule, and where _the +right_ is beyond our understanding or our reach, then _the better_, as +indeed not only right compared with the other, but the sole ascent +towards the right." + +In the evening I took Henry Vaughan's poems into the common +sitting-room, and to Connie's great delight read the whole of the +lovely, though unequal little poem, called "The Retreat," in recalling +which I had failed in the morning. She was especially delighted with +the "white celestial thought," and the "bright shoots of +everlastingness." Then I gave a few lines from another yet more unequal +poem, worthy in themselves of the best of the other. I quote the first +strophe entire: + + CHILDHOOD. + + "I cannot reach it; and my striving eye + Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, + Those white designs which children drive, + And the thoughts of each harmless hour, + With their content too in my power, + Quickly would I make my path even, + And by mere playing go to heaven. + + * * * * * + + And yet the practice worldlings call + Business and weighty action all, + Checking the poor child for his play, + But gravely cast themselves away. + + * * * * * + + An age of mysteries! which he + Must live twice that would God's face see; + Which angels guard, and with it play, + Angels! which foul men drive away. + How do I study now, and scan + Thee more than ere I studied man, + And only see through a long night + Thy edges and thy bordering light I + O for thy centre and midday! + For sure that is the _narrow way!_" + +"For of such is the kingdom of heaven." said my wife softly, as I +closed the book. + +"May I have the book, papa?" said Connie, holding out her thin white +cloud of a hand to take it. + +"Certainly, my child. And if Wynnie would read it with you, she will +feel more of the truth of what Mr. Percivale was saying to her about +finish. Here are the finest, grandest thoughts, set forth sometimes +with such carelessness, at least such lack of neatness, that, instead +of their falling on the mind with all their power of loveliness, they +are like a beautiful face disfigured with patches, and, what is worse, +they put the mind out of the right, quiet, unquestioning, open mood, +which is the only fit one for the reception of such true things as are +embodied in the poems. But they are too beautiful after all to be more +than a little spoiled by such a lack of the finish with which Art ends +off all her labours. A gentleman, however, thinks it of no little +importance to have his nails nice as well as his face and his shirt." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE OLD CASTLE. + + +The place Turner had chosen suited us all so well, that after attending +to my duties on the two following Sundays at Kilkhaven, I returned on +the Monday or Tuesday to the farmhouse. But Turner left us in the +middle of the second week, for he could not be longer absent from his +charge at home, and we missed him much. It was some days before Connie +was quite as cheerful again as usual. I do not mean that she was in the +least gloomy--that she never was; she was only a little less merry. But +whether it was that Turner had opened our eyes, or that she had visibly +improved since he allowed her to make a little change in her +posture--certainly she appeared to us to have made considerable +progress, and every now and then we were discovering some little proof +of the fact. One evening, while we were still at the farm, she startled +us by calling out suddenly,-- + +"Papa, papa! I moved my big toe! I did indeed." + +We were all about her in a moment. But I saw that she was excited, and +fearing a reaction I sought to calm her. + +"But, my dear," I said, as quietly as I could, "you are probably still +aware that you are possessed of two big toes: which of them are we to +congratulate on this first stride in the march of improvement?" + +She broke out in the merriest laugh. A pause followed in which her face +wore a puzzled expression. Then she said all at once, "Papa, it is very +odd, but I can't tell which of them," and burst into tears. I was +afraid that I had done more harm than good. + +"It is not of the slightest consequence, my child," I said. "You have +had so little communication with the twins of late, that it is no +wonder you should not be able to tell the one from the other." + +She smiled again through her sobs, but was silent, with shining face, +for the rest of the evening. Our hopes took a fresh start, but we heard +no more from her of her power over her big toe. As often as I inquired +she said she was afraid she had made a mistake, for she had not had +another hint of its existence. Still I thought it could not have been a +fancy, and I would cleave to my belief in the good sign. + +Percivale called to see us several times, but always appeared anxious +not to intrude more of his society upon us than might be agreeable. He +grew in my regard, however; and at length I asked him if he would +assist me in another surprise which I meditated for my companions, and +this time for Connie as well, and which I hoped would prevent the +painful influences of the sight of the sea from returning upon them +when they went back to Kilkhaven: they must see the sea from a quite +different shore first. In a word I would take them to Tintagel, of the +near position of which they were not aware, although in some of our +walks we had seen the ocean in the distance. An early day was fixed for +carrying out our project, and I proceeded to get everything ready. The +only difficulty was to find a carriage in the neighbourhood suitable +for receiving Connie's litter. In this, however, I at length succeeded, +and on the morning of a glorious day of blue and gold, we set out for +the little village of Trevenna, now far better known than at the time +of which I write. Connie had been out every day since she came, now in +one part of the fields, now in another, enjoying the expanse of earth +and sky, but she had had no drive, and consequently had seen no variety +of scenery. Therefore, believing she was now thoroughly able to bear +it, I quite reckoned of the good she would get from the inevitable +excitement. We resolved, however, after finding how much she enjoyed +the few miles' drive, that we would not demand more, of her strength +that day, and therefore put up at the little inn, where, after ordering +dinner, Percivale and I left the ladies, and sallied forth to +reconnoitre. + +We walked through the village and down the valley beyond, sloping +steeply between hills towards the sea, the opening closed at the end by +the blue of the ocean below and the more ethereal blue of the sky +above. But when we reached the mouth of the valley we found that we +were not yet on the shore, for a precipice lay between us and the +little beach below. On the left a great peninsula of rock stood out +into the sea, upon which rose the ruins of the keep of Tintagel, while +behind on the mainland stood the ruins of the castle itself, connected +with the other only by a narrow isthmus. We had read that this +peninsula had once been an island, and that the two parts of the castle +were formerly connected by a drawbridge. Looking up at the great gap +which now divided the two portions, it seemed at first impossible to +believe that they had ever been thus united; but a little reflection +cleared up the mystery. + +The fact was that the isthmus, of half the height of the two parts +connected by it, had been formed entirely by the fall of portions of +the rock and soil on each side into the narrow dividing space, through +which the waters of the Atlantic had been wont to sweep. And now the +fragments of walls stood on the very verge of the precipice, and showed +that large portions of the castle itself had fallen into the gulf +between. We turned to the left along the edge of the rock, and so by a +narrow path reached and crossed to the other side of the isthmus. We +then found that the path led to the foot of the rock, formerly island, +of the keep, and thence in a zigzag up the face of it to the top. We +followed it, and after a great climb reached a door in a modern +battlement. Entering, we found ourselves amidst grass, and ruins +haggard with age. We turned and surveyed the path by which we had come. +It was steep and somewhat difficult. But the outlook was glorious. It +was indeed one of God's mounts of vision upon which we stood. The +thought, "O that Connie could see this!" was swelling in my heart, when +Percivale broke the silence--not with any remark on the glory around +us, but with the commonplace question-- + +"You haven't got your man with you, I think, Mr. Walton?" + +"No," I answered; "we thought it better to leave him to look after the +boys." + +He was silent for a few minutes, while I gazed in delight. + +"Don't you think," he said, "it would be possible to bring Miss +Constance up here?" + +I almost started at the idea, and had not replied before he resumed: + +"It would be something for her to recur to with delight all the rest of +her life." + +"It would indeed. But it is impossible." + +"I do not think so--if you would allow me the honour to assist you. I +think we could do it perfectly between us." + +I was again silent for a while. Looking down on the way we had come, it +seemed an almost dreadful undertaking. Percivale spoke again. + +"As we shall come here to-morrow, we need not explore the place now. +Shall we go down at once and observe the whole path, with a view to the +practicability of carrying her up?" + +"There can be no objection to that," I answered, as a little hope, and +courage with it, began to dawn in my heart. "But you must allow it does +not look very practicable." + +"Perhaps it would seem more so to you, if you had come up with the idea +in your head all the way, as I did. Any path seems more difficult in +looking back than at the time when the difficulties themselves have to +be met and overcome." + +"Yes, but then you must remember that we have to take the way back +whether we will or no, if we once take the way forward." + +"True; and now I will go down with the descent in my head as well as +under my feet." + +"Well, there can be no harm in reconnoitring it at least. Let us go." + +"You know we can rest almost as often as we please," said Percivale, +and turned to lead the way. + +It certainly was steep, and required care even in our own descent; but +for a man who had climbed mountains, as I had done in my youth, it +could hardly be called difficult even in middle age. By the time we had +got again into the valley road I was all but convinced of the +practicability of the proposal. I was a little vexed, however, I must +confess, that a stranger should have thought of giving such a pleasure +to Connie, when the bare wish that she might have enjoyed it had alone +arisen in my mind. I comforted myself with the reflection that this was +one of the ways in which we were to be weaned from the world and knit +the faster to our fellows. For even the middle-aged, in the decay of +their daring, must look for the fresh thought and the fresh impulse to +the youth which follows at their heels in the march of life. Their part +is to _will_ the relation and the obligation, and so, by love to and +faith in the young, keep themselves in the line along which the +electric current flows, till at length they too shall once more be +young and daring in the strength of the Lord. A man must always seek to +rise above his moods and feelings, to let them move within him, but not +allow them to storm or gloom around him. By the time we reached home we +had agreed to make the attempt, and to judge by the path to the foot of +the rock, which was difficult in parts, whether we should be likely to +succeed, without danger, in attempting the rest of the way and the +following descent. As soon as we had arrived at this conclusion, I felt +so happy in the prospect that I grew quite merry, especially after we +had further agreed that, both for the sake of her nerves and for the +sake of the lordly surprise, we should bind Connie's eyes so that she +should see nothing till we had placed her in a certain position, +concerning the preferableness of which we were not of two minds. + +"What mischief have you two been about?" said my wife, as we entered +our room in the inn, where the cloth was already laid for dinner. "You +look just like two schoolboys that have been laying some plot, and can +hardly hold their tongues about it." + +"We have been enjoying our little walk amazingly," I answered. "So much +so, that we mean to set out for another the moment dinner is over." + +"I hope you will take Wynnie with you then." + +"Or you, my love," I returned. + +"No; I will stay with Connie." + +"Very well. You, and Connie too, shall go out to-morrow, for we have +found a place we want to take you to. And, indeed, I believe it was our +anticipation of the pleasure you and she would have in the view that +made us so merry when you accused us of plotting mischief." + +My wife replied only with a loving look, and dinner appearing at this +moment, we sat down a happy party. + +When that was over--and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, +homely in material but admirable in cooking--Wynnie and Percivale and I +set out again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had +seen the church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the +little valley, and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, +and Wynnie accepted Percivale's offered arm. I led the way, therefore, +and left them to follow--not so far in the rear, however, but that I +could take a share in the conversation. It was some little time before +any arose, and it was Wynnie who led the way into it. + +"What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?" she +asked. + +He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an +answer look so long, that most people would call them minutes. + +"I would rather you should see some of my pictures--I should prefer +that to answering your question," he said, at length. + +"But I have seen some of your pictures," she returned. + +"Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton." + +"At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies." + +"Some of my sketches--none of my studies." + +"But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?" + +"Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my +pictures." + +"I cannot understand you." + +"I do not wonder at that. But I would rather, I repeat, say nothing +about my pictures till you see some of them." + +"But how am I to have that pleasure, then?" + +"You go to London sometimes, do you not?" + +"Very rarely. More rarely still when the Royal Academy is open." + +"That does not matter much. My pictures are seldom to be found there." + +"Do you not care to send them there?" + +"I send one, at least, every year. But they are rarely accepted." + +"Why?" + +This was a very improper question, I thought; but if Wynnie had thought +so she would not have put it. He hesitated a little before he replied-- + +"It is hardly for me to say why," he answered; "but I cannot wonder +much at it, considering the subjects I choose.--But I daresay," he +added, in a lighter tone, "after all, that has little to do with it, +and there is something about the things themselves that precludes a +favourable judgment. I avoid thinking about it. A man ought to try to +look at his own work as if it were none of his, but not as with the +eyes of other people. That is an impossibility, and the attempt a +bewilderment. It is with his own eyes he must look, with his own +judgment he must judge. The only effort is to get it set far away +enough from him to be able to use his own eyes and his own judgment +upon it." + +"I think I see what you mean. A man has but his own eyes and his own +judgment. To look with those of other people is but a fancy." + +"Quite so. You understand me quite." + +He said no more in explanation of his rejection by the Academy. Till we +reached the church, nothing more of significance passed between them. + +What a waste, bare churchyard that was! It had two or three lych-gates, +but they had no roofs. They were just small enclosures, with the low +stone tables, to rest the living from the weight of the dead, while the +clergyman, as the keeper of heaven's wardrobe, came forth to receive +the garment they restored--to be laid aside as having ended its work, +as having been worn done in the winds, and rains, and labours of the +world. Not a tree stood in that churchyard. Hank grass was the sole +covering of the soil heaved up with the dead beneath. What blasts from +the awful space of the sea must rush athwart the undefended garden! The +ancient church stood in the midst, with its low, strong, square tower, +and its long, narrow nave, the ridge bowed with age, like the back of a +horse worn out in the service of man, and its little homely chancel, +like a small cottage that had leaned up against its end for shelter +from the western blasts. It was locked, and we could not enter. But of +all world-worn, sad-looking churches, that one--sad, even in the +sunset--was the dreariest I had ever beheld. Surely, it needed the +gospel of the resurrection fervently preached therein, to keep it from +sinking to the dust with dismay and weariness. Such a soul alone could +keep it from vanishing utterly of dismal old age. Near it was one huge +mound of grass-grown rubbish, looking like the grave where some former +church of the dead had been buried, when it could stand erect no longer +before the onsets of Atlantic winds. I walked round and round it, +gathering its architecture, and peeping in at every window I could +reach. Suddenly I was aware that I was alone. Returning to the other +side, I found that Percivale was seated on the churchyard wall, next +the sea--it would have been less dismal had it stood immediately on the +cliffs, but they were at some little distance beyond bare downs and +rough stone walls; he was sketching the place, and Wynnie stood beside +him, looking over his shoulder. I did not interrupt him, but walked +among the graves, reading the poor memorials of the dead, and wondering +how many of the words of laudation that were inscribed on their tombs +were spoken of them while they were yet alive. Yet, surely, in the +lives of those to whom they applied the least, there had been moments +when the true nature, the nature God had given them, broke forth in +faith and tenderness, and would have justified the words inscribed on +their gravestones! I was yet wandering and reading, and stumbling over +the mounds, when my companions joined me, and, without a word, we +walked out of the churchyard. We were nearly home before one of us +spoke. + +"That church is oppressive," said Percivale. "It looks like a great +sepulchre, a place built only for the dead--the church of the dead." + +"It is only that it partakes with the living," I returned; "suffers +with them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the +shield of the Red-Cross Knight, the 'old dints of deep wounds.'" + +"Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?" + +"The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it +must not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is +shrinking from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the +land, high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven +from all storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse +lie the bodies of men--you saw the grave of some of them on the other +side--flung ashore from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one +would rather have the bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of +the churchyard earth, than sweeping and swaying about as Milton +imagines the bones of his friend Edward King, in that wonderful +'Lycidas.'" Then I told them the conversation I had had with the sexton +at Kilkhaven. "But," I went on, "these fancies are only the ghostly +mists that hang about the eastern hills before the sun rises. We shall +look down on all that with a smile by and by; for the Lord tells us +that if we believe in him we shall never die." + +By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a +description of what we had seen. + +"What a brave old church!" said Connie. + +The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got +up at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of +all to have a look at Connie's litter, and see that it was quite sound. +Satisfied of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and +strength. + +After breakfast I went to Connie's room, and told her that Mr. +Percivale and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once. + +"But we want to do it our own way." + +"Of course, papa," she answered. + +"Will you let us tie your eyes up?" + +"Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, +when I don't know one big toe from the other." + +And she laughed merrily. + +"We'll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha'n't weary +of the journey." + +"You're going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! +And then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!--Getting +tired!" she repeated. "Even the wind on my face would be pleasure +enough for half a day. I sha'n't get tired so soon as you will--you +dear, kind papa! I am afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha'n't +jerk your arms much. I will lie so still!" + +"And you won't mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?" + +"No. Why should I, if he doesn't mind it? He looks strong enough; and I +am sure he is nice, and won't think me heavier than I am." + +"Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; +and we shall set out as soon as you are ready." + +She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and +gave me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began +to call as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress +her. + +It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like +veins of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the +sunshine. The sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of +the valley, as if overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the +sun overhead; and the hills between which we went lay like great sheep, +with green wool, basking in the blissful heat. The gleam from the +waters came up the pass; the grand castle crowned the left-hand steep, +seeming to warm its old bones, like the ruins of some awful megatherium +in the lighted air; one white sail sped like a glad thought across the +spandrel of the sea; the shadows of the rocks lay over our path, like +transient, cool, benignant deaths, through which we had to pass again +and again to yet higher glory beyond; and one lark was somewhere in +whose little breast the whole world was reflected as in the convex +mirror of a dewdrop, where it swelled so that he could not hold it, but +let it out again through his throat, metamorphosed into music, which he +poured forth over all as the libation on the outspread altar of worship. + +And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then +she would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although +she beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of +the wind on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have +approached that condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for +in his blindness, wherein the sight should be + + "through all parts diffused, + That she might look at will through every pore." + +I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment +we reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross +the isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things +around us; and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no +exclamation of surprise or delight should break from them before +Connie's eyes were uncovered. I had said nothing to either of them +about the difficulties of the way, that, seeing us take them as +ordinary things, they might take them so too, and not be uneasy. + +We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, _née_ +island, upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie +down, to take breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way. + +"Now, now!" said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that +we were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes. + +"No, no, my love, not yet," I said, and she lay still again, only she +looked more eager than before. + +"I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa," she said. + +Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly-- + +"O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules--at least, he chooses to +be considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I +have a little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink." + +There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the +best revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as +we might to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the +litter too much for her comfort. + +"Where _are_ you going, papa?" she said once, but without a sign of +fear in her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter +suddenly. "You must be going up a steep place. Don't hurt yourself, +dear papa." + +We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, +up the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every +change on her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did +find it hard work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little +sunny pool, on which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen +heaven cast exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they +floated over it. Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind +him. I did wish we were at the top, for my arms began to feel like +iron-cables, stiff and stark--only I was afraid of my fingers giving +way. My heart was beating uncomfortably too. But Percivale, I felt +almost inclined to quarrel with him before it was over, he strode on so +unconcernedly, turning every corner of the zigzag where I expected him +to propose a halt, and striding on again, as if there could be no +pretence for any change of procedure. But I held out, strengthened by +the play on my daughter's face, delicate as the play on an opal--one +that inclines more to the milk than the fire. + +When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented +wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the grass-- + +"Percivale," I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour +of being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the +mount of glory, "why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no +heed to me?" + +"You didn't speak, did you, Mr. Walton," he returned, with just a +shadow of solicitude in the question. + +"No. Of course not," I rejoined. + +"O, then," he returned, in a tone of relief, "how could I? You were my +captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?" + +I am afraid the _Percivale_, without the _Mister_, came again and again +after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I caught +myself. + +"Now, papa!" said Connie from the grass. + +"Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and +meet them, Mr. Percivale." + +"O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or +what kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I +have never been alone in all my life." + +"Very well, my dear," I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the +ruins. + +We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could. + +"Dear Harry," she said, "how could you think of bringing Connie up such +an awful place? I wonder you dared to do it." + +"It's done you see, wife," I answered, "thanks to Mr. Percivale, who +has nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and +you will say that to see Connie's delight, not to mention your own, is +quite wages for the labour." + +"Isn't she afraid to find herself so high up?" + +"She knows nothing about it yet." + +"You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up." + +"To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil +half the pleasure." + +"Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so." + +"Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take +my arm now." + +"Don't you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm," said Percivale, +"and then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that +way." + +We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The +moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the +place neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered +on her pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the +keep, with light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still +expectation, that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep +after receiving an answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known +sonnet of Wordsworth's, in which he describes as the type of Death-- + + "the face of one + Sleeping alone within a mossy cave + With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have + Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; + A lovely beauty in a summer grave." + +[Footnote: _Miscellaneous Sonnets_, part i.28.] + +But she heard our steps, and her face awoke. + +"Is mamma come?" + +"Yes, my darling. I am here," said her mother. "How do you feel?" + +"Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!" + +"One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale." + +We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her a +little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the +bandage from her head. + +"Hold your hands over her eyes, a little way from them," I said to her +as she untied the handkerchief, "that the light may reach them by +degrees, and not blind her." + +Ethelwyn did so for a few moments, then removed them. Still for a +moment or two more, it was plain from her look of utter bewilderment, +that all was a confused mass of light and colour. Then she gave a +little cry, and to my astonishment, almost fear, half rose to a sitting +posture. One moment more and she laid herself gently back, and wept and +sobbed. + +And now I may admit my reader to a share, though at best but a dim +reflex in my poor words, of the glory that made her weep. + +Through the gothic-arched door in the battlemented wall, which stood on +the very edge of the precipitous descent, so that nothing of the +descent was seen, and the door was as a framework to the picture, +Connie saw a great gulf at her feet, full to the brim of a splendour of +light and colour. Before her rose the great ruins of rock and castle, +the ruin of rock with castle; rough stone below, clear green happy +grass above, even to the verge of the abrupt and awful precipice; over +it the summer sky so clear that it must have been clarified by sorrow +and thought; at the foot of the rocks, hundreds of feet below, the blue +waters breaking in white upon the dark gray sands; all full of the +gladness of the sun overflowing in speechless delight, and reflected in +fresh gladness from stone and water and flower, like new springs of +light rippling forth from the earth itself to swell the universal tide +of glory--all this seen through the narrow gothic archway of a door in +a wall--up--down--on either hand. But the main marvel was the look +sheer below into the abyss full of light and air and colour, its sides +lined with rock and grass, and its bottom lined with blue ripples and +sand. Was it any wonder that my Connie should cry aloud when the vision +dawned upon her, and then weep to ease a heart ready to burst with +delight? "O Lord God," I said, almost involuntarily, "thou art very +rich. Thou art the one poet, the one maker. We worship thee. Make but +our souls as full of glory in thy sight as this chasm is to our eyes +glorious with the forms which thou hast cloven and carved out of +nothingness, and we shall be worthy to worship thee, O Lord, our God." +For I was carried beyond myself with delight, and with sympathy with +Connie's delight and with the calm worship of gladness in my wife's +countenance. But when my eye fell on Wynnie, I saw a trouble mingled +with her admiration, a self-accusation, I think, that she did not and +could not enjoy it more; and when I turned from her, there were the +eyes of Percivale fixed on me in wonderment; and for the moment I felt +as David must have felt when, in his dance of undignified delight that +he had got the ark home again, he saw the contemptuous eyes of Michal +fixed on him from the window. But I could not leave it so. I said to +him--coldly I daresay: + +"Excuse me, Mr. Percivale; I forgot for the moment that I was not +amongst my own family." + +Percivale took his hat off. + +"Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Walton. I was half-envying and +half-wondering. You would not be surprised at my unconscious behaviour +if you had seen as much of the wrong side of the stuff as I have seen +in London." + +I had some idea of what he meant; but this was no time to enter upon a +discussion. I could only say-- + +"My heart was full, Mr. Percivale, and I let it overflow." + +"Let me at least share in its overflow," he rejoined, and nothing more +passed on the subject. + +For the next ten minutes we stood in absolute silence. We had set +Connie down on the grass again, but propped up so that she could see +through the doorway. And she lay in still ecstasy. But there was more +to be seen ere we descended. There was the rest of the little islet +with its crop of down-grass, on which the horses of all the knights of +King Arthur's round table might have fed for a week--yes, for a +fortnight, without, by any means, encountering the short commons of +war. There were the ruins of the castle so built of plates of the +laminated stone of the rocks on which they stood, and so woven in or +more properly incorporated with the outstanding rocks themselves, that +in some parts I found it impossible to tell which was building and +which was rock--the walls themselves seeming like a growth out of the +island itself, so perfectly were they in harmony with, and in kind the +same as, the natural ground upon which and of which they had been +constructed. And this would seem to me to be the perfection of +architecture. The work of man's hands should be so in harmony with the +place where it stands that it must look as if it had grown out of the +soil. But the walls were in some parts so thin that one wondered how +they could have stood so long. They must have been built before the +time of any formidable artillery--enough only for defence from arrows. +But then the island was nowhere commanded, and its own steep cliffs +would be more easily defended than any erections upon it. Clearly the +intention was that no enemy should thereon find rest for the sole of +his foot; for if he was able to land, farewell to the notion of any +further defence. Then there was outside the walls the little +chapel--such a tiny chapel! of which little more than the foundation +remained, with the ruins of the altar still standing, and outside the +chancel, nestling by its wall, a coffin hollowed in the rock; then the +churchyard a little way off full of graves, which, I presume, would +have vanished long ago were it not that the very graves were founded on +the rock. There still stood old worn-out headstones of thin slate, but +no memorials were left. Then there was the fragment of arched passage +underground laid open to the air in the centre of the islet; and last, +and grandest of all, the awful edges of the rock, broken by time, and +carved by the winds and the waters into grotesque shapes and +threatening forms. Over all the surface of the islet we carried Connie, +and from three sides of this sea-fortress she looked abroad over "the +Atlantic's level powers." It blew a gentle ethereal breeze on the top; +but had there been such a wind as I have since stood against on that +fearful citadel of nature, I should have been in terror lest we should +all be blown, into the deep. Over the edge she peeped at the strange +fantastic needle-rock, and round the corner she peeped to see Wynnie +and her mother seated in what they call Arthur's chair--a canopied +hollow wrought in the plated rock by the mightiest of all solvents--air +and water; till at length it was time that we should take our leave of +the few sheep that fed over the place, and issuing by the gothic door, +wind away down the dangerous path to the safe ground below. + +"I think we had better tie up your eyes again, Connie?" I said. + +"Why?" she asked, in wonderment. "There's nothing higher yet, is there?" + +"No, my love. If there were, you would hardly be able for it to-day, I +should think. It is only to keep you from being frightened at the +precipice as you go down." + +"But I sha'n't be frightened, papa." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you are going to carry me." + +"But what if I should slip? I might, you know." + +"I don't mind. I sha'n't mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you +do it. I sha'n't be to blame, and I'm sure you won't, papa." Then she +drew my head down and whispered in my ear, "If I get as much more by +being killed, as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I'm sure it +will be well worth it." + +I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just +as she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we +bore her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, +instead of being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My +wife, I could see, was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of +relief when we were once more at the foot. + +"Well, I'm glad that's over," she said. + +"So am I," I returned, as we set down the litter. + +"Poor papa! I've pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale's too!" + +Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then +turning towards her, he said, "Look here, Miss Connie;" and flung it +far out from the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike +on a rock below, and then fall in a shower of fragments. "My arms are +all right, you see," he said. + +Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet +been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us +out of breath with the news: + +"Papa! Mr. Percivale! there's such a grand cave down there! It goes +right through under the island." + +Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and +without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way +that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch +more difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a +contrast to the vision overhead!--nothing to be seen but the cool, dark +vault of the cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on +its pebbly floor, and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide +rolled through in rising and falling--the waters on the opposite sides +of the islet greeting through this cave; the blue shimmer of the rising +sea, and the forms of huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further +end, where the roof rose like a grand cathedral arch; and the green +gleam of veins rich with copper, dashing and streaking the darkness in +gloomy little chapels, where the floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and +rose within till it met the descending roof. It was like a going-down +from Paradise into the grave--but a cool, friendly, brown-lighted +grave, which even in its darkest recesses bore some witness to the wind +of God outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed light, from the +play of the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, wandered +across its jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the damp +coolness; and I have given my reader quite enough of description for +one hour's reading. He can scarcely be equal to more. + +My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I +no longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days +after, and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner's place in the +carriage. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +JOE AND HIS TROUBLE. + + +How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands +of Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty +rampart of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce +guardians! It was pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to +look like home, and was indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of +Dora and the boys. Connie's baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her +chubby arms at sight of her. The wind blew gently around us, full both +of the freshness of the clean waters and the scents of the +down-grasses, to welcome us back. And the dread vision of the shore had +now receded so far into the past, that it was no longer able to hurt. + +We had called at the blacksmith's house on our way home, and found that +he was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother +said he was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, +feared that they indicated an approaching break-down. + +"Indeed, sir," she said, "Joe might be well enough if he liked. It's +all his own fault." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "I cannot believe that your son is in any +way guilty of his own illness." + +"He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe," she answered; "but he hasn't learned +what I had to learn long ago." + +"What is that?" I asked. + +"To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other." + +She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she +spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in +mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all +her face under the nose. + +"And what is it he won't do?" + +"I don't mind whether he does it or not, if he would only +make--up--his--mind--and--stick--to--it." + +"What is it you want him to do, then?" + +"I don't want him to do it, I'm sure. It's no good to me--and wouldn't +be much to him, that I'll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself." + +I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no +more sunshine for him at home than his mother's face indicated. Few +things can make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, +whose rays are smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the +door,--the face of wife or mother or sister. Now his mother's face +certainly was not sunny. No doubt it must have shone upon him when he +was a baby. God has made that provision for babies, who need sunshine +so much that a mother's face cannot help being sunny to them: why +should the sunshine depart as the child grows older? + +"Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far from +well. Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief +somewhere. And if there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to +get over it." + +"If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to +it--" + +"O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind." + +"That's just what he won't do." + +All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. +It was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in +sympathy with her son, and therefore could not help him out of any +difficulty he might be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her +the cause of her son's discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his +illness. In passing his workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made +an arrangement to meet him at the church the next day. + +I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we +left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the +rods attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a +carpenter, a cousin of his own, with him. + +They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a +bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white +teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in +Joseph's affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I +therefore said half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, +self-withdrawn countenance the smith was fitting one loop into another +in two of his iron rods,-- + +"I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more +cheerful. You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine." + +The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips. + +"Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the +rest of us. He's a religious man, is Joe." + +"But I don't see how that should make him miserable. It hasn't made me +miserable. I hope I'm a religious man myself. It makes me happy every +day of my life." + +"Ah, well," returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked +away gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, +"I don't say it's the religion, for I don't know; but perhaps it's the +way he takes it up. He don't look after hisself enough; he's always +thinking about other people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, +that if you don't look after yourself, why, who is to look after you? +That's common sense, _I_ think." + +It was a curious contrast--the merry friendly face, which shone +good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, +even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about +other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be +correct in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, +healthy inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a +smile very unlike his cousin's with which Joe heard his remarks on +himself. + +"But," I said, "you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take +Joe's way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of +yourself." + +"I don't see why, sir." + +"Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else." + +"Not so well, I doubt, sir." + +"Yes, and a great deal better." + +"At any rate, that's a long way off; and mean time, _who's_ to take +care of the odd man like Joe there, that don't look after hisself?" + +"Why, God, of course." + +"Well, there's just where I'm out. I don't know nothing about that +branch, sir." + +I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe's gloomy eyes as I spoke thus +upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin +volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I +might have gained. + +At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have +their dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and +I dropped behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in +meditation. + +Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the +rectory, when I saw the sexton's daughter meeting us. She had almost +come up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, +and he started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, +constrained, yet familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to +talk, but without speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of +recognition to the young woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners +to look behind. I glanced at Harry, and he answered me with a queer +look. When we reached the turning that would hide them from our view, I +looked back almost involuntarily, and there they were still standing. +But before we reached the door of the rectory, Joe got up with us. + +There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the +sexton's daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the +youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, +somewhat sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall +and slender, and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good +hair's-breadth further into the smith's affairs. Beyond the +hair's-breadth, however, all was dark. But I saw likewise that the well +of truth, whence I might draw the whole business, must be the girl's +mother. + +After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back +to the church, and I went to the sexton's cottage. I found the old man +seated at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty +plate beside it. + +"Come in, sir," he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. "The +mis'ess ben't in, but she'll be here in a few minutes." + +"O, it's of no consequence," I said. "Are they all well?" + +"All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It +be in winter it be worst for them." + +"But it's a snug enough shelter you've got here. It seems such, anyhow; +though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak +places both in house and body." + +"It ben't the wind touch _them_" he said; "they be safe enough from the +wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben't much snow in these parts; but +when it du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!" + +Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again? + +"But at least this cottage keeps out the wet," I said. "If not, we must +have it seen to." + +"This cottage du well enough, sir. It'll last my time, anyhow." + +"Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?" + +"Bless your heart, sir! It's not them. They du well enough. It's my +people out yonder. You've got the souls to look after, and I've got the +bodies. That's what it be, sir. To be sure!" + +The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my +stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and +none to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed +that night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination +in which the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, +and he would magnify that office. He could not bear that there should +be no further outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out +of sight should be "the be-all and the end-all." He was God's vicar, +the gardener in God's Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When +all others had forsaken the dead, he remained their friend, caring for +what little comfort yet remained possible to them. Hence in all changes +of air and sky above, he attributed to them some knowledge of the same, +and some share in their consequences even down in the darkness of the +tomb. It was his way of keeping up the relation between the living and +the dead. Finding I made him no reply, he took up the word again. + +"You've got your part, sir, and I've got mine. You up into the pulpit, +and I down into the grave. But it'll be all the same by and by." + +"I hope it will," I answered. "But when you do go down into your own +grave, you'll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You'll +find you've got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. +She'll talk about the living rather than the dead." + +"That's natural, sir. She brought 'em to life, and I buried 'em--at +least, best part of 'em. If only I had the other two safe down with the +rest!" + +I remembered what the old woman had told me--that she had two boys _in_ +the sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned +boys as still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have +gladly laid them to rest in the warm dry churchyard. + +He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, +and saying, "Well, I must be off to my gardening," left me with his +wife. I saw then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, +like that of all true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping. + +"The old man seems a little out of sorts," I said to his wife. + +"Well, sir," she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness +which obedient suffering had perfected, "this be the day he buried our +Nancy, this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work +poorly; and the two things together they've upset him a bit." + +"I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?" + +"I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I've been to the doctor about +her." + +"I hope it's nothing serious." + +"I hope not, sir; but you see--four on 'em, sir!" + +"Well, she's in God's hands, you know." + +"That she be, sir." + +"I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes." + +"What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir." + +"I want to know what's the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith." + +"They du say it be a consumption, sir." + +"But what has he got on his mind?" + +"He's got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, +I assure you, sir." + +"But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He's not so +happy as he should be. He's not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy +because he's ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was +going to die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as +he looks." + +"Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it's +part guessing.--I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon one +another as any two in the county." + +"Are they not going to be married then?" + +"There be the pint, sir. I don't believe Joe ever said a word o' the +sort to Aggy. She never could ha' kep it from me, sir." + +"Why doesn't he then?" + +"That's the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it's because he be +in such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn't to go marrying with one +foot in the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that +be it." + +"For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we've all got one foot in the grave, I +think." + +"That be very true, sir." + +"And what does your daughter think?" + +"I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each +other, quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. +But I can't help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy's pale +face." + +"And something to do with Joe's pale face too, Mrs. Coombes," I said. +"Thank you. You've told me more than I expected. It explains +everything. I must have it out with Joe now." + +"O deary me! sir, don't go and tell him I said anything, as if I wanted +him to marry my daughter." + +"Don't you be afraid. I'll take good care of that. And don't fancy I'm +fond of meddling with other people's affairs. But this is a case in +which I ought to do something. Joe's a fine fellow." + +"That he be, sir. I couldn't wish a better for a son-in-law." + +I put on my hat. + +"You won't get me into no trouble with Joe, will ye, sir!" + +"Indeed I will not, Mrs. Coombes. I should be doing a great deal more +harm than good if I said a word to make him doubt you." + +I went straight to the church. There were the two men working away in +the shadowy tower, and there was Agnes standing beside, knitting like +her mother, so quiet, so solemn even, that it did indeed look as if she +were a long-married wife, hovering about her husband at his work. Harry +was saying something to her as I went in, but when they saw me they +were silent, and Agnes gently withdrew. + +"Do you think you will get through to-night?" I asked. + +"Sure of it, sir," answered Harry. + +"You shouldn't be sure of anything, Harry. We are told in the New +Testament that we ought to say _If the Lord will_," said Joe. + +"Now, Joe, you're too hard upon Harry," I said. "You don't think that +the Bible means to pull a man up every step like that, till he's afraid +to speak a word. It was about a long journey and a year's residence +that the Apostle James was speaking." + +"No doubt, sir. But the principle's the same. Harry can no more be sure +of finishing his work before it be dark, than those people could be of +going their long journey." + +"That is perfectly true. But you are taking the letter for the spirit, +and that, I suspect, in more ways than one. The religion does not lie +in not being sure about anything, but in a loving desire that the will +of God in the matter, whatever it be, may be done. And if Harry has not +learned yet to care about the will of God, what is the good of coming +down upon him that way, as if that would teach him in the least. When +he loves God, then, and not till then, will he care about his will. Nor +does the religion lie in saying, _if the Lord will_, every time +anything is to be done. It is a most dangerous thing to use sacred +words often. It makes them so common to our ear that at length, when +used most solemnly, they have not half the effect they ought to have, +and that is a serious loss. What the Apostle means is, that we should +always be in the mood of looking up to God and having regard to his +will, not always writing D.V. for instance, as so many do--most +irreverently, I think--using a Latin contraction for the beautiful +words, just as if they were a charm, or as if God would take offence if +they did not make the salvo of acknowledgment. It seems to me quite +heathenish. Our hearts ought ever to be in the spirit of those words; +our lips ought to utter them rarely. Besides, there are some things a +man might be pretty sure the Lord wills." + +"It sounds fine, sir; but I'm not sure that I understand what you mean +to say. It sounds to me like a darkening of wisdom." + +I saw that I had irritated him, and so had in some measure lost ground. +But Harry struck in-- + +"How _can_ you say that now, Joe? _I_ know what the parson means well +enough, and everybody knows I ain't got half the brains you've got." + +"The reason is, Harry, that he's got something in his head that stands +in the way." + +"And there's nothing in my head _to_ stand in the way!" returned Harry, +laughing. + +This made me laugh too, and even Joe could not help a sympathetic grin. +By this time it was getting dark. + +"I'm afraid, Harry, after all, you won't get through to-night." + +"I begin to think so too, sir. And there's Joe saying, 'I told you so,' +over and over to himself, though he won't say it out like a man." + +Joe answered only with another grin. + +"I tell you what it is, Harry," I said--"you must come again on Monday. +And on your way home, just look in and tell Joe's mother that I have +kept him over to-morrow. The change will do him good." + +"No, sir, that can't he. I haven't got a clean shirt." + +"You can have a shirt of mine," I said. "But I'm afraid you'll want +your Sunday clothes." + +"I'll bring them for you, Joe--before you're up," interposed Harry. +"And then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know." + +Here was just what I wanted. + +"Hold your tongue, Harry," said Joe angrily. "You're talking of what +you don't know anything about." + +"Well, Joe, I ben't a fool, if I ben't so religious as you be. You +ben't a bad fellow, though you be a Methodist, and I ben't a fool, +though I be Harry Cobb." + +"What do you mean, Harry? Do hold your tongue." + +"Well, I'll tell you what I mean first, and then I'll hold my tongue. I +mean this--that nobody with two eyes, or one eye, for that matter, in +his head, could help seeing the eyes you and Aggy make at each other, +and why you don't port your helm and board her--I won't say it's more +than I know, but I du say it to be more than I think be fair to the +young woman." + +"Hold your tongue, Harry." + +"I said I would when I'd answered you as to what I meaned. So no more +at present; but I'll be over with your clothes afore you're up in the +morning." + +As Harry spoke he was busy gathering his tools. + +"They won't be in the way, will they, sir?" he said, as he heaped them +together in the furthest corner of the tower. + +"Not in the least," I returned. "If I had my way, all the tools used in +building the church should be carved on the posts and pillars of it, to +indicate the sacredness of labour, and the worship of God that lies, +not in building the church merely, but in every honest trade honestly +pursued for the good of mankind and the need of the workman. For a +necessity of God is laid upon every workman as well as on St. Paul. +Only St. Paul saw it, and every workman doesn't, Harry." + +"Thank you, sir. I like that way of it. I almost think I could be a +little bit religious after your way of it, sir." + +"Almost, Harry!" growled Joe--not unkindly. + +"Now, you hold your tongue, Joe," I said. "Leave Harry to me. You may +take him, if you like, after I've done with him." + +Laughing merrily, but making no other reply than a hearty good-night, +Harry strode away out of the church, and Joe and I went home together. + +When he had had his tea, I asked him to go out with me for a walk. + +The sun was shining aslant upon the downs from over the sea. We rose +out of the shadowy hollow to the sunlit brow. I was a little in advance +of Joe. Happening to turn, I saw the light full on his head and face, +while the rest of his body had not yet emerged from the shadow. + +"Stop, Joe," I said. "I want to see you so for a moment." + +He stood--a little surprised. + +"You look just like a man rising from the dead, Joe," I said. + +"I don't know what you mean, sir," he returned. + +"I will describe yourself to you. Your head and face are full of +sunlight, the rest of your body is still buried in the shadow. Look; I +will stand where you are now; and you come here. You will soon see what +I mean." + +We changed places. Joe stared for a moment. Then his face brightened. + +"I see what you mean, sir," he said. "I fancy you don't mean the +resurrection of the body, but the resurrection of righteousness." + +"I do, Joe. Did it ever strike you that the whole history of the +Christian life is a series of such resurrections? Every time a man +bethinks himself that he is not walking in the light, that he has been +forgetting himself, and must repent, that he has been asleep and must +awake, that he has been letting his garments trail, and must gird up +the loins of his mind--every time this takes place, there is a +resurrection in the world. Yes, Joe; and every time that a man finds +that his heart is troubled, that he is not rejoicing in God, a +resurrection must follow--a resurrection out of the night of troubled +thoughts into the gladness of the truth. For the truth is, and ever +was, and ever must be, gladness, however much the souls on which it +shines may be obscured by the clouds of sorrow, troubled by the +thunders of fear, or shot through with the lightnings of pain. Now, +Joe, will you let me tell you what you are like--I do not know your +thoughts; I am only judging from your words and looks?" + +"You may if you like, sir," answered Joe, a little sulkily. But I was +not to be repelled. + +I stood up in the sunlight, so that my eyes caught only about half the +sun's disc. Then I bent my face towards the earth. + +"What part of me is the light shining on now, Joe?" + +"Just the top of your head," answered he. + +"There, then," I returned, "that is just what you are like--a man with +the light on his head, but not on his face. And why not on your face? +Because you hold your head down." + +"Isn't it possible, sir, that a man might lose the light on his face, +as you put it, by doing his duty?" + +"That is a difficult question," I replied. "I must think before I +answer it." + +"I mean," added Joe--"mightn't his duty be a painful one?" + +"Yes. But I think that would rather etherealise than destroy the light. +Behind the sorrow would spring a yet greater light from the very duty +itself. I have expressed myself badly, but you will see what I +mean.--To be frank with you, Joe, I do not see that light in your face. +Therefore I think something must be wrong with you. Remember a good man +is not necessarily in the right. St. Peter was a good man, yet our Lord +called him Satan--and meant it of course, for he never said what he did +not mean." + +"How can I be wrong when all my trouble comes from doing my +duty--nothing else, as far as I know?" + +"Then," I replied, a sudden light breaking in on my mind, "I doubt +whether what you suppose to be your duty can be your duty. If it were, +I do not think it would make you so miserable. At least--I may be +wrong, but I venture to think so." + +"What is a man to go by, then? If he thinks a thing is his duty, is he +not to do it?" + +"Most assuredly--until he knows better. But it is of the greatest +consequence whether the supposed duty be the will of God or the +invention of one's own fancy or mistaken judgment. A real duty is +always something right in itself. The duty a man makes his for the +time, by supposing it to be a duty, may be something quite wrong in +itself. The duty of a Hindoo widow is to burn herself on the body of +her husband. But that duty lasts no longer than till she sees that, not +being the will of God, it is not her duty. A real duty, on the other +hand, is a necessity of the human nature, without seeing and doing +which a man can never attain to the truth and blessedness of his own +being. It was the duty of the early hermits to encourage the growth of +vermin upon their bodies, for they supposed that was pleasing to God; +but they could not fare so well as if they had seen the truth that the +will of God was cleanliness. And there may be far more serious things +done by Christian people against the will of God, in the fancy of doing +their duty, than such a trifle as swarming with worms. In a word, +thinking a thing is your duty makes it your duty only till you know +better. And the prime duty of every man is to seek and find, that he +may do, the will of God." + +"But do you think, sir, that a man is likely to be doing what he ought +not, if he is doing what he don't like?" + +"Not so likely, I allow. But there may be ambition in it. A man must +not want to be better than the right. That is the delusion of the +anchorite--a delusion in which the man forgets the rights of others for +the sake of his own sanctity." + +"It might be for the sake of another person, and not for the person's +own sake at all." + +"It might be; but except it were the will of God for that other person, +it would be doing him or her a real injury." + +We were coming gradually towards what I wanted to make the point in +question. I wished him to tell me all about it himself, however, for I +knew that while advice given on request is generally disregarded, to +offer advice unasked is worthy only of a fool. + +"But how are you to know the will of God in every case?" asked Joe. + +"By looking at the general laws of life, and obeying them--except there +be anything special in a particular case to bring it under a higher +law." + +"Ah! but that be just what there is here." + +"Well, my dear fellow, that may be; but the special conduct may not be +right for the special case for all that. The speciality of the case may +not be even sufficient to take it from under the ordinary rule. But it +is of no use talking generals. Let us come to particulars. If you can +trust me, tell me all about it, and we may be able to let some light +in. I am sure there is darkness somewhere." + +"I will turn it over in my mind, sir; and if I can bring myself to talk +about it, I will. I would rather tell you than anyone else." + +I said no more. We watched a glorious sunset--there never was a grander +place for sunsets--and went home. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +A SMALL ADVENTURE. + + +The next morning Harry came with the clothes. But Joe did not go to +church. Neither did Agnes make her appearance that morning. They were +both present at the evening service, however. + +When we came out of church, it was cloudy and dark, and the wind was +blowing cold from the sea. The sky was covered with one cloud, but the +waves tossing themselves against the rocks, flashed whiteness out of +the general gloom. As the tide rose the wind increased. It was a night +of surly temper--hard and gloomy. Not a star cracked the blue +above--there was no blue; and the wind was _gurly_; I once heard that +word in Scotland, and never forgot it. + +After one of our usual gatherings in Connie's room, which were much +shorter here because of the evening service in summer, I withdrew till +supper should be ready. + +Now I have always had, as I think I have incidentally stated before, a +certain peculiar pleasure in the surly aspects of nature. When I was a +young man this took form in opposition and defiance; since I had begun +to grow old the form had changed into a sense of safety. I welcomed +such aspects, partly at least, because they roused my faith to look +through and beyond the small region of human conditions in which alone +the storm can be and blow, and thus induced a feeling like that of the +child who lies in his warm crib and listens to the howling of one of +these same storms outside the strong-built house which yet trembles at +its fiercer onsets: the house is not in danger; or, if it be, that is +his father's business, not his. Hence it came that, after supper, I put +on my great-coat and travelling-cap, and went out into the ill-tempered +night--speaking of it in its human symbolism. + +I meant to have a stroll down to the breakwater, of which I have yet +said little, but which was a favourite resort, both of myself and my +children. At the further end of it, always covered at high water, was +an outlying cluster of low rocks, in the heart of which the lord of the +manor, a noble-hearted Christian gentleman of the old school, had +constructed a bath of graduated depth--an open-air swimming-pool--the +only really safe place for men who were swimmers to bathe in. Thither I +was in the habit of taking my two little men every morning, and bathing +with them, that I might develop the fish that was in them; for, as +George Herbert says: + + "Man is everything, + And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit; + A beast, yet is, or should be, more;" + +and he might have gone on to say that he is, or should be, a fish as +well. + +It will seem strange to any reader who can recall the position of my +Connie's room, that the nearest way to the breakwater should be through +that room; but so it was. I mention the fact because I want my readers +to understand a certain peculiarity of the room. By the side of the +window which looked out upon the breakwater was a narrow door, +apparently of a closet or cupboard, which communicated, however, with a +narrow, curving, wood-built passage, leading into a little wooden hut, +the walls of which were by no means impervious to the wind, for they +were formed of outside-planks, with the bark still upon them. From this +hut one or two little windows looked seaward, and a door led out on the +bit of sward in which lay the flower-bed under Connie's window. From +this spot again a door in the low wall and thick hedge led out on the +downs, where a path wound along the cliffs that formed the side of the +bay, till, descending under the storm-tower, it brought you to the root +of the breakwater. + +This mole stretched its long strong low back to a rock a good way out, +breaking the force of the waves, and rendering the channel of a small +river, that here flowed into the sea across the sands from the mouth of +the canal, a refuge from the Atlantic. But it was a roadway often hard +to reach. In fair weather even, the wind falling as the vessel rounded +the point of the breakwater into the calm of the projecting headlands, +the under-current would sometimes dash her helpless on the rocks. +During all this heavenly summer there had been no thought or fear of +any such disaster. The present night was a hint of what weather would +yet come. + +When I went into Connie's room, I found her lying in bed a very picture +of peace. But my entrance destroyed the picture. + +"Papa," she said, "why have you got your coat on? Surely you are not +going out to-night. The wind is blowing dreadfully." + +"Not very dreadfully, Connie. It blew much worse the night we found +your baby." + +"But it is very dark." + +"I allow that; but there is a glimmer from the sea. I am only going on +the breakwater for a few minutes. You know I like a stormy night quite +as much as a fine one." + +"I shall be miserable till you come home, papa." + +"Nonsense, Connie. You don't think your father hasn't sense to take +care of himself! Or rather, Connie, for I grant that is poor ground of +comfort, you don't think I can go anywhere without my Father to take +care of me?" + +"But there is no occasion--is there, papa?" + +"Do you think I should be better pleased with my boys if they shrunk +from everything involving the least possibility of danger because there +was no occasion for it? That is just the way to make cowards. And I am +certain God would not like his children to indulge in such moods of +self-preservation as that. He might well be ashamed of them. The +fearful are far more likely to meet with accidents than the courageous. +But really, Connie, I am almost ashamed of talking so. It is all your +fault. There is positively no ground for apprehension, and I hope you +won't spoil my walk by the thought that my foolish little girl is +frightened." + +"I will be good--indeed I will, papa," she said, holding up her mouth +to kiss me. + +I left her room, and went through the wooden passage into the bark hut. +The wind roared about it, shook it, and pawed it, and sung and whistled +in the chinks of the planks. I went out and shut the door. That moment +the wind seized upon me, and I had to fight with it. When I got on the +path leading along the edge of the downs, I felt something lighter than +any feather fly in my face. When I put up my hand, I found my cheek +wet. Again and again I was thus assailed, but when I got to the +breakwater I found what it was. They were flakes of foam, bubbles +worked up into little masses of adhering thousands, which the wind blew +off the waters and across the downs, carrying some of them miles +inland. When I reached the breakwater, and looked along its ridge +through the darkness of the night, I was bewildered to see a whiteness +lying here and there in a great patch upon its top. They were but +accumulations of these foam-flakes, like soap-suds, lying so thick that +I expected to have to wade through them, only they vanished at the +touch of my feet. Till then I had almost believed it was snow I saw. On +the edge of the waves, in quieter spots, they lay like yeast, foaming +and working. Now and then a little rush of water from a higher wave +swept over the top of the broad breakwater, as with head bowed sideways +against the wind, I struggled along towards the rock at its end; but I +said to myself, "The tide is falling fast, and salt water hurts +nobody," and struggled on over the huge rough stones of the mighty +heap, outside which the waves were white with wrath, inside which they +had fallen asleep, only heaving with the memory of their late unrest. I +reached the tall rock at length, climbed the rude stair leading up to +the flagstaff, and looked abroad, if looking it could be called, into +the thick dark. But the wind blew so strong on the top that I was glad +to descend. Between me and the basin where yesterday morning I had +bathed in still water and sunshine with my boys, rolled the deathly +waves. I wandered on the rough narrow space yet uncovered, stumbling +over the stones and the rocky points between which they lay, stood here +and there half-meditating, and at length, finding a sheltered nook in a +mass of rock, sat with the wind howling and the waves bursting around +me. There I fell into a sort of brown study--almost a half-sleep. + +But I had not sat long before I came broad awake, for I heard voices, +low and earnest. One I recognised as Joe's voice. The other was a +woman's. I could not tell what they said for some time, and therefore +felt no immediate necessity for disclosing my proximity, but sat +debating with myself whether I should speak to them or not. At length, +in a lull of the wind, I heard the woman say--I could fancy with a +sigh-- + +"I'm sure you'll du what is right, Joe. Don't 'e think o' me, Joe." + +"It's just of you that I du think, Aggy. You know it ben't for my sake. +Surely you know that?" + +There was no answer for a moment. I was still doubting what I had best +do--go away quietly or let them know I was there--when she spoke again. +There was a momentary lull now in the noises of both wind and water, +and I heard what she said well enough. + +"It ben't for me to contradict you, Joe. But I don't think you be going +to die. You be no worse than last year. Be you now, Joe?" + +It flashed across me how once before, a stormy night and darkness had +brought me close to a soul in agony. Then I was in agony myself; now +the world was all fair and hopeful around me--the portals of the world +beyond ever opening wider as I approached them, and letting out more of +their glory to gladden the path to their threshold. But here were two +souls straying in a mist which faith might roll away, and leave them +walking in the light. The moment was come. I must speak. + +"Joe!" I called out. + +"Who's there?" he cried; and I heard him start to his feet. + +"Only Mr. Walton. Where are you?" + +"We can't be very far off," he answered, not in a tone of any pleasure +at finding me so nigh. + +I rose, and peering about through the darkness, found that they were a +little higher up on the same rock by which I was sheltered. + +"You mustn't think," I said, "that I have been eavesdropping. I had no +idea anyone was near me till I heard your voices, and I did not hear a +word till just the last sentence or two." + +"I saw someone go up the Castle-rock," said Joe; "but I thought he was +gone away again. It will be a lesson to me." + +"I'm no tell-tale, Joe," I returned, as I scrambled up the rock. "You +will have no cause to regret that I happened to overhear a little. I am +sure, Joe, you will never say anything you need be ashamed of. But what +I heard was sufficient to let me into the secret of your trouble. Will +you let me talk to Joe, Agnes? I've been young myself, and, to tell the +truth, I don't think I'm old yet." + +"I am sure, sir," she answered, "you won't be hard on Joe and me. I +don't suppose there be anything wrong in liking each other, though we +can't be--married." + +She spoke in a low tone, and her voice trembled very much; yet there +was a certain womanly composure in her utterance. "I'm sure it's very +bold of me to talk so," she added, "but Joe will tell you all about it." + +I was close beside them now, and fancied I saw through the dusk the +motion of her hand stealing into his. + +"Well, Joe, this is just what I wanted," I said. "A woman can be braver +than a big smith sometimes. Agnes has done her part. Now you do yours, +and tell me all about it." + +No response followed my adjuration. I must help him. + +"I think I know how the matter lies, Joe. You think you are not going +to live long, and that therefore you ought not to marry. Am I right?" + +"Not far off it, sir," he answered. + +"Now, Joe," I said, "can't we talk as friends about this matter? I have +no right to intrude into your affairs--none in the least--except what +friendship gives me. If you say I am not to talk about it, I shall be +silent. To force advice upon you would be as impertinent as useless." + +"It's all the same, I'm afraid, sir. My mind has been made up for a +long time. What right have I to bring other people into trouble? But I +take it kind of you, sir, though I mayn't look over-pleased. Agnes +wants to hear your way of it. I'm agreeable." + +This was not very encouraging. Still I thought it sufficient ground for +proceeding. + +"I suppose you will allow that the root of all Christian behaviour is +the will of God?" + +"Surely, sir." + +"Is it not the will of God, then, that when a man and woman love each +other, they should marry?" + +"Certainly, sir--where there be no reasons against it." + +"Of course. And you judge you see reason for not doing so, else you +would?" + +"I do see that a man should not bring a woman into trouble for the sake +of being comfortable himself for the rest of a few weary days." + +Agnes was sobbing gently behind her handkerchief. I knew how gladly she +would be Joe's wife, if only to nurse him through his last illness. + +"Not except it would make her comfortable too, I grant you, Joe. But +listen to me. In the first place, you don't know, and you are not +required to know, when you are going to die. In fact, you have nothing +to do with it. Many a life has been injured by the constant expectation +of death. It is life we have to do with, not death. The best +preparation for the night is to work while the day lasts, diligently. +The best preparation for death is life. Besides, I have known delicate +people who have outlived all their strong relations, and been left +alone in the earth--because they had possibly taken too much care of +themselves. But marriage is God's will, and death is God's will, and +you have no business to set the one over against, as antagonistic to, +the other. For anything you know, the gladness and the peace of +marriage may be the very means intended for your restoration to health +and strength. I suspect your desire to marry, fighting against the +fancy that you ought not to marry, has a good deal to do with the state +of health in which you now find yourself. A man would get over many +things if he were happy, that he cannot get over when he is miserable." + +"But it's for Aggy. You forget that." + +"I do not forget it. What right have you to seek for her another kind +of welfare than you would have yourself? Are you to treat her as if she +were worldly when you are not--to provide for her a comfort which +yourself you would despise? Why should you not marry because you have +to die soon?--if you _are_ thus doomed, which to me is by no means +clear. Why not have what happiness you may for the rest of your +sojourn? If you find at the end of twenty years that here you are after +all, you will be rather sorry you did not do as I say." + +"And if I find myself dying at the end of six months'?" + +"You will thank God for those six months. The whole thing, my dear +fellow, is a want of faith in God. I do not doubt you think you are +doing right, but, I repeat, the whole thing comes from want of faith in +God. You will take things into your own hands, and order them after a +preventive and self-protective fashion, lest God should have ordained +the worst for you, which worst, after all, would be best met by doing +his will without inquiry into the future; and which worst is no evil. +Death is no more an evil than marriage is." + +"But you don't see it as I do," persisted the blacksmith. + +"Of course I don't. I think you see it as it is not." + +He remained silent for a little. A shower of spray fell upon us. He +started. + +"What a wave!" he cried. "That spray came over the top of the rock. We +shall have to run for it." + +I fancied that he only wanted to avoid further conversation. + +"There's no hurry," I said. "It was high water an hour and a half ago." + +"You don't know this coast, sir," returned he, "or you wouldn't talk +like that." + +As he spoke he rose, and going from under the shelter of the rock, +looked along. + +"For God's sake, Aggy!" he cried in terror, "come at once. Every other +wave be rushing across the breakwater as if it was on the level." + +So saying, he hurried back, caught her by the hand, and began to draw +her along. + +"Hadn't we better stay where we are?" I suggested. + +"If you can stand the night in the cold. But Aggy here is delicate; and +I don't care about being out all night. It's not the tide, sir; it's a +ground swell--from a storm somewhere out at sea. That never asks no +questions about tide or no tide." + +"Come along, then," I said. "But just wait one minute more. It is +better to be ready for the worst." + +For I remembered that the day before I had seen a crowbar lying among +the stones, and I thought it might be useful. In a moment or two I had +found it, and returning, gave it to Joe. Then I took the girl's +disengaged hand. She thanked me in a voice perfectly calm and firm. Joe +took the bar in haste, and drew Agnes towards the breakwater. + +Any real thought of danger had not yet crossed my mind. But when I +looked along the outstretched back of the mole, and saw a dim sheet of +white sweep across it, I felt that there was ground for his anxiety, +and prepared myself for a struggle. + +"Do you know what to do with the crowbar, Joe?" I said, grasping my own +stout oak-stick more firmly. + +"Perfectly," answered Joe. "To stick between the stones and hold on. We +must watch our time between the waves." + +"You take the command, then, Joe," I returned. "You see better than I +do, and you know the ways of that raging wild beast there better than I +do. I will obey orders--one of which, no doubt, will be, not for wind +or sea to lose hold of Agnes--eh, Joe?" + +Joe gave a grim enough laugh in reply, and we started, he carrying his +crowbar in his right hand towards the advancing sea, and I my oak-stick +in my left towards the still water within. + +"Quick march!" said Joe, and away we went out on the breakwater. + +Now the back of the breakwater was very rugged, for it was formed of +huge stones, with wide gaps between, where the waters had washed out +the cement, and worn their edges. But what impeded our progress secured +our safety. + +"Halt!" cried Joe, when we were yet but a few yards beyond the shelter +of the rocks. "There's a topper coming." + +We halted at the word of command, as a huge wave, with combing crest, +rushed against the far out-sloping base of the mole, and flung its +heavy top right over the middle of the mass, a score or two of yards in +front of us. + +"Now for it!" cried Joe. "Run!" + +We did run. In my mind there was just sense enough of danger to add to +the pleasure of the excitement. I did not know how much danger there +was. Over the rough worn stones we sped stumbling. + +"Halt!" cried the smith once more, and we did halt; but this time, as +it turned out, in the middle front of the coming danger. + +"God be with us!" I exclaimed, when the huge billow showed itself +through the night, rushing towards the mole. The smith stuck his +crowbar between two great stones. To this he held on with one hand, and +threw the other arm round Agnes's waist. I, too, had got my oak firmly +fixed, held on with one hand, and threw the other arm round Agnes. It +took but a moment. + +"Now then!" cried Joe. "Here she comes! Hold on, sir. Hold on, Aggy!" + +But when I saw the height of the water, as it rushed on us up the +sloping side of the mound, I cried out in my turn, "Down, Joe! Down on +your face, and let it over us easy! Down Agnes!" + +They obeyed. We threw ourselves across the breakwater, with our heads +to the coming foe, and I grasped my stick close to the stones with all +the power of a hand that was then strong. Over us burst the mighty +wave, floating us up from the stones where we lay. But we held on, the +wave passed, and we sprung gasping to our feet. + +"Now, now!" cried Joe and I together, and, heavy as we were, with the +water pouring from us, we flew across the remainder of the heap, and +arrived, panting and safe, at the other end, ere one wave more had +swept the surface. The moment we were in safety we turned and looked +back over the danger we had traversed. It was to see a huge billow +sweep the breakwater from end to end. We looked at each other for a +moment without speaking. + +"I believe, sir," said Joe at length, with slow and solemn speech, "if +you hadn't taken the command at that moment we should all have been +lost." + +"It seems likely enough, when I look back on it. For one thing, I was +not sure that my stick would stand, so I thought I had better grasp it +low down." + +"We were awfully near death," said Joe. + +"Nearer than you thought, Joe; and yet we escaped it. Things don't go +all as we fancy, you see. Faith is as essential to manhood as +foresight--believe me, Joe. It is very absurd to trust God for the +future, and not trust him for the present. The man who is not anxious +is the man most likely to do the right thing. He is cool and collected +and ready. Our Lord therefore told his disciples that when they should +be brought before kings and rulers, they were to take no thought what +answer they should make, for it would be given them when the time came." + +We were climbing the steep path up to the downs. Neither of my +companions spoke. + +"You have escaped one death together," I said at length: "dare another." + +Still neither of them returned an answer. When we came near the +parsonage, I said, "Now, Joe, you must go in and get to bed at once. I +will take Agnes home. You can trust me not to say anything against you?" + +Joe laughed rather hoarsely, and replied: "As you please, sir. Good +night, Aggie. Mind you get to bed as fast as you can." + +When I returned from giving Agnes over to her parents, I made haste to +change my clothes, and put on my warm dressing-gown. I may as well +mention at once, that not one of us was the worse for our ducking. I +then went up to Connie's room. + +"Here I am, you see, Connie, quite safe." + +"I've been lying listening to every blast of wind since you went out, +papa. But all I could do was to trust in God." + +"Do you call that _all_, Connie? Believe me, there is more power in +that than any human being knows the tenth part of yet. It is indeed +_all_." + +I said no more then. I told my wife about it that night, but we were +well into another month before I told Connie. + +When I left her, I went to Joe's room to see how he was, and found him +having some gruel. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and said, + +"Well, Joe, this is better than under water. I hope you won't be the +worse for it." + +"I don't much care what comes of me, sir. It will be all over soon." + +"But you ought to care what comes of you, Joe. I will tell you why. You +are an instrument out of which ought to come praise to God, and, +therefore, you ought to care for the instrument." + +"That way, yes, sir, I ought." + +"And you have no business to be like some children who say, 'Mamma +won't give me so and so,' instead of asking her to give it them." + +"I see what you mean, sir. But really you put me out before the young +woman. I couldn't say before her what I meant. Suppose, you know, sir, +there was to come a family. It might be, you know." + +"Of course. What else would you have?" + +"But if I was to die, where would she be then?" + +"In God's hands; just as she is now." + +"But I ought to take care that she is not left with a burden like that +to provide for." + +"O, Joe! how little you know a woman's heart! It would just be the +greatest comfort she could have for losing you--that's all. Many a +woman has married a man she did not care enough for, just that she +might have a child of her own to let out her heart upon. I don't say +that is right, you know. Such love cannot be perfect. A woman ought to +love her child because it is her husband's more than because it is her +own, and because it is God's more than either's. I saw in the papers +the other day, that a woman was brought before the Recorder of London +for stealing a baby, when the judge himself said that there was no +imaginable motive for her action but a motherly passion to possess the +child. It is the need of a child that makes so many women take to poor +miserable, broken-nosed lap-dogs; for they are self-indulgent, and +cannot face the troubles and dangers of adopting a child. They would if +they might get one of a good family, or from a respectable home; but +they dare not take an orphan out of the dirt, lest it should spoil +their silken chairs. But that has nothing to do with our argument. What +I mean is this, that if Agnes really loves you, as no one can look in +her face and doubt, she will be far happier if you leave her a +child--yes, she will be happier if you only leave her your name for +hers--than if you died without calling her your wife." + +I took Joe's basin from him, and he lay down. He turned his face to the +wall. I waited a moment, but finding him silent, bade him good-night, +and left the room. + +A month after, I married them. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE HARVEST. + + +It was some time before we got the bells to work to our mind, but at +last we succeeded. The worst of it was to get the cranks, which at +first required strong pressure on the keys, to work easily enough. But +neither Joe nor his cousin spared any pains to perfect the attempt, +and, as I say, at length we succeeded. I took Wynnie down to the +instrument and made her try whether she could not do something, and she +succeeded in making the old tower discourse loudly and eloquently. + +By this time the thanksgiving for the harvest was at hand: on the +morning of that first of all would I summon the folk to their prayers +with the sound of the full peal. And I wrote a little hymn of praise to +the God of the harvest, modelling it to one of the oldest tunes in that +part of the country, and I had it printed on slips of paper and laid +plentifully on the benches. What with the calling of the bells, like +voices in the highway, and the solemn meditation of the organ within to +bear aloft the thoughts of those who heard, and came to the prayer and +thanksgiving in common, and the message which God had given me to utter +to them, I hoped that we should indeed keep holiday. + +Wynnie summoned the parish with the hundredth psalm pealed from aloft, +dropping from the airy regions of the tower on village and hamlet and +cottage, calling aloud--for who could dissociate the words from the +music, though the words are in the Scotch psalms?--written none the +less by an Englishman, however English wits may amuse themselves with +laughing at their quaintness--calling aloud, + + "All people that on earth do dwell + Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice; + Him serve with mirth, his praise forth tell-- + Come ye before him and rejoice." + +Then we sang the psalm before the communion service, making bold in the +name of the Lord to serve him with _mirth_ as in the old version, and +not with the _fear_ with which some editor, weak in faith, has presumed +to alter the line. Then before the sermon we sang the hymn I had +prepared--a proceeding justifiable by many an example in the history of +the church while she was not only able to number singers amongst her +clergy, but those singers were capable of influencing the whole heart +and judgment of the nation with their songs. Ethelwyn played the organ. +The song I had prepared was this: + + "We praise the Life of All; + From buried seeds so small + Who makes the ordered ranks of autumn stand; + Who stores the corn + In rick and barn + To feed the winter of the land. + + We praise the Life of Light! + Who from the brooding night + Draws out the morning holy, calm, and grand; + Veils up the moon, + Sends out the sun, + To glad the face of all the land. + + We praise the Life of Work, + Who from sleep's lonely dark + Leads forth his children to arise and stand, + Then go their way, + The live-long day, + To trust and labour in the land. + + We praise the Life of Good, + Who breaks sin's lazy mood, + Toilsomely ploughing up the fruitless sand. + The furrowed waste + They leave, and haste + Home, home, to till their Father's land. + + We praise the Life of Life, + Who in this soil of strife + Casts us at birth, like seed from sower's hand; + To die and so + Like corn to grow + A golden harvest in his land." + +After we had sung this hymn, the meaning of which is far better than +the versification, I preached from the words of St. Paul, "If by any +means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead. Not as though I +had already attained, either were already perfect." And this is +something like what I said to them: + +"The world, my friends, is full of resurrections, and it is not always +of the same resurrection that St. Paul speaks. Every night that folds +us up in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early +and have seen the first of the dawn, will know it--the day rises out of +the night like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life. +That you may feel that the sunrise is a resurrection--the word +resurrection just means a rising again--I will read you a little +description of it from a sermon by a great writer and great preacher +called Jeremy Taylor. Listen. 'But as when the sun approaching towards +the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven and +sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and +calls up the lark to matins, and by and by gilds the fringes of a +cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns +like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear +a veil, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a +man tells the story, the sun gets up higher, till he shows a fair face +and a full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud +often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets +quickly; so is a man's reason and his life.' Is not this a resurrection +of the day out of the night? Or hear how Milton makes his Adam and Eve +praise God in the morning,-- + + 'Ye mists and exhalations that now rise + From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, + Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, + In honour to the world's great Author rise, + Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky, + Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, + Rising or falling still advance his praise.' + +But it is yet more of a resurrection to you. Think of your own +condition through the night and in the morning. You die, as it were, +every night. The death of darkness comes down over the earth; but a +deeper death, the death of sleep, descends on you. A power overshadows +you; your eyelids close, you cannot keep them open if you would; your +limbs lie moveless; the day is gone; your whole life is gone; you have +forgotten everything; an evil man might come and do with your goods as +he pleased; you are helpless. But the God of the Resurrection is awake +all the time, watching his sleeping men and women, even as a mother who +watches her sleeping baby, only with larger eyes and more full of love +than hers; and so, you know not how, all at once you know that you are +what you are; that there is a world that wants you outside of you, and +a God that wants you inside of you; you rise from the death of sleep, +not by your own power, for you knew nothing about it; God put his hand +over your eyes, and you were dead; he lifted his hand and breathed +light on you and you rose from the dead, thanked the God who raised you +up, and went forth to do your work. From darkness to light; from +blindness to seeing; from knowing nothing to looking abroad on the +mighty world; from helpless submission to willing obedience,--is not +this a resurrection indeed? That St. Paul saw it to be such may be +shown from his using the two things with the same meaning when he says, +'Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall +give thee light.' No doubt he meant a great deal more. No man who +understands what he is speaking about can well mean only one thing at a +time. + +"But to return to the resurrections we see around us in nature. Look at +the death that falls upon the world in winter. And look how it revives +when the sun draws near enough in the spring to wile the life in it +once more out of its grave. See how the pale, meek snowdrops come up +with their bowed heads, as if full of the memory of the fierce winds +they encountered last spring, and yet ready in the strength of their +weakness to encounter them again. Up comes the crocus, bringing its +gold safe from the dark of its colourless grave into the light of its +parent gold. Primroses, and anemones, and blue-bells, and a thousand +other children of the spring, hear the resurrection-trumpet of the wind +from the west and south, obey, and leave their graves behind to breathe +the air of the sweet heavens. Up and up they come till the year is +glorious with the rose and the lily, till the trees are not only +clothed upon with new garments of loveliest green, but the fruit-tree +bringeth forth its fruit, and the little children of men are made glad +with apples, and cherries, and hazel-nuts. The earth laughs out in +green and gold. The sky shares in the grand resurrection. The garments +of its mourning, wherewith it made men sad, its clouds of snow and hail +and stormy vapours, are swept away, have sunk indeed to the earth, and +are now humbly feeding the roots of the flowers whose dead stalks they +beat upon all the winter long. Instead, the sky has put on the garments +of praise. Her blue, coloured after the sapphire-floor on which stands +the throne of him who is the Resurrection and the Life, is dashed and +glorified with the pure white of sailing clouds, and at morning and +evening prayer, puts on colours in which the human heart drowns itself +with delight--green and gold and purple and rose. Even the icebergs +floating about in the lonely summer seas of the north are flashing all +the glories of the rainbow. But, indeed, is not this whole world itself +a monument of the Resurrection? The earth was without form and void. +The wind of God moved on the face of the waters, and up arose this fair +world. Darkness was on the face of the deep: God said, 'Let there be +light,' and there was light. + +"In the animal world as well, you behold the goings of the +Resurrection. Plainest of all, look at the story of the butterfly--so +plain that the pagan Greeks called it and the soul by one name--Psyche. +Psyche meant with them a butterfly or the soul, either. Look how the +creeping thing, ugly to our eyes, so that we can hardly handle it +without a shudder, finding itself growing sick with age, straightway +falls a spinning and weaving at its own shroud, coffin, and grave, all +in one--to prepare, in fact, for its resurrection; for it is for the +sake of the resurrection that death exists. Patiently it spins its +strength, but not its life, away, folds itself up decently, that its +body may rest in quiet till the new body is formed within it; and at +length when the appointed hour has arrived, out of the body of this +crawling thing breaks forth the winged splendour of the butterfly--not +the same body--a new one built out of the ruins of the old--even as St. +Paul tells us that it is not the same body _we_ have in the +resurrection, but a nobler body like ourselves, with all the imperfect +and evil thing taken away. No more creeping for the butterfly; wings of +splendour now. Neither yet has it lost the feet wherewith to alight on +all that is lovely and sweet. Think of it--up from the toilsome journey +over the low ground, exposed to the foot of every passer-by, destroying +the lovely leaves upon which it fed, and the fruit which they should +shelter, up to the path at will through the air, and a gathering of +food which hurts not the source of it, a food which is but as a tribute +from the loveliness of the flowers to the yet higher loveliness of the +flower-angel: is not this a resurrection? Its children too shall pass +through the same process, to wing the air of a summer noon, and rejoice +in the ethereal and the pure. + +"To return yet again from the human thoughts suggested by the symbol of +the butterfly"-- + +Here let me pause for a moment--and there was a corresponding pause, +though but momentary, in the sermon as I spoke it--to mention a +curious, and to me at the moment an interesting fact. At this point of +my address, I caught sight of a white butterfly, a belated one, +flitting about the church. Absorbed for a moment, my eye wandered after +it. It was near the bench where my own people sat, and, for one flash +of thought, I longed that the butterfly would alight on my Wynnie, for +I was more anxious about her resurrection at the time than about +anything else. But the butterfly would not. And then I told myself that +God would, and that the butterfly was only the symbol of a grand truth, +and of no private interpretation, to make which of it was both +selfishness and superstition. But all this passed in a flash, and I +resumed my discourse. + +--"I come now naturally to speak of what we commonly call the +Resurrection. Some say: 'How can the same dust be raised again, when it +may be scattered to the winds of heaven?' It is a question I hardly +care to answer. The mere difficulty can in reason stand for nothing +with God; but the apparent worthlessness of the supposition renders the +question uninteresting to me. What is of import is, that I should stand +clothed upon, with a body which is _my_ body because it serves my ends, +justifies my consciousness of identity by being, in all that was good +in it, like that which I had before, while now it is tenfold capable of +expressing the thoughts and feelings that move within me. How can I +care whether the atoms that form a certain inch of bone should be the +same as those which formed that bone when I died? All my life-time I +never felt or thought of the existence of such a bone! On the other +hand, I object to having the same worn muscles, the same shrivelled +skin with which I may happen to die. Why give me the same body as that? +Why not rather my youthful body, which was strong, and facile, and +capable? The matter in the muscle of my arm at death would not serve to +make half the muscle I had when young. But I thank God that St. Paul +says it will _not_ be the same body. That body dies--up springs another +body. I suspect myself that those are right who say that this body +being the seed, the moment it dies in the soil of this world, that +moment is the resurrection of the new body. The life in it rises out of +it in a new body. This is not after it is put in the mere earth; for it +is dead then, and the germ of life gone out of it. If a seed rots, no +new body comes of it. The seed dies into a new life, and so does man. +Dying and rotting are two very different things.--But I am not sure by +any means. As I say, the whole question is rather uninteresting to me. +What do I care about my old clothes after I have done with them? What +is it to me to know what becomes of an old coat or an old pulpit gown? +I have no such clinging to the flesh. It seems to me that people +believe their bodies to be themselves, and are therefore very anxious +about them--and no wonder then. Enough for me that I shall have eyes to +see my friends, a face that they shall know me by, and a mouth to +praise God withal. I leave the matter with one remark, that I am well +content to rise as Jesus rose, however that was. For me the will of God +is so good that I would rather have his will done than my own choice +given me. + +"But I now come to the last, because infinitely the most important part +of my subject--the resurrection for the sake of which all the other +resurrections exist--the resurrection unto Life. This is the one of +which St. Paul speaks in my text. This is the one I am most +anxious--indeed, the only one I am anxious to set forth, and impress +upon you. + +"Think, then, of all the deaths you know; the death of the night, when +the sun is gone, when friend says not a word to friend, but both lie +drowned and parted in the sea of sleep; the death of the year, when +winter lies heavy on the graves of the children of summer, when the +leafless trees moan in the blasts from the ocean, when the beasts even +look dull and oppressed, when the children go about shivering with +cold, when the poor and improvident are miserable with suffering or +think of such a death of disease as befalls us at times, when the man +who says, 'Would God it were morning!' changes but his word, and not +his tune, when the morning comes, crying, 'Would God it were evening!' +when what life is left is known to us only by suffering, and hope is +amongst the things that were once and are no more--think of all these, +think of them all together, and you will have but the dimmest, faintest +picture of the death from which the resurrection of which I have now to +speak, is the rising. I shrink from the attempt, knowing how weak words +are to set forth _the_ death, set forth _the_ resurrection. Were I to +sit down to yonder organ, and crash out the most horrible dissonances +that ever took shape in sound, I should give you but a weak figure of +this death; were I capable of drawing from many a row of pipes an +exhalation of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet, such as Milton +himself could have invaded our ears withal, I could give you but a +faint figure of this resurrection. Nevertheless, I must try what I can +do in my own way. + +"If into the face of the dead body, lying on the bed, waiting for its +burial, the soul of the man should begin to dawn again, drawing near +from afar to look out once more at those eyes, to smile once again +through those lips, the change on that face would be indeed great and +wondrous, but nothing for marvel or greatness to that which passes on +the countenance, the very outward bodily face of the man who wakes from +his sleep, arises from the dead and receives light from Christ. Too +often indeed, the reposeful look on the face of the dead body would be +troubled, would vanish away at the revisiting of the restless ghost; +but when a man's own right true mind, which God made in him, is +restored to him again, and he wakes from the death of sin, then comes +the repose without the death. It may take long for the new spirit to +complete the visible change, but it begins at once, and will be +perfected. The bloated look of self-indulgence passes away like the +leprosy of Naaman, the cheek grows pure, the lips return to the smile +of hope instead of the grin of greed, and the eyes that made innocence +shrink and shudder with their yellow leer grow childlike and sweet and +faithful. The mammon-eyes, hitherto fixed on the earth, are lifted to +meet their kind; the lips that mumbled over figures and sums of gold +learn to say words of grace and tenderness. The truculent, repellent, +self-satisfied face begins to look thoughtful and doubtful, as if +searching for some treasure of whose whereabouts it had no certain +sign. The face anxious, wrinkled, peering, troubled, on whose lines you +read the dread of hunger, poverty, and nakedness, thaws into a smile; +the eyes reflect in courage the light of the Father's care, the back +grows erect under its burden with the assurance that the hairs of its +head are all numbered. But the face can with all its changes set but +dimly forth the rising from the dead which passes within. The heart, +which cared but for itself, becomes aware of surrounding thousands like +itself, in the love and care of which it feels a dawning blessedness +undreamt of before. From selfishness to love--is not this a rising from +the dead? The man whose ambition declares that his way in the world +would be to subject everything to his desires, to bring every human +care, affection, power, and aspiration to his feet--such a world it +would be, and such a king it would have, if individual ambition might +work its will! if a man's opinion of himself could be made out in the +world, degrading, compelling, oppressing, doing everything for his own +glory!--and such a glory!--but a pang of light strikes this man to the +heart; an arrow of truth, feathered with suffering and loss and dismay, +finds out--the open joint in his armour, I was going to say--no, finds +out the joint in the coffin where his heart lies festering in a death +so dead that itself calls it life. He trembles, he awakes, he rises +from the dead. No more he seeks the slavery of all: where can he find +whom to serve? how can he become if but a threshold in the temple of +Christ, where all serve all, and no man thinks first of himself? He to +whom the mass of his fellows, as he massed them, was common and +unclean, bows before every human sign of the presence of the making +God. The sun, which was to him but a candle with which to search after +his own ends, wealth, power, place, praise--the world, which was but +the cavern where he thus searched--are now full of the mystery of +loveliness, full of the truth of which sun and wind and land and sea +are symbols and signs. From a withered old age of unbelief, the dim +eyes of which refuse the glory of things a passage to the heart, he is +raised up a child full of admiration, wonder, and gladness. Everything +is glorious to him; he can believe, and therefore he sees. It is from +the grave into the sunshine, from the night into the morning, from +death into life. To come out of the ugly into the beautiful; out of the +mean and selfish into the noble and loving; out of the paltry into the +great; out of the false into the true; out of the filthy into the +clean; out of the commonplace into the glorious; out of the corruption +of disease into the fine vigour and gracious movements of health; in a +word, out of evil into good--is not this a resurrection indeed--_the_ +resurrection of all, the resurrection of Life? God grant that with St. +Paul we may attain to this resurrection of the dead. + +"This rising from the dead is often a long and a painful process. Even +after he had preached the gospel to the Gentiles, and suffered much for +the sake of his Master, Paul sees the resurrection of the dead towering +grandly before him, not yet climbed, not yet attained unto--a +mountainous splendour and marvel, still shining aloft in the air of +existence, still, thank God, to be attained, but ever growing in height +and beauty as, forgetting those things that are behind, he presses +towards the mark, if by any means he may attain to the resurrection of +the dead. Every blessed moment in which a man bethinks himself that he +has been forgetting his high calling, and sends up to the Father a +prayer for aid; every time a man resolves that what he has been doing +he will do no more; every time that the love of God, or the feeling of +the truth, rouses a man to look first up at the light, then down at the +skirts of his own garments--that moment a divine resurrection is +wrought in the earth. Yea, every time that a man passes from resentment +to forgiveness, from cruelty to compassion, from hardness to +tenderness, from indifference to carefulness, from selfishness to +honesty, from honesty to generosity, from generosity to love,--a +resurrection, the bursting of a fresh bud of life out of the grave of +evil, gladdens the eye of the Father watching his children. Awake, +then, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give +thee light. As the harvest rises from the wintry earth, so rise thou up +from the trials of this world a full ear in the harvest of Him who +sowed thee in the soil that thou mightest rise above it. As the summer +rises from the winter, so rise thou from the cares of eating and +drinking and clothing into the fearless sunshine of confidence in the +Father. As the morning rises out of the night, so rise thou from the +darkness of ignorance to do the will of God in the daylight; and as a +man feels that he is himself when he wakes from the troubled and +grotesque visions of the night into the glory of the sunrise, even so +wilt thou feel that then first thou knowest what thy life, the gladness +of thy being, is. As from painful tossing in disease, rise into the +health of well-being. As from the awful embrace of thy own dead body, +burst forth in thy spiritual body. Arise thou, responsive to the +indwelling will of the Father, even as thy body will respond to thy +indwelling soul. + + 'White wings are crossing; + Glad waves are tossing; + The earth flames out in crimson and green: + + Spring is appearing, + Summer is nearing-- + Where hast thou been? + + Down in some cavern, + Death's sleepy tavern, + Housing, carousing with spectres of night? + The trumpet is pealing + Sunshine and healing-- + Spring to the light.'" + +With this quotation from a friend's poem, I closed my sermon, oppressed +with a sense of failure; for ever the marvel of simple awaking, the +mere type of the resurrection eluded all my efforts to fix it in words. +I had to comfort myself with the thought that God is so strong that he +can work even with our failures. + + + +END OF VOL. II. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 2 *** + +***** This file should be named 8552-8.txt or 8552-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8552/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al +Haines. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 Vol. 2 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8552] +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 VOL. 2 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al +Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1> +<br /><br /> +THE SEABOARD PARISH +</h1> + +<p class="t2"> +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> +VOL. II. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> + I. <a href="#chap01">ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING</a><br /> + II. <a href="#chap02">NICEBOOTS</a><br /> + III. <a href="#chap03">THE BLACKSMITH</a><br /> + IV. <a href="#chap04">THE LIFE-BOAT</a><br /> + V. <a href="#chap05">MR. PERCIVALE</a><br /> + VI. <a href="#chap06">THE SHADOW OF DEATH</a><br /> + VII. <a href="#chap07">AT THE FARM</a><br /> + VIII. <a href="#chap08">THE KEEVE</a><br /> + IX. <a href="#chap09">THE WALK TO CHURCH</a><br /> + X. <a href="#chap10">THE OLD CASTLE</a><br /> + XI. <a href="#chap11">JOE AND HIS TROUBLE</a><br /> + XII. <a href="#chap12">A SMALL ADVENTURE</a><br /> + XIII. <a href="#chap13">THE HARVEST</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER I. +</h3> + +<h3> +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. +</h3> + +<p> +In the evening we met in Connie's room, as usual, to have our talk. And +this is what came out of it. +</p> + +<p> +The window was open. The sun was in the west. We sat a little aside out +of the course of his radiance, and let him look full into the room. +Only Wynnie sat back in a dark corner, as if she would get out of his +way. Below him the sea lay bluer than you could believe even when you +saw it—blue with a delicate yet deep silky blue, the exquisiteness of +which was thrown up by the brilliant white lines of its lapping on the +high coast, to the northward. We had just sat down, when Dora broke out +with— +</p> + +<p> +"I saw Niceboots at church. He did stare at you, papa, as if he had +never heard a sermon before." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay he never heard such a sermon before!" said Connie, with the +perfect confidence of inexperience and partiality—not to say +ignorance, seeing she had not heard the sermon herself. +</p> + +<p> +Here Wynnie spoke from her dark corner, apparently forcing herself to +speak, and thereby giving what seemed an unpleasant tone to what she +said. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, papa, I don't know what to think. You are always telling us to +trust in Him; but how can we, if we are not good?" +</p> + +<p> +"The first good thing you can do is to look up to him. That is the +beginning of trust in him, and the most sensible thing that it is +possible for us to do. That is faith." +</p> + +<p> +"But it's no use sometimes." +</p> + +<p> +"How do you know that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because you—I mean I—can't feel good, or care about it at all." +</p> + +<p> +"But is that any ground for saying that it is no use—that he does not +heed you? that he disregards the look cast up to him? that, till the +heart goes with the will, he who made himself strong to be the helper +of the weak, who pities most those who are most destitute—and who so +destitute as those who do not love what they want to love—except, +indeed, those who don't want to love?—that, till you are well on +towards all right by earnestly seeking it, he won't help you? You are +to judge him from yourself, are you?—forgetting that all the misery in +you is just because you have not got his grand presence with you?" +</p> + +<p> +I spoke so earnestly as to be somewhat incoherent in words. But my +reader will understand. Wynnie was silent. Connie, as if partly to help +her sister, followed on the same side. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know exactly how to say what I mean, papa, but I wish I could +get this lovely afternoon, all full of sunshine and blue, into unity +with all that you teach us about Jesus Christ. I wish this beautiful +day came in with my thought of him, like the frame—gold and red and +blue—that you have to that picture of him at home. Why doesn't it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Just because you have not enough of faith in him, my dear. You do not +know him well enough yet. You do not yet believe that he means you all +gladness, heartily, honestly, thoroughly." +</p> + +<p> +"And no suffering, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"I did not say that, my dear. There you are on your couch and can't +move. But he does mean you such gladness, such a full sunny air and +blue sea of blessedness that this suffering shall count for little in +it; nay more, shall be taken in for part, and, like the rocks that +interfere with the roll of the sea, flash out the white that glorifies +and intensifies the whole—to pass away by and by, I trust, none the +less. What a chance you have, my Connie, of believing in him, of +offering upon his altar!" +</p> + +<p> +"But," said my wife, "are not these feelings in a great measure +dependent upon the state of one's health? I find it so different when +the sunshine is inside me as well as outside me." +</p> + +<p> +"Not a doubt of it, my dear. But that is only the more reason for +rising above all that. From the way some people speak of physical +difficulties—I don't mean you, wife—you would think that they were +not merely the inevitable which they are, but the insurmountable which +they are not. That they are physical and not spiritual is not only a +great consolation, but a strong argument for overcoming them. For all +that is physical is put, or is in the process of being put, under the +feet of the spiritual. Do not mistake me. I do not say you can make +yourself feel merry or happy when you are in a physical condition which +is contrary to such mental condition. But you can withdraw from it—not +all at once; but by practice and effort you can learn to withdraw from +it, refusing to allow your judgments and actions to be ruled by it. You +can climb up out of the fogs, and sit quiet in the sunlight on the +hillside of faith. You cannot be merry down below in the fog, for there +is the fog; but you can every now and then fly with the dove-wings of +the soul up into the clear, to remind yourself that all this passes +away, is but an accident, and that the sun shines always, although it +may not at any given moment be shining on you. 'What does that matter?' +you will learn to say. 'It is enough for me to know that the sun does +shine, and that this is only a weary fog that is round about me for the +moment. I shall come out into the light beyond presently.' This is +faith—faith in God, who is the light, and is all in all. I believe +that the most glorious instances of calmness in suffering are thus +achieved; that the sufferers really do not suffer what one of us would +if thrown into their physical condition without the refuge of their +spiritual condition as well; for they have taken refuge in the inner +chamber. Out of the spring of their life a power goes forth that +quenches the flames of the furnace of their suffering, so far at least +that it does not touch the deep life, cannot make them miserable, does +not drive them from the possession of their soul in patience, which is +the divine citadel of the suffering. Do you understand me, Connie?" +</p> + +<p> +"I do, papa. I think perfectly." +</p> + +<p> +"Still less, then, is the fact that the difficulty is physical to be +used as an excuse for giving way to ill-temper, and, in fact, leaving +ourselves to be tossed and shaken by every tremble of our nerves. That +is as if a man should give himself into the hands and will and caprice +of an organ-grinder, to work upon him, not with the music of the +spheres, but with the wretched growling of the streets." +</p> + +<p> +"But," said Wynnie, "I have heard you yourself, papa, make excuse for +people's ill-temper on this very ground, that they were out of health. +Indeed," she went on, half-crying, "I have heard you do so for myself, +when you did not know that I was within hearing." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear, most assuredly. It is no fiction, but a real difference +that lies between excusing ourselves and excusing other people. No +doubt the same excuse is just for ourselves that is just for other +people. But we can do something to put ourselves right upon a higher +principle, and therefore we should not waste our time in excusing, or +even in condemning ourselves, but make haste up the hill. Where we +cannot work—that is, in the life of another—we have time to make all +the excuse we can. Nay more; it is only justice there. We are not bound +to insist on our own rights, even of excuse; the wisest thing often is +to forego them. But we are bound by heaven, earth, and hell to give +them to other people. And, besides, what a comfort to ourselves to be +able to say, 'It is true So-and-so was cross to-day. But it wasn't in +the least that he wasn't friendly, or didn't like me; it was only that +he had eaten something that hadn't agreed with him. I could see it in +his eye. He had one of his headaches.' Thus, you see, justice to our +neighbour, and comfort to ourselves, is one and the same thing. But it +would be a sad thing to have to think that when we found ourselves in +the same ungracious condition, from whatever cause, we had only to +submit to it, saying, 'It is a law of nature,' as even those who talk +most about laws will not do, when those laws come between them and +their own comfort. They are ready enough then to call in the aid of +higher laws, which, so far from being contradictory, overrule the lower +to get things into something like habitable, endurable condition. It +may be a law of nature; but what has the Law of the Spirit of Life to +<i>propound anent</i> it? as the Scotch lawyers would say." +</p> + +<p> +A little pause followed, during which I hope some of us were thinking. +That Wynnie, at least, was, her next question made evident. +</p> + +<p> +"What you say about a law of nature and a law of the Spirit makes me +think again how that walking on the water has always been a puzzle to +me." +</p> + +<p> +"It could hardly be other, seeing that we cannot possibly understand +it," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"But I find it so hard to believe. Can't you say something, papa, to +help me to believe it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think if you admit what goes before, you will find there is nothing +against reason in the story." +</p> + +<p> +"Tell me, please, what you mean." +</p> + +<p> +"If all things were made by Jesus, the Word of God, would it be +reasonable that the water that he had created should be able to drown +him?" +</p> + +<p> +"It might drown his body." +</p> + +<p> +"It would if he had not the power over it still, to prevent it from +laying hold of him. But just think for a moment. God is a Spirit. +Spirit is greater than matter. Spirit makes matter. Think what it was +for a human body to have such a divine creative power dwelling in it as +that which dwelt in the human form of Jesus! What power, and influence, +and utter rule that spirit must have over the body in which it dwells! +We cannot imagine how much; but if we have so much power over our +bodies, how much more must the pure, divine Jesus, have had over his! I +suspect this miracle was wrought, not through anything done to the +water, but through the power of the spirit over the body of Jesus, +which was all obedient thereto. I am not explaining the miracle, for +that I cannot do. One day I think it will be plain common sense to us. +But now I am only showing you what seems to me to bring us a step +nearer to the essential region of the miracle, and so far make it +easier to believe. If we look at the history of our Lord, we shall find +that, true real human body as his was, it was yet used by his spirit +after a fashion in which we cannot yet use our bodies. And this is only +reasonable. Let me give you an instance. You remember how, on the Mount +of Transfiguration, that body shone so that the light of it illuminated +all his garments. You do not surely suppose that this shine was +external—physical light, as we say, <i>merely?</i> No doubt it was physical +light, for how else would their eyes have seen it? But where did it +come from? What was its source? I think it was a natural outburst of +glory from the mind of Jesus, filled with the perfect life of communion +with his Father—the light of his divine blessedness taking form in +physical radiance that permeated and glorified all that surrounded him. +As the body is the expression of the soul, as the face of Jesus himself +was the expression of the being, the thought, the love of Jesus in like +manner this radiance was the natural expression of his gladness, even +in the face of that of which they had been talking—Moses, Elias, and +he—namely, the decease that he should accomplish at Jerusalem. Again, +after his resurrection, he convinced the hands, as well as eyes, of +doubting Thomas, that he was indeed there in the body; and yet that +body could appear and disappear as the Lord willed. All this is full of +marvel, I grant you; but probably far more intelligible to us in a +further state of existence than some of the most simple facts with +regard to our own bodies are to us now, only that we are so used to +them that we never think how unintelligible they really are." +</p> + +<p> +"But then about Peter, papa? What you have been saying will not apply +to Peter's body, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"I confess there is more difficulty there. But if you can suppose that +such power were indwelling in Jesus, you cannot limit the sphere of its +action. As he is the head of the body, his church, in all spiritual +things, so I firmly believe, however little we can understand about it, +is he in all natural things as well. Peter's faith in him brought even +Peter's body within the sphere of the outgoing power of the Master. Do +you suppose that because Peter ceased to be brave and trusting, +therefore Jesus withdrew from him some sustaining power, and allowed +him to sink? I do not believe it. I believe Peter's sinking followed +naturally upon his loss of confidence. Thus he fell away from the life +of the Master; was no longer, in that way I mean, connected with the +Head, was instantly under the dominion of the natural law of +gravitation, as we call it, and began to sink. Therefore the Lord must +take other means to save him. He must draw nigh to him in a bodily +manner. The pride of Peter had withdrawn him from the immediate +spiritual influence of Christ, conquering his matter; and therefore the +Lord must come over the stormy space between, come nearer to him in the +body, and from his own height of safety above the sphere of the natural +law, stretch out to him the arm of physical aid, lift him up, lead him +to the boat. The whole salvation of the human race is figured in this +story. It is all Christ, my love.—Does this help you to believe at +all?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think it does, papa. But it wants thinking over a good deal. I +always find as I think, that lighter bits shine out here and there in a +thing I have no hope of understanding altogether. That always helps me +to believe that the rest might be understood too, if I were only clever +enough." +</p> + +<p> +"Simple enough, not clever enough, my dear." +</p> + +<p> +"But there's one thing," said my wife, "that is more interesting to me +than what you have been talking about. It is the other instances in the +life of St. Peter in which you said he failed in a similar manner from +pride or self-satisfaction." +</p> + +<p> +"One, at least, seems to me very clear. You have often remarked to me, +Ethel, how little praise servants can stand; how almost invariably +after you have commended the diligence or skill of any of your +household, as you felt bound to do, one of the first visible results +was either a falling away in the performance by which she had gained +the praise, or a more or less violent access, according to the nature +of the individual, of self-conceit, soon breaking out in bad temper or +impertinence. Now you will see precisely the same kind of thing in +Peter." +</p> + +<p> +Here I opened my New Testament, and read fragmentarily, "'But whom say +ye that I am?... Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.... +Blessed art thou, Simon.... My Father hath revealed that unto thee. I +will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.... I must suffer +many things, and be killed, and be raised again the third day.... Be it +far from thee, Lord. This shall not be unto thee.... Get thee behind +me, Satan. Thou art an offence unto me.' Just contemplate the change +here in the words of our Lord. 'Blessed art thou.' 'Thou art an offence +unto me.' Think what change has passed on Peter's mood before the +second of these words could be addressed to him to whom the first had +just been spoken. The Lord had praised him. Peter grew self-sufficient, +even to the rebuking of him whose praise had so uplifted him. But it is +ever so. A man will gain a great moral victory: glad first, then +uplifted, he will fall before a paltry temptation. I have sometimes +wondered, too, whether his denial of our Lord had anything to do with +his satisfaction with himself for making that onslaught upon the high +priest's servant. It was a brave thing and a faithful to draw a single +sword against a multitude. In his fiery eagerness and inexperience, the +blow, well meant to cleave Malchus's head, missed, and only cut off his +ear; but Peter had herein justified his confident saying that he would +not deny him. He was not one to deny his Lord who had been the first to +confess him! Yet ere the cock had crowed, ere the morning had dawned, +the vulgar grandeur of the palace of the high priest (for let it be art +itself, it was vulgar grandeur beside that grandeur which it caused +Peter to deny), and the accusing tone of a maid-servant, were enough to +make him quail whom the crowd with lanterns, and torches, and weapons, +had only roused to fight. True, he was excited then, and now he was +cold in the middle of the night, with Jesus gone from his sight a +prisoner, and for the faces of friends that had there surrounded him +and strengthened him with their sympathy, now only the faces of those +who were, or whom at least Peter thought to be on the other side, +looking at him curiously, as a strange intruder into their domains. +Alas, that the courage which led him to follow the Lord should have +thus led him, not to deny him, but into the denial of him! Yet why +should I say <i>alas?</i> If the denial of our Lord lay in his heart a +possible thing, only prevented by his being kept in favourable +circumstances for confessing him, it was a thousand times better that +he should deny him, and thus know what a poor weak thing that heart of +his was, trust it no more, and give it up to the Master to make it +strong, and pure, and grand. For such an end the Lord was willing to +bear all the pain of Peter's denial. O, the love of that Son of Man, +who in the midst of all the wretched weaknesses of those who surrounded +him, loved the best in them, and looked forward to his own victory for +them that they might become all that they were meant to be—like him; +that the lovely glimmerings of truth and love that were in them +now—the breakings forth of the light that lighteneth every man—might +grow into the perfect human day; loving them even the more that they +were so helpless, so oppressed, so far from that ideal which was their +life, and which all their dim desires were reaching after!" +</p> + +<p> +Here I ceased, and a little overcome with the great picture in my soul +to which I had been able only to give the poorest expression, rose, and +retired to my own room. There I could only fall on my knees and pray +that the Lord Christ, who had died for me, might have his own way with +me—that it might be worth his while to have done what he did and what +he was doing now for me. To my Elder Brother, my Lord, and my God, I +gave myself yet again, confidently, because he cared to have me, and my +very breath was his. I <i>would</i> be what he wanted, who knew all about +it, and had done everything that I might be a son of God—a living +glory of gladness. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER II. +</h3> + +<h3> +NICEBOOTS. +</h3> + +<p> +The next morning the captain of the lost vessel called upon me early to +thank me for himself and his men. He was a fine honest-looking burly +fellow, dressed in blue from head to heel. He might have sat for a +portrait of Chaucer's shipman, as far as his hue and the first look of +him went. It was clear that "in many a tempest had his beard be shake," +and certainly "the hote somer had made his hew all broun;" but farther +the likeness would hardly go, for the "good fellow" which Chaucer +applies with such irony to the shipman of his time, who would filch +wine, and drown all the captives he made in a sea-fight, was clearly +applicable in good earnest to this shipman. Still, I thought I had +something to bring against him, and therefore before we parted I said +to him— +</p> + +<p> +"They tell me, captain, that your vessel was not seaworthy, and that +you could not but have known that." +</p> + +<p> +"She was my own craft, sir, and I judged her fit for several voyages +more. If she had been A 1 she couldn't have been mine; and a man must +do what he can for his family." +</p> + +<p> +"But you were risking your life, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"A few chances more or less don't much signify to a sailor, sir. There +ain't nothing to be done without risk. You'll find an old tub go voyage +after voyage, and she beyond bail, and a clipper fresh off the stocks +go down in the harbour. It's all in the luck, sir, I assure you." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, if it were your own life I should have nothing to say, seeing +you have a family to look after; but what about the poor fellows who +made the voyage with you? Did they know what kind of a vessel they were +embarking in?" +</p> + +<p> +"Wherever the captain's ready to go he'll always find men ready to +follow him. Bless you, sir, they never asks no questions. If a sailor +was always to be thinking of the chances, he'd never set his foot off +shore." +</p> + +<p> +"Still, I don't think it's right they shouldn't know." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay they knowed all about the old brig as well as I did myself. +You gets to know all about a craft just as you do about her captain. +She's got a character of her own, and she can't hide it long, any more +than you can hide yours, sir, begging your pardon." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay that's all correct, but still I shouldn't like anyone to say +to me, 'You ought to have told me, captain.' Therefore, you see, I'm +telling you, captain, and now I'm clear.—Have a glass of wine before +you go," I concluded, ringing the bell. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, sir. I'll turn over what you've been saying, and anyhow I +take it kind of you." +</p> + +<p> +So we parted. I have never seen him since, and shall not, most likely, +in this world. But he looked like a man that could understand why and +wherefore I spoke as I did. And I had the advantage of having had a +chance of doing something for him first of all. Let no man who wants to +do anything for the soul of a man lose a chance of doing something for +his body. He ought to be willing, and ready, which is more than +willing, to do that whether or not; but there are those who need this +reminder. Of many a soul Jesus laid hold by healing the suffering the +body brought upon it. No one but himself can tell how much the nucleus +of the church was composed of and by those who had received health from +his hands, loving-kindness from the word of his mouth. My own opinion +is that herein lay the very germ of the kernel of what is now the +ancient, was then the infant church; that from them, next to the +disciples themselves, went forth the chief power of life in love, for +they too had seen the Lord, and in their own humble way could preach +and teach concerning him. What memories of him theirs must have been! +</p> + +<p> +Things went on very quietly, that is, as I mean now, from the +view-point of a historian, without much to record bearing notably upon +after events, for the greater part of the next week. I wandered about +my parish, making acquaintance with different people in an outside sort +of way, only now and then finding an opportunity of seeing into their +souls except by conclusion. But I enjoyed endlessly the aspects of the +country. It was not picturesque except in parts. There was little wood +and there were no hills, only undulations, though many of them were +steep enough even from a pedestrian's point of view. Neither, however, +were there any plains except high moorland tracts. But the impression +of the whole country was large, airy, sunshiny, and it was clasped in +the arms of the infinite, awful, yet how bountiful sea—if one will +look at the ocean in its world-wide, not to say its eternal aspects, +and not out of the fears of a hidebound love of life! The sea and the +sky, I must confess, dwarfed the earth, made it of small account beside +them; but who could complain of such an influence? At least, not I. +</p> + +<p> +My children bathed in this sea every day, and gathered strength and +knowledge from it. It was, as I have indicated, a dangerous coast to +bathe upon. The sweep of the tides varied with the varying sands that +were cast up. There was now in one place, now in another, a strong +<i>undertow</i>, as they called it—a reflux, that is, of the inflowing +waters, which was quite sufficient to carry those who could not swim +out into the great deep, and rendered much exertion necessary, even in +those who could, to regain the shore. But there was a fine strong +Cornish woman to take charge of the ladies and the little boys, and +she, watching the ways of the wild monster, knew the when and the +where, and all about it. +</p> + +<p> +Connie got out upon the downs every day. She improved in health +certainly, and we thought a little even in her powers of motion. The +weather continued superb. What rain there was fell at night, just +enough for Nature to wash her face with and so look quite fresh in the +morning. We contrived a dinner on the sands on the other side of the +bay, for the Friday of this same week. +</p> + +<p> +The morning rose gloriously. Harry and Charlie were turning the house +upside down, to judge by their noise, long before I was in the humour +to get up, for I had been reading late the night before. I never made +much objection to mere noise, knowing that I could stop it the moment I +pleased, and knowing, which was of more consequence, that so far from +there being anything wrong in making a noise, the sea would make noise +enough in our ears before we left Kilkhaven. The moment, however, that +I heard a thread of whining or a burst of anger in the noise, I would +interfere at once—treating these just as things that must be dismissed +at once. Harry and Charlie were, I say, to use their own form of +speech, making such a row that morning, however, that I was afraid of +some injury to the house or furniture, which were not our own. So I +opened my door and called out— +</p> + +<p> +"Harry! Charlie! What on earth are you about?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing, papa," answered Charlie. "Only it's so jolly!" +</p> + +<p> +"What is jolly, my boy?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"O, I don't know, papa! It's <i>so</i> jolly!" +</p> + +<p> +"Is it the sunshine?" thought I; "and the wind? God's world all over? +The God of gladness in the hearts of the lads? Is it that? No wonder, +then, that they cannot tell yet what it is!" +</p> + +<p> +I withdrew into my room; and so far from seeking to put an end to the +noise—I knew Connie did not mind it—listened to it with a kind of +reverence, as the outcome of a gladness which the God of joy had +kindled in their hearts. Soon after, however, I heard certain dim +growls of expostulation from Harry, and having, from experience, ground +for believing that the elder was tyrannising over the younger, I +stopped that and the noise together, sending Charlie to find out where +the tide would be between one and two o'clock, and Harry to run to the +top of the hill, and find out the direction of the wind. Before I was +dressed, Charlie was knocking at my door with the news that it would be +half-tide about one; and Harry speedily followed with the discovery +that the wind was north-east by south-west, which of course determined +that the sun would shine all day. +</p> + +<p> +As the dinner-hour drew near, the servants went over, with Walter at +their head, to choose a rock convenient for a table, under the shelter +of the rocks on the sands across the bay. Thither, when Walter +returned, we bore our Connie, carrying her litter close by the edge of +the retreating tide, which sometimes broke in a ripple of music under +her, wetting our feet with innocuous rush. The child's delight was +extreme, as she thus skimmed the edge of the ocean, with the little +ones gambolling about her, and her mamma and Wynnie walking quietly on +the landward side, for she wished to have no one between her and the +sea. +</p> + +<p> +After scrambling with difficulty over some rocky ledges, and stopping +at Connie's request, to let her look into a deep pool in the sand, +which somehow or other retained the water after the rest had retreated, +we set her down near the mouth of a cave, in the shadow of a rock. And +there was our dinner nicely laid for us on a flat rock in front of the +cave. The cliffs rose behind us, with curiously curved and variously +angled strata. The sun in his full splendour threw dark shadows on the +brilliant yellow sand, more and more of which appeared as the bright +blue water withdrew itself, now rippling over it as if it meant to hide +it all up again, now uncovering more as it withdrew for another rush. +Before we had finished our dinner, the foremost wavelets appeared so +far away over the plain of the sand, that it seemed a long walk to the +edge that had been almost at our feet a little while ago. Between us +and it lay a lovely desert of glittering sand. +</p> + +<p> +When even Charlie and Harry had arrived at the conclusion that it was +time to stop eating, we left the shadow and went out into the sun, +carrying Connie and laying her down in the midst of "the ribbed +sea-sand," which was very ribby to-day. On a shawl a little way off +from her lay her baby, crowing and kicking with the same jollity that +had possessed the boys ever since the morning. I wandered about with +Wynnie on the sands, picking up amongst other things strange creatures +in thin shells ending in vegetable-like tufts, if I remember rightly. +My wife sat on the end of Connie's litter, and Dora and the boys, a +little way off, were trying how far the full force of three wooden +spades could, in digging a hole, keep ahead of the water which was ever +tumbling in the sand from the sides of the same. Behind, the servants +were busy washing the plates in a pool, and burying the fragments of +the feast; for I made it a rule wherever we went that the fair face of +nature was not to be defiled. I have always taken the part of +excursionists in these latter days of running to and fro, against those +who complain that the loveliest places are being destroyed by their +inroads. But there is one most offensive, even disgusting habit amongst +them—that of leaving bones, fragments of meat pies, and worse than +all, pieces of greasy paper about the place, which I cannot excuse, or +at least defend. Even the surface of Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes +will be defiled with these floating abominations—not abominations at +all if they are decently burned or buried when done with, but certainly +abominations when left to be cast hither and thither in the wind, over +the grass, or on the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for days after +those who have thus left their shame behind them have returned to their +shops or factories. I forgive them for trampling down the grass and the +ferns. That cannot be helped, and in comparison of the good they get, +is not to be considered at all. But why should they leave such a savage +trail behind them as this, forgetting too that though they have done +with the spot, there are others coming after them to whom these +remnants must be an offence? +</p> + +<p> +At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of +rock, rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came +suddenly upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with +a small easel before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had +his back towards us, so that we saw at once what he was painting. +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa!" cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round. +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon," I said. "We came over from the other side, and did +not see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much." +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least," he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had +been making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay +on the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the +same direction now. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember +that most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage," he +answered. +</p> + +<p> +I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark. +</p> + +<p> +"Here is no common man," I said to myself, and responded to him in +something of a similar style. +</p> + +<p> +"I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings +themselves, as well as their works," I said aloud. +</p> + +<p> +The painter looked at me, and I looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +"We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume," +he said. +</p> + +<p> +"But," I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his +easel, "your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to +nothing—perhaps I ought to say nothing at all—this picture must have +long ago passed the chaotic stage." +</p> + +<p> +"It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it," he returned. "I +hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather +pleasing, my own fancy at present." +</p> + +<p> +"Apparently," I remarked, "you had the conical rock outside the hay for +your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards +it. How is that?" +</p> + +<p> +"I will soon explain," he answered. "The moment I saw this rock, it +reminded me of Dante's Purgatory." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, you are a reader of Dante?" I said. "In the original, I hope." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going +with that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never +knew what intensity <i>per se</i> was till I began to read Dante." +</p> + +<p> +"That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture." +</p> + +<p> +"Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it +suggest the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given +of the place <i>ab extra</i> by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth +canto of the Inferno. Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet +it has certain mountain forms about it. I have put it at a much greater +distance, you see, and have sought to make it look a solitary mountain +in the midst of a great water. You will discover even now that the +circles of the Purgatory are suggested without any approach, I think, +to artificial structure; and there are occasional hints at figures, +which you cannot definitely detach from the rocks—which, by the way, +you must remember, were in one part full of sculptures. I have kept the +mountain near enough, however, to indicate the great expanse of wild +flowers on the top, which Matilda was so busy gathering. I want to +indicate too the wind up there in the terrestrial paradise, ever and +always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. Walton?"—for the young man, +getting animated, began to talk as if we had known each other for some +time—and here he repeated the purport of Dante's words in English: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow,<br /> + With no more strength than in a soft wind lies,<br /> + Smote peacefully against me on the brow.<br /> + By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise,<br /> + Did every one bend thitherward to where<br /> + The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"I thought you said you did not use translations?" +</p> + +<p> +"I thought it possible that—Miss Walton (?)" interrogatively +this—"might not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem +pedantic." +</p> + +<p> +"She won't lag far behind, I flatter myself," I returned. "Whose +translation do you quote?" +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly: +</p> + +<p> +"I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself." +</p> + +<p> +"It has the merit of being near the original at least," I returned; +"and that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can +possess." +</p> + +<p> +"Then," the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further +remark upon his verses, "you see those white things in the air above?" +Here he turned to Wynnie. "Miss Walton will remember—I think she was +making a drawing of the rock at the same time I was—how the seagulls, +or some such birds—only two or three of them—kept flitting about the +top of it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I remember quite well," answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," I interposed; "my daughter, in describing what she had been +attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For +she said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to +get loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, +and risen in triumph into the air." +</p> + +<p> +Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, +looked at Wynnie almost with a start. +</p> + +<p> +"How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!" he said. +"Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the +free souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind +of purgatory anyhow—is it not, Mr. Walton?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work +is—whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious +stones." +</p> + +<p> +"You see," resumed the painter, "if anybody only glanced at my little +picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, +and began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and +Beatrice on their way to the sphere of the moon." +</p> + +<p> +"In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of +corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what +group of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the +things of nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?" +</p> + +<p> +"I am no theologian," said the painter, turning away, I thought +somewhat coldly. +</p> + +<p> +But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she +thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for +her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my +way of it: here might be something new. +</p> + +<p> +"If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be +happy," he said, turning again towards me. +</p> + +<p> +But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I +received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not +wish to make more marked than his own towards my last observation. +</p> + +<p> +"You are very kind," I said; "but Miss Walton does not presume to be an +artist." +</p> + +<p> +I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie's countenance. When I turned to +Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had +said something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste +to make amends. +</p> + +<p> +"We are just going to have some coffee," I said, "for my servants, I +see, have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to +introduce you to Mrs. Walton?" +</p> + +<p> +"With much pleasure," he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he +spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a +fine-built, black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes +notwithstanding, a rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But +there was an air of suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, +did not in the least interfere with the manliness of his countenance, +or of its expression. +</p> + +<p> +"But," I said, "how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet +know your name." +</p> + +<p> +I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr. +Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied, +</p> + +<p> +"My name is Percivale—Charles Percivale." +</p> + +<p> +"A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur's Round Table?" +</p> + +<p> +"I cannot count quite so far back," he answered, "as that—not quite to +the Conquest," he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. +"I do come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale." +</p> + +<p> +We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves +towards the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and +Wynnie lingering behind. +</p> + +<p> +"O, do look here papa!" she cried, from some little distance. +</p> + +<p> +We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet. +Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles, +which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and +passing out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and +not always, I do not know. But there they were—and such colours! deep +rose and grassy green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, +yet brilliant and intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were +of a solid-looking burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on +behind translucent crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth +turning to see; and so I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on +vanishing, one by one. Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and +was nowhere. +</p> + +<p> +We walked away again towards the rest of our party. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones +you ever saw, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, +God seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal." +</p> + +<p> +"And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?' she said +interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +"Many—perhaps most flowers are," I granted. "And did you ever see such +curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think not—in the cirrhous clouds at least—the frozen ones. But +what are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?" +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end +with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to +answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one +of us should ask you some day." +</p> + +<p> +"No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my +children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children +should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or +that by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have +found out some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your +catechism, Wynnie. Now for your puzzle!" +</p> + +<p> +"It's not a funny question, papa; it's a very serious one. I can't +think why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful +things wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be +no more. Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?" +</p> + +<p> +"In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we +will not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the +more material loveliness of which you have been speaking—though, in +truth, no loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; +it is, I think, because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all +beautiful things vanish quickly." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not understand you, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr. +Percivale will excuse me." +</p> + +<p> +"On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the +answer." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something +like them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to +love the body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die +continually, that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is +full of beautiful things, but God has saved many men from loving the +mere bodies of them, by making them poor; and more still by reminding +them that if they be as rich as Croesus all their lives, they will be +as poor as Diogenes—poorer, without even a tub—when this world, with +all its pictures, scenery, books, and—alas for some +Christians!—bibles even, shall have vanished away." +</p> + +<p> +"Why do you say <i>alas</i>, papa—if they are Christians especially?" +</p> + +<p> +"I say <i>alas</i> only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean such +as are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving +themselves any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the +anise and cummin, and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These +worship the body of the truth, and forget the soul of it. If the +flowers were not perishable, we should cease to contemplate their +beauty, either blinded by the passion for hoarding the bodies of them, +or dulled by the hebetude of commonplaceness that the constant presence +of them would occasion. To compare great things with small, the flowers +wither, the bubbles break, the clouds and sunsets pass, for the very +same holy reason, in the degree of its application to them, for which +the Lord withdrew from his disciples and ascended again to his +Father—that the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Soul of things, +might come to them and abide with them, and so the Son return, and the +Father be revealed. The flower is not its loveliness, and its +loveliness we must love, else we shall only treat them as flower-greedy +children, who gather and gather, and fill hands and baskets, from a +mere desire of acquisition, excusable enough in them, but the same in +kind, however harmless in mode, and degree, and object, as the avarice +of the miser. Therefore God, that we may always have them, and ever +learn to love their beauty, and yet more their truth, sends the +beneficent winter that we may think about what we have lost, and +welcome them when they come again with greater tenderness and love, +with clearer eyes to see, and purer hearts to understand, the spirit +that dwells in them. We cannot do without the 'winter of our +discontent.' Shakspere surely saw that when he makes Titania say, in <i>A +Midsummer Night's Dream</i>: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + 'The human mortals want their winter here'—<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter +the line seem to have been capable of understanding its import." +</p> + +<p> +"I think I understand you a little," answered Wynnie. Then, changing +her tone, "I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn't I?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my child; but with this difference—I found the answer to meet my +own necessities, not yours." +</p> + +<p> +"And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it." +</p> + +<p> +"Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you +give away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right +to offer any spiritual dish to his neighbour." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had +presented him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects +by a somewhat stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation +into a farewell, and, either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having +changed his mind, withdrew, a little to my disappointment, for, +notwithstanding his lack of response where some things he said would +have led me to expect it, I had begun to feel much interested in him. +</p> + +<p> +He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her +digging, with an eager look on her sunny face. +</p> + +<p> +"Hasn't he got nice boots, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I +never saw his boots." +</p> + +<p> +"I did, then," returned the child; "and I never saw such nice boots." +</p> + +<p> +"I accept the statement willingly," I replied; and we heard no more of +the boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did I +see himself again for some days—not in fact till next Sunday—though +why he should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, +especially when I knew him better. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER III. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE BLACKSMITH. +</h3> + +<p> +The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. +It was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on the +first to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the +village, I soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have +no doubt, could shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any +greater delicacy of touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I +heard of a young smith who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of +miles distant, but still within the parish. In the afternoon I set out +to find him. To my surprise, he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking +man, with a huge frame, which appeared worn rather than naturally thin, +and large eyes that looked at the anvil as if it was the horizon of the +world. He had got a horse-shoe in his tongs when I entered. +Notwithstanding the fire that glowed on the hearth, and the sparks that +flew like a nimbus in eruption from about his person, the place looked +very dark to me entering from the glorious blaze of the almost noontide +sun, and felt cool after the deep lane through which I had come, and +which had seemed a very reservoir of sunbeams. I could see the smith by +the glow of his horse-shoe; but all between me and the shoe was dark. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-morning," I said. "It is a good thing to find a man by his work. +I heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the +glow of your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire." +</p> + +<p> +He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly +as if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in +weather like this," he answered. +</p> + +<p> +"If I did not," I returned, "that would be the fault of my weakness, +and would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine +thing to work in fire." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you may be right," he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the +horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next +let the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his +head for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. "It does +not much matter to me," he went on, "if I only get through my work and +have done with it. No man shall say I shirked what I'd got to do. And +then when it's over there won't be a word to say agen me, or—" +</p> + +<p> +He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying +in a somewhat dreary patch, if the word <i>dreary</i> can be truly used with +respect to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor. +</p> + +<p> +"I hope you are not ill," I said. +</p> + +<p> +He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam +one of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and +put it on the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it +in the fire, and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. "This man +will do for my work," I said to myself; "though I should not wonder +from the look of him if it was the last piece of work he ever did under +the New Jerusalem." The smith's words broke in on my meditations. +</p> + +<p> +"When I was a little boy," he said, "I once wanted to stay at home from +school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. +I told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped +her at her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in +the afternoon the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he +asked me what was the matter with me, and my mother answered for me +that I had a bad head, and he looked at me; and as my head was quite +well by this time, I could not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, +I suppose, sir, for I can't account for what he said any other way; and +he turned to me, and he said to me, solemn-like, 'Is your head bad +enough to send you to the Lord Jesus to make you whole?' I could not +speak a word, partly from bashfulness, I suppose, for I was but ten +years old. So he followed it up, as they say: 'Then you ought to be at +school,' says he. I said nothing, because I couldn't. But never since +then have I given in as long as I could stand. And I can stand now, and +lift my hammer, too," he said, as he took the horse-shoe from the +forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a nimbus of coruscating +iron. +</p> + +<p> +"You are just the man I want," I said. "I've got a job for you, down to +Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts." +</p> + +<p> +"What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha' thought the +church was all spick and span by this time." +</p> + +<p> +"I see you know who I am," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I do," he answered. "I don't go to church myself, being +brought up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is +known the next day all over it." +</p> + +<p> +"You won't mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?" I +asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Not I, sir. If I've read right, it's the fault of the Church that we +don't pull all alongside. You turned us out, sir; we didn't go out of +ourselves. At least, if all they say is true, which I can't be sure of, +you know, in this world." +</p> + +<p> +"You are quite right there though," I answered. "And in doing so, the +Church had the worst of it—as all that judge and punish their +neighbours have. But you have been the worse for it, too: all of which +is to be laid to the charge of the Church. For there is not one +clergyman I know—mind, I say, that I know—who would have made such a +cruel speech to a boy as that the Methodist parson made to you." +</p> + +<p> +"But it did me good, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"Are you sure of that? I am not. Are you sure, first of all, it did not +make you proud? Are you sure it has not made you work beyond your +strength—I don't mean your strength of arm, for clearly that is all +that could be wished, but of your chest, your lungs? Is there not some +danger of your leaving someone who is dependent on you too soon +unprovided for? Is there not some danger of your having worked as if +God were a hard master?—of your having worked fiercely, indignantly, +as if he wronged you by not caring for you, not understanding you?" +</p> + +<p> +He returned me no answer, but hammered momently on his anvil. Whether +he felt what I meant, or was offended at my remark, I could not then +tell. I thought it best to conclude the interview with business. +</p> + +<p> +"I have a delicate little job that wants nice handling, and I fancy you +are just the man to do it to my mind," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it, sir?" he asked, in a friendly manner enough. +</p> + +<p> +"If you will excuse me, I would rather show it to you than talk about +it," I returned. +</p> + +<p> +"As you please, sir. When do you want me?" +</p> + +<p> +"The first hour you can come." +</p> + +<p> +"To-morrow morning?" +</p> + +<p> +"If you feel inclined." +</p> + +<p> +"For that matter, I'd rather go to bed." +</p> + +<p> +"Come to me instead: it's light work." +</p> + +<p> +"I will, sir—at ten o'clock." +</p> + +<p> +"If you please." +</p> + +<p> +And so it was arranged. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IV. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE LIFE-BOAT. +</h3> + +<p> +The next day rose glorious. Indeed, early as the sun rose, I saw him +rise—saw him, from the down above the house, over the land to the east +and north, ascend triumphant into his own light, which had prepared the +way for him; while the clouds that hung over the sea glowed out with a +faint flush, as anticipating the hour when the west should clasp the +declining glory in a richer though less dazzling splendour, and shine +out the bride of the bridegroom east, which behold each other from afar +across the intervening world, and never mingle but in the sight of the +eyes. The clear pure light of the morning made me long for the truth in +my heart, which alone could make me pure and clear as the morning, tune +me up to the concert-pitch of the nature around me. And the wind that +blew from the sunrise made me hope in the God who had first breathed +into my nostrils the breath of life, that he would at length so fill me +with his breath, his wind, his spirit, that I should think only his +thoughts and live his life, finding therein my own life, only glorified +infinitely. +</p> + +<p> +After breakfast and prayers, I would go to the church to await the +arrival of my new acquaintance the smith. In order to obtain entrance, +I had, however, to go to the cottage of the sexton. This was not my +first visit there, so that I may now venture to take my reader with me. +To reach the door, I had to cross a hollow by a bridge, built, for the +sake of the road, over what had once been the course of a rivulet from +the heights above. Now it was a kind of little glen, or what would in +Scotland be called a den, I think, grown with grass and wild flowers +and ferns, some of them, rare and fine. The roof of the cottage came +down to the road, and, until you came quite near, you could not but +wonder where the body that supported this head could be. But you soon +saw that the ground fell suddenly away, leaving a bank against which +the cottage was built. Crossing a garden of the smallest, the principal +flowers of which were the stonecrop on its walls, by a flag-paved path, +you entered the building, and, to your surprise, found yourself, not in +a little cottage kitchen, as you expected, but in a waste-looking +space, that seemed to have forgotten the use for which it had been +built. There was a sort of loft along one side of it, and it was heaped +with indescribable lumber-looking stuff with here and there a hint at +possible machinery. The place had been a mill for grinding corn, and +its wheel had been driven by the stream which had run for ages in the +hollow of which I have already spoken. But when the canal came to be +constructed, the stream had to be turned aside from its former course, +and indeed was now employed upon occasion to feed the canal; so that +the mill of necessity had fallen into disuse and decay. Crossing this +floor, you entered another door, and turning sharp to the left, went +down a few steps of a ladder-sort of stair, and after knocking your hat +against a beam, emerged in the comfortable quaint little cottage +kitchen you had expected earlier. A cheerful though small fire burns in +the grate—for even here the hearth-fire has vanished from the records +of cottage-life—and is pleasant here even in the height of summer, +though it is counted needful only for cooking purposes. The ceiling, +which consists only of the joists and the boards that floor the bedroom +above, is so low, that necessity, if not politeness, would compel you +to take off your already-bruised hat. Some of these joists, you will +find, are made further useful by supporting each a shelf, before which +hangs a little curtain of printed cotton, concealing the few stores and +postponed eatables of the house—forming, in fact, both store-room and +larder of the family. On the walls hang several coloured prints, and +within a deep glazed frame the figure of a ship in full dress, carved +in rather high relief in sycamore. +</p> + +<p> +As I now entered, Mrs. Coombes rose from a high-backed settle near the +fire, and bade me good-morning with a courtesy. +</p> + +<p> +"What a lovely day it is, Mrs. Coombes! It is so bright over the sea," +I said, going to the one little window which looked out on the great +Atlantic, "that one almost expects a great merchant navy to come +sailing into Kilkhaven—sunk to the water's edge with silks, and ivory, +and spices, and apes, and peacocks, like the ships of Solomon that we +read about—just as the sun gets up to the noonstead." +</p> + +<p> +Before I record her answer, I turn to my reader, who in the spirit +accompanies me, and have a little talk with him. I always make it a +rule to speak freely with the less as with the more educated of my +friends. I never <i>talk down</i> to them, except I be expressly explaining +something to them. The law of the world is as the law of the family. +Those children grow much the faster who hear all that is going on in +the house. Reaching ever above themselves, they arrive at an +understanding at fifteen, which, in the usual way of things, they would +not reach before five-and-twenty or thirty; and this in a natural way, +and without any necessary priggishness, except such as may belong to +their parents. Therefore I always spoke to the poor and uneducated as +to my own people,—freely, not much caring whether I should be quite +understood or not; for I believed in influences not to be measured by +the measure of the understanding. +</p> + +<p> +But what was the old woman's answer? It was this: +</p> + +<p> +"I know, sir. And when I was as young as you"—I was not so very young, +my reader may well think—"I thought like that about the sea myself. +Everything come from the sea. For my boy Willie he du bring me home the +beautifullest parrot and the talkingest you ever see, and the red shawl +all worked over with flowers: I'll show it to you some day, sir, when +you have time. He made that ship you see in the frame there, sir, all +with his own knife, out on a bit o' wood that he got at the Marishes, +as they calls it, sir—a bit of an island somewheres in the great sea. +But the parrot's gone dead like the rest of them, sir.—Where am I? and +what am I talking about?" she added, looking down at her knitting as if +she had dropped a stitch, or rather as if she had forgotten what she +was making, and therefore what was to come next. +</p> + +<p> +"You were telling me how you used to think of the sea—" +</p> + +<p> +"When I was as young as you. I remember, sir. Well, that lasted a long +time—lasted till my third boy fell asleep in the wide water; for it du +call it falling asleep, don't it, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"The Bible certainly does," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"It's the Bible I be meaning, of course," she returned. "Well, after +that, but I don't know what began it, only I did begin to think about +the sea as something that took away things and didn't bring them no +more. And somehow or other she never look so blue after that, and she +give me the shivers. But now, sir, she always looks to me like one o' +the shining ones that come to fetch the pilgrims. You've heard tell of +the <i>Pilgrim's Progress</i>, I daresay, sir, among the poor people; for +they du say it was written by a tinker, though there be a power o' good +things in it that I think the gentlefolk would like if they knowed it." +</p> + +<p> +"I do know the book—nearly as well as I know the Bible," I answered; +"and the shining ones are very beautiful in it. I am glad you can think +of the sea that way." +</p> + +<p> +"It's looking in at the window all day as I go about the house," she +answered, "and all night too when I'm asleep; and if I hadn't learned +to think of it that way, it would have driven me mad, I du believe. I +was forced to think that way about it, or not think at all. And that +wouldn't be easy, with the sound of it in your ears the last thing at +night and the first thing in the morning." +</p> + +<p> +"The truth of things is indeed the only refuge from the look of +things," I replied. "But now I want the key of the church, if you will +trust me with it, for I have something to do there this morning; and +the key of the tower as well, if you please." +</p> + +<p> +With her old smile, ripened only by age, she reached the ponderous keys +from the nail where they hung, and gave them into my hand. I left her +in the shadow of her dwelling, and stepped forth into the sunlight. The +first thing I observed was the blacksmith waiting for me at the church +door. +</p> + +<p> +Now that I saw him in the full light of day, and now that he wore his +morning face upon which the blackness of labour had not yet gathered, I +could see more plainly how far he was from well. There was a flush on +his thin cheek by which the less used exercise of walking revealed his +inward weakness, and the light in his eyes had something of the +far-country in them—"the light that never was on sea or shore." But +his speech was cheerful, for he had been walking in the light of this +world, and that had done something to make the light within him shine a +little more freely. +</p> + +<p> +"How do you find yourself to-day?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Quite well, sir, I thank you," he answered. "A day like this does a +man good. But," he added, and his countenance fell, "the heart knoweth +its own bitterness." +</p> + +<p> +"It may know it too much," I returned, "just because it refuses to let +a stranger intermeddle therewith." +</p> + +<p> +He made no reply. I turned the key in the great lock, and the +iron-studded oak opened and let us into the solemn gloom. +</p> + +<p> +It did not require many minutes to make the man understand what I +wanted of him. +</p> + +<p> +"We must begin at the bells and work down," he said. +</p> + +<p> +So we went up into the tower, where, with the help of a candle I +fetched for him from the cottage, he made a good many minute +measurements; found that carpenter's work was necessary for the +adjustment of the hammers and cranks and the leading of the rods, +undertook the management of the whole, and in the course of an hour and +a half went home to do what had to be done before any fixing could be +commenced, assuring me that he had no doubt of bringing the job to a +satisfactory conclusion, although the force of the blow on the bell +would doubtless have to be regulated afterwards by repeated trials. +</p> + +<p> +"In a fortnight, I hope you will be able to play a tune to the parish, +sir," he added, as he took his leave. +</p> + +<p> +I resolved, if possible, to know more of the man, and find out his +trouble, if haply I might be able to give him any comfort, for I was +all but certain that there was a deeper cause for his gloom than the +state of his health. +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone I stood with the key of the church in my hand, and +looked about me. Nature at least was in glorious health—sunshine in +her eyes, light fantastic cloud-images passing through her brain, her +breath coming and going in soft breezes perfumed with the scents of +meadows and wild flowers, and her green robe shining in the motions of +her gladness. I turned to lock the church door, though in my heart I +greatly disapproved of locking the doors of churches, and only did so +now because it was not my church, and I had no business to force my +opinions upon other customs. But when I turned I received a kind of +questioning shock. There was the fallen world, as men call it, shining +in glory and gladness, because God was there; here was the way into the +lost Paradise, yea, the door into an infinitely higher Eden than that +ever had or ever could have been, iron-clamped and riveted, gloomy and +low-browed like the entrance to a sepulchre, and surrounded with the +grim heads of grotesque monsters of the deep. What did it mean? Here +was contrast enough to require harmonising, or if that might not be, +then accounting for. Perhaps it was enough to say that although God +made both the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of grace, yet the +symbol of the latter was the work of man, and might not altogether +correspond to God's idea of the matter. I turned away thoughtful, and +went through the churchyard with my eye on the graves. +</p> + +<p> +As I left the churchyard, still looking to the earth, the sound of +voices reached my ear. I looked up. There, down below me, at the foot +of the high bank on which I stood, lay a gorgeous shining thing upon +the bosom of the canal, full of men, and surrounded by men, women, and +children, delighting in its beauty. I had never seen such a thing +before, but I knew at once, as by instinct, which of course it could +not have been, that it was the life-boat. But in its gorgeous colours, +red and white and green, it looked more like the galley that bore +Cleopatra to Actium. Nor, floating so light on the top of the water, +and broad in the beam withal, curved upward and ornamented at stern and +stem, did it look at all like a creature formed to battle with the +fierce elements. A pleasure-boat for floating between river banks it +seemed, drawn by swans mayhap, and regarded in its course by fair eyes +from green terrace-walks, or oriel windows of ancient houses on verdant +lawns. Ten men sat on the thwarts, and one in the stern by the yet +useless rudder, while men and boys drew the showy thing by a rope +downward to the lock-gates. The men in the boat, wore blue jerseys, but +you could see little of the colour for strange unshapely things that +they wore above them, like an armour cut out of a row of organ pipes. +They were their cork-jackets; for every man had to be made into a +life-boat himself. I descended the bank, and stood on the edge of the +canal as it drew near. Then I saw that every oar was loosely but firmly +fastened to the rowlock, so that it could be dropped and caught again +in a moment; and that the gay sides of the unwieldy-looking creature +were festooned with ropes from the gunwale, for the men to lay hold of +when she capsized, for the earlier custom of fastening the men to their +seats had been quite given up, because their weight under the water +might prevent the boat from righting itself again, and the men could +not come to the surface. Now they had a better chance in their freedom, +though why they should not be loosely attached to the boat, I do not +quite see. +</p> + +<p> +They towed the shining thing through the upper gate of the lock, and +slowly she sank from my sight, and for some moments was no more to be +seen, for I had remained standing where first she passed me. All at +once there she was beyond the covert of the lock-head, abroad and free, +fleeting from the strokes of ten swift oars over the still waters of +the bay towards the waves that roared further out where the +ground-swell was broken by the rise of the sandy coast. There was no +vessel in danger now, as the talk of the spectators informed me; it was +only for exercise and show that they went out. It seemed all child's +play for a time; but when they got among the broken waves, then it +looked quite another thing. The motion of the waters laid hold upon +her, and soon tossed her fearfully, now revealing the whole of her +capacity on the near side of one of their slopes, now hiding her whole +bulk in one of their hollows beyond. She, careless as a child in the +troubles of the world, floated about amongst them with what appeared +too much buoyancy for the promise of a safe return. Again and again she +was driven from her course towards the low rocks on the other side of +the bay, and again and again, returned to disport herself, like a +sea-animal, as it seemed, upon the backs of the wild, rolling, and +bursting billows. +</p> + +<p> +"Can she go no further?" I asked of the captain of the coastguard, whom +I found standing by my side. +</p> + +<p> +"Not without some danger," he answered. +</p> + +<p> +"What, then, must it be in a storm!" I remarked. +</p> + +<p> +"Then of course," he returned, "they must take their chance. But there +is no good in running risks for nothing. That swell is quite enough for +exercise." +</p> + +<p> +"But is it enough to accustom them to face the danger that will come?" +I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"With danger comes courage," said the old sailor. +</p> + +<p> +"Were you ever afraid?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir. I don't think I ever was afraid. Yes, I believe I was once +for one moment, no more, when I fell from the maintop-gallant yard, and +felt myself falling. But it was soon over, for I only fell into the +maintop. I was expecting the smash on deck when I was brought up there. +But," he resumed, "I don't care much about the life-boat. My rockets +are worth a good deal more, as you may see, sir, before the winter is +over; for seldom does a winter pass without at least two or three +wrecks close by here on this coast. The full force of the Atlantic +breaks here, sir. I <i>have</i> seen a life-boat—not that one—<i>she's</i> done +nothing yet—pitched stern over stem; not capsized, you know, sir, in +the ordinary way, but struck by a wave behind while she was just +hanging in the balance on the knife-edge of a wave, and flung a +somerset, as I say, stern over stem, and four of her men lost." +</p> + +<p> +While we spoke I saw on the pier-head the tall figure of the painter +looking earnestly at the boat. I thought he was regarding it chiefly +from an artistic point of view, but I became aware before long that +that would not have been consistent with the character of Charles +Percivale. He had been, I learned afterwards, a crack oarsman at +Oxford, and had belonged to the University boat, so that he had some +almost class-sympathy with the doings of the crew. +</p> + +<p> +In a little while the boat sped swiftly back, entered the lock, was +lifted above the level of the storm-heaved ocean, and floated up the +smooth canal calmly as if she had never known what trouble was. Away up +to the pretty little Tudor-fashioned house in which she lay—one could +almost fancy dreaming of storms to come—she went, as softly as if +moved only by her "own sweet will," in the calm consolation for her +imprisonment of having tried her strength, and found therein good hope +of success for the time when she should rush to the rescue of men from +that to which, as a monster that begets monsters, she a watching +Perseis, lay ready to offer battle. The poor little boat lying in her +little house watching the ocean, was something signified in my eyes, +and not less so after what came in the course of changing seasons and +gathered storms. +</p> + +<p> +All this time I had the keys in my hand, and now went back to the +cottage to restore them to their place upon the wall. When I entered +there was a young woman of a sweet interesting countenance talking to +Mrs. Coombes. Now as it happened, I had never yet seen the daughter who +lived with her, and thought this was she. +</p> + +<p> +"I've found your daughter at last then?" I said, approaching them. +</p> + +<p> +"Not yet, sir. She goes out to work, and her hands be pretty full at +present. But this be almost my daughter, sir," she added. "This is my +next daughter, Mary Trehern, from the south. She's got a place near by, +to be near her mother that is to be, that's me." +</p> + +<p> +Mary was hanging her head and blushing, as the old woman spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"I understand," I said. "And when are you going to get your new mother, +Mary? Soon I hope." +</p> + +<p> +But she gave me no reply—only hung her head lower and blushed deeper. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Coombes spoke for her. +</p> + +<p> +"She's shy, you see, sir. But if she was to speak her mind, she would +ask you whether you wouldn't marry her and Willie when he comes home +from his next voyage." +</p> + +<p> +Mary's hands were trembling now, and she turned half away. +</p> + +<p> +"With all my heart," I said. +</p> + +<p> +The girl tried to turn towards me, but could not. I looked at her face +a little more closely. Through all its tremor, there was a look of +constancy that greatly pleased me. I tried to make her speak. +</p> + +<p> +"When do you expect Willie home?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +She made a little gasp and murmur, but no articulate words came. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be frightened, Mary," said her mother, as I found she always +called her. "The gentleman won't be sharp with you." +</p> + +<p> +She lifted a pair of soft brown eyes with one glance and a smile, and +then sank them again. +</p> + +<p> +"He'll be home in about a month, we think," answered the mother. "She's +a good ship he's aboard of, and makes good voyages." +</p> + +<p> +"It is time to think about the bans, then," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"If you please, sir," said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +"Just come to me about it, and I will attend to it—when you think +proper." +</p> + +<p> +I thought I could hear a murmured "Thank you, sir," from the girl, but +I could not be certain that she spoke. I shook hands with them, and +went for a stroll on the other side of the bay. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER V. +</h3> + +<h3> +MR. PERCIVALE. +</h3> + +<p> +When I reached home I found that Connie was already on her watch-tower. +For while I was away, they had carried her out that she might see the +life-boat. I followed her, and found the whole family about her couch, +and with them Mr. Percivale, who was showing her some sketches that he +had made in the neighbourhood. Connie knew nothing of drawing; but she +seemed to me always to catch the feeling of a thing. Her remarks +therefore were generally worth listening to, and Mr. Percivale was +evidently interested in them. Wynnie stood behind Connie, looking over +her shoulder at the drawing in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +"How do you get that shade of green?" I heard her ask as I came up. +</p> + +<p> +And then Mr. Percivale proceeded to tell her; from which beginning they +went on to other things, till Mr. Percivale said— +</p> + +<p> +"But it is hardly fair, Miss Walton; to criticise my work while you +keep your own under cover." +</p> + +<p> +"I wasn't criticising, Mr. Percivale; was I, Connie?" +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't hear her make a single remark, Mr. Percivale," said Connie, +taking her sister's side. +</p> + +<p> +To my surprise they were talking away with the young man as if they had +known him for years, and my wife was seated at the foot of the couch, +apparently taking no exception to the suddenness of the intimacy. I am +afraid, when I think of it, that a good many springs would be missing +from the world's history if they might not flow till the papas gave +their wise consideration to everything about the course they were to +take. +</p> + +<p> +"I think, though," added Connie, "it is only fair that Mr. Percivale +<i>should</i> see your work, Wynnie." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I will fetch my portfolio, if Mr. Percivale will promise to +remember that I have no opinion of it. At the same time, if I could do +what I wanted to do, I think I should not be ashamed of showing my +drawings even to him." +</p> + +<p> +And now I was surprised to find how like grown women my daughters could +talk. To me they always spoke like the children they were; but when I +heard them now it seemed as if they had started all at once into ladies +experienced in the ways of society. There they were chatting lightly, +airily, and yet decidedly, a slight tone of badinage interwoven, with a +young man of grace and dignity, whom they had only seen once before, +and who had advanced no farther, with Connie at least, than a stately +bow. They had, however, been a whole hour together before I arrived, +and their mother had been with them all the while, which gives great +courage to good girls, while, I am told, it shuts the mouths of those +who are sly. But then it must be remembered that there are as great +differences in mothers as in girls. And besides, I believe wise girls +have an instinct about men that all the experience of other men cannot +overtake. But yet again, there are many girls foolish enough to mistake +a mere impulse for instinct, and vanity for insight. +</p> + +<p> +As Wynnie spoke, she turned and went back to the house to fetch some of +her work. Now, had she been going a message for me, she would have gone +like the wind; but on this occasion she stepped along in a stately +manner, far from devoid of grace, but equally free from frolic or +eagerness. And I could not help noting as well that Mr. Percivale's +eyes followed her. What I felt or fancied is of no consequence to +anybody. I do not think, even if I were writing an autobiography, I +should be forced to tell <i>all</i> about myself. But an autobiography is +further from my fancy, however much I may have trenched upon its +limits, than any other form of literature with which I am acquainted. +</p> + +<p> +She was not long in returning, however, though she came back with the +same dignified motion. +</p> + +<p> +"There is nothing really worth either showing or concealing," she said +to Mr. Percivale, as she handed him the portfolio, to help himself, as +it were. She then turned away, as if a little feeling of shyness had +come over her, and began to look for something to do about Connie. I +could see that, although she had hitherto been almost indifferent about +the merit of her drawings, she had a new-born wish that they might not +appear altogether contemptible in the eyes of Mr. Percivale. And I saw, +too, that Connie's wide eyes were taking in everything. It was +wonderful how Connie's deprivations had made her keen in observing. Now +she hastened to her sister's rescue even from such a slight +inconvenience as the shadow of embarrassment in which she found +herself—perhaps from having seen some unusual expression in my face, +of which I was unconscious, though conscious enough of what might have +occasioned such. +</p> + +<p> +"Give me your hand, Wynnie," said Connie, "and help me to move one inch +further on my side.—I may move just that much on my side, mayn't I, +papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think you had better not, my dear, if you can do without it," I +answered; for the doctor's injunctions had been strong. +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, papa; but I feel as if it would do me good." +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Turner will be here next week, you know; and you must try to stick +to his rules till he comes to see you. Perhaps he will let you relax a +little." +</p> + +<p> +Connie smiled very sweetly and lay still, while Wynnie stood holding +her hand. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime Mr. Percivale, having received the drawings, had walked away +with them towards what they called the storm tower—a little building +standing square to the points of the compass, from little windows, in +which the coastguard could see with their telescopes along the coast on +both sides and far out to sea. This tower stood on the very edge of the +cliff, but behind it there was a steep descent, to reach which +apparently he went round the tower and disappeared. He evidently wanted +to make a leisurely examination of the drawings—somewhat formidable +for Wynnie, I thought. At the same time, it impressed me favourably +with regard to the young man that he was not inclined to pay a set of +stupid and untrue compliments the instant the portfolio was opened, +but, on the contrary, in order to speak what was real about them, would +take the trouble to make himself in some adequate measure acquainted +with them. I therefore, to Wynnie's relief, I fear, strolled after him, +seeing no harm in taking a peep at his person, while he was taking a +peep at my daughter's mind. I went round the tower to the other side, +and there saw him at a little distance below me, but further out on a +great rock that overhung the sea, connected with the cliff by a long +narrow isthmus, a few yards lower than the cliff itself, only just +broad enough to admit of a footpath along its top, and on one side +going sheer down with a smooth hard rock-face to the sands below. The +other side was less steep, and had some grass upon it. But the path was +too narrow, and the precipice too steep, for me to trust my head with +the business of guiding my feet along it. So I stood and saw him from +the mainland—saw his head at least bent over the drawings; saw how +slowly he turned from one to the other; saw how, after having gone over +them once, he turned to the beginning and went over them again, even +more slowly than before; saw how he turned the third time to the first. +Then, getting tired, I went back to the group on the down; caught sight +of Charlie and Harry turning heels over head down the slope toward the +house; found that my wife had gone home—in fact, that only Connie and +Wynnie were left. The sun had disappeared under a cloud, and the sea +had turned a little slaty; the yellow flowers in the short down-grass +no longer caught the eye with their gold, and the wind that bent their +tops had just the suspicion of an edge in it. And Wynnie's face looked +a little cloudy too, I thought, and I feared that it was my fault. I +fancied there was just a tinge of beseeching in Connie's eye, as I +looked at her, thinking there might be danger for her in the +sunlessness of the wind. But I do not know that all this, even the +clouding of the sun, may not have come out of my own mind, the result +of my not being quite satisfied with myself because of the mood I had +been in. My feeling had altered considerably in the mean time. +</p> + +<p> +"Run, Wynnie, and ask Mr. Percivale, with my compliments, to come and +lunch with us," I said—more to let her see I was not displeased, +however I might have looked, than for any other reason. She +went—sedately as before. +</p> + +<p> +Almost as soon as she was gone, I saw that I had put her in a +difficulty. For I had discovered, very soon after coming into these +parts, that her head was no more steady than my own on high places, for +she up had never been used to such in our own level country, except, +indeed, on the stair that led down to the old quarry and the well, +where, I can remember now, she always laid her hand on the balustrade +with some degree of tremor, although she had been in the way of going +up and down from childhood. But if she could not cross that narrow and +really dangerous isthmus, still less could she call to a man she had +never seen but once, across the intervening chasm. I therefore set off +after her, leaving Connie lying there in loneliness, between the sea +and the sky. But when I got to the other side of the little tower, +instead of finding her standing hesitating on the brink of action, +there she was on the rock beyond. Mr. Percivale had risen, and was +evidently giving an answer to my invitation; at least, the next moment +she turned to come back, and he followed. I stood trembling almost to +see her cross the knife-back of that ledge. If I had not been almost +fascinated, I should have turned and left them to come together, lest +the evil fancy should cross her mind that I was watching them, for it +was one thing to watch him with her drawings, and quite another to +watch him with herself. But I stood and stared as she crossed. In the +middle of the path, however—up to which point she had been walking +with perfect steadiness and composure—she lifted her eyes—by what +influence I cannot tell—saw me, looked as if she saw ghost, half +lifted her arms, swayed as if she would fall, and, indeed, was falling +over the precipice when Percivale, who was close behind her caught her +in his arms, almost too late for both of them. So nearly down was she +already, that her weight bent him over the rocky side, till it seemed +as if he must yield, or his body snap. For he bent from the waist, and +looked as if his feet only kept a hold on the ground. It was all over +in a moment, but in that moment it made a sun-picture on my brain, +which returns, ever and again, with such vivid agony that I cannot hope +to get rid of it till I get rid of the brain itself in which lies the +impress. In another moment they were at my side—she with a wan, +terrified smile, he in a ruddy alarm. I was unable to speak, and could +only, with trembling steps, lead the way from the dreadful spot. I +reproached myself afterwards for my want of faith in God; but I had not +had time to correct myself yet. Without a word on their side either, +they followed me. Before we reached Connie, I recovered myself +sufficiently to say, "Not a word to Connie," and they understood me. I +told Wynnie to run to the house, and send Walter to help me to carry +Connie home. She went, and, until Walter came, I talked to Mr. +Percivale as if nothing had happened. And what made me feel yet more +friendly towards him was, that he did not do as some young men wishing +to ingratiate themselves would have done: he did not offer to help me +to carry Connie home. I saw that the offer rose in his mind, and that +he repressed it. He understood that I must consider such a permission +as a privilege not to be accorded to the acquaintance of a day; that I +must know him better before I could allow the weight of my child to +rest on his strength. I was even grateful to him for this knowledge of +human nature. But he responded cordially to my invitation to lunch with +us, and walked by my side as Walter and I bore the precious burden home. +</p> + +<p> +During our meal, he made himself quite agreeable; talked well on the +topics of the day, not altogether as a man who had made up his mind, +but not the less, rather the more, as a man who had thought about them, +and one who did not find it so easy to come to a conclusion as most +people do—or possibly as not feeling the necessity of coming to a +conclusion, and therefore preferring to allow the conclusion to grow +instead of constructing one for immediate use. This I rather liked than +otherwise. His behaviour, I need hardly say, after what I have told of +him already, was entirely that of a gentleman; and his education was +good. But what I did not like was, that as often as the conversation +made a bend in the direction of religious matters, he was sure to bend +it away in some other direction as soon as ever he laid his next hold +upon it. This, however, might have various reasons to account for it, +and I would wait. +</p> + +<p> +After lunch, as we rose from the table, he took Wynnie's portfolio from +the side-table where he had laid it, and with no more than a bow and +thanks returned it to her. She, I thought, looked a little +disappointed, though she said as lightly as she could: +</p> + +<p> +"I am afraid you have not found anything worthy of criticism in my poor +attempts, Mr. Percivale?" +</p> + +<p> +"On the contrary, I shall be most happy to tell you what I think of +them if you would like to hear the impression they have made upon me," +he replied, holding out his hand to take the portfolio again. +</p> + +<p> +"I shall be greatly obliged to you," she said, returning it, "for I +have had no one to help me since I left school, except a book called +<i>Modern Painters</i>, which I think has the most beautiful things in it I +ever read, but which I lay down every now and then with a kind of +despair, as if I never could do anything worth doing. How long the next +volume is in coming! Do you know the author, Mr. Percivale?" +</p> + +<p> +"I wish I did. He has given me much help. I do not say I can agree with +everything he writes; but when I do not, I have such a respect for him +that I always feel as if he must be right whether he seems to me to be +right or not. And if he is severe, it is with the severity of love that +will speak only the truth." +</p> + +<p> +This last speech fell on my ear like the tone of a church bell. "That +will do, my friend," thought I. But I said nothing to interrupt. +</p> + +<p> +By this time he had laid the portfolio open on the side-table, and +placed a chair in front of it for my daughter. Then seating himself by +her side, but without the least approach to familiarity, he began to +talk to her about her drawings, praising, in general, the feeling, but +finding fault with the want of nicety in the execution—at least so it +appeared to me from what I could understand of the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +"But," said my daughter, "it seems to me that if you get the feeling +right, that is the main thing." +</p> + +<p> +"No doubt," returned Mr. Percivale; "so much the main thing that any +imperfection or coarseness or untruth which interferes with it becomes +of the greatest consequence." +</p> + +<p> +"But can it really interfere with the feeling?" +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps not with most people, simply because most people observe so +badly that their recollections of nature are all blurred and blotted +and indistinct, and therefore the imperfections we are speaking of do +not affect them. But with the more cultivated it is otherwise. It is +for them you ought to work, for you do not thereby lose the others. +Besides, the feeling is always intensified by the finish, for that +belongs to the feeling too, and must, I should think, have some +influence even where it is not noted." +</p> + +<p> +"But is it not a hopeless thing to attempt the finish of nature?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not at all; to the degree, that is, in which you can represent +anything else of nature. But in this drawing now you have no +representative of, nothing to hint at or recall the feeling of the +exquisiteness of nature's finish. Why should you not at least have +drawn a true horizon-line there? Has the absolute truth of the meeting +of sea and sky nothing to do with the feeling which such a landscape +produces? I should have thought you would have learned that, if +anything, from Mr. Ruskin." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or +despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or +rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was +anything but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was +doing his best to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess +I was not altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just +uncover my sin, and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. +The negative reason was that I had not yet learned to love him. The +only cure for jealousy is love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie's +behaving so childishly. Her face flushed, the tears came in her eyes, +and she rose, saying, with a little choke in her voice— +</p> + +<p> +"I see it's no use trying. I won't intrude any more into things I am +incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me +how presumptuous I have been." +</p> + +<p> +The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not +attempt to answer her. Indeed she gave him no time. He could only +spring after her to open the door for her. A more than respectful bow +as she left the room was his only adieu. But when he turned his face +again towards me, it expressed even a degree of consternation. +</p> + +<p> +"I fear," he said, approaching me with an almost military step, much at +variance with the shadow upon his countenance, "I fear I have been rude +to Miss Walton, but nothing was farther—" +</p> + +<p> +"You mistake entirely, Mr. Percivale. I heard all you were saying, and +you were not in the least rude. On the contrary, I consider you were +very kind to take the trouble with her you did. Allow me to make the +apology for my daughter which I am sure she will wish made when she +recovers from the disappointment of finding more obstacles in the way +of her favourite pursuit than she had previously supposed. She is only +too ready to lose heart, and she paid too little attention to your +approbation and too much—in proportion, I mean—to your—criticism. +She felt discouraged and lost her temper, but more with herself and her +poor attempts, I venture to assure you, than with your remarks upon +them. She is too much given to despising her own efforts." +</p> + +<p> +"But I must have been to blame if I caused any such feeling with regard +to those drawings, for I assure you they contain great promise." +</p> + +<p> +"I am glad you think so. That I should myself be of the same opinion +can be of no consequence." +</p> + +<p> +"Miss Walton at least sees what ought to be represented. All she needs +is greater severity in the quality of representation. And that would +have grown without any remark from onlookers. Only a friendly criticism +is sometimes a great help. It opens the eyes a little sooner than they +would have opened of themselves. And time," he added, with a half sigh +and with an appeal in his tone, as if he would justify himself to my +conscience, "is half the battle in this world. It is over so soon." +</p> + +<p> +"No sooner than it ought to be," I rejoined. +</p> + +<p> +"So it may appear to you," he returned; "for you, I presume to +conjecture, have worked hard and done much. I may or may not have +worked hard—sometimes I think I have, sometimes I think I have +not—but I certainly have done little. Here I am nearly thirty, and +have made no mark on the world yet." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know that that is of so much consequence," I said. "I have +never hoped for more than to rub out a few of the marks already made." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps you are right," he returned. "Every man has something he can +do, and more, I suppose, that he can't do. But I have no right to turn +a visit into a visitation. Will you please tell Miss Walton that I am +very sorry I presumed on the privileges of a drawing-master, and gave +her pain. It was so far from my intention that it will be a lesson to +me for the future." +</p> + +<p> +With these words he took his leave, and I could not help being greatly +pleased both with them and with his bearing. He was clearly anything +but a common man. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VI. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE SHADOW OP DEATH. +</h3> + +<p> +When Wynnie appeared at dinner she looked ashamed of herself, and her +face betrayed that she had been crying. But I said nothing, for I had +confidence that all she needed was time to come to herself, that the +voice that speaks louder than any thunder might make its stillness +heard. And when I came home from my walk the next morning I found Mr. +Percivale once more in the group about Connie, and evidently on the +best possible terms with all. The same afternoon Wynnie went out +sketching with Dora. I had no doubt that she had made some sort of +apology to Mr. Percivale; but I did not make the slightest attempt to +discover what had passed between them, for though it is of all things +desirable that children should be quite open with their parents, I was +most anxious to lay upon them no burden of obligation. For such burden +lies against the door of utterance, and makes it the more difficult to +open. It paralyses the speech of the soul. What I desired was that they +should trust me so that faith should overcome all difficulty that might +lie in the way of their being open with me. That end is not to be +gained by any urging of admonition. Against such, growing years at +least, if nothing else, will bring a strong reaction. Nor even, if so +gained would the gain be at all of the right sort. The openness would +not be faith. Besides, a parent must respect the spiritual person of +his child, and approach it with reverence, for that too looks the +Father in the face, and has an audience with him into which no earthly +parent can enter even if he dared to desire it. Therefore I trusted my +child. And when I saw that she looked at me a little shyly when we next +met, I only sought to show her the more tenderness and confidence, +telling her all about my plans with the bells, and my talks with the +smith and Mrs. Coombes. She listened with just such interest as I had +always been accustomed to see in her, asking such questions, and making +such remarks as I might have expected, but I still felt that there was +the thread of a little uneasiness through the web of our +intercourse,—such a thread of a false colour as one may sometimes find +wandering through the labour of the loom, and seek with pains to draw +from the woven stuff. But it was for Wynnie to take it out, not for me. +And she did not leave it long. For as she bade me good-night in my +study, she said suddenly, yet with hesitating openness, +</p> + +<p> +"Papa, I told Mr. Percivale that I was sorry I had behaved so badly +about the drawings." +</p> + +<p> +"You did right, my child," I replied. At the same moment a pang of +anxiety passed through me lest under the influence of her repentance +she should have said anything more than becoming. But I banished the +doubt instantly as faithlessness in the womanly instincts of my child. +For we men are always so ready and anxious to keep women right, like +the wretched creature, Laertes, in <i>Hamlet</i>, who reads his sister such +a lesson on her maidenly duties, but declines almost with contempt to +listen to a word from her as to any co-relative obligation on his side! +</p> + +<p> +And here I may remark in regard to one of the vexed questions of the +day—the rights of women—that what women demand it is not for men to +withhold. It is not their business to lay the law for women. That women +must lay down for themselves. I confess that, although I must herein +seem to many of my readers old-fashioned and conservative, I should not +like to see any woman I cared much for either in parliament or in an +anatomical class-room; but on the other hand I feel that women must be +left free to settle that matter. If it is not good, good women will +find it out and recoil from it. If it is good then God give them good +speed. One thing they <i>have</i> a right to—a far wider and more valuable +education than they have been in the way of receiving. When the mothers +are well taught the generations will grow in knowledge at a fourfold +rate. But still the teaching of life is better than all the schools, +and common sense than all learning. This common sense is a rare gift, +scantier in none than in those who lay claim to it on the ground of +following commonplace, worldly, and prudential maxims. But I must +return to my Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"And what did Mr. Percivale say?" I resumed, for she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +"He took the blame all on himself, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Like a gentleman," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"But I could not leave it so, you know, papa, because that was not the +truth." +</p> + +<p> +"Well?" +</p> + +<p> +"I told him that I had lost my temper from disappointment; that I had +thought I did not care for my drawings because I was so far from +satisfied with them, but when he made me feel that they were worth +nothing, then I found from the vexation I felt that I had cared for +them. But I do think, papa, I was more ashamed of having shown them, +and vexed with myself, than cross with him. But I was very silly." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, and what did he say?" +</p> + +<p> +"He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of +that, for what could he do?" +</p> + +<p> +"You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much." +</p> + +<p> +"He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution of +your efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching +apparatus this afternoon." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," she answered shyly. "He was so kind that somehow I got heart to +try again. He's very nice, isn't he?" +</p> + +<p> +My answer was not quite ready. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you like him, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well—I like him—yes. But we must not be in haste with our judgments, +you know. I have had very little opportunity of seeing into him. There +is much in him that I like, but—" +</p> + +<p> +"But what? please, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"To tell the truth then, Wynnie, for I can speak my mind to you, my +child, there is a certain shyness of approaching the subject of +religion; so that I have my fears lest he should belong to any of these +new schools of a fragmentary philosophy which acknowledge no source of +truth but the testimony of the senses and the deductions made therefrom +by the intellect." +</p> + +<p> +"But is not that a hasty conclusion, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"That is a hasty question, my dear. I have come to no conclusion. I was +only speaking confidentially about my fears." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps, papa, it's only that he's not sure enough, and is afraid of +appearing to profess more than he believes. I'm sure, if that's it, I +have the greatest sympathy with him." +</p> + +<p> +I looked at her, and saw the tears gathering fast in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"Pray to God on the chance of his hearing you, my darling, and go to +sleep," I said. "I will not think hardly of you because you cannot be +so sure as I am. How could you be? You have not had my experience. +Perhaps you are right about Mr. Percivale too. But it would be an +awkward thing to get intimate with him, you know, and then find out +that we did not like him after all. You couldn't like a man much, could +you, who did not believe in anything greater than himself, anything +marvellous, grand, beyond our understanding—who thought that he had +come out of the dirt and was going back to the dirt?" +</p> + +<p> +"I could, papa, if he tried to do his duty notwithstanding—for I'm +sure I couldn't. I should cry myself to death." +</p> + +<p> +"You are right, my child. I should honour him too. But I should be very +sorry for him. For he would be so disappointed in himself." +</p> + +<p> +I do not know whether this was the best answer to make, but I had +little time to think. +</p> + +<p> +"But you don't know that he's like that." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not, my dear. And more, I will not associate the idea with him +till I know for certain. We will leave it to ignorant old ladies who +lay claim to an instinct for theology to jump at conclusions, and +reserve ours—as even such a man as we have been supposing might well +teach us—till we have sufficient facts from which to draw them. Now go +to bed, my child." +</p> + +<p> +"Good-night then, dear papa," she said, and left me with a kiss. +</p> + +<p> +I was not altogether comfortable after this conversation. I had tried +to be fair to the young man both in word and thought, but I could not +relish the idea of my daughter falling in love with him, which looked +likely enough, before I knew more about him, and found that <i>more</i> good +and hope-giving. There was but one rational thing left to do, and that +was to cast my care on him that careth for us—on the Father who loved +my child more than even I could love her—and loved the young man too, +and regarded my anxiety, and would take its cause upon himself. After I +had lifted up my heart to him I was at ease, read a canto of Dante's +<i>Paradise</i>, and then went to bed. The prematurity of a conversation +with my wife, in which I found that she was very favourably impressed +with Mr. Percivale, must be pardoned to the forecasting hearts of +fathers and mothers. +</p> + +<p> +As I went out for my walk the next morning, I caught sight of the +sexton, with whom as yet I had had but little communication, busily +trimming some of the newer graves in the churchyard. I turned in +through the nearer gate, which was fashioned like a lych-gate, with +seats on the sides and a stone table in the centre, but had no roof. +The one on the other side of the church was roofed, but probably they +had found that here no roof could resist the sea-blasts in winter. The +top of the wall where the roof should have rested, was simply covered +with flat slates to protect it from the rain. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-morning, Coombes," I said. +</p> + +<p> +He turned up a wizened, humorous old face, the very type of a +gravedigger's, and with one hand leaning on the edge of the green +mound, upon which he had been cropping with a pair of shears the too +long and too thin grass, touched his cap with the other, and bade me a +cheerful good-morning in return. +</p> + +<p> +"You're making things tidy," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"It take time to make them all comfortable, you see, sir," he returned, +taking up his shears again and clipping away at the top and sides of +the mound. +</p> + +<p> +"You mean the dead, Coombes?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir; to be sure, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't think it makes much difference to their comfort, do you, +whether the grass is one length or another upon their graves?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well no, sir. I don't suppose it makes <i>much</i> difference to them. But +it look more comfortable, you know. And I like things to look +comfortable. Don't you, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"To be sure I do, Coombes. And you are quite right. The resting-place +of the body, although the person it belonged to be far away, should be +respected." +</p> + +<p> +"That's what I think, though I don't get no credit for it. I du believe +the people hereabouts thinks me only a single hair better than a Jack +Ketch. But I'm sure I du my best to make the poor things comfortable." +</p> + +<p> +He seemed unable to rid his mind of the idea that the comfort of the +departed was dependent upon his ministrations. +</p> + +<p> +"The trouble I have with them sometimes! There's now this same one as +lies here, old Jonathan Giles. He have the gout so bad! and just as I +come within a couple o' inches o' the right depth, out come the edge of +a great stone in the near corner at the foot of the bed. Thinks I, +he'll never lie comfortable with that same under his gouty toe. But the +trouble I had to get out that stone! I du assure you, sir, it took me +nigh half the day.—But this be one of the nicest places to lie in all +up and down the coast—a nice gravelly soil, you see, sir; dry, and +warm, and comfortable. Them poor things as comes out of the sea must +quite enjoy the change, sir." +</p> + +<p> +There was something grotesque in the man's persistence in regarding the +objects of his interest from this point of view. It was a curious way +for the humanity that was in him to find expression; but I did not like +to let him go on thus. It was so much opposed to all that I believed +and felt about the change from this world to the next! +</p> + +<p> +"But, Coombes," I said, "why will you go on talking as if it made an +atom of difference to the dead bodies where they were buried? They care +no more about it than your old coat would care where it was thrown +after you had done with it." +</p> + +<p> +He turned and regarded his coat where it hung beside him on the +headstone of the same grave at which he was working, shook his head +with a smile that seemed to hint a doubt whether the said old coat +would be altogether so indifferent to its treatment when, it was past +use as I had implied. Then he turned again to his work, and after a +moment's silence began to approach me from another side. I confess he +had the better of me before I was aware of what he was about. +</p> + +<p> +"The church of Boscastle stands high on the cliff. You've been to +Boscastle, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +I told him I had not yet, but hoped to go before the summer was over. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, you should see Boscastle, sir. It's a wonderful place. That's +where I was born, sir. When I was a by that church was haunted, sir. +It's a damp place, and the wind in it awful. I du believe it stand +higher than any church in the country, and have got more wind in it of +a stormy night than any church whatsomever. Well, they said it was +haunted; and sure enough every now and then there was a knocking heard +down below. And this always took place of a stormy night, as if there +was some poor thing down in the low wouts (<i>vaults</i>), and he wasn't +comfortable and wanted to get out. Well, one night it was so plain and +so fearful it was that the sexton he went and took the blacksmith and a +ship's carpenter down to the harbour, and they go up together, and they +hearken all over the floor, and they open one of the old family wouts +that belongs to the Penhaligans, and they go down with a light. Now the +wind it was a-blowing all as usual, only worse than common. And there +to be sure what do they see but the wout half-full of sea-water, and +nows and thens a great spout coming in through a hole in the rock; for +it was high-water and a wind off the sea, as I tell you. And there was +a coffin afloat on the water, and every time the spout come through, it +set it knocking agen the side o' the wout, and that was the ghost." +</p> + +<p> +"What a horrible idea!" I said, with a half-shudder at the unrest of +the dead. +</p> + +<p> +The old man uttered a queer long-drawn sound,—neither a chuckle, a +crow, nor a laugh, but a mixture of all three,—and turned himself yet +again to the work which, as he approached the end of his narration, he +had suspended, that he might make his story <i>tell</i>, I suppose, by +looking me in the face. And as he turned he said, "I thought you would +like to be comfortable then as well as other people, sir." +</p> + +<p> +I could not help laughing to see how the cunning old fellow had caught +me. I have not yet been able to find out how much of truth there was in +his story. From the twinkle of his eye I cannot help suspecting that if +he did not invent the tale, he embellished it, at least, in order to +produce the effect which he certainly did produce. Humour was clearly +his predominant disposition, the reflex of which was to be seen, after +a mild lunar fashion, on the countenance of his wife. Neither could I +help thinking with pleasure, as I turned away, how the merry little old +man would enjoy telling his companions how he had posed the new parson. +Very welcome was he to his laugh for my part. Yet I gladly left the +churchyard, with its sunshine above and its darkness below. Indeed I +had to look up to the glittering vanes on the four pinnacles of the +church-tower, dwelling aloft in the clean sunny air, to get the feeling +of the dark vault, and the floating coffin, and the knocking heard in +the windy church, out of my brain. But the thing that did free me was +the reflection with what supreme disregard the disincarcerated spirit +would look upon any possible vicissitudes of its abandoned vault. For +in proportion as the body of man's revelation ceases to be in harmony +with the spirit that dwells therein, it becomes a vault, a prison, from +which it must be freedom to escape at length. The house we like best +would be a prison of awful sort if doors and windows were built up. +Man's abode, as age begins to draw nigh, fares thus. Age is in fact the +mason that builds up the doors and the windows, and death is the angel +that breaks the prison-house and lets the captives free. Thus I got +something out of the sexton's horrible story. +</p> + +<p> +But before the week was over, death came near indeed—in far other +fashion than any funereal tale could have brought it. +</p> + +<p> +One day, after lunch, I had retired to my study, and was dozing in my +chair, for the day was hot, when I was waked by Charlie rushing into +the room with the cry, "Papa, papa, there's a man drowning." +</p> + +<p> +I started up, and hurried down to the drawing-room, which looked out +over the bay. I could see nothing but people running about on the edge +of the quiet waves. No sign of human being was on—the water. But the +one boat belonging to the pilot was coming out from the shelter of the +lock of the canal where it usually lay, and my friend of the coastguard +was running down from the tower on the cliff with ropes in his hand. He +would not stop the boat even for the moment it would need to take him +on board, but threw them in and urged to haste. I stood at the window +and watched. Every now and then I fancied I saw something white heaved +up on the swell of a wave, and as often was satisfied that I had but +fancied it. The boat seemed to be floating about lazily, if not idly. +The eagerness to help made it appear as if nothing was going on. Could +it, after all, have been a false alarm? Was there, after all, no +insensible form swinging about in the sweep of those waves, with life +gradually oozing away? Long, long as it seemed to me, I watched, and +still the boat kept moving from place to place, so far out that I could +see nothing distinctly of the motions of its crew. At length I saw +something. Yes; a long white thing rose from the water slowly, and was +drawn into the boat. It rowed swiftly to the shore. There was but one +place fit to land upon,—a little patch of sand, nearly covered at +high-water, but now lying yellow in the sun, under the window at which +I stood, and immediately under our garden-wall. Thither the boat shot +along; and there my friend of the coastguard, earnest and sad, was +waiting to use, though without hope, every appliance so well known to +him from the frequent occurrence of such necessity in the course of his +watchful duties along miles and miles of stormy coast. +</p> + +<p> +I will not linger over the sad details of vain endeavour. The honoured +head of a family, he had departed and left a good name behind him. But +even in the midst of my poor attentions to the quiet, speechless, +pale-faced wife, who sat at the head of the corpse, I could not help +feeling anxious about the effect on my Connie. It was impossible to +keep the matter concealed from her. The undoubted concern on the faces +of the two boys was enough to reveal that something serious and painful +had occurred; while my wife and Wynnie, and indeed the whole household, +were busy in attending to every remotest suggestion of aid that reached +them from the little crowd gathered about the body. At length it was +concluded, on the verdict of the medical man who had been sent for, +that all further effort was useless. The body was borne away, and I led +the poor lady to her lodging, and remained there with her till I found +that, as she lay on the sofa, the sleep that so often dogs the steps of +sorrow had at length thrown its veil over her consciousness, and put +her for the time to rest. There is a gentle consolation in the firmness +of the grasp of the inevitable, known but to those who are led through +the valley of the shadow. I left her with her son and daughter, and +returned to my own family. They too were of course in the skirts of the +cloud. Had they only heard of the occurrence, it would have had little +effect; but death had appeared to them. Everyone but Connie had seen +the dead lying there; and before the day was over, I wished that she +too had seen the dead. For I found from what she said at intervals, and +from the shudder that now and then passed through her, that her +imagination was at work, showing but the horrors that belong to death; +for the enfolding peace that accompanies it can be known but by sight +of the dead. When I spoke to her, she seemed, and I suppose for the +time felt tolerably quiet and comfortable; but I could see that the +words she had heard fall in the going and coming, and the +communications of Charlie and Harry to each other, had made as it were +an excoriation on her fancy, to which her consciousness was ever +returning. And now I became more grateful than I had yet been for the +gift of that gipsy-child. For I felt no anxiety about Connie so long as +she was with her. The presence even of her mother could not relieve +her, for she and Wynnie were both clouded with the same awe, and its +reflex in Connie was distorted by her fancy. But the sweet ignorance of +the baby, which rightly considered is more than a type or symbol of +faith, operated most healingly; for she appeared in her sweet merry +ways—no baby was ever more filled with the mere gladness of life than +Connie's baby—to the mood in which they all were, like a little sunny +window in a cathedral crypt, telling of a whole universe of sunshine +and motion beyond those oppressed pillars and low-groined arches. And +why should not the baby know best? I believe the babies do know best. I +therefore favoured her having the child more than I might otherwise +have thought good for her, being anxious to get the dreary, unhealthy +impression healed as soon as possible, lest it should, in the delicate +physical condition in which she was, turn to a sore. +</p> + +<p> +But my wife suffered for a time nearly as much as Connie. As long as +she was going about the house or attending to the wants of her family, +she was free; but no sooner did she lay her head on the pillow than in +rushed the cry of the sea, fierce, unkind, craving like a wild beast. +Again and again she spoke of it to me, for it came to her mingled with +the voice of the tempter, saying, "<i>Cruel chance</i>," over and over +again. For although the two words contradict each other when put +together thus, each in its turn would assert itself. +</p> + +<p> +A great part of the doubt in the world comes from the fact that there +are in it so many more of the impressible as compared with the +originating minds. Where the openness to impression is balanced by the +power of production, the painful questions of the world are speedily +met by their answers; where such is not the case, there are often long +periods of suffering till the child-answer of truth is brought to the +birth. Hence the need for every impressible mind to be, by reading or +speech, held in living association with an original mind able to combat +those suggestions of doubt and even unbelief, which the look of things +must often occasion—a look which comes from our inability to gain +other than fragmentary visions of the work that the Father worketh +hitherto. When the kingdom of heaven is at hand, one sign thereof will +be that all clergymen will be more or less of the latter sort, and mere +receptive goodness, no more than education and moral character, will be +considered sufficient reason for a man's occupying the high position of +an instructor of his fellows. But even now this possession of original +power is not by any means to be limited to those who make public show +of the same. In many a humble parish priest it shows itself at the +bedside of the suffering, or in the admonition of the closet, although +as yet there are many of the clergy who, so far from being able to +console wisely, are incapable of understanding the condition of those +that need consolation. +</p> + +<p> +"It is all a fancy, my dear," I said to her. "There is nothing more +terrible in this than in any other death. On the contrary, I can hardly +imagine a less fearful one. A big wave falls on the man's head and +stuns him, and without further suffering he floats gently out on the +sea of the unknown." +</p> + +<p> +"But it is so terrible for those left behind!" +</p> + +<p> +"Had you seen the face of his widow, so gentle, so loving, so resigned +in its pallor, you would not have thought it so <i>terrible</i>." +</p> + +<p> +But though she always seemed satisfied, and no doubt felt nearly so, +after any conversation of the sort, yet every night she would call out +once and again, "O, that sea, out there!" I was very glad indeed when +Mr. Turner, who had arranged to spend a short holiday with us, arrived. +</p> + +<p> +He was concerned at the news I gave him of the shock both Connie and +her mother had received, and counselled an immediate change, that time +might, in the absence of surrounding associations, obliterate something +of the impression that had been made. The consequence was, that we +resolved to remove our household, for a short time, to some place not +too far off to permit of my attending to my duties at Kilkhaven, but +out of the sight and sound of the sea. It was Thursday when Mr. Turner +arrived, and he spent the next two days in inquiring and looking about +for a suitable spot to which we might repair as early in the week as +possible. +</p> + +<p> +On the Saturday the blacksmith was busy in the church-tower, and I went +in to see how he was getting on. +</p> + +<p> +"You had a sad business here the last week, sir," he said, after we had +done talking about the repairs. +</p> + +<p> +"A very sad business indeed," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"It was a warning to us all," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"We may well take it so," I returned. "But it seems to me that we are +too ready to think of such remarkable things only by themselves, +instead of being roused by them to regard everything, common and +uncommon, as ordered by the same care and wisdom." +</p> + +<p> +"One of our local preachers made a grand use of it." +</p> + +<p> +I made no reply. He resumed. +</p> + +<p> +"They tell me you took no notice of it last Sunday, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"I made no immediate allusion to it, certainly. But I preached under +the influence of it. And I thought it better that those who could +reflect on the matter should be thus led to think for themselves than +that they should be subjected to the reception of my thoughts and +feelings about it; for in the main it is life and not death that we +have to preach." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't quite understand you, sir. But then you don't care much for +preaching in your church." +</p> + +<p> +"I confess," I answered, "that there has been much indifference on that +point. I could, however, mention to you many and grand exceptions. +Still there is, even in some of the best in the church, a great amount +of disbelief in the efficacy of preaching. And I allow that a great +deal of what is called preaching, partakes of its nature only in the +remotest degree. But, while I hold a strong opinion of its value—that +is, where it is genuine—I venture just to suggest that the nature of +the preaching to which the body you belong to has resorted, has had +something to do, by way of a reaction, in driving the church to the +other extreme." +</p> + +<p> +"How do you mean that, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"You try to work upon people's feelings without reference to their +judgment. Anyone who can preach what you call rousing sermons is +considered a grand preacher amongst you, and there is a great danger of +his being led thereby to talk more nonsense than sense. And then when +the excitement goes off, there is no seed left in the soil to grow in +peace, and they are always craving after more excitement." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, there is the preacher to rouse them up again." +</p> + +<p> +"And the consequence is that they continue like children—the good +ones, I mean—and have hardly a chance of making a calm, deliberate +choice of that which is good; while those who have been only excited +and nothing more, are hardened and seared by the recurrence of such +feeling as is neither aroused by truth nor followed by action." +</p> + +<p> +"You daren't talk like that if you knew the kind of people in this +country that the Methodists, as you call them, have got a hold of. They +tell me it was like hell itself down in those mines before Wesley come +among them." +</p> + +<p> +"I should be a fool or a bigot to doubt that the Wesleyans have done +incalculable good in the country. And that not alone to the people who +never went to church. The whole Church of England is under obligations +to Methodism such as no words can overstate." +</p> + +<p> +"I wonder you can say such things against them, then." +</p> + +<p> +"Now there you show the evil of thinking too much about the party you +belong to. It makes a man touchy; and then he fancies when another is +merely, it may be, analysing a difference, or insisting strongly on +some great truth, that he is talking against his party." +</p> + +<p> +"But you said, sir, that our clergy don't care about moving our +judgments, only our feelings. Now I know preachers amongst us of whom +that would be anything but true." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course there must be. But there is what I say—your party-feeling +makes you touchy. A man can't always be saying in the press of +utterance, '<i>Of course there are exceptions</i>.' That is understood. I +confess I do not know much about your clergy, for I have not had the +opportunity. But I do know this, that some of the best and most liberal +people I have ever known have belonged to your community." +</p> + +<p> +"They do gather a deal of money for good purposes." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. But that was not what I meant by <i>liberal</i>. It is far easier to +give money than to be generous in judgment. I meant by <i>liberal</i>, able +to see the good and true in people that differ from you—glad to be +roused to the reception of truth in God's name from whatever quarter it +may come, and not readily finding offence where a remark may have +chanced to be too sweeping or unguarded. But I see that I ought to be +more careful, for I have made you, who certainly are not one of the +quarrelsome people I have been speaking of, misunderstand me." +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon, sir. I was hasty. But I do think I am more ready to +lose my temper since—" +</p> + +<p> +Here he stopped. A fit of coughing came on, and, to my concern, was +followed by what I saw plainly could be the result only of a rupture in +the lungs. I insisted on his dropping his work and coming home with me, +where I made him rest the remainder of the day and all Sunday, sending +word to his mother that I could not let him go home. When we left on +the Monday morning, we took him with us in the carriage hired for the +journey, and set him down at his mother's, apparently no worse than +usual. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VII. +</h3> + +<h3> +AT THE FARM. +</h3> + +<p> +Leaving the younger members of the family at home with the servants, we +set out for a farmhouse, some twenty miles off, which Turner had +discovered for us. Connie had stood the journey down so well, and was +now so much stronger, that we had no anxiety about her so far as +regarded the travelling. Through deep lanes with many cottages, and +here and there a very ugly little chapel, over steep hills, up which +Turner and Wynnie and I walked, and along sterile moors we drove, +stopping at roadside inns, and often besides to raise Connie and let +her look about upon the extended prospect, so that it was drawing +towards evening before we arrived at our destination. On the way Turner +had warned us that we were not to expect a beautiful country, although +the place was within reach of much that was remarkable. Therefore we +were not surprised when we drew up at the door of a bare-looking, +shelterless house, with scarcely a tree in sight, and a stretch of +undulating fields on every side. +</p> + +<p> +"A dreary place in winter, Turner," I said, after we had seen Connie +comfortably deposited in the nice white-curtained parlour, smelling of +dried roses even in the height of the fresh ones, and had strolled out +while our tea—dinner was being got ready for us. +</p> + +<p> +"Not a doubt of it; but just the place I wanted for Miss Connie," he +replied. "We are high above the sea, and the air is very bracing, and +not, at this season, too cold. A month later I should not on any +account have brought her here." +</p> + +<p> +"I think even now there is a certain freshness in the wind that calls +up a kind of will in the nerves to meet it." +</p> + +<p> +"That is precisely what I wanted for you all. You observe there is no +rasp in its touch, however. There are regions in this island of ours +where even in the hottest day in summer you would frequently discover a +certain unfriendly edge in the air, that would set you wondering +whether the seasons had not changed since you were a boy, and used to +lie on the grass half the idle day." +</p> + +<p> +"I often do wonder whether it may not be so, but I always come to the +conclusion that even this is but an example of the involuntary tendency +of the mind of man towards the ideal. He forgets all that comes between +and divides the hints of perfection scattered here and there along the +scope of his experience. I especially remember one summer day in my +childhood, which has coloured all my ideas of summer and bliss and +fulfilment of content. It is made up of only mossy grass, and the scent +of the earth and wild flowers, and hot sun, and perfect sky—deep and +blue, and traversed by blinding white clouds. I could not have been +more than five or six, I think, from the kind of dress I wore, the very +pearl buttons of which, encircled on their face with a ring of +half-spherical hollows, have their undeniable relation in my memory to +the heavens and the earth, to the march of the glorious clouds, and the +tender scent of the rooted flowers; and, indeed, when I think of it, +must, by the delight they gave me, have opened my mind the more to the +enjoyment of the eternal paradise around me. What a thing it is to +please a child!" +</p> + +<p> +"I know what you mean perfectly," answered Turner. "It is as I get +older that I understand what Wordsworth says about childhood. It is +indeed a mercy that we were not born grown men, with what we consider +our wits about us. They are blinding things those wits we gather. I +fancy that the single thread by which God sometimes keeps hold of a man +is such an impression of his childhood as that of which you have been +speaking." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not doubt it; for conscience is so near in all those memories to +which you refer. The whole surrounding of them is so at variance with +sin! A sense of purity, not in himself, for the child is not feeling +that he is pure, is all about him; and when afterwards the condition +returns upon him,—returns when he is conscious of so much that is evil +and so much that is unsatisfied in him,—it brings with it a longing +after the high clear air of moral well-being." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think, then, that it is only by association that nature thus +impresses us? that she has no power of meaning these things?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not at all. No doubt there is something in the recollection of the +associations of childhood to strengthen the power of nature upon us; +but the power is in nature herself, else it would be but a poor weak +thing to what it is. There <i>is</i> purity and state in that sky. There +<i>is</i> a peace now in this wide still earth—not so very beautiful, you +own—and in that overhanging blue, which my heart cries out that it +needs and cannot be well till it gains—gains in the truth, gains in +God, who is the power of truth, the living and causing truth. There is +indeed a rest that remaineth, a rest pictured out even here this night, +to rouse my dull heart to desire it and follow after it, a rest that +consists in thinking the thoughts of Him who is the Peace because the +Unity, in being filled with that spirit which now pictures itself forth +in this repose of the heavens and the earth." +</p> + +<p> +"True," said Turner, after a pause. "I must think more about such +things. The science the present day is going wild about will not give +us that rest." +</p> + +<p> +"No; but that rest will do much to give you that science. A man with +this repose in his heart will do more by far, other capabilities being +equal, to find out the laws that govern things. For all law is living +rest." +</p> + +<p> +"What you have been saying," resumed Turner, after another pause, +"reminds me much of one of Wordsworth's poems. I do not mean the famous +ode." +</p> + +<p> +"You mean the 'Ninth Evening Voluntary,' I know—one of his finest and +truest and deepest poems. It begins, 'Had this effulgence disappeared.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that is the one I mean. I shall read it again when I go home. But +you don't agree with Wordsworth, do you, about our having had an +existence previous to this?" +</p> + +<p> +He gave a little laugh as he asked the question. +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least. But an opinion held by such men as Plato, Origen, +and Wordsworth, is not to be laughed at, Mr. Turner. It cannot be in +its nature absurd. I might have mentioned Shelley as holding it, too, +had his opinion been worth anything." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you don't think much of Shelley?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think his <i>feeling</i> most valuable; his <i>opinion</i> nearly worthless." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, perhaps I had no business to laugh, at it; but—" +</p> + +<p> +"Do not suppose for a moment that I even lean to it. I dislike it. It +would make me unhappy to think there was the least of sound argument +for it. But I respect the men who have held it, and know there must be +<i>something</i> good in it, else they could not have held it." +</p> + +<p> +"Are you able then to sympathise with that ode of Wordsworth's? Does it +not depend for all its worth on the admission of this theory?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least. Is it necessary to admit that we must have had a +conscious life before this life to find meaning in the words,— +</p> + +<p> + 'But trailing clouds of glory do we come<br /> + From God who is our home'?<br /> +</p> + +<p> +Is not all the good in us his image? Imperfect and sinful as we are, is +not all the foundation of our being his image? Is not the sin all ours, +and the life in us all God's? We cannot be the creatures of God without +partaking of his nature. Every motion of our conscience, every +admiration of what is pure and noble, is a sign and a result of this. +Is not every self-accusation a proof of the presence of his spirit? +That comes not of ourselves—that is not without him. These are the +clouds of glory we come trailing from him. All feelings of beauty and +peace and loveliness and right and goodness, we trail with us from our +home. God is the only home of the human soul. To interpret in this +manner what Wordsworth says, will enable us to enter into perfect +sympathy with all that grandest of his poems. I do not say this is what +he meant; but I think it includes what he meant by being greater and +wider than what he meant. Nor am I guilty of presumption in saying so, +for surely the idea that we are born of God is a greater idea than that +we have lived with him a life before this life. But Wordsworth is not +the first among our religious poets to give us at least what is +valuable in the notion. I came upon a volume amongst my friend +Shepherd's books, with which I had made no acquaintance before—Henry +Vaughan's poems. I brought it with me, for it has finer lines, I almost +think, than any in George Herbert, though not so fine poems by any +means as his best. When we go into the house I will read one of them to +you." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you," said Turner. "I wish I could have such talk once a week. +The shades of the prison-house, you know, Mr. Walton, are always trying +to close about us, and shut out the vision of the glories we have come +from, as Wordsworth says." +</p> + +<p> +"A man," I answered, "who ministers to the miserable necessities of his +fellows has even more need than another to believe in the light and the +gladness—else a poor Job's comforter will he be. <i>I</i> don't want to be +treated like a musical snuff-box." +</p> + +<p> +The doctor laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"No man can <i>prove</i>," he said, "that there is not a being inside the +snuff-box, existing in virtue of the harmony of its parts, comfortable +when they go well, sick when they go badly, and dying when it is +dismembered, or even when it stops." +</p> + +<p> +"No," I answered. "No man can prove it. But no man can convince a human +being of it. And just as little can anyone convince me that my +conscience, making me do sometimes what I <i>don't</i> like, comes from a +harmonious action of the particles of my brain. But it is time we went +in, for by the law of things in general, I being ready for my dinner, +my dinner ought to be ready for me." +</p> + +<p> +"A law with more exceptions than instances, I fear," said Turner. +</p> + +<p> +"I doubt that," I answered. "The readiness is everything, and that we +constantly blunder in. But we had better see whether we are really +ready for it, by trying whether it is ready for us." +</p> + +<p> +Connie went to bed early, as indeed we all did, and she was rather +better than worse the next morning. My wife, for the first time for +many nights, said nothing about the crying of the sea. The following +day Turner and I set out to explore the neighbourhood. The rest +remained quietly at home. +</p> + +<p> +It was, as I have said, a high bare country. The fields lay side by +side, parted from each other chiefly, as so often in Scotland, by stone +walls; and these stones being of a laminated nature, the walls were not +unfrequently built by laying thin plates on their edges, which gave a +neatness to them not found in other parts of the country as far as I am +aware. In the middle of the fields came here and there patches of yet +unreclaimed moorland. +</p> + +<p> +Now in a region like this, beauty must be looked for below the surface. +There is a probability of finding hollows of repose, sunken spots of +loveliness, hidden away altogether from the general aspect of +sternness, or perhaps sterility, that meets the eye in glancing over +the outspread landscape; just as in the natures of stern men you may +expect to find, if opportunity should be afforded you, sunny spots of +tender verdure, kept ever green by that very sternness which is turned +towards the common gaze—thus existent because they are below the +surface, and not laid bare to the sweep of the cold winds that roam the +world. How often have not men started with amaze at the discovery of +some feminine sweetness, some grace of protection in the man whom they +had judged cold and hard and rugged, inaccessible to the more genial +influences of humanity! It may be that such men are only fighting +against the wind, and keep their hearts open to the sun. +</p> + +<p> +I knew this; and when Turner and I set out that morning to explore, I +expected to light upon some instance of it—some mine or other in which +nature had hidden away rare jewels; but I was not prepared to find such +as I did find. With our hearts full of a glad secret we returned home, +but we said nothing about it, in order that Ethelwyn and Wynnie might +enjoy the discovery even as we had enjoyed it. +</p> + +<p> +There was another grand fact with regard to the neighbourhood about +which we judged it better to be silent for a few days, that the inland +influences might be free to work. We were considerably nearer the ocean +than my wife and daughters supposed, for we had made a great round in +order to arrive from the land-side. We were, however, out of the sound +of its waves, which broke all along the shore, in this part, at the +foot of tremendous cliffs. What cliffs they were we shall soon find. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE KEEVE. +</h3> + +<p> +"Now, my dear! now, Wynnie!" I said, after prayers the next morning, +"you must come out for a walk as soon as ever you can get your bonnets +on." +</p> + +<p> +"But we can't leave Connie, papa," objected Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"O, yes, you can, quite well. There's nursie to look after her. What do +you say, Connie?" +</p> + +<p> +For, for some time now, Connie had been able to get up so early, that +it was no unusual thing to have prayers in her room. +</p> + +<p> +"I am entirely independent of help from my family," returned Connie +grandiloquently. "I am a woman of independent means," she added. "If +you say another word, I will rise and leave the room." +</p> + +<p> +And she made a movement as if she would actually do as she had said. +Seized with an involuntary terror, I rushed towards her, and the +impertinent girl burst out laughing in my face—threw herself back on +her pillows, and laughed delightedly. +</p> + +<p> +"Take care, papa," she said. "I carry a terrible club for rebellious +people." Then, her mood changing, she added, as if to suppress the +tears gathering in her eyes, "I am the queen—of luxury and +self-will—and I won't have anybody come near me till dinner-time. I +mean to enjoy myself." +</p> + +<p> +So the matter was settled, and we went out for our walk. Ethelwyn was +not such a good walker as she had been; but even if she had retained +the strength of her youth, we should not have got on much the better +for it—so often did she and Wynnie stop to grub ferns out of the +chinks and roots of the stone-walls. Now, I admire ferns as much as +anybody—that is, not, I fear, so much as my wife and daughter, but +quite enough notwithstanding—but I do not quite enjoy being pulled up +like a fern at every turn. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, my dear, what is the use of stopping to torture that harmless +vegetable?" I say, but say in vain. "It is much more beautiful where it +is than it will be anywhere where you can put it. Besides, you know +they never come to anything with you. They <i>always</i> die." +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon my wife reminds me of this fern and that fern, gathered in +such and such places, and now in such and such corners of the garden or +the greenhouse, or under glass-shades in this or that room, of the very +existence of which I am ignorant, whether from original inattention, or +merely from forgetfulness, I do not know. Certainly, out of their own +place I do not care much for them. +</p> + +<p> +At length, partly by the inducement I held out to them of a much +greater variety of ferns where we were bound, I succeeded in getting +them over the two miles in little more than two hours. After passing +from the lanes into the fields, our way led downwards till we reached a +very steep large slope, with a delightful southern exposure, and +covered with the sweetest down-grasses. It was just the place to lie +in, as on the edge of the earth, and look abroad upon the universe of +air and floating worlds. +</p> + +<p> +"Let us have a rest here, Ethel," I said. "I am sure this is much more +delightful than uprooting ferns. What an awful thing to think that here +we are on this great round tumbling ball of a world, held by the feet, +and lifting up the head into infinite space—without choice or wish of +our own—compelled to think and to be, whether we will or not! Just God +must know it to be very good, or he would not have taken it in his +hands to make individual lives without a possible will of theirs. He +must be our Father, or we are wretched creatures—the slaves of a fatal +necessity! Did it ever strike you, Turner, that each one of us stands +on the apex of the world? With a sphere, you know, it must be so. And +thus is typified, as it seems to me, that each one of us must look up +for himself to find God, and then look abroad to find his fellows." +</p> + +<p> +"I think I know what you mean," was all Turner's reply. +</p> + +<p> +"No doubt," I resumed, "the apprehension of this truth has, in +otherwise ill-ordered minds, given rise to all sorts of fierce and +grotesque fanaticism. But the minds which have thus conceived the +truth, would have been immeasurably worse without it; nay, this truth +affords at last the only possible door out of the miseries of their own +chaos, whether inherited or the result of their own misconduct." +</p> + +<p> +"What's that in the grass?" cried Wynnie, in a tone of alarm. +</p> + +<p> +I looked where she indicated, and saw a slow-worm, or blind-worm, lying +basking in the sun. I rose and went towards it. +</p> + +<p> +"Here's your stick," said Turner. +</p> + +<p> +"What for?" I asked. "Why should I kill it? It is perfectly harmless, +and, to my mind, beautiful." +</p> + +<p> +I took it in my hands, and brought it to my wife. She gave an +involuntary shudder as it came near her. +</p> + +<p> +"I assure you it is harmless," I said, "though it has a forked tongue." +And I opened its mouth as I spoke. "I do not think the serpent form is +essentially ugly." +</p> + +<p> +"It makes me feel ugly," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"I allow I do not quite understand the mystery of it," I said. "But you +never saw lovelier ornamentation than these silvery scales, with all +the neatness of what you ladies call a set pattern, and none of the +stiffness, for there are not two of them the same in form. And you +never saw lovelier curves than this little patient creature, which does +not even try to get away from me, makes with the queer long thin body +of him." +</p> + +<p> +"I wonder how it can look after its tail, it is so far off," said +Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"It does though—better than you ladies look after your long dresses. I +wonder whether it is descended from creatures that once had feet, and +did not make a good use of them. Perhaps they had wings even, and would +not use them at all, and so lost them. Its ancestors may have had +poison-fangs; it is innocent enough. But it is a terrible thing to be +all feet, is it not? There is an awful significance in the condemnation +of the serpent—'On thy belly shalt thou go, and eat dust.' But it is +better to talk of beautiful things. <i>My</i> soul at least has dropped from +its world apex. Let us go on. Come, wife. Come, Turner." +</p> + +<p> +They did not seem willing to rise. But the glen drew me. I rose, and my +wife followed my example with the help of my hand. She returned to the +subject, however, as we descended the slope. +</p> + +<p> +"Is it possible that in the course of ever so many ages wings and feet +should be both lost?" she said. +</p> + +<p> +"The most presumptuous thing in the world is to pronounce on the +possible and the impossible. I do not know what is possible and what is +impossible. I can only tell a little of what is true and what is +untrue. But I do say this, that between the condition of many decent +members of society and that for the sake of which God made them, there +is a gulf quite as vast as that between a serpent and a bird. I get +peeps now and then into the condition of my own heart, which, for the +moment, make it seem impossible that I should ever rise into a true +state of nature—that is, into the simplicity of God's will concerning +me. The only hope for ourselves and for others lies in him—in the +power the creating spirit has over the spirits he has made." +</p> + +<p> +By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and +slippery to admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We +turned, therefore, down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was +but a narrow cleft, and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which +we now saw the tops of trees, and from which we heard the rush of +water. Nor had we gone far in this direction before we came upon a gate +in a stone wall, which led into what seemed a neglected garden. We +entered, and found a path turning and winding, among small trees, and +luxuriant ferns, and great stones, and fragments of ruins down towards +the bottom of the chasm. The noise of falling water increased as we +went on, and at length, after some scrambling and several sharp turns, +we found ourselves with a nearly precipitous wall on each side, clothed +with shrubs and ivy, and creeping things of the vegetable world. Up +this cleft there was no advance. The head of it was a precipice down +which shot the stream from the vale above, pouring out of a deep slit +it had itself cut in the rock as with a knife. Halfway down, it tumbled +into a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing from a chasm in its +side, which left part of the lip of the basin standing like the arch of +a vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, whence it crept as +if half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the ravine. It was +a perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen such a +picturesque fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in effect. +The ladies were full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual reserve, +broke out in frantic exclamations of delight. +</p> + +<p> +We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the +precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of +force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with +an expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as if +sheer to the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself +brought up boiling and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered +hope of experience. Then we turned down the stream a little way, +crossed it by a plank, and stood again to regard it from the opposite +side. Small as the whole affair was—not more than about a hundred and +fifty feet in height—it was so full of variety that I saw it was all +my memory could do, if it carried away anything like a correct picture +of its aspect. I was contemplating it fixedly, when a little stifled +cry from Wynnie made me start and look round. Her face was flushed, yet +she was trying to look unconcerned. +</p> + +<p> +"I thought we were quite alone, papa," she said; "but I see a gentleman +sketching." +</p> + +<p> +I looked whither she indicated. A little way down, the bed of the +ravine widened considerably, and was no doubt filled with water in +rainy weather. Now it was swampy—full of reeds and willow bushes. But +on the opposite side of the stream, with a little canal from it going +all around it, lay a great flat rectangular stone, not more than a foot +above the level of the water, and upon a camp-stool in the centre of +this stone sat a gentleman sketching. I had no doubt that Wynnie had +recognised him at once. And I was annoyed, and indeed angry, to think +that Mr. Percivale had followed us here. But while I regarded him, he +looked up, rose very quietly, and, with his pencil in his hand, came +towards us. With no nearer approach to familiarity than a bow, and no +expression of either much pleasure or any surprise, he said— +</p> + +<p> +"I have seen your party for some time, Mr. Walton—since you crossed +the stream; but I would not break in upon your enjoyment with the +surprise which my presence here must cause you." +</p> + +<p> +I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with +truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my +suspicion— +</p> + +<p> +"I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the +pleasure of seeing you." +</p> + +<p> +This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing +himself. And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement; +for I could not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be +guilty of such a white lie as many a gentleman would have thought +justifiable on the occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little +stiff, for presently he said— +</p> + +<p> +"If you will excuse me, I will return to my work." +</p> + +<p> +Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy +during the interview. +</p> + +<p> +"It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with +you—capable of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any +moment." +</p> + +<p> +"To tell the truth," he answered, "I am a little ashamed of being found +sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies. +But it is a change." +</p> + +<p> +"It is very beautiful here," I said, in a tone of contravention. +</p> + +<p> +"It is very pretty," he answered—"very lovely, if you will—not very +beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger regard. +Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this place +was fanciful—the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in her +large serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only +pretty, about which boys and guardsmen will rave—to me not very +interesting, save for its single lines." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, then, do you sketch the place?" +</p> + +<p> +"A very fair question," he returned, with a smile. "Just because it is +soothing from the very absence of beauty. I would far rather, however, +if I were only following my taste, take the barest bit of the moor +above, with a streak of the cold sky over it. That gives room." +</p> + +<p> +"You would like to put a skylark in it, wouldn't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"That I would if I knew how. I see you know what I mean. But the mere +romantic I never had much taste for; though if you saw the kind of +pictures I try to paint, you would not wonder that I take sketches of +places like this, while in my heart of hearts I do not care much for +them. They are so different, and just <i>therefore</i> they are good for me. +I am not working now; I am only playing." +</p> + +<p> +"With a view to working better afterwards, I have no doubt," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"You are right there, I hope," was his quiet reply, as he turned and +walked back to the island. +</p> + +<p> +He had not made a step towards joining us. He had only taken his hat +off to the ladies. He was gaining ground upon me rapidly. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you quarrelled with our new friend, Harry?" said my wife, as I +came up to her. +</p> + +<p> +She was sitting on a stone. Turner and Wynnie were farther off towards +the foot of the fall. +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least," I answered, slightly outraged—I did not at first +know why—by the question. "He is only gone to his work, which is a +duty belonging both to the first and second tables of the law." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope you have asked him to come home to our early dinner, then," she +rejoined. +</p> + +<p> +"I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him." +</p> + +<p> +Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help +soon reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on +a visit to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near +enough, held out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in +a moment. After the usual greetings, which on her part, although very +quiet, like every motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial +and kind, she said, "When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might +I ask you to allow some friends of mine to call at your studio, and see +your paintings?" +</p> + +<p> +"With all my heart," answered Percivale. "I must warn you, however, +that I have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away +less happy than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures +twice." +</p> + +<p> +"I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour," +answered my wife. +</p> + +<p> +Percivale bowed—one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly +liked. +</p> + +<p> +"Any friend of yours—that is guarantee sufficient," he answered. +</p> + +<p> +There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid, +that you had not a doubt of its being genuine. +</p> + +<p> +"Will you come and take an early dinner with us?" said my wife. "My +invalid daughter will be very pleased to see you." +</p> + +<p> +"I will with pleasure," he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation, +as he glanced from Ethelwyn to me. +</p> + +<p> +"My wife speaks for us all," I said. "It will give us all pleasure." +</p> + +<p> +"I am only afraid it will break in upon your morning's work," remarked +Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +"O, that is not of the least consequence," he rejoined. "In fact, as I +have just been saying to Mr. Walton, I am not working at all at +present. This is pure recreation." +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke he turned towards his easel, and began hastily to bundle up +his things. +</p> + +<p> +"We're not quite ready to go yet," said my wife, loath to leave the +lovely spot. "What a curious flat stone this is!" she added. +</p> + +<p> +"It is," said Percivale. "The man to whom the place belongs, a worthy +yeoman of the old school, says that this wider part of the channel must +have been the fish-pond, and that the portly monks stood on this stone +and fished in the pond." +</p> + +<p> +"Then was there a monastery here?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly. The ruins of the chapel, one of the smallest, are on the +top, just above the fall—rather a fearful place to look down from. I +wonder you did not observe them as you came. They say it had a silver +bell in the days of its glory, which now lies in a deep hole under the +basin, half-way between the top and bottom of the fall. But the old man +says that nothing will make him look, or let anyone else lift the huge +stone; for he is much better pleased to believe that it may be there, +than he would be to know it was not there; for certainly, if it were +found, it would not be left there long." +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke Percivale had continued packing his gear. He now led our +party up to the chapel, and thence down a few yards to the edge of the +chasm, where the water fell headlong. I turned away with that fear of +high places which is one of my many weaknesses; and when I turned again +towards the spot, there was Wynnie on the very edge, looking over into +the flash and tumult of the water below, but with a nervous grasp of +the hand of Percivale, who stood a little farther back. +</p> + +<p> +In going home, the painter led us by an easier way out of the valley, +left his little easel and other things at a cottage, and then walked on +in front between my wife and daughter, while Turner and I followed. He +seemed quite at his ease with them, and plenty of talk and laughter +rose on the way. I, however, was chiefly occupied with finding out +Turner's impression of Connie's condition. +</p> + +<p> +"She is certainly better," he said. "I wonder you do not see it as +plainly as I do. The pain is nearly gone from her spine, and she can +move herself a good deal more, I am certain, than she could when she +left. She asked me yesterday if she might not turn upon one side. 'Do +you think you could?' I asked.—'I think so,' she answered. 'At any +rate, I have often a great inclination to try; only papa said I had +better wait till you came.' I do think she might be allowed a little +more change of posture now." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you have really some hope of her final recovery?" +</p> + +<p> +"I have <i>hope</i> most certainly. But what is hope in me, you must not +allow to become certainty in you. I am nearly sure, though, that she +can never be other than an invalid; that is, if I am to judge by what I +know of such cases." +</p> + +<p> +"I am thankful for the hope," I answered. "You need not be afraid of my +turning upon you, should the hope never pass into sight. I should do so +only if I found that you had been treating me irrationally—inspiring +me with hope which you knew to be false. The element of uncertainty is +essential to hope, and for all true hope, even as hope, man has to be +unspeakably thankful." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IX. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE WALK TO CHURCH. +</h3> + +<p> +I was glad to be able to arrange with a young clergyman who was on a +visit to Kilkhaven, that he should take my duty for me the next Sunday, +for that was the only one Turner could spend with us. He and I and +Wynnie walked together two miles to church. It was a lovely morning, +with just a tint of autumn in the air. But even that tint, though all +else was of the summer, brought a shadow, I could see, on Wynnie's face. +</p> + +<p> +"You said you would show me a poem of—Vaughan, I think you said, was +the name of the writer. I am too ignorant of our older literature," +said Turner. +</p> + +<p> +"I have only just made acquaintance with him," I answered. "But I think +I can repeat the poem. You shall judge whether it is not like +Wordsworth's Ode. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + 'Happy those early days, when I<br /> + Shined in my angel infancy;<br /> + Before I understood the place<br /> + Appointed for my second race,<br /> + Or taught my soul to fancy ought<br /> + But a white, celestial thought;<br /> + When yet I had not walked above<br /> + A mile or two from my first love,<br /> + And looking back, at that short space,<br /> + Could see a glimpse of his bright face;<br /> + When on some gilded cloud or flower<br /> + My gazing soul would dwell an hour,<br /> + And in those weaker glories spy<br /> + Some shadows of eternity;<br /> + Before I taught my tongue to wound<br /> + My conscience with a sinful sound,<br /> + But felt through all this fleshly dress<br /> + Bright shoots of everlastingness.<br /> + O how I long to travel back——'"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +But here I broke down, for I could not remember the rest with even +approximate accuracy. +</p> + +<p> +"When did this Vaughan live?" asked Turner. +</p> + +<p> +"He was born, I find, in 1621—five years, that is, after Shakspere's +death, and when Milton was about thirteen years old. He lived to the +age of seventy-three, but seems to have been little known. In politics +he was on the Cavalier side. By the way, he was a medical man, like +you, Turner—an M.D. We'll have a glance at the little book when we go +back. Don't let me forget to show it you. A good many of your +profession have distinguished themselves in literature, and as profound +believers too." +</p> + +<p> +"I should have thought the profession had been chiefly remarkable for +such as believe only in the evidence of the senses." +</p> + +<p> +"As if having searched into the innermost recesses of the body, and not +having found a soul, they considered themselves justified in declaring +there was none." +</p> + +<p> +"Just so." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, that is true of the commonplace amongst them, I do believe. You +will find the exceptions have been men of fine minds and +characters—not such as he of whom Chaucer says, +</p> + +<p> + 'His study was but little on the Bible;'<br /> +</p> + +<p> +for if you look at the rest of the description of the man, you will +find that he was in alliance with his apothecary for their mutual +advantage, that he was a money-loving man, and that some of Chaucer's +keenest irony is spent on him in an off-hand, quiet manner. Compare the +tone in which he writes of the doctor of physic, with the profound +reverence wherewith he bows himself before the poor country-parson." +</p> + +<p> +Here Wynnie spoke, though with some tremor in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +"I never know, papa, what people mean by talking about childhood in +that way. I never seem to have been a bit younger and more innocent +than I am." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you remember a time, Wynnie, when the things about you—the sky +and the earth, say—seemed to you much grander than they seem now? You +are old enough to have lost something." +</p> + +<p> +She thought for a little while before she answered. +</p> + +<p> +"My dreams were, I know. I cannot say so of anything else." +</p> + +<p> +I in my turn had to be silent, for I did not see the true answer, +though I was sure there was one somewhere, if I could only find it. All +I could reply, however, even after I had meditated a good while, +was—and perhaps, after all, it was the best thing I could have said: +</p> + +<p> +"Then you must make a good use of your dreams, my child." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because they are the only memorials of childhood you have left." +</p> + +<p> +"How am I to make a good use of them? I don't know what to do with my +silly old dreams." +</p> + +<p> +But she gave a sigh as she spoke that testified her silly old dreams +had a charm for her still. +</p> + +<p> +"If your dreams, my child, have ever testified to you of a condition of +things beyond that which you see around you, if they have been to you +the hints of a wonder and glory beyond what visits you now, you must +not call them silly, for they are just what the scents of Paradise +borne on the air were to Adam and Eve as they delved and spun, +reminding them that they must aspire yet again through labour into that +childhood of obedience which is the only paradise of humanity—into +that oneness with the will of the Father, which our race, our +individual selves, need just as much as if we had personally fallen +with Adam, and from which we fall every time we are disobedient to the +voice of the Father within our souls—to the conscience which is his +making and his witness. If you have had no childhood, my Wynnie, yet +permit your old father to say that everything I see in you indicates +more strongly in you than in most people that it is this childhood +after which you are blindly longing, without which you find that life +is hardly to be endured. Thank God for your dreams, my child. In him +you will find that the essence of those dreams is fulfilled. We are +saved by hope, Turner. Never man hoped too much, or repented that he +had hoped. The plague is that we don't hope in God half enough. The +very fact that hope is strength, and strength the outcome, the body of +life, shows that hope is at one with life, with the very essence of +what says 'I am'—yea, of what doubts and says 'Am I?' and therefore is +reasonable to creatures who cannot even doubt save in that they live." +</p> + +<p> +By this time, for I have, of course, only given the outlines, or rather +salient points, of our conversation, we had reached the church, where, +if I found the sermon neither healing nor inspiring, I found the +prayers full of hope and consolation. They at least are safe beyond +human caprice, conceit, or incapacity. Upon them, too, the man who is +distressed at the thought of how little of the needful food he had been +able to provide for his people, may fall back for comfort, in the +thought that there at least was what ought to have done them good, what +it was well worth their while to go to church for. But I did think they +were too long for any individual Christian soul, to sympathise with +from beginning to end, that is, to respond to, like organ-tube to the +fingered key, in every touch of the utterance of the general Christian +soul. For my reader must remember that it is one thing to read prayers +and another to respond; and that I had had very few opportunities of +being in the position of the latter duty. I had had suspicions before, +and now they were confirmed—that the present crowding of services was +most inexpedient. And as I pondered on the matter, instead of trying to +go on praying after I had already uttered my soul, which is but a +heathenish attempt after much speaking, I thought how our Lord had +given us such a short prayer to pray, and I began to wonder when or how +the services came to be so heaped the one on the back of the other as +they now were. No doubt many people defended them; no doubt many people +could sit them out; but how many people could pray from beginning to +end of them I On this point we had some talk as we went home. Wynnie +was opposed to any change of the present use on the ground that we +should only have the longer sermons. +</p> + +<p> +"Still," I said, "I do not think even that so great an evil. A +sensitive conscience will not reproach itself so much for not listening +to the whole of a sermon, as for kneeling in prayer and not praying. I +think myself, however, that after the prayers are over, everyone should +be at liberty to go out and leave the sermon unheard, if he pleases. I +think the result would be in the end a good one both for parson and +people. It would break through the deadness of this custom, this use +and wont. Many a young mind is turned for life against the influences +of church-going—one of the most sacred influences when <i>pure</i>, that +is, un-mingled with non-essentials—just by the feeling that he <i>must</i> +do so and so, that he must go through a certain round of duty. It is a +willing service that the Lord wants; no forced devotions are either +acceptable to him, or other than injurious to the worshipper, if such +he can be called." +</p> + +<p> +After an early dinner, I said to Turner—"Come out with me, and we will +read that poem of Vaughan's in which I broke down today." +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa!" said Connie, in a tone of injury, from the sofa. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it, my dear?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Wouldn't it be as good for us as for Mr. Turner?" +</p> + +<p> +"Quite, my dear. Well, I will keep it for the evening, and meantime Mr. +Turner and I will go and see if we can find out anything about the +change in the church-service." +</p> + +<p> +For I had thrown into my bag as I left the rectory a copy of <i>The +Clergyman's Vade Mecum</i>—a treatise occupied with the externals of the +churchman's relations—in which I soon came upon the following passage: +</p> + +<p> +"So then it appears that the common practice of reading all three +together, is an innovation, and if an ancient or infirm clergyman do +read them at two or three several times, he is more strictly +conformable; however, this is much better than to omit any part of the +liturgy, or to read all three offices into one, as is now commonly +done, without any pause or distinction." +</p> + +<p> +"On the part of the clergyman, you see, Turner," I said, when I had +finished reading the whole passage to him. "There is no care taken of +the delicate women of the congregation, but only of the ancient or +infirm clergyman. And the logic, to say the least, is rather queer: is +it only in virtue of his antiquity and infirmity that he is to be +upheld in being more strictly conformable? The writer's honesty has its +heels trodden upon by the fear of giving offence. Nevertheless there +should perhaps be a certain slowness to admit change, even back to a +more ancient form." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know that I can quite agree with you there," said Turner. "If +the form is better, no one should hesitate to advocate the change. If +it is worse, then slowness is not sufficient—utter obstinacy is the +right condition." +</p> + +<p> +"You are right, Turner. For the right must be the rule, and where <i>the +right</i> is beyond our understanding or our reach, then <i>the better</i>, as +indeed not only right compared with the other, but the sole ascent +towards the right." +</p> + +<p> +In the evening I took Henry Vaughan's poems into the common +sitting-room, and to Connie's great delight read the whole of the +lovely, though unequal little poem, called "The Retreat," in recalling +which I had failed in the morning. She was especially delighted with +the "white celestial thought," and the "bright shoots of +everlastingness." Then I gave a few lines from another yet more unequal +poem, worthy in themselves of the best of the other. I quote the first +strophe entire: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + CHILDHOOD.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "I cannot reach it; and my striving eye<br /> + Dazzles at it, as at eternity.<br /> + Were now that chronicle alive,<br /> + Those white designs which children drive,<br /> + And the thoughts of each harmless hour,<br /> + With their content too in my power,<br /> + Quickly would I make my path even,<br /> + And by mere playing go to heaven.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + * * * * *<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + And yet the practice worldlings call<br /> + Business and weighty action all,<br /> + Checking the poor child for his play,<br /> + But gravely cast themselves away.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + * * * * *<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + An age of mysteries! which he<br /> + Must live twice that would God's face see;<br /> + Which angels guard, and with it play,<br /> + Angels! which foul men drive away.<br /> + How do I study now, and scan<br /> + Thee more than ere I studied man,<br /> + And only see through a long night<br /> + Thy edges and thy bordering light I<br /> + O for thy centre and midday!<br /> + For sure that is the <i>narrow way!</i>"<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"For of such is the kingdom of heaven." said my wife softly, as I +closed the book. +</p> + +<p> +"May I have the book, papa?" said Connie, holding out her thin white +cloud of a hand to take it. +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly, my child. And if Wynnie would read it with you, she will +feel more of the truth of what Mr. Percivale was saying to her about +finish. Here are the finest, grandest thoughts, set forth sometimes +with such carelessness, at least such lack of neatness, that, instead +of their falling on the mind with all their power of loveliness, they +are like a beautiful face disfigured with patches, and, what is worse, +they put the mind out of the right, quiet, unquestioning, open mood, +which is the only fit one for the reception of such true things as are +embodied in the poems. But they are too beautiful after all to be more +than a little spoiled by such a lack of the finish with which Art ends +off all her labours. A gentleman, however, thinks it of no little +importance to have his nails nice as well as his face and his shirt." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER X. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE OLD CASTLE. +</h3> + +<p> +The place Turner had chosen suited us all so well, that after attending +to my duties on the two following Sundays at Kilkhaven, I returned on +the Monday or Tuesday to the farmhouse. But Turner left us in the +middle of the second week, for he could not be longer absent from his +charge at home, and we missed him much. It was some days before Connie +was quite as cheerful again as usual. I do not mean that she was in the +least gloomy—that she never was; she was only a little less merry. But +whether it was that Turner had opened our eyes, or that she had visibly +improved since he allowed her to make a little change in her +posture—certainly she appeared to us to have made considerable +progress, and every now and then we were discovering some little proof +of the fact. One evening, while we were still at the farm, she startled +us by calling out suddenly,— +</p> + +<p> +"Papa, papa! I moved my big toe! I did indeed." +</p> + +<p> +We were all about her in a moment. But I saw that she was excited, and +fearing a reaction I sought to calm her. +</p> + +<p> +"But, my dear," I said, as quietly as I could, "you are probably still +aware that you are possessed of two big toes: which of them are we to +congratulate on this first stride in the march of improvement?" +</p> + +<p> +She broke out in the merriest laugh. A pause followed in which her face +wore a puzzled expression. Then she said all at once, "Papa, it is very +odd, but I can't tell which of them," and burst into tears. I was +afraid that I had done more harm than good. +</p> + +<p> +"It is not of the slightest consequence, my child," I said. "You have +had so little communication with the twins of late, that it is no +wonder you should not be able to tell the one from the other." +</p> + +<p> +She smiled again through her sobs, but was silent, with shining face, +for the rest of the evening. Our hopes took a fresh start, but we heard +no more from her of her power over her big toe. As often as I inquired +she said she was afraid she had made a mistake, for she had not had +another hint of its existence. Still I thought it could not have been a +fancy, and I would cleave to my belief in the good sign. +</p> + +<p> +Percivale called to see us several times, but always appeared anxious +not to intrude more of his society upon us than might be agreeable. He +grew in my regard, however; and at length I asked him if he would +assist me in another surprise which I meditated for my companions, and +this time for Connie as well, and which I hoped would prevent the +painful influences of the sight of the sea from returning upon them +when they went back to Kilkhaven: they must see the sea from a quite +different shore first. In a word I would take them to Tintagel, of the +near position of which they were not aware, although in some of our +walks we had seen the ocean in the distance. An early day was fixed for +carrying out our project, and I proceeded to get everything ready. The +only difficulty was to find a carriage in the neighbourhood suitable +for receiving Connie's litter. In this, however, I at length succeeded, +and on the morning of a glorious day of blue and gold, we set out for +the little village of Trevenna, now far better known than at the time +of which I write. Connie had been out every day since she came, now in +one part of the fields, now in another, enjoying the expanse of earth +and sky, but she had had no drive, and consequently had seen no variety +of scenery. Therefore, believing she was now thoroughly able to bear +it, I quite reckoned of the good she would get from the inevitable +excitement. We resolved, however, after finding how much she enjoyed +the few miles' drive, that we would not demand more, of her strength +that day, and therefore put up at the little inn, where, after ordering +dinner, Percivale and I left the ladies, and sallied forth to +reconnoitre. +</p> + +<p> +We walked through the village and down the valley beyond, sloping +steeply between hills towards the sea, the opening closed at the end by +the blue of the ocean below and the more ethereal blue of the sky +above. But when we reached the mouth of the valley we found that we +were not yet on the shore, for a precipice lay between us and the +little beach below. On the left a great peninsula of rock stood out +into the sea, upon which rose the ruins of the keep of Tintagel, while +behind on the mainland stood the ruins of the castle itself, connected +with the other only by a narrow isthmus. We had read that this +peninsula had once been an island, and that the two parts of the castle +were formerly connected by a drawbridge. Looking up at the great gap +which now divided the two portions, it seemed at first impossible to +believe that they had ever been thus united; but a little reflection +cleared up the mystery. +</p> + +<p> +The fact was that the isthmus, of half the height of the two parts +connected by it, had been formed entirely by the fall of portions of +the rock and soil on each side into the narrow dividing space, through +which the waters of the Atlantic had been wont to sweep. And now the +fragments of walls stood on the very verge of the precipice, and showed +that large portions of the castle itself had fallen into the gulf +between. We turned to the left along the edge of the rock, and so by a +narrow path reached and crossed to the other side of the isthmus. We +then found that the path led to the foot of the rock, formerly island, +of the keep, and thence in a zigzag up the face of it to the top. We +followed it, and after a great climb reached a door in a modern +battlement. Entering, we found ourselves amidst grass, and ruins +haggard with age. We turned and surveyed the path by which we had come. +It was steep and somewhat difficult. But the outlook was glorious. It +was indeed one of God's mounts of vision upon which we stood. The +thought, "O that Connie could see this!" was swelling in my heart, when +Percivale broke the silence—not with any remark on the glory around +us, but with the commonplace question— +</p> + +<p> +"You haven't got your man with you, I think, Mr. Walton?" +</p> + +<p> +"No," I answered; "we thought it better to leave him to look after the +boys." +</p> + +<p> +He was silent for a few minutes, while I gazed in delight. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think," he said, "it would be possible to bring Miss +Constance up here?" +</p> + +<p> +I almost started at the idea, and had not replied before he resumed: +</p> + +<p> +"It would be something for her to recur to with delight all the rest of +her life." +</p> + +<p> +"It would indeed. But it is impossible." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not think so—if you would allow me the honour to assist you. I +think we could do it perfectly between us." +</p> + +<p> +I was again silent for a while. Looking down on the way we had come, it +seemed an almost dreadful undertaking. Percivale spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +"As we shall come here to-morrow, we need not explore the place now. +Shall we go down at once and observe the whole path, with a view to the +practicability of carrying her up?" +</p> + +<p> +"There can be no objection to that," I answered, as a little hope, and +courage with it, began to dawn in my heart. "But you must allow it does +not look very practicable." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps it would seem more so to you, if you had come up with the idea +in your head all the way, as I did. Any path seems more difficult in +looking back than at the time when the difficulties themselves have to +be met and overcome." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, but then you must remember that we have to take the way back +whether we will or no, if we once take the way forward." +</p> + +<p> +"True; and now I will go down with the descent in my head as well as +under my feet." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, there can be no harm in reconnoitring it at least. Let us go." +</p> + +<p> +"You know we can rest almost as often as we please," said Percivale, +and turned to lead the way. +</p> + +<p> +It certainly was steep, and required care even in our own descent; but +for a man who had climbed mountains, as I had done in my youth, it +could hardly be called difficult even in middle age. By the time we had +got again into the valley road I was all but convinced of the +practicability of the proposal. I was a little vexed, however, I must +confess, that a stranger should have thought of giving such a pleasure +to Connie, when the bare wish that she might have enjoyed it had alone +arisen in my mind. I comforted myself with the reflection that this was +one of the ways in which we were to be weaned from the world and knit +the faster to our fellows. For even the middle-aged, in the decay of +their daring, must look for the fresh thought and the fresh impulse to +the youth which follows at their heels in the march of life. Their part +is to <i>will</i> the relation and the obligation, and so, by love to and +faith in the young, keep themselves in the line along which the +electric current flows, till at length they too shall once more be +young and daring in the strength of the Lord. A man must always seek to +rise above his moods and feelings, to let them move within him, but not +allow them to storm or gloom around him. By the time we reached home we +had agreed to make the attempt, and to judge by the path to the foot of +the rock, which was difficult in parts, whether we should be likely to +succeed, without danger, in attempting the rest of the way and the +following descent. As soon as we had arrived at this conclusion, I felt +so happy in the prospect that I grew quite merry, especially after we +had further agreed that, both for the sake of her nerves and for the +sake of the lordly surprise, we should bind Connie's eyes so that she +should see nothing till we had placed her in a certain position, +concerning the preferableness of which we were not of two minds. +</p> + +<p> +"What mischief have you two been about?" said my wife, as we entered +our room in the inn, where the cloth was already laid for dinner. "You +look just like two schoolboys that have been laying some plot, and can +hardly hold their tongues about it." +</p> + +<p> +"We have been enjoying our little walk amazingly," I answered. "So much +so, that we mean to set out for another the moment dinner is over." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope you will take Wynnie with you then." +</p> + +<p> +"Or you, my love," I returned. +</p> + +<p> +"No; I will stay with Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well. You, and Connie too, shall go out to-morrow, for we have +found a place we want to take you to. And, indeed, I believe it was our +anticipation of the pleasure you and she would have in the view that +made us so merry when you accused us of plotting mischief." +</p> + +<p> +My wife replied only with a loving look, and dinner appearing at this +moment, we sat down a happy party. +</p> + +<p> +When that was over—and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, +homely in material but admirable in cooking—Wynnie and Percivale and I +set out again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had +seen the church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the +little valley, and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, +and Wynnie accepted Percivale's offered arm. I led the way, therefore, +and left them to follow—not so far in the rear, however, but that I +could take a share in the conversation. It was some little time before +any arose, and it was Wynnie who led the way into it. +</p> + +<p> +"What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?" she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an +answer look so long, that most people would call them minutes. +</p> + +<p> +"I would rather you should see some of my pictures—I should prefer +that to answering your question," he said, at length. +</p> + +<p> +"But I have seen some of your pictures," she returned. +</p> + +<p> +"Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton." +</p> + +<p> +"At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies." +</p> + +<p> +"Some of my sketches—none of my studies." +</p> + +<p> +"But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?" +</p> + +<p> +"Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my +pictures." +</p> + +<p> +"I cannot understand you." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not wonder at that. But I would rather, I repeat, say nothing +about my pictures till you see some of them." +</p> + +<p> +"But how am I to have that pleasure, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"You go to London sometimes, do you not?" +</p> + +<p> +"Very rarely. More rarely still when the Royal Academy is open." +</p> + +<p> +"That does not matter much. My pictures are seldom to be found there." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you not care to send them there?" +</p> + +<p> +"I send one, at least, every year. But they are rarely accepted." +</p> + +<p> +"Why?" +</p> + +<p> +This was a very improper question, I thought; but if Wynnie had thought +so she would not have put it. He hesitated a little before he replied— +</p> + +<p> +"It is hardly for me to say why," he answered; "but I cannot wonder +much at it, considering the subjects I choose.—But I daresay," he +added, in a lighter tone, "after all, that has little to do with it, +and there is something about the things themselves that precludes a +favourable judgment. I avoid thinking about it. A man ought to try to +look at his own work as if it were none of his, but not as with the +eyes of other people. That is an impossibility, and the attempt a +bewilderment. It is with his own eyes he must look, with his own +judgment he must judge. The only effort is to get it set far away +enough from him to be able to use his own eyes and his own judgment +upon it." +</p> + +<p> +"I think I see what you mean. A man has but his own eyes and his own +judgment. To look with those of other people is but a fancy." +</p> + +<p> +"Quite so. You understand me quite." +</p> + +<p> +He said no more in explanation of his rejection by the Academy. Till we +reached the church, nothing more of significance passed between them. +</p> + +<p> +What a waste, bare churchyard that was! It had two or three lych-gates, +but they had no roofs. They were just small enclosures, with the low +stone tables, to rest the living from the weight of the dead, while the +clergyman, as the keeper of heaven's wardrobe, came forth to receive +the garment they restored—to be laid aside as having ended its work, +as having been worn done in the winds, and rains, and labours of the +world. Not a tree stood in that churchyard. Hank grass was the sole +covering of the soil heaved up with the dead beneath. What blasts from +the awful space of the sea must rush athwart the undefended garden! The +ancient church stood in the midst, with its low, strong, square tower, +and its long, narrow nave, the ridge bowed with age, like the back of a +horse worn out in the service of man, and its little homely chancel, +like a small cottage that had leaned up against its end for shelter +from the western blasts. It was locked, and we could not enter. But of +all world-worn, sad-looking churches, that one—sad, even in the +sunset—was the dreariest I had ever beheld. Surely, it needed the +gospel of the resurrection fervently preached therein, to keep it from +sinking to the dust with dismay and weariness. Such a soul alone could +keep it from vanishing utterly of dismal old age. Near it was one huge +mound of grass-grown rubbish, looking like the grave where some former +church of the dead had been buried, when it could stand erect no longer +before the onsets of Atlantic winds. I walked round and round it, +gathering its architecture, and peeping in at every window I could +reach. Suddenly I was aware that I was alone. Returning to the other +side, I found that Percivale was seated on the churchyard wall, next +the sea—it would have been less dismal had it stood immediately on the +cliffs, but they were at some little distance beyond bare downs and +rough stone walls; he was sketching the place, and Wynnie stood beside +him, looking over his shoulder. I did not interrupt him, but walked +among the graves, reading the poor memorials of the dead, and wondering +how many of the words of laudation that were inscribed on their tombs +were spoken of them while they were yet alive. Yet, surely, in the +lives of those to whom they applied the least, there had been moments +when the true nature, the nature God had given them, broke forth in +faith and tenderness, and would have justified the words inscribed on +their gravestones! I was yet wandering and reading, and stumbling over +the mounds, when my companions joined me, and, without a word, we +walked out of the churchyard. We were nearly home before one of us +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"That church is oppressive," said Percivale. "It looks like a great +sepulchre, a place built only for the dead—the church of the dead." +</p> + +<p> +"It is only that it partakes with the living," I returned; "suffers +with them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the +shield of the Red-Cross Knight, the 'old dints of deep wounds.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?" +</p> + +<p> +"The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it +must not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is +shrinking from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the +land, high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven +from all storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse +lie the bodies of men—you saw the grave of some of them on the other +side—flung ashore from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one +would rather have the bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of +the churchyard earth, than sweeping and swaying about as Milton +imagines the bones of his friend Edward King, in that wonderful +'Lycidas.'" Then I told them the conversation I had had with the sexton +at Kilkhaven. "But," I went on, "these fancies are only the ghostly +mists that hang about the eastern hills before the sun rises. We shall +look down on all that with a smile by and by; for the Lord tells us +that if we believe in him we shall never die." +</p> + +<p> +By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a +description of what we had seen. +</p> + +<p> +"What a brave old church!" said Connie. +</p> + +<p> +The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got +up at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of +all to have a look at Connie's litter, and see that it was quite sound. +Satisfied of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and +strength. +</p> + +<p> +After breakfast I went to Connie's room, and told her that Mr. +Percivale and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once. +</p> + +<p> +"But we want to do it our own way." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course, papa," she answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Will you let us tie your eyes up?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, +when I don't know one big toe from the other." +</p> + +<p> +And she laughed merrily. +</p> + +<p> +"We'll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha'n't weary +of the journey." +</p> + +<p> +"You're going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! +And then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!—Getting +tired!" she repeated. "Even the wind on my face would be pleasure +enough for half a day. I sha'n't get tired so soon as you will—you +dear, kind papa! I am afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha'n't +jerk your arms much. I will lie so still!" +</p> + +<p> +"And you won't mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?" +</p> + +<p> +"No. Why should I, if he doesn't mind it? He looks strong enough; and I +am sure he is nice, and won't think me heavier than I am." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; +and we shall set out as soon as you are ready." +</p> + +<p> +She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and +gave me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began +to call as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress +her. +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like +veins of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the +sunshine. The sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of +the valley, as if overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the +sun overhead; and the hills between which we went lay like great sheep, +with green wool, basking in the blissful heat. The gleam from the +waters came up the pass; the grand castle crowned the left-hand steep, +seeming to warm its old bones, like the ruins of some awful megatherium +in the lighted air; one white sail sped like a glad thought across the +spandrel of the sea; the shadows of the rocks lay over our path, like +transient, cool, benignant deaths, through which we had to pass again +and again to yet higher glory beyond; and one lark was somewhere in +whose little breast the whole world was reflected as in the convex +mirror of a dewdrop, where it swelled so that he could not hold it, but +let it out again through his throat, metamorphosed into music, which he +poured forth over all as the libation on the outspread altar of worship. +</p> + +<p> +And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then +she would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although +she beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of +the wind on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have +approached that condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for +in his blindness, wherein the sight should be +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "through all parts diffused,<br /> + That she might look at will through every pore."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment +we reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross +the isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things +around us; and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no +exclamation of surprise or delight should break from them before +Connie's eyes were uncovered. I had said nothing to either of them +about the difficulties of the way, that, seeing us take them as +ordinary things, they might take them so too, and not be uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, <i>née</i> +island, upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie +down, to take breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, now!" said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that +we were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, my love, not yet," I said, and she lay still again, only she +looked more eager than before. +</p> + +<p> +"I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa," she said. +</p> + +<p> +Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly— +</p> + +<p> +"O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules—at least, he chooses to +be considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I +have a little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink." +</p> + +<p> +There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the +best revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as +we might to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the +litter too much for her comfort. +</p> + +<p> +"Where <i>are</i> you going, papa?" she said once, but without a sign of +fear in her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter +suddenly. "You must be going up a steep place. Don't hurt yourself, +dear papa." +</p> + +<p> +We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, +up the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every +change on her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did +find it hard work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little +sunny pool, on which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen +heaven cast exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they +floated over it. Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind +him. I did wish we were at the top, for my arms began to feel like +iron-cables, stiff and stark—only I was afraid of my fingers giving +way. My heart was beating uncomfortably too. But Percivale, I felt +almost inclined to quarrel with him before it was over, he strode on so +unconcernedly, turning every corner of the zigzag where I expected him +to propose a halt, and striding on again, as if there could be no +pretence for any change of procedure. But I held out, strengthened by +the play on my daughter's face, delicate as the play on an opal—one +that inclines more to the milk than the fire. +</p> + +<p> +When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented +wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the grass— +</p> + +<p> +"Percivale," I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour +of being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the +mount of glory, "why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no +heed to me?" +</p> + +<p> +"You didn't speak, did you, Mr. Walton," he returned, with just a +shadow of solicitude in the question. +</p> + +<p> +"No. Of course not," I rejoined. +</p> + +<p> +"O, then," he returned, in a tone of relief, "how could I? You were my +captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?" +</p> + +<p> +I am afraid the <i>Percivale</i>, without the <i>Mister</i>, came again and again +after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I caught +myself. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, papa!" said Connie from the grass. +</p> + +<p> +"Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and +meet them, Mr. Percivale." +</p> + +<p> +"O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or +what kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I +have never been alone in all my life." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, my dear," I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the +ruins. +</p> + +<p> +We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could. +</p> + +<p> +"Dear Harry," she said, "how could you think of bringing Connie up such +an awful place? I wonder you dared to do it." +</p> + +<p> +"It's done you see, wife," I answered, "thanks to Mr. Percivale, who +has nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and +you will say that to see Connie's delight, not to mention your own, is +quite wages for the labour." +</p> + +<p> +"Isn't she afraid to find herself so high up?" +</p> + +<p> +"She knows nothing about it yet." +</p> + +<p> +"You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up." +</p> + +<p> +"To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil +half the pleasure." +</p> + +<p> +"Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so." +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take +my arm now." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm," said Percivale, +"and then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that +way." +</p> + +<p> +We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The +moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the +place neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered +on her pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the +keep, with light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still +expectation, that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep +after receiving an answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known +sonnet of Wordsworth's, in which he describes as the type of Death— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "the face of one<br /> + Sleeping alone within a mossy cave<br /> + With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have<br /> + Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;<br /> + A lovely beauty in a summer grave."<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +[Footnote: <i>Miscellaneous Sonnets</i>, part i.28.] +</p> + +<p> +But she heard our steps, and her face awoke. +</p> + +<p> +"Is mamma come?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my darling. I am here," said her mother. "How do you feel?" +</p> + +<p> +"Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!" +</p> + +<p> +"One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale." +</p> + +<p> +We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her a +little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the +bandage from her head. +</p> + +<p> +"Hold your hands over her eyes, a little way from them," I said to her +as she untied the handkerchief, "that the light may reach them by +degrees, and not blind her." +</p> + +<p> +Ethelwyn did so for a few moments, then removed them. Still for a +moment or two more, it was plain from her look of utter bewilderment, +that all was a confused mass of light and colour. Then she gave a +little cry, and to my astonishment, almost fear, half rose to a sitting +posture. One moment more and she laid herself gently back, and wept and +sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +And now I may admit my reader to a share, though at best but a dim +reflex in my poor words, of the glory that made her weep. +</p> + +<p> +Through the gothic-arched door in the battlemented wall, which stood on +the very edge of the precipitous descent, so that nothing of the +descent was seen, and the door was as a framework to the picture, +Connie saw a great gulf at her feet, full to the brim of a splendour of +light and colour. Before her rose the great ruins of rock and castle, +the ruin of rock with castle; rough stone below, clear green happy +grass above, even to the verge of the abrupt and awful precipice; over +it the summer sky so clear that it must have been clarified by sorrow +and thought; at the foot of the rocks, hundreds of feet below, the blue +waters breaking in white upon the dark gray sands; all full of the +gladness of the sun overflowing in speechless delight, and reflected in +fresh gladness from stone and water and flower, like new springs of +light rippling forth from the earth itself to swell the universal tide +of glory—all this seen through the narrow gothic archway of a door in +a wall—up—down—on either hand. But the main marvel was the look +sheer below into the abyss full of light and air and colour, its sides +lined with rock and grass, and its bottom lined with blue ripples and +sand. Was it any wonder that my Connie should cry aloud when the vision +dawned upon her, and then weep to ease a heart ready to burst with +delight? "O Lord God," I said, almost involuntarily, "thou art very +rich. Thou art the one poet, the one maker. We worship thee. Make but +our souls as full of glory in thy sight as this chasm is to our eyes +glorious with the forms which thou hast cloven and carved out of +nothingness, and we shall be worthy to worship thee, O Lord, our God." +For I was carried beyond myself with delight, and with sympathy with +Connie's delight and with the calm worship of gladness in my wife's +countenance. But when my eye fell on Wynnie, I saw a trouble mingled +with her admiration, a self-accusation, I think, that she did not and +could not enjoy it more; and when I turned from her, there were the +eyes of Percivale fixed on me in wonderment; and for the moment I felt +as David must have felt when, in his dance of undignified delight that +he had got the ark home again, he saw the contemptuous eyes of Michal +fixed on him from the window. But I could not leave it so. I said to +him—coldly I daresay: +</p> + +<p> +"Excuse me, Mr. Percivale; I forgot for the moment that I was not +amongst my own family." +</p> + +<p> +Percivale took his hat off. +</p> + +<p> +"Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Walton. I was half-envying and +half-wondering. You would not be surprised at my unconscious behaviour +if you had seen as much of the wrong side of the stuff as I have seen +in London." +</p> + +<p> +I had some idea of what he meant; but this was no time to enter upon a +discussion. I could only say— +</p> + +<p> +"My heart was full, Mr. Percivale, and I let it overflow." +</p> + +<p> +"Let me at least share in its overflow," he rejoined, and nothing more +passed on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +For the next ten minutes we stood in absolute silence. We had set +Connie down on the grass again, but propped up so that she could see +through the doorway. And she lay in still ecstasy. But there was more +to be seen ere we descended. There was the rest of the little islet +with its crop of down-grass, on which the horses of all the knights of +King Arthur's round table might have fed for a week—yes, for a +fortnight, without, by any means, encountering the short commons of +war. There were the ruins of the castle so built of plates of the +laminated stone of the rocks on which they stood, and so woven in or +more properly incorporated with the outstanding rocks themselves, that +in some parts I found it impossible to tell which was building and +which was rock—the walls themselves seeming like a growth out of the +island itself, so perfectly were they in harmony with, and in kind the +same as, the natural ground upon which and of which they had been +constructed. And this would seem to me to be the perfection of +architecture. The work of man's hands should be so in harmony with the +place where it stands that it must look as if it had grown out of the +soil. But the walls were in some parts so thin that one wondered how +they could have stood so long. They must have been built before the +time of any formidable artillery—enough only for defence from arrows. +But then the island was nowhere commanded, and its own steep cliffs +would be more easily defended than any erections upon it. Clearly the +intention was that no enemy should thereon find rest for the sole of +his foot; for if he was able to land, farewell to the notion of any +further defence. Then there was outside the walls the little +chapel—such a tiny chapel! of which little more than the foundation +remained, with the ruins of the altar still standing, and outside the +chancel, nestling by its wall, a coffin hollowed in the rock; then the +churchyard a little way off full of graves, which, I presume, would +have vanished long ago were it not that the very graves were founded on +the rock. There still stood old worn-out headstones of thin slate, but +no memorials were left. Then there was the fragment of arched passage +underground laid open to the air in the centre of the islet; and last, +and grandest of all, the awful edges of the rock, broken by time, and +carved by the winds and the waters into grotesque shapes and +threatening forms. Over all the surface of the islet we carried Connie, +and from three sides of this sea-fortress she looked abroad over "the +Atlantic's level powers." It blew a gentle ethereal breeze on the top; +but had there been such a wind as I have since stood against on that +fearful citadel of nature, I should have been in terror lest we should +all be blown, into the deep. Over the edge she peeped at the strange +fantastic needle-rock, and round the corner she peeped to see Wynnie +and her mother seated in what they call Arthur's chair—a canopied +hollow wrought in the plated rock by the mightiest of all solvents—air +and water; till at length it was time that we should take our leave of +the few sheep that fed over the place, and issuing by the gothic door, +wind away down the dangerous path to the safe ground below. +</p> + +<p> +"I think we had better tie up your eyes again, Connie?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Why?" she asked, in wonderment. "There's nothing higher yet, is there?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, my love. If there were, you would hardly be able for it to-day, I +should think. It is only to keep you from being frightened at the +precipice as you go down." +</p> + +<p> +"But I sha'n't be frightened, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"How do you know that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because you are going to carry me." +</p> + +<p> +"But what if I should slip? I might, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't mind. I sha'n't mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you +do it. I sha'n't be to blame, and I'm sure you won't, papa." Then she +drew my head down and whispered in my ear, "If I get as much more by +being killed, as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I'm sure it +will be well worth it." +</p> + +<p> +I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just +as she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we +bore her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, +instead of being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My +wife, I could see, was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of +relief when we were once more at the foot. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'm glad that's over," she said. +</p> + +<p> +"So am I," I returned, as we set down the litter. +</p> + +<p> +"Poor papa! I've pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale's too!" +</p> + +<p> +Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then +turning towards her, he said, "Look here, Miss Connie;" and flung it +far out from the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike +on a rock below, and then fall in a shower of fragments. "My arms are +all right, you see," he said. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet +been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us +out of breath with the news: +</p> + +<p> +"Papa! Mr. Percivale! there's such a grand cave down there! It goes +right through under the island." +</p> + +<p> +Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and +without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way +that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch +more difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a +contrast to the vision overhead!—nothing to be seen but the cool, dark +vault of the cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on +its pebbly floor, and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide +rolled through in rising and falling—the waters on the opposite sides +of the islet greeting through this cave; the blue shimmer of the rising +sea, and the forms of huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further +end, where the roof rose like a grand cathedral arch; and the green +gleam of veins rich with copper, dashing and streaking the darkness in +gloomy little chapels, where the floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and +rose within till it met the descending roof. It was like a going-down +from Paradise into the grave—but a cool, friendly, brown-lighted +grave, which even in its darkest recesses bore some witness to the wind +of God outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed light, from the +play of the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, wandered +across its jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the damp +coolness; and I have given my reader quite enough of description for +one hour's reading. He can scarcely be equal to more. +</p> + +<p> +My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I +no longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days +after, and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner's place in the +carriage. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XI. +</h3> + +<h3> +JOE AND HIS TROUBLE. +</h3> + +<p> +How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands +of Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty +rampart of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce +guardians! It was pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to +look like home, and was indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of +Dora and the boys. Connie's baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her +chubby arms at sight of her. The wind blew gently around us, full both +of the freshness of the clean waters and the scents of the +down-grasses, to welcome us back. And the dread vision of the shore had +now receded so far into the past, that it was no longer able to hurt. +</p> + +<p> +We had called at the blacksmith's house on our way home, and found that +he was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother +said he was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, +feared that they indicated an approaching break-down. +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed, sir," she said, "Joe might be well enough if he liked. It's +all his own fault." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean?" I asked. "I cannot believe that your son is in any +way guilty of his own illness." +</p> + +<p> +"He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe," she answered; "but he hasn't learned +what I had to learn long ago." +</p> + +<p> +"What is that?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other." +</p> + +<p> +She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she +spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in +mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all +her face under the nose. +</p> + +<p> +"And what is it he won't do?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't mind whether he does it or not, if he would only +make—up—his—mind—and—stick—to—it." +</p> + +<p> +"What is it you want him to do, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't want him to do it, I'm sure. It's no good to me—and wouldn't +be much to him, that I'll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself." +</p> + +<p> +I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no +more sunshine for him at home than his mother's face indicated. Few +things can make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, +whose rays are smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the +door,—the face of wife or mother or sister. Now his mother's face +certainly was not sunny. No doubt it must have shone upon him when he +was a baby. God has made that provision for babies, who need sunshine +so much that a mother's face cannot help being sunny to them: why +should the sunshine depart as the child grows older? +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far from +well. Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief +somewhere. And if there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to +get over it." +</p> + +<p> +"If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to +it—" +</p> + +<p> +"O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind." +</p> + +<p> +"That's just what he won't do." +</p> + +<p> +All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. +It was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in +sympathy with her son, and therefore could not help him out of any +difficulty he might be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her +the cause of her son's discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his +illness. In passing his workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made +an arrangement to meet him at the church the next day. +</p> + +<p> +I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we +left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the +rods attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a +carpenter, a cousin of his own, with him. +</p> + +<p> +They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a +bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white +teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in +Joseph's affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I +therefore said half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, +self-withdrawn countenance the smith was fitting one loop into another +in two of his iron rods,— +</p> + +<p> +"I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more +cheerful. You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine." +</p> + +<p> +The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the +rest of us. He's a religious man, is Joe." +</p> + +<p> +"But I don't see how that should make him miserable. It hasn't made me +miserable. I hope I'm a religious man myself. It makes me happy every +day of my life." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, well," returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked +away gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, +"I don't say it's the religion, for I don't know; but perhaps it's the +way he takes it up. He don't look after hisself enough; he's always +thinking about other people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, +that if you don't look after yourself, why, who is to look after you? +That's common sense, <i>I</i> think." +</p> + +<p> +It was a curious contrast—the merry friendly face, which shone +good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, +even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about +other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be +correct in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, +healthy inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a +smile very unlike his cousin's with which Joe heard his remarks on +himself. +</p> + +<p> +"But," I said, "you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take +Joe's way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of +yourself." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't see why, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else." +</p> + +<p> +"Not so well, I doubt, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, and a great deal better." +</p> + +<p> +"At any rate, that's a long way off; and mean time, <i>who's</i> to take +care of the odd man like Joe there, that don't look after hisself?" +</p> + +<p> +"Why, God, of course." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, there's just where I'm out. I don't know nothing about that +branch, sir." +</p> + +<p> +I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe's gloomy eyes as I spoke thus +upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin +volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I +might have gained. +</p> + +<p> +At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have +their dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and +I dropped behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in +meditation. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the +rectory, when I saw the sexton's daughter meeting us. She had almost +come up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, +and he started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, +constrained, yet familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to +talk, but without speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of +recognition to the young woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners +to look behind. I glanced at Harry, and he answered me with a queer +look. When we reached the turning that would hide them from our view, I +looked back almost involuntarily, and there they were still standing. +But before we reached the door of the rectory, Joe got up with us. +</p> + +<p> +There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the +sexton's daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the +youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, +somewhat sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall +and slender, and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good +hair's-breadth further into the smith's affairs. Beyond the +hair's-breadth, however, all was dark. But I saw likewise that the well +of truth, whence I might draw the whole business, must be the girl's +mother. +</p> + +<p> +After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back +to the church, and I went to the sexton's cottage. I found the old man +seated at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty +plate beside it. +</p> + +<p> +"Come in, sir," he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. "The +mis'ess ben't in, but she'll be here in a few minutes." +</p> + +<p> +"O, it's of no consequence," I said. "Are they all well?" +</p> + +<p> +"All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It +be in winter it be worst for them." +</p> + +<p> +"But it's a snug enough shelter you've got here. It seems such, anyhow; +though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak +places both in house and body." +</p> + +<p> +"It ben't the wind touch <i>them</i>" he said; "they be safe enough from the +wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben't much snow in these parts; but +when it du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!" +</p> + +<p> +Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again? +</p> + +<p> +"But at least this cottage keeps out the wet," I said. "If not, we must +have it seen to." +</p> + +<p> +"This cottage du well enough, sir. It'll last my time, anyhow." +</p> + +<p> +"Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Bless your heart, sir! It's not them. They du well enough. It's my +people out yonder. You've got the souls to look after, and I've got the +bodies. That's what it be, sir. To be sure!" +</p> + +<p> +The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my +stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and +none to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed +that night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination +in which the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, +and he would magnify that office. He could not bear that there should +be no further outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out +of sight should be "the be-all and the end-all." He was God's vicar, +the gardener in God's Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When +all others had forsaken the dead, he remained their friend, caring for +what little comfort yet remained possible to them. Hence in all changes +of air and sky above, he attributed to them some knowledge of the same, +and some share in their consequences even down in the darkness of the +tomb. It was his way of keeping up the relation between the living and +the dead. Finding I made him no reply, he took up the word again. +</p> + +<p> +"You've got your part, sir, and I've got mine. You up into the pulpit, +and I down into the grave. But it'll be all the same by and by." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope it will," I answered. "But when you do go down into your own +grave, you'll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You'll +find you've got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. +She'll talk about the living rather than the dead." +</p> + +<p> +"That's natural, sir. She brought 'em to life, and I buried 'em—at +least, best part of 'em. If only I had the other two safe down with the +rest!" +</p> + +<p> +I remembered what the old woman had told me—that she had two boys <i>in</i> +the sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned +boys as still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have +gladly laid them to rest in the warm dry churchyard. +</p> + +<p> +He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, +and saying, "Well, I must be off to my gardening," left me with his +wife. I saw then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, +like that of all true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping. +</p> + +<p> +"The old man seems a little out of sorts," I said to his wife. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir," she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness +which obedient suffering had perfected, "this be the day he buried our +Nancy, this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work +poorly; and the two things together they've upset him a bit." +</p> + +<p> +"I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?" +</p> + +<p> +"I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I've been to the doctor about +her." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope it's nothing serious." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope not, sir; but you see—four on 'em, sir!" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, she's in God's hands, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"That she be, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes." +</p> + +<p> +"What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"I want to know what's the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith." +</p> + +<p> +"They du say it be a consumption, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"But what has he got on his mind?" +</p> + +<p> +"He's got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, +I assure you, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He's not so +happy as he should be. He's not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy +because he's ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was +going to die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as +he looks." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it's +part guessing.—I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon one +another as any two in the county." +</p> + +<p> +"Are they not going to be married then?" +</p> + +<p> +"There be the pint, sir. I don't believe Joe ever said a word o' the +sort to Aggy. She never could ha' kep it from me, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Why doesn't he then?" +</p> + +<p> +"That's the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it's because he be +in such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn't to go marrying with one +foot in the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that +be it." +</p> + +<p> +"For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we've all got one foot in the grave, I +think." +</p> + +<p> +"That be very true, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"And what does your daughter think?" +</p> + +<p> +"I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each +other, quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. +But I can't help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy's pale +face." +</p> + +<p> +"And something to do with Joe's pale face too, Mrs. Coombes," I said. +"Thank you. You've told me more than I expected. It explains +everything. I must have it out with Joe now." +</p> + +<p> +"O deary me! sir, don't go and tell him I said anything, as if I wanted +him to marry my daughter." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you be afraid. I'll take good care of that. And don't fancy I'm +fond of meddling with other people's affairs. But this is a case in +which I ought to do something. Joe's a fine fellow." +</p> + +<p> +"That he be, sir. I couldn't wish a better for a son-in-law." +</p> + +<p> +I put on my hat. +</p> + +<p> +"You won't get me into no trouble with Joe, will ye, sir!" +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed I will not, Mrs. Coombes. I should be doing a great deal more +harm than good if I said a word to make him doubt you." +</p> + +<p> +I went straight to the church. There were the two men working away in +the shadowy tower, and there was Agnes standing beside, knitting like +her mother, so quiet, so solemn even, that it did indeed look as if she +were a long-married wife, hovering about her husband at his work. Harry +was saying something to her as I went in, but when they saw me they +were silent, and Agnes gently withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think you will get through to-night?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Sure of it, sir," answered Harry. +</p> + +<p> +"You shouldn't be sure of anything, Harry. We are told in the New +Testament that we ought to say <i>If the Lord will</i>," said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, Joe, you're too hard upon Harry," I said. "You don't think that +the Bible means to pull a man up every step like that, till he's afraid +to speak a word. It was about a long journey and a year's residence +that the Apostle James was speaking." +</p> + +<p> +"No doubt, sir. But the principle's the same. Harry can no more be sure +of finishing his work before it be dark, than those people could be of +going their long journey." +</p> + +<p> +"That is perfectly true. But you are taking the letter for the spirit, +and that, I suspect, in more ways than one. The religion does not lie +in not being sure about anything, but in a loving desire that the will +of God in the matter, whatever it be, may be done. And if Harry has not +learned yet to care about the will of God, what is the good of coming +down upon him that way, as if that would teach him in the least. When +he loves God, then, and not till then, will he care about his will. Nor +does the religion lie in saying, <i>if the Lord will</i>, every time +anything is to be done. It is a most dangerous thing to use sacred +words often. It makes them so common to our ear that at length, when +used most solemnly, they have not half the effect they ought to have, +and that is a serious loss. What the Apostle means is, that we should +always be in the mood of looking up to God and having regard to his +will, not always writing D.V. for instance, as so many do—most +irreverently, I think—using a Latin contraction for the beautiful +words, just as if they were a charm, or as if God would take offence if +they did not make the salvo of acknowledgment. It seems to me quite +heathenish. Our hearts ought ever to be in the spirit of those words; +our lips ought to utter them rarely. Besides, there are some things a +man might be pretty sure the Lord wills." +</p> + +<p> +"It sounds fine, sir; but I'm not sure that I understand what you mean +to say. It sounds to me like a darkening of wisdom." +</p> + +<p> +I saw that I had irritated him, and so had in some measure lost ground. +But Harry struck in— +</p> + +<p> +"How <i>can</i> you say that now, Joe? <i>I</i> know what the parson means well +enough, and everybody knows I ain't got half the brains you've got." +</p> + +<p> +"The reason is, Harry, that he's got something in his head that stands +in the way." +</p> + +<p> +"And there's nothing in my head <i>to</i> stand in the way!" returned Harry, +laughing. +</p> + +<p> +This made me laugh too, and even Joe could not help a sympathetic grin. +By this time it was getting dark. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm afraid, Harry, after all, you won't get through to-night." +</p> + +<p> +"I begin to think so too, sir. And there's Joe saying, 'I told you so,' +over and over to himself, though he won't say it out like a man." +</p> + +<p> +Joe answered only with another grin. +</p> + +<p> +"I tell you what it is, Harry," I said—"you must come again on Monday. +And on your way home, just look in and tell Joe's mother that I have +kept him over to-morrow. The change will do him good." +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir, that can't he. I haven't got a clean shirt." +</p> + +<p> +"You can have a shirt of mine," I said. "But I'm afraid you'll want +your Sunday clothes." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll bring them for you, Joe—before you're up," interposed Harry. +"And then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know." +</p> + +<p> +Here was just what I wanted. +</p> + +<p> +"Hold your tongue, Harry," said Joe angrily. "You're talking of what +you don't know anything about." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Joe, I ben't a fool, if I ben't so religious as you be. You +ben't a bad fellow, though you be a Methodist, and I ben't a fool, +though I be Harry Cobb." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean, Harry? Do hold your tongue." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'll tell you what I mean first, and then I'll hold my tongue. I +mean this—that nobody with two eyes, or one eye, for that matter, in +his head, could help seeing the eyes you and Aggy make at each other, +and why you don't port your helm and board her—I won't say it's more +than I know, but I du say it to be more than I think be fair to the +young woman." +</p> + +<p> +"Hold your tongue, Harry." +</p> + +<p> +"I said I would when I'd answered you as to what I meaned. So no more +at present; but I'll be over with your clothes afore you're up in the +morning." +</p> + +<p> +As Harry spoke he was busy gathering his tools. +</p> + +<p> +"They won't be in the way, will they, sir?" he said, as he heaped them +together in the furthest corner of the tower. +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least," I returned. "If I had my way, all the tools used in +building the church should be carved on the posts and pillars of it, to +indicate the sacredness of labour, and the worship of God that lies, +not in building the church merely, but in every honest trade honestly +pursued for the good of mankind and the need of the workman. For a +necessity of God is laid upon every workman as well as on St. Paul. +Only St. Paul saw it, and every workman doesn't, Harry." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, sir. I like that way of it. I almost think I could be a +little bit religious after your way of it, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Almost, Harry!" growled Joe—not unkindly. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, you hold your tongue, Joe," I said. "Leave Harry to me. You may +take him, if you like, after I've done with him." +</p> + +<p> +Laughing merrily, but making no other reply than a hearty good-night, +Harry strode away out of the church, and Joe and I went home together. +</p> + +<p> +When he had had his tea, I asked him to go out with me for a walk. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was shining aslant upon the downs from over the sea. We rose +out of the shadowy hollow to the sunlit brow. I was a little in advance +of Joe. Happening to turn, I saw the light full on his head and face, +while the rest of his body had not yet emerged from the shadow. +</p> + +<p> +"Stop, Joe," I said. "I want to see you so for a moment." +</p> + +<p> +He stood—a little surprised. +</p> + +<p> +"You look just like a man rising from the dead, Joe," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know what you mean, sir," he returned. +</p> + +<p> +"I will describe yourself to you. Your head and face are full of +sunlight, the rest of your body is still buried in the shadow. Look; I +will stand where you are now; and you come here. You will soon see what +I mean." +</p> + +<p> +We changed places. Joe stared for a moment. Then his face brightened. +</p> + +<p> +"I see what you mean, sir," he said. "I fancy you don't mean the +resurrection of the body, but the resurrection of righteousness." +</p> + +<p> +"I do, Joe. Did it ever strike you that the whole history of the +Christian life is a series of such resurrections? Every time a man +bethinks himself that he is not walking in the light, that he has been +forgetting himself, and must repent, that he has been asleep and must +awake, that he has been letting his garments trail, and must gird up +the loins of his mind—every time this takes place, there is a +resurrection in the world. Yes, Joe; and every time that a man finds +that his heart is troubled, that he is not rejoicing in God, a +resurrection must follow—a resurrection out of the night of troubled +thoughts into the gladness of the truth. For the truth is, and ever +was, and ever must be, gladness, however much the souls on which it +shines may be obscured by the clouds of sorrow, troubled by the +thunders of fear, or shot through with the lightnings of pain. Now, +Joe, will you let me tell you what you are like—I do not know your +thoughts; I am only judging from your words and looks?" +</p> + +<p> +"You may if you like, sir," answered Joe, a little sulkily. But I was +not to be repelled. +</p> + +<p> +I stood up in the sunlight, so that my eyes caught only about half the +sun's disc. Then I bent my face towards the earth. +</p> + +<p> +"What part of me is the light shining on now, Joe?" +</p> + +<p> +"Just the top of your head," answered he. +</p> + +<p> +"There, then," I returned, "that is just what you are like—a man with +the light on his head, but not on his face. And why not on your face? +Because you hold your head down." +</p> + +<p> +"Isn't it possible, sir, that a man might lose the light on his face, +as you put it, by doing his duty?" +</p> + +<p> +"That is a difficult question," I replied. "I must think before I +answer it." +</p> + +<p> +"I mean," added Joe—"mightn't his duty be a painful one?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. But I think that would rather etherealise than destroy the light. +Behind the sorrow would spring a yet greater light from the very duty +itself. I have expressed myself badly, but you will see what I +mean.—To be frank with you, Joe, I do not see that light in your face. +Therefore I think something must be wrong with you. Remember a good man +is not necessarily in the right. St. Peter was a good man, yet our Lord +called him Satan—and meant it of course, for he never said what he did +not mean." +</p> + +<p> +"How can I be wrong when all my trouble comes from doing my +duty—nothing else, as far as I know?" +</p> + +<p> +"Then," I replied, a sudden light breaking in on my mind, "I doubt +whether what you suppose to be your duty can be your duty. If it were, +I do not think it would make you so miserable. At least—I may be +wrong, but I venture to think so." +</p> + +<p> +"What is a man to go by, then? If he thinks a thing is his duty, is he +not to do it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Most assuredly—until he knows better. But it is of the greatest +consequence whether the supposed duty be the will of God or the +invention of one's own fancy or mistaken judgment. A real duty is +always something right in itself. The duty a man makes his for the +time, by supposing it to be a duty, may be something quite wrong in +itself. The duty of a Hindoo widow is to burn herself on the body of +her husband. But that duty lasts no longer than till she sees that, not +being the will of God, it is not her duty. A real duty, on the other +hand, is a necessity of the human nature, without seeing and doing +which a man can never attain to the truth and blessedness of his own +being. It was the duty of the early hermits to encourage the growth of +vermin upon their bodies, for they supposed that was pleasing to God; +but they could not fare so well as if they had seen the truth that the +will of God was cleanliness. And there may be far more serious things +done by Christian people against the will of God, in the fancy of doing +their duty, than such a trifle as swarming with worms. In a word, +thinking a thing is your duty makes it your duty only till you know +better. And the prime duty of every man is to seek and find, that he +may do, the will of God." +</p> + +<p> +"But do you think, sir, that a man is likely to be doing what he ought +not, if he is doing what he don't like?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not so likely, I allow. But there may be ambition in it. A man must +not want to be better than the right. That is the delusion of the +anchorite—a delusion in which the man forgets the rights of others for +the sake of his own sanctity." +</p> + +<p> +"It might be for the sake of another person, and not for the person's +own sake at all." +</p> + +<p> +"It might be; but except it were the will of God for that other person, +it would be doing him or her a real injury." +</p> + +<p> +We were coming gradually towards what I wanted to make the point in +question. I wished him to tell me all about it himself, however, for I +knew that while advice given on request is generally disregarded, to +offer advice unasked is worthy only of a fool. +</p> + +<p> +"But how are you to know the will of God in every case?" asked Joe. +</p> + +<p> +"By looking at the general laws of life, and obeying them—except there +be anything special in a particular case to bring it under a higher +law." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! but that be just what there is here." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear fellow, that may be; but the special conduct may not be +right for the special case for all that. The speciality of the case may +not be even sufficient to take it from under the ordinary rule. But it +is of no use talking generals. Let us come to particulars. If you can +trust me, tell me all about it, and we may be able to let some light +in. I am sure there is darkness somewhere." +</p> + +<p> +"I will turn it over in my mind, sir; and if I can bring myself to talk +about it, I will. I would rather tell you than anyone else." +</p> + +<p> +I said no more. We watched a glorious sunset—there never was a grander +place for sunsets—and went home. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XII. +</h3> + +<h3> +A SMALL ADVENTURE. +</h3> + +<p> +The next morning Harry came with the clothes. But Joe did not go to +church. Neither did Agnes make her appearance that morning. They were +both present at the evening service, however. +</p> + +<p> +When we came out of church, it was cloudy and dark, and the wind was +blowing cold from the sea. The sky was covered with one cloud, but the +waves tossing themselves against the rocks, flashed whiteness out of +the general gloom. As the tide rose the wind increased. It was a night +of surly temper—hard and gloomy. Not a star cracked the blue +above—there was no blue; and the wind was <i>gurly</i>; I once heard that +word in Scotland, and never forgot it. +</p> + +<p> +After one of our usual gatherings in Connie's room, which were much +shorter here because of the evening service in summer, I withdrew till +supper should be ready. +</p> + +<p> +Now I have always had, as I think I have incidentally stated before, a +certain peculiar pleasure in the surly aspects of nature. When I was a +young man this took form in opposition and defiance; since I had begun +to grow old the form had changed into a sense of safety. I welcomed +such aspects, partly at least, because they roused my faith to look +through and beyond the small region of human conditions in which alone +the storm can be and blow, and thus induced a feeling like that of the +child who lies in his warm crib and listens to the howling of one of +these same storms outside the strong-built house which yet trembles at +its fiercer onsets: the house is not in danger; or, if it be, that is +his father's business, not his. Hence it came that, after supper, I put +on my great-coat and travelling-cap, and went out into the ill-tempered +night—speaking of it in its human symbolism. +</p> + +<p> +I meant to have a stroll down to the breakwater, of which I have yet +said little, but which was a favourite resort, both of myself and my +children. At the further end of it, always covered at high water, was +an outlying cluster of low rocks, in the heart of which the lord of the +manor, a noble-hearted Christian gentleman of the old school, had +constructed a bath of graduated depth—an open-air swimming-pool—the +only really safe place for men who were swimmers to bathe in. Thither I +was in the habit of taking my two little men every morning, and bathing +with them, that I might develop the fish that was in them; for, as +George Herbert says: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Man is everything,<br /> + And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit;<br /> + A beast, yet is, or should be, more;"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and he might have gone on to say that he is, or should be, a fish as +well. +</p> + +<p> +It will seem strange to any reader who can recall the position of my +Connie's room, that the nearest way to the breakwater should be through +that room; but so it was. I mention the fact because I want my readers +to understand a certain peculiarity of the room. By the side of the +window which looked out upon the breakwater was a narrow door, +apparently of a closet or cupboard, which communicated, however, with a +narrow, curving, wood-built passage, leading into a little wooden hut, +the walls of which were by no means impervious to the wind, for they +were formed of outside-planks, with the bark still upon them. From this +hut one or two little windows looked seaward, and a door led out on the +bit of sward in which lay the flower-bed under Connie's window. From +this spot again a door in the low wall and thick hedge led out on the +downs, where a path wound along the cliffs that formed the side of the +bay, till, descending under the storm-tower, it brought you to the root +of the breakwater. +</p> + +<p> +This mole stretched its long strong low back to a rock a good way out, +breaking the force of the waves, and rendering the channel of a small +river, that here flowed into the sea across the sands from the mouth of +the canal, a refuge from the Atlantic. But it was a roadway often hard +to reach. In fair weather even, the wind falling as the vessel rounded +the point of the breakwater into the calm of the projecting headlands, +the under-current would sometimes dash her helpless on the rocks. +During all this heavenly summer there had been no thought or fear of +any such disaster. The present night was a hint of what weather would +yet come. +</p> + +<p> +When I went into Connie's room, I found her lying in bed a very picture +of peace. But my entrance destroyed the picture. +</p> + +<p> +"Papa," she said, "why have you got your coat on? Surely you are not +going out to-night. The wind is blowing dreadfully." +</p> + +<p> +"Not very dreadfully, Connie. It blew much worse the night we found +your baby." +</p> + +<p> +"But it is very dark." +</p> + +<p> +"I allow that; but there is a glimmer from the sea. I am only going on +the breakwater for a few minutes. You know I like a stormy night quite +as much as a fine one." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall be miserable till you come home, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Nonsense, Connie. You don't think your father hasn't sense to take +care of himself! Or rather, Connie, for I grant that is poor ground of +comfort, you don't think I can go anywhere without my Father to take +care of me?" +</p> + +<p> +"But there is no occasion—is there, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think I should be better pleased with my boys if they shrunk +from everything involving the least possibility of danger because there +was no occasion for it? That is just the way to make cowards. And I am +certain God would not like his children to indulge in such moods of +self-preservation as that. He might well be ashamed of them. The +fearful are far more likely to meet with accidents than the courageous. +But really, Connie, I am almost ashamed of talking so. It is all your +fault. There is positively no ground for apprehension, and I hope you +won't spoil my walk by the thought that my foolish little girl is +frightened." +</p> + +<p> +"I will be good—indeed I will, papa," she said, holding up her mouth +to kiss me. +</p> + +<p> +I left her room, and went through the wooden passage into the bark hut. +The wind roared about it, shook it, and pawed it, and sung and whistled +in the chinks of the planks. I went out and shut the door. That moment +the wind seized upon me, and I had to fight with it. When I got on the +path leading along the edge of the downs, I felt something lighter than +any feather fly in my face. When I put up my hand, I found my cheek +wet. Again and again I was thus assailed, but when I got to the +breakwater I found what it was. They were flakes of foam, bubbles +worked up into little masses of adhering thousands, which the wind blew +off the waters and across the downs, carrying some of them miles +inland. When I reached the breakwater, and looked along its ridge +through the darkness of the night, I was bewildered to see a whiteness +lying here and there in a great patch upon its top. They were but +accumulations of these foam-flakes, like soap-suds, lying so thick that +I expected to have to wade through them, only they vanished at the +touch of my feet. Till then I had almost believed it was snow I saw. On +the edge of the waves, in quieter spots, they lay like yeast, foaming +and working. Now and then a little rush of water from a higher wave +swept over the top of the broad breakwater, as with head bowed sideways +against the wind, I struggled along towards the rock at its end; but I +said to myself, "The tide is falling fast, and salt water hurts +nobody," and struggled on over the huge rough stones of the mighty +heap, outside which the waves were white with wrath, inside which they +had fallen asleep, only heaving with the memory of their late unrest. I +reached the tall rock at length, climbed the rude stair leading up to +the flagstaff, and looked abroad, if looking it could be called, into +the thick dark. But the wind blew so strong on the top that I was glad +to descend. Between me and the basin where yesterday morning I had +bathed in still water and sunshine with my boys, rolled the deathly +waves. I wandered on the rough narrow space yet uncovered, stumbling +over the stones and the rocky points between which they lay, stood here +and there half-meditating, and at length, finding a sheltered nook in a +mass of rock, sat with the wind howling and the waves bursting around +me. There I fell into a sort of brown study—almost a half-sleep. +</p> + +<p> +But I had not sat long before I came broad awake, for I heard voices, +low and earnest. One I recognised as Joe's voice. The other was a +woman's. I could not tell what they said for some time, and therefore +felt no immediate necessity for disclosing my proximity, but sat +debating with myself whether I should speak to them or not. At length, +in a lull of the wind, I heard the woman say—I could fancy with a +sigh— +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sure you'll du what is right, Joe. Don't 'e think o' me, Joe." +</p> + +<p> +"It's just of you that I du think, Aggy. You know it ben't for my sake. +Surely you know that?" +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer for a moment. I was still doubting what I had best +do—go away quietly or let them know I was there—when she spoke again. +There was a momentary lull now in the noises of both wind and water, +and I heard what she said well enough. +</p> + +<p> +"It ben't for me to contradict you, Joe. But I don't think you be going +to die. You be no worse than last year. Be you now, Joe?" +</p> + +<p> +It flashed across me how once before, a stormy night and darkness had +brought me close to a soul in agony. Then I was in agony myself; now +the world was all fair and hopeful around me—the portals of the world +beyond ever opening wider as I approached them, and letting out more of +their glory to gladden the path to their threshold. But here were two +souls straying in a mist which faith might roll away, and leave them +walking in the light. The moment was come. I must speak. +</p> + +<p> +"Joe!" I called out. +</p> + +<p> +"Who's there?" he cried; and I heard him start to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +"Only Mr. Walton. Where are you?" +</p> + +<p> +"We can't be very far off," he answered, not in a tone of any pleasure +at finding me so nigh. +</p> + +<p> +I rose, and peering about through the darkness, found that they were a +little higher up on the same rock by which I was sheltered. +</p> + +<p> +"You mustn't think," I said, "that I have been eavesdropping. I had no +idea anyone was near me till I heard your voices, and I did not hear a +word till just the last sentence or two." +</p> + +<p> +"I saw someone go up the Castle-rock," said Joe; "but I thought he was +gone away again. It will be a lesson to me." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm no tell-tale, Joe," I returned, as I scrambled up the rock. "You +will have no cause to regret that I happened to overhear a little. I am +sure, Joe, you will never say anything you need be ashamed of. But what +I heard was sufficient to let me into the secret of your trouble. Will +you let me talk to Joe, Agnes? I've been young myself, and, to tell the +truth, I don't think I'm old yet." +</p> + +<p> +"I am sure, sir," she answered, "you won't be hard on Joe and me. I +don't suppose there be anything wrong in liking each other, though we +can't be—married." +</p> + +<p> +She spoke in a low tone, and her voice trembled very much; yet there +was a certain womanly composure in her utterance. "I'm sure it's very +bold of me to talk so," she added, "but Joe will tell you all about it." +</p> + +<p> +I was close beside them now, and fancied I saw through the dusk the +motion of her hand stealing into his. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Joe, this is just what I wanted," I said. "A woman can be braver +than a big smith sometimes. Agnes has done her part. Now you do yours, +and tell me all about it." +</p> + +<p> +No response followed my adjuration. I must help him. +</p> + +<p> +"I think I know how the matter lies, Joe. You think you are not going +to live long, and that therefore you ought not to marry. Am I right?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not far off it, sir," he answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, Joe," I said, "can't we talk as friends about this matter? I have +no right to intrude into your affairs—none in the least—except what +friendship gives me. If you say I am not to talk about it, I shall be +silent. To force advice upon you would be as impertinent as useless." +</p> + +<p> +"It's all the same, I'm afraid, sir. My mind has been made up for a +long time. What right have I to bring other people into trouble? But I +take it kind of you, sir, though I mayn't look over-pleased. Agnes +wants to hear your way of it. I'm agreeable." +</p> + +<p> +This was not very encouraging. Still I thought it sufficient ground for +proceeding. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose you will allow that the root of all Christian behaviour is +the will of God?" +</p> + +<p> +"Surely, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Is it not the will of God, then, that when a man and woman love each +other, they should marry?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly, sir—where there be no reasons against it." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course. And you judge you see reason for not doing so, else you +would?" +</p> + +<p> +"I do see that a man should not bring a woman into trouble for the sake +of being comfortable himself for the rest of a few weary days." +</p> + +<p> +Agnes was sobbing gently behind her handkerchief. I knew how gladly she +would be Joe's wife, if only to nurse him through his last illness. +</p> + +<p> +"Not except it would make her comfortable too, I grant you, Joe. But +listen to me. In the first place, you don't know, and you are not +required to know, when you are going to die. In fact, you have nothing +to do with it. Many a life has been injured by the constant expectation +of death. It is life we have to do with, not death. The best +preparation for the night is to work while the day lasts, diligently. +The best preparation for death is life. Besides, I have known delicate +people who have outlived all their strong relations, and been left +alone in the earth—because they had possibly taken too much care of +themselves. But marriage is God's will, and death is God's will, and +you have no business to set the one over against, as antagonistic to, +the other. For anything you know, the gladness and the peace of +marriage may be the very means intended for your restoration to health +and strength. I suspect your desire to marry, fighting against the +fancy that you ought not to marry, has a good deal to do with the state +of health in which you now find yourself. A man would get over many +things if he were happy, that he cannot get over when he is miserable." +</p> + +<p> +"But it's for Aggy. You forget that." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not forget it. What right have you to seek for her another kind +of welfare than you would have yourself? Are you to treat her as if she +were worldly when you are not—to provide for her a comfort which +yourself you would despise? Why should you not marry because you have +to die soon?—if you <i>are</i> thus doomed, which to me is by no means +clear. Why not have what happiness you may for the rest of your +sojourn? If you find at the end of twenty years that here you are after +all, you will be rather sorry you did not do as I say." +</p> + +<p> +"And if I find myself dying at the end of six months'?" +</p> + +<p> +"You will thank God for those six months. The whole thing, my dear +fellow, is a want of faith in God. I do not doubt you think you are +doing right, but, I repeat, the whole thing comes from want of faith in +God. You will take things into your own hands, and order them after a +preventive and self-protective fashion, lest God should have ordained +the worst for you, which worst, after all, would be best met by doing +his will without inquiry into the future; and which worst is no evil. +Death is no more an evil than marriage is." +</p> + +<p> +"But you don't see it as I do," persisted the blacksmith. +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I don't. I think you see it as it is not." +</p> + +<p> +He remained silent for a little. A shower of spray fell upon us. He +started. +</p> + +<p> +"What a wave!" he cried. "That spray came over the top of the rock. We +shall have to run for it." +</p> + +<p> +I fancied that he only wanted to avoid further conversation. +</p> + +<p> +"There's no hurry," I said. "It was high water an hour and a half ago." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't know this coast, sir," returned he, "or you wouldn't talk +like that." +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke he rose, and going from under the shelter of the rock, +looked along. +</p> + +<p> +"For God's sake, Aggy!" he cried in terror, "come at once. Every other +wave be rushing across the breakwater as if it was on the level." +</p> + +<p> +So saying, he hurried back, caught her by the hand, and began to draw +her along. +</p> + +<p> +"Hadn't we better stay where we are?" I suggested. +</p> + +<p> +"If you can stand the night in the cold. But Aggy here is delicate; and +I don't care about being out all night. It's not the tide, sir; it's a +ground swell—from a storm somewhere out at sea. That never asks no +questions about tide or no tide." +</p> + +<p> +"Come along, then," I said. "But just wait one minute more. It is +better to be ready for the worst." +</p> + +<p> +For I remembered that the day before I had seen a crowbar lying among +the stones, and I thought it might be useful. In a moment or two I had +found it, and returning, gave it to Joe. Then I took the girl's +disengaged hand. She thanked me in a voice perfectly calm and firm. Joe +took the bar in haste, and drew Agnes towards the breakwater. +</p> + +<p> +Any real thought of danger had not yet crossed my mind. But when I +looked along the outstretched back of the mole, and saw a dim sheet of +white sweep across it, I felt that there was ground for his anxiety, +and prepared myself for a struggle. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know what to do with the crowbar, Joe?" I said, grasping my own +stout oak-stick more firmly. +</p> + +<p> +"Perfectly," answered Joe. "To stick between the stones and hold on. We +must watch our time between the waves." +</p> + +<p> +"You take the command, then, Joe," I returned. "You see better than I +do, and you know the ways of that raging wild beast there better than I +do. I will obey orders—one of which, no doubt, will be, not for wind +or sea to lose hold of Agnes—eh, Joe?" +</p> + +<p> +Joe gave a grim enough laugh in reply, and we started, he carrying his +crowbar in his right hand towards the advancing sea, and I my oak-stick +in my left towards the still water within. +</p> + +<p> +"Quick march!" said Joe, and away we went out on the breakwater. +</p> + +<p> +Now the back of the breakwater was very rugged, for it was formed of +huge stones, with wide gaps between, where the waters had washed out +the cement, and worn their edges. But what impeded our progress secured +our safety. +</p> + +<p> +"Halt!" cried Joe, when we were yet but a few yards beyond the shelter +of the rocks. "There's a topper coming." +</p> + +<p> +We halted at the word of command, as a huge wave, with combing crest, +rushed against the far out-sloping base of the mole, and flung its +heavy top right over the middle of the mass, a score or two of yards in +front of us. +</p> + +<p> +"Now for it!" cried Joe. "Run!" +</p> + +<p> +We did run. In my mind there was just sense enough of danger to add to +the pleasure of the excitement. I did not know how much danger there +was. Over the rough worn stones we sped stumbling. +</p> + +<p> +"Halt!" cried the smith once more, and we did halt; but this time, as +it turned out, in the middle front of the coming danger. +</p> + +<p> +"God be with us!" I exclaimed, when the huge billow showed itself +through the night, rushing towards the mole. The smith stuck his +crowbar between two great stones. To this he held on with one hand, and +threw the other arm round Agnes's waist. I, too, had got my oak firmly +fixed, held on with one hand, and threw the other arm round Agnes. It +took but a moment. +</p> + +<p> +"Now then!" cried Joe. "Here she comes! Hold on, sir. Hold on, Aggy!" +</p> + +<p> +But when I saw the height of the water, as it rushed on us up the +sloping side of the mound, I cried out in my turn, "Down, Joe! Down on +your face, and let it over us easy! Down Agnes!" +</p> + +<p> +They obeyed. We threw ourselves across the breakwater, with our heads +to the coming foe, and I grasped my stick close to the stones with all +the power of a hand that was then strong. Over us burst the mighty +wave, floating us up from the stones where we lay. But we held on, the +wave passed, and we sprung gasping to our feet. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, now!" cried Joe and I together, and, heavy as we were, with the +water pouring from us, we flew across the remainder of the heap, and +arrived, panting and safe, at the other end, ere one wave more had +swept the surface. The moment we were in safety we turned and looked +back over the danger we had traversed. It was to see a huge billow +sweep the breakwater from end to end. We looked at each other for a +moment without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +"I believe, sir," said Joe at length, with slow and solemn speech, "if +you hadn't taken the command at that moment we should all have been +lost." +</p> + +<p> +"It seems likely enough, when I look back on it. For one thing, I was +not sure that my stick would stand, so I thought I had better grasp it +low down." +</p> + +<p> +"We were awfully near death," said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +"Nearer than you thought, Joe; and yet we escaped it. Things don't go +all as we fancy, you see. Faith is as essential to manhood as +foresight—believe me, Joe. It is very absurd to trust God for the +future, and not trust him for the present. The man who is not anxious +is the man most likely to do the right thing. He is cool and collected +and ready. Our Lord therefore told his disciples that when they should +be brought before kings and rulers, they were to take no thought what +answer they should make, for it would be given them when the time came." +</p> + +<p> +We were climbing the steep path up to the downs. Neither of my +companions spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"You have escaped one death together," I said at length: "dare another." +</p> + +<p> +Still neither of them returned an answer. When we came near the +parsonage, I said, "Now, Joe, you must go in and get to bed at once. I +will take Agnes home. You can trust me not to say anything against you?" +</p> + +<p> +Joe laughed rather hoarsely, and replied: "As you please, sir. Good +night, Aggie. Mind you get to bed as fast as you can." +</p> + +<p> +When I returned from giving Agnes over to her parents, I made haste to +change my clothes, and put on my warm dressing-gown. I may as well +mention at once, that not one of us was the worse for our ducking. I +then went up to Connie's room. +</p> + +<p> +"Here I am, you see, Connie, quite safe." +</p> + +<p> +"I've been lying listening to every blast of wind since you went out, +papa. But all I could do was to trust in God." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you call that <i>all</i>, Connie? Believe me, there is more power in +that than any human being knows the tenth part of yet. It is indeed +<i>all</i>." +</p> + +<p> +I said no more then. I told my wife about it that night, but we were +well into another month before I told Connie. +</p> + +<p> +When I left her, I went to Joe's room to see how he was, and found him +having some gruel. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and said, +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Joe, this is better than under water. I hope you won't be the +worse for it." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't much care what comes of me, sir. It will be all over soon." +</p> + +<p> +"But you ought to care what comes of you, Joe. I will tell you why. You +are an instrument out of which ought to come praise to God, and, +therefore, you ought to care for the instrument." +</p> + +<p> +"That way, yes, sir, I ought." +</p> + +<p> +"And you have no business to be like some children who say, 'Mamma +won't give me so and so,' instead of asking her to give it them." +</p> + +<p> +"I see what you mean, sir. But really you put me out before the young +woman. I couldn't say before her what I meant. Suppose, you know, sir, +there was to come a family. It might be, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course. What else would you have?" +</p> + +<p> +"But if I was to die, where would she be then?" +</p> + +<p> +"In God's hands; just as she is now." +</p> + +<p> +"But I ought to take care that she is not left with a burden like that +to provide for." +</p> + +<p> +"O, Joe! how little you know a woman's heart! It would just be the +greatest comfort she could have for losing you—that's all. Many a +woman has married a man she did not care enough for, just that she +might have a child of her own to let out her heart upon. I don't say +that is right, you know. Such love cannot be perfect. A woman ought to +love her child because it is her husband's more than because it is her +own, and because it is God's more than either's. I saw in the papers +the other day, that a woman was brought before the Recorder of London +for stealing a baby, when the judge himself said that there was no +imaginable motive for her action but a motherly passion to possess the +child. It is the need of a child that makes so many women take to poor +miserable, broken-nosed lap-dogs; for they are self-indulgent, and +cannot face the troubles and dangers of adopting a child. They would if +they might get one of a good family, or from a respectable home; but +they dare not take an orphan out of the dirt, lest it should spoil +their silken chairs. But that has nothing to do with our argument. What +I mean is this, that if Agnes really loves you, as no one can look in +her face and doubt, she will be far happier if you leave her a +child—yes, she will be happier if you only leave her your name for +hers—than if you died without calling her your wife." +</p> + +<p> +I took Joe's basin from him, and he lay down. He turned his face to the +wall. I waited a moment, but finding him silent, bade him good-night, +and left the room. +</p> + +<p> +A month after, I married them. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap13"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE HARVEST. +</h3> + +<p> +It was some time before we got the bells to work to our mind, but at +last we succeeded. The worst of it was to get the cranks, which at +first required strong pressure on the keys, to work easily enough. But +neither Joe nor his cousin spared any pains to perfect the attempt, +and, as I say, at length we succeeded. I took Wynnie down to the +instrument and made her try whether she could not do something, and she +succeeded in making the old tower discourse loudly and eloquently. +</p> + +<p> +By this time the thanksgiving for the harvest was at hand: on the +morning of that first of all would I summon the folk to their prayers +with the sound of the full peal. And I wrote a little hymn of praise to +the God of the harvest, modelling it to one of the oldest tunes in that +part of the country, and I had it printed on slips of paper and laid +plentifully on the benches. What with the calling of the bells, like +voices in the highway, and the solemn meditation of the organ within to +bear aloft the thoughts of those who heard, and came to the prayer and +thanksgiving in common, and the message which God had given me to utter +to them, I hoped that we should indeed keep holiday. +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie summoned the parish with the hundredth psalm pealed from aloft, +dropping from the airy regions of the tower on village and hamlet and +cottage, calling aloud—for who could dissociate the words from the +music, though the words are in the Scotch psalms?—written none the +less by an Englishman, however English wits may amuse themselves with +laughing at their quaintness—calling aloud, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "All people that on earth do dwell<br /> + Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;<br /> + Him serve with mirth, his praise forth tell—<br /> + Come ye before him and rejoice."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +Then we sang the psalm before the communion service, making bold in the +name of the Lord to serve him with <i>mirth</i> as in the old version, and +not with the <i>fear</i> with which some editor, weak in faith, has presumed +to alter the line. Then before the sermon we sang the hymn I had +prepared—a proceeding justifiable by many an example in the history of +the church while she was not only able to number singers amongst her +clergy, but those singers were capable of influencing the whole heart +and judgment of the nation with their songs. Ethelwyn played the organ. +The song I had prepared was this: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "We praise the Life of All;<br /> + From buried seeds so small<br /> + Who makes the ordered ranks of autumn stand;<br /> + Who stores the corn<br /> + In rick and barn<br /> + To feed the winter of the land.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + We praise the Life of Light!<br /> + Who from the brooding night<br /> + Draws out the morning holy, calm, and grand;<br /> + Veils up the moon,<br /> + Sends out the sun,<br /> + To glad the face of all the land.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + We praise the Life of Work,<br /> + Who from sleep's lonely dark<br /> + Leads forth his children to arise and stand,<br /> + Then go their way,<br /> + The live-long day,<br /> + To trust and labour in the land.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + We praise the Life of Good,<br /> + Who breaks sin's lazy mood,<br /> + Toilsomely ploughing up the fruitless sand.<br /> + The furrowed waste<br /> + They leave, and haste<br /> + Home, home, to till their Father's land.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + We praise the Life of Life,<br /> + Who in this soil of strife<br /> + Casts us at birth, like seed from sower's hand;<br /> + To die and so<br /> + Like corn to grow<br /> + A golden harvest in his land."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +After we had sung this hymn, the meaning of which is far better than +the versification, I preached from the words of St. Paul, "If by any +means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead. Not as though I +had already attained, either were already perfect." And this is +something like what I said to them: +</p> + +<p> +"The world, my friends, is full of resurrections, and it is not always +of the same resurrection that St. Paul speaks. Every night that folds +us up in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early +and have seen the first of the dawn, will know it—the day rises out of +the night like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life. +That you may feel that the sunrise is a resurrection—the word +resurrection just means a rising again—I will read you a little +description of it from a sermon by a great writer and great preacher +called Jeremy Taylor. Listen. 'But as when the sun approaching towards +the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven and +sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and +calls up the lark to matins, and by and by gilds the fringes of a +cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns +like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear +a veil, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a +man tells the story, the sun gets up higher, till he shows a fair face +and a full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud +often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets +quickly; so is a man's reason and his life.' Is not this a resurrection +of the day out of the night? Or hear how Milton makes his Adam and Eve +praise God in the morning,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + 'Ye mists and exhalations that now rise<br /> + From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,<br /> + Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,<br /> + In honour to the world's great Author rise,<br /> + Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,<br /> + Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,<br /> + Rising or falling still advance his praise.'<br /> +</p> + +<p> +But it is yet more of a resurrection to you. Think of your own +condition through the night and in the morning. You die, as it were, +every night. The death of darkness comes down over the earth; but a +deeper death, the death of sleep, descends on you. A power overshadows +you; your eyelids close, you cannot keep them open if you would; your +limbs lie moveless; the day is gone; your whole life is gone; you have +forgotten everything; an evil man might come and do with your goods as +he pleased; you are helpless. But the God of the Resurrection is awake +all the time, watching his sleeping men and women, even as a mother who +watches her sleeping baby, only with larger eyes and more full of love +than hers; and so, you know not how, all at once you know that you are +what you are; that there is a world that wants you outside of you, and +a God that wants you inside of you; you rise from the death of sleep, +not by your own power, for you knew nothing about it; God put his hand +over your eyes, and you were dead; he lifted his hand and breathed +light on you and you rose from the dead, thanked the God who raised you +up, and went forth to do your work. From darkness to light; from +blindness to seeing; from knowing nothing to looking abroad on the +mighty world; from helpless submission to willing obedience,—is not +this a resurrection indeed? That St. Paul saw it to be such may be +shown from his using the two things with the same meaning when he says, +'Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall +give thee light.' No doubt he meant a great deal more. No man who +understands what he is speaking about can well mean only one thing at a +time. +</p> + +<p> +"But to return to the resurrections we see around us in nature. Look at +the death that falls upon the world in winter. And look how it revives +when the sun draws near enough in the spring to wile the life in it +once more out of its grave. See how the pale, meek snowdrops come up +with their bowed heads, as if full of the memory of the fierce winds +they encountered last spring, and yet ready in the strength of their +weakness to encounter them again. Up comes the crocus, bringing its +gold safe from the dark of its colourless grave into the light of its +parent gold. Primroses, and anemones, and blue-bells, and a thousand +other children of the spring, hear the resurrection-trumpet of the wind +from the west and south, obey, and leave their graves behind to breathe +the air of the sweet heavens. Up and up they come till the year is +glorious with the rose and the lily, till the trees are not only +clothed upon with new garments of loveliest green, but the fruit-tree +bringeth forth its fruit, and the little children of men are made glad +with apples, and cherries, and hazel-nuts. The earth laughs out in +green and gold. The sky shares in the grand resurrection. The garments +of its mourning, wherewith it made men sad, its clouds of snow and hail +and stormy vapours, are swept away, have sunk indeed to the earth, and +are now humbly feeding the roots of the flowers whose dead stalks they +beat upon all the winter long. Instead, the sky has put on the garments +of praise. Her blue, coloured after the sapphire-floor on which stands +the throne of him who is the Resurrection and the Life, is dashed and +glorified with the pure white of sailing clouds, and at morning and +evening prayer, puts on colours in which the human heart drowns itself +with delight—green and gold and purple and rose. Even the icebergs +floating about in the lonely summer seas of the north are flashing all +the glories of the rainbow. But, indeed, is not this whole world itself +a monument of the Resurrection? The earth was without form and void. +The wind of God moved on the face of the waters, and up arose this fair +world. Darkness was on the face of the deep: God said, 'Let there be +light,' and there was light. +</p> + +<p> +"In the animal world as well, you behold the goings of the +Resurrection. Plainest of all, look at the story of the butterfly—so +plain that the pagan Greeks called it and the soul by one name—Psyche. +Psyche meant with them a butterfly or the soul, either. Look how the +creeping thing, ugly to our eyes, so that we can hardly handle it +without a shudder, finding itself growing sick with age, straightway +falls a spinning and weaving at its own shroud, coffin, and grave, all +in one—to prepare, in fact, for its resurrection; for it is for the +sake of the resurrection that death exists. Patiently it spins its +strength, but not its life, away, folds itself up decently, that its +body may rest in quiet till the new body is formed within it; and at +length when the appointed hour has arrived, out of the body of this +crawling thing breaks forth the winged splendour of the butterfly—not +the same body—a new one built out of the ruins of the old—even as St. +Paul tells us that it is not the same body <i>we</i> have in the +resurrection, but a nobler body like ourselves, with all the imperfect +and evil thing taken away. No more creeping for the butterfly; wings of +splendour now. Neither yet has it lost the feet wherewith to alight on +all that is lovely and sweet. Think of it—up from the toilsome journey +over the low ground, exposed to the foot of every passer-by, destroying +the lovely leaves upon which it fed, and the fruit which they should +shelter, up to the path at will through the air, and a gathering of +food which hurts not the source of it, a food which is but as a tribute +from the loveliness of the flowers to the yet higher loveliness of the +flower-angel: is not this a resurrection? Its children too shall pass +through the same process, to wing the air of a summer noon, and rejoice +in the ethereal and the pure. +</p> + +<p> +"To return yet again from the human thoughts suggested by the symbol of +the butterfly"— +</p> + +<p> +Here let me pause for a moment—and there was a corresponding pause, +though but momentary, in the sermon as I spoke it—to mention a +curious, and to me at the moment an interesting fact. At this point of +my address, I caught sight of a white butterfly, a belated one, +flitting about the church. Absorbed for a moment, my eye wandered after +it. It was near the bench where my own people sat, and, for one flash +of thought, I longed that the butterfly would alight on my Wynnie, for +I was more anxious about her resurrection at the time than about +anything else. But the butterfly would not. And then I told myself that +God would, and that the butterfly was only the symbol of a grand truth, +and of no private interpretation, to make which of it was both +selfishness and superstition. But all this passed in a flash, and I +resumed my discourse. +</p> + +<p> +—"I come now naturally to speak of what we commonly call the +Resurrection. Some say: 'How can the same dust be raised again, when it +may be scattered to the winds of heaven?' It is a question I hardly +care to answer. The mere difficulty can in reason stand for nothing +with God; but the apparent worthlessness of the supposition renders the +question uninteresting to me. What is of import is, that I should stand +clothed upon, with a body which is <i>my</i> body because it serves my ends, +justifies my consciousness of identity by being, in all that was good +in it, like that which I had before, while now it is tenfold capable of +expressing the thoughts and feelings that move within me. How can I +care whether the atoms that form a certain inch of bone should be the +same as those which formed that bone when I died? All my life-time I +never felt or thought of the existence of such a bone! On the other +hand, I object to having the same worn muscles, the same shrivelled +skin with which I may happen to die. Why give me the same body as that? +Why not rather my youthful body, which was strong, and facile, and +capable? The matter in the muscle of my arm at death would not serve to +make half the muscle I had when young. But I thank God that St. Paul +says it will <i>not</i> be the same body. That body dies—up springs another +body. I suspect myself that those are right who say that this body +being the seed, the moment it dies in the soil of this world, that +moment is the resurrection of the new body. The life in it rises out of +it in a new body. This is not after it is put in the mere earth; for it +is dead then, and the germ of life gone out of it. If a seed rots, no +new body comes of it. The seed dies into a new life, and so does man. +Dying and rotting are two very different things.—But I am not sure by +any means. As I say, the whole question is rather uninteresting to me. +What do I care about my old clothes after I have done with them? What +is it to me to know what becomes of an old coat or an old pulpit gown? +I have no such clinging to the flesh. It seems to me that people +believe their bodies to be themselves, and are therefore very anxious +about them—and no wonder then. Enough for me that I shall have eyes to +see my friends, a face that they shall know me by, and a mouth to +praise God withal. I leave the matter with one remark, that I am well +content to rise as Jesus rose, however that was. For me the will of God +is so good that I would rather have his will done than my own choice +given me. +</p> + +<p> +"But I now come to the last, because infinitely the most important part +of my subject—the resurrection for the sake of which all the other +resurrections exist—the resurrection unto Life. This is the one of +which St. Paul speaks in my text. This is the one I am most +anxious—indeed, the only one I am anxious to set forth, and impress +upon you. +</p> + +<p> +"Think, then, of all the deaths you know; the death of the night, when +the sun is gone, when friend says not a word to friend, but both lie +drowned and parted in the sea of sleep; the death of the year, when +winter lies heavy on the graves of the children of summer, when the +leafless trees moan in the blasts from the ocean, when the beasts even +look dull and oppressed, when the children go about shivering with +cold, when the poor and improvident are miserable with suffering or +think of such a death of disease as befalls us at times, when the man +who says, 'Would God it were morning!' changes but his word, and not +his tune, when the morning comes, crying, 'Would God it were evening!' +when what life is left is known to us only by suffering, and hope is +amongst the things that were once and are no more—think of all these, +think of them all together, and you will have but the dimmest, faintest +picture of the death from which the resurrection of which I have now to +speak, is the rising. I shrink from the attempt, knowing how weak words +are to set forth <i>the</i> death, set forth <i>the</i> resurrection. Were I to +sit down to yonder organ, and crash out the most horrible dissonances +that ever took shape in sound, I should give you but a weak figure of +this death; were I capable of drawing from many a row of pipes an +exhalation of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet, such as Milton +himself could have invaded our ears withal, I could give you but a +faint figure of this resurrection. Nevertheless, I must try what I can +do in my own way. +</p> + +<p> +"If into the face of the dead body, lying on the bed, waiting for its +burial, the soul of the man should begin to dawn again, drawing near +from afar to look out once more at those eyes, to smile once again +through those lips, the change on that face would be indeed great and +wondrous, but nothing for marvel or greatness to that which passes on +the countenance, the very outward bodily face of the man who wakes from +his sleep, arises from the dead and receives light from Christ. Too +often indeed, the reposeful look on the face of the dead body would be +troubled, would vanish away at the revisiting of the restless ghost; +but when a man's own right true mind, which God made in him, is +restored to him again, and he wakes from the death of sin, then comes +the repose without the death. It may take long for the new spirit to +complete the visible change, but it begins at once, and will be +perfected. The bloated look of self-indulgence passes away like the +leprosy of Naaman, the cheek grows pure, the lips return to the smile +of hope instead of the grin of greed, and the eyes that made innocence +shrink and shudder with their yellow leer grow childlike and sweet and +faithful. The mammon-eyes, hitherto fixed on the earth, are lifted to +meet their kind; the lips that mumbled over figures and sums of gold +learn to say words of grace and tenderness. The truculent, repellent, +self-satisfied face begins to look thoughtful and doubtful, as if +searching for some treasure of whose whereabouts it had no certain +sign. The face anxious, wrinkled, peering, troubled, on whose lines you +read the dread of hunger, poverty, and nakedness, thaws into a smile; +the eyes reflect in courage the light of the Father's care, the back +grows erect under its burden with the assurance that the hairs of its +head are all numbered. But the face can with all its changes set but +dimly forth the rising from the dead which passes within. The heart, +which cared but for itself, becomes aware of surrounding thousands like +itself, in the love and care of which it feels a dawning blessedness +undreamt of before. From selfishness to love—is not this a rising from +the dead? The man whose ambition declares that his way in the world +would be to subject everything to his desires, to bring every human +care, affection, power, and aspiration to his feet—such a world it +would be, and such a king it would have, if individual ambition might +work its will! if a man's opinion of himself could be made out in the +world, degrading, compelling, oppressing, doing everything for his own +glory!—and such a glory!—but a pang of light strikes this man to the +heart; an arrow of truth, feathered with suffering and loss and dismay, +finds out—the open joint in his armour, I was going to say—no, finds +out the joint in the coffin where his heart lies festering in a death +so dead that itself calls it life. He trembles, he awakes, he rises +from the dead. No more he seeks the slavery of all: where can he find +whom to serve? how can he become if but a threshold in the temple of +Christ, where all serve all, and no man thinks first of himself? He to +whom the mass of his fellows, as he massed them, was common and +unclean, bows before every human sign of the presence of the making +God. The sun, which was to him but a candle with which to search after +his own ends, wealth, power, place, praise—the world, which was but +the cavern where he thus searched—are now full of the mystery of +loveliness, full of the truth of which sun and wind and land and sea +are symbols and signs. From a withered old age of unbelief, the dim +eyes of which refuse the glory of things a passage to the heart, he is +raised up a child full of admiration, wonder, and gladness. Everything +is glorious to him; he can believe, and therefore he sees. It is from +the grave into the sunshine, from the night into the morning, from +death into life. To come out of the ugly into the beautiful; out of the +mean and selfish into the noble and loving; out of the paltry into the +great; out of the false into the true; out of the filthy into the +clean; out of the commonplace into the glorious; out of the corruption +of disease into the fine vigour and gracious movements of health; in a +word, out of evil into good—is not this a resurrection indeed—<i>the</i> +resurrection of all, the resurrection of Life? God grant that with St. +Paul we may attain to this resurrection of the dead. +</p> + +<p> +"This rising from the dead is often a long and a painful process. Even +after he had preached the gospel to the Gentiles, and suffered much for +the sake of his Master, Paul sees the resurrection of the dead towering +grandly before him, not yet climbed, not yet attained unto—a +mountainous splendour and marvel, still shining aloft in the air of +existence, still, thank God, to be attained, but ever growing in height +and beauty as, forgetting those things that are behind, he presses +towards the mark, if by any means he may attain to the resurrection of +the dead. Every blessed moment in which a man bethinks himself that he +has been forgetting his high calling, and sends up to the Father a +prayer for aid; every time a man resolves that what he has been doing +he will do no more; every time that the love of God, or the feeling of +the truth, rouses a man to look first up at the light, then down at the +skirts of his own garments—that moment a divine resurrection is +wrought in the earth. Yea, every time that a man passes from resentment +to forgiveness, from cruelty to compassion, from hardness to +tenderness, from indifference to carefulness, from selfishness to +honesty, from honesty to generosity, from generosity to love,—a +resurrection, the bursting of a fresh bud of life out of the grave of +evil, gladdens the eye of the Father watching his children. Awake, +then, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give +thee light. As the harvest rises from the wintry earth, so rise thou up +from the trials of this world a full ear in the harvest of Him who +sowed thee in the soil that thou mightest rise above it. As the summer +rises from the winter, so rise thou from the cares of eating and +drinking and clothing into the fearless sunshine of confidence in the +Father. As the morning rises out of the night, so rise thou from the +darkness of ignorance to do the will of God in the daylight; and as a +man feels that he is himself when he wakes from the troubled and +grotesque visions of the night into the glory of the sunrise, even so +wilt thou feel that then first thou knowest what thy life, the gladness +of thy being, is. As from painful tossing in disease, rise into the +health of well-being. As from the awful embrace of thy own dead body, +burst forth in thy spiritual body. Arise thou, responsive to the +indwelling will of the Father, even as thy body will respond to thy +indwelling soul. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + 'White wings are crossing;<br /> + Glad waves are tossing;<br /> + The earth flames out in crimson and green:<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Spring is appearing,<br /> + Summer is nearing—<br /> + Where hast thou been?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Down in some cavern,<br /> + Death's sleepy tavern,<br /> + Housing, carousing with spectres of night?<br /> + The trumpet is pealing<br /> + Sunshine and healing—<br /> + Spring to the light.'"<br /> +</p> + +<p> +With this quotation from a friend's poem, I closed my sermon, oppressed +with a sense of failure; for ever the marvel of simple awaking, the +mere type of the resurrection eluded all my efforts to fix it in words. +I had to comfort myself with the thought that God is so strong that he +can work even with our failures. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="finis"> +END OF VOL. II. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 2 *** + +***** This file should be named 8552-h.htm or 8552-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8552/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al +Haines. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 Vol. 2 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8552] +Release Date: July, 2005 +First Posted: July 22, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 2 *** + + + + +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. II. + + + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. + + + I. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING + II. NICEBOOTS + III. THE BLACKSMITH + IV. THE LIFE-BOAT + V. MR. PERCIVALE + VI. THE SHADOW OF DEATH + VII. AT THE FARM + VIII. THE KEEVE + IX. THE WALK TO CHURCH + X. THE OLD CASTLE + XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE + XII. A SMALL ADVENTURE + XIII. THE HARVEST + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + + +In the evening we met in Connie's room, as usual, to have our talk. And +this is what came out of it. + +The window was open. The sun was in the west. We sat a little aside out +of the course of his radiance, and let him look full into the room. +Only Wynnie sat back in a dark corner, as if she would get out of his +way. Below him the sea lay bluer than you could believe even when you +saw it--blue with a delicate yet deep silky blue, the exquisiteness of +which was thrown up by the brilliant white lines of its lapping on the +high coast, to the northward. We had just sat down, when Dora broke out +with-- + +"I saw Niceboots at church. He did stare at you, papa, as if he had +never heard a sermon before." + +"I daresay he never heard such a sermon before!" said Connie, with the +perfect confidence of inexperience and partiality--not to say +ignorance, seeing she had not heard the sermon herself. + +Here Wynnie spoke from her dark corner, apparently forcing herself to +speak, and thereby giving what seemed an unpleasant tone to what she +said. + +"Well, papa, I don't know what to think. You are always telling us to +trust in Him; but how can we, if we are not good?" + +"The first good thing you can do is to look up to him. That is the +beginning of trust in him, and the most sensible thing that it is +possible for us to do. That is faith." + +"But it's no use sometimes." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you--I mean I--can't feel good, or care about it at all." + +"But is that any ground for saying that it is no use--that he does not +heed you? that he disregards the look cast up to him? that, till the +heart goes with the will, he who made himself strong to be the helper +of the weak, who pities most those who are most destitute--and who so +destitute as those who do not love what they want to love--except, +indeed, those who don't want to love?--that, till you are well on +towards all right by earnestly seeking it, he won't help you? You are +to judge him from yourself, are you?--forgetting that all the misery in +you is just because you have not got his grand presence with you?" + +I spoke so earnestly as to be somewhat incoherent in words. But my +reader will understand. Wynnie was silent. Connie, as if partly to help +her sister, followed on the same side. + +"I don't know exactly how to say what I mean, papa, but I wish I could +get this lovely afternoon, all full of sunshine and blue, into unity +with all that you teach us about Jesus Christ. I wish this beautiful +day came in with my thought of him, like the frame--gold and red and +blue--that you have to that picture of him at home. Why doesn't it?" + +"Just because you have not enough of faith in him, my dear. You do not +know him well enough yet. You do not yet believe that he means you all +gladness, heartily, honestly, thoroughly." + +"And no suffering, papa?" + +"I did not say that, my dear. There you are on your couch and can't +move. But he does mean you such gladness, such a full sunny air and +blue sea of blessedness that this suffering shall count for little in +it; nay more, shall be taken in for part, and, like the rocks that +interfere with the roll of the sea, flash out the white that glorifies +and intensifies the whole--to pass away by and by, I trust, none the +less. What a chance you have, my Connie, of believing in him, of +offering upon his altar!" + +"But," said my wife, "are not these feelings in a great measure +dependent upon the state of one's health? I find it so different when +the sunshine is inside me as well as outside me." + +"Not a doubt of it, my dear. But that is only the more reason for +rising above all that. From the way some people speak of physical +difficulties--I don't mean you, wife--you would think that they were +not merely the inevitable which they are, but the insurmountable which +they are not. That they are physical and not spiritual is not only a +great consolation, but a strong argument for overcoming them. For all +that is physical is put, or is in the process of being put, under the +feet of the spiritual. Do not mistake me. I do not say you can make +yourself feel merry or happy when you are in a physical condition which +is contrary to such mental condition. But you can withdraw from it--not +all at once; but by practice and effort you can learn to withdraw from +it, refusing to allow your judgments and actions to be ruled by it. You +can climb up out of the fogs, and sit quiet in the sunlight on the +hillside of faith. You cannot be merry down below in the fog, for there +is the fog; but you can every now and then fly with the dove-wings of +the soul up into the clear, to remind yourself that all this passes +away, is but an accident, and that the sun shines always, although it +may not at any given moment be shining on you. 'What does that matter?' +you will learn to say. 'It is enough for me to know that the sun does +shine, and that this is only a weary fog that is round about me for the +moment. I shall come out into the light beyond presently.' This is +faith--faith in God, who is the light, and is all in all. I believe +that the most glorious instances of calmness in suffering are thus +achieved; that the sufferers really do not suffer what one of us would +if thrown into their physical condition without the refuge of their +spiritual condition as well; for they have taken refuge in the inner +chamber. Out of the spring of their life a power goes forth that +quenches the flames of the furnace of their suffering, so far at least +that it does not touch the deep life, cannot make them miserable, does +not drive them from the possession of their soul in patience, which is +the divine citadel of the suffering. Do you understand me, Connie?" + +"I do, papa. I think perfectly." + +"Still less, then, is the fact that the difficulty is physical to be +used as an excuse for giving way to ill-temper, and, in fact, leaving +ourselves to be tossed and shaken by every tremble of our nerves. That +is as if a man should give himself into the hands and will and caprice +of an organ-grinder, to work upon him, not with the music of the +spheres, but with the wretched growling of the streets." + +"But," said Wynnie, "I have heard you yourself, papa, make excuse for +people's ill-temper on this very ground, that they were out of health. +Indeed," she went on, half-crying, "I have heard you do so for myself, +when you did not know that I was within hearing." + +"Yes, my dear, most assuredly. It is no fiction, but a real difference +that lies between excusing ourselves and excusing other people. No +doubt the same excuse is just for ourselves that is just for other +people. But we can do something to put ourselves right upon a higher +principle, and therefore we should not waste our time in excusing, or +even in condemning ourselves, but make haste up the hill. Where we +cannot work--that is, in the life of another--we have time to make all +the excuse we can. Nay more; it is only justice there. We are not bound +to insist on our own rights, even of excuse; the wisest thing often is +to forego them. But we are bound by heaven, earth, and hell to give +them to other people. And, besides, what a comfort to ourselves to be +able to say, 'It is true So-and-so was cross to-day. But it wasn't in +the least that he wasn't friendly, or didn't like me; it was only that +he had eaten something that hadn't agreed with him. I could see it in +his eye. He had one of his headaches.' Thus, you see, justice to our +neighbour, and comfort to ourselves, is one and the same thing. But it +would be a sad thing to have to think that when we found ourselves in +the same ungracious condition, from whatever cause, we had only to +submit to it, saying, 'It is a law of nature,' as even those who talk +most about laws will not do, when those laws come between them and +their own comfort. They are ready enough then to call in the aid of +higher laws, which, so far from being contradictory, overrule the lower +to get things into something like habitable, endurable condition. It +may be a law of nature; but what has the Law of the Spirit of Life to +_propound anent_ it? as the Scotch lawyers would say." + +A little pause followed, during which I hope some of us were thinking. +That Wynnie, at least, was, her next question made evident. + +"What you say about a law of nature and a law of the Spirit makes me +think again how that walking on the water has always been a puzzle to +me." + +"It could hardly be other, seeing that we cannot possibly understand +it," I answered. + +"But I find it so hard to believe. Can't you say something, papa, to +help me to believe it?" + +"I think if you admit what goes before, you will find there is nothing +against reason in the story." + +"Tell me, please, what you mean." + +"If all things were made by Jesus, the Word of God, would it be +reasonable that the water that he had created should be able to drown +him?" + +"It might drown his body." + +"It would if he had not the power over it still, to prevent it from +laying hold of him. But just think for a moment. God is a Spirit. +Spirit is greater than matter. Spirit makes matter. Think what it was +for a human body to have such a divine creative power dwelling in it as +that which dwelt in the human form of Jesus! What power, and influence, +and utter rule that spirit must have over the body in which it dwells! +We cannot imagine how much; but if we have so much power over our +bodies, how much more must the pure, divine Jesus, have had over his! I +suspect this miracle was wrought, not through anything done to the +water, but through the power of the spirit over the body of Jesus, +which was all obedient thereto. I am not explaining the miracle, for +that I cannot do. One day I think it will be plain common sense to us. +But now I am only showing you what seems to me to bring us a step +nearer to the essential region of the miracle, and so far make it +easier to believe. If we look at the history of our Lord, we shall find +that, true real human body as his was, it was yet used by his spirit +after a fashion in which we cannot yet use our bodies. And this is only +reasonable. Let me give you an instance. You remember how, on the Mount +of Transfiguration, that body shone so that the light of it illuminated +all his garments. You do not surely suppose that this shine was +external--physical light, as we say, _merely?_ No doubt it was physical +light, for how else would their eyes have seen it? But where did it +come from? What was its source? I think it was a natural outburst of +glory from the mind of Jesus, filled with the perfect life of communion +with his Father--the light of his divine blessedness taking form in +physical radiance that permeated and glorified all that surrounded him. +As the body is the expression of the soul, as the face of Jesus himself +was the expression of the being, the thought, the love of Jesus in like +manner this radiance was the natural expression of his gladness, even +in the face of that of which they had been talking--Moses, Elias, and +he--namely, the decease that he should accomplish at Jerusalem. Again, +after his resurrection, he convinced the hands, as well as eyes, of +doubting Thomas, that he was indeed there in the body; and yet that +body could appear and disappear as the Lord willed. All this is full of +marvel, I grant you; but probably far more intelligible to us in a +further state of existence than some of the most simple facts with +regard to our own bodies are to us now, only that we are so used to +them that we never think how unintelligible they really are." + +"But then about Peter, papa? What you have been saying will not apply +to Peter's body, you know." + +"I confess there is more difficulty there. But if you can suppose that +such power were indwelling in Jesus, you cannot limit the sphere of its +action. As he is the head of the body, his church, in all spiritual +things, so I firmly believe, however little we can understand about it, +is he in all natural things as well. Peter's faith in him brought even +Peter's body within the sphere of the outgoing power of the Master. Do +you suppose that because Peter ceased to be brave and trusting, +therefore Jesus withdrew from him some sustaining power, and allowed +him to sink? I do not believe it. I believe Peter's sinking followed +naturally upon his loss of confidence. Thus he fell away from the life +of the Master; was no longer, in that way I mean, connected with the +Head, was instantly under the dominion of the natural law of +gravitation, as we call it, and began to sink. Therefore the Lord must +take other means to save him. He must draw nigh to him in a bodily +manner. The pride of Peter had withdrawn him from the immediate +spiritual influence of Christ, conquering his matter; and therefore the +Lord must come over the stormy space between, come nearer to him in the +body, and from his own height of safety above the sphere of the natural +law, stretch out to him the arm of physical aid, lift him up, lead him +to the boat. The whole salvation of the human race is figured in this +story. It is all Christ, my love.--Does this help you to believe at +all?" + +"I think it does, papa. But it wants thinking over a good deal. I +always find as I think, that lighter bits shine out here and there in a +thing I have no hope of understanding altogether. That always helps me +to believe that the rest might be understood too, if I were only clever +enough." + +"Simple enough, not clever enough, my dear." + +"But there's one thing," said my wife, "that is more interesting to me +than what you have been talking about. It is the other instances in the +life of St. Peter in which you said he failed in a similar manner from +pride or self-satisfaction." + +"One, at least, seems to me very clear. You have often remarked to me, +Ethel, how little praise servants can stand; how almost invariably +after you have commended the diligence or skill of any of your +household, as you felt bound to do, one of the first visible results +was either a falling away in the performance by which she had gained +the praise, or a more or less violent access, according to the nature +of the individual, of self-conceit, soon breaking out in bad temper or +impertinence. Now you will see precisely the same kind of thing in +Peter." + +Here I opened my New Testament, and read fragmentarily, "'But whom say +ye that I am?... Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.... +Blessed art thou, Simon.... My Father hath revealed that unto thee. I +will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.... I must suffer +many things, and be killed, and be raised again the third day.... Be it +far from thee, Lord. This shall not be unto thee.... Get thee behind +me, Satan. Thou art an offence unto me.' Just contemplate the change +here in the words of our Lord. 'Blessed art thou.' 'Thou art an offence +unto me.' Think what change has passed on Peter's mood before the +second of these words could be addressed to him to whom the first had +just been spoken. The Lord had praised him. Peter grew self-sufficient, +even to the rebuking of him whose praise had so uplifted him. But it is +ever so. A man will gain a great moral victory: glad first, then +uplifted, he will fall before a paltry temptation. I have sometimes +wondered, too, whether his denial of our Lord had anything to do with +his satisfaction with himself for making that onslaught upon the high +priest's servant. It was a brave thing and a faithful to draw a single +sword against a multitude. In his fiery eagerness and inexperience, the +blow, well meant to cleave Malchus's head, missed, and only cut off his +ear; but Peter had herein justified his confident saying that he would +not deny him. He was not one to deny his Lord who had been the first to +confess him! Yet ere the cock had crowed, ere the morning had dawned, +the vulgar grandeur of the palace of the high priest (for let it be art +itself, it was vulgar grandeur beside that grandeur which it caused +Peter to deny), and the accusing tone of a maid-servant, were enough to +make him quail whom the crowd with lanterns, and torches, and weapons, +had only roused to fight. True, he was excited then, and now he was +cold in the middle of the night, with Jesus gone from his sight a +prisoner, and for the faces of friends that had there surrounded him +and strengthened him with their sympathy, now only the faces of those +who were, or whom at least Peter thought to be on the other side, +looking at him curiously, as a strange intruder into their domains. +Alas, that the courage which led him to follow the Lord should have +thus led him, not to deny him, but into the denial of him! Yet why +should I say _alas?_ If the denial of our Lord lay in his heart a +possible thing, only prevented by his being kept in favourable +circumstances for confessing him, it was a thousand times better that +he should deny him, and thus know what a poor weak thing that heart of +his was, trust it no more, and give it up to the Master to make it +strong, and pure, and grand. For such an end the Lord was willing to +bear all the pain of Peter's denial. O, the love of that Son of Man, +who in the midst of all the wretched weaknesses of those who surrounded +him, loved the best in them, and looked forward to his own victory for +them that they might become all that they were meant to be--like him; +that the lovely glimmerings of truth and love that were in them +now--the breakings forth of the light that lighteneth every man--might +grow into the perfect human day; loving them even the more that they +were so helpless, so oppressed, so far from that ideal which was their +life, and which all their dim desires were reaching after!" + +Here I ceased, and a little overcome with the great picture in my soul +to which I had been able only to give the poorest expression, rose, and +retired to my own room. There I could only fall on my knees and pray +that the Lord Christ, who had died for me, might have his own way with +me--that it might be worth his while to have done what he did and what +he was doing now for me. To my Elder Brother, my Lord, and my God, I +gave myself yet again, confidently, because he cared to have me, and my +very breath was his. I _would_ be what he wanted, who knew all about +it, and had done everything that I might be a son of God--a living +glory of gladness. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +NICEBOOTS. + + +The next morning the captain of the lost vessel called upon me early to +thank me for himself and his men. He was a fine honest-looking burly +fellow, dressed in blue from head to heel. He might have sat for a +portrait of Chaucer's shipman, as far as his hue and the first look of +him went. It was clear that "in many a tempest had his beard be shake," +and certainly "the hote somer had made his hew all broun;" but farther +the likeness would hardly go, for the "good fellow" which Chaucer +applies with such irony to the shipman of his time, who would filch +wine, and drown all the captives he made in a sea-fight, was clearly +applicable in good earnest to this shipman. Still, I thought I had +something to bring against him, and therefore before we parted I said +to him-- + +"They tell me, captain, that your vessel was not seaworthy, and that +you could not but have known that." + +"She was my own craft, sir, and I judged her fit for several voyages +more. If she had been A 1 she couldn't have been mine; and a man must +do what he can for his family." + +"But you were risking your life, you know." + +"A few chances more or less don't much signify to a sailor, sir. There +ain't nothing to be done without risk. You'll find an old tub go voyage +after voyage, and she beyond bail, and a clipper fresh off the stocks +go down in the harbour. It's all in the luck, sir, I assure you." + +"Well, if it were your own life I should have nothing to say, seeing +you have a family to look after; but what about the poor fellows who +made the voyage with you? Did they know what kind of a vessel they were +embarking in?" + +"Wherever the captain's ready to go he'll always find men ready to +follow him. Bless you, sir, they never asks no questions. If a sailor +was always to be thinking of the chances, he'd never set his foot off +shore." + +"Still, I don't think it's right they shouldn't know." + +"I daresay they knowed all about the old brig as well as I did myself. +You gets to know all about a craft just as you do about her captain. +She's got a character of her own, and she can't hide it long, any more +than you can hide yours, sir, begging your pardon." + +"I daresay that's all correct, but still I shouldn't like anyone to say +to me, 'You ought to have told me, captain.' Therefore, you see, I'm +telling you, captain, and now I'm clear.--Have a glass of wine before +you go," I concluded, ringing the bell. + +"Thank you, sir. I'll turn over what you've been saying, and anyhow I +take it kind of you." + +So we parted. I have never seen him since, and shall not, most likely, +in this world. But he looked like a man that could understand why and +wherefore I spoke as I did. And I had the advantage of having had a +chance of doing something for him first of all. Let no man who wants to +do anything for the soul of a man lose a chance of doing something for +his body. He ought to be willing, and ready, which is more than +willing, to do that whether or not; but there are those who need this +reminder. Of many a soul Jesus laid hold by healing the suffering the +body brought upon it. No one but himself can tell how much the nucleus +of the church was composed of and by those who had received health from +his hands, loving-kindness from the word of his mouth. My own opinion +is that herein lay the very germ of the kernel of what is now the +ancient, was then the infant church; that from them, next to the +disciples themselves, went forth the chief power of life in love, for +they too had seen the Lord, and in their own humble way could preach +and teach concerning him. What memories of him theirs must have been! + +Things went on very quietly, that is, as I mean now, from the +view-point of a historian, without much to record bearing notably upon +after events, for the greater part of the next week. I wandered about +my parish, making acquaintance with different people in an outside sort +of way, only now and then finding an opportunity of seeing into their +souls except by conclusion. But I enjoyed endlessly the aspects of the +country. It was not picturesque except in parts. There was little wood +and there were no hills, only undulations, though many of them were +steep enough even from a pedestrian's point of view. Neither, however, +were there any plains except high moorland tracts. But the impression +of the whole country was large, airy, sunshiny, and it was clasped in +the arms of the infinite, awful, yet how bountiful sea--if one will +look at the ocean in its world-wide, not to say its eternal aspects, +and not out of the fears of a hidebound love of life! The sea and the +sky, I must confess, dwarfed the earth, made it of small account beside +them; but who could complain of such an influence? At least, not I. + +My children bathed in this sea every day, and gathered strength and +knowledge from it. It was, as I have indicated, a dangerous coast to +bathe upon. The sweep of the tides varied with the varying sands that +were cast up. There was now in one place, now in another, a strong +_undertow_, as they called it--a reflux, that is, of the inflowing +waters, which was quite sufficient to carry those who could not swim +out into the great deep, and rendered much exertion necessary, even in +those who could, to regain the shore. But there was a fine strong +Cornish woman to take charge of the ladies and the little boys, and +she, watching the ways of the wild monster, knew the when and the +where, and all about it. + +Connie got out upon the downs every day. She improved in health +certainly, and we thought a little even in her powers of motion. The +weather continued superb. What rain there was fell at night, just +enough for Nature to wash her face with and so look quite fresh in the +morning. We contrived a dinner on the sands on the other side of the +bay, for the Friday of this same week. + +The morning rose gloriously. Harry and Charlie were turning the house +upside down, to judge by their noise, long before I was in the humour +to get up, for I had been reading late the night before. I never made +much objection to mere noise, knowing that I could stop it the moment I +pleased, and knowing, which was of more consequence, that so far from +there being anything wrong in making a noise, the sea would make noise +enough in our ears before we left Kilkhaven. The moment, however, that +I heard a thread of whining or a burst of anger in the noise, I would +interfere at once--treating these just as things that must be dismissed +at once. Harry and Charlie were, I say, to use their own form of +speech, making such a row that morning, however, that I was afraid of +some injury to the house or furniture, which were not our own. So I +opened my door and called out-- + +"Harry! Charlie! What on earth are you about?" + +"Nothing, papa," answered Charlie. "Only it's so jolly!" + +"What is jolly, my boy?" I asked. + +"O, I don't know, papa! It's _so_ jolly!" + +"Is it the sunshine?" thought I; "and the wind? God's world all over? +The God of gladness in the hearts of the lads? Is it that? No wonder, +then, that they cannot tell yet what it is!" + +I withdrew into my room; and so far from seeking to put an end to the +noise--I knew Connie did not mind it--listened to it with a kind of +reverence, as the outcome of a gladness which the God of joy had +kindled in their hearts. Soon after, however, I heard certain dim +growls of expostulation from Harry, and having, from experience, ground +for believing that the elder was tyrannising over the younger, I +stopped that and the noise together, sending Charlie to find out where +the tide would be between one and two o'clock, and Harry to run to the +top of the hill, and find out the direction of the wind. Before I was +dressed, Charlie was knocking at my door with the news that it would be +half-tide about one; and Harry speedily followed with the discovery +that the wind was north-east by south-west, which of course determined +that the sun would shine all day. + +As the dinner-hour drew near, the servants went over, with Walter at +their head, to choose a rock convenient for a table, under the shelter +of the rocks on the sands across the bay. Thither, when Walter +returned, we bore our Connie, carrying her litter close by the edge of +the retreating tide, which sometimes broke in a ripple of music under +her, wetting our feet with innocuous rush. The child's delight was +extreme, as she thus skimmed the edge of the ocean, with the little +ones gambolling about her, and her mamma and Wynnie walking quietly on +the landward side, for she wished to have no one between her and the +sea. + +After scrambling with difficulty over some rocky ledges, and stopping +at Connie's request, to let her look into a deep pool in the sand, +which somehow or other retained the water after the rest had retreated, +we set her down near the mouth of a cave, in the shadow of a rock. And +there was our dinner nicely laid for us on a flat rock in front of the +cave. The cliffs rose behind us, with curiously curved and variously +angled strata. The sun in his full splendour threw dark shadows on the +brilliant yellow sand, more and more of which appeared as the bright +blue water withdrew itself, now rippling over it as if it meant to hide +it all up again, now uncovering more as it withdrew for another rush. +Before we had finished our dinner, the foremost wavelets appeared so +far away over the plain of the sand, that it seemed a long walk to the +edge that had been almost at our feet a little while ago. Between us +and it lay a lovely desert of glittering sand. + +When even Charlie and Harry had arrived at the conclusion that it was +time to stop eating, we left the shadow and went out into the sun, +carrying Connie and laying her down in the midst of "the ribbed +sea-sand," which was very ribby to-day. On a shawl a little way off +from her lay her baby, crowing and kicking with the same jollity that +had possessed the boys ever since the morning. I wandered about with +Wynnie on the sands, picking up amongst other things strange creatures +in thin shells ending in vegetable-like tufts, if I remember rightly. +My wife sat on the end of Connie's litter, and Dora and the boys, a +little way off, were trying how far the full force of three wooden +spades could, in digging a hole, keep ahead of the water which was ever +tumbling in the sand from the sides of the same. Behind, the servants +were busy washing the plates in a pool, and burying the fragments of +the feast; for I made it a rule wherever we went that the fair face of +nature was not to be defiled. I have always taken the part of +excursionists in these latter days of running to and fro, against those +who complain that the loveliest places are being destroyed by their +inroads. But there is one most offensive, even disgusting habit amongst +them--that of leaving bones, fragments of meat pies, and worse than +all, pieces of greasy paper about the place, which I cannot excuse, or +at least defend. Even the surface of Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes +will be defiled with these floating abominations--not abominations at +all if they are decently burned or buried when done with, but certainly +abominations when left to be cast hither and thither in the wind, over +the grass, or on the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for days after +those who have thus left their shame behind them have returned to their +shops or factories. I forgive them for trampling down the grass and the +ferns. That cannot be helped, and in comparison of the good they get, +is not to be considered at all. But why should they leave such a savage +trail behind them as this, forgetting too that though they have done +with the spot, there are others coming after them to whom these +remnants must be an offence? + +At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of +rock, rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came +suddenly upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with +a small easel before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had +his back towards us, so that we saw at once what he was painting. + +"O, papa!" cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round. + +"I beg your pardon," I said. "We came over from the other side, and did +not see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much." + +"Not in the least," he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke. + +I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had +been making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay +on the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the +same direction now. + +"Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?" + +"Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember +that most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage," he +answered. + +I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark. + +"Here is no common man," I said to myself, and responded to him in +something of a similar style. + +"I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings +themselves, as well as their works," I said aloud. + +The painter looked at me, and I looked at him. + +"We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume," +he said. + +"But," I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his +easel, "your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to +nothing--perhaps I ought to say nothing at all--this picture must have +long ago passed the chaotic stage." + +"It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it," he returned. "I +hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather +pleasing, my own fancy at present." + +"Apparently," I remarked, "you had the conical rock outside the hay for +your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards +it. How is that?" + +"I will soon explain," he answered. "The moment I saw this rock, it +reminded me of Dante's Purgatory." + +"Ah, you are a reader of Dante?" I said. "In the original, I hope." + +"Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going +with that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never +knew what intensity _per se_ was till I began to read Dante." + +"That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture." + +"Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it +suggest the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given +of the place _ab extra_ by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth +canto of the Inferno. Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet +it has certain mountain forms about it. I have put it at a much greater +distance, you see, and have sought to make it look a solitary mountain +in the midst of a great water. You will discover even now that the +circles of the Purgatory are suggested without any approach, I think, +to artificial structure; and there are occasional hints at figures, +which you cannot definitely detach from the rocks--which, by the way, +you must remember, were in one part full of sculptures. I have kept the +mountain near enough, however, to indicate the great expanse of wild +flowers on the top, which Matilda was so busy gathering. I want to +indicate too the wind up there in the terrestrial paradise, ever and +always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. Walton?"--for the young man, +getting animated, began to talk as if we had known each other for some +time--and here he repeated the purport of Dante's words in English: + + "An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow, + With no more strength than in a soft wind lies, + Smote peacefully against me on the brow. + By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise, + Did every one bend thitherward to where + The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise." + +"I thought you said you did not use translations?" + +"I thought it possible that--Miss Walton (?)" interrogatively +this--"might not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem +pedantic." + +"She won't lag far behind, I flatter myself," I returned. "Whose +translation do you quote?" + +He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly: + +"I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself." + +"It has the merit of being near the original at least," I returned; +"and that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can +possess." + +"Then," the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further +remark upon his verses, "you see those white things in the air above?" +Here he turned to Wynnie. "Miss Walton will remember--I think she was +making a drawing of the rock at the same time I was--how the seagulls, +or some such birds--only two or three of them--kept flitting about the +top of it?" + +"I remember quite well," answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me. + +"Yes," I interposed; "my daughter, in describing what she had been +attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For +she said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to +get loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, +and risen in triumph into the air." + +Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, +looked at Wynnie almost with a start. + +"How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!" he said. +"Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the +free souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind +of purgatory anyhow--is it not, Mr. Walton?" + +"Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work +is--whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious +stones." + +"You see," resumed the painter, "if anybody only glanced at my little +picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, +and began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and +Beatrice on their way to the sphere of the moon." + +"In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of +corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what +group of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the +things of nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?" + +"I am no theologian," said the painter, turning away, I thought +somewhat coldly. + +But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she +thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for +her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my +way of it: here might be something new. + +"If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be +happy," he said, turning again towards me. + +But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I +received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not +wish to make more marked than his own towards my last observation. + +"You are very kind," I said; "but Miss Walton does not presume to be an +artist." + +I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie's countenance. When I turned to +Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had +said something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste +to make amends. + +"We are just going to have some coffee," I said, "for my servants, I +see, have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to +introduce you to Mrs. Walton?" + +"With much pleasure," he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he +spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a +fine-built, black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes +notwithstanding, a rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But +there was an air of suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, +did not in the least interfere with the manliness of his countenance, +or of its expression. + +"But," I said, "how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet +know your name." + +I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr. +Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied, + +"My name is Percivale--Charles Percivale." + +"A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur's Round Table?" + +"I cannot count quite so far back," he answered, "as that--not quite to +the Conquest," he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. +"I do come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale." + +We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves +towards the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and +Wynnie lingering behind. + +"O, do look here papa!" she cried, from some little distance. + +We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet. +Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles, +which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and +passing out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and +not always, I do not know. But there they were--and such colours! deep +rose and grassy green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, +yet brilliant and intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were +of a solid-looking burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on +behind translucent crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth +turning to see; and so I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on +vanishing, one by one. Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and +was nowhere. + +We walked away again towards the rest of our party. + +"Don't you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones +you ever saw, papa?" + +"Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, +God seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal." + +"And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?' she said +interrogatively. + +"Many--perhaps most flowers are," I granted. "And did you ever see such +curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?" + +"I think not--in the cirrhous clouds at least--the frozen ones. But +what are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?" + +"O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end +with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to +answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one +of us should ask you some day." + +"No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my +children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children +should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or +that by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have +found out some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your +catechism, Wynnie. Now for your puzzle!" + +"It's not a funny question, papa; it's a very serious one. I can't +think why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful +things wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be +no more. Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?" + +"In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we +will not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the +more material loveliness of which you have been speaking--though, in +truth, no loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; +it is, I think, because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all +beautiful things vanish quickly." + +"I do not understand you, papa." + +"I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr. +Percivale will excuse me." + +"On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the +answer." + +"Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something +like them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to +love the body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die +continually, that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is +full of beautiful things, but God has saved many men from loving the +mere bodies of them, by making them poor; and more still by reminding +them that if they be as rich as Croesus all their lives, they will be +as poor as Diogenes--poorer, without even a tub--when this world, with +all its pictures, scenery, books, and--alas for some +Christians!--bibles even, shall have vanished away." + +"Why do you say _alas_, papa--if they are Christians especially?" + +"I say _alas_ only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean such +as are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving +themselves any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the +anise and cummin, and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These +worship the body of the truth, and forget the soul of it. If the +flowers were not perishable, we should cease to contemplate their +beauty, either blinded by the passion for hoarding the bodies of them, +or dulled by the hebetude of commonplaceness that the constant presence +of them would occasion. To compare great things with small, the flowers +wither, the bubbles break, the clouds and sunsets pass, for the very +same holy reason, in the degree of its application to them, for which +the Lord withdrew from his disciples and ascended again to his +Father--that the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Soul of things, +might come to them and abide with them, and so the Son return, and the +Father be revealed. The flower is not its loveliness, and its +loveliness we must love, else we shall only treat them as flower-greedy +children, who gather and gather, and fill hands and baskets, from a +mere desire of acquisition, excusable enough in them, but the same in +kind, however harmless in mode, and degree, and object, as the avarice +of the miser. Therefore God, that we may always have them, and ever +learn to love their beauty, and yet more their truth, sends the +beneficent winter that we may think about what we have lost, and +welcome them when they come again with greater tenderness and love, +with clearer eyes to see, and purer hearts to understand, the spirit +that dwells in them. We cannot do without the 'winter of our +discontent.' Shakspere surely saw that when he makes Titania say, in _A +Midsummer Night's Dream_: + + 'The human mortals want their winter here'-- + +namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter +the line seem to have been capable of understanding its import." + +"I think I understand you a little," answered Wynnie. Then, changing +her tone, "I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn't I?" + +"Yes, my child; but with this difference--I found the answer to meet my +own necessities, not yours." + +"And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it." + +"Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you +give away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right +to offer any spiritual dish to his neighbour." + +Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had +presented him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects +by a somewhat stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation +into a farewell, and, either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having +changed his mind, withdrew, a little to my disappointment, for, +notwithstanding his lack of response where some things he said would +have led me to expect it, I had begun to feel much interested in him. + +He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her +digging, with an eager look on her sunny face. + +"Hasn't he got nice boots, papa?" + +"Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I +never saw his boots." + +"I did, then," returned the child; "and I never saw such nice boots." + +"I accept the statement willingly," I replied; and we heard no more of +the boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did I +see himself again for some days--not in fact till next Sunday--though +why he should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, +especially when I knew him better. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE BLACKSMITH. + + +The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. +It was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on the +first to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the +village, I soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have +no doubt, could shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any +greater delicacy of touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I +heard of a young smith who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of +miles distant, but still within the parish. In the afternoon I set out +to find him. To my surprise, he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking +man, with a huge frame, which appeared worn rather than naturally thin, +and large eyes that looked at the anvil as if it was the horizon of the +world. He had got a horse-shoe in his tongs when I entered. +Notwithstanding the fire that glowed on the hearth, and the sparks that +flew like a nimbus in eruption from about his person, the place looked +very dark to me entering from the glorious blaze of the almost noontide +sun, and felt cool after the deep lane through which I had come, and +which had seemed a very reservoir of sunbeams. I could see the smith by +the glow of his horse-shoe; but all between me and the shoe was dark. + +"Good-morning," I said. "It is a good thing to find a man by his work. +I heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the +glow of your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire." + +He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly +as if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip. + +"I don't know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in +weather like this," he answered. + +"If I did not," I returned, "that would be the fault of my weakness, +and would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine +thing to work in fire." + +"Well, you may be right," he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the +horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next +let the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his +head for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. "It does +not much matter to me," he went on, "if I only get through my work and +have done with it. No man shall say I shirked what I'd got to do. And +then when it's over there won't be a word to say agen me, or--" + +He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying +in a somewhat dreary patch, if the word _dreary_ can be truly used with +respect to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor. + +"I hope you are not ill," I said. + +He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam +one of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and +put it on the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it +in the fire, and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. "This man +will do for my work," I said to myself; "though I should not wonder +from the look of him if it was the last piece of work he ever did under +the New Jerusalem." The smith's words broke in on my meditations. + +"When I was a little boy," he said, "I once wanted to stay at home from +school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. +I told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped +her at her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in +the afternoon the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he +asked me what was the matter with me, and my mother answered for me +that I had a bad head, and he looked at me; and as my head was quite +well by this time, I could not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, +I suppose, sir, for I can't account for what he said any other way; and +he turned to me, and he said to me, solemn-like, 'Is your head bad +enough to send you to the Lord Jesus to make you whole?' I could not +speak a word, partly from bashfulness, I suppose, for I was but ten +years old. So he followed it up, as they say: 'Then you ought to be at +school,' says he. I said nothing, because I couldn't. But never since +then have I given in as long as I could stand. And I can stand now, and +lift my hammer, too," he said, as he took the horse-shoe from the +forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a nimbus of coruscating +iron. + +"You are just the man I want," I said. "I've got a job for you, down to +Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts." + +"What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha' thought the +church was all spick and span by this time." + +"I see you know who I am," I said. + +"Of course I do," he answered. "I don't go to church myself, being +brought up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is +known the next day all over it." + +"You won't mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?" I +asked. + +"Not I, sir. If I've read right, it's the fault of the Church that we +don't pull all alongside. You turned us out, sir; we didn't go out of +ourselves. At least, if all they say is true, which I can't be sure of, +you know, in this world." + +"You are quite right there though," I answered. "And in doing so, the +Church had the worst of it--as all that judge and punish their +neighbours have. But you have been the worse for it, too: all of which +is to be laid to the charge of the Church. For there is not one +clergyman I know--mind, I say, that I know--who would have made such a +cruel speech to a boy as that the Methodist parson made to you." + +"But it did me good, sir?" + +"Are you sure of that? I am not. Are you sure, first of all, it did not +make you proud? Are you sure it has not made you work beyond your +strength--I don't mean your strength of arm, for clearly that is all +that could be wished, but of your chest, your lungs? Is there not some +danger of your leaving someone who is dependent on you too soon +unprovided for? Is there not some danger of your having worked as if +God were a hard master?--of your having worked fiercely, indignantly, +as if he wronged you by not caring for you, not understanding you?" + +He returned me no answer, but hammered momently on his anvil. Whether +he felt what I meant, or was offended at my remark, I could not then +tell. I thought it best to conclude the interview with business. + +"I have a delicate little job that wants nice handling, and I fancy you +are just the man to do it to my mind," I said. + +"What is it, sir?" he asked, in a friendly manner enough. + +"If you will excuse me, I would rather show it to you than talk about +it," I returned. + +"As you please, sir. When do you want me?" + +"The first hour you can come." + +"To-morrow morning?" + +"If you feel inclined." + +"For that matter, I'd rather go to bed." + +"Come to me instead: it's light work." + +"I will, sir--at ten o'clock." + +"If you please." + +And so it was arranged. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE LIFE-BOAT. + + +The next day rose glorious. Indeed, early as the sun rose, I saw him +rise--saw him, from the down above the house, over the land to the east +and north, ascend triumphant into his own light, which had prepared the +way for him; while the clouds that hung over the sea glowed out with a +faint flush, as anticipating the hour when the west should clasp the +declining glory in a richer though less dazzling splendour, and shine +out the bride of the bridegroom east, which behold each other from afar +across the intervening world, and never mingle but in the sight of the +eyes. The clear pure light of the morning made me long for the truth in +my heart, which alone could make me pure and clear as the morning, tune +me up to the concert-pitch of the nature around me. And the wind that +blew from the sunrise made me hope in the God who had first breathed +into my nostrils the breath of life, that he would at length so fill me +with his breath, his wind, his spirit, that I should think only his +thoughts and live his life, finding therein my own life, only glorified +infinitely. + +After breakfast and prayers, I would go to the church to await the +arrival of my new acquaintance the smith. In order to obtain entrance, +I had, however, to go to the cottage of the sexton. This was not my +first visit there, so that I may now venture to take my reader with me. +To reach the door, I had to cross a hollow by a bridge, built, for the +sake of the road, over what had once been the course of a rivulet from +the heights above. Now it was a kind of little glen, or what would in +Scotland be called a den, I think, grown with grass and wild flowers +and ferns, some of them, rare and fine. The roof of the cottage came +down to the road, and, until you came quite near, you could not but +wonder where the body that supported this head could be. But you soon +saw that the ground fell suddenly away, leaving a bank against which +the cottage was built. Crossing a garden of the smallest, the principal +flowers of which were the stonecrop on its walls, by a flag-paved path, +you entered the building, and, to your surprise, found yourself, not in +a little cottage kitchen, as you expected, but in a waste-looking +space, that seemed to have forgotten the use for which it had been +built. There was a sort of loft along one side of it, and it was heaped +with indescribable lumber-looking stuff with here and there a hint at +possible machinery. The place had been a mill for grinding corn, and +its wheel had been driven by the stream which had run for ages in the +hollow of which I have already spoken. But when the canal came to be +constructed, the stream had to be turned aside from its former course, +and indeed was now employed upon occasion to feed the canal; so that +the mill of necessity had fallen into disuse and decay. Crossing this +floor, you entered another door, and turning sharp to the left, went +down a few steps of a ladder-sort of stair, and after knocking your hat +against a beam, emerged in the comfortable quaint little cottage +kitchen you had expected earlier. A cheerful though small fire burns in +the grate--for even here the hearth-fire has vanished from the records +of cottage-life--and is pleasant here even in the height of summer, +though it is counted needful only for cooking purposes. The ceiling, +which consists only of the joists and the boards that floor the bedroom +above, is so low, that necessity, if not politeness, would compel you +to take off your already-bruised hat. Some of these joists, you will +find, are made further useful by supporting each a shelf, before which +hangs a little curtain of printed cotton, concealing the few stores and +postponed eatables of the house--forming, in fact, both store-room and +larder of the family. On the walls hang several coloured prints, and +within a deep glazed frame the figure of a ship in full dress, carved +in rather high relief in sycamore. + +As I now entered, Mrs. Coombes rose from a high-backed settle near the +fire, and bade me good-morning with a courtesy. + +"What a lovely day it is, Mrs. Coombes! It is so bright over the sea," +I said, going to the one little window which looked out on the great +Atlantic, "that one almost expects a great merchant navy to come +sailing into Kilkhaven--sunk to the water's edge with silks, and ivory, +and spices, and apes, and peacocks, like the ships of Solomon that we +read about--just as the sun gets up to the noonstead." + +Before I record her answer, I turn to my reader, who in the spirit +accompanies me, and have a little talk with him. I always make it a +rule to speak freely with the less as with the more educated of my +friends. I never _talk down_ to them, except I be expressly explaining +something to them. The law of the world is as the law of the family. +Those children grow much the faster who hear all that is going on in +the house. Reaching ever above themselves, they arrive at an +understanding at fifteen, which, in the usual way of things, they would +not reach before five-and-twenty or thirty; and this in a natural way, +and without any necessary priggishness, except such as may belong to +their parents. Therefore I always spoke to the poor and uneducated as +to my own people,--freely, not much caring whether I should be quite +understood or not; for I believed in influences not to be measured by +the measure of the understanding. + +But what was the old woman's answer? It was this: + +"I know, sir. And when I was as young as you"--I was not so very young, +my reader may well think--"I thought like that about the sea myself. +Everything come from the sea. For my boy Willie he du bring me home the +beautifullest parrot and the talkingest you ever see, and the red shawl +all worked over with flowers: I'll show it to you some day, sir, when +you have time. He made that ship you see in the frame there, sir, all +with his own knife, out on a bit o' wood that he got at the Marishes, +as they calls it, sir--a bit of an island somewheres in the great sea. +But the parrot's gone dead like the rest of them, sir.--Where am I? and +what am I talking about?" she added, looking down at her knitting as if +she had dropped a stitch, or rather as if she had forgotten what she +was making, and therefore what was to come next. + +"You were telling me how you used to think of the sea--" + +"When I was as young as you. I remember, sir. Well, that lasted a long +time--lasted till my third boy fell asleep in the wide water; for it du +call it falling asleep, don't it, sir?" + +"The Bible certainly does," I answered. + +"It's the Bible I be meaning, of course," she returned. "Well, after +that, but I don't know what began it, only I did begin to think about +the sea as something that took away things and didn't bring them no +more. And somehow or other she never look so blue after that, and she +give me the shivers. But now, sir, she always looks to me like one o' +the shining ones that come to fetch the pilgrims. You've heard tell of +the _Pilgrim's Progress_, I daresay, sir, among the poor people; for +they du say it was written by a tinker, though there be a power o' good +things in it that I think the gentlefolk would like if they knowed it." + +"I do know the book--nearly as well as I know the Bible," I answered; +"and the shining ones are very beautiful in it. I am glad you can think +of the sea that way." + +"It's looking in at the window all day as I go about the house," she +answered, "and all night too when I'm asleep; and if I hadn't learned +to think of it that way, it would have driven me mad, I du believe. I +was forced to think that way about it, or not think at all. And that +wouldn't be easy, with the sound of it in your ears the last thing at +night and the first thing in the morning." + +"The truth of things is indeed the only refuge from the look of +things," I replied. "But now I want the key of the church, if you will +trust me with it, for I have something to do there this morning; and +the key of the tower as well, if you please." + +With her old smile, ripened only by age, she reached the ponderous keys +from the nail where they hung, and gave them into my hand. I left her +in the shadow of her dwelling, and stepped forth into the sunlight. The +first thing I observed was the blacksmith waiting for me at the church +door. + +Now that I saw him in the full light of day, and now that he wore his +morning face upon which the blackness of labour had not yet gathered, I +could see more plainly how far he was from well. There was a flush on +his thin cheek by which the less used exercise of walking revealed his +inward weakness, and the light in his eyes had something of the +far-country in them--"the light that never was on sea or shore." But +his speech was cheerful, for he had been walking in the light of this +world, and that had done something to make the light within him shine a +little more freely. + +"How do you find yourself to-day?" I asked. + +"Quite well, sir, I thank you," he answered. "A day like this does a +man good. But," he added, and his countenance fell, "the heart knoweth +its own bitterness." + +"It may know it too much," I returned, "just because it refuses to let +a stranger intermeddle therewith." + +He made no reply. I turned the key in the great lock, and the +iron-studded oak opened and let us into the solemn gloom. + +It did not require many minutes to make the man understand what I +wanted of him. + +"We must begin at the bells and work down," he said. + +So we went up into the tower, where, with the help of a candle I +fetched for him from the cottage, he made a good many minute +measurements; found that carpenter's work was necessary for the +adjustment of the hammers and cranks and the leading of the rods, +undertook the management of the whole, and in the course of an hour and +a half went home to do what had to be done before any fixing could be +commenced, assuring me that he had no doubt of bringing the job to a +satisfactory conclusion, although the force of the blow on the bell +would doubtless have to be regulated afterwards by repeated trials. + +"In a fortnight, I hope you will be able to play a tune to the parish, +sir," he added, as he took his leave. + +I resolved, if possible, to know more of the man, and find out his +trouble, if haply I might be able to give him any comfort, for I was +all but certain that there was a deeper cause for his gloom than the +state of his health. + +When he was gone I stood with the key of the church in my hand, and +looked about me. Nature at least was in glorious health--sunshine in +her eyes, light fantastic cloud-images passing through her brain, her +breath coming and going in soft breezes perfumed with the scents of +meadows and wild flowers, and her green robe shining in the motions of +her gladness. I turned to lock the church door, though in my heart I +greatly disapproved of locking the doors of churches, and only did so +now because it was not my church, and I had no business to force my +opinions upon other customs. But when I turned I received a kind of +questioning shock. There was the fallen world, as men call it, shining +in glory and gladness, because God was there; here was the way into the +lost Paradise, yea, the door into an infinitely higher Eden than that +ever had or ever could have been, iron-clamped and riveted, gloomy and +low-browed like the entrance to a sepulchre, and surrounded with the +grim heads of grotesque monsters of the deep. What did it mean? Here +was contrast enough to require harmonising, or if that might not be, +then accounting for. Perhaps it was enough to say that although God +made both the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of grace, yet the +symbol of the latter was the work of man, and might not altogether +correspond to God's idea of the matter. I turned away thoughtful, and +went through the churchyard with my eye on the graves. + +As I left the churchyard, still looking to the earth, the sound of +voices reached my ear. I looked up. There, down below me, at the foot +of the high bank on which I stood, lay a gorgeous shining thing upon +the bosom of the canal, full of men, and surrounded by men, women, and +children, delighting in its beauty. I had never seen such a thing +before, but I knew at once, as by instinct, which of course it could +not have been, that it was the life-boat. But in its gorgeous colours, +red and white and green, it looked more like the galley that bore +Cleopatra to Actium. Nor, floating so light on the top of the water, +and broad in the beam withal, curved upward and ornamented at stern and +stem, did it look at all like a creature formed to battle with the +fierce elements. A pleasure-boat for floating between river banks it +seemed, drawn by swans mayhap, and regarded in its course by fair eyes +from green terrace-walks, or oriel windows of ancient houses on verdant +lawns. Ten men sat on the thwarts, and one in the stern by the yet +useless rudder, while men and boys drew the showy thing by a rope +downward to the lock-gates. The men in the boat, wore blue jerseys, but +you could see little of the colour for strange unshapely things that +they wore above them, like an armour cut out of a row of organ pipes. +They were their cork-jackets; for every man had to be made into a +life-boat himself. I descended the bank, and stood on the edge of the +canal as it drew near. Then I saw that every oar was loosely but firmly +fastened to the rowlock, so that it could be dropped and caught again +in a moment; and that the gay sides of the unwieldy-looking creature +were festooned with ropes from the gunwale, for the men to lay hold of +when she capsized, for the earlier custom of fastening the men to their +seats had been quite given up, because their weight under the water +might prevent the boat from righting itself again, and the men could +not come to the surface. Now they had a better chance in their freedom, +though why they should not be loosely attached to the boat, I do not +quite see. + +They towed the shining thing through the upper gate of the lock, and +slowly she sank from my sight, and for some moments was no more to be +seen, for I had remained standing where first she passed me. All at +once there she was beyond the covert of the lock-head, abroad and free, +fleeting from the strokes of ten swift oars over the still waters of +the bay towards the waves that roared further out where the +ground-swell was broken by the rise of the sandy coast. There was no +vessel in danger now, as the talk of the spectators informed me; it was +only for exercise and show that they went out. It seemed all child's +play for a time; but when they got among the broken waves, then it +looked quite another thing. The motion of the waters laid hold upon +her, and soon tossed her fearfully, now revealing the whole of her +capacity on the near side of one of their slopes, now hiding her whole +bulk in one of their hollows beyond. She, careless as a child in the +troubles of the world, floated about amongst them with what appeared +too much buoyancy for the promise of a safe return. Again and again she +was driven from her course towards the low rocks on the other side of +the bay, and again and again, returned to disport herself, like a +sea-animal, as it seemed, upon the backs of the wild, rolling, and +bursting billows. + +"Can she go no further?" I asked of the captain of the coastguard, whom +I found standing by my side. + +"Not without some danger," he answered. + +"What, then, must it be in a storm!" I remarked. + +"Then of course," he returned, "they must take their chance. But there +is no good in running risks for nothing. That swell is quite enough for +exercise." + +"But is it enough to accustom them to face the danger that will come?" +I asked. + +"With danger comes courage," said the old sailor. + +"Were you ever afraid?" + +"No, sir. I don't think I ever was afraid. Yes, I believe I was once +for one moment, no more, when I fell from the maintop-gallant yard, and +felt myself falling. But it was soon over, for I only fell into the +maintop. I was expecting the smash on deck when I was brought up there. +But," he resumed, "I don't care much about the life-boat. My rockets +are worth a good deal more, as you may see, sir, before the winter is +over; for seldom does a winter pass without at least two or three +wrecks close by here on this coast. The full force of the Atlantic +breaks here, sir. I _have_ seen a life-boat--not that one--_she's_ done +nothing yet--pitched stern over stem; not capsized, you know, sir, in +the ordinary way, but struck by a wave behind while she was just +hanging in the balance on the knife-edge of a wave, and flung a +somerset, as I say, stern over stem, and four of her men lost." + +While we spoke I saw on the pier-head the tall figure of the painter +looking earnestly at the boat. I thought he was regarding it chiefly +from an artistic point of view, but I became aware before long that +that would not have been consistent with the character of Charles +Percivale. He had been, I learned afterwards, a crack oarsman at +Oxford, and had belonged to the University boat, so that he had some +almost class-sympathy with the doings of the crew. + +In a little while the boat sped swiftly back, entered the lock, was +lifted above the level of the storm-heaved ocean, and floated up the +smooth canal calmly as if she had never known what trouble was. Away up +to the pretty little Tudor-fashioned house in which she lay--one could +almost fancy dreaming of storms to come--she went, as softly as if +moved only by her "own sweet will," in the calm consolation for her +imprisonment of having tried her strength, and found therein good hope +of success for the time when she should rush to the rescue of men from +that to which, as a monster that begets monsters, she a watching +Perseis, lay ready to offer battle. The poor little boat lying in her +little house watching the ocean, was something signified in my eyes, +and not less so after what came in the course of changing seasons and +gathered storms. + +All this time I had the keys in my hand, and now went back to the +cottage to restore them to their place upon the wall. When I entered +there was a young woman of a sweet interesting countenance talking to +Mrs. Coombes. Now as it happened, I had never yet seen the daughter who +lived with her, and thought this was she. + +"I've found your daughter at last then?" I said, approaching them. + +"Not yet, sir. She goes out to work, and her hands be pretty full at +present. But this be almost my daughter, sir," she added. "This is my +next daughter, Mary Trehern, from the south. She's got a place near by, +to be near her mother that is to be, that's me." + +Mary was hanging her head and blushing, as the old woman spoke. + +"I understand," I said. "And when are you going to get your new mother, +Mary? Soon I hope." + +But she gave me no reply--only hung her head lower and blushed deeper. + +Mrs. Coombes spoke for her. + +"She's shy, you see, sir. But if she was to speak her mind, she would +ask you whether you wouldn't marry her and Willie when he comes home +from his next voyage." + +Mary's hands were trembling now, and she turned half away. + +"With all my heart," I said. + +The girl tried to turn towards me, but could not. I looked at her face +a little more closely. Through all its tremor, there was a look of +constancy that greatly pleased me. I tried to make her speak. + +"When do you expect Willie home?" I said. + +She made a little gasp and murmur, but no articulate words came. + +"Don't be frightened, Mary," said her mother, as I found she always +called her. "The gentleman won't be sharp with you." + +She lifted a pair of soft brown eyes with one glance and a smile, and +then sank them again. + +"He'll be home in about a month, we think," answered the mother. "She's +a good ship he's aboard of, and makes good voyages." + +"It is time to think about the bans, then," I said. + +"If you please, sir," said the mother. + +"Just come to me about it, and I will attend to it--when you think +proper." + +I thought I could hear a murmured "Thank you, sir," from the girl, but +I could not be certain that she spoke. I shook hands with them, and +went for a stroll on the other side of the bay. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +MR. PERCIVALE. + + +When I reached home I found that Connie was already on her watch-tower. +For while I was away, they had carried her out that she might see the +life-boat. I followed her, and found the whole family about her couch, +and with them Mr. Percivale, who was showing her some sketches that he +had made in the neighbourhood. Connie knew nothing of drawing; but she +seemed to me always to catch the feeling of a thing. Her remarks +therefore were generally worth listening to, and Mr. Percivale was +evidently interested in them. Wynnie stood behind Connie, looking over +her shoulder at the drawing in her hand. + +"How do you get that shade of green?" I heard her ask as I came up. + +And then Mr. Percivale proceeded to tell her; from which beginning they +went on to other things, till Mr. Percivale said-- + +"But it is hardly fair, Miss Walton; to criticise my work while you +keep your own under cover." + +"I wasn't criticising, Mr. Percivale; was I, Connie?" + +"I didn't hear her make a single remark, Mr. Percivale," said Connie, +taking her sister's side. + +To my surprise they were talking away with the young man as if they had +known him for years, and my wife was seated at the foot of the couch, +apparently taking no exception to the suddenness of the intimacy. I am +afraid, when I think of it, that a good many springs would be missing +from the world's history if they might not flow till the papas gave +their wise consideration to everything about the course they were to +take. + +"I think, though," added Connie, "it is only fair that Mr. Percivale +_should_ see your work, Wynnie." + +"Then I will fetch my portfolio, if Mr. Percivale will promise to +remember that I have no opinion of it. At the same time, if I could do +what I wanted to do, I think I should not be ashamed of showing my +drawings even to him." + +And now I was surprised to find how like grown women my daughters could +talk. To me they always spoke like the children they were; but when I +heard them now it seemed as if they had started all at once into ladies +experienced in the ways of society. There they were chatting lightly, +airily, and yet decidedly, a slight tone of badinage interwoven, with a +young man of grace and dignity, whom they had only seen once before, +and who had advanced no farther, with Connie at least, than a stately +bow. They had, however, been a whole hour together before I arrived, +and their mother had been with them all the while, which gives great +courage to good girls, while, I am told, it shuts the mouths of those +who are sly. But then it must be remembered that there are as great +differences in mothers as in girls. And besides, I believe wise girls +have an instinct about men that all the experience of other men cannot +overtake. But yet again, there are many girls foolish enough to mistake +a mere impulse for instinct, and vanity for insight. + +As Wynnie spoke, she turned and went back to the house to fetch some of +her work. Now, had she been going a message for me, she would have gone +like the wind; but on this occasion she stepped along in a stately +manner, far from devoid of grace, but equally free from frolic or +eagerness. And I could not help noting as well that Mr. Percivale's +eyes followed her. What I felt or fancied is of no consequence to +anybody. I do not think, even if I were writing an autobiography, I +should be forced to tell _all_ about myself. But an autobiography is +further from my fancy, however much I may have trenched upon its +limits, than any other form of literature with which I am acquainted. + +She was not long in returning, however, though she came back with the +same dignified motion. + +"There is nothing really worth either showing or concealing," she said +to Mr. Percivale, as she handed him the portfolio, to help himself, as +it were. She then turned away, as if a little feeling of shyness had +come over her, and began to look for something to do about Connie. I +could see that, although she had hitherto been almost indifferent about +the merit of her drawings, she had a new-born wish that they might not +appear altogether contemptible in the eyes of Mr. Percivale. And I saw, +too, that Connie's wide eyes were taking in everything. It was +wonderful how Connie's deprivations had made her keen in observing. Now +she hastened to her sister's rescue even from such a slight +inconvenience as the shadow of embarrassment in which she found +herself--perhaps from having seen some unusual expression in my face, +of which I was unconscious, though conscious enough of what might have +occasioned such. + +"Give me your hand, Wynnie," said Connie, "and help me to move one inch +further on my side.--I may move just that much on my side, mayn't I, +papa?" + +"I think you had better not, my dear, if you can do without it," I +answered; for the doctor's injunctions had been strong. + +"Very well, papa; but I feel as if it would do me good." + +"Mr. Turner will be here next week, you know; and you must try to stick +to his rules till he comes to see you. Perhaps he will let you relax a +little." + +Connie smiled very sweetly and lay still, while Wynnie stood holding +her hand. + +Meantime Mr. Percivale, having received the drawings, had walked away +with them towards what they called the storm tower--a little building +standing square to the points of the compass, from little windows, in +which the coastguard could see with their telescopes along the coast on +both sides and far out to sea. This tower stood on the very edge of the +cliff, but behind it there was a steep descent, to reach which +apparently he went round the tower and disappeared. He evidently wanted +to make a leisurely examination of the drawings--somewhat formidable +for Wynnie, I thought. At the same time, it impressed me favourably +with regard to the young man that he was not inclined to pay a set of +stupid and untrue compliments the instant the portfolio was opened, +but, on the contrary, in order to speak what was real about them, would +take the trouble to make himself in some adequate measure acquainted +with them. I therefore, to Wynnie's relief, I fear, strolled after him, +seeing no harm in taking a peep at his person, while he was taking a +peep at my daughter's mind. I went round the tower to the other side, +and there saw him at a little distance below me, but further out on a +great rock that overhung the sea, connected with the cliff by a long +narrow isthmus, a few yards lower than the cliff itself, only just +broad enough to admit of a footpath along its top, and on one side +going sheer down with a smooth hard rock-face to the sands below. The +other side was less steep, and had some grass upon it. But the path was +too narrow, and the precipice too steep, for me to trust my head with +the business of guiding my feet along it. So I stood and saw him from +the mainland--saw his head at least bent over the drawings; saw how +slowly he turned from one to the other; saw how, after having gone over +them once, he turned to the beginning and went over them again, even +more slowly than before; saw how he turned the third time to the first. +Then, getting tired, I went back to the group on the down; caught sight +of Charlie and Harry turning heels over head down the slope toward the +house; found that my wife had gone home--in fact, that only Connie and +Wynnie were left. The sun had disappeared under a cloud, and the sea +had turned a little slaty; the yellow flowers in the short down-grass +no longer caught the eye with their gold, and the wind that bent their +tops had just the suspicion of an edge in it. And Wynnie's face looked +a little cloudy too, I thought, and I feared that it was my fault. I +fancied there was just a tinge of beseeching in Connie's eye, as I +looked at her, thinking there might be danger for her in the +sunlessness of the wind. But I do not know that all this, even the +clouding of the sun, may not have come out of my own mind, the result +of my not being quite satisfied with myself because of the mood I had +been in. My feeling had altered considerably in the mean time. + +"Run, Wynnie, and ask Mr. Percivale, with my compliments, to come and +lunch with us," I said--more to let her see I was not displeased, +however I might have looked, than for any other reason. She +went--sedately as before. + +Almost as soon as she was gone, I saw that I had put her in a +difficulty. For I had discovered, very soon after coming into these +parts, that her head was no more steady than my own on high places, for +she up had never been used to such in our own level country, except, +indeed, on the stair that led down to the old quarry and the well, +where, I can remember now, she always laid her hand on the balustrade +with some degree of tremor, although she had been in the way of going +up and down from childhood. But if she could not cross that narrow and +really dangerous isthmus, still less could she call to a man she had +never seen but once, across the intervening chasm. I therefore set off +after her, leaving Connie lying there in loneliness, between the sea +and the sky. But when I got to the other side of the little tower, +instead of finding her standing hesitating on the brink of action, +there she was on the rock beyond. Mr. Percivale had risen, and was +evidently giving an answer to my invitation; at least, the next moment +she turned to come back, and he followed. I stood trembling almost to +see her cross the knife-back of that ledge. If I had not been almost +fascinated, I should have turned and left them to come together, lest +the evil fancy should cross her mind that I was watching them, for it +was one thing to watch him with her drawings, and quite another to +watch him with herself. But I stood and stared as she crossed. In the +middle of the path, however--up to which point she had been walking +with perfect steadiness and composure--she lifted her eyes--by what +influence I cannot tell--saw me, looked as if she saw ghost, half +lifted her arms, swayed as if she would fall, and, indeed, was falling +over the precipice when Percivale, who was close behind her caught her +in his arms, almost too late for both of them. So nearly down was she +already, that her weight bent him over the rocky side, till it seemed +as if he must yield, or his body snap. For he bent from the waist, and +looked as if his feet only kept a hold on the ground. It was all over +in a moment, but in that moment it made a sun-picture on my brain, +which returns, ever and again, with such vivid agony that I cannot hope +to get rid of it till I get rid of the brain itself in which lies the +impress. In another moment they were at my side--she with a wan, +terrified smile, he in a ruddy alarm. I was unable to speak, and could +only, with trembling steps, lead the way from the dreadful spot. I +reproached myself afterwards for my want of faith in God; but I had not +had time to correct myself yet. Without a word on their side either, +they followed me. Before we reached Connie, I recovered myself +sufficiently to say, "Not a word to Connie," and they understood me. I +told Wynnie to run to the house, and send Walter to help me to carry +Connie home. She went, and, until Walter came, I talked to Mr. +Percivale as if nothing had happened. And what made me feel yet more +friendly towards him was, that he did not do as some young men wishing +to ingratiate themselves would have done: he did not offer to help me +to carry Connie home. I saw that the offer rose in his mind, and that +he repressed it. He understood that I must consider such a permission +as a privilege not to be accorded to the acquaintance of a day; that I +must know him better before I could allow the weight of my child to +rest on his strength. I was even grateful to him for this knowledge of +human nature. But he responded cordially to my invitation to lunch with +us, and walked by my side as Walter and I bore the precious burden home. + +During our meal, he made himself quite agreeable; talked well on the +topics of the day, not altogether as a man who had made up his mind, +but not the less, rather the more, as a man who had thought about them, +and one who did not find it so easy to come to a conclusion as most +people do--or possibly as not feeling the necessity of coming to a +conclusion, and therefore preferring to allow the conclusion to grow +instead of constructing one for immediate use. This I rather liked than +otherwise. His behaviour, I need hardly say, after what I have told of +him already, was entirely that of a gentleman; and his education was +good. But what I did not like was, that as often as the conversation +made a bend in the direction of religious matters, he was sure to bend +it away in some other direction as soon as ever he laid his next hold +upon it. This, however, might have various reasons to account for it, +and I would wait. + +After lunch, as we rose from the table, he took Wynnie's portfolio from +the side-table where he had laid it, and with no more than a bow and +thanks returned it to her. She, I thought, looked a little +disappointed, though she said as lightly as she could: + +"I am afraid you have not found anything worthy of criticism in my poor +attempts, Mr. Percivale?" + +"On the contrary, I shall be most happy to tell you what I think of +them if you would like to hear the impression they have made upon me," +he replied, holding out his hand to take the portfolio again. + +"I shall be greatly obliged to you," she said, returning it, "for I +have had no one to help me since I left school, except a book called +_Modern Painters_, which I think has the most beautiful things in it I +ever read, but which I lay down every now and then with a kind of +despair, as if I never could do anything worth doing. How long the next +volume is in coming! Do you know the author, Mr. Percivale?" + +"I wish I did. He has given me much help. I do not say I can agree with +everything he writes; but when I do not, I have such a respect for him +that I always feel as if he must be right whether he seems to me to be +right or not. And if he is severe, it is with the severity of love that +will speak only the truth." + +This last speech fell on my ear like the tone of a church bell. "That +will do, my friend," thought I. But I said nothing to interrupt. + +By this time he had laid the portfolio open on the side-table, and +placed a chair in front of it for my daughter. Then seating himself by +her side, but without the least approach to familiarity, he began to +talk to her about her drawings, praising, in general, the feeling, but +finding fault with the want of nicety in the execution--at least so it +appeared to me from what I could understand of the conversation. + +"But," said my daughter, "it seems to me that if you get the feeling +right, that is the main thing." + +"No doubt," returned Mr. Percivale; "so much the main thing that any +imperfection or coarseness or untruth which interferes with it becomes +of the greatest consequence." + +"But can it really interfere with the feeling?" + +"Perhaps not with most people, simply because most people observe so +badly that their recollections of nature are all blurred and blotted +and indistinct, and therefore the imperfections we are speaking of do +not affect them. But with the more cultivated it is otherwise. It is +for them you ought to work, for you do not thereby lose the others. +Besides, the feeling is always intensified by the finish, for that +belongs to the feeling too, and must, I should think, have some +influence even where it is not noted." + +"But is it not a hopeless thing to attempt the finish of nature?" + +"Not at all; to the degree, that is, in which you can represent +anything else of nature. But in this drawing now you have no +representative of, nothing to hint at or recall the feeling of the +exquisiteness of nature's finish. Why should you not at least have +drawn a true horizon-line there? Has the absolute truth of the meeting +of sea and sky nothing to do with the feeling which such a landscape +produces? I should have thought you would have learned that, if +anything, from Mr. Ruskin." + +Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or +despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or +rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was +anything but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was +doing his best to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess +I was not altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just +uncover my sin, and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. +The negative reason was that I had not yet learned to love him. The +only cure for jealousy is love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie's +behaving so childishly. Her face flushed, the tears came in her eyes, +and she rose, saying, with a little choke in her voice-- + +"I see it's no use trying. I won't intrude any more into things I am +incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me +how presumptuous I have been." + +The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not +attempt to answer her. Indeed she gave him no time. He could only +spring after her to open the door for her. A more than respectful bow +as she left the room was his only adieu. But when he turned his face +again towards me, it expressed even a degree of consternation. + +"I fear," he said, approaching me with an almost military step, much at +variance with the shadow upon his countenance, "I fear I have been rude +to Miss Walton, but nothing was farther--" + +"You mistake entirely, Mr. Percivale. I heard all you were saying, and +you were not in the least rude. On the contrary, I consider you were +very kind to take the trouble with her you did. Allow me to make the +apology for my daughter which I am sure she will wish made when she +recovers from the disappointment of finding more obstacles in the way +of her favourite pursuit than she had previously supposed. She is only +too ready to lose heart, and she paid too little attention to your +approbation and too much--in proportion, I mean--to your--criticism. +She felt discouraged and lost her temper, but more with herself and her +poor attempts, I venture to assure you, than with your remarks upon +them. She is too much given to despising her own efforts." + +"But I must have been to blame if I caused any such feeling with regard +to those drawings, for I assure you they contain great promise." + +"I am glad you think so. That I should myself be of the same opinion +can be of no consequence." + +"Miss Walton at least sees what ought to be represented. All she needs +is greater severity in the quality of representation. And that would +have grown without any remark from onlookers. Only a friendly criticism +is sometimes a great help. It opens the eyes a little sooner than they +would have opened of themselves. And time," he added, with a half sigh +and with an appeal in his tone, as if he would justify himself to my +conscience, "is half the battle in this world. It is over so soon." + +"No sooner than it ought to be," I rejoined. + +"So it may appear to you," he returned; "for you, I presume to +conjecture, have worked hard and done much. I may or may not have +worked hard--sometimes I think I have, sometimes I think I have +not--but I certainly have done little. Here I am nearly thirty, and +have made no mark on the world yet." + +"I don't know that that is of so much consequence," I said. "I have +never hoped for more than to rub out a few of the marks already made." + +"Perhaps you are right," he returned. "Every man has something he can +do, and more, I suppose, that he can't do. But I have no right to turn +a visit into a visitation. Will you please tell Miss Walton that I am +very sorry I presumed on the privileges of a drawing-master, and gave +her pain. It was so far from my intention that it will be a lesson to +me for the future." + +With these words he took his leave, and I could not help being greatly +pleased both with them and with his bearing. He was clearly anything +but a common man. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SHADOW OP DEATH. + + +When Wynnie appeared at dinner she looked ashamed of herself, and her +face betrayed that she had been crying. But I said nothing, for I had +confidence that all she needed was time to come to herself, that the +voice that speaks louder than any thunder might make its stillness +heard. And when I came home from my walk the next morning I found Mr. +Percivale once more in the group about Connie, and evidently on the +best possible terms with all. The same afternoon Wynnie went out +sketching with Dora. I had no doubt that she had made some sort of +apology to Mr. Percivale; but I did not make the slightest attempt to +discover what had passed between them, for though it is of all things +desirable that children should be quite open with their parents, I was +most anxious to lay upon them no burden of obligation. For such burden +lies against the door of utterance, and makes it the more difficult to +open. It paralyses the speech of the soul. What I desired was that they +should trust me so that faith should overcome all difficulty that might +lie in the way of their being open with me. That end is not to be +gained by any urging of admonition. Against such, growing years at +least, if nothing else, will bring a strong reaction. Nor even, if so +gained would the gain be at all of the right sort. The openness would +not be faith. Besides, a parent must respect the spiritual person of +his child, and approach it with reverence, for that too looks the +Father in the face, and has an audience with him into which no earthly +parent can enter even if he dared to desire it. Therefore I trusted my +child. And when I saw that she looked at me a little shyly when we next +met, I only sought to show her the more tenderness and confidence, +telling her all about my plans with the bells, and my talks with the +smith and Mrs. Coombes. She listened with just such interest as I had +always been accustomed to see in her, asking such questions, and making +such remarks as I might have expected, but I still felt that there was +the thread of a little uneasiness through the web of our +intercourse,--such a thread of a false colour as one may sometimes find +wandering through the labour of the loom, and seek with pains to draw +from the woven stuff. But it was for Wynnie to take it out, not for me. +And she did not leave it long. For as she bade me good-night in my +study, she said suddenly, yet with hesitating openness, + +"Papa, I told Mr. Percivale that I was sorry I had behaved so badly +about the drawings." + +"You did right, my child," I replied. At the same moment a pang of +anxiety passed through me lest under the influence of her repentance +she should have said anything more than becoming. But I banished the +doubt instantly as faithlessness in the womanly instincts of my child. +For we men are always so ready and anxious to keep women right, like +the wretched creature, Laertes, in _Hamlet_, who reads his sister such +a lesson on her maidenly duties, but declines almost with contempt to +listen to a word from her as to any co-relative obligation on his side! + +And here I may remark in regard to one of the vexed questions of the +day--the rights of women--that what women demand it is not for men to +withhold. It is not their business to lay the law for women. That women +must lay down for themselves. I confess that, although I must herein +seem to many of my readers old-fashioned and conservative, I should not +like to see any woman I cared much for either in parliament or in an +anatomical class-room; but on the other hand I feel that women must be +left free to settle that matter. If it is not good, good women will +find it out and recoil from it. If it is good then God give them good +speed. One thing they _have_ a right to--a far wider and more valuable +education than they have been in the way of receiving. When the mothers +are well taught the generations will grow in knowledge at a fourfold +rate. But still the teaching of life is better than all the schools, +and common sense than all learning. This common sense is a rare gift, +scantier in none than in those who lay claim to it on the ground of +following commonplace, worldly, and prudential maxims. But I must +return to my Wynnie. + +"And what did Mr. Percivale say?" I resumed, for she was silent. + +"He took the blame all on himself, papa." + +"Like a gentleman," I said. + +"But I could not leave it so, you know, papa, because that was not the +truth." + +"Well?" + +"I told him that I had lost my temper from disappointment; that I had +thought I did not care for my drawings because I was so far from +satisfied with them, but when he made me feel that they were worth +nothing, then I found from the vexation I felt that I had cared for +them. But I do think, papa, I was more ashamed of having shown them, +and vexed with myself, than cross with him. But I was very silly." + +"Well, and what did he say?" + +"He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of +that, for what could he do?" + +"You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least." + +"Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much." + +"He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution of +your efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching +apparatus this afternoon." + +"Yes," she answered shyly. "He was so kind that somehow I got heart to +try again. He's very nice, isn't he?" + +My answer was not quite ready. + +"Don't you like him, papa?" + +"Well--I like him--yes. But we must not be in haste with our judgments, +you know. I have had very little opportunity of seeing into him. There +is much in him that I like, but--" + +"But what? please, papa." + +"To tell the truth then, Wynnie, for I can speak my mind to you, my +child, there is a certain shyness of approaching the subject of +religion; so that I have my fears lest he should belong to any of these +new schools of a fragmentary philosophy which acknowledge no source of +truth but the testimony of the senses and the deductions made therefrom +by the intellect." + +"But is not that a hasty conclusion, papa?" + +"That is a hasty question, my dear. I have come to no conclusion. I was +only speaking confidentially about my fears." + +"Perhaps, papa, it's only that he's not sure enough, and is afraid of +appearing to profess more than he believes. I'm sure, if that's it, I +have the greatest sympathy with him." + +I looked at her, and saw the tears gathering fast in her eyes. + +"Pray to God on the chance of his hearing you, my darling, and go to +sleep," I said. "I will not think hardly of you because you cannot be +so sure as I am. How could you be? You have not had my experience. +Perhaps you are right about Mr. Percivale too. But it would be an +awkward thing to get intimate with him, you know, and then find out +that we did not like him after all. You couldn't like a man much, could +you, who did not believe in anything greater than himself, anything +marvellous, grand, beyond our understanding--who thought that he had +come out of the dirt and was going back to the dirt?" + +"I could, papa, if he tried to do his duty notwithstanding--for I'm +sure I couldn't. I should cry myself to death." + +"You are right, my child. I should honour him too. But I should be very +sorry for him. For he would be so disappointed in himself." + +I do not know whether this was the best answer to make, but I had +little time to think. + +"But you don't know that he's like that." + +"I do not, my dear. And more, I will not associate the idea with him +till I know for certain. We will leave it to ignorant old ladies who +lay claim to an instinct for theology to jump at conclusions, and +reserve ours--as even such a man as we have been supposing might well +teach us--till we have sufficient facts from which to draw them. Now go +to bed, my child." + +"Good-night then, dear papa," she said, and left me with a kiss. + +I was not altogether comfortable after this conversation. I had tried +to be fair to the young man both in word and thought, but I could not +relish the idea of my daughter falling in love with him, which looked +likely enough, before I knew more about him, and found that _more_ good +and hope-giving. There was but one rational thing left to do, and that +was to cast my care on him that careth for us--on the Father who loved +my child more than even I could love her--and loved the young man too, +and regarded my anxiety, and would take its cause upon himself. After I +had lifted up my heart to him I was at ease, read a canto of Dante's +_Paradise_, and then went to bed. The prematurity of a conversation +with my wife, in which I found that she was very favourably impressed +with Mr. Percivale, must be pardoned to the forecasting hearts of +fathers and mothers. + +As I went out for my walk the next morning, I caught sight of the +sexton, with whom as yet I had had but little communication, busily +trimming some of the newer graves in the churchyard. I turned in +through the nearer gate, which was fashioned like a lych-gate, with +seats on the sides and a stone table in the centre, but had no roof. +The one on the other side of the church was roofed, but probably they +had found that here no roof could resist the sea-blasts in winter. The +top of the wall where the roof should have rested, was simply covered +with flat slates to protect it from the rain. + +"Good-morning, Coombes," I said. + +He turned up a wizened, humorous old face, the very type of a +gravedigger's, and with one hand leaning on the edge of the green +mound, upon which he had been cropping with a pair of shears the too +long and too thin grass, touched his cap with the other, and bade me a +cheerful good-morning in return. + +"You're making things tidy," I said. + +"It take time to make them all comfortable, you see, sir," he returned, +taking up his shears again and clipping away at the top and sides of +the mound. + +"You mean the dead, Coombes?" + +"Yes, sir; to be sure, sir." + +"You don't think it makes much difference to their comfort, do you, +whether the grass is one length or another upon their graves?" + +"Well no, sir. I don't suppose it makes _much_ difference to them. But +it look more comfortable, you know. And I like things to look +comfortable. Don't you, sir?" + +"To be sure I do, Coombes. And you are quite right. The resting-place +of the body, although the person it belonged to be far away, should be +respected." + +"That's what I think, though I don't get no credit for it. I du believe +the people hereabouts thinks me only a single hair better than a Jack +Ketch. But I'm sure I du my best to make the poor things comfortable." + +He seemed unable to rid his mind of the idea that the comfort of the +departed was dependent upon his ministrations. + +"The trouble I have with them sometimes! There's now this same one as +lies here, old Jonathan Giles. He have the gout so bad! and just as I +come within a couple o' inches o' the right depth, out come the edge of +a great stone in the near corner at the foot of the bed. Thinks I, +he'll never lie comfortable with that same under his gouty toe. But the +trouble I had to get out that stone! I du assure you, sir, it took me +nigh half the day.--But this be one of the nicest places to lie in all +up and down the coast--a nice gravelly soil, you see, sir; dry, and +warm, and comfortable. Them poor things as comes out of the sea must +quite enjoy the change, sir." + +There was something grotesque in the man's persistence in regarding the +objects of his interest from this point of view. It was a curious way +for the humanity that was in him to find expression; but I did not like +to let him go on thus. It was so much opposed to all that I believed +and felt about the change from this world to the next! + +"But, Coombes," I said, "why will you go on talking as if it made an +atom of difference to the dead bodies where they were buried? They care +no more about it than your old coat would care where it was thrown +after you had done with it." + +He turned and regarded his coat where it hung beside him on the +headstone of the same grave at which he was working, shook his head +with a smile that seemed to hint a doubt whether the said old coat +would be altogether so indifferent to its treatment when, it was past +use as I had implied. Then he turned again to his work, and after a +moment's silence began to approach me from another side. I confess he +had the better of me before I was aware of what he was about. + +"The church of Boscastle stands high on the cliff. You've been to +Boscastle, sir?" + +I told him I had not yet, but hoped to go before the summer was over. + +"Ah, you should see Boscastle, sir. It's a wonderful place. That's +where I was born, sir. When I was a by that church was haunted, sir. +It's a damp place, and the wind in it awful. I du believe it stand +higher than any church in the country, and have got more wind in it of +a stormy night than any church whatsomever. Well, they said it was +haunted; and sure enough every now and then there was a knocking heard +down below. And this always took place of a stormy night, as if there +was some poor thing down in the low wouts (_vaults_), and he wasn't +comfortable and wanted to get out. Well, one night it was so plain and +so fearful it was that the sexton he went and took the blacksmith and a +ship's carpenter down to the harbour, and they go up together, and they +hearken all over the floor, and they open one of the old family wouts +that belongs to the Penhaligans, and they go down with a light. Now the +wind it was a-blowing all as usual, only worse than common. And there +to be sure what do they see but the wout half-full of sea-water, and +nows and thens a great spout coming in through a hole in the rock; for +it was high-water and a wind off the sea, as I tell you. And there was +a coffin afloat on the water, and every time the spout come through, it +set it knocking agen the side o' the wout, and that was the ghost." + +"What a horrible idea!" I said, with a half-shudder at the unrest of +the dead. + +The old man uttered a queer long-drawn sound,--neither a chuckle, a +crow, nor a laugh, but a mixture of all three,--and turned himself yet +again to the work which, as he approached the end of his narration, he +had suspended, that he might make his story _tell_, I suppose, by +looking me in the face. And as he turned he said, "I thought you would +like to be comfortable then as well as other people, sir." + +I could not help laughing to see how the cunning old fellow had caught +me. I have not yet been able to find out how much of truth there was in +his story. From the twinkle of his eye I cannot help suspecting that if +he did not invent the tale, he embellished it, at least, in order to +produce the effect which he certainly did produce. Humour was clearly +his predominant disposition, the reflex of which was to be seen, after +a mild lunar fashion, on the countenance of his wife. Neither could I +help thinking with pleasure, as I turned away, how the merry little old +man would enjoy telling his companions how he had posed the new parson. +Very welcome was he to his laugh for my part. Yet I gladly left the +churchyard, with its sunshine above and its darkness below. Indeed I +had to look up to the glittering vanes on the four pinnacles of the +church-tower, dwelling aloft in the clean sunny air, to get the feeling +of the dark vault, and the floating coffin, and the knocking heard in +the windy church, out of my brain. But the thing that did free me was +the reflection with what supreme disregard the disincarcerated spirit +would look upon any possible vicissitudes of its abandoned vault. For +in proportion as the body of man's revelation ceases to be in harmony +with the spirit that dwells therein, it becomes a vault, a prison, from +which it must be freedom to escape at length. The house we like best +would be a prison of awful sort if doors and windows were built up. +Man's abode, as age begins to draw nigh, fares thus. Age is in fact the +mason that builds up the doors and the windows, and death is the angel +that breaks the prison-house and lets the captives free. Thus I got +something out of the sexton's horrible story. + +But before the week was over, death came near indeed--in far other +fashion than any funereal tale could have brought it. + +One day, after lunch, I had retired to my study, and was dozing in my +chair, for the day was hot, when I was waked by Charlie rushing into +the room with the cry, "Papa, papa, there's a man drowning." + +I started up, and hurried down to the drawing-room, which looked out +over the bay. I could see nothing but people running about on the edge +of the quiet waves. No sign of human being was on--the water. But the +one boat belonging to the pilot was coming out from the shelter of the +lock of the canal where it usually lay, and my friend of the coastguard +was running down from the tower on the cliff with ropes in his hand. He +would not stop the boat even for the moment it would need to take him +on board, but threw them in and urged to haste. I stood at the window +and watched. Every now and then I fancied I saw something white heaved +up on the swell of a wave, and as often was satisfied that I had but +fancied it. The boat seemed to be floating about lazily, if not idly. +The eagerness to help made it appear as if nothing was going on. Could +it, after all, have been a false alarm? Was there, after all, no +insensible form swinging about in the sweep of those waves, with life +gradually oozing away? Long, long as it seemed to me, I watched, and +still the boat kept moving from place to place, so far out that I could +see nothing distinctly of the motions of its crew. At length I saw +something. Yes; a long white thing rose from the water slowly, and was +drawn into the boat. It rowed swiftly to the shore. There was but one +place fit to land upon,--a little patch of sand, nearly covered at +high-water, but now lying yellow in the sun, under the window at which +I stood, and immediately under our garden-wall. Thither the boat shot +along; and there my friend of the coastguard, earnest and sad, was +waiting to use, though without hope, every appliance so well known to +him from the frequent occurrence of such necessity in the course of his +watchful duties along miles and miles of stormy coast. + +I will not linger over the sad details of vain endeavour. The honoured +head of a family, he had departed and left a good name behind him. But +even in the midst of my poor attentions to the quiet, speechless, +pale-faced wife, who sat at the head of the corpse, I could not help +feeling anxious about the effect on my Connie. It was impossible to +keep the matter concealed from her. The undoubted concern on the faces +of the two boys was enough to reveal that something serious and painful +had occurred; while my wife and Wynnie, and indeed the whole household, +were busy in attending to every remotest suggestion of aid that reached +them from the little crowd gathered about the body. At length it was +concluded, on the verdict of the medical man who had been sent for, +that all further effort was useless. The body was borne away, and I led +the poor lady to her lodging, and remained there with her till I found +that, as she lay on the sofa, the sleep that so often dogs the steps of +sorrow had at length thrown its veil over her consciousness, and put +her for the time to rest. There is a gentle consolation in the firmness +of the grasp of the inevitable, known but to those who are led through +the valley of the shadow. I left her with her son and daughter, and +returned to my own family. They too were of course in the skirts of the +cloud. Had they only heard of the occurrence, it would have had little +effect; but death had appeared to them. Everyone but Connie had seen +the dead lying there; and before the day was over, I wished that she +too had seen the dead. For I found from what she said at intervals, and +from the shudder that now and then passed through her, that her +imagination was at work, showing but the horrors that belong to death; +for the enfolding peace that accompanies it can be known but by sight +of the dead. When I spoke to her, she seemed, and I suppose for the +time felt tolerably quiet and comfortable; but I could see that the +words she had heard fall in the going and coming, and the +communications of Charlie and Harry to each other, had made as it were +an excoriation on her fancy, to which her consciousness was ever +returning. And now I became more grateful than I had yet been for the +gift of that gipsy-child. For I felt no anxiety about Connie so long as +she was with her. The presence even of her mother could not relieve +her, for she and Wynnie were both clouded with the same awe, and its +reflex in Connie was distorted by her fancy. But the sweet ignorance of +the baby, which rightly considered is more than a type or symbol of +faith, operated most healingly; for she appeared in her sweet merry +ways--no baby was ever more filled with the mere gladness of life than +Connie's baby--to the mood in which they all were, like a little sunny +window in a cathedral crypt, telling of a whole universe of sunshine +and motion beyond those oppressed pillars and low-groined arches. And +why should not the baby know best? I believe the babies do know best. I +therefore favoured her having the child more than I might otherwise +have thought good for her, being anxious to get the dreary, unhealthy +impression healed as soon as possible, lest it should, in the delicate +physical condition in which she was, turn to a sore. + +But my wife suffered for a time nearly as much as Connie. As long as +she was going about the house or attending to the wants of her family, +she was free; but no sooner did she lay her head on the pillow than in +rushed the cry of the sea, fierce, unkind, craving like a wild beast. +Again and again she spoke of it to me, for it came to her mingled with +the voice of the tempter, saying, "_Cruel chance_," over and over +again. For although the two words contradict each other when put +together thus, each in its turn would assert itself. + +A great part of the doubt in the world comes from the fact that there +are in it so many more of the impressible as compared with the +originating minds. Where the openness to impression is balanced by the +power of production, the painful questions of the world are speedily +met by their answers; where such is not the case, there are often long +periods of suffering till the child-answer of truth is brought to the +birth. Hence the need for every impressible mind to be, by reading or +speech, held in living association with an original mind able to combat +those suggestions of doubt and even unbelief, which the look of things +must often occasion--a look which comes from our inability to gain +other than fragmentary visions of the work that the Father worketh +hitherto. When the kingdom of heaven is at hand, one sign thereof will +be that all clergymen will be more or less of the latter sort, and mere +receptive goodness, no more than education and moral character, will be +considered sufficient reason for a man's occupying the high position of +an instructor of his fellows. But even now this possession of original +power is not by any means to be limited to those who make public show +of the same. In many a humble parish priest it shows itself at the +bedside of the suffering, or in the admonition of the closet, although +as yet there are many of the clergy who, so far from being able to +console wisely, are incapable of understanding the condition of those +that need consolation. + +"It is all a fancy, my dear," I said to her. "There is nothing more +terrible in this than in any other death. On the contrary, I can hardly +imagine a less fearful one. A big wave falls on the man's head and +stuns him, and without further suffering he floats gently out on the +sea of the unknown." + +"But it is so terrible for those left behind!" + +"Had you seen the face of his widow, so gentle, so loving, so resigned +in its pallor, you would not have thought it so _terrible_." + +But though she always seemed satisfied, and no doubt felt nearly so, +after any conversation of the sort, yet every night she would call out +once and again, "O, that sea, out there!" I was very glad indeed when +Mr. Turner, who had arranged to spend a short holiday with us, arrived. + +He was concerned at the news I gave him of the shock both Connie and +her mother had received, and counselled an immediate change, that time +might, in the absence of surrounding associations, obliterate something +of the impression that had been made. The consequence was, that we +resolved to remove our household, for a short time, to some place not +too far off to permit of my attending to my duties at Kilkhaven, but +out of the sight and sound of the sea. It was Thursday when Mr. Turner +arrived, and he spent the next two days in inquiring and looking about +for a suitable spot to which we might repair as early in the week as +possible. + +On the Saturday the blacksmith was busy in the church-tower, and I went +in to see how he was getting on. + +"You had a sad business here the last week, sir," he said, after we had +done talking about the repairs. + +"A very sad business indeed," I answered. + +"It was a warning to us all," he said. + +"We may well take it so," I returned. "But it seems to me that we are +too ready to think of such remarkable things only by themselves, +instead of being roused by them to regard everything, common and +uncommon, as ordered by the same care and wisdom." + +"One of our local preachers made a grand use of it." + +I made no reply. He resumed. + +"They tell me you took no notice of it last Sunday, sir." + +"I made no immediate allusion to it, certainly. But I preached under +the influence of it. And I thought it better that those who could +reflect on the matter should be thus led to think for themselves than +that they should be subjected to the reception of my thoughts and +feelings about it; for in the main it is life and not death that we +have to preach." + +"I don't quite understand you, sir. But then you don't care much for +preaching in your church." + +"I confess," I answered, "that there has been much indifference on that +point. I could, however, mention to you many and grand exceptions. +Still there is, even in some of the best in the church, a great amount +of disbelief in the efficacy of preaching. And I allow that a great +deal of what is called preaching, partakes of its nature only in the +remotest degree. But, while I hold a strong opinion of its value--that +is, where it is genuine--I venture just to suggest that the nature of +the preaching to which the body you belong to has resorted, has had +something to do, by way of a reaction, in driving the church to the +other extreme." + +"How do you mean that, sir?" + +"You try to work upon people's feelings without reference to their +judgment. Anyone who can preach what you call rousing sermons is +considered a grand preacher amongst you, and there is a great danger of +his being led thereby to talk more nonsense than sense. And then when +the excitement goes off, there is no seed left in the soil to grow in +peace, and they are always craving after more excitement." + +"Well, there is the preacher to rouse them up again." + +"And the consequence is that they continue like children--the good +ones, I mean--and have hardly a chance of making a calm, deliberate +choice of that which is good; while those who have been only excited +and nothing more, are hardened and seared by the recurrence of such +feeling as is neither aroused by truth nor followed by action." + +"You daren't talk like that if you knew the kind of people in this +country that the Methodists, as you call them, have got a hold of. They +tell me it was like hell itself down in those mines before Wesley come +among them." + +"I should be a fool or a bigot to doubt that the Wesleyans have done +incalculable good in the country. And that not alone to the people who +never went to church. The whole Church of England is under obligations +to Methodism such as no words can overstate." + +"I wonder you can say such things against them, then." + +"Now there you show the evil of thinking too much about the party you +belong to. It makes a man touchy; and then he fancies when another is +merely, it may be, analysing a difference, or insisting strongly on +some great truth, that he is talking against his party." + +"But you said, sir, that our clergy don't care about moving our +judgments, only our feelings. Now I know preachers amongst us of whom +that would be anything but true." + +"Of course there must be. But there is what I say--your party-feeling +makes you touchy. A man can't always be saying in the press of +utterance, '_Of course there are exceptions_.' That is understood. I +confess I do not know much about your clergy, for I have not had the +opportunity. But I do know this, that some of the best and most liberal +people I have ever known have belonged to your community." + +"They do gather a deal of money for good purposes." + +"Yes. But that was not what I meant by _liberal_. It is far easier to +give money than to be generous in judgment. I meant by _liberal_, able +to see the good and true in people that differ from you--glad to be +roused to the reception of truth in God's name from whatever quarter it +may come, and not readily finding offence where a remark may have +chanced to be too sweeping or unguarded. But I see that I ought to be +more careful, for I have made you, who certainly are not one of the +quarrelsome people I have been speaking of, misunderstand me." + +"I beg your pardon, sir. I was hasty. But I do think I am more ready to +lose my temper since--" + +Here he stopped. A fit of coughing came on, and, to my concern, was +followed by what I saw plainly could be the result only of a rupture in +the lungs. I insisted on his dropping his work and coming home with me, +where I made him rest the remainder of the day and all Sunday, sending +word to his mother that I could not let him go home. When we left on +the Monday morning, we took him with us in the carriage hired for the +journey, and set him down at his mother's, apparently no worse than +usual. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AT THE FARM. + + +Leaving the younger members of the family at home with the servants, we +set out for a farmhouse, some twenty miles off, which Turner had +discovered for us. Connie had stood the journey down so well, and was +now so much stronger, that we had no anxiety about her so far as +regarded the travelling. Through deep lanes with many cottages, and +here and there a very ugly little chapel, over steep hills, up which +Turner and Wynnie and I walked, and along sterile moors we drove, +stopping at roadside inns, and often besides to raise Connie and let +her look about upon the extended prospect, so that it was drawing +towards evening before we arrived at our destination. On the way Turner +had warned us that we were not to expect a beautiful country, although +the place was within reach of much that was remarkable. Therefore we +were not surprised when we drew up at the door of a bare-looking, +shelterless house, with scarcely a tree in sight, and a stretch of +undulating fields on every side. + +"A dreary place in winter, Turner," I said, after we had seen Connie +comfortably deposited in the nice white-curtained parlour, smelling of +dried roses even in the height of the fresh ones, and had strolled out +while our tea--dinner was being got ready for us. + +"Not a doubt of it; but just the place I wanted for Miss Connie," he +replied. "We are high above the sea, and the air is very bracing, and +not, at this season, too cold. A month later I should not on any +account have brought her here." + +"I think even now there is a certain freshness in the wind that calls +up a kind of will in the nerves to meet it." + +"That is precisely what I wanted for you all. You observe there is no +rasp in its touch, however. There are regions in this island of ours +where even in the hottest day in summer you would frequently discover a +certain unfriendly edge in the air, that would set you wondering +whether the seasons had not changed since you were a boy, and used to +lie on the grass half the idle day." + +"I often do wonder whether it may not be so, but I always come to the +conclusion that even this is but an example of the involuntary tendency +of the mind of man towards the ideal. He forgets all that comes between +and divides the hints of perfection scattered here and there along the +scope of his experience. I especially remember one summer day in my +childhood, which has coloured all my ideas of summer and bliss and +fulfilment of content. It is made up of only mossy grass, and the scent +of the earth and wild flowers, and hot sun, and perfect sky--deep and +blue, and traversed by blinding white clouds. I could not have been +more than five or six, I think, from the kind of dress I wore, the very +pearl buttons of which, encircled on their face with a ring of +half-spherical hollows, have their undeniable relation in my memory to +the heavens and the earth, to the march of the glorious clouds, and the +tender scent of the rooted flowers; and, indeed, when I think of it, +must, by the delight they gave me, have opened my mind the more to the +enjoyment of the eternal paradise around me. What a thing it is to +please a child!" + +"I know what you mean perfectly," answered Turner. "It is as I get +older that I understand what Wordsworth says about childhood. It is +indeed a mercy that we were not born grown men, with what we consider +our wits about us. They are blinding things those wits we gather. I +fancy that the single thread by which God sometimes keeps hold of a man +is such an impression of his childhood as that of which you have been +speaking." + +"I do not doubt it; for conscience is so near in all those memories to +which you refer. The whole surrounding of them is so at variance with +sin! A sense of purity, not in himself, for the child is not feeling +that he is pure, is all about him; and when afterwards the condition +returns upon him,--returns when he is conscious of so much that is evil +and so much that is unsatisfied in him,--it brings with it a longing +after the high clear air of moral well-being." + +"Do you think, then, that it is only by association that nature thus +impresses us? that she has no power of meaning these things?" + +"Not at all. No doubt there is something in the recollection of the +associations of childhood to strengthen the power of nature upon us; +but the power is in nature herself, else it would be but a poor weak +thing to what it is. There _is_ purity and state in that sky. There +_is_ a peace now in this wide still earth--not so very beautiful, you +own--and in that overhanging blue, which my heart cries out that it +needs and cannot be well till it gains--gains in the truth, gains in +God, who is the power of truth, the living and causing truth. There is +indeed a rest that remaineth, a rest pictured out even here this night, +to rouse my dull heart to desire it and follow after it, a rest that +consists in thinking the thoughts of Him who is the Peace because the +Unity, in being filled with that spirit which now pictures itself forth +in this repose of the heavens and the earth." + +"True," said Turner, after a pause. "I must think more about such +things. The science the present day is going wild about will not give +us that rest." + +"No; but that rest will do much to give you that science. A man with +this repose in his heart will do more by far, other capabilities being +equal, to find out the laws that govern things. For all law is living +rest." + +"What you have been saying," resumed Turner, after another pause, +"reminds me much of one of Wordsworth's poems. I do not mean the famous +ode." + +"You mean the 'Ninth Evening Voluntary,' I know--one of his finest and +truest and deepest poems. It begins, 'Had this effulgence disappeared.'" + +"Yes, that is the one I mean. I shall read it again when I go home. But +you don't agree with Wordsworth, do you, about our having had an +existence previous to this?" + +He gave a little laugh as he asked the question. + +"Not in the least. But an opinion held by such men as Plato, Origen, +and Wordsworth, is not to be laughed at, Mr. Turner. It cannot be in +its nature absurd. I might have mentioned Shelley as holding it, too, +had his opinion been worth anything." + +"Then you don't think much of Shelley?" + +"I think his _feeling_ most valuable; his _opinion_ nearly worthless." + +"Well, perhaps I had no business to laugh, at it; but--" + +"Do not suppose for a moment that I even lean to it. I dislike it. It +would make me unhappy to think there was the least of sound argument +for it. But I respect the men who have held it, and know there must be +_something_ good in it, else they could not have held it." + +"Are you able then to sympathise with that ode of Wordsworth's? Does it +not depend for all its worth on the admission of this theory?" + +"Not in the least. Is it necessary to admit that we must have had a +conscious life before this life to find meaning in the words,-- + + 'But trailing clouds of glory do we come + From God who is our home'? + +Is not all the good in us his image? Imperfect and sinful as we are, is +not all the foundation of our being his image? Is not the sin all ours, +and the life in us all God's? We cannot be the creatures of God without +partaking of his nature. Every motion of our conscience, every +admiration of what is pure and noble, is a sign and a result of this. +Is not every self-accusation a proof of the presence of his spirit? +That comes not of ourselves--that is not without him. These are the +clouds of glory we come trailing from him. All feelings of beauty and +peace and loveliness and right and goodness, we trail with us from our +home. God is the only home of the human soul. To interpret in this +manner what Wordsworth says, will enable us to enter into perfect +sympathy with all that grandest of his poems. I do not say this is what +he meant; but I think it includes what he meant by being greater and +wider than what he meant. Nor am I guilty of presumption in saying so, +for surely the idea that we are born of God is a greater idea than that +we have lived with him a life before this life. But Wordsworth is not +the first among our religious poets to give us at least what is +valuable in the notion. I came upon a volume amongst my friend +Shepherd's books, with which I had made no acquaintance before--Henry +Vaughan's poems. I brought it with me, for it has finer lines, I almost +think, than any in George Herbert, though not so fine poems by any +means as his best. When we go into the house I will read one of them to +you." + +"Thank you," said Turner. "I wish I could have such talk once a week. +The shades of the prison-house, you know, Mr. Walton, are always trying +to close about us, and shut out the vision of the glories we have come +from, as Wordsworth says." + +"A man," I answered, "who ministers to the miserable necessities of his +fellows has even more need than another to believe in the light and the +gladness--else a poor Job's comforter will he be. _I_ don't want to be +treated like a musical snuff-box." + +The doctor laughed. + +"No man can _prove_," he said, "that there is not a being inside the +snuff-box, existing in virtue of the harmony of its parts, comfortable +when they go well, sick when they go badly, and dying when it is +dismembered, or even when it stops." + +"No," I answered. "No man can prove it. But no man can convince a human +being of it. And just as little can anyone convince me that my +conscience, making me do sometimes what I _don't_ like, comes from a +harmonious action of the particles of my brain. But it is time we went +in, for by the law of things in general, I being ready for my dinner, +my dinner ought to be ready for me." + +"A law with more exceptions than instances, I fear," said Turner. + +"I doubt that," I answered. "The readiness is everything, and that we +constantly blunder in. But we had better see whether we are really +ready for it, by trying whether it is ready for us." + +Connie went to bed early, as indeed we all did, and she was rather +better than worse the next morning. My wife, for the first time for +many nights, said nothing about the crying of the sea. The following +day Turner and I set out to explore the neighbourhood. The rest +remained quietly at home. + +It was, as I have said, a high bare country. The fields lay side by +side, parted from each other chiefly, as so often in Scotland, by stone +walls; and these stones being of a laminated nature, the walls were not +unfrequently built by laying thin plates on their edges, which gave a +neatness to them not found in other parts of the country as far as I am +aware. In the middle of the fields came here and there patches of yet +unreclaimed moorland. + +Now in a region like this, beauty must be looked for below the surface. +There is a probability of finding hollows of repose, sunken spots of +loveliness, hidden away altogether from the general aspect of +sternness, or perhaps sterility, that meets the eye in glancing over +the outspread landscape; just as in the natures of stern men you may +expect to find, if opportunity should be afforded you, sunny spots of +tender verdure, kept ever green by that very sternness which is turned +towards the common gaze--thus existent because they are below the +surface, and not laid bare to the sweep of the cold winds that roam the +world. How often have not men started with amaze at the discovery of +some feminine sweetness, some grace of protection in the man whom they +had judged cold and hard and rugged, inaccessible to the more genial +influences of humanity! It may be that such men are only fighting +against the wind, and keep their hearts open to the sun. + +I knew this; and when Turner and I set out that morning to explore, I +expected to light upon some instance of it--some mine or other in which +nature had hidden away rare jewels; but I was not prepared to find such +as I did find. With our hearts full of a glad secret we returned home, +but we said nothing about it, in order that Ethelwyn and Wynnie might +enjoy the discovery even as we had enjoyed it. + +There was another grand fact with regard to the neighbourhood about +which we judged it better to be silent for a few days, that the inland +influences might be free to work. We were considerably nearer the ocean +than my wife and daughters supposed, for we had made a great round in +order to arrive from the land-side. We were, however, out of the sound +of its waves, which broke all along the shore, in this part, at the +foot of tremendous cliffs. What cliffs they were we shall soon find. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE KEEVE. + + +"Now, my dear! now, Wynnie!" I said, after prayers the next morning, +"you must come out for a walk as soon as ever you can get your bonnets +on." + +"But we can't leave Connie, papa," objected Wynnie. + +"O, yes, you can, quite well. There's nursie to look after her. What do +you say, Connie?" + +For, for some time now, Connie had been able to get up so early, that +it was no unusual thing to have prayers in her room. + +"I am entirely independent of help from my family," returned Connie +grandiloquently. "I am a woman of independent means," she added. "If +you say another word, I will rise and leave the room." + +And she made a movement as if she would actually do as she had said. +Seized with an involuntary terror, I rushed towards her, and the +impertinent girl burst out laughing in my face--threw herself back on +her pillows, and laughed delightedly. + +"Take care, papa," she said. "I carry a terrible club for rebellious +people." Then, her mood changing, she added, as if to suppress the +tears gathering in her eyes, "I am the queen--of luxury and +self-will--and I won't have anybody come near me till dinner-time. I +mean to enjoy myself." + +So the matter was settled, and we went out for our walk. Ethelwyn was +not such a good walker as she had been; but even if she had retained +the strength of her youth, we should not have got on much the better +for it--so often did she and Wynnie stop to grub ferns out of the +chinks and roots of the stone-walls. Now, I admire ferns as much as +anybody--that is, not, I fear, so much as my wife and daughter, but +quite enough notwithstanding--but I do not quite enjoy being pulled up +like a fern at every turn. + +"Now, my dear, what is the use of stopping to torture that harmless +vegetable?" I say, but say in vain. "It is much more beautiful where it +is than it will be anywhere where you can put it. Besides, you know +they never come to anything with you. They _always_ die." + +Thereupon my wife reminds me of this fern and that fern, gathered in +such and such places, and now in such and such corners of the garden or +the greenhouse, or under glass-shades in this or that room, of the very +existence of which I am ignorant, whether from original inattention, or +merely from forgetfulness, I do not know. Certainly, out of their own +place I do not care much for them. + +At length, partly by the inducement I held out to them of a much +greater variety of ferns where we were bound, I succeeded in getting +them over the two miles in little more than two hours. After passing +from the lanes into the fields, our way led downwards till we reached a +very steep large slope, with a delightful southern exposure, and +covered with the sweetest down-grasses. It was just the place to lie +in, as on the edge of the earth, and look abroad upon the universe of +air and floating worlds. + +"Let us have a rest here, Ethel," I said. "I am sure this is much more +delightful than uprooting ferns. What an awful thing to think that here +we are on this great round tumbling ball of a world, held by the feet, +and lifting up the head into infinite space--without choice or wish of +our own--compelled to think and to be, whether we will or not! Just God +must know it to be very good, or he would not have taken it in his +hands to make individual lives without a possible will of theirs. He +must be our Father, or we are wretched creatures--the slaves of a fatal +necessity! Did it ever strike you, Turner, that each one of us stands +on the apex of the world? With a sphere, you know, it must be so. And +thus is typified, as it seems to me, that each one of us must look up +for himself to find God, and then look abroad to find his fellows." + +"I think I know what you mean," was all Turner's reply. + +"No doubt," I resumed, "the apprehension of this truth has, in +otherwise ill-ordered minds, given rise to all sorts of fierce and +grotesque fanaticism. But the minds which have thus conceived the +truth, would have been immeasurably worse without it; nay, this truth +affords at last the only possible door out of the miseries of their own +chaos, whether inherited or the result of their own misconduct." + +"What's that in the grass?" cried Wynnie, in a tone of alarm. + +I looked where she indicated, and saw a slow-worm, or blind-worm, lying +basking in the sun. I rose and went towards it. + +"Here's your stick," said Turner. + +"What for?" I asked. "Why should I kill it? It is perfectly harmless, +and, to my mind, beautiful." + +I took it in my hands, and brought it to my wife. She gave an +involuntary shudder as it came near her. + +"I assure you it is harmless," I said, "though it has a forked tongue." +And I opened its mouth as I spoke. "I do not think the serpent form is +essentially ugly." + +"It makes me feel ugly," said Wynnie. + +"I allow I do not quite understand the mystery of it," I said. "But you +never saw lovelier ornamentation than these silvery scales, with all +the neatness of what you ladies call a set pattern, and none of the +stiffness, for there are not two of them the same in form. And you +never saw lovelier curves than this little patient creature, which does +not even try to get away from me, makes with the queer long thin body +of him." + +"I wonder how it can look after its tail, it is so far off," said +Wynnie. + +"It does though--better than you ladies look after your long dresses. I +wonder whether it is descended from creatures that once had feet, and +did not make a good use of them. Perhaps they had wings even, and would +not use them at all, and so lost them. Its ancestors may have had +poison-fangs; it is innocent enough. But it is a terrible thing to be +all feet, is it not? There is an awful significance in the condemnation +of the serpent--'On thy belly shalt thou go, and eat dust.' But it is +better to talk of beautiful things. _My_ soul at least has dropped from +its world apex. Let us go on. Come, wife. Come, Turner." + +They did not seem willing to rise. But the glen drew me. I rose, and my +wife followed my example with the help of my hand. She returned to the +subject, however, as we descended the slope. + +"Is it possible that in the course of ever so many ages wings and feet +should be both lost?" she said. + +"The most presumptuous thing in the world is to pronounce on the +possible and the impossible. I do not know what is possible and what is +impossible. I can only tell a little of what is true and what is +untrue. But I do say this, that between the condition of many decent +members of society and that for the sake of which God made them, there +is a gulf quite as vast as that between a serpent and a bird. I get +peeps now and then into the condition of my own heart, which, for the +moment, make it seem impossible that I should ever rise into a true +state of nature--that is, into the simplicity of God's will concerning +me. The only hope for ourselves and for others lies in him--in the +power the creating spirit has over the spirits he has made." + +By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and +slippery to admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We +turned, therefore, down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was +but a narrow cleft, and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which +we now saw the tops of trees, and from which we heard the rush of +water. Nor had we gone far in this direction before we came upon a gate +in a stone wall, which led into what seemed a neglected garden. We +entered, and found a path turning and winding, among small trees, and +luxuriant ferns, and great stones, and fragments of ruins down towards +the bottom of the chasm. The noise of falling water increased as we +went on, and at length, after some scrambling and several sharp turns, +we found ourselves with a nearly precipitous wall on each side, clothed +with shrubs and ivy, and creeping things of the vegetable world. Up +this cleft there was no advance. The head of it was a precipice down +which shot the stream from the vale above, pouring out of a deep slit +it had itself cut in the rock as with a knife. Halfway down, it tumbled +into a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing from a chasm in its +side, which left part of the lip of the basin standing like the arch of +a vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, whence it crept as +if half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the ravine. It was +a perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen such a +picturesque fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in effect. +The ladies were full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual reserve, +broke out in frantic exclamations of delight. + +We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the +precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of +force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with +an expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as if +sheer to the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself +brought up boiling and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered +hope of experience. Then we turned down the stream a little way, +crossed it by a plank, and stood again to regard it from the opposite +side. Small as the whole affair was--not more than about a hundred and +fifty feet in height--it was so full of variety that I saw it was all +my memory could do, if it carried away anything like a correct picture +of its aspect. I was contemplating it fixedly, when a little stifled +cry from Wynnie made me start and look round. Her face was flushed, yet +she was trying to look unconcerned. + +"I thought we were quite alone, papa," she said; "but I see a gentleman +sketching." + +I looked whither she indicated. A little way down, the bed of the +ravine widened considerably, and was no doubt filled with water in +rainy weather. Now it was swampy--full of reeds and willow bushes. But +on the opposite side of the stream, with a little canal from it going +all around it, lay a great flat rectangular stone, not more than a foot +above the level of the water, and upon a camp-stool in the centre of +this stone sat a gentleman sketching. I had no doubt that Wynnie had +recognised him at once. And I was annoyed, and indeed angry, to think +that Mr. Percivale had followed us here. But while I regarded him, he +looked up, rose very quietly, and, with his pencil in his hand, came +towards us. With no nearer approach to familiarity than a bow, and no +expression of either much pleasure or any surprise, he said-- + +"I have seen your party for some time, Mr. Walton--since you crossed +the stream; but I would not break in upon your enjoyment with the +surprise which my presence here must cause you." + +I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with +truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my +suspicion-- + +"I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the +pleasure of seeing you." + +This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing +himself. And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement; +for I could not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be +guilty of such a white lie as many a gentleman would have thought +justifiable on the occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little +stiff, for presently he said-- + +"If you will excuse me, I will return to my work." + +Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy +during the interview. + +"It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with +you--capable of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any +moment." + +"To tell the truth," he answered, "I am a little ashamed of being found +sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies. +But it is a change." + +"It is very beautiful here," I said, in a tone of contravention. + +"It is very pretty," he answered--"very lovely, if you will--not very +beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger regard. +Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this place +was fanciful--the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in her +large serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only +pretty, about which boys and guardsmen will rave--to me not very +interesting, save for its single lines." + +"Why, then, do you sketch the place?" + +"A very fair question," he returned, with a smile. "Just because it is +soothing from the very absence of beauty. I would far rather, however, +if I were only following my taste, take the barest bit of the moor +above, with a streak of the cold sky over it. That gives room." + +"You would like to put a skylark in it, wouldn't you?" + +"That I would if I knew how. I see you know what I mean. But the mere +romantic I never had much taste for; though if you saw the kind of +pictures I try to paint, you would not wonder that I take sketches of +places like this, while in my heart of hearts I do not care much for +them. They are so different, and just _therefore_ they are good for me. +I am not working now; I am only playing." + +"With a view to working better afterwards, I have no doubt," I answered. + +"You are right there, I hope," was his quiet reply, as he turned and +walked back to the island. + +He had not made a step towards joining us. He had only taken his hat +off to the ladies. He was gaining ground upon me rapidly. + +"Have you quarrelled with our new friend, Harry?" said my wife, as I +came up to her. + +She was sitting on a stone. Turner and Wynnie were farther off towards +the foot of the fall. + +"Not in the least," I answered, slightly outraged--I did not at first +know why--by the question. "He is only gone to his work, which is a +duty belonging both to the first and second tables of the law." + +"I hope you have asked him to come home to our early dinner, then," she +rejoined. + +"I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him." + +Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help +soon reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on +a visit to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near +enough, held out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in +a moment. After the usual greetings, which on her part, although very +quiet, like every motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial +and kind, she said, "When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might +I ask you to allow some friends of mine to call at your studio, and see +your paintings?" + +"With all my heart," answered Percivale. "I must warn you, however, +that I have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away +less happy than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures +twice." + +"I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour," +answered my wife. + +Percivale bowed--one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly +liked. + +"Any friend of yours--that is guarantee sufficient," he answered. + +There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid, +that you had not a doubt of its being genuine. + +"Will you come and take an early dinner with us?" said my wife. "My +invalid daughter will be very pleased to see you." + +"I will with pleasure," he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation, +as he glanced from Ethelwyn to me. + +"My wife speaks for us all," I said. "It will give us all pleasure." + +"I am only afraid it will break in upon your morning's work," remarked +Ethelwyn. + +"O, that is not of the least consequence," he rejoined. "In fact, as I +have just been saying to Mr. Walton, I am not working at all at +present. This is pure recreation." + +As he spoke he turned towards his easel, and began hastily to bundle up +his things. + +"We're not quite ready to go yet," said my wife, loath to leave the +lovely spot. "What a curious flat stone this is!" she added. + +"It is," said Percivale. "The man to whom the place belongs, a worthy +yeoman of the old school, says that this wider part of the channel must +have been the fish-pond, and that the portly monks stood on this stone +and fished in the pond." + +"Then was there a monastery here?" I asked. + +"Certainly. The ruins of the chapel, one of the smallest, are on the +top, just above the fall--rather a fearful place to look down from. I +wonder you did not observe them as you came. They say it had a silver +bell in the days of its glory, which now lies in a deep hole under the +basin, half-way between the top and bottom of the fall. But the old man +says that nothing will make him look, or let anyone else lift the huge +stone; for he is much better pleased to believe that it may be there, +than he would be to know it was not there; for certainly, if it were +found, it would not be left there long." + +As he spoke Percivale had continued packing his gear. He now led our +party up to the chapel, and thence down a few yards to the edge of the +chasm, where the water fell headlong. I turned away with that fear of +high places which is one of my many weaknesses; and when I turned again +towards the spot, there was Wynnie on the very edge, looking over into +the flash and tumult of the water below, but with a nervous grasp of +the hand of Percivale, who stood a little farther back. + +In going home, the painter led us by an easier way out of the valley, +left his little easel and other things at a cottage, and then walked on +in front between my wife and daughter, while Turner and I followed. He +seemed quite at his ease with them, and plenty of talk and laughter +rose on the way. I, however, was chiefly occupied with finding out +Turner's impression of Connie's condition. + +"She is certainly better," he said. "I wonder you do not see it as +plainly as I do. The pain is nearly gone from her spine, and she can +move herself a good deal more, I am certain, than she could when she +left. She asked me yesterday if she might not turn upon one side. 'Do +you think you could?' I asked.--'I think so,' she answered. 'At any +rate, I have often a great inclination to try; only papa said I had +better wait till you came.' I do think she might be allowed a little +more change of posture now." + +"Then you have really some hope of her final recovery?" + +"I have _hope_ most certainly. But what is hope in me, you must not +allow to become certainty in you. I am nearly sure, though, that she +can never be other than an invalid; that is, if I am to judge by what I +know of such cases." + +"I am thankful for the hope," I answered. "You need not be afraid of my +turning upon you, should the hope never pass into sight. I should do so +only if I found that you had been treating me irrationally--inspiring +me with hope which you knew to be false. The element of uncertainty is +essential to hope, and for all true hope, even as hope, man has to be +unspeakably thankful." + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE WALK TO CHURCH. + + +I was glad to be able to arrange with a young clergyman who was on a +visit to Kilkhaven, that he should take my duty for me the next Sunday, +for that was the only one Turner could spend with us. He and I and +Wynnie walked together two miles to church. It was a lovely morning, +with just a tint of autumn in the air. But even that tint, though all +else was of the summer, brought a shadow, I could see, on Wynnie's face. + +"You said you would show me a poem of--Vaughan, I think you said, was +the name of the writer. I am too ignorant of our older literature," +said Turner. + +"I have only just made acquaintance with him," I answered. "But I think +I can repeat the poem. You shall judge whether it is not like +Wordsworth's Ode. + + 'Happy those early days, when I + Shined in my angel infancy; + Before I understood the place + Appointed for my second race, + Or taught my soul to fancy ought + But a white, celestial thought; + When yet I had not walked above + A mile or two from my first love, + And looking back, at that short space, + Could see a glimpse of his bright face; + When on some gilded cloud or flower + My gazing soul would dwell an hour, + And in those weaker glories spy + Some shadows of eternity; + Before I taught my tongue to wound + My conscience with a sinful sound, + But felt through all this fleshly dress + Bright shoots of everlastingness. + O how I long to travel back----'" + +But here I broke down, for I could not remember the rest with even +approximate accuracy. + +"When did this Vaughan live?" asked Turner. + +"He was born, I find, in 1621--five years, that is, after Shakspere's +death, and when Milton was about thirteen years old. He lived to the +age of seventy-three, but seems to have been little known. In politics +he was on the Cavalier side. By the way, he was a medical man, like +you, Turner--an M.D. We'll have a glance at the little book when we go +back. Don't let me forget to show it you. A good many of your +profession have distinguished themselves in literature, and as profound +believers too." + +"I should have thought the profession had been chiefly remarkable for +such as believe only in the evidence of the senses." + +"As if having searched into the innermost recesses of the body, and not +having found a soul, they considered themselves justified in declaring +there was none." + +"Just so." + +"Well, that is true of the commonplace amongst them, I do believe. You +will find the exceptions have been men of fine minds and +characters--not such as he of whom Chaucer says, + + 'His study was but little on the Bible;' + +for if you look at the rest of the description of the man, you will +find that he was in alliance with his apothecary for their mutual +advantage, that he was a money-loving man, and that some of Chaucer's +keenest irony is spent on him in an off-hand, quiet manner. Compare the +tone in which he writes of the doctor of physic, with the profound +reverence wherewith he bows himself before the poor country-parson." + +Here Wynnie spoke, though with some tremor in her voice. + +"I never know, papa, what people mean by talking about childhood in +that way. I never seem to have been a bit younger and more innocent +than I am." + +"Don't you remember a time, Wynnie, when the things about you--the sky +and the earth, say--seemed to you much grander than they seem now? You +are old enough to have lost something." + +She thought for a little while before she answered. + +"My dreams were, I know. I cannot say so of anything else." + +I in my turn had to be silent, for I did not see the true answer, +though I was sure there was one somewhere, if I could only find it. All +I could reply, however, even after I had meditated a good while, +was--and perhaps, after all, it was the best thing I could have said: + +"Then you must make a good use of your dreams, my child." + +"Why, papa?" + +"Because they are the only memorials of childhood you have left." + +"How am I to make a good use of them? I don't know what to do with my +silly old dreams." + +But she gave a sigh as she spoke that testified her silly old dreams +had a charm for her still. + +"If your dreams, my child, have ever testified to you of a condition of +things beyond that which you see around you, if they have been to you +the hints of a wonder and glory beyond what visits you now, you must +not call them silly, for they are just what the scents of Paradise +borne on the air were to Adam and Eve as they delved and spun, +reminding them that they must aspire yet again through labour into that +childhood of obedience which is the only paradise of humanity--into +that oneness with the will of the Father, which our race, our +individual selves, need just as much as if we had personally fallen +with Adam, and from which we fall every time we are disobedient to the +voice of the Father within our souls--to the conscience which is his +making and his witness. If you have had no childhood, my Wynnie, yet +permit your old father to say that everything I see in you indicates +more strongly in you than in most people that it is this childhood +after which you are blindly longing, without which you find that life +is hardly to be endured. Thank God for your dreams, my child. In him +you will find that the essence of those dreams is fulfilled. We are +saved by hope, Turner. Never man hoped too much, or repented that he +had hoped. The plague is that we don't hope in God half enough. The +very fact that hope is strength, and strength the outcome, the body of +life, shows that hope is at one with life, with the very essence of +what says 'I am'--yea, of what doubts and says 'Am I?' and therefore is +reasonable to creatures who cannot even doubt save in that they live." + +By this time, for I have, of course, only given the outlines, or rather +salient points, of our conversation, we had reached the church, where, +if I found the sermon neither healing nor inspiring, I found the +prayers full of hope and consolation. They at least are safe beyond +human caprice, conceit, or incapacity. Upon them, too, the man who is +distressed at the thought of how little of the needful food he had been +able to provide for his people, may fall back for comfort, in the +thought that there at least was what ought to have done them good, what +it was well worth their while to go to church for. But I did think they +were too long for any individual Christian soul, to sympathise with +from beginning to end, that is, to respond to, like organ-tube to the +fingered key, in every touch of the utterance of the general Christian +soul. For my reader must remember that it is one thing to read prayers +and another to respond; and that I had had very few opportunities of +being in the position of the latter duty. I had had suspicions before, +and now they were confirmed--that the present crowding of services was +most inexpedient. And as I pondered on the matter, instead of trying to +go on praying after I had already uttered my soul, which is but a +heathenish attempt after much speaking, I thought how our Lord had +given us such a short prayer to pray, and I began to wonder when or how +the services came to be so heaped the one on the back of the other as +they now were. No doubt many people defended them; no doubt many people +could sit them out; but how many people could pray from beginning to +end of them I On this point we had some talk as we went home. Wynnie +was opposed to any change of the present use on the ground that we +should only have the longer sermons. + +"Still," I said, "I do not think even that so great an evil. A +sensitive conscience will not reproach itself so much for not listening +to the whole of a sermon, as for kneeling in prayer and not praying. I +think myself, however, that after the prayers are over, everyone should +be at liberty to go out and leave the sermon unheard, if he pleases. I +think the result would be in the end a good one both for parson and +people. It would break through the deadness of this custom, this use +and wont. Many a young mind is turned for life against the influences +of church-going--one of the most sacred influences when _pure_, that +is, un-mingled with non-essentials--just by the feeling that he _must_ +do so and so, that he must go through a certain round of duty. It is a +willing service that the Lord wants; no forced devotions are either +acceptable to him, or other than injurious to the worshipper, if such +he can be called." + +After an early dinner, I said to Turner--"Come out with me, and we will +read that poem of Vaughan's in which I broke down today." + +"O, papa!" said Connie, in a tone of injury, from the sofa. + +"What is it, my dear?" I asked. + +"Wouldn't it be as good for us as for Mr. Turner?" + +"Quite, my dear. Well, I will keep it for the evening, and meantime Mr. +Turner and I will go and see if we can find out anything about the +change in the church-service." + +For I had thrown into my bag as I left the rectory a copy of _The +Clergyman's Vade Mecum_--a treatise occupied with the externals of the +churchman's relations--in which I soon came upon the following passage: + +"So then it appears that the common practice of reading all three +together, is an innovation, and if an ancient or infirm clergyman do +read them at two or three several times, he is more strictly +conformable; however, this is much better than to omit any part of the +liturgy, or to read all three offices into one, as is now commonly +done, without any pause or distinction." + +"On the part of the clergyman, you see, Turner," I said, when I had +finished reading the whole passage to him. "There is no care taken of +the delicate women of the congregation, but only of the ancient or +infirm clergyman. And the logic, to say the least, is rather queer: is +it only in virtue of his antiquity and infirmity that he is to be +upheld in being more strictly conformable? The writer's honesty has its +heels trodden upon by the fear of giving offence. Nevertheless there +should perhaps be a certain slowness to admit change, even back to a +more ancient form." + +"I don't know that I can quite agree with you there," said Turner. "If +the form is better, no one should hesitate to advocate the change. If +it is worse, then slowness is not sufficient--utter obstinacy is the +right condition." + +"You are right, Turner. For the right must be the rule, and where _the +right_ is beyond our understanding or our reach, then _the better_, as +indeed not only right compared with the other, but the sole ascent +towards the right." + +In the evening I took Henry Vaughan's poems into the common +sitting-room, and to Connie's great delight read the whole of the +lovely, though unequal little poem, called "The Retreat," in recalling +which I had failed in the morning. She was especially delighted with +the "white celestial thought," and the "bright shoots of +everlastingness." Then I gave a few lines from another yet more unequal +poem, worthy in themselves of the best of the other. I quote the first +strophe entire: + + CHILDHOOD. + + "I cannot reach it; and my striving eye + Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, + Those white designs which children drive, + And the thoughts of each harmless hour, + With their content too in my power, + Quickly would I make my path even, + And by mere playing go to heaven. + + * * * * * + + And yet the practice worldlings call + Business and weighty action all, + Checking the poor child for his play, + But gravely cast themselves away. + + * * * * * + + An age of mysteries! which he + Must live twice that would God's face see; + Which angels guard, and with it play, + Angels! which foul men drive away. + How do I study now, and scan + Thee more than ere I studied man, + And only see through a long night + Thy edges and thy bordering light I + O for thy centre and midday! + For sure that is the _narrow way!_" + +"For of such is the kingdom of heaven." said my wife softly, as I +closed the book. + +"May I have the book, papa?" said Connie, holding out her thin white +cloud of a hand to take it. + +"Certainly, my child. And if Wynnie would read it with you, she will +feel more of the truth of what Mr. Percivale was saying to her about +finish. Here are the finest, grandest thoughts, set forth sometimes +with such carelessness, at least such lack of neatness, that, instead +of their falling on the mind with all their power of loveliness, they +are like a beautiful face disfigured with patches, and, what is worse, +they put the mind out of the right, quiet, unquestioning, open mood, +which is the only fit one for the reception of such true things as are +embodied in the poems. But they are too beautiful after all to be more +than a little spoiled by such a lack of the finish with which Art ends +off all her labours. A gentleman, however, thinks it of no little +importance to have his nails nice as well as his face and his shirt." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE OLD CASTLE. + + +The place Turner had chosen suited us all so well, that after attending +to my duties on the two following Sundays at Kilkhaven, I returned on +the Monday or Tuesday to the farmhouse. But Turner left us in the +middle of the second week, for he could not be longer absent from his +charge at home, and we missed him much. It was some days before Connie +was quite as cheerful again as usual. I do not mean that she was in the +least gloomy--that she never was; she was only a little less merry. But +whether it was that Turner had opened our eyes, or that she had visibly +improved since he allowed her to make a little change in her +posture--certainly she appeared to us to have made considerable +progress, and every now and then we were discovering some little proof +of the fact. One evening, while we were still at the farm, she startled +us by calling out suddenly,-- + +"Papa, papa! I moved my big toe! I did indeed." + +We were all about her in a moment. But I saw that she was excited, and +fearing a reaction I sought to calm her. + +"But, my dear," I said, as quietly as I could, "you are probably still +aware that you are possessed of two big toes: which of them are we to +congratulate on this first stride in the march of improvement?" + +She broke out in the merriest laugh. A pause followed in which her face +wore a puzzled expression. Then she said all at once, "Papa, it is very +odd, but I can't tell which of them," and burst into tears. I was +afraid that I had done more harm than good. + +"It is not of the slightest consequence, my child," I said. "You have +had so little communication with the twins of late, that it is no +wonder you should not be able to tell the one from the other." + +She smiled again through her sobs, but was silent, with shining face, +for the rest of the evening. Our hopes took a fresh start, but we heard +no more from her of her power over her big toe. As often as I inquired +she said she was afraid she had made a mistake, for she had not had +another hint of its existence. Still I thought it could not have been a +fancy, and I would cleave to my belief in the good sign. + +Percivale called to see us several times, but always appeared anxious +not to intrude more of his society upon us than might be agreeable. He +grew in my regard, however; and at length I asked him if he would +assist me in another surprise which I meditated for my companions, and +this time for Connie as well, and which I hoped would prevent the +painful influences of the sight of the sea from returning upon them +when they went back to Kilkhaven: they must see the sea from a quite +different shore first. In a word I would take them to Tintagel, of the +near position of which they were not aware, although in some of our +walks we had seen the ocean in the distance. An early day was fixed for +carrying out our project, and I proceeded to get everything ready. The +only difficulty was to find a carriage in the neighbourhood suitable +for receiving Connie's litter. In this, however, I at length succeeded, +and on the morning of a glorious day of blue and gold, we set out for +the little village of Trevenna, now far better known than at the time +of which I write. Connie had been out every day since she came, now in +one part of the fields, now in another, enjoying the expanse of earth +and sky, but she had had no drive, and consequently had seen no variety +of scenery. Therefore, believing she was now thoroughly able to bear +it, I quite reckoned of the good she would get from the inevitable +excitement. We resolved, however, after finding how much she enjoyed +the few miles' drive, that we would not demand more, of her strength +that day, and therefore put up at the little inn, where, after ordering +dinner, Percivale and I left the ladies, and sallied forth to +reconnoitre. + +We walked through the village and down the valley beyond, sloping +steeply between hills towards the sea, the opening closed at the end by +the blue of the ocean below and the more ethereal blue of the sky +above. But when we reached the mouth of the valley we found that we +were not yet on the shore, for a precipice lay between us and the +little beach below. On the left a great peninsula of rock stood out +into the sea, upon which rose the ruins of the keep of Tintagel, while +behind on the mainland stood the ruins of the castle itself, connected +with the other only by a narrow isthmus. We had read that this +peninsula had once been an island, and that the two parts of the castle +were formerly connected by a drawbridge. Looking up at the great gap +which now divided the two portions, it seemed at first impossible to +believe that they had ever been thus united; but a little reflection +cleared up the mystery. + +The fact was that the isthmus, of half the height of the two parts +connected by it, had been formed entirely by the fall of portions of +the rock and soil on each side into the narrow dividing space, through +which the waters of the Atlantic had been wont to sweep. And now the +fragments of walls stood on the very verge of the precipice, and showed +that large portions of the castle itself had fallen into the gulf +between. We turned to the left along the edge of the rock, and so by a +narrow path reached and crossed to the other side of the isthmus. We +then found that the path led to the foot of the rock, formerly island, +of the keep, and thence in a zigzag up the face of it to the top. We +followed it, and after a great climb reached a door in a modern +battlement. Entering, we found ourselves amidst grass, and ruins +haggard with age. We turned and surveyed the path by which we had come. +It was steep and somewhat difficult. But the outlook was glorious. It +was indeed one of God's mounts of vision upon which we stood. The +thought, "O that Connie could see this!" was swelling in my heart, when +Percivale broke the silence--not with any remark on the glory around +us, but with the commonplace question-- + +"You haven't got your man with you, I think, Mr. Walton?" + +"No," I answered; "we thought it better to leave him to look after the +boys." + +He was silent for a few minutes, while I gazed in delight. + +"Don't you think," he said, "it would be possible to bring Miss +Constance up here?" + +I almost started at the idea, and had not replied before he resumed: + +"It would be something for her to recur to with delight all the rest of +her life." + +"It would indeed. But it is impossible." + +"I do not think so--if you would allow me the honour to assist you. I +think we could do it perfectly between us." + +I was again silent for a while. Looking down on the way we had come, it +seemed an almost dreadful undertaking. Percivale spoke again. + +"As we shall come here to-morrow, we need not explore the place now. +Shall we go down at once and observe the whole path, with a view to the +practicability of carrying her up?" + +"There can be no objection to that," I answered, as a little hope, and +courage with it, began to dawn in my heart. "But you must allow it does +not look very practicable." + +"Perhaps it would seem more so to you, if you had come up with the idea +in your head all the way, as I did. Any path seems more difficult in +looking back than at the time when the difficulties themselves have to +be met and overcome." + +"Yes, but then you must remember that we have to take the way back +whether we will or no, if we once take the way forward." + +"True; and now I will go down with the descent in my head as well as +under my feet." + +"Well, there can be no harm in reconnoitring it at least. Let us go." + +"You know we can rest almost as often as we please," said Percivale, +and turned to lead the way. + +It certainly was steep, and required care even in our own descent; but +for a man who had climbed mountains, as I had done in my youth, it +could hardly be called difficult even in middle age. By the time we had +got again into the valley road I was all but convinced of the +practicability of the proposal. I was a little vexed, however, I must +confess, that a stranger should have thought of giving such a pleasure +to Connie, when the bare wish that she might have enjoyed it had alone +arisen in my mind. I comforted myself with the reflection that this was +one of the ways in which we were to be weaned from the world and knit +the faster to our fellows. For even the middle-aged, in the decay of +their daring, must look for the fresh thought and the fresh impulse to +the youth which follows at their heels in the march of life. Their part +is to _will_ the relation and the obligation, and so, by love to and +faith in the young, keep themselves in the line along which the +electric current flows, till at length they too shall once more be +young and daring in the strength of the Lord. A man must always seek to +rise above his moods and feelings, to let them move within him, but not +allow them to storm or gloom around him. By the time we reached home we +had agreed to make the attempt, and to judge by the path to the foot of +the rock, which was difficult in parts, whether we should be likely to +succeed, without danger, in attempting the rest of the way and the +following descent. As soon as we had arrived at this conclusion, I felt +so happy in the prospect that I grew quite merry, especially after we +had further agreed that, both for the sake of her nerves and for the +sake of the lordly surprise, we should bind Connie's eyes so that she +should see nothing till we had placed her in a certain position, +concerning the preferableness of which we were not of two minds. + +"What mischief have you two been about?" said my wife, as we entered +our room in the inn, where the cloth was already laid for dinner. "You +look just like two schoolboys that have been laying some plot, and can +hardly hold their tongues about it." + +"We have been enjoying our little walk amazingly," I answered. "So much +so, that we mean to set out for another the moment dinner is over." + +"I hope you will take Wynnie with you then." + +"Or you, my love," I returned. + +"No; I will stay with Connie." + +"Very well. You, and Connie too, shall go out to-morrow, for we have +found a place we want to take you to. And, indeed, I believe it was our +anticipation of the pleasure you and she would have in the view that +made us so merry when you accused us of plotting mischief." + +My wife replied only with a loving look, and dinner appearing at this +moment, we sat down a happy party. + +When that was over--and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, +homely in material but admirable in cooking--Wynnie and Percivale and I +set out again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had +seen the church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the +little valley, and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, +and Wynnie accepted Percivale's offered arm. I led the way, therefore, +and left them to follow--not so far in the rear, however, but that I +could take a share in the conversation. It was some little time before +any arose, and it was Wynnie who led the way into it. + +"What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?" she +asked. + +He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an +answer look so long, that most people would call them minutes. + +"I would rather you should see some of my pictures--I should prefer +that to answering your question," he said, at length. + +"But I have seen some of your pictures," she returned. + +"Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton." + +"At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies." + +"Some of my sketches--none of my studies." + +"But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?" + +"Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my +pictures." + +"I cannot understand you." + +"I do not wonder at that. But I would rather, I repeat, say nothing +about my pictures till you see some of them." + +"But how am I to have that pleasure, then?" + +"You go to London sometimes, do you not?" + +"Very rarely. More rarely still when the Royal Academy is open." + +"That does not matter much. My pictures are seldom to be found there." + +"Do you not care to send them there?" + +"I send one, at least, every year. But they are rarely accepted." + +"Why?" + +This was a very improper question, I thought; but if Wynnie had thought +so she would not have put it. He hesitated a little before he replied-- + +"It is hardly for me to say why," he answered; "but I cannot wonder +much at it, considering the subjects I choose.--But I daresay," he +added, in a lighter tone, "after all, that has little to do with it, +and there is something about the things themselves that precludes a +favourable judgment. I avoid thinking about it. A man ought to try to +look at his own work as if it were none of his, but not as with the +eyes of other people. That is an impossibility, and the attempt a +bewilderment. It is with his own eyes he must look, with his own +judgment he must judge. The only effort is to get it set far away +enough from him to be able to use his own eyes and his own judgment +upon it." + +"I think I see what you mean. A man has but his own eyes and his own +judgment. To look with those of other people is but a fancy." + +"Quite so. You understand me quite." + +He said no more in explanation of his rejection by the Academy. Till we +reached the church, nothing more of significance passed between them. + +What a waste, bare churchyard that was! It had two or three lych-gates, +but they had no roofs. They were just small enclosures, with the low +stone tables, to rest the living from the weight of the dead, while the +clergyman, as the keeper of heaven's wardrobe, came forth to receive +the garment they restored--to be laid aside as having ended its work, +as having been worn done in the winds, and rains, and labours of the +world. Not a tree stood in that churchyard. Hank grass was the sole +covering of the soil heaved up with the dead beneath. What blasts from +the awful space of the sea must rush athwart the undefended garden! The +ancient church stood in the midst, with its low, strong, square tower, +and its long, narrow nave, the ridge bowed with age, like the back of a +horse worn out in the service of man, and its little homely chancel, +like a small cottage that had leaned up against its end for shelter +from the western blasts. It was locked, and we could not enter. But of +all world-worn, sad-looking churches, that one--sad, even in the +sunset--was the dreariest I had ever beheld. Surely, it needed the +gospel of the resurrection fervently preached therein, to keep it from +sinking to the dust with dismay and weariness. Such a soul alone could +keep it from vanishing utterly of dismal old age. Near it was one huge +mound of grass-grown rubbish, looking like the grave where some former +church of the dead had been buried, when it could stand erect no longer +before the onsets of Atlantic winds. I walked round and round it, +gathering its architecture, and peeping in at every window I could +reach. Suddenly I was aware that I was alone. Returning to the other +side, I found that Percivale was seated on the churchyard wall, next +the sea--it would have been less dismal had it stood immediately on the +cliffs, but they were at some little distance beyond bare downs and +rough stone walls; he was sketching the place, and Wynnie stood beside +him, looking over his shoulder. I did not interrupt him, but walked +among the graves, reading the poor memorials of the dead, and wondering +how many of the words of laudation that were inscribed on their tombs +were spoken of them while they were yet alive. Yet, surely, in the +lives of those to whom they applied the least, there had been moments +when the true nature, the nature God had given them, broke forth in +faith and tenderness, and would have justified the words inscribed on +their gravestones! I was yet wandering and reading, and stumbling over +the mounds, when my companions joined me, and, without a word, we +walked out of the churchyard. We were nearly home before one of us +spoke. + +"That church is oppressive," said Percivale. "It looks like a great +sepulchre, a place built only for the dead--the church of the dead." + +"It is only that it partakes with the living," I returned; "suffers +with them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the +shield of the Red-Cross Knight, the 'old dints of deep wounds.'" + +"Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?" + +"The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it +must not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is +shrinking from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the +land, high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven +from all storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse +lie the bodies of men--you saw the grave of some of them on the other +side--flung ashore from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one +would rather have the bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of +the churchyard earth, than sweeping and swaying about as Milton +imagines the bones of his friend Edward King, in that wonderful +'Lycidas.'" Then I told them the conversation I had had with the sexton +at Kilkhaven. "But," I went on, "these fancies are only the ghostly +mists that hang about the eastern hills before the sun rises. We shall +look down on all that with a smile by and by; for the Lord tells us +that if we believe in him we shall never die." + +By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a +description of what we had seen. + +"What a brave old church!" said Connie. + +The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got +up at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of +all to have a look at Connie's litter, and see that it was quite sound. +Satisfied of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and +strength. + +After breakfast I went to Connie's room, and told her that Mr. +Percivale and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once. + +"But we want to do it our own way." + +"Of course, papa," she answered. + +"Will you let us tie your eyes up?" + +"Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, +when I don't know one big toe from the other." + +And she laughed merrily. + +"We'll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha'n't weary +of the journey." + +"You're going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! +And then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!--Getting +tired!" she repeated. "Even the wind on my face would be pleasure +enough for half a day. I sha'n't get tired so soon as you will--you +dear, kind papa! I am afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha'n't +jerk your arms much. I will lie so still!" + +"And you won't mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?" + +"No. Why should I, if he doesn't mind it? He looks strong enough; and I +am sure he is nice, and won't think me heavier than I am." + +"Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; +and we shall set out as soon as you are ready." + +She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and +gave me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began +to call as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress +her. + +It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like +veins of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the +sunshine. The sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of +the valley, as if overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the +sun overhead; and the hills between which we went lay like great sheep, +with green wool, basking in the blissful heat. The gleam from the +waters came up the pass; the grand castle crowned the left-hand steep, +seeming to warm its old bones, like the ruins of some awful megatherium +in the lighted air; one white sail sped like a glad thought across the +spandrel of the sea; the shadows of the rocks lay over our path, like +transient, cool, benignant deaths, through which we had to pass again +and again to yet higher glory beyond; and one lark was somewhere in +whose little breast the whole world was reflected as in the convex +mirror of a dewdrop, where it swelled so that he could not hold it, but +let it out again through his throat, metamorphosed into music, which he +poured forth over all as the libation on the outspread altar of worship. + +And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then +she would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although +she beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of +the wind on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have +approached that condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for +in his blindness, wherein the sight should be + + "through all parts diffused, + That she might look at will through every pore." + +I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment +we reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross +the isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things +around us; and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no +exclamation of surprise or delight should break from them before +Connie's eyes were uncovered. I had said nothing to either of them +about the difficulties of the way, that, seeing us take them as +ordinary things, they might take them so too, and not be uneasy. + +We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, _nee_ +island, upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie +down, to take breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way. + +"Now, now!" said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that +we were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes. + +"No, no, my love, not yet," I said, and she lay still again, only she +looked more eager than before. + +"I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa," she said. + +Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly-- + +"O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules--at least, he chooses to +be considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I +have a little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink." + +There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the +best revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as +we might to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the +litter too much for her comfort. + +"Where _are_ you going, papa?" she said once, but without a sign of +fear in her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter +suddenly. "You must be going up a steep place. Don't hurt yourself, +dear papa." + +We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, +up the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every +change on her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did +find it hard work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little +sunny pool, on which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen +heaven cast exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they +floated over it. Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind +him. I did wish we were at the top, for my arms began to feel like +iron-cables, stiff and stark--only I was afraid of my fingers giving +way. My heart was beating uncomfortably too. But Percivale, I felt +almost inclined to quarrel with him before it was over, he strode on so +unconcernedly, turning every corner of the zigzag where I expected him +to propose a halt, and striding on again, as if there could be no +pretence for any change of procedure. But I held out, strengthened by +the play on my daughter's face, delicate as the play on an opal--one +that inclines more to the milk than the fire. + +When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented +wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the grass-- + +"Percivale," I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour +of being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the +mount of glory, "why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no +heed to me?" + +"You didn't speak, did you, Mr. Walton," he returned, with just a +shadow of solicitude in the question. + +"No. Of course not," I rejoined. + +"O, then," he returned, in a tone of relief, "how could I? You were my +captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?" + +I am afraid the _Percivale_, without the _Mister_, came again and again +after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I caught +myself. + +"Now, papa!" said Connie from the grass. + +"Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and +meet them, Mr. Percivale." + +"O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or +what kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I +have never been alone in all my life." + +"Very well, my dear," I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the +ruins. + +We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could. + +"Dear Harry," she said, "how could you think of bringing Connie up such +an awful place? I wonder you dared to do it." + +"It's done you see, wife," I answered, "thanks to Mr. Percivale, who +has nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and +you will say that to see Connie's delight, not to mention your own, is +quite wages for the labour." + +"Isn't she afraid to find herself so high up?" + +"She knows nothing about it yet." + +"You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up." + +"To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil +half the pleasure." + +"Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so." + +"Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take +my arm now." + +"Don't you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm," said Percivale, +"and then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that +way." + +We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The +moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the +place neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered +on her pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the +keep, with light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still +expectation, that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep +after receiving an answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known +sonnet of Wordsworth's, in which he describes as the type of Death-- + + "the face of one + Sleeping alone within a mossy cave + With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have + Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; + A lovely beauty in a summer grave." + +[Footnote: _Miscellaneous Sonnets_, part i.28.] + +But she heard our steps, and her face awoke. + +"Is mamma come?" + +"Yes, my darling. I am here," said her mother. "How do you feel?" + +"Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!" + +"One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale." + +We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her a +little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the +bandage from her head. + +"Hold your hands over her eyes, a little way from them," I said to her +as she untied the handkerchief, "that the light may reach them by +degrees, and not blind her." + +Ethelwyn did so for a few moments, then removed them. Still for a +moment or two more, it was plain from her look of utter bewilderment, +that all was a confused mass of light and colour. Then she gave a +little cry, and to my astonishment, almost fear, half rose to a sitting +posture. One moment more and she laid herself gently back, and wept and +sobbed. + +And now I may admit my reader to a share, though at best but a dim +reflex in my poor words, of the glory that made her weep. + +Through the gothic-arched door in the battlemented wall, which stood on +the very edge of the precipitous descent, so that nothing of the +descent was seen, and the door was as a framework to the picture, +Connie saw a great gulf at her feet, full to the brim of a splendour of +light and colour. Before her rose the great ruins of rock and castle, +the ruin of rock with castle; rough stone below, clear green happy +grass above, even to the verge of the abrupt and awful precipice; over +it the summer sky so clear that it must have been clarified by sorrow +and thought; at the foot of the rocks, hundreds of feet below, the blue +waters breaking in white upon the dark gray sands; all full of the +gladness of the sun overflowing in speechless delight, and reflected in +fresh gladness from stone and water and flower, like new springs of +light rippling forth from the earth itself to swell the universal tide +of glory--all this seen through the narrow gothic archway of a door in +a wall--up--down--on either hand. But the main marvel was the look +sheer below into the abyss full of light and air and colour, its sides +lined with rock and grass, and its bottom lined with blue ripples and +sand. Was it any wonder that my Connie should cry aloud when the vision +dawned upon her, and then weep to ease a heart ready to burst with +delight? "O Lord God," I said, almost involuntarily, "thou art very +rich. Thou art the one poet, the one maker. We worship thee. Make but +our souls as full of glory in thy sight as this chasm is to our eyes +glorious with the forms which thou hast cloven and carved out of +nothingness, and we shall be worthy to worship thee, O Lord, our God." +For I was carried beyond myself with delight, and with sympathy with +Connie's delight and with the calm worship of gladness in my wife's +countenance. But when my eye fell on Wynnie, I saw a trouble mingled +with her admiration, a self-accusation, I think, that she did not and +could not enjoy it more; and when I turned from her, there were the +eyes of Percivale fixed on me in wonderment; and for the moment I felt +as David must have felt when, in his dance of undignified delight that +he had got the ark home again, he saw the contemptuous eyes of Michal +fixed on him from the window. But I could not leave it so. I said to +him--coldly I daresay: + +"Excuse me, Mr. Percivale; I forgot for the moment that I was not +amongst my own family." + +Percivale took his hat off. + +"Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Walton. I was half-envying and +half-wondering. You would not be surprised at my unconscious behaviour +if you had seen as much of the wrong side of the stuff as I have seen +in London." + +I had some idea of what he meant; but this was no time to enter upon a +discussion. I could only say-- + +"My heart was full, Mr. Percivale, and I let it overflow." + +"Let me at least share in its overflow," he rejoined, and nothing more +passed on the subject. + +For the next ten minutes we stood in absolute silence. We had set +Connie down on the grass again, but propped up so that she could see +through the doorway. And she lay in still ecstasy. But there was more +to be seen ere we descended. There was the rest of the little islet +with its crop of down-grass, on which the horses of all the knights of +King Arthur's round table might have fed for a week--yes, for a +fortnight, without, by any means, encountering the short commons of +war. There were the ruins of the castle so built of plates of the +laminated stone of the rocks on which they stood, and so woven in or +more properly incorporated with the outstanding rocks themselves, that +in some parts I found it impossible to tell which was building and +which was rock--the walls themselves seeming like a growth out of the +island itself, so perfectly were they in harmony with, and in kind the +same as, the natural ground upon which and of which they had been +constructed. And this would seem to me to be the perfection of +architecture. The work of man's hands should be so in harmony with the +place where it stands that it must look as if it had grown out of the +soil. But the walls were in some parts so thin that one wondered how +they could have stood so long. They must have been built before the +time of any formidable artillery--enough only for defence from arrows. +But then the island was nowhere commanded, and its own steep cliffs +would be more easily defended than any erections upon it. Clearly the +intention was that no enemy should thereon find rest for the sole of +his foot; for if he was able to land, farewell to the notion of any +further defence. Then there was outside the walls the little +chapel--such a tiny chapel! of which little more than the foundation +remained, with the ruins of the altar still standing, and outside the +chancel, nestling by its wall, a coffin hollowed in the rock; then the +churchyard a little way off full of graves, which, I presume, would +have vanished long ago were it not that the very graves were founded on +the rock. There still stood old worn-out headstones of thin slate, but +no memorials were left. Then there was the fragment of arched passage +underground laid open to the air in the centre of the islet; and last, +and grandest of all, the awful edges of the rock, broken by time, and +carved by the winds and the waters into grotesque shapes and +threatening forms. Over all the surface of the islet we carried Connie, +and from three sides of this sea-fortress she looked abroad over "the +Atlantic's level powers." It blew a gentle ethereal breeze on the top; +but had there been such a wind as I have since stood against on that +fearful citadel of nature, I should have been in terror lest we should +all be blown, into the deep. Over the edge she peeped at the strange +fantastic needle-rock, and round the corner she peeped to see Wynnie +and her mother seated in what they call Arthur's chair--a canopied +hollow wrought in the plated rock by the mightiest of all solvents--air +and water; till at length it was time that we should take our leave of +the few sheep that fed over the place, and issuing by the gothic door, +wind away down the dangerous path to the safe ground below. + +"I think we had better tie up your eyes again, Connie?" I said. + +"Why?" she asked, in wonderment. "There's nothing higher yet, is there?" + +"No, my love. If there were, you would hardly be able for it to-day, I +should think. It is only to keep you from being frightened at the +precipice as you go down." + +"But I sha'n't be frightened, papa." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you are going to carry me." + +"But what if I should slip? I might, you know." + +"I don't mind. I sha'n't mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you +do it. I sha'n't be to blame, and I'm sure you won't, papa." Then she +drew my head down and whispered in my ear, "If I get as much more by +being killed, as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I'm sure it +will be well worth it." + +I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just +as she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we +bore her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, +instead of being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My +wife, I could see, was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of +relief when we were once more at the foot. + +"Well, I'm glad that's over," she said. + +"So am I," I returned, as we set down the litter. + +"Poor papa! I've pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale's too!" + +Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then +turning towards her, he said, "Look here, Miss Connie;" and flung it +far out from the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike +on a rock below, and then fall in a shower of fragments. "My arms are +all right, you see," he said. + +Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet +been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us +out of breath with the news: + +"Papa! Mr. Percivale! there's such a grand cave down there! It goes +right through under the island." + +Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and +without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way +that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch +more difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a +contrast to the vision overhead!--nothing to be seen but the cool, dark +vault of the cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on +its pebbly floor, and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide +rolled through in rising and falling--the waters on the opposite sides +of the islet greeting through this cave; the blue shimmer of the rising +sea, and the forms of huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further +end, where the roof rose like a grand cathedral arch; and the green +gleam of veins rich with copper, dashing and streaking the darkness in +gloomy little chapels, where the floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and +rose within till it met the descending roof. It was like a going-down +from Paradise into the grave--but a cool, friendly, brown-lighted +grave, which even in its darkest recesses bore some witness to the wind +of God outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed light, from the +play of the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, wandered +across its jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the damp +coolness; and I have given my reader quite enough of description for +one hour's reading. He can scarcely be equal to more. + +My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I +no longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days +after, and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner's place in the +carriage. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +JOE AND HIS TROUBLE. + + +How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands +of Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty +rampart of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce +guardians! It was pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to +look like home, and was indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of +Dora and the boys. Connie's baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her +chubby arms at sight of her. The wind blew gently around us, full both +of the freshness of the clean waters and the scents of the +down-grasses, to welcome us back. And the dread vision of the shore had +now receded so far into the past, that it was no longer able to hurt. + +We had called at the blacksmith's house on our way home, and found that +he was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother +said he was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, +feared that they indicated an approaching break-down. + +"Indeed, sir," she said, "Joe might be well enough if he liked. It's +all his own fault." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "I cannot believe that your son is in any +way guilty of his own illness." + +"He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe," she answered; "but he hasn't learned +what I had to learn long ago." + +"What is that?" I asked. + +"To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other." + +She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she +spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in +mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all +her face under the nose. + +"And what is it he won't do?" + +"I don't mind whether he does it or not, if he would only +make--up--his--mind--and--stick--to--it." + +"What is it you want him to do, then?" + +"I don't want him to do it, I'm sure. It's no good to me--and wouldn't +be much to him, that I'll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself." + +I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no +more sunshine for him at home than his mother's face indicated. Few +things can make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, +whose rays are smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the +door,--the face of wife or mother or sister. Now his mother's face +certainly was not sunny. No doubt it must have shone upon him when he +was a baby. God has made that provision for babies, who need sunshine +so much that a mother's face cannot help being sunny to them: why +should the sunshine depart as the child grows older? + +"Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far from +well. Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief +somewhere. And if there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to +get over it." + +"If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to +it--" + +"O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind." + +"That's just what he won't do." + +All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. +It was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in +sympathy with her son, and therefore could not help him out of any +difficulty he might be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her +the cause of her son's discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his +illness. In passing his workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made +an arrangement to meet him at the church the next day. + +I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we +left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the +rods attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a +carpenter, a cousin of his own, with him. + +They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a +bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white +teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in +Joseph's affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I +therefore said half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, +self-withdrawn countenance the smith was fitting one loop into another +in two of his iron rods,-- + +"I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more +cheerful. You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine." + +The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips. + +"Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the +rest of us. He's a religious man, is Joe." + +"But I don't see how that should make him miserable. It hasn't made me +miserable. I hope I'm a religious man myself. It makes me happy every +day of my life." + +"Ah, well," returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked +away gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, +"I don't say it's the religion, for I don't know; but perhaps it's the +way he takes it up. He don't look after hisself enough; he's always +thinking about other people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, +that if you don't look after yourself, why, who is to look after you? +That's common sense, _I_ think." + +It was a curious contrast--the merry friendly face, which shone +good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, +even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about +other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be +correct in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, +healthy inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a +smile very unlike his cousin's with which Joe heard his remarks on +himself. + +"But," I said, "you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take +Joe's way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of +yourself." + +"I don't see why, sir." + +"Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else." + +"Not so well, I doubt, sir." + +"Yes, and a great deal better." + +"At any rate, that's a long way off; and mean time, _who's_ to take +care of the odd man like Joe there, that don't look after hisself?" + +"Why, God, of course." + +"Well, there's just where I'm out. I don't know nothing about that +branch, sir." + +I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe's gloomy eyes as I spoke thus +upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin +volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I +might have gained. + +At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have +their dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and +I dropped behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in +meditation. + +Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the +rectory, when I saw the sexton's daughter meeting us. She had almost +come up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, +and he started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, +constrained, yet familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to +talk, but without speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of +recognition to the young woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners +to look behind. I glanced at Harry, and he answered me with a queer +look. When we reached the turning that would hide them from our view, I +looked back almost involuntarily, and there they were still standing. +But before we reached the door of the rectory, Joe got up with us. + +There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the +sexton's daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the +youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, +somewhat sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall +and slender, and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good +hair's-breadth further into the smith's affairs. Beyond the +hair's-breadth, however, all was dark. But I saw likewise that the well +of truth, whence I might draw the whole business, must be the girl's +mother. + +After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back +to the church, and I went to the sexton's cottage. I found the old man +seated at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty +plate beside it. + +"Come in, sir," he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. "The +mis'ess ben't in, but she'll be here in a few minutes." + +"O, it's of no consequence," I said. "Are they all well?" + +"All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It +be in winter it be worst for them." + +"But it's a snug enough shelter you've got here. It seems such, anyhow; +though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak +places both in house and body." + +"It ben't the wind touch _them_" he said; "they be safe enough from the +wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben't much snow in these parts; but +when it du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!" + +Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again? + +"But at least this cottage keeps out the wet," I said. "If not, we must +have it seen to." + +"This cottage du well enough, sir. It'll last my time, anyhow." + +"Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?" + +"Bless your heart, sir! It's not them. They du well enough. It's my +people out yonder. You've got the souls to look after, and I've got the +bodies. That's what it be, sir. To be sure!" + +The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my +stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and +none to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed +that night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination +in which the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, +and he would magnify that office. He could not bear that there should +be no further outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out +of sight should be "the be-all and the end-all." He was God's vicar, +the gardener in God's Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When +all others had forsaken the dead, he remained their friend, caring for +what little comfort yet remained possible to them. Hence in all changes +of air and sky above, he attributed to them some knowledge of the same, +and some share in their consequences even down in the darkness of the +tomb. It was his way of keeping up the relation between the living and +the dead. Finding I made him no reply, he took up the word again. + +"You've got your part, sir, and I've got mine. You up into the pulpit, +and I down into the grave. But it'll be all the same by and by." + +"I hope it will," I answered. "But when you do go down into your own +grave, you'll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You'll +find you've got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. +She'll talk about the living rather than the dead." + +"That's natural, sir. She brought 'em to life, and I buried 'em--at +least, best part of 'em. If only I had the other two safe down with the +rest!" + +I remembered what the old woman had told me--that she had two boys _in_ +the sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned +boys as still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have +gladly laid them to rest in the warm dry churchyard. + +He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, +and saying, "Well, I must be off to my gardening," left me with his +wife. I saw then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, +like that of all true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping. + +"The old man seems a little out of sorts," I said to his wife. + +"Well, sir," she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness +which obedient suffering had perfected, "this be the day he buried our +Nancy, this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work +poorly; and the two things together they've upset him a bit." + +"I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?" + +"I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I've been to the doctor about +her." + +"I hope it's nothing serious." + +"I hope not, sir; but you see--four on 'em, sir!" + +"Well, she's in God's hands, you know." + +"That she be, sir." + +"I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes." + +"What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir." + +"I want to know what's the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith." + +"They du say it be a consumption, sir." + +"But what has he got on his mind?" + +"He's got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, +I assure you, sir." + +"But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He's not so +happy as he should be. He's not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy +because he's ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was +going to die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as +he looks." + +"Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it's +part guessing.--I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon one +another as any two in the county." + +"Are they not going to be married then?" + +"There be the pint, sir. I don't believe Joe ever said a word o' the +sort to Aggy. She never could ha' kep it from me, sir." + +"Why doesn't he then?" + +"That's the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it's because he be +in such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn't to go marrying with one +foot in the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that +be it." + +"For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we've all got one foot in the grave, I +think." + +"That be very true, sir." + +"And what does your daughter think?" + +"I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each +other, quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. +But I can't help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy's pale +face." + +"And something to do with Joe's pale face too, Mrs. Coombes," I said. +"Thank you. You've told me more than I expected. It explains +everything. I must have it out with Joe now." + +"O deary me! sir, don't go and tell him I said anything, as if I wanted +him to marry my daughter." + +"Don't you be afraid. I'll take good care of that. And don't fancy I'm +fond of meddling with other people's affairs. But this is a case in +which I ought to do something. Joe's a fine fellow." + +"That he be, sir. I couldn't wish a better for a son-in-law." + +I put on my hat. + +"You won't get me into no trouble with Joe, will ye, sir!" + +"Indeed I will not, Mrs. Coombes. I should be doing a great deal more +harm than good if I said a word to make him doubt you." + +I went straight to the church. There were the two men working away in +the shadowy tower, and there was Agnes standing beside, knitting like +her mother, so quiet, so solemn even, that it did indeed look as if she +were a long-married wife, hovering about her husband at his work. Harry +was saying something to her as I went in, but when they saw me they +were silent, and Agnes gently withdrew. + +"Do you think you will get through to-night?" I asked. + +"Sure of it, sir," answered Harry. + +"You shouldn't be sure of anything, Harry. We are told in the New +Testament that we ought to say _If the Lord will_," said Joe. + +"Now, Joe, you're too hard upon Harry," I said. "You don't think that +the Bible means to pull a man up every step like that, till he's afraid +to speak a word. It was about a long journey and a year's residence +that the Apostle James was speaking." + +"No doubt, sir. But the principle's the same. Harry can no more be sure +of finishing his work before it be dark, than those people could be of +going their long journey." + +"That is perfectly true. But you are taking the letter for the spirit, +and that, I suspect, in more ways than one. The religion does not lie +in not being sure about anything, but in a loving desire that the will +of God in the matter, whatever it be, may be done. And if Harry has not +learned yet to care about the will of God, what is the good of coming +down upon him that way, as if that would teach him in the least. When +he loves God, then, and not till then, will he care about his will. Nor +does the religion lie in saying, _if the Lord will_, every time +anything is to be done. It is a most dangerous thing to use sacred +words often. It makes them so common to our ear that at length, when +used most solemnly, they have not half the effect they ought to have, +and that is a serious loss. What the Apostle means is, that we should +always be in the mood of looking up to God and having regard to his +will, not always writing D.V. for instance, as so many do--most +irreverently, I think--using a Latin contraction for the beautiful +words, just as if they were a charm, or as if God would take offence if +they did not make the salvo of acknowledgment. It seems to me quite +heathenish. Our hearts ought ever to be in the spirit of those words; +our lips ought to utter them rarely. Besides, there are some things a +man might be pretty sure the Lord wills." + +"It sounds fine, sir; but I'm not sure that I understand what you mean +to say. It sounds to me like a darkening of wisdom." + +I saw that I had irritated him, and so had in some measure lost ground. +But Harry struck in-- + +"How _can_ you say that now, Joe? _I_ know what the parson means well +enough, and everybody knows I ain't got half the brains you've got." + +"The reason is, Harry, that he's got something in his head that stands +in the way." + +"And there's nothing in my head _to_ stand in the way!" returned Harry, +laughing. + +This made me laugh too, and even Joe could not help a sympathetic grin. +By this time it was getting dark. + +"I'm afraid, Harry, after all, you won't get through to-night." + +"I begin to think so too, sir. And there's Joe saying, 'I told you so,' +over and over to himself, though he won't say it out like a man." + +Joe answered only with another grin. + +"I tell you what it is, Harry," I said--"you must come again on Monday. +And on your way home, just look in and tell Joe's mother that I have +kept him over to-morrow. The change will do him good." + +"No, sir, that can't he. I haven't got a clean shirt." + +"You can have a shirt of mine," I said. "But I'm afraid you'll want +your Sunday clothes." + +"I'll bring them for you, Joe--before you're up," interposed Harry. +"And then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know." + +Here was just what I wanted. + +"Hold your tongue, Harry," said Joe angrily. "You're talking of what +you don't know anything about." + +"Well, Joe, I ben't a fool, if I ben't so religious as you be. You +ben't a bad fellow, though you be a Methodist, and I ben't a fool, +though I be Harry Cobb." + +"What do you mean, Harry? Do hold your tongue." + +"Well, I'll tell you what I mean first, and then I'll hold my tongue. I +mean this--that nobody with two eyes, or one eye, for that matter, in +his head, could help seeing the eyes you and Aggy make at each other, +and why you don't port your helm and board her--I won't say it's more +than I know, but I du say it to be more than I think be fair to the +young woman." + +"Hold your tongue, Harry." + +"I said I would when I'd answered you as to what I meaned. So no more +at present; but I'll be over with your clothes afore you're up in the +morning." + +As Harry spoke he was busy gathering his tools. + +"They won't be in the way, will they, sir?" he said, as he heaped them +together in the furthest corner of the tower. + +"Not in the least," I returned. "If I had my way, all the tools used in +building the church should be carved on the posts and pillars of it, to +indicate the sacredness of labour, and the worship of God that lies, +not in building the church merely, but in every honest trade honestly +pursued for the good of mankind and the need of the workman. For a +necessity of God is laid upon every workman as well as on St. Paul. +Only St. Paul saw it, and every workman doesn't, Harry." + +"Thank you, sir. I like that way of it. I almost think I could be a +little bit religious after your way of it, sir." + +"Almost, Harry!" growled Joe--not unkindly. + +"Now, you hold your tongue, Joe," I said. "Leave Harry to me. You may +take him, if you like, after I've done with him." + +Laughing merrily, but making no other reply than a hearty good-night, +Harry strode away out of the church, and Joe and I went home together. + +When he had had his tea, I asked him to go out with me for a walk. + +The sun was shining aslant upon the downs from over the sea. We rose +out of the shadowy hollow to the sunlit brow. I was a little in advance +of Joe. Happening to turn, I saw the light full on his head and face, +while the rest of his body had not yet emerged from the shadow. + +"Stop, Joe," I said. "I want to see you so for a moment." + +He stood--a little surprised. + +"You look just like a man rising from the dead, Joe," I said. + +"I don't know what you mean, sir," he returned. + +"I will describe yourself to you. Your head and face are full of +sunlight, the rest of your body is still buried in the shadow. Look; I +will stand where you are now; and you come here. You will soon see what +I mean." + +We changed places. Joe stared for a moment. Then his face brightened. + +"I see what you mean, sir," he said. "I fancy you don't mean the +resurrection of the body, but the resurrection of righteousness." + +"I do, Joe. Did it ever strike you that the whole history of the +Christian life is a series of such resurrections? Every time a man +bethinks himself that he is not walking in the light, that he has been +forgetting himself, and must repent, that he has been asleep and must +awake, that he has been letting his garments trail, and must gird up +the loins of his mind--every time this takes place, there is a +resurrection in the world. Yes, Joe; and every time that a man finds +that his heart is troubled, that he is not rejoicing in God, a +resurrection must follow--a resurrection out of the night of troubled +thoughts into the gladness of the truth. For the truth is, and ever +was, and ever must be, gladness, however much the souls on which it +shines may be obscured by the clouds of sorrow, troubled by the +thunders of fear, or shot through with the lightnings of pain. Now, +Joe, will you let me tell you what you are like--I do not know your +thoughts; I am only judging from your words and looks?" + +"You may if you like, sir," answered Joe, a little sulkily. But I was +not to be repelled. + +I stood up in the sunlight, so that my eyes caught only about half the +sun's disc. Then I bent my face towards the earth. + +"What part of me is the light shining on now, Joe?" + +"Just the top of your head," answered he. + +"There, then," I returned, "that is just what you are like--a man with +the light on his head, but not on his face. And why not on your face? +Because you hold your head down." + +"Isn't it possible, sir, that a man might lose the light on his face, +as you put it, by doing his duty?" + +"That is a difficult question," I replied. "I must think before I +answer it." + +"I mean," added Joe--"mightn't his duty be a painful one?" + +"Yes. But I think that would rather etherealise than destroy the light. +Behind the sorrow would spring a yet greater light from the very duty +itself. I have expressed myself badly, but you will see what I +mean.--To be frank with you, Joe, I do not see that light in your face. +Therefore I think something must be wrong with you. Remember a good man +is not necessarily in the right. St. Peter was a good man, yet our Lord +called him Satan--and meant it of course, for he never said what he did +not mean." + +"How can I be wrong when all my trouble comes from doing my +duty--nothing else, as far as I know?" + +"Then," I replied, a sudden light breaking in on my mind, "I doubt +whether what you suppose to be your duty can be your duty. If it were, +I do not think it would make you so miserable. At least--I may be +wrong, but I venture to think so." + +"What is a man to go by, then? If he thinks a thing is his duty, is he +not to do it?" + +"Most assuredly--until he knows better. But it is of the greatest +consequence whether the supposed duty be the will of God or the +invention of one's own fancy or mistaken judgment. A real duty is +always something right in itself. The duty a man makes his for the +time, by supposing it to be a duty, may be something quite wrong in +itself. The duty of a Hindoo widow is to burn herself on the body of +her husband. But that duty lasts no longer than till she sees that, not +being the will of God, it is not her duty. A real duty, on the other +hand, is a necessity of the human nature, without seeing and doing +which a man can never attain to the truth and blessedness of his own +being. It was the duty of the early hermits to encourage the growth of +vermin upon their bodies, for they supposed that was pleasing to God; +but they could not fare so well as if they had seen the truth that the +will of God was cleanliness. And there may be far more serious things +done by Christian people against the will of God, in the fancy of doing +their duty, than such a trifle as swarming with worms. In a word, +thinking a thing is your duty makes it your duty only till you know +better. And the prime duty of every man is to seek and find, that he +may do, the will of God." + +"But do you think, sir, that a man is likely to be doing what he ought +not, if he is doing what he don't like?" + +"Not so likely, I allow. But there may be ambition in it. A man must +not want to be better than the right. That is the delusion of the +anchorite--a delusion in which the man forgets the rights of others for +the sake of his own sanctity." + +"It might be for the sake of another person, and not for the person's +own sake at all." + +"It might be; but except it were the will of God for that other person, +it would be doing him or her a real injury." + +We were coming gradually towards what I wanted to make the point in +question. I wished him to tell me all about it himself, however, for I +knew that while advice given on request is generally disregarded, to +offer advice unasked is worthy only of a fool. + +"But how are you to know the will of God in every case?" asked Joe. + +"By looking at the general laws of life, and obeying them--except there +be anything special in a particular case to bring it under a higher +law." + +"Ah! but that be just what there is here." + +"Well, my dear fellow, that may be; but the special conduct may not be +right for the special case for all that. The speciality of the case may +not be even sufficient to take it from under the ordinary rule. But it +is of no use talking generals. Let us come to particulars. If you can +trust me, tell me all about it, and we may be able to let some light +in. I am sure there is darkness somewhere." + +"I will turn it over in my mind, sir; and if I can bring myself to talk +about it, I will. I would rather tell you than anyone else." + +I said no more. We watched a glorious sunset--there never was a grander +place for sunsets--and went home. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +A SMALL ADVENTURE. + + +The next morning Harry came with the clothes. But Joe did not go to +church. Neither did Agnes make her appearance that morning. They were +both present at the evening service, however. + +When we came out of church, it was cloudy and dark, and the wind was +blowing cold from the sea. The sky was covered with one cloud, but the +waves tossing themselves against the rocks, flashed whiteness out of +the general gloom. As the tide rose the wind increased. It was a night +of surly temper--hard and gloomy. Not a star cracked the blue +above--there was no blue; and the wind was _gurly_; I once heard that +word in Scotland, and never forgot it. + +After one of our usual gatherings in Connie's room, which were much +shorter here because of the evening service in summer, I withdrew till +supper should be ready. + +Now I have always had, as I think I have incidentally stated before, a +certain peculiar pleasure in the surly aspects of nature. When I was a +young man this took form in opposition and defiance; since I had begun +to grow old the form had changed into a sense of safety. I welcomed +such aspects, partly at least, because they roused my faith to look +through and beyond the small region of human conditions in which alone +the storm can be and blow, and thus induced a feeling like that of the +child who lies in his warm crib and listens to the howling of one of +these same storms outside the strong-built house which yet trembles at +its fiercer onsets: the house is not in danger; or, if it be, that is +his father's business, not his. Hence it came that, after supper, I put +on my great-coat and travelling-cap, and went out into the ill-tempered +night--speaking of it in its human symbolism. + +I meant to have a stroll down to the breakwater, of which I have yet +said little, but which was a favourite resort, both of myself and my +children. At the further end of it, always covered at high water, was +an outlying cluster of low rocks, in the heart of which the lord of the +manor, a noble-hearted Christian gentleman of the old school, had +constructed a bath of graduated depth--an open-air swimming-pool--the +only really safe place for men who were swimmers to bathe in. Thither I +was in the habit of taking my two little men every morning, and bathing +with them, that I might develop the fish that was in them; for, as +George Herbert says: + + "Man is everything, + And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit; + A beast, yet is, or should be, more;" + +and he might have gone on to say that he is, or should be, a fish as +well. + +It will seem strange to any reader who can recall the position of my +Connie's room, that the nearest way to the breakwater should be through +that room; but so it was. I mention the fact because I want my readers +to understand a certain peculiarity of the room. By the side of the +window which looked out upon the breakwater was a narrow door, +apparently of a closet or cupboard, which communicated, however, with a +narrow, curving, wood-built passage, leading into a little wooden hut, +the walls of which were by no means impervious to the wind, for they +were formed of outside-planks, with the bark still upon them. From this +hut one or two little windows looked seaward, and a door led out on the +bit of sward in which lay the flower-bed under Connie's window. From +this spot again a door in the low wall and thick hedge led out on the +downs, where a path wound along the cliffs that formed the side of the +bay, till, descending under the storm-tower, it brought you to the root +of the breakwater. + +This mole stretched its long strong low back to a rock a good way out, +breaking the force of the waves, and rendering the channel of a small +river, that here flowed into the sea across the sands from the mouth of +the canal, a refuge from the Atlantic. But it was a roadway often hard +to reach. In fair weather even, the wind falling as the vessel rounded +the point of the breakwater into the calm of the projecting headlands, +the under-current would sometimes dash her helpless on the rocks. +During all this heavenly summer there had been no thought or fear of +any such disaster. The present night was a hint of what weather would +yet come. + +When I went into Connie's room, I found her lying in bed a very picture +of peace. But my entrance destroyed the picture. + +"Papa," she said, "why have you got your coat on? Surely you are not +going out to-night. The wind is blowing dreadfully." + +"Not very dreadfully, Connie. It blew much worse the night we found +your baby." + +"But it is very dark." + +"I allow that; but there is a glimmer from the sea. I am only going on +the breakwater for a few minutes. You know I like a stormy night quite +as much as a fine one." + +"I shall be miserable till you come home, papa." + +"Nonsense, Connie. You don't think your father hasn't sense to take +care of himself! Or rather, Connie, for I grant that is poor ground of +comfort, you don't think I can go anywhere without my Father to take +care of me?" + +"But there is no occasion--is there, papa?" + +"Do you think I should be better pleased with my boys if they shrunk +from everything involving the least possibility of danger because there +was no occasion for it? That is just the way to make cowards. And I am +certain God would not like his children to indulge in such moods of +self-preservation as that. He might well be ashamed of them. The +fearful are far more likely to meet with accidents than the courageous. +But really, Connie, I am almost ashamed of talking so. It is all your +fault. There is positively no ground for apprehension, and I hope you +won't spoil my walk by the thought that my foolish little girl is +frightened." + +"I will be good--indeed I will, papa," she said, holding up her mouth +to kiss me. + +I left her room, and went through the wooden passage into the bark hut. +The wind roared about it, shook it, and pawed it, and sung and whistled +in the chinks of the planks. I went out and shut the door. That moment +the wind seized upon me, and I had to fight with it. When I got on the +path leading along the edge of the downs, I felt something lighter than +any feather fly in my face. When I put up my hand, I found my cheek +wet. Again and again I was thus assailed, but when I got to the +breakwater I found what it was. They were flakes of foam, bubbles +worked up into little masses of adhering thousands, which the wind blew +off the waters and across the downs, carrying some of them miles +inland. When I reached the breakwater, and looked along its ridge +through the darkness of the night, I was bewildered to see a whiteness +lying here and there in a great patch upon its top. They were but +accumulations of these foam-flakes, like soap-suds, lying so thick that +I expected to have to wade through them, only they vanished at the +touch of my feet. Till then I had almost believed it was snow I saw. On +the edge of the waves, in quieter spots, they lay like yeast, foaming +and working. Now and then a little rush of water from a higher wave +swept over the top of the broad breakwater, as with head bowed sideways +against the wind, I struggled along towards the rock at its end; but I +said to myself, "The tide is falling fast, and salt water hurts +nobody," and struggled on over the huge rough stones of the mighty +heap, outside which the waves were white with wrath, inside which they +had fallen asleep, only heaving with the memory of their late unrest. I +reached the tall rock at length, climbed the rude stair leading up to +the flagstaff, and looked abroad, if looking it could be called, into +the thick dark. But the wind blew so strong on the top that I was glad +to descend. Between me and the basin where yesterday morning I had +bathed in still water and sunshine with my boys, rolled the deathly +waves. I wandered on the rough narrow space yet uncovered, stumbling +over the stones and the rocky points between which they lay, stood here +and there half-meditating, and at length, finding a sheltered nook in a +mass of rock, sat with the wind howling and the waves bursting around +me. There I fell into a sort of brown study--almost a half-sleep. + +But I had not sat long before I came broad awake, for I heard voices, +low and earnest. One I recognised as Joe's voice. The other was a +woman's. I could not tell what they said for some time, and therefore +felt no immediate necessity for disclosing my proximity, but sat +debating with myself whether I should speak to them or not. At length, +in a lull of the wind, I heard the woman say--I could fancy with a +sigh-- + +"I'm sure you'll du what is right, Joe. Don't 'e think o' me, Joe." + +"It's just of you that I du think, Aggy. You know it ben't for my sake. +Surely you know that?" + +There was no answer for a moment. I was still doubting what I had best +do--go away quietly or let them know I was there--when she spoke again. +There was a momentary lull now in the noises of both wind and water, +and I heard what she said well enough. + +"It ben't for me to contradict you, Joe. But I don't think you be going +to die. You be no worse than last year. Be you now, Joe?" + +It flashed across me how once before, a stormy night and darkness had +brought me close to a soul in agony. Then I was in agony myself; now +the world was all fair and hopeful around me--the portals of the world +beyond ever opening wider as I approached them, and letting out more of +their glory to gladden the path to their threshold. But here were two +souls straying in a mist which faith might roll away, and leave them +walking in the light. The moment was come. I must speak. + +"Joe!" I called out. + +"Who's there?" he cried; and I heard him start to his feet. + +"Only Mr. Walton. Where are you?" + +"We can't be very far off," he answered, not in a tone of any pleasure +at finding me so nigh. + +I rose, and peering about through the darkness, found that they were a +little higher up on the same rock by which I was sheltered. + +"You mustn't think," I said, "that I have been eavesdropping. I had no +idea anyone was near me till I heard your voices, and I did not hear a +word till just the last sentence or two." + +"I saw someone go up the Castle-rock," said Joe; "but I thought he was +gone away again. It will be a lesson to me." + +"I'm no tell-tale, Joe," I returned, as I scrambled up the rock. "You +will have no cause to regret that I happened to overhear a little. I am +sure, Joe, you will never say anything you need be ashamed of. But what +I heard was sufficient to let me into the secret of your trouble. Will +you let me talk to Joe, Agnes? I've been young myself, and, to tell the +truth, I don't think I'm old yet." + +"I am sure, sir," she answered, "you won't be hard on Joe and me. I +don't suppose there be anything wrong in liking each other, though we +can't be--married." + +She spoke in a low tone, and her voice trembled very much; yet there +was a certain womanly composure in her utterance. "I'm sure it's very +bold of me to talk so," she added, "but Joe will tell you all about it." + +I was close beside them now, and fancied I saw through the dusk the +motion of her hand stealing into his. + +"Well, Joe, this is just what I wanted," I said. "A woman can be braver +than a big smith sometimes. Agnes has done her part. Now you do yours, +and tell me all about it." + +No response followed my adjuration. I must help him. + +"I think I know how the matter lies, Joe. You think you are not going +to live long, and that therefore you ought not to marry. Am I right?" + +"Not far off it, sir," he answered. + +"Now, Joe," I said, "can't we talk as friends about this matter? I have +no right to intrude into your affairs--none in the least--except what +friendship gives me. If you say I am not to talk about it, I shall be +silent. To force advice upon you would be as impertinent as useless." + +"It's all the same, I'm afraid, sir. My mind has been made up for a +long time. What right have I to bring other people into trouble? But I +take it kind of you, sir, though I mayn't look over-pleased. Agnes +wants to hear your way of it. I'm agreeable." + +This was not very encouraging. Still I thought it sufficient ground for +proceeding. + +"I suppose you will allow that the root of all Christian behaviour is +the will of God?" + +"Surely, sir." + +"Is it not the will of God, then, that when a man and woman love each +other, they should marry?" + +"Certainly, sir--where there be no reasons against it." + +"Of course. And you judge you see reason for not doing so, else you +would?" + +"I do see that a man should not bring a woman into trouble for the sake +of being comfortable himself for the rest of a few weary days." + +Agnes was sobbing gently behind her handkerchief. I knew how gladly she +would be Joe's wife, if only to nurse him through his last illness. + +"Not except it would make her comfortable too, I grant you, Joe. But +listen to me. In the first place, you don't know, and you are not +required to know, when you are going to die. In fact, you have nothing +to do with it. Many a life has been injured by the constant expectation +of death. It is life we have to do with, not death. The best +preparation for the night is to work while the day lasts, diligently. +The best preparation for death is life. Besides, I have known delicate +people who have outlived all their strong relations, and been left +alone in the earth--because they had possibly taken too much care of +themselves. But marriage is God's will, and death is God's will, and +you have no business to set the one over against, as antagonistic to, +the other. For anything you know, the gladness and the peace of +marriage may be the very means intended for your restoration to health +and strength. I suspect your desire to marry, fighting against the +fancy that you ought not to marry, has a good deal to do with the state +of health in which you now find yourself. A man would get over many +things if he were happy, that he cannot get over when he is miserable." + +"But it's for Aggy. You forget that." + +"I do not forget it. What right have you to seek for her another kind +of welfare than you would have yourself? Are you to treat her as if she +were worldly when you are not--to provide for her a comfort which +yourself you would despise? Why should you not marry because you have +to die soon?--if you _are_ thus doomed, which to me is by no means +clear. Why not have what happiness you may for the rest of your +sojourn? If you find at the end of twenty years that here you are after +all, you will be rather sorry you did not do as I say." + +"And if I find myself dying at the end of six months'?" + +"You will thank God for those six months. The whole thing, my dear +fellow, is a want of faith in God. I do not doubt you think you are +doing right, but, I repeat, the whole thing comes from want of faith in +God. You will take things into your own hands, and order them after a +preventive and self-protective fashion, lest God should have ordained +the worst for you, which worst, after all, would be best met by doing +his will without inquiry into the future; and which worst is no evil. +Death is no more an evil than marriage is." + +"But you don't see it as I do," persisted the blacksmith. + +"Of course I don't. I think you see it as it is not." + +He remained silent for a little. A shower of spray fell upon us. He +started. + +"What a wave!" he cried. "That spray came over the top of the rock. We +shall have to run for it." + +I fancied that he only wanted to avoid further conversation. + +"There's no hurry," I said. "It was high water an hour and a half ago." + +"You don't know this coast, sir," returned he, "or you wouldn't talk +like that." + +As he spoke he rose, and going from under the shelter of the rock, +looked along. + +"For God's sake, Aggy!" he cried in terror, "come at once. Every other +wave be rushing across the breakwater as if it was on the level." + +So saying, he hurried back, caught her by the hand, and began to draw +her along. + +"Hadn't we better stay where we are?" I suggested. + +"If you can stand the night in the cold. But Aggy here is delicate; and +I don't care about being out all night. It's not the tide, sir; it's a +ground swell--from a storm somewhere out at sea. That never asks no +questions about tide or no tide." + +"Come along, then," I said. "But just wait one minute more. It is +better to be ready for the worst." + +For I remembered that the day before I had seen a crowbar lying among +the stones, and I thought it might be useful. In a moment or two I had +found it, and returning, gave it to Joe. Then I took the girl's +disengaged hand. She thanked me in a voice perfectly calm and firm. Joe +took the bar in haste, and drew Agnes towards the breakwater. + +Any real thought of danger had not yet crossed my mind. But when I +looked along the outstretched back of the mole, and saw a dim sheet of +white sweep across it, I felt that there was ground for his anxiety, +and prepared myself for a struggle. + +"Do you know what to do with the crowbar, Joe?" I said, grasping my own +stout oak-stick more firmly. + +"Perfectly," answered Joe. "To stick between the stones and hold on. We +must watch our time between the waves." + +"You take the command, then, Joe," I returned. "You see better than I +do, and you know the ways of that raging wild beast there better than I +do. I will obey orders--one of which, no doubt, will be, not for wind +or sea to lose hold of Agnes--eh, Joe?" + +Joe gave a grim enough laugh in reply, and we started, he carrying his +crowbar in his right hand towards the advancing sea, and I my oak-stick +in my left towards the still water within. + +"Quick march!" said Joe, and away we went out on the breakwater. + +Now the back of the breakwater was very rugged, for it was formed of +huge stones, with wide gaps between, where the waters had washed out +the cement, and worn their edges. But what impeded our progress secured +our safety. + +"Halt!" cried Joe, when we were yet but a few yards beyond the shelter +of the rocks. "There's a topper coming." + +We halted at the word of command, as a huge wave, with combing crest, +rushed against the far out-sloping base of the mole, and flung its +heavy top right over the middle of the mass, a score or two of yards in +front of us. + +"Now for it!" cried Joe. "Run!" + +We did run. In my mind there was just sense enough of danger to add to +the pleasure of the excitement. I did not know how much danger there +was. Over the rough worn stones we sped stumbling. + +"Halt!" cried the smith once more, and we did halt; but this time, as +it turned out, in the middle front of the coming danger. + +"God be with us!" I exclaimed, when the huge billow showed itself +through the night, rushing towards the mole. The smith stuck his +crowbar between two great stones. To this he held on with one hand, and +threw the other arm round Agnes's waist. I, too, had got my oak firmly +fixed, held on with one hand, and threw the other arm round Agnes. It +took but a moment. + +"Now then!" cried Joe. "Here she comes! Hold on, sir. Hold on, Aggy!" + +But when I saw the height of the water, as it rushed on us up the +sloping side of the mound, I cried out in my turn, "Down, Joe! Down on +your face, and let it over us easy! Down Agnes!" + +They obeyed. We threw ourselves across the breakwater, with our heads +to the coming foe, and I grasped my stick close to the stones with all +the power of a hand that was then strong. Over us burst the mighty +wave, floating us up from the stones where we lay. But we held on, the +wave passed, and we sprung gasping to our feet. + +"Now, now!" cried Joe and I together, and, heavy as we were, with the +water pouring from us, we flew across the remainder of the heap, and +arrived, panting and safe, at the other end, ere one wave more had +swept the surface. The moment we were in safety we turned and looked +back over the danger we had traversed. It was to see a huge billow +sweep the breakwater from end to end. We looked at each other for a +moment without speaking. + +"I believe, sir," said Joe at length, with slow and solemn speech, "if +you hadn't taken the command at that moment we should all have been +lost." + +"It seems likely enough, when I look back on it. For one thing, I was +not sure that my stick would stand, so I thought I had better grasp it +low down." + +"We were awfully near death," said Joe. + +"Nearer than you thought, Joe; and yet we escaped it. Things don't go +all as we fancy, you see. Faith is as essential to manhood as +foresight--believe me, Joe. It is very absurd to trust God for the +future, and not trust him for the present. The man who is not anxious +is the man most likely to do the right thing. He is cool and collected +and ready. Our Lord therefore told his disciples that when they should +be brought before kings and rulers, they were to take no thought what +answer they should make, for it would be given them when the time came." + +We were climbing the steep path up to the downs. Neither of my +companions spoke. + +"You have escaped one death together," I said at length: "dare another." + +Still neither of them returned an answer. When we came near the +parsonage, I said, "Now, Joe, you must go in and get to bed at once. I +will take Agnes home. You can trust me not to say anything against you?" + +Joe laughed rather hoarsely, and replied: "As you please, sir. Good +night, Aggie. Mind you get to bed as fast as you can." + +When I returned from giving Agnes over to her parents, I made haste to +change my clothes, and put on my warm dressing-gown. I may as well +mention at once, that not one of us was the worse for our ducking. I +then went up to Connie's room. + +"Here I am, you see, Connie, quite safe." + +"I've been lying listening to every blast of wind since you went out, +papa. But all I could do was to trust in God." + +"Do you call that _all_, Connie? Believe me, there is more power in +that than any human being knows the tenth part of yet. It is indeed +_all_." + +I said no more then. I told my wife about it that night, but we were +well into another month before I told Connie. + +When I left her, I went to Joe's room to see how he was, and found him +having some gruel. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and said, + +"Well, Joe, this is better than under water. I hope you won't be the +worse for it." + +"I don't much care what comes of me, sir. It will be all over soon." + +"But you ought to care what comes of you, Joe. I will tell you why. You +are an instrument out of which ought to come praise to God, and, +therefore, you ought to care for the instrument." + +"That way, yes, sir, I ought." + +"And you have no business to be like some children who say, 'Mamma +won't give me so and so,' instead of asking her to give it them." + +"I see what you mean, sir. But really you put me out before the young +woman. I couldn't say before her what I meant. Suppose, you know, sir, +there was to come a family. It might be, you know." + +"Of course. What else would you have?" + +"But if I was to die, where would she be then?" + +"In God's hands; just as she is now." + +"But I ought to take care that she is not left with a burden like that +to provide for." + +"O, Joe! how little you know a woman's heart! It would just be the +greatest comfort she could have for losing you--that's all. Many a +woman has married a man she did not care enough for, just that she +might have a child of her own to let out her heart upon. I don't say +that is right, you know. Such love cannot be perfect. A woman ought to +love her child because it is her husband's more than because it is her +own, and because it is God's more than either's. I saw in the papers +the other day, that a woman was brought before the Recorder of London +for stealing a baby, when the judge himself said that there was no +imaginable motive for her action but a motherly passion to possess the +child. It is the need of a child that makes so many women take to poor +miserable, broken-nosed lap-dogs; for they are self-indulgent, and +cannot face the troubles and dangers of adopting a child. They would if +they might get one of a good family, or from a respectable home; but +they dare not take an orphan out of the dirt, lest it should spoil +their silken chairs. But that has nothing to do with our argument. What +I mean is this, that if Agnes really loves you, as no one can look in +her face and doubt, she will be far happier if you leave her a +child--yes, she will be happier if you only leave her your name for +hers--than if you died without calling her your wife." + +I took Joe's basin from him, and he lay down. He turned his face to the +wall. I waited a moment, but finding him silent, bade him good-night, +and left the room. + +A month after, I married them. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE HARVEST. + + +It was some time before we got the bells to work to our mind, but at +last we succeeded. The worst of it was to get the cranks, which at +first required strong pressure on the keys, to work easily enough. But +neither Joe nor his cousin spared any pains to perfect the attempt, +and, as I say, at length we succeeded. I took Wynnie down to the +instrument and made her try whether she could not do something, and she +succeeded in making the old tower discourse loudly and eloquently. + +By this time the thanksgiving for the harvest was at hand: on the +morning of that first of all would I summon the folk to their prayers +with the sound of the full peal. And I wrote a little hymn of praise to +the God of the harvest, modelling it to one of the oldest tunes in that +part of the country, and I had it printed on slips of paper and laid +plentifully on the benches. What with the calling of the bells, like +voices in the highway, and the solemn meditation of the organ within to +bear aloft the thoughts of those who heard, and came to the prayer and +thanksgiving in common, and the message which God had given me to utter +to them, I hoped that we should indeed keep holiday. + +Wynnie summoned the parish with the hundredth psalm pealed from aloft, +dropping from the airy regions of the tower on village and hamlet and +cottage, calling aloud--for who could dissociate the words from the +music, though the words are in the Scotch psalms?--written none the +less by an Englishman, however English wits may amuse themselves with +laughing at their quaintness--calling aloud, + + "All people that on earth do dwell + Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice; + Him serve with mirth, his praise forth tell-- + Come ye before him and rejoice." + +Then we sang the psalm before the communion service, making bold in the +name of the Lord to serve him with _mirth_ as in the old version, and +not with the _fear_ with which some editor, weak in faith, has presumed +to alter the line. Then before the sermon we sang the hymn I had +prepared--a proceeding justifiable by many an example in the history of +the church while she was not only able to number singers amongst her +clergy, but those singers were capable of influencing the whole heart +and judgment of the nation with their songs. Ethelwyn played the organ. +The song I had prepared was this: + + "We praise the Life of All; + From buried seeds so small + Who makes the ordered ranks of autumn stand; + Who stores the corn + In rick and barn + To feed the winter of the land. + + We praise the Life of Light! + Who from the brooding night + Draws out the morning holy, calm, and grand; + Veils up the moon, + Sends out the sun, + To glad the face of all the land. + + We praise the Life of Work, + Who from sleep's lonely dark + Leads forth his children to arise and stand, + Then go their way, + The live-long day, + To trust and labour in the land. + + We praise the Life of Good, + Who breaks sin's lazy mood, + Toilsomely ploughing up the fruitless sand. + The furrowed waste + They leave, and haste + Home, home, to till their Father's land. + + We praise the Life of Life, + Who in this soil of strife + Casts us at birth, like seed from sower's hand; + To die and so + Like corn to grow + A golden harvest in his land." + +After we had sung this hymn, the meaning of which is far better than +the versification, I preached from the words of St. Paul, "If by any +means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead. Not as though I +had already attained, either were already perfect." And this is +something like what I said to them: + +"The world, my friends, is full of resurrections, and it is not always +of the same resurrection that St. Paul speaks. Every night that folds +us up in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early +and have seen the first of the dawn, will know it--the day rises out of +the night like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life. +That you may feel that the sunrise is a resurrection--the word +resurrection just means a rising again--I will read you a little +description of it from a sermon by a great writer and great preacher +called Jeremy Taylor. Listen. 'But as when the sun approaching towards +the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven and +sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and +calls up the lark to matins, and by and by gilds the fringes of a +cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns +like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear +a veil, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a +man tells the story, the sun gets up higher, till he shows a fair face +and a full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud +often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets +quickly; so is a man's reason and his life.' Is not this a resurrection +of the day out of the night? Or hear how Milton makes his Adam and Eve +praise God in the morning,-- + + 'Ye mists and exhalations that now rise + From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, + Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, + In honour to the world's great Author rise, + Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky, + Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, + Rising or falling still advance his praise.' + +But it is yet more of a resurrection to you. Think of your own +condition through the night and in the morning. You die, as it were, +every night. The death of darkness comes down over the earth; but a +deeper death, the death of sleep, descends on you. A power overshadows +you; your eyelids close, you cannot keep them open if you would; your +limbs lie moveless; the day is gone; your whole life is gone; you have +forgotten everything; an evil man might come and do with your goods as +he pleased; you are helpless. But the God of the Resurrection is awake +all the time, watching his sleeping men and women, even as a mother who +watches her sleeping baby, only with larger eyes and more full of love +than hers; and so, you know not how, all at once you know that you are +what you are; that there is a world that wants you outside of you, and +a God that wants you inside of you; you rise from the death of sleep, +not by your own power, for you knew nothing about it; God put his hand +over your eyes, and you were dead; he lifted his hand and breathed +light on you and you rose from the dead, thanked the God who raised you +up, and went forth to do your work. From darkness to light; from +blindness to seeing; from knowing nothing to looking abroad on the +mighty world; from helpless submission to willing obedience,--is not +this a resurrection indeed? That St. Paul saw it to be such may be +shown from his using the two things with the same meaning when he says, +'Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall +give thee light.' No doubt he meant a great deal more. No man who +understands what he is speaking about can well mean only one thing at a +time. + +"But to return to the resurrections we see around us in nature. Look at +the death that falls upon the world in winter. And look how it revives +when the sun draws near enough in the spring to wile the life in it +once more out of its grave. See how the pale, meek snowdrops come up +with their bowed heads, as if full of the memory of the fierce winds +they encountered last spring, and yet ready in the strength of their +weakness to encounter them again. Up comes the crocus, bringing its +gold safe from the dark of its colourless grave into the light of its +parent gold. Primroses, and anemones, and blue-bells, and a thousand +other children of the spring, hear the resurrection-trumpet of the wind +from the west and south, obey, and leave their graves behind to breathe +the air of the sweet heavens. Up and up they come till the year is +glorious with the rose and the lily, till the trees are not only +clothed upon with new garments of loveliest green, but the fruit-tree +bringeth forth its fruit, and the little children of men are made glad +with apples, and cherries, and hazel-nuts. The earth laughs out in +green and gold. The sky shares in the grand resurrection. The garments +of its mourning, wherewith it made men sad, its clouds of snow and hail +and stormy vapours, are swept away, have sunk indeed to the earth, and +are now humbly feeding the roots of the flowers whose dead stalks they +beat upon all the winter long. Instead, the sky has put on the garments +of praise. Her blue, coloured after the sapphire-floor on which stands +the throne of him who is the Resurrection and the Life, is dashed and +glorified with the pure white of sailing clouds, and at morning and +evening prayer, puts on colours in which the human heart drowns itself +with delight--green and gold and purple and rose. Even the icebergs +floating about in the lonely summer seas of the north are flashing all +the glories of the rainbow. But, indeed, is not this whole world itself +a monument of the Resurrection? The earth was without form and void. +The wind of God moved on the face of the waters, and up arose this fair +world. Darkness was on the face of the deep: God said, 'Let there be +light,' and there was light. + +"In the animal world as well, you behold the goings of the +Resurrection. Plainest of all, look at the story of the butterfly--so +plain that the pagan Greeks called it and the soul by one name--Psyche. +Psyche meant with them a butterfly or the soul, either. Look how the +creeping thing, ugly to our eyes, so that we can hardly handle it +without a shudder, finding itself growing sick with age, straightway +falls a spinning and weaving at its own shroud, coffin, and grave, all +in one--to prepare, in fact, for its resurrection; for it is for the +sake of the resurrection that death exists. Patiently it spins its +strength, but not its life, away, folds itself up decently, that its +body may rest in quiet till the new body is formed within it; and at +length when the appointed hour has arrived, out of the body of this +crawling thing breaks forth the winged splendour of the butterfly--not +the same body--a new one built out of the ruins of the old--even as St. +Paul tells us that it is not the same body _we_ have in the +resurrection, but a nobler body like ourselves, with all the imperfect +and evil thing taken away. No more creeping for the butterfly; wings of +splendour now. Neither yet has it lost the feet wherewith to alight on +all that is lovely and sweet. Think of it--up from the toilsome journey +over the low ground, exposed to the foot of every passer-by, destroying +the lovely leaves upon which it fed, and the fruit which they should +shelter, up to the path at will through the air, and a gathering of +food which hurts not the source of it, a food which is but as a tribute +from the loveliness of the flowers to the yet higher loveliness of the +flower-angel: is not this a resurrection? Its children too shall pass +through the same process, to wing the air of a summer noon, and rejoice +in the ethereal and the pure. + +"To return yet again from the human thoughts suggested by the symbol of +the butterfly"-- + +Here let me pause for a moment--and there was a corresponding pause, +though but momentary, in the sermon as I spoke it--to mention a +curious, and to me at the moment an interesting fact. At this point of +my address, I caught sight of a white butterfly, a belated one, +flitting about the church. Absorbed for a moment, my eye wandered after +it. It was near the bench where my own people sat, and, for one flash +of thought, I longed that the butterfly would alight on my Wynnie, for +I was more anxious about her resurrection at the time than about +anything else. But the butterfly would not. And then I told myself that +God would, and that the butterfly was only the symbol of a grand truth, +and of no private interpretation, to make which of it was both +selfishness and superstition. But all this passed in a flash, and I +resumed my discourse. + +--"I come now naturally to speak of what we commonly call the +Resurrection. Some say: 'How can the same dust be raised again, when it +may be scattered to the winds of heaven?' It is a question I hardly +care to answer. The mere difficulty can in reason stand for nothing +with God; but the apparent worthlessness of the supposition renders the +question uninteresting to me. What is of import is, that I should stand +clothed upon, with a body which is _my_ body because it serves my ends, +justifies my consciousness of identity by being, in all that was good +in it, like that which I had before, while now it is tenfold capable of +expressing the thoughts and feelings that move within me. How can I +care whether the atoms that form a certain inch of bone should be the +same as those which formed that bone when I died? All my life-time I +never felt or thought of the existence of such a bone! On the other +hand, I object to having the same worn muscles, the same shrivelled +skin with which I may happen to die. Why give me the same body as that? +Why not rather my youthful body, which was strong, and facile, and +capable? The matter in the muscle of my arm at death would not serve to +make half the muscle I had when young. But I thank God that St. Paul +says it will _not_ be the same body. That body dies--up springs another +body. I suspect myself that those are right who say that this body +being the seed, the moment it dies in the soil of this world, that +moment is the resurrection of the new body. The life in it rises out of +it in a new body. This is not after it is put in the mere earth; for it +is dead then, and the germ of life gone out of it. If a seed rots, no +new body comes of it. The seed dies into a new life, and so does man. +Dying and rotting are two very different things.--But I am not sure by +any means. As I say, the whole question is rather uninteresting to me. +What do I care about my old clothes after I have done with them? What +is it to me to know what becomes of an old coat or an old pulpit gown? +I have no such clinging to the flesh. It seems to me that people +believe their bodies to be themselves, and are therefore very anxious +about them--and no wonder then. Enough for me that I shall have eyes to +see my friends, a face that they shall know me by, and a mouth to +praise God withal. I leave the matter with one remark, that I am well +content to rise as Jesus rose, however that was. For me the will of God +is so good that I would rather have his will done than my own choice +given me. + +"But I now come to the last, because infinitely the most important part +of my subject--the resurrection for the sake of which all the other +resurrections exist--the resurrection unto Life. This is the one of +which St. Paul speaks in my text. This is the one I am most +anxious--indeed, the only one I am anxious to set forth, and impress +upon you. + +"Think, then, of all the deaths you know; the death of the night, when +the sun is gone, when friend says not a word to friend, but both lie +drowned and parted in the sea of sleep; the death of the year, when +winter lies heavy on the graves of the children of summer, when the +leafless trees moan in the blasts from the ocean, when the beasts even +look dull and oppressed, when the children go about shivering with +cold, when the poor and improvident are miserable with suffering or +think of such a death of disease as befalls us at times, when the man +who says, 'Would God it were morning!' changes but his word, and not +his tune, when the morning comes, crying, 'Would God it were evening!' +when what life is left is known to us only by suffering, and hope is +amongst the things that were once and are no more--think of all these, +think of them all together, and you will have but the dimmest, faintest +picture of the death from which the resurrection of which I have now to +speak, is the rising. I shrink from the attempt, knowing how weak words +are to set forth _the_ death, set forth _the_ resurrection. Were I to +sit down to yonder organ, and crash out the most horrible dissonances +that ever took shape in sound, I should give you but a weak figure of +this death; were I capable of drawing from many a row of pipes an +exhalation of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet, such as Milton +himself could have invaded our ears withal, I could give you but a +faint figure of this resurrection. Nevertheless, I must try what I can +do in my own way. + +"If into the face of the dead body, lying on the bed, waiting for its +burial, the soul of the man should begin to dawn again, drawing near +from afar to look out once more at those eyes, to smile once again +through those lips, the change on that face would be indeed great and +wondrous, but nothing for marvel or greatness to that which passes on +the countenance, the very outward bodily face of the man who wakes from +his sleep, arises from the dead and receives light from Christ. Too +often indeed, the reposeful look on the face of the dead body would be +troubled, would vanish away at the revisiting of the restless ghost; +but when a man's own right true mind, which God made in him, is +restored to him again, and he wakes from the death of sin, then comes +the repose without the death. It may take long for the new spirit to +complete the visible change, but it begins at once, and will be +perfected. The bloated look of self-indulgence passes away like the +leprosy of Naaman, the cheek grows pure, the lips return to the smile +of hope instead of the grin of greed, and the eyes that made innocence +shrink and shudder with their yellow leer grow childlike and sweet and +faithful. The mammon-eyes, hitherto fixed on the earth, are lifted to +meet their kind; the lips that mumbled over figures and sums of gold +learn to say words of grace and tenderness. The truculent, repellent, +self-satisfied face begins to look thoughtful and doubtful, as if +searching for some treasure of whose whereabouts it had no certain +sign. The face anxious, wrinkled, peering, troubled, on whose lines you +read the dread of hunger, poverty, and nakedness, thaws into a smile; +the eyes reflect in courage the light of the Father's care, the back +grows erect under its burden with the assurance that the hairs of its +head are all numbered. But the face can with all its changes set but +dimly forth the rising from the dead which passes within. The heart, +which cared but for itself, becomes aware of surrounding thousands like +itself, in the love and care of which it feels a dawning blessedness +undreamt of before. From selfishness to love--is not this a rising from +the dead? The man whose ambition declares that his way in the world +would be to subject everything to his desires, to bring every human +care, affection, power, and aspiration to his feet--such a world it +would be, and such a king it would have, if individual ambition might +work its will! if a man's opinion of himself could be made out in the +world, degrading, compelling, oppressing, doing everything for his own +glory!--and such a glory!--but a pang of light strikes this man to the +heart; an arrow of truth, feathered with suffering and loss and dismay, +finds out--the open joint in his armour, I was going to say--no, finds +out the joint in the coffin where his heart lies festering in a death +so dead that itself calls it life. He trembles, he awakes, he rises +from the dead. No more he seeks the slavery of all: where can he find +whom to serve? how can he become if but a threshold in the temple of +Christ, where all serve all, and no man thinks first of himself? He to +whom the mass of his fellows, as he massed them, was common and +unclean, bows before every human sign of the presence of the making +God. The sun, which was to him but a candle with which to search after +his own ends, wealth, power, place, praise--the world, which was but +the cavern where he thus searched--are now full of the mystery of +loveliness, full of the truth of which sun and wind and land and sea +are symbols and signs. From a withered old age of unbelief, the dim +eyes of which refuse the glory of things a passage to the heart, he is +raised up a child full of admiration, wonder, and gladness. Everything +is glorious to him; he can believe, and therefore he sees. It is from +the grave into the sunshine, from the night into the morning, from +death into life. To come out of the ugly into the beautiful; out of the +mean and selfish into the noble and loving; out of the paltry into the +great; out of the false into the true; out of the filthy into the +clean; out of the commonplace into the glorious; out of the corruption +of disease into the fine vigour and gracious movements of health; in a +word, out of evil into good--is not this a resurrection indeed--_the_ +resurrection of all, the resurrection of Life? God grant that with St. +Paul we may attain to this resurrection of the dead. + +"This rising from the dead is often a long and a painful process. Even +after he had preached the gospel to the Gentiles, and suffered much for +the sake of his Master, Paul sees the resurrection of the dead towering +grandly before him, not yet climbed, not yet attained unto--a +mountainous splendour and marvel, still shining aloft in the air of +existence, still, thank God, to be attained, but ever growing in height +and beauty as, forgetting those things that are behind, he presses +towards the mark, if by any means he may attain to the resurrection of +the dead. Every blessed moment in which a man bethinks himself that he +has been forgetting his high calling, and sends up to the Father a +prayer for aid; every time a man resolves that what he has been doing +he will do no more; every time that the love of God, or the feeling of +the truth, rouses a man to look first up at the light, then down at the +skirts of his own garments--that moment a divine resurrection is +wrought in the earth. Yea, every time that a man passes from resentment +to forgiveness, from cruelty to compassion, from hardness to +tenderness, from indifference to carefulness, from selfishness to +honesty, from honesty to generosity, from generosity to love,--a +resurrection, the bursting of a fresh bud of life out of the grave of +evil, gladdens the eye of the Father watching his children. Awake, +then, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give +thee light. As the harvest rises from the wintry earth, so rise thou up +from the trials of this world a full ear in the harvest of Him who +sowed thee in the soil that thou mightest rise above it. As the summer +rises from the winter, so rise thou from the cares of eating and +drinking and clothing into the fearless sunshine of confidence in the +Father. As the morning rises out of the night, so rise thou from the +darkness of ignorance to do the will of God in the daylight; and as a +man feels that he is himself when he wakes from the troubled and +grotesque visions of the night into the glory of the sunrise, even so +wilt thou feel that then first thou knowest what thy life, the gladness +of thy being, is. As from painful tossing in disease, rise into the +health of well-being. As from the awful embrace of thy own dead body, +burst forth in thy spiritual body. Arise thou, responsive to the +indwelling will of the Father, even as thy body will respond to thy +indwelling soul. + + 'White wings are crossing; + Glad waves are tossing; + The earth flames out in crimson and green: + + Spring is appearing, + Summer is nearing-- + Where hast thou been? + + Down in some cavern, + Death's sleepy tavern, + Housing, carousing with spectres of night? + The trumpet is pealing + Sunshine and healing-- + Spring to the light.'" + +With this quotation from a friend's poem, I closed my sermon, oppressed +with a sense of failure; for ever the marvel of simple awaking, the +mere type of the resurrection eluded all my efforts to fix it in words. +I had to comfort myself with the thought that God is so strong that he +can work even with our failures. + + + +END OF VOL. II. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 2 *** + +***** This file should be named 8552.txt or 8552.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8552/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al +Haines. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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THE SHADOW OF DEATH + VII. AT THE FARM +VIII. THE KEEVE + IX. THE WALK TO CHURCH + X. THE OLD CASTLE + XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE + XII. A SMALL ADVENTURE +XIII. THE HARVEST + + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + + + + + +In the evening we met in Connie's room, as usual, to have our talk. And +this is what came out of it. + +The window was open. The sun was in the west. We sat a little aside out +of the course of his radiance, and let him look full into the room. Only +Wynnie sat back in a dark corner, as if she would get out of his way. Below +him the sea lay bluer than you could believe even when you saw it--blue +with a delicate yet deep silky blue, the exquisiteness of which was thrown +up by the brilliant white lines of its lapping on the high coast, to the +northward. We had just sat down, when Dora broke out with-- + +"I saw Niceboots at church. He did stare at you, papa, as if he had never +heard a sermon before." + +"I daresay he never heard such a sermon before!" said Connie, with the +perfect confidence of inexperience and partiality--not to say ignorance, +seeing she had not heard the sermon herself. + +Here Wynnie spoke from her dark corner, apparently forcing herself to +speak, and thereby giving what seemed an unpleasant tone to what she said. + +"Well, papa, I don't know what to think. You are always telling us to trust +in Him; but how can we, if we are not good?" + +"The first good thing you can do is to look up to him. That is the +beginning of trust in him, and the most sensible thing that it is possible +for us to do. That is faith." + +"But it's no use sometimes." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you--I mean I--can't feel good, or care about it at all." + +"But is that any ground for saying that it is no use--that he does not heed +you? that he disregards the look cast up to him? that, till the heart goes +with the will, he who made himself strong to be the helper of the weak, who +pities most those who are most destitute--and who so destitute as those who +do not love what they want to love--except, indeed, those who don't want to +love?--that, till you are well on towards all right by earnestly +seeking it, he won't help you? You are to judge him from yourself, are +you?--forgetting that all the misery in you is just because you have not +got his grand presence with you?" + +I spoke so earnestly as to be somewhat incoherent in words. But my reader +will understand. Wynnie was silent. Connie, as if partly to help her +sister, followed on the same side. + +"I don't know exactly how to say what I mean, papa, but I wish I could get +this lovely afternoon, all full of sunshine and blue, into unity with all +that you teach us about Jesus Christ. I wish this beautiful day came in +with my thought of him, like the frame--gold and red and blue--that you +have to that picture of him at home. Why doesn't it?" + +"Just because you have not enough of faith in him, my dear. You do not know +him well enough yet. You do not yet believe that he means you all gladness, +heartily, honestly, thoroughly." + +"And no suffering, papa?" + +"I did not say that, my dear. There you are on your couch and can't move. +But he does mean you such gladness, such a full sunny air and blue sea of +blessedness that this suffering shall count for little in it; nay more, +shall be taken in for part, and, like the rocks that interfere with the +roll of the sea, flash out the white that glorifies and intensifies the +whole--to pass away by and by, I trust, none the less. What a chance you +have, my Connie, of believing in him, of offering upon his altar!" + +"But," said my wife, "are not these feelings in a great measure dependent +upon the state of one's health? I find it so different when the sunshine is +inside me as well as outside me." + +"Not a doubt of it, my dear. But that is only the more reason for rising +above all that. From the way some people speak of physical difficulties--I +don't mean you, wife--you would think that they were not merely the +inevitable which they are, but the insurmountable which they are not. That +they are physical and not spiritual is not only a great consolation, but a +strong argument for overcoming them. For all that is physical is put, or +is in the process of being put, under the feet of the spiritual. Do not +mistake me. I do not say you can make yourself feel merry or happy when you +are in a physical condition which is contrary to such mental condition. But +you can withdraw from it--not all at once; but by practice and effort you +can learn to withdraw from it, refusing to allow your judgments and actions +to be ruled by it. You can climb up out of the fogs, and sit quiet in the +sunlight on the hillside of faith. You cannot be merry down below in the +fog, for there is the fog; but you can every now and then fly with the +dove-wings of the soul up into the clear, to remind yourself that all this +passes away, is but an accident, and that the sun shines always, although +it may not at any given moment be shining on you. 'What does that matter?' +you will learn to say. 'It is enough for me to know that the sun does +shine, and that this is only a weary fog that is round about me for +the moment. I shall come out into the light beyond presently.' This is +faith--faith in God, who is the light, and is all in all. I believe that +the most glorious instances of calmness in suffering are thus achieved; +that the sufferers really do not suffer what one of us would if thrown into +their physical condition without the refuge of their spiritual condition as +well; for they have taken refuge in the inner chamber. Out of the spring of +their life a power goes forth that quenches the flames of the furnace of +their suffering, so far at least that it does not touch the deep life, +cannot make them miserable, does not drive them from the possession of +their soul in patience, which is the divine citadel of the suffering. Do +you understand me, Connie?" + +"I do, papa. I think perfectly." + +"Still less, then, is the fact that the difficulty is physical to be used +as an excuse for giving way to ill-temper, and, in fact, leaving ourselves +to be tossed and shaken by every tremble of our nerves. That is as if a +man should give himself into the hands and will and caprice of an +organ-grinder, to work upon him, not with the music of the spheres, but +with the wretched growling of the streets." + +"But," said Wynnie, "I have heard you yourself, papa, make excuse for +people's ill-temper on this very ground, that they were out of health. +Indeed," she went on, half-crying, "I have heard you do so for myself, when +you did not know that I was within hearing." + +"Yes, my dear, most assuredly. It is no fiction, but a real difference that +lies between excusing ourselves and excusing other people. No doubt the +same excuse is just for ourselves that is just for other people. But we can +do something to put ourselves right upon a higher principle, and therefore +we should not waste our time in excusing, or even in condemning ourselves, +but make haste up the hill. Where we cannot work--that is, in the life of +another--we have time to make all the excuse we can. Nay more; it is only +justice there. We are not bound to insist on our own rights, even of +excuse; the wisest thing often is to forego them. But we are bound by +heaven, earth, and hell to give them to other people. And, besides, what +a comfort to ourselves to be able to say, 'It is true So-and-so was cross +to-day. But it wasn't in the least that he wasn't friendly, or didn't like +me; it was only that he had eaten something that hadn't agreed with him. +I could see it in his eye. He had one of his headaches.' Thus, you see, +justice to our neighbour, and comfort to ourselves, is one and the same +thing. But it would be a sad thing to have to think that when we found +ourselves in the same ungracious condition, from whatever cause, we had +only to submit to it, saying, 'It is a law of nature,' as even those who +talk most about laws will not do, when those laws come between them and +their own comfort. They are ready enough then to call in the aid of higher +laws, which, so far from being contradictory, overrule the lower to get +things into something like habitable, endurable condition. It may be a law +of nature; but what has the Law of the Spirit of Life to _propound anent_ +it? as the Scotch lawyers would say." + +A little pause followed, during which I hope some of us were thinking. That +Wynnie, at least, was, her next question made evident. + +"What you say about a law of nature and a law of the Spirit makes me think +again how that walking on the water has always been a puzzle to me." + +"It could hardly be other, seeing that we cannot possibly understand it," I +answered. + +"But I find it so hard to believe. Can't you say something, papa, to help +me to believe it?" + +"I think if you admit what goes before, you will find there is nothing +against reason in the story." + +"Tell me, please, what you mean." + +"If all things were made by Jesus, the Word of God, would it be reasonable +that the water that he had created should be able to drown him?" + +"It might drown his body." + +"It would if he had not the power over it still, to prevent it from laying +hold of him. But just think for a moment. God is a Spirit. Spirit is +greater than matter. Spirit makes matter. Think what it was for a human +body to have such a divine creative power dwelling in it as that which +dwelt in the human form of Jesus! What power, and influence, and utter rule +that spirit must have over the body in which it dwells! We cannot imagine +how much; but if we have so much power over our bodies, how much more must +the pure, divine Jesus, have had over his! I suspect this miracle was +wrought, not through anything done to the water, but through the power of +the spirit over the body of Jesus, which was all obedient thereto. I am not +explaining the miracle, for that I cannot do. One day I think it will be +plain common sense to us. But now I am only showing you what seems to me to +bring us a step nearer to the essential region of the miracle, and so far +make it easier to believe. If we look at the history of our Lord, we shall +find that, true real human body as his was, it was yet used by his spirit +after a fashion in which we cannot yet use our bodies. And this is only +reasonable. Let me give you an instance. You remember how, on the Mount of +Transfiguration, that body shone so that the light of it illuminated +all his garments. You do not surely suppose that this shine was +external--physical light, as we say, _merely?_ No doubt it was physical +light, for how else would their eyes have seen it? But where did it come +from? What was its source? I think it was a natural outburst of glory from +the mind of Jesus, filled with the perfect life of communion with his +Father--the light of his divine blessedness taking form in physical +radiance that permeated and glorified all that surrounded him. As the +body is the expression of the soul, as the face of Jesus himself was the +expression of the being, the thought, the love of Jesus in like manner this +radiance was the natural expression of his gladness, even in the face of +that of which they had been talking--Moses, Elias, and he--namely, +the decease that he should accomplish at Jerusalem. Again, after his +resurrection, he convinced the hands, as well as eyes, of doubting Thomas, +that he was indeed there in the body; and yet that body could appear and +disappear as the Lord willed. All this is full of marvel, I grant you; but +probably far more intelligible to us in a further state of existence than +some of the most simple facts with regard to our own bodies are to us now, +only that we are so used to them that we never think how unintelligible +they really are." + +"But then about Peter, papa? What you have been saying will not apply to +Peter's body, you know." + +"I confess there is more difficulty there. But if you can suppose that such +power were indwelling in Jesus, you cannot limit the sphere of its action. +As he is the head of the body, his church, in all spiritual things, so I +firmly believe, however little we can understand about it, is he in all +natural things as well. Peter's faith in him brought even Peter's body +within the sphere of the outgoing power of the Master. Do you suppose that +because Peter ceased to be brave and trusting, therefore Jesus withdrew +from him some sustaining power, and allowed him to sink? I do not believe +it. I believe Peter's sinking followed naturally upon his loss of +confidence. Thus he fell away from the life of the Master; was no longer, +in that way I mean, connected with the Head, was instantly under the +dominion of the natural law of gravitation, as we call it, and began to +sink. Therefore the Lord must take other means to save him. He must draw +nigh to him in a bodily manner. The pride of Peter had withdrawn him from +the immediate spiritual influence of Christ, conquering his matter; and +therefore the Lord must come over the stormy space between, come nearer to +him in the body, and from his own height of safety above the sphere of the +natural law, stretch out to him the arm of physical aid, lift him up, lead +him to the boat. The whole salvation of the human race is figured in this +story. It is all Christ, my love.--Does this help you to believe at all?" + +"I think it does, papa. But it wants thinking over a good deal. I always +find as I think, that lighter bits shine out here and there in a thing I +have no hope of understanding altogether. That always helps me to believe +that the rest might be understood too, if I were only clever enough." + +"Simple enough, not clever enough, my dear." + +"But there's one thing," said my wife, "that is more interesting to me than +what you have been talking about. It is the other instances in the life of +St. Peter in which you said he failed in a similar manner from pride or +self-satisfaction." + +"One, at least, seems to me very clear. You have often remarked to me, +Ethel, how little praise servants can stand; how almost invariably after +you have commended the diligence or skill of any of your household, as you +felt bound to do, one of the first visible results was either a falling +away in the performance by which she had gained the praise, or a more +or less violent access, according to the nature of the individual, of +self-conceit, soon breaking out in bad temper or impertinence. Now you will +see precisely the same kind of thing in Peter." + +Here I opened my New Testament, and read fragmentarily, "'But whom say ye +that I am?... Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.... Blessed +art thou, Simon.... My Father hath revealed that unto thee. I will give +unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.... I must suffer many things, +and be killed, and be raised again the third day.... Be it far from thee, +Lord. This shall not be unto thee.... Get thee behind me, Satan. Thou art +an offence unto me.' Just contemplate the change here in the words of our +Lord. 'Blessed art thou.' 'Thou art an offence unto me.' Think what change +has passed on Peter's mood before the second of these words could be +addressed to him to whom the first had just been spoken. The Lord had +praised him. Peter grew self-sufficient, even to the rebuking of him whose +praise had so uplifted him. But it is ever so. A man will gain a great +moral victory: glad first, then uplifted, he will fall before a paltry +temptation. I have sometimes wondered, too, whether his denial of our Lord +had anything to do with his satisfaction with himself for making that +onslaught upon the high priest's servant. It was a brave thing and a +faithful to draw a single sword against a multitude. In his fiery eagerness +and inexperience, the blow, well meant to cleave Malchus's head, missed, +and only cut off his ear; but Peter had herein justified his confident +saying that he would not deny him. He was not one to deny his Lord who had +been the first to confess him! Yet ere the cock had crowed, ere the morning +had dawned, the vulgar grandeur of the palace of the high priest (for let +it be art itself, it was vulgar grandeur beside that grandeur which it +caused Peter to deny), and the accusing tone of a maid-servant, were enough +to make him quail whom the crowd with lanterns, and torches, and weapons, +had only roused to fight. True, he was excited then, and now he was cold in +the middle of the night, with Jesus gone from his sight a prisoner, and for +the faces of friends that had there surrounded him and strengthened him +with their sympathy, now only the faces of those who were, or whom at least +Peter thought to be on the other side, looking at him curiously, as a +strange intruder into their domains. Alas, that the courage which led him +to follow the Lord should have thus led him, not to deny him, but into the +denial of him! Yet why should I say _alas?_ If the denial of our Lord +lay in his heart a possible thing, only prevented by his being kept in +favourable circumstances for confessing him, it was a thousand times better +that he should deny him, and thus know what a poor weak thing that heart of +his was, trust it no more, and give it up to the Master to make it strong, +and pure, and grand. For such an end the Lord was willing to bear all the +pain of Peter's denial. O, the love of that Son of Man, who in the midst of +all the wretched weaknesses of those who surrounded him, loved the best in +them, and looked forward to his own victory for them that they might become +all that they were meant to be--like him; that the lovely glimmerings of +truth and love that were in them now--the breakings forth of the light that +lighteneth every man--might grow into the perfect human day; loving them +even the more that they were so helpless, so oppressed, so far from that +ideal which was their life, and which all their dim desires were reaching +after!" + +Here I ceased, and a little overcome with the great picture in my soul +to which I had been able only to give the poorest expression, rose, and +retired to my own room. There I could only fall on my knees and pray that +the Lord Christ, who had died for me, might have his own way with me--that +it might be worth his while to have done what he did and what he was doing +now for me. To my Elder Brother, my Lord, and my God, I gave myself yet +again, confidently, because he cared to have me, and my very breath was +his. I _would_ be what he wanted, who knew all about it, and had done +everything that I might be a son of God--a living glory of gladness. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +NICEBOOTS. + + + + + +The next morning the captain of the lost vessel called upon me early to +thank me for himself and his men. He was a fine honest-looking burly +fellow, dressed in blue from head to heel. He might have sat for a portrait +of Chaucer's shipman, as far as his hue and the first look of him went. It +was clear that "in many a tempest had his beard be shake," and certainly +"the hote somer had made his hew all broun;" but farther the likeness would +hardly go, for the "good fellow" which Chaucer applies with such irony to +the shipman of his time, who would filch wine, and drown all the captives +he made in a sea-fight, was clearly applicable in good earnest to this +shipman. Still, I thought I had something to bring against him, and +therefore before we parted I said to him-- + +"They tell me, captain, that your vessel was not seaworthy, and that you +could not but have known that." + +"She was my own craft, sir, and I judged her fit for several voyages more. +If she had been A 1 she couldn't have been mine; and a man must do what he +can for his family." + +"But you were risking your life, you know." + +"A few chances more or less don't much signify to a sailor, sir. There +ain't nothing to be done without risk. You'll find an old tub go voyage +after voyage, and she beyond bail, and a clipper fresh off the stocks go +down in the harbour. It's all in the luck, sir, I assure you." + +"Well, if it were your own life I should have nothing to say, seeing you +have a family to look after; but what about the poor fellows who made the +voyage with you? Did they know what kind of a vessel they were embarking +in?" + +"Wherever the captain's ready to go he'll always find men ready to follow +him. Bless you, sir, they never asks no questions. If a sailor was always +to be thinking of the chances, he'd never set his foot off shore." + +"Still, I don't think it's right they shouldn't know." + +"I daresay they knowed all about the old brig as well as I did myself. You +gets to know all about a craft just as you do about her captain. She's got +a character of her own, and she can't hide it long, any more than you can +hide yours, sir, begging your pardon." + +"I daresay that's all correct, but still I shouldn't like anyone to say to +me, 'You ought to have told me, captain.' Therefore, you see, I'm telling +you, captain, and now I'm clear.--Have a glass of wine before you go," I +concluded, ringing the bell. + +"Thank you, sir. I'll turn over what you've been saying, and anyhow I take +it kind of you." + +So we parted. I have never seen him since, and shall not, most likely, +in this world. But he looked like a man that could understand why and +wherefore I spoke as I did. And I had the advantage of having had a chance +of doing something for him first of all. Let no man who wants to do +anything for the soul of a man lose a chance of doing something for his +body. He ought to be willing, and ready, which is more than willing, to do +that whether or not; but there are those who need this reminder. Of many a +soul Jesus laid hold by healing the suffering the body brought upon it. No +one but himself can tell how much the nucleus of the church was composed of +and by those who had received health from his hands, loving-kindness from +the word of his mouth. My own opinion is that herein lay the very germ of +the kernel of what is now the ancient, was then the infant church; that +from them, next to the disciples themselves, went forth the chief power of +life in love, for they too had seen the Lord, and in their own humble way +could preach and teach concerning him. What memories of him theirs must +have been! + +Things went on very quietly, that is, as I mean now, from the view-point of +a historian, without much to record bearing notably upon after events, +for the greater part of the next week. I wandered about my parish, making +acquaintance with different people in an outside sort of way, only now +and then finding an opportunity of seeing into their souls except by +conclusion. But I enjoyed endlessly the aspects of the country. It was not +picturesque except in parts. There was little wood and there were no +hills, only undulations, though many of them were steep enough even from a +pedestrian's point of view. Neither, however, were there any plains except +high moorland tracts. But the impression of the whole country was large, +airy, sunshiny, and it was clasped in the arms of the infinite, awful, yet +how bountiful sea--if one will look at the ocean in its world-wide, not to +say its eternal aspects, and not out of the fears of a hidebound love of +life! The sea and the sky, I must confess, dwarfed the earth, made it of +small account beside them; but who could complain of such an influence? At +least, not I. + +My children bathed in this sea every day, and gathered strength and +knowledge from it. It was, as I have indicated, a dangerous coast to bathe +upon. The sweep of the tides varied with the varying sands that were cast +up. There was now in one place, now in another, a strong _undertow_, as +they called it--a reflux, that is, of the inflowing waters, which was quite +sufficient to carry those who could not swim out into the great deep, and +rendered much exertion necessary, even in those who could, to regain the +shore. But there was a fine strong Cornish woman to take charge of the +ladies and the little boys, and she, watching the ways of the wild monster, +knew the when and the where, and all about it. + +Connie got out upon the downs every day. She improved in health certainly, +and we thought a little even in her powers of motion. The weather continued +superb. What rain there was fell at night, just enough for Nature to wash +her face with and so look quite fresh in the morning. We contrived a dinner +on the sands on the other side of the bay, for the Friday of this same +week. + +The morning rose gloriously. Harry and Charlie were turning the house +upside down, to judge by their noise, long before I was in the humour to +get up, for I had been reading late the night before. I never made much +objection to mere noise, knowing that I could stop it the moment I pleased, +and knowing, which was of more consequence, that so far from there being +anything wrong in making a noise, the sea would make noise enough in our +ears before we left Kilkhaven. The moment, however, that I heard a +thread of whining or a burst of anger in the noise, I would interfere at +once--treating these just as things that must be dismissed at once. Harry +and Charlie were, I say, to use their own form of speech, making such a row +that morning, however, that I was afraid of some injury to the house or +furniture, which were not our own. So I opened my door and called out-- + +"Harry! Charlie! What on earth are you about?" + +"Nothing, papa," answered Charlie. "Only it's so jolly!" + +"What is jolly, my boy?" I asked. + +"O, I don't know, papa! It's _so_ jolly!" + +"Is it the sunshine?" thought I; "and the wind? God's world all over? The +God of gladness in the hearts of the lads? Is it that? No wonder, then, +that they cannot tell yet what it is!" + +I withdrew into my room; and so far from seeking to put an end to the +noise--I knew Connie did not mind it--listened to it with a kind of +reverence, as the outcome of a gladness which the God of joy had kindled +in their hearts. Soon after, however, I heard certain dim growls of +expostulation from Harry, and having, from experience, ground for believing +that the elder was tyrannising over the younger, I stopped that and the +noise together, sending Charlie to find out where the tide would be between +one and two o'clock, and Harry to run to the top of the hill, and find out +the direction of the wind. Before I was dressed, Charlie was knocking at my +door with the news that it would he half-tide about one; and Harry speedily +followed with the discovery that the wind was north-east by south-west, +which of course determined that the sun would shine all day. + +As the dinner-hour drew near, the servants went over, with Walter at their +head, to choose a rock convenient for a table, under the shelter of the +rocks on the sands across the bay. Thither, when Walter returned, we bore +our Connie, carrying her litter close by the edge of the retreating tide, +which sometimes broke in a ripple of music under her, wetting our feet with +innocuous rush. The child's delight was extreme, as she thus skimmed the +edge of the ocean, with the little ones gambolling about her, and her mamma +and Wynnie walking quietly on the landward side, for she wished to have no +one between her and the sea. + +After scrambling with difficulty over some rocky ledges, and stopping at +Connie's request, to let her look into a deep pool in the sand, which +somehow or other retained the water after the rest had retreated, we set +her down near the mouth of a cave, in the shadow of a rock. And there was +our dinner nicely laid for us on a flat rock in front of the cave. The +cliffs rose behind us, with curiously curved and variously angled strata. +The sun in his full splendour threw dark shadows on the brilliant yellow +sand, more and more of which appeared as the bright blue water withdrew +itself, now rippling over it as if it meant to hide it all up again, now +uncovering more as it withdrew for another rush. Before we had finished our +dinner, the foremost wavelets appeared so far away over the plain of the +sand, that it seemed a long walk to the edge that had been almost at +our feet a little while ago. Between us and it lay a lovely desert of +glittering sand. + +When even Charlie and Harry had arrived at the conclusion that it was time +to stop eating, we left the shadow and went out into the sun, carrying +Connie and laying her down in the midst of "the ribbed sea-sand," which +was very ribby to-day. On a shawl a little way off from her lay her baby, +crowing and kicking with the same jollity that had possessed the boys ever +since the morning. I wandered about with Wynnie on the sands, picking +up amongst other things strange creatures in thin shells ending in +vegetable-like tufts, if I remember rightly. My wife sat on the end of +Connie's litter, and Dora and the boys, a little way off, were trying how +far the full force of three wooden spades could, in digging a hole, keep +ahead of the water which was ever tumbling in the sand from the sides of +the same. Behind, the servants were busy washing the plates in a pool, and +burying the fragments of the feast; for I made it a rule wherever we went +that the fair face of nature was not to be defiled. I have always taken the +part of excursionists in these latter days of running to and fro, against +those who complain that the loveliest places are being destroyed by their +inroads. But there is one most offensive, even disgusting habit amongst +them--that of leaving bones, fragments of meat pies, and worse than all, +pieces of greasy paper about the place, which I cannot excuse, or at least +defend. Even the surface of Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes will be +defiled with these floating abominations--not abominations at all if they +are decently burned or buried when done with, but certainly abominations +when left to be cast hither and thither in the wind, over the grass, or on +the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for days after those who have thus +left their shame behind them have returned to their shops or factories. I +forgive them for trampling down the grass and the ferns. That cannot be +helped, and in comparison of the good they get, is not to be considered at +all. But why should they leave such a savage trail behind them as this, +forgetting too that though they have done with the spot, there are others +coming after them to whom these remnants must be an offence? + +At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of rock, +rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came suddenly +upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with a small easel +before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had his back towards +us, so that we saw at once what he was painting. + +"O, papa!" cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round. + +"I beg your pardon," I said. "We came over from the other side, and did not +see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much." + +"Not in the least," he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke. + +I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had been +making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay on +the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the same +direction now. + +"Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?" + +"Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember that +most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage," he answered. + +I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark. + +"Here is no common man," I said to myself, and responded to him in +something of a similar style. + +"I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings +themselves, as well as their works," I said aloud. + +The painter looked at me, and I looked at him. + +"We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume," he +said. + +"But," I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his easel, +"your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to nothing-- +perhaps I ought to say nothing at all--this picture must have long ago +passed the chaotic stage." + +"It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it," he returned. "I +hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather pleasing, my +own fancy at present." + +"Apparently," I remarked, "you had the conical rock outside the hay for +your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards it. +How is that?" + +"I will soon explain," he answered. "The moment I saw this rock, it +reminded me of Dante's Purgatory." + +"Ah, you are a reader of Dante?" I said. "In the original, I hope." + +"Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going with +that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never knew what +intensity _per se_ was till I began to read Dante." + +"That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture." + +"Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it suggest +the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given of the place +_ab extra_ by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth canto of the Inferno. +Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet it has certain mountain +forms about it. I have put it at a much greater distance, you see, and have +sought to make it look a solitary mountain in the midst of a great water. +You will discover even now that the circles of the Purgatory are suggested +without any approach, I think, to artificial structure; and there are +occasional hints at figures, which you cannot definitely detach from the +rocks--which, by the way, you must remember, were in one part full of +sculptures. I have kept the mountain near enough, however, to indicate +the great expanse of wild flowers on the top, which Matilda was so busy +gathering. I want to indicate too the wind up there in the terrestrial +paradise, ever and always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. Walton?"-- +for the young man, getting animated, began to talk as if we had known each +other for some time--and here he repeated the purport of Dante's words in +English: + + "An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow, + With no more strength than in a soft wind lies, + Smote peacefully against me on the brow. + By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise, + Did every one bend thitherward to where + The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise." + +"I thought you said you did not use translations?" + +"I thought it possible that--Miss Walton (?)" interrogatively this--"might +not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem pedantic." + +"She won't lag far behind, I flatter myself," I returned. "Whose +translation do you quote?" + +He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly: + +"I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself." + +"It has the merit of being near the original at least," I returned; "and +that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can possess." + +"Then," the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further +remark upon his verses, "you see those white things in the air above?" Here +he turned to Wynnie. "Miss Walton will remember--I think she was making a +drawing of the rock at the same time I was--how the seagulls, or some such +birds--only two or three of them--kept flitting about the top of it?" + +"I remember quite well," answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me. + +"Yes," I interposed; "my daughter, in describing what she had been +attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For she +said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to get +loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, and risen +in triumph into the air." + +Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, looked +at Wynnie almost with a start. + +"How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!" he said. +"Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the free +souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind of +purgatory anyhow--is it not, Mr. Walton?" + +"Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work +is--whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious +stones." + +"You see," resumed the painter, "if anybody only glanced at my little +picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, and +began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and Beatrice on +their way to the sphere of the moon." + +"In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of corresponding +to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what group of things, in +which the natural man will not see merely the things of nature, but the +spiritual man the things of the spirit?" + +"I am no theologian," said the painter, turning away, I thought somewhat +coldly. + +But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she +thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for +her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my way +of it: here might be something new. + +"If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be +happy," he said, turning again towards me. + +But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I +received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not wish to +make more marked than his own towards my last observation. + +"You are very kind," I said; "but Miss Walton does not presume to be an +artist." + +I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie's countenance. When I turned to +Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had said +something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste to make +amends. + +"We are just going to have some coffee," I said, "for my servants, I see, +have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to introduce you +to Mrs. Walton?" + +"With much pleasure," he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he +spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a fine-built, +black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes notwithstanding, a +rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But there was an air of +suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, did not in the least +interfere with the manliness of his countenance, or of its expression. + +"But," I said, "how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet +know your name." + +I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr. +Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied, + +"My name is Percivale--Charles Percivale." + +"A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur's Round Table?" + +"I cannot count quite so far back," he answered, "as that--not quite to the +Conquest," he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. "I do +come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale." + +We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves towards +the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and Wynnie +lingering behind. + +"O, do look here papa!" she cried, from some little distance. + +We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet. +Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles, +which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and passing +out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and not always, +I do not know. But there they were--and such colours! deep rose and grassy +green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, yet brilliant and +intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were of a solid-looking +burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on behind translucent +crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth turning to see; and so +I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on vanishing, one by one. +Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and was nowhere. + +We walked away again towards the rest of our party. + +"Don't you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones you +ever saw, papa?" + +"Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, God +seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal." + +"And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?' she said +interrogatively. + +"Many--perhaps most flowers are," I granted. "And did you ever see such +curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?" + +"I think not--in the cirrhous clouds at least--the frozen ones. But what +are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?" + +"O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end +with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to +answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one of +us should ask you some day." + +"No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my +children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children +should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or that +by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have found out +some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your catechism, Wynnie. +Now for your puzzle!" + +"It's not a funny question, papa; it's a very serious one. I can't think +why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful things +wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be no more. +Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?" + +"In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we will +not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the more +material loveliness of which you have been speaking--though, in truth, no +loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; it is, I think, +because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all beautiful things +vanish quickly." + +"I do not understand you, papa." + +"I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr. +Percivale will excuse me." + +"On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the +answer." + +"Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something like +them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to love the +body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die continually, +that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is full of beautiful +things, but God has saved many men from loving the mere bodies of them, by +making them poor; and more still by reminding them that if they be as rich +as Croesus all their lives, they will be as poor as Diogenes--poorer, +without even a tub--when this world, with all its pictures, scenery, books, +and--alas for some Christians!--bibles even, shall have vanished away." + +"Why do you say _alas_, papa--if they are Christians especially?" + +"I say _alas_ only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean such as +are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving themselves +any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the anise and cummin, +and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These worship the body of the +truth, and forget the soul of it. If the flowers were not perishable, we +should cease to contemplate their beauty, either blinded by the passion for +hoarding the bodies of them, or dulled by the hebetude of commonplaceness +that the constant presence of them would occasion. To compare great things +with small, the flowers wither, the bubbles break, the clouds and sunsets +pass, for the very same holy reason, in the degree of its application to +them, for which the Lord withdrew from his disciples and ascended again to +his Father--that the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Soul of things, +might come to them and abide with them, and so the Son return, and the +Father be revealed. The flower is not its loveliness, and its loveliness +we must love, else we shall only treat them as flower-greedy children, +who gather and gather, and fill hands and baskets, from a mere desire +of acquisition, excusable enough in them, but the same in kind, however +harmless in mode, and degree, and object, as the avarice of the miser. +Therefore God, that we may always have them, and ever learn to love their +beauty, and yet more their truth, sends the beneficent winter that we may +think about what we have lost, and welcome them when they come again with +greater tenderness and love, with clearer eyes to see, and purer hearts +to understand, the spirit that dwells in them. We cannot do without the +'winter of our discontent.' Shakspere surely saw that when he makes Titania +say, in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_: + + 'The human mortals want their winter here'-- + +namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter the +line seem to have been capable of understanding its import." + +"I think I understand you a little," answered Wynnie. Then, changing her +tone, "I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn't I?" + +"Yes, my child; but with this difference--I found the answer to meet my own +necessities, not yours." + +"And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it." + +"Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you give +away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right to offer +any spiritual dish to his neighbour." + +Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had presented +him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects by a somewhat +stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation into a farewell, and, +either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having changed his mind, withdrew, +a little to my disappointment, for, notwithstanding his lack of response +where some things he said would have led me to expect it, I had begun to +feel much interested in him. + +He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her digging, +with an eager look on her sunny face. + +"Hasn't he got nice boots, papa?" + +"Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I never +saw his boots." + +"I did, then," returned the child; "and I never saw such nice boots." + +"I accept the statement willingly," I replied; and we heard no more of the +boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did I see +himself again for some days--not in fact till next Sunday--though why he +should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, especially +when I knew him better. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE BLACKSMITH. + + + + + +The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. It +was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on the first +to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the village, I +soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have no doubt, could +shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any greater delicacy of +touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I heard of a young smith +who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of miles distant, but still +within the parish. In the afternoon I set out to find him. To my surprise, +he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking man, with a huge frame, which +appeared worn rather than naturally thin, and large eyes that looked at the +anvil as if it was the horizon of the world. He had got a horse-shoe in his +tongs when I entered. Notwithstanding the fire that glowed on the hearth, +and the sparks that flew like a nimbus in eruption from about his person, +the place looked very dark to me entering from the glorious blaze of the +almost noontide sun, and felt cool after the deep lane through which I had +come, and which had seemed a very reservoir of sunbeams. I could see the +smith by the glow of his horse-shoe; but all between me and the shoe was +dark. + +"Good-morning," I said. "It is a good thing to find a man by his work. I +heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the glow of +your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire." + +He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly as +if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip. + +"I don't know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in weather +like this," he answered. + +"If I did not," I returned, "that would be the fault of my weakness, and +would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine thing to +work in fire." + +"Well, you may be right," he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the +horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next let +the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his head +for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. "It does not much +matter to me," he went on, "if I only get through my work and have done +with it. No man shall say I shirked what I'd got to do. And then when it's +over there won't be a word to say agen me, or--" + +He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying in a +somewhat dreary patch, if the word _dreary_ can be truly used with respect +to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor. + +"I hope you are not ill," I said. + +He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam one +of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and put it on +the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it in the fire, +and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. "This man will do for my +work," I said to myself; "though I should not wonder from the look of him +if it was the last piece of work he ever did under the New Jerusalem." The +smith's words broke in on my meditations. + +"When I was a little boy," he said, "I once wanted to stay at home from +school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. I +told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped her at +her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in the afternoon +the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he asked me what was +the matter with me, and my mother answered for me that I had a bad head, +and he looked at me; and as my head was quite well by this time, I could +not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, I suppose, sir, for I can't +account for what he said any other way; and he turned to me, and he said to +me, solemn-like, 'Is your head bad enough to send you to the Lord Jesus +to make you whole?' I could not speak a word, partly from bashfulness, I +suppose, for I was but ten years old. So he followed it up, as they say: +'Then you ought to be at school,' says he. I said nothing, because I +couldn't. But never since then have I given in as long as I could stand. +And I can stand now, and lift my hammer, too," he said, as he took the +horse-shoe from the forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a nimbus of +coruscating iron. + +"You are just the man I want," I said. "I've got a job for you, down to +Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts." + +"What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha' thought the +church was all spick and span by this time." + +"I see you know who I am," I said. + +"Of course I do," he answered. "I don't go to church myself, being brought +up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is known the next +day all over it." + +"You won't mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?" I +asked. + +"Not I, sir. If I've read right, it's the fault of the Church that we don't +pull all alongside. You turned us out, sir; we didn't go out of ourselves. +At least, if all they say is true, which I can't be sure of, you know, in +this world." + +"You are quite right there though," I answered. "And in doing so, the +Church had the worst of it--as all that judge and punish their neighbours +have. But you have been the worse for it, too: all of which is to be laid +to the charge of the Church. For there is not one clergyman I know--mind, I +say, that I know--who would have made such a cruel speech to a boy as that +the Methodist parson made to you." + +"But it did me good, sir?" + +"Are you sure of that? I am not. Are you sure, first of all, it did +not make you proud? Are you sure it has not made you work beyond your +strength--I don't mean your strength of arm, for clearly that is all that +could be wished, but of your chest, your lungs? Is there not some danger of +your leaving someone who is dependent on you too soon unprovided for? Is +there not some danger of your having worked as if God were a hard master? +--of your having worked fiercely, indignantly, as if he wronged you by not +caring for you, not understanding you?" + +He returned me no answer, but hammered momently on his anvil. Whether he +felt what I meant, or was offended at my remark, I could not then tell. I +thought it best to conclude the interview with business. + +"I have a delicate little job that wants nice handling, and I fancy you are +just the man to do it to my mind," I said. + +"What is it, sir?" he asked, in a friendly manner enough. + +"If you will excuse me, I would rather show it to you than talk about it," +I returned. + +"As you please, sir. When do you want me?" + +"The first hour you can come." + +"To-morrow morning?" + +"If you feel inclined." + +"For that matter, I'd rather go to bed." + +"Come to me instead: it's light work." + +"I will, sir--at ten o'clock." + +"If you please." + +And so it was arranged. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE LIFE-BOAT. + + + + + +The next day rose glorious. Indeed, early as the sun rose, I saw him +rise--saw him, from the down above the house, over the land to the east and +north, ascend triumphant into his own light, which had prepared the way for +him; while the clouds that hung over the sea glowed out with a faint flush, +as anticipating the hour when the west should clasp the declining glory in +a richer though less dazzling splendour, and shine out the bride of the +bridegroom east, which behold each other from afar across the intervening +world, and never mingle but in the sight of the eyes. The clear pure light +of the morning made me long for the truth in my heart, which alone could +make me pure and clear as the morning, tune me up to the concert-pitch of +the nature around me. And the wind that blew from the sunrise made me hope +in the God who had first breathed into my nostrils the breath of life, that +he would at length so fill me with his breath, his wind, his spirit, that +I should think only his thoughts and live his life, finding therein my own +life, only glorified infinitely. + +After breakfast and prayers, I would go to the church to await the arrival +of my new acquaintance the smith. In order to obtain entrance, I had, +however, to go to the cottage of the sexton. This was not my first visit +there, so that I may now venture to take my reader with me. To reach the +door, I had to cross a hollow by a bridge, built, for the sake of the +road, over what had once been the course of a rivulet from the heights +above. Now it was a kind of little glen, or what would in Scotland be +called a den, I think, grown with grass and wild flowers and ferns, some +of them, rare and fine. The roof of the cottage came down to the road, +and, until you came quite near, you could not but wonder where the body +that supported this head could be. But you soon saw that the ground fell +suddenly away, leaving a bank against which the cottage was built. +Crossing a garden of the smallest, the principal flowers of which were the +stonecrop on its walls, by a flag-paved path, you entered the building, +and, to your surprise, found yourself, not in a little cottage kitchen, as +you expected, but in a waste-looking space, that seemed to have forgotten +the use for which it had been built. There was a sort of loft along one +side of it, and it was heaped with indescribable lumber-looking stuff with +here and there a hint at possible machinery. The place had been a mill for +grinding corn, and its wheel had been driven by the stream which had run +for ages in the hollow of which I have already spoken. But when the canal +came to be constructed, the stream had to be turned aside from its former +course, and indeed was now employed upon occasion to feed the canal; so +that the mill of necessity had fallen into disuse and decay. Crossing this +floor, you entered another door, and turning sharp to the left, went down +a few steps of a ladder-sort of stair, and after knocking your hat against +a beam, emerged in the comfortable quaint little cottage kitchen you had +expected earlier. A cheerful though small fire burns in the grate--for +even here the hearth-fire has vanished from the records of cottage-life-- +and is pleasant here even in the height of summer, though it is counted +needful only for cooking purposes. The ceiling, which consists only of the +joists and the boards that floor the bedroom above, is so low, that +necessity, if not politeness, would compel you to take off your already- +bruised hat. Some of these joists, you will find, are made further useful +by supporting each a shelf, before which hangs a little curtain of printed +cotton, concealing the few stores and postponed eatables of the house-- +forming, in fact, both store-room and larder of the family. On the walls +hang several coloured prints, and within a deep glazed frame the figure of +a ship in full dress, carved in rather high relief in sycamore. + +As I now entered, Mrs. Coombes rose from a high-backed settle near the +fire, and bade me good-morning with a courtesy. + +"What a lovely day it is, Mrs. Coombes! It is so bright over the sea," +I said, going to the one little window which looked out on the great +Atlantic, "that one almost expects a great merchant navy to come sailing +into Kilkhaven--sunk to the water's edge with silks, and ivory, and spices, +and apes, and peacocks, like the ships of Solomon that we read about--just +as the sun gets up to the noonstead." + +Before I record her answer, I turn to my reader, who in the spirit +accompanies me, and have a little talk with him. I always make it a rule to +speak freely with the less as with the more educated of my friends. I never +_talk down_ to them, except I be expressly explaining something to them. +The law of the world is as the law of the family. Those children grow much +the faster who hear all that is going on in the house. Reaching ever above +themselves, they arrive at an understanding at fifteen, which, in the usual +way of things, they would not reach before five-and-twenty or thirty; and +this in a natural way, and without any necessary priggishness, except such +as may belong to their parents. Therefore I always spoke to the poor and +uneducated as to my own people,--freely, not much caring whether I should +be quite understood or not; for I believed in influences not to be measured +by the measure of the understanding. + +But what was the old woman's answer? It was this: + +"I know, sir. And when I was as young as you"--I was not so very young, +my reader may well think--"I thought like that about the sea myself. +Everything come from the sea. For my boy Willie he du bring me home the +beautifullest parrot and the talkingest you ever see, and the red shawl all +worked over with flowers: I'll show it to you some day, sir, when you have +time. He made that ship you see in the frame there, sir, all with his own +knife, out on a bit o' wood that he got at the Marishes, as they calls it, +sir--a bit of an island somewheres in the great sea. But the parrot's +gone dead like the rest of them, sir.--Where am I? and what am I talking +about?" she added, looking down at her knitting as if she had dropped +a stitch, or rather as if she had forgotten what she was making, and +therefore what was to come next. + +"You were telling me how you used to think of the sea--" + +"When I was as young as you. I remember, sir. Well, that lasted a long +time--lasted till my third boy fell asleep in the wide water; for it du +call it falling asleep, don't it, sir?" + +"The Bible certainly does," I answered. + +"It's the Bible I be meaning, of course," she returned. "Well, after that, +but I don't know what began it, only I did begin to think about the sea as +something that took away things and didn't bring them no more. And somehow +or other she never look so blue after that, and she give me the shivers. +But now, sir, she always looks to me like one o' the shining ones that come +to fetch the pilgrims. You've heard tell of the _Pilgrim's Progress_, I +daresay, sir, among the poor people; for they du say it was written by +a tinker, though there be a power o' good things in it that I think the +gentlefolk would like if they knowed it." + +"I do know the book--nearly as well as I know the Bible," I answered; "and +the shining ones are very beautiful in it. I am glad you can think of the +sea that way." + +"It's looking in at the window all day as I go about the house," she +answered, "and all night too when I'm asleep; and if I hadn't learned to +think of it that way, it would have driven me mad, I du believe. I was +forced to think that way about it, or not think at all. And that wouldn't +be easy, with the sound of it in your ears the last thing at night and the +first thing in the morning." + +"The truth of things is indeed the only refuge from the look of things," I +replied. "But now I want the key of the church, if you will trust me with +it, for I have something to do there this morning; and the key of the tower +as well, if you please." + +With her old smile, ripened only by age, she reached the ponderous keys +from the nail where they hung, and gave them into my hand. I left her in +the shadow of her dwelling, and stepped forth into the sunlight. The first +thing I observed was the blacksmith waiting for me at the church door. + +Now that I saw him in the full light of day, and now that he wore his +morning face upon which the blackness of labour had not yet gathered, I +could see more plainly how far he was from well. There was a flush on his +thin cheek by which the less used exercise of walking revealed his inward +weakness, and the light in his eyes had something of the far-country in +them--"the light that never was on sea or shore." But his speech was +cheerful, for he had been walking in the light of this world, and that had +done something to make the light within him shine a little more freely. + +"How do you find yourself to-day?" I asked. + +"Quite well, sir, I thank you," he answered. "A day like this does a man +good. But," he added, and his countenance fell, "the heart knoweth its own +bitterness." + +"It may know it too much," I returned, "just because it refuses to let a +stranger intermeddle therewith." + +He made no reply. I turned the key in the great lock, and the iron-studded +oak opened and let us into the solemn gloom. + +It did not require many minutes to make the man understand what I wanted of +him. + +"We must begin at the bells and work down," he said. + +So we went up into the tower, where, with the help of a candle I fetched +for him from the cottage, he made a good many minute measurements; found +that carpenter's work was necessary for the adjustment of the hammers and +cranks and the leading of the rods, undertook the management of the whole, +and in the course of an hour and a half went home to do what had to be done +before any fixing could be commenced, assuring me that he had no doubt of +bringing the job to a satisfactory conclusion, although the force of +the blow on the bell would doubtless have to be regulated afterwards by +repeated trials. + +"In a fortnight, I hope you will be able to play a tune to the parish, +sir," he added, as he took his leave. + +I resolved, if possible, to know more of the man, and find out his trouble, +if haply I might be able to give him any comfort, for I was all but certain +that there was a deeper cause for his gloom than the state of his health. + +When he was gone I stood with the key of the church in my hand, and looked +about me. Nature at least was in glorious health--sunshine in her eyes, +light fantastic cloud-images passing through her brain, her breath coming +and going in soft breezes perfumed with the scents of meadows and wild +flowers, and her green robe shining in the motions of her gladness. I +turned to lock the church door, though in my heart I greatly disapproved of +locking the doors of churches, and only did so now because it was not my +church, and I had no business to force my opinions upon other customs. But +when I turned I received a kind of questioning shock. There was the fallen +world, as men call it, shining in glory and gladness, because God was +there; here was the way into the lost Paradise, yea, the door into an +infinitely higher Eden than that ever had or ever could have been, +iron-clamped and riveted, gloomy and low-browed like the entrance to a +sepulchre, and surrounded with the grim heads of grotesque monsters of the +deep. What did it mean? Here was contrast enough to require harmonising, +or if that might not be, then accounting for. Perhaps it was enough to say +that although God made both the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of grace, +yet the symbol of the latter was the work of man, and might not altogether +correspond to God's idea of the matter. I turned away thoughtful, and went +through the churchyard with my eye on the graves. + +As I left the churchyard, still looking to the earth, the sound of voices +reached my ear. I looked up. There, down below me, at the foot of the high +bank on which I stood, lay a gorgeous shining thing upon the bosom of the +canal, full of men, and surrounded by men, women, and children, delighting +in its beauty. I had never seen such a thing before, but I knew at once, +as by instinct, which of course it could not have been, that it was the +life-boat. But in its gorgeous colours, red and white and green, it looked +more like the galley that bore Cleopatra to Actium. Nor, floating so light +on the top of the water, and broad in the beam withal, curved upward and +ornamented at stern and stem, did it look at all like a creature formed to +battle with the fierce elements. A pleasure-boat for floating between river +banks it seemed, drawn by swans mayhap, and regarded in its course by +fair eyes from green terrace-walks, or oriel windows of ancient houses on +verdant lawns. Ten men sat on the thwarts, and one in the stern by the yet +useless rudder, while men and boys drew the showy thing by a rope downward +to the lock-gates. The men in the boat, wore blue jerseys, but you could +see little of the colour for strange unshapely things that they wore above +them, like an armour cut out of a row of organ pipes. They were their +cork-jackets; for every man had to be made into a life-boat himself. I +descended the bank, and stood on the edge of the canal as it drew near. +Then I saw that every oar was loosely but firmly fastened to the rowlock, +so that it could be dropped and caught again in a moment; and that the gay +sides of the unwieldy-looking creature were festooned with ropes from the +gunwale, for the men to lay hold of when she capsized, for the earlier +custom of fastening the men to their seats had been quite given up, because +their weight under the water might prevent the boat from righting itself +again, and the men could not come to the surface. Now they had a better +chance in their freedom, though why they should not be loosely attached to +the boat, I do not quite see. + +They towed the shining thing through the upper gate of the lock, and slowly +she sank from my sight, and for some moments was no more to be seen, for I +had remained standing where first she passed me. All at once there she was +beyond the covert of the lock-head, abroad and free, fleeting from the +strokes of ten swift oars over the still waters of the bay towards the +waves that roared further out where the ground-swell was broken by the rise +of the sandy coast. There was no vessel in danger now, as the talk of the +spectators informed me; it was only for exercise and show that they went +out. It seemed all child's play for a time; but when they got among the +broken waves, then it looked quite another thing. The motion of the waters +laid hold upon her, and soon tossed her fearfully, now revealing the whole +of her capacity on the near side of one of their slopes, now hiding her +whole bulk in one of their hollows beyond. She, careless as a child in the +troubles of the world, floated about amongst them with what appeared too +much buoyancy for the promise of a safe return. Again and again she was +driven from her course towards the low rocks on the other side of the bay, +and again and again, returned to disport herself, like a sea-animal, as it +seemed, upon the backs of the wild, rolling, and bursting billows. + +"Can she go no further?" I asked of the captain of the coastguard, whom I +found standing by my side. + +"Not without some danger," he answered. + +"What, then, must it be in a storm!" I remarked. + +"Then of course," he returned, "they must take their chance. But there +is no good in running risks for nothing. That swell is quite enough for +exercise." + +"But is it enough to accustom them to face the danger that will come?" I +asked. + +"With danger comes courage," said the old sailor. + +"Were you ever afraid?" + +"No, sir. I don't think I ever was afraid. Yes, I believe I was once for +one moment, no more, when I fell from the maintop-gallant yard, and felt +myself falling. But it was soon over, for I only fell into the maintop. +I was expecting the smash on deck when I was brought up there. But," he +resumed, "I don't care much about the life-boat. My rockets are worth a +good deal more, as you may see, sir, before the winter is over; for seldom +does a winter pass without at least two or three wrecks close by here on +this coast. The full force of the Atlantic breaks here, sir. I _have_ seen +a life-boat--not that one--_she's_ done nothing yet--pitched stern over +stem; not capsized, you know, sir, in the ordinary way, but struck by a +wave behind while she was just hanging in the balance on the knife-edge of +a wave, and flung a somerset, as I say, stern over stem, and four of her +men lost." + +While we spoke I saw on the pier-head the tall figure of the painter +looking earnestly at the boat. I thought he was regarding it chiefly from +an artistic point of view, but I became aware before long that that would +not have been consistent with the character of Charles Percivale. He had +been, I learned afterwards, a crack oarsman at Oxford, and had belonged to +the University boat, so that he had some almost class-sympathy with the +doings of the crew. + +In a little while the boat sped swiftly back, entered the lock, was lifted +above the level of the storm-heaved ocean, and floated up the smooth canal +calmly as if she had never known what trouble was. Away up to the pretty +little Tudor-fashioned house in which she lay--one could almost fancy +dreaming of storms to come--she went, as softly as if moved only by her +"own sweet will," in the calm consolation for her imprisonment of having +tried her strength, and found therein good hope of success for the time +when she should rush to the rescue of men from that to which, as a monster +that begets monsters, she a watching Perseis, lay ready to offer battle. +The poor little boat lying in her little house watching the ocean, was +something signified in my eyes, and not less so after what came in the +course of changing seasons and gathered storms. + +All this time I had the keys in my hand, and now went back to the cottage +to restore them to their place upon the wall. When I entered there was a +young woman of a sweet interesting countenance talking to Mrs. Coombes. Now +as it happened, I had never yet seen the daughter who lived with her, and +thought this was she. + +"I've found your daughter at last then?" I said, approaching them. + +"Not yet, sir. She goes out to work, and her hands be pretty full at +present. But this be almost my daughter, sir," she added. "This is my next +daughter, Mary Trehern, from the south. She's got a place near by, to be +near her mother that is to be, that's me." + +Mary was hanging her head and blushing, as the old woman spoke. + +"I understand," I said. "And when are you going to get your new mother, +Mary? Soon I hope." + +But she gave me no reply--only hung her head lower and blushed deeper. + +Mrs. Coombes spoke for her. + +"She's shy, you see, sir. But if she was to speak her mind, she would ask +you whether you wouldn't marry her and Willie when he comes home from his +next voyage." + +Mary's hands were trembling now, and she turned half away. + +"With all my heart," I said. + +The girl tried to turn towards me, but could not. I looked at her face a +little more closely. Through all its tremor, there was a look of constancy +that greatly pleased me. I tried to make her speak. + +"When do you expect Willie home?" I said. + +She made a little gasp and murmur, but no articulate words came. + +"Don't be frightened, Mary," said her mother, as I found she always called +her. "The gentleman won't be sharp with you." + +She lifted a pair of soft brown eyes with one glance and a smile, and then +sank them again. + +"He'll be home in about a month, we think," answered the mother. "She's a +good ship he's aboard of, and makes good voyages." + +"It is time to think about the bans, then," I said. + +"If you please, sir," said the mother. + +"Just come to me about it, and I will attend to it--when you think proper." + +I thought I could hear a murmured "Thank you, sir," from the girl, but I +could not be certain that she spoke. I shook hands with them, and went for +a stroll on the other side of the bay. + + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +MR. PERCIVALE. + + + + + +When I reached home I found that Connie was already on her watch-tower. +For while I was away, they had carried her out that she might see the +life-boat. I followed her, and found the whole family about her couch, and +with them Mr. Percivale, who was showing her some sketches that he had made +in the neighbourhood. Connie knew nothing of drawing; but she seemed to +me always to catch the feeling of a thing. Her remarks therefore were +generally worth listening to, and Mr. Percivale was evidently interested in +them. Wynnie stood behind Connie, looking over her shoulder at the drawing +in her hand. + +"How do you get that shade of green?" I heard her ask as I came up. + +And then Mr. Percivale proceeded to tell her; from which beginning they +went on to other things, till Mr. Percivale said-- + +"But it is hardly fair, Miss Walton; to criticise my work while you keep +your own under cover." + +"I wasn't criticising, Mr. Percivale; was I, Connie?" + +"I didn't hear her make a single remark, Mr. Percivale," said Connie, +taking her sister's side. + +To my surprise they were talking away with the young man as if they had +known him for years, and my wife was seated at the foot of the couch, +apparently taking no exception to the suddenness of the intimacy. I am +afraid, when I think of it, that a good many springs would be missing from +the world's history if they might not flow till the papas gave their wise +consideration to everything about the course they were to take. + +"I think, though," added Connie, "it is only fair that Mr. Percivale +_should_ see your work, Wynnie." + +"Then I will fetch my portfolio, if Mr. Percivale will promise to remember +that I have no opinion of it. At the same time, if I could do what I wanted +to do, I think I should not be ashamed of showing my drawings even to him." + +And now I was surprised to find how like grown women my daughters could +talk. To me they always spoke like the children they were; but when I +heard them now it seemed as if they had started all at once into ladies +experienced in the ways of society. There they were chatting lightly, +airily, and yet decidedly, a slight tone of badinage interwoven, with a +young man of grace and dignity, whom they had only seen once before, and +who had advanced no farther, with Connie at least, than a stately bow. They +had, however, been a whole hour together before I arrived, and their mother +had been with them all the while, which gives great courage to good girls, +while, I am told, it shuts the mouths of those who are sly. But then it +must be remembered that there are as great differences in mothers as in +girls. And besides, I believe wise girls have an instinct about men that +all the experience of other men cannot overtake. But yet again, there are +many girls foolish enough to mistake a mere impulse for instinct, and +vanity for insight. + +As Wynnie spoke, she turned and went back to the house to fetch some of her +work. Now, had she been going a message for me, she would have gone like +the wind; but on this occasion she stepped along in a stately manner, far +from devoid of grace, but equally free from frolic or eagerness. And I +could not help noting as well that Mr. Percivale's eyes followed her. What +I felt or fancied is of no consequence to anybody. I do not think, even if +I were writing an autobiography, I should be forced to tell _all_ about +myself. But an autobiography is further from my fancy, however much I may +have trenched upon its limits, than any other form of literature with which +I am acquainted. + +She was not long in returning, however, though she came back with the same +dignified motion. + +"There is nothing really worth either showing or concealing," she said to +Mr. Percivale, as she handed him the portfolio, to help himself, as it +were. She then turned away, as if a little feeling of shyness had come over +her, and began to look for something to do about Connie. I could see that, +although she had hitherto been almost indifferent about the merit of her +drawings, she had a new-born wish that they might not appear altogether +contemptible in the eyes of Mr. Percivale. And I saw, too, that Connie's +wide eyes were taking in everything. It was wonderful how Connie's +deprivations had made her keen in observing. Now she hastened to her +sister's rescue even from such a slight inconvenience as the shadow of +embarrassment in which she found herself--perhaps from having seen some +unusual expression in my face, of which I was unconscious, though conscious +enough of what might have occasioned such. + +"Give me your hand, Wynnie," said Connie, "and help me to move one inch +further on my side.--I may move just that much on my side, mayn't I, papa?" + +"I think you had better not, my dear, if you can do without it," I +answered; for the doctor's injunctions had been strong. + +"Very well, papa; but I feel as if it would do me good." + +"Mr. Turner will be here next week, you know; and you must try to stick +to his rules till he comes to see you. Perhaps he will let you relax a +little." + +Connie smiled very sweetly and lay still, while Wynnie stood holding her +hand. + +Meantime Mr. Percivale, having received the drawings, had walked away with +them towards what they called the storm tower--a little building standing +square to the points of the compass, from little windows, in which the +coastguard could see with their telescopes along the coast on both sides +and far out to sea. This tower stood on the very edge of the cliff, but +behind it there was a steep descent, to reach which apparently he went +round the tower and disappeared. He evidently wanted to make a leisurely +examination of the drawings--somewhat formidable for Wynnie, I thought. At +the same time, it impressed me favourably with regard to the young man +that he was not inclined to pay a set of stupid and untrue compliments the +instant the portfolio was opened, but, on the contrary, in order to speak +what was real about them, would take the trouble to make himself in some +adequate measure acquainted with them. I therefore, to Wynnie's relief, I +fear, strolled after him, seeing no harm in taking a peep at his person, +while he was taking a peep at my daughter's mind. I went round the tower +to the other side, and there saw him at a little distance below me, but +further out on a great rock that overhung the sea, connected with the cliff +by a long narrow isthmus, a few yards lower than the cliff itself, only +just broad enough to admit of a footpath along its top, and on one side +going sheer down with a smooth hard rock-face to the sands below. The other +side was less steep, and had some grass upon it. But the path was too +narrow, and the precipice too steep, for me to trust my head with the +business of guiding my feet along it. So I stood and saw him from the +mainland--saw his head at least bent over the drawings; saw how slowly he +turned from one to the other; saw how, after having gone over them once, +he turned to the beginning and went over them again, even more slowly than +before; saw how he turned the third time to the first. Then, getting tired, +I went back to the group on the down; caught sight of Charlie and Harry +turning heels over head down the slope toward the house; found that my wife +had gone home--in fact, that only Connie and Wynnie were left. The sun +had disappeared under a cloud, and the sea had turned a little slaty; the +yellow flowers in the short down-grass no longer caught the eye with their +gold, and the wind that bent their tops had just the suspicion of an edge +in it. And Wynnie's face looked a little cloudy too, I thought, and I +feared that it was my fault. I fancied there was just a tinge of beseeching +in Connie's eye, as I looked at her, thinking there might be danger for her +in the sunlessness of the wind. But I do not know that all this, even the +clouding of the sun, may not have come out of my own mind, the result of my +not being quite satisfied with myself because of the mood I had been in. My +feeling had altered considerably in the mean time. + +"Run, Wynnie, and ask Mr. Percivale, with my compliments, to come and lunch +with us," I said--more to let her see I was not displeased, however I might +have looked, than for any other reason. She went--sedately as before. + +Almost as soon as she was gone, I saw that I had put her in a difficulty. +For I had discovered, very soon after coming into these parts, that her +head was no more steady than my own on high places, for she up had never +been used to such in our own level country, except, indeed, on the stair +that led down to the old quarry and the well, where, I can remember now, +she always laid her hand on the balustrade with some degree of tremor, +although she had been in the way of going up and down from childhood. But +if she could not cross that narrow and really dangerous isthmus, still less +could she call to a man she had never seen but once, across the intervening +chasm. I therefore set off after her, leaving Connie lying there in +loneliness, between the sea and the sky. But when I got to the other side +of the little tower, instead of finding her standing hesitating on the +brink of action, there she was on the rock beyond. Mr. Percivale had risen, +and was evidently giving an answer to my invitation; at least, the next +moment she turned to come back, and he followed. I stood trembling almost +to see her cross the knife-back of that ledge. If I had not been almost +fascinated, I should have turned and left them to come together, lest the +evil fancy should cross her mind that I was watching them, for it was one +thing to watch him with her drawings, and quite another to watch him with +herself. But I stood and stared as she crossed. In the middle of the path, +however--up to which point she had been walking with perfect steadiness and +composure--she lifted her eyes--by what influence I cannot tell--saw me, +looked as if she saw ghost, half lifted her arms, swayed as if she would +fall, and, indeed, was falling over the precipice when Percivale, who was +close behind her caught her in his arms, almost too late for both of them. +So nearly down was she already, that her weight bent him over the rocky +side, till it seemed as if he must yield, or his body snap. For he bent +from the waist, and looked as if his feet only kept a hold on the ground. +It was all over in a moment, but in that moment it made a sun-picture on my +brain, which returns, ever and again, with such vivid agony that I cannot +hope to get rid of it till I get rid of the brain itself in which lies the +impress. In another moment they were at my side--she with a wan, terrified +smile, he in a ruddy alarm. I was unable to speak, and could only, with +trembling steps, lead the way from the dreadful spot. I reproached myself +afterwards for my want of faith in God; but I had not had time to correct +myself yet. Without a word on their side either, they followed me. Before +we reached Connie, I recovered myself sufficiently to say, "Not a word to +Connie," and they understood me. I told Wynnie to run to the house, and +send Walter to help me to carry Connie home. She went, and, until Walter +came, I talked to Mr. Percivale as if nothing had happened. And what made +me feel yet more friendly towards him was, that he did not do as some young +men wishing to ingratiate themselves would have done: he did not offer to +help me to carry Connie home. I saw that the offer rose in his mind, and +that he repressed it. He understood that I must consider such a permission +as a privilege not to be accorded to the acquaintance of a day; that I must +know him better before I could allow the weight of my child to rest on his +strength. I was even grateful to him for this knowledge of human nature. +But he responded cordially to my invitation to lunch with us, and walked by +my side as Walter and I bore the precious burden home. + +During our meal, he made himself quite agreeable; talked well on the topics +of the day, not altogether as a, man who had made up his mind, but not the +less, rather the more, as a man who had thought about them, and one who did +not find it so easy to come to a conclusion as most people do--or possibly +as not feeling the necessity of coming to a conclusion, and therefore +preferring to allow the conclusion to grow instead of constructing one for +immediate use. This I rather liked than otherwise. His behaviour, I need +hardly say, after what I have told of him already, was entirely that of a +gentleman; and his education was good. But what I did not like was, that +as often as the conversation made a bend in the direction of religious +matters, he was sure to bend it away in some other direction as soon as +ever he laid his next hold upon it. This, however, might have various +reasons to account for it, and I would wait. + +After lunch, as we rose from the table, he took Wynnie's portfolio from the +side-table where he had laid it, and with no more than a bow and thanks +returned it to her. She, I thought, looked a little disappointed, though +she said as lightly as she could: + +"I am afraid you have not found anything worthy of criticism in my poor +attempts, Mr. Percivale?" + +"On the contrary, I shall be most happy to tell you what I think of them if +you would like to hear the impression they have made upon me," he replied, +holding out his hand to take the portfolio again. + +"I shall be greatly obliged to you," she said, returning it, "for I have +had no one to help me since I left school, except a book called _Modern +Painters_, which I think has the most beautiful things in it I ever read, +but which I lay down every now and then with a kind of despair, as if I +never could do anything worth doing. How long the next volume is in coming! +Do you know the author, Mr. Percivale?" + +"I wish I did. He has given me much help. I do not say I can agree with +everything he writes; but when I do not, I have such a respect for him that +I always feel as if he must be right whether he seems to me to be right or +not. And if he is severe, it is with the severity of love that will speak +only the truth." + +This last speech fell on my ear like the tone of a church bell. "That will +do, my friend" thought I. But I said nothing to interrupt. + +By this time he had laid the portfolio open on the side-table, and placed a +chair in front of it for my daughter. Then seating himself by her side, but +without the least approach to familiarity, he began to talk to her about +her drawings, praising, in general, the feeling, but finding fault with the +want of nicety in the execution--at least so it appeared to me from what I +could understand of the conversation. + +"But," said my daughter, "it seems to me that if you get the feeling right, +that is the main thing." + +"No doubt," returned Mr. Percivale; "so much the main thing that any +imperfection or coarseness or untruth which interferes with it becomes of +the greatest consequence." + +"But can it really interfere with the feeling?" + +"Perhaps not with most people, simply because most people observe so +badly that their recollections of nature are all blurred and blotted and +indistinct, and therefore the imperfections we are speaking of do not +affect them. But with the more cultivated it is otherwise. It is for them +you ought to work, for you do not thereby lose the others. Besides, the +feeling is always intensified by the finish, for that belongs to the +feeling too, and must, I should think, have some influence even where it is +not noted." + +"But is it not a hopeless thing to attempt the finish of nature?" + +"Not at all; to the degree, that is, in which you can represent anything +else of nature. But in this drawing now you have no representative of, +nothing to hint at or recall the feeling of the exquisiteness of nature's +finish. Why should you not at least have drawn a true horizon-line there? +Has the absolute truth of the meeting of sea and sky nothing to do with the +feeling which such a landscape produces? I should have thought you would +have learned that, if anything, from Mr. Ruskin." + +Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or +despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or +rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was anything +but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was doing his +best to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess I was not +altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just uncover my sin, +and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. The negative reason +was that I had not yet learned to love him. The only cure for jealousy is +love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie's behaving so childishly. Her face +flushed, the tears came in her eyes, and she rose, saying, with a little +choke in her voice-- + +"I see it's no use trying. I won't intrude any more into things I am +incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me how +presumptuous I have been." + +The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not +attempt to answer her. Indeed she gave him no time. He could only spring +after her to open the door for her. A more than respectful bow as she left +the room was his only adieu. But when he turned his face again towards me, +it expressed even a degree of consternation. + +"I fear," he said, approaching me with an almost military step, much at +variance with the shadow upon his countenance, "I fear I have been rude to +Miss Walton, but nothing was farther--" + +"You mistake entirely, Mr. Percivale. I heard all you were saying, and you +were not in the least rude. On the contrary, I consider you were very kind +to take the trouble with her you did. Allow me to make the apology for my +daughter which I am sure she will wish made when she recovers from the +disappointment of finding more obstacles in the way of her favourite +pursuit than she had previously supposed. She is only too ready to lose +heart, and she paid too little attention to your approbation and too +much--in proportion, I mean--to your--criticism. She felt discouraged and +lost her temper, but more with herself and her poor attempts, I venture +to assure you, than with your remarks upon them. She is too much given to +despising her own efforts." + +"But I must have been to blame if I caused any such feeling with regard to +those drawings, for I assure you they contain great promise." + +"I am glad you think so. That I should myself be of the same opinion can be +of no consequence." + +"Miss Walton at least sees what ought to be represented. All she needs is +greater severity in the quality of representation. And that would have +grown without any remark from onlookers. Only a friendly criticism is +sometimes a great help. It opens the eyes a little sooner than they would +have opened of themselves. And time," he added, with a half sigh and with +an appeal in his tone, as if he would justify himself to my conscience, "is +half the battle in this world. It is over so soon." + +"No sooner than it ought to be," I rejoined. + +"So it may appear to you," he returned; "for you, I presume to +conjecture, have worked hard and done much. I may or may not have worked +hard--sometimes I think I have, sometimes I think I have not--but I +certainly have done little. Here I am nearly thirty, and have made no mark +on the world yet." + +"I don't know that that is of so much consequence," I said. "I have never +hoped for more than to rub out a few of the marks already made." + +"Perhaps you are right," he returned. "Every man has something he can do, +and more, I suppose, that he can't do. But I have no right to turn a visit +into a visitation. Will you please tell Miss Walton that I am very sorry I +presumed on the privileges of a drawing-master, and gave her pain. It was +so far from my intention that it will be a lesson to me for the future." + +With these words he took his leave, and I could not help being greatly +pleased both with them and with his bearing. He was clearly anything but a +common man. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SHADOW OP DEATH. + + + + + +When Wynnie appeared at dinner she looked ashamed of herself, and her face +betrayed that she had been crying. But I said nothing, for I had confidence +that all she needed was time to come to herself, that the voice that speaks +louder than any thunder might make its stillness heard. And when I came +home from my walk the next morning I found Mr. Percivale once more in the +group about Connie, and evidently on the best possible terms with all. The +same afternoon Wynnie went out sketching with Dora. I had no doubt that +she had made some sort of apology to Mr. Percivale; but I did not make the +slightest attempt to discover what had passed between them, for though it +is of all things desirable that children should be quite open with their +parents, I was most anxious to lay upon them no burden of obligation. For +such burden lies against the door of utterance, and makes it the more +difficult to open. It paralyses the speech of the soul. What I desired was +that they should trust me so that faith should overcome all difficulty that +might lie in the way of their being open with me. That end is not to he +gained by any urging of admonition. Against such, growing years at least, +if nothing else, will bring a strong reaction. Nor even, if so gained would +the gain be at all of the right sort. The openness would not be faith. +Besides, a parent must respect the spiritual person of his child, and +approach it with reverence, for that too looks the Father in the face, and +has an audience with him into which no earthly parent can enter even if he +dared to desire it. Therefore I trusted my child. And when I saw that she +looked at me a little shyly when we next met, I only sought to show her the +more tenderness and confidence, telling her all about my plans with the +bells, and my talks with the smith and Mrs. Coombes. She listened with just +such interest as I had always been accustomed to see in her, asking such +questions, and making such remarks as I might have expected, but I still +felt that there was the thread of a little uneasiness through the web of +our intercourse,--such a thread of a false colour as one may sometimes find +wandering through the labour of the loom, and seek with pains to draw from +the woven stuff. But it was for Wynnie to take it out, not for me. And she +did not leave it long. For as she bade me good-night in my study, she said +suddenly, yet with hesitating openness, + +"Papa, I told Mr. Percivale that I was sorry I had behaved so badly about +the drawings." + +"You did right, my child," I replied. At the same moment a pang of anxiety +passed through me lest under the influence of her repentance she should +have said anything more than becoming. But I banished the doubt instantly +as faithlessness in the womanly instincts of my child. For we men are +always so ready and anxious to keep women right, like the wretched +creature, Laertes, in _Hamlet_, who reads his sister such a lesson on her +maidenly duties, but declines almost with contempt to listen to a word from +her as to any co-relative obligation on his side! + +And here I may remark in regard to one of the vexed questions of the +day--the rights of women--that what women demand it is not for men to +withhold. It is not their business to lay the law for women. That women +must lay down for themselves. I confess that, although I must herein seem +to many of my readers old-fashioned and conservative, I should not like to +see any woman I cared much for either in parliament or in an anatomical +class-room; but on the other hand I feel that women must be left free to +settle that matter. If it is not good, good women will find it out and +recoil from it. If it is good then God give them good speed. One thing they +_have_ a right to--a far wider and more valuable education than they +have been in the way of receiving. When the mothers are well taught the +generations will grow in knowledge at a fourfold rate. But still the +teaching of life is better than all the schools, and common sense than all +learning. This common sense is a rare gift, scantier in none than in those +who lay claim to it on the ground of following commonplace, worldly, and +prudential maxims. But I must return to my Wynnie. + +"And what did Mr. Percivale say?" I resumed, for she was silent. + +"He took the blame all on himself, papa." + +"Like a gentleman," I said. + +"But I could not leave it so, you know, papa, because that was not the +truth." + +"Well?" + +"I told him that I had lost my temper from disappointment; that I had +thought I did not care for my drawings because I was so far from satisfied +with them, but when he made me feel that they were worth nothing, then I +found from the vexation I felt that I had cared for them. But I do think, +papa, I was more ashamed of having shown them, and vexed with myself, than +cross with him. But I was very silly." + +"Well, and what did he say?" + +"He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of that, +for what could he do?" + +"You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least." + +"Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much." + +"He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution of your +efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching apparatus this +afternoon." + +"Yes," she answered shyly. "He was so kind that somehow I got heart to try +again. He's very nice, isn't he?" + +My answer was not quite ready. + +"Don't you like him, papa?" + +"Well--I like him--yes. But we must not be in haste with our judgments, you +know. I have had very little opportunity of seeing into him. There is much +in him that I like, but--" + +"But what? please, papa." + +"To tell the truth then, Wynnie, for I can speak my mind to you, my child, +there is a certain shyness of approaching the subject of religion; so that +I have my fears lest he should belong to any of these new schools of +a fragmentary philosophy which acknowledge no source of truth but +the testimony of the senses and the deductions made therefrom by the +intellect." + +"But is not that a hasty conclusion, papa?" + +"That is a hasty question, my dear. I have come to no conclusion. I was +only speaking confidentially about my fears." + +"Perhaps, papa, it's only that he's not sure enough, and is afraid of +appearing to profess more than he believes. I'm sure, if that's it, I have +the greatest sympathy with him." + +I looked at her, and saw the tears gathering fast in her eyes. + +"Pray to God on the chance of his hearing you, my darling, and go to +sleep," I said. "I will not think hardly of you because you cannot be so +sure as I am. How could you be? You have not had my experience. Perhaps you +are right about Mr. Percivale too. But it would be an awkward thing to get +intimate with him, you know, and then find out that we did not like him +after all. You couldn't like a man much, could you, who did not believe +in anything greater than himself, anything marvellous, grand, beyond our +understanding--who thought that he had come out of the dirt and was going +back to the dirt?" + +"I could, papa, if he tried to do his duty notwithstanding--for I'm sure I +couldn't. I should cry myself to death." + +"You are right, my child. I should honour him too. But I should be very +sorry for him. For he would be so disappointed in himself." + +I do not know whether this was the best answer to make, but I had little +time to think. + +"But you don't know that he's like that." + +"I do not, my dear. And more, I will not associate the idea with him till I +know for certain. We will leave it to ignorant old ladies who lay claim to +an instinct for theology to jump at conclusions, and reserve ours--as even +such a man as we have been supposing might well teach us--till we have +sufficient facts from which to draw them. Now go to bed, my child." + +"Good-night then, dear papa," she said, and left me with a kiss. + +I was not altogether comfortable after this conversation. I had tried to be +fair to the young man both in word and thought, but I could not relish the +idea of my daughter falling in love with him, which looked likely enough, +before I knew more about him, and found that _more_ good and hope-giving. +There was but one rational thing left to do, and that was to cast my care +on him that careth for us--on the Father who loved my child more than even +I could love her--and loved the young man too, and regarded my anxiety, and +would take its cause upon himself. After I had lifted up my heart to him I +was at ease, read a canto of Dante's _Paradise_, and then went to bed. The +prematurity of a conversation with my wife, in which I found that she was +very favourably impressed with Mr. Percivale, must be pardoned to the +forecasting hearts of fathers and mothers. + +As I went out for my walk the next morning, I caught sight of the sexton, +with whom as yet I had had but little communication, busily trimming some +of the newer graves in the churchyard. I turned in through the nearer gate, +which was fashioned like a lych-gate, with seats on the sides and a stone +table in the centre, but had no roof. The one on the other side of the +church was roofed, but probably they had found that here no roof could +resist the sea-blasts in winter. The top of the wall where the roof should +have rested, was simply covered with flat slates to protect it from the +rain. + +"Good-morning, Coombes," I said. + +He turned up a wizened, humorous old face, the very type of a +gravedigger's, and with one hand leaning on the edge of the green mound, +upon which he had been cropping with a pair of shears the too long and +too thin grass, touched his cap with the other, and bade me a cheerful +good-morning in return. + +"You're making things tidy," I said. + +"It take time to make them all comfortable, you see, sir," he returned, +taking up his shears again and clipping away at the top and sides of the +mound. + +"You mean the dead, Coombes?" + +"Yes, sir; to be sure, sir." + +"You don't think it makes much difference to their comfort, do you, whether +the grass is one length or another upon their graves?" + +"Well no, sir. I don't suppose it makes _much_ difference to them. But it +look more comfortable, you know. And I like things to look comfortable. +Don't you, sir?" + +"To be sure I do, Coombes. And you are quite right. The resting-place +of the body, although the person it belonged to be far away, should be +respected." + +"That's what I think, though I don't get no credit for it. I du believe the +people hereabouts thinks me only a single hair better than a Jack Ketch. +But I'm sure I du my best to make the poor things comfortable." + +He seemed unable to rid his mind of the idea that the comfort of the +departed was dependent upon his ministrations. + +"The trouble I have with them sometimes! There's now this same one as lies +here, old Jonathan Giles. He have the gout so bad! and just as I come +within a couple o' inches o' the right depth, out come the edge of a great +stone in the near corner at the foot of the bed. Thinks I, he'll never lie +comfortable with that same under his gouty toe. But the trouble I had +to get out that stone! I du assure you, sir, it took me nigh half the +day.--But this be one of the nicest places to lie in all up and down the +coast--a nice gravelly soil, you see, sir; dry, and warm, and comfortable. +Them poor things as comes out of the sea must quite enjoy the change, sir." + +There was something grotesque in the man's persistence in regarding the +objects of his interest from this point of view. It was a curious way for +the humanity that was in him to find expression; but I did not like to let +him go on thus. It was so much opposed to all that I believed and felt +about the change from this world to the next! + +"But, Coombes," I said, "why will you go on talking as if it made an atom +of difference to the dead bodies where they were buried? They care no more +about it than your old coat would care where it was thrown after you had +done with it." + +He turned and regarded his coat where it hung beside him on the headstone +of the same grave at which he was working, shook his head with a smile that +seemed to hint a doubt whether the said old coat would be altogether so +indifferent to its treatment when, it was past use as I had implied. Then +he turned again to his work, and after a moment's silence began to approach +me from another side. I confess he had the better of me before I was aware +of what he was about. + +"The church of Boscastle stands high on the cliff. You've been to +Boscastle, sir?" + +I told him I had not yet, but hoped to go before the summer was over. + +"Ah, you should see Boscastle, sir. It's a wonderful place. That's where I +was born, sir. When I was a by that church was haunted, sir. It's a damp +place, and the wind in it awful. I du believe it stand higher than any +church in the country, and have got more wind in it of a stormy night than +any church whatsomever. Well, they said it was haunted; and sure enough +every now and then there was a knocking heard down below. And this always +took place of a stormy night, as if there was some poor thing down in the +low wouts (_vaults_), and he wasn't comfortable and wanted to get out. +Well, one night it was so plain and so fearful it was that the sexton he +went and took the blacksmith and a ship's carpenter down to the harbour, +and they go up together, and they hearken all over the floor, and they open +one of the old family wouts that belongs to the Penhaligans, and they go +down with a light. Now the wind it was a-blowing all as usual, only worse +than common. And there to be sure what do they see but the wout half-full +of sea-water, and nows and thens a great spout coming in through a hole in +the rock; for it was high-water and a wind off the sea, as I tell you. +And there was a coffin afloat on the water, and every time the spout come +through, it set it knocking agen the side o' the wout, and that was the +ghost." + +"What a horrible idea!" I said, with a half-shudder at the unrest of the +dead. + +The old man uttered a queer long-drawn sound,--neither a chuckle, a crow, +nor a laugh, but a mixture of all three,--and turned himself yet again +to the work which, as he approached the end of his narration, he had +suspended, that he might make his story _tell_, I suppose, by looking me +in the face. And as he turned he said, "I thought you would like to be +comfortable then as well as other people, sir." + +I could not help laughing to see how the cunning old fellow had caught me. +I have not yet been able to find out how much of truth there was in his +story. From the twinkle of his eye I cannot help suspecting that if he did +not invent the tale, he embellished it, at least, in order to produce the +effect which he certainly did produce. Humour was clearly his predominant +disposition, the reflex of which was to be seen, after a mild lunar +fashion, on the countenance of his wife. Neither could I help thinking +with pleasure, as I turned away, how the merry little old man would enjoy +telling his companions how he had posed the new parson. Very welcome was +he to his laugh for my part. Yet I gladly left the churchyard, with its +sunshine above and its darkness below. Indeed I had to look up to the +glittering vanes on the four pinnacles of the church-tower, dwelling aloft +in the clean sunny air, to get the feeling of the dark vault, and the +floating coffin, and the knocking heard in the windy church, out of my +brain. But the thing that did free me was the reflection with what +supreme disregard the disincarcerated spirit would look upon any possible +vicissitudes of its abandoned vault. For in proportion as the body of man's +revelation ceases to be in harmony with the spirit that dwells therein, +it becomes a vault, a prison, from which it must be freedom to escape at +length. The house we like best would be a prison of awful sort if doors and +windows were built up. Man's abode, as age begins to draw nigh, fares thus. +Age is in fact the mason that builds up the doors and the windows, and +death is the angel that breaks the prison-house and lets the captives free. +Thus I got something out of the sexton's horrible story. + +But before the week was over, death came near indeed--in far other fashion +than any funereal tale could have brought it. + +One day, after lunch, I had retired to my study, and was dozing in my +chair, for the day was hot, when I was waked by Charlie rushing into the +room with the cry, "Papa, papa, there's a man drowning." + +I started up, and hurried down to the drawing-room, which looked out over +the bay. I could see nothing but people running about on the edge of the +quiet waves. No sign of human being was on--the water. But the one boat +belonging to the pilot was coming out from the shelter of the lock of the +canal where it usually lay, and my friend of the coastguard was running +down from the tower on the cliff with ropes in his hand. He would not stop +the boat even for the moment it would need to take him on board, but threw +them in and urged to haste. I stood at the window and watched. Every now +and then I fancied I saw something white heaved up on the swell of a wave, +and as often was satisfied that I had but fancied it. The boat seemed to be +floating about lazily, if not idly. The eagerness to help made it appear as +if nothing was going on. Could it, after all, have been a false alarm? Was +there, after all, no insensible form swinging about in the sweep of those +waves, with life gradually oozing away? Long, long as it seemed to me, I +watched, and still the boat kept moving from place to place, so far out +that I could see nothing distinctly of the motions of its crew. At length I +saw something. Yes; a long white thing rose from the water slowly, and was +drawn into the boat. It rowed swiftly to the shore. There was but one place +fit to land upon,--a little patch of sand, nearly covered at high-water, +but now lying yellow in the sun, under the window at which I stood, and +immediately under our garden-wall. Thither the boat shot along; and there +my friend of the coastguard, earnest and sad, was waiting to use, though +without hope, every appliance so well known to him from the frequent +occurrence of such necessity in the course of his watchful duties along +miles and miles of stormy coast. + +I will not linger over the sad details of vain endeavour. The honoured head +of a family, he had departed and left a good name behind him. But even in +the midst of my poor attentions to the quiet, speechless, pale-faced wife, +who sat at the head of the corpse, I could not help feeling anxious about +the effect on my Connie. It was impossible to keep the matter concealed +from her. The undoubted concern on the faces of the two boys was enough to +reveal that something serious and painful had occurred; while my wife and +Wynnie, and indeed the whole household, were busy in attending to every +remotest suggestion of aid that reached them from the little crowd gathered +about the body. At length it was concluded, on the verdict of the medical +man who had been sent for, that all further effort was useless. The body +was borne away, and I led the poor lady to her lodging, and remained there +with her till I found that, as she lay on the sofa, the sleep that so +often dogs the steps of sorrow had at length thrown its veil over her +consciousness, and put her for the time to rest. There is a gentle +consolation in the firmness of the grasp of the inevitable, known but to +those who are led through the valley of the shadow. I left her with her son +and daughter, and returned to my own family. They too were of course in the +skirts of the cloud. Had they only heard of the occurrence, it would have +had little effect; but death had appeared to them. Everyone but Connie had +seen the dead lying there; and before the day was over, I wished that she +too had seen the dead. For I found from what she said at intervals, and +from the shudder that now and then passed through her, that her imagination +was at work, showing but the horrors that belong to death; for the +enfolding peace that accompanies it can be known but by sight of the dead. +When I spoke to her, she seemed, and I suppose for the time felt tolerably +quiet and comfortable; but I could see that the words she had heard fall in +the going and coming, and the communications of Charlie and Harry to each +other, had made as it were an excoriation on her fancy, to which her +consciousness was ever returning. And now I became more grateful than I +had yet been for the gift of that gipsy-child. For I felt no anxiety about +Connie so long as she was with her. The presence even of her mother could +not relieve her, for she and Wynnie were both clouded with the same +awe, and its reflex in Connie was distorted by her fancy. But the sweet +ignorance of the baby, which rightly considered is more than a type or +symbol of faith, operated most healingly; for she appeared in her sweet +merry ways--no baby was ever more filled with the mere gladness of life +than Connie's baby--to the mood in which they all were, like a little sunny +window in a cathedral crypt, telling of a whole universe of sunshine and +motion beyond those oppressed pillars and low-groined arches. And why +should not the baby know best? I believe the babies do know best. I +therefore favoured her having the child more than I might otherwise have +thought good for her, being anxious to get the dreary, unhealthy impression +healed as soon as possible, lest it should, in the delicate physical +condition in which she was, turn to a sore. + +But my wife suffered for a time nearly as much as Connie. As long as she +was going about the house or attending to the wants of her family, she was +free; but no sooner did she lay her head on the pillow than in rushed the +cry of the sea, fierce, unkind, craving like a wild beast. Again and again +she spoke of it to me, for it came to her mingled with the voice of the +tempter, saying, "_Cruel chance_," over and over again. For although the +two words contradict each other when put together thus, each in its turn +would assert itself. + +A great part of the doubt in the world comes from the fact that there are +in it so many more of the impressible as compared with the originating +minds. Where the openness to impression is balanced by the power of +production, the painful questions of the world are speedily met by their +answers; where such is not the case, there are often long periods of +suffering till the child-answer of truth is brought to the birth. Hence the +need for every impressible mind to be, by reading or speech, held in living +association with an original mind able to combat those suggestions of doubt +and even unbelief, which the look of things must often occasion--a look +which comes from our inability to gain other than fragmentary visions of +the work that the Father worketh hitherto. When the kingdom of heaven is at +hand, one sign thereof will be that all clergymen will be more or less of +the latter sort, and mere receptive goodness, no more than education and +moral character, will be considered sufficient reason for a man's occupying +the high position of an instructor of his fellows. But even now this +possession of original power is not by any means to be limited to those +who make public show of the same. In many a humble parish priest it shows +itself at the bedside of the suffering, or in the admonition of the closet, +although as yet there are many of the clergy who, so far from being able to +console wisely, are incapable of understanding the condition of those that +need consolation. + +"It is all a fancy, my dear," I said to her. "There is nothing more +terrible in this than in any other death. On the contrary, I can hardly +imagine a less fearful one. A big wave falls on the man's head and stuns +him, and without further suffering he floats gently out on the sea of the +unknown." + +"But it is so terrible for those left behind!" + +"Had you seen the face of his widow, so gentle, so loving, so resigned in +its pallor, you would not have thought it so _terrible_." + +But though she always seemed satisfied, and no doubt felt nearly so, after +any conversation of the sort, yet every night she would call out once and +again, "O, that sea, out there!" I was very glad indeed when Mr. Turner, +who had arranged to spend a short holiday with us, arrived. + +He was concerned at the news I gave him of the shock both Connie and her +mother had received, and counselled an immediate change, that time might, +in the absence of surrounding associations, obliterate something of the +impression that had been made. The consequence was, that we resolved to +remove our household, for a short time, to some place not too far off to +permit of my attending to my duties at Kilkhaven, but out of the sight and +sound of the sea. It was Thursday when Mr. Turner arrived, and he spent the +next two days in inquiring and looking about for a suitable spot to which +we might repair as early in the week as possible. + +On the Saturday the blacksmith was busy in the church-tower, and I went in +to see how he was getting on. + +"You had a sad business here the last week, sir," he said, after we had +done talking about the repairs. + +"A very sad business indeed," I answered. + +"It was a warning to us all," he said. + +"We may well take it so," I returned. "But it seems to me that we are too +ready to think of such remarkable things only by themselves, instead of +being roused by them to regard everything, common and uncommon, as ordered +by the same care and wisdom." + +"One of our local preachers made a grand use of it." + +I made no reply. He resumed. + +"They tell me you took no notice of it last Sunday, sir." + +"I made no immediate allusion to it, certainly. But I preached under the +influence of it. And I thought it better that those who could reflect on +the matter should be thus led to think for themselves than that they should +be subjected to the reception of my thoughts and feelings about it; for in +the main it is life and not death that we have to preach." + +"I don't quite understand you, sir. But then you don't care much for +preaching in your church." + +"I confess," I answered, "that there has been much indifference on that +point. I could, however, mention to you many and grand exceptions. Still +there is, even in some of the best in the church, a great amount of +disbelief in the efficacy of preaching. And I allow that a great deal of +what is called preaching, partakes of its nature only in the remotest +degree. But, while I hold a strong opinion of its value--that is, where it +is genuine--I venture just to suggest that the nature of the preaching to +which the body you belong to has resorted, has had something to do, by way +of a reaction, in driving the church to the other extreme." + +"How do you mean that, sir?" + +"You try to work upon people's feelings without reference to their +judgment. Anyone who can preach what you call rousing sermons is considered +a grand preacher amongst you, and there is a great danger of his being led +thereby to talk more nonsense than sense. And then when the excitement +goes off, there is no seed left in the soil to grow in peace, and they are +always craving after more excitement." + +"Well, there is the preacher to rouse them up again." + +"And the consequence is that they continue like children--the good ones, I +mean--and have hardly a chance of making a calm, deliberate choice of that +which is good; while those who have been only excited and nothing more, are +hardened and seared by the recurrence of such feeling as is neither aroused +by truth nor followed by action." + +"You daren't talk like that if you knew the kind of people in this country +that the Methodists, as you call them, have got a hold of. They tell me it +was like hell itself down in those mines before Wesley come among them." + +"I should be a fool or a bigot to doubt that the Wesleyans have done +incalculable good in the country. And that not alone to the people who +never went to church. The whole Church of England is under obligations to +Methodism such as no words can overstate." + +"I wonder you can say such things against them, then." + +"Now there you show the evil of thinking too much about the party you +belong to. It makes a man touchy; and then he fancies when another is +merely, it may be, analysing a difference, or insisting strongly on some +great truth, that he is talking against his party." + +"But you said, sir, that our clergy don't care about moving our judgments, +only our feelings. Now I know preachers amongst us of whom that would be +anything but true." + +"Of course there must be. But there is what I say--your party-feeling makes +you touchy. A man can't always be saying in the press of utterance, '_Of +course there are exceptions_.' That is understood. I confess I do not know +much about your clergy, for I have not had the opportunity. But I do know +this, that some of the best and most liberal people I have ever known have +belonged to your community." + +"They do gather a deal of money for good purposes." + +"Yes. But that was not what I meant by _liberal_. It is far easier to give +money than to be generous in judgment. I meant by _liberal_, able to see +the good and true in people that differ from you--glad to be roused to the +reception of truth in God's name from whatever quarter it may come, and not +readily finding offence where a remark may have chanced to be too sweeping +or unguarded. But I see that I ought to be more careful, for I have made +you, who certainly are not one of the quarrelsome people I have been +speaking of, misunderstand me." + +"I beg your pardon, sir. I was hasty. But I do think I am more ready to +lose my temper since--" + +Here he stopped. A fit of coughing came on, and, to my concern, was +followed by what I saw plainly could be the result only of a rupture in the +lungs. I insisted on his dropping his work and coming home with me, where I +made him rest the remainder of the day and all Sunday, sending word to +his mother that I could not let him go home. When we left on the Monday +morning, we took him with us in the carriage hired for the journey, and set +him down at his mother's, apparently no worse than usual. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AT THE FARM. + + + + + +Leaving the younger members of the family at home with the servants, we set +out for a farmhouse, some twenty miles off, which Turner had discovered +for us. Connie had stood the journey down so well, and was now so much +stronger, that we had no anxiety about her so far as regarded the +travelling. Through deep lanes with many cottages, and here and there a +very ugly little chapel, over steep hills, up which Turner and Wynnie and +I walked, and along sterile moors we drove, stopping at roadside inns, and +often besides to raise Connie and let her look about upon the extended +prospect, so that it was drawing towards evening before we arrived at our +destination. On the way Turner had warned us that we were not to expect a +beautiful country, although the place was within reach of much that was +remarkable. Therefore we were not surprised when we drew up at the door of +a bare-looking, shelterless house, with scarcely a tree in sight, and a +stretch of undulating fields on every side. + +"A dreary place in winter, Turner," I said, after we had seen Connie +comfortably deposited in the nice white-curtained parlour, smelling of +dried roses even in the height of the fresh ones, and had strolled out +while our tea--dinner was being got ready for us. + +"Not a doubt of it; but just the place I wanted for Miss Connie," he +replied. "We are high above the sea, and the air is very bracing, and not, +at this season, too cold. A month later I should not on any account have +brought her here." + +"I think even now there is a certain freshness in the wind that calls up a +kind of will in the nerves to meet it." + +"That is precisely what I wanted for you all. You observe there is no rasp +in its touch, however. There are regions in this island of ours where +even in the hottest day in summer you would frequently discover a certain +unfriendly edge in the air, that would set you wondering whether the +seasons had not changed since you were a boy, and used to lie on the grass +half the idle day." + +"I often do wonder whether it may not be so, but I always come to the +conclusion that even this is but an example of the involuntary tendency of +the mind of man towards the ideal. He forgets all that comes between and +divides the hints of perfection scattered here and there along the scope of +his experience. I especially remember one summer day in my childhood, which +has coloured all my ideas of summer and bliss and fulfilment of content. +It is made up of only mossy grass, and the scent of the earth and wild +flowers, and hot sun, and perfect sky--deep and blue, and traversed by +blinding white clouds. I could not have been more than five or six, I +think, from the kind of dress I wore, the very pearl buttons of which, +encircled on their face with a ring of half-spherical hollows, have their +undeniable relation in my memory to the heavens and the earth, to the march +of the glorious clouds, and the tender scent of the rooted flowers; and, +indeed, when I think of it, must, by the delight they gave me, have opened +my mind the more to the enjoyment of the eternal paradise around me. What a +thing it is to please a child!" + +"I know what you mean perfectly," answered Turner. "It is as I get older +that I understand what Wordsworth says about childhood. It is indeed a +mercy that we were not born grown men, with what we consider our wits about +us. They are blinding things those wits we gather. I fancy that the single +thread by which God sometimes keeps hold of a man is such an impression of +his childhood as that of which you have been speaking." + +"I do not doubt it; for conscience is so near in all those memories to +which you refer. The whole surrounding of them is so at variance with sin! +A sense of purity, not in himself, for the child is not feeling that he +is pure, is all about him; and when afterwards the condition returns upon +him,--returns when he is conscious of so much that is evil and so much that +is unsatisfied in him,--it brings with it a longing after the high clear +air of moral well-being." + +"Do you think, then, that it is only by association that nature thus +impresses us? that she has no power of meaning these things?" + +"Not at all. No doubt there is something in the recollection of the +associations of childhood to strengthen the power of nature upon us; but +the power is in nature herself, else it would be but a poor weak thing to +what it is. There _is_ purity and state in that sky. There _is_ a peace +now in this wide still earth--not so very beautiful, you own--and in that +overhanging blue, which my heart cries out that it needs and cannot be well +till it gains--gains in the truth, gains in God, who is the power of truth, +the living and causing truth. There is indeed a rest that remaineth, a rest +pictured out even here this night, to rouse my dull heart to desire it and +follow after it, a rest that consists in thinking the thoughts of Him who +is the Peace because the Unity, in being filled with that spirit which now +pictures itself forth in this repose of the heavens and the earth." + +"True," said Turner, after a pause. "I must think more about such things. +The science the present day is going wild about will not give us that +rest." + +"No; but that rest will do much to give you that science. A man with this +repose in his heart will do more by far, other capabilities being equal, to +find out the laws that govern things. For all law is living rest." + +"What you have been saying," resumed Turner, after another pause, "reminds +me much of one of Wordsworth's poems. I do not mean the famous ode." + +"You mean the 'Ninth Evening Voluntary,' I know--one of his finest and +truest and deepest poems. It begins, 'Had this effulgence disappeared.'" + +"Yes, that is the one I mean. I shall read it again when I go home. But +you don't agree with Wordsworth, do you, about our having had an existence +previous to this?" + +He gave a little laugh as he asked the question. + +"Not in the least. But an opinion held by such men as Plato, Origen, and +Wordsworth, is not to be laughed at, Mr. Turner. It cannot be in its nature +absurd. I might have mentioned Shelley as holding it, too, had his opinion +been worth anything." + +"Then you don't think much of Shelley?" + +"I think his _feeling_ most valuable; his _opinion_ nearly worthless." + +"Well, perhaps I had no business to laugh, at it; but--" + +"Do not suppose for a moment that I even lean to it. I dislike it. It would +make me unhappy to think there was the least of sound argument for it. But +I respect the men who have held it, and know there must be _something_ good +in it, else they could not have held it." + +"Are you able then to sympathise with that ode of Wordsworth's? Does it not +depend for all its worth on the admission of this theory?" + +"Not in the least. Is it necessary to admit that we must have had a +conscious life before this life to find meaning in the words,-- + + 'But trailing clouds of glory do we come + From God who is our home'? + +Is not all the good in us his image? Imperfect and sinful as we are, is not +all the foundation of our being his image? Is not the sin all ours, and the +life in us all God's? We cannot be the creatures of God without partaking +of his nature. Every motion of our conscience, every admiration of what +is pure and noble, is a sign and a result of this. Is not every +self-accusation a proof of the presence of his spirit? That comes not of +ourselves--that is not without him. These are the clouds of glory we come +trailing from him. All feelings of beauty and peace and loveliness and +right and goodness, we trail with us from our home. God is the only home +of the human soul. To interpret in this manner what Wordsworth says, will +enable us to enter into perfect sympathy with all that grandest of his +poems. I do not say this is what he meant; but I think it includes what he +meant by being greater and wider than what he meant. Nor am I guilty of +presumption in saying so, for surely the idea that we are born of God is a +greater idea than that we have lived with him a life before this life. But +Wordsworth is not the first among our religious poets to give us at least +what is valuable in the notion. I came upon a volume amongst my friend +Shepherd's books, with which I had made no acquaintance before--Henry +Vaughan's poems. I brought it with me, for it has finer lines, I almost +think, than any in George Herbert, though not so fine poems by any means as +his best. When we go into the house I will read one of them to you." + +"Thank you," said Turner. "I wish I could have such talk once a week. The +shades of the prison-house, you know, Mr. Walton, are always trying to +close about us, and shut out the vision of the glories we have come from, +as Wordsworth says." + +"A man," I answered, "who ministers to the miserable necessities of his +fellows has even more need than another to believe in the light and the +gladness--else a poor Job's comforter will he be. _I_ don't want to be +treated like a musical snuff-box." + +The doctor laughed. + +"No man can _prove_," he said, "that there is not a being inside the +snuff-box, existing in virtue of the harmony of its parts, comfortable when +they go well, sick when they go badly, and dying when it is dismembered, or +even when it stops." + +"No," I answered. "No man can prove it. But no man can convince a human +being of it. And just as little can anyone convince me that my conscience, +making me do sometimes what I _don't_ like, comes from a harmonious action +of the particles of my brain. But it is time we went in, for by the law of +things in general, I being ready for my dinner, my dinner ought to be ready +for me." + +"A law with more exceptions than instances, I fear," said Turner. + +"I doubt that," I answered. "The readiness is everything, and that we +constantly blunder in. But we had better see whether we are really ready +for it, by trying whether it is ready for us." + +Connie went to bed early, as indeed we all did, and she was rather better +than worse the next morning. My wife, for the first time for many nights, +said nothing about the crying of the sea. The following day Turner and I +set out to explore the neighbourhood. The rest remained quietly at home. + +It was, as I have said, a high bare country. The fields lay side by side, +parted from each other chiefly, as so often in Scotland, by stone +walls; and these stones being of a laminated nature, the walls were not +unfrequently built by laying thin plates on their edges, which gave a +neatness to them not found in other parts of the country as far as I am +aware. In the middle of the fields came here and there patches of yet +unreclaimed moorland. + +Now in a region like this, beauty must be looked for below the surface. +There is a probability of finding hollows of repose, sunken spots of +loveliness, hidden away altogether from the general aspect of sternness, +or perhaps sterility, that meets the eye in glancing over the outspread +landscape; just as in the natures of stern men you may expect to find, if +opportunity should be afforded you, sunny spots of tender verdure, kept +ever green by that very sternness which is turned towards the common +gaze--thus existent because they are below the surface, and not laid bare +to the sweep of the cold winds that roam the world. How often have not men +started with amaze at the discovery of some feminine sweetness, some grace +of protection in the man whom they had judged cold and hard and rugged, +inaccessible to the more genial influences of humanity! It may be that such +men are only fighting against the wind, and keep their hearts open to the +sun. + +I knew this; and when Turner and I set out that morning to explore, I +expected to light upon some instance of it--some mine or other in which +nature had hidden away rare jewels; but I was not prepared to find such as +I did find. With our hearts full of a glad secret we returned home, but we +said nothing about it, in order that Ethelwyn and Wynnie might enjoy the +discovery even as we had enjoyed it. + +There was another grand fact with regard to the neighbourhood about which +we judged it better to be silent for a few days, that the inland influences +might be free to work. We were considerably nearer the ocean than my wife +and daughters supposed, for we had made a great round in order to arrive +from the land-side. We were, however, out of the sound of its waves, which +broke all along the shore, in this part, at the foot of tremendous cliffs. +What cliffs they were we shall soon find. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE KEEVE. + + + + + +"Now, my dear! now, Wynnie!" I said, after prayers the next morning, "you +must come out for a walk as soon as ever you can get your bonnets on." + +"But we can't leave Connie, papa," objected Wynnie. + +"O, yes, you can, quite well. There's nursie to look after her. What do you +say, Connie?" + +For, for some time now, Connie had been able to get up so early, that it +was no unusual thing to have prayers in her room. + +"I am entirely independent of help from my family," returned Connie +grandiloquently. "I am a woman of independent means," she added. "If you +say another word, I will rise and leave the room." + +And she made a movement as if she would actually do as she had said. Seized +with an involuntary terror, I rushed towards her, and the impertinent girl +burst out laughing in my face--threw herself back on her pillows, and +laughed delightedly. + +"Take care, papa," she said. "I carry a terrible club for rebellious +people." Then, her mood changing, she added, as if to suppress the tears +gathering in her eyes, "I am the queen--of luxury and self-will--and I +won't have anybody come near me till dinner-time. I mean to enjoy myself." + +So the matter was settled, and we went out for our walk. Ethelwyn was +not such a good walker as she had been; but even if she had retained the +strength of her youth, we should not have got on much the better for it--so +often did she and Wynnie stop to grub ferns out of the chinks and roots of +the stone-walls. Now, I admire ferns as much as anybody--that is, not, +I fear, so much as my wife and daughter, but quite enough +notwithstanding--but I do not quite enjoy being pulled up like a fern at +every turn. + +"Now, my dear, what is the use of stopping to torture that harmless +vegetable?" I say, but say in vain. "It is much more beautiful where it is +than it will be anywhere where you can put it. Besides, you know they never +come to anything with you. They _always_ die." + +Thereupon my wife reminds me of this fern and that fern, gathered in such +and such places, and now in such and such corners of the garden or the +greenhouse, or under glass-shades in this or that room, of the very +existence of which I am ignorant, whether from original inattention, or +merely from forgetfulness, I do not know. Certainly, out of their own place +I do not care much for them. + +At length, partly by the inducement I held out to them of a much greater +variety of ferns where we were bound, I succeeded in getting them over the +two miles in little more than two hours. After passing from the lanes into +the fields, our way led downwards till we reached a very steep large +slope, with a delightful southern exposure, and covered with the sweetest +down-grasses. It was just the place to lie in, as on the edge of the earth, +and look abroad upon the universe of air and floating worlds. + +"Let us have a rest here, Ethel," I said. "I am sure this is much more +delightful than uprooting ferns. What an awful thing to think that here we +are on this great round tumbling ball of a world, held by the feet, and +lifting up the head into infinite space--without choice or wish of our +own--compelled to think and to be, whether we will or not! Just God must +know it to be very good, or he would not have taken it in his hands to make +individual lives without a possible will of theirs. He must be our Father, +or we are wretched creatures--the slaves of a fatal necessity! Did it ever +strike you, Turner, that each one of us stands on the apex of the world? +With a sphere, you know, it must be so. And thus is typified, as it seems +to me, that each one of us must look up for himself to find God, and then +look abroad to find his fellows." + +"I think I know what you mean," was all Turner's reply. + +"No doubt," I resumed, "the apprehension of this truth has, in otherwise +ill-ordered minds, given rise to all sorts of fierce and grotesque +fanaticism. But the minds which have thus conceived the truth, would have +been immeasurably worse without it; nay, this truth affords at last +the only possible door out of the miseries of their own chaos, whether +inherited or the result of their own misconduct." + +"What's that in the grass?" cried Wynnie, in a tone of alarm. + +I looked where she indicated, and saw a slow-worm, or blind-worm, lying +basking in the sun. I rose and went towards it. + +"Here's your stick," said Turner. + +"What for?" I asked. "Why should I kill it? It is perfectly harmless, and, +to my mind, beautiful." + +I took it in my hands, and brought it to my wife. She gave an involuntary +shudder as it came near her. + +"I assure you it is harmless," I said, "though it has a forked tongue." +And I opened its mouth as I spoke. "I do not think the serpent form is +essentially ugly." + +"It makes me feel ugly," said Wynnie. + +"I allow I do not quite understand the mystery of it," I said. "But you +never saw lovelier ornamentation than these silvery scales, with all the +neatness of what you ladies call a set pattern, and none of the stiffness, +for there are not two of them the same in form. And you never saw lovelier +curves than this little patient creature, which does not even try to get +away from me, makes with the queer long thin body of him." + +"I wonder how it can look after its tail, it is so far off," said Wynnie. + +"It does though--better than you ladies look after your long dresses. I +wonder whether it is descended from creatures that once had feet, and did +not make a good use of them. Perhaps they had wings even, and would not use +them at all, and so lost them. Its ancestors may have had poison-fangs; it +is innocent enough. But it is a terrible thing to be all feet, is it not? +There is an awful significance in the condemnation of the serpent--'On thy +belly shalt thou go, and eat dust.' But it is better to talk of beautiful +things. _My_ soul at least has dropped from its world apex. Let us go on. +Come, wife. Come, Turner." + +They did not seem willing to rise. But the glen drew me. I rose, and my +wife followed my example with the help of my hand. She returned to the +subject, however, as we descended the slope. + +"Is it possible that in the course of ever so many ages wings and feet +should be both lost?" she said. + +"The most presumptuous thing in the world is to pronounce on the possible +and the impossible. I do not know what is possible and what is impossible. +I can only tell a little of what is true and what is untrue. But I do say +this, that between the condition of many decent members of society and that +for the sake of which God made them, there is a gulf quite as vast as that +between a serpent and a bird. I get peeps now and then into the condition +of my own heart, which, for the moment, make it seem impossible that I +should ever rise into a true state of nature--that is, into the simplicity +of God's will concerning me. The only hope for ourselves and for others +lies in him--in the power the creating spirit has over the spirits he has +made." + +By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and slippery to +admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We turned, therefore, +down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was but a narrow cleft, +and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which we now saw the tops of +trees, and from which we heard the rush of water. Nor had we gone far in +this direction before we came upon a gate in a stone wall, which led into +what seemed a neglected garden. We entered, and found a path turning and +winding, among small trees, and luxuriant ferns, and great stones, and +fragments of ruins down towards the bottom of the chasm. The noise of +falling water increased as we went on, and at length, after some scrambling +and several sharp turns, we found ourselves with a nearly precipitous wall +on each side, clothed with shrubs and ivy, and creeping things of the +vegetable world. Up this cleft there was no advance. The head of it was a +precipice down which shot the stream from the vale above, pouring out of a +deep slit it had itself cut in the rock as with a knife. Halfway down, it +tumbled into a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing from a chasm in +its side, which left part of the lip of the basin standing like the arch of +a vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, whence it crept as +if half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the ravine. It was a +perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen such a picturesque +fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in effect. The ladies were +full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual reserve, broke out in +frantic exclamations of delight. + +We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the +precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of +force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with an +expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as if sheer to +the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself brought up boiling +and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered hope of experience. +Then we turned down the stream a little way, crossed it by a plank, and +stood again to regard it from the opposite side. Small as the whole affair +was--not more than about a hundred and fifty feet in height--it was so full +of variety that I saw it was all my memory could do, if it carried away +anything like a correct picture of its aspect. I was contemplating it +fixedly, when a little stifled cry from Wynnie made me start and look +round. Her face was flushed, yet she was trying to look unconcerned. + +"I thought we were quite alone, papa," she said; "but I see a gentleman +sketching." + +I looked whither she indicated. A little way down, the bed of the ravine +widened considerably, and was no doubt filled with water in rainy weather. +Now it was swampy--full of reeds and willow bushes. But on the opposite +side of the stream, with a little canal from it going all around it, lay a +great flat rectangular stone, not more than a foot above the level of the +water, and upon a camp-stool in the centre of this stone sat a gentleman +sketching. I had no doubt that Wynnie had recognised him at once. And I +was annoyed, and indeed angry, to think that Mr. Percivale had followed us +here. But while I regarded him, he looked up, rose very quietly, and, +with his pencil in his hand, came towards us. With no nearer approach to +familiarity than a bow, and no expression of either much pleasure or any +surprise, he said-- + +"I have seen your party for some time, Mr. Walton--since you crossed the +stream; but I would not break in upon your enjoyment with the surprise +which my presence here must cause you." + +I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with +truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my +suspicion-- + +"I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the +pleasure of seeing you." + +This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing himself. +And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement; for I could +not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be guilty of such +a white lie as many a gentleman would have thought justifiable on the +occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little stiff, for presently he +said-- + +"If you will excuse me, I will return to my work." + +Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy +during the interview. + +"It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with you--capable +of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any moment." + +"To tell the truth," he answered, "I am a little ashamed of being found +sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies. But +it is a change." + +"It is very beautiful here," I said, in a tone of contravention. + +"It is very pretty," he answered--"very lovely, if you will--not very +beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger regard. +Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this place was +fanciful--the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in her large +serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only pretty, about +which boys and guardsmen will rave--to me not very interesting, save for +its single lines." + +"Why, then, do you sketch the place?" + +"A very fair question," he returned, with a smile. "Just because it is +soothing from the very absence of beauty. I would far rather, however, if I +were only following my taste, take the barest bit of the moor above, with a +streak of the cold sky over it. That gives room." + +"You would like to put a skylark in it, wouldn't you?" + +"That I would if I knew how. I see you know what I mean. But the mere +romantic I never had much taste for; though if you saw the kind of pictures +I try to paint, you would not wonder that I take sketches of places like +this, while in my heart of hearts I do not care much for them. They are so +different, and just _therefore_ they are good for me. I am not working now; +I am only playing." + +"With a view to working better afterwards, I have no doubt," I answered. + +"You are right there, I hope," was his quiet reply, as he turned and walked +back to the island. + +He had not made a step towards joining us. He had only taken his hat off to +the ladies. He was gaining ground upon me rapidly. + +"Have you quarrelled with our new friend, Harry?" said my wife, as I came +up to her. + +She was sitting on a stone. Turner and Wynnie were farther off towards the +foot of the fall. + +"Not in the least," I answered, slightly outraged--I did not at first +know why--by the question. "He is only gone to his work, which is a duty +belonging both to the first and second tables of the law." + +"I hope you have asked him to come home to our early dinner, then," she +rejoined. + +"I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him." + +Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help soon +reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on a visit +to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near enough, held +out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in a moment. After +the usual greetings, which on her part, although very quiet, like every +motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial and kind, she said, +"When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might I ask you to allow some +friends of mine to call at your studio, and see your paintings?" + +"With all my heart," answered Percivale. "I must warn you, however, that I +have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away less happy +than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures twice." + +"I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour," answered my +wife. + +Percivale bowed--one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly liked. + +"Any friend of yours--that is guarantee sufficient," he answered. + +There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid, that +you had not a doubt of its being genuine. + +"Will you come and take an early dinner with us?" said my wife. "My invalid +daughter will be very pleased to see you." + +"I will with pleasure," he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation, as +he glanced from Ethelwyn to me. + +"My wife speaks for us all," I said. "It will give us all pleasure." + +"I am only afraid it will break in upon your morning's work," remarked +Ethelwyn. + +"O, that is not of the least consequence," he rejoined. "In fact, as I have +just been saying to Mr. Walton, I am not working at all at present. This is +pure recreation." + +As he spoke he turned towards his easel, and began hastily to bundle up his +things. + +"We're not quite ready to go yet," said my wife, loath to leave the lovely +spot. "What a curious flat stone this is!" she added. + +"It is," said Percivale. "The man to whom the place belongs, a worthy +yeoman of the old school, says that this wider part of the channel must +have been the fish-pond, and that the portly monks stood on this stone and +fished in the pond." + +"Then was there a monastery here?" I asked. + +"Certainly. The ruins of the chapel, one of the smallest, are on the top, +just above the fall--rather a fearful place to look down from. I wonder +you did not observe them as you came. They say it had a silver bell in the +days of its glory, which now lies in a deep hole under the basin, half-way +between the top and bottom of the fall. But the old man says that nothing +will make him look, or let anyone else lift the huge stone; for he is much +better pleased to believe that it may be there, than he would be to know it +was not there; for certainly, if it were found, it would not be left there +long." + +As he spoke Percivale had continued packing his gear. He now led our party +up to the chapel, and thence down a few yards to the edge of the chasm, +where the water fell headlong. I turned away with that fear of high places +which is one of my many weaknesses; and when I turned again towards the +spot, there was Wynnie on the very edge, looking over into the flash +and tumult of the water below, but with a nervous grasp of the hand of +Percivale, who stood a little farther back. + +In going home, the painter led us by an easier way out of the valley, left +his little easel and other things at a cottage, and then walked on in front +between my wife and daughter, while Turner and I followed. He seemed quite +at his ease with them, and plenty of talk and laughter rose on the way. +I, however, was chiefly occupied with finding out Turner's impression of +Connie's condition. + +"She is certainly better," he said. "I wonder you do not see it as plainly +as I do. The pain is nearly gone from her spine, and she can move herself +a good deal more, I am certain, than she could when she left. She asked me +yesterday if she might not turn upon one side. 'Do you think you could?' +I asked.--'I think so,' she answered. 'At any rate, I have often a great +inclination to try; only papa said I had better wait till you came.' I do +think she might be allowed a little more change of posture now." + +"Then you have really some hope of her final recovery?" + +"I have _hope_ most certainly. But what is hope in me, you must not allow +to become certainty in you. I am nearly sure, though, that she can never +be other than an invalid; that is, if I am to judge by what I know of such +cases." + +"I am thankful for the hope," I answered. "You need not be afraid of my +turning upon you, should the hope never pass into sight. I should do so +only if I found that you had been treating me irrationally--inspiring +me with hope which you knew to be false. The element of uncertainty is +essential to hope, and for all true hope, even as hope, man has to be +unspeakably thankful." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE WALK TO CHURCH. + + + + + +I was glad to be able to arrange with a young clergyman who was on a visit +to Kilkhaven, that he should take my duty for me the next Sunday, for that +was the only one Turner could spend with us. He and I and Wynnie walked +together two miles to church. It was a lovely morning, with just a tint of +autumn in the air. But even that tint, though all else was of the summer, +brought a shadow, I could see, on Wynnie's face. + +"You said you would show me a poem of--Vaughan, I think you said, was +the name of the writer. I am too ignorant of our older literature," said +Turner. + +"I have only just made acquaintance with him," I answered. "But I think I +can repeat the poem. You shall judge whether it is not like Wordsworth's +Ode. + + 'Happy those early days, when I + Shined in my angel infancy; + Before I understood the place + Appointed for my second race, + Or taught my soul to fancy ought + But a white, celestial thought; + When yet I had not walked above + A mile or two from my first love, + And looking back, at that short space, + Could see a glimpse of his bright face; + When on some gilded cloud or flower + My gazing soul would dwell an hour, + And in those weaker glories spy + Some shadows of eternity; + Before I taught my tongue to wound + My conscience with a sinful sound, + But felt through all this fleshly dress + Bright shoots of everlastingness. + O how I long to travel back----'" + +But here I broke down, for I could not remember the rest with even +approximate accuracy. + +"When did this Vaughan live?" asked Turner. + +"He was born, I find, in 1621--five years, that is, after Shakspere's +death, and when Milton was about thirteen years old. He lived to the age of +seventy-three, but seems to have been little known. In politics he was on +the Cavalier side. By the way, he was a medical man, like you, Turner--an +M.D. We'll have a glance at the little book when we go back. Don't let me +forget to show it you. A good many of your profession have distinguished +themselves in literature, and as profound believers too." + +"I should have thought the profession had been chiefly remarkable for such +as believe only in the evidence of the senses." + +"As if having searched into the innermost recesses of the body, and not +having found a soul, they considered themselves justified in declaring +there was none." + +"Just so." + +"Well, that is true of the commonplace amongst them, I do believe. You will +find the exceptions have been men of fine minds and characters--not such as +he of whom Chaucer says, + + 'His study was but little on the Bible;' + +for if you look at the rest of the description of the man, you will find +that he was in alliance with his apothecary for their mutual advantage, +that he was a money-loving man, and that some of Chaucer's keenest irony +is spent on him in an off-hand, quiet manner. Compare the tone in which he +writes of the doctor of physic, with the profound reverence wherewith he +bows himself before the poor country-parson." + +Here Wynnie spoke, though with some tremor in her voice. + +"I never know, papa, what people mean by talking about childhood in that +way. I never seem to have been a bit younger and more innocent than I am." + +"Don't you remember a time, Wynnie, when the things about you--the sky and +the earth, say--seemed to you much grander than they seem now? You are old +enough to have lost something." + +She thought for a little while before she answered. + +"My dreams were, I know. I cannot say so of anything else." + +I in my turn had to be silent, for I did not see the true answer, though +I was sure there was one somewhere, if I could only find it. All I could +reply, however, even after I had meditated a good while, was--and perhaps, +after all, it was the best thing I could have said: + +"Then you must make a good use of your dreams, my child." + +"Why, papa?" + +"Because they are the only memorials of childhood you have left." + +"How am I to make a good use of them? I don't know what to do with my silly +old dreams." + +But she gave a sigh as she spoke that testified her silly old dreams had a +charm for her still. + +"If your dreams, my child, have ever testified to you of a condition of +things beyond that which you see around you, if they have been to you the +hints of a wonder and glory beyond what visits you now, you must not call +them silly, for they are just what the scents of Paradise borne on the air +were to Adam and Eve as they delved and spun, reminding them that they must +aspire yet again through labour into that childhood of obedience which +is the only paradise of humanity--into that oneness with the will of the +Father, which our race, our individual selves, need just as much as if we +had personally fallen with Adam, and from which we fall every time we are +disobedient to the voice of the Father within our souls--to the conscience +which is his making and his witness. If you have had no childhood, my +Wynnie, yet permit your old father to say that everything I see in you +indicates more strongly in you than in most people that it is this +childhood after which you are blindly longing, without which you find that +life is hardly to be endured. Thank God for your dreams, my child. In him +you will find that the essence of those dreams is fulfilled. We are saved +by hope, Turner. Never man hoped too much, or repented that he had hoped. +The plague is that we don't hope in God half enough. The very fact that +hope is strength, and strength the outcome, the body of life, shows that +hope is at one with life, with the very essence of what says 'I am'--yea, +of what doubts and says 'Am I?' and therefore is reasonable to creatures +who cannot even doubt save in that they live." + +By this time, for I have, of course, only given the outlines, or rather +salient points, of our conversation, we had reached the church, where, if I +found the sermon neither healing nor inspiring, I found the prayers full of +hope and consolation. They at least are safe beyond human caprice, conceit, +or incapacity. Upon them, too, the man who is distressed at the thought of +how little of the needful food he had been able to provide for his people, +may fall back for comfort, in the thought that there at least was what +ought to have done them good, what it was well worth their while to go to +church for. But I did think they were too long for any individual Christian +soul, to sympathise with from beginning to end, that is, to respond to, +like organ-tube to the fingered key, in every touch of the utterance of the +general Christian soul. For my reader must remember that it is one thing +to read prayers and another to respond; and that I had had very few +opportunities of being in the position of the latter duty. I had had +suspicions before, and now they were confirmed--that the present crowding +of services was most inexpedient. And as I pondered on the matter, instead +of trying to go on praying after I had already uttered my soul, which is +but a heathenish attempt after much speaking, I thought how our Lord had +given us such a short prayer to pray, and I began to wonder when or how the +services came to be so heaped the one on the back of the other as they now +were. No doubt many people defended them; no doubt many people could sit +them out; but how many people could pray from beginning to end of them I +On this point we had some talk as we went home. Wynnie was opposed to any +change of the present use on the ground that we should only have the longer +sermons. + +"Still," I said, "I do not think even that so great an evil. A sensitive +conscience will not reproach itself so much for not listening to the whole +of a sermon, as for kneeling in prayer and not praying. I think myself, +however, that after the prayers are over, everyone should be at liberty +to go out and leave the sermon unheard, if he pleases. I think the result +would be in the end a good one both for parson and people. It would break +through the deadness of this custom, this use and wont. Many a young mind +is turned for life against the influences of church-going--one of the +most sacred influences when _pure_, that is, un-mingled with +non-essentials--just by the feeling that he _must_ do so and so, that he +must go through a certain round of duty. It is a willing service that the +Lord wants; no forced devotions are either acceptable to him, or other than +injurious to the worshipper, if such he can be called." + +After an early dinner, I said to Turner--"Come out with me, and we will +read that poem of Vaughan's in which I broke down today." + +"O, papa!" said Connie, in a tone of injury, from the sofa. + +"What is it, my dear?" I asked. + +"Wouldn't it be as good for us as for Mr. Turner?" + +"Quite, my dear. Well, I will keep it for the evening, and meantime Mr. +Turner and I will go and see if we can find out anything about the change +in the church-service." + +For I had thrown into my bag as I left the rectory a copy of _The +Clergyman's Vade Mecum_--a treatise occupied with the externals of the +churchman's relations--in which I soon came upon the following passage: + +"So then it appears that the common practice of reading all three together, +is an innovation, and if an ancient or infirm clergyman do read them at two +or three several times, he is more strictly conformable; however, this is +much better than to omit any part of the liturgy, or to read all +three offices into one, as is now commonly done, without any pause or +distinction." + +"On the part of the clergyman, you see, Turner," I said, when I had +finished reading the whole passage to him. "There is no care taken of the +delicate women of the congregation, but only of the ancient or infirm +clergyman. And the logic, to say the least, is rather queer: is it only in +virtue of his antiquity and infirmity that he is to be upheld in being more +strictly conformable? The writer's honesty has its heels trodden upon by +the fear of giving offence. Nevertheless there should perhaps be a certain +slowness to admit change, even back to a more ancient form." + +"I don't know that I can quite agree with you there," said Turner. "If the +form is better, no one should hesitate to advocate the change. If it is +worse, then slowness is not sufficient--utter obstinacy is the right +condition." + +"You are right, Turner. For the right must be the rule, and where _the +right_ is beyond our understanding or our reach, then _the better_, as +indeed not only right compared with the other, but the sole ascent towards +the right." + +In the evening I took Henry Vaughan's poems into the common sitting-room, +and to Connie's great delight read the whole of the lovely, though unequal +little poem, called "The Retreat," in recalling which I had failed in the +morning. She was especially delighted with the "white celestial thought," +and the "bright shoots of everlastingness." Then I gave a few lines from +another yet more unequal poem, worthy in themselves of the best of the +other. I quote the first strophe entire: + + CHILDHOOD. + + "I cannot reach it; and my striving eye + Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, + Those white designs which children drive, + And the thoughts of each harmless hour, + With their content too in my power, + Quickly would I make my path even, + And by mere playing go to heaven. + + * * * * * + + And yet the practice worldlings call + Business and weighty action all, + Checking the poor child for his play, + But gravely cast themselves away. + + * * * * * + + An age of mysteries! which he + Must live twice that would God's face see; + Which angels guard, and with it play, + Angels! which foul men drive away. + How do I study now, and scan + Thee more than ere I studied man, + And only see through a long night + Thy edges and thy bordering light I + O for thy centre and midday! + For sure that is the _narrow way!_" + +"For of such is the kingdom of heaven." said my wife softly, as I closed +the book. + +"May I have the book, papa?" said Connie, holding out her thin white cloud +of a hand to take it. + +"Certainly, my child. And if Wynnie would read it with you, she will feel +more of the truth of what Mr. Percivale was saying to her about finish. +Here are the finest, grandest thoughts, set forth sometimes with such +carelessness, at least such lack of neatness, that, instead of their +falling on the mind with all their power of loveliness, they are like a +beautiful face disfigured with patches, and, what is worse, they put the +mind out of the right, quiet, unquestioning, open mood, which is the only +fit one for the reception of such true things as are embodied in the poems. +But they are too beautiful after all to be more than a little spoiled +by such a lack of the finish with which Art ends off all her labours. A +gentleman, however, thinks it of no little importance to have his nails +nice as well as his face and his shirt." + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE OLD CASTLE. + + + + + +The place Turner had chosen suited us all so well, that after attending +to my duties on the two following Sundays at Kilkhaven, I returned on the +Monday or Tuesday to the farmhouse. But Turner left us in the middle of the +second week, for he could not be longer absent from his charge at home, and +we missed him much. It was some days before Connie was quite as cheerful +again as usual. I do not mean that she was in the least gloomy--that she +never was; she was only a little less merry. But whether it was that Turner +had opened our eyes, or that she had visibly improved since he allowed her +to make a little change in her posture--certainly she appeared to us to +have made considerable progress, and every now and then we were discovering +some little proof of the fact. One evening, while we were still at the +farm, she startled us by calling out suddenly,-- + +"Papa, papa! I moved my big toe! I did indeed." + +We were all about her in a moment. But I saw that she was excited, and +fearing a reaction I sought to calm her. + +"But, my dear," I said, as quietly as I could, "you are probably still +aware that you are possessed of two big toes: which of them are we to +congratulate on this first stride in the march of improvement?" + +She broke out in the merriest laugh. A pause followed in which her face +wore a puzzled expression. Then she said all at once, "Papa, it is very +odd, but I can't tell which of them," and burst into tears. I was afraid +that I had done more harm than good. + +"It is not of the slightest consequence, my child," I said. "You have had +so little communication with the twins of late, that it is no wonder you +should not be able to tell the one from the other." + +She smiled again through her sobs, but was silent, with shining face, for +the rest of the evening. Our hopes took a fresh start, but we heard no more +from her of her power over her big toe. As often as I inquired she said she +was afraid she had made a mistake, for she had not had another hint of its +existence. Still I thought it could not have been a fancy, and I would +cleave to my belief in the good sign. + +Percivale called to see us several times, but always appeared anxious not +to intrude more of his society upon us than might be agreeable. He grew +in my regard, however; and at length I asked him if he would assist me in +another surprise which I meditated for my companions, and this time for +Connie as well, and which I hoped would prevent the painful influences +of the sight of the sea from returning upon them when they went back to +Kilkhaven: they must see the sea from a quite different shore first. In a +word I would take them to Tintagel, of the near position of which they +were not aware, although in some of our walks we had seen the ocean in +the distance. An early day was fixed for carrying out our project, and +I proceeded to get everything ready. The only difficulty was to find a +carriage in the neighbourhood suitable for receiving Connie's litter. In +this, however, I at length succeeded, and on the morning of a glorious day +of blue and gold, we set out for the little village of Trevenna, now far +better known than at the time of which I write. Connie had been out every +day since she came, now in one part of the fields, now in another, enjoying +the expanse of earth and sky, but she had had no drive, and consequently +had seen no variety of scenery. Therefore, believing she was now thoroughly +able to bear it, I quite reckoned of the good she would get from the +inevitable excitement. We resolved, however, after finding how much she +enjoyed the few miles' drive, that we would not demand more, of her +strength that day, and therefore put up at the little inn, where, after +ordering dinner, Percivale and I left the ladies, and sallied forth to +reconnoitre. + +We walked through the village and down the valley beyond, sloping steeply +between hills towards the sea, the opening closed at the end by the blue of +the ocean below and the more ethereal blue of the sky above. But when we +reached the mouth of the valley we found that we were not yet on the shore, +for a precipice lay between us and the little beach below. On the left a +great peninsula of rock stood out into the sea, upon which rose the ruins +of the keep of Tintagel, while behind on the mainland stood the ruins of +the castle itself, connected with the other only by a narrow isthmus. We +had read that this peninsula had once been an island, and that the two +parts of the castle were formerly connected by a drawbridge. Looking up +at the great gap which now divided the two portions, it seemed at first +impossible to believe that they had ever been thus united; but a little +reflection cleared up the mystery. + +The fact was that the isthmus, of half the height of the two parts +connected by it, had been formed entirely by the fall of portions of the +rock and soil on each side into the narrow dividing space, through which +the waters of the Atlantic had been wont to sweep. And now the fragments +of walls stood on the very verge of the precipice, and showed that large +portions of the castle itself had fallen into the gulf between. We turned +to the left along the edge of the rock, and so by a narrow path reached and +crossed to the other side of the isthmus. We then found that the path led +to the foot of the rock, formerly island, of the keep, and thence in a +zigzag up the face of it to the top. We followed it, and after a great +climb reached a door in a modern battlement. Entering, we found ourselves +amidst grass, and ruins haggard with age. We turned and surveyed the path +by which we had come. It was steep and somewhat difficult. But the outlook +was glorious. It was indeed one of God's mounts of vision upon which we +stood. The thought, "O that Connie could see this!" was swelling in my +heart, when Percivale broke the silence--not with any remark on the glory +around us, but with the commonplace question-- + +"You haven't got your man with you, I think, Mr. Walton?" + +"No," I answered; "we thought it better to leave him to look after the +boys." + +He was silent for a few minutes, while I gazed in delight. + +"Don't you think," he said, "it would be possible to bring Miss Constance +up here?" + +I almost started at the idea, and had not replied before he resumed: + +"It would be something for her to recur to with delight all the rest of her +life." + +"It would indeed. But it is impossible." + +"I do not think so--if you would allow me the honour to assist you. I think +we could do it perfectly between us." + +I was again silent for a while. Looking down on the way we had come, it +seemed an almost dreadful undertaking. Percivale spoke again. + +"As we shall come here to-morrow, we need not explore the place now. +Shall we go down at once and observe the whole path, with a view to the +practicability of carrying her up?" + +"There can be no objection to that," I answered, as a little hope, and +courage with it, began to dawn in my heart. "But you must allow it does not +look very practicable." + +"Perhaps it would seem more so to you, if you had come up with the idea in +your head all the way, as I did. Any path seems more difficult in looking +back than at the time when the difficulties themselves have to be met and +overcome." + +"Yes, but then you must remember that we have to take the way back whether +we will or no, if we once take the way forward." + +"True; and now I will go down with the descent in my head as well as under +my feet." + +"Well, there can be no harm in reconnoitring it at least. Let us go." + +"You know we can rest almost as often as we please," said Percivale, and +turned to lead the way. + +It certainly was steep, and required care even in our own descent; but for +a man who had climbed mountains, as I had done in my youth, it could hardly +be called difficult even in middle age. By the time we had got again into +the valley road I was all but convinced of the practicability of the +proposal. I was a little vexed, however, I must confess, that a stranger +should have thought of giving such a pleasure to Connie, when the bare wish +that she might have enjoyed it had alone arisen in my mind. I comforted +myself with the reflection that this was one of the ways in which we were +to be weaned from the world and knit the faster to our fellows. For even +the middle-aged, in the decay of their daring, must look for the fresh +thought and the fresh impulse to the youth which follows at their heels in +the march of life. Their part is to _will_ the relation and the obligation, +and so, by love to and faith in the young, keep themselves in the line +along which the electric current flows, till at length they too shall once +more be young and daring in the strength of the Lord. A man must always +seek to rise above his moods and feelings, to let them move within him, but +not allow them to storm or gloom around him. By the time we reached home we +had agreed to make the attempt, and to judge by the path to the foot of the +rock, which was difficult in parts, whether we should be likely to succeed, +without danger, in attempting the rest of the way and the following +descent. As soon as we had arrived at this conclusion, I felt so happy +in the prospect that I grew quite merry, especially after we had further +agreed that, both for the sake of her nerves and for the sake of the lordly +surprise, we should bind Connie's eyes so that she should see nothing till +we had placed her in a certain position, concerning the preferableness of +which we were not of two minds. + +"What mischief have you two been about?" said my wife, as we entered our +room in the inn, where the cloth was already laid for dinner. "You look +just like two schoolboys that have been laying some plot, and can hardly +hold their tongues about it." + +"We have been enjoying our little walk amazingly," I answered. "So much so, +that we mean to set out for another the moment dinner is over." + +"I hope you will take Wynnie with you then." + +"Or you, my love," I returned. + +"No; I will stay with Connie." + +"Very well. You, and Connie too, shall go out to-morrow, for we have +found a place we want to take you to. And, indeed, I believe it was our +anticipation of the pleasure you and she would have in the view that made +us so merry when you accused us of plotting mischief." + +My wife replied only with a loving look, and dinner appearing at this +moment, we sat down a happy party. + +When that was over--and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, homely +in material but admirable in cooking--Wynnie and Percivale and I set out +again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had seen the +church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the little valley, +and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, and Wynnie accepted +Percivale's offered arm. I led the way, therefore, and left them to +follow--not so far in the rear, however, but that I could take a share in +the conversation. It was some little time before any arose, and it was +Wynnie who led the way into it. + +"What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?" she asked. + +He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an answer +look so long, that most people would call them minutes. + +"I would rather you should see some of my pictures--I should prefer that to +answering your question," he said, at length. + +"But I have seen some of your pictures," she returned. + +"Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton." + +"At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies." + +"Some of my sketches--none of my studies." + +"But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?" + +"Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my +pictures." + +"I cannot understand you." + +"I do not wonder at that. But I would rather, I repeat, say nothing about +my pictures till you see some of them." + +"But how am I to have that pleasure, then?" + +"You go to London sometimes, do you not?" + +"Very rarely. More rarely still when the Royal Academy is open." + +"That does not matter much. My pictures are seldom to be found there." + +"Do you not care to send them there?" + +"I send one, at least, every year. But they are rarely accepted." + +"Why?" + +This was a very improper question, I thought; but if Wynnie had thought so +she would not have put it. He hesitated a little before he replied-- + +"It is hardly for me to say why," he answered; "but I cannot wonder much +at it, considering the subjects I choose.--But I daresay," he added, in +a lighter tone, "after all, that has little to do with it, and there is +something about the things themselves that precludes a favourable judgment. +I avoid thinking about it. A man ought to try to look at his own work as if +it were none of his, but not as with the eyes of other people. That is an +impossibility, and the attempt a bewilderment. It is with his own eyes he +must look, with his own judgment he must judge. The only effort is to get +it set far away enough from him to be able to use his own eyes and his own +judgment upon it." + +"I think I see what you mean. A man has but his own eyes and his own +judgment. To look with those of other people is but a fancy." + +"Quite so. You understand me quite." + +He said no more in explanation of his rejection by the Academy. Till we +reached the church, nothing more of significance passed between them. + +What a waste, bare churchyard that was! It had two or three lych-gates, +but they had no roofs. They were just small enclosures, with the low +stone tables, to rest the living from the weight of the dead, while the +clergyman, as the keeper of heaven's wardrobe, came forth to receive the +garment they restored--to be laid aside as having ended its work, as having +been worn done in the winds, and rains, and labours of the world. Not a +tree stood in that churchyard. Hank grass was the sole covering of the soil +heaved up with the dead beneath. What blasts from the awful space of the +sea must rush athwart the undefended garden! The ancient church stood in +the midst, with its low, strong, square tower, and its long, narrow nave, +the ridge bowed with age, like the back of a horse worn out in the service +of man, and its little homely chancel, like a small cottage that had leaned +up against its end for shelter from the western blasts. It was locked, +and we could not enter. But of all world-worn, sad-looking churches, that +one--sad, even in the sunset--was the dreariest I had ever beheld. Surely, +it needed the gospel of the resurrection fervently preached therein, to +keep it from sinking to the dust with dismay and weariness. Such a soul +alone could keep it from vanishing utterly of dismal old age. Near it was +one huge mound of grass-grown rubbish, looking like the grave where some +former church of the dead had been buried, when it could stand erect no +longer before the onsets of Atlantic winds. I walked round and round it, +gathering its architecture, and peeping in at every window I could reach. +Suddenly I was aware that I was alone. Returning to the other side, I found +that Percivale was seated on the churchyard wall, next the sea--it would +have been less dismal had it stood immediately on the cliffs, but they were +at some little distance beyond bare downs and rough stone walls; he +was sketching the place, and Wynnie stood beside him, looking over his +shoulder. I did not interrupt him, but walked among the graves, reading +the poor memorials of the dead, and wondering how many of the words of +laudation that were inscribed on their tombs were spoken of them while they +were yet alive. Yet, surely, in the lives of those to whom they applied +the least, there had been moments when the true nature, the nature God had +given them, broke forth in faith and tenderness, and would have justified +the words inscribed on their gravestones! I was yet wandering and reading, +and stumbling over the mounds, when my companions joined me, and, without a +word, we walked out of the churchyard. We were nearly home before one of us +spoke. + +"That church is oppressive," said Percivale. "It looks like a great +sepulchre, a place built only for the dead--the church of the dead." + +"It is only that it partakes with the living," I returned; "suffers with +them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the shield of +the Red-Cross Knight, the 'old dints of deep wounds.'" + +"Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?" + +"The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it must +not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is shrinking +from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the land, +high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven from all +storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse lie the bodies +of men--you saw the grave of some of them on the other side--flung ashore +from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one would rather have the +bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of the churchyard earth, +than sweeping and swaying about as Milton imagines the bones of his +friend Edward King, in that wonderful 'Lycidas.'" Then I told them the +conversation I had had with the sexton at Kilkhaven. "But," I went on, +"these fancies are only the ghostly mists that hang about the eastern hills +before the sun rises. We shall look down on all that with a smile by and +by; for the Lord tells us that if we believe in him we shall never die." + +By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a +description of what we had seen. + +"What a brave old church!" said Connie. + +The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got up +at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of all to +have a look at Connie's litter, and see that it was quite sound. Satisfied +of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and strength. + +After breakfast I went to Connie's room, and told her that Mr. Percivale +and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once. + +"But we want to do it our own way." + +"Of course, papa," she answered. + +"Will you let us tie your eyes up?" + +"Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, when +I don't know one big toe from the other." + +And she laughed merrily. + +"We'll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha'n't weary of +the journey." + +"You're going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! And +then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!--Getting tired!" she +repeated. "Even the wind on my face would be pleasure enough for half a +day. I sha'n't get tired so soon as you will--you dear, kind papa! I am +afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha'n't jerk your arms much. I +will lie so still!" + +"And you won't mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?" + +"No. Why should I, if he doesn't mind it? He looks strong enough; and I am +sure he is nice, and won't think me heavier than I am." + +"Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; and we +shall set out as soon as you are ready." + +She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and gave +me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began to call +as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress her. + +It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like veins +of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the sunshine. The +sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of the valley, as if +overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the sun overhead; and the +hills between which we went lay like great sheep, with green wool, basking +in the blissful heat. The gleam from the waters came up the pass; the grand +castle crowned the left-hand steep, seeming to warm its old bones, like the +ruins of some awful megatherium in the lighted air; one white sail sped +like a glad thought across the spandrel of the sea; the shadows of the +rocks lay over our path, like transient, cool, benignant deaths, through +which we had to pass again and again to yet higher glory beyond; and one +lark was somewhere in whose little breast the whole world was reflected as +in the convex mirror of a dewdrop, where it swelled so that he could not +hold it, but let it out again through his throat, metamorphosed into music, +which he poured forth over all as the libation on the outspread altar of +worship. + +And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then she +would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although she +beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of the wind +on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have approached that +condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for in his blindness, +wherein the sight should be + + "through all parts diffused, + That she might look at will through every pore." + +I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment +we reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross the +isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things around us; +and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no exclamation of surprise +or delight should break from them before Connie's eyes were uncovered. I +had said nothing to either of them about the difficulties of the way, that, +seeing us take them as ordinary things, they might take them so too, and +not be uneasy. + +We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, _née_ island, +upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie down, to take +breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way. + +"Now, now!" said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that we +were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes. + +"No, no, my love, not yet," I said, and she lay still again, only she +looked more eager than before. + +"I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa," she said. + +Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly-- + +"O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules--at least, he chooses to be +considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I have a +little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink." + +There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the best +revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as we might +to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the litter too +much for her comfort. + +"Where _are_ you going, papa?" she said once, but without a sign of fear in +her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter suddenly. +"You must be going up a steep place. Don't hurt yourself, dear papa." + +We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, up +the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every change on +her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did find it hard +work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little sunny pool, +on which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen heaven cast +exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they floated over it. +Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind him. I did wish we +were at the top, for my arms began to feel like iron-cables, stiff and +stark--only I was afraid of my fingers giving way. My heart was beating +uncomfortably too. But Percivale, I felt almost inclined to quarrel with +him before it was over, he strode on so unconcernedly, turning every corner +of the zigzag where I expected him to propose a halt, and striding on +again, as if there could be no pretence for any change of procedure. But I +held out, strengthened by the play on my daughter's face, delicate as the +play on an opal--one that inclines more to the milk than the fire. + +When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented +wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the grass-- + +"Percivale," I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour of +being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the mount +of glory, "why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no heed to me?" + +"You didn't speak, did you, Mr. Walton," he returned, with just a shadow of +solicitude in the question. + +"No. Of course not," I rejoined. + +"O, then," he returned, in a tone of relief, "how could I? You were my +captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?" + +I am afraid the _Percivale_, without the _Mister_, came again and again +after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I caught myself. + +"Now, papa!" said Connie from the grass. + +"Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and meet +them, Mr. Percivale." + +"O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or what +kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I have never +been alone in all my life." + +"Very well, my dear," I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the +ruins. + +We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could. + +"Dear Harry," she said, "how could you think of bringing Connie up such an +awful place? I wonder you dared to do it." + +"It's done you see, wife," I answered, "thanks to Mr. Percivale, who has +nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and you will +say that to see Connie's delight, not to mention your own, is quite wages +for the labour." + +"Isn't she afraid to find herself so high up?" + +"She knows nothing about it yet." + +"You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up." + +"To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil half +the pleasure." + +"Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so." + +"Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take my +arm now." + +"Don't you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm," said Percivale, "and +then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that way." + +We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The +moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the place +neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered on her +pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the keep, with +light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still expectation, +that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep after receiving an +answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known sonnet of Wordsworth's, +in which he describes as the type of Death-- + + "the face of one + Sleeping alone within a mossy cave + With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have + Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; + A lovely beauty in a summer grave." + +[Footnote: _Miscellaneous Sonnets_, part i.28.] + +But she heard our steps, and her face awoke. + +"Is mamma come?" + +"Yes, my darling. I am here," said her mother. "How do you feel?" + +"Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!" + +"One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale." + +We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her a +little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the bandage +from her head. + +"Hold your hands over her eyes, a little way from them," I said to her as +she untied the handkerchief, "that the light may reach them by degrees, and +not blind her." + +Ethelwyn did so for a few moments, then removed them. Still for a moment or +two more, it was plain from her look of utter bewilderment, that all was a +confused mass of light and colour. Then she gave a little cry, and to my +astonishment, almost fear, half rose to a sitting posture. One moment more +and she laid herself gently back, and wept and sobbed. + +And now I may admit my reader to a share, though at best but a dim reflex +in my poor words, of the glory that made her weep. + +Through the gothic-arched door in the battlemented wall, which stood on the +very edge of the precipitous descent, so that nothing of the descent was +seen, and the door was as a framework to the picture, Connie saw a great +gulf at her feet, full to the brim of a splendour of light and colour. +Before her rose the great ruins of rock and castle, the ruin of rock with +castle; rough stone below, clear green happy grass above, even to the verge +of the abrupt and awful precipice; over it the summer sky so clear that it +must have been clarified by sorrow and thought; at the foot of the rocks, +hundreds of feet below, the blue waters breaking in white upon the dark +gray sands; all full of the gladness of the sun overflowing in speechless +delight, and reflected in fresh gladness from stone and water and flower, +like new springs of light rippling forth from the earth itself to swell the +universal tide of glory--all this seen through the narrow gothic archway of +a door in a wall--up--down--on either hand. But the main marvel was the +look sheer below into the abyss full of light and air and colour, its sides +lined with rock and grass, and its bottom lined with blue ripples and sand. +Was it any wonder that my Connie should cry aloud when the vision dawned +upon her, and then weep to ease a heart ready to burst with delight? "O +Lord God," I said, almost involuntarily, "thou art very rich. Thou art the +one poet, the one maker. We worship thee. Make but our souls as full of +glory in thy sight as this chasm is to our eyes glorious with the forms +which thou hast cloven and carved out of nothingness, and we shall be +worthy to worship thee, O Lord, our God." For I was carried beyond myself +with delight, and with sympathy with Connie's delight and with the calm +worship of gladness in my wife's countenance. But when my eye fell on +Wynnie, I saw a trouble mingled with her admiration, a self-accusation, I +think, that she did not and could not enjoy it more; and when I turned from +her, there were the eyes of Percivale fixed on me in wonderment; and for +the moment I felt as David must have felt when, in his dance of undignified +delight that he had got the ark home again, he saw the contemptuous eyes of +Michal fixed on him from the window. But I could not leave it so. I said to +him--coldly I daresay: + +"Excuse me, Mr. Percivale; I forgot for the moment that I was not amongst +my own family." + +Percivale took his hat off. + +"Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Walton. I was half-envying and +half-wondering. You would not be surprised at my unconscious behaviour +if you had seen as much of the wrong side of the stuff as I have seen in +London." + +I had some idea of what he meant; but this was no time to enter upon a +discussion. I could only say-- + +"My heart was full, Mr. Percivale, and I let it overflow." + +"Let me at least share in its overflow," he rejoined, and nothing more +passed on the subject. + +For the next ten minutes we stood in absolute silence. We had set Connie +down on the grass again, but propped up so that she could see through the +doorway. And she lay in still ecstasy. But there was more to be seen ere +we descended. There was the rest of the little islet with its crop of +down-grass, on which the horses of all the knights of King Arthur's round +table might have fed for a week--yes, for a fortnight, without, by any +means, encountering the short commons of war. There were the ruins of the +castle so built of plates of the laminated stone of the rocks on which they +stood, and so woven in or more properly incorporated with the outstanding +rocks themselves, that in some parts I found it impossible to tell which +was building and which was rock--the walls themselves seeming like a growth +out of the island itself, so perfectly were they in harmony with, and in +kind the same as, the natural ground upon which and of which they had +been constructed. And this would seem to me to be the perfection of +architecture. The work of man's hands should be so in harmony with the +place where it stands that it must look as if it had grown out of the soil. +But the walls were in some parts so thin that one wondered how they could +have stood so long. They must have been built before the time of any +formidable artillery--enough only for defence from arrows. But then the +island was nowhere commanded, and its own steep cliffs would be more easily +defended than any erections upon it. Clearly the intention was that no +enemy should thereon find rest for the sole of his foot; for if he was able +to land, farewell to the notion of any further defence. Then there was +outside the walls the little chapel--such a tiny chapel! of which little +more than the foundation remained, with the ruins of the altar still +standing, and outside the chancel, nestling by its wall, a coffin hollowed +in the rock; then the churchyard a little way off full of graves, which, I +presume, would have vanished long ago were it not that the very graves were +founded on the rock. There still stood old worn-out headstones of thin +slate, but no memorials were left. Then there was the fragment of arched +passage underground laid open to the air in the centre of the islet; and +last, and grandest of all, the awful edges of the rock, broken by time, and +carved by the winds and the waters into grotesque shapes and threatening +forms. Over all the surface of the islet we carried Connie, and from three +sides of this sea-fortress she looked abroad over "the Atlantic's level +powers." It blew a gentle ethereal breeze on the top; but had there been +such a wind as I have since stood against on that fearful citadel of +nature, I should have been in terror lest we should all be blown, into the +deep. Over the edge she peeped at the strange fantastic needle-rock, and +round the corner she peeped to see Wynnie and her mother seated in what +they call Arthur's chair--a canopied hollow wrought in the plated rock by +the mightiest of all solvents--air and water; till at length it was time +that we should take our leave of the few sheep that fed over the place, and +issuing by the gothic door, wind away down the dangerous path to the safe +ground below. + +"I think we had better tie up your eyes again, Connie?" I said. + +"Why?" she asked, in wonderment. "There's nothing higher yet, is there?" + +"No, my love. If there were, you would hardly be able for it to-day, I +should think. It is only to keep you from being frightened at the precipice +as you go down." + +"But I sha'n't be frightened, papa." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you are going to carry me." + +"But what if I should slip? I might, you know." + +"I don't mind. I sha'n't mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you do +it. I sha'n't be to blame, and I'm sure you won't, papa." Then she drew my +head down and whispered in my ear, "If I get as much more by being killed, +as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I'm sure it will be well worth +it." + +I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just as +she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we bore +her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, instead of +being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My wife, I could see, +was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of relief when we were once +more at the foot. + +"Well, I'm glad that's over," she said. + +"So am I," I returned, as we set down the litter. + +"Poor papa! I've pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale's too!" + +Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then turning +towards her, he said, "Look here, Miss Connie;" and flung it far out from +the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike on a rock below, +and then fall in a shower of fragments. "My arms are all right, you see," +he said. + +Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet +been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us out +of breath with the news: + +"Papa! Mr. Percivale! there's such a grand cave down there! It goes right +through under the island." + +Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and +without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way +that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch more +difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a contrast +to the vision overhead!--nothing to be seen but the cool, dark vault of the +cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on its pebbly floor, +and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide rolled through in +rising and falling--the waters on the opposite sides of the islet greeting +through this cave; the blue shimmer of the rising sea, and the forms of +huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further end, where the roof rose +like a grand cathedral arch; and the green gleam of veins rich with copper, +dashing and streaking the darkness in gloomy little chapels, where the +floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and rose within till it met the descending +roof. It was like a going-down from Paradise into the grave--but a cool, +friendly, brown-lighted grave, which even in its darkest recesses bore some +witness to the wind of God outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed +light, from the play of the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, +wandered across its jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the +damp coolness; and I have given my reader quite enough of description for +one hour's reading. He can scarcely be equal to more. + +My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I no +longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days after, +and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner's place in the carriage. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +JOE AND HIS TROUBLE. + + + + + +How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands of +Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty rampart +of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce guardians! It was +pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to look like home, and was +indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of Dora and the boys. Connie's +baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her chubby arms at sight of her. The +wind blew gently around us, full both of the freshness of the clean waters +and the scents of the down-grasses, to welcome us back. And the dread +vision of the shore had now receded so far into the past, that it was no +longer able to hurt. + +We had called at the blacksmith's house on our way home, and found that he +was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother said he +was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, feared that +they indicated an approaching break-down. + +"Indeed, sir," she said, "Joe might be well enough if he liked. It's all +his own fault." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "I cannot believe that your son is in any way +guilty of his own illness." + +"He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe," she answered; "but he hasn't learned +what I had to learn long ago." + +"What is that?" I asked. + +"To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other." + +She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she +spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in +mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all her +face under the nose. + +"And what is it he won't do?" + +"I don't mind whether he does it or not, if he would only +make--up--his--mind--and--stick--to--it." + +"What is it you want him to do, then?" + +"I don't want him to do it, I'm sure. It's no good to me--and wouldn't be +much to him, that I'll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself." + +I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no more +sunshine for him at home than his mother's face indicated. Few things can +make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, whose rays are +smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the door,--the face of +wife or mother or sister. Now his mother's face certainly was not sunny. +No doubt it must have shone upon him when he was a baby. God has made that +provision for babies, who need sunshine so much that a mother's face cannot +help being sunny to them: why should the sunshine depart as the child grows +older? + +"Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far from well. +Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief somewhere. And if +there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to get over it." + +"If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to it--" + +"O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind." + +"That's just what he won't do." + +All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. It +was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in sympathy with +her son, and therefore could not help him out of any difficulty he might +be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her the cause of her son's +discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his illness. In passing his +workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made an arrangement to meet him at +the church the next day. + +I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we +left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the rods +attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a carpenter, a +cousin of his own, with him. + +They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a +bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white +teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in Joseph's +affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I therefore said +half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, self-withdrawn countenance the +smith was fitting one loop into another in two of his iron rods,-- + +"I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more cheerful. +You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine." + +The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips. + +"Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the rest +of us. He's a religious man, is Joe." + +"But I don't see how that should make him miserable. It hasn't made me +miserable. I hope I'm a religious man myself. It makes me happy every day +of my life." + +"Ah, well," returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked away +gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, "I don't +say it's the religion, for I don't know; but perhaps it's the way he takes +it up. He don't look after hisself enough; he's always thinking about other +people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, that if you don't look after +yourself, why, who is to look after you? That's common sense, _I_ think." + +It was a curious contrast--the merry friendly face, which shone +good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, +even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about +other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be correct +in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, healthy +inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a smile very +unlike his cousin's with which Joe heard his remarks on himself. + +"But," I said, "you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take +Joe's way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of +yourself." + +"I don't see why, sir." + +"Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else." + +"Not so well, I doubt, sir." + +"Yes, and a great deal better." + +"At any rate, that's a long way off; and mean time, _who's_ to take care of +the odd man like Joe there, that don't look after hisself?" + +"Why, God, of course." + +"Well, there's just where I'm out. I don't know nothing about that branch, +sir." + +I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe's gloomy eyes as I spoke thus +upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin +volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I might +have gained. + +At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have their +dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and I dropped +behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in meditation. + +Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the +rectory, when I saw the sexton's daughter meeting us. She had almost come +up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, and he +started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, constrained, yet +familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to talk, but without +speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of recognition to the young +woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners to look behind. I glanced at +Harry, and he answered me with a queer look. When we reached the turning +that would hide them from our view, I looked back almost involuntarily, +and there they were still standing. But before we reached the door of the +rectory, Joe got up with us. + +There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the +sexton's daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the +youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, somewhat +sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall and slender, +and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good hair's-breadth further +into the smith's affairs. Beyond the hair's-breadth, however, all was dark. +But I saw likewise that the well of truth, whence I might draw the whole +business, must be the girl's mother. + +After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back to +the church, and I went to the sexton's cottage. I found the old man seated +at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty plate beside +it. + +"Come in, sir," he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. "The +mis'ess ben't in, but she'll be here in a few minutes." + +"O, it's of no consequence," I said. "Are they all well?" + +"All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It be in +winter it be worst for them." + +"But it's a snug enough shelter you've got here. It seems such, anyhow; +though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak +places both in house and body." + +"It ben't the wind touch _them_" he said; "they be safe enough from the +wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben't much snow in these parts; but when it +du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!" + +Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again? + +"But at least this cottage keeps out the wet," I said. "If not, we must +have it seen to." + +"This cottage du well enough, sir. It'll last my time, anyhow." + +"Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?" + +"Bless your heart, sir! It's not them. They du well enough. It's my people +out yonder. You've got the souls to look after, and I've got the bodies. +That's what it be, sir. To be sure!" + +The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my +stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and none +to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed that +night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination in which +the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, and he would +magnify that office. He could not bear that there should be no further +outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out of sight should be +"the be-all and the end-all." He was God's vicar, the gardener in God's +Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When all others had forsaken the +dead, he remained their friend, caring for what little comfort yet remained +possible to them. Hence in all changes of air and sky above, he attributed +to them some knowledge of the same, and some share in their consequences +even down in the darkness of the tomb. It was his way of keeping up the +relation between the living and the dead. Finding I made him no reply, he +took up the word again. + +"You've got your part, sir, and I've got mine. You up into the pulpit, and +I down into the grave. But it'll be all the same by and by." + +"I hope it will," I answered. "But when you do go down into your own grave, +you'll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You'll find you've +got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. She'll talk +about the living rather than the dead." + +"That's natural, sir. She brought 'em to life, and I buried 'em--at least, +best part of 'em. If only I had the other two safe down with the rest!" + +I remembered what the old woman had told me--that she had two boys _in_ the +sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned boys as +still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have gladly laid +them to rest in the warm dry churchyard. + +He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, and +saying, "Well, I must be off to my gardening," left me with his wife. I saw +then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, like that of all +true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping. + +"The old man seems a little out of sorts," I said to his wife. + +"Well, sir," she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness which +obedient suffering had perfected, "this be the day he buried our Nancy, +this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work poorly; and +the two things together they've upset him a bit." + +"I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?" + +"I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I've been to the doctor about +her." + +"I hope it's nothing serious." + +"I hope not, sir; but you see--four on 'em, sir!" + +"Well, she's in God's hands, you know." + +"That she be, sir." + +"I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes." + +"What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir." + +"I want to know what's the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith." + +"They du say it be a consumption, sir." + +"But what has he got on his mind?" + +"He's got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, I +assure you, sir." + +"But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He's not so happy +as he should be. He's not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy because +he's ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was going to +die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as he looks." + +"Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it's +part guessing.--I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon one +another as any two in the county." + +"Are they not going to be married then?" + +"There be the pint, sir. I don't believe Joe ever said a word o' the sort +to Aggy. She never could ha' kep it from me, sir." + +"Why doesn't he then?" + +"That's the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it's because he be in +such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn't to go marrying with one foot in +the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that be it." + +"For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we've all got one foot in the grave, I +think." + +"That be very true, sir." + +"And what does your daughter think?" + +"I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each other, +quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. But I +can't help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy's pale face." + +"And something to do with Joe's pale face too, Mrs. Coombes," I said. +"Thank you. You've told me more than I expected. It explains everything. I +must have it out with Joe now." + +"O deary me! sir, don't go and tell him I said anything, as if I wanted him +to marry my daughter." + +"Don't you be afraid. I'll take good care of that. And don't fancy I'm fond +of meddling with other people's affairs. But this is a case in which I +ought to do something. Joe's a fine fellow." + +"That he be, sir. I couldn't wish a better for a son-in-law." + +I put on my hat. + +"You won't get me into no trouble with Joe, will ye, sir!" + +"Indeed I will not, Mrs. Coombes. I should be doing a great deal more harm +than good if I said a word to make him doubt you." + +I went straight to the church. There were the two men working away in the +shadowy tower, and there was Agnes standing beside, knitting like her +mother, so quiet, so solemn even, that it did indeed look as if she were a +long-married wife, hovering about her husband at his work. Harry was saying +something to her as I went in, but when they saw me they were silent, and +Agnes gently withdrew. + +"Do you think you will get through to-night?" I asked. + +"Sure of it, sir," answered Harry. + +"You shouldn't be sure of anything, Harry. We are told in the New Testament +that we ought to say _If the Lord will_," said Joe. + +"Now, Joe, you're too hard upon Harry," I said. "You don't think that the +Bible means to pull a man up every step like that, till he's afraid to +speak a word. It was about a long journey and a year's residence that the +Apostle James was speaking." + +"No doubt, sir. But the principle's the same. Harry can no more be sure of +finishing his work before it be dark, than those people could be of going +their long journey." + +"That is perfectly true. But you are taking the letter for the spirit, and +that, I suspect, in more ways than one. The religion does not lie in not +being sure about anything, but in a loving desire that the will of God in +the matter, whatever it be, may be done. And if Harry has not learned yet +to care about the will of God, what is the good of coming down upon him +that way, as if that would teach him in the least. When he loves God, then, +and not till then, will he care about his will. Nor does the religion lie +in saying, _if the Lord will_, every time anything is to be done. It is a +most dangerous thing to use sacred words often. It makes them so common to +our ear that at length, when used most solemnly, they have not half the +effect they ought to have, and that is a serious loss. What the Apostle +means is, that we should always be in the mood of looking up to God and +having regard to his will, not always writing D.V. for instance, as so many +do--most irreverently, I think--using a Latin contraction for the beautiful +words, just as if they were a charm, or as if God would take offence +if they did not make the salvo of acknowledgment. It seems to me quite +heathenish. Our hearts ought ever to be in the spirit of those words; our +lips ought to utter them rarely. Besides, there are some things a man might +be pretty sure the Lord wills." + +"It sounds fine, sir; but I'm not sure that I understand what you mean to +say. It sounds to me like a darkening of wisdom." + +I saw that I had irritated him, and so had in some measure lost ground. But +Harry struck in-- + +"How _can_ you say that now, Joe? _I_ know what the parson means well +enough, and everybody knows I ain't got half the brains you've got." + +"The reason is, Harry, that he's got something in his head that stands in +the way." + +"And there's nothing in my head _to_ stand in the way!" returned Harry, +laughing. + +This made me laugh too, and even Joe could not help a sympathetic grin. By +this time it was getting dark. + +"I'm afraid, Harry, after all, you won't get through to-night." + +"I begin to think so too, sir. And there's Joe saying, 'I told you so,' +over and over to himself, though he won't say it out like a man." + +Joe answered only with another grin. + +"I tell you what it is, Harry," I said--"you must come again on Monday. And +on your way home, just look in and tell Joe's mother that I have kept him +over to-morrow. The change will do him good." + +"No, sir, that can't he. I haven't got a clean shirt." + +"You can have a shirt of mine," I said. "But I'm afraid you'll want your +Sunday clothes." + +"I'll bring them for you, Joe--before you're up," interposed Harry. "And +then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know." + +Here was just what I wanted. + +"Hold your tongue, Harry," said Joe angrily. "You're talking of what you +don't know anything about." + +"Well, Joe, I ben't a fool, if I ben't so religious as you be. You ben't +a bad fellow, though you be a Methodist, and I ben't a fool, though I be +Harry Cobb." + +"What do you mean, Harry? Do hold your tongue." + +"Well, I'll tell you what I mean first, and then I'll hold my tongue. I +mean this--that nobody with two eyes, or one eye, for that matter, in his +head, could help seeing the eyes you and Aggy make at each other, and why +you don't port your helm and board her--I won't say it's more than I know, +but I du say it to be more than I think be fair to the young woman." + +"Hold your tongue, Harry." + +"I said I would when I'd answered you as to what I meaned. So no more +at present; but I'll be over with your clothes afore you're up in the +morning." + +As Harry spoke he was busy gathering his tools. + +"They won't be in the way, will they, sir?" he said, as he heaped them +together in the furthest corner of the tower. + +"Not in the least," I returned. "If I had my way, all the tools used in +building the church should be carved on the posts and pillars of it, to +indicate the sacredness of labour, and the worship of God that lies, not in +building the church merely, but in every honest trade honestly pursued for +the good of mankind and the need of the workman. For a necessity of God is +laid upon every workman as well as on St. Paul. Only St. Paul saw it, and +every workman doesn't, Harry." + +"Thank you, sir. I like that way of it. I almost think I could be a little +bit religious after your way of it, sir." + +"Almost, Harry!" growled Joe--not unkindly. + +"Now, you hold your tongue, Joe," I said. "Leave Harry to me. You may take +him, if you like, after I've done with him." + +Laughing merrily, but making no other reply than a hearty good-night, Harry +strode away out of the church, and Joe and I went home together. + +When he had had his tea, I asked him to go out with me for a walk. + +The sun was shining aslant upon the downs from over the sea. We rose out of +the shadowy hollow to the sunlit brow. I was a little in advance of Joe. +Happening to turn, I saw the light full on his head and face, while the +rest of his body had not yet emerged from the shadow. + +"Stop, Joe," I said. "I want to see you so for a moment." + +He stood--a little surprised. + +"You look just like a man rising from the dead, Joe," I said. + +"I don't know what you mean, sir," he returned. + +"I will describe yourself to you. Your head and face are full of sunlight, +the rest of your body is still buried in the shadow. Look; I will stand +where you are now; and you come here. You will soon see what I mean." + +We changed places. Joe stared for a moment. Then his face brightened. + +"I see what you mean, sir," he said. "I fancy you don't mean the +resurrection of the body, but the resurrection of righteousness." + +"I do, Joe. Did it ever strike you that the whole history of the Christian +life is a series of such resurrections? Every time a man bethinks himself +that he is not walking in the light, that he has been forgetting himself, +and must repent, that he has been asleep and must awake, that he has been +letting his garments trail, and must gird up the loins of his mind--every +time this takes place, there is a resurrection in the world. Yes, Joe; and +every time that a man finds that his heart is troubled, that he is not +rejoicing in God, a resurrection must follow--a resurrection out of the +night of troubled thoughts into the gladness of the truth. For the truth +is, and ever was, and ever must be, gladness, however much the souls on +which it shines may be obscured by the clouds of sorrow, troubled by the +thunders of fear, or shot through with the lightnings of pain. Now, Joe, +will you let me tell you what you are like--I do not know your thoughts; I +am only judging from your words and looks?" + +"You may if you like, sir," answered Joe, a little sulkily. But I was not +to be repelled. + +I stood up in the sunlight, so that my eyes caught only about half the +sun's disc. Then I bent my face towards the earth. + +"What part of me is the light shining on now, Joe?" + +"Just the top of your head," answered he. + +"There, then," I returned, "that is just what you are like--a man with the +light on his head, but not on his face. And why not on your face? Because +you hold your head down." + +"Isn't it possible, sir, that a man might lose the light on his face, as +you put it, by doing his duty?" + +"That is a difficult question," I replied. "I must think before I answer +it." + +"I mean," added Joe--"mightn't his duty be a painful one?" + +"Yes. But I think that would rather etherealise than destroy the light. +Behind the sorrow would spring a yet greater light from the very duty +itself. I have expressed myself badly, but you will see what I mean.--To +be frank with you, Joe, I do not see that light in your face. Therefore +I think something must be wrong with you. Remember a good man is not +necessarily in the right. St. Peter was a good man, yet our Lord called him +Satan--and meant it of course, for he never said what he did not mean." + +"How can I be wrong when all my trouble comes from doing my duty--nothing +else, as far as I know?" + +"Then," I replied, a sudden light breaking in on my mind, "I doubt whether +what you suppose to be your duty can be your duty. If it were, I do not +think it would make you so miserable. At least--I may be wrong, but I +venture to think so." + +"What is a man to go by, then? If he thinks a thing is his duty, is he not +to do it?" + +"Most assuredly--until he knows better. But it is of the greatest +consequence whether the supposed duty be the will of God or the invention +of one's own fancy or mistaken judgment. A real duty is always something +right in itself. The duty a man makes his for the time, by supposing it to +be a duty, may be something quite wrong in itself. The duty of a Hindoo +widow is to burn herself on the body of her husband. But that duty lasts no +longer than till she sees that, not being the will of God, it is not her +duty. A real duty, on the other hand, is a necessity of the human nature, +without seeing and doing which a man can never attain to the truth and +blessedness of his own being. It was the duty of the early hermits to +encourage the growth of vermin upon their bodies, for they supposed that +was pleasing to God; but they could not fare so well as if they had seen +the truth that the will of God was cleanliness. And there may be far more +serious things done by Christian people against the will of God, in the +fancy of doing their duty, than such a trifle as swarming with worms. In a +word, thinking a thing is your duty makes it your duty only till you know +better. And the prime duty of every man is to seek and find, that he may +do, the will of God." + +"But do you think, sir, that a man is likely to be doing what he ought not, +if he is doing what he don't like?" + +"Not so likely, I allow. But there may be ambition in it. A man must not +want to be better than the right. That is the delusion of the anchorite--a +delusion in which the man forgets the rights of others for the sake of his +own sanctity." + +"It might be for the sake of another person, and not for the person's own +sake at all." + +"It might be; but except it were the will of God for that other person, it +would be doing him or her a real injury." + +We were coming gradually towards what I wanted to make the point in +question. I wished him to tell me all about it himself, however, for I +knew that while advice given on request is generally disregarded, to offer +advice unasked is worthy only of a fool." + +"But how are you to know the will of God in every case?" asked Joe. + +"By looking at the general laws of life, and obeying them--except there be +anything special in a particular case to bring it under a higher law." + +"Ah! but that be just what there is here." + +"Well, my dear fellow, that may be; but the special conduct may not be +right for the special case for all that. The speciality of the case may not +be even sufficient to take it from under the ordinary rule. But it is of no +use talking generals. Let us come to particulars. If you can trust me, tell +me all about it, and we may be able to let some light in. I am sure there +is darkness somewhere." + +"I will turn it over in my mind, sir; and if I can bring myself to talk +about it, I will. I would rather tell you than anyone else." + +I said no more. We watched a glorious sunset--there never was a grander +place for sunsets--and went home. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +A SMALL ADVENTURE. + + + + + +The next morning Harry came with the clothes. But Joe did not go to church. +Neither did Agnes make her appearance that morning. They were both present +at the evening service, however. + +When we came out of church, it was cloudy and dark, and the wind was +blowing cold from the sea. The sky was covered with one cloud, but the +waves tossing themselves against the rocks, flashed whiteness out of the +general gloom. As the tide rose the wind increased. It was a night of surly +temper--hard and gloomy. Not a star cracked the blue above--there was no +blue; and the wind was _gurly_; I once heard that word in Scotland, and +never forgot it. + +After one of our usual gatherings in Connie's room, which were much shorter +here because of the evening service in summer, I withdrew till supper +should be ready. + +Now I have always had, as I think I have incidentally stated before, a +certain peculiar pleasure in the surly aspects of nature. When I was a +young man this took form in opposition and defiance; since I had begun +to grow old the form had changed into a sense of safety. I welcomed such +aspects, partly at least, because they roused my faith to look through and +beyond the small region of human conditions in which alone the storm can be +and blow, and thus induced a feeling like that of the child who lies in his +warm crib and listens to the howling of one of these same storms outside +the strong-built house which yet trembles at its fiercer onsets: the house +is not in danger; or, if it be, that is his father's business, not +his. Hence it came that, after supper, I put on my great-coat and +travelling-cap, and went out into the ill-tempered night--speaking of it in +its human symbolism. + +I meant to have a stroll down to the breakwater, of which I have yet said +little, but which was a favourite resort, both of myself and my children. +At the further end of it, always covered at high water, was an outlying +cluster of low rocks, in the heart of which the lord of the manor, a +noble-hearted Christian gentleman of the old school, had constructed a bath +of graduated depth--an open-air swimming-pool--the only really safe place +for men who were swimmers to bathe in. Thither I was in the habit of taking +my two little men every morning, and bathing with them, that I might +develop the fish that was in them; for, as George Herbert says: + + "Man is everything, + And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit; + A beast, yet is, or should be, more;" + +and he might have gone on to say that he is, or should be, a fish as well. + +It will seem strange to any reader who can recall the position of my +Connie's room, that the nearest way to the breakwater should be through +that room; but so it was. I mention the fact because I want my readers to +understand a certain peculiarity of the room. By the side of the window +which looked out upon the breakwater was a narrow door, apparently of a +closet or cupboard, which communicated, however, with a narrow, curving, +wood-built passage, leading into a little wooden hut, the walls of +which were by no means impervious to the wind, for they were formed of +outside-planks, with the bark still upon them. From this hut one or two +little windows looked seaward, and a door led out on the bit of sward in +which lay the flower-bed under Connie's window. From this spot again a door +in the low wall and thick hedge led out on the downs, where a path wound +along the cliffs that formed the side of the bay, till, descending under +the storm-tower, it brought you to the root of the breakwater. + +This mole stretched its long strong low back to a rock a good way out, +breaking the force of the waves, and rendering the channel of a small +river, that here flowed into the sea across the sands from the mouth of +the canal, a refuge from the Atlantic. But it was a roadway often hard to +reach. In fair weather even, the wind falling as the vessel rounded the +point of the breakwater into the calm of the projecting headlands, the +under-current would sometimes dash her helpless on the rocks. During +all this heavenly summer there had been no thought or fear of any such +disaster. The present night was a hint of what weather would yet come. + +When I went into Connie's room, I found her lying in bed a very picture of +peace. But my entrance destroyed the picture. + +"Papa," she said, "why have you got your coat on? Surely you are not going +out to-night. The wind is blowing dreadfully." + +"Not very dreadfully, Connie. It blew much worse the night we found your +baby." + +"But it is very dark." + +"I allow that; but there is a glimmer from the sea. I am only going on the +breakwater for a few minutes. You know I like a stormy night quite as much +as a fine one." + +"I shall be miserable till you come home, papa." + +"Nonsense, Connie. You don't think your father hasn't sense to take care of +himself! Or rather, Connie, for I grant that is poor ground of comfort, you +don't think I can go anywhere without my Father to take care of me?" + +"But there is no occasion--is there, papa?" + +"Do you think I should be better pleased with my boys if they shrunk from +everything involving the least possibility of danger because there was no +occasion for it? That is just the way to make cowards. And I am certain God +would not like his children to indulge in such moods of self-preservation +as that. He might well be ashamed of them. The fearful are far more likely +to meet with accidents than the courageous. But really, Connie, I am almost +ashamed of talking so. It is all your fault. There is positively no ground +for apprehension, and I hope you won't spoil my walk by the thought that my +foolish little girl is frightened." + +"I will be good--indeed I will, papa," she said, holding up her mouth to +kiss me. + +I left her room, and went through the wooden passage into the bark hut. The +wind roared about it, shook it, and pawed it, and sung and whistled in the +chinks of the planks. I went out and shut the door. That moment the wind +seized upon me, and I had to fight with it. When I got on the path leading +along the edge of the downs, I felt something lighter than any feather fly +in my face. When I put up my hand, I found my cheek wet. Again and again I +was thus assailed, but when I got to the breakwater I found what it was. +They were flakes of foam, bubbles worked up into little masses of adhering +thousands, which the wind blew off the waters and across the downs, +carrying some of them miles inland. When I reached the breakwater, and +looked along its ridge through the darkness of the night, I was bewildered +to see a whiteness lying here and there in a great patch upon its top. They +were but accumulations of these foam-flakes, like soap-suds, lying so thick +that I expected to have to wade through them, only they vanished at the +touch of my feet. Till then I had almost believed it was snow I saw. On +the edge of the waves, in quieter spots, they lay like yeast, foaming and +working. Now and then a little rush of water from a higher wave swept over +the top of the broad breakwater, as with head bowed sideways against the +wind, I struggled along towards the rock at its end; but I said to myself, +"The tide is falling fast, and salt water hurts nobody," and struggled on +over the huge rough stones of the mighty heap, outside which the waves were +white with wrath, inside which they had fallen asleep, only heaving with +the memory of their late unrest. I reached the tall rock at length, climbed +the rude stair leading up to the flagstaff, and looked abroad, if looking +it could be called, into the thick dark. But the wind blew so strong on the +top that I was glad to descend. Between me and the basin where yesterday +morning I had bathed in still water and sunshine with my boys, rolled +the deathly waves. I wandered on the rough narrow space yet uncovered, +stumbling over the stones and the rocky points between which they lay, +stood here and there half-meditating, and at length, finding a sheltered +nook in a mass of rock, sat with the wind howling and the waves bursting +around me. There I fell into a sort of brown study--almost a half-sleep. + +But I had not sat long before I came broad awake, for I heard voices, low +and earnest. One I recognised as Joe's voice. The other was a woman's. +I could not tell what they said for some time, and therefore felt no +immediate necessity for disclosing my proximity, but sat debating with +myself whether I should speak to them or not. At length, in a lull of the +wind, I heard the woman say--I could fancy with a sigh-- + +"I'm sure you'll du what is right, Joe. Don't 'e think o' me, Joe." + +"It's just of you that I du think, Aggy. You know it ben't for my sake. +Surely you know that?" + +There was no answer for a moment. I was still doubting what I had best +do--go away quietly or let them know I was there--when she spoke again. +There was a momentary lull now in the noises of both wind and water, and I +heard what she said well enough. + +"It ben't for me to contradict you, Joe. But I don't think you be going to +die. You be no worse than last year. Be you now, Joe?" + +It flashed across me how once before, a stormy night and darkness had +brought me close to a soul in agony. Then I was in agony myself; now the +world was all fair and hopeful around me--the portals of the world beyond +ever opening wider as I approached them, and letting out more of their +glory to gladden the path to their threshold. But here were two souls +straying in a mist which faith might roll away, and leave them walking in +the light. The moment was come. I must speak. + +"Joe!" I called out. + +"Who's there?" he cried; and I heard him start to his feet. + +"Only Mr. Walton. Where are you?" + +"We can't be very far off," he answered, not in a tone of any pleasure at +finding me so nigh. + +I rose, and peering about through the darkness, found that they were a +little higher up on the same rock by which I was sheltered. + +"You mustn't think," I said, "that I have been eavesdropping. I had no idea +anyone was near me till I heard your voices, and I did not hear a word till +just the last sentence or two." + +"I saw someone go up the Castle-rock," said Joe; "but I thought he was gone +away again. It will be a lesson to me." + +"I'm no tell-tale, Joe," I returned, as I scrambled up the rock. "You will +have no cause to regret that I happened to overhear a little. I am sure, +Joe, you will never say anything you need be ashamed of. But what I heard +was sufficient to let me into the secret of your trouble. Will you let me +talk to Joe, Agnes? I've been young myself, and, to tell the truth, I don't +think I'm old yet." + +"I am sure, sir," she answered, "you won't be hard on Joe and me. I don't +suppose there be anything wrong in liking each other, though we can't +be--married." + +She spoke in a low tone, and her voice trembled very much; yet there was a +certain womanly composure in her utterance. "I'm sure it's very bold of me +to talk so," she added, "but Joe will tell you all about it." + +I was close beside them now, and fancied I saw through the dusk the motion +of her hand stealing into his. + +"Well, Joe, this is just what I wanted," I said. "A woman can be braver +than a big smith sometimes. Agnes has done her part. Now you do yours, and +tell me all about it." + +No response followed my adjuration. I must help him. + +"I think I know how the matter lies, Joe. You think you are not going to +live long, and that therefore you ought not to marry. Am I right?" + +"Not far off it, sir," he answered. + +"Now, Joe," I said, "can't we talk as friends about this matter? I have +no right to intrude into your affairs--none in the least--except what +friendship gives me. If you say I am not to talk about it, I shall be +silent. To force advice upon you would be as impertinent as useless." + +"It's all the same, I'm afraid, sir. My mind has been made up for a long +time. What right have I to bring other people into trouble? But I take it +kind of you, sir, though I mayn't look over-pleased. Agnes wants to hear +your way of it. I'm agreeable." + +This was not very encouraging. Still I thought it sufficient ground for +proceeding. + +"I suppose you will allow that the root of all Christian behaviour is the +will of God?" + +"Surely, sir." + +"Is it not the will of God, then, that when a man and woman love each +other, they should marry?" + +"Certainly, sir--where there be no reasons against it." + +"Of course. And you judge you see reason for not doing so, else you would?" + +"I do see that a man should not bring a woman into trouble for the sake of +being comfortable himself for the rest of a few weary days." + +Agnes was sobbing gently behind her handkerchief. I knew how gladly she +would be Joe's wife, if only to nurse him through his last illness. + +"Not except it would make her comfortable too, I grant you, Joe. But listen +to me. In the first place, you don't know, and you are not required to +know, when you are going to die. In fact, you have nothing to do with it. +Many a life has been injured by the constant expectation of death. It is +life we have to do with, not death. The best preparation for the night is +to work while the day lasts, diligently. The best preparation for death is +life. Besides, I have known delicate people who have outlived all their +strong relations, and been left alone in the earth--because they had +possibly taken too much care of themselves. But marriage is God's will, and +death is God's will, and you have no business to set the one over against, +as antagonistic to, the other. For anything you know, the gladness and the +peace of marriage may be the very means intended for your restoration to +health and strength. I suspect your desire to marry, fighting against the +fancy that you ought not to marry, has a good deal to do with the state of +health in which you now find yourself. A man would get over many things if +he were happy, that he cannot get over when he is miserable." + +"But it's for Aggy. You forget that." + +"I do not forget it. What right have you to seek for her another kind of +welfare than you would have yourself? Are you to treat her as if she were +worldly when you are not--to provide for her a comfort which yourself you +would despise? Why should you not marry because you have to die soon?--if +you _are_ thus doomed, which to me is by no means clear. Why not have what +happiness you may for the rest of your sojourn? If you find at the end of +twenty years that here you are after all, you will be rather sorry you did +not do as I say." + +"And if I find myself dying at the end of six months'?" + +"You will thank God for those six months. The whole thing, my dear fellow, +is a want of faith in God. I do not doubt you think you are doing right, +but, I repeat, the whole thing comes from want of faith in God. You will +take things into your own hands, and order them after a preventive and +self-protective fashion, lest God should have ordained the worst for you, +which worst, after all, would be best met by doing his will without inquiry +into the future; and which worst is no evil. Death is no more an evil than +marriage is." + +"But you don't see it as I do," persisted the blacksmith. + +"Of course I don't. I think you see it as it is not." + +He remained silent for a little. A shower of spray fell upon us. He +started. + +"What a wave!" he cried. "That spray came over the top of the rock. We +shall have to run for it." + +I fancied that he only wanted to avoid further conversation. + +"There's no hurry," I said. "It was high water an hour and a half ago." + +"You don't know this coast, sir," returned he, "or you wouldn't talk like +that." + +As he spoke he rose, and going from under the shelter of the rock, looked +along. + +"For God's sake, Aggy!" he cried in terror, "come at once. Every other wave +be rushing across the breakwater as if it was on the level." + +So saying, he hurried back, caught her by the hand, and began to draw her +along. + +"Hadn't we better stay where we are?" I suggested. + +"If you can stand the night in the cold. But Aggy here is delicate; and I +don't care about being out all night. It's not the tide, sir; it's a ground +swell--from a storm somewhere out at sea. That never asks no questions +about tide or no tide." + +"Come along, then," I said. "But just wait one minute more. It is better to +be ready for the worst." + +For I remembered that the day before I had seen a crowbar lying among the +stones, and I thought it might be useful. In a moment or two I had found +it, and returning, gave it to Joe. Then I took the girl's disengaged hand. +She thanked me in a voice perfectly calm and firm. Joe took the bar in +haste, and drew Agnes towards the breakwater. + +Any real thought of danger had not yet crossed my mind. But when I looked +along the outstretched back of the mole, and saw a dim sheet of white sweep +across it, I felt that there was ground for his anxiety, and prepared +myself for a struggle. + +"Do you know what to do with the crowbar, Joe?" I said, grasping my own +stout oak-stick more firmly. + +"Perfectly," answered Joe. "To stick between the stones and hold on. We +must watch our time between the waves." + +"You take the command, then, Joe," I returned. "You see better than I do, +and you know the ways of that raging wild beast there better than I do. I +will obey orders--one of which, no doubt, will be, not for wind or sea to +lose hold of Agnes--eh, Joe?" + +Joe gave a grim enough laugh in reply, and we started, he carrying his +crowbar in his right hand towards the advancing sea, and I my oak-stick in +my left towards the still water within. + +"Quick march!" said Joe, and away we went out on the breakwater. + +Now the back of the breakwater was very rugged, for it was formed of huge +stones, with wide gaps between, where the waters had washed out the cement, +and worn their edges. But what impeded our progress secured our safety. + +"Halt!" cried Joe, when we were yet but a few yards beyond the shelter of +the rocks. "There's a topper coming." + +We halted at the word of command, as a huge wave, with combing crest, +rushed against the far out-sloping base of the mole, and flung its heavy +top right over the middle of the mass, a score or two of yards in front of +us. + +"Now for it!" cried Joe. "Run!" + +We did run. In my mind there was just sense enough of danger to add to the +pleasure of the excitement. I did not know how much danger there was. Over +the rough worn stones we sped stumbling. + +"Halt!" cried the smith once more, and we did halt; but this time, as it +turned out, in the middle front of the coming danger. + +"God be with us!" I exclaimed, when the huge billow showed itself through +the night, rushing towards the mole. The smith stuck his crowbar between +two great stones. To this he held on with one hand, and threw the other arm +round Agnes's waist. I, too, had got my oak firmly fixed, held on with one +hand, and threw the other arm round Agnes. It took but a moment. + +"Now then!" cried Joe. "Here she comes! Hold on, sir. Hold on, Aggy!" + +But when I saw the height of the water, as it rushed on us up the sloping +side of the mound, I cried out in my turn, "Down, Joe! Down on your face, +and let it over us easy! Down Agnes!" + +They obeyed. We threw ourselves across the breakwater, with our heads to +the coming foe, and I grasped my stick close to the stones with all the +power of a hand that was then strong. Over us burst the mighty wave, +floating us up from the stones where we lay. But we held on, the wave +passed, and we sprung gasping to our feet. + +"Now, now!" cried Joe and I together, and, heavy as we were, with the water +pouring from us, we flew across the remainder of the heap, and arrived, +panting and safe, at the other end, ere one wave more had swept the +surface. The moment we were in safety we turned and looked back over the +danger we had traversed. It was to see a huge billow sweep the breakwater +from end to end. We looked at each other for a moment without speaking. + +"I believe, sir," said Joe at length, with slow and solemn speech, "if you +hadn't taken the command at that moment we should all have been lost." + +"It seems likely enough, when I look back on it. For one thing, I was not +sure that my stick would stand, so I thought I had better grasp it low +down." + +"We were awfully near death," said Joe. + +"Nearer than you thought, Joe; and yet we escaped it. Things don't go +all as we fancy, you see. Faith is as essential to manhood as +foresight--believe me, Joe. It is very absurd to trust God for the future, +and not trust him for the present. The man who is not anxious is the man +most likely to do the right thing. He is cool and collected and ready. Our +Lord therefore told his disciples that when they should be brought before +kings and rulers, they were to take no thought what answer they should +make, for it would be given them when the time came." + +We were climbing the steep path up to the downs. Neither of my companions +spoke. + +"You have escaped one death together," I said at length: "dare another." + +Still neither of them returned an answer. When we came near the parsonage, +I said, "Now, Joe, you must go in and get to bed at once. I will take Agnes +home. You can trust me not to say anything against you?" + +Joe laughed rather hoarsely, and replied: "As you please, sir. Good night, +Aggie. Mind you get to bed as fast as you can." + +When I returned from giving Agnes over to her parents, I made haste to +change my clothes, and put on my warm dressing-gown. I may as well mention +at once, that not one of us was the worse for our ducking. I then went up +to Connie's room. + +"Here I am, you see, Connie, quite safe." + +"I've been lying listening to every blast of wind since you went out, papa. +But all I could do was to trust in God." + +"Do you call that _all_, Connie? Believe me, there is more power in that +than any human being knows the tenth part of yet. It is indeed _all_." + +I said no more then. I told my wife about it that night, but we were well +into another month before I told Connie. + +When I left her, I went to Joe's room to see how he was, and found him +having some gruel. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and said, + +"Well, Joe, this is better than under water. I hope you won't be the worse +for it." + +"I don't much care what comes of me, sir. It will be all over soon." + +"But you ought to care what comes of you, Joe. I will tell you why. You are +an instrument out of which ought to come praise to God, and, therefore, you +ought to care for the instrument." + +"That way, yes, sir, I ought." + +"And you have no business to be like some children who say, 'Mamma won't +give me so and so,' instead of asking her to give it them." + +"I see what you mean, sir. But really you put me out before the young +woman. I couldn't say before her what I meant. Suppose, you know, sir, +there was to come a family. It might be, you know." + +"Of course. What else would you have?" + +"But if I was to die, where would she be then?" + +"In God's hands; just as she is now." + +"But I ought to take care that she is not left with a burden like that to +provide for." + +"O, Joe! how little you know a woman's heart! It would just be the greatest +comfort she could have for losing you--that's all. Many a woman has married +a man she did not care enough for, just that she might have a child of her +own to let out her heart upon. I don't say that is right, you know. Such +love cannot be perfect. A woman ought to love her child because it is her +husband's more than because it is her own, and because it is God's more +than either's. I saw in the papers the other day, that a woman was brought +before the Recorder of London for stealing a baby, when the judge himself +said that there was no imaginable motive for her action but a motherly +passion to possess the child. It is the need of a child that makes so +many women take to poor miserable, broken-nosed lap-dogs; for they are +self-indulgent, and cannot face the troubles and dangers of adopting +a child. They would if they might get one of a good family, or from a +respectable home; but they dare not take an orphan out of the dirt, lest +it should spoil their silken chairs. But that has nothing to do with our +argument. What I mean is this, that if Agnes really loves you, as no one +can look in her face and doubt, she will be far happier if you leave her +a child--yes, she will be happier if you only leave her your name for +hers--than if you died without calling her your wife." + +I took Joe's basin from him, and he lay down. He turned his face to the +wall. I waited a moment, but finding him silent, bade him good-night, and +left the room. + +A month after, I married them. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE HARVEST. + + + + + +It was some time before we got the bells to work to our mind, but at +last we succeeded. The worst of it was to get the cranks, which at first +required strong pressure on the keys, to work easily enough. But neither +Joe nor his cousin spared any pains to perfect the attempt, and, as I say, +at length we succeeded. I took Wynnie down to the instrument and made her +try whether she could not do something, and she succeeded in making the old +tower discourse loudly and eloquently. + +By this time the thanksgiving for the harvest was at hand: on the morning +of that first of all would I summon the folk to their prayers with the +sound of the full peal. And I wrote a little hymn of praise to the God of +the harvest, modelling it to one of the oldest tunes in that part of the +country, and I had it printed on slips of paper and laid plentifully on the +benches. What with the calling of the bells, like voices in the highway, +and the solemn meditation of the organ within to bear aloft the thoughts of +those who heard, and came to the prayer and thanksgiving in common, and the +message which God had given me to utter to them, I hoped that we should +indeed keep holiday. + +Wynnie summoned the parish with the hundredth psalm pealed from aloft, +dropping from the airy regions of the tower on village and hamlet and +cottage, calling aloud--for who could dissociate the words from the music, +though the words are in the Scotch psalms?--written none the less by an +Englishman, however English wits may amuse themselves with laughing at +their quaintness--calling aloud, + + "All people that on earth do dwell + Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice; + Him serve with mirth, his praise forth tell-- + Come ye before him and rejoice." + +Then we sang the psalm before the communion service, making bold in the +name of the Lord to serve him with _mirth_ as in the old version, and not +with the _fear_ with which some editor, weak in faith, has presumed to +alter the line. Then before the sermon we sang the hymn I had prepared--a +proceeding justifiable by many an example in the history of the church +while she was not only able to number singers amongst her clergy, but those +singers were capable of influencing the whole heart and judgment of the +nation with their songs. Ethelwyn played the organ. The song I had prepared +was this: + + "We praise the Life of All; + From buried seeds so small + Who makes the ordered ranks of autumn stand; + Who stores the corn + In rick and barn + To feed the winter of the land. + + We praise the Life of Light! + Who from the brooding night + Draws out the morning holy, calm, and grand; + Veils up the moon, + Sends out the sun, + To glad the face of all the land. + + We praise the Life of Work, + Who from sleep's lonely dark + Leads forth his children to arise and stand, + Then go their way, + The live-long day, + To trust and labour in the land. + + We praise the Life of Good, + Who breaks sin's lazy mood, + Toilsomely ploughing up the fruitless sand. + The furrowed waste + They leave, and haste + Home, home, to till their Father's land. + + We praise the Life of Life, + Who in this soil of strife + Casts us at birth, like seed from sower's hand; + To die and so + Like corn to grow + A golden harvest in his land." + +After we had sung this hymn, the meaning of which is far better than the +versification, I preached from the words of St. Paul, "If by any means I +might attain unto the resurrection of the dead. Not as though I had already +attained, either were already perfect." And this is something like what I +said to them: + +"The world, my friends, is full of resurrections, and it is not always of +the same resurrection that St. Paul speaks. Every night that folds us up +in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early and have +seen the first of the dawn, will know it--the day rises out of the night +like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life. That you may +feel that the sunrise is a resurrection--the word resurrection just means a +rising again--I will read you a little description of it from a sermon by a +great writer and great preacher called Jeremy Taylor. Listen. 'But as when +the sun approaching towards the gates of the morning, he first opens a +little eye of heaven and sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives +light to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and by and by gilds the +fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his +golden horns like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced +to wear a veil, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while +a man tells the story, the sun gets up higher, till he shows a fair face +and a full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud often, +and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets quickly; so is a +man's reason and his life.' Is not this a resurrection of the day out of +the night? Or hear how Milton makes his Adam and Eve praise God in the +morning,-- + + 'Ye mists and exhalations that now rise + From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, + Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, + In honour to the world's great Author rise, + Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky, + Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, + Rising or falling still advance his praise.' + +But it is yet more of a resurrection to you. Think of your own condition +through the night and in the morning. You die, as it were, every night. The +death of darkness comes down over the earth; but a deeper death, the death +of sleep, descends on you. A power overshadows you; your eyelids close, you +cannot keep them open if you would; your limbs lie moveless; the day is +gone; your whole life is gone; you have forgotten everything; an evil man +might come and do with your goods as he pleased; you are helpless. But the +God of the Resurrection is awake all the time, watching his sleeping men +and women, even as a mother who watches her sleeping baby, only with larger +eyes and more full of love than hers; and so, you know not how, all at once +you know that you are what you are; that there is a world that wants you +outside of you, and a God that wants you inside of you; you rise from the +death of sleep, not by your own power, for you knew nothing about it; God +put his hand over your eyes, and you were dead; he lifted his hand and +breathed light on you and you rose from the dead, thanked the God who +raised you up, and went forth to do your work. From darkness to light; from +blindness to seeing; from knowing nothing to looking abroad on the mighty +world; from helpless submission to willing obedience,--is not this a +resurrection indeed? That St. Paul saw it to be such may be shown from his +using the two things with the same meaning when he says, 'Awake, thou that +sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.' +No doubt he meant a great deal more. No man who understands what he is +speaking about can well mean only one thing at a time. + +"But to return to the resurrections we see around us in nature. Look at the +death that falls upon the world in winter. And look how it revives when the +sun draws near enough in the spring to wile the life in it once more out of +its grave. See how the pale, meek snowdrops come up with their bowed heads, +as if full of the memory of the fierce winds they encountered last spring, +and yet ready in the strength of their weakness to encounter them again. Up +comes the crocus, bringing its gold safe from the dark of its colourless +grave into the light of its parent gold. Primroses, and anemones, and +blue-bells, and a thousand other children of the spring, hear the +resurrection-trumpet of the wind from the west and south, obey, and leave +their graves behind to breathe the air of the sweet heavens. Up and up they +come till the year is glorious with the rose and the lily, till the trees +are not only clothed upon with new garments of loveliest green, but the +fruit-tree bringeth forth its fruit, and the little children of men are +made glad with apples, and cherries, and hazel-nuts. The earth laughs out +in green and gold. The sky shares in the grand resurrection. The garments +of its mourning, wherewith it made men sad, its clouds of snow and hail and +stormy vapours, are swept away, have sunk indeed to the earth, and are now +humbly feeding the roots of the flowers whose dead stalks they beat upon +all the winter long. Instead, the sky has put on the garments of praise. +Her blue, coloured after the sapphire-floor on which stands the throne of +him who is the Resurrection and the Life, is dashed and glorified with the +pure white of sailing clouds, and at morning and evening prayer, puts on +colours in which the human heart drowns itself with delight--green and gold +and purple and rose. Even the icebergs floating about in the lonely summer +seas of the north are flashing all the glories of the rainbow. But, indeed, +is not this whole world itself a monument of the Resurrection? The earth +was without form and void. The wind of God moved on the face of the waters, +and up arose this fair world. Darkness was on the face of the deep: God +said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light. + +"In the animal world as well, you behold the goings of the Resurrection. +Plainest of all, look at the story of the butterfly--so plain that the +pagan Greeks called it and the soul by one name--Psyche. Psyche meant with +them a butterfly or the soul, either. Look how the creeping thing, ugly to +our eyes, so that we can hardly handle it without a shudder, finding itself +growing sick with age, straightway falls a spinning and weaving at its +own shroud, coffin, and grave, all in one--to prepare, in fact, for its +resurrection; for it is for the sake of the resurrection that death exists. +Patiently it spins its strength, but not its life, away, folds itself up +decently, that its body may rest in quiet till the new body is formed +within it; and at length when the appointed hour has arrived, out of the +body of this crawling thing breaks forth the winged splendour of the +butterfly--not the same body--a new one built out of the ruins of the +old--even as St. Paul tells us that it is not the same body _we_ have in +the resurrection, but a nobler body like ourselves, with all the imperfect +and evil thing taken away. No more creeping for the butterfly; wings of +splendour now. Neither yet has it lost the feet wherewith to alight on all +that is lovely and sweet. Think of it--up from the toilsome journey over +the low ground, exposed to the foot of every passer-by, destroying the +lovely leaves upon which it fed, and the fruit which they should shelter, +up to the path at will through the air, and a gathering of food which hurts +not the source of it, a food which is but as a tribute from the loveliness +of the flowers to the yet higher loveliness of the flower-angel: is not +this a resurrection? Its children too shall pass through the same process, +to wing the air of a summer noon, and rejoice in the ethereal and the pure. + +"To return yet again from the human thoughts suggested by the symbol of the +butterfly"-- + +Here let me pause for a moment--and there was a corresponding pause, though +but momentary, in the sermon as I spoke it--to mention a curious, and to me +at the moment an interesting fact. At this point of my address, I caught +sight of a white butterfly, a belated one, flitting about the church. +Absorbed for a moment, my eye wandered after it. It was near the bench +where my own people sat, and, for one flash of thought, I longed that the +butterfly would alight on my Wynnie, for I was more anxious about her +resurrection at the time than about anything else. But the butterfly would +not. And then I told myself that God would, and that the butterfly was only +the symbol of a grand truth, and of no private interpretation, to make +which of it was both selfishness and superstition. But all this passed in a +flash, and I resumed my discourse. + +--"I come now naturally to speak of what we commonly call the Resurrection. +Some say: 'How can the same dust be raised again, when it may be scattered +to the winds of heaven?' It is a question I hardly care to answer. The +mere difficulty can in reason stand for nothing with God; but the apparent +worthlessness of the supposition renders the question uninteresting to me. +What is of import is, that I should stand clothed upon, with a body which +is _my_ body because it serves my ends, justifies my consciousness of +identity by being, in all that was good in it, like that which I had +before, while now it is tenfold capable of expressing the thoughts and +feelings that move within me. How can I care whether the atoms that form +a certain inch of bone should be the same as those which formed that bone +when I died? All my life-time I never felt or thought of the existence of +such a bone! On the other hand, I object to having the same worn muscles, +the same shrivelled skin with which I may happen to die. Why give me the +same body as that? Why not rather my youthful body, which was strong, and +facile, and capable? The matter in the muscle of my arm at death would not +serve to make half the muscle I had when young. But I thank God that St. +Paul says it will _not_ be the same body. That body dies--up springs +another body. I suspect myself that those are right who say that this body +being the seed, the moment it dies in the soil of this world, that moment +is the resurrection of the new body. The life in it rises out of it in a +new body. This is not after it is put in the mere earth; for it is dead +then, and the germ of life gone out of it. If a seed rots, no new body +comes of it. The seed dies into a new life, and so does man. Dying and +rotting are two very different things.--But I am not sure by any means. As +I say, the whole question is rather uninteresting to me. What do I care +about my old clothes after I have done with them? What is it to me to know +what becomes of an old coat or an old pulpit gown? I have no such clinging +to the flesh. It seems to me that people believe their bodies to be +themselves, and are therefore very anxious about them--and no wonder then. +Enough for me that I shall have eyes to see my friends, a face that they +shall know me by, and a mouth to praise God withal. I leave the matter with +one remark, that I am well content to rise as Jesus rose, however that was. +For me the will of God is so good that I would rather have his will done +than my own choice given me. + +"But I now come to the last, because infinitely the most important part +of my subject--the resurrection for the sake of which all the other +resurrections exist--the resurrection unto Life. This is the one of which +St. Paul speaks in my text. This is the one I am most anxious--indeed, the +only one I am anxious to set forth, and impress upon you. + +"Think, then, of all the deaths you know; the death of the night, when the +sun is gone, when friend says not a word to friend, but both lie drowned +and parted in the sea of sleep; the death of the year, when winter lies +heavy on the graves of the children of summer, when the leafless trees moan +in the blasts from the ocean, when the beasts even look dull and oppressed, +when the children go about shivering with cold, when the poor and +improvident are miserable with suffering or think of such a death of +disease as befalls us at times, when the man who says, 'Would God it were +morning!' changes but his word, and not his tune, when the morning comes, +crying, 'Would God it were evening!' when what life is left is known to us +only by suffering, and hope is amongst the things that were once and are no +more--think of all these, think of them all together, and you will have but +the dimmest, faintest picture of the death from which the resurrection +of which I have now to speak, is the rising. I shrink from the attempt, +knowing how weak words are to set forth _the_ death, set forth _the_ +resurrection. Were I to sit down to yonder organ, and crash out the most +horrible dissonances that ever took shape in sound, I should give you but +a weak figure of this death; were I capable of drawing from many a row of +pipes an exhalation of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet, such as Milton +himself could have invaded our ears withal, I could give you but a faint +figure of this resurrection. Nevertheless, I must try what I can do in my +own way. + +"If into the face of the dead body, lying on the bed, waiting for its +burial, the soul of the man should begin to dawn again, drawing near from +afar to look out once more at those eyes, to smile once again through those +lips, the change on that face would be indeed great and wondrous, but +nothing for marvel or greatness to that which passes on the countenance, +the very outward bodily face of the man who wakes from his sleep, arises +from the dead and receives light from Christ. Too often indeed, the +reposeful look on the face of the dead body would be troubled, would vanish +away at the revisiting of the restless ghost; but when a man's own right +true mind, which God made in him, is restored to him again, and he wakes +from the death of sin, then comes the repose without the death. It may take +long for the new spirit to complete the visible change, but it begins at +once, and will be perfected. The bloated look of self-indulgence passes +away like the leprosy of Naaman, the cheek grows pure, the lips return to +the smile of hope instead of the grin of greed, and the eyes that made +innocence shrink and shudder with their yellow leer grow childlike and +sweet and faithful. The mammon-eyes, hitherto fixed on the earth, are +lifted to meet their kind; the lips that mumbled over figures and sums of +gold learn to say words of grace and tenderness. The truculent, repellent, +self-satisfied face begins to look thoughtful and doubtful, as if searching +for some treasure of whose whereabouts it had no certain sign. The face +anxious, wrinkled, peering, troubled, on whose lines you read the dread of +hunger, poverty, and nakedness, thaws into a smile; the eyes reflect in +courage the light of the Father's care, the back grows erect under its +burden with the assurance that the hairs of its head are all numbered. But +the face can with all its changes set but dimly forth the rising from the +dead which passes within. The heart, which cared but for itself, becomes +aware of surrounding thousands like itself, in the love and care of which +it feels a dawning blessedness undreamt of before. From selfishness to +love--is not this a rising from the dead? The man whose ambition declares +that his way in the world would be to subject everything to his desires, to +bring every human care, affection, power, and aspiration to his feet--such +a world it would be, and such a king it would have, if individual ambition +might work its will! if a man's opinion of himself could be made out in +the world, degrading, compelling, oppressing, doing everything for his own +glory!--and such a glory!--but a pang of light strikes this man to the +heart; an arrow of truth, feathered with suffering and loss and dismay, +finds out--the open joint in his armour, I was going to say--no, finds out +the joint in the coffin where his heart lies festering in a death so dead +that itself calls it life. He trembles, he awakes, he rises from the dead. +No more he seeks the slavery of all: where can he find whom to serve? how +can he become if but a threshold in the temple of Christ, where all serve +all, and no man thinks first of himself? He to whom the mass of his +fellows, as he massed them, was common and unclean, bows before every human +sign of the presence of the making God. The sun, which was to him but a +candle with which to search after his own ends, wealth, power, place, +praise--the world, which was but the cavern where he thus searched--are now +full of the mystery of loveliness, full of the truth of which sun and +wind and land and sea are symbols and signs. From a withered old age of +unbelief, the dim eyes of which refuse the glory of things a passage to the +heart, he is raised up a child full of admiration, wonder, and gladness. +Everything is glorious to him; he can believe, and therefore he sees. It +is from the grave into the sunshine, from the night into the morning, from +death into life. To come out of the ugly into the beautiful; out of the +mean and selfish into the noble and loving; out of the paltry into the +great; out of the false into the true; out of the filthy into the clean; +out of the commonplace into the glorious; out of the corruption of disease +into the fine vigour and gracious movements of health; in a word, out of +evil into good--is not this a resurrection indeed--_the_ resurrection of +all, the resurrection of Life? God grant that with St. Paul we may attain +to this resurrection of the dead. + +"This rising from the dead is often a long and a painful process. Even +after he had preached the gospel to the Gentiles, and suffered much for the +sake of his Master, Paul sees the resurrection of the dead towering grandly +before him, not yet climbed, not yet attained unto--a mountainous splendour +and marvel, still shining aloft in the air of existence, still, thank God, +to be attained, but ever growing in height and beauty as, forgetting those +things that are behind, he presses towards the mark, if by any means he may +attain to the resurrection of the dead. Every blessed moment in which a man +bethinks himself that he has been forgetting his high calling, and sends up +to the Father a prayer for aid; every time a man resolves that what he has +been doing he will do no more; every time that the love of God, or the +feeling of the truth, rouses a man to look first up at the light, then down +at the skirts of his own garments--that moment a divine resurrection is +wrought in the earth. Yea, every time that a man passes from resentment to +forgiveness, from cruelty to compassion, from hardness to tenderness, from +indifference to carefulness, from selfishness to honesty, from honesty to +generosity, from generosity to love,--a resurrection, the bursting of a +fresh bud of life out of the grave of evil, gladdens the eye of the Father +watching his children. Awake, then, thou that sleepest, and arise from the +dead, and Christ will give thee light. As the harvest rises from the wintry +earth, so rise thou up from the trials of this world a full ear in the +harvest of Him who sowed thee in the soil that thou mightest rise above it. +As the summer rises from the winter, so rise thou from the cares of eating +and drinking and clothing into the fearless sunshine of confidence in +the Father. As the morning rises out of the night, so rise thou from the +darkness of ignorance to do the will of God in the daylight; and as a man +feels that he is himself when he wakes from the troubled and grotesque +visions of the night into the glory of the sunrise, even so wilt thou feel +that then first thou knowest what thy life, the gladness of thy being, is. +As from painful tossing in disease, rise into the health of well-being. As +from the awful embrace of thy own dead body, burst forth in thy spiritual +body. Arise thou, responsive to the indwelling will of the Father, even as +thy body will respond to thy indwelling soul. + + 'White wings are crossing; + Glad waves are tossing; + The earth flames out in crimson and green: + + Spring is appearing, + Summer is nearing-- + Where hast thou been? + + Down in some cavern, + Death's sleepy tavern, + Housing, carousing with spectres of night? + The trumpet is pealing + Sunshine and healing-- + Spring to the light.'" + +With this quotation from a friend's poem, I closed my sermon, oppressed +with a sense of failure; for ever the marvel of simple awaking, the mere +type of the resurrection eluded all my efforts to fix it in words. I had to +comfort myself with the thought that God is so strong that he can work even +with our failures. + +END OF VOL. II. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 2 *** + +This file should be named spar210.txt or spar210.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, spar211.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, spar210a.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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